Leaving Annalise (Katie & Annalise Book 2)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  The wind howled and buffeted me back, and the rain came from a thousand directions at once, like a tiny spin-off of the hurricane itself. I slid the bookshelf across the tile into the hallway, shut the door, and pushed the shelf against it. The storm had demolished the room and destroyed my piano, but it hadn’t touched me.

  “Thank you, Annalise,” I whispered.

  I lit more candles and walked with them to my room, then set them on the nightstand and crawled into bed. I pulled the covers up to my chin and let the candles burn down to nubs as I stared at the walls. The wind screamed and the rain pounded while I made plans to find my way back home to Nick.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I lay in bed the next morning, my hot, sweaty body sticking to the sheets, and listened. The wind and rain were still beating mercilessly on the metal roof, although they sounded less pissed off. I stuffed my feet into a pair of Keds and padded into the great room. A meager light penetrated the hurricane-glass windows above the entryway and across the back of the house. Definitely an improvement.

  By noon, the rain had stopped and the wind had calmed enough for me to go outside and survey the damage. The sky was an eerie green. The air felt thick with damp and the wind was barely beating down the quickly rising temperature, but it had stripped the land to sticks and dirt. Nothing green remained tethered to the earth as far as my eyes could see. I’d lost a few trees in addition to the flamboyant.

  I walked around to the back of the house, my shoes making schlop schlop noises in the sticky, saturated ground. No exterior damage. Water was running across the patio, though, from the house. I looked up, expecting to see a waterfall of rainwater from a damaged catchment, but I didn’t. The water was coming through broken panes in the basement’s back doors.

  I traversed the small river up to the doors and tried to open them, but they were locked. I pressed my nose to the glass to get a better view. There were ten inches of standing water in the downstairs living room. Had the Titanic struck an iceberg?

  I ran back around to the open side door and grabbed my flashlight from the kitchen island. The basement had windows only on the west side, so it stayed dark down there. I stood at the top of the steps. I didn’t want to go down there. The whole thing felt too much like my time in the cisterns. But finally I crept down the stairs from the main floor to the lower level and shone the flashlight around.

  What I saw was mind-blowing. I had myself an indoor swimming pool. All I needed was a beach towel and a floatie, and I could have a grand time without ever going outside. Taylor’s orange dump truck was floating lazily in the otherwise empty living room, but I thought of the brand-new mahogany bed in the room next to it and groaned.

  “Shit!” I yelled. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  My voice echoed inside the water chamber. I took off my shoes and sloshed through the water to the back of the room. Had my water heater tank burst? I pried open the little closet under the stairs, but water seemed to flow into it, not out. Closing the door was much easier.

  I worked the beam around the top of each wall. Maybe a catchment was dumping water into a wall from a roof leak. But I saw nothing coming from up high.

  I moved the light down the walls, and when I saw it, I felt like a dolt. Of course. The water was gushing through the ruined patchwork over one of the many holes left by the treasure seekers. On the other side of this wall was the empty cistern I almost fell into. It took me another few beats to realize that the only reason it was leaking now was because Crazy’s men had fixed the catchment. Once the cistern had filled, well, the result was obvious, and very wet.

  It was a fixable problem to save for later. I splashed out of the basement. The only thing I could do about it now was isolate the power. I went to the breaker box in the garage and turned off the switches for the music room and the downstairs. Then I went outside to flip the generator on and listened to it fire up like an eighteen-wheeler. It smelled like one, too. I would run it just long enough to charge my laptop and iPhone and cool the refrigerator to make more ice and keep the freezer cold.

  In the kitchen, I checked my devices. The iPhone still had no service. I switched on my computer and didn’t have connectivity there, either. I decided to drive out and see if I could call Nick from the grocery store, but when I went out to the driveway, I found the road blocked by fallen trees in both directions outside my gate.

  This was not good.

  I walked back to the house to clear away debris and decided to try to patch my busted music room. I lugged out the chainsaw and tried in vain to operate it. It was like my inner warrior had given way to the empress. Either that or I just wasn’t Paul Bunyan. I put it away before I hurt myself.

  iPhone check: no service.

  As awful as the night before had been, the weather that day brought even more misery. The sun broke through the clouds like it was trying to make up for lost time. Humidity stifled the air and a wind vacuum followed in the wake of the storm. The dogs had given up on finding cool spots on the tile patio and were lying in the dirt.

  iPhone check: no service.

  I used the rest of the day to open all the shutters. That, at least, I knew I could do. I needed air and light in my house. It took me far less time without the rain, but I finished the job with a wicked sunburn.

  iPhone check: no service.

  Dusk fell. Robotically, I fed the animals and myself. I remembered to eat only perishable food, a sort of post-hurricane food triage: thou shalt eat first the things that spoil fastest. Some last-week vintage lunchmeat already looked iffy.

  “Here guys, treats!” I called to the dogs.

  iPhone check: no service.

  Time for a treat for me. I ran the generator so I could take a bath in my beloved tub. I filled it with bubbles and turned on the jets, and while the water ran, I straightened up the bathroom. I placed my hand on the bottle of Nick’s stupid girly moisturizer that I had given him as a wedding present and my heart lurched.

  When I settled in the bath, the water was too hot and the smell of the bubbles was cloying. Or maybe it was just time for that good cry. So I sobbed. Hysterically. Physically. Nose-blowing sobs. For as long as I could, plus a little.

  Then I checked my iPhone and there was still no freaking service. It could go on like this for days. Weeks.

  Sleeping would pass the time. I went out and turned off the generator, then came back in and stretched out on my bed, but sleep wouldn’t take me. Hours later, in desperation, I found a bottle of Tylenol PM and popped two. I doused myself with mosquito spray and dropped the netting that up until then had just been for looks.

  When I woke up again, it was late afternoon. I checked my watch. I had slept for eighteen hours. The open bottle of Tylenol PM glared accusingly from the bedside table and I had a vague memory of half-waking that morning and re-dosing. Foolish, I thought. Depressants are not my friend. I twisted my gold band around and around, trying to regain the use of my brain. I shoved my frizzy hair into a scrunchie from my nightstand, doubling it through until it had restrained my entire ponytail against my head. I checked for cell service and found that my iPhone was dead.

  Crap!

  I jumped out of bed and ran to plug it in. No power! I ran outside and threw on the generator switch, then sprinted back to the bedroom and stared at the phone until it gained enough juice to look for a signal.

  No service.

  Well, it was five o’clock, and it occurred to me that I needed to feed the poor dogs. I walked out to the garage and filled their bowls, then took them out to the driveway. A clopping sound made me look up. A horse and rider were approaching on my entrance road. Or I thought they were.

  “That’s what overdosing on Tylenol PM can do to you,” I told myself. “Oso, what do you think, am I hallucinating?” He swept the ground with his tail. I looked back up, and I still saw a horse and rider. A big paint horse and a blond-haired man astride it.

  Oh, no. Oh, please not that blond man.

  Bart reined the hor
se to a stop by the downed flamboyant at the front corner of the house. He was listing to one side in his saddle and his eyes had that not-altogether-there look.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t get through with my car, so I borrowed a horse,” he said. Like it was completely normal for him to ride like a stoned Mad Max to visit me by horseback.

  Objection; nonresponsive, I thought. God, I was delirious. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  Bart ignored me. He swung out of the saddle and lowered himself to an unsteady but upright position. “Maybe I could help you.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  It was so wrong for him to be there. Had I been in the states and Nick on St. Marcos, I would have wanted Nick to send a helpful female interloper packing, times ten thousand if she were someone like Bart.

  As if he read my mind, Bart said, “Your husband shouldn’t have left you here all alone.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have.” He dug in a saddlebag. “I brought you something.” He held out a cylindrical bottle of light Cruzan Rum.

  My eyes burned and my mouth watered. I knew how much faster the days would pass in a blur of Painkillers. I had quit once before. I could quit again. If I just stretched my arm out toward him and grasped my fingers around the cool comfort of that bottle, peace would be mine.

  Then I shuddered, and stared Bart down like Beelzebub.

  “Get that away from me, and leave.” I stomped through the garage into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

  I pulled sandwich ingredients from the cooler and threw them out on the counter. Drawers banged and silverware rattled as I gathered up a spoon and table knife. I heard the side door open.

  “I said LEAVE, not come in, Bart.” I grabbed a butcher knife out of the block on the counter and waited for him to come in. But it looked too menacing in my hands. Besides, Bart was a wacked-up idiot, but he wasn’t dangerous. I set it down.

  Bart came into the kitchen, his face a storm. “What’s wrong with you, Katie? I forgive you. I’m here for you. I’m ready to give you another chance.” He was walking toward me, all six feet of him.

  I really didn’t have a choice. I grabbed the knife and thrust it between us. “Stop, Bart. You aren’t welcome here. Leave now.”

  His eyes narrowed and he held up his hands, but he didn’t stop. “Whoa, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  But suddenly I wasn’t so sure. This was probably exactly the type of behavior his sister wanted me to report back to her, but there would be time for that later. I backed up to give myself room and I flexed my knees. I’d do better without the knife. But before I could make up my mind, the mayonnaise jar flew across the counter and shattered at Bart’s feet. I didn’t see it coming.

  Bart jumped. “What was that?”

  My voice gained strength from knowing I had supernatural backup. “Annalise isn’t going to let you near me, so just leave.”

  And then another voice broke into our exchange. “And if the house doesn’t kick your ass, I will.”

  My knife clattered to the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  It was my husband: sweaty, dirty, and holding seriously wilted flowers. Somehow, he was standing in our kitchen glaring at my ex-boyfriend when he was supposed to be two thousand miles away.

  “Nick!” I screamed.

  Nick was radiating fury. “Get away from her.”

  “What are you going to do, hit me?” Bart asked.

  Yes, I thought, that’s exactly what he is going to do. A thrill ran through me and I felt a flicker of guilt, but I didn’t stop Nick. Bart more than had it coming.

  Nick walked calmly across the kitchen. Without setting down the flowers in his left hand, he punched Bart in the face, his fist fast as a whip. “Yes,” he said as Bart hit the floor.

  Bart rolled onto his side. “Asshole,” he said. He wiped blood from under his nose and looked down.

  Nick’s tone was menacingly calm. “I barely hit you. But if you want, I can try again.”

  “I’m going,” Bart said. He looked from Nick to the broken mayo jar to me. His eyes were red-rimmed and slitted. He scrambled to his feet and walked rapidly toward the front entrance to the kitchen, breaking into a run and almost falling. He caught himself on the door, threw it open, and bolted out.

  Nick walked after him as far as the doorway. “You’d better run,” Nick called. “And if you ever come back, I promise, I’ll kill you.” He turned back toward me, looking like he meant it. “I may hunt him down and do it anyway.”

  I ran over the broken mayonnaisey glass and leapt into Nick’s arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist and crossed my heavy work boots behind his back and started talking so fast that nothing I said made any sense. He kissed me all over my head, face, and ears while he stroked my Little Orphan Annie hair.

  Within a few moments my babbling turned to tears and I let him rock me gently back and forth, the flowers tickling the back of my neck now.

  “You did it again, you know,” I said.

  “What did I do, love?”

  “You showed up on St. Marcos with no warning. This is the third time.” Hiccup.

  “I’ll quit if you want me to.”

  “Never.”

  “The way you’re crying, you’d think this had been a Category Five storm. Shoot, Katie, they say the sustained wind speed here never made it over a hundred and forty-five miles per hour.” He nuzzled me roughly against the side of my head.

  “Baby, it may have only been a Category Four hurricane, but it’s definitely been a Category Five month.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Oh, I’m going to, believe me, after I tell you what a terrible person I am, and how sorry I am for leaving you in Corpus Christi.”

  “Shhhhh, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, we should be together, Nick. Nothing in the world is more important to me than being with you.”

  He hugged me tight and set me on the counter but I kept my arms and legs around him as he set the flowers down behind me. He said, “All I could think about when I saw that storm was that I was a jackass, and I needed to get here as fast as I could. But Mom and Dad had driven to San Antonio to the opera, so I called Emily—”

  “You called Emily? She’s in Dallas!”

  “I called Emily and she said if I could get Taylor to Dallas she would keep him for the weekend.”

  “But you have a court order to keep him within a hundred miles of Corpus Christi!”

  “Are you going to let me tell this story or not?” Nick retorted, but he smiled.

  I made a zipping gesture over my lips and flapped my hand for him to continue.

  “When I told her about the court order she said she’d be on the next plane to Corpus. I made it to Puerto Rico, but not before they shut down the St. Marcos airport.”

  “I could feel you getting closer!” I told him about the crashing picture frame.

  He nodded. “I’m not surprised that you can feel me. I didn’t know I could throw pictures off tables, though. I’m pretty awesome.”

  I socked his arm. “It was strangely comforting. But go on, tell your story.”

  He kissed me hard on the lips. “I searched for a helicopter pilot or a boat captain who could take me across, but I got nada. I decided to go down to a marina and look for a boat to charter. The first marina I tried, I went into the bar and started asking around. This guy turns around and says ‘Nick Kovacs? Is that you?’”

  “Oh my God! You’re kidding!”

  “I’m not. It was one of my surfing buddies from high school, Bill Thomas. He’s even crazier now than he was then, and I tell him what I am trying to do, and he says no problem. He’s the captain on the fishing boat of a dot-com millionaire who hightailed it to the states when the weather got bad.”

  I shook my head, and kept my mouth shut only by intense effort.

  “I ran to buy yo
u some flowers—which is a story in and of itself, finding flowers on the morning after a hurricane—and headed to bunk down on the boat. Meanwhile, Bill keeps drinking all day. About three in the morning, he wakes me up and says it’s time to go.”

  “You left in the middle of the night on an ocean with hurricane-sized waves? Are you nuts?”

  “I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

  He grinned like an upside-down rainbow. “We get out of the marina, and he’s running without lights, because the Coast Guard isn’t allowing boat travel yet. He keeps drinking; I get seasick. He’s singing at the top of his lungs, and I am heaving up and down with the boat over the eight-foot waves, wondering if I have died and gone to hell. Twelve hours later, we tie up to the pier on the west end of St. Marcos. I don’t have any food or liquid left in my body, but he’s fit as a fiddle. I hop off the boat and look back to wave goodbye, and that’s when I see the name of the boat for the first time.”

  He paused.

  “And the name of the boat was?” I asked.

  “The name of the boat was My Wild Irish Kate.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Yes, it was. The boat’s name was Kate.”

  We stared at each other, feeling it, the unexplainable power of our connection. You couldn’t stop what was simply meant to be. I put my face on his chest and leaned into him. He looped his arms around the small of my back and finished his story.

  “So it took me three hours to hike up to your place. The forest is naked, no vines, no bush. Animals are wandering around, all the fences are down. And when I got here, you had company,” at this he kissed my nose, “but here you are, you and Annalise, and you did great.”