by Judi Lind
When they came to a low spot, now a pool of murky brown water, he took her hand. “Let’s go over the ridge-no telling what’s in the bottom of that puddle.”
“Like what? Snakes?” Her snapping dark eyes widened. “I saw a special on someplace in Texas after a bad storm, and rattlesnakes were all over the place.”
“I was thinking more of broken glass,” he chuckled. “We’re not known for our snakes. Might be a garter or two around, but I’ve never seen one.”
She studied him with a suspicious glare for a minute. Shaking her finger, she muttered, “You’d better not be lying. I hate snakes, Storm. I mean, really hate them.”
“I assure you, Princess, we won’t run into a snake. A few rats and mice, maybe.”
“Ugh!”
“Hey, snakes eat rodents. We don’t have snakes, remember? Come on, let’s take this road.”
A brisk five-minute walk down the lane brought them to a clearing where a cozy beach cabin nestled on a ridge about fifty yards above the ocean.
“What a sweet little place,” she exclaimed.
Sweet? Ramshackle, decrepit or rustic, maybe. But sweet? He glanced around; fallen branches, uprooted shrubs and a few tiles missing from the roof. Otherwise, the place seemed to have survived the storm with little damage.
Elisa tugged on his arm and pointed to the ocean in the background. “It must have a wonderful view from the back side.”
“This is Roundabout Cove. The cabin has a sunset view over the water. Fairly unusual on the East Coast.”
She turned to him, excitement glittering in her brown eyes. “Do you think they’d mind if we peeked in the windows?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Skipping ahead, her injured ankle giving her an odd but charming gait, she called from the front steps, “Can’t you just imagine pots of red geraniums hanging above this porch?”
Actually, he’d never imagined any such thing. But then, he didn’t consider himself a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy. When he reached the porch, she turned around, her lips in a slight pout.
“The windows are all boarded. I can’t see a thing.” Her disappointment was like that of a small child denied entrance to Disneyland.
“Then let’s go inside, find a hammer and pry them off.”
She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think we should. Wouldn’t that be like…breaking and entering?”
He grinned and pulled a key ring from his pocket. “I know the owner.”
“Storm, this is your place!”
“Guilty.”
She whopped his upper arm with her small fist. “You were teasing me.”
“So I was.” He opened the door, covertly rubbing his arm. Wasn’t a dancer’s strength supposed to be in her legs?
Except for the shaft of light filtering through the open door, the cabin was pitch-dark. Taking Elisa’s elbow, he guided her to the kitchen table. He lit the kerosene lantern first, then started coffee on a portable camp stove.
“Don’t let it boil over,” he warned as he hefted a large hammer. “I’ll pry the plywood off the windows and be back in a jiffy.”
When the enticing smell of perking coffee reached her nose, she turned down the burner. At home, of course, she used an automatic electric drip machine; she poured in water, dumped in the grounds, walked away and came back to a perfect brew. She’d never actually cooked coffee on a stove. But she’d watched Miriam and she knew the stuff had to cook a long time.
Speaking of time, taking down the window coverings was apparently a bigger job than he had thought. She could hear him moving around the cottage, the pounding and prying sounds occasionally punctuated by a muted curse.
While she was waiting, Elisa strolled into the living area. The front windows had been uncovered, and strong, warm sunlight bathed the open room. It was exactly as she’d imagined; wide planks of pine flooring, an enormous stone fireplace, and lumpy yard-sale furniture. Two doors opened onto the room, and beside the rustic stairs a small hall exposed two more doors.
Her eyes followed the staircase up to a large loft overlooking the living area below. A perfect cabin by the sea. If it was spiffed up a bit. She was mentally redecorating the downstairs when Storm’s tread creaked across the wooden porch.
She turned around to find him silhouetted in the doorway. Millions of tiny dust motes flickered around him in a shower of silvery sparkles. His hands were raised, touching the door frame as if he were holding the structure erect. She couldn’t make out his face, but her heart doublepumped at his commanding, self-assured stance.
“Coffee ready?” His voice was odd, strained and kind of croaky.
“I think so,” she breathed. Her own words felt tight in her throat.
He followed her into the kitchen. She sat looking at her muddy sneakers while he gathered up the coffee fixings. “No real cream or sugar, just the artificial stuff.”
“Blue or pink?”
“Huh? It’s all white.”
“I meant the artificial sug—Oh, never mind. It really doesn’t matter.”
“Whatever you say, Princess. So what do you think of my hideout?”
What she thought was that he’d unwittingly chosen the perfect word. “I like it a lot. It would be a great vacation home.”
He sipped, lightly blowing on the steaming brew. “Works for me.”
Slowly rotating a spoon in her own mug, she asked thoughtfully, “Why do you live here?”
“Pardon? Why do you live in an overpopulated, overpriced and dangerous city?”
She started to argue that she’d encountered more violence on this nearly deserted island than she’d ever faced in New York or Los Angeles, but realized he’d posed his counterquestion only to avoid having to answer hers. “Maybe. But how can you make a living here? Surely your skills would be better utilized in a larger community. A midsize town, if you don’t like New York.”
He took another sip before answering. “How long did you let this stuff perk? It tastes like burnt mud.”
“Stop changing the subject. Why do you stay here?”
Setting his mug on the scarred wooden tabletop, he ran his finger around the ceramic rim. “Actually, I moved here from New York. In my former life, I was head of pediatric psychiatry at University Hospital. Worked mostly with troubled and abused children under twelve.”
She covered his hand with hers. “That must have been so fulfilling. Why did you quit?”
“I left because I needed to make some changes. Listen, I’ve been thinking about the night Jay died. I think if we tried some hypnotherapy it might shake something loose.”
Disappointment poured over Elisa like a cold shower. Storm’s unwillingness to open up, to discuss any facet of his personal life, could mean only one thing. His interest in her wasn’t personal, but merely professional curiosity. Hurt and furious at allowing herself to become so vulnerable, she lashed out. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it—a complex intellectual puzzle to solve while you had a little free time on your hands? You never cared about me for a single moment!”
His hand slammed on the tabletop, causing her spoon to rattle. “Give your ’poor little me’ act a break, Elisa! Okay, you’ve been through a lot of trauma lately. But, hell, you survived—you’re here. But you don’t want to start a new life. You’d rather cling to your misery. Poor Elisa, lost her career. Lost her boyfriend. Well, guess what, Princess? Lots of people lose everything and have to start over.”
“So why don’t you try it, Doc?”
“Because saving your life just seems like a higher priority right now.”
“Now who’s living in the past, Storm? Jay’s dead, Heather’s dead! It’s over, remember?”
He pushed away from the table and stalked to the sink. Staring out the open window, he said quietly, “I don’t believe Heather was acting alone. It only makes sense that she had an accomplice. I don’t think it’s over, Elisa, and if you don’t face up to that, you might not live to get off this island.”
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br /> She shook her head. “We’ve never really established that she killed Jay in the first place. Just a lot of useless theories. But even if she did, and even if she had an accomplice, I don’t think he’s here.”
Slowly he turned to face her. Disbelief shrouded his eyes. “Why on earth not?”
Elisa paused. She didn’t really know what she thought. She only knew she wouldn’t give in to his point of view again. Her days of being his psychological guinea pig were over. “Because if her accomplice was on the island, why wouldn’t he have been with her last night? If he helped murder Jay, why not me?”
His hands clenched into fists of rage, he railed, “You are the most obstinate woman I’ve ever known! You simply refuse to accept the obvious, even at your own peril, just to spite me.”
“That’s not true,” she lied, hating him for seeing right through her protective camouflage.
He took a step toward her, as if he wanted to shake her. Scrupulously avoiding touching her, he exploded. “You have to face the truth, Elisa! You can’t hide from your memories forever!”
Stung to the quick by his cold, unfair appraisal, she stood up. Her voice was deadly calm, quiet. “Neither can you.”
She turned on her heel and stalked out of the cabin.
Chapter Fourteen
Free from the stifling, confining space of Storm’s cabin, Elisa stalked aimlessly along the edge of the beach rim, hiking and sliding over the occasional sand dunes blocking her path. After nearly a quarter mile, the ridge began a gradual slope to the sea. Taking off her sneakers, she rolled up her pant legs and sprinted down to the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge.
Damn Storm Delaney. Even the majestic ocean, with its abnormally high surf, couldn’t dissipate her boiling anger. He didn’t hesitate to pry her open and yank out her bruised and bloodied soul. But ask him one simple question that breached the fortifications he’d built around his personal life, and he went ballistic.
Elisa was tired of men who kept secrets, men who wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t share, wouldn’t trust. In fact, she was tired of men—period.
Making her way to higher ground, she picked a frond of sea grass and plopped on the ground. She poked the stem between her teeth. Despite her frustration with Storm’s unyielding refusal to share his personal side, one thing he’d said kept coming back to her. Something about her refusing to see the obvious, despite her own peril.
Did he really believe that Heather’s unseen coconspirator was actually on this island? And considered Elisa a threat? Although the sun was bright overhead, a cold chill raced through her veins, ending up as ice cubes in the pit of her stomach.
What if Storm was right? Similar thoughts had already plagued her own peace of mind. It was sheer obstinacy that had kept her from admitting it to Storm.
She stood up and took the easiest-looking path back up the slope. She’d been such a fool. Even if he didn’t care for her in the way she wanted, he was still her only ally. The only person who might be able to help keep her alive until the authorities finally arrived on Double Dare Island.
Reaching the top of the embankment, she turned left, retracing the path she’d taken from Storm’s cabin. She only hoped he was still there, still willing to help.
After fifteen minutes, however, Elisa began to doubt the route she’d chosen. She couldn’t look for her footprints in the dunes, because the still-blustery wind continually swept them away. But something didn’t feel right. If she recalled correctly, she should be able to see the ocean below her on the left from the top of this dune.
Picking up speed, she slogged up the sand drift. When she reached the top, she stomped her foot in dismay. All she could see to the left was more dunes. There was no doubt that she was well and truly lost.
She swiveled her head in the opposite direction. The dunes continued for another fifty yards or so, then dark green foliage dotted the horizon. Hmm. Could that be the marsh grove? If so, there was a shortcut to the village that Heather had shown her several weeks ago. She had never taken it by herself, though. For one thing, she generally exercised her ankle by pedaling her bike. Besides, a couple of sections of that grove were dark, spooky. Like the evil forest where Sleeping Beauty’s hateful stepmother had hung out.
As she considered her options, she slowly became aware of the pulsing sensation just above her ankle. A sure sign that she’d overdone it, and unless she elevated that foot very soon, the excruciating throbbing that followed would continue for hours.
Without further balking, she headed for the debris-strewn path through the marsh.
Once she was a quarter mile into the swampland, she started having second thoughts. Alone, it was even spookier than she remembered. Ancient trees reached out for her with knobby arms, laden with dripping moss. Eerie calls from unseen birds screeched through the still, fetid air. Elisa crossed her arms over her chest, holding on to herself for comfort. She tried walking faster, but her ankle pulsated in protest.
A half-rotted log blocked her path, and she gratefully sank down for a moment’s rest. Something skittered on the path behind her, and she swung around. Her eyes scanned the brush, the soggy ground around the cypress trees. She saw nothing but the dank, forbidding marshland. Yet the tenacious sense of another presence behind her, watching her, wouldn’t pull its claws from her pounding chest.
Rising to her feet, she continued toward the village. She’d gone only a short distance when the back of her neck started burning as if she’d stepped in the path of a laser beam. She whirled around. “Hello? Is anybody back there?”
Only the swish of undulating marsh grass responded.
But someone, or something was following her progress.
She gulped, and broke into a light jog. Her ankle throbbed as if it were on fire, but she visualized Storm’s vibrant green eyes and ignored the pain.
A small rodent scurried though the soggy leaves right beside the path, and she stifled a scream. A sudden memory of one of her dance mistresses came to mind. Madame Skelska. When a rehearsal went badly, or Elisa worked until the ragged edge of exhaustion claimed her, Madame Skelska had always exhorted her to consider the negative experience a challenge. A test of her emotional fortitude.
She breathed deeply and tried to spur her mind into taking Madame Skelska’s advice. Keep calm. You were the one who wanted your independence, to take care of yourself. Now you have the chance. Consider this a test of your emotional fortitude.
Repeating the phrase as if it were a mantra, she trudged onward. Keep calm. Don’t let your imagination frighten you. Keep calm. Then, breaking through the mantra like a sharp whip, she heard the clear sound of someone calling her name.
“Eliiisa! Eliiisa!” It was almost as if her name were being carried by the wind, as it whistled through the treetops.
Halting abruptly, she whirled to locate the source of the unearthly sound. But the high-pitched call stopped when she did.
“S-Storm?” she called. Then again, louder. “Storm, is that you?”
STORM PACED AND RAGED around the small cabin for a full half hour before he reached the conclusion that he’d acted like an intractable jackass.
She had been right on target. As usual. Why did he think he was entitled to an exemption from the rules that governed the human race? It took a lot of nerve to expect her to bravely confront her recent ordeal, and place herself in jeopardy, when he couldn’t even face the two-year-old trauma of Karen’s death.
No wonder she had been so incensed. He’d selfrighteously tried to force her into facing reality, knowing he couldn’t do so himself.
What if she’d really written him off this time? What if she refused to speak to him again?
Even more chilling, what if right now she was alone with the murderer?
Grabbing his shirt, he raced out the door. He had to find her. Had to. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
THE CRACKLE of a broken twig drew Elisa’s attention.
She spun around. There! Her heartbeat stopped at the
sight of a dark-clothed figure moving through the underbrush. Fear burbled in her throat.
That wasn’t Storm. Couldn’t be. He wouldn’t play malicious games. Unless…unless he had been in league with Heather. It couldn’t be, she wouldn’t believe it, except…except that it would explain so much. If Storm was the accomplice, wouldn’t it be clever of him to befriend her, worm his way into her confidence, her trust?
He could have pretended to dislike Heather, that way, Elisa wouldn’t have considered him as an accessory to Jay’s murder. Very Machiavellian. But with Storm’s agile mind, very easy for him to pull off.
In truth, she knew nothing about him. Not where he was from, the identity of his friends and family—nothing except the tiny tidbits of untraceable data he fed her from time to time. He’d played the role of burned-out psychiatrist to the hilt. Yet the only tangible proof he’d offered was an old business card. Anyone could have had it made at a stationery store. Or stolen it.
Had she played the fool with a loathsome killer who was cunning enough to carry off the role? Oh, no, Storm, her heart cried out. Please, don’t let it be true.
But whether or not that was Storm stalking her through the swamp didn’t really matter in the end. What mattered was getting herself out of the marsh. Alive. She’d deal with the heartbreak later, if she had to. If the truth didn’t kill her.
The dark figure had disappeared from her view, but she heard the rustle of withered leaves as he circled around, placing himself in front of her on the path. There was no option but to turn around and go back the way she’d come.
Sucking in deep fortifying breaths, she dragged her sore ankle back down the winding path. The primeval wasteland was silent, but for her own heavy panting. No exotic birds called from the treetops. No small animals scampered through the underbrush. The swamp was soundlessly watching her life-or-death race through the gloom.
She continued to half run, half drag, her weary body along the rubble-strewn trail. Then a darting motion to her left caught her eye. Oh, no. He was right beside her again. Without an injured ankle to deter him, the stalker was having no problem pacing her.