Endless Night

by Maureen A. Miller

  It was amazing how easily the story slipped from a tongue that was once doggedly mute. Perhaps the release was a catharsis. Initially, Megan found it hard to let go, but something in Jake’s eyes made her yield. Something in that throng of colors, like beveled edges of glass reflecting from the Tiffany lamp, cast myriad bursts of encouragement for her to bask in. When it was over and her palms lay flat on the kitchen table, her fingers splayed as her secrets had been, she listened to Jake’s silence and waited for him to pronounce sentence.

  “If it’s been a year,” Jake began guardedly, “and Gordon was never convicted of anything—in fact from what you say, never even considered a suspect, then why is he after you now?”

  Why indeed? Megan explained how every day she had studied the newspaper, scouring its contents, sometimes a day or two old, for any word on the murder. During her trips into Victory Cove, she donned a fluffy winter hat and scarf to obscure as much of her face as possible and utilized the coffee shop’s single computer which qualified the establishment as an “Internet Cafe.”

  Research revealed that the man in Gordon Fortran’s office that night was Vladimir Romanov, the father of an immigrant volleyball player for Boston Tech. It was his murder that she witnessed while staying late to work on the case of Andre Kohut, another Russian athlete. Andre Kohut shot Gregory Barnes III in front of the entire university basketball team, and only a few days later, Andre ended up dead of an overdose.

  Also in that time frame was the mysterious father-son duo she had walked in on in Gordon’s office—two men with Eastern European accents. The son she had to presume was an athlete as well due to his size. She was certain there was a connection between them all, but the ultimate link eluded her.

  Vladimir Romanov—the man she had seen murdered that night—had eventually been written off as a vindictive client. It was reported that Gordon, alone in the office at that late hour, was able to wrestle the weapon from the man and used it to protect himself. The parallel between Vladimir Romanov and the athletes was something that drove Megan insane with a lust to resolve. Romanov’s daughter and the others were gifted individuals in the United States on athletic scholarships and destined to be professionals in their sports. She pointed out the coincidence to Jake as she set down the newspaper. It was the paper she had picked up while they were in town.

  Jake eyed the cover briskly. “The oil spill off the California coast?” His eyebrow arched.

  “No.” Impatient, she whisked through the pages and slapped her hand on the third and began reading out loud. “‘One year after the heinous murder of their beloved son, Gregory, the Barnes family of Beacon Hill still mourns his loss. After Andre Kohut passed away the day before his pretrial—’” Megan injected her own interpretation, “—a suspicious death, they’re implying.” She continued with the written statement. “‘The Barnes family is requesting further investigation into his drug-related death.’”

  She returned to self-interpretation. “After Kohut’s death, the murder of Gregory Barnes was written off as a byproduct of Kohut’s drug usage. But it wouldn’t take too much investigation to determine if the boy ever had a drug problem to begin with. I know Andre Kohut was killed as surely as Gregory Barnes was.”

  Jake didn’t look up from the paper. “But Andre murdered Gregory Barnes in front of a room full of witnesses. That is either brazen hatred, or a derivative of drug usage.”

  “If it was so tidy, why are they suspicious now? They had their year to grieve, and now they have had time to think, and they, like me, don’t buy it. They don’t buy the whole neat, tidy story.”

  “Keep going.” Jake nodded. “I know there are theories festering in that beautiful head of yours.”

  Megan snorted. “The situation was under control for Gordon. If the pot gets stirred again, the day that Andre Kohut died—coincidentally the same night that Gordon shot Vladimir Romanov—will be brought to the surface and analyzed again. The Barnes have the money and influence to make it happen. When I first got to Victory Cove I thought about contacting them, but what did I have to present that would be believable? I hadn’t even made the connections yet myself.”

  Megan shook her head. “Don’t you see, Jake? I have to believe at the time when I ran, it was the safest alternative. If that night is reworked in the public eye, he will perceive me as a loose thread that he should have taken care of. I have to be dealt with. I have to be erased.”

  The paper was discarded. Jake sat back in the chair, but his eyes were trained on the floor.

  “How did you get here that night?” he asked softly.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Megan glanced at the phone sitting deceptively quiet against the wall. She waited for its shrill invasion, but when the silence persisted, it only made her more unsettled. At least if Gordon plagued her with phone calls she could better account for his location. It meant he wasn’t yet on her doorstep.

  “That night…” she hesitated, “…was endless. It still hasn’t ended.”

  Not until Jake leaned forward in the chair did she realize she uttered the words aloud. His solemn nod prompted her to continue.

  “I knew if I went back to my apartment, he would have someone waiting for me. The police, one of his hired hands, whoever. I knew I could never go back there. The only living relative I have is Mom, but she’s in Michigan and has a new life herself, with a new husband and son. I didn’t want to get her involved or place her in danger in any way.”

  “I extracted as much cash as I could from several ATMs and threw my cell phone away.” She swallowed. “I got in my car and drove through the night, and by ten the next morning I had sold my car for a ridiculously low amount and bought a used car for a couple hundred dollars. I sold that in Portland and paid for a cab to drive me up to Victory Cove.”

  Jake shifted uncomfortably. “Gordon never tried to go after your mother?”

  A tiny strangled sound erupted from her throat. “No. I never mentioned anything about family when I worked for Gordon. He had no time for personal information. And after I settled in Victory Cove, I called Mom and could tell that she had never been contacted. She knew nothing about what happened or why I was even here. She thought I relocated to a smaller law firm to get away from the hectic city.”

  He frowned. “You did this all alone? You had no one? No friends?”

  When it was stated that way it sounded pathetic. She tipped her chin up. “No. I had no one. I like to think that was best. Gordon has only me to come after.”

  “Oh, Meg.”

  The earnest way he looked at her made Megan ache. She reached out and cupped the coarse stubble on his face and felt a muscle pump in his cheek. Her thumb traced over the bone structure that gave him such character. It sure did appear there were traces of Gabrielle Wakefield there, but his features were borderline exotic, almost certainly a trace of his father. She hoped he would learn more of his roots because some beautiful recipe had created Jake.

  “Don’t pity me,” she said. “I chose this.”

  She drew in a deep breath and continued to recite the details of that god-awful night.

  “I just kept going until I found the absolute most remote town in the country—until I found Wakefield House, the absolute most isolated spot in the universe.” She looked up at a crossbeam in the ceiling. “And I created my fortress.”

  Jake grabbed at a chair and hauled it across the rug to sit facing her. With his fingers laced and his elbows on his knees, he continued to study her.

  “How have you survived? You have no car? What have you done for money?”

  “When I say I extracted money from several ATMs, the amount was significant. I made an excellent salary, and had very little to spend it on…so there was a lot in the bank.” Megan looked at her fingernails and contemplated taking a nibble. “But a year can drain any chunk of cash. I can’t risk going back to the bank to touch the rest of my savings. It is actually time for me to consider some source of income other than the prospect of the informa
tion I’ve gathered to write one hell of a novel.

  “Jake.” She felt compelled to make him understand. “I need Gordon to come here. I need him to come after me.” She shook her head. “Regardless of the Barnes family bringing this to fruition, I have to make this end. I can’t go on like this.”

  Jake’s hand curled into a fist on the tabletop. The muscle was twitching in his jaw again, darting up his temple and into his hairline. His lips were set in a stripe that indicated his teeth were clamped shut. He portrayed the image of a man in great conflict and Megan waited in agony for him to speak.

  “I shouldn’t have told you all this.” Forlorn, she rose. “You should go now.”

  Jake shook his head and quietly ordered, “Sit down.”

  She hesitated, but when his gaze turned up to meet her eyes, her knees buckled and she sank onto the edge of the seat.

  He inclined his head toward the laptop. “The novel?”

  It took a deep swallow to find her voice. “The novel. I sit here at night, after the nightmares, and write every detail I can remember. Every single detail of the Barnes murder. Every detail of that night—the parallels between the two. When I get back from town with any new information collected from the internet, I sit here and come up with theories.”

  “And what have you come up with? What is the equation? You have an idea, don’t you?”

  Megan sat back and stared at the black glass behind her yellow curtains. Night had come. It always came quickly here.

  “The common denominator is that Eastern European athletes were all involved in some respect. Andre Kohut, a six-foot-ten-inch youth from Odessa, was brought to Boston Tech on a basketball scholarship. Vladimir Romanov, the father of Marina Romanov, a five-foot-eleven member of the Russian Olympic volleyball team was brought here from Sverdlovsk on a scholarship. And the Jones father and son, whose identity I never learned, but the son, even in a seated position had to be near seven feet tall and an obvious basketball player.” She frowned.

  “Coincidences don’t sit well in my line of business.”

  Megan noticed a crack in Jake’s stern façade, whatever its source was, it made her relax. “What?” she asked.

  “Keep going. You have this case solved, I’m guessing.”

  She lifted a finger to her lips, prepared to bite her nail, but was frustrated to find there was nothing left to gnaw on. “I don’t. When I do, then I will go to the police.”

  Jake leaned forward and put his hand over hers, completely eclipsing it. There was a scar on one of his knuckles, and the hands looked like they’d never seen a pair of gloves in their life. They felt coarse. They felt masculine.

  “Continue, Meg, tell me what you suspect.”

  Megan flipped her hand upside down so that her palm could graze against his. The sensation caused chill bumps to surface on her arm.

  “The scholarships. I researched as much as I could with the NCAA and everything seems legitimate, but—”

  Jake’s rapt silence was incentive enough for her to continue. “It was the Olympian, Marina Romanov. The daughter of the man I saw murdered. Her scholarship came under scrutiny by the NCAA because it appeared she played for a professional team in Russia. Foreign scholarships are becoming more lenient I understand, but hers was very suspect and she was about to be kicked out of the university and sent back to Russia.”

  “And Vladimir was none too pleased with that,” Jake inserted. “Coming from that region, he was probably banking on her making some big U.S. salary and not being sent home disgraced. How does Gordon fit into all this? Corrupt, you suspect?”

  Megan snorted. “I always suspected he was corrupt. I just turned a blind eye because I had a great job and I was moving up. Now I am paying the price for that greed and indiscretion. I don’t know how he fits into the equation exactly, and until I do, I can’t come forward. I can only suspect he was involved in the acquisition of those scholarships in some way, and is taking his ‘cut’ in compensation.”

  Jake rubbed at the back of his neck. “That’s all very difficult to pin on him without any records to substantiate.” He mused, “But, Meg, if you went to the authorities, they have the resources to find out the connection.”

  “I’m sure I’d be dead two minutes after hanging up the phone.” Her voice was lifeless.

  Jake studied her for a moment and then chose his words carefully. “You know, it’s a credible enough tale to draw suspicion away from you. Judging from all you’ve told me of that night, there were only two people there that could possibly have murdered the volleyball player’s father.” He paused. “Gordon Fortran. Or you.”

  All right, maybe the observation had been in poor taste, but this woman was still an enigma. Hell, her name had been a mystery up until a few hours ago. The bottom line was that Megan could be a very viable suspect if she ever came forward, or at least Gordon could portray a credible case for her guilt with his skill. Jake didn’t consider Megan guilty of anything more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was concerned with putting the cards on the table—seeing what was stacked up against her.

  These thoughts roiling through his head, he broke from them to take note of Megan’s reaction. The blood had drained from her face, leaving a wan complexion that made her look like a Goth member of a casting call for a vampire movie. Pale lips opened and closed as she searched for words, but only a strangled moan escaped. Round eyes watched him with unabashed horror, and Jake groaned too. He realized the damage he had done, and before he could clarify his statement, Megan whispered in alarm, “You think I did it?”

  “Christ.” He ripped a hand over his face. “No, I don’t think you did it.” When his hand dropped, those solemn eyes still followed him.

  His voice gentled. “But these are the suspicions you are up against. If everything you say about this Fortran is true, he will manipulate the system and you will lose.”

  “He’s not concerned with manipulating the system. He just wants me dead.”

  The two front legs of Jake’s chair thumped back to the ground. The finality of her statement chilled him as he swallowed down the effect and tried to be objective. “How do you know that? What has he said to you on the phone?”

  Under the Tiffany lamp, shiny sable hair dusted across tense shoulders as she angled her head toward the phone. Jake was riveted by the sleek curve of her neck. So fragile. So beautiful. If anyone tried to touch it—

  “He tells me he’s coming.” Her voice was detached. “He doesn’t have to say any more. We both know why.”

  For one minute, no not even a minute, more like a labored heartbeat, the brief flash of time it took for a lucid thought to congeal—he considered leaving. This was not his life. It was not his battle to fight.

  But when he looked into Megan’s eyes he felt himself going under, sinking deep beneath the tumultuous surface into a green subterranean world that glowed with possibilities. There was simply no recourse. He knew he would protect this woman with his life.

  Jake coughed into his hand. “Well then.” He cleared his throat to loosen up the emotions. “We’ll be waiting for him, won’t we?”

  Megan leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, her hair spilling down to cover her face. White hands skimmed through the strands to cup the sides of her head. “Why?” she asked from behind her veil.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you do this?” Her voice grew stronger and she sat up. “Why don’t you get out of here? Leave this madness behind, Jake. It’s not your problem.”

  There it was. The verbal offer of flight. The excuse to ignore this situation and pretend it didn’t concern him. A chance to return to Boston and not look back.

  “Because I can’t.”

  “This can’t be because I’m real good in bed. We haven’t even slept together.”

  One thing he found remarkable about Megan was her ability to speak her mind when she wanted to. Every time he thought she was at the cusp of caving under the weight of her predi
cament, she surfaced with a quip or retort.

  Jake smiled and felt his heart in the gesture. “All the more reason for me to hang around.”

  The guarded expression eased up only slightly. Her hands slipped out of her hair to leave it with a windblown look. “I’m not going to be responsible if you get yourself killed out here.”

  “Would you like me to sign a waiver?”

  It didn’t appear that his charm was making a dent in Megan’s emotional armor. It probably didn’t help that the wind had kicked up outside and Wakefield House had started up its symphony.

  “I don’t know what I would like.” Weary resignation punctuated her words as she stood and walked to the counter.

  Jake traced her back, a supple form in a turtleneck and jeans. The women he had dated in the past always seemed to overdress. Even if he paid an unexpected visit to their homes, they were decked out with too much makeup as if they had sat there all night, primping on the off chance a man would arrive.

  There was something natural about Megan, something earthy, something exquisite, something so elemental that he connected with it—even if she did come equipped with her own personal murderer.

  “Coffee?” Megan mumbled with her back to him.

  He moved in behind her and sensed the immediate tension in her shoulders. Resting his hands on those taut muscles, he slowly kneaded the pressure away.

  “I’d love some,” he whispered, hoarse.

  “Jake—”

  “Meg, please, there’s a lot going on here for us to deal with. It’s not exactly the ideal components to build a relationship off of.”

  Her shoulders went taut again beneath his touch.

  He dipped his head, his mouth sweeping a phantom brush against her hair. “But I want to try.”

  She caved in. Her body literally crumbled back against him, and his arms swept around her waist, holding her tight.

  “Thank you.” It was a ragged croak.

  “For what?” He closed his eyes. “For accepting everything I’ve heard here tonight. For deciding that I will do everything in my power to make sure you are safe?” He opened them. “Or for wanting you?”