The Island

by Jill Jones

  She was lifted bodily out of the boat, passed like a trussed turkey from one man to the other. Then Alyn set her feet upon the soft sand and held her by one arm as he shoved the boat back in the water. Neither man spoke to the other again.

  Then he turned to her. In his face, she read anger, and fear, and undisguised sorrow. “Ye’ve no idea what tragedy ye’ve brought among us, lass.”

  Keely was surprised he spoke to her, for she expected to be shunned, but his words infuriated her. As if this whole thing was her fault! She tried to speak back, but the words caught in the gag.

  He tightened his grip on her arm. “Come.”

  Instead of leading her down the beach toward the village, he took her in the direction of the caves. The sacred place where only the Keeper could go. As they approached, she saw firelight coming from the mouth of the largest one.

  He paused outside the cave, and she saw his shoulders slump as he released a heavy sigh. He turned to her, and his eyes were glassy with tears. “Ah, Keely, why’d ye do it?” Gently, he reached out and removed the material that had begun to eat into the edges of her mouth. Her tongue was dry, and she swallowed several times before saliva enabled her to speak at last.

  “‘Tis the very question I would ask of ye, Uncle,” she said. “What in the name of the Saints is going on here? Where’s Ninian?”

  But Alyn Runyon did not answer. He simply shook his head, took her arm again, and together they entered the forbidden caves.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Inspector Sandringham thought he’d seen it all in his twenty-two years at Scotland Yard. There’d been the female impersonator who thought he was the Queen. And the Jack the Ripper impersonator who created havoc for a short while over in the East End. He’d even been called in on a bizarre case recently involving an attack on a man supposedly by black magic.

  But he was more unsettled than he’d been in a while over the still unsolved murder of a young woman from a distant island in Cornwall, not because the killing of a runaway was so unusual in London, but because of Jack Knight’s insistence that it was the work of a cult. And because Knight believed the life of the other woman, Keely Cochrane, was in danger as well.

  It was one of those fine lines he had to walk as a police inspector. Whether to go by the book, as he had done earlier today, and wait for the proper evidence before investigating a situation that in all likelihood was perfectly innocent, or to listen to the gut level feelings of an experienced police officer and possibly prevent another tragedy.

  Sandringham sat in his quiet study and drew on his pipe. His Brittany spaniel snored at his side. A tot of fine single malt whiskey glimmered from a crystal glass on the table next to his overstuffed chair. The clock in the hall chimed eleven. This was his time of day, the only time he found peace in the hectic, demanding life he lived. But that peace was not forthcoming this night. He picked up the glass and swirled the amber liquid, staring into it absently.

  What if Knight was right? What if the cult had indeed murdered one of their own, and Keely Cochrane, who according to Knight had also violated the law of the cult by leaving, was headed back to her own death? Sandringham’s stomach tightened. If that happened, how could he live with himself?

  Yet there was no proof of any of it. None. Not even the existence of the cult. He wished he’d asked the Constable in Penzance about possible cult activity on Keinadraig when he’d spoken to him earlier, but they’d both been distracted at the time. Sandringham sipped at the whiskey, wondering if they’d intercepted Miss Cochrane at the train station. Surely they would have called if they had. Perhaps she hadn’t taken a train. There were other means of transport, including hitching a ride. The idea of Keely Cochrane, alone and vulnerable on the roadways, made his skin crawl, heightening his unease.

  Richard Sandringham considered the relationship between the young California ex-cop and the woman from the strange, isolated Cornish island. What an odd match. But then, love did that, he supposed. From the way the two had looked at one another and the protective gestures Jack Knight had made toward her, he had no doubt they were in love.

  He had been in love once. Still was, for that matter. But he had never married. Eleanor was too practical for that. Said she wouldn’t be married to his police work. He laughed. Eleanor was one to talk. She was, in her own way, married to her work as well. People came to her at all hours of the day and night, and she helped them sort out their lives that had gone askew. She talked people out of suicide. Sheltered battered women. Guided the lost and lonely to those who could help. The life of a public social worker was no easier than the life of a cop.

  But Eleanor was right. They had no business being married. Still, Sandringham regretted just a little that she wasn’t here to share these quiet hours with him.

  At quarter past eleven, he jumped when the ringing of his telephone shattered the silence of his apartment. “Sandringham here.”

  “Holstedt is awake,” said the officer assigned to Brad’s bedside. “I’ve just taken a complete deposition.”

  “What did he have to say?” Richard Sandringham listened in growing dismay and knew he’d made the wrong call in not listening to Jack Knight earlier.

  “Let me speak to Knight,” he said.

  “He’s not here. The senior Holstedt either. They left a couple of hours ago, but they gave me a phone number to call in case of emergency.”

  “Well, give it to me, damn it!”

  The inspector dialed the numbers but got no answer. Where in the hell could they be? Garrison Holstedt had scarcely left his son’s bedside for a week, and now that Brad was regaining consciousness, his father wasn’t there? It made no sense. He dialed again, in case he had pressed a wrong number. Still no answer.

  Sandringham paced the study, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Then he made a decision. His superiors might have his hide for it, because it was a costly decision, and it could prove dangerous. But he knew instinctively it was the right one. He could not risk allowing that young woman to meet the same fate as her friend.

  He picked up the phone and made several other calls. Then he went to his bedroom, took out a small valise, and packed a few articles of clothing. Changing into street clothes again, he picked up his cell phone on the way out and dialed his office. Reaching the voice mail at his extension, he left a message for his secretary. “I won’t be in tomorrow…”

  Then he turned out the lights and left his small flat. This was why Eleanor would not marry him.

  Hiring a helicopter had not been as easy as Jack and Garrison had thought, for even though Garrison had flying credentials, he was not licensed in the U.K. Finding a qualified pilot in the middle of the night had proven a problem.

  It was after midnight, and Jack thought he might explode from anxiety and frustration when he turned and saw Inspector Sandringham press through the door of the small heliport. The two men stared at one another in astonishment. “What are you doing here?” they asked simultaneously.

  “I’m trying to find a way to get to Cornwall in a hurry, but I could have walked faster than this,” Jack growled.

  Sandringham grinned. “Want a ride?”

  Thirty minutes later, the three of them, along with two other officers from Scotland Yard, took off in a police helicopter that rose into the city-lit skies over London, banked and headed southwest. Jack’s heart was in his throat he was so afraid now for Keely, for Sandringham had filled them in on Brad’s complete account of what had happened the night of the murder. The inspector had mustered the might of Scotland Yard to try to prevent anything happening to Keely, operating more from police instinct than procedures, increasing Jack’s professional respect.

  If only they weren’t too late.

  Keely saw the flicker of flame and smelled the stench of smoke as her uncle led her into the cave. They crossed the large cavern where Keely had looked for Jack and went through the passageway that led to the chamber wherein gaped the hideous pit. Torches mounted at intervals on the
walls lit the cave, revealing something stretched out on a low, flat table at the edge of the abyss. Keely’s eyes widened in disbelief. It was a body. Her heart thundered as she approached, and her mouth turned dry as dust. She crumpled into a heap beside the form. “No!”

  It was Ninian.

  She turned to her uncle. “When?” she sobbed. “How?”

  Alyn stared down at the body, no longer able to restrain his own tears. “She died this morning,” he managed hoarsely. “She grieved for Genny so deeply it nearly kilt her, but when ye left, she lost all will to live.”

  Saints in Heaven, Keely thought, appalled. It was her fault. She had helped Genny run away in the first place, and then she, too, had broken the laws she knew Ninian, maybe more than all others, had held sacred. Still, after what she’d discovered in the outside world, Keely was not sorry she had run away. She had discovered that the outside world was filled with wonderful things and people who cared, even about strangers. She had come to understand that the old legends served only to keep the Dragoners in bondage. Her only regret was that now she could not share those wonders with this woman who had been like a second mother to her.

  “Is this why ye brought me back?” she asked quietly. “To say farewell to her?” She stood up again, her eyes never leaving Ninian’s lifeless face.

  Alyn’s face hardened. “I brought ye back because ye must face thy punishment. But here, on the Dragon’s back, not in some yon land.”

  “Punishment? For what, Uncle?” Keely rose to face him, the fire from the torches that lit the room paling in heat compared to the fire of her sudden anger. Her best friend was dead, and now Ninian. And for what? The perpetuation of a seven-hundred-year-old legend?

  “Am I to die for wanting to learn the truth? For wanting a chance to make choices in my own life?” She stepped toward him, emboldened by rage. “This is the twenty-first century, Alyn. There is no plague. The laws that once protected our people now only enslave them.”

  Alyn glared at her. “Ye have no idea how those laws ye defame protect ye. Protect us all.”

  “Enough to protect ye from being charged with Genny’s murder, Uncle? I saw it, Alyn. I saw your gun. You killed her, didn’t you?”

  He did not reply, but he looked away, and she knew she’d learned the sick truth about her friend’s murder. She shivered in revulsion. “Alyn,” she whispered. “How could you? Even in the name of the Dragon…”

  He turned his gaze on her again, fierce and unrepentant. “She not only betrayed th’ Dragon, she turned whore.”

  “What?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. Oh, ye think ye are sly, Keely, but I have known all along how you helped Genevieve slip away that night. Erica saw th’ two of you down in th’ harbor and fetched me. I followed Genevieve, guessing she would be going t’ Penzance. I wanted only t’ bring her back, before it was too late. I got there just as dawn broke and saw her board th’ London train. There were too many people for me t’ make a scene, so I rode that train, too, in another car. Her mind was so addled by meetin’ up with her lover that she never noticed me.”

  “Genevieve had no lover!”

  “Aye, but she did. I followed her through th’ streets of that obscene city, watched her traipse like a common whore into that public house.” Alyn’s eyes took on a feral sheen as he spoke. “Watched her come out with him, weavin’ on her feet in drunkenness. I followed them t’ th’ fancy hotel where he took her. When I knocked on th’ door t’ th’ room, she opened it…and…”

  Alyn’s face suddenly fell, his fury overwritten by despair.

  “And what?” Keely prompted quietly, confounded that her uncle could have possibly done what he was claiming.

  “She called my name.” He said it as if in disbelief. “She called my name,” he repeated, crumbling visibly before her eyes, “and then…I shot her.” He went to where Ninian’s body listened with the patience of the dead. “I did na mean to,” he said to her. “I did na mean t’ kill her. I went off my head when I saw her with th’ man.”

  Keely suddenly understood why Ninian’s grief had been so intense. She had hoped Alyn would return with Genny. Instead, he’d killed her.

  “Did Ninian know ye did it?”

  “Na one knew anything about it, until th’ stranger came. I told Ninian I could na find her, and then we had th’ excommunication.” His eyes became fierce again. “‘Twas th’ stranger who brought th’ trouble.”

  “‘Twas the stranger who brought the truth, Uncle. Did you really believe you could murder someone and get away with it?”

  Alyn gave her a look of contempt. “Was it I, Keely, or was it th’ Dragon? Was I not merely the instrument of th’ Dragon, who would have reached out and found Genevieve sooner or later?”

  Even as recently as a week before, Keely might have believed her uncle’s claim. Superstition ran deep among the people of Keinadraig. But now, she knew it was simply an excuse for an old man to refuse to accept responsibility for an unspeakable act.

  “Nay,” she said. “You killed her. Not the Dragon. And you will be found out.”

  “Th’ Dragon has protected me. I kilt th’ man she was with. I left th’ gun on him t’ make it look as if he kilt Genny. There is na one but ye and me who know what happened.”

  “And soon ye will kill me, too?”

  He looked sad as he nodded his head. “‘Tis th’ law, Keely.”

  “Law?” she almost screamed. “Since when is murder acceptable in the eyes of God? Or have ye forgotten your Christian beliefs?”

  Another voice pierced the tension. “‘Twas na th’ Christian God who brought protection t’ Keinadraig.”

  Keely whirled around, astounded to find herself facing Erica Sloan. Incredibly, the girl wore the blue robe of the Healer, the one Keely had seen often on Ninian. Where had she come from, and what was she doing here, in this forbidden place? “Erica?”

  The girl smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Why do ye act so surprised? Did ye na think I would become Healer when Ninian died?”

  The girl’s eyes glittered harshly in the firelight, and Keely shuddered, for those eyes held the look of madness. She recalled Ninian’s deep slumber the last time she’d looked upon her lying in her bed and wondered suddenly if Erica had not given her mother some kind of potion to help her into the next world. It was a dark thought, but after what she’d just learned, not impossible.

  Keely looked to Alyn for explanation. As Keeper, he should banish Erica from this chamber, but instead, he seemed to have been expecting her. And on his face was an inexplicable mixture of dismay and contempt.

  “She is Healer,” he confirmed in a heavy voice. “Ninian died without naming another to become th’ Healer’s apprentice. Erica is of her line. There is no other to serve.”

  Keely could not imagine Erica ever serving anyone, other than herself. That she claimed to be a Healer was laughable. But Erica was not laughing. And neither was Alyn. “Do ye know th’ ceremony?” he asked the girl.

  “What ceremony?” Keely broke in before she could reply. Erica turned to her with a sneer.

  “Why, th’ purification ceremony, of course.”

  “I thought it was the duty of the Keeper,” Keely said, her confusion mounting. “Just as I thought na one but the Keeper was allowed into the heart of the Dragon.”

  Erica laughed bitterly. “And ye thought ye knew it all. Why would not th’ Healer perform this ceremony? ‘Tis th’ Healer who tends to all rituals.”

  “Then why is it kept secret?”

  “There are many secrets in Keinadraig,” she replied cryptically.

  Keely thought that might be an understatement. “Secrets that caused Genevieve to run away?”

  At the sound of her sister’s name, Erica’s face flashed with anger. “Genevieve was a fool, like ye are a fool. She did na respect th’ Dragon’s law. She was weak and did na have it in her t’ become th’ Healer.”

  “Why?” Keely pressed. “What did she na have it in her to do
?”

  Erica’s face turned crimson, but she did not answer directly. “Take her away,” she ordered Alyn Runyon, and Keely thought she must not have heard right. Erica Sloan giving orders to Alyn Runyon, the Keeper? But the girl continued. “Ye have followed Ninian’s wishes to have her brought back here for punishment. Now ye must follow mine. Let us waste no more time. Lock her behind th’ sea door.”

  Ninian’s wishes? Sea door?

  “What is she saying, Alyn?” Keely demanded, alarmed that her uncle seemed suddenly impotent in the face of the girl’s bold disrespect. “Why are ye listening to this snippet?”

  “He’s listening,” Erica interrupted, speaking slowly, “and he will obey, because th’ true keeper of the laws of th’ Dragon is not th’ Keeper of Keinadraig, but th’ Healer.”

  It took a moment for this to penetrate Keely’s already overtaxed mind. Although Alyn was obviously distraught, he did not in any way refute the girl’s statement when she claimed the Healer to be the ultimate power on the island. “Is it true?” Keely asked, her voice quavering slightly.

  He looked at her in resignation and nodded. “Aye.”

  “Was it Ninian’s wish that I be brought back to Keinadraig?”

  “Aye.”

  “For punishment?”

  He exhaled, and his eyes watered. “Aye.”

  The full force of the implication stunned Keely. Ninian, her second mother, beloved since childhood, had ordered her death. “Did she…did she order you to kill Genevieve, too?” she asked.

  This time Alyn shook his head. “Nay. I was t’ bring her home.”

  “For punishment?”

  Another nod. “Unless she could be convinced t’ remain loyal t’ th’ Dragon and become th’ Healer.”

  “Ninian called for the death of her own daughter?” Already aghast at what she had just learned, Keely felt lightheaded when she realized that was exactly what Ninian had been prepared to do.