by Josh Lanyon
“Is that their MO? I mean, aren’t they more organized than that? If they’ve been hitting museums—”
“They’re good at improvisation.”
The whole museum heist thing sounded pretty sophisticated for a group of high school teachers, but the dine and dash sounded even less likely.
“Sure. But if your company isn’t on the hook—”
“We still need to connect them to two robberies we are on the hook for.”
“True. Of course.”
After all, this was John’s area of expertise. He surely must know his quarry. Certainly, fleeing the island looked pretty guilty.
Meeting my doubtful gaze, he said, “I’ve been downstairs listening outside their rooms. They’re packing right now, which means they’re about to leave this island.”
“How are they going to do that?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t been able to verify. I’m guessing they’ve chartered a boat. That’s going to attract the least attention.” He added with dark humor, “If they’ve hired a helicopter, the friendly skies might get less friendly—not to mention crowded.”
“You’re flying out tonight?” I glanced at the twin windows and the pitch-black night beyond.
He checked his watch. “ETD forty minutes. Give or take.”
“Ah.” I admired his confidence. And his determination. Also his expense account. I could see a lot of potential for miscalculation, but presumably that was because I looked at things like a budget-conscious librarian and not an intrepid insurance investigator. I was dismayed at how much I didn’t want him to go. I took a deep breath and shoved the blankets back. “Okay. Well. How about if I go with you—just to see you off?”
He looked startled—and pleased. “I’d like that. But...”
I pulled the blankets up again in instinctive retreat. “You don’t want me to?”
“No, not that. I do want you to. But there’s always a slim chance of...danger.”
“Really? You told me in Strathpeffer you were sure there was no danger.”
John said quickly, “Which is true. I think. But when people feel cornered, they can react badly.”
Those violent impulses Vanessa liked to write about.
“Okay. Fine. I’ve been warned.” I was already up and searching for my jeans. I stopped as John rested a hand on my bare shoulder.
His eyes were serious, searching. “This isn’t goodbye. You know that, right?”
“I hope not.”
He drew me up and we kissed. The warm pressure of his mouth was fleeting but heartfelt.
“It’s not goodbye,” he whispered. “No way. We live in the same state. You’re only three hours away from me. Give or take and depending on traffic. We can get together any time we want.”
“We could. We should.”
“I would like to get together,” John said. “The minute you get home, I’d like to get together.” He looked around, grabbed my copy of Pressure Cooker from the bedstand, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something on the first page. “I’m not carrying a card because I was afraid our room would be searched again. That’s my work phone, my home phone and my cell phone.”
I stared down at those lines of resolute black scrawl. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or flabbergasted you just defaced a book for me. But yes. I do really, really want to hear from you.”
“I have your number. I’ll text you as soon as I know what’s happening.”
“Okay.” I scrambled into my jeans and reached for my fisherman’s wool sweater. It was cold. Ridiculously cold. I thought I could see my breath in the gloom. It seemed the wood stacked in the fireplace was not intended solely as décor.
John slipped on his trench coat, picked up his suitcase, and waited as I finished pulling clothes over my goose bumps.
As I shrugged on my coat, he eased open the door and we crept silently into the hall.
A small lamp with blue hanging crystals sat on a table a few yards from our room, lighting the long hallway. It couldn’t quite dispel the shadows that seemed to stretch from every corner. The somber portrait of a lady in historical costume gazed down on us with pursed mouth and disapproving eyes.
“She must have been a barrel of fun at ye olde ceilidh,” John muttered.
I smothered a laugh.
All was silent. I’d have been willing to bet money we were the only people up and moving on the entire island, but John never hesitated. We stepped softly down the hall, glancing at each other every time a floorboard squeaked, softly down the staircase, softly across the front hall with the giant portrait of the fatuous young laird and his equally fatuous hunting dogs.
We unlocked the heavy front door.
The wind almost slammed the door shut again. The smell of the sea and other wild things drifted in, stirring the rugs and paintings.
Still several hours from sunrise, the world beyond this threshold was startlingly dark. No street lights, no other houses, no sign of life as far as the eye could see. Not even stars to guide our way.
And dark as it was, it was even quieter. So quiet I thought I could hear the waves washing against the beach.
Mystery lover or no mystery lover, if I’d been on my own, I’d have gone back to bed. John was made of sterner stuff.
We slipped outside and he pointed upward. “Look.”
Light shone from one of the windows overhead. Shadows moved to and fro behind the drapes.
He was right. Someone sure as hell was on the move.
John gripped my arm, pointed and we ran across the flagstone courtyard and hunkered down behind a short stone wall.
We waited. The damp soaked the knees of my jeans. The clammy sea breeze whispered down the back of my neck.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to apprehend them before they leave the island?” I whispered.
“Yes. Only I’m not a cop.”
Oh. Right. Details.
Just as I was thinking that crouching on the damp ground waiting for villains was maybe a job best left to teenage sleuths, the front door of the castle inched open. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the dark ground as four shades tiptoed into the night, lugging, hauling, dragging their suitcases. They seemed to have a lot of luggage for criminal masterminds, but what did I know? Maybe they packed grappling hooks and black ski masks with their PJs and antacids. Quiet voices carried on the wind, though the words were lost.
“They’re walking all the way to the pier?” I asked. That pier was several miles away.
“No. They won’t take the ferry. They’ll head for the cove. That’s what I would do.”
“I hate to nitpick, but isn’t what you would do what you’re actually doing? Flying out.”
John said patiently, “If I was them, I’d hire a boat to meet me down in the cove where the abandoned vacation cottages are. There’s a dock down there.”
I hadn’t noticed the dock when we’d been looking for Sally, but John sounded confident. We waited, watching, our breath clouding in the night.
Sure enough the four shadows headed the way John and I had walked that afternoon.
We waited until they were almost out of sight, the sounds of their suitcase wheels and quiet cursing dying off in the distance. John gripped my shoulder. “Come on.”
We followed at a careful distance, hurrying as best we could in an awkward half-crouch. The ground was mushy and uneven, and I narrowly missed tripping over one of the grates in the grass. The cold, dank air of the underground tunnel gusted up against my face. John caught my arm, keeping me from landing on my face.
“Okay?” he whispered.
I nodded.
We scuttled along, yards behind as the four shadows vanished over the ridge, following the hidden trail down to the beach that John and I had walked earlier that day.
“They’re making good time,” I whi
spered.
John nodded, squeezed my shoulder and pointed.
“How do you know where they’re headed once they leave here?” I asked.
“The mainland is the obvious choice, so I think they’ll aim for Orkney.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
I saw that a large fishing boat sat anchored not far from the shore. Lights twinkled as she bobbed in the black water.
“How are they getting out there?”
John had pulled out a small pair of binoculars and was scanning the anchored vessel. He started to answer, but then swore.
In the distance I heard the unmistakable approach of a helicopter’s engine. Far, far through the expanse of clouds and night, a star seemed to be heading our way.
He shoved the binoculars inside his jacket. “Shit. He’s early! We’ve got to move.”
We left the cliff, running back the way we’d come, trying not to break our necks on the slippery ground or crash into anything with thorns—which was pretty much every shrub in Scotland.
When we reached the spindly new growth forest, we slowed to a painful jog, and then finally, out of breath, half-walked, half-crawled up a small hillock to the cleared area of the landing pad.
I’d thought I was in pretty good shape, but by that point I was drenched in sweat and gulping for breath. Hands braced on my knees, I looked at John, who did not seem nearly as winded. He gave me a grin and a thumbs-up.
Yeah, I was not the only one who loved his job.
The whup-whup-whup of the helicopter engine was deafening now, and the little trees below us bent in half at the force of air rushing from the blades.
There would be no missing the helicopter’s approach. I wondered what the Rices and Scherfs made of it, what they would do next. Would they abandon their plan? Would they change course and head for the mainland after all? Or would they opt for door number three and pull out a bazooka?
I had firsthand knowledge someone in that group did not like to feel cornered.
The helicopter hovered overhead and then slowly descended, kicking up dirt and tiny bits of gravel.
John turned to me. This was it. The big goodbye. It was even more painful than I’d expected.
“Be careful,” I said. “Your bad guys may be working from a different script.”
John pulled me close. “I’m going to miss you,” he said, his face pressed close to mine. His breath was warm against my face, his eyelashes flickering against my own.
“Same.” It was all I could get out over the lump in my throat.
His hands tightened on my shoulders. His lips said against mine, “You be careful. I mean that, Carter.”
I nodded. Tried to joke, “Hey, you’re the one going after a criminal gang. I’m still on vacation.”
There was no smile in his voice. “I’m serious. Watch yourself. I hate leaving you here. There’s something going on with this tour. I don’t know what, but I don’t like it.”
I didn’t have a response because, unfortunately, I agreed with him. The revelation that both Rose and Sally were unharmed had relieved my unease for a few hours, but it had come back full force in the library that evening.
In fact, illogical or not, my unease had developed into full-blown foreboding. Or maybe that was more about not wanting John to go.
I pulled back. Met his gaze. “I promise. I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
He threw an impatient look at the waiting helicopter and yelled into my face. “I’ll try to call you later.”
I nodded, yelled back, “Yes. I’d like that.”
John kissed me—quick and hard—and ran toward the helicopter, clutching his suitcase.
He climbed inside. I watched, holding my hair from my eyes, as the helicopter rose, blades twirling. Up, up, and then it whirled away. I stood there until its light disappeared into the night.
Chapter Twenty-One
When I opened my eyes the next morning I had the strange feeling I had dreamed the past four days.
Everything felt so...normal.
Or as normal as waking in an isolated Scottish castle surrounded by marble busts of unknown historical figures, cracked Grecian urns and a stuffed raven could be. I blinked up at the glass-eyed bird of prey, which I hadn’t noticed the day before, and felt for my phone.
Eight thirty.
Hell. The bus would be leaving at nine for a tour of the island. I glanced at John’s empty bed and sighed. I checked my messages, but there was no text from him. No word from anyone at all.
No news was good news, right?
At some point in the wee hours the central heat had kicked on, and the room was at a survivable temperature. I crawled out of bed, padded into the empty bathroom, still steamy from my neighbors’ morning ablutions, and was weirdly cheered to spot one of John’s crumpled white T-shirts beneath the bath towels strewn on the floor. I picked the damp shirt up and folded it carefully, as though it was a precious artifact placed in my safekeeping.
I hadn’t dreamed the past couple of days—or nights—and if John said he’d call, well, he’d probably call. He seemed like a guy who kept his word.
And who couldn’t use a little of that in their life?
I made my shower quick and hurried downstairs to the dining room where Yvonne greeted me with a crisp, “Fifteen.”
“Morning.” I nodded politely at Ben.
To my relief we seemed to be on nodding terms again, because he silently tipped his head in return. I couldn’t help noticing he didn’t look well. He was pale and haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed.
Daya appeared to have made a full recovery however. She and Roddy sat across from Yvonne and Ben, surrounded as usual by the paraphernalia of knitting, travel guides for places she was not currently in, and neck pillows.
“Someone is running late this morning,” she observed.
“Is John coming on the tour of the island, Carter?” Alison asked.
“Uh, no,” I said casually, heading for the laden sideboard. “John left last night.”
Nice try. Like anyone was going to leave that bombshell lying there?
“Left?” Alison repeated. “He’s left the island?”
“Wait. John is gone?” That was Trevor at the far, far end of the banquet table. Vance sat beside him wearing an expression of open alarm.
I nodded. “He had to charter a helicopter out last night. I think there was some kind of insurance emergency.”
As explanations went, that was pretty weak, and I was not surprised to see my fellow passengers staring at me in open disbelief. It wasn’t like FEMA—or the UK equivalent—had been called in. No tidal wave had taken out Orkney. The earth had not swallowed John o’Groats. The Crown Jewels were still sitting in the tower. The Sword was still in the Stone. There was nary a national disaster in sight, and we all knew it.
Wait till they found out the Rices and Scherfs were also MIA.
“Insurance emergency? Why on earth wouldn’t he let me know?” Alison protested.
I shook my head. “I don’t have all the details. He must have let someone know because of flight plans being filed and so forth. Right? It was really last minute.” I thrust a coffee cup beneath the silver urn’s spigot and let the magical elixir flow.
Behind me, I could hear murmurs of surprise and mutters of disapproval. I pretended to be deaf.
Happily, they had not heard of the low carb diet in Bonnie Scotland. Along with the usual porridge, puddings and meats, there was a selection of baked goods that would have done the Great British Bake Off crew proud. I took a little of everything, although I wasn’t particularly hungry.
I sat down at the table across from the Poe sisters, who eyed me skeptically.
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” Yvonne informed me.
I nodded and shoved hal
f a scone in my mouth. Almond with a hint of cinnamon. The Poes giggled and reached in tandem for their teacups.
“At least we have Sally and Rose back,” Laurel said cheerfully.
I could feel someone watching me. I glanced over and Trevor was staring. He mouthed, He’s gone? Like we hadn’t already established that?
John was gone, so why the hell I found it so annoying—or maybe it was Trevor’s excitement at the news—I wasn’t sure.
So’s my kilt, I mouthed back.
Trevor blinked.
“Does Vanessa come on the island tour?” Nedda asked.
Alison gave a little laugh. “No, no. Vanessa will join us this evening again. She works during the day.”
“Why am I not surprised,” Yvonne said. Daya gave one of her disapproving sniffs but left it at that.
“Will we be able to get our books signed tonight?” Bertie asked.
“Yes, I think so.” Alison glanced at her watch. “Well, I guess if that’s all of us, we should be starting out.”
“What about the Scherfs?” Sally helped herself to a golden glob of marmalade.
“The Scherfs and the Rices told me last night they planned on hiking the interior of the island and taking photos today. Carter, you can take your scone on the bus, if you’d like.”
I shoved in the rest of the scone, washed it down. “Nope. I’m good.” I took a final mouthful of coffee and rose with the others.
* * *
Later, I wished I could remember more about our trip around the island.
As it was, it felt like trying to remember the details of the last day of sunshine before the hurricane struck. It was a beautiful day, the weather was mild, the blue skies streaked with long, thready clouds that looked like lamb’s wool.
The bus wound its way up and down narrow roads, past fields of golden bracken and around bronze-green hills splotched with purple heather. We trundled our way across the interior of the island, spotting deer and the crumbled ruins of stone crofts along the way.
The highlight of the tour was supposed to be the salmon farm on the other side of the island.