Land's End

by Marta Perry

  “They’re here.” Derek’s voice was in her ear. “Go on.”

  She burst through into the clearing in front of the cottage. Race across, heart pounding. Run up the steps. Fling the door open.

  Her momentum carried her several feet into the room before her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was empty. They weren’t here. Her heart seemed to stop. Jonathan had taken Trent somewhere else. Even now, he could be dead.

  No! The pain that arrowed through her heart told her the truth. She loved him. And he was in mortal danger.

  “They’re not here. We have to go. We have to find Trent.”

  “Don’t worry.” Derek’s voice was soft. “He’ll find us.”

  She swung around, staring at him. At the gun in his hand, pointed at her heart. At the expression that subtly distorted his face, letting malice show through the pleasant, ordinary facade of the man she’d considered a friend.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah?” His voice mocked.

  “You.” She could barely take it in. “It was you.”

  He smiled. “Are you going to say you can’t believe it? You never suspected me, did you? All your investigating went for nothing. You never even looked at me.”

  “You—but you weren’t having an affair with Lynette.”

  “No.” Something flickered in his eyes and was gone. “Maybe I loved her once, but Trent took her away from me.”

  “He’s your brother—”

  “Half brother!” Anger reverberated through the word. “He deserted me. You think I owe him? I don’t! This wasn’t about love. It was about money. Lots and lots of money. Trent didn’t think I was smart enough to have a real role in the company, but I was smart enough to steal from him for years, and he never suspected a thing.”

  She saw. Finally. Too late. Please, Lord, help me. “It was Miles you wanted to kill, wasn’t it? He’d have found you out. Told Trent.”

  “I didn’t give him a chance!” His anger spurted again, dangerously. “Too bad I had to use Lynette, but with her dead, too, everyone would think it was about love, not money.”

  She saw now that it was too late. He’d rigged the gas. And if it hadn’t finished them, he’d have been ready to do something else.

  “How did you get them here?”

  “So easy. I told Lynette Trent wanted her to meet him here.”

  “And you told Miles the same.” Easy, he’d said.

  “Miles suspected something. I had to hit him, knock him out. But Lynette was already unconscious, so it didn’t matter.” He seemed to be congratulating himself.

  She took a step backward, searching with her mind’s eye for a weapon. She’d only been in the room once, but emotion had painted it clearly on her mind.

  “You sent those notes to Melissa.” Talk to him. It was her only defense, the only way to keep him from pulling the trigger.

  He took a step toward her, the gun never wavering. “She saw me coming out of her mother’s room the day I took a letter to fake the suicide note. I thought I’d keep her too upset to wonder about that.”

  Fury burned in her. He’d tormented a child he claimed to care for. Well, that was the answer, wasn’t it? He didn’t really care about anyone but himself. Sometime during those years with an abusive mother, he’d learned to disassociate himself from the rest of the human race.

  “It didn’t do you any good, did it? Lizbet took the letter.” She edged a step toward the fireplace and the poker that leaned carelessly against its stone.

  “Lizbet interfered. Like you.”

  Her mind on the poker, she didn’t even see the blow coming. The backhanded sweep knocked her off her feet, her head colliding painfully with the floor. Before she could do more than blink at the rush of tears, he’d dragged her hands behind her.

  Rough cord tightened. Something not as heavy as mooring line—she’d seen it, hadn’t she, lying carelessly at his feet while he’s steered the boat? He’d come prepared.

  “Derek, don’t do this.” She struggled to keep a sob out of her voice. “You won’t get away with it. Trent will—”

  He nudged her with his foot. “Trent will come. He’s already gotten the message I left, saying you’re in danger.” His face twisted in a parody of his pleasant smile. “He’ll run to rescue you, just as you did to rescue him. Then there’ll be another murder/suicide. Poetic, isn’t it?”

  “No one will believe that.” She twisted her hands against the rope.

  “They will.” He sounded almost tranquil. “No one but you wanted to look into Lynette and Miles’s deaths. They won’t look too closely at your death, either.” He took a step away from her. “Now, I really have to get outside. I think you’ll shoot Trent coming up the path before shooting yourself. Your fingerprints will be on the gun. No one will think twice about it.”

  The door banged shut behind him. She choked on a sob. She had to act. She couldn’t wait for Derek to kill them. Trent. Her heart contracted. He could be coming up the path even now.

  Please, Father. Show me what to do. We can’t die like this. Help me. Help us. She strained against the ropes. Panic rushed through her, rising in her throat like a scream.

  If she screamed, would Trent hear and be warned? Or would that make him rush faster to his fate?

  We can’t be destined to die here, Father. Enough injustice has been done here. Lynette. Miles. Trent coming here to grieve for what had happened, his anger when she’d intruded—

  The glass. He’d smashed a glass vase against the wood stacked in the fireplace. Surely no one would have cleaned it up.

  She rolled across the hooked rug to the fireplace. Yes, there it was—a large, jagged chunk of the glass sparkled where a shaft of sunlight hit it. Thank You, Father.

  She wiggled closer, groping blindly with her hands behind her back. Where? Where? Her fingertips fumbled against stone, embers, kindling. And then, finally, glass.

  A moment’s effort, the cost of a few drops of blood, and she had it positioned against the rope. She sawed, fighting for the angle that would cut through the rope. Please, Lord, please, Lord.

  She felt a strand break through. One down, how many to go? Too many? Panic rose again, and she sought for something to calm it. Focus, focus.

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. The beautiful old words echoed in her mind like the ringing of crystal. She sawed in time with them, and they held back the terror.

  Before she reached the end of the Psalm, the rope parted. Thank You, Lord. She scrambled to her feet and heard the roar of a boat motor. Trent, rushing to the rescue. Rushing to death.

  Think, think. You’ll only have one chance. Her fingers closed over the cool, hard poker. One chance would have to do.

  She crept to the door, a prayer running like a silent litany behind her active thoughts. Careful, careful. Ease the door open, hope he doesn’t hear. Heart pounding, she peered through the crack.

  “Sarah!” Trent’s voice shouted her name, and she heard his footsteps, pounding up the path.

  She didn’t dare shout back, give away her position to Derek. Where was he? Clutching the poker, she eased the door open a little more and nearly choked on a gasp. Derek stood only a few feet away, his back to her, gun held steady in his right hand, aimed at the opening of the path.

  Even as she raised the poker, Trent burst through the bushes. She imagined the poker connecting with fragile skull, killing. She swung at the gun arm instead, connecting just as he fired, the explosion of the gun echoing with Derek’s shrill scream. He staggered, falling from the porch, the gun flying.

  Trent stood, clutching his chest, looking at her with an expression of surprise. Then his knees buckled and he went down.

  EIGHTEEN

  Terror choked her as she shot like a bullet off the porch, racing toward him. Trent. Dear Lord, let him be alive.

  Sarah sent a frantic glance over her shoulder. Where was Derek? He stumbled to his feet, glaring after her, mouthing something she was glad she couldn’t hear. If he came after her
—But no, he was searching for the gun, sweeping his hand through the weeds, giving her precious seconds to reach Trent.

  He stirred as she dropped to her knees beside him, trying to swing his body up. She grabbed him, hands groping for the source of the blood that stained his shirt. Shoulder, thank You, Father, not the chest, not the lung.

  But bad enough if she didn’t get the bleeding stopped. She pressed the heel of her hand against it, and he grunted, the pain shooting his eyes open.

  “Sarah. What—”

  “He’s found the gun.” She grabbed Trent’s good arm, saw Derek’s smile of triumph, saw him raise the gun, aim at them—

  They dove for the dense undergrowth. She didn’t know whether she pulled Trent or he’d pulled her. Branches closed around them like a shield, but they wouldn’t stop a bullet.

  Quickly, quietly, work through the tall grass, hear Derek’s frustrated shout behind them. Hurry, stumbling, brambles tearing at clothes and skin. A wiry vine snared her foot, pitching her off balance.

  Trent caught her, falling, and they both went down behind the thick, gnarled trunk of a cypress. His body pressed her against it, and he put his mouth against her ear.

  “Wait,” he whispered. “Listen. See where he is.”

  She nodded. Let Trent listen. She had to stop that bleeding, or he wouldn’t be able to move at all. She tugged the shirt from his shoulder, automatically assessing the wound. Not life threatening, she’d have said in the emergency room, but they weren’t in an emergency room.

  She wadded a piece of the shirt against the wound, pressing hard.

  Trent’s breath caught. “Nice going, Doctor,” he whispered. “You trying to make me pass out?”

  “You’ll pass out anyway if I don’t slow the bleeding.” But his words encouraged her. Trent was strong. He’d be all right, if he was treated properly.

  But first they had to escape a maniac with a gun.

  Trent put his cheek against hers. “I don’t hear him. We’d better try to circle around, get to the boat.”

  Derek would think that’s what they’d do. But what choice did they have? Trent couldn’t play hide-and-seek out here for long. Once he collapsed, she’d never get him to safety.

  She nodded. Please, Lord. She put her arm around Trent’s waist, bearing as much of his weight as he’d allow. One step, then another, and they were in the water up to their knees.

  Luckily Trent seemed to know the way. She was totally disoriented. Her mind shuddered away from the thought of the other creatures that might occupy the swampy water with them.

  Trent stumbled, dragging her down with him, on their knees in the water. His face was gray under the tan, his pulse ragged under her fingers. His chances were going down with every moment that passed.

  He jerked his head toward the clump of thick growth ahead of them. “There. Beyond that, water. Few yards to boats.”

  She hitched her arm around him, feeling him sag against her. A few yards, but he might not have a few yards in him.

  Give me strength, Father. I don’t have enough of my own.

  Somehow her legs worked, her arms held. They stumbled forward. Too late to worry about the noise they were making. Just get there, that’s all she could do. They broke through the tangled brush. The dock slept peacefully in the sun, off to their left.

  “In the water,” Trent murmured. “Keep low. Get to my boat.”

  He was right, of course. They’d make less of a target in the water, but where was Derek? Had he gone back to the cottage, thinking they might shelter there?

  They staggered into the water, mud beneath their feet, dragging at them. Falling again, but water to cushion them this time. Half swimming, half crawling, saltwater buoying them, bracing for a bullet. where was Derek, where was he—

  Her outstretched hand touched the first boat. Thank You, Father.

  “Easy.” She got her shoulder under Trent’s good arm, her heart failing. How was she going to get him into the boat?

  They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings as eagles—

  She surged upward, Trent grabbed the side of the boat, muscles straining, gasping for breath. And then they were in, lying sprawled half on the seat, dripping and exhausted, but alive. Alive.

  “We did it.” She grabbed Trent, willing him to be conscious. “We made it.”

  His eyes flickered open, a ghost of a smile touching pale lips. “We did.”

  “So you did.” The voice was cold and deadly. Derek loomed over them, gun steady in his hand, aimed at Trent’s head.

  Trent managed to pull a strangled breath into his lungs. Now was not the moment to pass out, leaving Sarah to face Derek on her own. His mind struggled to measure the distance to the ignition, the time it would take to start the motor—

  Too much. They’d both be dead by then.

  He forced himself upright, putting himself between Sarah and the gun. Buy her another moment of life.

  She doesn’t deserve this, Lord. Maybe I do, but Sarah doesn’t. Save her.

  “Why?” His voice sounded unfamiliar in his ears, maybe because his head roared with the effort of staying upright. “Why, Derek? I trusted you. You’re my brother.”

  “Brother?” Derek stepped from the dock to the boat, setting it rocking slightly. The tremor made Trent stagger, but Derek stood easily, balanced on the balls of his feet, his smile mocking. “Half brother, you mean.”

  He let the movement push him down onto the bench seat next to Sarah. Nothing there to help them, but the locker next to it had been left open.

  “I always treated you like my brother.” Keep his eyes focused on Derek, hope his body hid the hand that fumbled for the locker, groping for anything that might be a weapon. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Ask your friend Sarah.” Derek wiggled the gun in her direction.

  Panic ripped through him. Keep the focus on himself, keep Derek’s anger and hatred directed at him. “Sarah’s got nothing to do with this. This is about us, you and me. What is it—didn’t I give you a big enough salary? Didn’t I send you to the right school?”

  “Salary. School. Is that all you can think of—the things your money can buy? I wanted to pay you back, you get that?” Derek’s face twisted with so much hatred, Trent almost didn’t recognize his little brother. “You were the lucky one. You got out. You had the grandparents that got you away from her.”

  “I tried to help you.” His hand closed over a wrench, and hope flared. “I came back for you when I could.”

  “Too late. It was all too late! I trusted you, and you left me there with her.” It was the voice of his little brother, crying in the dark.

  “Derek—” His vision blurred, and he felt the strength pouring out of him. “I love you,” he murmured.

  Derek shook his head, raised the gun. The roar of a motor rent the air. A siren screamed. Derek’s face whipped toward the sound. With the last fragment of will, Trent swung the wrench toward Derek, knocking the gun away, feeling his strength gone, plummeting toward the deck.

  Sarah cried something, lunged toward him. He tried to tell her to run but he couldn’t form the words. Derek moved, leaping to the dock. Then to the other boat. The engine roared, whining from them, away from the approaching police boat.

  Sarah’s hands, cool on his face. Sarah’s voice, sobbing. “Don’t you die. Don’t you dare die.”

  Something he had to tell her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Hold her face in your mind. Slip away into the dark.

  “He’s going to be all right.” Sarah held Melissa against her, praying she was speaking the truth. “Your father is strong.”

  They waited in the staff lounge at the clinic, huddled together on the sofa, fending off constant offers of coffee, tea, soup, prayer. Everyone wanted to help, and the love that poured out of them was tangible. They almost erased the terror. But not quite.

  Images roared through her mind. The gun in Derek’s hand, looking like the mouth of a ca
nnon. The grief on Trent’s face when he realized that the brother he loved hated him. The blood pouring out of him, staining her hands as she tried to stop it, all her prayers reduced to one word. Please.

  “He was bleeding so much.” Melissa echoed her thought. “I’m afraid.”

  “I know you are.” She stroked the girl’s hair. “You saved us, Melissa. Don’t forget that. You saved us.”

  If Melissa hadn’t been frightened at seeing her rush away with Derek, seeing her father follow, if she hadn’t gone to Geneva, insisted on calling the police—

  They’d be dead now, she and Trent. Derek might not have gotten away with it, but they wouldn’t have been around to know.

  The door swung open. Dr. Sam looked gray with fatigue, but he was smiling. “Lucky for him he had the good sense to have a doctor with him when he got shot. He’s going to be fine.”

  Melissa choked on a sob and buried her face in Sarah’s shoulder. “You saved him.”

  Sarah cupped the girl’s face in her hands and looked into her eyes. “You saved both of us. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Melissa’s mouth firmed, and suddenly she looked very like her father. “I won’t.”

  “Can we see him now?” She lifted her eyebrows at Sam.

  “Sure thing.” He held the door open for them. “Go right in. Esther’s got the police and the press corralled outside, and she won’t let anybody in until you’re ready.”

  She clutched Melissa’s hand tightly as they crossed the hall. She suspected the girl’s mind was filled with the same song hers was. Thank You, Father. Thank You.

  Trent lay propped up in the bed, and his face turned toward them the instant the door opened. For an instant no one moved. Then he held out his good hand toward his daughter. With a strangled sob, she ran to him. His arm closed around her.

  Sarah’s throat tightened, and she strained to hold back tears. Maybe she should leave them alone—

  Trent looked at her, over his daughter’s head, and he managed the ghost of a smile. “Come. Please.”

  Her step felt ridiculously light as she crossed the room to his bed. “How do you feel?”