by Jill Jones
The Island
Jill Jones
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1999 by Jill Jones
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition November 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62681-524-7
More from Jill Jones
Emily’s Secret
My Lady Caroline
The Scottish Rose
A Scent of Magic
Circle of the Lily
The Island
Bloodline
Remember Your Lies
Every Move You Make
Beneath the Raven’s Moon
Shadow Haven
Fear in healthy measure doth protect,
In excess, poisons.
—Anonymous
Chapter One
The island of Keinadraig, in Cornwall,
Present day
From within a troubled dream she heard the knocking, an urgent demand she fought desperately to ignore. Sleep was precious, and dawn would arrive too soon. Grasping the quilt that covered her, Keely Cochrane pulled it over her head and held it tightly around her ears, determined to make the sound become part of the dream and not something to which she must awaken and attend.
But the knocking did not stop. Instead, it grew louder, more insistent, jarring her awake at last. She threw off the covers irritably. Her body ached with fatigue and her eyes felt gritty and she was annoyed at being denied even a moment of much-needed rest. But her irritation turned to alarm with a return of full consciousness. No one came calling at this time of night.
Snatching up her cotton robe, Keely ran on bare feet down the ancient wooden stairs to the back door. “Coming!” But before she could reach the door, a figure rushed in, slammed the heavy portal behind her, and leaned heavily against it, breathing hard. Even in the dark, Keely recognized instantly it was her best friend and kinswoman Genevieve Sloan. But her eyes were wide, and her hair was in wild disarray.
“Genny! What is wrong?” Keely cried, hurrying toward her. “Whatever are ye doing here at this time of night? Did Ninian send ye? Is someone ill?” Keely reached for the light switch, but Genny clamped her wrist tightly with a hand as cold as ice.
“Do na! Please, do na turn on the light.” Her voice was hushed, breathy, urgent. “None must know I am here.”
“What is the matter?” Keely could feel the younger woman shaking. “What on earth…? Here, sweeting, sit ye down. I will make tea.” Deeply troubled, she led her friend to a chair by the small table in the kitchen and groped about in the dark for the kettle, her heart pounding, for she had never seen Genevieve in such a state.
Placing the kettle on the small stove, Keely turned to her friend. The moonlight shone directly on her, turning her fiery untamed locks to a billow of smoky gray and revealing extreme confusion and panic in her eyes. “What has happened?” Keely asked again, forcing a calm she did not feel.
“Help me.” Genny’s voice was low and ragged. “You must help me.” She reached across the table and clutched Keely’s hand again. “I must leave here. We must leave! Now! Tonight! Come with me, Keely! Let us leave this place for good, like we have always talked about.”
“Leave?” Keely’s skin prickled. “Genny, that was just childish talk. We were never serious.” Never in her twenty-five years had she been truly serious about leaving the tiny island they called home.
Genny set her jaw. “I am serious now,” she said. “Serious as death.”
The prickle on her flesh crawled along her skin, and her stomach tightened. “But…but why?” Keely knew Genny was unhappy that Alyn Runyon, the village Keeper, was insisting that she marry William Reedy, a man who at forty-two was twice her age. But it was the law, it was their way on the island. One married the man or woman chosen for them by the Council. As head of the Council, Keely’s uncle Alyn was charged with making appropriate matches to keep the bloodlines pure in the small, isolated island community of Keinadraig. For here, for centuries, the villagers had dwelt in peace, harmony, and good health as a result of abiding by the ancient laws.
To break them was unthinkable.
Genny couldn’t do this. She was making a terrible mistake. No one left the island. Not the way she seemed set on. Everyone knew that bad things happened to those who left. It was the way of the Dragon.
Genevieve dropped her head into her hands and began to sob. “I…I can na…I just can na do it, Keely.”
“Marry William? But Genny, William is a good man. And he is one of us. He will be kind to ye and take care of ye. ‘Tis better than marrying some stranger Alyn brings to ye.”
Genny’s head jerked up, and she looked at Keely with tragic eyes. “‘Tis not about William.”
Keely frowned. “Then what…?”
“I can na do what Ninian asks. I can na become the Healer.”
Ninian was Genevieve’s mother and the village Healer. She was a skilled herbalist and a wise woman who tended to both the physical and spiritual needs of the villagers. To become the Healer was an honor. “What is she asking? What are ye talking about?” Keely asked, more than perplexed.
“I can na do it,” Genny repeated. “I…I do na have it in me, Keely.”
Keely suddenly understood why Genny was upset and let out a breath of relief. Her friend had always been squeamish at the sight of blood. Maybe she wasn’t the right one to take over Ninian’s role, but she needn’t run away. “Surely Ninian will understand and will find another apprentice.”
Genevieve jumped out of her chair. “Ninian understands nothing!” she cried. “She…I…, oh, forget it. I’ll na say more. I am leaving, and do na try to scare me because I am breaking the law. I do na care about the law.”
Keely stared at her open-mouthed. No one talked like this. The law was sacred. It protected everyone. It was what made the island of Keinadraig so special, a haven against the corrupting influences of the outside world. “But ye can na leave. What about your Dragon’s promise? What about…this?” She reached out and touched a tiny mark just beneath Genny’s left ear. The kiss of the Dragon, worn proudly by all Dragoners.
“I wish I had ne’er made such a promise. I was young and foolish. Everyone who believes that rubbish is foolish.”
Keely was appalled. She had never known Genevieve to speak such blasphemy. “But Genny, ye’ve heard what happens when a Dragoner leaves…”
“Nothing happens. ‘Tis just an old tale they tell to keep us here doing as they bid. But I am leaving. Right now. With or without your help.”
Keely recognized the stubborn tone and knew there would be no dissuading her friend until she changed her mind on her own. Which would probably be about daybreak, when she overcame her emotions, realized her error and came creeping back to the island. She sighed in resignation. “What do ye need? Where are ye going?”
“I need ye to help me launch a boat from the harbor. I will tie it up at the docks in Penzance and someone can come fetch it in the morning. I…I will take the train from there.”
“And go where?” Keely detected a tremor in Genevieve’s voice and knew her bravado was mostly pretense.
“Oh, to London, I suppose. I can find work there. But do na tell. None must know where I a
m. I will be dead as far as they’re concerned. You know that. And that sits fine by me.”
Telling herself that Genevieve’s insanity was only temporary, Keely gave her some money from the cash drawer of the pub which occupied the front of the house, the business Keely had inherited. She scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “‘Tis the telephone at the Council office,” she explained. “Use it in case of emergency. Someone will come for ye, wherever ye are.” She paused and smiled through unshed tears. “If ye change your mind, that is.”
“Oh, Keely, ye are the best friend anyone could ever have. I wish ye would come with me. There is no future for ye here.”
“No, love. I belong here. And so do ye. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll be back.”
Genevieve rushed into Keely’s arms, sobbing her goodbyes as if they truly were forever. Keely held her tightly, willing her not to go, but at last Genny broke free and made for the door. Keely turned off the stove and followed.
Keeping to the shadows, they slipped noiselessly down the narrow cobblestone lane to the harbor. The tide was receding, leaving the small fishing boats wallowing in the mud. They made for one that was moored in deeper water and was still afloat. Keely hitched up her nightclothes and waded into the shallow water, holding the boat steady while Genny clambered aboard. Then she handed her kinswoman the small bag of belongings that was all Genny owned in the world.
The outside world, that is. She had everything she needed here in Keinadraig.
She’d be back.
Keely untied the mooring line and gave the boat a shove in the direction of the mouth of the harbor. Genny picked up the oars and began to silently stroke the calm waters, edging the small craft between the fingers of the ancient quay and out past the jetty. Keely knew that when she was far enough offshore to be out of earshot, Genny would start the small engine and be quickly on her way.
As Keely watched the boat disappear into the midnight darkness, the knot in her stomach turned to stone and a terrible premonition washed over her.
She knew she would never see Genny again…alive.
London
The string quartet playing unobtrusively in the elegant dining room of the five-star hotel was beginning to grate on his nerves. Jack Knight glanced around, taking in the crisp white linen, the gleaming silver, the battalion of impeccably uniformed waiters poised along one wall, and his shirt collar seemed suddenly too tight. He’d dined in fine restaurants before, but he was more comfortable in the sleazy bars and back alleyways of Los Angeles, where until his recent “retirement” he had prowled in derelict fashion, setting up drug busts, arresting pushers, struggling against growing odds to put an end to the death dealers as an undercover narc for the LAPD.
“Wine?” Across the table, Brad’s voice interrupted his thoughts. His long-time friend raised the bottle containing the remainder of an excellent Sangiovese. Jack’s taste ran to Kentucky bourbon, but the wine was rich and smooth, satisfying with the rack of lamb he’d just devoured.
“Sure.” He slid his glass toward Brad, who topped it off, then refilled his own.
Brad Holstedt raised his glass in a gesture of a toast and gave Jack a sardonic smile. “You’ll get used to it.”
“What?”
“The fancy restaurants. The fine hotels. They come with the job.”
Jack didn’t return the smile. “Let’s talk about the job, Brad.”
The made-up job, Jack thought darkly, thrust on him when Brad’s father, Garrison, had learned Jack was quitting the force to become a private investigator.
“Get over it, Jack. The job’s for real. Dad would have hired someone to check out these people. Might as well be you.”
But there was more to it than that, and they both knew it. This issue went back a long way.
“Whether it’s for real or not, I didn’t ask for this job, and I don’t want that damned stock.”
“Like I said, get over it. You know Dad. When he makes up his mind about something, that’s it.” Jack heard the unmistakable bitterness behind his words, and it hit him for the first time that Brad resented his well-meaning but controlling father. Did he resent Jack now as well? Jack, who had always found favor with Garrison Holstedt and who now had become a part of the family business, albeit unwillingly? If so, he’d resign immediately, no matter what Garrison wanted. No job or amount of money was worth the price of his friendship with Brad.
“This is bullshit,” Jack said, throwing his napkin on the table. “I don’t want you hating me because your father insisted on hiring me. I quit.”
Brad leaned forward, his blue eyes blazing. “Let’s get this straight, old friend. Like it or not, you’re in it now, and it’s too late to back out. This is one big frigging deal I’m supposed to pull off, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you blow it for me by quitting now. I need you to do exactly what you’ve been hired to do, so get a grip and get on with it.” He narrowed his gaze and added, “And I really don’t give a rat’s ass about the stock.”
Jack became aware that other diners had overheard their heated discussion and were staring at them. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He took a sip of water, unsure quite what to make of Brad’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Then maybe you’d like to give me a few details of my duties,” he said, holding onto his temper. “So far, it seems I’m nothing but a highly paid travel companion.”
The tension between them was explosive, Brad’s expression fierce. Fierce, and also desperate. Suddenly, Jack looked behind Brad’s anger and saw the fear that lurked just beneath. Brad Holstedt, outwardly the young self-possessed financial lion, walked in the shadow of fear. What was he afraid of? His personal safety? Jack could not imagine anyone wanting to harm Brad. No, there was something else. His well-bred friend rarely used raunchy language. More likely, he was afraid of failing in this “big frigging deal.”
Afraid of failing his father.
Something painful twisted inside of Jack, and he felt sorry for the son of the rich man who seemed obsessed with success, driven by achievement. This was not the Brad Jack had known for over two decades, the man he considered to be his best friend. The Brad he knew was of a gentler nature, a Brad who took time to watch a sunset, who taught a younger, poorer boy the nuances of surfing, then loaned him his expensive surfboard to let him give it a try. He felt sorry that Brad was trying so hard to please Garrison and losing his own identity in the process.
“I was going to wait until morning, but since you’re in such a damned snit…” Brad reached beneath the table and took out his briefcase, snapping it open sharply. He rustled through thick sheaves of paper and drew out several manila envelopes and shoved them at Jack. “Here. These are the dossiers on the potential British players in this deal. Dad…I mean, I want you to dig up anything you can find on them…personal, political, religious, whatever. These guys have got to be squeaky clean coming in, because the investment involves our national government, and if there ever was any kind of Congressional investigation into any of the partners, one bad apple could bring down our entire company.”
With that, Brad rose to go. He glared at Jack a moment, then his expression softened. “Get over it, Jack. It’s a real job. I need you. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow night.”
Late the next evening, Jack stalked into his hotel room, wondering what the hell had made him think he wanted to be a gumshoe. He was accustomed to the action of the streets, not the guileful sniffing into other people’s lives that was the life of a PI.
But he’d chosen this new career precisely for the lack of street action. In his twelve years on the police force, he had seen too much death and dying. His sister’s murder had been the last straw, a senseless death and one for which he blamed himself. He hadn’t known his cover had been blown, that the drug dealer he had fingered was waiting outside his house, finger on the trigger, ready to exact his revenge. He hadn’t known. But Melinda was just as dead.
If only he hadn’t invited her over for supper that night. If only the bullet had
struck its intended target…
Pouring three fingers of Jack Daniels into a glass he found on the bar in his hotel room, Jack forced those memories and his gut-wrenching grief into a dark corner of his mind where he didn’t have to look at them. At least for the moment, until they unexpectedly surfaced again, as they so frequently did, hitting him squarely and painfully in the solar plexus.
Taking his drink in hand, Jack stacked some pillows at the head of the bed and slouched against them, kicking off his shoes and thinking about his day. He’d call Brad in a few minutes. Maybe they could meet for dinner. It was after eight o’clock and he was starved, but he wanted to unwind first.
Jack sipped the whiskey and thought with regret about the harsh words he’d exchanged with Brad the night before. He knew they’d stemmed from his own hang-ups, not Brad’s. Jack hated charity, and he strongly suspected that charity was Garrison’s motive in bringing him on board. Garrison, who doggedly and unnecessarily continued to honor a promise made long, long ago.
Jack’s friendship with Brad was an unlikely one, but one that had lasted nearly a quarter of a century. Jack, a boy from the poorer streets of LA, Brad, the son of a millionaire, had been brought together by a promise made on a battlefield half a world away. Garrison and Jack’s father, John Knight, had served together in the Persian Gulf war. Garrison came home. John did not. Before John died, he’d asked Garrison to keep an eye out for Jack, his younger sister, Melinda, and their mother, Suzanne.
Jack often wondered if his father had known that Garrison Holstedt was a wealthy man. Beyond wealthy. He wondered if John Knight had had any clue that when Garrison honored his dying wishes, it would mean lavish gifts for his wife and children at Christmas and birthdays, delivered in long, shiny cars to their tiny apartment. Money when his mother couldn’t pay the rent. Eventually a college education for him and his sister.