Shattered

by Donna Ball

  She leaned forward and tapped Ken on the shoulder. As she did, the wind caught the hood of his windbreaker, tossing it away from his neck, and she noticed for the first time the jagged abrasions on the back of his neck.

  He turned to her and she shouted, “We're going the wrong way!”

  He eased back on the throttle to make conversation easier. “Just a little detour,” he shouted back. “You said you needed to get away. I thought you might enjoy a tour of the lighthouse.”

  Carol pointed to the sky, and the deep indigo clouds from which the sun had only momentarily escaped. The water beneath the boat was a fascinating gradation from deep purple to gold-touched aqua, but the chop was growing stronger.

  “We're going to get caught in the rain,” she called back. “Besides, there's no place to dock there. You can't bring a boat in.”

  He just smiled. “There've been a few improvements since you were there last.”

  “You've been there before?”

  “Once or twice. You see, I own it, actually.”

  Carol was merely confused.

  “You—own it?”

  “Oh, yes. I'm the second owner, in fact. It went on the auction block shortly after the lighthouse was condemned, and a development company bought it with the thought of building a resort much like the one I described to you. It was completely unfeasible, of course, and my company bought it after they went bankrupt. I can't believe you didn't know all this.”

  “I might have. Seems I heard something about the first sale.”

  “It was never brokered,” he said, by way of an explanation. “That’s probably why you didn't know about it.”

  She raised her voice to be heard above the pitch of the motor, still struggling with her confusion. “Will Lighthouse Island be part of your development, too?”

  He turned his attention to the wheel for a moment, turning the boat against the wake and toward the leeward side of the little island. Then he answered, “No, it's an utterly impractical investment. The state refused to grant permission for a causeway to be built and there's no ground water. The cost of development would be astronomical and it would never pay for itself. But it's perfect for my purposes.”

  “Which are?”

  He looked back at her and answered simply, “Privacy.”

  That was the first time she suspected something might be wrong.

  ***

  The sheriff and three deputies were waiting when Laura and Guy parked their cars in the street before the sand-colored Mediterranean-style house known as Sea Dunes. Fred Lindy, the district attorney, was with them. Guy nodded at him curiously, and Lindy groaned.

  “Jesus, Dennison, there's no story here. Go home.”

  Laura regarded the entire group nervously, but proceeded up the steps with authority. The group followed, with Sheriff Case in the lead.

  “You are making a huge mistake,” Laura said as she unlocked the door. “Do you have any idea who this guy is? He could bankrupt the whole county if he decides to sue you for false—whatever.”

  “Then we'll just have to be real careful not to piss him off.”

  She stepped back from the door and the law officers entered, with Lindy staying close to the sheriff. Case called over his shoulder to the deputies who followed him in, “Ledbetter, Harly, take the downstairs. Humphries, you're with me. Keep it neat, boys, you're not at home.”

  Guy caught Laura's arm as she started to go in. “What is Carol doing with this man?” he demanded quietly.

  “Jesus, Guy, he's a client.” She twisted her arm away irritably. “Now let me go before these goons break something I have to pay for.”

  Guy caught up with Case and Lindy at the bottom of the stairs. Lindy said, “You don't belong in here, Dennison.”

  “I'm part owner.”

  Case grunted, “Yeah, in what divorce court?”

  Guy said, “Carol is with him right now.”

  The two men's eyes met for a moment, and nothing else was said.

  Laura followed them up the stairs anxiously. “Sheriff, this is making me really nervous. I know you've got a warrant but—”

  The sheriff said, “This Carlton fellow. Is he about five-ten, auburn hair, gray eyes, thirty-five or so?”

  Laura's footsteps slowed as they reached the landing. “Well, yes ... I've only seen him once but... yes.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “What? Um, three. This is the master.” She gestured toward the first open door.

  The sheriff nodded to Humphries. “You take the one next door.”

  Lindy went with Humphries, and Guy and Laura followed the sheriff into the bedroom, which was unnaturally neat for a bachelor. “How come a single man would want three bedrooms?” asked Case, sweeping the room with a cataloging glance.

  “Three bedroom units are the smallest houses we have. This is a luxury market, Sheriff. If you would just tell me what you're looking for—”

  “It might be best if you waited outside, Ms. Capstone.”

  Laura, it was obvious, had no intention of doing anything of the sort, and she stood by impatiently while he slid open drawers and removed neat stacks of shirts and underwear, then took the drawers off their runners one by one, turning them upside down, his expression tightening as the procedure repeatedly yielded nothing.

  “Drugs?” Laura said. Her voice held a mixture of incredulity and indignation. “Is that what this is about? Drugs?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Case muttered, scowling. “My own damn fault for listening to that lying piece of scum...”

  Guy said, “You talked to Patsy Long, didn't you?”

  The sheriff didn't respond.

  Guy's heart started to pound. He repeated, “You talked to her and you found something else to back up Long's theory.”

  The sheriff slammed closed a closet door.

  Guy looked at Laura. “You said you couldn't have told the difference between brown hair and red hair in the dark.”

  Laura's face reflected an utter lack of comprehension.

  “Sheriff.” They all turned to see Humphries standing in he doorway. “They were hanging in the closet in the other room,” the deputy said, “a dozen of them or so. Like—trophies.”

  He held out his hand and all eyes focused on what he held. From his outspread fingers dangled a leather thong with a silver-colored figurine on the end.

  ***

  Carol said, “You never mentioned to me that you come here every year.”

  He had dark glasses on, even though the sun had been swallowed by darkening clouds and showed no sign of returning any time soon. He looked at her, and she saw nothing but her own dim reflection in the black lenses. “Who said I did?”

  “Walt Marshall, back at the marina. He said you dock your yacht there every spring.”

  Ken turned his attention to the wheel. “He must be mistaken.”

  Carol knew that Walt never made a mistake about a boat or a paying customer, but there was no way to point that out without sounding argumentative. Why would Ken lie?

  A gust of wind kicked spray over the deck and tore wildly at Carol's hair. She fumbled with the scarf she wore about her neck, bringing it up and over her hair, and that was when she noticed the scrapes on Ken's neck again.

  “What happened to your neck?” she inquired, but the wind and the engine noise must have drowned her out because he didn't respond.

  She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “How did you hurt your neck?” she repeated, louder.

  He turned and looked at her, his expression as opaque as the concealing lenses of his glasses. Then the sun reappeared, briefly, from behind the clouds, and he smiled.

  “Looks like we're going to miss the rain after all,” he said.

  ***

  “Damn it, I can't remember her number.” Guy stared at the telephone receiver in his hand in helpless frustration, his lips white and compressed tightly together.

  “Here, give it to me.” Laura snatched it from him and
began to punch out numbers. “We won't alarm her, just tell her to come home, that there's been an emergency.”

  “She'll be alarmed,” Guy said. “But it's better than—”

  He didn't finish.

  Laura's knuckles were white on the receiver as she held it to her ear. “We don't know anything. This doesn't prove anything. It could be a coincidence. I'll just tell her to come home. It's ringing.”

  Guy waited impatiently. They were using the phone in the hallway outside the master suite. Uniformed deputies moved past them up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms. They were no longer bothering to be neat. They were tearing the place apart.

  “Come on, Carol,” Guy muttered. “Answer the damn phone.”

  Laura looked worried. “Maybe she left it in the car.”

  “She wouldn't do that.”

  “She could have. She was distracted.”

  “Could she be out of range? You said they were going to Little Horse—”

  “No, there's a service message when you get out of range. It’s just ringing.”

  Guy became aware, in that slow, cold blood-draining way one sometimes has on the brink of crisis, that a quiet had come over the upper hallway. Guy had had that feeling twice before. The first time was when Carol told him she wanted a divorce, and he looked in her eyes and saw that she meant it. The second time was when he learned that Kelly was missing.

  He turned and he knew from the look in John Case's eyes that what he was about to hear was worse than either of those things.

  “Guy,” Case said quietly, and then he dropped his gaze. He cleared his throat. “I need you to identify this,” he said.

  And he handed him a photograph.

  ~

  Chapter Forty-five

  When Carol's phone started to ring, she was absurdly grateful. She quickly pulled open her purse and fumbled for it.

  “Don't answer that, Carol,” Ken said pleasantly.

  She tried to laugh. “Don't be silly, Ken. I'm a working girl, remember, and I'm on duty.”

  She got the phone in her hand, out of the purse; she started to flip it open. And in a single smooth motion so swift she never saw it coming, Ken swooped forward and snatched it out of her hand and dropped it into the ocean.

  Her cry of angry protest came out choked and outraged, and he laughed. “Technology,” he commented conversationally. “Damned nuisance. That's how this whole thing started, don't you know that? The little nowhere town of St. Theresa-by-the-Sea gets a cell tower and the timing couldn't be worse.”

  He looked straight at her and he said, “Didn't you ever wonder why she never called you before?”

  ****

  “She's alive, Guy,” John Case said quietly. “The others ... some of them weren't.”

  The girl in the photograph was standing against a white wall in a bra and panties that hung on her thin frame. A white cloth bound her eyes and her hands were behind her back, presumably tied. There were bruises on her ribs, her cheek was blackened and misshapen, and there was a thin dark line around her throat. There was a necklace or heavy cord around her neck, from which was suspended a small pewter figurine. Her hair was lank and tangled. But the photograph was of Kelly, Guy's daughter.

  He heard Laura's soft sound of horror as she looked over his shoulder at the snapshot. But he didn't feel her touch his arm. He was not aware that the snapshot was crumpling in his hand until the sheriff seized his wrist and tightened the grip hard enough to hurt. Guy's fingers slowly opened, and the sheriff removed the photograph.

  His face was cold and bathed with sweat. It hurt to breathe. The world narrowed to a single pinpoint of focus that was that photograph of his daughter, burned indelibly on his mind.

  Someone said his name, but he threw up both hands to ward the speaker off. He started to walk away, but his legs were rubbery, he stumbled. He sat in the nearest chair and rested his elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead, breathing slow and deep. And then the twisting pain in his chest seemed to explode and he bowed his head and covered his face with his hands as his shoulders began to shake.

  ***

  “Damn cell phones,” Ken continued easily. “The trouble with them is that after a while they become like furniture, like clothing—you forget they're there. You forget to watch out for them. Now on the boat, it was easy to keep her away from the radio, not that she could have figured out how to work it if she tried. But phones ... I never predicted it. It was totally my fault.”

  Carol was breathing fast and light. The sun sparkling on the water looked like slivers of broken glass, and every time the boat bounced over a wave, another shard of dizziness stabbed into her brain. It made sense. It would never make sense. Kelly. He was talking about Kelly...

  She managed, barely above a whisper, “You know where she is. All this time ... you've had her. You ... you've got my daughter!” The small nebulous cloud of horror and disbelief that had settled just below her solar plexus suddenly hardened into a knot of fury, of certain truth, of blind unthinking hysteria, and she leapt to her feet, launching herself at him, screaming, “You've got Kelly! Where is she? What have you done with my daughter!”

  There was a moment of quick surprise on his face, as though he didn't understand why she should be angry, but it was ephemeral. Almost in the same motion as she stood, he swung out an arm to block her attack, catching her in the stomach, pushing her backward. He didn't use much force and the blow didn't hurt, but Carol stumbled back and for a moment struggled with her balance in the pitching sea. He watched with idle interest as she flailed her arms and twisted around, catching the back of her seat just before going over.

  He smiled. “Good. I'd hate to lose you after all this trouble. Now settle down, for God's sake, before you get us both killed. This baby can handle just about anything, but the sea is getting rough.”

  Listening to him, Carol could almost believe she had imagined the previous conversation. Imagined it, or misinterpreted it. No, he hadn't kidnapped Kelly. No, he hadn't kept her prisoner for two and a half years. He hadn't been the one she was so frightened of. The one who hurt her, the one from whom she couldn't get away. No, the person who had done that was insane, a madman, a conscienceless psychopath. Ken Carlton wasn't insane. He was a billionaire, a genius, a highly successful man, and he was just as reasonable when he spoke to her now as he had ever been when they discussed real estate.

  Carol said hoarsely, irrationally, “But—we checked you out. You're Ken Carlton, you've won all those awards, you just closed that development deal... we checked you out.”

  He laughed, seeming genuinely amused. “Just because a man has a successful career doesn't mean he can't have outside interests, now does it?” He moved the throttle up. “Hold on, darling, I'm taking her around.”

  ***

  Sheriff Case said in a low voice, “Ms. Capstone, where did Mrs. Dennison say they were going?”

  Laura pressed her hand to her chest, as though she was finding it hard to breathe. Her face was paper white and lipstick clung to her cracked lips; she stared at the sheriff as though she hadn't heard him.

  He started to repeat the question when she said, “It was—they were going to Little Horse Island. He owns it, he's going to develop it. It's just a routine property tour. You don't understand—”

  Sheriff Case turned around and barked out, “Ledbetter, Humphries, Little Horse Island. Get a description of his boat from the marina. Notify the Coast Guard. Tell them we're on our way.” He started down the stairs.

  Laura cried, “But he wouldn't hurt Carol!”

  “We hope not, Ms. Capstone.”

  “It couldn't be him,” Laura whispered, and her hand went to her throat, rubbing. “It couldn't be.” But her eyes were dark with fear and the truth.

  ***

  They came around the back side of the island, and the chop grew more severe. He cut the engine and let the little boat ride the waves that tossed them toward shore. The only sound was the slap of water, loud and foamy
, and the screech of gulls. He turned away from the outboard, resting both elbows on his bare knees, and smiled at her as he said, “There, that's better. We can hear each other. And I think we should have a talk before I take you in.”

  Carol gripped the bottom of the seat with both hands, holding on to a balance that was precarious both mentally and physically. The cockpit of the Donzi was neither wide nor deep and she realized suddenly neither of them was wearing a life vest. But it wasn't the surging dark water below that terrified her most; it wasn't even the man before her who now held her captive as effectively as he had held Kelly for the past two and a half years. What frightened her more than either of those things was not knowing.

  “Where is she?” Carol demanded tightly, very carefully. “What have you done with her?”

  “All in good time,” he assured her. “That's why I brought you here, after all. She wanted her mother, so I brought her mother. What could be more accommodating?

  “I want you to know,” he added, and his expression grew serious as he said it, “That I adore Kelly. The others...” he made a snapping motion with his wrist. “They were trash, flotsam, and I did them a favor by giving them what they deserved. Hell, they were runaways, dropouts. Nobody'd miss them or even notice when they were gone. I gave them one moment of glory in their sorry, pathetic little lives, one moment of believing there was someone who cared about them, and I like to think that on some level they were grateful for that.

  “But Kelly was different, and now that I've met her mother, I understand why. She had class. She had potential. She didn't belong with those others. So I kept her. And whenever I'd grow discouraged, I'd look at her and think there is hope, after all, for mankind. I might have kept her forever, a symbol of what perfection could be. But she wasn't perfect after all. She betrayed me.”

  Carol saw his face darken with the words and something clenched and twisted inside her. She didn't think she could bear to hear the next words and she thought if he said them, if after all this, he said them, she would launch herself at him and claw out his eyes, kick in his ribcage, tear out his throat with her bare hands.