by Jill Winters
Her heart lurched into her throat as blackness swam before her eyes. The wine dropped, bled on the sand. She struggled to breathe, to scream, but she couldn't—it was the grip of a man, strong, ruthless, clutching her neck and then strangling her stomach with his other arm.
She reached up, clamping her fingers around his forearm, and pulled. It was thick and bulky; it seemed immovable. His hot breath puffed rancidly on her temple. His body seemed enormous.
With a sudden jerk, he released her neck and she choked out a cough—right before his hand covered her mouth, and he began dragging her backward at her waist.
Violently she struggled, her pant legs dragging, her heels digging in, spitting up sand. Frantic, she gripped harder on his arm, digging into the rough fabric of his coat until her fingers were raw.
And just as suddenly as she'd been grabbed—she was freed. Her attacker was pulled off of her—in a split second—and the force of her resistance sent her flying into the sand. She landed on her knees, coughing. Nearly gagging on her hair. She turned back and saw the silhouette of two men fighting. She could only make one of them out clearly. He was meaty looking with a hideous face that appeared almost crooked.
Nicole screamed as she scrambled to her feet, almost falling down again. Her limbs felt weak, boneless, but her legs kept on, struggling to make it uphill and into the house. Vaguely she heard a loud thump behind her—then a deep male voice—but she didn't dare look back.
She kept going until a hand closed on her wrist.
She let out another scream as she was pulled back—only this time, she wasn't pulled hard. The gesture was gentle. Comforting. Her mind and body were still too flustered to make sense of it, though, and she yelled, “Let go of me!”
“He's gone, he’s gone,” he said. “Are you okay?”
This was not the man who’d grabbed her. Facing him now, Nicole finally saw him. He had a shaved head and a kind of intensity about his face. His eyes were dark and assessing. Not a combination Nicole would normally think of as reassuring.
She was still too rattled to speak.
Holding her hand, the man spoke slowly. “Sweetheart. Are you okay?” He enunciated his words the way a paramedic might and her relief swelled even more.
“Yes,” she said finally. He let go of her hand, but still looked intently at her.
“Do you live around here?” he asked. “Is there someone I can call or...?”
“I...um, yeah, I live here.” She cast a glance toward the house. “Where did he go?”
With a shrug, the man said, “Well, I popped him pretty good and he took off. Do you want me to call the police?”
“Yes...I guess so…where did you come from?”
“I was coming up on shore,” he said, motioning back toward the water. “My boat crapped out on me about fifty feet out. I was pulling my dinghy up on the sand when I saw that guy on you. Are you sure he didn't hurt you?”
Before she could respond, she heard sirens.
Chapter Five
An hour later she and the stranger—whom she'd since learned was named Michael King—were sitting in a police station on Arlen Road. She couldn't recall if she had ever been inside a police station before, but this was not how she would have pictured it. Woodsy and cozy, it held nautical pictures on the walls, each with an identifying placard below—Clam Bake '98. Nauset Races '04. Easter Scrod Parade '06. The entire police station looked to be a one-room operation, a tight cluster of desks, papers, and manila folders.
When Officers Donovan and Spackel had escorted Nicole and Michael inside, they'd greeted the only person there—a woman named Sue who was wearing a dispatch headset. Classical music was playing softly from the radio on her desk. With a cursory wave, she went back to her paperwork.
Then Nicole and Michael had given their official statements, which of course were brief since the events on the beach had happened so quickly. Apparently a “concerned neighbor” had called the police.
Spackel, the younger of the two officers, had put on a pot of coffee and now it was gurgling on the other side of the room. Nicole was anxious to get some of it, determined—however falsely—for it to calm her nerves.
“So do you have any idea who it was?” Nicole asked now.
“No, but we have some more descriptions.” Officer Donovan grabbed a folder on his desk and flipped it open. “First, Herman MacDonald called in about a ‘suspicious man’ behind the Fish Fry. And then Chester Northgate reported one of his motorboats stolen less than an hour ago by a man matching the description you gave.
“Both Chester’s housekeeper and Jim White, of White’s Tree Nursery, also saw the perp speeding off in the boat, headed south. Presumably the guy will ditch the boat lower down the coast, so we have an APB out.
“Apparently one of our local innkeepers—Todd Finn—thinks he spotted our guy, too. Although, according to Finn, the perp was heading north.” Donovan shrugged. “We’ll find him. The descriptions were thorough enough. 'Looked like a cross between a monster and an oaf,'” he read from the file, then explained dryly, “Old Chester's in his seventies, he doesn't mince words.”
What a relief! Nicole's description of her attacker had also been pretty distinct. From the dim, fleeting glimpse she'd gotten she could say with certainty that he was tall, ugly, maybe in his forties. The words “Sloth from The Goonies” had crossed her lips more than once.
Spackel handed Nicole and Michael each a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk; the coffee warmed right through the lightweight cup and into Nicole's palm. Normally she liked sweetener in it, but considering how lucky she was to be alive, she wasn't about to be picky. Really, coffee was coffee—
Or not. Blech. It was overly bitter, way too strong, almost foul. She took another sip.
“Sorry about the coffee,” Spackel said with a deprecating smile. “Irene goes home at five. After that, we're pretty much on our own.”
Donovan continued, “Probably a vagrant passing through on his way to Wellfleet. It happens occasionally. But to tell you the truth, on the off-season, violent crime around here is practically nil.”
“Probably figured he could get some money off you,” Michael suggested.
Both officers nodded in agreement, which made Nicole feel better; she didn't want to contemplate the grislier possibilities.
“Or, for all we know, he wasn't right in the head,” Donovan said.
Nodding, Spackel stroked his chin. “Now that you mention it, there was that radioactive experiment at the mental hospital not far from here—the one built on ancient Indian burial ground.”
Nicole's mouth dropped open.
Spackel grinned. “Just kidding with you.”
“Oh...” she said, exhaling a sigh and laughed in spite of herself. “God, what a night.”
“But I don't want you to worry,” Donovan went on, sitting forward and setting his amusement aside. “We have our coast guard patrolling the waters now—if the perp's still in our vicinity, believe me, he'll come up on their radar. We've already alerted the neighboring coast guard stations south and southwest of here. Rest assured, Chatham is a very small town. Around here people notice things—and people—if they're out of place.”
“Which is a nice way of saying there are a lot of busybodies around here,” Spackel interjected. “Basically, people are all up in your grill, whether you like it or not.”
Well, Nicole was never more thrilled at the prospect of busybodies. Even though she had been assaulted tonight, she felt strangely safer now than she had after her apartment was robbed. Maybe it was because the police here were so personable; maybe it was because she hadn't even had to call them. Maybe it was knowing the violent troglodyte who had grabbed her on the beach seemed to be long gone.
Donovan spoke again, this time addressing Michael. “And Mr. King, what you did was really decent. On behalf of the department, I have to thank you.”
“I just stepped in the way anyone would have,” Michael responded. Nicole would like to b
elieve that, but she was not convinced that the bravery and chivalry Michael had shown were as instinctive in other men. Granted, her friend, Cameron, would have tried to save her. Of course her dad would have. But a total stranger?
Nevertheless, Michael King seemed uncomfortable with the praise. He obviously wasn't someone who reveled in being endlessly patted on the back. In fact...
Nicole noticed that ever since they'd arrived at the station, Michael was different. The protective, dulcet warmth he'd exuded on the beach was gone. In its place was a far more distant demeanor. He wasn't unfriendly, but self-contained. When it came to the officers’ questions, he was matter-of-fact, almost terse. Cooperative when recounting the events on the beach, but disinclined to reveal much about himself or elaborate beyond the simplest answer.
In the light of the police station, Nicole had also assessed his looks. Dressed in dark pants and a dark jacket, there was something about him that portrayed...a quiet confidence. His face was sort of attractive, in a rugged kind of way. The shaved head should have made him look older but with his light tan complexion and muscular build, he looked young, fit—tough.
Michael King: reticent, brave. Mysterious.
“Come to think of it,” he said now, just realizing something, “I never got around to bearing down my dinghy.”
“Oh. Well if it got washed away, we'll track it down,” Donovan assured him. “By the way, you mentioned that you were headed to Nantucket. Business or pleasure?”
“Vacation,” Michael replied.
“Nantucket,” Spackel repeated, nodding. “That's a long ride.”
Michael shrugged. “Not really, I've done it before.”
“So you're familiar with the Cape then,” Donovan said. “Are you from around here?”
“New York originally. But I've lived around Boston for a few years now.”
“What kind of work do you do? If you don't mind my asking.”
“Sales” was his only answer.
Yes, Nicole would venture a guess that Michael King did not particularly want to be here—but then, who would?
“We'll get someone out to you tomorrow, to figure out what's wrong with your boat,” Spackel said.
“I know what's wrong with it,” Michael said. “Broken crank shaft. The problem is fixing it—I get my parts from this place in Jersey. I'll call them in the morning, see about sending me what I need.”
“You know a lot about boats?” Donovan asked, looking impressed.
“I worked in a garage when I was in school. An engine's an engine.”
Donovan gave an easy smile. “Okay, it sounds like you've got it under control. In the meantime, we have some nice inns right along Main Street. We'll be happy to give you a lift when we drive Miss Sheffield back—”
“Actually...” Michael said, “I want to stay with my boat.”
“But—”
“I rebuilt that boat years ago and I'm not inclined to leave it. I'll just sleep there, stay with it till it's up and running.” Abruptly, he turned to Nicole, his gaze catching hers. “Oh—if that's okay with you, I mean.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, “I don't mind.” Truth be told, she wasn't sure how much longer she would be there. In her mind, she was packing already.
Chapter Six
The police cruiser dropped them off at the front gate of Nina's house, giving a friendly toot of the horn before looping around and careening back down Orchard Street.
Nicole faced Michael then. It was the first time they had been alone since they were on the beach and that had only been for what felt like seconds. Smiling, she said, “Well your vacation started off with a bang.”
With a short laugh he nodded. “Yeah, right. It's definitely been interesting.”
“Thanks again, Michael.”
“I'm just glad you're okay.”
“Thanks to you—look, I know it's a cliché to say 'I owe you my life' but in this case, it's true.”
Michael shook his head as if to shake off the praise before it began again. “Anyone would've done the same thing.”
“Give me a break.” Nicole tilted her head doubtfully at him. “Do you live in the world?”
“Well...you’ve had a rough night, so I’m not gonna argue with you.”
“And thanks again for coming to the station. I know it was a pain.” Maybe Alyssa was right; maybe she did have over-thanking issues. “It didn't seem like your favorite thing to do.”
“I just don't like cops that much,” he admitted. But didn't elaborate. Maddening! Again, she began to wonder why he was so private about himself—but then she caught the illogic of her own thinking. If blabbing one's thoughts, feelings, and whole life story to total strangers was an expected matter of course, that was a pretty disturbing social commentary.
“Even though my brother's a lawyer,” Michael threw in then, surprising her with a personal detail after all.
“Your brother's a lawyer? That's funny, my sister goes to BC Law. She's twenty-five,” Nicole added. “So...how old are you?” Now she was just fishing.
“Coming up on thirty.” He said it with a trace of a sigh, like he couldn't quite believe it. “Well, I should let you get to sleep. I'll wait till you get inside,” he said, motioning toward her front door.
Before heading up the walkway, Nicole said, “Thanks again—I don’t know what I would have done if—”
Michael cut her off gently but finally. “No problem. I was in the right place at the right time.” His modesty was oddly captivating.
Once she was inside, she locked the door and slumped against it with a sigh. What a surreal night! It was almost as if her sister had predicted it with her overly cautious warnings.
She supposed a part of her was still in shock, but mostly she was grateful—for small towns with well-meaning “busybodies,” and for Michael King, who had come out of the shadows and saved her. That being said, there was no way she could stay in Chatham.
It was still hard to fathom, but she really could have been killed tonight. Quickly, Nicole suppressed the thought before it could open a Pandora's box of upsetting scenarios. No, she thought, shaking her head and hopping up the stairs. This just wasn't the place for her. Of course she appreciated her inheritance, but her life was in Boston. She'd made a mistake coming down to the Cape by herself with the intention to staying for awhile; her parents would be much better suited to handle the details of Nina's house. Gwen was itching to take over everything anyway. And Anthony knew about real estate...
It would almost be doing a disservice to her inheritance not to have her parents take the reins.
As she began to gather up her things in the guestroom—with the idea of taking a bus back to Boston the following morning—she was uncomfortably aware of herself. How much she was rationalizing, how determined she was to run back home.
The pace of her packing slowed until, finally, she paused. Eyed the surroundings in the room—the blanket chest, the fireplace, the candlesticks on the mantle—and she thought about Nina. As if exhaling, her body thumped down on the edge of the bed.
Nicole sat for a few pensive moments. The thought continued to circle in her mind. Her aunt had wanted her to do this—to be here, to come here. Aunt Nina had specifically entrusted her. What had Nina's note said? “You'll know what to do.”
How could Nicole just run away like this?
Suddenly Linda's sentiment echoed in her mind, too, almost like a taunt. How Nicole had not spent much time with their aunt toward the end—which, of course, was when it counted the most. How Nicole had been Nina's “favorite.” As it was, Nicole didn't feel she particularly deserved this inheritance. But if she picked up now and didn't see this through, it would almost confirm just how un-deserving she was.
So that settled it. She would stay to finish what she had set out to do when she arrived in Chatham three days ago. And hey, if she thought about, she was probably safer now than ever. Besides the deadbolt locks on the front and back door, and the burglar alarm, she
would also have Michael King right there on the water, at least for a couple of days. He might be enigmatic, but at least she knew he wouldn't hurt her.
With her mind made up, Nicole set her half-full bag aside. She climbed up toward the pillow, slipped under the covers and sighed into sleep, hoping she had made the right decision.
***
The following day, Michael woke up to rapping at his cabin door.
With a growl, he rolled over and slowly came to; he barely had a chance to rub his eyes open before another rap sounded. The interior of the boat was dark except for a thin beam of white sunlight that cut through a crack in the window shutters.
Even half-asleep, Michael sensed who it was. Who else would ride up to his boat and come on board? He dragged his ass out of bed, ambled over and pulled on the door.
Yup—just as he figured.
“Good morning,” said the taller of the two officers and gave a salutatory nod. “Zack Hyat, Chatham Coast Guard. And this is Officer Jones.”
Michael said hi and offered each a hearty handshake.
With a community as small as this and an unfamiliar boat docked on the water, it would only be a matter of time before the Coast Guard paid a visit. But Jesus, this was pretty damn efficient. What was it, seven fucking A.M.?
“How are you doing today?” the short one, Jones, asked. Jones looked like a straight-up rookie, twenty-four tops. Both men sported the same crew cut and bleach-white shirt.
“We heard about what happened last night,” Hyat said.
By seven fucking A.M.?
Still, Michael concealed his irritation. “Did they ever end up catching the guy?” he asked, as he rubbed the last traces of sleep out of his eyes.
“Not yet,” Hyat replied. “We think he stole a motorboat. We found it stalled out on the water late last night. We think he probably took it, then ditched it, swam to shore.”
Nodding, Michael’s face was neutral. “Well, I appreciate you letting me know. Hopefully he'll turn up soon.”