by Darci Hannah
Jack had told me not to be a hero.
I wasn’t in the habit of listening to Jack, so why start now?
The Irishman had a hot accent, but his gun looked dangerous. Would he really shoot me?
I was pretty sure he would. That was the whole point in pointing a gun at someone’s face.
Screw it! You only lived once. I made up my mind. I looked at the sinfully ugly beast with the gun and changed my mind again. Dammit!
“Jack!” I cried, and gave Finn a swift kick to the gibs.
The ghillie suit was thick. The kick didn’t have quite the effect I was counting on. Finn was still standing. He redoubled his hold on the gun.
I dropped my flashlight and ran.
Forty-Four
Somewhere in the distance, MacDuff barked. The dog had heard me, and I clung to that thought as I made a mad dash for the tents, half expecting to be shot in the back as I ran. But Finn didn’t shoot. Instead, he let me go a dozen paces before hitting my legs from under me with the barrel of his gun. The impact was unexpected and painful. I stumbled forward, scrambling to find my footing. Jack’s name was on my lips and I wanted to cry out, but the gun came again, this time hard on my back, knocking the air from my lungs. I flew forward and landed face down in the dirt, just like poor Hannah.
He was on me like a hunter on a fresh kill, pinning me with his knees while his hands grappled to secure my arms behind my back. I fought to catch my breath. Finn was quick, skilled, and painfully efficient. He was doing his best to prevent me from warning Jack and Tate. I rolled violently, trying to throw him off, but all I managed to get was a mouthful of dirt and a better view of the dark, lifeless form of Hannah on the ground. It scared me. I felt ill thinking of the hard blow she’d taken to the head and prayed she’d be okay.
My wrists were zip-tied behind me. A dirty rag had been shoved in my mouth. I was yanked to my feet and slung like a sack of potatoes over Finn’s shoulder. Then he ran, back down the trail to the reed-infested shore. Every breath I managed to take was hard-won because my face kept slamming against the moss on his back while my stomach was pummeled by his broad shoulder. Finn was in a hurry because MacDuff was barking, and that barking was growing louder. I thought I’d even heard Jack’s voice as well, or maybe it was Tate. Maybe they would get to me before the psycho did me in, just like he’d done to Hannah.
My hopes were dashed the moment Finn splashed through the reeds and dumped me into the boat. His rifle landed beside me, but with my hands zip-tied behind my back, it was useless. As Finn unmoored the little craft and pushed it free of the weeds, I struggled to a sitting position. I focused on the shore and thought I saw the reeds shimmy, as if displaced by a bounding dog. Jack would be close behind. Hope surged through me. I stood, took a step to the side, and was about to tumble overboard into the muck when Finn grabbed me and threw me back into the bottom of the boat. I hit hard. He removed the hood of his ghillie suit, allowing me to see the malicious grin on his handsome, night-dark face. Finn Connelly was a man keenly aware of his good looks and the impact it had on women and men alike. He was still smiling when he took his seat in the stern and cranked up the motor.
“Whitney!” Jack’s frantic cry rang out from the shore, along with the faint sound of splashing water.
I raked my mouth along the edge of the bench and managed to pull the rag free. “Jack!” I croaked. But it was too late. We were deep in the reeds, Finn navigating the narrow waterway by the light of the moon and stars. All Jack had was a canoe, and a canoe was no match for an outboard motor.
“I have a question,” I said, glaring at the man before me. Finn’s eyes flashed at me as he guided the boat. He made no move to shove the rag back into my mouth, probably because it didn’t matter now. He also knew I wasn’t about to try again to jump into the unholy tangle of aquatic plants that surrounded us—because it was gross, and because I’d drown before anyone found me. I stared at him a moment longer, able for the first time to really get a good look at the guy. Although he was dark and edgy, I thought him more beautiful than handsome. There was a fragile sort of air about him—as if his looks had been more of a burden than a blessing. I actually sighed then, thinking it a pity that the guy had to be such an insufferable dirtbag. After all, Finn Connelly was rumored to be pure white-hot dynamite in the sack. I sighed once more. “So, if you can sell your filthy drugs anywhere, why set up business here in Cherry Cove, on my dad’s cherry orchard? It’s a pretty odd place. Probably not the best location for what you do.”
He leaned toward me, looking slightly amused. “Ye’ll be thinking this is about drugs?”
“Isn’t it?”
White teeth flashed in the darkness. “Drugs, alcohol, sex … certainly I give these freely to my young friends.”
“You mean to tell me you’re just giving your product away?” I was intrigued, and yes, slightly aroused—and not about the drugs or alcohol. “Far be it from me to criticize a murderous Irish drug dealer-slash-gigolo in a ghillie suit, but that’s not very good business sense.”
“O dearie, dearie,” he admonished with a teasing shake of the head. “But drugs are not my business.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? Then what is your business?”
His eyes narrowed. I wasn’t sure he was going to tell me. Why would he? He owed me nothing, and clearly he had the upper hand in our current situation. Then, however, he relented. “I’m after cultivating friends,” he said in his soft Irish accent. “I’m after building a special bond between us, a bond my friends are mindful not to break. And in return for my gifts, they’ll be doing me favors.”
My jaw dropped. It was utterly diabolical. The man had created a cadre of killer, drug-crazed teens. I glared at him. “You used your friends to murder a harmless old man and poison a boy?”
The dark brows furrowed as the lips pulled into a contradictory grin. “O dearie, I never ask my friends to kill, only to keep secrets.”
“And when one of your friends is about to talk, like Cody Rivers was, you … you try to kill them?”
“I’m afraid that’s the deal, dear lass. An’ what a pity ’tis. I hear he survived. He won’t for long. To be fair, he didn’t seek out Officer Ginger Nuts back there, but he did attempt to meet you, thinking no one would be the wiser. Foolish, foolish boy.”
A cold shiver traveled down my spine at the callous way he talked about attacking Cody, and suddenly the beauty of the lethally handsome Irishman faded and I saw him for the soulless devil he really was. “And what about Erik Larson?” I asked. “He didn’t talk. Did you attack him too?”
He raised a brow. “I did not. Unlike your wee man Cody, Erik understands the rules. He’s just, shall we say, laying low for a while.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, but at least he’d indicated the boy was still alive. I wanted to strangle Finn, but the zip tie binding my wrists wouldn’t budge. My plan was to keep him talking until I could cut through it with the sharp metal edge of my seat. Unaware of what I was attempting to do, the Irishman kept navigating the boat. “And Jeb Carlson?” I asked him. “Don’t tell me Jeb was one of your friends as well, because I won’t believe you.”
“Nay, he was no friend, and more’s the pity. Because old Jeb, he was like me.” Finn’s dark gaze held mine. “Always snooping around in the woods, he was. Always watching. Well, dearie, I was watching too. Only he couldn’t see me. Not with me dressed in my ghillie suit. But old Jeb, he knew I was there. He could feel me—sense me as I moved though the orchard. The old man had a habit of standing motionless. He was nearly as good at camouflage as myself. Sometimes I had to lie in wait, barely breathing, not moving a muscle, until he got tired of listening. Old Jeb Carlson suspected many things, including the drugs, and the alcohol I was after in the lighthouse, but he never hit upon the real reason I’m here.”
“So you killed him?”
“I bludgeone
d him with your father’s own mallet and dumped him in the orchard. ’Twas easy, really.”
“You’re mad!” I seethed. “And what about the creepy twig-faces. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, that was me. That was my wee game with you. I’m glad ye came, Whitney Bloom. And here I was thinkin’ you’d never come. All the little tricks I played at the inn, none of that was enough. But Jeb’s death, that got your notice.”
“My God. You did all this so that I would come home?” I was, to say the least, aghast. “Do I even know you?”
Finn’s only answer to this was an infuriating, sardonic, heart-stopping grin.
I needed to think fast. The guy was a cold-hearted murderer, and he was insinuating that I had been the target all along. Why? What had I done to him? I had no idea, but I was pretty darn certain I’d never laid eyes on him before this weekend. He wasn’t about to tell me any more, so I tried another tactic.
“Well, we know who you are now, and what you’ve done. There’s no escaping, Finn. Your only recourse is to tell me what it is you want from me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
He waited until I finished talking and then laughed. The sound was magical, and for a moment I fell back under his spell … until he opened his mouth to speak. “O dearie me but that’s a grand one. Somebody told me they thought ye were smart. I heard ye baked pies, and now you’re pokin’ your wee nose into murder. But ye have failed to detect the simplest thread of this one. You may be fine at baking pies, but you’re utter shite at solving mysteries. You disappoint me.”
“Umm, hello?” I said, grabbing his attention and staring boldly back at his mocking gaze. “I’m sitting in a boat with the killer. How is this not solving the mystery?” I wanted to slap the insolent grin off his face. Finn quirked a brow, then shifted his focus to the bow of the boat. I turned and saw that the reeds were thinning. We would be in open water soon, where the police boat was waiting off shore in the darkness, along with Dad. I needed to keep Finn occupied until we came close enough for them to blind him with their lights. Shite at solving mysteries? I was about to open a can of whoop-ass on this dirtbag!
Finn was still grinning when he said, “Does it bother ye at all that you’re missing two key pieces to this puzzle?” As he spoke he began ramping up the boat’s speed. I frowned, wondering what he could possibly mean by that.
“Ah, you’re thinking now. But you’ll be strainin’ your wee pretty head over this one for longer than we have, so I’ll give ye a clue. The first is this. You’ll be after finding my motive, I suspect, but ye never will have it. So, let’s skip along to our second and final key to this puzzle. I told ye that I’m after causing trouble here, and I have. But now I’m after throwin’ this place and your poor parents over the edge. Can ye guess how I might be doing that?”
“Seriously? You’re a flippin’ psycho. I have no idea what’s going on in your demented little hea … ” I stopped talking. All the blood left my heart in one gigantic thud. “Oh God,” I uttered, knowing that the surest way to devastate any parent was to take away their child, no matter how old or unworthy that child might be. The Irish psycho was going to kill me.
“Ah,” he breathed, staring into my soul with his night-black eyes, “so ye have figured it out at last. Maybe you’re not utter shite at solving mysteries after all.” I didn’t even notice the rope in his hand until he tried to tie it around my legs. With the same practiced skill he’d used to bring me down, he bound my legs together. He then picked up the other end, revealing the anchor.
We were in the bay. The police boat was primed and ready. I looked Finn Connelly in the eye, stood up, and then I screamed.
Searchlights from the police boat exploded in the darkness and began scanning the area. They were farther away than I’d imagined, and it took a moment or two before they focused on us. I kept screaming. Another motor kicked on and I saw the flashing police lights. The boat was coming for us. I looked at Finn. The expression on his face sickened me. He was grinning again, and I realized that he’d known all along that the police boat would be there. He’d wanted them to see me. He’d wanted them to see the anchor held aloft in his hand. They would know the other end was tied around my legs. They would see me go in, and then they would have to make a terrible decision: save me or go after my murderer. If they tried to save me, they likely wouldn’t get to me before I drowned. If they went after Finn, they had a chance.
It happened quickly. Finn pulled me to him with his other arm and placed a searing kiss on my lips, stifling my screams. It was heady and stomach-turning at once—a sickly sweet welcome to the watery death that awaited me. His lips had barely pulled away from mine when I heard the splash of the anchor. “Goodbye, Whitney Bloom,” he whispered in my ear, the subtle Irish accent making my last farewell sound oddly nostalgic. Then he picked me up and tossed me over the side.
The moment I hit the water, I was engulfed in paralyzing cold. Then the rope around my ankles tightened and I was dragged helplessly down into the cold murky depths of Cherry Cove Bay, the memory of Finn’s parting kiss clinging to me like a parasite. It sickened me that his would be the last lips to ever touch mine.
And worse than his kiss? As I sunk to my cold, quiet death I could hear the sound of my killer racing away.
Forty-Five
I was used to water. I’d spent all my life around it. I’d been a lifeguard in high school, and a sailor for longer than that. It was my second favorite element next to air, and yet I had never contemplated drowning until now.
Drowning was a cold, dark, lonely business. The mere thought infuriated me, causing me to fight against the weight of the anchor as it pulled me toward the bottom. But it was a useless fight. My arms and legs were bound, and although I’d tried to cut the zip tie around my wrists, I hadn’t made it all the way through before Finn threw me overboard. As I sunk helplessly, I thought about my friends—about Jack and Tate, and Tay and Giff, and poor dear Hannah—but mostly my parents. How would they feel knowing I’d never be able to hug them again?
It would rip them in two. It would destroy them. And that was exactly what that freakin’ crazy Irishman had wanted. Well, not on my watch, mister. Not if I could help it!
I waited until the anchor hit bottom. It was a deep bay, and my lungs burned. But I needed to act. There was no time to wait until someone found me. I doubted I’d even last that long. The thought was terrifying. I tried to relax and focus. I needed to focus. If I was ever to get that Irish dirtbag, I needed to get free. I exhaled slowly, relieving some of the pressure building up in my lungs. Then, using the best dolphin kick I could muster, I worked my way to the bottom, running my bound hands along the rope until I reached the anchor. I hooked my wrists around one of the sharp flukes and began to finish what I’d started: cutting the zip tie.
As I frantically fought against my bindings, I cursed the fact that my lung capacity wasn’t what it used to be. I should have hit the lap pool daily. I should have run more and drunk less. Oh, who was I kidding? None of that mattered now.
I worked on the zip tie until the pain in my lungs was unbearable. My diaphragm was stricken with spasms. I was going to pass out, but I fought it. If I passed out it would be game over, and the Irish creepo would win. And I was not about to let that happen. I had an orchard and an inn to think about, not to mention my burning desire to avenging my friend Hannah. With that thought pumping through me like pure adrenaline, I pulled against the anchor fluke with all the strength I had left. My wrists burned with pain, but suddenly my hands came free. I quickly untied my legs, releasing another small string of bubbles as I did so. I could see them rise to the surface because this time there was light—just a small shaft reaching down through the murky blackness. Light! Someone was there. Someone had come to find me. It was a comforting thought. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. With my last ounce of remaining strength, I kicked toward the light and the surface.
&n
bsp; A strong hand grabbed mine, pulling me upward. The moment the cold air hit my face, I gasped and hungrily began filling my burning lungs.
The light on the surface was blinding. It came from the police boat, and right next to me was the canoe with Jack and MacDuff peering over the side.
“Whitney! Whitney, are you all right?”
I looked beside me and saw Tate. I realized he still had a strong grip on me and was treading water for the both of us. I’d never been more grateful to see him. Tate was the strongest swimmer I knew. Still gulping air, I nodded. “Finn,” I uttered. “My God, don’t let that dirtbag get away!
∞
I was sitting beside Hannah in the police boat, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of hot coffee in my hands and a warm dog at my feet, wondering why they’d let Finn get away.
“Why?” Jack cried, anger and frustration blazing across his face. “Because we saw that bastard throw an anchor into the water with you following after it! My God, it was the most gut-wrenching thing I’ve ever witnessed. I’m sorry, Whitney, but it was either you or Finn, and I’m not going to have another murder on my hands.”
“Besides,” Tate added, wrapped in a blanket of his own, “we like you a whole lot better.”
“True,” Jack concurred, then frowned. “But I explicitly told you to stay in the canoe!”
“I tried. But I thought you needed backup.”
“Backup?” he seethed. “Stamper and Jensen are backup. You and Hannah were supposed to stay in the boat, and don’t blame this one on Hannah.”
“What?” Hannah, holding an ice pack to her head, sat up and looked at Jack. She squinted, grimaced, and slumped back against my shoulder.
“We need to get this one to a doctor,” I whispered. “Finn gave her a good whack on the head.”
“The truth is, Whitney, we’d never have found you if it wasn’t for MacDuff.” Although Jack still looked frustrated, the anger had left his voice as he spoke. “We were in the camp. We’d just found Erik. The kid was in one of the tents, lying on a cot and stoned out of his mind. Then MacDuff started barking. I came out of the tent in time to see him take off through the woods, heading for the canoe. He wouldn’t have done that if something wasn’t up, so we ran after him. Halfway down the trail we find Hannah, stumbling around like a drunken sailor and mumbling something about a Sasquatch abduction. Then an outboard motor fired up and we heard you scream. Tate picked up Hannah and we ran to the canoe, paddling after you like we’ve never paddled before. We broke through the reeds in time to see you being tossed into the lake by a shaggy manlike creature. Thank God Stamper and Jensen had the spotlight trained on you, marking the exact spot you went in.”
