by Marta Perry
He glanced at Trent. “If you don’t need me, I’ll drive out to the north end and see if I can locate her.”
“Fine.” He hoped he didn’t sound as abrupt as he felt. There seemed no end to the paths Sarah wanted to follow, but none of them would lead to happiness.
Robert walked away.
Sarah swung toward him, her expression antagonistic. He’d cooperated, hadn’t he? What else did she want?
“Did you fire Guy O’Hara because he was Miles’s friend?” The condemnation in her green eyes told him she’d already decided that was true.
He glanced over her shoulder at Derek, tinkering with a tune on the piano but obviously listening with all his might. He took Sarah firmly by the elbow.
“Let’s get some air.”
She didn’t make any protest as he led her out the French doors and onto the veranda. Once they’d moved a safe distance from the open doors, he turned to face her.
The moonlight touched her face, exposing the impatient frown that creased her forehead. “Well?”
“I fired O’Hara because he was an unreliable alcoholic who wouldn’t get the help he needed. The only reason I kept him as long as I did was because Miles covered for him.”
Her expression turned uncertain. “He did?”
“Yes. You didn’t know that?”
“No. I didn’t.” Something lost showed in her eyes, wringing his heart unexpectedly. “I thought I knew all about Miles’s friends, but he didn’t tell me that.”
He shifted, unsure what to say. “Maybe he didn’t think it was important. Or he didn’t think you’d approve.”
She winced. “I suppose so.”
“Have you talked to O’Hara?”
“Briefly.” She seemed to censor her words. “He didn’t have anything helpful to say.”
“I don’t suppose he would.”
Sarah turned, leaning against the railing to look out over the strip of pale, glistening sand to the ocean beyond. “I thought he might remember something.”
“What could he remember?” He stood next to her. Moonlight traced a silvery path along the water, but like so many things, it wasn’t real. On either side of that illusory path, dark water moved restlessly, hiding what lay beneath.
“I don’t know.” The sleeve of her soft sweater brushed his arm. “Something. Surely if Lynette and Miles were involved, someone saw something. Knew something.”
“They were discreet. They’d have to be.” He heard the grimness in his tone.
“Even so—” She let that drop and looked up at him, her hair falling away from her face and exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. “Did you talk to Gifford?”
“Yes.” He bit off the word. But she deserved more than that, didn’t she? “He swears there was no note. The notebook had nothing written in it, just a few pages torn out.”
“You believe him.”
“I don’t have any reason not to. He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“I suppose not.” She still didn’t sound convinced.
“Sarah, you’re twisting everything to suit your own theory. Don’t you suppose if there was any evidence of something other than an affair, I’d jump at it?”
“I don’t know.” Pain twisted her words. “I just know I have to look at every possibility. And you won’t.”
Her pain caught at him sharply. He clasped her hands in his, feeling that instant connection and knowing that she felt it, too.
“Sarah—” Almost without thought he drew her closer.
Her eyes wide and dark, she swayed toward him.
“No!”
The sharp cry had them both spinning toward the steps. Melissa stood there, staring at them, her face an angry, accusing mask.
“Melissa—” He took a step toward her.
“I saw you. I saw you standing like that before—at Adriana’s party last year. You thought no one saw you, but I did.”
“It didn’t mean anything.” Strain tightened Sarah’s voice.
“You’re the reason my mother was unhappy.” She flung the words at Sarah like a missile. “I hate you.”
She whirled and ran into the house.
Sarah’s breath caught on a sob. “I should go after her.”
“No.” He came to his senses then and knew it was the worst thing they could do. “Leave it alone, Sarah. We’ve done enough damage already. Just leave my daughter alone.”
If she wasn’t lost, she soon would be. Sarah drove down a narrow road the next night, trying to follow the directions Robert Butler had given her. He’d said Lizbet’s house would be difficult to find, and he was right.
Robert had set up a meeting for nine o’clock, when Lizbet had promised to be at her house waiting. Sarah had left Land’s End early, knowing nothing on the island was easy to find at night. Houses and shops hid in the darkness behind the lush vegetation that always seemed about to overwhelm them.
She’d turned off the main road onto one of the many narrow lanes that wound through the maritime forest. No big houses or swimming pools at this end of the island. Once in a while the trees grudgingly gave way to a clearing with a small house or a barn and a few cultivated acres. Otherwise all she could see was the thick growth of pines and the live oaks draped with Spanish moss, reflecting silvery green and ghostlike from her headlights.
Depression blossomed in a place like this, in the gathering dusk, and it had come all too easily after Miles’s death. What was she doing on such a fruitless quest? Just because Bobby Whiting had said Lizbet went to Cat Isle to gather her moss, that didn’t mean she’d seen anything.
She forced herself to repel the gloomy thoughts. They’d debilitate her if she let them, sapping her strength and her determination. She had to go on. She’d caused so much trouble already that anything was better than not knowing.
Trouble for herself, for Trent, for Melissa. The thought of the girl’s sensitive face, twisted with grief and anger, tore at her heart. If Trent had let her talk to Melissa—
But what could she have said? Melissa had seen them and had recognized instinctively the attraction that surged between them. They hadn’t acted on the attraction, but they’d felt it, and Melissa had known.
It’s all so tangled, Lord. I hope Melissa was mistaken, that I didn’t cause her mother’s sorrow, but how can I know? If Lynette sensed something, too…
And that was yet another burden of grief and guilt. Rationally she might know that she hadn’t done anything wrong, but somehow that didn’t ease the weight.
The road narrowed yet again, so that the forest pressed menacingly, ready to swallow the slight strip of sand and gravel with a single gulp. Spanish moss slapped against her windshield, fragments breaking off and clinging as if they’d attach to the car as they did to the oaks.
She had to be lost. Somewhere, at one of the many small turnings that she’d thought were driveways, she’d missed the main road and driven herself deep into the forest.
Father, I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. Let me see Your path before me.
The road, always erratic, seemed to peter out entirely. A small deer bounded in front of her, and she slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. The deer leapt on without a backward glance. She clutched the wheel, letting her pulse slow. If she had an accident here, would anyone find her?
At least people knew where she’d gone—or where she’d been attempting to go. After the anger Trent had shown when she’d gone to the storage locker without telling anyone, she’d taken the precaution of making sure Geneva knew about tonight’s excursion.
Now there was nothing in her headlight beams but tall grass. No road. She’d have to turn around and go back, hoping to find someone who could tell her where she’d gone wrong. She drew forward into the grass, turning the wheel.
Something reflected whitely when the headlight hit it. A gravestone. She wasn’t lost after all. She’d found the cemetery.
She parked and got out slowly, gripping the flashlight Robert had advised her to bring.
How right he’d been. And luckily she’d worn sturdy shoes and long pants for the trek through the cemetery. But where was the house?
She’d only taken a few steps when she spotted it—a black rectangle against a darkening sky. One window showed a feeble yellow gleam, but that was the only sign of life.
Shining her flashlight on the tall grass, she started cautiously forward. It was really a pity that she was such a city girl at heart.
Evening hadn’t brought much coolness to the air once she’d gotten away from the shore. It clung to her, heavy and oppressive, as if she wore a wet wool blanket. Her hair stuck to her neck, and she swatted at a mosquito that attempted to dive-bomb her arm.
A tall monument reared itself skyward on her right, topped with a weeping angel. Her light picked out the lettering, worn shallow by years of weathering. Rufus Allen, 1801–1889. Rufus had had a long life.
A sweep of the torch showed her a wife buried on either side of him, their tombstones suitably smaller. In front was a row of four small stones, each holding a stone lamb. Her heart clenched. Infant mortality rates had improved over the years, thank the Lord.
Rufus’s tombstone would be a good marker to the car on her way back. She was half tempted to leave the headlights on, but it was senseless to risk a dead battery. Her eyes already grew accustomed to the dark.
She went on, the damp grass brushing her legs, swinging the torchlight ahead of her. She tried to cut in a straight line toward the house, but the tombstones were set in nothing that resembled straight rows. Her light touched one with a rounded top, moss-covered, the lettering worn to oblivion—one of the oldest ones, probably. The Ebenezer graveyard had been here since the earliest settlement on the island. In fact, it was probably the graveyard of Robert’s folktale.
Like Robert, she was a good Christian who didn’t believe ghost stories. Nevertheless, there was something a bit uncanny about walking through the deserted cemetery alone at night.
Not that the cemetery was entirely deserted. The night was alive with chirpings, whisperings, the cries of night creatures she couldn’t possibly identify. City girl, she thought again.
Something sounded near her that was uncommonly like a human footfall. She spun around, her heart in her throat, holding the flashlight like a weapon.
A raccoon stared solemnly back at her, his masked eyes oddly menacing. She gave a shaky laugh.
“Am I trespassing on your territory? I’ll soon be gone.”
He turned his tail to her, apparently unimpressed.
Ridiculous, for her heart to be thumping this way. She was only yards from the house now. She should call out to let Lizbet Jackson know she was coming, so she wouldn’t startle her.
Even as she formed the thought, the shrill yapping of dogs assaulted her ears. The barking accompanied a metallic sound, as if the dogs leaped against a fence or pen. She half expected to see a door open, hear a voice call out, but nothing happened except that the dogs’ clamor grew even louder.
A shiver went down her spine. They sounded positively frantic, menacing, as if they’d burst through the fence and attack her for daring to come near.
I’m not afraid. Well, I am, but You are with me.
Another rustle sounded behind her. The raccoon was nothing if not persistent. He must think a human was a source of food. She turned. She’d yell at it, scare it away—
The darkness was cleft by movement. She barely saw a dark figure, the shape of a heavy branch coming at her, barely heard the hoarse intake of breath. Then the branch hit, pain exploding in her shoulder and arm, sending her staggering, stumbling, falling into darkness.
ELEVEN
Her mind couldn’t comprehend what had happened, but her body worked on instinct, sending her rolling away from another blow that could have killed—but he was on her, so close, the branch swinging upward to plummet down again in its deadly arc.
Without thinking she struck out with the only weapon she had—the heavy flashlight. If she could intercept the blow…The branch struck the flashlight and she heard the cylinder shatter in the same instant that the lights went out, leaving her alone in the dark with someone who wanted to hurt her, maybe even kill her.
Her vivid imagination presented her with an image of the heavy branch crashing into her skull, shattering bone as readily as it had metal and glass. A wave of terror ricocheted through her, setting every nerve vibrating. No one who was intent on robbery or rape would stage so violent an attack.
Think. She had to stop acting on instinct. He was as trapped by the darkness as she was. Unless—a second ticked by, then another. No light came on. Either he didn’t have a flashlight or he was unwilling to turn it on.
A separate thrill of fear went through her. She must not see her attacker, for fear she might recognize him.
Listen. The night sounds that had filled the cemetery as she walked had ceased, shut off by the murderous presence. Even the dogs had gone quiet, as if they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.
She held her breath. Swish. Swish. She knew what he did, as surely as if she could see him.
He swung the branch in a wide arc through the grass, searching for her. The sound increased. He was drawing nearer. If she didn’t move quickly, he’d be on her.
She forced her legs to move, to creep backward through the grass, every movement a separate chance for him to hear her. Please. Her mind sobbed a prayer. Be with me now. Hide me.
The tall grass closed around her. Before it had been a danger; now it was a sanctuary. The human menace terrified her far more than any night creature could.
She flattened herself to the ground. When she looked up, the grass around her made a tunnel through which she saw the sky. Full dark now, thank the Lord. Dense clouds covered the moon. She hadn’t even noticed when she’d had the flashlight on. Her ignorance could kill her if she weren’t careful.
Freeze, listen. Pretend you’re one of the marsh creatures—a rabbit hiding in the shadows from a hawk. The swish-swish sounded ever nearer, methodical as death’s scythe. He searched for her, making ever-widening circles. If she screamed—
If she screamed, Lizbet would hear, but what could she do? She didn’t have a phone, and Sarah’s spirit cringed away from the thought of bringing the elderly woman out into danger.
She couldn’t. But he was coming closer. He’d find her.
Her heart pounded so loud that he must hear it. She’d let panic take over, freezing her to the feeble shelter of the grass. The grass wouldn’t protect her from the force of a blow. She couldn’t wait for him to find her. Wait to die.
Die. The word galvanized her, sending adrenaline pounding. She had to move. This wasn’t an attempt to frighten her, as shutting her in the storage locker might have been. If she hadn’t turned when she did, thanks to the raccoon, that first blow would have landed on her skull. Even now her left shoulder throbbed from the glancing strike.
She moved her fingers cautiously, feeling pins and needles. At least they moved. Her arm—she realized she’d been holding it clamped against her side. She flexed it, sending pain radiating. Nothing broken, she didn’t think, but useless in a fight.
Silently she crept backward, always keeping the sound of his approach in front of her—an atavistic impulse not to turn her back on the enemy. Please, God, please, God.
Her foot hit something. Hard. Stone. One of the gravestones. She crept into its denser shadow. She was suddenly a child of eight or nine, playing hide-and-seek on a summer night, searching out the deepest shadows, knowing her pale hair would give her away in the slightest glimmer of light.
And on the thought, the moon came from behind the cloud, etching the graveyard in silver and black, a living scene with all the color leached out of it. She could see the figure now, a black bulk, face masked with something dark, too shrouded to betray even its sex. He was closer than she’d hoped. She couldn’t stay, but she couldn’t move—
Her foot hit something that clattered, obscenely shattering the silence—
a metal vase that clanked against the stone and sent the black figure whirling toward her.
No hiding now. Run.
She scrambled to her feet, running desperately in the direction she thought the car was. She could scream now, but she sobbed for breath. Save the breath for running. A step lost could mean he caught her.
She had a head start. If she could get to the car, get inside, lock it, she’d be safe. Had she locked the doors? She didn’t remember. She glanced up, frantic to locate the car.
The moment’s inattention cost her dearly. She stumbled, felt the ground rushing at her, caught herself, stumbled on, but he was closer. She could hear him, could practically feel his breath. She wasn’t going to make it; he was going to catch her—
Someone turned off the lights.
The moon went behind a cloud, the darkness swept down to cover her. In that last instant of moonlight she’d seen it—the tall monument with the weeping angel atop. Without thinking, she dove for its shelter, clutching cold stone like a savior.
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock.
She caught her breath. She couldn’t see him, but she could hear him. He’d gone back to swishing the branch through the grass, coming nearer. She mentally measured the distance to the car, clinging to the rock, reluctant to let go. To run, exposing herself again in a last perilous flight.
But already the blessed darkness thinned. The clouds moved on, driven by an impersonal wind. In another moment it would be bright again. She had to move now.
Please.
She plunged toward the car, seeing chrome gleam as the moon came out, hearing him behind her, praying the door was unlocked, stumbling, fingers connecting with metal, fumbling for the handle, feeling it swing open.
Thank You, Lord, that it wasn’t locked.
Diving into the seat, slamming the door, locking it. The dark figure soared toward the car, raising the branch, ready to shatter windows to get at her.
Look at the ignition, not at him, force the key in, turn it. The motor roared, the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. She stamped on the gas and saw the attacker lurch backward as she rocketed past.