26
Still restless, Mara wandered up toward the big house and stood in the shadows on the porch. The open window let in the summer air, and she stared through the screen at the family inside.
For so many years, Mara had had to loathe Kellen Adams from afar. Once Mara had been in charge of the smuggling on the Yearning Sands coast. Then Kellen had betrayed her, tried to kill her, sent her to prison.
Years of plotting and planning, then—escape!
Mara had gone to great lengths to attend Kellen’s wedding, and that moment when Kellen had seen her, recognized her, knew what was coming—that moment had been a triumph.
But Kellen had slipped out of consciousness and Mara’s control, and disappeared into the morass of medical care.
Mara had had to disappear, too. And wait. And wait.
Because Mara aimed all her spite and censure at Kellen, at the sister of her heart, at the competitor of her physical self, and it would not make her happy to unload on anyone else.
Kellen would be sorry. The longer Mara waited, the more ways she thought to torment Kellen Adams. Kellen and her whole wonderful, happy family.
Look at them. How sweet. It looks like a scene from that goddamn BBC historical series set in a castle.
Kellen sat in a brocade easy chair, reading something that looked like a fairy tale.
Max sat nearby, all noble and strong, and watched his wife as if she embodied his every dream.
Rae reclined on the rug, one knee crossed, the other leg resting on it and swinging restlessly. She held a red leather-bound book in one hand and a pen in the other, and she stared at the ceiling.
Poor kid. She was bored, listening to someone read out loud. Listening to Kellen Adams read out loud.
Kellen had changed. Her hair was longer, as if she’d let it grow to cover the brain surgery scars, and white, as if it had been bleached by the island’s sun. That surgery had left its marks in her face, which was more mature, and on her hand. Mara had done her research; she knew Kellen battled atrophy.
Now, as Kellen read, she squeezed a stress ball to build strength. Once she stopped, shook her hand and grimaced, and Mara saw the way the fingers curled toward the palm.
She wanted to tell her not to bother with the stress ball. In another twenty-four hours, that hand wouldn’t be attached to her body.
Then Mara frowned and wondered—was a damaged hand even worth harvesting? What a dreadful thought, that the hand of her dearest enemy was imperfect and trifling.
Kellen looked up from that book and right at the window.
Mara shrank back. Had she seen her? They had been best friends once, like twins who could speak across long distances. Had Kellen heard her thoughts?
But no. Kellen said, “Rae, it’s getting a breezy. Would you shut the window?”
Mara hated that voice, fond, warm, a little raspy, as if she’d been reading too long. She hated the knowledge that Kellen had refused the psychic connection between them. Why would she pretend not to know they had been sisters in a previous life?
Rae hopped up and ran to the window where Mara stood. “Are you going to read more, Mommy? Tonight, will you read more?” Without looking outside, Rae shut that window right in Mara’s face.
Mara hadn’t seen it before, but that kid…looked like Kellen. Her rage swelled. She wanted to break the window, leap in like Dracula, crush them, drink their blood, cut off their hands.
But no! Not now, Mara. Not yet. You couldn’t win against the three of them.
She fingered her pistol.
I could if I shot them.
Too swift. That’s not what you want. You want to take your time, create their fear, enjoy their pain.
Her hand fell away from her sidearm.
You’re so close. Not long now. Go finish your preparations.
Okay. You’re right. I will.
Mara backed away from the window and down the steps.
Kellen had betrayed her. And for that, Max and Rae and most of all, Kellen—they were all going to die.
27
The next morning, Daddy installed lights all over the garage, plugged in the big old kitchen coffee maker, arranged all their new tools, turned to Rae and said, “Isn’t this great? We can see what we’re doing. This will help. We can get the truck running!”
Rae agreed. It was great, and it did help.
But even with the carburetor put together, the F-100 still didn’t start.
After long moments of frustration where Daddy tried not to swear the really bad words, he slid under the truck on his wheeled mechanics’ creeper and Rae leaned into the engine compartment from the top, and they discussed where the holdup could be. Rae was willing to throw in the towel, but when she suggested that, Daddy slid around and glared up at her. So she didn’t suggest they ask Mommy, which would have made all kinds of sense since Mommy was in charge of transportation and stuff in the Army. But Rae already knew sometimes her father was not logical or sensible, and she guessed with what she’d done yesterday—riding off, meeting Miranda, promising not to tell—she was in no position to lecture him.
Mommy came in. That cut and bruise on her jaw looked worse today, and painful, and she was sort of yelling, which was not usual for her, so Rae knew she must be frustrated. “We agreed that between the food in the freezer and the Conkles’ morning basket o’ food, we could survive without Olympia.” She knelt down so she could look under the truck. “Dylan’s done it again. There’s no basket.”
Daddy shot out from under the truck. He stood and wiped his hands on the grease rag. “He’s drunk somewhere. Worthless!” Then he said something Rae didn’t completely understand. “We don’t need this now.”
That got her mom’s attention, made her calm down right away. She walked to him, slid her arms around his waist, and her voice got softer and calmer. “Max, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” Daddy’s jaw was squared, his brown eyes flat and almost black, the way they were when he was really angry. “We weren’t supposed to deal with this kind of challenge. This was supposed to be us taking it easy while everyone else dealt with the details of—”
Mommy cleared her throat and hugged him very hard. “Max. Stop. Stop.”
Rae got it. Her mom didn’t want her dad scaring her. Rae couldn’t imagine what worse could happen than starving to death, but her parents had been acting weird for weeks. Maybe…maybe something was going on she didn’t understand. Her parents looked worried, and she felt guilty about talking to Miranda Phillips and not telling her parents, so she shouted, “I’ll go. I’ll find our basket!” Before her mom could object, get all weird like yesterday, she said, “I can do it. Really, let me.”
The garage was quiet.
Rae remembered that time Jamie had chased her out of the greenhouse, and felt a twinge of fear.
Then Mommy said, “I know you can. Thank you, Rae.”
Rae stiffened her spine. Mommy trusted her, so she would stand her ground, no matter what Jamie said. She yelled, “C’mon, Luna!”
Dog and child bounded out the door and toward the bicycle resting on its side on the lawn.
Kellen followed, concerned, preoccupied with all her niggling fears.
“It’s okay, she’ll be safe.” Max followed and pulled her back into his arms. “Luna is with her.”
Kellen watched the dog gallop after Rae. “Poor Luna and her paws.”
“Hopefully they’ll meet Dylan or probably Jamie coming up the path.”
“Yes, but—” Kellen struggled for a reason to explain her fears. “Olympia had a nervous breakdown.”
“Which has nothing to do with Rae.”
“Rae has her nightmares.”
“You’ve told me that’s part of becoming a woman.” He sounded like the announcer on a tampon commercial.
She punched him in the gu
t. “Oh, shut up.”
“Did you hurt your hand?” he asked with fake concern.
“No!”
“Must be all that clobbering of the mattress. Listen, nobody made Olympia have a nervous breakdown. When Olympia got here, she must have been hovering on the edge. My mistake.” He took responsibility without complaint. “When I picked out a cook, I should have been more careful.”
“How?” Kellen was logical and sensible—when she wasn’t worrying about Mara. “Like you said, you didn’t have a lot of time to get someone, and Olympia seemed… I mean, she’s mean, but I never thought she was going to see ghosts.”
“The dead dancing in the ballroom to old records? That was about as weird as it gets.” Max drifted over to the truck. “I know you’re worried, but we’ve seen no sign of Mara. Even the devil needs some kind of shelter. The island’s basically flat. There’s a few trees.”
“The redwoods!”
“Not a lot of those. A few rocks. I can’t see Jamie Conkle letting Mara move in.”
“I can’t see that, either. You’re right.”
He leaned into the engine compartment.
She’d lost his attention. He was back making love to the truck. With a sigh, she poured herself a cup of coffee. “As soon as we get that basket, we’ll have vegetables and fruits and maybe some fish. You did well with the fish the other night.”
“I didn’t do much of a job of fileting.” He sounded absentminded.
“You’ll learn.” She sipped the coffee out of a mug with a cracked glaze. “You could praise the way I got the bread out of the freezer.”
“You did do a good job.” Max straightened up and got stern again. “But Dylan damn well better have a good excuse for this, or Jamie won’t save him. I’ll throw him off the island.” He stood quietly, then glanced sideways at her.
Guilty. He was feeling guilty about something.
“What?”
“Before I come down on Dylan like a ton of bricks, do you mind if I stay here to work on the pickup?” He ran his hand lovingly over the hood. “Today I’m pretty sure I can get it running.”
God, he was cute. “You think so?”
“I know. I know. I’ve said it every day this week. But today—”
He wanted this so badly. “Go for it. I’ll wait here in hopes Rae returns with Dylan, or the basket, or both.”
“Or Jamie?”
“No, I can’t hope for Jamie. She’s just so—”
“She is, isn’t she?” Max pulled on his headband with the mag light, reclined on the mechanics creeper and slid under the truck.
28
Rae peddled down the trail toward the Conkles’. Luna loped beside her, smiling, her tongue hanging out.
Things were good. Today everybody was normal.
Well. Daddy was always normal.
But Mommy hadn’t tried to stop Rae from riding for the daily basket. She trusted Rae to find Dylan, pick up their food and bring it home. Maybe Rae would find Dylan quickly. Then she could run by Paradise Cove and visit with Miranda. Overnight, she had figured it out. Miranda needed to come to dinner. Inviting her was the hospitable thing to do. In the past, Mommy and Miranda had had a fight, but they were both nice. Her mother had returned to being this awesome woman, who ran and fought and spoke and…well, she didn’t cook, and that was okay. Mommy and Miranda would meet and make up. They’d have a good meal. Best of all, Miranda wouldn’t be a secret anymore, and Rae’s promise wouldn’t count.
But for Rae’s plan would work, they had to have vegetables and a chicken or something. And they would have vegetables. Rae would make sure of it. In the distance, she could see Dylan Conkle walking toward her.
Yay! She didn’t have to ride all the way to their cottage.
But when he got closer, she saw he didn’t have the basket.
No basket. Stupid Dylan. Why was he such a loser?
He was staggering. He was wearing a black suit…
Even closer…
He wasn’t wearing anything.
Dylan Conkle was naked.
Rae hit the brakes and skidded to a stop about twenty feet away.
Luna planted herself between Rae and Dylan and growled.
Dylan slowly focused, and stopped, too. “You. Kid. What’s your name?”
Impatient, she said, “I’m Rae. Remember?”
“No.”
“Rae Di Luca.”
He hit his head with his hand as if trying to knock something out of his brain. “I can’t find Jamie. Do you know where she is? I can’t find her. I don’t know what happened last night, but I can’t find her.”
Naked. He was naked. Even from this far away, he smelled. He smelled funny, like copper pennies.
Blood. He was covered in dried blood. His hair was spiky with blood. His mouth was smeared with blood. His hands, his belly, his legs, his—
Something clicked in Rae’s brain. This was the moment her daddy and mommy warned her about, when she realized she was in danger and needed to stop being polite and save herself from harm.
Adrenaline flooded her system. She didn’t know how, but she got her feet back on the bike’s pedals, turned herself around and blasted back up the path toward the house, calling Luna as she went.
Luna ran beside her, no longer smiling, a low growl rumbling from her chest like a jackhammer.
Rae didn’t dare glance behind her. What if Dylan was chasing her? What if he was fast? What if he caught her? And did to her what he’d done to Jamie.
What had he done to Jamie?
As soon as Rae saw the garage on the horizon, a new terror seized her. What if something had happened to her parents? What if Dylan had got there ahead of her? She shouted, “Daddy! Mommy! Daddy! Mommy!”
Her mother ran out first. Then her father. Because he had to get out from under the pickup. But he outstripped her mother running toward Rae.
Rae skidded to a halt. Dropped her bike. Looked behind her.
Dylan was nowhere in sight.
Luna was panting, looking back the way they came and growling.
Rae knelt beside her dog and hugged her hard.
Luna rubbed her head against Rae’s, giving comfort and protection.
Daddy arrived first, and helped Rae to her feet. “What happened?”
Rae couldn’t speak.
Mommy grabbed her by the shoulders, gave her a little shake. “Rae. What happened?”
For the first time, Rae allowed the meaning of what she saw to hit her. She swayed. She swallowed. She trembled. She whispered, “He’s crazy. He’s bloody. He’s done something to Jamie.”
“Dylan? Is bloody? Dylan? Did something to Jamie?” Daddy sounded frantic, maybe scared.
That frightened Rae even more. She flung herself at them. “Please, no, it’s horrible. It’s horrible.”
29
In the library, Kellen picked a thorn out of Luna’s foot and listened to Max quietly explain what he’d done with Dylan. “I washed him off with the hose, gave him coveralls and told him to get dressed.”
“How bad was it?” How much blood? she meant. Should we search for Jamie?
Max shook his head, his eyes both sorrowful and angry.
“There’s no way?” Kellen asked.
“It wasn’t just blood,” he muttered.
Jamie was dead, then. Kellen shook her head, too.
“When Dylan was dressed,” Max said, “I tied him up and left him in the garage. He’s quite docile; he didn’t seem to have any fight in him.”
“I never thought he had any in the first place.”
“No. He was so apathetic, I thought he would someday melt away and leave no mark on the world.” Max glanced at their daughter.
Since Rae had returned home from her Dylan encounter, she hadn’t let her parents out of her
sight. The way she sat, close to Luna, and huddled over an encyclopedia, leafing through the pages… The child was in shock.
In a lower voice, Max said, “He says he doesn’t remember anything about last night.”
“Do you think that’s true?” Kellen lowered her voice to match his. It wasn’t as if they were trying to keep secrets from Rae; more that they felt as if they were at a sickbed, and didn’t want to disturb the patient.
“If he remembers anything,” Max said, “he’s not about to admit it. Maybe he doesn’t—he keeps blacking out, then coming back to consciousness. And vomiting while he’s conscious.”
“Moonshine. Probably lead poisoning.”
“Or he ate something or smoked something that sent him mad. I have to take him to the mainland, to a hospital.”
Rae shivered, a sudden violent shudder.
Max took a throw off the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Kellen was sorry about Jamie, sorry for the violence and the waste, but underneath her compassion, she blazed with anger. Dylan and Jamie had created their own icy hell, and Rae didn’t deserve to be devoured by the cold. “Call the Coast Guard. Let them come and get him.”
“I tried. There was a collision between two excursion boats in San Francisco Bay, and they’ve got a team on a drug-smuggling operation. They’re overwhelmed. As long as we’re not feeling threatened, they say keep him confined and they’ll get him as soon as they can.” Max glanced at Rae. “But he’s not staying here.”
Right now, Kellen could herself have pushed Dylan into the ocean and dusted her hands afterward. “Then go as soon as you can. But…” She moved a few steps away from Rae. “I think it’s time to bring out one of the pistols from the gun safe.”
Max picked up her right hand. The stress of the day had intensified the curl of her fingers. “Do you think you can shoot?” His question was about the effect of the atrophy, not about her skill level; she’d learned to shoot in the Army and sharpened her skills in combat.
“I can.” She met his eyes. “A pistol is a good deterrent when pointed at anybody.” At Mara, she meant, if she put in an appearance.
Strangers She Knows Page 16
