by Carolyn Hart
Annie looked after her, hot, irritated, and thwarted. She started down the steps. Now she’d have to walk back to her car to call. So someone had broken into the kitchen. Big deal.
Annie stopped on the third step. A muddy footprint in the kitchen sink. Why did anyone break into a kitchen?
For food.
Tim Talbot ran away Sunday afternoon. By nightfall, he would have been hungry. Annie looked toward the woods that stretched into the distance behind the stage and curved around the far side of the lake. There were no roads into that patch of woods. Max and the others had driven around the north end of the island, shouting out to Tim, telling him it was all right to come home.
No cars or trucks had traveled into those dark, thick, heavily overgrown woods. There were only a few paths. Annie remembered Rachel describing a walk there sponsored by the Haven with a local historian. “Clouds of mosquitoes surrounded us. That’s why they abandoned the fort. They died with yellow fever. There’s not much left now. Three big grassy hills with wooden timbers poking out. Down beneath some of the broken timbers, there’s a cellar that was used as a storeroom. I’ll bet it’s got snakes and spiders in it.”
Tim Talbot loved old places on the island. She’d not thought of the remnants of this ruin because it wasn’t a tourist attraction. There wasn’t enough left, a few humpy hills and part of an emplacement. The other historic sites were maintained, accessible. She didn’t remember the name of this fort. Tim would have known. She remembered the lines of metal soldiers in his room, Confederate gray and Yankee blue.
Annie hesitated. She could go to her car, phone Billy.
Could she convince Billy that Tim might have seen the murderer, a quick, bright, brief glimpse of a face when a tiny flashlight was used to gain the path in the woods?
She felt confident she knew what had happened. But what could she actually offer Billy? She’d climbed a tree and looked down on the stage and decided that the murderer could not have reached the path in the woods without using a light.
Billy had arrested Jean. Jean had no need to dart into the woods. Jean could have taken a few steps and returned to her place near the darkened lamp stands.
Why would Billy pay any attention to Annie’s idea?
She could tell him about an intruder in the Haven kitchen and her certainty that Tim was nearby.
Nothing she could offer had much substance, a climb into a tree and a footprint in a sink and Tim’s preoccupation with historic sites. Annie shook her head. It would be better by far to find Tim, persuade him to come with her, explain that he might hold the key to the murders of Booth and Click and Darren.
She struck off across the open field. She hoped Tim had filched some water bottles from the kitchen. Maybe he’d share one with her. She was miserably hot and thirsty, but in only a little while Tim would be safe, Jean would be freed, and Annie would drink a big, tall glass of achingly cold iced tea at Parotti’s.
She shaded her eyes, searched for a break in the trees. What was it Rachel had said? “…Way cool. I mean, actually really, really hot. The path is kind of jungly. You go past the dock and about halfway around the lake there’s an old bateau…”
Annie found the rotting hulk of the shallow draft boat. Almost directly opposite was a barely discernible gap in the woods.
MAX LOOKED AROUND the empty parking lot of the Haven. “This doesn’t make sense. Nobody’s here.” He turned his head, listened. “I don’t hear the kids. Some of them play volleyball no matter how hot it is. Come on, Billy, let’s see what’s going on.”
They came through the pine trees. The dusty field was quiet and empty, the tether ball hanging limply at its pole, the volleyball court deserted.
Max pointed toward the front door of the building at the sheet taped on the door. He and Billy strode quickly across the ground. Max hurried up the steps and read the uneven printing out loud.
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
DIRECTORS NOTIFIED.
ROSALIND PARKER
Max frowned. “I suppose the break-in scared her.”
Billy shrugged. “I can’t follow up on her complaint, but we’re here. We might as well check out the shed.” He glanced across the field at the metal shed near the stage.
They walked in silence. Beyond the field, the lake shimmered beneath the overhead sun. Billy used a handkerchief to mop his face. “I’m sorry you were wrong about Jean Hughes.” His voice was heavy. “Kevin thought she was great.”
“Remember that someone broke into the shed. She had keys.”
Billy gave him a sardonic glance. “The same bogeyman who threw the gun and cell phone under her cottage?”
At the shed, the broken hasp still dangled, the lock useless.
Billy nodded at Max. “I don’t have a search warrant. As a Haven volunteer, you can open the door.”
ANNIE EDGED INTO a dim tunnel that was much worse than the path between the Haven and the inn. Ferns and vines had almost obliterated the faint trail, but the overgrown plants clearly showed that someone had recently passed this way, ferns broken off, vines trampled, depressions in mucky spots that hadn’t drained from a recent rain.
The trail curved, once almost turning back on itself. Sweat drenched her. Flies hovered. Every step took courage. Any pile of leaves might harbor a diamondback or a copperhead. She felt caught up in a verdant nightmare. Her breathing was shallow and strained by the time the tunnel lightened. She reached the end of the path and looked gratefully at a broad sweep of marsh. About thirty yards away, the remnants of embanked earth formed grassy hillocks. The wooden support for the cannons would have been on the side facing the marsh.
Annie drew in a deep, calming breath. The marsh was beautiful, a breeze rippling the spartina grass. She loved the rank scent. The tide was going out and fiddler crabs swarmed on the mudflats. The blistering sunlight felt good after the sweltering dimness of the forest. She felt buoyant. Tim was here. She was sure of it. The broken foliage on the overgrown trail was all the proof she needed. He was here and if she was right, he could reveal the identity of a three-time killer.
“Tim? Hey, buddy, come on out.” The call was robust.
But the voice wasn’t hers.
“Hey, fellow, it’s hot and your mom wants you to come home. Come on, now. I know you’re here. You broke into the Haven, probably to get some food. Come on out and you can have all you want to eat.”
MAX FELT DOUR as he pulled the door wide, flicked on the light. He had spent the day trying to find evidence in support of Jean. Instead, he was contributing another strand to the web that enmeshed her. He went directly to the costume trunk and lifted the lid.
Billy knelt and focused a small camera he’d taken from his pocket. “Got a nice feature. The time and date of the photo is recorded.” He pressed and the flash flickered.
The costumes were listed in order on a sheet of paper pasted on the interior of the trunk lid. Number 12 read: Witch’s robe and hat.
Billy looked at the picture, nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll take a couple more. Just in case.” He finished, then nodded at the chest. “As a volunteer, do you feel comfortable checking the trunk to see if the costume is there?”
Max nodded. He carefully shifted through the stacked costumes. He reached the bottom of the trunk. There was no witch costume in the trunk.
Billy made no comment. He turned and walked outside.
Max followed. He closed the door, his face drawn in a tight frown.
ANNIE DIDN’T TAKE time to think. Evil called in a reassuring voice on the other side of the hill. “Don’t come out, Tim,” she yelled with all her might. She wanted to run, seek sanctuary, hurl herself on the path to safety.
She couldn’t leave a thin, scared kid alone to face death.
Larry Gilbert came around the side of the hill. He held a knife in his hand. His deep-set brown eyes looked opaque, inhuman. His bony face twisted in fury.
Annie screamed: “Don’t come out, Tim. Don’t!”
THE SCR
EAM WAS distant, yet near.
Max jerked around, stared across the lake. “That’s Annie.” The water glittered in the hot sun. There was no one to be seen anywhere. He opened his mouth to yell, and a heavy hand clapped across his face.
“Don’t give warning. There’s only one place where the sound carries across the lake like that. Follow me.” Billy broke into a run. He was a big man, but he could move fast.
Max was right behind him. The forest looked impenetrable, but Billy knew where to go. Billy was an island boy. If anyone could reach Annie in time, it was Billy. Abruptly, Billy swerved to his right, plunging into a dim tunnel in the woods. Despite the vines and creepers and broken branches, Billy didn’t slow, nor did Max. They thrashed along the path, bulling through obstructions, their breathing increasingly labored.
Annie, I’m coming, Annie, I’m coming…
GONE WAS THE cool, wry, self-contained Larry Gilbert popular with island hostesses. How many times had she danced with him at the country club, felt the light pressure of his hand on her back, looked up into his smiling face? Now his features were ugly with hate, his dark eyes wild and unreasoning.
Annie backed away. “Stop, Larry.” She yelled with all her might. Yet she despaired of being heard. If no one came, she and Tim were alone against a man with a knife, a man who could not let them live. There was no one to help her, no one to help Tim. The Haven was closed. The woods were thick and wild and the only ears belonged to birds and beasts.
“Shut up.” Larry’s voice was a rasp. Sweat beaded his face. He moved toward her, one step at a time, death gleaming in his eyes.
Behind him, a dark head eased up to look over the top of the mound.
Annie’s throat was parched. It was an effort to speak. “You can’t get both of us, Larry. Tim will stay hidden.” She raised her voice, hoping Tim would understand, heed her warning, slip back down the other side of the hill. “Tim isn’t going to come out. He’s going to run into the woods. If you come after me, he’ll run and escape and then you’re finished.”
Instead, Tim came to his feet on top of the hill. He was dirty and shaking, his clothes thick with dust, his hands grimy. His face was slack with fatigue and despair. “She didn’t have anything to do with killing him.” His voice was ragged. “Let her go. I’ll come.”
The words made no sense.
Tim began to cry, sobs shaking his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to shoot him.”
Larry swung toward the hill. “What are you talking about?”
At that instant, Larry wasn’t looking toward Annie. He might sense peripheral movement, but that was a chance she had to take. She eased to her left, flicking her glance between Larry Gilbert and a mound of rubble behind a weathered spar uncovered by erosion.
“Booth.” There was despair in Tim’s thin voice. “I was lying there and I sighted him. I was holding my rifle and counting down and the lights went out. I heard the shot. I don’t remember pulling the trigger.”
Larry’s ravaged face was incredulous.
Annie leaned down and grabbed a piece of brick. She straightened, the sharp-edged fragment in her right hand. It wasn’t much of a weapon against a knife. The rough lump was all she had or was likely to have.
Larry took a step toward the hill. “I thought you saw me.” His voice cracked.
Tim looked puzzled. “You came toward the path. I saw your face in the little light. I thought you were scared because of the shot and then I looked back at the stage and they had some light and Booth was bleeding.”
“Let him go, Larry. He didn’t connect you to the shot.” Annie felt a wave of terrible sadness. Tim had disappeared because he thought he’d killed a man. He’d carried anger and a rifle to the Haven Friday night and lain on the thick tree branch and looked down at the man he blamed for his injuries. Was it any wonder that when the lights went out and a shot sounded, he believed he’d pulled the trigger? All he knew was what he had intended, and his stepfather lying dead. When the police came to his house Sunday, he’d run away, terrified. He hid because he thought he was guilty of murder. He didn’t know Click and Darren had been murdered. He didn’t realize he’d looked down from the tree and seen a murderer pass.
Larry’s head jerked toward Annie. He was breathing fast, like a man at the end of a long run. His face was gaunt, despairing, driven. Merciless.
Annie saw her death and Tim’s in his eyes.
“You know.” His voice was toneless.
“Let us go, Larry. It’s too late now. Max is on his way here.” If only that were true. “There’s no point in killing us. They’re going to catch you.” She forced herself to keep her eyes on Larry, hold his attention.
“Maybe we can work something out.” Larry’s voice was hideously ingenuous. His face was cunning and feral with a travesty of a smile. “Tim can come down and we’ll talk about—”
“Don’t come down, Tim.” Annie’s voice rose in desperation. “He’s going to kill us. He shot Booth.”
“Damn you.” Larry sprang toward her.
Tim disappeared behind the mound.
Larry grabbed Annie’s left wrist. He lifted the knife, then gave a yell of pain.
The knife fell to the ground.
Struggling, Annie wrenched free, kicking him hard.
On top of the mound, Tim wound up and threw again with force and accuracy.
A dirt-encrusted ball struck Larry in the back of the head. He dropped to the ground.
“Police. Hands up. Police.” Billy’s shout was breathless. He thundered toward them.
Larry rolled to his feet, hunting for the knife. As he bent to grab the handle, Max tackled him and Larry slammed into the ground.
Chapter 17
Annie sat in the backseat of Max’s Jeep, one arm around Tim’s thin shoulders. He cried in jerky, gulping sobs.
“It’s all right, honey.” Annie’s voice was soft. “We’re taking you home to your mom. Everything’s all right now.”
Max glanced over his shoulder. “You were brave, Tim. You’ve had a tough time, thinking you’d shot a man. Now you know you didn’t. If you hadn’t been quick and smart, Annie could have been killed. Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
Tim sat a little straighter. His breathing began to ease. “I’m a pitcher. At least,” now his voice drooped, “I used to be. But,” he sounded eager, “I’m going to have another operation and they think a rod will work and I’ll be able to walk right again and maybe even run. If I do, I’ll go out for baseball. I can throw.” He spoke with quiet pride.
“Yes, you can.” Max’s admiration was obvious. “Thank God.”
Tim swiped at his splotchy face. “It all happened pretty fast. I wasn’t thinking about being brave. But,” and he slid a shy sideways glance at Annie, “you tried to help me. I couldn’t let him hurt you. I had a bunch of grapeshot I’d dug out of the hill. I was half-nuts wondering what I was going to do, so I started digging. I used a piece of old brick. I found almost a dozen.” He twisted against the seat belt and shoved his hand in his pocket and brought out a couple of dirt-encrusted iron balls. “See? They’re real dirty, but they’re solid iron.”
The Jeep turned into the big circular drive. Sunlight sparkled on the red tile roof. Neva Wagner flew down the shallow front steps and ran toward the car.
Max stopped the Jeep.
Tim flung open the door and tumbled into his mother’s arms.
She held to him, sobbing. “Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. I’m so sorry.”
He pulled back, looked up at her, his face earnest. “Mom, listen, I wasn’t going to really hurt Booth. I was aiming at his leg. ’Cause of my leg. And now I’m sorry. Oh Mom, I’m sorry.”
VIOLET, MAUVE, ROSE, and gold streaked the sky above the darkening marsh as the sun set. Brilliantly green spartina grass swayed in a gentle breeze, rustling like softly snapped cards. An unseen clapper rail cackled.
Giselle, her wasted face illuminated by joy, pointed at a great blue heron stalking in shallow water.
Jean watched her sister. “He’s a big guy.” She’d never been much to notice birds until they’d moved to the island. Now she knew so much about so many of them, thanks to Giselle. Jean doubted her sister could see the four-foot-tall, slate-colored bird with great clarity, but she still took pleasure in whatever fuzzy image she perceived.
They sat, as they did every evening, on the deck overlooking the marsh. Jean reached over to tuck the quilt more snugly around Giselle’s waist.
Giselle turned. “I’m so happy.” The glow of the sunset made her face lovely despite its thinness.
Jean took her sister’s hand and smiled through her tears. Whatever days remained, she and Giselle could spend them together in this peaceful place on this beautiful island, thanks to good people. She knew suddenly that when Giselle was gone, she would stay on the island, do her best for all the kids.
Whenever she saw the marsh, she would remember Giselle.
MEREDITH’S HEART-SHAPED FACE was eager. “I’ll come and see you, Mom. You’ll do great. When you get out, we can go home to Atlanta.”
Ellen trembled. She wanted a drink so badly. Just one drink. That would make her feel steady, give her strength.
A car pulled up in front of the inn.
She felt Meredith’s hand, warm on her elbow. “They’re here.”
The car from the rehab clinic stopped and a middle-aged woman stepped out and came briskly toward them.
Ellen pulled Meredith into her arms. “I’ll do my best, baby. I’ll do my best.”
“MOM?”
At the soft cry, Darren Dubois’s mother came out of the chair next to the hospital bed. She leaned down and took her son’s hand. “Darren.” Tears spilled down her face.
He blinked, looking puzzled. “My shoulder hurts.” He gazed around the small narrow room at the white walls and the television mounted high on the wall opposite the end of the bed. “Where am I? What happened to me?”
“Oh, Darren.” She told him in a rush, the shooting, the helicopter ride to Savannah, the long days and nights as the swelling decreased in his brain. “You were hurt so bad. Not so much from the shot but when you hit your head.”