Destiny Bay

by Sarah Abbot

  “There’s secrets in the cave,” he said. “Best you don’t go near the place. Best you don’t take the lower entrance and wade into the water, like your ma did, No, no. Best you don’t do that.”

  “What lower entrance?” she asked frantically. She was losing him—she could see his eyes were beginning to go soft and distant. “What secrets?” she pleaded, grabbing his shoulders and shaking urgently.

  “Run away, little girl!” he sang out, his voice discordantly shrill in the small room.

  “Bartholomew Briggs!” Kyle Gibbons stood in the door, hands fisted on hips. “How many times have I told you not to come in here?”

  Bartholomew turned an icy-cold grin on the owner, stretched his neck forward and hissed at the man.

  “Out!” Kyle barked, his finger pointing the way. “Don’t make me call the sheriff, Bartholomew. Out!”

  Bartholomew lumbered past Kyle, a hump of tattered layers, muttering wildly. “Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum! That’s what the pirates sang, oh yes, it was.”

  Abby heard the thudding of Kyle’s feet against the rugs, the indignant slam of the door as Bartholomew exited.

  Another succession of thuds, and Kyle reappeared in the doorway. “I’m so sorry, Abby! I’ve told that man a hundred times to stay out of here! Honestly, I don’t know how he manages to get past me.”

  Abby placed a soothing hand on his elbow. “Think nothing of it, Kyle. He seems harmless.”

  “Yes, well,” Kyle said, sounding as if he were agreeing more to be polite than for any other reason.

  “Tell me, Kyle, are any of the McAllister works for sale?”

  “Oh no. They’re all owned by an avid collector.”

  “May I ask the name of the collector?”

  “You may, but I’m not at liberty to tell.” Kyle winked delightedly. “It’s a matter of the utmost confidentiality.”

  “I see.” Abby peered more closely at the painting of her mother. “And is this the only one with this woman in it?”

  “Lovely, isn’t she? It’s the only one I know of.” Kyle looked from the painting to Abby, eyes widening. He slapped his hand to his chest. “Oh, it couldn’t be…it is! Oh, Abby, this is too much! It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

  Her cheeks blushed furiously. It was one thing to look at the picture herself—but to have her mother’s naked body looked upon by strangers…she forced back the hand that rose to cover her mother’s flesh. “I believe it is,” she said quietly. “Kyle, I understand that you’re unable to disclose the name of the owner, but perhaps you could contact him yourself and express my interest in this painting. Naturally, I’d offer you a handsome bonus for your trouble.”

  “Oh, of course I could!” He grasped her by the elbow and the two made way toward the door. “Give me a day or two, hmm?”

  “I’d be so appreciative.” She looked out into the street, where the sun now glinted in puddles. “Interesting weather you folks have here,” she said with a lifted brow.

  “Oh, you know what we say. If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.”

  Abby air-kissed his cheeks and Kyle chuckled delightedly. “Oh, I just love city folk!”

  “And I love that painting,” she said pointedly. “In fact, I think I might go explore the lower entrance of the pirate’s cave where this was painted.”

  Kyle blanched. “Oh, Abby, what on earth put that notion into your head? You’d be killed for sure!”

  “What? I’ve been there before and I survived just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Through the upper entrance, I’ll wager. Abby, no one goes into the lower entrance of the pirate’s cave. People have been killed there. They call it Devil’s Throat, and not many who’ve ventured there have lived to tell about it.”

  “Devil’s Throat?” she asked, blanching. “Why Devil’s Throat?”

  Kyle linked his elbow with hers, leaning down conspiratorially. “Well, about twenty years ago, a few college kids who came home for the summer decided to go in through the lower entrance. They swam for a bit, but then the tide started to rise. Of the five kids who went in, only two came out. The other three bodies were never found. One of the survivors said the current was so wicked that it felt like he was being gargled by Old Scratch, himself.”

  “Hence, Devil’s Throat.”

  Kyle nodded sagely. “You can’t go down there, Abby. You just can’t. There’s nothing there to see, anyway.”

  Abby’s shoulders slumped. Another dead end.

  “And who in their right mind would suggest you explore that place?”

  “Well, no one exactly suggested it.”

  “No one exactly ?”

  “It was Bartholomew, okay?”

  Kyle gaped. “Bartholomew? You accepted tourist information from Bartholomew—the town lunatic?”

  “He showed me the painting of my mother and told me there were secrets in the cave.”

  “Well, you can trust me that what you saw in that painting is artistic license. No one, including McAllister, would have been foolish enough to venture down into Devil’s Throat.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Lover crouched in the closet behind a rack of outdated clothing that smelled old and neglected. It had been difficult, prying his way into Cora’s house, but he knew it would be worth it.

  Cora, he knew, snored lightly down the hall in her own room. He’d discovered that Abby had been staying here since abandoning Artist’s Cottage.

  But there was that one night he couldn’t account for…he couldn’t bear to think where Abrielle might have been or whom she might have been with. If he thought too hard, he might come up with the answer, and then he’d have to punish her. And she was too lovely to punish. Yet.

  Yes, there was still time to sway her to him, and he vowed with every fiber of his being that he would try his hardest. He refused to believe that she couldn’t be saved— that she was as lost a cause as his mother had been.

  His thoughts stilled as he heard the floorboards creak. Breathlessly, he parted the garments he crouched behind, affording himself a view through the cracked-open door.

  Abrielle had just entered, wearing decidedly modest pajamas consisting of pale green pants and a matching tee shirt. She had a cup of tea in her hand, which she placed on the bedside table beside her book—a weighty thing entitled The History and Lore of Saint Cecelia Island. Yawn. He could think of much better things she could do with her time.

  The thought made him dizzy with lust. Oh, yes, she would be his…and the things she would do to him!

  He closed his eyes tightly, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand. Accomplishing his goal would require precision timing and more than a little luck. He conjured the image of his lovely Celeste in his mind and invoked her loving spirit. Prevail upon your daughter, my darling. Make her mine, as you once were.

  As if in answer, Abby padded out of the room.

  He waited just long enough to be certain she was gone. Sure enough, he heard the bathroom door close and the faucet turn on with a squeak.

  Silently, The Lover slipped from his hiding place and crept into the softly lit room. From his pocket, he withdrew a small vial of white powder, opened it, and poured the contents into the steaming tea. He stirred it quickly, his ears attuned to any sound in the hall.

  The powder dissolved completely in the tea. Just enough Rohypnol to make her groggy, compliant and forgetful. Getting his hands on it had been as easy as taking candy from a baby—or at least from the college kid he’d caught trying to slip it into a blonde’s drink down at Rum Runner’s. He’d always known those packages he swiped off the kid would come in handy.

  The Lover sidled back into the closet just as Abby entered the room, yawning hugely.

  She slipped into the bed, smiling softly to herself— could it be she knew what was coming? He grinned at the thought. Yes, he had always been particularly adept at pleasing women.

  Drink up, my precious, he thought as she brought the teacup t
o her lips and sipped contentedly. Yes, that’s it.

  The Lover missed Celeste so much it hurt. He couldn’t help thinking of her as he watched her daughter sip the drugged tea.

  When would that Rohypnol kick in?

  As quietly as possible, he slid down the wall and crouched at its base.

  As much as he had tried to resist of late, that night kept coming back to him—the night his lovely Celeste died.

  He had been there. He’d seen her body lying on the ground. Her head bent at an impossible angle, beautiful hair splayed upon the flagstone terrace like a halo.

  His terror had been palpable, gargantuan; a creature mutating millisecond by millisecond until it filled him with paralyzing anguish.

  Weeping, he had lain beside her, cradled her in his arms, kissed her mouth, touched her soft skin, until at last, the sun rose. Then he had watched over her from the shelter of the bushes until she was discovered by the cook, whose scream was a black serpent, slithering from the heart of her and twining with his own snakelike grief that coiled and swayed in the sky above all Regency Park, above all the world.

  It was too much to think about, and so, he dared another peek at Abrielle.

  She was slumped against her pillows, the tea spilt over the yellow comforter.

  He emerged from the closet and stared down at her, his heart breaking with love.

  He touched her cheek, and it was as soft as he’d known it would be.

  No, tonight he would not make love to her as he had planned. He would just hold her, the way he had held his lovely Celeste all those years ago.

  The Lover stripped off his clothing and slid into bed beside Abrielle. Gently, he removed her clothing, too. He held her soft, naked body against him, cradled her in his arms, kissed her mouth, touched her smooth skin, until at last, the wicked, hateful sun began to rise.

  Chapter Thirty

  Abby drove down the cobblestone streets of the town, mind wandering as she made her way toward Cora’s, where a lunch of seafood chowder awaited her.

  She’d spent the morning with the O’Donnells, but had learned little else about her mother. It was probably just as well, she thought. Her head was aching so badly and her mind so fuzzy that she likely wouldn’t have absorbed anything, anyway.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she felt this way. Emotional exhaustion was the only plausible answer she could come up with, because she’d never been so wiped out that she fell asleep with her tea still in her hand, and she had absolutely no recollection of taking off her pajamas. She blushed. What if Cora had walked in?

  This business about Bart had her mind in knots.

  What did Bartholomew know about the pirate’s cave and the portrait that had been painted in it? Had he spied on the painter and his muse, possibly even witnessed their lovemaking? With the booming of the surf, it would be easy enough to lurk unnoticed just outside the narrow opening to the cave.

  Abby bit her fingernail, considering. The next time I see Bart, she decided, I’m going to try to talk to him.

  Abby was beginning to feel that somewhere inside his spectacularly convoluted mind, he knew something about her mother. Maybe he didn’t even know that he knew.

  Abby was beginning to think that old Bart knew more about this island than anyone gave him credit for. What had he said to her at the gallery?

  “Bartholomew has eyes that see, and ears that hear,” he had said, his voice heavy with secrets. “Bartholomew is a tree; Bartholomew is a stone. No one sees Bartholomew, but he sees all.”

  Yes, she had to get to know him, to lure out the secrets he likely didn’t even know he kept. She’d buy him coffee, she’d build his trust. But first, she’d talk to him about the cave. Were there really secrets in it, or was that only the ramblings of a disturbed old man?

  In front of the French Pastry Shoppe, a white-faced mime did his best imitation of a man trapped in a box and unable to escape into the delectably aromatic bakery. Abby barely spared him a passing glance, for just there, on the periphery of her vision, she could have sworn she’d seen the familiar hump of tatters and rags that was Bartholomew Briggs.

  She swerved into a parking spot, jammed the car into park, and leapt from the vehicle.

  All that was visible of the strange man was the tail of his coat as he disappeared into an alley. Abby glanced both ways and raced across the street—hand held up to hold back the meager noonday traffic.

  “Bartholomew! Bartholomew, wait!”

  Still, he retreated into the darkness of the alley, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  Abby picked up her pace, scampered around the dining tables that dotted a sidewalk café, wove around a man sweeping his store steps and she ducked into the alley.

  She stopped short as her eyes adjusted to the shadowy gloom.

  In contrast to the charming streets that were trademark Destiny Bay, the alley could have been in any town. Dingy, dirty, hemmed in on either side by brick and smelling strongly of garbage, it was the last place she’d imagined finding herself. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  She wrinkled her nose and started forward, peeking around industrial Dumpsters and calling out cautiously. “Bartholomew?”

  Like a startled pheasant, a mound of raggedy clothing erupted at her feet, darting into the depths of the alley. Abby lurched back. I shouldn’t follow any farther, I really shouldn’t…

  She broke into a run, calling his name and closing the gap between them with every stride. Finally, she grabbed his arm and pulled.

  Bartholomew spun toward her, and Abby looked into a face so remarkably homely she could scarcely tear her eyes away.

  “Oh,” he crooned, eyes glinting like shards of glass amidst the leather folds of his face. “ ’Tis the pretty miss, coming to see Bartholomew, eh?”

  Abby winced at the foulness of breath that wafted onto her face, sweet with decay. “Bartholomew, when we were at the gallery you told me there were secrets in the cave. Do you remember that?”

  Bartholomew’s grin revealed a row of rotting teeth. “Too pretty to be chasin’ after Barty, she is; too pretty for the likes of me.”

  Again, she grabbed his greasy coat. “Focus, Bartholomew. What do you know about the cave?”

  Bartholomew turned away, trundled deeper into the alley, muttering all the while.

  Abby dropped her arms to her side, exasperation fueling an audible sigh, and loped after the lumbering figure of Bartholomew.

  The light cut at her sharply, and Abby lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the daylight into which they had both emerged.

  As far as she could tell, she had been led into a vehicle demolition site. Wrecked cars had been stacked ten high, creating a maze into which her reluctant tour guide seemed intent on vanishing.

  “I want an answer, Bartholomew,” she said, arms folded across her chest. “Are you the one who’s been spying on me, leaving me threatening notes?”

  Fast enough to make her lurch, Bartholomew whirled, charged toward her. Abby took a step back, feeling suddenly very fearful.

  The eyes she looked into were no longer glazed, no longer wandering. “If I was trying to hurt you, do you think you ought to be here with me…far from anyone who’d hear you scream?”

  Abby swallowed and stepped back, eyes scanning the wreckage around her for an escape route.

  Bright, focused eyes the color of coal glared into hers. He stepped toward her, his posture threatening and his tone icy. “Better watch out or you’ll come face-to-face with what waits for you in the shadows.”

  A flush of fear crept up her throat, stained her cheeks crimson. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well,” he said, so softly that she had to lean in close to hear, “since you’re too daft to be fittingly frightened, you’ll likely find out soon, won’t you?”

  Abby’s reply caught in her throat. She stepped back, recoiling from the unmistakably menacing tone of his voice. Her eyes darted around frantically. She was trapped, physically hamper
ed by the barrier of wrecks, and emotionally pinioned by his terrifying suggestion.

  Breath exploded from her lungs when she heard the sound of tires on gravel, saw a flash of white, and then a cruiser creep into her line of sight.

  She waved her arms, almost crumpling with relief. “Over here!”

  A single wail of the siren was enough to make Bartholomew jolt. Abby watched in disbelief as he smiled sidelong at her. Then, the lucid expression melted from his features.

  All at once, he was the town vagrant again. He turned slowly, looked at the car with eyes gone distant and mouth hanging slack.

  “Don’t you be bothering the ladies, Bart.” Connor Flynn leaned out of the window of his cruiser, words directed to Bartholomew, but eyes intent on Abby. “You ought to know that puts Sheriff in a right foul mood. You okay, Miss Lancaster?”

  “I…I’m fine.” She glanced back at Bartholomew, saw the familiar vague expression resume as he blinked at her. “Thank you, Deputy Flynn. I’ll, uh, just be on my way.”

  “Warned her, I did. Warned her ’bout that old devil, comin’ to get her…” Bartholomew’s voice trailed after his shuffling frame, as he disappeared behind a tower of crushed vehicles.

  A snakelike tendril of apprehension slithered down her spine.

  Flynn watched the man’s retreat with a peculiar expression on his face. He turned to Abby. “You know, it seems to me that if you suspect Bart’s behind all this business up at the cottage, you’d want to steer clear of him.”

  “You’re right,” she said, chafing her arms with her hands. “I thought for a moment that he could be reasoned with, but clearly I was way off.”

  His lifted his brows. “I’d say. Now, technically speaking, I’m not supposed to give people rides in my squad car, but under the circumstances I could make an exception.”

  Abby managed a smile. “Thank you, but no. I’m just parked up there,” she said, motioning toward the alley. She turned to leave, then remembered something she’d wanted to discuss with him.