CHAPTER 45
Harrison walked out of the Tillamook County
Sheriff’s Department into a cloud-filled June evening, feeling as
if a final page had been written on a chapter of his life that was
now closed. He’d introduced Marilla Belgard to Detective Stone, who
had listened to her story and called his ex-partner at the Portland
Police Department. It looked like Koontz would soon be arrested and
finally, finally, Manny’s killer would be brought to
justice.
Justice.
He felt a frisson slide down his back.
The bastard may have been wounded, but he wasn’t dead. He was still
out there, still on his mission. And Laura still wasn’t
safe.
Harrison had called Kirsten and broken
the news about the new evidence in her husband’s death. Kirsten had
been overwhelmed, asking a million questions, and though Harrison
shared her relief, he had to put her on hold for a
while.
“I gotta connect with Laura,” he told
her, and she reluctantly let him go.
He’d left Marilla in Stone’s care. The
detective had promised to return her to Seaside and the car she’d
left at the offices of the Breeze.
Deciding it was time to eat a major
helping of crow, he punched the speed dial button that connected
him to Laura’s cell phone, but the call went straight to voice
mail. “Hey, it’s me. Call me back. Please.”
He wondered if she would. A bad feeling
settled over him, and he drove straight to Laura’s house. Her
Outback wasn’t in its usual parking spot, and the house was dark.
He stopped, anyway, and let himself in with his key, as he’d kept
one after changing the lock in the place. But, of course, she
wasn’t inside.
But she’d been there.
He recognized the T-shirt she’d slept
in the night before, left on the foot of the bed, the small bag
she’d brought with her on the bathroom floor, the clean scent of
the perfume she wore lingering . . . So she was planning to stay
here? Just went out to . . . grab a late dinner?
He searched the cottage, making note of
the touches that were Laura, the books and plants, the comfortable
furniture, eclectic lamps, a haven invaded by a madman. She wasn’t
here, of course; he knew that. But he even searched the basement,
going outside to the exterior steps, but there was nothing but old
boxes and forgotten memories.
He tried to call her again, and got
nowhere.
So where was she?
His mind raced to several
possibilities, and he was locking up, wondering how to track her
down, when his phone rang and his heart lifted.
Laura!
But the number printed on the screen of
his cell was one he didn’t recognize. He answered,
“Frost.”
“Oh, Mr. Frost,” a woman said, her
voice uncertain. “I’m glad I caught you. This is Catherine Rutledge
. . . from Siren Song.”
Harrison’s heart nearly stopped
beating. His fingers curled over the cell. “Yes?”
“I was sworn to secrecy by Lorelei, but
I thought you should know . . . she left here and . .
.”
Harrison braced himself for the
worst.
“And she’s taken off after Justice.
She’s been gone about an hour. She’s heading to the lighthouse.
She’s convinced that he’ll return there. I tried to talk her out of
it, but she was adamant. Oh, dear, I really shouldn’t have let her
go, but there was no talking her out of it. I . . . I, uh, just
thought someone should know.”
And then she clicked off.
Low tide had exposed rocks and tide
pools with starfish, barnacles, and mussels. Crabs scuttled away,
toward the receding ocean, while the seagulls squawked and wheeled
over the sand as they searched for their next meal on the exposed
seabed. The rain had let up for a while. A crack in the cloud cover
over the horizon showed the last rays of a lowering sun as Laura,
hauling the small raft, headed for the island, a rocky ridge
bearing the lighthouse, which hadn’t been used for years, except as
Justice Turnbull’s lair a few years ago.
And he’d go back to it; she felt it as
surely as she felt electricity in the air, the warning of a
gathering storm.
She had to work fast, get to the
island, hide the raft, and then wait. She was as prepared as she
could be, had provisions for a couple of days, but she knew she
wouldn’t have to spend too many hours on the island. He would come
to her. He couldn’t wait.
Well, hurry up, you
bastard, she thought, paddling in the low tide, where
thankfully she wouldn’t get tossed around like a cork. She could
have walked across the exposed rocks now, but she might need the
raft for later, so she cautiously oared over, her mind on her
mission.
Ignoring all the nagging questions, her
fears screaming through her brain, she reached the island and made
her way to the dock, a dilapidated pier that jetted three feet
above the current waterline. It was empty and bleak, covered with
seagull droppings. An ancient surfboard, or part of one, had
beached upon it. She tied the raft to one of the pilings, said a
prayer and, using a flashlight, found the path that switch-backed
up the sheltered side of the small island of rock.
As she climbed, the wind gathered force
and blew at her hair, the clouds roiled overhead, and she wondered
neutrally if she would ever leave this island alive. Rain slanted
from the sky, and she thought of the baby she’d lost, her sisters
huddled in fear at the Colony, and Harrison. . . . Her fingers
reached in her pocket and she cradled her phone, though she wasn’t
certain there was reception on the island.
Her heart twisted as she thought of
Harrison.
She’d loved him, despite knowing him
such a short time, and now she wondered if she’d ever see him
again.
Carefully, she put the phone back. She
wouldn’t think of that now. Maybe not ever again.
James’s heart was a drum. He was scared
out of his mind and wondered how the hell he’d let his dumb shit of
a brother talk him into this. They weren’t alone on this island,
like Mikey had said they would be. The little creep had been
wrong.
Oh,
Christ.
James saw the guy. Tall, his hair blond
as it whipped around his face, he stood like the lunatic he was,
his feet planted shoulder length apart, his arms flung wide, a long
coat flapping around him. He was facing the damned ocean and saying
something James couldn’t hear, like maybe praying a sicko’s prayer.
And in one hand, his fingers clenched tight around its hilt, was a
mother of a knife.
Mikey hadn’t noticed yet, so James
grabbed him by the arm and, with a finger to his lips, pointed with
his free hand.
Mikey looked irritated and opened his
mouth to speak, then closed it again as he recognized the freak.
His eyes widened and he blinked, as if he was trying to dispel the
image. James pulled him down to the ground so they could hide
behind a rock and some tall beach grass that rose higher than the
patchy ground at the base of the lighthouse.
The psycho was standing between them
and the only path leading back to the old dock, where they’d
ditched the surfboard that Mikey was certain would help them float
back to the mainland if need be.
A crazy idea, James now knew, because
the tide was turning, and if they wanted to leave and not have to
try their luck with the furious, frigid sea, they’d have to leave
now.
But of course they
couldn’t.
Damn, he’d been a fuckin’ idiot to
listen to his little brother with his ridiculous
plans.
Mikey touched him on the shoulder, then
pointed to the house that sat at the base of the lighthouse, its
back wall nearly abutting. The kid actually thought they could hide
in there. . . . It was insane, but they didn’t have too many
options. Aside from this rise on the hilltop supporting the
lighthouse, there wasn’t any cover, so . . .
Before he could think it through, Mikey
took off running. James caught a glimpse of the psycho, saw that
his back was turned, and sprinted behind his brother. Twenty yards,
fifteen, ten, five—oh, shit, the madman was rotating slowly, his
face in horrific profile.
Shit! Damn!
Fuck! James leapt the final yard or two, landing behind
Mikey, who’d flattened himself against the building’s exterior
wall. Now all that separated them from the killer was this small
house, but it was something.
Carefully, James inched to the door on
the far side of the building. He tried the handle. Locked
tight.
He nearly pissed his
jeans.
Now what?
A quick peek around the corner
confirmed his worst fears.
The psycho was striding to the
house.
Had he seen them? Oh,
God . . .
Mikey, eyes serious, pointed a finger
at the lighthouse itself.
James shook his head. No!
He reached for his brother, but Mikey
was off like a shot, streaking behind the house, cutting across the
small open space, and then, to James’s horror, pushing on the
lighthouse’s front door and somehow slipping through.
He glanced around the corner
again.
Shit! The freak
was less than twenty yards away.
But his view of the base of the
lighthouse was blocked by the building.
James had no choice.
He took off running as fast as he
could.
He hoped to hell that the freak didn’t
see him.
“God damn it!” The minute Catherine
hung up on him, Harrison flew to his car and slid inside, where the
odor of Marilla’s cigarettes still lingered.
What was Laura thinking? No way should
she be going to that island!
Wheeling out of her driveway, he headed
to Cape Dread, a spot where surfers often camped and the access to
the old lighthouse would be the easiest.
It was raining again, almost dark, and
he nearly missed the turnoff to the beach at Cape Dread, the
closest to Whittier Island. Spying the sign at the last second, he
slid across traffic, the RV riding his ass behind him nearly
rear-ending him. The driver laid on his horn, but Harrison barely
noticed. He hit the gas and drove along a short lane to the lot
closest to the park.
Laura’s Subaru was parked, nose in, by
a short two-rail fence.
His heart sank.
He’d hoped Catherine had been wrong,
but now . . .
And there was another car as well. A
Dodge Charger parked at an odd angle, taking up nearly three of the
faded marks delineating individual spots.
Justice’s latest vehicle?
Jesus,
no!
Harrison’s insides curdled with a new,
unending dread as he reached into the glove box and extracted his 9
mm. He checked the magazine and, satisfied, climbed out of his
car.
Were they both on the damned island, at
that lighthouse? Had Laura called the bastard, taunted him, urged
him to come and find her in some deadly game of hide-and-seek? Oh,
hell . . . Harrison stared toward the spot where the horizon would
be, that line where sky meets sea, but that line was invisible,
blurred by clouds and darkness. The only good news was that the
tide was so low, it looked as if it was almost possible to hike to
the island now.
And what then?
What if you get out
there and can’t get back?
He glanced at Laura’s car again,
absently rubbing his arm where Zellman had shoved the stun gun
against it.
To hell with it. Heading toward the
ocean, he called Detective Stone’s cell phone and left a voice mail
about his position and what he thought might be going down. Heart
in his throat, he pocketed his cell, held tight to his Glock, and
started jogging through the exposed rocks toward the island Justice
friggin’ Turnbull had once called home.
Rounding a final curve on the trail up,
Laura sensed the storm shifting, a malevolence
brewing.
And somewhere Justice could be nearby.
She felt it. Her fingers clamped around the .38 as she narrowed her
eyes against the rain. It was coming down steadily now, the drops
cool against her face.
At the crest of the path, the
lighthouse was in full view, a narrow tower that knifed upward and
seemed to pierce the darkening heavens. Standing on a rocky tor,
with thick patches of beach grass, the tower loomed over the
squatty, dilapidated house at its base.
What horrors have you
witnessed?
Had Justice ever brought anyone
here?
Or had he hidden in solitude, his mind
disintegrating with the passing of time?
It didn’t matter what had happened
here; it was only important that it was finally over. She flipped
off the safety of her gun, then dashed to the door of the keeper’s
house, but it was locked tight. No entrance here. Slowly, still
wary, she eased around the building and kept her body flush against
the crumbling walls. The windows were boarded, a back exit locked
as well. No way to get inside.
She had brought a few tools with her
and could break in if she needed, but first she wanted to make
certain she was alone. Cautiously, she hurried to the attached
lighthouse, the monolith that Justice, according to what she’d
read, had called home. Where he’d found peace. Or whatever it was
he’d been looking for.
The latch on the door wasn’t
fastened.
The door itself was slightly
ajar.
Her heart turned to ice.
He’s
here!
Inside!
Oh, dear
God.
Fear turned her insides to
water.
Wait! You don’t know
that he’s inside. The door could have been left open long
ago. Suddenly she wondered if she’d made a deadly mistake,
if she should turn around, call the authorities, save herself. . .
.
Instead, she drew in a long, steadying
breath, then pushed the door open farther with the revolver’s short
nose.
As the door creaked open, Laura stepped
into the yawning darkness.
She’s
arrived!
I smell her and her
empty, malodorous womb. Foolish, foolish woman. So easily tricked
to come here to my lair. I feel a smile curve over my lips as the
spray from the ocean caresses my face and the wind plays with my
hair. I heard her pathetic voice trying to reach me, to tempt me to
this, my home, but I had already arrived.
As ever, I am a step or
two ahead of her.
I take in a long,
healing breath of salt-sea air, dragging it into my lungs, feeling
its glorious healing powers. I look toward Cape Dread, that crooked
finger of land that stretches into the Pacific, where it lures the
tidewaters and foolhardy sea captains to a certain and deadly
fate.
Tonight no lights glow
on that cape; there is no sign that the narrow expanse of land is
inhabited. That evil lurks within the densely forested cliffs.
Which is just as it should be.
I feel my strength
returning.
Earlier this day I was
weak, recovering. I’d let my guard down with the vile ones. Been
foolish.
But now . .
.
I’m whole
again.
And
anxious.
For
Lorelei.
Get ready,
whore.