Teague’s pickup was in the carport and no lights were on in his apartment. Shea parked her car beside his truck, then fumbled in the dark for the boathouse key.
“You’re up early.” Teague’s voice startled her. He loomed out of the mist like the villain in a horror movie.
She jumped, one hand at her throat. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! I nearly had a heart attack.”
“You didn’t sleep any better than I did.” It wasn’t a question. He knew.
Shea’s cheeks burned. “No,” she admitted.
“Want to come up for a cup of coffee?”
The two of them upstairs in Teague’s cozy little apartment, insulated from the world by a blanket of fog? Her heart cartwheeled a time or two as she considered the possibilities. “No thanks. I already had breakfast.”
“It’s only a little after five,” Teague said. “No one’s up yet on the island.”
“I know.”
He shot her a puzzled look. “If you didn’t come to see me or one of the Raineys, then why are you here?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.” If he didn’t already.
“You’re going to visit the old cabin,” he said.
“How did you guess?”
“I noticed how agitated you were yesterday when we were with Mikey and before that, the time we took the walk along the shore. The closer we got to the cabin, the more you dragged your feet.”
She shivered. “Agitated isn’t quite the right word. Try scared. Or petrified. I admit my fear was irrational, but it was, nonetheless, an incredibly powerful emotion.”
“So why go back? What are you trying to prove?”
“That I’m not a coward, I guess.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. My theory, the only one that makes sense to me, is that Kirsten had a bad experience there, perhaps saw something that frightened her. I can’t prove it, but I believe I was experiencing her emotions, not my own.”
“Okay, just for the sake of argument, let’s say it was Kirsten’s fear you felt. Why would she be afraid of the cabin? She used to spend hours down there sorting and identifying rocks.”
Shea sighed. “I don’t know. But if it’s not her terror, then what’s going on? I certainly don’t have any firsthand associations to trigger panic.”
“At least none that you’re conscious of.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you could have deeply buried memories of a similar spot. Did you ever get lost in the woods when you were a child?”
“No. Besides, the woods in Ohio don’t look like the forests here.”
He leaned against the hood of his pickup. “Okay, so maybe we’re on the wrong track,” he said. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you tell me you’d read about the Rainey massacre?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Then maybe that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“The cabin’s where all those people were butchered. If you’re as sensitive to the atmosphere as I suspect, it may be the psychic pollution left in the wake of the massacre that’s affecting you, and nothing to do with Kirsten at all.”
Shea could tell he was pleased with his new theory. And though she had to admit it made sense—supposing one accepted the existence of psychic pollution—she still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced. For one thing, Teague’s theory didn’t explain all those other flashes she’d had, like the one on the stairs in the Rainey house.
“If so, then there’s nothing to worry about, and the sooner I face my irrational fear, the better. I’m going to the cabin.”
“But it’s dark and foggy.” His objections made sense, but Shea had a feeling that if she didn’t face her fears now, she might never work up enough courage again.
“The sun will be up soon, and the fog won’t last long. It never does.”
The mist was thinner right on the water than it had been along the shore, for which Teague was grateful. He’d had visions of them missing the island altogether in a pea-souper, then wasting half the morning and a tank of gas trying to get their bearings. But their trip across was uneventful. No one was around this early, not even the mallards that nested along the unpopulated end of Crescent Lake.
He tied the boat to the mooring at the end of the dock, then leaped onto the silvered boards with a hollow thunk that sounded preternaturally loud in the early-morning hush. He stretched out a hand to help Shea. Her fingers were icy. She stepped onto the dock with a muttered “Thanks.” Huddling in her sweatshirt, she cocked her head to one side as if she were listening to the water lapping onto the pilings. “I hope we didn’t wake the Griffins.” She nodded toward the boathouse apartment.
“No lights,” he said.
“What’s the quickest, most direct route to the cabin?” She couldn’t quite disguise the tremor in her voice.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yes. I do.” Scared spitless, but stubborn as ever.
“Straight across the island is the shortest route, but it would probably be faster to follow the shoreline than to stumble through the underbrush in the dark.” And the fog, which was growing thicker by the minute. Mist cloaked the boathouse, distorting its outline.
Shea gave herself a shake. “If we’re going, let’s get on with it.”
The shoreline was steep and rugged, lacking the occasional beaches and gentler slopes of the southern shore. Though the heavy undergrowth provided good handholds, they were soon wet to the skin. Every time they brushed against the lush foliage, they were showered by a misting of fine dew drops.
Once she slid down a steep incline and nearly landed in the lake. She caught herself just in time, grabbing a young pine seedling that thrust up at an angle from the rocky soil of the cliff.
As they circled around to the western shore, there was a reappearance of the ledges so common on the southern edge. This made walking marginally easier. The rocks were slippery, though nowhere near as treacherous as the wet grass and pine needles had been.
“We’re almost there,” Shea said suddenly. “I feel it.”
All Teague felt was the chill of his wet clothes, but the murmur of the spring told him she was right. “We can still turn around.”
She wanted to, he could tell. But she forced herself forward until she stood at the very edge of the alder thicket. She poised there, listening. “Do you hear that?”
“What? The stream?”
“No, that thrumming sound.”
He listened intently. No thrumming sound. Just water whispering over the weathered granite of the streambed and birds twittering in the trees.
Suddenly she gave a nervous laugh.
“What’s the joke?”
“The thrumming. I figured out what it was … nothing more sinister than my own heartbeat. Sorry, Teague. I’m acting like an idiot. What is there to be frightened of, anyway? What’s the worst that can happen? So I experience the memory of whatever traumatic event inspired Kirsten’s terror. Big deal. Memory’s the operative word here.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Myself. And it’s not working.” She took a deep breath. “The cabin’s just beyond the trees, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” And he didn’t know if her apprehension was contagious or what, but suddenly he wasn’t any more anxious than she was to penetrate the leafy barrier.
The wind shifted subtly, stirring the mist in coiling currents. The sky had lightened. To the east, where the morning sun now blazed behind a blanket of vapor, the fog was so white, it made his eyes ache. It would be a fine day once the shrouding haze burned off, but right now the alder thicket was dark and dank. Wisps of mist moved sinously among the trees, muffling sounds and intensifying odors. He sniffed pine, leaf mold, catnip, and, underneath it all, something else. Something unpleasant. Something that made the hairs stand up along his forearms.
“Kirsten?” Shea whispered.
Teagu
e frowned. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“I’ve come this far….” Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the thicket.
He was right behind her. Their noisy progress startled a covey of nesting birds that took off with a wild whirring of wings accompanied by shrill, frightened chit-tering.
“Be still, my heart,” she said grimly.
Another step or two brought them into a tiny clearing almost entirely filled by the small, dilapidated cabin, its shake roof covered with moss, its door gaping open, as if surprised at their intrusion.
Teague grabbed Shea’s arm in a restraining grasp. “Don’t go in. The floor’s probably rotten.”
Shea shuddered. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Rotten floorboards aside, like I told you before, I’m the poster kid for claustrophobia.”
He peeked inside, but little was visible in the darkness beyond the doorway, curtained by cobwebs.
“I smell something dead.” Her voice shook.
He nodded grimly. The stench of putrefying flesh was unmistakable. “Some animal must have plunged through those rotten floorboards and died in there.”
“Poor thing.” Shea shuddered again. “Maybe I caught a whiff of that smell the other times I came this way. Maybe that’s what frightened me.”
“Probably. Your subconscious made the connection even though the odor wasn’t strong enough to alert your conscious mind.” Braving the spiderwebs, he stuck his head in the door and took a deep breath. Unpleasant for sure. Dust, mold, and dampness. But the stench of death was definitely weaker. “Odd,” he said. “We guessed wrong. The smell isn’t from inside the cabin. Let’s check around back.”
Shea went one way and Teague the other, hugging the rough log walls and ducking to avoid the encroaching tree branches.
Once he rounded the corner, the smell was strong enough to gag him. Holding his breath, he inched forward through a bramble patch.
He cut his hand on a thorny cane when Shea let out a shriek so sharp, it shaved half a decade off his life span. A flock of crows, what seemed like dozens of them, flew up in a flurry of shiny black wings, several fluttering around his head like the crazed birds in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller. The din was incredible. For endless seconds the world was reduced to a whirling vortex of black feathers and a raucous cawing so loud, he felt as if his eardrums were about to burst.
Shea batted at the demonic birds, screaming hysterically. For a few heartstopping seconds she actually believed the big birds were launching a malevolent attack. Then reason reasserted itself, and she realized they were simply confused by her intrusion.
“Shea! Are you all right?” Teague called. He stared at her across the ten feet or so that separated them, looking as unnerved as she felt.
“I’m fine. Sorry I screamed. The birds startled me.”
Two of the more brazen crows perched in a nearby tree. Staring.
Shea shivered, even though she soon realized she wasn’t the focus of their rapt attention. The birds were fascinated with something that lay hidden between her and Teague, something just beyond her line of sight, something rankly putrescent.
“Teague?” She met his gaze and saw raw horror mirrored on his face.
“Don’t look,” he said.
She didn’t have to. Her imagination had already supplied all the details. “Is it …”
Teague nodded, looking tired. “We just solved the mystery of the missing dog.”
NINE
The sun burned through the fog, highlighting the gruesome details of the disturbed grave. Teague averted his eyes and circled the corpse to reach Shea. Pulling her close to his side, he urged her away from the grisly remains. She trembled violently. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“But shouldn’t we tell someone? The sheriff maybe?”
“First priority is to get you out of those wet clothes and into a warm bath.” She was in shock, he thought. Hell, he didn’t feel exactly normal himself.
“Mikey’s dog didn’t die of natural causes.”
“We don’t know that for sure. Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said, even though he was certain she was right. “I’ll alert the proper authorities and let them deal with it.”
She stiffened and pulled away. “Not from the house! Mikey …”
He stroked her cheek, wanting to comfort her but not sure quite how. “From my place.”
Clinging to each other, they retraced their path around the island. Shea didn’t speak again until they reached the dock. As Teague readied the boat, she stared back over her shoulder. “What if Cynthia’s return hadn’t interrupted our visit to the cabin yesterday? I keep thinking about that. What if Mikey had run ahead and discovered Beelzebub’s body herself?” She turned to face him, her eyes wide and glassy at the imagined horror.
Teague gathered her close. “Don’t worry about what didn’t happen.” She was shivering uncontrollably. She needed to change into dry clothes.
“Do they perform autopsies on dogs?” she asked.
“Autopsies? Why?”
“Don’t you want to know what killed Beelzebub?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “Dead is dead.”
“Yes, but if we knew what killed him, we might be able to figure out who killed him. Think about it. If he was poisoned—”
“Like Jack, you mean?”
“What if someone used Beelzebub as a test subject to see how well the hemlock worked?”
Teague’s gut twisted. “Let’s go.” What the hell had he involved her in?
Teague ushered Shea into his apartment. “Have a seat,” he said, waving her toward the sofa.
“No, I’m covered with mud.” In point of fact, only her shoes were mud-caked, as were his own. “A kitchen chair is fine.”
“Why don’t you go soak in a hot tub while I contact the sheriff?”
She nodded. “I can’t seem to get warm.” He hunted up a box of odds and ends of Kirsten’s old clothes he’d never been able to part with. “You’ll probably find something in here to fit you.”
“Kirsten’s?”
“Just some stuff she left behind when she moved back to the island.” To her death. A wave of guilt washed over him, so strong it threatened to erode his composure. If only he hadn’t lost his temper …
Shea took the box and retreated to the bathroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts. This time he wouldn’t make the same mistake. This time he’d control his temper. This time he’d keep her safe.
He called the sheriff, told him about finding Beelzebub, and explained the questionable circumstances surrounding the dog’s death. Jim Carlton promised to send a deputy out to the island to collect the remains for testing. Dr. Zeller, a local vet, would do the autopsy.
“Oh, and before I forget,” the sheriff said, “I finally tracked down a retired nurse who worked at the clinic where Kirsten was born. She’s on vacation, but I left a message for her to call me when she gets home.”
Next he called Cynthia at the hospital to let her know about their grisly discovery. She promised to explain everything to Kevin and make sure he kept Mikey out of the deputy’s way.
Then finally he called his foreman. No point trying to work on Massacre Island today. He told Nick to take the crew out to get a head start on the greens renovation at the Crescent Lake Country Club instead.
When Teague came back into the living area after his own shower to see if Shea wanted some coffee, he found her asleep, curled up on one end of the sofa. He tucked the soft folds of a blanket around her, then wandered barefoot out to the end of the dock. He glanced up at the sound of a motor. Squinting into the sun, he made out the dark outline of the sheriff’s cabin cruiser speeding away from Massacre Island. So they’d found the dog’s remains. And perhaps Shea was right. Maybe the autopsy would tell them something. Like who was responsible for Beelzebub’s death.
If he’d had to hazard a guess, he’d pick Ruth Griffin as his villainess of choice. She was just crazy enough. Maybe she’d convi
nced herself the black dog was the devil’s henchman. Or maybe she’d whacked him one too many times with her broom, crushed his skull for tracking mud on the kitchen floor. Either way, though, she probably wasn’t physically capable of hauling the dog all the way to the cabin to bury him. She’d have had to have help—most likely from one or both of the twins.
Shea woke to find Teague watching her, the expression on his face both intent and tender. She smiled. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You’d had a shock.”
Her smile faded. “We both did. What time is it?” She glanced at her wrist, then remembered she’d tossed her watch in the bathroom wastebasket. Sometime during their morning’s adventure, she’d shattered the crystal, probably when she’d swung out wildly to protect herself from the flock of crows.
“Half-past noon. You hungry?”
She sat up. “Starved.”
“Hungry enough to brave my cooking?”
Shea grinned. “Hungry enough to brave my own cooking.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Junior executives don’t cook?”
“Not when they work twelve-hour days.” Her grin turned sheepish. “And there’s a Wendy’s right on the way home.”
Teague walked toward the kitchen alcove. “How about vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich?”
She sat on one of the bar stools at the counter and watched him put together their lunch. Teague cooked with a neat efficiency Shea admired. The only dish she excelled at was lasagna, and even then she was likely to have as much sauce spattered across the stovetop or burned onto the bottom of her oven as ever made it into the lasagna itself. Cleanup inevitably took twice as long as the initial preparation.
They ate sitting side by side at the counter. “Why do you always do that?” she asked when she caught him staring at her for the second time in five minutes.
“I like the way you look when you’re eating, as if every bite were an adventure.”
She put her fork down. “But when you stare like that, I feel self-conscious. Like I have a milk mustache or something.”
He stroked her upper lip with his forefinger.
She shivered in response.
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