Blood Levy (a Dark Shadows Story) Book 3

by Susan Rains

Four strangers converge upon Collinsport. But maybe one of them is coming home.

1. Chapter 1

Blood Levy

A Dark Shadows Story

Book 3

by Susan Rains

This book is dedicated to several:

Chris, who wanted to be part of it;

Kathy, who accidentally got me to write it;

and Bill, who survived Baroté.

And Mama and Adam, who see all.

CAST LIST

Elizabeth Collins StoddardJoan Bennett

Roger CollinsLouis Edmonds

Barnabas CollinsJonathan Frid

Julia HoffmanGrayson Hall

Elliot StokesThayer David

Angelique BouchardLara Parker

David CollinsDavid Henesy

Hallie StokesKathy Cody

Maggie EvansKathryn Leigh Scott

Willie LoomisJohn Karlen

Harry JohnsonCraig Slocum

Mrs. JohnsonClarice Blackburn

Veronika LiskaVirginia Vestoff

Panna LiskaMarie Wallace

Connie Liska Donna Wandrey

Tish LemonTerrayne Crawford

Cary OlivoAnthony George

Garvey Craig (Collinwood handyman)Frank Schofield

Henry CabotJames Hall

Tisa LundfordLisa Blake Richards

Kim JansingChristopher Pennock

Lars CastlewoldKeith Prentice

and Rafael Nunes

* my creations

levy ('le-vē)

Plural: levies

Noun, 15th Cent.

Meaning:

imposing or collecting, as of a tax, by authority or force.

amount owed or collected.

Verb (transitive), 14th Cent.

Meaning:

exact by authority.

confiscate property.

wage war.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author's exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to "train" generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.

PART 1

ENTRY

Chapter 1

October 18, 1971 – Monday

Downtown Collinsport

She stepped neatly, distractedly off the curb, and it was on her at once, vast, unstoppable, thrusting into her space like a shark materializing out of clear sea. Instinctively she tried to wrest her body away from it as it sailed toward her faster than she could understand. There was nowhere to go. Her hands battered against the hot metal, but it was no use; the car bumped her with a sickening cuff that she felt to the limits of her soul, and down she went.

Her palms slapped the pavement. Her long red hair swung all around her face, swished and swung in the sunshine, as if she were on a kiddie ride at the fair. I'm hit, she thought. Hit by a car. This is ridiculous. How could I let such a stupid thing happen? I never saw it coming and I probably didn't even look to see if it was safe to cross. She felt warm, gritty asphalt under her fingers. Braced on hands and knees she tried to rise, but her elbows buckled, she weakly collapsed onto one hip, and finally, shockingly, banged her head on the ground. Contrecoup brain injury, her mind dictated inanely. What must I look like in this undignified position in the street? It seemed to her that all of this took place in a weird, apologetic silence.

Noise finally caught up with the surreal. Trickles of sound, people muttering. Someone across the street gave an exclamation. She heard a chorus of gasps. It's about time someone noticed me, she thought, ruffled. The car had hit her hours ago. Had the gasps across the street come first, or the exclamation? Bewildered, unable to figure out the answer or why it was important, she laughed inside her head.

"Did you see that?"

"Get an ambulance, get help ..."

"Is that Dr. Liska?"

"That car hit her!"

The car in front of her rocked a little as the driver lifted himself out. His door chunked closed and his shoes appeared before her eyes. Dr. Veronika Liska placed the weight of her upper torso on her arms and raised her head. I'm fine, she said, I'm not hurt, it's nothing. Didn't see the car. It doesn't hurt. She realized that she was not speaking the words.

"Lady, I never saw you til the last second. You hurt? Oh my God, it's you, Dr. Liska."

She grunted—and then was suddenly grabbed and lifted out of the road, straight toward the sky it seemed to her, in warm, strong arms—taken away from the apologizing driver and staring onlookers. She curled tiredly into her unknown savior as though this was the most natural thing she had ever done. Papa, she thought. The man holding her turned from the street and carried her back over the curb, his voice rumbling in his chest, cozy against her cheek.

"Watch out, I've got her. You—open that door!"

And thus, held securely in a stranger's arms, was Veronika borne into the dark foyer of the Collinsport Inn.

At nearly the same moment that this was happening to Dr. Liska, another woman was being carried into a different dwelling. Tisa Lundford was ferried into the foyer of Collinwood, held in the arms of her uncle, Elliot Stokes.

A muffled thud and a scratching noise at the front door of Collinwood had alerted Elizabeth Stoddard, seated at her desk in the drawing room, that she had a guest. She rose and went curiously through the foyer, a smile stealing across her lovely face. She was anticipating Elliot Stokes and a relation of his, a niece that none of them had ever met. Elliot's other niece, Hallie Stokes, now living here at Collinwood, looked forward to spending time with this long-lost cousin.

Opening the door, Elizabeth's smile of welcome was transformed into surprised concern.

A red-faced Elliot Stokes stood in the October sunshine, gripping a limp young woman in his arms. She lay weakly against his chest, her hands curled closed, legs dangling, a faint growl emanating from her throat. Elizabeth couldn't see the girl's face, pressed as it was into Elliot's collar, as if wincing away from the sunlight.

"Oh!" Elizabeth faltered, drawing back. Elliot gave a slight upward toss to the girl in his arms to get a better grip. Her limbs flopped bonelessly in reaction.

"It's us," he gasped. "Elizabeth—my niece, Tisa. Can she—may I—"

"Come in!" Elizabeth cried. "Elliot, of course she may come!"

At this invitation, Tisa Lundford passed the threshold of Collinwood.

Downtown

Striding past the startled young man behind the check-in desk, the stranger carried Veronika into one of the unaired formal sitting rooms beyond the café and gently deposited her onto a cretonne sofa. Her eyes closed, fluttered open, then shut again. He could see that she'd struck her head; there was a dark bruise forming on her forehead already. What did one do for a closed head wound? He couldn't remember, couldn't think. Oh, damn his memory. The man frowned over her as the desk clerk hurried into the room.

"Mr. Nunes! What happened?"

Nunes turned to regard the teen in a short-sleeved plaid shirt with an uncomfortable-looking knit clip-on tie, dark pants, and shoes. The boy's eyeglasses flashed at Nunes. He looked young and untested.

"Lady's been hit by a car," Nunes rasped, straightening. Just over the young man's shoulder, he could see the interested faces of other people who had followed them from the street, peering into the room. He indicated them with his chin. "Get them out of here," he instructed.

"Everything all right in there?" someone called from the gathering crowd. Others craned their necks to see into the room. Nunes moved to stand protectively over the accident victim, blocking their view of her with his body.

The desk clerk went to the doorway, irritated. "Come on, folks, now, please go away. Everything's okay in here—just go on out—yes, I know, I know—" his voice trailed away as he firmly guided the small throng to the front door. He came back to Nunes almost at once, face stricken with concern.

"Mr. Nunes, shouldn't we …" Call Collinwood, the boy had been about to say. He was pretty sure that Dr. Liska was engaged to Roger Collins. But Nunes probably didn't know anything about Collinwood.

The man's dark eyes measured him. "What's your name?" Nunes asked.

"Warren, sir."

"Warren, sit with this lady. Keep an eye on her. Better yet, rustle up one of the housemaids and get them to sit with her. You'd better guard the front door." For they could hear the door to the Inn being cautiously reopened, and low, curious voices murmuring in the foyer. "I'll phone the doctor. Do it now."

Warren studied Nunes. Here was this man, a guest who had taken a room upstairs last night, commandeering of the situation. Warren was nineteen years old and didn't really work here, he was only covering the front desk for a few months until the winter semester of college started. He was glad to defer to the instruction of the older man.

Pressing at the eyeglasses which had slid down his nose, Warren hurried away, encountering a maid loading a laundry cart with clean towels. He sent her to the sitting room. No sooner was he positioned behind the check-in desk that, again, folks began opening the street door and looking inside, hissing questions at him. He grimaced. Mr. Nunes was right; this was an annoyance, people hanging around as if there had never been a car accident before in the history of mankind, maybe hoping to see blood or hear moans. Feeling an alliance with Mr. Nunes, he hastily rounded the desk, urged the curious people outdoors and joined them, closing the door firmly behind him.

Nunes was in the foyer. A brunette maid named Denise was sitting with the injured woman. He had quickly assessed the maid, trying to judge whether she was a kind person. She seemed genuinely concerned about the accident victim. Well, he wouldn't be away from the room long, at any rate.

He noticed the young desk clerk was not in his place. Commotion outside the front door, and Warren's voice rising over it, told him what was going on. He grunted to himself. Good boy, he thought. Keep 'em out.

Nunes strode to the desk, taking up the black receiver of the desk telephone. Just for a moment, he hesitated. His hand trembled over the rotary dial as he ransacked his memory for a telephone number just beyond reach. Scowling, he sighed and, with a jerk of his hand, dialed zero. There was a ring, a click, and then an answer.

"Operator, I want—" he caught himself, once more scouring his mind for the phone number. Any number! How many digits were involved in a local phone call in Collinsport? Why couldn't he remember? Five? Seven? He smacked his hand softly on the desk and began again.

"I—I can't remember the number. Get me Dave Woodard's office, there's been an accident at the Collinsport Inn."

He gripped the phone hard. Where the hell was Wells, who was ordinarily parked at the reception desk, rain or shine? Nowhere in sight. It was Warren who had given Nunes a room when he'd registered in the small hours of the morning. Had he just missed Wells? Was the man out sick or on vacation? For reasons Nunes understood too well, he hadn't dared ask the clerk. A faint dart of unease lanced his chest and he tried to ignore it. He straightened abruptly as another voice came over the wire, and he interrupted.

"Send Dave Woodard down here at once," he directed. "Car accident! A woman's been hit at the Collinsport Inn." He listened, his expression changing to perplexity. He spoke again, not realizing that he raised his voice.

"I said Dave Woodard, isn't this his office? Who am I speaking to? Listen," he asked, "is there any doctor there at all?"

"Yes," the wondering voice replied at the other end of the line. "This is Dr. Foote's office and Dr. Foote is here! Collinsport Inn, you said? You need Dr. Foote right away?"

Nunes bit back half a laugh as his temper broke. "Yes, indeed," he said into the phone. "Someone has been hit by a car at the Collinsport Inn, so tell Doctor Foote that Mister Elbow says to get his ass down here right away, please." Clunking the receiver back into its cradle, he disconnected the call. He cursed softly, then scrubbed his face with his hands.

Great work, guy. Why'd you lose your temper and say that? Now they would think it was a prank call.

Doctor Foote?

He felt something turn over in him. Unreality lapped at his brain. Collinsport was different from the way he remembered it. Looking the same, it was yet not the same. He realized that he had thus far not encountered one person he knew, and something deep inside him shivered at this, but he deflected the thought, unwilling to deal with it.

A sudden gush of memory hit, and he felt his knees weaken. Dave Woodard was dead. How had he not remembered that Dave was dead?

He raised his head and stared at nothing. Taking another breath, he rubbed at the vague ache in his chest, then turned and stalked out of the reception area, back to the sitting room and the accident victim.

Collinwood

"I'm getting you a drink," Elizabeth told Elliot.

The two of them had settled Tisa into bed upstairs. Nobody else was home, certainly not David, on an expedition to the Bangor Library with Maggie. Hallie, expecting her cousin, had elected not to go with them. She was probably out reading on the cliffs, not realizing that Tisa had arrived. Autumn light glinted through golden leaves outside the French windows as Elliot passed a tired hand over his face and studied his companion. "Elizabeth, you are all kindness. What a picture we must have presented at the door." He reached in thanks for the glass of brandy Elizabeth presented to him.

Sweeping her hyacinth-blue afternoon dress beneath her, she sat. Her eyes were soft. "Please tell me about Tisa. She must've had a hard time."

"Quite a time, indeed." Elliot sipped, feeling the thrill as Roger's good liquor rolled down his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, then began with a sigh.

"My sister and brother-in-law are in Luxembourg on a project, and are not to be disturbed. They're historians. Their daughter Tisa has been a nun for the past eight years." He paused to empty his glass.

"She's had a mental breakdown," he continued, "as you know. She told her Mother Superior that she no longer wanted to be a nun, and now here she is, helpless as a babe. She was only eighteen when she entered the life. Her parents don't deem a mental breakdown enough of an emergency to come home from abroad," he said bitterly, "so I said I'd take her on. For you to invite her to stay at Collinwood is a blessing.

"Though cousins, Hallie and Tisa barely know one another. Hallie was only six or seven when Tisa became a nun. Perhaps here, they can grow close to one another while Tisa … heals."

Elizabeth nodded understandingly.

Elliot abruptly sat forward. "I want to be clear about this. If you find it too intense having her at Collinwood—and who knows what it'll be like—I can make other plans. I could talk to Julia Hoffman about Windcliff Sanitarium. I simply can't take Tisa home with me at this juncture," he said broodingly.

Angelique Bouchard had been living with Elliot Stokes in his small home since the previous April. This mismatched pairing had been a phenomenon that no one at Collinwood had been able to understand. Things had not become much clearer when it was learned that Angelique had conceived Elliot's child after a memorable Collinwood dinner party. Now entering her sixth month of pregnancy, the truculent, remote Angelique would not be the best companion for a fragile former nun. Though the women were around the same age (as far as anybody knew), Angelique was usually exasperated, edgy, and possessive of Elliot's attention. It wasn't possible to imagine her offering companionship to Tisa. Thus, Elizabeth's invitation had been a great boon.

And Elliot was torn. He wanted to spend time with his subdued young niece, to support her and get to know her again. She'd greatly loved him when she was a little child, and he wanted to regain her trust. Elliot was indignant that his sister and her husband had not instantly flown home to look after their daughter. He felt he himself was up to the task, and very much wanted to do it, but the notion of bringing Tisa home to live with him and Angelique gave him an inner shiver. Though he loved Angelique more than his life, he felt that she had no warmth to offer the vulnerable young woman.

Elliot was well aware that Angelique did not love him; yet she had clung to him back in April when he'd saved her life, and had agreed to remain with him for the time being. All he could do was hope that one day she would see him with different eyes.

He lifted his face to his beautiful friend. "I want your word," he told Elizabeth, "that if you don't find her a good fit over the next week or so here at Collinwood, until I can make plans for her, you will be honest and tell me. Other arrangements can easily be fixed on."

"Yes," Elizabeth said, feeling a tug at her heart for the abandoned young nun. "But that would mean Windcliff. Elliot, let's try her here with us. I do truly want her, and I am sure the girls will enjoy one another."

She smiled. She loved Hallie Stokes. Hallie was a gentle, tractable girl, and Elizabeth expected to find these same qualities in Tisa Lundford.

Elizabeth was in for a shock.

Downtown

Veronika came suddenly aware. A velvety soft but stale-smelling cushion cradled her head and cheek. Her skull pounded like a drum act in a nightclub, causing an ache in her neck and teeth. She opened her eyes and saw a man seated beside her, holding her hand.

She tried to sit up, for apparently she was lying full length on this couch or whatever it was. She blinked and took in the aspects of the room; muted, shady. Amateur portraits of Collinsport Harbor adorned the walls; here a squall in the bay, there fishing boats approaching the docks where men and children and gulls waited. None of the pictures was particularly well executed. The room was unaired and she felt dust irritating her throat.

She turned her eyes to the man beside her, who gave her a warm smile. She realized that he held her hand in his and had been stroking it. Strangely, Veronika did not resent or question this. Coming fully conscious, she shifted a little and drew a long breath.

"Where are we?"

"Collinsport Inn. This is a back sitting room I've borrowed, and we've sent for a doctor."

Veronika gently fetched her hand from his. The man let it go, and straightened a little in his chair.

"I am a doctor," she told him.

He looked surprised.

"I'm sure I'm okay. Or I probably will be in a while." Not feeling like sitting up yet, she studied the shredded flesh of her abraded palms. "I think I was hit by a car."

He eased back into a more comfortable position in the hard chair, keeping his eyes on her face.

"You were," he confirmed. He had dismissed the maid, who had gone, instantly reappearing with a wrung-out wet cloth for the victim's forehead. Nunes was now alone once more with his charge as she reclined on the sofa, holding the icy wet cloth folded against her hairline.

Her long, smooth red hair hung like a silken flag over the arm of the couch. It fascinated him. She had what he thought were unusual eyes—bewitching, somehow Eastern European. He wasn't sure of the image he was searching for. Russian eyes? It wasn't as though they were exotically slanted. Why was he thinking of women in Ian Fleming novels? His glance swung from her face to her breasts, her hips, and all the way down her legs. The woman was beautiful.

"I'm sure I'm fine," Veronika told him. "That car did no more than bump me. I was stupid and let my head hit the ground. Poor Mr. Jarboe, I hope someone tells him I'm not badly hurt. He was the driver of the car," she explained.

She gazed up at her companion, who had stood. He was rather exceptional to look at, tall and well-made, with a strong cleft chin and chiseled cheekbones. There was a look of preoccupation in his dark eyes. She surreptitiously observed the way he filled his suit jacket; strong shoulders, a tapered waist.

Nunes sat down beside her on the couch, then immediately was up again, pacing. Veronika watched him. She felt superb, other than a sore hip (which she knew would soon sport a fabulous bruise), and the lousy headache. She knew that the euphoria surging in her veins was the relief one feels at coming close to death, only to escape with barely a nick. She felt ready for anything.

She smiled at the man. "Thank you for hauling me out of the road," she said. "You lifted me as though I was a kitten. I'm Veronika Liska. Who are you?"

Turning towards her, he seemed suddenly to lose his balance. He went awkwardly down on one knee, flailing for something to stop his fall, finding nothing. His palms smacked the rug. He gasped.

Veronika quickly sat up, watching him. He might have been miming her own actions when she had fallen in the street. But she saw from his ashen face that this was something else; something was wrong.

"What is it, are you all right?" she asked.

The man before her tried to rise, then gave up, opting to seat himself on the rug. He made a sound, half chuckle, half groan.

"Don't mind me," he uttered humorously, "I fall down on occasion, like a little kid." He lifted one hand and rubbed the nape of his neck, twisting away from her and settling his back against her sofa.

She studied him. He didn't look well. Vibrantly suntanned, illness had nevertheless leached some of the color from his cheeks. As he massaged his neck, she saw the edge of a scar just above his shirt collar. She laid a careful hand on his shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice. "Here you have the undivided attention of a medical professional who owes you a good deed. Can I do something for you? What is the matter?"

His muscles beneath her hand were rigidly tense, but he turned his head to smile at her.

"I haven't been sleeping too well lately," he told her. "Pay no attention. I'm just a little, what's the word, dislocated. Uh—disaffected. Dis- … disoriented. I only arrived here in town about midnight, and everything's—"

She waited. "Yes?" she encouraged him.

"Well," he said finally. "Everything strikes me as just a little bit off."

Veronika smiled, bemused. "Something about this town seems 'off' to you? I don't understand. And do tell me your name," she requested.

"My name," he said colorlessly. "What good's a name? Didn't Shakespeare say that, or something along those lines?" Then his expression changed, and his eyes danced. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Veronika. I don't think I've met you before. I hope I'd remember if I had."

"No. Yes," she agreed. No, she'd have remembered him. She regarded him up close. He had a long, rugged, no-nonsense face, lines of pain etched around the eyes and the firm lips. Regular features. Brown hair, grown out long from what might once have been a crewcut. He was going silver at the temples. How striking he must have been in his prime, with his broad chest, good shoulders, flat stomach. But he couldn't be very much older than herself; there was something boyish in his eyes. Nevertheless, he had obviously experienced protracted illness and pain. With practiced ease, she kept her eyes away from the alarming scars on his scalp that were sometimes visible through his hair, depending on which way he turned his head. Major cranial trauma, she thought, and not so very long ago.

"I'd have remembered you," she told him lightly. "I haven't been long in Collinsport myself. Have you ever been here before?"

A swishing sigh escaped him, which might have been laughter. "I have," he confirmed. "Well. My amusing nosedive to the rug here is probably a sign that I forgot to eat today. Do you feel like eating?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is it safe for you to eat so soon after hitting your head? I guess we'd better wait for this blasted doctor to turn up before we do anything rash. Here, let me get up off the floor, I feel like a fool."

Veronika stood, wanting to help, but he leaned on the sofa and got to his feet.

"Let's use this room," she suggested suddenly. "Let's order some food from the café. They do a very good lobster roll here, I can tell you. The coffee will peel back your eyelids, so I can't really recommend it, but the food is usually marvelous. I probably shouldn't eat for a few hours, but I can certainly pick at something. No one will mind our using this back room—I'll ask Warren." And then, helplessly, "I want to talk to you."

Gut instinct was nudging Veronika. Without having said it or probably even thought it himself, this man needed her help. She had learned to rely on her intuition about patients, and felt it was part of what made her a good doctor. There was a nearly palpable sadness about him that her caring nature was responding to; she felt that she needed to put herself at his service.

He gazed at her as if he could read her thoughts. After a moment he said unsteadily, "Let's just eat in the café. Don't worry about me. You're the one we need to be concerned about."

Veronika persisted, "But do tell me your name. Why all this mystery?"

"No mystery at all," he said expansively, no longer meeting her eyes. "I'm Stuart Bronson. Pleased to know you."

She smiled at him. "Well, good to meet you, Mr. Bronson."

At that moment, Warren looked anxiously into the room from the foyer, his features relaxing when he saw Veronika on her feet. "Oh, Dr. Liska, Mr. Nunes, I was concerned. Is there anything you need in here?"

Veronika halted and looked a question at her companion, but he turned his face from her.

Later

"Lars Castlewold! Memorize that name!"

David trooped into Collinwood, Maggie Evans behind him. He tossed the bags he was carrying onto the foyer table with such force that they slid across the polished surface and fell off the other side, banging onto the flagged floor. Taking a deep breath and lifting his face to the upper regions of the house, he shouted, "HALLIEEEE!"

"David!" Maggie protested, laughing. She closed the front door. "Don't shout the house down, someone will think there's a fire out here. And for goodness' sake, go easy on those library books or we're done for."

Maggie placed her packages on the foyer table, shrugging out of her light coat as David wildly struggled out of his oversized fisherman's sweater. He flung that, too, onto the table, and straightened his rumpled shirt.

"It could be the biggest thing Collinsport's ever seen," he told Maggie, breathlessly continuing a prior conversation, "and maybe we'll be famous. I know I can do it, I'm good at it, I'm fantastic at it! And maybe I'll end up in Tiger Beat magazine or Sports Illustrated, and everybody'll say, 'holy hell, it's David Collins!' And then—"

Elizabeth stepped out of the den and looked askance at her nephew.

"David, are you the town crier? What has you so excited?"

A day or so from his fourteenth birthday, David was getting taller, more handsome. His cheeks were flushed with happiness, eyes shining as he turned to her.

"There's a guy at the skating rink and he's getting a team together and he's going to train us and maybe we can go to the Olympics!"

"What?" Elizabeth laughed, looking at Maggie, who raised her eyebrows at her employer.

"When we got back from Bangor just now," Maggie explained, "we stopped at the Collinsport Inn for a soda." She folded her coat over her arm and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. "We heard the news there. It's all over town, apparently. There is a talent scout from the NHL who is going to hold tryouts for some sort of preliminary team. If he finds some real talent in Collinsport, he says that there's a chance the kids could go to the Olympics. But he can't possibly be talking about the winter Olympics. Don't they start in February?"

"My goodness," Elizabeth said, bemused. "The skating rink? That's been closed for years."

"Yes, but he's going to open it!" David said, jubilant. "He says he'll have training and tryouts, and the rink will be open all night. How do you like that? It's so that kids can attend after school. Of course," David said loftily, "I could attend anytime at all, if the rink was open in the daytime. We could shift my lessons around. But I want to be there when the other guys are there. He won't open the rink til late, anyway, and we can skate all night if we feel like it! He says he'll even take girls if they're interested, but whoever heard of a professional girl hockey team? The NHL hasn't."

"You take my breath away," his aunt chuckled. "Who is this man you speak of? And what's the NHL?"

David raised his arms and dropped them again.

"Can I tell you later, Aunt Elizabeth? Well—I haven't seen him, but he's definitely here, because other people have seen him. His name is Lars Castlewold and he's a scout for the National Hockey League, and he left business cards on the counter of the Collinsport Inn Café. I took some." He dug at the pockets of his pants, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "I'm going into town again this afternoon, and I'm going to find him and see if he'll come back home with me! Or if he can't today, well, I'll tell him to come definitely, anytime, and that he'll be absolutely welcome! I'll insist he come here! He can explain all about the training program."

Elizabeth's brow cleared. "Oh, your hockey. Yes, I see. You and your father certainly love to watch hockey."

"All right, David, calm down a little," Maggie advised laughingly. "Why don't you run upstairs and tell Hallie. I know you both love to skate, and now you'll have a big, clean skating rink to do it in instead of having to wait for Goat Pond to freeze over. I have heard of this type of scout," Maggie continued, speaking to Elizabeth, "and perhaps he is associated with the Olympics, but it takes a lifetime of training to reach that caliber of performance. Why he'd mention the Olympics to the kids, I don't know. Must be trying to get everybody feeling ambitious."

David dropped a business card on the foyer table and rushed to the stairwell. "Some guys don't know how to skate at all, and I've been skating since I was seven!" He blew up the stairs.

Maggie and Elizabeth exchanged glances, smiling.

"Would you like some coffee, Maggie? Tish had just brought the tray. You can tell me about Bangor, and more of what you saw and heard in town." The two women went into the drawing room to help themselves to coffee.

Many in Collinsport had been cognizant of activity at the old rink over the last six months; Roger Collins himself had been peripherally aware, but hadn't thought to mention it at home. Early in summer the stranger had dropped in on Collinsport, representing himself as a talent scout associated with the National Hockey League and offering to assess local teens. Collinsport was just one proposed destination on his itinerary. A deal had been worked out with the town to reopen the rink. And now the man had returned to run his trials.

The refurbished rink, with its lights, seats, splintery lockers and battered hockey gear, would be open evenings only, deep into the small hours of the morning if needed. This was so that teens could come to the rink to participate after school and dinner were finished. Those no longer attending school could stay even later.

The rink would not be open at all during the day, which was odd. But the rationale was this:

Local electrical power was precious, and reopening the rink would be a terrific drain on town resources. Nobody had forgotten the fantastic blackout of 1965, which had shut down most of New England and a good portion of Canada for more than twelve hours. So, in order to avoid power fluctuations and possible brownouts in Collinsport—and to get what he wanted, a scouting opportunity, out of the town fathers—this Castlewold had proposed nighttime hours only for the rink. He would presumably sleep by day, giving his nights to the rink. With schools and offices shutting down for the evening and vacating their need for electricity overnight, only then would the rink open, tapping into the power grid.

Everyone should be happy.

Well-explained … yet it still felt like a peculiar proposition.

Isolated as he was at Collinwood, David might have been the last young man in town to hear of Lars Castlewold, now the second newcomer to rate a standing invitation to pass unchallenged over the threshold of Collinwood.

Earlier

"His name is Kim Jansing!" Roger announced. "There he was at the cannery this morning. Said he'd been waiting for me. I couldn't imagine what the man wanted, but we conferred a little, and—of all things, Liz—he asked to rent studio space in the upper floors of the cannery. He wants to paint there! Can you believe it? He's come to paint our coastline, he says."

Home for lunch, Roger tossed his jacket onto the back of the couch and tugged at his tie. Amused, Elizabeth told her brother, "You seem terribly happy about this, Roger, but I confess that I don't understand any of it. You actually told this man yes? Won't he be in your way at the cannery?"

Her brother had neglected to mention the stupendous sum Jansing had offered for studio space in the abandoned, wrecked upper floors of the cannery. There were no suites of offices up there. Apart from a few boxes of junk, the space was hardly even used for storage. The second and third floors of the cannery were long forgotten and eerie. Floors were rotting, support joists sagging, doorways and window frames desiccated. The place smelled of insects and mice.

Roger's eyes glinted. "He loved it! He wanted it. Insisted upon taking the space. My God, he even found a skylight I'd had no idea existed. Oh, it's horrible up there, all dank and gloom, and—I kept expecting some Hollywood monster to run out of the shadows at me. I took one look around and begged him to let us clean and air it first, or better yet—" Roger chewed his lip— "well, I offered him a place to work, here, in the west wing."

"What?" Liz exclaimed. "You've invited a stranger to come stay in Collinwood?"

"Oh, Liz, my goodness. There's so much room here, and he pays so well, and all he wants is to stay for a month or so and paint some seascapes. But he turned me down. He doesn't want to lodge here. In fact, I've no idea where he'll stay, and I don't care! But as to his studio, it was the cannery or nothing. He said he was in love with the location." Roger hurried to the brandy cabinet and wrested the stopper off the glittering crystal decanter of brandy, snatched a glass, and poured.

"Roger," she said, gesturing helplessly. "That's bizarre."

She watched him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that this was now the third stranger in one day anticipated or arrived in Collinsport. The Castlewold hockey fellow, young Tisa (expected any minute), and now Mr. Jansing. It was unusual to get an influx of people to the town over a season, let alone in one day.

Liz knew nothing as yet of Mr. Nunes.

"You'll like Jansing," Roger continued, stopping to quickly sip his exquisite brandy. "Tall, blonde hair, very personable, quite presentable. Not like some of these young men nowadays, though of course his hair is too long, but what can one do about that? I could hardly tell him I wouldn't rent to him until he'd seen a barber. He said he's been studying in France for the past two years. But he's definitely an American. I warned him that I'd need to see some references, and he got out his portmanteau right there, knelt on the floor, and dug through for his papers. By the time he handed them to me I was telling him not to bother, that I would be glad to do business with him. Of course I emphasized that he absolutely cannot work with candles up there, but he laughed and told me painters don't paint by candlelight. And I don't suppose that one man painting all night in the cannery is going to use much electricity."

"All night?" Elizabeth queried. "He said he was going to be painting throughout the night?"

"No, actually, he didn't. But he's an artist, so I assumed automatically that he must be mad, and who can dictate the habits of madmen? He'll come by and have a drink with us in the next day or so. I'm going to ask whether he'd be willing to put aside the seascapes and have a go at a portrait of Veronika, perhaps, or you.

"I gave him an open invitation to come here at any time. I made it very plain that the doors of Collinwood are open to Mr. Jansing, so keep a lookout."

Downtown

"So that was Foote," Nunes commented as they mounted the stairs to the Inn's second floor, where he had a room.

He hadn't been impressed at first; Dr. Foote looked a lot like Wimpy from the Popeye comic strip. But his evident concern for Veronika's wellbeing had swayed him. The man had touched Veronika's head with careful hands, and peered into her eyes with his scope for what felt like an inordinate amount of time. Nunes had finally realized that he was looking for—what? A brain bleed? Some evidence of inner damage. Veronika had come away with a clean bill of health and a blistering warning to take care. "I don't want you self-medicating," Foote had grumbled, slipping his instruments into his battered medical bag. "None of this physician-heal-myself routine. Come see me or Sloan, or put yourself under Julia Hoffman's care. Do I have your promise?" And Veronika had replied yes, of course.

"That was him," Veronika agreed. "He's a nice enough man. That practice has traditionally been held by middle-aged bachelors, one after the other. Before Leslie Foote, I think it was a man named Woodard."

Nunes felt that pain again beneath his heart at the mention of Dave Woodard's name, but he quickly thrust it away.

"Better look out," he chuckled as he unlocked and opened his door, "you're going to get a funny reputation, accompanying a bachelor to his room at the Collinsport Inn." He entered, and Veronika unconcernedly followed him inside, closing the door behind them.

She walked about the room slowly. There was almost nothing in here. Chairs, bureau, a few scattered occasional tables, on one of which was a bottle of whiskey and a glass. A suitcase stood beside the bathroom door. A bed, made, but with its counterpane rumpled, and a glass of water on the table beside it. A door that led to a tiny kitchenette. That was it.

Returning to the door, she leaned against it as Nunes stared at her across the gloom. The quiet ticked between them. "Not sure what it is you want up here, anyway," he said, his voice husky. He couldn't read the look she was giving him.

"Then I'll come right to the point, Mr. Nunes," Veronika said. "Something is wrong. I know it. I see it. Downstairs just now before the lunch check came, and I'm not mistaken, I saw tears in your eyes. Listen," she said, pushing up from the door and coming closer to him, "Your stories over the past hour have been riveting, but you've told me absolutely nothing. I am your friend. Believe it. After today, my God, you're my hero! You pulled me out from under Mr. Jarboe's wheels and took care of me! And I can see that you're not well, and that there's some sort of trouble." She bit her lip. "I'd like to be of assistance. Can't you let me?"

Nunes turned away from her, absently yanking his tie from around his neck, and hesitated. After a moment, he tossed the tie at the wall and sat down on the bed, lowering his head. Veronika went to him. Dragging a chair close to his bed, she sat down and grasped his fists in her hands; his fingers immediately relaxed in hers.

"Listen here," she began in a low voice, "Have you got any friends in Collinsport we can contact? ... It's okay to talk to me. Tell me what the matter is so that I can help, yes?" She gazed at him until he lifted his eyes to her.

Nunes uttered a frustrated snort. Perhaps now, here in his bedroom, was not the time or place to mention that she reminded him of a James Bond girl.

"What's the matter," he growled, "is that I don't know anybody here, and nobody here knows me."

"No one knows you? Humor me for a moment. Do you know where you are?" she asked gently.

He smiled, his eyes glinting. "I know where I am, doc. You're the one who got knocked on the bean, not me. I'm at the Collinsport Inn, Collinsport, Maine."

"All right. You expect people to know you, but they don't. Is that what you mean?"

Nunes pulled his hands from her grasp and gave her a pained look. "Yes, doctor, of course that's what I mean. I mean that thus far and up to this moment, I have not run into one person I expected to see here. Not one soul. Everyone we saw in the café just now was a stranger. There are strangers at the front desk, and at the cash register, and at the cigarette stand. Everyone's missing—everybody I knew, at any rate. No one's in their right place." He leaned his elbows on his knees, hands dangling, and looked at her. He took in the cascade of her vivid auburn hair, her pretty, intelligent face, the bruise on her forehead, the solemn set of her slim shoulders. He could see the compassion in her and felt that she must be a very good physician, empathetic and kind.

"I don't know you, for example," he pointed out. "When did you get to Collinsport?"

She leaned back in the stiff chair, feeling the responding pain in her hip. "I haven't been here long. My sisters and I arrived less than a year ago."

"Okay. Who do you know in Collinsport? Name some people."

Her lips lifted in a smile. She felt the tension in the man across from her lessen a little. "I'll name everyone I know here if you'll take a sip of the water in that glass," she offered.

He sat back with a sigh, obediently taking up the waterglass on his bedside table. "Well, name somebody I know, I dare you. Who's the first person that comes to mind that you know here in Collinsport?"

"My fiancé," Veronika responded immediately, "and his family."

His lips twitched in answer to her smile, and his eyes glimmered. "Fine. Who's the lucky devil?"

A pink flush swept up the doctor's neck; she could feel it. "Roger Collins. Perhaps you knew him from before?" But Nunes' eyes snapped with sudden fire. He thrust his face at her so abruptly that she started.

"Roger Collins!" he said hoarsely. He banged the glass down on the table, water slopping over the rim. "Roger is your fiancé? Okay, Roger knows me, his whole family knows me, that whole clan—Liz Stoddard, Carolyn, David ... Vicky. Barnabas Collins! Ask Dave Woodard—oh, my God, I keep forgetting he's dead."

He bowed his head for a moment and laced his hands behind his neck. Veronika looked at his thick hair, which was only just long enough to form into glossy waves. Again, she thought how fabulously handsome he must have been at one time. He was handsome now, but gaunt, vulnerable, and perhaps a little haunted, with the lethal scars on his scalp showing through the uneven growth of hair.

Oddly, she felt an urge to touch him, caress his hair. She quickly squelched that feeling. What was the matter with her today? She pulled her thoughts back as Nunes resumed.

"Good Christ. Look. Let's get Sam Evans down here. You know Sam Evans? Or maybe," he interrupted himself with a laugh of exasperation, sitting up straight on the bed once more, "maybe don't get him down here. He'll have the jolt of his life, seeing me. But at least he'd know me, could vouch for my identity." Veronika saw an odd light flash behind his eyes. Grief moved across his mobile countenance, and he went on.

"First things first," he said, studying her. "I can probably only handle one of those people at a time. Vicky Winters is the one I want. Can you get her down here, or could you—take me to her? Or get a message to her? Hell," he said, rising and moving past her to stride unsteadily the length of the confining room, "this is going to be cruel. And hard. I just can't see any right way to do this."

Veronika gently rubbed the bruise on her forehead and watched him, perplexed. "You say you know Roger, and I believe you, but he's never mentioned you. If it's Vicky Winters you want to talk to, I'm sure we can find her somewhere if she's a resident of Collinsport. Let's look her up in the telephone directory."

Nunes stopped pacing and fixed her with a stare. "You don't know Vicky?" he barked. "Haven't met her, encountered her at Collinwood? Never?"

A slight memory rang in Veronika's head. Hadn't there been some talk of a Vicky Winters at the séance last spring at Collinwood? Did she have the right name? She wasn't certain. Rising, Veronika shook her head at the startled man. "I've certainly never met her. Shall I phone Roger now? Or take you to Collinwood? Though Roger's at the cannery at this hour." She checked her wristwatch.

Unexpectedly, Nunes was in front of her, seizing her upper arms, making her draw in her breath. He studied her intently, a muscle working in his jaw. His eyes scoured her face as though there were words lettered on it. In her turn she gripped his muscled arms, concerned that he might fall.

"Do you mean," he said in a low voice, "that Vicky doesn't live at Collinwood anymore? You don't know her?" Nunes seemed to realize that he was holding the doctor and released his grasp at once. He turned away, cradling his midsection.

Veronika opened her lips, but paused. Was he speaking of a real person? Could he be delusional? "Listen, Mr. Nunes—"

"Might as well call me Rafael."

"Rafael, it's obvious to me that you are recovering from a recent illness. And as one of the first people you've officially met in Collinsport, and your doctor by default, I am ordering you to take it easy. Whatever's going on, we'll get to the bottom of it."

His gaze traveled to the ceiling. As if he hadn't heard her, he said, "I should have expected this."

"What about your family? Do your parents live here or any brothers or sisters, cousins? Children?"

Nunes made a gruff sound. "No. I have no family, it was just my old man and me, and he died while I was in pr— while I was in Peru. That must be ten, twelve years ago now."

She took a step toward him. "You mentioned a Sam Evans. Any relation to Maggie Evans? Because I do know her."

He didn't move, and for a moment she wondered if he'd heard her. Then he turned very slowly to look at her, something like dread dawning on his face.

"You don't know Sam, either," he whispered. "Sam is Maggie's father. You haven't met Sam?"

At this, Veronika felt her heart constrict. "Sit down, Mr.—Rafael, please sit down. Right now." She watched as he dropped back onto the bed once more. She bypassed the chair, smoothly kneeling before him, looking up into his face. She took his hand.

"Rafael," she said gently, "I'm sorry about this, but I do know that Maggie lost her dad about three years ago. If that was your friend Sam Evans, he's passed away."

Rafael just stared at her. When she was finally about to speak again, he withdrew his gaze and stared hard at the wall. He looked sick. "Well, what did I expect. Poor kid, poor Maggie. I looked for her just now in the café, looked and looked, but there were waitresses there I'd never seen before. No Maggie."

Veronika hesitated. Should she reveal the fact that Maggie resided at Collinwood as a live-in tutor? But he was upset enough, grappling with the failure of many apparent expectations. Collinsport was not as he remembered it. Veronika wasn't going to club him with more news that might prove distressing. She would proceed slowly with him, and help him learn Collinsport again little by little.

Releasing his hand from hers, Rafael swung his attention back to her, his dark eyes roving her face. "And how are you?" he asked. "How is the doctor feeling after her frightening experience? That bruise has got to hurt, wait til Roger sees it." He shook his head. "Roger, marrying again. I suppose it's about time, but how the hell did he bag a winner like you? I guess he's told you all about Laura. That marriage was not a success. You make certain," he said, fixing her with a half-comical glare, "that Roger treats you the way he should, or I'll be around to straighten him out."

Veronika laughed appreciatively. "He's wonderful to me," she said, "and I intend to make him forget both his prior marriages."

"Huh." Rafael grunted as though he'd been smacked in the stomach. "Plural? Roger married again after Laura?" He startled her by laughing unexpectedly, throwing up his hands and slouching backwards. "Now I know what Rip Van Winkle felt like when he finally woke up. Oh, well. How about you invite me to Collinwood for a drink sometime, so that I can test the family memory? Let me run the Collinwood gauntlet." His eyes shone. "Prove to you that I really do have a history here. That those people up on the hill know me."

She nodded at him solemnly, noting that now he looked a little more relaxed. Still despairing, but not so very wound up. "That sounds like a fine idea. I don't know that we can do it this evening, I believe Roger has a late meeting. But how about a firm date for tomorrow night? I'll come here in my car and take you up there for a drink. And before that," she said firmly, "I shall come and check on you tomorrow. Make certain everything is as it should be. What if I come around one o'clock and take you to lunch? What do you say to that?"

Rafael looked at her. She could see that he was exhausted. His mouth moved in a smile of surrender.

"You're the doctor."

Thus it was that four strangers arrived in Collinsport and made themselves at home.

And, though most of the town wouldn't know of it until the following morning, something was already hideously wrong.