by Nora Roberts
long waving hair, the smooth skin? If she was going to hallucinate about her mother, wouldn’t she have snapped to just that age?
Nearly the same age she herself was now, Jo thought. That was probably another reason for all the dreams, the fears, the nerves. Had Annabelle been as restless and as edgy as her daughter was? Had there been a lover after all? There had been whispers of that, even a child had been able to hear them. There’d been no hint of one, no suspicion of infidelity before the desertion. But afterward the rumors had been rife, and tongues had clucked and wagged.
But then, Annabelle would have been discreet, and clever. She had given no hint of her plans to leave, yet she had left.
Wouldn’t Daddy have known? Jo wondered. Surely a man knew if his wife was restless and dissatisfied and unhappy. She knew they had argued over the island. Had that been enough to do it, to make Annabelle so unhappy that she would turn her back on her home, her husband, her children? Hadn’t he seen it, or had he even then been oblivious to the feelings of the people around him?
It was so hard to remember if it had ever been different. But surely there had once been laughter in that house. Echoes of it still lingered in her mind. Quick snapshots of her parents embracing in the kitchen, of her mother laughing, of walking on the beach with her father’s hand holding hers.
They were dim pictures, faded with time as if improperly fixed, but they were there. And they were real. If she had managed to block so many memories of her mother out of her mind, then she could also bring them back. And maybe she would begin to understand.
Then she would decide what to do.
The crunch of a footstep made her look up quickly. The sun was behind him, casting him in shadow. A cap shielded his eyes. His stride was loose and leggy.
Another long-forgotten picture snapped into her mind. She saw herself as a little girl with flyaway hair racing down the path, giggling, calling, then leaping high. And his arms had reached out to catch her, to toss her high, then hug her close.
Jo blinked the picture away and the tears that wanted to come with it. He didn’t smile, and she knew that no matter how she worked to negate it, he saw Annabelle in her.
She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “Hello, Daddy.”
“Jo Ellen.” He stopped a foot away and took her measure. He saw that Kate had been right. The girl looked ill, pale, and strained. Because he didn’t know how to touch her, didn’t believe she would welcome the touch in any case, he dipped his hands into his pockets. “Kate told me you were here.”
“I came in on the morning ferry,” she said, knowing the information was unnecessary.
For a difficult moment they stood there, more awkward than strangers. Sam shifted his feet. “You in trouble?”
“I’m just taking some time off.”
“You look peaked.”
“I’ve been working too hard.”
Frowning, he looked deliberately at the camera hanging from a strap around her neck. “Doesn’t look like you’re taking time off to me.”
In an absent gesture, she cupped a hand under the camera. “Old habits are hard to break.”
“They are that.” He huffed out a breath. “There’s a pretty light on the water today, and the waves are up. Guess it’d make a nice picture.”
“I’ll check it out. Thanks.”
“Take a hat next time. You’ll likely burn.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll remember.”
He could think of nothing else, so he nodded and started up the path, moving past her. “Mind the sun.”
“I will.” She turned away quickly, walking blindly now because she had smelled the island on him, the rich, dark scent of it, and it broke her heart.
MILES away in the hot red glow of the darkroom light, he slipped paper, emulsion side up, into a tray of developing fluid. It pleased him to re-create the moment from so many years before, to watch it form on the paper, shadow by shadow and line by line.
He was nearly done with this phase and wanted to linger, to draw out all the pleasure before he moved on.
He had driven her back to Sanctuary. The idea made him chuckle and preen. Nothing could have been more perfect. It was there that he wanted her. Otherwise he would have taken her before, half a dozen times before.
But it had to be perfect. He knew the beauty of perfection and the satisfaction of working carefully toward creating it.
Not Annabelle, but Annabelle’s daughter. A perfect circle closing. She would be his triumph, his masterpiece.
Claiming her, taking her, killing her.
And every stage of it would be captured on film. Oh, how Jo would appreciate that. He could barely wait to explain it all to her, the one person he was certain would understand his ambition and his art.
Her work drew him, and his understanding of it made him feel intimate with her already. And they would become more intimate yet.
Smiling, he shifted the print from the developing tray to the stop bath, swishing it through before lifting it into the fixer. Carefully, he checked the temperature of the wash, waiting patiently until the timer rang and he could switch on the white light and examine the print.
Beautiful, just beautiful. Lovely composition. Dramatic lighting—such a perfect halo over the hair, such lovely shadows to outline the body and highlight skin tones. And the subject, he thought. Perfection.
When the print was fully fixed, he lifted it out of the tray and into the running water of the wash. Now he could allow himself to dream of what was to come.
He was closer to her than ever, linked to her through the photographs that reflected each of their lives. He could barely wait to send her the next. But he knew he must choose the time with great care.
On the worktable beside him a battered journal lay open, its precisely written words faded from time.
The decisive moment is the ultimate goal in my work. Capturing that short, passing event where all the elements, all the dynamics of a subject reach a peak. What more decisive moment can there be than death? And how much more control can the photographer have over this moment, over the capturing of it on film, than to plan and stage and cause that death? That single act joins subject and artist, makes him part of the art, and the image created.
Since I will kill only one woman, manipulate only one decisive moment, I have chosen her with great care.
Her name is Annabelle.
With a quiet sigh, he hung the print to dry and turned on the white light to better study it.
“Annabelle,” he murmured. “So beautiful. And your daughter is the image of you.”
He left Annabelle there, staring, staring, and went out to complete his plans for his stay on Desire.
FIVE
THE ferry steamed across Pelican Sound, heading east to Lost Desire. Nathan Delaney stood at the starboard rail as he had once before as a ten-year-old boy. It wasn’t the same ferry, and he was no longer a boy, but he wanted to re-create the moment as closely as possible.
It was cool with the breeze off the water, and the scent of it was raw and mysterious. It had been warmer before, but then it had been late May rather than mid-April.
Close enough, he thought, remembering how he and his parents and his young brother had all crowded together at the starboard rail of another ferry, eager for their first glimpse of Desire and the start of their island summer.
He could see little difference. Spearing up from the land were the majestic live oaks with their lacy moss, cabbage palms, and glossyleaved magnolias not yet in bloom.
Had they been blooming then? A young boy eager for adventure paid little attention to flowers.
He lifted the binoculars that hung around his neck. His father had helped him aim and focus on that long-ago morning so that he could catch the quick dart of a woodpecker. The expected tussle had followed because Kyle had demanded the binoculars and Nathan hadn’t wanted to give them up.
He remembered his mother laughing at them, and his father bending down to tickle Kyle to d
istract him. In his mind, Nathan could see the picture they had made. The pretty woman with her hair blowing, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement. The two young boys, sturdy and scrubbed, squabbling. And the man, tall and dark, long of leg and rangy of build.
Now, Nathan thought, he was the only one left. Somehow he had grown up into his father’s body, had gone from sturdy boy to a man with long legs and narrow hips. He could look in a mirror and see reflections of his father’s face in the hollow cheeks and dark gray eyes. But he had his mother’s mouth, firmly ridged, and her deep brown hair with hints of gold and red. His father had said it was like aged mahogany.
Nathan wondered if children were really just montages of their parents. And he shuddered.
Without the binoculars he watched the island take shape. He could see the wash of color from wildflowers—pinks and violets from lupine and wood sorrel. A scatter of houses was visible, a few straight or winding roads, the flash of a creek that disappeared into the trees. Mystery was added by the dark shadows of the forest where feral pigs and horses had once lived, the gleam of the marshes and the blades of waving grasses gold and green in the streaming morning sunlight.
It was all hazed with distance, like a dream.
Then he saw the gleam of white on a rise, the quick wink that was sun shooting off glass. Sanctuary, he thought, and kept it in his sights until the ferry turned toward the dock and the house was lost from view.
Nathan turned from the rail and walked back to his Jeep. When he was settled inside with only the hum of the ferry’s engines for company, he wondered if he was crazy coming back here, exploring the past, in some ways repeating it.
He’d left New York, packed everything that mattered into the Jeep. It was surprisingly little. Then again, he’d never had a deepseated need for things. That had made his life simpler through the divorce two years before. Maureen had been the collector, and it saved them both a great deal of time and temper when he offered to let her strip the West Side apartment.
Christ knew she’d taken him up on it and had left him with little more than his own clothes and a mattress.
That chapter of his life was over, and for nearly two years now he’d devoted himself to his work. Designing buildings was as much a passion as a career for him, and with New York as no more than a home base, he had traveled, studying sites, working wherever he could set up his drawing board and computer. He’d given himself the gift of time to study other buildings, explore the art of them, from the great cathedrals in Italy and France to the streamlined desert homes in the American Southwest.
He’d been free, his work the only demand on his time and on his heart.
Then he had lost his parents, suddenly, irrevocably. And had lost himself. He wondered why he felt he could find the pieces on Desire.
But he was committed to staying at least six months. Nathan took it as a good sign that he’d been able to book the same cottage his family had lived in during that summer. He knew he would listen for the echo of their voices and would hear them with a man’s ear. He would see their ghosts with a man’s eyes.
And he would return to Sanctuary with a man’s purpose.
Would they remember him? The children of Annabelle?
He would soon find out, he decided, when the ferry bumped up to the dock.
He waited his turn, watching as the blocks were removed from the tires of the pickup ahead of him. A family of five, he noted, and from the gear he could see that they would be camping at the facility the island provided. Nathan shook his head, wondering why anyone would choose to sleep in a tent on the ground and consider it a vacation.
The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the sun. Frowning, he noted that they were coming in fast, flying in from the east. Rain could come quickly to barrier islands, he knew. He remembered it falling in torrents for three endless days when he’d been there before. By day two he and Kyle had been at each other’s throats like young wolves.
It made him smile now and wonder how in God’s name his mother had tolerated it.
He drove slowly off the ferry, then up the bumpy, pitted road leading away from the dock. With his windows open he could hear the cheerfully blaring rock and roll screaming out of the truck’s radio. Camper Family, he thought, was already having a great time, impending rain or not. He was determined to follow their example and enjoy the morning.
He would have to face Sanctuary, of course, but he would approach it as an architect. He remembered that its heart was a glorious example of the Colonial style—wide verandas, stately columns, tall, narrow windows. Even as a child he’d been interested enough to note some of the details.
Gargoyle rainspouts, he recalled, that personalized rather than detracted from the grand style. He’d scared the piss out of Kyle by telling him they came alive at night and prowled.
There was a turret, with a widow’s walk circling it. Balconies jutting out with ornate railings of stone or iron. The chimneys were softhued stones mined from the mainland, the house itself fashioned of local cypress and oak.
There was a smokehouse that had still been in use, and slave quarters that had been falling to ruin, where he and Brian and Kyle had found a rattler curled in a dark corner.
There were deer in the forest and alligators in the marshes. Whispers of pirates and ghosts filled the air. It was a fine place for young boys and grand adventures. And for dark and dangerous secrets.
He passed the western marshlands with their busy mud and thin islands of trees. The wind had picked up, sending the cordgrass rippling. Along the edge two egrets were on patrol, their long legs like stilts in the shallow water.
Then the forest took over, lush and exotic. Nathan slowed, letting the truck ahead of him rattle out of sight. Here was stillness, and those dark secrets. His heart began to pound uncomfortably, and his hands tightened on the wheel. This was something he’d come to face, to dissect, and eventually to understand.
The shadows were thick, and the moss dripped from the trees like webs of monstrous spiders. To test himself he turned off the engine. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the voice of the wind.
Ghosts, he thought. He would have to look for them there. And when he found them, what then? Would he leave them where they drifted, night after night, or would they continue to haunt him, muttering to him in his sleep?
Would he see his mother’s face, or Annabelle’s? And which one would cry out the loudest?
He let out a long breath, caught himself reaching for the cigarettes he’d given up over a year before. Annoyed, he turned the ignition key but got only a straining rumble in return. He pumped the gas, tried it again with the same results.
“Well, shit,” he muttered. “That’s perfect.”
Sitting back, he tapped his fingers restlessly on the wheel. The thing to do, of course, was to get out and look under the hood. He knew what he would see. An engine. Wires and tubes and belts. Nathan figured he knew as much about engines and wires and tubes as he did about brain surgery. And being broken down on a deserted road was exactly what he deserved for letting himself be talked into buying a friend’s secondhand Jeep.
Resigned, he climbed out and popped the hood. Yep, he thought, just as he’d suspected. An engine. He leaned in, poked at it, and felt the first fat drop of rain hit his back.
“Now it’s even more perfect.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and scowled, continued to scowl while the rain pattered on his head.
He should have known something was up when his friend had cheerfully tossed in a box of tools along with the Jeep. Nathan considered hauling them out and beating on the engine with a wrench. It was unlikely to work, but it would at least be satisfying.
He stepped back, then froze as the ghost stepped out of the forest shadows and watched him.
Annabelle.
The name swam through his mind, and his gut clenched in defense. She stood in the rain, still as a doe, her smoky red hair damp and tangled, those big blue eyes
quiet and sad. His knees threatened to give way, and he braced a hand on the fender.
Then she moved, pushed back her wet hair. And started toward him. He saw then that it was no ghost, but a woman. It was not Annabelle, but, he was sure, it was Annabelle’s daughter.
He let out the breath he’d been holding until his heart settled again.
“Car trouble?” Jo tried to keep her voice light. The way he was staring at her made her wish she’d stayed in the trees and let him fend for himself. “I take it you’re not standing here in the rain taking in the sights.”
“No.” It pleased him that his voice was normal. If there was an edge to it, the situation was cause enough to explain it. “It won’t start.”