STILL, FOREVER, PROMISE
D. L. Merritt
Copyright © 2017 by D. L. Merritt.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is coincidental.
Cover by www.ebooklaunch.com
Edited by: Susan Hughes http://myindependenteditor.com/
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Sneak Peek: GLENDARA: HOUSE OF LOST SOULS
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
The massive Pacific Ocean threatened to swallow the tiny skiff as the lone individual on board maneuvered through the turbulent waters of Stillwater Cove. So focused on the mission, the mariner failed to notice when the storm clouds parted and the moonlight dusted the sea with an array of shimmering lights.
The beauty of the moment held no meaning; only the end result mattered, and the end result was to settle the score.
The boat continued its course until reaching the preplanned destination point, where the mariner killed the engine and dropped the anchor.
The luxury yacht, The Eve, was within sight.
“Damn, it’s rough out here tonight,” the mariner said as the waves slapped against the starboard side. “If it doesn’t calm down soon, I’ll be feeding the fish.”
The mariner struggled to force the bow into the wind to keep the skiff from capsizing. Once the anchor was set, it provided a momentary break, enough time to survey the surrounding cove. Empty.
Most of the year, this body of water was the perfect place for a romantic weekend getaway with its picturesque view of the California coastline and mild temperatures. Skin and scuba divers often visited this spot for its serene seas, scenic rock formations, and abundant sea life, but not tonight—tonight it provided the ideal location for a convenient accident.
The March air was sharp, and a shiver crawled over the mariner’s skin. The hoodie provided little protection from the salty sea air, thick with the heaviness of the impending storm.
The boater retrieved the high-powered binoculars from a waterproof backpack and adjusted the lenses to focus on the couple aboard the yacht.
“You think everyone has to follow your orders, while you do whatever you want and get away with it? Well, tonight you’re going to find out you’re dead wrong,” the boater said, torn between fury and purpose.
The mariner’s hands trembled, and not because of the drop in temperature. Why am I nervous? I’ve replayed this moment over and over in my mind for the past three weeks.
In an effort to calm down and squelch the growing queasiness, the mariner took deep, steadying breaths and willed away the nervous apprehension.
Tension was high, muscles tense.
The mariner managed to change positions in the cramped quarters without upsetting the boat, observing the couple from afar. Waiting.
How much longer is it gonna take?
The tip of the cigarette smoldered red-hot as the anxious boater took one last drag before flicking it into the choppy water to watch it disappear beneath the murky depths.
A line of clouds crept across the sky, obscuring the light of the full moon once again, enveloping the skiff in a shroud of darkness.
Perfect timing. No one will be able to identify me under these conditions. But what if it’s all for nothing? Stop it! You’ve planned this down to the last detail. It’ll work unless you screw it up somehow. Now pull yourself together.
An occasional snippet of a Barry Manilow melody drifted over from the yacht. The mariner was thankful the wind and waves drowned out most of it, since it did nothing to squelch the nausea already threatening to erupt.
A quick peek through the binoculars proved that the secluded cove was still empty. The unexpected weather conditions had kept away all but the most avid of boaters, with the exception of the skiff and the yacht.
Scanning back to the couple, their faces reflected an incandescent glow from the dozens of candles placed under glass domes. The ease they felt with each other was evident in their smiling faces and the way their hands touched every chance they got.
How romantic.
It felt like a tedious hour of mindless watching instead of only minutes, as the couple took their time eating a catered meal and drinking two bottles of chilled Petrus Pomerol. No expense was spared in planning this romantic dinner. That particular wine cost at least $1,450 a bottle.
I hope you’ve enjoyed your dinner, because it’ll be your last.
The boater waited, squirming on the cold, hard seat, wishing time would speed up. Only fifteen minutes had passed, but it felt longer. Another ten minutes went by before the man rose from the table and pulled the woman into his arms.
Now they’ll head down to the cabin, and if everything goes as planned . . .
But instead of going below, the man placed a light shawl around the woman’s shoulders, and they danced around the deck.
What the hell? The drug should’ve kicked in by now. The doctor said it would work. I know I injected all the bottles. Damn him. If he screwed this up, I’ll have to give him a personal visit, and he won’t like what I do to him. I’ve wasted too much time and money to fail now, let alone being out here in this miserable weather.
Alerted to possible danger by the faint putter of an approaching boat, the mariner pulled the hoodie tight and turned away. A charter boat cruised into the cove, its passengers carousing on board.
They must be returning to the marina because of the bad weather. They don’t look too disappointed. Must be the free alcohol.
When the charter boat’s spotlight swept across the bobbing skiff, the wary mariner hunkered down, eager to remain unidentifiable, though wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck provided only a shadowy silhouette in the night.
The revelers leaned over the railing and hollered as the boat passed. One almost fell overboard.
Idiot, the mariner thought, raising one hand in a hasty wave.
The binoculars focused on the yacht again. The couple ignored the charter boat. They didn’t stop dancing or kissing. A disgusting display, as far as the mariner was concerned.
Would you stop already? You’re making me sick. I’ve almost thrown up twice, and you’re not helping an
y.
It was almost as if the couple heard the words, for they stopped dancing with a final elegant dip.
The woman stood on tiptoe and said something in the man’s ear. He threw his hands up and laughed at her remark. He kissed her again and headed back to the dining table, where he blew out the candles and picked up two glasses and another bottle of wine from the ice bucket. Hand in hand, the couple disappeared below deck.
The temperature had dropped several degrees since the skiff anchored in the cove. The mariner’s breath swirled into white puffs suspended in the frosty air.
Goddamn rental. Why can’t they put blankets on board? I’m freezing my ass off.
The skiff dipped and rolled as the boater continued to watch for the cabin windows to go dark. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed before the lights went out. Excited, the stalker cracked the knuckles of both hands and then was still.
No sense rushing things. I need to make sure they’re sound asleep.
When enough time had lapsed that the yacht could be boarded without being noticed, the mariner, adrenaline surging, cranked up the engine and closed the gap between the two vessels. It took four attempts before the skiff was securely tied to The Eve.
The mariner crept across the deck and was descending the stairs to the cabin when the fifth stair creaked.
“Damn it,” the yacht’s uninvited guest muttered, frozen in place, an ear cocked for the sound of voices or movement in the master suite. Seconds passed and all remained quiet.
Time’s up, folks.
The cabin door was cracked open enough that the mariner could spy the couple lying, side-by-side, on top of the coverlet. The man’s shirt was unbuttoned to his navel. The women’s dress hung off one shoulder. Her shawl had somehow gotten wrapped around the man’s neck, the tail of it trailing across his arm.
The intruder slithered through the opening and sauntered into the suite.
Looks just like it did the last time I was here.
The warm tones of the lacquered teak wood were in perfect contrast to the creamy off-whites of the furniture and carpet—a stylish, elegant, expensive room.
The choppy waves and the couple’s steady breathing was all that disturbed the silence.
The mariner walked to the bed, leaned over the sleeping couple, and snickered. It was hard to contain the pleasure gained by spoiling the couple’s romantic plans for the evening.
“I told you one day you’d regret your decision, and that day is today,” the mariner hissed, venom dripping from every word.
It only took six steps to reach the en suite bathroom with its freestanding tub, his-and-hers washbasins, and separate shower that resembled a Hawaiian waterfall cascading over lava rock. Live tropical palms lined the curved wall, giving the room a luxurious, private grotto feeling. The entire cabin had a contemporary, sophisticated, and dramatic flair, exemplifying the couple’s opulent lifestyle.
The mariner rifled through the toiletries and stopped to check out the overpriced bottle of Annick Goutal cologne, inhaling the scent of sweet, ripe oranges “Not bad. I wonder . . .?”
The bed squeaked.
The man groaned.
The bottle of expensive cologne burst into tiny pieces when it hit the sink.
A quick peek around the corner found the couple still lying on the coverlet, unconscious.
That scared the shit out of me. I’ve spent enough time in here. Let’s finish this.
With renewed resolve, the intruder tiptoed around the shards of glass, out of the cabin and back to the main deck to set the stage.
When a slice of white chocolate cheesecake from one of the best restaurants in the city beckoned, untouched atop the table, the intruder took a seat and polished off the entire slice before licking the plate clean and shoving away from the table.
Time for a little pyrotechnics.
The cove was checked again for boats cruising about. Nothing. The area was clear of potential witnesses.
A lighter was pulled from the pocket of the hoodie, and all the candles were relit, along with the kerosene lantern. The lantern was knocked to the floor, spilling its contents over the table and across the deck. Like the hiss of a cat, the flames of the candles ignited the kerosene, and the tablecloth burst into flames. The fire crawled down the tablecloth and swept across the deck.
To avoid being consumed by fire, the mariner jumped back to survey the night’s handiwork with a smile. So far, everything had gone as planned.
Thanks to gloves, no fingerprints would be found. All body parts had been covered to eliminate the possibility of contaminating the area with hair or skin. Nothing would be left behind to connect the mariner to the crime.
I’ve watched enough crime shows to know how to pull this off without getting caught. Tonight will be a complete success!
In a rush to escape the consuming blaze, the mariner hurried back to untie the skiff and head to the marina. Once the boat was a safe distance from the yacht, the engine was silenced and the skiff bobbed in the darkness as the yacht burst into flames. The fire was so intense it lit up the night sky, and smoldering embers danced in the wind like tiny fireflies.
I wish I’d thought to bring a bag of marshmallows to toast. Ha ha.
The laughter was soon drowned out when the yacht exploded, causing an onslaught of waves that tossed the mariner against the hull and almost capsized the tiny boat.
After a minute or two, the waves settled back to a light chop.
“Well, that was a nice surprise. Didn’t expect that.”
The sheer magnitude of the blast would have blown the sleeping couple to unrecognizable pieces, along with any forgotten evidence.
The craft continued toward the safety of the dock, weaving around the scattered rubble that floated in the water. By the time the skiff reached the marina, alarms were going off. Once moored in the designated spot, the mariner-turned-murderer disembarked, taking a moment to enjoy the ensuing chaos.
A police boat crashed through the waves, heading toward the burning inferno.
A helicopter circled overhead, scanning the area with a searchlight.
The mariner cracked the knuckles on both hands, pleased with the night’s result.
“Time for a stiff drink and a hot shower . . . in that order.”
The mariner took one last look at the scene unfolding in the distance and slipped away into the night.
Chapter 2
Panicked and paralyzed with fear, Brianna’s eyes flew open and she gasped for precious air. She managed to prop herself up on one elbow to canvas the room, relieved to see no smoke or fire anywhere. She was safe in her own bed.
Able to breathe freely now that the terror of the nightmare had dissolved, she wondered why she still trembled with visions of billowing smoke, engulfing flames, and the intensive heat that had melted her skin away like the liquefied wax of a slow-burning taper.
The stench of burning flesh lingered in her nostrils and caused waves of nausea to sweep over her. She clasped her hand to her mouth, inhaled and exhaled slowly to keep from vomiting.
Even lying under the covers, she shivered, and ran both hands up and down her arms, relieved to feel soft, cool skin beneath her fingers.
She used the sleeve of her nightshirt to blot the beads of perspiration off her forehead.
Ben lay next to her, sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child, warm and unencumbered by her restlessness.
How does he do that? But then he could sleep through a tornado.
Sitting up in bed, she listened as his snoring drowned out the soft whirring of the ceiling fan, and stifled a laugh.
And he claims he doesn’t snore. I should record this.
Her mood lightened, though she was still unnerved by the vividness of the dream. She tried to put it in the proper sequence, sorting through the elusive details hovering just beyond her consciousness.
Try to remember. There was a fire . . . Mom and Dad standing at the end of the bed . . . smoke and flames surroundi
ng them. They were holding hands and watching me without making a sound. If they were burning, why weren’t they screaming or crying out?
In the middle of the dream, she’d tried to read the expression on their faces, but it was impossible to get a clear impression with the way their bodies were in constant motion, swaying in the light coming from the streetlamp outside. It reminded her of the year they vacationed in Death Valley and the way the heat rose in continuous waves from the asphalt on the hot summer days.
The fire had quickly jumped from them to the bed, igniting the coverlet. She’d watched it edge closer until it had consumed her entire body. She’d been unable to move or speak, as her heart pounded in her ears.
Her father’s lips never moved, but she’d heard his voice when he said, “Promise me you’ll finish what I started, Bree.”
She’d nodded in agreement.
In unison her parents had said, “We’ll be watching . . .”
The flames vanished.
Her parents vanished.
She woke up screaming in her head.
If it was only a dream, why did the room have the faintest aroma of smoke with a hint of her mother’s perfume?
That’s not possible. I’m feeling guilty. It’ll pass.
The alarm clock flipped to 2:00 a.m.
Ugh. It’s too early to get up.
She plopped down on the pillows, willing herself to go back to sleep. Her body was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t obey.
Eventually, her thoughts turned to work and the second design she’d produced for a new client. Was it possible to make even more improvements? The client hadn’t been impressed with her first set of drawings, though the couple was extremely difficult to please. They insisted the décor in their new house had to be perfect.
She’d worked overtime every night this week to try to capture the ideas they’d conveyed to her. With everything she’d accomplished today, she arrived home even later than usual.
Ben was already here waiting for her. As a freelance writer working on his first novel, he accepted jobs from various sources for additional income. His last assignment was on the island of Urupukapuka in New Zealand, writing an article for an archaeological magazine. He’d been gone for over a week. He’d flown in late that afternoon. Due to the long flight and change in time zones, he’d fallen into a dead sleep as soon as they’d climbed into bed.
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