“My Shirley brews the best coffee on the island. Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you,” Ned says proudly.
Danny and Keegan exchange a glance. “We really don’t have time,” Keegan says reluctantly, thinking about how heavenly it would be to stay in the warm house and sip something hot.
But there’s no time to waste.
Not when Jennie might be in trouble.
“But if you wouldn’t mind, why don’t you let my wife stay here for a little while and warm up,” Danny puts in.
Cheryl starts to protest, but Shirley swoops right in like a mother bird and puts her arm around Cheryl’s shoulders. “Don’t you be silly,” she says. “You look like you’re about to faint. Now you come right back into the kitchen and sit by the fire and have some chowder.”
“Go ahead, babe,” Danny urges his wife, who looks at him questioningly.
“But what about Sandy?”
“We’ll go see what we can find out,” he assures her, and she nods.
“Can you tell us where the Bramble Rose Inn is?” Keegan asks, turning to Ned. “Is it within walking distance?”
“It would be if it weren’t snowing and blowing like the dickens. But come on. We’ll take my pickup . . . if it starts.”
It does . . . after several tries.
As Ned Hartigan pulls out onto the ice-covered road that leads back toward town, Keegan peels off his wet wool gloves and blows on his numb fingers.
“Frostbite?” Hartigan asks, glancing at him.
“Hope not.”
“My feet are starting to sting like crazy,” Danny says.
“That’s a good sign. Circulation’s coming back.”
Keegan tries not to think about his own feet. He can’t feel them at all.
“So did you see my sister at all this weekend?” Danny asks. “She’s a little chubby, but pretty, and the sweetest girl you’d ever want to meet.”
“Well, the gal I saw who was staying at the inn was anything but sweet,” Ned says with disdain as the truck creeps along the road. “Blond, and acted like she was the Queen of England.”
Definitely not Jennie, Keegan thinks. Glancing out the window at the slowly passing buildings along the boardwalk, he asks, “I don’t suppose you came across the woman I’m trying to find. She was staying at the inn, too.”
“From Boston?”
“Yeah!” Keegan turns excitedly to Ned. “Jennie Towne. You met her?”
“Does she have the prettiest light-purple eyes—like Liz Taylor’s?”
“That’s her! Where’d you see her?”
“Came into my store—that’s it over there, by the way,” Ned says, pointing to a building on the boardwalk that’s fronted by a painted Victorian-style sign that reads “Hartigan’s.” “Anyway, she came in yesterday and was nice as can be. Then she sat down and had coffee with the nasty blonde, which surprised me because I didn’t think the two of them could be friends. Although my wife, Shirley, is a good woman and she has some friends who are downright obnoxious, I’ll tell you. This one gal, Myra’s her name, Myra Tallman, well she—”
Keegan, sensing that Ned Hartigan is the kind of man who can easily lose track of a conversation, interrupts. “Excuse me, Mr. Hartigan, but how did the woman from Boston seem?”
“How did she seem?” he repeats, not missing a beat, which tells Keegan that he must be used to being interrupted. “What do you mean?”
“Was she . . . I don’t know. Nervous?”
“Not really. Just a little stand-offish, maybe. But real nice. You could tell. She was probably just shy. Didn’t want to open up much about herself, not like some of the tourists who stop by.”
That’s Jennie, all right, Keegan thinks as Danny says, “My sister doesn’t have a shy bone in her body. You’d know if you met her. She’s a real chatterbox.”
“Wish I could say I’d seen her, son,” Ned replies.
They all fall silent as the pickup truck plods along the road that has started curving away from the boardwalk. Keegan stares vacantly out the window at the boarded-up shops and hotels, some bearing signs that read “See you in June!”
Dusk is falling rapidly and the snow is coming down harder than ever. The truck’s windshield wipers beat a bleak rhythm that seems to be echoing the refrain in Keegan’s head—Find Jennie. Find Jennie. Find Jennie . . .
“There’s the inn, up ahead,” Ned Hartigan says suddenly, pointing. “On that little rise, to the right.”
Danny and Keegan lean forward, peering through the stormy twilight outside the truck.
Keegan’s shoulder and arm are against Danny’s, and he can feel the guy’s apprehension as Hartigan slows the truck even more and starts to pull off the road.
“Say,” Ned Hartigan leans forward over the wheel, “isn’t that . . .”
Keegan catches sight of what he’s looking at. A car is just pulling out onto the road from the other side of the inn, its headlights cutting an arc through the blustery shadows.
“Is it a cop car?” Danny asks just as Keegan catches a glimpse of the official insignia on the door and the round dome on the roof.
“Sure is . . . only one on the island. That’s Sherm Crandall,” Ned says. “Must be headed back to his house. Lives up toward the center of the island.”
“Shouldn’t we follow him and see if he knows anything about Sandy?” Danny asks urgently.
Keegan’s heart sinks. He knows Danny’s desperate to find his sister; but now that they’ve arrived at the inn, he can’t bear the thought of not getting to Jennie right away.
“Can we just—Look, I just want to stop here,” he says, “to see if Jennie’s inside. You two can go on and catch up to the police officer.”
“Yeah, but look at Sherm go,” Ned comments with a low whistle. “Looks like he’s on someone’s trail.”
“I’ll come in with you,” Danny says, turning to Keegan. “Just to see if the innkeeper knows what’s going on.”
As Ned pulls up in front of the inn, Keegan watches the police car driving rapidly away in the opposite direction, the red taillights visible for only a few seconds before disappearing around a curve.
Jennie stirs, then opens her eyes, wondering why her bed is shaking violently. Can it be an earthquake?
Not in Boston, she thinks groggily.
But you’re not in Boston, she remembers, trying to think straight. Why is it so cold? She must have kicked the covers off . . .
Boston?
No! You’re on the island . . .
And you’re not in your bed, she realizes as she gradually regains her senses. It’s pitch black, and you’re lying on some kind of rough carpet, and . . . and . . . you’re moving.
That’s it . . .
It’s not your bed that’s shaking . . .
You’re going over bumps in a road . . .
Thoroughly confused, she squints into the darkness and tries to remember what happened.
Then it comes rushing back to her.
Jasper Hammel standing in her doorway and the cloth he’d clamped over her nostrils and that overpowering smell . . .
He knocked you out!
The knowledge fills Jennie with a chill more intense than the one caused by the frigid temperature.
He knocked you out, and now you’re . . . you must be in the trunk of a car, and he’s driving you somewhere . . .
Oh, God.
Oh, God!
Panicking, Jennie squirms, then kicks her legs, only to find that they’re bound together at the ankles of her jeans.
And her wrists, too, are bound behind her back so that she can’t move, can only lie helplessly on her side as the car whisks her closer to . . .
Where?
Where is he taking me?
Calm down! she orders herself fiercely, taking a deep breath, and then another. At least there’s no gag in her mouth . . .
She can scream for help as soon as—
No. She can’t. If Jasper Hammel—or whoever’s driving this car—thou
ght there was a chance of anyone hearing her, he would have made sure she couldn’t make a sound. Wherever he’s taking her, it must be someplace where no one will ever hear her. Where no one will ever find her.
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut again, Jennie whimpers softly to herself, feeling tears slipping down her cheeks.
Why? she keeps asking herself.
Is Jasper Hammel some psycho who abducts unsuspecting women?
And who then . . .
What?
Rapes them?
Tortures them?
Murders them?
She pictures the odd little man with his formal, clipped way of speaking and shudders. Is he a psychopath in disguise?
You knew something was wrong all along, she tells herself. Why didn’t you listen to your instincts?
Because you thought it was just your imagination acting up again, she responds flatly to the plaintive inner voice.
Ironic, isn’t it, she thinks, that after all the times when she’s panicked for no reason, she really is in danger again?
Just like the time with Harry—
And Harry, she recalls, had come to her in a dream to warn her.
Tears trickle down her cheeks as she thinks of the man she had loved, of how he had given his life for her.
That day three years ago had started out as one of the happiest Jennie had ever known.
She had woken in Harry’s arms in his small apartment and glanced out the window beside the bed to see that it was snowing. Big, downy flakes, the kind that would turn Boston into a winter wonderland.
And it was a Saturday, which meant that she and Harry would be together every minute for another forty-eight hours; and Christmas was right around the corner; and Harry’s engagement ring was sparkling on the fourth finger of Jennie’s left hand. . . .
She had actually shivered with joy.
“Wake up, you big lug,” she’d said playfully. “It’s going to be a wonderful day.”
“Why?” he’d asked groggily.
“Because it’s snowing and I love you and we’re going to go shopping.”
He’d raised one eyelid. “What was that last thing?”
“Come on, Harry, we have to go to the mall. I haven’t gotten any of my shopping done, and Christmas is this week.”
“That place will be insane on a Saturday.”
“So? It’ll be fun. Get you into the spirit.”
“It’ll get me out of the spirit, Jen. You know I hate to shop.”
But she’d gotten her way, of course. Harry always gave in when she wanted something. And besides, he had shopping of his own to do. He wasn’t going home to Portland for the first time ever, having decided to spend the holidays with Jennie, and that meant he had a lot of gifts to ship to his family.
After a leisurely breakfast of waffles and freshly-ground hazelnut coffee, they had taken the T over to the Colonial Mall so they wouldn’t have to fight for a parking space. The fake-cobblestone corridors had been jammed with people, just as Harry had predicted.
For several hours, they had traipsed from store to store, buying gifts for their families, and even a few for each other. Harry kept trying to peek into the sporting goods store bag Jennie was carrying, knowing she’d stashed something for him inside, along with the in-line skates she’d bought for Laura.
Finally, they had everything they needed. Harry wanted to beat a hasty exit, but Jennie had persuaded him to stop at the food court for hot cocoa. “My feet are killing me,” she’d said when he protested, “and you know we’re going to have to stand on the T all the way home.”
He’d given in, of course.
Jennie has wondered, so many times a day, every day of the past three years, what her life would be like now if Harry had said no to that cocoa. Or if they’d driven to the mall instead of taking the T. Or even if they’d arrived at the food court a few minutes earlier, or a few minutes later.
And even though she knew it was useless to torture herself with idle speculation, she couldn’t seem to help it.
If things had been just slightly different that day, Harry would still be alive.
It was while Jennie and Harry were seated at one of the small wrought-iron tables in the skylighted food court, sipping their hot whipped-cream-laced cocoa, that the first shots had rung out.
“What was that?” Jennie had asked frowning and looking over her shoulder.
“Sounded like—Oh, Jesus.”
“What?”
Baffled Jennie had seen a throng of people pushing frantically toward them.
Someone screamed, “He’s got a gun! He’s got a gun!”
There were more shouts and shrieks, more staccato blasts—sounds that would later haunt Jennie’s nightmares.
She had seen the man with the gun coming at them, firing haphazardly to the left and right. He was so nondescript, she would tell the police later, still dazed. He looked like a balding, middle-aged English teacher or salesman, wearing glasses and jeans and a down jacket like so many other people at the mall that day.
Her eyes had locked with his as he happened to turn his head toward the table where she was sitting with Harry. She had seen him swing the gun again and point it in their direction, right at her.
“Oh, Christ, Jennie, duck!”
Harry had stood and leaned over the table, plastering his gigantic palm over the top of her head and shoving her down, throwing his big body over hers just as another shot rang out.
Jennie heard someone holler “Grab him” and turned her head to look up, bewildered, past Harry’s arm that was thrown across her face, toward the commotion above.
That was when she had seen the man with the gun, with swift efficiency, placing the barrel into his own mouth. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, and blood and bone and brains had exploded from his head instantly.
Repulsed and panic-stricken, Jennie had screamed, “Oh, God, Harry, he just—”
And then she had seen him.
Harry.
The man she loved, the man whose engagement ring sparkled on her hand, the man who only moments before had been smiling at her across the table . . .
The left side of his face was oddly intact, the eye open and fixed vacantly on Jennie . . .
But the right side . . .
The entire right side of Harry’s face was gone.
Later, much later, she would find out that the man who had done this—who had killed seven innocent people in a matter of moments—was married and had five children and had been laid off from his factory job the week before. He was despondent over mounting bills, his wife said, and wondering how they were going to heat their rented house this winter and get food on the table, let alone provide Christmas presents for their kids.
“I guess he just snapped,” the grief-stricken woman was quoted as saying in an article in the Globe.
He just snapped. . . .
The words had stayed with Jennie.
A stranger had snapped and her entire world had instantly fallen apart.
It wasn’t fair.
For a long time after that, she hadn’t cared whether she lived or died.
Then she’d met Keegan and fallen in love before she’d realized what was happening.
It wasn’t until Christmas approached, bringing with it memories of what had happened to Harry—memories she had fought so hard to shut out—that Jennie had realized what she had to do.
She could never live with loving a cop—a man whose entire job was about danger and violence, a man who laid his life on the line every day.
She could never live with the constant fear of losing Keegan the way she had lost Harry, in the split second it takes for someone to pull the trigger of a gun.
And now, Jennie thinks in despair, futilely kicking her bound legs against the side of the car trunk, I’m the one who’s going to die.
Chapter 16
Jasper Hammel has just stepped into the storage room where officer Sherm Crandall’s big body lies unconscious on the
floor, when the sound of the doorbell pierces the air.
He freezes, his heart erupting into a rapid pounding as he waits and listens, wondering frantically what to do.
It rings again, more insistently this time.
It can’t be Stephen. He wouldn’t come to the front door, and besides, he has a key.
Jasper hesitates only another moment before tossing the meat cleaver onto the floor. It clatters across the scarred wood and stops just short of the cop’s big belly.
Turning, Jasper flees the storeroom, stopping only long enough to lock the door so that the man can’t get out if he comes to.
I’ll be back to take care of you later, Jasper promises him, even though he knows it’s a lie.
He wouldn’t have been able to do it. He knew that even as he had stood over the man, clutching the knife, seconds earlier.
He’s half-grateful to whoever rang the doorbell and saved him from having to attempt murder and half-furious that the unwelcome visitor is forcing him to take flight like a frightened gull.
He scoops the keys to Stephen’s car off the kitchen counter, then slips out the back door as the bell rings again.
Racing across the frozen yard through the driving snow, Jasper wonders who can be at the door. He knows Crandall is the only cop on the island in winter. Who else would be stopping by in the middle of a storm?
Does it matter? he asks himself as he reaches the car and jerks open the door. All that matters is that you get out of here.
He gets behind the wheel, jabs the key into the ignition, and starts the engine. As he drives around to the front of the big old inn, he thinks wistfully of his packed suitcase waiting in the little room on the first floor.
He would have to leave it behind now. All the mementos he had collected through the years—a lock of Stephen’s hair, a photograph of the two of them at prep school graduation—not to mention the new wardrobe he had bought to take with him.
Stephen had said they would be living on a tiny island in the West Indies—an island he had bought with cash. He had paid off a lot of people to erase the trail of paperwork that might lead the authorities to connect him to the island.
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