Dead By Nightfall

by Beverly Barton

  “How long has he been in there alone?” Yvette asked as they approached the locked door of Griffin’s study.

  “All day. He insisted on being alone,” Sanders replied. “After the phone call, he told me to contact you. According to the man claiming to have kidnapped Nicole, he has instructions for all three of us—you, Griffin, and me—when he calls again this evening.”

  “I should have come sooner, but ...” She hated to confess that her own selfish concerns had delayed her, that she had gone against her own rules and requested one of her protégés use his “remote viewing” talent as a favor to her. “I asked Adam to help me by trying to project himself to the Benenden School. Since I can’t go to England right now and meet Suzette, I thought perhaps ...” She turned from Sanders’s disapproving glare.

  Her dear old friend knew her better than anyone else, even better than Griffin did. Sometimes she thought Sanders knew her better than she knew herself because he had the ability to see her for who and what she truly was. He understood that her survival depended on her ability to maintain the alternate reality in which she existed. She visited the real world whenever necessary, but kept her home base secure within the tranquil, unemotional inner peace she had created for herself.

  She did not love. She did not hate.

  She devoted her life to her students, the young men and women who, like she, were gifted psychics, and because of their special talents were outcasts and misfits in a world that did not trust the transcendental part of mankind’s nature. Her only goal in life was to help others, be that the residents of her sanctuary or those associated with the Powell Agency.

  “Please do not look at me with such stern censure,” Yvette told Sanders. “You, of all people, should understand my need to see this girl, to discover for myself if she is my child.”

  “I do understand.” His gaze softened, his expression one of empathetic sympathy. “But if this girl is your child, which I do not believe she is, she will be at Benenden a week from now, a month from now, even a year from now. But Griffin needs you today.”

  “Of course, you are right. You are always right.”

  “This man who calls himself Malcolm York will use your desire to find your child to manipulate you,” Sanders told her. “Surely you realize he wants to punish you and me as well as Griffin. He has abducted Nicole to punish Griffin. He will find a way to use your missing child to punish you. And I am sure he has something in mind for me also.”

  “Who can this man be?” Yvette struggled to maintain her composure as memories threatened, like dark ominous clouds before a destructive storm. “Why is he pretending to be Malcolm York? And why is he seeking revenge for York?”

  “Those are questions that you should concentrate on. You have six students with various abilities that they can use to help us. Instead of asking Adam to try to transport himself to Benenden, ask him to search for Nicole.”

  “I asked Meredith for help,” Yvette said defensively. “As you know, she went to Nicole’s cabin with Luke Sentell this morning and came away without picking up on any leads. She tried, but she and my other students are still learning to control their talents, and I know from experience that it can take a lifetime to master such powerful skills.”

  “I did not mean to criticize you or imply that you aren’t willing to do all that you can to help us find Nicole. I simply thought you might need a reminder about prioritizing your goals.”

  She longed to lay her hand on Sanders’s arm, to simply touch him as an act of kindness, a “thank you, dear friend,” expression. But for her there was no such thing as a simple touch. Even when she deliberately blocked other people’s feelings, she was never able to completely avoid connecting with them. The more powerful their emotions, the more easily they overrode the barrier she projected between them and her.

  “When Griffin first heard rumors about York, I tried to help,” Yvette said. “I went against my better judgment and my own rules and asked Meredith for help because at the time she was my most gifted student. None of the others were advanced enough or disciplined enough to help and even now only Adam has progressed enough to be of possible assistance.”

  “Nic! No, Nic, don’t go. Please ... Nic!” The shouting came from inside Griffin’s study.

  Yvette and Sanders exchanged concerned looks. “You have a key,” she said. “Use it. Unlock the door now.”

  Without hesitation, Sanders removed his key ring from his pocket, chose a small brass key, and inserted it into the lock. When he opened the door, he paused, intending to allow Yvette to enter first. But the moment she saw Griffin, she stopped immediately. He looked right at her, but did not see her. His shoulders were slumped, his face haggard, his eyes glazed, and tears poured down his unshaven cheeks.

  Nicole stood on the main deck of the Isis, now docked out at sea, but within viewing distance of a nearby port, and watched the sun set and twilight descend. Surprisingly, Linden had given her permission to explore the yacht beyond her luxurious guest suite. But not alone. An armed guard followed her every step. More than once she had thought about trying to overpower the man and take his rifle, but he would be useless as a hostage, and the odds that she could actually manage to escape were zero. From what she could tell, none of the staff spoke English. There were at least half a dozen armed guards posted at various intervals throughout the ship. And unless she could swim several miles to shore, jumping overboard would accomplish nothing except her drowning halfway to her destination.

  Taking note of her surroundings, she concluded that the landmass was due west and that the ship had been sailing south/southwest all afternoon. If her assumption was correct that Linden had originally taken her to an island somewhere in the Caribbean, that meant they were probably now docked near the coast of either Venezuela or possibly Colombia.

  So how do you think having some idea of where you are will help you?

  It wouldn’t, not really. But being able to figure out her possible location gave her the illusion of having at least an iota of control over her present situation.

  After sharing lunch with Linden in the elegant wood-paneled dining room, she had not seen him again until a couple of hours ago. She had been lounging in the salon, on the twelve-foot-long sofa situated beneath a row of windows overlooking the main deck. Or were those called portholes despite their square shape? As often as Griff had explained sailing lingo to her on their infrequent yachting trips, she had yet to master ship-speak.

  “I’m going ashore,” Linden had told her. “While I’m gone, you be a good girl. If you’re not, I’ve left orders that if necessary to shoot you in the foot and then lock you up below deck until I return.”

  She had wanted to ask him where he was going and what business he had ashore, but she had simply smiled at him as if she didn’t have a care in the world. After all, why not play the role she had been assigned, that of a pampered guest? From the luxurious bedroom suite she had been given to the designer slacks and blouse she had found in her closet and now wore, to the respectful way the crew and even the guards treated her, no one would suspect that she was being held against her will.

  Concentrating on the colorful beauty of the sky bathed in the remnants of dying sunlight, Nic did her best not to think about why Linden had gone ashore. But try as she might, fear overrode her determination. Would he bring back guests, men she would be expected to entertain tonight? Was he gathering up a new hunting party? Would they be going to another island to participate in their sadistic blood sport ritual? Was that why Jonas MacColl had been brought on board and was now somewhere below deck?

  Nic seriously doubted that Jonas had been given a guest cabin with his own private bathroom. More than likely he was locked away in a storage area in the boiler room. Or was it called a generator room or maybe an engine room? Griff had once told her that their yacht, the Nicole, was equipped with full electronics, four generators, two 400 horsepower engines, and that most of the equipment had been duplicated for backup purposes. But i
f he had ever referred by name to that area of the ship, she didn’t remember.

  Dear God in heaven, what she would give to be aboard the Nicole right now, with Griff standing at her side, his arms draped around her. She could see him in her mind’s eye, could hear him whisper her name, could almost feel his powerful embrace. She swallowed the lump in her throat, refusing to cry. Tears were useless.

  Off in the distance, she caught a glimpse of a motorboat zipping along across the water, heading straight for the Isis. Her heart stopped for a millisecond as she held her breath while an unknown terror approached the ship.

  Nic considered running back to her cabin when that initial fight or flight moment kicked in and gave her two options. She could run, but she could not hide. She would stay and meet Linden and whatever terror he had brought back with him. Better to get an up-close look at her enemy, face them, and do battle eye to eye, than to wait and let them sneak up and ambush her from behind.

  Staying where she was on deck, Nic watched the boat approach and Linden and one other man climb aboard the yacht. From a distance, the man looked to be in his fifties, but she assumed that age because of his silver hair.

  Once firmly on deck, Linden searched for her. When he found her standing there looking directly at him, a surprised expression crossed his face. With her shoulders straight and her head held high, she watched the men as they approached, her gaze gliding slowly back and forth between Linden and the other man. As they drew nearer, she concentrated completely on the silver-haired guest who was tall, slender, and attractive. And not nearly as old as she had first thought. With an aristocratic air and a glint in his sinister eyes, he stared at Nic. His piercing look sliced her to the bone.

  The man seemed familiar. Had she seen him before? Did she know him?

  When he was within five feet of her, his face clearly visible, his features unmistakable, Nic knew where she had seen this man. No, not the man himself, only old photographs of him.

  Smiling broadly, Linden seemed to take great pleasure in introducing them. “Nicole, my dear, may I introduce my employer, Malcolm York.”

  After giving her a moment to respond, which she didn’t, he then said, “Mr. York, this is Griffin Powell’s wife, Nicole.”

  Chapter 15

  Griff paced up and down the hallway outside his study. They had been waiting for hours. Yvette sat on the sofa, her hands in her lap and her eyes closed as she meditated. He wished he could escape from the present reality, that he had the ability to find a peaceful retreat inside his own mind. The solemn. stoic Sanders always appeared unfazed by whatever storm whirled around him. He stood watch over the telephone on Griff’s desk. The others in residence there at the main house—Derek, Maleah, and Barbara Jean—continued their duties as they, too, waited. A couple of times in the past hour, he had heard the soft whir of Barbara Jean’s wheelchair close by, hovering, but keeping her distance. She worried about all of them, but especially about Sanders. Griff was glad his old friend had found someone who could love and accept him as he was, and asked no more of him than he was capable of giving. Although very different types of women, she and Nic had become good friends.

  With every breath he took, every step he made, Griff struggled to remain in control. From childhood, he’d had a strong, somewhat volatile personality. The discipline of football had taught him how to channel his explosive energy and control his quick temper. The years on Amara, a slave to a madman’s whims, had brought out both the worst and the best in him. At the worst of times, he had become an animal capable of untold savagery. At the best of times, he had sacrificed himself to protect others.

  If given the chance, he would sacrifice himself for Nicole. He would lay down his life without regret if he could save her.

  Just as Griff reached the end of the hallway that opened up onto the foyer, the telephone in his study rang. He stopped, stood there unmoving, every muscle in his body fixed, every nerve vibrating on high alert. Instinct urged him to run. Logic instructed him to remain calm.

  As he turned and walked steadily toward his study, he heard Sanders’s voice. “Griffin’s Rest. Sanders speaking.”

  When Griff reached the open door of his study, he looked directly at Sanders who held the telephone receiver out to him. Yvette rose to her feet, her gaze fixed on Griff. As he crossed the room, feeling as if heavy ankle weights slowed each step, he forced down his fear and anger, caging it inside himself.

  He took the phone from Sanders. “Griffin Powell here.”

  “Hello, old friend,” the man said, his voice a disturbingly accurate imitation of Malcolm York’s.

  Griff did not reply.

  “I have someone here with me who is eager to speak to you,” the caller said.

  A second later, Griff heard her voice.

  “Griff, it’s me. It’s Nic. I’m all right.”

  “Nic ... I—I—” Torn between rage and gratitude, Griff struggled for a few seconds and then quickly composed himself. “Tell me again that you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay for now,” she told him. “Griff, he really is Malcolm York. Please believe me.”

  “I believe you, honey, I believe you.” Griff didn’t for one minute believe that the real Malcolm York was alive, nor did Nic. She’d been told what to say. For some perverse reason the man holding Nic captive wanted Griff to believe he was the maniac who had ruled a despotic empire built on human misery.

  “He wants me to tell you that my life depends on your cooperation.”

  “I plan to cooperate. I’ll do whatever I need to do to bring you home.”

  “I’d very much like to come home.”

  Griff clenched his jaw. “There’s nothing I want more.”

  “I love you, Griff.”

  Indescribable agony invaded Griff’s very being, his body, his heart, his soul. “I love you, too.”

  “How sweet,” the York clone said. “You two want to be together, and being the kind, generous man that I am, I plan to give you what you both want.”

  “Name your price,” Griff told him.

  “We’ll begin with your cooperation. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m going to enjoy making you jump through hoops, but of course, as any good master does with a trained dog, I will reward you for your obedience.”

  “The only reward I want is your promise that Nic won’t be harmed.”

  “I have no immediate plans to place your wife in harm’s way again.”

  Again? What did the son of a bitch mean by that statement?

  “What have you done to her?”

  “Now, now, you mustn’t get upset. I assure you that she’s none the worse for wear. And if you want to keep her alive, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”

  Tamping down the fury boiling inside him, Griff managed to say, “I’m listening.”

  “I want you to take my wife to England, to the Benenden School in Kent to meet her daughter. I’ve already contacted the school to alert them that Suzette’s mother will be visiting her tomorrow.”

  The request surprised Griff, but he quickly agreed. “All right, if that’s what you want me to do. Yvette and I will leave tonight.”

  “Ah, that is what I like—immediate capitulation. After you and Yvette meet her daughter and the three of you have a family reunion, I will contact you again.”

  “I’ll want to talk to Nic then, too.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No bargaining on that point. As long as I know Nic’s alive and well, I’ll keep jumping through hoops for you. And I’ll want proof, so that means I talk to her on a fairly regular basis.”

  “Trying to locate me by tracing my phone calls is futile. We will be staying on the move, so even if you could zero in on where we are, by the time you or any of your underlings arrived, we would already be somewhere else.”

  Before Griff could respond, his caller abruptly ended their conversation. Griff smashed the receiver down on the base and cursed loudly.

  “You s
poke to Nicole.” Yvette came to Griff, reached out to him, and stopped just short of actually touching him.

  “Yes, I spoke to her.”

  “And she is all right?”

  “She’s alive and she sounded okay, but ... I can’t think about what she’s gone through or what is ahead for her,” Griff said, his gaze connecting first with Yvette’s and then with Sanders’s. “If we have a prayer of rescuing Nic, I have to stay focused on that one objective.” He took in and released a deep breath. “I want the jet readied for a transatlantic flight ASAP.”

  “I’ll see to it immediately,” Sanders replied.

  When Sanders reached for the phone, Griff grabbed his arm. “While I’m gone, make sure the search for Nic continues twenty-four hours a day. He’s sending me off on what could be a wild-goose chase.”

  Sanders nodded.

  Griff released his friend’s arm and turned to Yvette. “Change clothes, pack a bag, say good-bye to your students. Do whatever you need to do, but be ready to leave in two hours. We’re flying to London tonight.”

  “London? I don’t understand,” Yvette said.

  “Malcolm York wants me to escort you to the Benenden School tomorrow to meet the girl he claims is your daughter.”

  Linden had marched Nic straight to her cabin after she had been allowed to speak briefly to Griff. The last thing she had heard York say to her husband was “I have no immediate plans to place your wife in harm’s way again.”

  Lying son of a bitch. But surely Griff wouldn’t trust him.

  Linden opened the cabin door, gave her a nudge over the threshold and, chuckling to himself, closed and locked the door. Damn slimy bastard.

  Nic came to a skidding halt when she saw Jonas MacColl, unchained and completely naked, standing in the middle of the room. God in heaven! After a hasty head-to-toe survey, she tried to keep her gaze focused on his face. Despite bordering on skinny, no doubt due to a lack of adequate nutrition during his imprisonment, he was nevertheless a fine male specimen. Long legs and arms dusted with curly dark hair, well-defined muscles, and a washboard lean abdomen. His shoulder-length brown hair glistened with moisture, suggesting that he had just bathed. A fresh bruise colored his cheekbone and recently dried blood covered the cut on his upper lip.