CHAPTER 46
On silent footsteps Laura climbed, one hand on
the rusted circular rail, the other gripped over the butt of her
gun. The old staircase groaned with her weight, thick, blistering
paint peeling beneath her fingertips. Could Justice hear her over
the thunder of the sea? She didn’t know, but she kept mounting the
rickety stairs, her heart pounding an erratic tattoo.
She had two choices. To kill him or
wound him badly enough to disable him and wait for the police to
arrive.
Otherwise, she was dead.
She knew it.
So did he.
Up, up, up. Her legs beginning to
cramp. While the storm picked up and the sea raged, she moved
inside and around the lighthouse walls, ever ascending. Her pulse
was pounding; her body drenched in a thin layer of
perspiration.
Was he waiting for her?
Hidden in the shadows?
Her throat closed in fear at the
thought that he could toss her headlong down these narrow stairs
or, with his strength, could throw her over the fragile rail and
down to the concrete floor some sixty feet below. . .
.
Do this, Laura. Do it
now.
Gritting her teeth, she kept
climbing.
Squinting into the darkness, ears
straining at every sound, her fear palpable.
But she didn’t stop.
Frigid water, cold as the Arctic, swept
into the small cove as the tide shifted, each wave creeping farther
inland. The wind had become a battering ram, pushing him backward
with every step forward.
Harrison kept diligently moving onward,
making headway regardless. He stopped only once to try and reach
Detective Stone one more time. Still no answer. Was the cop
ignoring his calls? Or just busy with Marilla? He left a second
message outlining what he knew and hoped the detective got
it.
It’s late. Stone might
have called it a day.
He considered calling 9-1-1 but thought
better of it. What if it wasn’t an emergency? What if when he got
to the island, he found no one? What if Laura had just parked her
car there and . . . and what?
No way!
She was out here. In
danger.
He knew it.
Could feel it.
The sky was darker now and he still had
a lot of ground to cover before the turning tide rushed in, so he
kept moving forward, determined not to fall, intent on keeping his
body dry and his gun ready to fire.
With each step over the slippery rocks,
his gut tightened a little more. Like notches in a belt that was
already too tight. Cutting off his breath. Reminding him that he
was only human.
Still he moved forward.
Crossing from one flat rock to
another.
Making his way to the
lighthouse.
He tried to stay focused, but with each
step to the next rock, his insides tightened and he thought of
Laura and what she might be going through.
Don’t go
there.
Concentrate.
He hopped to the next rock, nearly
misjudging the distance, and his feet slipped a little. He caught
himself.
You can do this.
Only a little farther, five or six more rocks.
But the tide was rising, the top of the
rocks disappearing under the wildly swirling foam of each wave. He
had to center all his concentration on crossing the inlet. Time his
steps. Pick out the rocks that were the most exposed, ignore those
that were beginning to submerge.
And all the while time was passing.
Minutes ticking by. Darkness settling.
He thought of Laura’s car and the other
one . . . the unknown.
Don’t go there. Don’t
give in to the panic. Concentrate, damn it!
Rain was falling steadily now, the wind
screaming and above it all, loud as thunder. The ocean threatened,
moving ever inland, destroying the land bridge, making certain that
whoever was on the island would be trapped. . . .
His cell phone jangled.
Stone! Thank God.
He tried to snag the phone from his
pocket.
And his right foot
slipped.
He tried to catch himself, grasping at
only air, teetering crazily.
A wave slapped the rock. Cold water
splashed over his ankles. His balance, already compromised, gave
way.
No!
He slid farther, falling wildly and
scraping himself on the rock as he sank, his body sliding beneath
the bitter cold water.
His gun fell from his hands and he
panicked, tried to regain it, felt it tumbling end over end in the
sea. No! He couldn’t lose the only weapon he had! Shit! He hit
bottom and realized he was still in only six feet of water, the
crevice near the base of Whittier Island just deep enough that he
couldn’t stand.
For now.
With the passing of time, the turning
of the tide, the water would rise farther.
He dived down. Cold water surrounded
him, moving and shifting, pushing him against the rocks. He felt
the bottom of the sea. Nothing! His lungs were on fire, so he
stood, sucking in air.
He should go on. Forget the weapon. He
was losing precious time, and his arm that had been shot with the
stun gun earlier was throbbing. But he needed that gun, damn it! He
took in another deep breath, and as the restless water washed over
him, he submerged, running his fingers on the sandy bottom, feeling
rocks, and a fish that slid away, then seaweed that curled over his
wrists like a lover’s hands.
His lungs were tight. He needed air.
But he kept at it, until he felt as if he would
explode.
His fingertips scraped against
something metal.
He grabbed hold and dragged the object
up with him, gasping and gurgling as he stood on tiptoe. The Glock,
probably useless now, was firmly in his hand again.
Move it, Frost. You’re
running out of time.
He forced himself forward, toward the
dock, his clothes sodden, icy weights, his skin colder than it had
ever been in his life. It was like slogging through mud, and the
sea forever tore at him, pushing against his shivering, battered
body. There was no ladder, but an inflated raft was tied to the
dock, and he knew now, for certain, he wasn’t alone on the
island.
Was Laura hiding somewhere here? Or had
Justice found her? He couldn’t think that she might already be
dead, wouldn’t let his already anxious mind go there. Using all his
strength, his wounded arm practically useless, he hauled himself
onto the worn, rotting boards while the rain peppered his already
drenched body.
He figured he might freeze
tonight.
But he didn’t care.
As long as he found Laura and she was
safe.
Stone was shrugging into his jacket
before heading home when he checked his voice mail. He listened to
Frost’s messages about Justice Turnbull being holed up on Serpent’s
Eye and Laura Adderley tracking the killer down at the abandoned
lighthouse.
No way.
They’d checked the lighthouse. As best
they could, anyway, as most of the time it was inaccessible by
land.
Didn’t make sense.
But he checked the license number of
the Dodge Harrison had phoned in and discovered it belonged to a
Ron and Francie Ferguson. Who lived in the valley. Huh. Not
reported stolen. Maybe not related to the Turnbull business . . .
and yet . . . he reached for his sidearm and his holster. In the
last few days Stone had garnered a grudging respect for the
reporter. Frost had helped nail Zellman and hadn’t printed anything
he’d promised not to. He’d brought Marilla Belgard to the police
before penning the story that would be his ultimate revenge, a way
to clear his name of the huge black spot from supposedly
mishandling that mess outside Boozehound that had resulted in his
brother-in-law’s death.
Yeah, all in all, Frost was
okay.
Not one to sound the alarm when there
wasn’t trouble.
So why the hell wasn’t he picking up
his phone?
Stone hesitated. Thought of Claire, who
was waiting for him with dinner prepared and warming on the
stove.
Again.
He had sent Savvy Dunbar to take the
Belgard woman back to her car in Seaside and had intended to go
straight home. . . .
Oh, hell. It wouldn’t kill him to go
out to the cove and have a look.
Out of breath by the time she ascended
to the top of the lighthouse, Laura found herself in the small room
that housed the huge long-dead lamp. Her heart was pounding in her
ears and her skin crawled with the feeling—the sense—that Justice
was here. She remembered the rage in his last attack, how his
finger had scraped her back, how his fury had palpitated from
him.
A bona fide lunatic.
She felt as if he were watching her,
sensed hidden eyes somehow scrutinizing her every move. Could he
see her? When he sent his horrible threats to her mind, was he able
to visualize her, too? Watch her like a sadistic
voyeur?
She threw off the image and scanned the
room. The glass windows were cracked, but intact, the view of the
ocean barely visible through layers of dirt and grime. The glass
walls were curved, and there was an exit door through one of the
windows that led to the metal outside balcony and railing. The lamp
itself, long extinguished, filled the center of the circular room,
a dead relic of an earlier era.
An era that Catherine, with her long
skirts and avoidance of all things modern, tried vainly to
re-create.
Laura’s skin crawled as she thought of
how many times Justice had climbed those stairs, how many times
he’d stood in the very spot she now occupied. She imagined him on
the platform, arms wide, face turned toward the west as he embraced
the sea.
Fear crawled up her spine, its icy
fingers clutching at her soul.
Don’t go there,
she told herself.
Then she heard it.
Over the roar of the surf and the rush
of the wind.
That horrid scraping rasp that was
Justice’s voice.
Sssissterr . . .
, he threw out at her and she nearly dropped the gun. She
spun, expecting him behind her, but the top of the stairs was
empty.
Sssissterrr!
The sound only she could hear
reverberated through her mind.
And it was close.
“Where the hell are you?” she demanded
and thought she heard a squeak of fear. From behind the lantern?
Really.
And then the heavy step upon the
uppermost stairs.
She snapped her head up, saw the huge,
dark figure looming in the doorway. “Oh, God,” she whispered, the
gun in her hand shaking.
Justice stepped into the dome, his face
a twisted mask of hatred, his icy eyes damning. She stared
face-to-face with her mortal enemy as Justice, filling the doorway
to the stairs, smiled with a menacing, satisfied grin.
“Foolish, foolish woman,” he
snarled.
She raised her gun at him. “It’s over.”
The barrel was pointed at him.
He glanced down at her weapon. “Lorelei
. . .”
“Don’t move, Justice.”
“You can’t kill me,
Lorelei.”
“Watch me.” Her teeth were starting to
chatter.
His grin was pure evil. His eyes cold
as a demon’s soul.
She heard a whimper and glanced to the
side. Was there someone else up here?
Oh, God—
In a split second, Justice lunged.
“Sssisterr . . .”
She pulled the trigger to blast him to
hell.