The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1)

by Malcolm Richards

  Cal’s eyes were trained on Dylan’s. His face was deathly pale.

  “Dylan,” Carrie said again, this time more forcefully.

  Gary stood in the corner of the room, watching the scene unfold through dark and serious eyes.

  Dylan straightened and took a step back.

  Cal turned and bolted from the room. The front door opened and slammed shut.

  “Great,” Carrie said, shooting Dylan a glare. She moved over to the door.

  “Your daughter is upset,” Dylan said.

  Carrie froze. Melissa was now hugging her grandmother and sobbing into her chest. From the window, she could see Cal had reached the garden gate.

  She turned back to Dylan.

  “So is yours,” she said.

  Then, she went after Cal. She reached the garden gate, just as he was about to go through. He whirled around as she drew near. For a second, she thought he was going to run. But he stood still, his shoulders heaving up and down, his fingers turning white as they squeezed the dinosaur in his fist.

  “Look at me,” Carrie said, keeping her voice low but firm. When Cal refused to look up, she said: “I’m not going to get angry with you. Please, look at me.”

  Slowly, Cal lifted his head.

  She could see the shame in his eyes. He knew he’d done wrong.

  “Melissa shouldn’t have taken your toy. But that doesn’t mean you can hurt her. It’s not how we do things in this family, Cal. We talk about things. If there’s a problem, we try and fix it. Melissa’s young. She’s four years old. You can’t hurt her like that. Or anyone else.”

  Cal lowered his head. His shoulders sagged.

  Carrie took a step closer. “I know this is hard. I know this is confusing. But everyone’s trying, Cal. Melissa isn’t used to being. . . She’s not used to having a brother. But she will get used to it. And soon, she’ll love you just as much as I love you. It’s going to take a little time, that’s all.”

  She stared at her son, feeling his pain, his confusion, and his fear emanating from every pore.

  Dylan’s reaction had spoken volumes. He was afraid of Cal. Afraid that Cal might be a danger to Melissa. The realisation hurt Carrie like an arrow in her chest. She stared at her son, seven years of guilt bearing down on her.

  “Cal?” His eyes met hers, just for a second. “I love you.”

  And then she did something she had been wanting to do since her son had returned to her. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. She felt his body turn to stone. She heard air fly from his lungs. But he did not fight her. He did not pull away.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” she said in his ear. “We’re all going to be just fine.”

  Letting him go, she brushed a hand against the side of his face and smiled. Cal stared at her with sad eyes, then glanced back at the house. Dylan stood in the living room window with Melissa cradled in his arms. Both were glaring at Carrie.

  “Do you want to go back inside?”

  Cal shook his head.

  “I’ll take you home, then. But Cal, even if you can’t say it right now, you need to find a way to apologise to your sister.”

  Cal’s dark eyes narrowed. He looked back at the living room window. Slowly, he nodded.

  “Okay,” Carrie said. Dylan had retreated and had been replaced by Gary, whose expression told Carrie everything she needed to know. “Go wait in the car.”

  23

  THE REST OF THE DAY had been strained. When Dylan returned home with Melissa, Cal retreated to his room and refused to come out. Carrie tried repeatedly to persuade him to come downstairs for dinner. Giving up, she took a plate of food up to his room, where she found him lying on his stomach beneath the bed and poring over his old comics that she’d held onto.

  Conversation with Dylan was stilted. They avoided the subject of Cal’s behaviour until they’d said goodnight to both children. In the living room, the discussion quickly turned into an argument, punctuated by hushed, angry voices.

  “We don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Dylan said, pouring whiskey into a tumbler. “What if he hurts Melissa again? What if we’re not there to protect her?”

  “Protect her? You’re talking about my son as if he’s some sort of monster,” Carrie snapped. “I would never put our daughter in a position where she could get hurt. Today was unfortunate. But I talked to Cal. He knows what he did was wrong.”

  “How do you know that? How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he’s my son.”

  Dylan was quiet, staring into the amber liquid in his glass. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go tomorrow.”

  Pouring herself a glass of red wine, Carrie shook her head. “He’s not a dangerous animal, Dylan. He’s not going to kill us in our sleep. He’s a sixteen-year-old boy who’s been through hell. He needs time to adjust, just like the doctors said. We all do.”

  “And in the meantime? How do we make sure Melissa doesn’t get hurt again?”

  “We keep a close eye. We get them involved in play together. We make sure Melissa doesn’t take any more of his things.”

  “You’re saying today was her fault?” Dylan swigged his whiskey and winced at the burn.

  Carrie clenched her jaw. Sometimes Dylan was impossible. And so was she. She let out a frustrated breath and gulped her wine.

  “What I’m saying is sometimes siblings fight. One minute they’re best friends, the next mortal enemies. And around it goes. They’re going to fall out. That’s what kids do.” She wasn’t sure she was helping to ease Dylan’s mind. “He’s not going to hurt her. We’ll be fine for a few days. Then you’ll be back. Next week, Cal starts his therapy sessions. In a month’s time, we’ll all be one big happy family.”

  “What about the police? They’re going to want answers soon enough. Tess, too.”

  “And so do I,” Carrie said. “But if we push Cal now, he may never talk again. I won’t let that happen. It’s difficult, but we need to wait until he’s ready.”

  They were quiet, the ticking of the wall clock the only sound.

  Dylan drained his glass. He stood. “I think Melissa should go back to school tomorrow. She’s had enough time off.”

  “Fine.”

  He hovered, the anger in his eyes fading, until all that was left was sadness. “I want everyone to be safe, Carrie, that’s all. I want everyone to be happy. Cal, too.”

  “I know.” Carrie avoided his gaze.

  Dylan announced he was going to bed. He needed to be up at three to meet the crew and catch the tide.

  “I love you,” he said. “I love our family. And I’ll learn to love Cal. I need time, that’s all. We all do.”

  He kissed her head and left the room.

  Carrie sat for a while longer, a confusing mix of anger and guilt giving her a headache. She drained her glass of wine and poured another. She could understand Dylan’s concerns. But Cal was not his son. He didn’t know him like she did. Cal had once wept uncontrollably after accidentally treading on a snail. He wasn’t violent by nature. He was a kind and sensitive boy who loved people and animals. Who would do anything to help anyone.

  But that was before, a voice whispered in her mind. Who knows what’s happened to him since. Or what he’s become.

  Carrie sat up, alarmed by the thought.

  No, Cal was a good boy. Whatever trauma he’d experienced, they would work through it together. Mother and son. And she would prove to Dylan that he was wrong about Cal.

  That Melissa was safe. They all were.

  24

  QUIET HAD SETTLED OVER Devil’s Cove. Above the rooftops, a vast blanket of stars shimmered. The ocean was calm. The beach was still. Even the music and voices seeping from The Shack was subdued tonight.

  Grady Spencer shut his garden gate and with Caliban by his side, set off for their final walk before bedtime. As he passed by Rose Trewartha’s house, he glanced at the upstairs window. The curtains were open, light spilling out. It was the girl’s room,
Natalie Tremaine.

  The one whose parents had been caught extinguishing cigarettes on her back.

  Grady smiled to himself. It hadn’t been difficult to find out about her, even when she’d refused to answer his own questions. All he’d had to do was take Caliban for his walks and eavesdrop on conversations. The people of Devil’s Cove liked to talk. Especially about a curious creature like Natalie Tremaine.

  And she was a curious creature. Cutting her hair off like that. Keeping herself to herself. She interested him. Perhaps he’d invite her over to drink tea with a lonely old man.

  Moving on, Grady passed by the Pengelly house. All the windows were lit up. They didn’t like the dark in that house anymore, oh no. Because it was filled with nightmares and horrors and things that could make a person’s hair turn white. Grady smiled. The Pengellys knew all about what lay in the dark.

  Memories of the journalist crept into his mind. That idiot thought he’d worked everything out. Well, Grady had shown him he hadn’t learned a thing. And now, he would always be in the dark.

  Snickering at the irony, the old man picked up his pace, tapping his cane along the pavement. Reaching the end of the road, he headed downhill. It wasn’t his usual route, but this evening he’d felt a yearning to see the boy. The house had been quiet since he’d been gone. Except for when he’d made the journalist scream.

  As he walked, Grady wondered if he should do something about the idiot’s car. Perhaps he would just leave it to rust. He hadn’t gone near it, so they wouldn’t find his fingerprints. And no one would suspect a frail old man living alone of heinous acts.

  Even if they did, there wasn’t much left of the journalist to find. Caliban had unwittingly seen to that.

  His thoughts returned to the boy and a black hole opened inside his chest. Despair crawled out to poison him. Grady stumbled to a halt. Caliban pulled on his leash and emitted a strangled whine. His house was empty without the boy. He’d had to find more papers, more things to fill it with. It was those idiots at the farm. They’d tried to take him away. Tried to make him theirs. And in the confusion, the boy had vanished.

  Now he was back with his mother. Back where he didn’t belong. Because the boy was his. He had kept him these last seven years. Fed him. Beat him. Once, he’d almost killed him. But he’d let him live. Because the boy was his to do with what he wanted. Carrie had lost ownership of him that day on the beach.

  “Mine,” Grady said through clenched teeth. “All mine.”

  Tugging on Caliban’s leash, he set off again. The gradient of the hill pained his knees as he descended into the cove. But he didn’t care. Because he was going to see him. He was going to get him back.

  Maybe not tonight. There wasn’t enough time to think of a plan. But soon, he would find a way to lure him back to his home. Back to his cage, where he slept next to Caliban like a good dog.

  He ran a tongue over his lips as he turned onto Clarence Row, where cottages were shrouded in darkness. But there was a light on in the Killigrews’ living room.

  His breaths growing more ragged by the second, Grady came closer. The curtains were half open. He strained to see inside, hoping for a glimpse of the boy. The hole in his chest grew wider. Deeper. It was Carrie. She was sitting alone. She was crying.

  Pathetic, Grady thought. Ungrateful! She had her boy back. What did she have to be sad about? Well, he would give her something to feel sad about soon. He was going to take his boy back. She would never see him again.

  You’ll cry then, he thought, bringing a smile to his lips.

  He looked into the darkness of the upstairs windows and a whimper escaped his lips. He was lonely without him. Yes, Caliban gave him companionship but it was not the same. Because you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks and Caliban was getting on in his years. The boy was young, though. He could be taught all kinds of tricks. To fetch. To beg. To play dead. Perhaps even to hunt.

  The old man lingered by the garden gate, his lips twisting cruelly as he watched Carrie dry her face with the back of a sleeve then empty her wineglass.

  Tapping his cane on the pavement, Grady Spencer walked on. He would get him back. Sooner rather than later. One way or another.

  And if he wouldn’t come, or if they tried to stop him, he’d make sure the boy belonged to no one.

  Not even to him.

  25

  MARGARET TELFORD WOKE in the early morning light with a troubled feeling. Something was not right. She glanced across her bedroom, taking in the colourful quilt draped across the bottom of her bed, and the framed prints of flowers adorning the walls. It took just a few seconds to realise what was wrong.

  She glanced at the door, at the gap beneath. Alfie was not there.

  Usually, he was like clockwork, climbing the stairs to sit outside her door and enthusiastically wag his tail. She could always hear him upon waking, his aged, laboured panting loud enough to reach her ears. But today the house was unusually quiet.

  “Alfie?”

  She waited for him to bark a reply, or to playfully scratch at the door. But there was nothing. Only a flutter of anxiety in her chest.

  Pulling back the sheets, Margaret swung her legs over the side of the bed and slipped her puffy feet inside a pair of slippers. Slowly, she stood. Her knees creaked painfully and she hovered for a moment, swaying from side to side, waiting for the discomfort to lessen.

  “Alfie, here boy,” she called.

  When Alfie failed to reply this time, she pulled an old blue robe over her nightdress and shuffled to the door.

  He was not outside. She looked along the small landing. Sometimes he could be found in the bathroom, attempting to drink from the toilet. There was no sign of him anywhere.

  Making her way to the top of the staircase, Margaret gripped the rail and called for him again. The silence of the cottage was unsettling. Alfie was getting on now. The stairs were becoming harder for him. Just as they were for her.

  Perhaps he couldn’t manage them today. Perhaps he had tried and given up, returning to his basket in the kitchen. There had been a lot of excitement in the last week and a half. Which reminded her: Carrie Killigrew had still not stopped by to thank Margaret for saving her son’s life.

  Not that she had dragged him from the ocean for gratitude. But her arms and knees had been suffering ever since. And since Callum’s identity had been revealed to the press, she’d had to fend off a barrage of reporters all wanting to ask her questions, when all she wanted was to be left alone, thank you very much.

  Gripping the rail, Margaret hauled herself downstairs and poked her head around the living room door. It was dark and shadowy, the curtains still closed.

  Alfie was nowhere to be seen.

  Margaret made her way through the narrow hall and headed to the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place. It was as she had left it; surfaces clean, dishes dried and put away in cupboards, flagstone floor mopped and sparkling. The only thing out of the ordinary was Alfie’s basket.

  It was empty.

  Margaret shook her head in confusion. She had checked every room in the house. Where else could he be? She turned a full circle. Her eyes rested on the kitchen door.

  Unless Alfie had learned to unlock doors and take himself for a walk, he had to be in here somewhere.

  He couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.

  Margaret began to panic. Something was very wrong. For a second, she wondered if it was her mind. A quick glance to a photograph on the refrigerator door confirmed that it wasn’t. She stared at the image of Alfie, taken on the lawn just last month.

  Surely he couldn’t be outside...

  Moving across the flagstones, she grasped the handle of the back door. To her surprise, the door swung open.

  She had locked it last night before she’d gone to bed. The same as she did every night.

  And yet the door was unlocked, the bolts drawn back.

  Margaret frowned. She wasn’t often forgetful, even at her age. Perhaps there was so
mething wrong with her mind after all.

  “Decrepit old fool,” she said, scolding herself. She was lucky she hadn’t been burgled in the night.

  Pulling the door open to its fullest extent, she stepped outside. A breeze was blowing up from the ocean, chilling the morning air.

  “Alfie? Are you out here?”

  Folding her arms across her stomach, Margaret peered across the overgrown lawn at the pile of junk lying in the far corner. Perhaps Carrie Killigrew could show some gratitude by sending young Callum over to help clear up that mess. When he was well enough, of course. What a strange thing it was, that she was even thinking his name. The boy had died. Now he was alive. It was a miracle.

  But where in the world was Alfie? Margaret turned. Shifting her gaze to the right. Her blood turned to ice.

  There was a brown, hessian sack sitting beneath the kitchen window. Margaret stared at it, her chest rising and falling.

  What was it? Where had it come from? It certainly didn’t belong to her.

  Shuffling forward, Margaret took a closer look.

  She froze. Her hands flew up to her mouth.

  A dark, wet patch stained the side of the sack. It looked very much like blood.

  “Dear Lord,” Margaret whispered into her fingers. Her heart pounded so hard she began to feel dizzy.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.

  “Alfie, where are you?” she cried.

  The sack sat motionless, taunting her. She should call the police. Whatever lay inside the sack, it couldn’t be anything good.

  It couldn’t be...

  A horrifying image tore through her mind.

  “Oh, Alfie!”

  Margaret hurried back to the house, hobbling up the step and returning to the kitchen. She pulled open a drawer, grabbed the sharpest knife she could find, and returned to the garden.

  She stood in front of the sack, unable to breathe, her heart smashing against her ribcage.

  “Please, God,” she whispered. “Please, don’t let it be him.”

  Bending down, she fumbled with the thin cord that was knotted around the neck of the sack. She began to cut.