Wolf Island

by Cheryl Gorman

  “Will do.” Anson laid his hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “Be careful.”

  Devlin ran back to the marina and over the networking dock closer to the harbormaster’s office. He saw Anson’s boat rocking in the water. With each swell of the ocean, the small boat rose to the top edge of the dock, plunged downward as the ocean receded, then rose again. He leaped into the boat, and a wave slammed the vessel against a dock piling.

  Without wasting anymore time, Dev released the mooring line and grabbed an oar. He cranked the boat, backed her away from the dock, and turned in the direction of the open sea. The front of the boat bounced over the waves, splashing saltwater into his face and eyes, but he continued on toward his boat.

  When he reached the cruiser, he pulled the small inboard alongside the larger boat, where it bumped against the side. Rubber buoys hung over the outer rim of the boat and prevented any real damage. A metal ladder attached to the cruiser rose up the port side. Devlin stood up with the mooring line in his hand and grabbed the ladder’s side rails. Beneath his feet, the smaller boat bounced with every wave that pushed against her hull.

  He lost his balance and fell back into the boat, his ribs slamming against one of the metal seats. A jolt of pain ripped into his side, but he ignored it and reached for the ladder. His hands slipped again. Damn it. The sea rose like a dark beast, lashing at him with strong, watery claws before crashing abruptly with the surging tides.

  Fighting against the swirling ocean and hard rain, he struggled to attach the mooring line to the ladder. After a few failed attempts, he was able to secure the line. He leaped for the ladder and, thankfully, his hands finally found purchase. Slowly, he climbed the ladder until he reached the top and stepped over onto the deck of the cruiser. With no time to lose, he headed toward the bridge at the stern. He rushed up the access steps from the cockpit, went inside, and quickly cranked the engine. With feet braced behind the wheel of the boat, he turned her leeward so the bow faced away from the direction of the wind.

  Devlin turned the controls to lower the anchor. He planned to leave the cruiser in open water, but anchored so it couldn’t drift. He and Anson could come and fetch it after the storm abated.

  Abby.

  He needed to get back to Abby, but he wanted to check the boat’s galley and sleeping quarters to make sure no damage had been done in the storm. As he made his way down the stairs toward the galley, he noticed the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

  Devlin stepped onto the lower deck and fisted his hands at his sides. Sweat broke out on his brow. Someone had been on his boat. He checked the galley first and found a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs scattered over the countertop, and an empty bottle of gin.

  His father’s favorite drink.

  Bile rose into Devlin’s throat, but he swallowed it down. Cigarette butts littered the floor, and the cabinet doors hung open. Broken dishes and glasses mixed with the silverware strewn around the shelves and floor.

  Coffee. He smelled coffee.

  His gaze swung to the coffee maker attached to the underside of the cabinets. He walked over quickly and laid his hand against the carafe. Warm. The coffee was still warm. He must have just left -- or was he on the boat, hoping to get a shot at Devlin?

  Devlin moved cautiously from the galley and made his way down the corridor to the boat’s two cabins. He stuck his head in one door and found the room untouched. Relief swamped him.

  His relief was short-lived. He opened the door to the main cabin and found the bed in disarray. The sheets, dirty and wrinkled, lay wadded into a pile on the floor. The wastebasket was jammed against the side of the bed, with more cigarette butts littering the bottom. Devlin noticed a reflection on the glass covering a picture that hung over the bed. He snapped his head around to a mirror that graced the wall opposite the bed.

  He stared in horror at the words scrawled across the glass.

  I’m back.

  Abby.

  He had to get back to Abby. Dev dashed from the cabin and headed up to the main deck.

  He shouldn’t have left her alone.

  * * * * *

  A hard, driving wind thrust against the umbrella Abby gripped tightly in her hands. Rain slashed around her as she plodded over the sidewalk, heading toward the gift shop at the end of the block. The wind had grown in intensity since she and Devlin had stopped at Wolf’s Lair, and with it, the light had begun to fade. Abby stopped and turned her head in the direction of the marina. She saw nothing but gray, watery images through the transparent sheets of rain.

  Was Devlin all right? Had he gotten his boat in? The harbormaster had said the boat broke free from the dock, but she didn’t understand the look of fear followed by temper that had crossed Devlin’s face. Abby bit her lower lip. She wanted to run and help him, but she needed to find Miranda more.

  She turned back around and plodded in the direction of the shop. Another sound mingled with the slosh of her feet and the rain blowing around her.

  Footsteps.

  Heavy footsteps.

  Chimes. The light, metallic sound wafted through the rain-soaked air.

  The hair on the back of Abby’s neck prickled. Her heart raced. She spun, her eyes wide, her breath shallow.

  Nothing.

  She saw nothing but the rain-swept sidewalk and street. Devlin was right when he told her she’d let her imagination run away with her. She was perfectly safe. No one was after her. Were they?

  She turned around and trudged in the direction of the shop.

  The handle of the umbrella slid from her fingers and a gust of wind tumbled it into the street. Before Abby could react, a hand clamped around her arm. Panic surged into her throat and made her gasp. She heard the tinkling of chimes once again as the hand yanked her unceremoniously through a doorway.

  The door closed behind Abby with a whoosh of wind and rain. Warmth enveloped her chilled body while the sound of tinkling chimes drifted on the air. For a moment, fear made her giddy, until her gaze settled on the woman standing before her. She jerked her arm from the woman’s hold and studied her while she waited for her heart to slip back down her throat.

  She was of medium height, with shoulder-length, graying blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a welcoming smile on her lips. There was nothing ghostly or strange about her. She looked perfectly normal. Chimes continued to ring, and suddenly Abby was furious.

  “I knew you’d come. I felt it this morning,” the stranger said.

  She felt it?

  Abby lifted a hand to her chest, where her heart thundered against her palm. “You scared me to death. Are you in the habit of grabbing people off the street? Who are you, anyway?”

  The woman gave her an indulgent smile. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t usually grab people, but you were having such trouble walking in the storm. I was only trying to help. Besides, I’ve been expecting you all morning.” She held out a hand for Abby to shake. “I’m Catherine Good Townsend.”

  Reluctantly, Abby shook her hand briefly. “How could you be expecting me? We’ve never met.”

  Ms. Townsend’s full lips curved in a mysterious smile. “Not in the traditional sense.” She skimmed her gaze over Abby. “You’re wet through. I was just about to make tea. Won’t you join me? We have a lot to talk about.” She waved a hand through the air as she turned and headed toward the back of the shop. “Go ahead and look around. I’ll start the tea.”

  Abby watched Ms. Townsend stroll toward the back of the store. A long skirt in a vibrant print of red and gold swished softly about her legs. Her bulky white sweater gathered loosely at her waist, and little red beads dangled from the hem. A trio of silver bracelets jingled on her left arm, and soft tan boots covered her feet.

  Abby glanced about the shop. The ceiling gleamed with midnight-blue paint, and gold half-moons and stars decorated the surface. The glossy white walls provided contrast. Chimes hung everywhere.

  She walked over to get a closer look at the chimes. To each, there was
a tag attached, with a small picture just like the one of Alice she’d seen in the newspaper clipping. Abby turned a tag over and read. Fifty percent of the proceeds from the sale of these chimes will be donated to the Alice Howard Foundation, a nonprofit charity dedicated to halting violence against women.

  “They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

  Abby shifted her attention to Ms. Townsend. “Yes.” They were lovely when you saw them like this rather than imagining them wrapped gruesomely around a helpless animal’s neck. “You’re Alice Howard’s aunt, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your niece. It must have been awful.” Abby couldn’t imagine having a loved one die so horribly.

  “Yes, it was,” Ms. Townsend’s voice blended with a sigh.

  “Is it true you predicted her death?”

  “The tea is almost ready,” she said, ignoring Abby’s question.

  Ms. Townsend led Abby to a cramped room in the back of the shop. A desk and a couple of chairs, along with a small refrigerator, took up one side of the room. A kettle hissed atop a hot plate. “Have a chair.” Ms. Townsend prepared the tea and set their cups on top of the desk, along with milk and sugar.

  Once settled, Abby thought this the perfect opportunity to ask some questions. “What can you tell me about Devlin? I’ve tried prying some information out of him, but he’s told me very little.” She desperately needed answers, but would the truth reveal something she might never be able to forget?

  Ms. Townsend fixed her with a penetrating look. “He’s very closed, that one. Doesn’t like meddlers. Of course, that’s understandable, considering the trouble he’s had. And his family. Milk and sugar?”

  “Milk, thank you.” Here was the opening Abby had been waiting for. “What kind of trouble?”

  She handed Abby a cup of tea lightly tanned with milk. “Look. Devlin’s family founded this island, and most folks that live here appreciate the fact that it’s because of them that we have homes and thriving businesses. I don’t see any reason to dig up the troubles that family has suffered.”

  Those troubles could have directly affected Miranda. Maybe they could provide a link to her disappearance. “My sister was here recently. Her name is Miranda Chapel. Did you happen to meet her?”

  Ms. Townsend brightened. “Yes, I did. Lovely girl.”

  “Do you know why she left the island so suddenly?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  This was the first person Abby had met that she truly believed didn’t know anything about Miranda.

  There was a set of chimes hanging by the small stove. They tinkled lightly on a stir of air. “What was Alice like?”

  Ms. Townsend sat in the other chair and smiled wistfully. Her shoulders slumped. Reflections of old sorrows bloomed in her eyes and creased her forehead. “Alice was a ray of sunshine, full of mischief, but always ready to lend a hand or comfort a friend. Her mother, Emily, and Dev’s mother were the best of friends. Valerie Morgan and Emily were practically inseparable as young girls.”

  So, Valerie was Devlin’s mother.

  “After dear Valerie was --” Ms. Townsend sipped her tea, then set the cup back in the saucer. “Soon after the incident, Valerie left the island and moved to Boston. Devlin stayed behind with his grandparents, who raised him. Valerie sold the shop to Emily. Years later, when Alice was killed, well, let’s just say that things have never been the same.” Her voice became husky; her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Alice was a wonderful girl. Such a terrible loss. Terrible.”

  Abby reached over and laid her hand on Ms. Townsend’s. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “That’s all right.” She blinked back her tears. “Just when I think I’ve put it behind me, memories crowd my heart and it’s all fresh again.”

  She looked pensively at Abby and cocked her head to the side. “Do you believe that events in the future can be foretold?”

  Abby remembered the article about Alice’s attack and how Ms. Townsend had predicted the horrible event. Had her prediction been coincidence, or had she truly been able to see what was about to happen? “I’m not sure.”

  Ms. Townsend was silent for a moment. “Sometimes things have a way of being very real on this island.”

  Abby waved her hand through the air. “I don’t believe there is anything that logic can’t explain. We have our senses to guide us.”

  A frown creased Ms. Townsend’s brow. “That’s true. Our senses are an important conduit to intuitive thinking. It’s sometimes necessary to open our minds and hearts to accept the visions that are sent to us, no matter how good or how bad they might be. Especially if someone’s life is at stake.”

  Abby thought about poor Alice. Her life had been at stake, and no one had believed Ms. Townsend’s prediction.

  “Not everyone has this ability, but for those of us who do, it can be a blessing and a curse at the same time.” Ms. Townsend’s expression softened, and she gave Abby a mercurial smile. “What did your senses tell you regarding the sound of chimes you heard when you first arrived on the island?”

  A chill danced over Abby’s skin. “How did you know I heard chimes? I haven’t mentioned it.”

  “When trouble is brewing, our resident ghost jingles her chimes in warning.”

  Abby wanted to roll her eyes, but she kept a straight face. “Does she try and frighten them by leaving mutilated animals with chimes wrapped around their necks, too?”

  Ms. Townsend’s eyes widened a little, and she leaned forward, laying her hand on Abby’s. “Someone left you a dead animal?”

  “Not me, specifically. Devlin. He found it last night in the library. And we heard chimes ringing in the hallway, as well. Dev thinks it was someone playing a prank.”

  Ms. Townsend’s fingers tightened around Abby’s hand. “Be very careful.”

  Abby frowned. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  Ms. Townsend took her hand away and leaned back in her chair. She turned her head, then glanced back at Abby. Her eyes were grim. “You’ve been given a warning.”

  Anxiety skimmed Abby’s spine. “What do you mean?”

  The older woman set her cup on top of the desk, folded her hands in her lap, and sighed deeply. “At the time of her death, Alice was deeply in love with a man who was an artist here on the island. He worked with metal and learned to make the chimes from his father. His father taught Emily how to make them, and she taught Alice.

  “One day Alice and her young man quarreled. Storm clouds were beginning to form, but he ignored them and took his boat out for a sail to cool his temper. As you might guess, a gale blew in, and his boat was lost. For weeks after the search for his vessel was called off, Alice stood on the dock with a set of chimes in one hand and a lantern in the other, hoping that they would guide him back to her.”

  Abby felt tears burning in her eyes. She pushed them back. No time to be sentimental. “That’s a lovely story, but what does it have to do with dead animals and the chimes I heard?”

  Ms. Townsend gave her a benign smile. “The chimes ... are Alice.”

  The older woman’s whimsical answer dissolved the romantic haze concerning Alice and her lost love. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” Abby brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Let’s see if I can sort this out. Alice floats around the island, ringing the chimes and leaving dead animals to warn visitors of impending danger. Or is she still trying to find the man she loved?”

  Ms. Townsend straightened in her chair and sighed. “Perhaps a little of both.” She leaned forward and looked directly into Abby’s eyes. “The important thing to remember is that Alice rings those chimes only when treachery looms, and you must take her seriously.”

  A little knot of pressure grew in Abby’s chest. Get a grip, Abby.

  “There have been numerous signs forewarning that danger is imminent.”

  Signs. Abby shook her head. “You
shouldn’t let superstition and old wives’ tales color your judgment. After all --”

  Ms. Townsend gripped her hand and squeezed. “These are credible sightings. An owl appeared at my window in the light of day three days in a row before your arrival on the island. They are night creatures. The owl’s appearance is an omen that shouldn’t be ignored.”

  Abby tried to pull her hand away, but Ms. Townsend held fast. “You and Devlin haunt my dreams. I see poor Dev trapped by a hideous creature that I can’t see quite clearly. Forbidden shadows cloak the image. But there is a crimson stain on the creature’s fur. I fear it is Devlin’s blood.”

  The older woman’s grip tightened. “No one believed me when I predicted that Alice would be murdered. But it’s imperative that you believe me about Dev. He needs you. You are the key to his survival and the survival of this island. Without your help, he will perish for sure, and our way of life here with him.”

  A trickle of hysteria fizzed into Abby’s throat. With a strong jerk, she succeeded in pulling her hand away. She popped up from her chair, walked around to the back of it, and gripped the wood to steady her trembling hands. “This is ridiculous. I don’t believe in predictions, and I don’t like being frightened.”

  Ms. Townsend rose from her chair and moved closer to Abby. She reached out and laid her hand on Abby’s arm. “I’m sorry if I’ve scared you, but please understand that danger stalks Devlin the same way it stalked dear, sweet Alice. You are the only one who can help him. You have the power to save him. Without you, he will surely die.”

  Abby’s mouth fell open. “Me? What could I possibly do? Dev’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

  Ms. Townsend shook her head in a jerky manner. “No, he can’t. Not from this. You must believe in my prediction. You must accept your fate. The last time I observed these signs and had such vivid dreams, my only niece was murdered. I can’t allow that to happen again.”

  Abby wanted to laugh off her prediction, but the sudden and unexpected shiver of icy fear that raced over her skin wouldn’t allow it. She thought about Alice and Catherine Townsend’s prediction of her death.