The sun dipped behind the pine trees to the west just as she found the address she was looking for. The dying afternoon sky blazed crimson, giving the unpainted, weather-beaten Victorian cottage with a lazy porch encircling the exterior a supernatural glow. While the water in the bay beyond appeared to open up and feed the night its darkness.
A small sign tacked beside the wooden door had the words, “boat rentals” printed in navy blue paint. Vega parked the SUV in front of the house.
It had taken her most of the day to get to this town on the rural coast of South Carolina. She was just a few miles away from Tommy Fisher’s bar, the Broken Cricket, where this jinxed adventure had all started. And again, Vega was not at all certain she was in the right place. After Fiona’s abduction, she was beginning to question her hunches, even the strong ones.
Vega knocked on the heavy pine door. The quick raps echoed high in the thick canopy of trees surrounding the house. It took no more than a moment or two for the yellow light on the porch to turn on. Her senses alert, she kept a keen eye on the growing shadows around the property, watching for movement.
“Yes?” a voice from inside the house asked. The rusty hinge wailed when the door opened a crack. A single ancient eye, nearly entirely white from a heavy cataract, peered out at her.
“I’m looking for Etta Gray’s place,” Vega said. “I’d been told you could guide me to her summer home.” And that was why Vega had been drawn to this clapboard house.
The man sighed and stepped back from the door. The place looked like a museum, only much more disorganized. Stacks of antique furniture, folk art, and mysterious wooden crates narrowed the front hallway from floor to ceiling.
“I’m Vega Brookes.” The man appeared to be nearly blind with those white, cloudy eyes of his, but nothing seemed wrong with his hearing. The wrinkles on his face, a testimony to his wisdom and experience, pulled down toward the floor as he turned back toward her. “Pearl Sampit sent me.”
“That old gossip?” the man snorted. He didn’t offer his name and Vega chose not to pursue it. “Might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the living room where more treasures upon treasures had been heaped. A sweet, musty smell filled Vega’s nostrils when she perched on the corner of an ornate sofa that, in a museum, it would’ve had a velvet red rope hanging across the faded red velvet cushion.
He picked a battered easy chair that held no value besides comfort. “It’ll cost you one hundred dollars a day plus fifty dollars for me to draw you a map and give instructions on how to find your way through the marsh.”
“Okay.” He’d lost Vega. “One hundred dollars a day for what?”
“For the boat, of course.”
“The boat?”
“Pearl told you nothing. Etta’s summer home is on a marsh island. I’ll give you instructions on how to navigate the maze of channels to get you to her island—not that’ll be easy, mind you. You’ll most likely get lost.”
“I won’t get lost.”
The old man chuckled. “I require cash, up front. For fifty more dollars, you’re welcome to stay the night.”
“Stay the night?”
He snorted again. “An outsider like yourself couldn’t find the ocean, much less a small house in the middle of this marsh at night. Be lucky to do it during the day.”
That night Vega slept upstairs in the man’s sprawling old Victorian home on what felt like a cardboard mattress with the room’s expansive windows open. Teams of cicadas droned in her ears while confusing images of Fiona and Grayson haunted her dreams.
* * * *
The next morning, water whirled along the side of the fiberglass hull of the two-man boat Vega had rented. The bottom of the boat was wide and shallow. The craft glided down the creek with very little resistance from the tugging tide. A soft hum from the boat’s tiny trawling motor was the only sound for miles. Two wooden oars lay at her feet, she intended to switch off the motor and paddle her final approach to the island circled with a red pen on her map.
Navigating through the narrow marsh channels proved a disorienting challenge. Rough blades of marsh grass, winter brown in color, towered over both sides of the boat and over her head, even when she stood. The grasses blinded Vega, forcing her to rely solely on the hand-drawn map, which wasn’t easy. The pull of the tides created several narrow paths and openings that looked nearly identical to the navigable channels.
But Vega took her time and managed to find her way to the unmistakable fork in the channel where a folly of palms rose up from the grasses. Etta Gray’s secluded island, according to the map, should be just a few more turns down the creek’s winding channel. She shut off the engine and opened her black backpack holding her mini-arsenal. She tucked a loaded Beretta into her hip holster so it nestled in the small of her back. And in each pocket of her leather coat, a pair of handcuffs and an air gun Taser with a fifteen-foot range, and a shock guaranteed to overwhelm an assailant’s central nervous system.
She needed to take Grayson alive. If he didn’t have Fiona with him on the island, she would wrestle the information out of him.
“It’s your responsibility to watch out for your sister,” her father had once shook Vega by the shoulders and scolded.
Fiona had been only five at the time and had followed Vega on one of her solitary biking adventures through the neighborhood. Before they’d gone even two blocks, Fiona had fallen off her three-wheeled trike and was nearly hit by a car, tore her dress, and scraped her arms and legs. The driver of the car had carried Fiona back to the house while Fiona screamed as if that sound was to be her last and she wanted to make an impact.
I expect you to be the responsible one, Vega, and yet you continually disappoint me.
She could feel her father in the boat with her, with that scowl he’d get whenever his gaze chanced to meet hers. That look of utter dissatisfaction would harden his features. She should have taken better care of his charming little Fiona. She should have never allowed herself to believe in Grayson. Perhaps...
She gulped an uneven breath. Fiona would be okay. She’d trade her life for Fiona’s, if need be. That should please her father.
With a strangled sob, she caught hold of the budding emotional outbreak and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. Her focus slowly centered on the coming few hours until nothing else existed but her determination to capture Grayson.
He would not escape this time. She was good. Her prey never eluded capture for long.
Vega dipped the oars into the water and silently guided the boat up the creek. Gradually, the channel widened and the water rose, giving Vega a better view over the marsh grasses. She rounded a bend in the channel. A heavily treed island came into view. According to the map, this land belonged to Etta Gray.
She rowed toward the island, searching the marshy shore for the slightest sign of movement. Grayson shouldn’t be expecting her, but she sure as hell wasn’t about to take any chances. Out in the channel, without the cover of any kind of vegetation, she presented a tempting target to whatever might be lurking in the trees. Vega tugged on a floppy hat she’d purchased low on her head and tossed a fishing line out over the side of the boat.
A short, rickety dock with several loose boards curling up here and there and the supporting piers slanting at a sharp angle appeared on the far side of the island. There were no other signs of human inhabitation, no grand house rising up over the trees. Vega pulled up beside the dock and secured the boat to a pier close to shore. After hopping out into shallow water, she wedged the boat between the piers underneath the dock so it wouldn’t be readily noticeable. She took her backpack filled with an assortment of weapons, and sloshed her way over oyster beds and up the muddy bank.
Grand oaks like those in McClellanville, green even in the winter, hugged the shore. A grassy path led through the maritime forest, leading, no doubt, to Etta Gray’s home site. Hoping to make a silent approach, Vega wove her way through the thick woods. They swallowed her up, cre
ating a strange sensation of being transported back a century, to a lush flowering tropical forest somewhere much further south.
She stayed parallel with the narrow man-made path until she reached a clearing in the forest. Smoke rose from the chimney of a rusty roofed bungalow. Her heart thumped. The bungalow wasn’t closed up for the winter after all. Just as she suspected, someone had taken residence in Etta’s absence.
Vega stashed her backpack against the far wall of a boat shed and covered it with pine straw and leaves. She crouched down to watch the house. Other than an occasional rustle of leaves and the creaking of a well handle as the wind pushed it, the island was completely silent. Almost too silent.
If Fiona’s life weren’t depending on the finesse of the execution, she’d charge the house and use her Taser to immobilize anyone she encountered inside. But the direct approach might put Fiona’s life at a greater risk. She played out several scenarios in her head. The most deadly would be to tip off Grayson and give him the opportunity to harm Fiona.
The only way that made any sense was to take Grayson fast and hard...and soon. Which meant she’d either need to locate him inside the house before he noticed her presence, or figure out a safe way to lure him out.
To lure him out, she’d need to create enough of a disturbance to rouse his curiosity without sparking excessive suspicions. It was a gamble of course, but Vega decided it would be safer to confront Grayson outside as far away from Fiona as possible. Besides, she had no desire to walk into a room without knowing exactly what to expect.
While she sat there wondering what she could do besides throwing stones at the windows, which just seemed like a really bad idea, the front door to the small house opened. She kept her back pressed against the side of the small shack and peered around the corner of the building.
Grayson stopped on the bottom step, his alert gaze scanning. Her father’s Glock was snug in one hand, a rope sling for carrying wood in the other. He headed toward the shed. Vega could see the military training and focus with each step.
She looked behind her. A pile of wood was stacked just a few feet from where she stood, which meant he’d walk right into her snare.
Hopefully the air gun Taser worked as well as Jack claimed. According to him, this stun gun was the best thing to happen to small arms since the invention of the self-indexing breech that had made the development of automatic pistols possible. Instead of bullets, the gun fired two electrified probes that, when latched onto the target, sent an electrical-muscular disruption pulse through the body strong enough to completely disable the central nervous system. Temporary, harmless paralysis. A damn good tool for her business.
But because she hadn’t field-tested it, Vega wasn’t about to bet her life on that claim. She drew out the Beretta, prepared to follow up with a real bullet if the electronic ones failed to stop him.
Grayson stepped into range, carefully scanning for enemies, while not seeing the danger that lurked right in front of him. She fired the air gun Taser. Two wire probes shot out of the barrel and collided with Grayson’s chest, snagging on his flannel shirt.
For a breathless moment, she waited while Grayson stared at his shirt with wonderment. Her father’s Glock slipped from his grasp and bounced to the ground. His expression twisted. The weapon’s electrical current was coursing through him, causing every muscle to contract. He toppled like a broad piece of deadwood, landing with his face half-buried in the sand. Jack hadn’t exaggerated. That Taser walloped one hell of a punch.
Though Grayson looked helpless, Vega approached with extra caution. She wouldn’t take chances when her sister’s life depended on it. With a quick movement, she bent over him and locked a pair of handcuffs over his wrists and her second pair around his ankles. Once she was certain he wasn’t going anywhere, she switched off the Taser’s power.
Grayson, still face down in the sand, started coughing. He was gasping for breath when Vega flipped him over onto his back and straddled his chest.
“Vega.” A smile creased the corners of his pained eyes as he raked her body with his gaze. “You look damn good right now. I was afraid you were one of Whitfield’s guard’s from Six-Star.” He coughed again. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see that I was wrong.”
She had no reason to take offense, but she did.
“You shouldn’t be happy. I’m taking you back to Atlanta with me.” Her tone rose with her anger. “There’s no escape this time. You understand that?”
He tugged at the handcuffs binding both his arms and legs. “I expect I do.”
“Good.” She drew a deep breath while fighting an urge to punch him. “Tell me what you’ve done with my sister.”
Grayson stared blankly up at her.
“Where...is...my...sister?”
“Fiona? I haven’t seen her since I dropped her off at the cyclorama weeks ago.”
“The Cyclorama?” Vega’s heart was pounding in her ears. Surely, it was painfully obvious he wasn’t going to escape this time, so he had no reason to lie. He should be cooperating.
“She’s damn good at getting into trouble, that sister of yours. You should’ve watched over her more carefully,” he said.
Just like her father, he blamed her for Fiona’s misadventures. Why shouldn’t he?
“Stop playing me, Grayson. Where is Fiona?”
“I don’t know, Vega. Where is she?”
She smashed the butt of the Taser against his temple. “Don’t lie to me, you bastard. What did you do with my sister?”
Grayson shook his head. A dazed glare clouded his eyes. She must have knocked him harder than she intended. She slapped his cheeks. “What did you do with her?”
“Nothing,” he said again.
Nothing? He was a damn liar.
“What did you do? Did you kill her?” she shouted.
“No, Vega.”
Her father’s Glock was in her hand. How it got there, she wasn’t sure. A moment ago, it had been on the ground near her hand. She was glad to be holding it though. The barrel pressed so nicely against Grayson’s forehead.
“Did you kill my sister? Just tell me the truth. Did you kill her?” Her finger tightened against the trigger.
“No, Vega. I didn’t.” A breath away from death and he refused to plead, refused to do anything other than gaze at her with those powerful brown eyes.
That wouldn’t do.
She needed him to feel the same fear Fiona must have felt when he kidnapped her. Damn it, how could she have been so stupid? How could she have believed the word of a killer? She’d been ready to believe him innocent, and look at the cost of her mistake.
After checking to make sure the pistol was indeed loaded, she eased in close so her lips hovered just above his. “Don’t you care that I’m about to blow the top of your head off?”
“You’re making a huge mistake, Vega.” Cool as a criminal. Grayson refused to break. Shooting him felt too quick, too painless—too final. She wanted him to suffer.
Suffer like Fiona must have suffered when he killed her.
“Damn you.” Rage born from the frustrations, the losses she’d endured over the past several weeks exploded in her chest. She tossed down her gun and pulled back her fist, poised to pummel him to death.
He didn’t deserve to live, none of the bastards did.
Chapter Nineteen
So, this is what the edge looked like. Jack had warned her that she’d blind herself and not see it coming. And for a terrifying moment, Vega clung onto her sanity with both hands. Slowly, she clawed her way back to her comfortable, grounded self. Killing Grayson solved nothing. His death could never fill the gaping void losing Fiona’s had created.
“Just tell me what you did with the body,” she said as she uncurled her fist.
“I didn’t touch your sister, Vega. Why would you think I did?” That open look of concern returned to his face, tempting her to rethink her restraint from pummeling him.
“Shut up.” Not able to remain so
near him, she jumped to her feet. “The police saw you take her. Butch saw you.”
“Butch?”
“A friend.” That wasn’t exactly true. Vega didn’t consider Butch much of anything to her anymore.
“I see.” Grayson closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t suppose this friend has an interest or connection to Six-Star?”
Butch had both, Vega remembered. She never did ask him why his name was on that list Greg Harper had copied. The need to find Fiona had been more important than trying to figure out why Finn Kayne or Butch would have been mentioned in those files.
“I turned the data CD I found in Harper’s office over to the FBI,” she said, while her mind kept its hooks in Butch’s involvement with Six-Star.
“The feds?”
Vega stepped around the corner of the shed for a moment to return the Taser guns and Beretta to her backpack. She tucked her father’s Glock back into her holster where it belonged. And still her mind traveled back to wondering about Butch’s involvement.
“Yep, feds are tearing Six-Star apart.” Vega swung the backpack over her shoulder. Her phone refused to pick up a signal. She needed to head back to McClellanville right away even if it meant having to risk navigating the channels in the dark. “Just tell me where Fiona is.”
“I think you should ask your friend Butch. What did Greg find that made someone kill him?” He tugged on the handcuffs, trying hopelessly to push himself up from lying flat on the ground.
Vega walked right past him without a word and followed the trail back to the dock. The belly of her boat sat half buried in the muck. The channel where water rushed through just a little over an hour ago was dry. Puddles here and there made the waterway look like a muddy field after a heavy rainstorm.
She wasn’t going to be able to take Grayson anywhere, at least not until the tide turned.
* * * *
“If you didn’t take Fiona, what do you suppose happened?”
Grayson could see the anger building in her eyes. The force of her concentration in the way she pursed those sexy lips of hers as she figured out how she’d been manipulated. She’d returned from the boat landing and released the shackles from Grayson’s feet and moved him into his grandmother’s bedroom, where she’d shackled one of his wrists to the heavy metal cot frame. Afterwards, she took her time to discover for herself that the island didn’t have electricity or phone service.
The Huntress Page 19
