On a windowpane, a yellow sticker blazed in the sun.
MDT SECURITY.
An alarm meant police. They would find her . . . and Nigel, if he didn’t immediately turn tail and head for Iona. An ambulance would take him to the hospital for treatment of his chemical burns. The doctors would discharge him quickly with instructions to follow up with his family physician.
The photo.
He still had it.
In a few weeks, he would make good on his promise to kill William and James. Then, he would come for her.
If only she could have found a way to kill him at the cottage. Nigel registered their stay in his name alone. No one knew she was here. She could have gotten away with it. Problem solved.
She placed her hands on her hips and sighed. It was too late now. . . . Or was it?
Nigel was no idiot. She pictured him in the kitchen neutralizing his burns with the vinegar he would find between the HP sauce and the salt shaker. He’d flush his eyes at the sink, then steal through the trees toward the manor house, rightly guessing she would go there.
She ground her teeth together and pulled the screwdriver from her back pocket, where its sharp edge left a hole in the denim. Let him come. It would be no accident when he caught a glimpse of her at the edge of the wilderness he found so useful for his own wicked purposes.
She had an hour, more if Nigel checked the main road first.
In an unlocked implement shed, she gathered a hand axe, a length of twine, and two bricks. She carried the tools to the eastern end of the parking lot. There, a faded arrow labeled Cruach na Beinne directed hikers onto a path leading uphill into the forest. She knew no Gaelic, but assumed by the pyramid painted to the left of the words that it led to a distant mountain of the same shape.
With the manor empty, the trail would be, too. No one would find Nigel’s body for days or, more probably, weeks. By then, Scotland’s copious rain would have washed away all evidence of her crime.
It broke her heart to tear a strip of cloth from Alasdair’s jacket. To think he worried she might catch a chill . . . What would he say about her present situation?
At the mouth of the trail, she pressed a footprint into the mud, then impaled the strip of cloth on a hawthorn briar.
The bait’s set.
She sprinted up the trail with the bricks and axe pressed against her belly, thankful now Maggie insisted on working out twice a week. The path wound through an oak forest, past anthills and a small meadow, then across a small stream. On the far bank of a burn, she left more footprints in the muck.
When she descended into a dark hollow, a panicked squirrel scampered up a tree. High in the canopy, the herald of the forest voiced displeasure from the shadows of its nest. The rodent made a dependable siren, one she could use to her advantage.
She climbed the steep side of the hollow, making sure to leave scrape marks for Nigel to follow. When the terrain leveled out, she stopped to catch her breath. Looking skyward, she noticed two limbs suitable for supporting a swing trap.
Ann dropped her tools. Her biceps ached from carrying them. Much to her delight, the forest conspired with her to provide everything she needed to finish the trap. Her silent accomplice had even left the perfect branch lying across the path, a solid one, with a Y at its thickest end. It needed only minor trimming.
She’d never believed in fate, but with her plan falling into place so readily, it was hard not to feel like an ordained orchestrator of Nigel’s closing act.
To avoid disturbing the area, she carried the branch off the path to trim it into a swing arm. She lashed the bricks to the end opposite the Y, careful to keep the screwdriver sandwiched at a right angle between them.
Five minutes later, she finished the last of six perfectly whittled pegs.
She brought everything back to the ambush spot, then set the trap. The only fault with her setup was an unsuitable clump of briars partially blocking the trail. If Nigel skirted around them to avoid being scratched, he would bypass the trip line and thrust her into deep trouble.
There was nothing she could do about that now; she had no time to remove the briars and conceal the disturbance. If she pretended to be injured and just beyond Nigel’s reach, he would almost certainly lunge for her without thinking. His ruthlessness would be his undoing.
With the trap set, she stepped back to admire her work. Unless he was looking for airplanes, Nigel would not see the weighted screwdriver poised to impale his belly. The twine blended in nicely with the leaves, and there was plenty of it, which meant the pegs supporting the trip line were hidden well off the path. Ann was satisfied, but wanted to give it a try before getting ready on the other side of the trap. She was about to step forward when a squirrel’s chatter nailed her sneakers to the ground.
Her heart thudded.
Nigel was coming.
She knelt on the trail just past the trap, ready to start crawling the moment he appeared. She planned to drag her right leg, making him think she was badly injured. He would be too preoccupied with catching her to notice the trip wire or the trap above his head.
Birds scattered out of the hollow. She heard the rustle of leaves, then a man’s ragged breaths.
When Nigel popped out of the hollow, Ann’s heart sank. She’d imagined him with shards of peeling skin, maybe oozing blisters and bloated limbs. That wasn’t how he looked at all. His skin was red, but wholly intact and only slightly swollen. His eye hadn’t fared as well. It was completely useless, partly because of the lye and partly because her heel kicked him there during their struggle. Nevertheless, he staggered and felt his way through the forest, further damaging his hands on twigs and rough bark.
When he saw her, he braced himself against a large tree. His shoulders rose and fell. He glared with his good eye. “I am going to enjoy killing you now, you foul bitch.”
Ann screamed.
It’s now or never.
She sprang into action, crawling ahead and dragging her right leg.
Nigel roared as he took the bait. “When will you understand?” she heard him shout behind her. “I’m never letting you go!”
She heard his heavy footsteps and the swish of vegetation, then the plink of the birch trigger as it let go. She flipped onto her backside, the axe pressed against her belly, to watch the branch swing down in an arc.
Nigel’s good eye shot open as the weight of the bricks hammered the screwdriver into his chest and knocked him to the ground. He lay there wheezing, blood spurting through fingers laced across the right side of his heaving ribcage. The trap lay at his side, its job complete.
Ann scrambled to her feet. She ran at Nigel with the hand axe, unwilling to take any chances.
“Please,” he coughed, as she cocked the axe to finish him off. “Don’t.”
She paused. Was she a cold-blooded killer?
Thou shalt not kill.
She lowered her weapon.
Nigel’s gurgling breaths and uneven chest movement spelled disaster for him; Stanley had punctured a lung.
In another setting, someone would call 911. Paramedics could save Nigel.
Ann looked up at the peaceful forest, where birds flitted from tree to tree.
Here, Nigel was a goner. That was his fault, not hers.
She stepped past him.
“P-Please,” he stammered. “S-Stay.” His chest heaved as he battled for air.
She stayed, but only so she could sleep at night knowing he was really dead.
“I . . . almost . . . had you,” he sputtered between crackling breaths.
It felt safe to speak the truth. “You never had me, Nigel.”
“Because . . . of . . . him.”
“No, because you’re a crazy, abusive asshole. And because of him.”
Nigel�
��s lips and fingernails were turning blue. He was running out of time.
“What will . . . he do . . . to me this time?”
“William?” That made no sense.
His breaths grew faster and shallower. As he coughed pink foam, a blue sheen crept up his arms and across his face. His ticker was finished.
In spite of all he did to her, pity defrosted her wrath. Nigel Lynch was a foul being, but she wasn’t. She went to him, knelt, and took his hand, which felt like a frozen steak.
His good eye exposed no gratitude or surprise, but he tried to speak. “Ann, I . . .”
She leaned down, her ego bloated with charity. “Yes, Nigel?”
“I hope . . .”
That I get out of here alive? That I can find a way to forgive you?
Could she forgive him? If he asked, yeah, she probably could. After all, nobody comes into the world an asshole. Things happen that shape people. In Nigel’s case, it must have been something brutal, and for that, she was sorry. She tried to picture him as a child, before the bad got into him, when someone must have loved him.
She squeezed his hand. “Yes, Nigel, what is it? Just say it. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
“I hope you . . .”
“Yes?”
“I hope . . .”
“Yes, Nigel.”
“I h-hope you . . . d-die . . . s-screaming.”
With that, his body seized.
She scrambled out of reach of his flailing limbs, reeling in horror as his corpse began to cave in, slowly at first, and then like an invisible creature tap danced on him or devoured him from the inside out. His eyes fell in, then his mouth, then chunks of his chest and belly. His fingers sucked inside his hands, and his jeans went flat, as though his legs simply deflated. A high-pitched squeal emanated from somewhere around his crushed sternum, a spine-chilling, indescribable scream that seemed to rise up and claw at her.
She stumbled backward. Tree bark abraded her arm as she covered her ears.
The squeal became corporeal, a shadow that rose from Nigel’s body, then drifted toward her, amplifying and bringing with it the stench of raw sewerage.
Her legs faltered, leaving her faint and wobbly.
The shadow gyrated around her like a putrid flock of starlings.
She sobbed. Her teeth chattered. Her arms turned numb. She sank to her knees.
How can . . . What is happening?
Wind howled up from the hollow. It whirled into a mini-tornado, tossing limbs and leaves from shrubs and low tree branches. Ann brushed her whipping hair away from her face in time to see the twister veer off the path and devour the screaming cloud. It vanished as quickly as it came.
In the silence of the forest, Ann’s gasps echoed off the tree trunks. Blood raced through her veins at a deafening roar. She looked for Nigel, but found only his clothes. They were flat, like cutouts for a life-size paper doll.
Steeling her nerves, she inched closer to the empty garments, terrified they might yet leap up to grab her. Shivering, she snatched the photo from Nigel’s jeans pocket, then headed east as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her.
Chapter 34
“Ye sure ye’re all right, hen?” Mary Bogle had supple hands and an equally soft voice. She lived in a detached stone cottage with double dormers and a covered porch, the first house Ann found after leaving the woods.
A teakettle whistled. Mary set a box of gauze pads on the table. She’d been dabbing alcohol on Ann’s scratches, but now, she rushed to an antique range. The kettle lost its whistle as she turned off the heat and poured water into two cups. “I think ye should go to hospital.”
“I’m not hurt. I’m just chilled to the bone.”
Through the café curtains, Ann saw the flash of headlights.
“That’s himself hame from work,” Mary said.
A tall man in his fifties carried his lunchbox into the kitchen. Exhaustion rounded his shoulders and dulled his wits. He sighed as he took off his jacket. He hung it on a peg by the door, a ritual he must have practiced daily. When he noticed Ann, he flinched. “I did nae see a car.” He ran a calloused hand across his graying hair, rumpling it. “Wait a minute. Ye’re the lassie they’ve been looking for.”
Ann looked at Mary, who stirred the tea and said, “Ye’ve been all over the telly, hen.”
That meant the police were involved. They would demand an explanation. Could she get away with saying she got lost while hiking? Anything else would require official statements and hours of questioning.
“Where were ye all this time?” the man asked.
“Peter, let the woman catch her breath first. She’s only after finding us. There, now.” Mary set a steaming cup in front of Ann. “Sip some of that. It’ll warm your bones. Ye want a wee nip of Peter’s peatreek to settle your nerves?”
“Very much.” She would drink the whole bottle if they let her.
Peter poured the smoky beverage into a tumbler, then set it next to the cup of tea.
Ann downed it in a single, fiery gulp.
“Can we call anybody for ye?” Mary asked. “Like the police, maybe?”
Ann shook her head. “I’ll call them in the morning and let them know this was all a big misunderstanding. My friend must have panicked and reported me missing. I got lost, that’s all.” She rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t realize how easy it is to get turned around up there.”
“Happens all the time,” Peter said. “Folk do nae gi’ it the respect it deserves.”
“I’m an experienced hiker, so this is pretty humiliating.” She thought that added credibility to the story.
Peter leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “Ye should feel damn proud of yoursel’ for getting oot of there alive, lass. Grown men have fared far worse. Ye found your way oot. That’s the most important thing.” He refilled her glass.
Ann’s belly burned, but she took another sip. “Could I possibly use your phone to call my friend and let her know I’m all right? I know her cell number, but it’s an international call.” She bit her lip, then said, “I’m sorry. I have no money . . .”
“Go on then.” Mary waved a hand at her. “There’ll be nae talk of money.”
“I don’t know how to make an international call.”
“I do. I have a cousin in California.” Mary helped her dial the number.
The phone rang.
Maggie’s voice was tough to hear over road noise in the background. “Hello?”
Emotion seized Ann’s throat.
“Hello?” Maggie repeated. “Hello?”
“Mags, don’t hang up.”
“Oh, my God! Pull over. Pull over! Annie! Where are you?”
A man in the background said something.
“Annie.” Maggie’s voice cracked. “Are . . . you okay?” She sniffled.
“I’m fine. Just a little scratched up.”
The man in the background mumbled again.
“Yes, it’s her,” Maggie answered him. “Hold on, I’ll ask. Where are you?”
“I—” Ann pressed her palm over the phone’s mouthpiece and asked Mary, “Where am I?”
“Three kilometers northeast of Taynuilt, hen.” Mary shouted the street address so Maggie could hear it.
Maggie replied, “I can’t believe it. We were in Taynuilt an hour ago. We’re in Lochawe now, right down the road.”
“We?” Ann asked. Was she riding shotgun in a police cruiser? Jeez, she hoped not.
“William’s with me.”
“What? William?” A sudden burst of nerves unsettled her belly. “How did—”
“Listen,” Maggie said, turning stern, “before we get to any of that, I need to know if you’re okay.”
The road noise returned. Maggie was on her way. “Do we turn here?” she asked.
“Aye,” Ann heard William say.
Aye. Who knew a single word could breathe life into a shattered body? Ann forgot the pain in her shoulders, the scratches on her arms, and the ghoulish events of the day.
“Maggie, I’m using someone’s phone. This must be an expensive call. I’ll talk to you when you get here, okay?”
“No! No, you won’t!” Maggie shouted. “Don’t you dare hang up!” She was completely stuffed up, like she had a sinus infection. “I’ll give them money for the call when I get there. You stay on the phone with me, you understand?”
“Maggie . . .”
“Don’t you Maggie me. I’m not going anywhere.”
A hissing noise turned her into a liar. She was losing coverage.
“Shit,” Maggie said. “You’re breaking up. If I lose you, we’re coming, okay? Don’t go anywhere. We’re coming. Hurry, Doug. Hurry.”
Doug?
The line went dead.
She pressed the red Off button, then handed the cordless phone to Mary. “How long will it take them to get here from Lochawe?”
“About ten or fifteen minutes,” Peter replied.
That left no time to fabricate a plausible story. She had developed multiple explanations for her disappearance during the long walk to civilization, but none of them could adequately explain how a train ride to Glasgow turned into a solo hike without supplies.
How mortifying that William was involved in the search for her. She would prefer he remember her as the capable woman who carried a fire starting kit, not the plaything of an impotent madman. She felt ruined, her spirit forever broken by shame.
The clock read 9:10. Five minutes left. Her mouth felt dry. She fought the urge to flee. Suddenly, she longed for the forest, then remembered that thing was up there.
The Scent of Forever Page 20