by Dee Lloyd
She suddenly realized that coming here alone to meet Joel had been a mistake.
"We can beach your kayak here," he said. She really didn't like his smile. And she definitely wasn't going to compound her mistake by getting into a boat with him.
"I'd prefer to follow you in the kayak." She smiled back. "I didn't want you to think I'm not interested in the property, Joel, but I'm sorry, Mike's accident changes my plans. I'll check the waterfront with you but I won't be able to see the whole property today after all. Johanna might need me. So I think I'll just stay in the kayak and after I've seen this bit, I'll head straight back."
His smile dimmed a little but Joel agreed and clambered into the rowboat. Their progress was slow, because Joel kept putting down his oars to give her his sales pitch. That made it hard to keep a distance between them. She had to concentrate on back-paddling to keep her kayak from colliding with his boat.
She heard fragments of what he said, "Good location for an executive length, par three golf course. Of course you can't see much in this mist. Build a bridge over the river to facilitate access from the lodge."
His voice was distinctly strained. He was trying too hard.
To lighten the atmosphere a bit, she said, "Having Betsy as a partner in the resort is going to be great. She is full of good ideas and so eager to make them work."
Joel looked at her strangely. "You really don't get it, do you?" He stopped rowing and shipped his oars. "You won't be there to see it."
Startled, Kit took her paddle out of the water for a moment, allowing the kayak to glide up beside the skiff. Joel grabbed the wooden rim of the cockpit and yanked the kayak tight against the side of the rowboat. Kit's paddle was caught between the two boats.
He fixed her with an icy stare. All pretense was gone. He was prepared to kill her this time. She tried to figure out how she could get out of the kayak quickly enough if he drew a gun but, he simply held onto her boat with both hands.
"You're a hard woman to kill. And you tricked me into killing Elsa, you bitch. That ruined everything. She promised me if I killed you she would leave everything she owned to Betsy. That sure would've been a lot more if I'd managed to kill you before she died. We'd have a bigger share of the resort and nice sum from your estate, too."
"Betsy wants me dead?"
He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Christ, no! Silly woman is thrilled to death to meet you at last. She'll bawl for another week when they find your body."
"Everyone will know you shot me. They know I'm meeting you this morning." "Oh, I'm not going shoot you. I left my trusty hunting pistol at home. You're going to die in a boating accident. Like your mother--the unlamented Laila."
The mist devils must have caught a breath of wind because they scooted closer.
"But killing me now won't get Betsy anything. She's not in my will." She tried to toe one heavy walking shoe off but the confines of the kayak were too tight.
Joel's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the rim of the cockpit. "Maybe yes, maybe no. But I made a promise. Elsa came through on hers. It's my turn. And," he bared his teeth in a grin that was distinctly feral, "when you are gone, I'm married to Laila Schofield's only child."
"Don't do this. You're a businessman," she wheedled. "I can make it worth your while."
Kit knew she didn't have a chance of talking him out of killing her, but she might gain a little time. Maybe she could get her paddle free and get a lucky shot at his head so that she could get away.
He shook his head. "Elsa won't rest easy as long as you're alive. God! She hated you!"
He took one hand off the rim of the cockpit to reach behind him for an oar. During that split-second of inattention, the boats drifted enough apart that Kit was able to yank her paddle out and swing it at him. The kayak rocked crazily. All her strength and desperation were in that swing but the blade glanced harmlessly off Joel's shoulder.
Before she could swing the paddle again, he jammed the rim of the cockpit down hard enough to flip the craft. Kit screamed as it turned over. That scream cost her all her breath and gained her a mouthful of water. She found herself upside down, totally submerged, desperately in need of air and struggling to get her legs out through the small opening to the cockpit in which she'd been sitting. One of her walking shoes had momentarily caught under the deck of the kayak. After what seemed an eternity, she got her feet free and streaked up to the surface.
Choking and sputtering, she gasped life-giving air. Before she had really caught her breath, she felt a crack on the back of the head that made her see stars. She dived under again but she was still choking and had to surface again. The moment her head broke water, the oar came at her again. This time she saw it and was able to swerve out of its way.
She flailed around in the water, trying to stay afloat while she dodged Joel's jabs with the oar. Repeatedly, it struck her shoulders and her arms. She had to get away from his boat.
With the lining of her jacket and her track suit taking on water like sponges, her arms were becoming too heavy to function. The heavy shoes she'd worn to walk the possible golf course were like anchors dragging her down. She took a big gulp of air and submerged to tear at the laces. Somehow, she found the strength loosen them and push the shoes off.
Dazed and in pain, she fought her way back to the surface, only to be pushed under again and again by the strong thrust of Joel's oar. She tried to breathe but swallowed water instead.
This time as she sank, the chill and the blackness closed in on her. She didn't have the strength to fight her way back to the surface. Her lungs ached and she knew she was losing consciousness.
* * *
Bart had the throttle open full as he sped across the mirror-smooth waters. On either side of him two tall columns of mist kept pace.
Ahead of them, in the long bay beyond the island, smaller mist devils drifted steadily. A fanciful man might say they almost marched in file to some undisclosed destination behind the island. He understood why some early settler called this Spirit Lake.
Joel wouldn't dare shoot her, would he? Too many people knew she was meeting him this morning. Besides he wanted to sell that property. Yeah, sure!
Think of anything but the possibility you might be too late, he told himself, peering into the gathering mist for some sight of her. If... when he found her, he would tell he loved her and wanted her with him forever. Oh, yes, he did love her.
He would never forget the horrific sight that met his eyes when he rounded the point. The kayak was floating upside down. Joel stood, feet planted firmly in a rowboat, jabbing his oar at Kit who was coughing and choking as she floundered in the water. Columns of mist whirled ineffectually about them.
Bart killed the throttle. Just as he pulled his revolver from this belt and aimed it at Joel, he saw Joel's oar connect hard with the side of Kit's head. She stopped struggling and sank before his eyes.
Joel could wait. He dropped the gun, kicked off his shoes and dived in after her. But she'd submerged a good thirty feet away. By the time he got to the spot where he thought she had gone down, he could find no trace of her. The water was so dark and full of weeds. Heart pounding, he dived again and again, to no avail. He surfaced one more time, took a deep breath and looked about him.
Laila's silvery form flashed in front of his eyes.
"This way," she said urgently and moved to a spot about ten feet away.
"Down there!" She pointed an elegant finger.
Bart filled his lungs and dived straight down. He descended, it seemed forever, without encountering anything but long slimy weeds. Then he had her!
He dragged Kit to the surface and as they reached the air, a powerful damp force lifted her from his arms and propelled her high out of the water. Misty arms draped Kit's limp unconscious body across the overturned hull of the kayak.
Kit was aware of cold damp bonds tightening around her and squeezing until she coughed and spewed out water. Laila's voice whispered that she was going to l
ive. Then Bart was beside her, holding her gently and firmly while she coughed up what seemed like gallons of water.
When she was able to raise her head she saw that while she'd been submerged, Joel apparently had rowed close to the runabout with the intention of climbing aboard. The mist devils were doing a good job of keeping his rowboat in place. Every time Joel dipped his oars, the devils spun his boat like a top.
"Don't move, sweetheart," Bart said. "We can't let Joel get away."
She watched Bart swim strongly to the rowboat but before he could climb aboard, the two tall columns of mist stationed themselves on either side of it. Slowly they took the forms of Laila and Raoul. Laila raised her hand and gestured toward Joel. The mist devils spun him straight up out of his boat into the air. When he fell into the water with a great splash, Laila nodded serenely.
Joel ducked under the water and surfaced only a couple of feet from the kayak. When he reached toward her, Kit wasn't sure if he meant to drag her back into the water or join her on her perch.
The moment he reached for her, however, tendrils of mist wrapped themselves around his arms and dragged him away.
Bart swam back to the kayak and put his arm around her shoulders as he treaded water beside her.
She could see the terror in Joel's eyes as he struggled to evade the ghostly strands. He was having major problems staying afloat. Any part of his body that cleared the surface of the water seemed to be vulnerable to the mist devils. One tentacle caught his foot and dragged him face down backward through the water.
He wrenched around and broke loose, then disappeared from view. Kit thought at first that he was gone for good but from the action of the mist devils she guessed that he was trying to reach the island by swimming underwater. The mist creatures converged over his route.
There was no escaping the mist although its power apparently ended at the surface of the water. Each time Joel's head broke water to breathe, it was pushed back under.
From all over the lake, swirling columns of mist converged over him. Gradually the smooth surface of the water began to swirl along with them. The calm waters became a powerful whirlpool.
"Stop them, Laila," she sobbed. "I can't watch this."
"Elsa drowned me right here, sweetie. And Joel won't stop following her orders until you are dead, too. My main mission, I finally realize, is to keep him from doing that."
Joel's dark head came up for air for the last time. With horror, Kit watched the whirlpool catch his body and gradually suck it down into the depths of the lake.
Bart's warm arm tightened around her as she slipped into welcome oblivion.
* * *
Three dawns later, as the first rays of the morning sun hit the face of the marble angel on Laila's grave, Bart put down his shovel and came to stand beside Kit. The funeral director had given them the little brass urn containing Raoul's ashes the evening before and promised to have the grave opened before dawn.
"It's done, sweetheart," he said. "And not one reporter caught wind of any of it."
"They are together now," Kit said with a relieved sigh, placing her hand in his as they turned to walk back to the car.
"Good-bye, you two," she called over her shoulder. "And thank you."
Suddenly they were no longer alone. A handsome dark-haired man and a delicately lovely blonde woman were strolling hand in hand beside them.
"Don't be so solemn, sweetie," Laila said. "Raoul and I are ecstatic!"
"We don't know what happens next but we'll be together," Raoul said with a huge grin and tugged Laila into his arms.
"But not at the lodge," Kit said, hoping she was right.
Laila laughed. "We'll more than likely leave that to you."
"You wouldn't want your grandchildren to grow up with ghosts, would you?" Bart asked.
"Grandchildren?" Kit asked.
Bart had talked about being together forever. He had told her he would have had nothing to live for if she had drowned. But he had not said he loved her. And he had not spoken of children.
"You want children, don't you?" He actually winked at the ghosts.
"Bart," she said, impatiently. "This is serious. Do it properly."
"Here we go again with 'properly.' I thought we were doing fine with distinctly improper behaviour."
"Better ask her," Raoul advised.
To Kit's surprise, Bart dropped to his knees at the side of the road.
"Kit," he began solemnly, "will you be my wife?"
She could see no hint of a smile on his face. "But you are not ever going to get married. You've told me that for years."
"I am if you'll have me, sweetheart. I love you, Kit. And I'll never be happy without you." He looked up at her with his heart in his deep blue eyes.
"You are soul mates," her mother whispered.
"Please say you will so I can get up off this damp ground," her romantic lover added.
"Get up, you goof," she said. "I love you more than life. Of course I'll marry you."
He was on his feet in a flash. His kiss was a passionate promise of forever. She offered him everything she was in her response.
When the kiss ended, the ghosts were gone. Probably.
Excerpt from Ghost of a Chance
By
Dee Lloyd
Copyright (c) 2002 Dee Lloyd
Chapter One
As his headlights sliced through the thick, dark night, Bret rammed the volume control higher. The driving beat of Shania Twain's defiant taunt rattled the windows of his pickup. The stimulus of loud music pounding on him was what he needed. Tonight's hospital visit with his father had left him totally drained. Will was not taking the prospect of a lengthy recuperation well.
Forget about that! Give in to the beat! His broad palm smacking the steering wheel in time to the music felt good. Yeah, right Shania! Bret agreed. Not many things impressed him much either!
He turned off the air conditioning and opened his window. Maybe the warm, moist Florida air flowing in and whipping around him would soothe some of the tension out of his muscles.
The quiet blackness of the night and the aggressive musical therapy seemed to be doing the trick but Bret felt the back of his neck tighten again as he approached the abandoned construction site. Resolutely, he kept on thwacking the steering wheel in time to the music. Mind over matter. That's what he had to concentrate on.
But it didn't work.
And it hadn't for almost a week. The moment he hit the property line of the projected retirement community, the temperature in the cab plunged and, no matter what kind of music he was playing on the stereo, the wailing of a saxophone sliced through the air. Piercing and sad, it replaced every other sound. It silenced the rumble of the pickup's engine and Bret could swear that his own breathing was soundless. The saxophone sang alone...and stopped when he reached the far property line. Once or twice, he thought he'd caught a glimpse of someone walking along the side of the road. A woman he thought. But that was only imagination. He'd allowed himself to be spooked by some kind of freaky radio waves that seemed indigenous to this spot.
Bret sped up. He shivered. The chill was deep and intense. It didn't dance on the skin like a cooling breeze but rather began at the marrow of his bones and radiated outwards. This short stretch of road always seemed endless, the piercing wail of the saxophone interminable. He had almost reached the end of the long curve in the road that edged the site when he saw her.
This time she was right in the middle of the road - not twenty feet in front of his truck - a gleaming white figure in the headlight beams. In the split-second that he was able to focus on her, he thought he recognized that slender build and dark hair. Then he was too busy swerving onto the shoulder to avoid hitting her to get a really good look.
But what on earth would Yvette be doing out here?
The moment his wheels skidded and sank into the soft loamy shoulder of the road, Bret flung his door open and leapt out. Vaguely aware that the air was even colder outside the truck,
he verified his first impression. It was Yvette, all right. Apparently, she had been in some kind of accident. That was definitely blood on her white jacket and she was missing one shoe. Even from a distance he could see scrapes on her bruised face.
What the hell had happened to her? Her features were so battered that he could barely recognize the pretty Maid of Honor who had smiled at him last week at his cousin's wedding.
In spite of her limp, Yvette was moving away very quickly down the highway.
"Hey," he yelled as he began to run after her. "Wait up."
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder without slowing down a bit. Her pale, serious face was streaked with blood and her dark hair seemed to be matted with it. The last time he had seen her, she had been witty and animated. Her face hadn't worn that gray, desperate look.
She didn't seem to recognize him. Bret stopped, not wanting to frighten her further.
Her movement ceased when his did. Her cold, blank stare conveyed nothing.
"It's Bret," he called. "I'm not going to hurt you, Yvette."
She shook her head slowly, then put her hand to her throat. "Danger," she said in a hoarse whisper. "Please."
"Danger." She put her hand on her throat and gave him an agonized look. "Please."
She worked her mouth as if she were trying to say more but could not make the sounds come out. Finally, she croaked, "Warn her."
The hoarse whisper reached him just before her spotlit figure in its stained and bloody suit vanished.
"Wait." The word was too late.
The road, brightly lit by the headlights of Bret's pickup, was completely empty.
When he climbed unsteadily back into the cab of the truck, he found it strangely quiet. Both the sexy country singer and the jazz saxophone were silent. Except for the insistent whispering of the breeze through the long needles of the lanky Australian pines by the side of the road, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the sharp intake of his own breath. He growled a disgusted epithet. His body might be almost healed but his nerves were sure shot to hell.