“Our resourceful Naomi,” Reed said with a laugh. He had snowshoes on and was standing in the snow next to the walk, his poles secured properly on his wrists.
Naomi pointed down to the water, at a trail winding atop the rocky coastline. “It looks romantic, doesn’t it?” She squinted at Mike. “We’ll count on you to call 911 if we go down.”
The trail would be tougher going in boots than on skis or snowshoes, but the snow wasn’t that deep. Ice would be a bigger problem given the proximity to the water. But it wasn’t as if they were off for a full day’s trek. Thirty minutes and they’d be back by the fire, with hot cocoa and whiskey.
Thirty seconds onto the trail, Buddy’s snowshoe came off. “Mike? Any tips?”
“Back strap needs to be on the heel.”
Buddy grinned. “Duh.”
The wind gusted, and Serena swore and pointed at the inn with one of her poles. “I surrender. I’m going back in and sitting by the fire with Ted. You all have fun.”
Mike amended his assessment. If they lasted twenty minutes, that would be a good day.
Fine with him.
He scanned the area for a spot one of them could have Emma hidden away, then warned himself against such thinking. It was one thing to be on alert. It was another thing to jump that far ahead of the facts.
Regardless, they would all be back by the time Colin arrived.
21
Emma stood as close to the edge of the loft as she dared and took the leap, grabbing hold of a rafter above her and swinging feetfirst to the window. She anchored her feet on the half-rotted sill, her arms hooked around the sturdy crossbeam. She’d considered removing her boots before climbing up to the loft but decided the risks of them causing her problems getting out of the shed were less than the problems of being outside in her stockinged feet.
She kicked the glass with the heel of her boot. The glass cracked immediately. When she gave it another hard kick, the entire window dislodged unexpectedly, falling into the snow. A few pieces of glass splintered on the floor near where she’d placed the sheepskins.
Her arms ached, the beam cutting into her as she steadied herself, maintaining her balance. Flailing out of control wouldn’t help.
She could see the rot now around the window. She hoped her weight wouldn’t collapse the wall, but she would have to take her chances. Cold air seeped in through the opening. She welcomed it as a sign of imminent freedom.
Moving quickly but deliberately, she eased herself into the opening, still hanging on to the beam as she scanned the ground under the window. Snow had drifted in front of the shed, probably from blowing off the roof. That was good, she thought. Deeper snow would help cushion her landing. She would have to take care to avoid the remains of the fallen window, especially any broken glass.
“No time like the present,” she said aloud, then swung into the window.
In one swift motion, she launched herself into the cold air, letting go of the beam and dropping into the snow more or less feetfirst. She rolled onto her side, getting snow in her face, down her back, up her sleeves. She was breathing hard, but she’d managed to avoid injury. Snow she could handle.
She let snowflakes melt on her tongue, grateful for the moisture after hours without water, and got her bearings. The shed was about fifty feet from the water’s edge. The door would be on the opposite side, presumably facing the road.
Catching her breath, Emma moved out of the thigh-deep drift into snow that was closer to knee-deep. She took in the disturbed snow from her fall, her footprints, the broken window. If her attacker returned, it would be obvious she had escaped.
The cedar shingles on the exterior of the shed were stained brick red, faded in the Maine sun. It took a moment to orient herself. She was north of Rock Point, near an old, abandoned lightkeeper’s house and small seasonal homes—off the main road, along a narrow back road that dead-ended at the lightkeeper’s house.
Why here?
Emma let the question go. Questions—and answers—would have to wait.
She needed to get moving.
She spotted a six-inch shard of glass sticking up out of the snow and decided to take it with her, in case it came in handy. Holding it in one hand, she walked through knee-deep snow to the front of the shed and a plowed driveway that, as she’d expected, went right up to the door. Although empty now, the shed was probably used for storage. She wondered if the owner realized it was in such bad shape. At least her escape through the window had exposed the rotted window casing.
She squinted against the snow and sunlight at a small, cedar-shingled house across the one-lane road. The shades were pulled, suggesting it was a seasonal home. Emma suspected the shed was part of the same property. In summer, she’d be able to flag a lobster boat or wave to kids checking out tide pools down on the rocks. The tide was low now, adding to the quiet, the sense of isolation.
She debated breaking into the house, but it was unlikely she’d find a working landline. A waste of time and energy for no good reason.
She noticed the shed door was tied tightly shut with bungee cords. Her attacker had taken more time and care locking her in than tying her up, but she could see the logic behind it. It had been dark, with no worries about passing boats, cars or lovers enjoying a moonlight walk down to the water.
There was no need for her to unlatch the door now. She knew what was inside, and the sheepskins and packaging materials were no help to her.
This all could wait.
She licked her lips, but they were chapped and sore from dehydration and the cold. A hint of what the rest of her was like, Emma thought. She noticed a twinge in her right hip where she’d banged it on her way up to the loft. Otherwise she felt strong, able to walk to the main road and find a way to alert local police.
And Yank, her team.
Colin.
Holding on to her bit of glass, she walked in the middle of the one-lane road out to the main road that wound along the coastline. She came to a cluster of small summer houses and turned onto the road toward Rock Point, a cold wind in her face. Late February meant the road was quiet—but did it matter? With her attacker unknown to her, possibly returning, did she want to flag down a passing car?
She heard a vehicle behind her, out of sight on a curve, and ducked off the road, over a snowbank and behind a spruce tree. She stood quiet. She didn’t recognize the car and let it pass by her. It wasn’t that far to Rock Point. She could make it on foot.
After another hundred yards, she heard an oncoming vehicle—a truck, she guessed. She eased off the road again, but there was no spruce tree to hide behind this time.
Then she smiled as the truck came into view. “I’d know that truck anywhere.”
She staggered back onto the road and waved as the truck came to a hard stop.
Colin jumped out. “Emma,” he said through clenched teeth, running toward her.
She laughed, sinking into him, feeling his strong arms around her, lifting her. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
“You’re safe now.” He breathed into her hair. “Emma...”
“I’m not hurt,” she said quickly, standing back from him, hugging her coat around her. “I was taken at St. Patrick’s rectory.”
“Picking up a package from Oliver York.”
“You know?” She tried to smile, but she was shivering, the cold and snow melting down her back, up her arms and in her boots affecting her. “Of course you know. I was locked in a shed. I escaped about twenty minutes ago.”
Colin eased the piece of glass from her fingers. “I need to call Kevin. We were about to search between the rectory and the Plum Tree Inn.”
“You’d have found me,” Emma said.
He winked at her. “Damn straight we would have.”
“Why are you on this road?”
“Mike is at the Plum Tree with friends he knew in the army. I was headed there.”
“Mike?”
“The FBI agent Oliver York saw is there, too
. Ted Kavanagh. Know him?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“All right.” Colin touched her arm. “You need water and rest. We can talk later.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I love you.”
She struggled to contain her emotions. They bubbled up, mixing with exhaustion and adrenaline, threatening to overwhelm her. “Oliver sent me sheepskins. Whoever grabbed me opened the package and tossed the sheepskins into the shed with me.”
“Was there a cross?”
“Not that I could see. I covered every inch of the shed looking for any clues, anything I could use. I didn’t search the exterior. Once I was out, I thought it best to get away from the shed. I can’t say for certain a cross wasn’t dropped in the snow or on the driveway.” She clutched Colin’s upper arm, feeling the hard muscle through his jacket. “Oliver sent me a cross?”
“A Saint Brigid’s cross. He says he made it himself.”
“It could have been stolen before the package left England.”
“Lots of possibilities. Come on. I’ve got water in the truck. I’ll fill you in on what’s been going on while you were plotting your escape.”
Colin stayed behind her, spotting her as she climbed into the passenger seat. She thought he was about to say something, but he shut the door without comment. Emma found a bottle of water on the seat but couldn’t grasp it well enough to open it.
When Colin came around and got behind the wheel, he took the bottle without a word, twisted off the cap and handed it to her. “Go slow,” he said.
She resisted the temptation to gulp, or just to tilt her head back and pour the entire contents of the bottle down her throat. Then she would puke it up, and she’d been through enough without that. She glanced at the time on the truck clock. Three fifteen. Later than she’d have said.
Colin turned the truck around, back toward Rock Point.
“How long have you known I’ve been missing?” she asked finally.
“Not long enough.”
His voice sounded strangled, and she ached at what he must have gone through. “You didn’t miss me sooner because I was supposed to be at the convent. I planned to let you know I canceled after I picked up the package. I wanted to see what Oliver had sent...what he was up to...” She sighed, feeling less parched. “Someone else had the same idea. All hell hasn’t broken loose yet?”
Colin shook his head. “Kevin and I have been working together. Sister Cecilia missed you, but we weren’t sure...” He didn’t continue. “We hoped you were off with friends. Then Franny Maroney found your phone a little while ago.”
Hence, the planned search. Emma looked out her window. She drank more water. Rehydrating was helping, clearing any brain fog. So was the sunlight, and being free, with Colin. Coming upon her hadn’t been a coincidence. He’d been on the case, putting the pieces together, following the evidence.
She turned to him. “Whoever grabbed me can’t know I’ve escaped.”
“Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No.”
His jaw was visibly tight. “Professional job?”
“I can’t say for certain. I think whoever it is knew I might be at the rectory, or maybe hoped I would be, and was ready with bungee cords, a blanket, a place to stash me. An open trunk.” She realized her voice was toneless, as if she were reading numbers off the truck dashboard. “I was jumped from behind.” She touched her neck. “Blood choke hold.”
“Hell, Emma.”
“I was dizzy at first when I regained consciousness. It wasn’t a fun ride in the trunk. Never mind the rest of it, the frost heaves and potholes were rough.”
Colin didn’t smile at her halfhearted attempt at humor. He called Kevin and told his youngest brother about her escape. The shed needed to be secured and searched. “But we don’t want whoever attacked her to know she’s out,” Colin said.
Kevin seemed to agree. Emma knew he would want to interview her. She would, in his place. She needed information. What had happened since yesterday afternoon?
Only yesterday.
It seemed longer.
She drank more of her water then put the cap on the bottle. She was steadier. Hydration and warmth were already helping. She started to ask Colin another question but realized they had arrived at his house in Rock Point.
She pointed at a car parked behind hers. “Isn’t that Padgett’s car?”
Colin nodded. “He didn’t waste any time getting here. Yank sent him. He’s on his way, too.”
“All this fuss for sheepskins and a missing Saint Brigid’s cross,” Emma said.
“For a missing agent,” Colin said, turning to her, his eyes a black-blue in the afternoon light. “And whatever’s going on isn’t about sheepskins and a cross.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Are you okay, Emma?” He touched a fingertip to her cheek, his expression softening. “Padgett’s a hard-ass. He’s not going to have any sympathy.”
Emma smiled. “I’m glad to see your sense of humor is returning.”
“Who’s joking?” But he grinned, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “If you need a break, let me know. I’ll kick everyone out.”
He jumped out of the truck. She pushed the passenger door open, but he was there before she got out. She took his hand, felt its warmth and strength. “I can manage on my own, but it would be bad if I fell flat on my face with Sam Padgett peeking out the curtains.”
They went into the house through the front door. Kevin and Padgett were in the living room, on their feet, looking grim. Kevin swept over to her and kissed her on the cheek. “Good job, Emma,” he said, then stood back. “Anything I can get you?”
“I’ll want something to eat soon. First...” She unbuttoned her coat, collected herself. “Let’s get through my story and all your questions.”
Padgett handed her an apple. “I keep two in my car. Best thing for you after a night under lock and key.”
“The voice of experience,” Emma said with a smile.
Colin set her piece of glass on the coffee table. Padgett and Kevin looked at it but made no comment. Emma sat in a chair by the unlit fireplace.
“I know the shed where you were held,” Kevin said. “It’s part of a three-acre property that includes the house directly across the road. It’s owned by an elderly widow from Boston. She’s in a fight with her offspring about who inherits it. I doubt there’s any connection between them and whoever grabbed you.”
“An opportunistic choice,” Padgett said.
Emma noticed her hands were filthy. She expected her hair was tangled, her face pale—both as dirty as her hands. The past twenty-two hours had been an ordeal. She sank deeper into the soft cushions of the chair, imagining a hot bath, a good dinner and sleep, with Colin next to her.
“Emma,” he said.
She heard the concern in his voice. She shifted her position, the twinge in her hip less noticeable now. She was safe, and she had a job to do.
She bit into her apple and looked up at the three men. “This whole thing has felt opportunistic,” she said, then told them, step-by-step, leaving out nothing, what had happened when she arrived at St. Patrick’s rectory yesterday afternoon.
22
As deliberate and analytical as Emma was, she wasn’t one to waste time. Colin knew this about her and could see she’d made up her mind about her next move. She’d finished her story and answered what few questions he and Kevin had—Padgett had stayed silent—then stood up from her chair. She was steadier, Padgett’s apple in her hand. She’d taken two bites. “I’m going to England,” she said. “I can be on a flight tonight if I get moving now.”
“You’re recuperating, and you’re pissed off,” Padgett said from his position next to the fireplace. “Not the best time to fly across the Atlantic.”
“I need to talk to Oliver York and Martin Hambly myself. And Finian,” she added, tight-lipped, adamant. She turned to Colin. “You can talk to the people at the Plum Tree who were in England. N
aomi MacBride, Reed Cooper, Ted Kavanagh. Find out their movements, who they talked to, why—and what, if anything, they know about Oliver York. Let me know.” She started across the living room toward the entry, then stopped, as if she’d forgotten something. “I need to be on the ground in this village where the York farm is located. I’ll be of most use there.”
Colin eased in behind her, warning himself not to jump in with his own opinions until he’d absorbed her arguments. Right now, he needed to be an FBI agent, not a fiancé. Or a brother, he thought, reminding himself Mike was at the Plum Tree.
“It doesn’t have to be one of Mike’s friends that grabbed me,” Emma added. “I know that. I’m not getting ahead of myself.”
“We’ll have to pour you onto a plane, Emma,” Padgett said. “You look like crap.”
She smiled, seeming to take no offense. “I probably look worse than I feel. I don’t have a concussion or other injuries that would keep me from flying. I can sleep on the plane. A quick shower and clean clothes, and I’m good to go.”
Padgett glanced at Colin. “We need to check with Yank.”
“You two check with him,” Emma said. “I’ll go upstairs and get ready.”
She continued into the entry and marched up the stairs. Colin shifted to Padgett. “She’s in no shape to drive herself to Boston, never mind fly on her own to England.”
“You can’t go. You need to get up to that inn and talk to your brother and his friends.” Padgett sighed, already dialing his phone. He held a fast, curt conversation with Matt Yankowski, then slid his phone back into his suit coat pocket. “Yank sees the wisdom of having someone talk to York. He isn’t wild about Emma flying to England, but he isn’t going to oppose it—provided I go with her.”
“Have you ever been to England?” Colin asked.
“Yes, I have. Three times. Rained each time.”
“Pack an umbrella,” Kevin said, then shifted to Colin. “You okay with this?”
“Not my call.”
Keeper's Reach Page 20