by Julia London
“Now what’s the matter?” Joe demanded impatiently.
“Oh, right, like you care.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Where’d your friend run off to?”
Dagne responded by blowing her nose.
“Dagne,” Flynn said, before Joe could scare her out of her wits. “You know that Rachel’s in trouble. I want to help her—but I can’t help her unless you tell me where she’s gone.”
Dagne sniffed loudly and glanced at Flynn from the corner of her eye. “Do you honestly believe she had something to do with it?”
Flynn instantly shook his head. “I honestly believe quite the opposite. But I must speak with her to prove it, eh?”
With a sigh, Dagne considered that, and finally cried out, “I don’t know what to do!”
“Tell the truth,” Flynn softly urged her. “It’s always the best course.”
Dagne wiped her nose, glanced up at Flynn again. “She’s on her way to Hilton Head,” she said, and the tears welled up again.
“Oh, that’s just great,” Joe groused, and fell into a chair at her little table.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The jet landed at a small air strip on Hilton Head Island just after midnight. Thankfully, Dad had arranged a car for her, and the driver took her to The Inn at Harbor Town in Sea Pines, an exclusive resort.
It was late, and Rachel tried to get some sleep, but she tossed and turned. Her sleep was just below the surface of consciousness, her heart and mind on fire with the enormity of what Myron had done to her.
It was impossible to imagine how someone who was her friend, who had even been a lover, could have so carelessly put her in harm’s way. Did he even think of the danger he put her in? The sort of criminal charges something like this could bring, even if she was an innocent, ignorant bystander, made her shudder. She could well be on her way to prison.
What hurt the most was how blind she had been to it all. She’d been so quick to settle for being Myron’s “friend;” just something to make her feel worthy of a man’s affection, and it had all been a lie. Somehow, she had let her insecurities meander along until even her friendship with Myron was seriously out of balance.
The most frightening thing was that it had all happened without her even questioning it. She’d been a stupid little goose, waking up in a fresh new world every day, the past blithely forgotten. It had just been so easy to just go on and on, pretending. But then someone had come into her life who mattered, someone who admired her for being Rachel, and she’d had the baggage that was Myron hanging over her head.
The image of Flynn scudded across her mind’s eye, and she buried her face in a pillow with a breath-snatching sob. Just yesterday, her future had seemed so bright—but now it suddenly seemed coldly distant and lonely. Surely God had made a mistake with all of this; surely He would take it all back.
Rachel was up before dawn the next morning, walking along the beach and trying to clear her head. Her fury had resumed in full gale force with the first morning’s light, and she wanted to find Myron desperately, to wring his neck until he could not draw a breath.
As soon as the sun had come up above the horizon, she was dressed in jeans, Doc Martens, and a thick sweater. She picked up her bunker bag and marched down to the village area of the harbor, where a smattering of shops and markets lined the walk near the lighthouse.
Fortunately, in spite of the cool temperatures, the winds were calm and the sun was bright overhead. She stopped in a coffee bar, ordered a huge double latte and a brownie, and sat at one of the outside tables. Pulling a book from her bag, she pretended to be reading as she watched people milling about.
When she and Myron had come here two years or so ago, they had stayed at his parents’ condominium, and she recalled it being somewhere nearby. Every day, Myron had walked to Harbor Town. If he was on Hilton Head Island, he’d be through sometime today, and all she had to do was wait.
And imagine the many ways to slay him, Wile E. Coyote style, with dynamite to stick in his mouth and giant anvils to drop on his head.
Back in Providence, Joe had called headquarters from Dagne’s flat and arranged for a flight to Savannah, Georgia, for him and Flynn, and by the time he had finished telling his commander what was going on, Dagne had appeared from her bedroom, carrying a very large overnight bag.
Joe hung up the phone, took one look at the bag, and immediately started shaking his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “No way.”
“You can’t stop me,” she said defiantly, raising her chin. “It’s a free country, and unless I am under arrest, I am going, too.”
“You have to be out of your redheaded mind,” Joe said. “The last thing we need is someone like you mucking up the works—”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be able to help you?”
“Not once,” he said instantly and adamantly. “Not even a freakin’ second.”
“That’s because you’re just a big bully whose powers of thinking are extremely limited—”
“Beg your pardon, but we could very well stand here bickering about it all night,” Flynn said, anxious to get to the airport. He looked at Joe. “Can we legally or physically stop her from taking the same flight to Georgia?”
Joe frowned. “No,” he said with a growl. “Not without rousing a judge and losing time.”
Dagne smiled triumphantly at that and hoisted the bag over her shoulder. “Told you so,” she said, and proceeded to stride out of her flat.
“Someone is going to die before this is all said and done, mark my words,” Joe muttered as he marched out after her.
“Frankly, I should be so lucky,” Flynn grumbled as he brought up the rear.
There was another argument in the parking lot when Joe refused to let Dagne ride in his state-issued vehicle. “I have a gun in there. I don’t need psycho-witch touching anything.”
“Very well, then,” Flynn said sternly, and forced them both into his rental car, figuring he’d take it up with Lloyds of London when this case was finally put to rest.
He drove to Boston, keeping his eyes on the road as Dagne tried to explain the inherent value of witchcraft to them. It was a given, Flynn thought, that a man like Joe would not buy such an argument, and he was quite right—Joe was so appalled that he and Dagne argued the entire hour or so it took them to reach Boston.
In Boston, they found a cheap hotel near the airport, so that they might catch the first morning flight out to Savannah. As they had only a couple of hours to wait, they took one room. Naturally, Dagne stretched out on the bed while Joe and Flynn sat in ridiculously uncomfortable chairs and tried to catch a kip, but Dagne’s snoring made that impossible.
Flynn eventually made his way to the car and stretched out on the backseat, and when he awoke the next morning, he found Joe in quite foul humor on the floor of the room. Dagne, however, was feeling quite chipper, judging by the way she talked.
And talked.
And talked.
About absolutely nothing, expounding on her life for the most part, pausing occasionally to philosophize—or proselytize, as the case may be. She had many thoughts about witchcraft, and evolution. And a rather adamant belief in life on other planets.
“You’re a certified nut job, you know that?” Joe demanded once she had finished telling them of an encounter she had with a space alien as a teen.
“So I suppose you think that anyone with experiences and beliefs that differ from yours is automatically a certified nut job, don’t you?”
“No—just you.”
“That’s such typical ogre behavior. Why can’t Neanderthals like you open their minds?”
“Maybe you should cast one of your spells,” he said, wiggling his fingers at her.
“Don’t tempt me, dude,” she said, flouncing petulantly back into her seat.
“What do you think, Flynn? Put much stock in witchcraft or space aliens?” Joe asked through a yawn.
Dagne shot forward again. “And before you ans
wer that, Flynn, remember one thing: Va-nil-la,” she said, rather mysteriously.
“Actually, all the chatting about witches and witchcraft is really giving me a rather fierce headache,” Flynn responded irritably. “So if you don’t mind.”
Dagne leaned forward so that she was practically in the front seat and looked Flynn straight in the eye. “Vanilla,” she whispered loudly.
“Sweet Fanny Adams,” Flynn said with a groan.
“Jesus, woman, do you mind?” Joe snapped, and the two of them went right back to arguing again.
It was almost more than a man could endure, and Flynn was entirely grateful when the plane landed in Savannah at long last, and he could at least put some distance—if only a foot or two—between him and his two traveling companions.
Naturally, the arguing continued in the car they hired. Flynn tried to distract himself with the business of actually driving to Hilton Head Island, while Joe and Dagne went round and round about directions, or whether or not she really needed to stop at a loo, or which of them was actually doing the most talking, et cetera . . . Flynn lost track of their nonsense somewhere between Georgia and South Carolina.
When they at last passed over the causeway to Hilton Head, Flynn pulled into a petrol station and went inside, purchased a map of the island. As he handed the woman behind the counter his money, she smiled sympathetically. “Hon, you look like you could use a good belt.”
She had absolutely no idea.
In the car again, Flynn opened the map. Joe was instantly leaning over to see it, and Dagne, from her perch in the backseat, was hanging like she was suspended from the car ceiling over his shoulder.
“She said the lighthouse, somewhere near the lighthouse,” she repeated helpfully.
“So what, we’re supposed to go hang out at some lighthouse?” Joe asked, yawning again.
“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” Flynn said, “we’ll just go have a look about and perhaps find a good nosh up.”
Both Joe and Dagne looked at him as if he were speaking Greek. “Dude, you must be tired!” Joe said with a grin. “You’re not making sense.”
Flynn rolled his eyes and drove on, Dagne still hanging over his shoulder like a very chummy mutt.
Now Rachel was furious with Myron for making her wait so long. It was almost noon. It was so like him, so inconsiderate and selfish—she’d gotten up twice now to walk around and put some circulation in her legs. Between thoughts of disemboweling him to being furious that he might be sleeping somewhere while she stood vigil had turned her into a bundle of very bitchy nerves.
On her second stand up and walk around, she saw someone through a café window that looked an awful lot like Dagne. That at least made her scoff out loud—she was losing her mind if she thought Dagne was on Hilton Head. But it did remind her she should call, and she walked to a pay phone, just on the edge of a row of buildings and the outdoor seating she was using as a stakeout.
She put in all the quarters she had, dialed Dagne’s line, but no one answered. Honestly, she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Dagne had up and gone home to Philadelphia, just in case someone came around asking about the Badger painting, and dear God, she hoped Dagne remembered to take the painting with her rather than leaving it lying around her apartment.
With a sigh, she put the receiver down. She leaned over, picked up her bag and hoisted it onto her shoulder, was starting in the direction of the outdoor seating—and saw Myron waltzing through the main concourse. What the hell . . . he was whistling. Strolling through the small crowd, hands in pockets, whistling!
That. Bastard. Not only was he a thief and a liar and a cheat, he was actually enjoying himself!
She didn’t even think; she took a long step forward, prepared to march through the crowd and intercept him, then deck him—but someone caught her arm, and as she tried to shake the hand off and twist around to see who it was, a hand clamped over her mouth, an arm went around her waist, and she felt herself being yanked back into the alley space next to the building like a sack of potatoes.
She knew instantly whose hard chest she was up against—she could smell his cologne. And she began to struggle with him, trying to free herself and turn around at the same time. But Flynn’s arm was like a vise around her, and his legs, which she knew to be powerful, thank you, were pinning hers together.
“Hush, love,” he whispered, dragging her deeper into the little alley. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you keep this up. Hush now, and listen to—ouch!” he exclaimed, sucking his breath in through his teeth at her heel to his instep. He let go just enough for her to twist around, but he quickly caught her and pinned her up against the brick wall. “There is no call for that. Listen to me, Rachel—we’re going to nab your Myron, you have my word, but you really must cooperate!”
“No!” she grunted, and tried to come down on his instep again, but this time managed to snag his toes through his Italian loafers. With a groan of agony, Flynn suddenly shoved up against her, cutting off any movement in her legs, and her breath, for that matter. “That was really quite naff. No more, do you understand? If you kick me once more, I will retaliate,” he said, and grabbed her shoulder, squeezing a tendon.
Rachel instantly gave up. “Okay, okay,” she cried, trying to move from his hand.
Flynn’s face appeared, floating before hers. “Do I have your word?” he demanded.
With a grimace, she nodded. Flynn let go, slowly eased up, watching her carefully to see if she might try something.
Rachel glared at him, was ready to give him a piece of her mind—which piece, she wasn’t certain—but it was quickly a moot point as she saw the guy behind him who looked oddly familiar.
And then she saw Dagne, who was peeking out behind the guy, smiling and sheepishly waving her fingers.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The newspaper accounts that appeared in the days following would erroneously report that the whole thing had begun with an altercation between two law enforcement officers and a woman in the heart of Harbor Town, when in actuality, the altercation happened much later, in the condominiums where Myron was hiding out.
The only thing that happened in Harbor Town that early afternoon was that Rachel was driven all but wild trying to understand how Flynn and Dagne—who had never met, mind you—and that man, who turned out to be a cop, could be there in that little alley with her.
In truth, there was a bit of shoving, starting with Rachel, who put two hands on Flynn’s chest and shoved him away from her, then stood there, her hands on her hips, fuming as she took in the three of them. And then she looked at Dagne and made her wince by staring daggers at her. “You did this,” she said accusingly, and shoved her. But it was a one-handed shove, and really did not deserve the rebuttal shove she got in return.
“They made me,” Dagne snapped.
“How could they make you? You don’t even know Flynn—”
“I know, but he knew me, Rachel! He knew where I lived and my name and they said—”
“Ah, actually,” Flynn said, nudging Dagne to shut up, “I was hoping to sort of walk Rachel through all that.”
Rachel’s first, horrific thought was that Flynn and Dagne were involved—but that seemed entirely impossible, so she shook her head to clear it, and tried to make sense of what was happening.
“He’s a cop,” Dagne said.
“Investigator, actually,” Flynn corrected her.
“Investigator,” Dagne repeated.
A cop? An investigator? Now she gaped at Flynn, almost believing that Dagne had managed the mother of all spells. Flynn smiled a little. He shrugged. He looked at his shoes. An investigator! How could that be? She’d never seen any guns or badges or anything that even remotely—
“There he is. That’s Myron,” Dagne said disgustedly, and the rest of them jerked their gazes toward the street. Rachel caught just a glimpse of the lying asshole as he went by, and instantly started in that direction, but Flynn caught h
er by the arm. “We really prefer to follow him, see where he goes.”
“Follow him? Why do you want to follow him? And who is we? What we?”
“We,” Flynn said, gesturing to his companions. “Why do you want to follow him?”
“I don’t want to follow him,” she snapped as Dagne inched her way to the corner of the building, watching Myron. “I want to kill him!”
“Why do you want to kill him?” the stranger asked.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Detective Joe Keating, Rhode Island State Police,” he said, and suddenly pushed Dagne out into the sunshine and followed her.
Flynn obviously thought to do the same, as he put his hand on the small of Rachel’s back and shoved her forward.
But Rachel caught herself on the edge of the building. “Wait. Who is that guy? How are you here? And how do you know Dagne?”
“It’s really quite a long and sort of complicated story, so I’d suggest, if you don’t want to lose your chance to kill the professor, that we sort of chivvy along and I’ll tell you everything later.” He nudged her again.
She did want to kill Myron. Badly. Rachel started walking. But she didn’t like it.
They stepped out from the building, walked a few feet behind Dagne and the other guy up the walk. Several yards ahead, Rachel could see Myron strolling along, a plastic bag swinging from one hand. He turned left onto a street, and so did the four of them, but the guy with Dagne made her pause in front of a shop window while he looked around the corner. And then he grabbed Dagne’s arm and yanked her around the corner with him.
Flynn and Rachel followed, marching in silence, side by side, and they continued this absurd game of chase until Myron slipped into a very nice Town Car. That bastard owed her money and was driving a Town Car.
Flynn, the detective, and Dagne all stopped beside a Ford Taurus.
The detective got in the driver’s seat, Dagne in front, and Flynn pushed Rachel into the back. They backed out of the space so quickly that Rachel feared she’d been whiplashed, but then he threw it into drive so fast that Rachel almost went through the window. Flynn caught her again, pushed her down in the seat. “You might want to buckle up there.”
