False Pretenses (30 page)

“No.”

Christian turned quickly about to face her. “Hello, Elizabeth. Not much longer now, my dear.” Even as he spoke, he turned off the motor.

“What did you do to Jonathan?”

“I killed him,” Christian said calmly.

She managed to come up on her hands and knees. The boat was swaying gently in the swell of the waves.

“I killed the damned bastard,” he said again.

She raised her face and looked at him. He was smiling.
I killed him.

The sun was bright overhead. She heard Jonathan telling her, a smile in his voice, “Cover up, love. I don't want to make love to a peeling lobster. Even though it's December, that sun is damned hot.”

Christian was smiling at her. He looked boyish, happy, with a lock of hair over his forehead.

She felt the salt breeze on her face, felt her hair lifting and falling about her shoulders.
I killed the damned bastard.

Everything fell into place.

Elizabeth lurched to her feet and the boat swayed precariously.

“Sit down!”

But she didn't. She didn't see anything, feel anything, but knew that she wanted to die and to kill. Both.

“Sit down!” He brought the gun up, pointing it at her stomach.

The gun meant nothing. It was a little piece of black metal.

Her eyes narrowed on him and her world became only her hatred.

Then she jumped.

Christian drew back, his legs hitting against the
motor. She was on him like a wild thing. He pulled the trigger, knew that he'd hit her.

She felt a prickling in her arm. Nothing more, just an irritating little sting. Nothing but a piece of black metal. It couldn't hurt her.

Her fingernails were on his face, tearing downward. She heard him howl, felt his hands striking her, in the stomach, in the chest.

She was yowling like a wild animal, screaming with rage.

He got her arms down, and she brought up her knee and sent it into his groin. He froze, then screamed.

“I want you to die!”

Her voice sounded hoarse, crazed. And she kicked him again, and with all her strength heaved him overboard. But he grabbed at her, pulling her with him. She hooked her leg around the motor and smashed her fist into his stomach.

She felt his grip loosen and drew back her arm. Her elbow went into his throat. He made an odd gurgling sound, then plunged backward into the water.

He thrashed and she watched him. He called out to her. She watched him, not moving.

Then the water closed over his head once, twice.

Elizabeth felt fierce triumph.
I killed him.

“Elizabeth!”

A woman's voice . . . but no, that made no sense. She turned slowly and saw another motorboat careening toward her. A woman waving frantically toward her. It was Catherine. Rowe Chalmers was at the wheel.

“Elizabeth!”

She looked down at the frothing waves, stirred up by the other boat. She didn't even wonder how and why Catherine was here, Rowe with her. She just stared down at the water. She was aware that she was moving to the edge of the boat.

“Elizabeth, for God's sake, no!”

Rowe's voice, filled with fear.

Then Rowe pulled the boat next to hers and cut the engine.

Catherine scrambled over the side and grabbed Elizabeth. “Oh, God, we saw him, saw you fight with him. It's over, Elizabeth. What's wrong with you?” She shook her.

“He killed Jonathan. He killed my husband.”

She tried to pull away from Catherine, but Rowe grabbed her. She fought him, but he jerked her over into the other boat. “Hold on to her, Catherine.”

He started the motor, and the boat leapt forward, back toward shore.

Elizabeth huddled low, a low keening noise coming from her mouth.

“My God, he shot you!”

Suddenly she felt a searing pain in her arm. Nausea rose in her throat and she leaned over the side and vomited.

Catherine held her, then pulled her back, holding her head on her lap. “We got here as fast as we could,” she said, realizing that she was babbling, but it didn't matter. “I even talked to Midge, Jonathan's secretary. She was worried. She wanted to come with us. She wanted—”

“Christian murdered my husband.”

“Oh, God, Elizabeth, I'm so sorry.” She began rocking Elizabeth, saying meaningless words. So she'd married Jonathan Harley . . . and now she was a widow once again. Catherine closed her eyes.

“We've got to get her to a hospital,” Rowe said. He was pale. He pulled the boat next to the dock at the boathouse.

“I don't care,” Elizabeth whispered. “I don't care.”

“Stop it, of course you care!” Catherine's eyes met Rowe's and he slowly shook his head. He jumped out of the boat and tied it up, then stopped cold.

Jonathan Harley stumbled out of the boathouse,
blood streaming down his face, his hands still tied behind his back.

“Elizabeth!”

She didn't raise her head, just kept moaning, “No, no .. .”

 

“T
he bullet went straight through the fleshy part of her upper arm. She'll be all right, but she needs blood. Mr. Chalmers has her type and he's donating at this moment. Now, Mr. Harley, please calm down, you'll need a couple of stitches in your head.”

Dr. Maxwell paused a moment at the close of his very reasoned talk, fully expecting Mr. Harley to fold his tent and cooperate. Instead, Jonathan asked sharply, “What is her type? Why didn't you ask me?”

Dr. Maxwell sighed. “You need all the blood you've got. You were hurt too, you know. Now, please, Mr. Harley.”

But Jonathan ignored him for the moment, watching the IV dripping clear liquid into Elizabeth's arm. Her face was pale as death to his frightened eyes.

Dr. Maxwell said patiently, “We'll replace the glucose solution that she's getting now with blood. Then she'll go back to the glucose.”

He nodded to the nurse, but Jonathan said, “Just a moment, please.” He leaned over his wife and said
very softly, “It's over, love. He's dead. Believe me, Elizabeth. It's you and me now, no more shadows, no more monsters hiding in the dark.” He kissed her mouth.

“Mr. Harley, your head, sir.”

He turned to face Maxwell again, and thought inconsequentially that the doctor's nose was long and thin, just like Christian Hunter's. “All right,” he said. But he didn't move until the gurney was wheeled out of sight.

 

Catherine Carleton and Rowe Chalmers stood in the sterile corridor, waiting.

“She'll be all right, Cathy,” Rowe said as he rolled down his sleeve. “Hell, she's going to get my blood now, she has to do just great.”

That drew a small smile. “Yeah, I know.”

“And so will Jonathan.”

“That poor man. Lord, I'm so tired.”

She turned and pressed herself against Rowe's chest, her face on his shoulder. “What if we hadn't found them, what if we hadn't gotten that boat, what if—?”

“It's over, Cathy. Now we need to call the police.”

“You folks here with a Jonathan Harley and an Elizabeth Carleton?”

They turned to see a paunchy older man with nothing but a circle of thin gray hair on his head. He wore a gray uniform with the shirt buttons bulging over his stomach.

“I'm Homer Peabody,
the law.
You want to tell me what's going on here?”

Rowe frowned. “Who called you, Mr. Peabody? We were going to in another couple of minutes.”

Homer didn't like that question and mumbled under his breath, “Mr. Morelli, a fellow from New York.”

“His name is Anthony Moretti and he's the district attorney of New York.”

“Ah, shit,” said Homer. “Well, yeah, he called me. I got out to the cabin as soon as could be, and saw the rear end of the ambulance. I followed you folks here.”

Catherine and Rowe exchanged looks.

“Very well, Mr. Peabody,” Rowe said at last. “We'll tell you all we know. Then you'll have to speak to Mr. Harley.”

Homer wrote down everything just as he'd been taught to do a long time ago. Big facts with little facts. It could all be important. He looked aghast when he heard about a lady pushing a man overboard.

“. . . I suggest that someone try to find Christian Hunter's body,” Rowe concluded.

“Let the damned fish have him.”

Catherine smiled at Jonathan Harley. He was a handsome man, she noted objectively, even though his jaw was a bit too square for her taste. More objectively, he looked like hell at the moment with the big square of white bandage over the side of his face and the blood on his shirt.

“You Jonathan Harley?”

Jonathan gazed at Homer and nodded.

“I'm Homer Peabody.”

“Yes, I know. You're the sheriff, right?”

“Yes, sir. Now, these folk here tell me your wife killed a guy named Christian Hunter.”

“I sure hope so,” said Jonathan. He smiled at Catherine, and continued the smile, a bit less easily, toward Rowe Chalmers. “Glad you came along when you did.” He'd already told them that, of course, babbled it really, so afraid that Elizabeth was dying that he could scarcely make any sense at all. He continued to Homer Peabody, “I want to see Hunter's body. I want to know for certain that the bastard's dead.”

“Now, see here, Mr. Harley, the fellow's—”

“—an insane shrink, oddly enough,” Catherine said.

“I can't get this all down with all of you butting in,” said Homer, licking the end of his pencil irritably.

“Look,” Rowe said, “Mr. Harley is exhausted. He needs to get some rest. This Hunter hurt him also, you know, slugged him with a gun. Mrs. Harley isn't in any shape to talk to you now. You've got our statements. Can't we just leave it for a while?”

“But where's this Elizabeth Carleton?” Homer asked. “That fellow Moretti said—”

“We're married,” Jonathan said. “She's now Elizabeth Harley.”

“All right.” Homer carefully wrote that in his book. He'd have to get the coast guard out to find Hunter's body. He carefully folded down his notebook. It was his first big case, and it didn't even sound like murder. A woman kicking a man overboard? Weird, that's how it sounded to him.

The three of them watched Homer Peabody amble away. Rowe shook his head and said, “You know that Moretti called him and the little bastard didn't do anything?”

“If Moretti called me I doubt I'd pay any attention either,” said Jonathan. He stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Chalmers, Catherine.”

“I just wish we could have gotten there sooner,” Catherine said, shaking his hand. “I asked that you have the room next to Elizabeth's. I'll bet that old Peabody will be coming back. Rowe and I will be at the White Duck Inn if you need us.”

“Count on Moretti showing up,” Rowe added.

“Poor Homer, I wouldn't like to be in his boots when Moretti does show up,” said Catherine.

“How is your grandmother, Miss . . . Catherine?”

“She's hanging in, that's about it. Thank you for asking.”

“Mr. Harley, it's time for us to get some rest.”

Jonathan laughed at the nurse's cajoling voice. “I'll see you guys later,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Moretti arrived at the hospital at ten o'clock that evening. He had no qualms about waking up Jonathan, who himself had no qualms about being rude to the D.A.

“A little late coming to reason, aren't you, Moretti?”

Anthony Moretti was tired, frantic because he, in his own mind, had very nearly been responsible for Elizabeth Carleton Harley's death. And Jonathan Harley's death, he added to himself as he eyed the big man facing him with ill-disguised contempt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Look, Harley, I'm damned sorry. They haven't found Hunter's body as yet, but I understand that the tides are peculiar in this area. He could easily have been washed out to sea. Did he admit to murdering Timothy Carleton?”

“Bragged about it, you mean? Yes. And he killed some woman named Susan. He was afraid that this Susan would spill the beans to Elizabeth. As a matter of fact, she had called Elizabeth, but you knew that, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I knew that,” Moretti admitted.

“And he blew up Drake, Elizabeth's chauffeur.”

Moretti looked down.

Jonathan sighed. “At least you tried to get Peabody off his butt.” His head throbbed, but he wanted to see Elizabeth, to hold her, reassure her. To reassure himself.

“The state police even screwed things up for a while,” Moretti said, shaking his head in disgust, unwilling to admit that he hadn't been able to tell them exactly where to go. Somewhere in Christmas Cove, a Jonathan Harley's cabin, that's all he had known. Hell, it should have been enough. Even old Peabody had beaten them there.

“You knew about the watch too,” Jonathan said,
wondering what would happen to him if he were to smash his fist in Moretti's face.

“Look, Harley, I was wrong, okay? You and your wife are alive.”

“Find Hunter's body,” Jonathan insisted.

Moretti nodded, then walked to the window. It was pitch black outside. They were in the small community hospital in Newcastle. He said, more to himself than to Harley, “You want to know what the real kicker is? Catherine Carleton coming to save your wife. With Rowe Chalmers. Just like the cavalry riding in in the nick of time. Hell, it's like a bloody soap opera.”

“People change, thank God,” Jonathan said, and knew that any intended irony would go right over Moretti's head.

“I'll let you get some rest now, Harley,” he said, turning. “And I'll speak to Mrs. Harley in the morning.” Tentatively Moretti held out his hand to Jonathan.

“Oh, hell,” Jonathan said, and shook Moretti's hand.

Jonathan left his room the moment Moretti took off. He quietly opened Elizabeth's door and stared toward the bed. He tried to hear her breathing, and when he didn't, he panicked. He rushed to the bed, then drew up, feeling like a fool. But she was so pale. He didn't know what to do, but he did know that he didn't want to leave her. She had on a white hospital gown, and he could see the bandage on her left arm. He gently drew the covers up and slipped in beside her, careful of her IV.

Nurse Nancy Cooper looked in several hours later. She blinked, then smiled. No harm, the poor man was distraught, she'd heard all about it. Lord, the Harleys had provided enough gossip to keep all of eastern Maine in conversation for weeks. She quietly closed the door.

She was still smiling when the gun butt came down on the back of her head. Just a very small cry came from her mouth before she collapsed.

 

“I think I've aged about two decades,” Catherine said.

“Me too, and that makes me an old man,” said Rowe.

He reached for her, and Catherine came willingly into his arms. She felt suddenly very much alive, shedding her fatigue magically.

“Marry me, Rowe,” she said.

He said nothing.

“We make a good team.”

“You're too young for me, Cathy.”

“And too rich, isn't that what you mean? And too much of a spoiled rich girl?”

“No and no, just too young.”

“Bull.”

“You've already begun running your grandmother's empire. You're a natural at it. I'm small potatoes, Cathy, small Boston potatoes.”

“The same is true of Elizabeth and Jonathan. Will their marriage fall apart?”

“I set out purposely to seduce Elizabeth. I used her. If you want to be real honest about it, I betrayed her. I needed money and I was willing to do anything.”

“And you finally told Grandmother to shove it.”

“Only after Elizabeth told me she knew. I was going to marry Amanda for her money. Doesn't that make you wonder about my motives?”

“Look, Rowe, I'm asking you to marry me. Only my motives are in question. All that other crap is in the past. None of it matters now. Remember how I was, not a pretty specimen.”

“True.”

“Doesn't the fact that we're reformed jerks make
any difference? Haven't we paved part of our road to heaven by helping Elizabeth and Jonathan?”

“And
you
set out purposely to seduce me.”

“True again, and you didn't answer me.”

“You're twenty-four and I'm thirty-six.”

“You're very immature for your age and I'm a brick now.”

“It all balances out, huh?”

“You got it, big boy. How 'bout I seduce you again?”

“I don't suppose I have anything better to do at the moment.”

“Jerk. Sexy jerk.”

“It won't be easy—you know that, Catherine. . . . And stop it, I can't think when you do that.”

“Then don't think for the next hour or two.”

 

Jonathan was aware of something wet dripping on his face. He raised a hand to dash whatever it was away. It kept dripping.

He forced himself to consciousness and looked up. The room was dim and Christian Hunter's blurred face was over him.

It was a nightmare, he knew it. It was from his head injury. He had a concussion. He wanted to turn away, to scream for the ghost to go back to hell where it belonged.

“Wake up, Harley.”

A ghost with a voice, a very soft voice.

Drip, drip.

He was suddenly wide-awake, alert. Elizabeth's IV fluid was dripping on his face. He didn't move, his mind striving to refuse this final ugliness.

The dripping stopped.

“I said to wake up.”

“You're not dead.” Was that his voice, disembodied and thin as water?

“No, you bastard, I'm not.”

Christian Hunter's face was clear as light now. Jonathan saw the deep gouges on his left cheek from Elizabeth's fingernails. He saw that Hunter was wearing a white coat, that he looked perfectly natural save for the scratches. He noticed the name on the white coat—Dr. Daniel Maxwell. God, had he killed that poor harried man with the long, thin nose?