“I just want you to be happy, Britta. I want you to get settled someplace new where you never have to be afraid again and you can build a happy life for yourself.”
“I know that, but I can’t help that my heart is aching,” she said, the evidence of that ache darkening the blue of her eyes.
“It will pass,” he replied. “Eventually this time with me will be nothing more than an old bad dream. You’ll forget all about it.”
She smiled sadly. “You misunderstand, Ryan. Oh, sure, my heart is broken, but the real sadness I feel is for you. Eventually I probably will go on and love again, although I can’t imagine that it will ever be as strong, as real as what I feel for you. But you’ve closed yourself off and will never know true love, true happiness, and that makes me want to cry for you.”
Her words haunted him later that night as he settled down on the sofa. He was exhausted because he’d only had a couple of hours’ rest the night before, but sleep didn’t come easily.
Was he taking a little boy’s fear and allowing it to dictate the life of a man? Nobody who hadn’t lived through domestic abuse could understand the deep scars it left on the children, scars that he’d carried into his manhood.
Was it a mistake to walk away from Britta and the love she offered with such open arms, such a passionate heart? Maybe he was the biggest fool on the planet.
He thought of Camille Wells, who had been on the verge of tying her life with the handsome assistant district attorney, Grant Bridges, only to be blown off the bluff before taking her vows.
She’d reached out for her future happiness, and fate had intervened. It didn’t seem fair that Ryan’s happiness was only a door away, and yet he refused to grasp it, to grasp her with both hands.
He drifted off to sleep with his heart heavy and the uncertain feeling that somehow with Britta he’d made a horrible mistake.
It was sometime later when his eyes snapped open. He was instantly awake and alert. His hand snaked out to grab the butt of his gun. Something had awakened him, a sound that didn’t belong in the dead of night. But what had it been? What had pulled him from his sleep?
He remained perfectly still, muscles tensed as he waited to identify what exactly had awakened him. A noise came from Britta’s room, then he heard the faint squeak of her bedroom door opening.
His muscles relaxed. Maybe she was thirsty and was going to the kitchen for a drink of water. Nothing indicated to him that she was in any kind of trouble.
He was just about to close his eyes once again when she walked into the living room. The tension that had just begun to ebb away coiled tight inside him as he saw her in the faint spill of moonlight coming from the window.
Clad in the white gauze gown and with the seashell necklace around her neck, she looked like a wraith he’d dreamed up.
Chapter Fifteen
“Britta?” he said softly.
She gave no indication that she’d heard him. She paused a moment and cocked her head to one side but didn’t appear to be aware of his presence. Her bare feet padded against the tiled floor as she headed for the front door.
Ryan hurriedly sat up and grabbed his jeans. He called her name again as he stood and pulled on his pants, then reached for his T-shirt and yanked it over his head. By the time he had his shoes on she’d unlocked the front door and opened it.
As she stepped out into the night where faint moonlight played on the low-lying fog that cloaked the small town, Ryan tried to decide what to do.
Should he wake her? His first instinct was to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her eyes became focused and he knew she was fully awake and out of the control of whatever had her in its grip.
But another part of him whispered that he should wait and watch and see what she did next. It was obvious she was in one of her fugue states, and as she slipped out the door it was also obvious that she was moving with a sense of purpose.
If he woke her now he might never know what this was all about. He decided to wait, to shadow her movements and see where she was going. He’d stay close enough to keep her safe from harm, but he’d allow her to play out whatever was in her drug-addled mind.
She headed down the street and he followed, gun in hand as his gaze swept the area for any imminent danger. The fog seemed to create an unnatural silence.
The streets were still, the cottages dark as the occupants slept. The vapor in the air gave the night an otherworldly appearance, but Ryan kept his focus on the woman in front of him.
The air was close, oppressive and the scents of brine and decaying fish were stronger than he’d ever smelled. The fog seemed to be thickening. As if it had a life of its own it swirled around in the air with what appeared to be ominous intent.
Ryan frowned and mentally shook himself for such fanciful notions. Just stay focused on Britta, he told himself. Keep her safe above all else. He didn’t sense anyone else in the area, didn’t feel the creepy sensation of somebody watching them from the shadows or hidden in the fog. Still, he kept his gaze darting from Britta to either side of the sidewalk, afraid of what might suddenly rush out of the darkness.
She didn’t appear to notice the sidewalk beneath her bare feet and she moved with that jerky, marionettelike walk, as if she were not the one controlling her movements. He had no idea where she was headed, but there was no hesitation in her step.
He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he easily kept four or five paces behind her. It was as if he and Britta were the last people on the face of the earth. No dogs barked, no cars came by, it was just the two of them and the fog that felt like an eerie warm moist breath on his bare skin.
They walked for what seemed like an eternity. Her pace never varied. Slow and steady, she didn’t look left or right, but kept going like a toy with an endless supply of battery power.
Ryan suddenly realized where she was headed. The lighthouse. A shaft of moonlight found an empty space in the clouds and gleamed down like a spotlight on the structure, the light exposing the fire-ravaged upper deck.
Why would she be going there? Ryan tightened his grip on the handle of his gun as a terrible sense of foreboding gripped him. She was going back to where he’d found her, dressed as she had been on that night.
And when she arrived, what would she do? What was the ultimate command that might have been planted into her brain by some sick twist?
A wind picked up, billowing the folds of her gown and making her look like a ghostly apparition. A chill walked up Ryan’s spine.
Although Ryan didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, he was a man who believed in instincts and intuition, and at the moment, even though there was nothing concrete to explain his feelings, he felt as if the very air was rife with evil.
His hand grew sweaty on the butt of the gun and panic stabbed him when, for just a moment, Britta disappeared in a thick bank of fog. He picked up his pace, breathing a sigh of relief when he caught sight of her again.
He felt as if it had been an eternity since they’d walked out of the bungalow door, but a glance at the luminous dial of his watch let him know they had been walking for about seventeen minutes. It was now one-thirty, the time when she should be sound asleep in her bed.
As they drew closer to the lighthouse, her pace began to pick up. She stumbled once and nearly fell, but righted herself as if pulled upward by the strings of a puppeteer.
Stop her, an inner voice whispered. Still, he followed, closer now to her, close enough that he could hear her labored breathing.
The low thrum of panic that had filled him since he’d awakened and seen her standing there in the dirty, gauzy gown and seashell necklace now grew louder and more intense.
Stop her! The voice grew louder in his head. Stop her before it’s too late. But too late for what? Too late for who?
“Britta?” He called her name, his voice sounding oddly muffled as if the fog were a sound barrier and only he could hear himself.
She didn’t falter.
“Britta!” He shouted her name and hurried to catch up with her.
She broke into a run, as if someplace in her mind she knew he wanted to stop her from whatever she was compelled to do.
“Britta, stop!” He managed to grab her by the arm. She jerked away from him and stumbled to one knee. She jumped up and ran toward the water.
Ryan followed and grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Britta, for God’s sake,” he cried as she fought to escape his grasp. “Stop it. Wake up!”
This time was different. When she’d fallen into one of these states before he’d snapped her out of it by merely calling her name. But even with his hands firmly on her shoulders and with him screaming in her face, she stared at him with blank, dead eyes.
“I must go,” she said, her features contorted in frustration. She tried to twist away from him, but he held on tight, knowing he was probably bruising her shoulders by his firm grip, but not caring.
“Go where? Where do you need to go?” he asked.
“To the sea. I need to go to the sea.” Her voice was now a pleasant singsong that iced his very heart, his very soul.
“Why? Why do you need to go to the sea?”
“Please, I must go. It’s what I need to do.” With surprising strength she jerked her shoulders and almost got away from him once again.
They were close enough to the water’s edge that he could feel the spray from the waves, smell the scent of rotting seaweed and fish. He feared that if she got away from him again, she’d be in the water before he could stop her. Something drastic had to be done.
Hoping that she’d forgive him, he raised his hand and slapped her hard across the cheek. She hissed in a breath and stood perfectly still.
She raised a hand to her cheek, the blankness in her gaze ebbing away as she stared up at him.
“Ryan?” His name was a half sob from her lips just before she fainted to the ground.
SHE WAS IN THE SEA, embraced by the water that held her in its loving arms. This was where she was supposed to be. It was her destiny. The water was warm, and for a moment she felt safe and protected as she rocked with the waves.
Then the watery arms that cradled her began to rock her back and forth more forcefully. The water surrounding her grew cold, like an icy wind blowing from an Arctic front, and panic took hold of her.
Her face hurt. Her cheek. And her feet. What on earth had she done to her feet? Then she was aware of the gritty feel of sand and rock beneath her and Ryan calling her name over and over again.
She surfaced from the depths to find herself in his arms on a shore near the lighthouse. And in the resurfacing, she remembered.
Flashes went off in her head like lightbulbs popping and exploding. Image after image crashed through her head. She wrapped her arms around Ryan’s neck, surprised to realize he was saying her name over and over again.
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” she said, and held tight to him. Finally she slowly sat up. She was surprised to find herself in the gown and necklace, equally shocked to realize they were on the beach below the Beacon Manor lighthouse.
“How did I get here?”
“We walked,” he replied.
“That explains my aching bare feet,” she said. She raised a hand to her burning cheek.
“I slapped you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t get you awake and you were going to walk into the ocean.” Even in the dim light she could see the worry in his eyes as he held her hand firmly in his. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “But I remember. Oh, God, Ryan, I remember everything.” Her head filled with the chilling images of the four days she’d endured. She struggled to get to her feet, and Ryan quickly stood and helped her up. “We need to call Patrick Swanson,” she said. “He needs to know what I remember.” She felt sick and she swayed, unsteady on her feet.
Ryan scooped her up into his arms. “We’ll call him from the bungalow. I want you inside where it’s safe.” He began walking.
He asked no questions of her as he carried her home and she was grateful for that. She kept her arms curled tightly around his neck and her head buried in the crook of his neck as he took long, fast strides through the mist.
He held her almost painfully tight, as if afraid she might jump out of his arms and disappear into the thickening mist. But she didn’t mind his arms so tight around her.
When they finally reached the bungalow, he carried her inside and to the sofa, then disappeared into the bathroom where he got a warm washcloth and a basin of water then knelt at her feet.
“What do you remember?” he asked as he gently cleaned off the bottoms of her feet.
She winced as he worked the cloth against the tender skin. “I remember the place where he took me, and we need to find that place, Ryan. It’s important. You need to call Chief Swanson and get him here.”
He finished wiping her feet, then sat back on his haunches. “Do you know who took you?”
She searched the memories that now filled her head. “No, I can’t get a picture of him on the night that he took me from the gazebo, and I don’t remember seeing him at the place where I was held.” She stood, a bit shaky on her feet. “While you call Patrick, I’m going to go change clothes.” She plucked at the gown. “I need to get this off me as soon as possible.”
As she went into the bedroom, she heard Ryan calling Swanson. Her fingers trembled as she took off the necklace that circled her bruised neck. The shells were warm in her hand, as if they had a life of their own. She threw it on the floor, not wanting to touch it another minute.
She then pulled off the gown and tossed it to the floor, grateful to get it away from her skin. She redressed in a pair of jeans and a pale blue lightweight sweater. She needed the warmth of the sweater as a new chill took possession of her body.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she stared at the gown and necklace on the floor, knowing that somehow they were part of a ritual of some kind, a twisted, sick ritual that had almost had her as a leading character.
She returned to the living room where Ryan awaited her. “Patrick will be here in a few minutes.” He patted the sofa next to him.
She sat, and immediately he pulled her close to him, as if he knew she needed his warmth, his strength to go back in time to those missing days.
“I’m not going to ask you any more questions until Patrick gets here,” Ryan said. “I only want you to have to go back there once.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she said, and snuggled closer against him, her love for him casting some of the chill away. “I think maybe I won’t have to worry about the hypnotic commands that were implanted in my head anymore. I think the return of my memory means the drug is finally out of my system.”
He tightened his arm around her, nearly squeezing the air from her. “I hope you’re right. I don’t ever want to go through a night like this again. When you passed out on the beach, I thought I’d lost you forever.”
A knock fell on the door, and almost reluctantly, Ryan untangled himself from her and got up to answer. Patrick Swanson walked in along with a man he introduced as Officer Brent Matthews.
For the first ten minutes of the conversation Ryan laid it all on the line, telling the two about Britta’s real name, that she’d been located here because she’d been a material witness against Boston Gentlemen gangsters and that Michael Kelly had tried to kill her. He explained that Kelly was now in FBI custody and would no longer be bothering anyone in the town of Raven’s Cliff.
Patrick listened intently as Ryan went on to explain to him about what had happened tonight, how Britta had dressed in the gown and necklace and walked to the beach near the lighthouse, determined to lose herself to the sea.
“It was obvi
ous she was in some kind of a trance,” Ryan said. “We think the trances are a residual effect of the drug she was injected with.”
“This Stinging Flower stuff,” Officer Matthews said.
Ryan nodded. “As far as we can tell, this is some sort of homegrown drug. There’s nothing whatsoever about it in the FBI database.”
“So, you were in a trance,” Patrick said, his gaze on Britta.
“Then what happened?”
“I slapped her to bring her around,” Ryan said with an apologetic glance at Britta.
“And when he did, all the memories of those four days came back to me,” she said, finally speaking for the first time.
“I was abducted by a man from the Cliffside Inn’s gazebo the first night that I arrived in town.” She frowned thoughtfully.
“I can’t tell you who did it. Things are a bit fuzzy, but I know he put a cloth over my nose and mouth and I fell unconscious.”
The chill inside her was back, seeping into her very bones, walking icy feelings up her spine. “When I came to I was in a room on a cot. My hands were tied together and one of my ankles was chained to the wall.”
She shivered as she remembered that moment of awaking, of realizing she was in danger yet unable to help herself. She’d tried to get loose, working her hands to escape the rope, pulling the chain to dislodge it from the wall, but she’d been unsuccessful. The worst part was not knowing who had her and why.
“The windows were boarded up, but I knew it was day when I first woke up. I could see light around the boards. I was alone that day, then I heard his footsteps coming, and by then it was night. I remember him coming into the room,” she continued, grateful when Ryan grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. “He gave me a shot, and things get fuzzy after that.”
“Did you know who he was?” Patrick asked.
“No, and I know it sounds strange but I have no memory of what he looks like,” she replied. “I can’t seem to get a visual picture of his face.”
With the Material Witness in the Safehouse Page 16