A Dark Love (26 page)

S
eeing Porter again was like watching a corpse rise from his casket and walk. It was wrong, wrong, all wrong. Caroline’s world had turned upside down. She swayed, flailed, and her hand found a tree for support. She screwed her eyes shut and held fast, praying Porter would somehow be gone when she opened them.

But he was still there.

She shrank back, willing herself to become invisible.

Porter looked around.

Fear tripped up and down her spine, cutting her resolve like razor blades. She wondered if he could see her, smell her, sense her presence so close to him. He had told her they were soul mates.

He had tracked her here.

She drew her breath in and held it.

Keeping a tight hold on his gun, he walked to the Yukon, opened the rear hatch, and pulled out a large red tin. On the side was an image of yellow flame. Caroline’s insides gave a sickening lurch.

There was no mistaking Porter’s intent. He was going to burn the cabin down.

The contents of her stomach heaved up to the back
of her throat and she choked it down rather than risk making a sound. Porter’s cruel streak had caught Caroline off guard on many occasions, but somehow she never thought he was capable of cold-blooded murder.

But he was.

Unless she could find a way to stop him.

Porter hoisted the can and lugged it inside.

Caroline was shaking so hard now her knees barely held her weight. She considered her options. She could tackle him from behind. Not likely. She looked around for a rock, something heavy to smash his skull. But she saw only snow. Her panicked mind could not come up with anything else.

The opportunity passed.

Porter stopped on the porch, set the kerosene tin down, and steadied the gun in his right hand before reaching for the door handle with his left.

Which meant Ken was alive.

Porter took one more look around before nudging the door open with his foot. He collected the tin and disappeared inside.

Which meant, for a few seconds, his back was to her.

Caroline sprinted for the Jeep, crouching low to the ground, too frightened even to risk looking up to see if she’d been spotted.

She clambered inside, expecting a shot to ring out at any moment.

But there was nothing, just the hammering of her heart and the dome light shining like neon in the gloom.

She eased the door shut and crouched, breathless and shaking, on the floor of the car.

She screwed up her courage and checked the passenger side window, bracing herself to see Porter’s face,
mottled red with rage, looming over her like some horror movie.

But there was nothing, just gray sky.

She reached for the glove compartment with fingers that trembled so hard they couldn’t manage the latch at first. But she got the compartment open on the second try, fumbling around inside until her fingers closed around the worn leather sheath of the bowie knife. She unsheathed the knife and tested the blade. The edge was razor sharp.

Caroline had never held a hunting knife.

She tucked it carefully inside her jacket pocket. She did a quick search of the remaining contents, but found nothing else that would help.

She crouched, wondering what her next move should be.

Porter chose it for her.

M
oross reentered the cabin, lugging a five-gallon tin of kerosene, which he set down next to the Franklin stove.

The liquid made a sloshing sound.

He still carried a gun in his right hand.

Ken had once been on a plane that nearly crashed. His then-wife had spent months planning a vacation to New Zealand. It was the trip that was supposed to save their marriage and impress all their friends. They had spent the day hiking the Milford Track down to the sound at the rugged tip of the South Island, literally the edge of the earth. A private plane would carry them back out. The winds picked up as the day wore on, turning the sky an ominous shade of green with flashes of white lightning. The bush pilot decided to take off, assuring them they’d be aloft before the storm settled in.

The pilot was mistaken. The tiny plane shook during takeoff, fighting for every foot of altitude, and then got caught in a burst of wind shear. The fuselage bucked like a twig, its single engine screaming. Ken’s wife clung to him as the pilot fought to keep the plane’s nose up.
But the plane plummeted, sinking tail-first back toward earth.

Ken’s wife screamed.

Ken prepared to meet his Maker.

And then, miraculously, the pilot regained control. The plane leveled out and resumed its climb.

It was as close to death as Ken had come. Until now. He surveyed the kerosene tin, calculating his odds.

Most likely he’d succumb to smoke not flames.

Moross hummed something tuneless and low. “Wood,” he muttered. “We need wood.” He headed back outside.

P
orter reappeared on the porch.

Caroline prayed he couldn’t see her in her hiding place on the driver’s side of the Jeep.

But he didn’t glance her way, striding purposefully across the porch and around to the back of the cabin.

She remembered a woodpile there, perhaps fifteen feet from the cabin’s rear wall.

It was her best chance. Porter would require a minute, give or take a few seconds, to fill his arms.

She scrambled across the small clearing and up the stone steps, certain she would collide with Porter coming around the corner of the porch.

She didn’t.

She opened the door and stepped inside, easing it shut behind her. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dim yellow light from a single lantern that lit the room. Everything was quiet and still. Too still. Her throat yawned open wide with mind-numbing terror.

Ken was on the floor, propped against the side of the couch with his eyes closed, his head hanging on his neck at an angle that was crazy.

Time stood still. Caroline felt her heart climb into her throat. If she had arrived too late, nothing mattered.

She called his name softly in the gloom, a plea to heaven above. “Ken.”

His eyes fluttered open.

She had never been so relieved in her life.

K
en was paralyzed.

aroline remembered times Porter had held her down, delivering a pinprick to her buttocks or legs, followed by shadowy memories of pain and nightmare images. She’d regain consciousness hours later, heart pounding, mouth dry, bruised and bleeding in places she was afraid to touch.

“My God,” she whispered, horror mounting inside.

Ken winked.

Her soul fluttered with joy.

Her elation turned to despair, however, at the sound of footsteps, slow and measured, on the porch.

Her knees were shaking so bad she nearly collapsed.

Ken rolled his eyes at the wardrobe. He looked back at her and blinked.

Porter was close to the door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

Caroline raced to the wardrobe. She stepped inside and managed to shut the door behind her, but just barely, before Porter entered the cabin. In the dark, she waited for him to hear the pounding that was the sound
of her heart hammering inside her chest. He would trace it to the wardrobe and kill her.

But he did not. She heard him instead walk to the center of the room with unhurried steps before dropping the logs onto the floor, one at a time.

Her insides quaked with a terror so large it edged all the air from her lungs. She pressed herself against clothing that hung behind her in the darkness, seeking comfort in the scent of Ken’s aftershave that smelled of cedar and pine and the scratchy feel of wool on her skin. She held herself stock-still, and tried to listen.

Porter’s steps made a menacing sound on the floorboards. She flinched at the sudden screech of metal as he yanked open the door to the Franklin stove. And then his voice, falsetto with cheer. “There’s nothing like a roaring fire on a snowy day.”

Logs hit the inside of the stove, landing with a thudding sound one by one, like nails hammering shut the lid on a coffin.

Realization hit Caroline in the gut, bringing a fresh wave of panic that liquefied her insides with sickening speed. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and held them there, gagging back the vomit that was rising again at the back of her throat.

Porter moved through the cabin now, spattering liquid as he went. “Kincaid, I’ll just bet you were a Boy Scout.”

He was enjoying this.

Caroline searched with her hands in the darkness, grasping for something, anything. And then her hands found something useful.

A smooth piece of metal, long and slim. Its purpose was unmistakable.

She traced its cold perfection from the twin holes at the top to the trigger, her fingers slick with sweat and shaking with adrenaline. She hoped it was loaded.

The splashing stopped, and the sharp scent of kerosene penetrated the wardrobe.

“Well, Kincaid, this is how you’ll be remembered,” Porter said, setting the can down with an empty clanging sound. “A famous football player who died a senseless, ordinary death. A stupid hunting accident.” Porter laughed.

Caroline’s fingers fumbled desperately to find a home inside the trigger mechanism. She picked up the gun, surprised at how bottom-heavy it was, and pulled it to her chest. She knew her only chance was to surprise him. She gathered her courage to open the wardrobe door but it would not come. She tried to mouth a prayer but her lips stuck together, and this only magnified her fear. She reached for the closet door handle, closed her fingers around it, and willed herself to turn it.

But a sound from outside the cabin stopped her.

Tiny nails scratching at the outer door.

Caroline’s heart sank.

She heard a yip, followed by more scratching.

Then the stillness exploded with another sound, one she knew well.

“Caroline!” Porter bellowed.

A moan rose in her throat. “No,” she whispered in the darkness.

Porter walked to the cabin door and yanked it open.

Pippin rushed in with a burst of wind, toenails clicking on the wood floor. He made a quick tour of the perimeter of the room, before heading straight for the closet where Caroline hid.

“Caroline!” Porter stamped his foot. “Come out of that closet or I’ll blow Kincaid’s head off!”

She was trembling so hard she was afraid to move, afraid the small act of propping the shotgun inside the wardrobe would be too much for her. But it wasn’t, and she managed to accomplish this without setting off the gun.

“Come out now!” Porter slammed the cabin door so hard the walls shook. He moved into the center of the room.

Caroline stepped out and faced her husband.

He’d changed. The beard was gone. In its place was sickly white skin pocked through with purple lesions. His cheeks were hollow, and there were deep lines around his mouth, which seemed thinner. But the real change was Porter’s eyes, rimmed with red and recessed deeper beneath colorless brows.

His gaze was focused now with glittering intensity on Caroline.

So was the gun in his hand.

Caroline held tight to the closet handle. She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Fear had robbed her even of the ability to do that. Porter had sworn he would find her, and he had. She watched him look her up and down with those eyes, glittering like shards of broken glass.

She braced herself.

“Here we are. Reunited at last, the loving wife and her husband.” Porter’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

Pippin sniffed the air uncertainly as though he, too, did not know what to expect.

Caroline was silent.

“Speak to me, devoted wife.” Porter’s voice was low,
laced with sarcasm. He kept the pistol trained on her face.

She looked down, trying to think.

“Now, Caroline,” Porter said, his tone chiding. “You can’t avoid the issues any longer. This time we have to talk.” His lips formed tight around each syllable.

His sarcasm, she knew, could change in a moment into rage.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She steadied herself, certain he would read the revulsion in her eyes. It was all that remained of her feelings for him.

“I’ll wait,” he said in a voice that was stripped of all humanity.

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze at last. Desperation made her voice small. “Porter, I know you’re hurt and it’s my fault.”

“Hurt? And it’s all your fault?” His voice climbed to falsetto, mocking her. “Hurt?” He paused.

Caroline tried not to wince.

When he spoke again his voice had dropped low, into the doomsday range. “Why don’t you tell me more?”

He was falling, working his way down deeper into the vortex that would claim them once and for all.

Unless she could figure out a way to stop him, something she had never been able to do. A wilderness opened inside her, squeezing all feeling from her chest and face, leaving her numb. Like a stooge bettor in a shell game that was rigged, Caroline knew she was bound to lose. She felt the cabin around her drain of all energy as the vortex swirled around them, sucking them down. Except for one point that was dead center.

The loaded gun in Porter’s hand.

Caroline struggled to stay calm. Her voice came out thin and reedy. “Porter, this is about us, you and me. Nobody else. Let’s settle it alone. We need to go away from here.” She tried not to sound pleading. “Let’s leave, just the two of us.”

Something in his face gave way, and for a moment she held out hope that she had accessed the sanity in him. She glimpsed the old Porter, the one who had whispered his secrets and dreams to her in that dimly lit room high above Dupont Circle so long ago.

His face crumpled. “I wish I could trust you.”

“Porter, you can. You really can.” She was lying. Lying and pleading with him. If he sensed it, or felt manipulated in any way, the sane Porter would disappear.

Caroline swallowed hard, willing her voice to hold steady as she uttered words she knew were untrue. “I want us to go back to the way we were.”

The corners of Porter’s mouth turned down and his eyes cinched shut with pain. “I wish we could, too, Caroline,” he whispered. “I wish for that, too.”

She moved, raising her hands as if to comfort him. She fought the urge to step closer, for that would take her farther away from the wardrobe and the shotgun inside.

Porter sensed her movement. He tightened his grip on the gun and tensed, his eyes springing open.

Caroline’s heart sank.

Porter stared.

Measuring her, she knew, trying to decide whether she was telling the truth.

A tear slid down his face. “If you want to work things out, why did you run away?”

His voice rose higher, turning plaintive. Childlike. It
was the tone of a little boy who’d watched his mother put on her makeup and dress with care on that fateful day, pleading to go along in the car. Promising to behave. She’d promised to bring him a present when she came back, a surprise. But she never did.

Caroline swallowed. So much depended on her answer. She settled on the half truth, the three-quarters truth. “I’ve tried to be a good wife to you, Porter. I wanted that more than anything. You have to believe me. But I failed. I needed space to think things through.”

Porter moaned.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Before the words left her mouth she realized it had been the wrong thing to say.

“Sorry?” His voice was soft, laced with sorrow, and his eyes closed around his tears. “What’s the use of sorry? You never should have done that to me.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Too late, Caroline realized these were the wrong words.

Porter’s eyes sprang open. “Liar!” His lips curled around the last word.

The Porter she knew was gone again, dancing dangerously close to the edge of the vortex that spun around them gathering energy. In seconds, he would tumble into it. Tightening her grip on the wardrobe handle, Caroline willed her mind to shift course away from the vortex. She forced herself to consider new options, reaching for the right words, the magic ones that might save her now. “I know I was not honest with you, Porter,” she began. “But I want to start now. There’s just so much I want to tell you.”

He stared, unblinking.

The room was quiet. Caroline’s words dropped into the void that had formed around them. She forced her
self to go on, facing the man who had picked over her private wounds, tearing them open again and again so the scars would not heal. “I guess I never thought anyone would love me if they knew the things that had happened to me as a child, what my part in it was.” She looked down, again reaching for three-quarters of the truth.

“I loved you, Caroline.” Porter’s voice, barely a whisper, shook with emotion.

“I know that, Porter.” This, at least, was a complete truth. “And I loved you, too.”

He moaned again. “I never wanted it to come to this. I want you to know that.”

“It doesn’t have to, Porter,” she said quickly. “We can still go, just walk away from here. Just you and I.”

He shook his head swiftly, as if to clear it.

“Porter, please.” She was pleading and it was the wrong thing, she saw that in an instant.

His lips tightened. He sniffed once and blinked. When he opened his eyes again she saw that it was too late.

Porter was gone. He had slipped away.

“You don’t care about us, Caroline. You’re just trying to save him. Kincaid.” His voice hardened on Ken’s name.

The room started to spin again as the vortex gathered energy. Caroline calculated her odds. Reaching inside for the gun would require four seconds. Propping it into position would require at least three more. She shook her head. “Porter, please, let’s just talk.”

“Talk?” Porter’s voice rose to a screech.

Pippin pricked up his ears.

“All I do is talk.” Porter’s eyes glittered again. “Talk, talk, talk.”

Pippin let out a low growl.

Porter licked his lips, excited now. “I’m the only man that ever loved you. I’m the only man that ever could. Nobody will ever accept you the way you are. You’re damaged.” He spat the words out. “You know that.”

Caroline nodded, like a student signaling that she has memorized her lesson.

“Nobody else could ever understand you. Nobody else would even want to. You’re not worth it. Do you see that?”

“Yes,” she whispered. But she saw in his eyes it was no use, there was nothing she could say now to change things. He was beyond compassion.

Porter shook his head in disgust. “I don’t think you do. I’m sick of your lies.” He redoubled his grip on the .38, his voice dropping as he motioned at Ken with his chin. “I could shoot him right now.”

Caroline forced herself to be still so he wouldn’t see her flinch.

“And the sad thing is, that’s all you care about. Isn’t it?” Porter waited, his lips working in fury.

The room turned deadly still. Caroline searched desperately for words, the right words, the ones that could turn this around and save their lives, hers and Ken’s. But nothing came.

Porter flicked his hand so the gun moved.

Caroline jumped.

He gave a cruel little smile. “Answer me, wife. He’s all you care about, isn’t he?”

Pippin growled.

Caroline’s mind raced. Anything she said now would tip Porter over the edge. She could tell by his eyes, flat and cold with rage.

“Talk!” Porter shrieked, flicking the gun once more.

Caroline jumped.

There was no way to appease him. There never had been, not since that day in the museum when they first met. She had aged a thousand years since then. He had been choking the life out of her, inch by inch, beginning on that day.

She risked a glance in Ken’s direction. She could see only his legs stretched out on the floor in front of him, motionless and still. She pondered the millions of moments, known only to him, that made up the sum total of his life. Moments of pain and passion, love and glory, loss and joy that belonged to him. In a moment or two, it would all be finished, released into eternity and fading like a whisper on the mountain wind.

Grief came to her then, and something else she had never known for even one day of her life with Porter.

Acceptance. It was finally done and spent, this dark love they had shared. It was finished, and the vortex had won.