Cole was about to ease back down the stairs, when a loud crash made him shrink against the dank wall. Beads of sweat sprinkled his forehead.
Miles and miles of memories fast-forwarded through him. Of sunshine and flowers in her red hair, of swimming, riding fast boats and cars together, of the way she looked up into his eyes, so trustingly. He couldn't die this way, like a trapped rat in this old house. Laurel needed him. And he needed her, to hear her question him, to push him to greater things, to hear her ask about his son and to talk about her lost son and family....
Easing with one foot, he began edging down the riser behind him. He was too late.
Thundering, thumping lumps bounded through the murkiness, and in his hasty retreat, Cole stepped backward onto the bad leg. With a sharp needling pain it gave way, toppling him backward down the steps to the second landing.
A powerful force bowled into his hip and leg.
Cole cried out in death-defying anger.
He came up swinging madly in self-defense, but to his surprise, met with empty air. He grappled about for the flashlight, flicked it on just in time to catch sight of two fuzzy tails scurrying down the steps, heading for the front door.
“Roxy and Roger?” Cole snorted relief, then sank against the wall to catch his breath and swipe the sweat off his brow.
What a life I lead. With his butt and back killing him almost as much as the bum leg, Cole wanted to....
...Go home and climb into bed with Laurel and forget this.
He chortled at that. Because something dawned on him. He had never made love to Laurel in a real bed. This unforgivable detail suddenly nagged at him. What would he do in a warm, soft bed, with Laurel under him and nobody knocking on the door? Would Laurel accuse him of thinking it boring? Nothing with Laurel had ever been boring. Not her smile, her wit, the way she made love.
Fool. He looked up toward the attic. The woman deserved a lot more than the trouble he always seemed to bring her. His son deserved a better legacy than this.
And so did Mike. What kind of father had Mike seen in Cole? The chill of truth gripped him. If a son couldn't even count on Cole, maybe Mike felt he couldn't either. And so he'd come here alone, ascending these stairs only weeks ago. A breeze rushed up the hallway. Mike's ghost? Leading him?
Rubbing his leg, agony gripped him. A longing for Laurel's healing ways overwhelmed him.
Thunder punched at the old mansion, rattling the walls and his bones.
He remembered Laurel's repeated offers to help him with the leg. He'd pushed her away, just as he accused her of pushing him away. Remorse coursed through him. Hauling himself up, he hobbled up the stairs, all the way to the attic ... the pirate ship.
He stepped around old boxes strewn everywhere. Roxy and Roger had been curious and obviously playing. They'd even tipped over the old table where he'd laid out the railroad map. He went over to set it upright. Leaning over to catch the table legs, a flash of lightning illuminated something loosely taped on the underside of the table. He trained the flashlight on it.
Cole recognized the object immediately. Picking it out of the tape, fingering its heft and copper and gold machinations, Cole grew excited. A sextant, the device was used by ship navigators to measure the sun or a star from the horizon. With its tiny scope, and half-circle arm with calibrations, it calculated distances to other ships, land or objects out on the water.
On a dive for Rojas this past spring, Cole had uncovered the sextant near some World War II shipwrecks in the Atlantic Ocean. As usual, Mike logged in the treasure, then ordered its careful cleaning before they would complete further documentation on its age and history.
Why was this object from Rojas's prized collection of treasures from the deep here in Wisconsin?
Cole had no answers, but he knew Mike had a purpose. Cole found the crayon box earlier on top the table, but had failed to look underneath. Mike would be shaking his head to know it'd taken two raccoons to uncover something Cole should have found on his first look-see.
“Come on, Mike. So now what do I do with this thing?"
His nerves hummed. He was close to finding something big. The object weighted his hand down, almost begging him to move, to get going and blow Rojas's operation sky high. But how? Why? Why had Mike risked his life for this and lost? He needed to talk with Laurel. She had fresh perspective, even better smarts with puzzles than he.
But he'd promised himself to not endanger her.
With flopsum bathing him, the night air clawed at him with icy fingers. He wanted Laurel's help. She was more than an addiction. They were a team. They found answers together. She'd shown him that. She always demanded he dig deeper. Be smarter.
Laurel had needled him about looking for an “X” mowed in the meadow by Mike before Cole would act. A sextant could measure the distance to a place. What place? From what vantage point? Maybe there was a place in the meadow he needed to revisit, a place Mike remembered meant something special.
Then he swallowed hard. Maybe, just maybe, Mike brought him here because of Laurel. Was something hidden—not in a place special to Mike or Cole—but to Laurel? Could it be the church? That would surely fool Rojas or his henchmen who came looking for the cache of evidence. They knew nothing of the church.
Excitement poured through him.
He hobbled down the three flights of stairs, this time taking the back hallway for a faster exit. Going past the kitchen, the pantry, the old library room ... memories flooded back. Laughter echoing. Mike giggling when Cole chased him with a fat ugly toad. Mike teasing him with, “Cole and Laurel, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."
Cole walked faster. Away from Mike's voice. Toward Laurel's.
Pushing through the rotted screendoor, he plunged into the night's storm. The rain drenched him through to his soul. The ditty wouldn't quit. “Cole and Laurel, sittin’ in a tree..."
With the sextant gripped in one hand, and the flashlight in the other, he forged back through the wet grass and weeds, past his sodden tent, wishing away the stiffness still in his bum leg. Being careful not to put too much weight on it, he slid down the slick embankment, muddying himself.
He climbed into the sheriff's runabout he'd just tuned up, and started for Laurel's place. Pressing into higher gear, he ignored the wind heaving him at dangerous angles.
* * * *
FINDING LAUREL'S front door unlocked, Cole panicked. What's more, the lights were on in the kitchen but the place seemed deadly quiet.
“Laurel?"
He glanced back through the door, flicking on her flashlight to see into the yard. The light glinted off the bumper of her minivan. She had to be here. Maybe she'd only been so tired she'd gone to bed and forgotten the lights and door. “Laurel?"
Closing the door, he stood for a moment, listening, sniffing the air, knowing already that something was wrong. The quiet unnerved him even more than the unlocked door. There was a faint odor of cigarette smoke. Laurel didn't smoke.
He tiptoed around the mess in the livingroom, laid the heavy sextant down on the table near the bay window, then turned toward the short hallway that led to the bedrooms. He held the flashlight high over his head, ready to strike.
A creaking caught his attention. He halted.
Then footsteps hit the wood floor behind him. He whirled to see a figure launch from the curtains by the bay window and head for the backdoor to the breezeway.
Cole took up the chase, cussing at his limp, flashlight in hand, wishing he had time to find that hunting rifle of Gerald Hasting's that Laurel kept.
From behind him, Laurel called out, “Cole? I was just outside, I thought I heard—?"
The intruder raced through the breezeway, then into the animal shed.
“Stay put!” Cole called to her. He knew she'd be right on his heels to check out every animal in his wake.
He followed the ruckus of squawks and chittering of creatures disturbed in the shed. Heat lamps pitched every whichway.
The intruder, a l
ean figure, fled out the back door, through the deer pen, where Cole thought he'd nab him against the high fence. Instead, the man bolted through a new, low hole cut in the fence and headed for the looming forest cover.
Cole cussed, gritted his teeth against his damn leg and made himself ignore it. He had to catch the man Rojas had sent to kill him ... or was it Laurel, too, now?
Bile rose in his throat at the thought of losing her. Fury for putting Laurel's life in danger pitched him into the night.
Rain slapped across him in heavy sheets. Slippery leaves caused havoc underfoot, but when his flashlight caught the man's back up ahead, he ran with wild abandon. Nobody was going to get away with messing with Laurel. This was his fight. Only cowards involved women in their wars.
The storm ripped branches off the trees, crashing whitecapped waves at the dock now receding behind him. He could hear the boat banging against the tire bumpers.
Lightning cracked. He felt alive, charged with the same electricity splicing the air. His leg throbbed, but his mind told it to quit hurting. He had no time for such things.
Darting the flashlight about, he glimpsed the man on ahead.
He labored up the hillside's muddy trail, then slid through spongy moss down the other side of the hill. The night smelled dank, perfect for a killing.
The trees bent about in front of him, ominous, as if imploring him to turn around.
He stumbled on.
Suddenly, the lightning illuminated the small, white church up ahead. He stopped, played the flashlight about, but only saw the ragged edges of the iron fence around the graveyard.
The fugitive had to be in the church. Cole's heart drummed. Hatred welled up. The killer had desecrated the place where he and Laurel had exchanged vows. Cole imagined the man hiding now behind the tiny altar, with the Virgin Mary statue watching in fright.
He eased up the few steps to the church door, pausing to catch his breath. Ragged thoughts plastered him between the rain. Laurel had worn wild, brown-eyed susans behind her ears that day. He'd put them there, her hair tickling his fingers.
The memory fueled his disgust at the slime inside. Snapping off the flashlight, he shouldered the door for a moment, then pushed off his good foot, giving the door a good heave.
It gave way, too quickly.
A sharp object slammed into Cole's gut, ripping the breath from him. Cole dropped to his knees in the doorway, and the man kicked him hard in the chin, bowling him backward down the few steps. Cole splashed into the mud, but caught the pant's leg of the man and he went down.
The man scrambled backward toward the graveyard, kicking at Cole's arm. A hoarse voice snapped, “You never learn."
A hard slam down on Cole's arm sent him reeling in new pain, and the stranger ripped away from his grasp, stumbling through the graveyard gate and into the chaos of monuments and shrubbery.
Cole flung himself after him, flashlight flicking here and there, catching a headstone but nothing else.
“Come out, you bastard. I'll stay here all night—"
At a rustle, Cole spied a figure vaulting the fence. Cole took off, but his foot caught in a flower basket and he went down. He pushed up only to hear an engine start. A vehicle roared away on the nearby country highway.
“Son of a..."
Sliding down against a headstone, he sat in its protection from the wind, letting the rain wash over him. The muscles in his bad leg were seizing up around the wound. Losing the vile thug devastated him. All he could think of was Laurel. With that man on the loose, she couldn't be safe. His aching muscles be damned.
He pointed the flashlight about to get his bearings, to figure out the fastest way to wend his way out of here.
The flashlight's faltering light helped him spot the dratted plastic flowers he'd tripped over. He would never forget watching Laurel planting the geraniums. He felt close to her being here, and even with the rain, he found he wanted to linger.
Limping from one headstone to the next, he tried to recall where she'd been planting the flowers. She came here every Friday. This night from hell was a Friday.
Lightning cracked, rippling its residue through his veins and skipping blue light across the tops of the headstones.
Nudging his good leg ahead, the flashlight's beam wavered. Driving white rain splashed back up his legs.
He pointed the failing flashlight about, searching for the right names. It was a crowded cemetery, the kind with trimmed evergreens flanking headstones, flags for veterans, plastic flowers among the real. Despite the storm, the place seemed contented. Settled. He began to understand why she visited every week, why some shadows were good. There was peace in them.
Finally, he found Gerald Hasting's monument. It was a tall granite spire, with a fish carved above his name with the final date of December 24, ten years ago. Christmas Eve. He shuddered to think what it must have been like for Laurel that night. A time of birth being celebrated around the world, and she in mourning.
A few feet beyond was the headstone for Kipp O'Donnell. His was plain, no fish motif. Just “Beloved son of Mary and Kipp O'Donnell, Sr.” And the same date, ten years ago.
A hard, clawing guilt overwhelmed Cole. He'd been jealous of this man. Now, he wished the man hadn't died. Laurel had needed Kipp. Maybe Cole didn't buy into the notion of her loving Kipp the way she should, but at least things would have been different for her. Laurel needed a partner in life, someone to keep her from worrying too much, someone to make her smile, snap and sizzle sexually to forget all those things that worried her.
Someone like himself? “Partner” took a hell of a lot more commitment than mere “friend.” So far, they'd agreed only on friends. He dared not entertain other dalliances.
Searching through the rain, placing one foot past the next carefully, he finally found the arc of geraniums around a tiny headstone. The rain drove down harder, smashing the flowers flat to the ground. He shook the flashlight, attempting to keep its beam going. He couldn't read the inscription for the curtains of water whipping past him. That frustrated him, because he wondered about the child's name. Cole had never thought to ask. Wretched regret wound around his heart.
Kneeling down, he poked his head and the flashlight close to the inscription. He muttered, “To Our Dearest Son,” before crashing lightning blinded him momentarily. Was it a warning? He had no business here in Laurel's shadow garden. Was she coming down the trail herself?
Cole pressed the flashlight up to the inscription again. “To Our Dearest Son, Jonathon."
Then an especially bright bolt of lightning turned the tiny gravestone white, sending its lettering into clear shadowy relief.
“To Our Dearest Son, Jonathon. You were borne of the Sunshine your Father and Mother shared, and to the Sunshine of God's Heaven we return You."
The gravestone went dark again in the storm.
Laurel used to adore the sunshine. She'd revel in it. The two of them would run through the meadow on sunny days, racing for the pond. Did she enjoy the same with Kipp? She must have. Cole's heart lurched at the discovery.
As he struggled to stand up, the flashlight's weak beam hit the tiny headstone one last time before it flickered out. That's when stone-cold fear gripped Cole and stayed him in his tracks. Something was wrong here.
Cole laid a shaky hand over the carved date, felt the rain washing down the stone and over his fingers.
“God, no. It couldn't be,” he cried out, “you've got it wrong!"
In a rage, Cole shuddered, curling one hand into a painful fist that he wiped furiously back and forth over the block lettering and numerals forming the date of birth and death.
“April,” he said between clenched teeth. “But you've got it wrong!"
He wiped and wiped, harder and harder, across the indentations. The wind howled louder.
He must have misread the inscription. Lightning flickered. The year was plainly carved to last forever. It could mean only one thing.
Jonathon was ... his son.
>
* * *
Chapter 14
COLE WISHED HE smoked. He paced back and forth in the cabin living room, glancing across the bay at the round window of the old mansion. Somehow he'd convinced Laurel to try and sleep. He'd lied, told her he'd found a couple of teenagers out for a lark, a muddled story she seemed to buy. He couldn't remember their conversation exactly. He only knew he wasn't ready to confront her about Jonathon. Not yet.
The storm gathering inside him, though, wouldn't let go. He vowed to wait, hope it would abate with the storm outside. He couldn't talk with Laurel in this condition of heat and anger. It would be better to wait for the anger to simmer down to just leaden disappointment.
He'd had a son with Laurel.
All of them—the Hastings, the whole town, and Laurel—hadn't bothered to let him know about it. Something deep in the earth seemed to claw up at him to pull him under.
He'd laid the sextant on the uprighted table, with the crayon box of Mike's and the locket. His life lay on the table, everything that should lead him to happiness. None of it did.
Hollowness surrounded his heart.
He tried to plot what he'd say to her, how the conversation would start. “Oh, by the way, I found out we had a child together.” Or, “I was taking a walk in the rain and just happened upon..."
No words were right.
Knowledge robbed him of rational thought. It rendered him raw. Emotions fought like gladiators inside his belly. What would win out? The hurt spewed through him, crashing molten waves of ache, even in his head. The burning hurt was winning.
He wasn't ready to talk with her.
Eventually, he peered in her bedroom. She lay rolled up in blankets, sleeping deeply. His heart flinched. He knew she slept only because he was here watching out for her.
But he had to turn and go back up the short hall because he resented her for that normalcy. She lived and slept happily in shadows. Damn her. Cole hated being plunged into them like this. No warning. Like watching Mike's boat explode....
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