Before the Storm

by Leslie Tentler

  Samantha followed him down the hall, her breath catching as they reached the entrance to the living room.

  “Oh, Mark,” she murmured, looking up in dismay at the low, dreary sky overhead. A large section of roof was gone. Drizzle fell into the home’s interior as larger droplets clung to loosened shingles before plopping onto sodden furniture. The bay window, including its hurricane shutters, had been ripped away. But the bodies Samantha had feared seeing again were no longer there. Her stomach quivered in surprise.

  “The area rug’s gone, too. Where’s Luther?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said uneasily.

  Luther had been with them at first, hunkered down on the bathroom floor with a bottle of aged whiskey, his back against the tub as they listened to the mayhem outside. But complaining that he felt caged in and claustrophobic, he’d eventually left to pace the house and keep watch over the encroaching waters.

  Going to the front door, Samantha noticed Luther’s pickup was missing. She turned as Mark stepped around the overturned bookcase, one hand pressed against his side. Forehead creased with the effort, he bent to retrieve a framed photograph that lay amid household items and tree branches. Samantha went to him and placed a hand sympathetically on his back. The frame’s glass was broken, but Shelley’s photo remained mostly intact.

  His face was still as he held the photo and looked around at the damage to his once-beautiful home. “We made it through. That’s all that matters.”

  After they’d located bottled water and some edible dry goods in the pantry, Samantha spotted Luther walking onto the property. She wondered what had happened to his truck. Mark kept her close as they stepped carefully onto the debris-covered porch to meet him. As he approached, Luther’s shaved head glistened, his clothing soaked. At least the fresh gauze Samantha had wrapped around his arm last night appeared relatively clean, with only a small amount of blood leaking through its white.

  “Been down the road a piece,” he said as they took the steps down to the front lawn. “There’s downed limbs and the like, but the water’s recedin’. It’ll be passable soon enough, unless there’s trees over it farther down.”

  “Luther, where’re the bodies?” Mark asked.

  “I took care of ’em, Mr. St. Clair. They won’t be found.”

  Samantha stared at him in the slackening mist. He flexed his large, corded biceps, scowling slightly as he tested his wound.

  “Luther.” She shook her head softly. “You can’t do that.”

  His eyes were gentle as they held hers. “You’ve been real good to me, Sam. Truth be told, a lot better than most folks ’round here. You deserve to have a good life. Bringing the police in because of those two thugs won’t do anything but open up a whole other world of hurt for you.”

  They had filled in the rest of the story for Luther while they’d ridden out the storm. Samantha felt Mark’s hand move against the small of her back.

  “He’s right,” Mark conceded tensely. “If you come clean with the police about who you really are and what happened here last night, they’re going to want you to testify against Boklov.”

  Samantha felt a hard chill, as if Red himself had reanimated in front of her. She didn’t know anything about Boklov killing Devin, but she would be able to place him in Devin’s company on multiple occasions. They had done business dealings together—she’d witnessed the exchanges of money and suspected it was being laundered through the Blue Iris. She still couldn’t believe Devin had dared cross Boklov, even if he had set her up as a scapegoat in the event he needed one. Samantha sighed with anxiety, knowing Boklov would put a price on her head if he believed she was any threat to him at all. She’d be in just as much danger as before.

  She squinted against the sunlight, trying valiantly to break through the iron-gray morning. Just beyond where they stood, the ocean still tossed roughly, its depths sullen and remarkable in its violent beauty. The sandy beach was a mess, eroded and littered with whatever the waters had pushed onto shore.

  “I’m wondering if I want to know what you did with them,” Mark said to Luther.

  “Probably not.” Luther stared off toward the northern side of the peninsula. The St. Clair family owned the south portion of land, but the rest of it was a government-protected wildlife and salt marsh preserve. Luther had once told Samantha that he knew the swamps there like the back of his hand.

  “Remember what we talked about yesterday, Mr. St. Clair?” Luther used a muscular forearm to swipe at his perspiring forehead. “About some fools not knowin’ how to swim? Must be a commonality—Memphis boys sinkin’ like they got an anchor attached to ’em.” He raised his big shoulders in a shrug, although the hard glint in his eyes was telling. “Who knows? Maybe one was.”

  Samantha’s skin prickled with the realization of what had really happened to Lenny Cook. “You knew about Lenny?”

  “Knew what he was trying to do to you,” Luther said, a bitter edge to his voice.

  Shocked, Samantha stared at him, trying to keep her heart still. “But how…what about the Sea King—”

  “Did I ever tell you about my old buddy, Zeke? One of the few friends I’ve got around here. Two of us were practically raised together. The Sea King might be a run-down rattrap, but it’s all his. Zeke took care of the Crown Vic, too—sold it for parts three counties over.” Luther looked at Mark. “You don’t need to worry about that bloodied rug, either. Soaked it in gasoline from my truck and burned it to ash—the stuff inside their wallets, too. Ain’t nobody going to track any of it back here. I also burned the photos they had of Samantha with your sister. They were in the SUV’s glove box. Must be the ones Cook sent.”

  “You’ve been a busy man,” Mark observed without levity.

  Luther merely grunted. “Worst of the storm’s been gone for hours now. Idle hands and all that. It’s only about a two-mile walk back from the marsh.”

  Samantha’s fingers had tangled with Mark’s. She squeezed them, thrown by just how far Luther had gone to protect her. As if Luther could sense her disquiet, he said, “Lenny Cook was a bad man, Sam. He was going to hurt you and then, once he had his fill of you, turn you over to Red. I couldn’t let that happen.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he extracted Mark’s cell phone and gave it to him.

  “Service is still out, but I’m sure they’re workin’ on it. Help’s gonna be here before too long, especially if your family alerted the police here that you never reached Augusta. You’re the prince of this town, Mr. St. Clair. They’ll be on their way out to you.” Luther paused briefly, surveying the damage to the house. “I’m figurin’ it’s best if I’m not with y’all when the authorities show up. They and me ain’t never got along.”

  “Where’re you going?” Mark asked.

  Luther nodded to Red and Cyril’s Cadillac Escalade. Several branches lay across its dented hood. “Reckon it’s drivable. I’m going to take it down the road a bit—at least as far as I can get with the flooding. Thought I might park it behind the Big House, lie low until I see the police pass through. Then I’ll head out.”

  He looked off again toward the marshland. “If anyone finds my truck out there, they’ll think the storm got me, and that’s fine by me.”

  Samantha’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re leaving Rarity Cove?”

  “I’ve been able to save a little money working at the café. It’ll maybe get me that plane ticket to Haiti. My aunt’s gettin’ on in years. I want to meet her before it’s too late.”

  She nodded in understanding, aware of Luther’s wanderlust and desire to connect with family.

  “That SUV will take me to the Atlanta airport. If the police end up tracking it down, it’ll be far from here,” Luther said. “I’ll take their guns with me and get rid of ‘em, too. Already put ‘em in the SUV.”

  Features serious, he focused again on Mark. “If any of this ever comes to light, if someone does find the bodies—which I doubt since I made sure the fish would take a likin’ to �
�em—you put it all on ol’ Luther. You tell ’em it was me.”

  He made a move to the SUV, but Samantha stepped forward, touching his arm and halting him. “Please wait, all right? I…have something for you.”

  She disappeared inside the house. Samantha returned carrying a cellophane bag containing what looked like dull quartz. Mark had shown it to her earlier. He’d hidden it as a final bargaining chip in the event the confrontation with Red went poorly. She handed it to Luther. “I was hoping you might have some use for these.”

  His jaw dropped as he peered down at the bag.

  “They’re uncut and unpolished, but they’re worth a lot of money. You can use them to go to some of those places you’ve talked about.”

  “Sam, I can’t. Like my momma would’ve said, they got bad juju on ’em.”

  “Then do something good with them. Break the spell,” she urged quietly.

  Luther looked at Mark uncertainly.

  “You’re going to need some money,” Mark reasoned. “Do you know anyone who can sell them, under the radar?”

  “I’ve got some contacts from my time in prison. I suppose they’ll know how to handle this. Probably get me a quick passport for a price, too.” Luther put the diamonds in his pocket and looked at Samantha with sad eyes. “Well…I guess this is good-bye, then.”

  She hugged him hard. Then the two men shook hands. With Mark’s arm around her, Samantha watched as Luther cleared the limbs from the SUV’s hood and got inside. Starting the engine, he waved once, then backed over the downed branches and rubble in the driveway as he headed out.

  Throat tight, Samantha turned to Mark. “How did Luther know about me? Who I really am?”

  “Who you were.” Tucking several strands of wind-whipped dark hair behind her ear, Mark gazed at her with solemn conviction. “You aren’t Trina Grissom anymore. You’re Samantha Marsh, if that’s who you want to be.”

  She shifted uneasily. “But how’d he know, Mark?”

  “Lenny Cook told him. You left his blackmail note in the storeroom at Café Bella. Luther found it and took matters into his own hands.”

  “I can’t believe what he did for me,” she murmured, still disconcerted by what she’d learned. But regardless of his hand in Lenny Cook’s demise, Luther had most certainly saved her life and Mark’s last night. Samantha looked down the road once more, but the SUV was gone now, its rumble a distant echo in her ears. It had taken the same bouncing path through the bushes that she had forged with Red and Cyril in the storm. She’d been so certain then that her life was over. Samantha couldn’t help it—she felt a shadow of fear fall over her again. The mist on her skin made her shiver.

  “Hey.” Mark pressed his lips to her forehead. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

  “All these years I thought I killed Devin. I stabbed him, Mark. I checked his pulse and couldn’t find it—”

  “You were scared out of your mind and made a mistake. I had a friend I trust implicitly make some inquiries. The medical examiner’s report lists the cause of death as a gunshot wound to the back of the head. You injured him, but you didn’t take his life. Boklov did.” Mark swallowed heavily, deep regret visible on his face. “I…made mistakes, too. I should have trusted you instead of condemning you.” His voice frayed. “I couldn’t handle the truth and I almost lost you because of it.”

  Samantha touched his face. “You risked your life to save me.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the right thing or not. I don’t want you to reveal yourself to the police.” Anger and desperation crept into Mark’s expression. “The way Devin Leary abused and exploited you for years. What his brother did to you last night. You’ve suffered enough. I don’t want you risking yourself ever again.”

  Lungs constricting, Samantha didn’t respond. They stared at one another for several charged moments before turning to view the exterior destruction to the bungalow. In addition to the damaged roof, a tree had fallen onto the house. Farther along the shoreline, the roofs of other bungalows that were part of the resort appeared to have sustained similar destruction.

  “Let’s hope the hotel fared better.” Mark released a breath. He looked at his car and the massive tree limb that lay across the shattered windshield, then startled slightly as his phone rang. “Cell coverage is back.”

  She stood by as he tried to calm down whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “I’m still here at the resort,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he listened to the caller. “I know…I know what I promised, Carter. Look, I got stuck here. It was unavoidable. I couldn’t get out last night, but I’m fine.”

  His blue eyes met Samantha’s as he spoke. She could tell by what he didn’t say that he was letting his family think he’d merely been foolish.

  “If you can stop lecturing me for a second, can I ask how my daughter is? Yeah, go get her and put her on.”

  Samantha moved closer, placing her hand on his forearm as Mark spoke with Emily. It sounded as if the child had remained peacefully oblivious to the worry that had no doubt held Mark’s family captive ever since he’d failed to show up in Augusta.

  “Samantha’s fine, baby,” Mark said. “Guess what? She’s right here with me. We’ll both see you soon.”

  Mark talked to Olivia and Mercer next, repeating his apologies, then disconnected the phone.

  “How bad was it?” Samantha asked carefully.

  “Carter’s fuming. He had the Augusta authorities alert the local police by radio last night when I didn’t show up, but by then the peninsula road was washed out.” Mark absently pressed his hand against his side as he spoke. His paleness still concerned her. “To be honest, now that he knows I’m okay, I think he’s enjoying being the responsible male in the family for once. He doesn’t get much opportunity to rake me over the coals. I’ll let him own it for a while.”

  A sudden thought sent anxiety flickering through her. “Mark, what about Carter? If we decide not to go to the authorities…”

  His handsome face grew serious as the breeze lifted his short hair. “He won’t expose you.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, aware of the return of sea gulls high in the air above them. “Your family must’ve been terrified when you didn’t arrive last night.”

  “Olivia was pretty upset,” he conceded.

  “I’m so sorry, Mark.”

  “She’ll be fine. The St. Clairs are a resilient bunch.” He stared again at his home. “We’re going to have to go through the mess in there and try to find a needle and some thread, though. You probably heard Emily asking about Walton. I don’t want her to find out I disemboweled her favorite bear.”

  Despite his attempt to lighten the mood, Samantha knew the St. Clair was much more than property to him. She understood what its legacy meant. Mark had invested his time and his heart in it, so much of himself. The hotel was somewhat visible in the distance—still clearly standing—although any damage was indeterminable in the grayness.

  He drew her to him, his hands smoothing the wild tangles in her hair. They heard the faint sound of sirens, which stopped altogether eventually. Assistance didn’t seem to be moving any closer, but they were on the road, trying to get through.

  “We’re both pretty beat-up, but we’re going to have to make up something to explain the injuries to your throat,” Mark told her. “Some freak accident in the storm.”

  Biting her lip, Samantha bowed her head, overwhelmed. Luther had cleared away any sign of what had really occurred here last night, leaving open the unexpected possibility of their simply having peace.

  Mark must have sensed her uncertainty, because he tilted her face up to his with gentle fingers and regarded her with a searching gravity.

  “I love you,” he uttered fiercely. “And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you’ll let me. We deserve a chance, Samantha. Give us that.”

  The breeze that whipped in from the ocean was salty and strong, and a fine mist continued t
o fall around them. Samantha put her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder.

  They were both safe. Tears of thankfulness stung her eyes.

  EPILOGUE

  Seven Months Later

  Each spring brought with it the first influx of vacationers into the Rarity Cove community. But this year, the season also marked the grand reopening of the St. Clair. While the hurricane damage had been only moderate, Mark had made the decision to close the resort over the fall and winter months so renovations could be fully completed prior to the next tourist spike.

  It had also given him time to spend with his new wife.

  From his vantage point inside the hotel, he admired the work of master carpenters who had repaired the flood and wind damage and rebuilt the rear veranda. They had also replaced the shattered windows and domed, stained-glass skylight that was the focal point of the lobby. Things seemed to have almost returned to normal as staff worked to check in the inaugural wave of guests. Mark looked out through the tall, arched windows onto the Atlantic, his attention briefly captured by a schooner gliding gracefully past with sails whipping in the ocean breeze. His gaze returned to the lobby, however, as excitement rippled through the crowd.

  Carter had apparently arrived.

  Mark approached the throng surrounding his brother, waiting on the periphery as he autographed materials thrust at him and patiently posed for photos taken by media that had traveled over from Charleston. There would also be interviews that afternoon. Carter had gotten his wish. He’d left the soap after the network pilot he had shot was picked up, after all, as a midseason replacement. The drama about an urban hospital and its surgeons had become an overnight hit. Carter had recently been on the cover of both TV Guide and Entertainment Weekly, and there was buzz about a possible Emmy nomination. Mark had asked him to come down for the reopening. He’d counted on his presence, in fact, to help generate publicity.