Low Tide: Rarity Cove Book Two
Page 2
Warren finally spoke. “She’s saying she didn’t do it.”
Shocked by the statement, anger flushed through Mark’s body. He already knew police had captured Dobbins in the house when they arrived after Carter’s 911 call. She was in the home’s palatial master bathroom with Carter and Bianca Rossi, in fact, her hands and clothing covered in their blood.
“She’s a delusional schizophrenic,” Ortega reminded. “Her prints are on the shears used in the attack. It’s basically an open-and-shut case.”
As the elevator doors closed behind the two detectives, a second set opened inside the bay. Mercer emerged. When she saw Mark, her reddened eyes flooded with tears.
“Oh, God,” she murmured, going into his embrace. He held her, letting her cry against his chest before gently setting her away from him.
She sniffled. They’d spoken for only a short time once her plane had landed at LAX. “Has anything changed?”
“No. Come on. I’ll take you to Mom. She needs you.”
Sometime later, they were given permission to see Carter. Mark stood at his brother’s bedside with a heavy heart. Only two visitors were allowed into the ICU at a time, and he’d gone in first with Olivia, while Mercer waited with Kaplan outside.
Carter lay comatose, pale, IV lines and tubes running in and out of his body. A heart monitor in the room’s corner beeped, accompanied by the mechanical whooshing sound of the ventilator breathing for him. Life support. Fear clawed at Mark’s gut. Surgical dressing covered the wounds to Carter’s chest and right shoulder. His lungs had been punctured in multiple places, the chief surgeon had told them in the private consultation room. Worst, Carter’s heart had been lacerated. There had been no choice—they’d had to crack open his sternum in the ER. Cardiac damage and the hypovolemic shock resulting from the severe blood loss remained the largest concerns.
Mark stood by, helpless, as Olivia wept. She sat in a chair on the left side of Carter’s bed, clasping his still fingers.
“My darling boy,” she said softly.
His right hand and forearm were bandaged, as well. He had tried to defend himself against the large, pointed-end shears Dobbins had plunged repeatedly into him, wielding them like a knife. Mark tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
Carter had flatlined twice—once in the ambulance and a second time before the surgical team could get him onto a bypass machine. In Olivia’s absence, the chief surgeon had confided to Mark the survival rate for such trauma wasn’t good. He winced inwardly, aware the surgeon had been trying to prepare him.
Once Olivia left the room, Mark moved closer to the bed. Throat tight, he stroked a comforting hand through Carter’s hair. He hoped that, somehow, his brother could sense his presence. That he was in no pain.
“You’re a fighter, Carter,” he urged, emotion thickening his voice. “Fight. Don’t leave us like this.”
He’d had to be strong in front of his mother. But now, tears blurring his vision, Mark said a silent, fervent prayer.
Chapter Two
Rarity Cove, South Carolina — Ten Weeks Later
“If you wanted an ocean view, you could’ve had that in Malibu,” Elliott Kaplan pointed out tensely.
Carter stood with him on the deck of the rented beach house, staring onto the rough waters of the Atlantic.
“I needed to be out of LA,” he said, his voice so low it was nearly carried away by the wind. It was a gray, chilly mid-January afternoon—cold enough even in South Carolina that he wore a heavy sweater to block the ocean breeze. Carter shivered. His body reacted poorly to the cold these days, as it did most things.
Elliott started to say something, but stopped when the glass door opened and Mercer emerged.
“It’s time for your meds,” she said as her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair whipped around her face. Her expression was apologetic for having interrupted them. Coming forward, she carried a small paper cup that contained a number of pills, as well as a glass of water. Repressing a sigh, Carter took them.
“Thanks, Merce.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “Wouldn’t you rather talk inside? I’ll go upstairs if you need privacy.”
He shook his head, avoiding the concern in her eyes. “We’ll be in soon. I just need some air.”
Once she returned indoors, Elliott moved closer. More than a decade older than Carter, he had become a friend but remained first and foremost his agent. Their three-year relationship had begun when Carter relocated from New York City to the West Coast, parting ways with his former representation. Gently bracing his hands on Carter’s upper arms, Elliott studied him. “Damn, but it’s good to see you up and getting around under your own steam.”
The statement was barely true. Carter found himself fatigued by just the walk from the home’s interior. He wore sweatpants and slip-on loafers, and he relied on a cane when traveling more than a few dozen feet.
“You look good—”
“I look like hell.”
“No one expected you to come back from this. Give yourself a break,” Elliott countered in a soft voice. He asked carefully, “How’re you progressing?”
Carter glanced down at his right hand and one of the scars clothing couldn’t hide. Red and shiny, it marred his palm, limiting dexterity in two of his fingers. He thought of the other mutilations on his body. Even now, his chest ached, and his right arm was in a sling. He’d had a second surgery to repair the partially lacerated tendon in his right shoulder once the doctors had deemed his heart strong enough. Carter had been hospitalized for seven weeks at Cedars-Sinai, three of them spent in the ICU. After finally being released, he had slipped out of Los Angeles, with Mark’s help, by private plane.
“I’m improving,” he replied quietly.
Elliott narrowed his eyes at him. “I heard you fired another physical therapist.”
So he had been talking to Mark. Perhaps it was what had spurred his visit here. But Carter didn’t want to discuss it, and he figured Elliott already knew the specifics.
“Look, just because the one guy was a jerk doesn’t mean they’re all bad,” Elliott reasoned. “Your brother said you barely gave this last one a chance.”
“We’re looking for someone new. We have recommendations from the hospital.”
“I have a few excellent PTs to recommend myself. And they’re all back on the West Coast.” When Carter didn’t respond, Elliott continued. “So you came back here to be in the bosom of family. After all that’s happened, I get that. But you need to come back to LA where we can get you the kind of leading-edge care—”
“I can’t be in LA right now. Try to understand that.” Carter was aware of his curtness. Elliott had only been here an hour, and already he felt his strength and patience waning. “And I have everything I need here. This isn’t Mayberry.”
Elliott let out a hollow laugh. “I drove through town on the way from the airport. Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m talking about Charleston. The doctors there are as good as anywhere.” Carter walked slowly to the deck’s railing, wincing slightly as the crisp breeze cut through him. Mercer was right—he should go back inside, but after what had seemed like endless confinement to a hospital bed, he craved the freedom of being outdoors. Hearing the screech of seagulls that flew overhead, he peered at the waves crashing onto the shore below. The house was set on a bluff, rare to the lowcountry, on a stretch of private beach. Still, Carter had seen beachcombers walking through from time to time. He wondered how long he would have before his presence was discovered, whether he would need to hire security to keep photographers with high-powered lenses out of the area.
“I’m pushing, I know that,” Elliott conceded, coming to stand beside him. “But you can’t blame me for wanting you back where you belong. Where you can get into a first-class therapy regimen. All you need is to get back your strength and start hitting the gym—”
“That’s all,” Carter murmured, his tone cynical.
“How bad is the scarring?”
“Bad enough,” he rasped.
Pain registered in Elliott’s eyes. “So they’ll use body makeup or a stand-in. Or we can choose the right parts that don’t require skin. Hell, these days they can CGI-out anything. You’re an in-demand star, Carter,” he emphasized, his voice lowering. “Now more than ever. You stared into the abyss and lived.”
You lived.
Thinking of Bianca, a recurring blackness washed over him. Kelsey Dobbins was his stalker. If Bianca hadn’t been with him that night, she would still be alive. Carter closed his eyes briefly, shaking off the despondency that seemed to always be just under his surface. In a slightly breathless voice, he said, “You’ve never told me why you’re here, Elliott. Why you flew all the way across—”
“You didn’t give me a choice. You weren’t taking my phone calls.”
“Not when you call three times a day.”
Elliott shoved his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, a sign of his rising frustration. His voice roughened. “Maybe I just needed to see you with my own eyes. Have you thought I’m here because I care about you?”
But despite their friendship, Carter also understood it was Elliott’s business to evaluate his progress. He needed to see how well he was doing, whether he looked even remotely strong enough to start considering work again. Carter also knew he was the biggest-name actor on Elliott’s client roster. He wanted a plan for his return. But at the thought of going back to the West Coast, he felt himself shutting down.
“They recast your role in Game Town. It hasn’t hit the trades yet, but it went to Chris Hemsworth.”
Carter had no response.
“Look, I’m not going to claim I don’t have a dog in this hunt. You’ve made us both a lot of money—something I hope continues. But you mean more to me than that.” Elliott swallowed, his throat bobbing. “You’re special to me, Carter. I hope you know that. I…don’t want to see this tragedy beat you.”
He stared at him so emotionally Carter had to look away.
“I just want you to know I’m so goddamn sorry for what happened to you.”
He stayed for the remainder of the day, keeping Carter occupied with Hollywood gossip, including who was sleeping with whom and the latest greenlit movie projects. They shared an early dinner, the food courtesy of Samantha, Mark’s wife who owned, but no longer managed, the popular Café Bella just off the town square. Then Elliott embraced him and said good-bye, but not without a final plea for him to work harder at his recuperation. He’d departed in his rental car—a top-of-the-line BMW—headed to Charleston to catch an evening flight out, due back in LA for a meeting the next day. Carter had watched as the property’s automated gates closed behind him.
“Are you all right?” Mercer asked a short time later as she came up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Brooding, he sat on the sofa and stared into the flames of a gas-fueled, stacked-stone fireplace. Several movie scripts that Elliott had delivered, hoping Carter would read them, were stacked on the coffee table. He felt exhausted, despite the fact he had excused himself temporarily from Elliott’s company to take a nap, fatigued by the conversation, the persistent pain and the hurdles he knew he must eventually cross. He looked up as Mercer came around the sofa and sat beside him.
“You hardly touched dinner. You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
“I’m okay,” he lied.
“Is your agent always like that? So intense? He reminds me of an overcaffeinated squirrel trying to cross the interstate.”
Carter forced a faint smile, knowing Mercer was trying to lighten his mood. For a time, they sat in silence, until she said, “I can’t believe I’m going back home in a few days. I could call and extend my leave.”
He shook his head. “You’ve been here for weeks, Merce. You’ve been a big help, but you have a life of your own to get back to.”
“I don’t want to leave you.” She bit her lip worriedly. “All alone in this big house.”
“I’m hardly alone. Mark and Samantha are ten minutes away and check in constantly, not to mention Mom, and Jolene’s here, too,” he reminded, referring to the motherly but slightly bossy head of housekeeping who had worked at the St. Clair for as long as Carter could remember. Mark was lending her out to him for housework a couple of times a week since they both knew she could be trusted with discretion.
“I still don’t understand why you won’t take one of the bungalows at the resort.”
“I’ve explained why.”
“Why not stay with Mom, then? The Big House has plenty of room,” Mercer persisted, referring to the white-columned estate home on the edge of the St. Clair property. It was where they had grown up.
“So she can fuss over me like I’m a toddler?” He recoiled in feigned horror. “No, thanks. She does enough of that here. Besides, now that she has a gentleman friend, as she calls it, I don’t want to cramp her love life. Dad’s been gone a long time, and she’s finally met someone. She’s getting older and doesn’t need her invalid son to look after.”
Mercer frowned. “You’re hardly an invalid. It takes you a little effort, but you can take care of yourself for the most part. And Mom would love to have you. I think her feelings are hurt you aren’t staying with her.”
Guilt flared at the statement. But even if he’d wanted to stay with their mother, the home’s high staircase would be too much. Carter sighed. “I just need some independence after being confined for so long. And you’re needed back in Atlanta.”
He didn’t have to provide further rationalization. Mercer had a career she loved there, as well as a husband who had recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Dr. Jonathan Leighton was a professor of English literature at a private women’s college in the city. He was also nearly twenty years older than Mercer. At one time, she had been one of his students. It all sounded a bit scandalous, but the entire family had grown fond of Jonathan, and despite their substantial age difference, he and Mercer seemed happy. The cancer was caught early, and Jonathan was young for such a prognosis, but the diagnosis was relatively recent. He needed her with him for moral support.
“You should be with your husband.” Carter reached over and briefly squeezed her fingers. “Besides, this isn’t the first time you’ve had to give up your life for a family crisis. I won’t have you doing it again because of me.”
They talked awhile longer, until Mercer doled out his evening medication and said she was going up to her room to call Jonathan. After a kiss on his stubbled cheek, she checked the security system’s console and departed.
Carter remained on the couch, alone in the quiet of the well-furnished beach home. Of the lowcountry tidewater style, the six-thousand-square-foot, five-bedroom structure featured multiple sets of French doors for accessing the wide, wraparound, covered porch. The home had multiple fireplaces, a gourmet kitchen and a sweeping solarium overlooking the ocean. There was also a bottom-level workout room and a heated, saltwater pool, currently covered for the winter. While still in LA, Carter had checked on its availability and leased the house under an alias. It suited his needs: furnished, private, secure and with an elevator—installed by a former, elderly owner—so he wouldn’t be forced to climb stairs.
He had considered taking up residence in one of the seaside bungalows on the St. Clair property, as Mark had suggested. But he also knew once the paparazzi discovered he was no longer in LA, his family’s hotel would be the first place they would look. He didn’t want to interfere with the St. Clair’s business or wish that level of insanity on anyone.
He would miss Mercer, he admitted to himself. Getting along without her worried him some. Carter adjusted the sling supporting his right arm, the pain in his shoulder nearly
making his breath catch. He didn’t have to wear the sling all the time, but it helped. At least he was left-handed.
A short time later, he used the remote control to cut off the gas inside the hearth. Reaching for the cane he’d leaned against the sofa arm, he rose to go upstairs. He exited the elevator on the house’s top floor, where pearlescent light spilled from the large master suite that included a king-size bed and separate sitting room. The suite’s oceanfront wall was made almost entirely of glass and provided a stunning view on moonlit nights. Entering the space, Carter looked out, white-capped waves visible as they crashed onto the shore below. In the wall’s glass, he could almost make out his shaggy hair and frail reflection.
Even with the elevator, the trip to his bedroom had left him shaky and slightly breathless, his body weak from the damage that had been done.
After struggling in the bathroom to remove the sling, brush his teeth and undress himself, he lay down in bed, waiting for the pain medication to kick in. He couldn’t help it. Carter thought of Kelsey Dobbins, the woman who had hunted him down. His breathing cramped, he traced the surgical mutilation on his bare chest, flinching inwardly at it and the other raised, puffy scars from the large pair of shears she had plunged repeatedly into him. Five times, to be exact. She had taken them from the desk in his upstairs study, according to the police and forensics reports. His eyelids hot and gummy, Carter stared blindly at the high ceiling. He recalled the dozens of letters Dobbins had sent him. In them, she had referred to herself as his number-one fan and professed her undying love. Those rambling letters were now in police custody.
Before leaving, Elliott had carefully asked again whether any of his memory had returned.
Once Carter had been weaned from the ventilator and was able to talk, the detectives had shown him Dobbins’s mugshot. She was tall and heavyset for a woman, with wild dark eyes and frazzled black hair. He hadn’t recognized her. He could recall nothing of the attack, in fact, the black spots in his memory too large. As he thought of Bianca, guilt cut through him.