“I’m fine,” I said in my best pretend-you-don’t-see-that-ghost voice. “Why?”
“You seemed to drift off there for a minute, and I can’t help noticing that you look a little tired this morning.”
“Oh, that. I slept badly last night. In fact, I didn’t sleep at all until sunup.”
“Strange bed?”
“Strange everything.” I didn’t know how much I wanted to tell him. Encounters with the supernatural always complicated confidences. “Someone cut a hole in the screen door and took Angus off the back porch. I found him tied up in the woods surrounded by steel traps. Big ones. I think they were bear traps.”
“
“If Tilly hadn’t come to our rescue, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“Tilly Pattershaw?”
“She came out of nowhere with a huge knife. It was pretty amazing. She cut Angus loose and then…” I trailed off.
“And then what?”
I thought of that terrible wind, the howling…and Tilly’s warning not to meddle in things I didn’t understand.
“And then nothing. We went home.”
He ran his hands along Angus’s ribs. “Did they hurt him?”
There was an undercurrent of aggression in the question that worried me. My gaze went inadvertently to the cut at his temple, and then I noticed the bruised and swollen knuckles on his right hand. Just what the devil had he been up to the night before?
“He seems fine. I thought the traps had been set for me at first.”
He glanced up sharply. “Why would you think that?”
“It seemed obvious Angus had been used to lure me into the woods. And it occurred to me that someone might have gotten nervous over my discovery.”
“The hidden grave?”
“Yes. But then I wondered why someone would place traps all around the clearing when I would be coming from only one direction.”
“They were probably after coyotes,” he said. “The packs have been unusually troublesome this year.”
“What about wolves? Wayne Van Zandt said he’s seen some around here.”
“I’ve heard other people say that, too, but I’ve never spotted one.” He glanced up, the hard gleam of suppressed violence still taking me aback. “You didn’t hear or see anything last night?”
“No, but I think someone must have been in the yard earlier when I let Angus out before bedtime. When I found him in the woods, I could smell something chemical on his breath. I think he was drugged.”
Thane rose. “Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust Wayne Van Zandt.” I told him about my conversation with Van Zandt at the police station and his callous offer to come out and take care of my stray. “He’s the only one other than you and Luna who even knows about Angus.”
Thane was silent for a moment. “You’re assuming no one else has seen you with the dog, but you had him here at the cemetery with you yesterday, didn’t you?”
“No one else was around, though. Not yesterday.”
“Just because you didn’t see anyone doesn’t mean you weren’t seen.”
I thought about the old man who had appeared in the cemetery on my first day. I hated to think of anyone watching me while I worked, but that man’s repulsive behavior had been so unnerving, the memory of him was a shiver up my spine. I lifted my gaze to the statues and for an instant—the way the sun hit them—the ethereal faces twisted into something ugly and sinister. Something…demonic. It was only my imagination, of course, but I saw that hideous man’s features—the pale eyes, the jutting cheekbones, the hawklike nose—superimposed on the faces of those angels.
I shook off the illusion and turned back to Thane. He was still staring down at me, and in that moment, I was very glad that he didn’t look like the Ashers.
“I don’t understand why they had to use Angus as bait,” I said. “Why go to the trouble of drugging my dog and taking him from my porch?”
“To get rid of the evidence,” Thane said. “You’ve been asking questions about dog fighting. That makes people jumpy.”
I paused. “Is that what happened to your face and hand? You asked too many questions?”
He said nothing as he glanced down at Angus.
“You found the kennel, didn’t you?” I asked softly.
The silence stretched, punctuated by the stillness of the day. It was strange how the quiet roused my drowsy senses, like a gentle hand waking someone from a deep sleep. I could still remember the peaceful feel of dappled sunlight on my face and the comforting fragrance of earth, ivy and moss, that fecund perfume so peculiar to old cemeteries. In the distance, draped in the ethereal blue haze of the pine forest, the ancient mountains beckoned.
A thorn pricked the idyllic setting, and I suddenly felt very frightened. Not of Thane. Not even of that bizarre man with the wagon. I was afraid of those mountains, fearful of something inside me that had responded to the siren call of those seductive peaks.
A breeze shuddered through the trees, and as Thane’s gaze met mine, I felt an odd little thrill shoot through me, almost like a premonition. A sign.
“Keep Angus close,” he said. “And stay out of the woods after dark.”
The fear I’d experienced a moment ago was already starting to fade as we walked back through the lych- gate into the public section of the cemetery. But I was glad enough to turn my back on those looming hills. The sun was warm on my face, and I could hear the pleasant trill of the wood thrushes in the trees outside the entrance. A more peaceful setting, I could hardly imagine, and yet…I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder where mountain met sky in that timeless union.
“Will you take me to that grave?” Thane said at my side, and had I not been so adept at schooling my reaction, I might have jumped. For a moment, I’d forgotten all about him as I contemplated the mystique of those distant blue walls.
I turned back around. “There isn’t much to see. I gave you a thorough description at dinner. A north-south oriented grave decorated with seashells, pebbles and a headstone without an inscription.”
“Yes, I know. But I need to see it for myself.” He surveyed the woods with a frown. “That’s still Asher land. Now that you’ve brought it to my attention, I can’t just ignore that grave. It’s my responsibility to find out who’s buried there.”
His responsibility. Not Hugh’s. Not his grandfather’s.
I remembered at dinner how Hugh had shrugged aside my discovery, claiming the mountains were full of such remote burial sites. And Pell’s main concern had seemed to be that no one had warned me about the laurel bald. I wondered what either of them would say about Thane’s interest.
“Unless someone comes forward with a name, it’ll be difficult,” I warned him. “Unmarked graves are hard enough to identify in old graveyards, but at least one has the help of site maps and descendant recollections. Here, there’s not even an inscription to go by. Without the guideline of year of birth and death, you’ll have to wade
