Carrie tried to imagine what the woman’s life must have been like for the past thirty years, but it was hard to put herself in Alma Garcia’s place. Carrie had been born and raised in Miami, and she loved the daily hustle and bustle of big-city living. As a graphic designer for a local magazine, she was used to a hectic pace. She’d go crazy living so far from civilization. “You say she’s one of only two permanent residents on the island?”
“Yes, and as you can see, the area is quite isolated. If your friend came out here looking for solitude, she certainly found it.”
Carrie didn’t bother telling him that Tia had come to Cape Diablo for more than just solitude. She’d been running away, not only from a future with a man she no longer wanted—a man she might even have come to fear—but from a past that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Carrie knew what that was like because she shared Tia’s past. The two of them had been running from the same nightmare since they were twelve years old.
“Are there any other tenants?”
“A man named Ethan Stone moved into one of the apartments a few days ago. I don’t know much about him. His secretary made all the arrangements, but I gather he’s a Wall Street–type suffering from a bad case of burnout.”
“He has my sympathies,” Carrie murmured.
“And, of course, there’s Nick Draco, the carpenter I hired to do some repairs. He’s staying in the old servants’ quarters.”
“So at the moment there are only five people living on the island,” she said.
“That’s right. Like I said, if your friend wanted solitude, she came to the right place.”
They both fell silent after that, and Carrie turned her attention to the scenery as she tried to imagine Tia’s frame of mind when she’d traveled across these same waters three weeks earlier. She must have felt desperate when she’d fled Miami, but why Cape Diablo? Carrie had never even heard of the island. How had Tia found out about it?
Perhaps a friend or colleague had told her about it, Carrie decided. It was the kind of place that would only be advertised by word of mouth. Not at all like the five-star resorts Trey was undoubtedly used to, which was probably why Tia had chosen it.
For all Carrie knew, Tia had been contemplating the trip for weeks as her wedding day approached and her jitters had turned into panic. Maybe she hadn’t been able to work up the courage to call off the ceremony until faced with the inevitable.
Tia had left a note for Carrie in the bride’s room, begging her to break the news gently to the distraught groom. Trey Hollinger had put up a poised front for the hundreds of guests assembled in the chapel, but once he and Carrie were alone, he’d unleashed his fury on her. She’d tried to convince herself his misplaced anger was classic kill-the-messenger syndrome, but Trey’s wrath cut more deeply than that. He blamed Carrie for what happened. Everything had been fine, he’d raged, until she’d started planting ideas in Tia’s head.
“I know what you did to her back then. She told me all about it…how you ran off and just left her there. And now here you are back in her life and look what’s happened. You just couldn’t let her be happy, could you?”
Was he right? Had her rekindled friendship with Tia somehow set her friend back on the path of self-destruction?
Retrieving Tia’s letter from her bag, Carrie quickly scanned the contents for the umpteenth time, hoping for something that would reassure her. But far from putting her mind at rest, a fresh reading only deepened her foreboding.
After the first paragraph, Tia never mentioned Trey’s name. It was as if she’d put him completely out of her mind. Instead, she’d written about the island and the missing family. By the time she’d scribbled the last page, she’d begun—unwittingly, Carrie hoped—referring to the Santiagos by their given names, as if she’d known each of them personally.
I’ve seen photographs of the children. What beautiful little girls! I don’t know why, but I feel strangely drawn to them. Sometimes I go down to the beach and try to imagine the two of them collecting shells, building sand castles, playing chase with the surf. Reyna, so quiet and shy, and Pilar, too adventurous for her own good. They remind me of the way you and I once were.
Carrie’s grip tightened on the paper.
Maybe it’s because of our own tragic past that I feel so compelled to find out what happened to those little girls. Did they sail off with their father and stepmother that night or did something dark and sinister befall them? Are they out there somewhere leading normal, happy lives, or do their spirits still wander restlessly through the halls of this crumbling mansion?
I know how strange all this must sound to you, Carrie. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think I can leave here until I find out what happened to them. Sometimes I think I was drawn to Cape Diablo for a reason. It’s as if the island itself is trying to tell me something…and it won’t let me rest until I uncover its secrets.
“CAPE DIABLO, DEAD AHEAD,” Pete Trawick shouted over the engine noise.
His gruff voice drew Carrie’s attention from Tia’s letter, and as she glanced up, she found Robert Cochburn watching her intently. The moment their gazes met, however, he smiled and jerked a thumb toward the front of the boat. “Heads up. You don’t want to miss the scenery. The island is beautiful this time of day.”
Carrie folded Tia’s letter and returned it to her bag, then stood to get a better look at the view. Backlit by a glorious sunset, Cape Diablo shimmered on the horizon, a lush emerald green gilded by the dying light. For a moment, as the sun hung suspended in a painted sky, the island seemed bathed in gold. A glowing sanctuary that beckoned to the weary traveler.
Grabbing her camera, Carrie snapped a few shots, but as they approached the island, the sky deepened and the water turned dark, as if a giant shadow had crept over the whole area. It was a strange phenomenon, a trick of the light that seemed too much like an omen. Carrie couldn’t seem to shake off a gnawing fear. The place seemed so wild and primitive. Anything could have happened to Tia out here.
As they approached the island, Carrie could just make out the red roofline of the house through the trees and to the right, an old, wooden boathouse nestled in a tiny cove.
Trawick turned the bow neatly toward the inlet and after a few moments, cut the engine. As they drifted silently toward the pier, Carrie became aware of a dozen sounds. Water lapping at the hull…the startled flight of an egret…an insect buzzing near her ear.
And, in the distance, a scream.
Her glance shot to Cochburn. “What was that?” she asked in alarm.
“A falcon, most likely.” He put up a hand to shade his eyes as he searched the sky. “There it is. See it? Circling just above the treetops.”
“A falcon?” Carrie asked doubtfully. “Way out here?”
“These islands are on the migration route. Maybe this one got lost from its cast as they flew north. When I was a kid, you could come out here in the spring and fall and spot dozens flying over Cape Diablo. My father said Andres found a wounded one once and nursed it back to health. He kept it in captivity for a number of years, but I suppose it was released after his disappearance. Who knows?” He gave Carrie an enigmatic smile. “Maybe the one you just heard is a descendant.”
A wounded falcon seeking refuge on Cape Diablo.
Cochburn didn’t seem to realize the irony, but to Carrie, it was yet one more clue as to why Tia had chosen such a remote location. If she’d known Cape Diablo was on the migratory route of the falcon, she might have taken it as a sign. She seemed so…mystical these days.
As the boat thudded softly against the rubber tires hanging from the pier, Cochburn climbed out and offered a hand down to Carrie. Gathering up her bag and cap, she grabbed his hand and let him pull her up.
They left Trawick unloading the supplies as they made their way along a trail that wound through a jungle of mangroves. In spite of the insect repellant she’d sprayed on before leaving the marina, Carrie had to constantly swat mosquitoes from her face as they
emerged into what had once been a landscaped yard but was now overgrown with palmettos, bromeliads and swamp grass.
The house itself was still magnificent, a Spanish-style villa that appeared untouched by time as the late-afternoon sun glinted off arched windows and turned the white facade into gleaming amber. Carrie caught her breath. She’d never seen such a beautiful place.
But almost immediately she realized the soft light had created an illusion. A closer examination revealed the overall state of disrepair. Some of the roof tiles were missing and the salt air had rusted the ornate wrought iron trim around the windows and balconies. In dreary corners, lichen and moss inched like a shadow over crumbling stucco walls.
A subtle movement drew Carrie’s gaze to one of the balconies, and as she lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the glare, she saw the outline of a woman standing at the railing looking down at them. Carrie couldn’t make out her features clearly, but she had the impression of age and frailty.
And then a strange dread gripped her. As their gazes clung for the longest moment, Carrie suddenly had an overpowering sensation that she was in the presence of evil.
Whether it was coming from the woman on the balcony or someone else on the island, she had no idea.
Chapter Two
Carrie must have made some inadvertent sound because Cochburn stopped on the path and glanced around. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m…not sure.” Her gaze was still on the balcony, but the woman had stepped back into the shadows so that Carrie could no longer see her. “I thought I saw someone up there.”
Cochburn glanced warily at the house. “It was probably Alma Garcia. Her quarters are on the third floor. She must have heard the boat.”
“It was so strange,” Carrie murmured. “For a moment, I thought…”
“What?” he asked sharply.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I got the impression she wasn’t too happy to see us, that’s all.”
He shrugged, but not before Carrie had seen something dark in his eyes. “She’s not exactly thrilled with having tenants on the property, but she’s harmless. Crazy as a bat, but harmless. You don’t need to concern yourself with her. I doubt you’ll even see her again. She keeps to herself most of the time.” He turned back to the path. “Come along. Tia’s apartment is this way.”
Crazy as a bat, but harmless.
Hardly a ringing endorsement, Carrie thought uneasily. Just what had she gotten herself into?
Not that she was in any position to judge. She’d spent more than a few hours on a therapist’s couch herself.
And Tia…
Poor Tia had her problems, as well. A precarious mental state was nothing new for her, unfortunately, which was why Carrie was so worried about her.
Tia had been emotionally fragile for years, but Carrie had hoped that she’d grown stronger since they last met. Evidently not, or she would have stayed and faced Trey herself on their wedding day.
Unless she had good reason not to.
Cochburn led Carrie around to the back of the house and through an old gate that opened into a large, central courtyard enclosed on one side by a long L-shaped wing of the main house and on the other by a freestanding, two-story pool house. At the far end was a cracked adobe wall topped with faded red tiles that matched the roof. Terra-cotta pots dotted the stone floor, but the flowers had mostly withered in the heat and the water in the pool was blackish green and opaque.
In spite of the obvious neglect, however, touches of a once-gorgeous oasis remained in the cascade of scarlet bougainvillea over the walls and in the tinkle of a nearby fountain. A lazy breeze drifted through the palm fronds, carrying the scent of jasmine and the barest hint of rain. And through an arched opening in the back wall, Carrie caught tantalizing glimpses of water undulating in the sunset like yards and yards of russet satin.
The only thing to disturb the almost total quiet was the sound of the ocean and the distant drone of a generator that supplied the island’s electricity.
Carrie wanted a moment to take it all in, but Robert Cochburn seemed in no mood to linger.
“Your friend’s apartment is just over there.” He pointed to the pool house. Like the main house, it was white stucco with a red tile roof and a curving staircase that led up to a shady loggia on the second level. “She’s on the ground floor.”
“Thank you for taking the time to come out here with me,” Carrie told him. “I’m not sure I could have found the right island without you. You never said, but…how did Tia know about this place?”
“She saw one of our newspaper ads,” Cochburn said. “The same way most of our tenants hear about the apartments.”
Carrie nodded. “I assumed it was something like that. Well, thanks again for everything.”
He smiled. “No problem. Glad I could help.”
She watched until he disappeared through the gate, then she turned to Tia’s apartment. Carrie had no idea the kind of reception that was in store for her. Tia was hard to predict. She could be warm and effusive one moment, distant and brooding the next. But Carrie understood better than anyone her friend’s mood swings.
Bracing herself for Tia’s possible irritation, Carrie walked up two stone steps and stood in front of a set of French doors that opened onto the courtyard. Shades had been pulled over the panes making it impossible to see inside. She knocked softly at first, but when she got no response, she rapped harder and called out Tia’s name.
Stepping back from the door, she scanned the other windows, her gaze rising to the loggia. No one was about and the predusk calm that settled over the courtyard seemed ominous, as if the place had been abandoned in a hurry.
Moving back to the door, Carrie knocked again, then tried the latch. It was unlocked, which could mean that if Tia had stepped out for a few minutes, she probably hadn’t gone far. Then again, maybe there was no reason to lock doors on Cape Diablo.
Carrie hesitated, not quite sure what to do. She didn’t want to intrude on Tia’s privacy, and yet she’d come this far. She couldn’t turn around and leave without making sure her friend was all right.
Another thought suddenly occurred to her. Tia had run away from Miami with barely a word to anyone. What if she’d already packed up and left Cape Diablo?
Only one way to find out.
Taking a deep breath, Carrie pushed open the door and stepped inside the gloomy apartment.
COCHBURN GLANCED WARILY over his shoulder as he walked up the steps to the old servants’ quarters located on the south end of the island near the swamp. He’d spotted Nick Draco on the roof of the main house when he and Carrie were in the courtyard so he thought this might be an excellent time to have a look around.
He didn’t know why, but he was starting to get nervous about bringing Draco to Cape Diablo. In hindsight, he should have been a little more careful in screening the applicants who’d responded to his ad, but there hadn’t been that many. And no wonder. Who in their right mind would want to spend a summer working on this godforsaken island?
Nick Draco had seemed the most capable of the lot, and when he hadn’t balked over the miniscule wages being offered, Cochburn had hired him on the spot.
But he’d been second-guessing his decision ever since. For one thing, the background information Draco had provided on the application seemed a little sketchy, and for another, the guy’s cold, relentless stare was the most unnerving thing Cochburn had ever experienced.
Draco had the look of a man who’d as soon slit your throat as not, and Cochburn was a coward at heart. Always had been. But he also had a vested interest in Cape Diablo—and what might be hidden here. According to local legend, Andres had left a fortune buried somewhere on the island. If Draco had come here to look for that money, Cochburn wasn’t about to get caught unaware. It wouldn’t be the first time a fortune hunter had wormed his way onto the island.
The outbuildings were even more dilapidated than the main house, and as Cochburn crossed the rickety porch, he glanced
around in distaste. He supposed some might find the overgrown island quaint and primitive, but he detested coming out here. He preferred the yacht clubs and the exclusive condo communities in Naples.
Cape Diablo was an albatross around his neck, and he couldn’t wait to unload it. Unfortunately, because of Andres Santiago’s trust, that wasn’t going to happen until Alma Garcia was either dead or committed. A missing tenant, however, might go a long way in convincing the authorities that the old girl needed to be institutionalized. Especially—God forbid—if evidence of foul play turned up.
With Alma finally out of the way, Cochburn would have free rein of the place. If the money was here, he’d find it before he put the place on the market, but in the meantime, he had more pressing worries.
Taking out a handkerchief, he mopped the sweat off his brow as he knocked on the door, even though he already knew the carpenter was still up at the villa. Still, he was wary enough of Draco to take precautions.
Throwing another look over his shoulder, Cochburn took out a key and slipped it into the keyhole. When the door refused to budge, he realized that Draco must have changed the lock. Cochburn gave the knob a frustrated rattle, then withdrew the worthless key and walked over to peer into one of the windows.
“Looking for something?”
Cochburn froze. He hadn’t heard so much as a twig snap in warning, and now the deep timbre of Draco’s voice sent a chill up his spine. Sweat trickled down his temples and he swore under his breath. He was no damn good at this. He should have sent a professional to investigate Draco. But the fewer people who knew about the island’s secrets, the better.
He gave himself a split second to recover before he turned. Whatever nerve he’d managed to recover fled at the sight of Nicholas Draco.
Secrets of His Own Page 2