Dead By Nightfall

by Beverly Barton

  The Belize City Harbor shimmered like a multicolored jewel in the late-afternoon sunlight. Rows of buildings painted in a variety of colors ranging from pink and turquoise to a soothing yellow lined the boardwalk. Numerous sailboats, naked masts stretching skyward, floated languidly on the surface of the calm blue water. Not even a hint of a breeze stirred. No wind at all. Overhead the azure sky canopied the harbor and spread out over the Caribbean Sea.

  Griff noticed a fishing boat returning to the harbor, dories stacked up on deck. On several of the recently docked boats, the fishermen were busily stripping their sloops of outboard motors and sails.

  “This is the place,” Sanders said. “We are to ask for Martinez and Pitts.”

  At this time of day, there were only a handful of patrons in the restaurant, and none of them, all seated in the bar, paid much attention to the six foreign visitors who entered, two at a time. Sanders approached the bartender, spoke to him briefly, and motioned to the others.

  In the back room of the harbor restaurant, Griff and his agents met with the reconnaissance team who had explored Shelter Island. The two men had returned several hours ago with a full report and photos. Several beer kegs, two large beverage coolers, and a couple of floor-to-ceiling wine racks took up more than a third of the small storeroom. A stocky, dark-haired man in black jeans and black T-shirt came out of the shadows and introduced himself as Juan Martinez.

  Griff extended his hand. “Griffin Powell.”

  Martinez shook Griff’s hand. “Three-fourths of the island is wooded, sparsely in places. There are several small buildings and an open-air pavilion on a knoll overlooking the main house. That U-shaped main house is approximately nine thousand square feet and has two levels and an enclosed courtyard. There was no way we could get inside the house. It’s heavily guarded.”

  “If she’s on the island, she’d be inside the house,” Griff said.

  “How many guards are there?” Luke Sentell asked. “What’s the head count? How many residents? How many soldiers, how many servants, and how many guests?”

  “We counted a dozen guards.” The second recon guy came forward, a digital camera in his hand. “They were all male and looked to be in their twenties. My guess is that none of them are well trained, but they were carrying around plenty of firepower—M16s.”

  Plenty of firepower was right. The M16 had a magazine capacity of thirty rounds, with a twelve to fifteen rounds per minute sustained rate of fire and a point target of nearly 2000 feet. The gas-operated, air-cooled, shoulder-fired, lightweight assault rifle had been used by the U.S. military for more than thirty years. York’s guards on Amara had been equipped with M16s.

  “You must be Pitts.” Luke’s gaze locked with the darkly tanned blonde, his hair buzzed short and his muscles bulging, his impressive biceps revealed by the short sleeves of his gray T-shirt.

  The guy nodded. “On our way there, we met up with a couple of cruisers we believe may have just left the island. Since we were aboard what appeared to be a fishing boat, I figure they barely noticed us.”

  “The thing is,” Martinez said, “there seemed to be a lot of activity on the island. It was as if they were cleaning up, storing things, burning some stuff. We saw a couple of big fires.”

  “Any idea what was happening?” Luke asked.

  Pitts shrugged. “No way to tell in the time we had to scout out the area, snap some photos”—he held out the camera to Griff—“and get off the island without being detected.”

  Griff studied the camera, quickly figured out how it worked, and brought up the first photograph, apparently one taken when Martinez and Pitts had first landed. Zipping through more than two dozen pictures—buildings, the main house, guards, a couple of attractive young women, and an old woman, probably a servant, Griff stopped the slide show and stared at the photo on the screen. His gut tightened.

  “What’s this?” he asked as he held out the camera for Pitts to see.

  “That’s an open-air pavilion,” Pitts replied. “There were six cages. Five were occupied.”

  For a split second memories of another island half a world away flashed through Griff’s mind. Cages. Dark, dank, dungeonlike holes. Screams in the night. Pleading cries. The scent of blood and urine and feces.

  Sanders took the camera from him and glanced at the photo that momentarily had held Griff spellbound. Without a second look, Sanders handed the camera back to Pitts. “Sentell and Dawson may have a few more questions before we head out.” He looked at Luke. “I want us on our way in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Luke replied, and then motioned to Rett Dawson, who joined him in a hasty tête-à-tête.

  While Luke and Rett talked to Pitts and Martinez, gathering pertinent info in order to plan their strategy, Sanders issued orders. “Shaughnessy, you make contact with the medical team here in Belize and the one in Miami and make sure they’re ready in case we need them. And Holt, you check on the boats, make sure they’re exactly what I ordered and that they’re ready now.” He looked at his wristwatch and quoted the time. “We’ll join you in exactly fourteen minutes.”

  The two men immediately left the storeroom. Sanders moved to Griff’s side and said in a low whisper, for Griff’s ears only, “Remember one thing—all evidence to the contrary, the real Malcolm York is dead.”

  Chapter 9

  Logically, Yvette understood that her first priority should be to help Griffin find his wife. And she fully intended to do everything within her power to assist in the search for Nicole. But Yvette’s heart pulled her in a different direction. Every maternal instinct she possessed demanded that she go to the Benenden School and meet Suzette York. Face-to-face. Perhaps mother-to-daughter. She truly believed that if she could see this young girl, speak with her, touch her, she would know the truth. For nearly seventeen years, not one day had passed that she hadn’t thought of her child, that she hadn’t wondered if she had given birth to a girl or a boy, and if her baby was still alive.

  As much as she needed Griff, had counted on him being with her when she met Suzette, she had been forced to turn to Sanders. Before he had left with Griffin for Belize, she had asked him to approve a request to headquarters that the Powell Agency gather more information about the Benenden School and about one particular student.

  “I will authorize the agency to begin an immediate investigation,” Sanders had assured her. “But in the meantime, while Griffin and I are gone, you will remain here at Griffin’s Rest. I want your word that you will not leave here.”

  Reluctantly, she had agreed. “I will remain here until either you or Griffin can accompany me to England.”

  “I am glad that you see the wisdom in remaining where you are safe.”

  And so she had made a pact with Sanders, one he trusted her not to break. But waiting proved to be almost unbearable. She had spent the day alone as much as possible, doing her best to avoid her six young protégés with whom she shared her home. Thankfully, the house was quite large, and the student quarters were located in a separate wing from her private suite of rooms.

  Half an hour ago, she had received a file, via an e-mail attachment, from Powell headquarters, which she had read quickly and then printed so that she could reread it. As of yet, there was no information on Suzette York, just a detailed report on the Benenden School. In a nutshell, the account detailed the school’s long history as one of the premiere English boarding schools for girls, stating a number of illustrious alumnae, which included Anne, Princess Royal, as well as Olympic medalist Georgina Harland, and Academy Award–winning actress Rachel Weisz. Whoever Suzette York was, her benefactor, be that a parent or a guardian, had made certain she would receive the best education and social opportunities his money could buy.

  “You do realize that this girl is most likely not your child.” If only she could forget Sanders’s warning, but despite her heart’s yearning for Suzette to be her child, she had to admit that it was highly unlikely.

  With her promise to Sa
nders forcing her to stay at Griffin’s Rest, there was nothing she could do except wait. Wait for the next report from Powell headquarters. Wait for word from Sanders or Griffin about the rescue mission to Shelter Island. Wait and hope. Wait and pray.

  She should be doing more than waiting. She had promised Sanders, hadn’t she?

  “If there is any possibility that Meredith could give us something to go on, something that would help us locate Nic ...”

  If only her own psychic abilities could be activated without human touch, but her strong empathic gifts required contact with the subject. She could sense another’s pain and even help ease that pain by taking it from them and suffering it for them. She could delve inside a person’s thoughts and feelings and could even see glimpses of their past and present through interpreting their thoughts.

  But her own “clair” skills, such as clairvoyance, clair-audience or clairsentience, were minor and of little use to her. Of all her protégés, only one possessed the unique gift of psychometry, only one who could possibly use her talent to help in the search for Nicole.

  Having been forced, completely against her will, to use her own psychic abilities for Malcolm York’s evil purposes, Yvette seldom requested that any of her students put themselves in danger in order to help with a Powell Agency case. Griffin had always understood and had allowed her to keep her work with her students completely separate from the agency’s business. Only when rumors gradually began propagating in European underground circles about a man named Malcolm York had Griffin requested the voluntary services of her most gifted protégée. And it was that same protégée that Yvette had summoned to her office.

  Meredith Sinclair, her hair a riot of red curls, her freckled face void of makeup, stood there in the doorway, a concerned expression on her plain little face. “You sent for me?”

  “Yes, please come in. I need to ask you for an enormous favor.”

  When Meredith entered the office, Yvette closed the door and invited her student to sit on the sofa.

  “This is about Nic Powell’s disappearance, isn’t it?”

  Yvette nodded.

  “What can I do to help?” Meredith asked as she sat on the edge of the sofa, folded her hands together, and rested them in her lap.

  “You are aware that Griffin and Sanders have taken a group of highly trained agents, including Luke Sentell and Rett Dawson, to Belize,” Yvette said.

  “Yes.”

  “There is a chance that Nicole is being held on a privately owned island off the coast, somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. If she is, they plan to rescue her.” Yvette paused for a moment, collected her thoughts, and then said, “Sanders asked me to speak to you and ask if you will use your skills to try to locate Nicole. If it turns out she is not on the island ...”

  “Why didn’t Mr. Powell ask me himself? I would have thought, considering that he has not hesitated to ask for my help in the past, he would—”

  “Griffin has been and is under a great deal of mental and emotional stress. I’m sure that if he doesn’t find Nicole on the island, he will consider his options and asking for your help will be one of those options. I believe that if you will allow me to assist you, we can, at the very least, find some clues that will help locate Nicole.”

  “Then I’m willing to do as you ask.”

  “Thank you. And I hope you have no objections to my asking someone else to be present. It is quite possible that as an empath I will go under with you, and if that happens, we will need someone completely grounded as a safeguard, someone who can bring us back safely.”

  “You know best,” Meredith said. “You are the master. I am the student.”

  “For now, yes.” Yvette lifted the telephone from its base, dialed the number, and waited.

  “Hello.”

  “Would you please come here as soon as possible? Meredith has agreed to try to help locate Nicole. I will act as her guide, but we need a—”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Barbara Jean Hughes said. “I’ll find Maleah and have her drive me over there.”

  The boats Sanders had arranged for their use were Ribcraft 6.8 models, with twin 90HP Honda engines. The boat’s overall design allowed for high speed and maneuverability regardless of the conditions. Martinez and Pitts piloted the two RIBs, each containing a landing team of three.

  Shelter Island was almost perfectly round and possessed a small cove ideal for landing their boats, but that site was guarded, no doubt 24/7. Despite the steep drop-off about a hundred feet from shore, they had chosen an unguarded landing site on the other side of the island. Leaving Martinez and Pitts, both heavily armed, to guard the boats and act as backup if needed, the others began the dangerous trek into the thick mangroves. When they reached the inner circle of the island, they found that the land had been cleared of smaller trees and underbrush. Without having to fight their way through the thickets, they could reach their destination faster, but without the cover the woods provided, they were easily visible to anyone watching.

  When they were within binocular range of the outbuildings, the two teams separated, planning to circle their objective and meet up at the main house. Griff hated this island, every sound, every scent, every square inch. It reminded him too much of Amara.

  “We’re seeing no signs of the island’s inhabitants.” Rett Dawson radioed the info five minutes later. “What about you?”

  “Nothing,” Luke told him. “We’re approaching the open-air pavilion and I see no sign of any guards.”

  “We’re preparing to check the outbuildings. There’s no one stirring. It’s too damn quiet. I don’t like it.”

  As they climbed the knoll leading up to the pavilion, a hard knot formed in the pit of Griff’s belly as a sense of déjà vu threatened to suffocate him. For one painful heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe.

  “Good God.” Shaughnessy halted at the top of the rise, his gaze fixed on the cages inside the pavilion. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  I have, Griff thought. A lifetime ago on an island in the South Pacific.

  Two cages were empty. The other four contained one man per cage, each bone-thin, lifeless body riddled with bullets. Blood streaked the prison bars of the four cages and soaked the earth around the bodies.

  “Why kill them in their cages?” Luke voiced his question aloud.

  “Easier to kill them than to transport them,” Griff said.

  “And they could not risk leaving them behind,” Sanders added.

  “You think they’ve evacuated the island?” Luke asked.

  “The hunters are gone,” Griff replied. “The overseer and servants could still be here, but my gut instincts tell me that no one is left on the island.”

  Before Luke could respond, Rett Dawson radioed again with an update.

  “We found a headless body at the foot of a tree a few yards back. And we’re seeing more dead bodies—at least five—scattered about as if they were shot wherever they stood.”

  “We found four bodies,” Luke said. “This is beginning to look like a full-scale massacre.”

  “Tell Rett to meet us at the main house, but take every precaution,” Griff said. “There could still be some guards around or they could have booby-trapped the house.”

  Griff tried not to think about the possibility that they would find Nic among the dead, that she could be lying inside the house, her body ripped apart by bullets.

  Sanders exchanged a glance with Griff, each aware of what the other was thinking.

  The two teams, their weapons defense ready, approached the house from opposite sides. A couple of bodies, one of an old woman and the other of a young boy, lay on the veranda, each a god-awful bloody mess. The heavy wooden front doors stood wide open as if whoever had come through them last had been in too much of a hurry to bother closing them. Luke approached the open door, inspected the area, and then cautiously entered the house.

  He called back to the others, “Griff, you, Shaughnessy, and Holt stay outside. Rett, you a
nd Sanders come with me.”

  Griff started to protest, but common sense kicked in and he understood that Luke had ordered him to stay outside just in case they found Nic. If she was still here, she was probably dead. But they had no proof that she’d ever been here. It was possible this entire island had been set up as nothing more than a decoy.

  Unable to erase the thought that Luke might have discovered Nic’s body, Griff died by slow degrees as they waited. And waited. He wanted to pray. Tried to pray. But he couldn’t form the words. If there was a God, which he doubted, then that higher power didn’t give a damn about him or Nic or any of the poor, pitiful bastards lying in shattered heaps all over this fucking island.

  Whether five minutes had passed or an hour, Griff couldn’t be certain. All he knew was that when he saw Luke coming down the stairs and into the foyer, he finally managed to pray. Please, God, don’t let her be dead.

  “She’s not here,” Luke called the moment he saw Griff. “There’s no one here.”

  Griff closed his eyes. Thank you, God.

  Sanders clamped his broad, thick hand down on Griff’s shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked at his old friend.

  Luke came up to Griff, dug something out of his pocket, and held it in his open palm. “Does this look familiar to you?”

  Resting there in the center of Luke’s big hand lay a gold circle, a simple wedding band. Griff grasped the ring, looked inside for an inscription, and when he saw the initials GP, his heart stopped.

  “It’s Nic’s wedding band. She had my initials put inside her band and her initials are inside mine.”

  Bound, gagged, and blindfolded once again, Nic managed to keep her balance as Linden dragged her from the boat onto shore. She had no idea where they were, but she suspected that they wouldn’t be here for very long. From time to time, Linden issued orders in English, Spanish, and another language that Nic didn’t recognize. She heard grumbling male voices—no female—and the steady tromp of feet, her own included.