Gray—black—gray—black, the door swung back and forth, mocking him. Too late. Too late.
A footfall behind him caused Brett to whirl and discover John Morse at his heel. The man peered over his shoulder into the fog bank beyond the gaping door.
"Let me guess," Morse said, "she’s gone? And you know who took her, don’t you? It’s time to start redirecting your anger, Murphy. There were several people that had issues with your brother," he nodded outside, "and that Turner was one of them."
Frantic with the need to burst into the storm and find Serena, Brett managed enough restraint to determine the source of Simon’s madness before pursuing him.
"What!" His voice pitched. "Goddamnit, what issues?"
"You’re not too observant, are you? I haven’t even been around here much, but I heard your brother bitch about it enough. Simon had it bad for him. Puppy dog eyes. The whole nine yards." Morse shook his head as the wind caught a lock of his hair. "Of course, you know Alan—it was an angle he could play. And use him, he did."
Brett clutched the doorframe and leaned out into the nor’easter, watching it swarm funnel clouds up the cliffs. Violent wind fueled by saltwater struck him in the face. Desperate, he shouted Serena’s name, but the sound lashed hollowly back at him.
His sweeping gaze confirmed two things. One, they had not left the establishment by vehicle, and two, the untouched umbrella jimmied against the loft door revealed no one had tampered with Serena’s apartment.
Where was she?
"If you’ve got something more to add," Brett growled, "explain it along the way. I’m going after them."
"You’ve got no clue where he took her." Morse cursed and hastened after Brett, adding in vain, "or if she’s still alive."
It was impossible to discern any movement within the milky realm of wet snow. Brett stumbled blindly, instinct drawing him up the precipitous knolls towards the lighthouse that remained invisible within the storm’s cloak. Slipping on the slick surface, he sought in vain for signs of the trail. Even now, glancing behind him, his own steps were quickly obscured by snowfall.
Bleakly aware that Morse pursued him, Brett paid no heed to the man. He thought only of Serena. He exposed the cellar entrance by literally tripping on it. Wrenching the door open, the wind nearly tore the panel from its moorings. Into the dark prison he lunged. The sudden cessation of wind made the sound of his heart even more prevalent. He cursed as Morse’s frame depleted what little light was left. The local ambled down the stairs, the relentless patter of sleet echoing his lumbering footsteps.
"How’d you know about this place?" Morse shouted at first, and then jerked at the resonance. Lowering his voice, he added, "and what the hell made you decide to come here?"
"Simon’s car was still parked out back." Brett’s hands scoured the far wall, working off of memory to locate the secret doorway. Stumbling over a stack of rusted pails, he kicked them out of the way. "And what the hell are you doing here, Morse? Scavenging for the few remaining morsels?"
"I’ve got an investment to protect." Morse joined in the search, kicking the same pile of tumbled buckets out of his own path. "Believe it or not, I had or have no intention of harming your precious little Serena. Heck, I don’t really give a damn about her one way or the other. I guess as a resident of Victory Cove I wouldn’t want to see O’Flanagans fall in a bad way, but—"
Brett yanked his hand back, cursing the splinter that pierced his flesh. "I found it."
Prepared to launch, he crouched as he entered the light keeper’s house, but the room was empty. Drawn to the bank of windows, there was only a thin pane of glass and a sheer plunge of bedrock to separate him from the violent gale. Brett stared into its fury—a tempest with surging white arms, seeking to claim the forsaken head light in its deadly embrace.
With a roar aimed at the squall, he slammed his fist down on the roll top desk. Under the red veil of anger, the door to the tower beckoned as he charged into the chamber. His shout reverberated in the lofted cylinder, echoing back unanswered.
"Where did he take her?" Brett paced crazily, his hands plunging into his hair, ignorant of the throbbing pain or the faint trickle of blood the gesture incurred.
Morse watched him. "I know how this Simon feels. I was him for awhile—used, duped, deserving of what should rightfully be mine—waiting for Alan’s promises to become reality."
"Christ, Morse," Brett shot back, "are you going to tell me you were in love with my brother too?"
"Hell no!" Morse’s face pinched in aversion. "He just had a way of roping you in, making you believe in his schemes, only this time he—"
Brett crossed the earthen floor in two strides, seizing Morse by the collar. He tugged the man closer.
"Please," Brett’s voice was lethal. "Don’t stop now."
Morse swallowed, but the scowl remained fixed on his face.
"He was trying to get the approval for a casino to be built in Harris County. Not just some damn Bingo parlor, but a full blown Class III status," he explained. "Craps, Blackjack, slots, everything. Alan rallied the local Pasamaquoddy into a frenzy, which in turn drew the interest of the Penobscot. Everyone thought Alan had legitimate connections. He trusted me enough to admit that he was doctoring up paperwork to advance to the next higher level in the government."
Waves crashed against the cliffs with such ferocious recurrence there grew a constant trembling of the ground they stood on. Morse glanced down as if he expected the earthen floor to gape open at any second.
"I’ve got to get a hold of that documentation before it falls into the wrong hands and sets back our efforts another ten years. I can hear it all now," he said, "their government is filled with nothing but snakes—" Morse cut himself off before he digressed to issues they had no time for. "You got to understand, the way Alan presented it, I believed it was all going to work out. I thought he could pull it off, but then he started losing it, growing so greedy he was careless. Opening his mouth to everyone with promises of a piece of the pie."
Morse paused. "And a lot of those promises were directed at Simon Turner. He was milking Simon for money as an investment towards their future," his eyebrow hefted, "implying together of course."
"So Simon thinks that this—this documentation rightfully belongs to him? What the hell would he do with it? He can’t just walk in there and represent the local tribes."
Morse smirked at the analogy. "There are any number of Pasamaquoddy or Penscobats that would go forward with the motion—press the government for their claim. And I imagine by Simon supplying them with this so-called legitimate contract, he would demand a percent of the action."
With no time to contemplate Morse’s tale, Brett ducked back into the house. Straining to see through glass coated with streams of ice and snow, despair seeped through him as he clutched a splintered window-frame and closed his mind off to everything but a vision of Serena, imploring the image,
"Tell me where you are, baby. Please tell me."
Serena woke violently.
Pitched against a barrel, she strove for equilibrium. Her hands flew to seek hold of something stable, though the drum by her side rolled as unsteadily as she. Fighting pain, she tried to open her eyes and blinked when a stream of saltwater poured into them.
Drenched in seawater, resting on all fours, she cried out and thrust open her gaze. Waves crashed into her, and were it not for the rope fashioned securely about her waist she would have lurched off the deck into the black sea.
Identifying her situation as incomprehensive and grave, Serena reacted by gripping the rope and yanking it until she could locate its origin. A lantern swung inside the pilot house. It framed a murky silhouette hunched over the controls, fighting for balance. Around her, the boat groaned against undue treatment, each thrust of the hull into the blockade of waves, potentially its last.
Even in the throngs of the gale, where visibility was nil, Serena recognized this trawler as being one of Harriet’s rentals. Unable to stand a
gainst the force of the wind, she squatted down on her knees, immersing her hands in the swirling water trapped several inches deep on the deck. Lurching across the slick surface, she cried out in frustration when a rebellious wave crashed across the deck to flush her back against the wall. Desperately, she sought for a handhold, and tasted brine behind her clenched teeth. She trembled against the debilitating memory of being held beneath the surface.
Convinced she had finally succumbed to one of her nightmares, trapped for eternity where ghosts and death roamed the night, Serena folded into a catatonic refuge.
Another surge of the ocean poured over her, jolting her from the spell. She dredged in a deep, sodden breath and regrouped her efforts by crawling closer to the cabin door. Frustration and anger proved persuasive incentives as she slipped and lurched one last time to reach the door handle.
Serena yanked it open, and from her crouched perspective, Simon seemed taller than ever. Within the diminutive cabin, his soaked features depicted him as a creature of the sea, a monster come to claim her for his subterranean world.
Releasing the wheel, two large hands grabbed for the slack on the rope and jerked her body inside the cabin, grunting with effort as he hauled the door shut. Using the tip of his boot, Simon pushed her into a corner and grimaced when he noticed the wheel begin to spiral out of control. He lunged at it, his muscles tense until the boat fell under what little control was manageable in these conditions.
"Well, one thing’s for sure," he grinned maniacally, "they damn well won’t find you out here for awhile."
Without the steady mixture of rain, snow, and the sea dousing her, Serena became aware of a deathly chill stealing over her body. She had on only the flannel shirt and jeans, and felt the beginning stages of hypothermia kicking in as she tried to quell her trembling lips long enough to speak.
"Y-y-you th-think they won’t know it’s y-you?"
Simon’s pale hair was pasted to his head, blue veins visible around his temples. They meandered down his cheek and curved into his crazed smile.
"My dear, with the paper you were nice enough to locate for me, I can secure enough support that if anyone even suspected me, they would see to it that it’s covered up."
"Th-they?"
Affording a glance away from the bleak windshield, Simon cast a revolted look at her.
"Never mind," he snarled. "You know, Serena, Alan wasn’t too happy with you. He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t get his hands on the tavern’s money."
Serena felt surreal in the musty cabin and blinked against the flash of the swinging lantern. A wave threatened to pitch the trawler on its side until it stubbornly righted itself. "Th-that’s t-t-too bad."
Hugging her arms about her, she realized that she barely felt cold anymore. There was no sensation in her fingers as they fell helplessly onto her lap. "Th-this is insane, Simon. You know y-you won’t survive out here. How the hell do you even know how to h-handle this thing? I’ve never seen you in a boat before."
Simon slammed his foot down and caught his balance as the hull hurdled over another wave. The surf broke atop the vessel in a cascade that poured under the door, swirling around the cabin floor. Engulfed in the frigid seawater, Serena barely shivered, and struggled to stay conscious. The allure of sleep became too tantalizing. It began to numb her mind, and only her struggle to hear Simon’s words kept her awake.
"Alan taught me," he explained. "He used to take me out here all the time. You know, when you thought he was out of town, he’d be with me−" Simon’s frown over the panel before him was fuzzy to her, but she heard him continue, "—or somewhere in town, working out this deal. We were out on the sea the day Alan told me that I had it all wrong, that he was not attracted to me, that he was cutting me out of the deal. He—he threatened me with this god-awful hook. He said if anything happened to me, it would look like an accident." Wild blue eyes implored her. "I had no choice, Serena."
Her hands useless to prop her up, Serena sagged against the wooden panels, struggling to comprehend what Simon was saying. Her brain felt anesthetized.
"Y-you killed him," she stuttered. "F-for God’s sake, why?"
The lantern produced a strobe-like effect, flashing on and off Simon’s sallow skin as he glanced down at her with tears in his eyes.
"He couldn’t just turn me off—just pretend that I didn’t exist. I really didn’t mean to kill Alan. He just made me so angry, I shoved him, and next thing I knew he was overboard—and he never came up again." An eerie calmness overtook Simon. He shrugged.
"And now my sweet, I’ve finally got what was coming to me." He patted the bulge in the back pocket of his jeans. "And you are simply another casualty of Alan’s mess."
Simon chuckled, a hollow sound swallowed by the waves. "Oh, Serena honey, you were so easy to play. Just a little rigged speaker system that my DJ friend loaned me, and you were a raving basket case. You thought you had ghosts, didn’t you, sweetie? Alan. The baby." Simon laughed again. "I thought that was a particularly clever touch. Alan told me about how you lost it. I figured that it would put you over the edge. Get you out of the Inn so I could search upstairs without risking you coming home. But it didn’t matter in the end. You found the paperwork for me."
It was too late.
Serena couldn’t hear him anymore.
Darkness funneled around her, channeling into a passageway she tremulously followed. She listened to the sound of childish laughter and was drawn towards it, her hands extended, awaiting that soft touch.
CHAPTER XXIV
"Come on."
Brett set off. Snow fell steadily just inland, but intermittent surges of hail indicated that perhaps the storm took on a different caliber out at sea.
"Where are you going?" Morse hollered behind him.
"I think I know where they are."
Brett turned his head back into the gale, staggered by its force. A vicious veil of snow blinded him. He shouted over the wind. "How good are you with a boat?"
"What the hell!" Morse’s ponytail whipped from its confines, billowing ebony strands around his face in a spider-web effect. "You’ve got to be shitting me."
"Let’s get down to Harriet’s." Brett motioned incase his words were slurred by the weather. "She’ll know if any of the cruisers are missing."
Harriet Morgan answered the emphatic pounding on the shop door. Pinpricks of ice cast a sheen to her puffy cheeks as she shifted back, watching the two men stumble past her. The CLOSED sign banged as she slammed the door shut.
"For Christ’s sake, Murphy. Now is not the time to prove to me you want to be a fisherman."
Doubled over, hands on knees, Brett coughed before he could stand up and manage a single word. "Serena."
A steely look of alarm altered her expression.
"Where?" she choked.
Catching his breath, Brett shifted towards the window, barely distinguishing the bulky forms that bobbed erratically in the heaving surf. He nodded outside. "Can you tell if any of them are missing?"
Harriet pushed past him and cupped her hands around her face as she peered through the cold glass out into the void.
"Hard to tell without going out theah," she muttered.
"Wait—my trawlah, the rental, it was in the first slot just this afternoon. Dammit Murphy, what’s going on?" Her voice pitched.
Brett gripped her plump upper arms, delving into eyes that shifted from his, to the storm, to Morse, and back again. He strove for assurance he didn’t feel. "Harriet. I need to go out there."
"What?" she cried. "Are you insane? You won’t even make it out of the cove!"
Conviction stole over Brett as he turned towards Morse. "You don’t have to do this. I’ll go out on my own."
Morse snorted. "Don’t be a fool. Even if they did head out to sea, you have no idea which way they went." He swiped back a lock of black hair and took a deep breath, "Let’s just suppose that Simon can handle that trawler—even the most seasoned of sailors would be at the mer
cy of this squall. There’s no navigating. No charting a route. You go where the ocean takes you."
"Maybe so," Brett turned away from them, watching a wave spill onto the pier, its sodden fingers fisting around the wooden planks. His voice was full of torment as he added, "But I can’t stay here."
It was one thing to be in love with Serena. The inherent male drive to defend his mate was a strong enough motivation. But after last night, knowing that she loved him, that she could be carrying his child—he realized that he would challenge God himself to protect her.
This storm would not stop him.
"You’ll need one of the newer Pilot House’s, not the Morgan." Harriet started to dictate. "At least that’ll protect you a bit. I’ve got another trawler; it’s got a fancy chart plotter and GPS, so at least we’ll be able to trace you."
Harriet left them to rummage behind the counter. The sound of her sifting through a conglomeration of keys was followed by a muffled grunt of triumph. "You may need this too."
Brett reached for the keys and then took the other offered item. A .22 caliber handgun. He smirked with forced amusement. "For the serious fisherman?"
"Damn straight, Murphy." Harriet’s eyes were full of angst.
"Give me those damn keys." Morse swiped the ring from Brett’s hand and started toward the door.
Brett slammed his fist against the panel at the same instant Morse’s hand landed on the knob.
"I don’t get it," Brett uttered tightly. "Why would you risk your life out there to help me?"
Morse skewed a glance at Brett. He exhaled an expletive. "Don’t flatter yourself, Murphy. I told you I don’t want that paper getting into the wrong hands."
Brett dropped his fist and nodded in reflex.
Harriet’s anxious voice interrupted them. "Oh God, this is insane. If I didn’t love that girl like a daughtah, I’d never let you do this." She stepped up to Brett and gripped the hand that held the gun. "Bring her back to me. You all come back to me."
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