Garden of Darkness Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for Anne Frasier

  Other Books by Anne Frasier

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “Frasier’s writing is fast and furious.” —Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Anne Frasier delivers thoroughly engrossing, completely riveting suspense.”—Lisa Gardner

  Praise for Pale Immortal

  “Frasier delivers twist upon twist. . . . This is the kind of book that builds to a slow boil, and then bubbles incessantly and will keep you turning pages to the end, desperate to find out what happens. . . . Frasier is an expert at haunting the reader. . . . Pale Immortal is the kind that lingers. The characters are rich, complex. The story is masterfully spun.” —Spinetingler Magazine

  “Easily the best work I’ve read in 2006. This is just simply a masterpiece. I can’t wait for the sequel so I can walk Tuonela’s streets again.” —Maximum Horrors

  “[An] exciting and thrilling tale. . . . Ms. Frasier proves why she is one of today’s bestselling authors, in a book that will have you jumping at every noise but unable to put it down. Magnificently written story and characters.” —MyShelf.com

  “One of those nifty page-turning thrillers that keep you reading nonstop till you turn the last page. And Anne Frasier is a writer talented at creating vividly fractured characters and a dark, disturbing atmosphere and theme. . . . If you want to taste something a little different, then Pale Immortal is a heady and sinister brew.”

  —BookLoons

  “Anne Frasier has written a very scary novel with gothic and supernatural overtones. . . . This is a stupendous work, worthy of an award nomination.” —The Best Reviews

  “Few books keep me turning pages from dark till dawn, but this one did. Be prepared, for it could happen to you too.”

  —Armchair Interviews

  “Frasier’s latest rivets with suspense and paranormal elements as vampires—both real and imagined—become a force to be reckoned with. She masterfully creates the perfect atmosphere for suspicious death and compelling mystery in this nail-biting thrill ride.” —Romantic Times

  continued . . .

  Before I Wake

  “Anne Frasier’s latest novel . . . once again demonstrates her mastery of atmospheric suspense. . . . During the incredible finale, which takes place back on Arden’s family farm during a pounding blizzard, you just may want to bundle up. Arden Davis is a thoroughly engaging character.” —CrimeSpree Magazine

  “An original, highly suspenseful, ingeniously crafted tale that dares to question reality. . . . Frasier has filled this clever plot with daring twists, realistic characters, and a chilling narrative that thrills with each page. This is not a meatloaf-and-potatoes kind of read, but rather a bold new recipe that satiates and awakens those tired old taste buds and is definitely worth each and every calorie.”

  —New Mystery Reader Magazine

  “Words like ‘thrilling,’ ‘riveting,’ and ‘intense’ are often bandied about when describing Anne Frasier’s writing, and for good reason. . . . That is exactly what she delivers.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Play Dead

  “A nicely constructed combination of mystery and thriller, which skirts along the edge of fantasy. Frasier is a talented writer whose forte is probing into the psyches of her characters, and she produces a fast-paced novel with a finale containing several surprises. There’s more than enough suspense in these pages to satisfy the most jaded reader.” —I Love a Mystery

  “Frasier has perfected the art of making a reader’s skin crawl. . . . [An] exceptional thriller. . . . Frasier’s characters are not only fully realized, but fascinating to boot, and she evokes the dark, mystical side of Savannah with precision and skill.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Has all the essentials of an edge-of-your-seat story. There is suspense, believable characters, an interesting setting, and just the right amount of details to keep the reader’s eyes always moving forward. . . . I recommend Play Dead as a great addition to any mystery library.” —Roundtable Reviews

  Sleep Tight

  “Anne Frasier hasn’t wasted any time establishing herself as a master of the serial killer genre. . . . Gripping and intense. . . . Along with a fine plot, Frasier delivers her characters as whole people, each trying to cope in the face of violence and jealousies.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  “There’ll be no sleeping tight after reading this one! A riveting thriller guaranteed to keep you up all night. Laced with forensic detail and psychological twists, Anne Frasier’s latest intertwines the hunt for a serial killer with the personal struggles of two sisters battling their own demons and seeking their own truths. Compelling and real—a great read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Andrea Kane

  “Guaranteed to keep you awake at night . . . a fast-paced novel of secrets, lies, and chilling suspense.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson

  Hush

  “A deeply engrossing read. Hush delivers a creepy villain, a chilling plot, and two remarkable investigators whose personal struggles are only equaled by their compelling need to stop a madman before he kills again. One warning: Don’t read this book if you are home alone!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

  “Well-realized characters and taut, suspenseful plotting. It will definitely keep you awake to finish it. And you’ll be glad you did.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  “With Hush, Anne Frasier slams into the fast lane of the thriller market and goes to the head of the pack. This is far and away the best serial-killer story I have read in a very long time. It is packed with intense human drama, strong characters and a truly twisted bad guy. Frasier’s tale is fast and furious. This one has ‘Guaranteed Winner’ written all over it.”

  —New York Times bestsell
ing author Jayne Ann Krentz

  Other Books by Anne Frasier

  Hush

  Sleep Tight

  Play Dead

  Before I Wake

  Pale Immortal

  GARDEN OF DARKNESS

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Anne Frasier, 2007 All rights reserved

  ISBN: 1-4295-4492-9

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. publisher’s note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For the Pimp Squad

  Prologue

  Where does the wind begin?

  A dank breeze rose from the ground like one long exhaled breath. It lifted fallen leaves and swirled them up into the night sky. The leaves moved as if they knew where they were going, as if they had a destination. They flew past open windows where children were tucked into bed, hushed words snatched from sweet mouths and replaced with new ones.

  “Where does the wind begin?” one child asked another.

  “The Tuonela River,” the other child replied.

  “What’s going on up there?” a mother called from below.

  The children looked at one another in fear. “Nothing.” But they felt strange. Had a soft hand caressed them? Just a brush down the cheek, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind?

  Sweet, sweet babies.

  He drew nearer and inhaled their soap scent, and his breath stirred the fine hair on their heads.

  Time was different here.

  He could smell the river: wet driftwood, shells and bones gleaming on the shore. In the black mud of the river bottom, giant catfish slept the deep sleep in filtered light that was bent and reshaped. Never surfacing, the catfish waited patiently for prey to come close enough to catch and swallow whole.

  Sweet, sweet life.

  The damp night wind was tinged with sorrow and loss and longing.

  Oh, to be complete, to be whole.

  Some people said he was bad. But that was like saying a bear was bad when it caught a fish. It was like saying a cat was bad when it ate a bird. The bear wasn’t bad. The cat wasn’t bad.

  He wasn’t bad.

  Two places called to him, the old and the new.

  For a moment he was confused. In his mind the two places meshed and he couldn’t separate them. Time moved forward and backward, and the passage of a hundred years seemed like hours. Time unfolded and turned in on itself and his loss became something that hadn’t yet happened, and the strength and power he’d once known could possibly be found again.

  He left the children and soared from the house, up through the roof but not as far as the stars. He joined a flock of night birds as they moved out of town, shifting and changing, blocking the moonlight.

  On the ground far below, a man walking his dog felt the curious movement of air. He looked up, his face a white oval. He seemed to shrug and dismiss the sudden heaviness. But when the dog whimpered, he turned and hurried home.

  Something was coming. Something had been coming for a long time. Something big. Powerful. Something that would shake the residents of Tuonela.

  He soared.

  To the old place.

  His home.

  Over the house built from native stone. Over the bare, rolling hillside that met dark woodland. Through the trees, silent and secret.

  A light in the night.

  A lantern and the sound of a shovel striking rocky ground.

  This must be what it was like to astral project. To find yourself watching yourself. Because the man below was him, but not him.

  The dead—they were everywhere. He could see their faces in the bark of the trees and the patterns made by the twisting leaves. Like him, they were looking for bodies to inhabit. Unlike him, they would take any vessel. He wanted one and only one.

  The man on the ground seemed unaware of the dead surrounding him. He remained focused on his digging, never looking up. His heart pounded from exertion; steam rose from his shoulders.

  Go inside.

  The coaxing command seemed to come from the faces in the bark and the faces in the leaves. Who were they?

  Don’t you remember us?

  Don’t you remember your followers?

  One face in particular became more distinct, the voice seeming to separate from the singsong chant of the others.

  The scent of sage and lavender invaded his head. And somehow he could feel the softness of her skin under his fingertips.

  Come inside, Richard.

  Richard. That’s who he was. Richard Manchester, the Pale Immortal. And this was his land—the land of the dead.

  Come inside.

  The man below stabbed the shovel into the ground, then released it and straightened, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

  The night birds were gone. They had done their duty by bringing him here, and now they were asleep in the trees, heads tucked beneath black wings.

  Richard hovered above the man with the shovel. Foolish person. Digging for secrets on the ground when the secret is above you. When the secret is in you.

  Chapter One

  “We should have stopped at the gas station,” Brenda said.

  With both hands on the wheel, Joe peered through the windshield. “I thought this was the road, okay? And all roads lead somewhere. We’re going in the right direction.”

  She’d known it would be like this. She wanted to be home in her own bed. Joe kept forcing her to do things she didn’t want to do. Everybody kept forcing her to do things she didn’t want to do. And now they were lost. It was the middle of the night, and they were driving down a narrow two-lane, going who knew where.

  A movement. On the road in front of them.

  “Did you see that?” Unconsciously she put a hand to Joe’s shoulder.

  He leaned forward in his seat. “The sign?” He pointed. “You talking about that sign?”

  She sighed, removed her hand from his arm, and settled back. “I thought I saw a—” She stopped herself. She’d almost said little girl. “. . . Person. Thought I saw a person.”

  She was always seeing kids. Little girls. Ever since her miscarriage. That’s what this trip was about. To get her out of the house. To get her out of bed. A change of scenery. But the two of them? Alone together? Well, it wasn’t working out. They hadn’t been married all that long. Three years. But it was plenty of time for regret. Sometimes she hated him, and she didn’t even know why.

  The miscarriage certainly hadn’t been his fault.

  A girl.

  Why’d she ask? Why’d she want to know?

  Joe didn’t abuse her. He’d never cheated on her, as far as she knew. He was boring. Did you leave somebody for being boring? For being too nice? All the time?

  He slowed for the sign. “Tuonela. Sounds familiar.”

  “Isn’t that the town where
all that weird stuff happened?”

  “Didn’t they move the town?”

  “One is Old Tuonela, and one is just Tuonela, or something like that.”

  There it was again.

  A flash of white.

  “Look out!”

  Joe slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt, skidding sideways on loose gravel, throwing them both forward, seat belts locking.

  “I saw something!” Brenda cried. “I saw a little girl! Back up. Back up!”

  “There’s no little girl,” Joe told her sadly. “What would a kid be doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “She must be lost. Like us.” Maybe they were supposed to come this way. So that they could find this child. Save this child.

  She unbuckled her seat belt and twisted to look over her shoulder. “Back up!” She motioned frantically with one hand. “Back up!”

  He sighed and reversed. The front tires spun and they shot backward.

  Something thudded against the trunk.

  Brenda screamed.

  Joe slammed on the brakes, the car rocking.

  “You hit her! Oh, my God! You hit her!” Brenda threw open the door and jumped out. She ran to the rear of the car.

  The only light sources were the interior dome and the brake lights. What if the child was caught under the car? “I can’t see!” Brenda shouted. “It’s too dark! Get a flashlight! Bring a flashlight!”

  She saw Joe reach across the front seat for the glove box.

  Brenda leaned toward the darkness under the car. She strained her eyes.

  Was that a shape? A darker shape? “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she crooned, her voice cracking. “You’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to help you. We’re going to take care of you.”

  She felt a blast of frigid air against her face. Her hair blew back. That was followed by scraping, mixed with frightened, heavy breathing.

  The shape moved.

  It brushed past her, footsteps sounding soft and flat and bare against the blacktop. The car’s headlights fanned into the heavy woodland, glancing off the child’s white gown and long blond hair.