by Lisa Jackson
“Yup.” Corky took a long swallow from his glass.
“Conjecture,” Gil disagreed. “Reece, too, is probably dead.”
“Nah-ah,” Corky disagreed. “People ’round here, they seen him.”
“Recently?” Dern asked.
“No way.” Gil pulled a disbelieving face. “No one saw him since right after his escape.”
Corky complained, “But Old Remus Calhoun—”
“Is a bald-faced liar. Likes to stir things up.” Gil seemed convinced that the rumors were false. “Remus claims he saw Big Foot, too, and swears when he was in Scotland he caught a glimpse of Nessie.” He took a long swallow from his drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, “What’re the chances of that?”
“So no one saw Reece again? After his escape?” Dern asked, and the silent guy shook his head and even Corky gave it a rest.
“Most likely drowned tryin’ to get away from the island—y’know like those guys who used to try and break out of Alcatraz,” Gil thought aloud. “One of ’em Churches claims they seen him swimmin’ away that day.”
“Which one?” Dern asked.
“Oh, damn . . .” He paused, thinking. “He was the brother of that invalid girl up at the island. What’s his name? Jim or Jack or . . .”
Corky snorted with an edge of disgust. “Jacob.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Gil agreed. “The computer geek.”
Silent Guy nodded again.
Gil added, “Old Lester, he’s kinda like our own version of Elvis, though. People keep thinking they see him, just like they did with the King for years, but nah, he ain’t around. No more’n D. B. Cooper is.” He let out a hard laugh that morphed into a coughing fit. As he hacked, his sallow face flushed a sudden deep red.
“You okay, Gil?” the barkeep asked as Gil got control and took a long sip of his drink.
“Yeah.” Gil cleared his throat.
“Maybe ya should switch to menthols,” Corky advised.
“And maybe you should shut up.” Gil sent Corky the evil eye, but the smaller man didn’t seem to notice or care as he burrowed his nose into his drink.
Dern finished his own draft and didn’t ask any more questions about Church Island or its inhabitants. But he thought he’d have a talk with Jacob, who, now pushing thirty, was off and on the island, always “going to school.” He spent a few minutes just listening as the others talked, and the conversation turned naturally to the coming crabbing season, then the latest football news. He drained his drink, set some bills on the bar, and left the three men still arguing about the Seahawks’ chances of making it to the play-offs. Gil was certain Seattle would pull through, but the silent guy just shook his head and motioned for another drink. Ever the optimist, Dern thought caustically.
As the door closed behind him, he heard Corky’s shrill voice still bitching about “that fuckin’ idiot of a coach.”
Now, back on the island, with the old dog curled up in front of the wood stove, Dern thought about Ava Church and decided most of the rumors about her had a modicum of truth. She was gorgeous with that thick, dark hair, and beneath the sadness in her eyes, there was a spark of intelligence and more than a bit of rebellion. She’d apparently been a dynamo, a self-driven woman, before fate had beaten her down.
She was attractive, even sexy, despite the ugly scars he’d seen running up her wrists, evidence that some of the town gossip was spot-on.
He decided against pouring himself a drink and went out to check on the stock. He’d tried to run down Jacob, but once again, the guy wasn’t around, the door to his basement apartment locked tight.
Wyatt was waiting for her.
Seated in the den, the television turned to some news channel, he looked up when Ava walked through the archway to the kitchen and set the remote on the table. “I heard you went into town.”
She nodded. “So did you.”
“I know. I invited you, remember? Lunch?”
“Wyatt—”
“You made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to go with me because you didn’t believe that I’d come to bed last night.”
She felt her temper ignite but knew renewing their fight wouldn’t solve anything. She held up a hand before the old debate heated up again. “Let’s not go there again.”
He seemed to smolder for a moment, then said, “Okay, you’re right. Arguing’s not going to help.” Some of the tension left his features. “No big deal. We can have lunch another time. I was just surprised to hear that you went into town.”
“It was kind of a whim,” she said, hoping to smooth the waters. “I just needed to get out. Tried to see Tanya, but she wasn’t around. How about you?”
“Business,” he said. “Checked in with Outreach.”
Outreach was a small offshoot of the Seattle firm for which he worked. So they were both equivocating, stepping around the truth. When had they gotten so distant, so far away that they needed to avoid the real issues in order to communicate? He must’ve felt it, too, that fine line of trust between them fraying, as he was staring at her as if she were a complex puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.
“You could have come with me,” he said softly. “I asked.”
“I know. I just . . . I thought we needed a little time apart, even though we get plenty.” She glanced around the room with its cozy furniture and big windows. “But I did need to get out of here, you know, had to see something besides these four walls.”
“I suppose.” Then nodding, he added, “Yeah, I get it. You could go stir-crazy here.”
“Some people think I already am.”
He snorted a laugh, walked up, and hugged her fiercely. “I know,” he whispered against her hair. “We’re working on that.” He’d always been strong and athletic, and whenever he’d held her, it had felt that he’d never wanted to let go. Now the scent of his aftershave reminded her of what it had been like to fall in love with him. Tears burned the edges of her eyes, but she blinked them back. “Next time, come with me,” he said.
“Okay,” she agreed, fighting the urge to break down and cling to him. But, really, do you trust him? Even now as he’s lying to you?
She let go of him and started to step away, but his hand stayed on her arm. “What’s happened to us, Wyatt? We used to be . . .”
“Closer?”
“I was going to say we used to have fun with each other.”
“I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “We will again soon. I promise.”
He had the brains not to add, when you get better, but it was there, standing between them like an invisible barrier, one they couldn’t really define, much less scale.
“I’ll hold you to it,” she said, lying through her teeth as he reached for his jacket, which had been slung negligently over a nearby chair.
“Good. Now, look, I have to go to Seattle—it’s just for a night, maybe two, depending on how receptive my client is to negotiating his way out of a lease; then I’ll be back. In the meantime, you can always reach me on my cell.”
She nodded.
“And I’ve asked Dr. McPherson to stop by again.”
“I already have an appointment with her later in the week.”
“I know, but I saw her today in town. She asked about you and so we set it up.” He lifted a shoulder. “Couldn’t hurt, now, could it?”
She was surprised that he brought up the psychiatrist. “So you just ran into her?”
“Not really. Once I learned that I’d be away, I called her, met her for coffee, and suggested she spend some time here.”
“She’s busy.”
“Not that busy,” he disagreed. “Besides, the mainland is just a boat ride away. Turns out, she liked the idea.” His expression turned serious. “She wants to help you, Ava, and she might just be able to if you’d stop fighting her.”
“I don’t fight her.”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Just try. Okay?”
When he withdrew his hand, she ask
ed, “Do you think I’m crazy, Wyatt?”
“Confused.”
“Don’t slide away from the issue.”
He let out his breath. “I think you need help. Psychiatric help. And so do all the doctors at St. Brendan’s. You’re the one who wanted to be released, to come back here, to . . . face your demons.” Touching her lightly on the shoulder, he added, “But you can’t do it alone, Ava. And no one else here is qualified to help you. Not me or Graciela or Khloe, not even Demetria, though she’s a nurse. We just don’t know how best to deal with this. But Dr. McPherson does.” His smile was troubled, his eyebrows drawn together. “You have to trust us, Ava. We’re all here to help you, but we just can’t do it if you don’t help yourself. And going to a hypnotist . . . really?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Denial leaped to her lips.
Before she could protest, he reminded her, “You have to remember that Anchorville is a small town. Maybe not as small as Monroe, but small enough.” With a glance at his watch, he swore under his breath, then kissed her forehead. “Got to run. Butch is probably already here.”
“Butch?”
“Johansen,” Wyatt clarified, and Ava’s heart sank. “Kelvin’s friend. He ferried you back and forth to the island, right?”
“Yes.”
While slipping his arms into his jacket, Wyatt was nodding, as if he already knew the answer. “I called him. Asked him to pick you up and then wait for me once you got home.” Wyatt eyed her speculatively. “He didn’t mention it?”
“No.” She shook her head and felt a pang of betrayal.
“Well, he’s my ride to the mainland. I thought I’d leave the cruiser here, in case anyone needs it.” Was there just the hint of cruelty in his gaze, a smidgeon of superiority? Or did she imagine it as he found a raincoat in the front closet and grabbed his small bag, just big enough for his computer, toiletries, and a suit.
And then he was gone, the door closing with a soft thud. She peered out the window and saw the Holy Terror moored at the marina.
What the hell was that all about?
Why hadn’t Butch said anything?
He’d never liked Wyatt, never gone to any lengths to hide it, and yet . . . She clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. You’re overthinking things. Let it go. Wyatt’s your husband. Do NOT second-guess his motives.
But she couldn’t help herself.
Wondered if she would ever really trust him again.
Bothered, she took the steps two at a time to her room and once inside, checked to find that the unidentified key she’d discovered in her sweater pocket was still tucked away in the jeans she’d worn yesterday. Made of tarnished metal, the key appeared old, as if it had been fashioned for an ancient door lock. Too big for a trunk or a newer cupboard or cabinet. She tried it on her door, then, because she heard Graciela on the stairs, slipped it into the top drawer of her desk, under some papers, and told herself she’d figure out what door it unlocked later. She had no idea how it had gotten into the pocket, and that, too, was a mystery to be solved.
Maybe it had been a mistake. An oversight.
Yeah, right, like maybe someone slipped his or her key into your pocket . . . as if maybe that someone had been wearing your sweater? Or was hiding it quickly? Or did someone drop it unknowingly?
Into your pocket? Seriously, Ava. Someone meant for you to have it, and at least it’s something to do. An action to take.
An action it was high time she did take.
Walking to the window, she caught a glimpse of Wyatt heading toward the marina and flagging down Butch, who, waiting in the Holy Terror, waved back.
“Great,” she said under her breath, and chalked off another person she’d allowed into the “Can Be Trusted” column of acquaintances in her life.
Staring through the glass, she watched Wyatt settle into the very seat she’d occupied earlier as the Holy Terror headed into the waters of the bay. Ava was left with the unsettling truth that she couldn’t trust anyone associated with the island. Worse yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Wyatt, the man she should trust above all others, wasn’t the man she’d thought she’d married.
Then again, was she the girl he’d fallen in love with?
Not a chance, she thought as she caught a glimpse of her ghostlike reflection in the window’s watery glass. That girl had died long ago. . . .
Then who the hell are you?
She swallowed hard and felt a rising sense of panic. Somehow, somewhere she’d lost herself. Not that she’d been a sweet innocent when she’d met Wyatt, but in the years since, she had definitely changed. No longer was she the hardheaded, sometimes even ruthless, businesswoman. Okay, maybe she was still hardheaded, but once she’d been athletic and bold, nothing like this shell of a person who stood at the window now.
She placed her hands on the pane, as if trying to grab hold of something of the woman she’d once been. Staring through the pale ghost of her reflection to the surly sea beyond, watching as the boat her husband was aboard grew smaller, she felt a silent rage steal through her blood, a fury at the impotent person she’d become.
“No more,” she whispered, her hand sliding down the glass to clench into a fist. No more weakling crippled by her own fears.
It was time to take control of her life again. If that meant going against all of her “well-intentioned” relatives, then so be it.
It was time to fight back. Hard.
CHAPTER 8
The next day, Ava felt stronger, ready to take on the world, a part of her that had been missing surfacing for the first time since she’d been released from the hospital.
If she’d had nightmares during the night, she couldn’t remember anything about them this morning, though there was a lingering worry hovering around her brain. She tried to shake it off. Today she wasn’t going to let any stupid dream shackle her, remembered or otherwise.
Tossing off the bedcovers, she got to her feet, ignoring the headache pounding at the base of her skull as she showered, then slipped into her favorite robe and cinched the belt around her waist.
With her hair barely towel-dried, she walked to the bedroom window, threw back the curtains, and opened the blinds. Her stomach clenched, anxiety twisting her nerves, but when she stared through the old glass this morning, she didn’t see her son standing on the dock. There was no terrifying image of her boy teetering over the dark, swirling water.
“Thank God,” she whispered, one hand still wrapped around the cord of the blinds, her shoulders slumping with sudden, nearly overwhelming relief.
Maybe she was getting better.
This morning as she peered through the window, she saw a rising mist and the shivering fronds of dew-covered ferns. The damp stone pathway split, one branch leading to the private apartment in the basement, the other curving past the garden and toward the closest pasture. It was that walkway that wound around to the side of the house, the one that was just visible from her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of Austin Dern rounding up the horses. Dun, palomino, black, and bay, the animals were shrouded in the thickening fog and seemed to appear, then fade as they followed the tall man out of her range of view toward the stable at the back of the house.
She hurried out of her room, past the stairway and down a short hall to one of the unused guest rooms. Its door stuck a little but finally opened to display a bed that hadn’t been slept in since the summer and a side table with books collecting dust. Portraits of her great-grandparents had been hung here years ago, their stern, unsmiling visages glowering down on anyone who stepped across the threshold.
The air inside was still, smelling of dust and disuse, odors that couldn’t quite be freshened with the fragrant sachets tucked in the empty bureau drawers. Even the scented candles placed in front of an antique mirror had lost their aromas.
She crossed to the window where sheer curtains draped over blinds that had been closed for months. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped them open and stared throug
h the dirty glass. From her vantage point, Ava viewed the outbuildings located behind the house and the fields of wet grass that sprawled past the fence line to the brush and thickets of fir and hemlock that crawled up the hillside.
Dern was working with the horses near the stable.
Hidden by sheer curtains, she studied the man who had been her rescuer, the man Wyatt had hired, yet had neglected to mention. With broad shoulders and a long stride, Austin Dern seemed comfortable with the horses, as if he’d been around livestock all of his life; the stereotypical Hollywood cowboy wearing disreputable jeans, a beat-up sheepskin jacket, and cowboy boots. In need of a haircut and a shave, he opened a gate and shooed the horses through. The only thing missing from the image was a Stetson and an accompanying drawl.
He looked up then, as if he were suddenly aware of her interest. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as if a cold breeze had swept over her nape. Again the eerie feeling that he was familiar brushed her soul.
“You’re imagining it,” she whispered, then stepped away from the window and told herself she hadn’t seen him somewhere in her youth. . . .
She remembered the feel of his strong arms surrounding her, the pressure of his wet body against her as he’d dragged her from the sea.
It all seemed surreal now, as if it had happened to someone else.
Surely, if she’d met him before, she could recall . . . ? From the shadows of the unused room, she watched Dern as he walked into the stable, Rover, a stray shepherd that had just shown up a few years back, at the rancher’s heels. For a split second, she thought about trusting him, then quickly cast the thought aside.
No one. You can’t trust anyone. Especially not a stranger who’d just shown up and been hired by Wyatt. Nothing is as it seems . . . remember that.
There was no use fantasizing about the newcomer. She knew nothing about him except that he’d saved her.
It bothered her that Wyatt had hired the man without filling her in. Typical!
She dragged her gaze back to the dock where she’d been certain she’d seen her son teetering on the slippery boards, dangerously close to the deep water, the misting fog swirling around him. Her heartbeat accelerated at the memory.