Everlasting

by Elizabeth Chandler

“It got old. So I offered her a large lump sum for the cufflink.”

  “And told her to bring it to Four Winds. But you didn’t really expect her to give back the cufflink. You knew Corinne well enough to know you were safe only if she was dead. And me being your naïve best friend, you couldn’t ask for an easier person to frame for her murder. I’ve got to tell you, that wasn’t a real friendly thing to do.”

  “C’mon, Luke, you were wasted,” Bryan replied. “I had worked hard. I had everything to lose—you had nothing. Why should I be the one on the run?”

  “So then, why did you help me get away?”

  “It seemed a good plan at first,” Bryan said with a shrug. “As long as the police were focused on trying to catch you, they weren’t going to think about searching for anyone else. But I couldn’t trust you to stay out of trouble. You forced my hand, Luke.

  “A few drinks and you were out of control. Sooner or later you would get yourself caught. I started thinking: What if the State gave you a decent lawyer, one who realized the police case had holes? That would be just my luck.” Bryan grimaced. “You had to die—and without the police knowing you had, so they would keep looking for you.”

  They were more than halfway across the bridge and about twenty feet above the water. Tristan started walking faster. “What about Alicia—did you have to kill her?”

  “Once you and Ivy got to her, I did.”

  Tristan felt sick to his stomach.

  “I followed you to the beach that night and caught up with her after you left. She happily told me that you were innocent, and she was your alibi. I knew it was just a matter of time before they’d be looking for the guy who texted you from Corinne’s phone, asking you to come to Four Winds.”

  “The cell phone they found. You took it from me the night you tried to drown me. Why’d you leave it on the Mass Pike?”

  “I know you, Luke—I’d already seen you in love with Corinne. And Ivy is so much nicer. I knew you wouldn’t leave her. I needed to get the police off your back and mine, till I could win Ivy’s trust and finish things off.”

  By slowly increasing his pace, Tristan had widened the gap between them. The dark water and confusing reflections made it impossible to tell how far they were above it, but each foot that the bridge rose would make it more dangerous to jump. Tristan figured the center of the canal was deep enough for container ships and would have a strong current between the ocean and bay. He wanted to be close enough to shore to have a chance of swimming. But too close, and he’d crash onto the shoreline.

  Tristan took off. Bryan charged after him. Their footsteps banged against the metal walkway. With a quarter of the span left, Tristan looked over his shoulder. Bryan, in excellent shape, was gaining fast. Tristan had just a few seconds left.

  He’s a competitor, Tristan thought. Above all, Bryan was an athletic competitor. Tristan pulled the cufflink from his pocket, held it high for a second, making sure Bryan saw it, then flipped it back over Bryan’s head.

  Bryan couldn’t help himself. Gifted with excellent reflexes, he couldn’t keep himself from going after the thing he had obsessed about. He spun like a top and chased the cufflink.

  Tristan quickly climbed down under the bridge. As he hung from the steel fretwork, the wind buffeted his body and sang in the bridge’s cables. For a moment, he heard the voices. Then he said a prayer and jumped.

  IVY RAN FROM THE TRAIN TRACK TO THE PATH ALONG the canal, trying to see what was happening on the bridge. She had watched Tristan and Bryan as they moved along it, Bryan keeping pace with Tristan.

  Suddenly, Tristan had taken off. Ivy had screamed to him, but he was too far away to hear her. As the bridge rose, she lost sight of both of them.

  Now she stood on the path next to the water, gazing up at the bridge. “Help him, angels!”

  She saw a figure coming back, moving toward her side of the canal. He stopped at the center of the bridge, and she recognized the silhouette: Bryan stood tall against the starlit sky. As the bridge rose higher, he stretched his arms out in triumph. She thought she heard laughter, then she saw him leap. He fell to the water like a dark angel.

  A siren on the other end of the bridge went off. Had someone seen him? Where was Tristan? If he had fallen or jumped, he’d be closer to the opposite bank. Ivy ran back to her car and drove to the rotary, then sped across Bourne Bridge, joining the emergency vehicles heading toward the train bridge.

  When she got close to it, a police car quickly pulled in front of her, blocking off the street. The officer got out of his vehicle and signaled her to turn around. When Ivy didn’t move, the officer strode toward her car.

  She lowered her window. “Something wrong?”

  The man looked at her as if she were crazy for asking that. “Do you need to get somewhere?”

  Ivy’s heart was pounding, and she wanted to scream: I need to get to Tristan. “I was just curious.”

  “We’re busy here, miss. A night fisherman thought he saw someone jump.”

  Just one person? Ivy wondered.

  “U-turn,” the officer said, then waited for her to follow directions, his hands on his hips.

  Ivy turned around. “Lacey, where are you?” she cried out as she drove off. “Help him, Lacey, please.”

  A quarter mile up the mainland side of the canal, just past the Bourne Bridge, she pulled over and got out of her car. She could see a helicopter hovering above the train bridge, shining its light down on the water.

  She watched the helicopter, joined by police boats, trolling the area. She prayed that Tristan would suddenly emerge from the canal’s bike path, shaking off water, smiling at her, but he didn’t. A little after three a.m., the helicopter wheeled across the sky and left. Boats continued to search and several police cars remained with their lights flashing. At last Ivy returned to her car and drove toward Sagamore Bridge.

  Had Bryan survived his leap into the canal? She guessed the bridge had risen fifty feet before he had jumped.

  And Tristan? He had to be alive. He couldn’t die now. Angels, if I lose him again—Lacey, where are you?

  She crossed the Sagamore and drove the Mid-Cape Highway, her mind racing. Where should she go? Who could she trust? How would she find him?

  She exited the highway, and when she stopped the car, saw she was at the church on the corner of Wharf Lane. A wreath woven with flowers and black ribbon had been hung on the sign pointing to the beach. In the predawn light she read the message scripted on a wide strip of satin: IN LOVING MEMORY.

  Ivy started to cry—for Tristan? Alicia? Herself? She wasn’t sure. She remembered the rush of emergency vehicles to the beach after Gregory left Beth in a streak of lightning. Had he struck and killed someone?

  Ivy turned into the church lot. New NO TRESPASSING signs were posted outside the church, but she ignored them. This was her and Tristan’s refuge—she needed to get inside and think. She tried the window with the broken latch, then all the others, and the door, but the church was locked up tight.

  Ivy sat on the lowest step to the church porch, leaning forward, her head on her knees. Even more than her body and mind, her heart and soul were worn thin. If Tristan were dead, she couldn’t go on.

  Then she felt a presence next to her, someone leaning against her, and she looked up. “Lacey.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Lacey said. “When he jumped, I couldn’t help him. He didn’t see me, didn’t hear me.”

  “He’s alive,” Ivy insisted. “He has to be!”

  “If he’s dead,” Lacey replied, “he’s lost more than his life.”

  Ivy drew back. “What are you saying?”

  “The voices that Tristan has been hearing—”

  “What voices?” Ivy interrupted.

  “Like those the night Gregory fell from the train bridge. They’ve been haunting him. Tonight, even I heard them. If Tristan is alive, he’s almost out of time.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, raising her eyes to the belfry, Lacey shud
dered. High in the tower, the dark bell tolled.

  Acknowledgments

  MANY OF THE SETTINGS IN THIS TRILOGY ARE REAL, such as the towns, parks, and beaches. Some—the inn, homes, churches, and secondary streets—are based on real places, but have been moved to new locations, built upon, and renamed, so that I could weave a good story. Still other places exist only in my mind: The real city of Providence is a wonderful place to live and to visit; the neighborhood of River Gardens sprang up completely from my imagination.

  I’d like to thank Joseph W. Dick, who took the time to guide me through the lovely Yarmouth New Church. Thanks for letting me climb the ladders—and double thanks for ringing the bell! Thank you to Walter Chapin, who made the contact for me, and to the Yarmouth New Church Preservation Foundation, Inc., which is dedicated to restoring and preserving this American Gothic building; they have made it an excellent place to enjoy cultural and artistic community events. Thanks again to Karen of The Village Inn, who made me so comfortable while I was doing research.

  A writer needs good editors—the longer I write the more I know it. Many thanks to Joelle Hobeika and to Emilia Rhodes.

  And thanks to my sister, Liz, who lives on Cape Cod and fields last-minute calls and requests as I’m writing—“You know that beach in . . .” As always, thank you, Bob. You’re the best. Love you! And finally, thanks to Puck, who sat on my desk and slept on my bookshelf for sixteen years, and who is now playing in a sunny garden with Ella.