“Okay, honey,” he said. “Of course. Go ahead to the island. Just be careful, all right?”
Demi stared at him, disoriented by his sudden change in tone.
“Uh…uh, great,” she faltered. “Thanks. Talk to you tomorrow, Dad.”
“’Night, honey.”
Honey? Since when had Dad called her ‘honey?’ Twice in the last minute.
She forced a smile and a nod, hoisted up her bags, and headed down the wooden walkway. When she got to the boat slip and turned around, he still hadn’t moved.
He had made a lot of huffy noises about Boyd, and the Porsche. But he’d never come out and said, in so many words, that what Eric said wasn’t true.
Just that it wasn’t probable.
He giving her that raw, hollow-eyed stare again. She’d noticed it periodically for the last few years. Even from here, it creeped her out. It was the look of a guy whose dire predictions had all come horribly true.
Despair, but no surprise.
Benedict watched until he lost sight of the boat. He got into his car and sat there, frozen, until he started feeling self-conscious. People were starting to notice him.
He put his phone to his ear. That looked better.
Demetra had just thrown him the life-saving rope he needed. But it came at a price.
He had tried once before to get out of this trap back when Elaine was alive. But Elaine couldn’t accept the danger they were in. He still remembered her eyes, full of shocked horror, after he confided his escape plan for the two of them.
It was extreme, yes. Risky. But Elaine wouldn’t even consider it. She’d wanted to run to the police, call the newspaper. Blow the whole thing wide open. She had no fucking idea what they were dealing with.
Well, she’d certainly found out.
Elaine had insisted on kidnapping insurance for Demetra when she was a child and Shaw Paper was booming. At the time, he’d thought it was paranoid, but if his father-in-law wanted to fork out the premiums, why not? It was Henry’s money. The old man could afford it. Henry adored Demetra and indulged all of her whims.
Henry would pay any sum to get his granddaughter back. Six million was the cap on the policy. The insurance company would pay up eventually, so it wouldn’t be stealing. At least, not from his father-in-law, who would be fully reimbursed. In good time, once Demetra was home again safe and sound. No lasting harm would be done.
Six million was a fresh start for him. Far away from this shit-pile of a town. It was also his only hope of survival, at this point.
It should never have come to this. Eric Trask would have left on his own if Demetra hadn’t lured him to stay seven years ago. Benedict had been instructed to make Shaw’s Crossing a living hell for the Trask boys, and he’d done his job. The other two young men had hightailed it out of there right on schedule, as soon as they graduated. But not Eric. He’d come back, after his stint in the Marines, and attached himself to Demetra.
It was a catastrophe but Benedict handled it. At least, he thought he had.
He was still reeling from Felix’s last call. Eric Trask is accident prone. Everyone knows that, thanks to you. Be real sad if a beautiful young woman got caught in the accident along with him.
He was doing this for Demetra, too. To keep her safe. Desperate times, desperate measures.
He dialed the number, wondering if it was still valid. The line clicked open. Benedict heard just the faint, wet rasp of breathing.
“Ah, hello?” he said. “I need to speak to Sayer—”
“Who the fuck are you?” A nasal, reedy voice. Not Sayer’s.
“I’m Ben. I contacted you about three years ago, and I—”
“I remember you. The asshole who chickened out at the last minute, right?”
“I didn’t chicken out. I had a problem with my wife, and she—”
“Stay on the line. I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.”
Click, and he was listening to country music on hold.
Six minutes ground by. He was about to start up the car the when the voice came back on the line. “Call this.” He rattled off a number.
“One second. Let me just grab a pen and you can repeat—”
“Don’t write it down, asshole!”
“Okay, okay,” Benedict soothed. He entered the number wrong four times before it finally rang through.
The line clicked open. “So it’s you again.” The rough, scraping voice he remembered. “Changed your mind? Again?”
“Ah, yes. I was hoping to put our old deal back on its feet.”
“You fucked me over. And now you want the same deal? Hah. That’s funny.”
“I’m sorry. It was unavoidable. This time it’ll go through. I’m completely committed, and there’s no one trying to stop me. But it has to happen tonight. Out on the lake, at Spruce Tip Island. Tonight’s your perfect opportunity.”
“Tonight? Hah. You pricks think I just pull this stuff out of my ass?”
“Ah, no. I never thought—”
“Four times the old fee. For the rush, and my inconvenience. In advance.”
Benedict did some calculating. “Twice the fee,” he countered. “Third up front, the last two thirds when I pick her up.”
“You have the cash?”
“Same cash, shrink-wrapped in plastic. I never even touched it. But I’ll need time to find the rest of the money.”
“Not if it’s tonight.” Sayer clicked his tongue. “Three times the fee. Last offer.”
“Done,” Benedict said. “She’ll be at the cabin on Spruce Tip Island, at the end of the lake. No surveillance cameras, no cars. There’s nothing out there.”
Sayer grunted. “Right. Now I gotta find a fucking boat?”
“One more thing. There may or may not be a man with her tonight. Eric Trask.”
Sayer whistled. “That same punk you had me run off the road? You must hate that motherfucker so bad.”
Benedict gritted his teeth. “I’m not sure if he’ll be there. But if he is, I want you to, ah…take care of him.”
Sayer paused for a moment. “Ben,” he said. “A hit job is not a little extra. You know that. It’s a whole different thing. A whole different fee schedule.”
“So don’t kill him, then,” Benedict said desperately. “Just, ah…rough him up. Incapacitate him. Leave him tied up. Wear masks. Just be sure to, ah, tie him up really well. Duct tape, rope. Something like that.”
Sayer grunted thoughtfully “He gonna give us trouble?”
“I doubt he’ll be armed. He has no reason to be. None he’s aware of.”
“Military training?”
“He was in the Marines for a while, I believe.”
“Fuck. Six times the original fee. Half up front tonight.”
“I don’t have the—”
“I need more men and I have to pay ‘em. We on?”
“We’re on,” Benedict said numbly. “And, ah, be careful not to hurt her, right? I mean, try not to terrify her too much. It’s not necessary to be violent, or—”
“Losing your nerve? You want me to tuck her into bed and sing her a lullaby?”
Sayer’s lascivious tone made Benedict’s skin creep. “I just want to be sure you understand that she’s not—”
“Shut up. I’m a fucking professional. Bring the money to the drop point, and stop jerking yourself off. Look for my text.” The line went dead.
Benedict sank back against the car seat, shaking. If Eric Trask did go to Spruce Tip tonight…if the kidnappers succeeded in beating and binding him…then maybe, just maybe, he could finish this himself.
He would personally make sure that Eric Trask never found out any more about what was going on in Shaw’s Crossing. Once and for all.
Felix and his employer would have no more reason to punish him. No reason to pursue him when he disappeared. He just had to man up. Take matters into his own hands.
Along with a knife, or a rock, or…something.
He was furious at Demetra f
or putting him in this awful position. Forcing him into doing this in the hardest, ugliest way possible. Maximum pain, fear and violence.
But she’d brought it on herself. Just like she always did.
11
It was her own damn fault, getting all wound up thinking that Eric would show up and make all her fantasies come true. At least the strictly sexual ones.
But evidently, it wasn’t happening.
Demi had run the gamut of the feels. Giggly teenage flutters while she showered and depilated and lotioned and plucked and perfumed herself, made up her face and blew out her hair and picked out the sexy little nothings to wear under her clothes.
Then the trip out over the lake in the glow of sunset. She felt so connected, so alive. Her whole body buzzed with endless possibility. She fussed over the food she brought. Lit a fire to take the damp and chill out of the cabin. Put fresh, crisp lavender scented sheets on the bed.
After making such a big fucking deal about making him work for his treats.
Aw, whatever. She was human, and this was Eric Trask. She forgave herself.
At least until the next phase began. The one that involved watching the clock.
That phase morphed, with agonizing slowness, into staring out at the moon on the undisturbed water as her heart and stomach sank lower and lower. Watching the minute hand crawl around the clock face. Then the hour hand. Again and again and again.
No boat appeared.
Then the gamut of other feels began. Anger at him for making a fool of her again. Fury at herself for falling for it. For wanting him at all. Compromising herself. She knew what he was, but she just hadn’t cared. Not if he fulfilled her stupid fantasies.
She deserved to get dinged for being such an idiot. God, she’d almost started believing him about Boyd driving Dad’s Porsche, after Dad sounded so weird about it.
She wanted so badly for Eric to be telling the truth. Even though that opened a lot of other very dark possibilities that she wasn’t quite ready to consider yet.
But the truth was the truth. It didn’t give a shit what she wanted.
And the real truth she had to face was just this. That clock, tick- ticking loudly in the enormous silence.
Then came the final phase. Swallowing that bitter pill...again. Every rejection and failure and shortfall, every time she’d felt stupid and not good enough, all rolled up into a big, fat wad and shoved down her throat.
She, of all people, should have known better than to do this to herself.
To hell with him. Life went on. She’d meditate on the moon tonight. When the moon set, she’d move on to the stars. She’d contemplate the dawn when that came around.
The lake was beautiful. Alone or accompanied, beauty was always a comfort.
And tomorrow, she’d go right back to work. Unchosen. Untransformed. Unfucked.
She’d told him right up front to take it or leave it. He’d left it, just like he had before. Now she was all surprised and hurt about that?
Grow up. Get some dignity. Boo-hoo, poor her. There were worse things, but she didn’t want to dwell on them. She wished she’d gotten that man’s fucking phone number after all, just so she could have the satisfaction of blocking it. Boom. Take that, dickhead.
Demi went out to sit on the sheltered back patio rather than the deck that fronted the lake. The wooden deck furniture was cold and damp, and the moonlight seemed chilly and ghostly once all the brilliant sexual excitement was drained out of it.
The moon set. The stars came out. Cold sank into her bones until her teeth rattled in her head. Screw this shit. Time to go inside. Have her sulk-fest by a crackling fire with hot chocolate. She’d take comfort where she found it. Brownies always helped.
She was in the kitchen, about to sip her cocoa when the knock sounded on the door. Excitement zapped her so hard she jumped, sloshing hot liquid onto her hand.
The knocking continued. “Demi? Hey! You in there?”
She looked up at the clock, which she’d stopped allowing herself to do somewhere around a twelve-twenty AM. It was now one-fifteen. She wiped her stinging hand on her jeans and stood there, frozen in doubt.
Holy shit. He was actually here.
But please. Hours late? It was humiliating. Really, it had taken him that long to decide if a night of wild, unbridled sex with her was worth the effort?
Fuck’s sake. Enough already.
“Go home, Eric,” she called. “It’s late for me. I need to work tomorrow. Bye.”
“Demi, open the door. I’m sorry I’m late. But I—”
“Sorry? Six hours? Really, you were that ambivalent about my invitation? It occurs to me that I never actually asked you if you were involved, or engaged, or even married, for that matter. Sloppy of me.”
“I’m not married or involved with anyone. Open the door so I can explain.”
“No. Follow your original impulse, which was not to come at all. Get lost.”
Dead silence followed that. She couldn’t even breathe.
Crash. The door burst open and Eric Trask stepped into the entryway. He saw her in the kitchen. He stood there, swaying on his feet, covered in mud.
The look in his eyes scared her.
“Eric?” she said. “What the hell? Did something happen? Are you hurt?”
“Not me.” His voice was a rasp of exhaustion. “I went up the mountain toward GodsAcre tonight, looking for Terry Cattrall. He went up to appraise the property. Didn’t show up for a date with his wife. She asked me to go check on him. His Jeep went off the cliff. So I hiked down into the canyon to see if he was alive.”
“And…?”
He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He shook his head.
“Oh, Eric.” She set her cup down on the table.
“Deborah was about to drive up there herself to look for him, but I thought that was a shitty idea,” he said hoarsely. “So I told her I’d go.”
Demi knew what that must have cost him. Just the thought of that place made him grit his teeth. She nodded, waiting for more.
“I knew he was gone as soon as I looked down. The Jeep was crushed. But I went down to check anyhow.” He shook his head. “Then I went see Deborah. To tell her.”
Her eyes fogged up at the desolation on his face. “Oh, Eric. Oh, no.”
“Chief Bristol would have done it eventually, but she would’ve been waiting up all night, fearing the worst. Not knowing. And I couldn’t tell her on the phone. That seemed wrong, too.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth, which had begun to shake.
“I didn’t know what to say. In the end, I didn’t have to say anything. She saw it on my face. But I couldn’t just leave her there all alone. I waited until her mom and sister drove over from Granger Valley. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Demi. Don’t cry. Please don’t.”
“I can’t help it,” she said, sniffing back tears. “It’s not up to me. Or you.”
“Bitch me out, like before,” Eric pleaded. “Scold me. Be a scary man-eating femme fatale. That I can deal with. But not tears. Not tonight.”
The grief in his eyes cut her to the bone. Eric flinched away from her gaze as if he couldn’t bear to be seen.
The silence was awful. This whole thing had gone completely sideways. Her plan only worked if everything stayed super-light. It had just gotten terribly, shockingly real.
A night of fun, hot, playful sex was one thing. Actual intimacy…God, no.
“I would’ve called if I could,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“Never mind that. Sit down, before you fall down.” She jerked a chair out from the table. “Here. Sit. Right now. You look kind of gray.”
He lowered himself into the chair. Demi pushed the cup of steaming hot chocolate across the table in his direction. “Drink that,” she directed, seizing a bottle from the counter.
“I really don’t need to—” He stopped, as she sloshed a generous shot of bourbon into the cup. “Oh. Well, then. If you put it that
way.” He took a deep swallow. “Thanks.”
He looked so miserable. Oh, to hell with it. She gave into the impulse and sat down on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He jerked back in the chair. Cocoa slopped all over the table. “Don’t.”
She got back to her feet and stepped back, hurt and confused. “What? Don’t touch you? Then what the hell are you doing out here?”
“I don’t fucking know,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come at all. I’m afraid it’s starting again. I don’t want you caught up in it.”
“What’s starting? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The Curse.” His voice sounded hollow. “I can feel it closing in on me. It’ll hurt anything I touch. I don’t want it to hurt you.”
His words provoked a deep chill of fear inside her, which pissed her off. “You mean the Prophet’s Curse?” she demanded. “You can’t be serious.”
Eric rubbed his face, not meeting her eyes. “I tell Terry to go up to GodsAcre, and immediately, he dies. Otis sends us a voicemail late at night telling us he has to talk to us about GodsAcre and the next day, he dies. Bob Nagy fields an offer for GodsAcre three years ago, which Otis refused. He immediately has an unexpected heart attack. I don’t know, Demi. The way things are going, you might be smarter to stay away from me.”
“Well, that goes without saying,” she said wryly. “But not because of some stupid fucking curse. Give me a break, Eric. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I never said it was rational,” he said wearily. “It wasn’t rational thirteen years ago either, but people still died. A lot of people, Demi. I just don’t want to hurt you.”
Demi let out a short laugh. “Too late, Eric. That ship has sailed.”
They stared at each other in the heavy stillness.
“At least you’re still alive,” he said. “I have that to be grateful for.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she said. “This isn’t about you. The bad, random shit that happens to people? It doesn’t all originate with you, Eric. The universe doesn’t revolve around you. You…aren’t…that…powerful. Get it through your thick head.”
Headlong Page 11
