Her hearing was coming back. Where before there had been only the ringing and the roaring silence, she now heard splashing behind her. She turned to look, and in the flickering light from the burning dock, she saw someone swimming.
Wyatt? Or Ernesto?
She struggled toward the shore, weighted down by mud, water, and panic. Exhausted and fighting to keep from sobbing, she pushed on, ignoring the shouts behind her. She wasn’t going to get this far, only to have them catch her again. The Fire Carrier had disappeared into the woods, but shadows raced along the shoreline, and she threw herself toward them.
The splashing was closer, right behind her. Barrie pushed herself faster.
“Bear, wait. Wait! Hold up. It’s me.”
Almost to the shore, she stopped. It was Eight. He caught her and lifted her up, holding her as if he were never going to let her go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Barrie barely felt the tug of the needle stitching through her shoulder as the doctor worked. She concentrated on answering another round of questions from the police as best she could. With the collar of Pru’s heavy bathrobe pulled down to expose the top of her shoulder, she couldn’t seem to get warm enough. The light in the kitchen shone too bright, and the room swarmed with people. At the same time, even with Pru beside her, she felt oddly alone. Eight stood leaning against the counter, answering questions from still more police. County sheriff, state police, military police, the DEA, the FBI. They were all here, crawling around the tunnels and the river, not to mention the Colesworth bank.
“There, that’s finished,” Dr. Ainsley said, securing a bandage over the wound.
He smiled at Barrie tiredly, and she wondered if he’d had any sleep before Seven had insisted the doctor come over. She felt guilty for that, but the idea of going to an emergency room, leaving Watson’s Landing again after all she’d already been through, had been too much.
Dr. Ainsley fiddled in his bag and pulled out a syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid. “Now this is a dose of antibiotic,” he said, drawing some out of the vial and filling the syringe. “Just as a precaution. I want you to keep those stitches dry for forty-eight hours, so take sponge baths and have Pru help you wash your hair in the sink. I’ll give you a sling to wear until I see you in the office. Keep your arm as still as possible. And stay off that ankle for a few days too. A little rest wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Barrie nodded, but she wanted nothing more than to immerse herself in the tub to get rid of the stench of the river and the night’s events. She winced as Dr. Ainsley administered the shot.
A radio crackled in the hand of the nearest sheriff’s deputy. He walked off a few feet, spoke into it, then came back, and his eyes met Pru’s over Barrie’s head. “They’re bringing the bodies up from the tunnel now,” he said.
Dr. Ainsley visibly went pale, his hand trembling as he put the used syringe into his bag. He was probably in his sixties. Barrie wondered if he had known Luke. But then, everyone seemed to have been shaken tonight. She shivered again; the shock waves kept hitting her.
Heroin and murder. So many murders. But Emmett was long dead, and Wyatt had died in the explosion. Neither of them were any loss. Barrie couldn’t help thinking of Cassie, though, who was still missing like Ernesto. With a father like Wyatt, had Cassie ever had a chance to turn out well? Maybe that, more than anything else, was the Colesworth curse, passed down from generation to generation. The bitterness, rage, and willingness to take the easy way out. Maybe with Wyatt dead, Cassie and Sydney would both be better off.
Barrie pulled up the collar of Pru’s thick bathrobe and burrowed deeper into the fabric. Eight nodded at something one of the FBI agents said, and peeled himself away from the counter to rejoin her. She met him as Pru went to talk to Seven.
Eight’s clothes were still damp, but Barrie didn’t care as he drew her toward him. She was just grateful to hug him. He could have died in the river. He could have burned, or Wyatt could have shot him.
She smacked him in the chest with the flat of her hand.
“Hey, what’s that for?” He rubbed the spot as if it hurt.
“For being reckless and risking your life.”
“We’ll argue that one another time. I’m giving you a free pass for the rest of the night.”
“There is no ‘rest of the night,’ ” Barrie said. “It’s light out already.”
Pru came back, leaving Seven still talking to the group of police. “They’re all done with you for now,” she said. “Thank goodness.” She peered closer at Eight and crossed her arms. “Lord, Eight Beaufort, your clothes are still wet. What is your father thinking, letting you stay here talking all this time?”
“I’m all right,” Eight said, his jaw jutting stubbornly.
“You’re not going to do Barrie a bit of good if you catch your death. At least go home and get into something dry. That won’t take you long. Barrie can wash off meanwhile, and we can all have some breakfast together.”
Food was about the last thing on Barrie’s mind. “I want to call the hospital and check on Mark before I do anything else.” She glanced back at Eight. “My phone is shot. Come down to the library with me.”
Pru and Eight both went stiff, and Pru’s eyes welled. “I’m sorry,” Pru said. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to wait to tell you. Eight agreed that you’ve been through so much tonight and—”
“No,” Barrie said, although she knew. Part of her had known in the river. Mark’s voice had been so clear, so Mark.
He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t.
Eight’s arms tightened around her. He rested his chin on her head, cradling her against him.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sugar.” Pru’s hands fell in a helpless little gesture.
Barrie buried her face into Eight’s chest and felt his lips brush her hair. “At least he won’t go through any more pain. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Bear? It’s what he wanted. The pneumonia was mercifully quick—his body just couldn’t take it.”
How could she take it? How could she be losing everyone?
“You aren’t losing me. Or Pru.”
“We’re right here with you, sugar.”
Barrie wasn’t sure who she was crying for. Mark. Lula. Luke and Twila. Even her father. She had lost them all in the past few hours, lost them and found them and lost them again. Or maybe it was herself she had lost and found.
As if by some silent agreement between them, she found herself passed from Eight’s arms into Pru’s. “I’m going to let Pru fix you up,” Eight whispered into her ear, “but I’ll be back. You know that, right? I’ll always come back.”
She gave him a numb, silent nod and walked to her room with Pru holding her close. But as they approached the door, it occurred to her how much Pru, too, had lost. The hallway blurred around her, and the air turned to stars and prisms. There were too many shadows, too many ghosts of lives that could have been. She wanted to say she understood how Pru felt, but the words stuck in her throat.
“We should have a funeral for all of them,” she said instead. “Mark and Luke and Twila.”
Pru stopped in the doorway, and the sunlight from the balcony carved hollows into her face. “A service. For Lula, too. That’s a wonderful idea, sugar.” Her voice broke, and around her the house, the shadows, the whole universe seemed to give a final sigh. “Lord, all these wasted years. Because of what my father did.”
She didn’t call Emmett “Daddy” anymore.
Barrie wished she could take some of Pru’s pain away. How hard did it have to be to know that your father, your own father, had murdered not one person but two people he was supposed to have loved? Murdered them and left them to rot like garbage. And he had stolen years or dreams from so many others: Pru, Lula, Wade, even Cassie. It made what Barrie had lost seem small by comparison.
“You lost Mark today,” Pru said, “and I know you’re afraid of Eight going away. But you can’t lose someone you truly love. Love doesn’t com
e with an on-off switch. It’s made of too many threads of memory and hope and heartache that weave themselves into the very core of who you are. You carry all those shared experiences with you.”
Wordlessly Barrie nodded. But love was so much more than shared experiences. Love was more alchemy than memory. Love was the kind of magic that made Mark beautiful to her and made her feel filled up inside when Eight was happy.
“So are you and Seven going to get back together now?” she asked, glancing at Pru with a telltale blush.
“Maybe it’s inevitable.” Pru looked toward the balcony and across the river. “I can’t remember when I didn’t love him. Your mama and I used to climb out on the balcony at night and talk until the river caught fire and lit the sky. Then Seven would come out and watch from the balcony on his side, and he and I would stay out there after Lula went in. I used to imagine the Fire Carrier was burning a path between us, from my heart to Seven’s. I didn’t expect that fire would ever go out. And it hasn’t. Not for me. It just got banked down for a while. I think Seven feels it too. We’ve lost a lot of years, but you can’t lose love. Not real love. It stays locked inside you, ready for whenever you are strong enough to find it again.”
Pru rubbed her palm, staring down at it as if the lines there surprised her somehow. “I went into Charleston yesterday,” she said quietly. “To see an antiques appraiser about the things in the attic. If I can do that by myself, I can do anything. Even go with you to a funeral, if you think you want to go to California.”
Tears made rivers down Barrie’s cheeks. More water. She thought of what Mark had said about rivers and oceans mixing. Her whole life, he had been her safe harbor when events, people, words, had broken her into flotsam and jetsam. Now he had set her adrift, launched her into the current again.
Pru got up and rubbed Barrie’s cold hands between her own. “Breathe, sugar. I’m right here for you. You know that. And Eight is still here. Do you want me to send him up?”
Barrie shook her head. “You sent him home.”
“He didn’t go,” Pru said. “He’s still standing on the dock.”
Barrie looked out the window. Eight stood staring at the Away with his hands in his pockets. She stepped out to the balcony and leaned across the railing.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, as if he could possibly hear her across the distance.
But he turned and waved.
His outline went soft at the edges, as if someone stood at either shoulder. Mark, in his favorite pink Chanel suit, pointing at Eight with a shimmy of delight and then turning to give Barrie a big thumbs-up. And Lula, dressed to the teeth, with no veil, and her hair a loose tumble blowing around her unscarred face, standing on the other side.
When Barrie closed her eyes, she could almost see Mark turning and walking down the long, gray dock with Lula beside him. There was no mistaking the swing of his hips, his elbow pushed out. Working it, as if the dock were a stage and he were off to take a bow after a great performance. Lula’s stride was unfamiliar, fierce and free of pain. Was that how Lula had used to look?
Barrie wondered if she’d ever have the courage to read her mother’s letters. For all she had lost that night, that week, Watson’s Landing had given her back a family. The Fire Carrier had saved her life.
She had known since the moment she’d stepped out of the cab and touched the bricks on the gatepost that she had found where she was supposed to be. But there was a difference between being stuck and choosing to stay. Between being found and finding yourself.
Watson’s Landing had bound her without giving her a choice. In the tunnel today she had chosen. She had chosen in the river, and she was choosing again. Now all she had to do was find a way to make Eight choose.
“We should start a restaurant,” she said to Pru. “Out here, I mean.” She wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they felt right. It shocked her. Not only did she want to stay, but she was willing to invite strangers in. Turning to Pru, she gestured down at the garden. “I can picture it, can’t you? People sitting out under the fairy lights, watching the water and the fireflies. We could float candles on the river to set the water on fire. Play romantic music. Put out dessert stations and let people stroll along the paths so it feels like they’ve been invited here as guests.”
“Would people pay for that?” Pru looked at the garden with her eyes wide, as if she were seeing it too. “Yes, I think they would. We could catch our own shrimp and fish, dig oysters. We already have pecans, strawberries, and vegetables.”
“Eight would always know what people wanted. When he wasn’t off playing baseball.”
Pru’s smile dimmed a little, and she folded her hands together, her expression guarded. “What about art school, sugar?”
“I’ll go someday, but not yet.” Barrie leaned out over the balcony railing to take it all in: the landscape of her heart, and the spirits and the family she had chosen all around her. She stood a moment breathing in the silence. “Right now,” she said, “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
Pru slid her arm around Barrie’s waist and stood beside her. “Sugar, that’s the whole point of being home.”
Stay tuned for Persuasion, the next book in the Heirs of Watson Island series, coming Fall 2015!
Acknowledgments
I owe boundless gratitude to so many.
To Doug, who believed this story would be the one, and who by example makes me want to work harder and be a better person every day.
To Hailey, whose perseverance and sheer grit inspire me, and who came running at one in the morning to tell me she had finished a book I had to read, kicking off our shared exploration of YA literature.
To Ryan, who has loved and hoarded books since he first used them to climb out of his crib, and who reminds me how important it is to try the things that scare me.
To my parents, who taught me the power of hope, and whose courageous journey led to a life filled with freedom, books, and intellectual curiosity.
To Kent Wolf, my stellar agent, who championed the book and made it more pyrotechnic than I could ever have made it on my own, and who continues to save me from myself all too frequently.
To Amanda Panitch, whose leap of faith started Barrie on her journey, and the team at LMQ, whose fabulousness knows no bounds.
To Annette Pollert, who got Barrie, Eight, Cassie, Pru, Mark, Lula, Julia, and even Mrs. Price more than I could ever have hoped, who wanted to call Barrie on the missing cell phone, who turned this first book into a series, and who coaxed more out of me than I believed I had.
To Sara Sargent, who never faltered no matter what I threw at her, and whose unfailing wisdom and patience are beyond price. I’m looking forward to the rest of the journey together.
To Bara MacNeill, who copyedited the manuscript and made me look better than I deserve.
To Patrick Price, who shepherded Barrie off on a solid start, and to Carolyn Swerdloff, Mara Anastas, Mary Marotta, Lucille Rettino, Christina Pecorale, Paul Crichton, Anna McKean, Hayley Gonnason, Emma Sector, Michelle Leo, Anthony Parisi, Katy Hershberger, Candace Greene, Katherine Devendorf, Sara Berko, Nicole Ellul, and the editorial, art, marketing, publicity, sales, and rights teams—all the magicians at Simon Pulse—who took in a dingy manuscript and made it a shiny book.
To Regina Flath, who took the time to read Compulsion, and whose design and cover created a wonderful invitation for the reader.
To Andrew Agha, whose patience and enthusiasm for answering my zillions of archaeological questions have been a gift. All mistakes (and liberties) are entirely my own fault.
To Jan, who has been my rock and best cheerleader, not to mention my fellow night owl, who does the work of ten mere mortals, and without whom this book and I would be a red-hot mess.
To Susan, whose words gave me strength when I had almost given up, whose insight and editorial wisdom are infinite, and whose heart is a bottomless well of kindness.
To Cici and Carol, the strongest, b
ravest, most kick-ass women I could ever hope to laugh with, who have been with me through every step, from the birth of this story and before.
To Kimberley, my lately discovered soul sister and fellow PID, who is quite literally a saint.
To Shannon, who has blazed trails and offered guidance that has kept me from making countless mistakes.
To Kari Stuart, Lorin Oberweger, Brenda Windberg, and Emma Dryden, whose expert advice and kindness have been instrumental, and to my beyond fabulous CPs and early readers: Lisa, Clara, Marco, Mariana, Chris, Vivien, Carolyn, Erin, and my beautiful (inside and out) sister, Alena, who have all made it possible for dreams to come true.
To my wonderful AYAP partners, YASI sisters, blogging friends, and fellow wanderers on what was once a solitary road, whose generosity, support, and enthusiasm have been the kick to my butt every morning.
To the authors whose books have given me human connection, growth, hope, and joy throughout the years. Thank you especially to Cynthia Leitich Smith for igniting my daughter’s love of reading and for rekindling my goal of writing. Thanks also to Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl for reminding me how much I adore Southern Gothics.
To every librarian, bookseller, reviewer, and book blogger who encourages reading and who provides a foundation for those of us who write.
Last, and definitely foremost, to all the readers who bring books into their hearts and breathe life into them with the turn of every page.
Thank you, everyone, for your trust and faith and kindness.
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © BY NIRUSHA BENHAM
MARTINA BOONE was born in Prague and spoke several languages before learning English. Her first teacher in the United States made fun of her for not pronouncing the “wh” sound right, so she set out to master “all the words”—she’s still working on that! In the meantime she’s writing contemporary fantasy set in the kinds of magical places she’d love to visit. If you like romance steeped in mystery, mayhem, Spanish moss, and a bit of magic, she hopes you’ll look forward to meeting Barrie, Eight, Cassie, Pru, Seven, and the other characters of Watson Island.
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