I felt his lips against my neck, my cheek, my ear.
“I can’t,” I whispered, closing my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just…can’t.” I must have been crying because I tasted salt in my mouth.
“Of course you can.” He kissed away my tears then found my mouth with his own. Tentatively at first and, when I didn’t draw back, hungrily. His arms encircled me, as he lay me gently onto the bed. I drew him to me, pressing his body against mine, losing myself in his closeness. I closed my eyes again, uncertain of who I was making love to.
“Stephen.” His name slipped from my lips.
Ian stiffened and then roughly drew away. “You’re right. You can’t.”
Chapter 22
“This is all I have, all that was in the envelope Stephen mailed to me,” I told Ian, as though offering him some idiotic consolation prize for what had almost passed between us.
I’d spread the two photos, the note, the atlas and the copies of the Internet articles on the bed and was studying them when he came back into the room after taking a shower. He wore only sweatpants. No shoes, no shirt, and I could see the muscles that had been hidden beneath his clothes, the arms that had knocked James cold with a single punch and that had held me so gently. I’d been kidding myself to think I’d ever been physically in command in his presence, armed or not.
He sat down on the bed, toweling his hair, a gentle crease lifting the corner of his eyes, which studied me intently. Any haze that the liquor and cigarettes may have caused was gone. If he felt any of the awkwardness I wrestled with, I didn’t see it.
Briefly he examined each photo and found nothing to interest him. Then he flipped through the small pocket atlas. “The key is absolutely meaningless without knowledge of what book and which edition the reference is to. But we don’t have the key.”
He dropped the book, obviously disgusted.
“What if they find it before we do?” I asked.
“They’ll track down Will Donovan and they’ll hold him hostage until Judge Donovan finds a way to get Ackerman acquitted.”
In which case Cara and Patrice would no longer be of any value to them.
And Stephen would have died for nothing.
I felt sick to my stomach.
“But only if they get the key,” I insisted.
“When they get the key,” Ian said. “That’s why we have to get it first.”
He picked up the note Stephen had written to me, read it, peered into my eyes and then dropped it back onto the bed. I had no idea what he might be thinking.
“Stephen wouldn’t have sent the key with the book,” Ian said. “Have you received any other correspondence from him? Think, Elizabeth. Did he leave anything with you the last time you saw him, no matter how insignificant?”
I searched my mind, shaking my head. “Only a bottle of scotch.”
He twisted and grabbed my backpack off the floor, unzipped it and dumped its contents between us.
“Hey!” I protested, but he pawed through my clothes and personal items anyway. Then he reached for my purse. I tried to snatch it from him, but he shook it, spilling pens and lipstick, wallet and checkbooks onto the bed covers.
“Why do you have two checkbooks?” he asked, scooping them up.
“One belonged to Stephen. I found it in my condo between the sofa cushions—”
“The last time he visited,” Ian finished.
I’d put it in my purse, so I’d have it with me when I saw him again. But then he’d died, and I hadn’t thought to take it out.
Ian riffled through it as I scrambled off the bed to watch over his shoulder. It looked like a normal checkbook with a plastic cover, a ledger tucked into the upper flap and a pad of checks slipped into the lower. Each entry was dated with a month and a day, no year, followed by the name of the person the check was made out to, with the account number penned on the notation line.
“This is a copy of the code,” Ian declared.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Stephen left it with you, and just look at it. It’s all written in the same ink so we could recognize it when we found it. If this were an actual check ledger filled out over time, the inks, even if they were the same color, would be different. So would the handwriting. Besides, all of these entries are made out to individuals. There’s not a single business in the list. The original would pass as a ledger if it wasn’t scrutinized too closely, but not this one.”
He was right. It was too regimented. And the dates didn’t make sense. Who could have one check ledger that spanned what was looking more and more like years and years? But if this was the key to the code, how did it work?
And, if this was a copy, where was the original?
The date of the last entry, January 21, caught my eye. I grabbed the checkbook out of Ian’s hand and flipped back to the checks. Number 92 was still on top, not written out, even though that same number was clearly recorded in the ledger as a check for $54.98 made out to Alan Spears. On the second line, just under the name, was an account number.
“January twenty-first was the day that Will Donovan disappeared.”
Ian raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, I bloody well doubt Stephen was writing checks the day he spirited off Will.” He grabbed up the pocket atlas. “Read me the account number. Include the hyphens.”
“It’s 238-87C2.”
“First number has to be the page.” He flipped through to 238. It was in the index of cities. “What’s the next part again?”
“87C2.”
He ran his finger down the print. “It’s a reference to the map and the quadrant.” He looked up at me, a smile tugging at the left side of his face. “Bingo. Will Donovan is in Cowichan Bay, British Columbia. How much would you like to bet his new name is Alan Spears?”
Chapter 23
We woke at dawn, stopped for a brief breakfast that I had trouble choking down and were at a small airport within half an hour. Money buys lots of things, and Ian had lots of money. In this case it bought the use of a private, twin-engine plane. We were the only passengers onboard. It had been idling at the airport as we drove up, and I was certain that phone call he’d made late last night from his cell phone had brought it there.
I’d discarded all my fake identification, dropping my other licenses and passports into the mail in an envelope with my Maryland address, so as not to “confuse” the authorities if we were stopped crossing the border.
The pilot filed a flight plan, and, flying low, we landed on a remote island off Seattle several hours later. Once on the ground, we took a speedboat into the tiny tree-covered islands along the border, changed to another boat in the open water and proceeded on to Vancouver Island, off the mainland of British Columbia, the crisp sea air stinging our faces.
I could see immediately why Stephen had chosen this place for Will Donovan. Water and boats were everywhere. According to the article in The Washingtonian magazine, Donovan was an avid sailor.
Our “ride” let us off at the dock amid the bustle of the busy, cold afternoon. Fishing boats were coming in, and the odors of fish, algae and saltwater filled my head.
Ian took my hand, pulling me across the weathered boards of the old wooden dock. We blended, as best we could, into the crowd and the noise. He wore a casual smile as his gaze searched the faces we passed. Through that smile, he whispered to me, “Don’t look so sour. Make them think we’re on our honeymoon.”
It was obvious that tourists came up from Seattle. I decided I could do that; I could be a tourist from Seattle. Not a tourist on my honeymoon, however. “I’ll smile, but keep your hands to yourself,” I warned, pasting on a grin of my own. I needed my thoughts on what we were doing. Ian could be far too much of a distraction.
He didn’t let go of my hand but instead drew it possessively into the crook of his arm.
We stopped at a dark little tavern one street over from the dock to get our bearings, and took a booth at the back, sitting across from each other. Ian ordered u
s each a pint. I started to protest that I don’t drink—at least not beer—but he shushed me. Then he asked me for Will’s photo. I dug it out of my pack and handed it to him.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Will Donovan is in his twenties, right?”
I nodded.
“Then he’ll like his ale, and this village is too small to support many of these houses. If he’s here in Cowichan Bay, he’ll have been in here at one time or another.”
When the waiter came back, Ian showed him the photo. “Do you know this fellow? His name is Alan Spears.”
“Oh, Alan. Sure. He comes in here from time to time. Haven’t seen him for maybe a week now. What about him?”
“He’s a friend of ours,” I said, leaning forward, “actually of my daughter’s. She wanted us to drop by and look him up.”
“Nice sort. Likes to sail. You’ll find him at his place if he’s in port this week. Here, I’ll make it easier for you.” He drew us a crude map on a napkin. “When you see him, tell him I have some Guinness on tap that I’m certain he’d like to try.”
“Of course.” I tried to smile casually.
“What if Will’s not there?” I asked as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. “He may have heard about his mother’s death. What if he’s already left for Denver?”
“He hasn’t,” Ian assured me. “We would have heard. If he sets foot in Denver, someone is certain to recognize him. His photo has been all over the news with his disappearance, and again with what happened to his mother.”
“Wouldn’t someone here have recognized him?” I asked.
“Not likely. No one’s expecting him to be here. Besides, it’s quite possible someone would think Alan Spears looks a bit like Will Donovan if, indeed, the Canadian news service picked up the story, but people do resemble one another.”
I thought about the clerk at the ski lodge where Stephen died not recognizing Judge Donovan.
“Why hasn’t Will gone back to Denver?” I asked.
“We’re about to find out.” He drained his glass, left money on the table and ushered me back out into the sunlight, leaving my own beer untouched.
Cowichan Bay has a feel to it a good bit like what I imagine the States must have been like in the fifties—mostly two-lane roads and small businesses populated with what seem to be friendly, wholesome people who don’t expect too much from anyone who’s willing to spend money there.
We rented a car and, following the map, finally found the house in an isolated little cove about three miles up from where we’d docked. The number on the post out front was 5498, the amount written on the check.
It was a modest one-story cottage built partially on pilings. The place had huge windows on the two sides overlooking the water. No boat was moored at its dock, but there was a Miata parked inside the attached garage.
Ian drew out his gun.
“Is that really necessary?” I asked.
“I hope not,” he said.
He knocked on the door as I peered through the windows at the sleek wooden floors and simple furnishings. No lights were on. When I joined Ian at the door, he’d slipped the lock.
Mail had piled onto the floor below the door slot. I picked it up. Nothing personal; only advertisements addressed to “occupant.” I passed the stack over to him.
“What would you say? Seven days? Eight?” I asked.
“No more than. He’d know not to be away longer than that, although I suspect he was confident that Stephen could get in touch with him if necessary.”
“He doesn’t know Stephen’s dead,” I said.
“No,” he agreed.
“You’re assuming he left voluntarily,” I pointed out.
“That’s the hope. I see no signs of struggle, and James hadn’t figured out where he was last we saw him.”
We walked through the main room, disturbing nothing as we went. It was a comfortable little place, with simple, wood-framed furniture sporting canvas-covered cushions, a small fireplace, two shelving units filled with books, a stereo system, a two-way radio and a breakfast bar separating the galley-type kitchen from the main living area. The cupboards contained mostly packaged foods, the freezer mainly fish, the refrigerator beer, milk and orange juice. I checked the expiration dates. The milk had one more day left on it. Will couldn’t have been gone long.
When I stepped into the only other room, the bedroom, I had to steady myself. It contained a double bed on a frame, two dressers and a bedside table. On every flat surface were photos, framed snapshots of Cara and myself, both together and individually.
I felt Ian’s arm circle my shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
All I could do was point. He swept past me, leaving me clinging to the doorframe.
“Damn.”
“This was Stephen’s place,” I managed. I should have guessed. Stephen had always loved the water, always loved to sail. He’d realized his dream to someday have a cottage away from it all, a place where the world couldn’t intrude.
Ian nodded, trying to shake off his own surprise a little too late. I’d already seen it. This man who was supposed to be Stephen’s closest confidant didn’t know about this place.
But then, neither did I. One more secret. He’d kept us here with him, if only in photos. God. Stephen, if you loved us so much, why did you push us away?
And why had he brought Will Donovan into his own hideaway? Was this indeed to have been his last case, as Ian had suggested? What had Stephen said the last time I’d seen him? Something about things changing. That we had something to look forward to. I’d heard that one before. I should have listened. Instead I’d thrown him out.
“So,” I said, shaking off my thoughts, “if this is where the code says Will Donovan should be, why isn’t he here?”
“I’d say he went sailing,” Ian said. “There’s no boat. The flashlights and emergency equipment are all missing.” Ian slipped into the bathroom and then back out again. “His toothbrush is gone, too. He left his razor.”
“Then he doesn’t know about his mother,” I suggested.
He nodded. “He’d have to make an effort to discover what was going on in the outside world. I suspect he was waiting for a message from Stephen.”
“You say Stephen would have known how to contact him when he was on the boat.”
Ian nodded.
I let out a rush of exasperated air. “So what do we do now?”
“The only thing we can do. Wait.”
Chapter 24
Our wait ended the next evening, just as the sun was shooting spectacular orange rays across the horizon, lighting up the living area of Stephen’s cottage through the wide windows. The tension between Ian and me had become almost unbearable. Neither of us had said a word about what had happened at the motel, and, except for a stolen glance every now and again, I could have almost believed I’d dreamed it.
I was inside reading one of Stephen’s books on sailing while Ian kept watch outside. All I heard was a single tap on the window. He’d disappeared by the time I dropped my book, switched off the light, and reared up to look outside.
The whir of an outboard motor grew from the buzz of a mosquito to the roar of a chain saw, as I found my gun, slipped to the floor and crouched next to the chair. Suddenly the noise stopped, and I could hear the slap of water against the dock along with the thunk of a rope hitting wood.
I hoped it was Will. It could just as easily have been James who had somehow discovered Will’s hiding place. The thought made me shudder.
My breath caught as a key twisted in the lock. I raised my gun as the door swung inward. A figure, backlit by the magnificent sunset, filled the threshold, then bent to drop a duffel onto the floor. Directly behind him, a second shadow appeared.
Ian’s voice said, “Raise your hands where I can see them.” Suddenly the two shadows merged and then both men came through the opening, thumping to the floor. I heard a loud groan and something metal skid across the floor. Then the sh
adows separated as the top one wrenched violently backward onto his feet, thudding against the wall.
I flipped on the light. “Okay, that’s enough.”
They both looked startled; Ian, twisting the shoulder that had been whacked against the wall; and a wild-eyed Will Donovan just gaining his footing. I’d seen enough photos of him to recognize him almost anywhere, even with longer hair and several days of stubble covering his chin. Both of his hands were raised in fists. Ian’s gun lay well out of reach on the floor. Will slung his hair out of his eyes and demanded, “Who the fu—”
“Uh-uh. There’s a lady present,” Ian cautioned.
“Ladies don’t break into people’s homes and hold them at gunpoint. What the hell do you want?”
His gaze darted back and forth between the two of us, assessing his odds, and then rested on me. I saw recognition in his eyes.
“I’m Stephen Larocca’s wife.”
His fists relaxed slightly as he looked Ian up and down. “Where’s Stephen?”
“Dead,” I told him, standing up.
I’d said it enough that the word no longer stirred any emotion within me. It was simply a fact that I’d come to accept.
Will uttered a low “Damn.”
I didn’t lower the gun. Not yet. He was feisty, young and limber, and a good deal bigger than his photos let on. While I had no doubt Ian could handle him, Ian had already taken at least one bad blow. I needed them both in good shape.
“We’re here to help you,” I said.
“Good. You can help me by putting down your gun and getting the hell out of my way.”
“Not so fast.” Ian warned. “Show us any other weapons you have.”
“Why don’t you go to—” Will began.
“Do what he says,” I ordered.
He motioned toward the duffel, and Ian retrieved a 9 mm Beretta, which he slipped into his own pocket, along with the one on the floor. Then he patted Will down and drew a knife from a sheath strapped to Will’s calf.
No Safe Place Page 15
