“Take these.” Isabelle gave him matches for the candles. “Remember we’re leaving at dawn.”
He turned on the flashlight. “You’re waking me up in four hours, right?”
She nodded.
“What if the storm doesn’t pass? It might rain for days.”
“Let’s think positive.”
Luke reached down and hugged his mother. “Be careful, okay?”
She watched him climb the stairs looking like the man he was becoming, brave and confident. He had a sturdy gait, lithe and graceful. No doubt he would be tall and muscular like his father, but kind. In the shadows Isabelle saw the girl wrap her arms around his neck, and Luke reached down to hold her. For once, she was glad for Monica.
* * *
All the candles had been lit so that the downstairs of the house glowed orange, barely visible from the outside. Isabelle carried leftover sandwiches into the kitchen.
The flashlight made a blinding burst on the steel refrigerator, just as the back door handle jiggled loudly.
Isabelle dropped the plate with a crash.
A hand banged on the door.
She swung the flashlight beam to the glass panes. There was only a circle of reflected light so she moved closer, angling the beam.
It lit up a face, pressed against the glass.
Sean.
Isabelle opened the door and pulled her son out of the storm. He shivered from the cold, his blue lips trembling. His hair was plastered like black paint to his head and he seemed bloated with rain. It was a challenge taking off his wet jacket and shirt, which had merged with his body like glue. She checked him for injuries, pausing at his forehead. The black bumps had spread down his temple. It wasn’t something she was ready to face at the moment.
“You have to get into a hot shower,” she told him. “Okay?”
He glared at her.
“Luke told me you spoke today. I’m glad, Sean.” She hugged him, but he was as cuddly as a plastic doll. In the candlelight, his stare was angry and accusing.
Sean pushed past her, and she noticed the cutting shears in his back pocket.
“What’s this?” she asked, lifting them out.
He snatched them back.
“Give them to me.”
“No,” he said firmly.
She backed away in surprise. It should have been a moment of bliss, tears of joy and prayers of thanks, but there was something so cold in his voice, something hateful in his eyes that terrified Isabelle.
“Give them to me, Sean,” she said.
He grabbed his wet jacket off the counter and turned for the door, but Isabelle was quick. She took hold of the jacket and wouldn’t release it, until Sean backhanded her in the face.
With a cry, she held her cheek. Before the room finished spinning, Sean was gone. Half dressed, he ran into the rain. Isabelle didn’t move for a long time. She felt her stomach lurch.
She was thinking, This boy is not my son.
CHAPTER 33
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING STRUCK together in a brilliant burst. Ginny cowered under the brush that barely protected her from the freezing rain. She hadn’t found the pond, or the way home, and now evening had arrived and she was under cover again, quickly sinking into cold mud. First her boots and then her legs, which were folded to her chest, and finally her rear. It had grown dark and indeed the weather was worsening.
She tried to extract her knees but that made her sink deeper, and when she braced her arms using the shovel for leverage, the mud devoured them up to her elbows and she couldn’t free the shovel. Water flowed over her body like a river and she let out a yelp of fright. It felt like the island was sinking into the ocean and she would be buried under the muddy bottom.
Then she was hit with a crash of water, a flowing channel that loosened the earth’s grip on her body. Soon she was swimming in the dark, floating down a torrential river. For the first time in her life, she was terrified. The flashlight shoved down her bra banged painfully against her breastbone. Twigs and branches scraped her hands and tore her knees as she cascaded down an incline along the rocky ground.
The current dumped her into a body of water that was ice cold and thrust her deep into its depths. She screamed out bubbles, panicked at one horrid thought.
I’ve been swept into the sea.
Her foot touched the bottom and she pushed to the surface. She felt herself going under again and grasped a vine floating on the water. She pulled it with all her might, but the water was freezing and her body was turning numb. She could barely kick or keep her grip any longer. Her heart beat painfully against her chest.
I’m having a heart attack. I’m going to die in the dark, lonely sea.
“Damn you, George,” she barely managed to sputter, but she wanted those to be her last words. This was all his fault, after all. She clutched the vine and gradually pulled herself to shore. Rain poured down, but not so hard anymore and her body pressed firmly against the ground. The ocean must have receded, replaced by wet grass and leaves. Her strength was returning, while anger and adrenaline warmed her blood. She pulled herself to higher ground and felt the hard roll of a flashlight under her hip. With a smirk, she reached inside her raincoat, took it in hand, and flipped it on quick, almost daring it not to work.
Light burst upon a chaos of broken branches and dripping leaves, and she realized she had not fallen into the sea, but a small pond of water. Indeed, her mouth tasted dirt, not salt. Ginny paused and a smile crept over her face. She spun the flashlight once more, so the beam fell in front of her. She was barely three meters from a rock inscribed with a cross. It was more than a miracle; she was lying by her own empty grave.
“Bless you, George,” she whispered.
* * *
Without heat, the house became cold enough to see her breath as Isabelle sat upright in the most uncomfortable straight-back chair.
Soon her eyes began to close. She shook herself awake and adjusted the rifle in her lap. Keep moving, she told herself and picked up a candle, carried it to the window, and listened to the rain. She tried not to think about Sean and Ginny out in the storm. At least it seemed to be letting up. She shivered and wondered how long they could all last with no heat or lights, certainly not until Wednesday, and she played with the idea of running out to the shed. If Jules had switched off the generator, it would be easy to turn it back on.
The candles were burning down and morning was still another six hours away. She imagined Jules storming the front door, ambushing the house in total darkness. She turned on the flashlight and swept it over the room. Chairs and tables cast long shadows that seemed to move with life. Would she be able to shoot Jules if he broke into the house? Surely an ax could shatter a window and then she’d be fighting him in the dark.
Ridiculous, she told herself. Luke had shot Jules in the back with an arrow. He was probably floating dead in the ocean. Still, she couldn’t know for sure. Jules might have turned off the lights and was planning an attack. In that case, she was a sitting duck. Was she going to stand there in the dark and wait to die, let him kill her children? No, she had promised herself that she’d never be trapped again. Even if they were still alive by morning, walking to the boat could be a suicide mission, and there were still three more days until Colin arrived.
That’s when Isabelle decided to go out to the shed and turn the lights back on. If Jules happened to be in the shed, so be it. She would have to shoot him. Get it over with. Hell, it’s what Colin would have done, probably days ago. It was the right thing to do.
Without thinking too long about it, Isabelle found herself putting on her father’s yellow slicker and matching hat and boots before she could muster the good sense to change her mind. She grabbed the rifle and a flashlight and headed out.
The front door opened to a steady blast of rain. Isabelle stepped onto the patio and felt an icy wind on her face. She hurried across the patio to the back of the house, and then up a wide trail of gravel. The beam from her flashlight p
icked up rain and little else, as she followed the blurry path to the shed.
The stone building seemed waterlogged. Leaves of ivy on the roof trembled from assaulting raindrops. With the rifle pointed steady, she slid the door open. It glided easily across the wet track.
Isabelle stared at the empty peg board. She checked each corner of the room and stepped inside, smelling damp wood and motor oil. It was quiet except for rain on the roof, and it took some time before she felt confident that she was alone in the shed and slid the door closed, leaving a twelve-inch gap to escape.
She walked forward, sweeping the flashlight from one side and then the other, making sure no one was hiding in the corners. Noticeably absent was the loud clang of the generator as she stopped in front of the door. She put her ear against the wood. It smelled of diesel and there was no sound on the other side. Conjuring up her nerve, she grasped the doorknob and turned until it clicked, then went quickly into the room, flashlight raised and rifle ready.
The generator was a sleeping giant in the back of the room. Isabelle circled the beam of light in every direction and walked to the machine, touched the cold metal surface. The switch had been flipped to off.
She squatted down, turned the switch back on, and pumped the starter until the engine coughed. She pumped it again, but nothing happened. Her knee brushed something sharp, and a swipe of the flashlight revealed three broken wires on the ground. That’s when she noticed the concrete floor was damp with a trail of rust-colored stains. Her hand reached out and touched the splatters. They smeared red on her fingertips. Isabelle’s heart stuck in her throat.
Someone was breathing behind her.
She swung the light back toward the corner of the room, revealing a black formless shape. Then suddenly—a pair of white eyes. Jules leapt forward with a spear over his head, body covered in mud, dark mouth gaping.
Isabelle instinctively ducked to the ground. Jules fell over her body and they struggled as the flashlight and spear rolled in opposite directions. Isabelle felt Jules’s naked chest on top of her. He was covered in mud so completely that only his eyes could be seen. He pinned her shoulders and lay across the length of her body. The smell of his sweat and hot breath was like an animal’s. She didn’t recognize his scratchy voice.
“I knew you would come find me. This is our moment, Isabelle. This is how it ends. You and I together.”
His hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed tight. She tried to scream but nothing came out of her slackened jaw. Sparks burst behind her eyelids and her body felt weak. Then Jules loosened his grip and she could sense the blood pouring back to her brain. He forced his mouth over hers.
Isabelle struggled to get free, charged with adrenaline and desperation. She managed to release one hand and made a deep scratch with her fingernails, four bloody lines that ran from his shoulders to the base of his spine. That’s where she found a stick protruding from his back, just above his hip. It was Luke’s arrow, snapped in half. The upper half dangled, still attached.
She grabbed the hanging piece of aluminum and tugged it sideways.
Jules let out a cry and rolled off Isabelle, as the piece of arrow broke off in her hand.
He snorted like a bull and was on his feet, arching his back.
She scrambled for the rifle, grasping the stock and getting a finger on the trigger. The barrel pointed straight at Jules as he leapt over her body. The gun went off with an ear-splitting blast that propelled her backward and sent a bullet through the wall.
The door rumbled open and she knew Jules was gone.
She leaned back against the generator, knees hugged to her chest, sobbing. With the back of her hand, she wiped the taste of him from her lips.
* * *
Luke lay on his bed with Monica’s body wrapped around him. There were candles around the bed and the fireplace was lit, warming the room with heat and soft lighting.
Monica sat up and reached for a quarter bottle of gin.
“Stop drinking already,” he complained, agitated.
She had nearly finished the bottle and her brain was swimming in alcohol, slurring her speech. “If um goin’ out, um goin’ out sloshed, not scared t’death.”
“You have to stay sharp. In case you need to defend yourself.”
“You can ’fend me. B’sides, he’s dead, you killed him.”
“We don’t know that. It was an arrow, not a bullet.”
“He’s dead. I’m sure.” She yawned, clinging to the gin. “So was it weird, to shoo’ someone?”
Luke remembered the moment. Hearing Monica scream, seeing Jules push her head underwater. He had loaded the bow, his heart pounding like a hammer, and he wanted to hit that target more than anything. He thought of his dad.
“Not really.”
Monica rolled on her back. “Wonder how he knew?”
He rolled with her. “Knew what?”
She looked at him through sleepy lids. “He was right. I never did it.”
“You mean … it?”
“S’not true that I’m scared. I would do it. With the right person. Can’t be jus’ anyone.”
“You’re pretty drunk. Maybe you should go to sleep. In a few hours, we’ll be on a boat to Canada.”
“’Less Beecher kills us first.”
“You just said he was dead.”
“Mm, maybe.” She seemed suddenly panicked by a thought. “Wha’f your mom can’t find Canada and we end up los’ at sea? Or the storm goes for days and we get stuck. Goin’ nuts from the trees—”
“Shhh, you’re getting yourself worked up.”
She took another drink.
This time, Luke grabbed the bottle. “Hey, cut it out. You’ve had enough.”
“I was jus’ thinkin’, we really could die. I’d hate to die without ever … you know.”
Luke blinked, and his cheeks flushed. He drank from the bottle of gin until his throat burned. This time he didn’t cough. He wiped his mouth and put the gin on the nightstand.
She asked, “You haven’t either, right?”
He shook his head, staring at the candle and thinking. “Are you sure?”
She unsnapped his jeans.
CHAPTER 34
RAIN DRIPPED OVER THE HEADSTONE. Ginny ran her fingertips over the rough exterior, touching the cross, and a smile curled at the corners of her lips.
With the flashlight propped on a rock, she wasted no time digging for the diamond. But the ground was runny as silt and each scoop only filled the hole with more mud. As she dug in deep, it occurred to her that the diamond might have washed away years ago. Even worse, maybe it was never buried here at all and she’d been sent on a wild-goose chase.
“Damn you, George, to bloody hell.”
Rain pelted her head but she looked at the cross with renewed confidence. “It’s here, I know it. Right here in this grave.”
After she’d removed about a foot of soil, she plunged her hands deep into the muck, working her fingers like backhoes until she was up to her shoulders in mud. Suddenly, she felt the neck of a bottle. She grasped it and tugged, pulling her arms free. Her pulse kicked up a notch as the bottle finally emerged with a sucking sound. In her muddy grip was a dome-shaped liquor bottle. Ginny wiped it clean and chuckled.
George was daft but elegant, burying a rare diamond in a bottle of expensive cognac. She was ready for another battle with the cork, but it loosened and popped with no effort.
The flashlight revealed a gold chain attached to the cork, and she held it up to view. At the end of the chain was the jewel. The diamond spun in the brightness of the flashlight, casting bits of pink sparkle in her muddy hand. It was bigger than she expected—the size of a large pearl.
Ginny grasped it tight and pressed it to her chest.
“Thank you, George darling.” With a heavy sigh she tried to get to her feet, but they were stuck in mud. She squirmed side to side, not wanting to lose either the diamond or the flashlight, but the pain of arthritis caught up to her.
/> “Oh, blast these old bones.”
Darkness completely enveloped the woods, and the water was still rising. It would be a rough journey back. A loud crack of thunder made Ginny flinch. Lightning illuminated the treetops blowing fierce in the wind.
“Damned weather,” she muttered.
The next burst of light revealed a dark silhouette standing over her. She jolted again, but breathed out relief when she raised the flashlight. He was wearing pants but no shirt, and had stooped shoulders, a round white belly, and black hair that clung like seaweed to his head. He was smiling.
“Sean,” she cried out. “Help me up!”
A hatchet rose over his head.
Ginny shot up a hand and her face contorted into a scream as the blade came down hard. It sliced cleanly into her skull, where it stuck, making the wood handle seem like a protruding horn. Ginny’s head slumped back under its weight, her eyes rolled into her head, mouth opening and closing like a fish; an involuntary movement, as her brain was now cut in half. Blood poured down her face with rain as she hit the muddy ground, fist still clinging tightly around the diamond.
* * *
The storm continued in waves of torrent and languor. Monica awoke naked and shivering, caught somewhere between a drunken stupor and a hangover. The candle by the bed flickered from a draft and the house was bitterly cold. It took a long moment to figure out she was in Luke’s room.
Footsteps in the hallway stopped in front of the door and she panicked, stumbling to her feet. She waited until she heard the shoes walking away. It took several tries to step into her underwear and she found it impossible to put on her sweatsuit, so she rolled it into a ball, pressed to her bare chest.
At the edge of the bed she looked down at Luke, and stared at his face that seemed more boyish in sleep. She vaguely remembered having sex with him. He had confident hands, artfully slow, and so in control of their lovemaking that she thought he must have read a book or something.
“Ness time I won’t be so wasted.” She wanted to kiss his cheek, but bending down upset her balance and her stomach. She picked up a candle on the nightstand. “G’night … I’m glad it was you.”
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