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Back The Bedeviled Save as PDF
Chapters (35)
  1. Cover
  2. BOOK ONE
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. BOOK TWO
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. BOOK THREE
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. BOOK FOUR
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. Epilogue
  35. About the Author

I kept glancing every few seconds at the seat beside me, half-­expecting the man to be there, although reason told me he couldn’t be. For one thing, if he and Duff were the same person and Duff wasn’t with me, then neither could the man be. But how did I know Duff wasn’t with me? He could have hidden in the back of the car while I was in the Weber house.

I turned to look at the back seat, but it was impossible to see anything back there. Surely much more than five minutes had passed now and I still wasn’t home. I slowed down a bit and tried to read my watch, holding it beneath the dashboard light, but the minute hand didn’t seem to have moved at all.

Then I heard the voice—definitely heard it—it wasn’t in my head. It was a man’s voice, not Duff’s voice, and not much like his voice as I had heard it in the kitchen either. This time it was less guttural and more resonant, and the sound rose and fell as though borne on a wind. “Maggie . . . Maggie,” it called and sometimes it was loving, beseeching, and sometimes it was a question as though the caller was seeking me. “Maggie? Maggie?”

Now I saw him. He was riding beside me on a black horse, coming abreast of me now and then—unbelievably considering the speed of the car—pulling ahead. The horse was savage-­looking, with wild red eyes and foam flying from its mouth. I pushed hard on the gas pedal. The horse and its rider fell back, but it was only seconds before the horse’s head was up to my window again.

The man was in uniform, although it wasn’t quite the uniform of the photograph. Now his dark blue coat was torn and mud spattered. His boots were even muddier and the badge on his black slouch hat was green with tarnish.

He was hunched over the neck of the racing horse, gripping the reins tightly, but he wasn’t watching the road. He was watching me and grinning. The voice kept calling my name, but his lips weren’t moving.

I prayed for another car to appear in his lane or mine, but the road remained empty except for the two of us. The speedo­meter said eighty-­five, then ninety and still he kept up. It was impossible, I knew. I’ve ridden a lot of horses myself and I knew no horse could run that fast. It was impossible, too, that I hadn’t reached the Caine farm. At that speed I should’ve been there in two minutes or less.