The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2)

by Michael Penning

  A thundering blast tore away the crown of Tibbetts’s head.

  Abigail’s eyes flew open as the hands around her throat went limp. There was an instant of confusion as she wondered why the rain had suddenly become red and warm. Then she saw the blood spilling over her from the massive hole in Tibbetts’s skull. A tendril of smoke rose from the gaping wound as he teetered and collapsed on top of her.

  Abigail squirmed out from underneath the limp body and found Colvin standing there. Drops of rain fell from the barrel of the big pistol he held in his outstretched hand. Helping Abigail to her feet, he swung the pistol around toward the scuffling men. The deafening roar of his shot had brought the fighting to an abrupt halt. No one moved. As if frozen in place, the men simply stared at the pistol in mute silence as the rain came down upon them.

  “This didn’t need to happen,” Colvin growled through clenched teeth. “No one had to die... but more will if any of you so much as flinches.”

  Colvin kept the pistol leveled on them as Josiah dragged himself from the mud and went to stand by Duncan. Both men were bloodied and bruised from the fight.

  Just then, Abigail noticed something wasn’t right.

  Heath was missing.

  Colvin realized it too. “Where’s MacIntyre?” he demanded with an edge of worry in his voice. His eyes darted around the hollow and found a trace of freshly trampled underbrush. He whirled to Josiah. “Find him! Don’t let him get away!”

  With a firm nod, Josiah recovered his tomahawk from the muck and disappeared into the forest.

  Colvin returned his attention to Abigail’s attackers. Owen Delaney still lay sprawled and motionless in the mud. Colvin wondered if Josiah’s blow to the head had killed him. Five more men remained standing. Without Heath around to whip up their courage, their fervor seemed to have fled. Now, they just looked scared and pathetic as they stood with their hands raised in the rain.

  Colvin kept his pistol trained on them as he sidestepped to Duncan. “Emmons, I’m going to see Ms. Jacobs safely to her cabin. Please escort these men to the village limits.” He handed over the pistol. “See that they leave this town at once. They are not to stop to gather possessions and they are not to speak to anyone. If anyone should ask what happened to Delaney and Tibbetts, please tell them what these cowards tried to do to Ms. Jacobs.”

  Duncan’s gaze strayed to where Tibbetts’s corpse lay in the mud. “What will we do with him?”

  “We’ll return for him later, if there’s time. If there isn’t, we’ll let the scavengers pick him clean.” Colvin paused and returned his attention to the men cowering before him. His gaze was every bit as hard and intimidating as the pistol in Duncan’s hand. “You’ve heard what I said,” he warned, his voice low and menacing. “If any of you should fail to cooperate in any way, I will find you and I will shoot you on the spot. I will do it in front of your wives and children if I have to. For their sakes, I suggest you be thankful for the mercy I’m showing you here and that you leave this place with as much haste as your miserable asses can muster.” He glared at them a moment longer. “Get moving, you sons of bitches.”

  Duncan kept the pistol aimed as two of the men picked Delaney from the mud and hauled him away. An instant later, they were all gone, swallowed by the forest.

  Colvin turned to Abigail. Her nightgown was soaked and torn and she was shivering uncontrollably as the rain washed the blood from her skin. And yet, there was a strange shine in her eyes as she gazed at him through the downpour. It was as if there was some part of her that had actually thrived on the pain and violence.

  “Come with me,” Colvin said, lending her his arm. “Let’s get you inside.”

  Chapter 41

  Abigail’s fury simmered like molten lead destined to become bullets. She hadn’t said a word since leaving the hollow. Even as she flung open the door to her cabin and marched in from the rain, she seemed to have forgotten Colvin was there with her. Her mind was consumed by too many images, too many emotions: the humiliation of being taken by surprise; the violation of being battered with stones; the shameful panic at having Tibbetts’s hands wrapped around her neck.

  And the embarrassment of needing Colvin to come to her rescue yet again.

  Skirting around the shards of the shattered whiskey bottle still strewn across the center of the room, Abigail went directly to the tin kettle, filled it, and left it to boil on the woodstove. She was shivering all over from the rain and the flood of adrenaline was now draining from her body. She had to get warm, had to get out of her soaked and tattered nightgown.

  Colvin stood by the door and watched as she went to her clothes chest and began searching for something dry to put on. “Abigail, say something,” he said. “Tell me what I can do.”

  Abigail threw the gown in her hand back into the chest and whirled on him. “Let me make something clear,” she said icily. “Never before have I required assistance in my work. I operate alone, in secret. ‘Tis the only way to keep others from being killed. Keenan and O’Brennan are proof of that. For twenty years, I have taken care of myself. I have survived countless encounters with unspeakable creatures thanks only to my own skills and abilities. I didn’t require your assistance today at the lake and I didn’t require it back there in the hollow. I could have taken care of Tibbetts on my own.”

  Colvin’s face darkened. “Is that a fact? And what about Heath and the others? What exactly was your plan for freeing yourself from that tree? What magic of yours would have made those stones drop out of the air before they killed you?”

  Abigail’s eyes flashed dangerously as she fought to keep from striking him. Her fist trembled with fury. Something angry and hurtful sprang to her lips and begged to be released. But she knew he was right. As much as it galled her to admit it, she knew she owed her life to this man. And after all, it wasn’t Colvin she was truly angry with... it was herself. For years she had thrived on her own independence, reveling in her own strength. She had gratified herself whenever and however she pleased, spurning the undesired tenderness of lover after lover. She didn’t need a man to protect her, didn’t need a man for anything other than the occasional wanton encounter. Colvin had now taken part of that away from her... and she didn’t know if she loved him or hated him for it.

  The kettle was boiling on the stove. Abigail turned her back on Colvin without another word and emptied the hot water into the washbasin. Steam spiraled into the air as she stripped off her nightgown and let it fall to the floor around her ankles, heedless of Colvin’s presence in the room. She was too cold, too tired, and too frustrated to care about modesty. Taking the cotton cloth into her hands, she soaked it in the washbasin and pressed it to her frozen skin. The water was nearly scalding, but she didn’t care. She needed its heat, needed to feel it washing over her, cleansing her of her shame and humiliation.

  Suddenly embarrassed, Colvin spun around and looked away—but not before he caught a glimpse of the patchwork of bruises and scars that marred the flawless white of Abigail’s lithe and slender body. Most were fresh and new; others were very old. Colvin was careful to keep his eyes averted as he crouched and busied himself with sweeping the shards of broken glass from the floor while Abigail continued to bathe herself behind him.

  “I’ll be alright now,” she murmured after a moment. Pressing both hands to the table before her, she leaned forward over the washbasin, breathing in the warm steam. “You must go. The evacuation must be—”

  “I’m not going,” Colvin stated. He kept his back to her as he brushed the broken shards toward a corner.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone, not while Heath’s still out there. If you prefer, I’ll wait outside. But I won’t be leaving here until I’m certain you’ll be safe.”

  Something went off inside of Abigail, a spark of something thrilling that she couldn’t name or place but quickened her heart and spread throughout her. She drew herself up and turned to him. Water ran in rivulets down h
er body and glistened in the lamplight as it dripped to the floor.

  “Look at me,” she said huskily.

  Colvin slowly stood but kept his back to her naked body.

  “Glenn... look at me.”

  He turned around and she saw those eyes again. Those deep, amber eyes gazing at her, penetrating her defenses, seeing a part of her she kept hidden and locked away.

  Such worry, such care...

  This time, she didn’t stop herself.

  Reaching for his head with both hands, Abigail pulled him to her and kissed him. She felt him go tense with surprise before his body relaxed and yielded to her embrace. Her tongue found his as she fell back on the bed and pulled him down on top of her. She clutched at his body, pressed it down hard against her own. Her hands dove into his hair, ran down his back, pulled at his shirt. She felt his skin, flesh, muscle; his lips tasting her own, his mouth covering hers as he kissed her. Her hand sought out his and she brought it up to her chest, sighing with pleasure as he cupped the supple flesh of her breast in his palm. There was a sudden flash of pain when he brushed his other hand over a raw bruise. She flinched slightly and felt him relent, his caresses becoming gentler, more tender.

  But she didn’t want him to be gentle. She wanted him to take her. She wanted to yield control to him. She wanted to release the darkness and rage inside of her and feel him there instead. Her hand slid down beneath his belt and found him hard and ready for her. She opened her legs and pressed him closer, leading him to her, showing him what she wanted. It was the last willful thing she did before she gave herself over to him completely. She gasped and moaned and shuddered beneath him, feeling the sweet oblivion of his embrace as the rain came down on the window and the thundering tempest shook the walls around them.

  Chapter 42

  Josiah stood as still as the trees in the darkness of the forest. Rain came down in sheets around him, but he didn’t make a move to shelter himself. If he felt the cold, he gave no outward appearance of it. He simply remained there, silent and motionless, waiting for the next blast of lightning to reveal the clue he desired.

  Long ago—when he was known as River Stone and his village still stood on the banks of the great Penobscot—Josiah’s father had taught him how to see in the dark, as his ancestors had called it. Every creature leaves a sign of its passage, his father had explained. Only the dead leave no trace. In the dense and virgin forests of his homeland, young River Stone had learned that even the smallest animal could be followed if the hunter knew what to look for. Years had passed since those early adventures and Josiah had now become a master in the art of tracking his prey through any terrain. It was a skill that had proven useful when he and Colvin had spent those lean years as trappers before finding themselves in Tahawus. In time, Josiah hoped to pass his knowledge on to his own son when they were reunited at long last. He dreamed that someday they would hunt together as the men of his tribe had done for generations before them.

  Now, every bit of Josiah’s deadly prowess was focused on finding his enemy. He had already failed to kill Heath MacIntyre once this night. He wouldn’t fail again.

  The lightning came; a forking blast of white that streaked across the night sky in long, claw-like fingers. Before the thunder had time to follow, Josiah had seen all he needed. A single spruce sapling stood bent at a peculiar angle to his left. For Josiah, it revealed an entire story. Spruce grew straight as an arrow pointed toward the sun, never at such an angle.

  His enemy had come this way.

  Moving with the slow and silent grace of a predator, Josiah followed the faint trace of Heath’s trail deeper into the woods. He was bare-chested now, having cast off his red coat some time ago. Josiah would give his enemy no opportunity to see him coming. Rain streamed across his dark and hairless skin as he moved like a phantom through the forest. He breathed through his nose, exhaling long and slow to keep his breath from being visible in the cold. The black length of his topknot clung to his bald scalp and snaked down the back of his neck. His tomahawk was gripped tightly in his right hand and his left carried his big hunting knife. He had smeared sticky pinesap on both palms to ensure he wouldn’t lose his grip on the weapons in the rain. When the fight finally came, he would be ready.

  More signs of Heath’s passage came into view: a trampled fern; a scuff across a bed of pine needles. And then, a very obvious footprint left in a long patch of mud.

  Josiah paused and crouched low to study it as best he could, glimpsing it in flickering blasts of lightning. His eyes scanned the ground a few feet ahead. There was another track. This one was much less distinct but noticeable nonetheless. From the distance between the footprints, Josiah was able to discern that Heath was no longer running; the tracks were too close together. Heath was walking now, probably at a brisk pace.

  Josiah rose and digested this new information. Had Heath come to believe he wasn’t being followed? Or was the big man tiring?

  A booming peal of thunder exploded overhead as Josiah remained there, trying to envision his enemy. As when hunting any animal, he knew the key was to put himself in the mind of his prey and anticipate its behavior. Do not waste daylight letting the deer lead you through the trees, his father had instructed long ago. Find where it eats and wait for it there.

  Josiah used that same philosophy now as he resumed his stealthy pursuit through the forest. What was Heath thinking? Where was he going? Josiah knew the big man wasn’t fleeing the village for good. He was heading north, in the wrong direction. Would Heath try to double back once he thought he had put enough distance between himself and any pursuers that had come after him? Josiah doubted it. What would Heath gain by returning to the village? Colvin and the others would be there waiting for him. No; Heath must know that he had been defeated now that his murderous plan had failed. He must have understood it back there in the hollow. It was why he had fled into the woods and deserted his followers.

  Where then, would he go?

  Josiah’s palm clenched tighter around his tomahawk as he crept his way through the darkness and contemplated Heath’s motivations. He was certain the man wouldn’t simply abandon his desire to see Abigail dead. Heath was too fanatical, too convinced of his own righteousness. Josiah had known such men before. They had been among the first to come to his village: servants of the white God who demanded red blood as the price of disobedience. Heath was like them. His zealousness had already carried him too far to surrender now. He would return for Abigail at the first opportunity. Until then, he would hide and wait.

  Josiah froze where he stood.

  Hide and wait...

  Yes, that was what Heath was thinking. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t wandering the woods aimlessly, hoping to outrun his pursuers. In fact, he wouldn’t have ventured too far from the village at all. If he were being followed, he would lead his pursuers on, luring them in, letting them come to him to be ambushed. And then—only when the evacuation was complete and the village was empty and deserted—would he seek to finish what he had started with Abigail.

  Josiah’s heart quickened as he squinted into the heavy rain and revolved in a long, slow circle. Was Heath watching him even now? Was he hidden somewhere in the darkness? Finding his vision to be unreliable, Josiah fell back on his hearing. Nature had remarkable ways of defending itself. When danger was around, smaller creatures like tree frogs would go silent as a warning to others. But now, even Josiah’s acute ears failed him. The rain was too heavy and all that could be heard was the steady patter of water filtering through the heavy boughs.

  A brilliant crash of lightning went off and revealed a fresh depression in the underbrush ahead. Heath had gone though there.

  Josiah’s senses remained sharp and vigilant as he pushed onward. His ears were pricked for even the slightest disturbance in the forest. Heath would make his move very soon now. The big man wouldn’t have wasted too much energy trudging through the rain. Perhaps he would have passed over the first few opportunities for an ambush as a means
of fooling his pursuers into believing he was on the run. But Josiah knew he had now come far enough. By now, Heath would have started to search for the perfect place to bide his time until his unsuspecting pursuers fell into his trap.

  Josiah inched forward—step after wary step—and conjured an image of Heath as he had been back in the hollow. Had the big man been armed? Of course, there had been the stones he had hurled at Abigail. But had Heath carried a firearm or blade of any sort? No; as far as Josiah could remember, Heath had been unarmed. If he did have a weapon, there had been enough opportunities to draw it during the scuffle.

  Still, out here in the forest, there were plenty of heavy tree limbs with which to—

  Suddenly, there it was.

  Ahead, the pines of the forest stood crowded closer together like giant soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder. Josiah crept closer and saw that their needles were saturated and dripping with rain. Millions of tiny beads of water glistened in the pink and purple glare of the lightning. Except for one place. It was a shadowy area where the heavy boughs of two pines met. There, the passage of something large had brushed the dew from the limbs. The spot stood directly in Josiah’s path.

  Somewhere in that dense foliage, Heath waited for him.

  Minutes went by as Josiah assessed the situation. The stand of pines was the perfect place for an ambush. Heath would be there on the other side of the boughs, hidden, waiting for his pursuers to squeeze their way through. It was where Josiah himself would have set his own trap.

  This was the place. He was certain of it.

  An idea came to him. Instead of following Heath directly into his ambush, Josiah slowly and cautiously sidestepped his way laterally to his right. Now that he had identified the trap, he would circle around behind the dense copse of pines and take Heath by surprise. His enemy wouldn’t see him coming. An eager thrill came over Josiah. He hadn’t taken a scalp in many, many years. But now, he would make an exception.