Passions in the North Country (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Summer Newman

  “He cut himself to write this note,” Devon said, shaking his head. “This idiot is a lunatic.”

  Jenny swallowed hard and read the bloody words. I’m going to cut you into little pieces, slut.

  That was all it said. That was all it needed to say. Jenny closed her eyes for a moment and her bottom lip quivered. She wanted to rest, to feel safe, to marry Devon and raise children with him. She wanted love and peace, warmth and tenderness. Instead she got Ivan. And there was nothing she could do to get rid of him. He was a disease and that disease was intent on claiming her life.

  Devon was fit to be tied. If he could have gotten his hands around Ivan’s neck at that moment, he would have willingly ripped his head clean off his shoulders. Devon folded the paper and put it into his pocket, then walked outside first, the gun case in his hand. Jenny followed, but she looked extremely agitated by the open spaces. Devon scanned the area as if he was a security guard, then led Jenny to his truck. He put the gun behind the seat and opened the door for her. He was just about to climb in when the police drove up the driveway in an unmarked car. Jenny got out of the truck.

  A middle-aged man got out of the driver’s side and the young female officer, Constable Henderson, joined them. Devon handed the man the note, which he read with his partner, then bagged for evidence. Jenny suddenly started crying. Constable Henderson put her arm around Jenny and spoke in a consoling voice.

  “It’s all right,” she comforted. “We’ve checked all the hotels, inns, and every bed and breakfast in the county. We showed the picture and no one recognized it. That means he must be staying in his car.”

  “We’ve got people in for overtime to try to catch this guy,” the senior officer said. “We’ll get him.”

  “Thank you,” Jenny said, trying to be strong.

  The police left. Devon and Jenny got back into the truck and pulled out of the driveway, turning right. They passed a small compact with Nova Scotia plates, a rental car from the nearby city. Behind the wheel was an old man, his hair gray, his spectacles thick. On the seat beside him was a bag from the drugstore where he bought the hair color and the heavy reading glasses. The car pulled out and followed the truck, staying back far enough not to draw attention.

  Jenny and Devon drove along the river, then turned up a dirt road. They came to a shooting range and pulled into the parking lot. Staying back a long distance, Ivan pulled into a spot hidden by trees. He could clearly see Devon and Jenny get out.

  “You fucking whore!” he said in a growling voice. “You’re going to get yours, bitch!”

  Devon took the gun case and picked up the box of bullets. He took out two, showed them to Jenny, then put them into his pocket.

  “Let me carry the bullets,” she said.

  He looked her over. “Are you sure?”

  “I can carry a box of bullets,” she said with a frown, irritated in the kind of way people can be when they have achieved a level of informality with a love interest. “You’re going to let me shoot the gun, aren’t you? If I can shoot the gun, I carry the bullets.”

  “All right,” he conceded, handing her the box with eighteen bullets in it.

  Jenny had taken her purse out of habit, but she realized there was no sense in taking it to the range. She told Devon and he unlocked the truck. Then he started to slowly walk to the shooting line. Jenny quickly opened the door, put down her purse, then decided to take her wallet out of it. She thoughtlessly laid down the bullets on the engine bonnet and picked her wallet out of the purse. It tipped and her makeup kit fell to the floor. Jenny sighed with aggravation, picked it up, put it back in the purse, then locked and closed the door. Without even thinking about it, she rejoined Devon with the wallet in her hand, forgetting the bullets on the truck.

  Devon was totally concentrated on the gun and took it out of the case. He intricately explained how it worked, showing her several times, then allowed her to work the bolt and shoulder it. At first she thought she would be frightened, but she was not. Holding the gun gave her a sense of freedom, a feeling of protection.

  “I want to fire it,” Jenny said.

  “All right, but watch me first.” He took out two pairs of hearing protection, putting one on and handing the other to Jenny. “Stand behind me.”

  She stood behind him Devon, put two bullets in the magazine, then chambered a round. There was a target at fifty yards, one at a hundred, and one at two hundred. The fifty yard target had a big white sheet with red dots on it. The largest red dot was in the middle. Devon told her he was aiming for the middle and then showed her the form to assume and how to squeeze the trigger. Bang! Jenny jumped, her eyes opened wide. Devon pulled back the bolt and ejected the spent shell. The hole was visible right in the center of the red dot.

  “Nice shot,” Jenny said, feeling exhilarated.

  “Lawrence gave me a great gun,” he said. “It will never let you down.”

  She looked at him in wide-eyed wonder, excited at the prospect of firing.

  “Your turn.” He handed her the gun and stood behind her. “Now, chamber a round. Good. Put on the safety. Yes, that’s it. Hold the gun up and look through the scope. Can you see the center dot?”

  “Yes,” she said, squinting, the gun shaking slightly.

  “Shoot with both eyes open,” Devon said. “They call that the hunter’s shot. That way you can see more than what one eye can show you.”

  She opened both eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I got it.”

  “Lock on target and squeeze the trigger.”

  Jenny did and the gun went off sooner than she expected, the loud rapport surprising her again. She felt the kick but was not intimidated. Devon instantly beamed and told her she had hit the center, not more than two inches from where his bullet landed. Jenny was proud of herself and smiled in a self-satisfied way. She just happened to look behind her when she saw the flash of a man walking up the road. He was about two hundred yards away and closing slowly, a cane in his right hand. But something rang an alarm in Jenny’s mind. She looked harder and knew that though she could see him, he could not see her. The old man started moving more quickly, carrying the cane more than using it. It was then she noticed his gait.

  It was Ivan’s walk.

  “Devon!” she exclaimed. “I think that’s Ivan. He’s dressed up.”

  Devon looked through the trees and saw the man. “Call the police. Tell them to hurry, but if they use their sirens they might alert him.”

  Jenny immediately called the police, told them she thought the man might be Ivan, and she was informed a unit was on its way.

  “Give me the bullets,” Devon said, ejecting the spent shell that Jenny had just fired.

  It took her a moment but she suddenly remembered leaving them on the truck. “I forgot them,” she said with a terrified look.

  “What?” Devon asked, knitting his brows. “I gave them to you.”

  “I put them down and I must have forgotten them.”

  He remembered the exchange where she assured him she could carry the bullets, but there was nothing to be gained in reprimanding her. Devon moved slightly to the left and saw the old man next to his truck, inspecting the box of bullets on the bonnet. Ivan suddenly tossed the cane aside and starting walking with purpose, like a terminator in the movie. Devon grabbed Jenny by the hand and started to run into the woods, but they had not gotten fifty feet when they ran into a wooded area totally barricaded by fallen trees. It was impossible to walk through them. But by the time they turned around, Ivan was closing fast, ditching his glasses as he moved toward them.

  “Damn!” Devon said, his mind racing. “I hope he doesn’t have a gun.”

  At that precise moment Ivan pulled a handgun up from his side. Both Devon and Jenny saw it, and both of them knew they had nowhere to hide.

  “You goddamned bitch!” Ivan called, moving toward them relentlessly and with fire in his eyes. “I’m going to kill you, whore, and I’m going to kill that the whoremaster, too.”


  He was now only fifty yards away. If they could have fought with fists, Devon would have destroyed him, but Ivan held a gun, while Devon held only a gun with no ammunition. It might as well have been a two-by-four. But they couldn’t stand there waiting to be slaughtered. Devon ran with Jenny along the edge of the trees for thirty yards, then out onto the firing range. He was frantic, like a cat on a sinking ship, but with nowhere to go. It was obvious that Devon was not concerned for himself, but for his lady, the lady of the north country. Everything—every fiber of his being, every wisp of his soul—was concentrated on saving the woman he loved.

  “Fuck!” Devon snapped, running with Jenny to the pond at the end of the range.

  To the right was an impenetrable obstacle course of trees blown down in a hurricane, in front of them the pond, and to the left a wide open area with nowhere to hide. They were sitting ducks. Ivan knew it, too. He had the most evil expression imaginable on his face, like that of a demon. Unfortunately, Ivan was also slender and in excellent shape. There was no outrunning him. He would track them down and slaughter them like animals.

  Ivan smiled fiendishly and held up the gun up high above his head, pointing it in their direction. He laughed insanely, intent on savoring this delicious moment so long dreamed of.

  Devon and Jenny continued to run, sprinting, then slowing, moving left and right—anything to try to get away from him. But nothing worked. He mimicked them, laughing at their futile attempts to avoid destruction. It was going to happen and no matter what they did, he would be satisfied.

  He ran when they ran, stopped when they stopped. He was quick and wiry, and he was able to steer them in a corner of the range. There was nowhere to go. He closed in, his mad eyes flaring.

  Jenny was beside herself, but rather than fear, all she could think of was how she had left the bullets on the truck. Had she not forgotten, Devon, with his excellent ability, would have ended the nightmare, but now she had doomed not only herself, but him, too. For her that was the bitterest pill to swallow.

  “I love you,” she said to Devon with tears in her ears, her face contorted.

  He looked at her. “I love you, too.”

  “I am going to kill you, whore!” Ivan screamed in a horrific wail. “You made me look like a fool, you damned slut. But you’re never going to cheat on another man again. You die today. Make your peace, bitch.”

  Jenny was numb with fear. Devon picked up a stone and threw it as hard as he could. It sailed past Ivan’s head, almost striking him. Ivan obviously didn’t see it in time, until it flew past as he jerked his head after it flew past. Had it been a few inches to the left, he would have had his skull broken. But, by sheer bad chance, the hate-filled man had gotten ever so lucky. Devon searched for another stone, but the ground was remarkably bare. Then he found a round rock almost the size of a baseball. His eyes were intense as he prepared to unleash a killing throw. Ivan walked toward Jenny with a look of glee, as if he had just won the grand prize.

  “I want to watch you bleed to death,” he said at twenty-five yards. “I want to watch the lights go out, baby.” He pointed the gun at her. “Die, whore!” he screamed.

  Suddenly a shot rang out and Ivan instantly fell to the ground, a bullet in his back. Devon and Jenny both looked up to see Constable Henderson, her blonde hair tied in a bun, standing there with a high-powered rifle. For a split second the whole world stopped. No one knew what to do, or what to think. Then it all became clear, as in the moments after awakening from a dream. The shot had been true and struck Ivan Wiley square in the spine, shattering it and killing him instantly. Jenny turned away in horror. Devon put his arm around her and walked up the range, past the lifeless body.

  “You saved our lives,” he said to Constable Henderson. “He would have killed us for sure.”

  “For sure,” said the male officer. “You did a good thing, Cindy.”

  She was shaking. “I was hoping to work my whole career without needing to use a gun.” She smirked. “I certainly never wanted to kill anyone. But I had no choice.”

  “No choice,” her partner assured her.

  “You saved our lives,” Jenny said with a firm look. “He was out of his mind. You saved us. You did.”

  Within minutes the range was besieged by police cars and even an ambulance. When the paramedics saw what was facing them, they did not hurry. There was a huge hole in Ivan and blood was seeping out onto the ground. The kill had been quick, clean, and humane. Ivan Wiley probably never felt a thing. Which is more than what he intended for Jenny.

  Statements were taken and then Devon and Jenny returned to the inn. She took him by the hand and went upstairs to Maria’s room where they laid side by side on the bed for hours, not exchanging a word. She cried off and on, and he kissed her head and rubbed her back. They had witnessed something terrible, something neither could ever forget, but for the first time in a long time, Jenny Ashbury felt free. It was as if a noose had been put around her neck for months, occasionally being drawn tight enough to choke her, then relaxed, not out of compassion, but out of a desire to keep her alive so she could be tortured longer.

  “I feel bad about this,” she said, “but now I feel I can finally breathe again.”

  “It’s over, sweetheart.”

  She nodded and laid her head on his chest.

  Chapter 11

  Over the next few days the shooting death was all the news. Jenny was horrified that by association the North Country Inn might be tainted, but on the contrary, the incredible events of that day only added to Jenny’s mystique. Devon was portrayed as a hero, defending his “girlfriend”—that’s what was said in the newspaper—using only stones against a madman with a gun. The police were honored in a formal ceremony, attended by both Jenny and Devon. They had their picture taken for a story in the weekend edition. It was made quite clear that they would most certainly have been murdered but for the skill and timeliness of the police. The picture showed Jenny shaking Constable Henderson’s hand.

  To Jenny it seemed she would never get clear of Ivan, but a big fire at Martin Brothers took over the news and Jenny was able to settle into a quiet and comfortable life. She was released from him, just as the Captain and Maria had been released from outside forces.

  “I phoned Mrs. Harris,” Devon said to her one morning from his side of the door. “I asked her if we could tour the old gothic house at White Sands Beach today. She said it would be fine and we can pick up the key. Would you like to go and have a look around?”

  “We can’t go,” she lamented. “We have responsibilities.”

  “It’s raining. Terry won’t be running the boat tours and the staff has everything under control.” He paused. “Jenny, you hired excellent people. They can take care of it.”

  “All right,” she agreed in a happy way. “Give me a minute to get dressed.”

  They picked up the key and drove to the beach. It was a warm summer’s day, but thunder peeled across the sky and a steady drizzle fell from ominous black clouds. Devon parked behind the sand dunes and the moment they got out of the truck they were wet, but it was such a warm day that the rain felt refreshing.

  They walked to the top of a dune and surveyed all that stretched out before them. The sand was dark and wet, and the ocean, a deep emerald green, surged forth with great walls of foamy white waves that crashed on the beach, each bringing with it a low, loud roar, then fading in turn for the next. Overhead it was incredibly dark and seemed more like dusk than early morning. Suddenly, lightning ripped open the sky and sliced right down to the turgid sea. A few seconds later a tremendous thunderclap, sounding like a thousand cannons fired at once, rolled across the open expanse. Jenny turned to Devon with terror and excitement. He laughed and started running to the old house.

  She followed him with childlike joy, thrilled to be caught in the downpour. When they reached the house, they were both out of breath and laughing uncontrollably. Devon slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the creaking door. Upon ente
ring, the first thing Jenny saw was an antique mirror framing her reflection. She was wet and her hair hung in strings. Water dripped from her chin. Her clothes, soaked and wrinkled, clung tightly.

  “Oh, my,” she said with embarrassment, “I’m a terrible mess!”

  “You look beautiful.”

  She noticed Devon’s reflection in the mirror and their eyes locked. His hair was disheveled and his clothes were matted, but in Jenny’s mind he had never looked so handsome. What a fine man he was! They made a perfect couple. Not because they cut a striking image, but because they clicked. There was a natural, undeniable magnetism between them, and a strong feeling of kinship, as if they were destined by some unknown force to be together.

  Jenny turned away from Devon and started to wander through the grand house. Though almost devoid of furniture, Jenny could envision a home ready to occupy. A bookcase next to the window that overlooked the beach, a table next to the fireplace, a chair and a sofa pushed against the wall in the huge living room…Everything fit perfectly and it really seemed to Jenny that she was arranging things in her mind’s eye just as she had seen them somewhere else, perhaps in a dream.

  During their tour of the house, Jenny had the same feeling as with the Captain’s rooms. Even though she had never been there before, things were familiar to her. It was the same in every room of the house.

  They walked upstairs with her leading. “I feel like Nancy Drew,” she said with a laugh.

  Devon laughed at her.

  “What’s this?” Jenny asked, trying to open two French doors that led to a veranda whose design she had never seen before.

  “It’s a widow’s walk.”

  “Widow’s walk?”

  Devon jiggled the lock until the door opened. “In the old days, when fishermen were late returning from a trip, wives used to stand out there and keep watch for their loved one. When passers-by saw a woman pacing back and forth, they called it the ‘widow’s walk.’”

  “How sad,” Jenny said, deeply touched.