by J K Ellem
Friday meant that the library closed at 2 p.m. Annie Haywood locked the front door on time, and made her way down the steps to her car. As she drove out of the parking lot then along the coastal road, her mind settled back on the man she had seen walk by earlier.
There was no cause for concern. He could be anyone. A tourist. A traveler passing through. A friend or relative visiting the island for the summer. Yet, as Annie drove, the pragmatic side of her brain was telling her that the man looked like none of those the imaginative side of her brain was throwing up as possible suggestions.
She eventually shrugged it off as stupidity and berated herself a bit for being paranoid. How could she keep track of every new or unfamiliar face in Erin's Bay? Especially now that summer had started.
She lowered the window and let her mind wander again as she drove. The sun glistened off the ocean, the breeze ruffled her hair and a fresh salty scent filled the inside of the car, a smell that she loved on her skin, on her face, everywhere.
It was late afternoon by the time Annie walked through the front door carrying some groceries she had picked up on the way home from a local farmers market.
She placed the bags next to the hall stand and pressed the code into the alarm keypad, silencing the incessant beeping.
She paused for a moment like she did every time she came home, and listened to the afternoon sounds of the cottage cooling and creaking, and the distant hiss of the ocean.
All well, she slid open the drawer of the hall stand and lifted out a cold, dark object. Ejecting the magazine she checked the first round was seated snugly at the top. Twelve high velocity hollow-point rounds, each one hundred forty-seven grains of heart-stopping lead encased in shiny brass. The slide moved smoothly as she checked that a round was in the chamber.
Satisfied, she rammed the magazine back into the handgun with the heel of her palm and placed it back into the drawer - barrel pointing in, grip facing out –before closing it gently.
For Annie Haywood, if the demons of her past were to find her again, she would be ready for them. This time.
7
Most people would be angry, fuming in fact, wanting immediate blood. But not Teddy Hanson. While others would instantly seek revenge to get even, Teddy would often calmly sit back and take stock of the situation. Then, only after careful consideration of all the variables, all the possible combinations and permutations, he would act. And it would be decisive action indeed. Fire and brimstone proportions, if required.
So, he sat ensconced in the media room in his parents’ sprawling oceanfront mansion, a rerun of last night’s football game playing on the big screen, his crew assembled around him cheering and chattering, watching the game, while Teddy stayed quietly at the back of the room carefully planning his revenge. The sound on the screen was turned up loud but it may as well have been on mute because Teddy heard nothing at all as he smoldered in his Machiavellian haze.
“Come on, Teddy, aren’t you watching the game?” someone stood up and yelled above the din.
“Sit down Cobb, you prick, I can’t see.”
“Fuck you, Gymp. With all that shit you pump into yourself, you should be able to see through fucking walls.” The response was swift and brought a burst of laughter.
Teddy broke from his thoughts and looked up at the screen, an untouched bottle of warm beer held limply in one hand. He knew the score, so did the others but they still carried on like a bunch of apes. But they were his apes, his crew. They had played together, fought together and fucked together.
“Don’t worry about the bitch, man,” another laughed, referring to Abigail Brenner, the subject of Teddy’s rancid brooding. “She’s just a little rich girl.”
“Probably missing Daddy’s cock,” someone else grumbled. “He’s been gone so long she’s pining for the feel of good ol’ Daddy inside her again.” Another bout of testosterone-filled laughter resonated in the room, the game on the screen temporally forgotten.
Teddy took a deep breath and sighed.
A huge shape slid into the theater seat next to him. Ambrose Smith was big and black, an offensive linemen for Yale, brains and brawn rolled into two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, bone and sinew. He also ran offense for the rest of the crew off the field when needed. With a low deep voice that sounded like it came from the depths of a bottomless pit, he asked Teddy, “What’s his name? The guy you saw with Abby.”
Teddy looked at Ambrose. He’d always liked Ambrose. He was one of his most trusted and loyal friends. He was amazed how attuned and sensitive the big man could be. He read the play so well.
Ambrose once sacked the quarterback of an opposing team in a pre-season college game, broke the kid’s spine, cracked his helmet doing it. Not only was he huge, he was also nimble, had the agility of a gazelle. After that particular game Ambrose earned the nickname “pile driver” by his teammates. He had a dick the size of a California Redwood, too, which may have had something to do with his nickname as well. Teddy once saw him nearly split apart some drunken skinny high school sophomore at an after-game party. Teddy had some tasty footage on his cell phone of that little endeavor. Damn girl bled like a Texas gusher, had to take her to an emergency room.
“Don’t know,” Teddy replied. “Some new guy in town that Abby dragged in.”
“College guy?”
Teddy shook his head, “No. Older, late-twenties. Probably sniffing around her ass like she’s a mutt in heat. Sick of banging MILFs.”
Ambrose smiled and nodded his smooth, shiny cannonball head in silent contemplation. His neck was as thick as a bull’s, and he had the bulbous shoulders of a mountain gorilla. He took his fair share of juice in the off-season, they all did, just to give them the edge, and they all made sure it was flushed from their systems before they started pre-season training.
“Do you think he’s going to be trouble?” Ambrose finally spoke again. “You know, for what we’ve got planned?”
Like Teddy and everyone else in the tight-knit crew, Ambrose was looking forward to the next few months. Teddy had promised some “special entertainment” this summer. Not that last summer wasn’t entertaining, and Teddy said it wasn’t “technically” rape because the girl was unconscious.
Another roar went around the room with slaps of high-fives and the clinking of beer bottles, but there was no celebration for Teddy as he sat silently brooding. He was thinking about Abby and her new friend. The guy wouldn’t be a problem, even if he was slightly older. No one had been a problem for him and his crew. Those who had crossed their path usually ended up in intensive care with a few broken bones and missing teeth.
Teddy beckoned the big man closer and Ambrose obliged. In hushed tones he spoke, “You like Abby, don’t you?”
Ambrose grinned. He sure did like Abigail Brenner. He preferred them young and girl-like and she fit the bill nicely. Her narrow willowy shape, thin-boned limbs and pale white skin conjured up all sorts of delicious images in Ambrose’s mind. If he had the slightest opportunity to get her alone, he’d certainly show her what he was capable of. The “pile driver” would get on top of that tight little body and drill right into her, break her, then bury her in the ground.
But Teddy had made it absolutely clear that she was off-limits to everyone except him, even if they had broken up more than six months ago. Teddy was extremely possessive and he wanted no one else to have Abby. If he couldn’t, then no one could either. That’s what he’d told the crew.
“Sure, Teddy,” Ambrose replied. “I’ve always liked her. You know that.”
Teddy gave a sly smile, the sadistic cogs in his head slowly turning. He slapped a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Well, you big black bastard, I’m giving her to you.”
Ambrose frowned. “What do you mean giving her to me?” Ambrose understood but he wanted just to make sure he heard right.
“She’s yours to do what you do best,” Teddy said.
Ambrose rubbed his jaw, thinking about what her tight, pink little pu
ssy would feel like as he cleaved into her.
Teddy looked over Ambrose’s shoulder, making sure no else was listening. But the rest of the crew were too engrossed in the game or in themselves. “It’s my gift to you, you’re a special friend to me. I reward loyalty and I’m rewarding you with Abby.”
Ambrose gave a wide smile. It was like all his Christmases had come at once. He would do anything for Teddy, always had, questioning nothing. Now getting Teddy’s approval was important, like he had been promoted within the crew.
“Thanks, Teddy. You’ll know I’ll treat her right.”
Teddy’s face clouded over for a moment. “You don’t understand.”
Ambrose felt confused again. “What do you mean Teddy?”
When he spoke again, Teddy’s voice was stone cold, “It simply won’t do if you go treating her right, treating her good.” Teddy eased a little closer. “I want you to treat her bad,” he said. “Really, really bad.”
Ambrose nodded and felt a stirring deep in his loins, something primal and uncontrollable slowly coming to life.
“I want you to make her bleed,” Teddy added, “from everywhere.”
8
Sailboats skimmed across the surface, triangular shapes on a plain of glistening blue. Across the channel, the lighthouse sat stoically atop Moors Island, like a sentinel warning all to stay away.
From where he stood, Shaw estimated the channel to be only half a mile wide but powerful currents lay beneath an otherwise calm surface making the crossing treacherous. The rear of the Brenner property contained manicured gardens that ended at a high retaining wall and boundary fence. Past the fence and through a gate, wooden stairs led down to the dunes and to the beach beyond. To the left was a small rock seawall with a wood dock that ran out over the water ending with a small boat shed where a sailing boat had once been moored.
At Shaw’s back was a large swimming pool framed in smooth paved sandstone and decorative rock. In front of him, past the channel and beyond the lighthouse, sat the cold emptiness of the Atlantic Ocean.
Looking south through the curling haze of windswept sand and sea spray he could see the rear of the other estates he had seen on the drive in. They had expansive backyards, beautiful swimming pools and manicured gardens.
“Who tends the lighthouse?” Shaw asked without turning around.
Abby sat behind him, reclined on a sun lounge, her face tilted upwards like a sunflower tracking the arc of the sun, eyes hidden behind dark lenses, pale supple legs bent slightly, one knee kinked almost in a pose. “There’s no one on the island, the lighthouse is automatic, comes on at dusk and goes off at dawn,” Abby replied sleepily, the warmth of the afternoon sun making her feel drowsy.
Shaw studied the lighthouse. He could make out a small beach and adjacent to the lighthouse sat a small outbuilding. Thick vegetation and trees shrouded the rest of the island and a line of black jagged rocks curved around most of the shoreline.
“What else is on there?” Shaw asked. “Just the lighthouse?” There was something about lighthouses that had always fascinated him, ever since he was a young boy. Maybe it was because they were built in such desolate, harsh, windswept environments that naturally conjured up thoughts of intrigue and mystery. Or maybe it was their intended purpose that intrigued him; to warn off approaching ships from the hazardous coastline and the dangerous rocks that lay hidden below the waves. Obvious peril and danger that was not obvious to all.
As someone who enjoyed the comfort of his own company, away from the noise of the world, Shaw once considered living in a lighthouse. He could imagine himself tending the lighthouse and spending his days alone, thinking, reading, with nothing but the wind, the gulls and the waves for company.
“There’s the remains of an old house somewhere on the island. It burned down years ago I’ve been told.” Abby propped herself up on one elbow and regarded Shaw. She had changed into a red bikini top and shorts. “A bit before my time. I’ve never been out there.” Abby tilted her sunglasses down and gave Shaw her trademark look. “Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.”
She lay back down. “You know Mr Shaw,” she said in a sultry voice, “I believe you’re the type of person who is never just curious about anything.”
Abby had taken Shaw for the tour of the main house. It had so many bedrooms, and bathrooms, passageways, and living areas that he’d lost count. Margaret Brenner, Abby’s mother, was upstairs in the master bedroom. Apparently she was “under the weather” as one of the staff explained to Abby when they walked through the front door. There was a full-time housekeeper, a cook, two part-time gardeners and a maid, Abby had explained.
Shaw sat down on a chair opposite Abby. “So what happened to your father?” He didn’t want to pry but Abby had brought the topic up in the car.
Abby sat up, brought her knees up and hugged her legs like she suddenly felt a chill. She looked out at ocean, her eyes not focusing on anything in particular. “He never came back,” she said slowly. “He went sailing out past the lighthouse as he had done a million times before. Only this time he never returned.” She turned and regarded Shaw, her eyes shielded and hidden. “No trace. No wreckage. Nothing.”
“And the Coast Guard?” Shaw asked. “Surely they must have found something?”
Abby shook her head. “They searched for weeks, went miles out but found nothing. It was like he and his sailboat never existed.” Abby went on to explain that her father was an experienced sailor, had sailed all his life and he knew these waters and the coastline better than most around here.
“So what do you think happened?” Shaw asked.
“I’ve spent the last three years wondering. But I don’t know.” Abby looked back at the house. “My mother started drinking soon after my father went missing. She couldn’t cope. She became a recluse. She spends most days now either dosed up on sleeping pills in her room or intoxicated.”
Shaw could feel the pain in Abby’s voice even though she hid it well. There were no tears, no signs of weakness in her demeanor, just an edginess in her tone and certain aura she gave off. Shaw was correct in his initial assessment of her; she was an only child. With her father - the only guiding figure in her life – gone, Abby had no direction, certainly not from her mother who was obviously a drunk. But Abby didn’t want pity, or condolences or sympathy. There was a certain bitterness in her, like she was angry at her father for leaving her, abandoning her alone in the world. Daughters tend to align with their mothers on issues of emotions and indecision. But on pragmatic matters, it was their father they tended to gravitate towards.
“What about the police?” Shaw asked. “What did they say?”
Abby let out a mocking laugh and rolled her eyes. “The police! Give me a break. They do nothing around here. Totally useless.” Over the years, Abby had her fair share of run-ins with the local police. Nothing major but she always had her father to fall back on even when she had pushed the boundaries.
Shaw studied the dock with the boat shed, almost imagining Abby’s father’s sailboat tied up there. Now it was empty and looked strangely out of place, almost like it was waiting for the boat to one day return safely from some long voyage.
“Come on,” Abby said standing up, “I’ll show you the guest house.”
9
The guest house was a small self-contained building with a paved pathway that led directly to the front door. It was partially hidden amongst the foliage and hedgerow and was tucked away at the rear of the property amongst the gardens and shrubbery. Abby said that there was another path at the rear and it was just a short walk to the beach.
She gave Shaw a key for the guest house that would also open the security gate at the rear of the property and the side access door for the gate house situated next to the main gates of the driveway. The key would not open any of the doors at the main house but then none of them were closed anyway she explained, maybe just at night.
She left saying that she had to check on her
mother and would be back later.
Dumping his rucksack near the front door, Shaw spent a few minutes orienting himself. There was a decent sized bedroom with a double bed, a bathroom with shower, vanity basin and toilet. In the cupboard under the basin, Shaw found a basket of small scented soaps, small bottles of shampoo and a host of other toiletries all neatly lined up. Looking around he couldn’t help getting the feeling like he was staying in a high-end resort, a vast improvement compared to some of the places he been in the last six months but somehow the guest house was cold, clinical, sanitized comfort. He felt out of place and started to regret taking up Abby’s offer to stay.
There was an open lounge and a compact kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a breakfast counter. The fridge was stocked with just milk and mineral water. An expensive European coffee machine sat on the counter, gleaming from lack of use.
Everything from the table ware to the bed linens and soft furnishings spoke of high-end luxury. The decor had a distinct beach theme to it; pieces of driftwood strategically placed on tables, glass bowls filled with sand, seashells and dead starfish and black and white images framed in bleached timber adorned the walls depicting deserted beachscapes or sailing boats struggling against a wild ocean.
There were no locks or security screens on the windows.
Abby said that breakfast would arrive at any time he wanted and Shaw said 7.00 a.m. would be fine. He was an early riser. He didn’t want to make a fuss but Abby said not to be ridiculous. It would give the house staff something to do. They didn’t have many visitors and the guest house had been given another quick clean by the maid while Abby and Shaw were down by the pool.
Shaw stood in the middle of the living area and glanced around. The place was too neat, too orderly, too comfortable, too depressing.
He grabbed the key Abby had left him on the counter and went exploring.
