Deadline (Love Inspired Suspense)

by Maggie K. Black

  Questions poured through his brain. Was this some sick coincidence, or had he actually just saved this woman from the very serial killer that the Toronto police said didn’t exist? Was there a personal connection between her and either the killer or the most recent victim, as he’d theorized from the crime photos? Did she even know about the murder of three young women, miles away in Toronto?

  But even as the thoughts filled his mind, he could feel the hard-bitten journalist inside him battling against the unexpected desire to simply to reach up and cup her cheek in his hand, to comfort and reassure her.

  Instead he reached for the twisted and torn fabric that still tied her wrists together. Judging by the state of it, she hadn’t been about to give in without a fight.

  “Thank you. You saved my life.”

  A grin of relief broke over his face. “No problem. I’m just thankful you were able to keep afloat long enough for me to reach you.”

  “I don’t...” She shivered. “I don’t know what just happened...or who that was...or why he’d... One moment I was standing on the deck. The next...” Her voice trailed off as her bound hands rose back toward the bruises now forming in the curve of her neck.

  A seemingly random attack. By a man in an orange raincoat. This one right before his very eyes. And here he was, floating in the water, miles away from any way to make notes or to contact the police and his editor.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I promise.” He gently pulled her hands back toward him.

  She glanced toward the sound of the departing ferry. He could read the question in her eyes. But what about everyone else still on the boat? He wished he had an answer.

  “My name is Meg Duff, by the way. But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

  So she’d suspected earlier that he’d sought her out specifically and that his questions for her weren’t going to be just a random survey of public opinion. Again, questions about the Raincoat Killer filled his mind, but the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her any more than she already was. “You’re a wedding planner, right? I saw a flyer of yours back in Toronto.”

  “I gave out hundreds at a bridal show there just a few months ago. I’m guessing you already know all about the wedding this weekend.”

  He kept his face carefully blank. No, he didn’t know. Weddings, parties and frilly dresses weren’t the kinds of thing he’d ever covered. Not unless they were covered in blood and surrounded by crime tape.

  “I’d gone to the mainland today to meet the bride for a dress fitting,” she went on. “Then the rest of the wedding party arrived from Toronto. I was on the boat to escort them all to the island. But then I decided to step away onto the deck for a while to find some peace. They’re a bit much.”

  He gently worked his fingers in between the strings and her wrists.

  “It stretched,” she added.

  “What?”

  “The fabric. Cotton does that.” She breathed in deeply. “I thank God it was yarn, not silk, or I’d be dead by now.”

  Huh. She’d been attacked, nearly drowned, was now floating in a lake and yet she still had the ability to find something to be thankful for. He separated the loosest loop and yanked with all his might. It snapped. Gently he eased the fabric away from her wrists. His heart ached to see the deep red welts standing out on her pale skin. Then he unbound her neck. “Are you going to be okay to swim for shore?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the ferry to find us?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not coming back, unless someone else saw something and notified the captain. I didn’t time have to alert the crew. It was either find help or save you. Last summer, a college kid jumped off a ferry like this and it took them almost fifteen minutes to reach him with a lifeboat, and that was with fifty witnesses pointing their phones at him.” He’d covered the story. The kid had very nearly drowned. “Average ferry rescue time on a good day is twelve minutes. I saw that your hands were tied, and knew you’d need help faster than that.”

  Was that more information than she’d needed? He was overexplaining. A telltale sign he was nervous. How many years had it been since that had happened? But something about sharing a life ring in the cold gray water with this beautiful, frightened creature was setting his nerves on edge, and it wasn’t only the hunch he’d just confronted a serial killer.

  Keep your emotions out of it, Jack. You know you can’t afford to get emotionally connected to anyone you intend to interview. Now even more than ever.

  “Do you think anyone from the wedding party will come looking for you?”

  “Not until after they land. I told them I’d meet up with them when we docked on the island. Were you traveling with anyone?”

  He shook his head. “I’m up here alone. So chances are no one even knows we’ve gone overboard.”

  “Except...” Her voice faltered.

  “Except the criminal who did this to you.”

  A light rain began to fall, cooling the air and lightening the fog. “I’m ready to start swimming if you are,” she said. “I have a pretty good guess of where we are, and it shouldn’t take too long.”

  She swam with one hand, keeping the other braced on the life ring. He did likewise.

  “Do you cover a lot of weddings?”

  “No. Never. I’m a crime reporter.”

  She frowned. The same uncertainty he’d seen in her face, when she’d brushed him off before, filled her eyes. She’d probably run from him again if she had anywhere to go.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier,” she said, “I thought you wanted to interview me about the wedding I’m organizing this weekend. But now I’m realizing that probably wasn’t it.”

  He nearly laughed. “Is the couple rich or famous?”

  Another pause, filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies cutting through the water.

  “Not really,” she said. “Just young and immature. The bride’s grandmother owns a big chunk of the island, so the wedding is pretty lavish. The bride lost her parents when she was young and was raised by her grandmother. The bride and groom have both seen far more than their fair share of tragedy actually, which might be why they decided to get married so young. The groom’s parents died just last year, and his cousin was in a bad snowmobile accident years ago.” She glanced at him sideways. “In my experience, reporters like poking around in human misery.”

  There was a bitter edge to her voice, as though she’d been hurt before and was still cradling the wound.

  “Trust me, I’m not that kind of reporter.”

  “So, what did you want to ask me about?”

  The distant shoreline appeared and disappeared in a haze of rolling fog. The rain grew heavier. Lord, help me find the right words. It was hard to imagine a worse time for this conversation. But he also had no idea what was going to happen when they got to shore, and she deserved to hear it from him first, before they reported the attack to the police. He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Krista Hooper, Eliza Penn or Shelly Day?”

  “No. Are they brides?”

  “They’re murder victims.”

  Her face paled. “I don’t understand.”

  He kept his voice steady, focusing on the facts, not theories. “All three died recently in Toronto. In each case, there is evidence suggesting that the killer was wearing an orange raincoat.”

  She stopped swimming so abruptly he accidentally yanked the life ring from her hands. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose? Is he the one who tried to drown me?”

  He pushed the floatation device toward her. She didn’t grab it. “I’m saying I honestly don’t know. A couple of days ago, my paper, Torchlight News, ran a full, front-page article by me that argued we were dealing with a serial killer. I thought it was solid. But the chief of police held a press
conference yesterday and announced investigators are still confident they’re just three unrelated attacks.” Not to mention the chief had then denounced his article as fear mongering, almost destroying Jack’s career and reputation in a fatal blow.

  Meg treaded water. “But three young women were murdered?”

  “In a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”

  “But what about the orange raincoat?”

  “It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”

  “Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”

  Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.

  “What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”

  “In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”

  “What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”

  He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”

  “Me too.”

  He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.

  They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it comes to avoiding any potential witnesses.”

  Considering how close he himself had come to not venturing out on deck, the killer had almost pulled off the perfect crime yet again. Jack was stunned by the strength and determination it must have taken Meg to fight for her life long enough for him to reach her.

  “Now,” he said, “there are over six hundred people on that ferry right now. All of whom are probably crammed into the interior cabins like sardines waiting for the ferry to dock any minute now. So, even if I am right, the chance of him finding another attractive, solitary, female victim in that crowd, and then killing her without anyone seeing anything, is so close to unlikely that it’s borderline impossible. And why would he be looking for anyone else? If he came on the ferry to commit a murder, then he probably thinks he succeeded. For all he knows, we’re both dead.”

  It was likely the killer had slipped his disguise back into his bag and was now mingling with an unsuspecting public. Was the killer now standing, sullen in a corner, watching the crowd? Lurking in a hallway? Blending in with the crew? Or was he still on deck, staring back toward where he’d just thrown Meg’s bound and helpless body?

  It didn’t matter what the chief of police, Jack’s boss or the naysayers believed. Everything in his gut told him the gentle fingers now brushing against his had just fought back against a ruthless, relentless serial killer.

  If only he’d been wrong.

  THREE

  Meg’s bare feet brushed against a sheet of rock. Slippery but comforting nonetheless. She stumbled up shore, half walking and half climbing, until rock gave way to dirt. Thank You, God. When her body had first hit the water, she thought she’d never feel solid ground again. Nausea swept over her at the memory of the attacker’s hand around her throat. Her head swung down between her knees. Jack’s fingers brushed against the inside of her arm, pressing lightly against her skin. “You okay?”

  She stared down at long legs, ending in sturdy brown boots with double-knotted laces. No wonder he hadn’t kicked them off. She didn’t even know when in the struggle she’d lost her shoes. His hand reached for hers. A strong hand, without any sign of a wedding band. She let him help her up onto the shore. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She turned toward him, coming face-to-face with the wet black T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. His dark, unflinching eyes seemed to stare right into hers as if she were a mystery he was intent on solving. There was something about him that made her feel both small and protected at the same time. It was unnerving.

  And for some reason she was still holding his hand. “Thank you. Again. For everything.” She let go and started walking quickly up the bank toward the harbor, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush that had risen to her cheeks.

  The rain had stopped and the fog had cleared, but a general damp still hung in the air. They’d drifted into the woods not far from where the ferry docked. Yet another reason to be thankful.

  Her keys were still in her pocket and thankfully she’d left her purse locked safely in her car. “We have to contact the police. But I think I lost my phone in the lake.”

  “Your phone’s in my bag on the boat. Sorry, I forgot to mention it. You’d dropped it so I picked it up. But I left all my stuff on the deck when I jumped in after you.”

  “You didn’t bring your car on the ferry?”

  “I don’t have a car and I left my motorcycle back in Toronto because I heard you were expecting storms up here all weekend.”

  Motorcycle? It was all she could do not to imagine his dark eyes peering through a helmet visor. “Then how were you planning on getting around the island?”

  “Taxis. Transit.” He shrugged. “It was a very spontaneous trip. But I’m good at finding my way around, and I don’t tend to plan things too tightly. Spontaneous works pretty well for me.”

  Well, that made one of them. Typical city dweller. With a permanent population of just a few thousand, Manitoulin Island was actually one of the few places left where hitchhiking was still many people’s transit of choice. But good luck thumbing a ride if you were a stranger from Toronto. A very tall, very attractive stranger at that.

  Stop right there, Meg. Before you get all swoony over him, keep in mind that he’s also the kind of reckless man who rides a motorcycle and leaps off moving ferries. Not to mention his life’s work is writing about criminals. He’s absolutely perfect for that one moment when your life’s in mind-numbing danger. But not the kind of man you’d count on to be there the morning after. Let alone the kind that a sensible woman could consider building a life with.

  No, a man like that might get her pulse racing. But she already had one man in her life whose risk-taking and adventurous spirit left her pacing the floors at night wondering if he was going to come home safely—her brother, Benji. T
he last thing she needed was another one.

  “So, I’m guessing you’re heading back to the mainland tomorrow? The island is hardly a hotbed of criminal activity.”

  He shrugged. “My boss doesn’t expect me back until Monday. So I’ll probably try to find a hotel room somewhere, then chase a few hunches before I head back home. Maybe spend some time boating or fishing too.”

  Well, if he’d come all this way to find a connection between the island and a serial killer, he could expect to go home empty-handed. The island rumor mill was so well oiled it was impossible to so much as ding a mailbox without the whole island knowing. It was hard to believe someone could be hiding a big, dark secret on Manitoulin Island. And she still wasn’t about to let him interview her for the newspaper, not even about her ferry attack, even if he had just saved her life. If what had happened to her family after her brother’s accident had taught her anything, it was that small-town gossip could be insidious, unfair and so packed full of lies that even the most innocent person didn’t have a shovel big enough to dig his way out from under it.

  She didn’t even want to guess what would happen if prospective brides searched her name online and discovered she was linked with something as gruesome as an investigation into a potential serial killer. Obviously she’d cooperate with the police and do whatever she could to help make sure her attacker was brought to justice. But she could also count on the police—especially the island cops—not to release her name to the public. She could hardly say the same for the press.

  Her attacker might not have taken her life, but the resulting story could still kill her business.

  “Well, good luck finding a hotel room on such short notice. My brother has a pretty decent sport’s shop, though, if you want to rent a boat. It’s on the other side of the island. Something tells me the two of you are cut from the same cloth.” The kind that came with far too many warning labels.

  He grinned, then ran a hand ran through his tousled wet hair.