by Lisa Jackson
Not that it was of any consequence.
Not anymore.
Slowly Ava sank, the water crashing over her, in the very position where she’d always seen her son. God help me. Her head was pounding and the steady thump, thump, thump she heard was out of time with her heart, a bright light as luminous as the moon.
It didn’t matter.
So cold, she was so damned cold.
The bright light was beckoning her.
It was time to let go. . . .
“You got a gun on board?” Dern yelled over the roar of the boat’s engine as the Holy Terror approached the island. The prow of the boat was cutting through the water, angling toward Neptune’s Gate, close enough that the dock and boathouse were starting to emerge in the fog. There were other boats closing in on them, probably the sheriff’s department vessels, but the Holy Terror was still in the lead. Still, Dern feared they were too late. His guts twisted at the thought, and he nearly jumped out of his skin to get to the island.
Johansen, standing at the helm, squinted into the murky darkness. “I got a spear gun. Why?”
“That all?”
“Fuck, yeah, it’s all I got. All I ever needed. I’m a boat captain, not an assassin!”
“Get it! Wait, don’t you have a flare gun?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Get that, too!”
Johansen threw him a look. “Why? What the hell’s going on?”
“Don’t know, but it’s not good.”
Staring into the darkness, he saw the security lamp mounted on the side of the boathouse come into view. Its bluish, thin light illuminated the dock, and he made out the images of two people. They were clinging to each other. Embracing. Almost holding each other up.
“What the fuck?” Johansen saw them too.
So involved were they in each other that they didn’t look up as the boat neared. And then he saw the third person, in the water, lying facedown.
His heart stopped.
Ava! Oh, for the love of Christ . . . “Over there!” He pointed at the lifeless body, but Johansen was already turning the prow so that they could get closer to the unmoving form.
“Son of a bitch,” Johansen muttered.
Jesus, oh, Jesus! It couldn’t be Ava.
On the dock, the man was waving them off.
As if he were afraid they’d hit the drowning woman.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Johansen said. “Isn’t that—”
“Wyatt Garrison.” The prick himself. Involved with another woman. . . Khloe? The woman who was supposed to have stabbed him? Now they were embracing.
The whole scenario was bizarre, didn’t match with Ava’s panicked text, and yet there were dark stains on Garrison’s shirt, visible from the boat. Had he been attacked in a lovers’ quarrel and they made up?
He didn’t know what the hell had gone down out here on this miserable island, but he didn’t have time to figure it out. Johansen had pulled out the spear gun and the flare. Feeling time slipping away, Dern grabbed the smaller weapon, confirmed it was loaded. Ripping off his jacket and kicking off his shoes, he flung himself onto the deck rail and jabbed the gun into the waistband of his jeans.
“Holy Mother Mary,” Johansen said, slowing the Holy Terror as close to the body as he dared. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” As he heard shouts from the dock, Dern dived. Deep. Into the salty, frigid sea. He didn’t give a damn about the rest of them; he just had to get to Ava. She couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t! There had to be time!
“What the fuck?” Snyder stared at the dock as they closed in on the island. The Holy Terror was already idling in the water not far from the boathouse, where two people, a man and a woman, were standing, huddled together. Another guy was swimming, and it looked as if there was a DB floating facedown.
“Looks like some major crap just went down,” Lyons said as she snapped her pistol from its holster. “Get in close,” she ordered the pilot. “It’s party time!”
Snyder, too, had pulled out his sidearm while he observed the scene on the dock. The man—Garrison?—seemed to wake up and notice the police cutter for the first time. His face changed expression from curiosity to sheer horror, as if in that instant he woke up to the enormity of what was happening.
As the boat moved in closer, he started backing up, dragging the woman with him. But she seemed a dead weight. A scarlet stain was visible on her sweater, a similar one on the front of Garrison’s shirt.
What the hell had gone on here?
“This isn’t good,” he said, but Lyons was keyed up. “We’ve got stragglers.” Two people in the water, another at the helm of the Holy Terror. Too many people who could get in the way. One seeming already dead.
Lyons said, “Maybe now we’ll finally get some answers.”
Overhead, in the thin fog, the loud whomp, whomp of rotors announcing its arrival, a police helicopter roared, its searchlight bearing down on the scene.
Garrison, suddenly appearing like a caged animal—no more hotshot lawyer attitude—glanced up at the chopper, then at the police boat. He seemed to panic and tried to haul the dead weight of Khloe Prescott with him.
“Nowhere to run. He’s on an effin’ island, for Christ’s sake,” Lyons said, then picked up the bullhorn. “This is the police!” she said, her voice magnified over the water. “Wyatt Garrison, put your hands over your head!”
Ignoring the command, he changed direction and dragged Khloe toward the boathouse.
“No way, Jose! Move in,” Snyder said to the pilot, reaching for his sidearm. “Block the exit. Don’t let that boat get to the open water.” He hooked his finger at the other boat. “And radio the bozo piloting that goddamned boat, the Holy Terror. Tell him to get the hell out of our way!”
Dern swam like hell toward Ava’s motionless body.
Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! The sound of a helicopter’s rotors tore through the night, and with it came an intense beam of light, illuminating the churning waters and the grounds of the estate.
God, how had this happened? How had he saved her once, only to lose her again? Rage fired his blood; adrenaline spurred him toward her.
Hang on, Ava. For the love of God, just hang on!
The sound of another boat’s engine cut through the night, but Dern focused on the body, limp and floating. He reached her in seconds, flipped her body, and as he’d been trained, he swam with her to the shore and the dock where Wyatt stared in disbelief.
“This is the police!” a woman yelled through a bullhorn, the sound echoing over the open water. “Wyatt Garrison, put your hands over your head!”
Wyatt glanced up at the helicopter, then back at Dern. “Fuck this!” He dragged Khloe toward the boathouse, but she was a dead weight, her heels scraping the boards. As Dern reached the shore and the helicopter roared, the police ordered him to stop again, and this time he let go of Khloe and, as if seeing the futility of trying to save her, seemed to decide to save his own damned skin. While Khloe slid to the planks of the dock, he made a run for the boathouse.
“Stop!” the police ordered as they maneuvered their boat to cut off Garrison’s escape. He slid to a stop and turned, ignoring orders to “Halt!” while Dern dragged a limp Ava onto the shore, carrying her over the rocks near the dock, watching as blood poured from a wound on her arm.
“Hang in there, Ava,” he whispered, afraid she was already gone. At that thought, something deep inside of him twisted painfully. He had no idea how long she’d been in the water, but she wasn’t breathing as he laid her on a strip of sand and checked her pulse. He felt nothing beneath his fingertips. He was too late! She was already gone, her body cold, her skin tinged blue.
“Come on, Ava,” he said, “Come on,” and he started CPR. He forced breaths into her lungs, did chest compressions, and he talked to her. “You can do this. Don’t give up, damn it!” More air into her lungs. “Ava, please! Come back to me. Oh, God . . . don’t die. Do you hear me? You.
Can. Not. Die! I love you, damn it. Do you hear me? I love you.” His voice cracked, and though he willed her to live, he felt nothing beneath his hands. No response to the breath he forced into her lungs.
Not a damned thing.
“He’s getting away!” Lyons said, swearing under her breath as Garrison reached the boathouse and saw that he was blocked from making his escape. “Son of a bitch! Oh, shit, he’s got a gun!”
Snyder focused on the lawyer, saw him reach into his pocket and withdraw a pistol. “Son of a bitch!” This wasn’t going well. Not well at all. Already Dern had dragged the floater to the shore and was attempting CPR, but it looked too late for the woman. Though Snyder couldn’t see her face, he’d bet his badge that the drowned woman was Ava Garrison.
Lyons clicked on the bullhorn again. “Wyatt Garrison, drop your weapon. Slowly! Then—Oh, crap!”
Blam! Blam! Blam!
Garrison was firing wildly. One bullet struck the hull and another cracked the windshield of the department’s boat. Then he spun and took aim at Dern and the lifeless body lying near him.
“No effin’ way!” Snyder said, drawing a bead on him. He fired one warning shot as Lyons screamed into the megaphone, “Drop your weapon!”
“Oh, hell, he’s going to do it!”
Ava gasped, her lungs gurgling, water spouting from her nose and mouth. Her lungs were on fire and she coughed, dragging in lungful after lungful of air. It was dark, the world swimming, and she saw Dern’s face. Hovering over him was a bright light, and the noise was deafening, the air rushing wildly around them.
Where am I? She felt the sand beneath her, knew she was outside.
What’s happening?
“Ava!” Dern grinned down at her as the world spun. Quickly she turned over and retched, salt water pouring out of her nose and mouth, her stomach and lungs expelling all the water invading her body.
She was sick again as everything righted itself.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
Gunshots?
In an instant, it all came back to her, and as Dern fell against her, instinctively protecting her body with his, she looked over his wet shoulder and saw Wyatt, crouching on the dock, his pistol aimed straight at Dern’s back.
“No!” she screamed, terror rising in her eyes.
Dern turned, one hand going automatically to the waistband of his sodden jeans.
“Watch out!” she screamed, though her voice was raw.
Blam!
Another blast of Wyatt’s gun.
The sand near her head exploded as the bullet hit.
Springing to a crouch, his body between hers and the barrel of Wyatt’s pistol, Dern fired. Other guns blasted and she cringed. A hail of bullets hit the dock. Splintered wood went flying. Ava watched in horror as a massive explosion of color sparked from Wyatt’s face. Flesh and skin ripped, his eyes went wild, and he shrieked in agony. Sparks caught his hair on fire, bright flames shooting upward from his head. Screaming, his body jerking like a macabre marionette as other bullets hit him, he spun, still on fire, blood spurting from his body, and fell into the black waters.
She was sick all over again.
And then Dern held her close to his body, his heart pounding as the chaos of the police descended.
“You’re going to be all right,” he whispered against her hair.
In the shelter of his arms, she believed him. “I love you,” she whispered, and then with the loss of blood and near drowning, she let go, closing her eyes and letting the safety of unconsciousness drag her under. She thought she heard his voice crack as he said, “I love you, too,” but then there was nothing. . . .
CHAPTER 47
Ava was going to be all right.
Dern had been told by the doctors attending her that she was fine, just recovering, that the coma she’d slipped into was the result of her wound and all the mental trauma she’d witnessed. He’d thought it all a crock, but he’d spent the next eight hours at her bedside, then gone home to shower, change, and take care of the animals. Despite all the chaos, the horses and his dog needed attention.
Once he’d finished his chores, he’d checked with the hospital, compliments of the prepaid cell he’d used when he called Reba, found out that Ava was still sleeping soundly, and decided to do a little investigating on his own.
The house was cleared out of all the residents, of course, all of Ava’s employees and family having split. It was eerie to walk through the foyer and know that Wyatt and Khloe, both having died, would never set foot in the house again. Nor would Dr. McPherson or Jewel-Anne. Even Demetria had vacated the premises.
A ghost house, he thought, his boots ringing against the tiled foyer. Today, at least at this time, even the damned grandfather clock was silent.
He wasn’t certain what he was looking for; he probably wouldn’t find anything, but he walked through all of the rooms one by one and eventually made his way to the attic—the place where Jewel-Anne had started her gaslighting. It was eerie up here, with all the furniture draped and broken, the lights dim. In what had been the servants’ quarters in a grander era, he made his way from the tiny kitchen to the living area and bedrooms, finding nothing of interest.
He’d walked back to the stairs and was about to leave when a glint caught his eye. Bending down, he spied an old Elvis CD in its case tucked behind the shade on a windowsill. Possibly of no consequence. But out of place. He picked it up. The plastic casing was cracked and opened easily, and the CD was obviously scratched. No wonder it had been left. About to set it back on the sill, he noticed the tiny booklet inside, a pamphlet with pictures of Elvis as a young man and the lyrics of the songs on the album. Kept all this time. He rifled through the thin pages and a small square of paper fell out, fluttering to the dusty floor.
It was probably nothing, maybe even the original receipt for the purchase, but when he bent down and picked it up, flipping it over, he saw that it wasn’t a receipt but a picture of a boy of about four, a timid shot where he was looking up at the camera, only the hint of a smile visible. On the back, in writing Dern had seen before, was a simple note:
Noah. Age four.
He nearly dropped through the floorboards. Son of a bitch! The kid was alive! Ava’s son was freakin’ alive! That manipulative Jewel-Anne had known all the time and tortured Ava with the knowledge, tormenting her.
But where was he?
This was obviously Jewel-Anne’s picture, so who would know where . . . and then he realized the note wasn’t written in Ava’s cousin’s hand. No, he’d seen the writing before—on notes left for the partially paralyzed woman.
From her nurse.
Damn it all to hell, Demetria knew where the boy was.
He was already flying down the stairs, ready to contact Snyder and find the damned nurse. One way or another, come hell or high water, Dern was going to locate Ava’s son.
“Mrs. Garrison?” A woman’s soft voice. “Can you hear me? Ava?”
The sounds were far away. Distant. A hand touched her shoulder. Ava cracked an eye and the harsh light made her close it again quickly.
“She’s coming around.” Another voice, male.
“Mrs. Garrison, how’re you feeling?” The woman again.
Like hell.
“Can you hear me? I’m your nurse, Karen. Ava, can you wake up for me? You’re in the hospital.”
“Whaaat?” she croaked.
“Ava? Thank God!”
She opened an eye and found Austin Dern near the bed where she was lying. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her eyes even worse. “What happened? Where . . . ?” But pieces of the horrid night were coming back to her.
“Shhh.” He kissed her forehead and then tried to straighten, but she grabbed his forearm tightly, pulling at the IV in her arm.
“Tell me.” When he looked at the nurse, a tall, lanky woman with frizzy red hair, Ava clenched her fingers. “Now.”
“Go ahead,” the nurse said. “But the police are going to want to talk to her.”
“In a minute.” Dern, looking like he’d been to hell and back, took her hand. “I have something to show you . . .” He reached into his pocket and took out a picture of a boy, about four, looking timidly at the camera.
“What?” she whispered, but knew in an instant that the boy was Noah. She blinked, biting her lip, fighting tears.
“I found him. He’s fine. Healthy.”
“You found him?” Ava’s eyes filled with tears. She was certain she’d misheard, that this was another hallucination brought on by drugs. . . . “Don’t lie to me, Dern . . . I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She could hardly let her heart trust this. After all these years! Her fingers clutched his. “Where? How?”
“Demetria was in on it. Wyatt, too. They kept him in Canada. Vancouver.”
“What?”
She blinked rapidly and threw back the bedsheets. “I need to get out of here. Noah . . . I don’t . . .”
“He’s coming home to you,” Dern assured her. “Snyder’s on it.”
“Oh my God!” Was it possible? This was real, not the figment of her oh-so-willing imagination, not a dream.
“You’re getting him back.”
“Oh . . . oh God, finally .Her heart ached with the thought of seeing him again, holding him. Tears rolled down her cheeks, though her heart lifted. She could hardly let herself believe the news, but the picture . . . the picture was of Noah! “Is he all right?” she asked, trying to not panic. “Is he?”
“He’s fine,” Dern assured her.
The nurse said, “I think that’s enough.”
“No! I have to go to him!” she said, and tried to get up.
“No . . . wait,” the nurse said. “I’ll get a doctor to release you ASAP. I promise.” She smiled and blinked, as if fighting tears. “Believe me, I understand. I’m a mother, too.”
The next few days went by as slowly as sludge, and when Ava was released to her home, she found herself forever looking out to sea or taking a phone call only to find it was a reporter to whom she said, “No comment.” Fortunately, Dern, the one person who had stayed on, was with her.