Gull Harbor (15 page)

“Well I wasn’t!” she cried, standing up. “I was just doing what I had to do to survive.”

“That’s what I did, too,” he said softly. “I had to protect my mother, and my brother and sister.”

“I would have helped you do that, if you had just trusted me enough to tell me what was going on.” She curled her shaking fingers into fists and planted them on her hips. “I want you to leave now.”

“No.”

The living room lights blazed, flickering wildly with a series of crackling pops. She jumped, then glared at him. “Don’t you dare tell me no!”

“Claire—”

An unseen hand swung the front door open with a crash, rattling the hinges. “She wants you to leave, and so do I. Get out before things get worse,” she said firmly.

He looked at her, and she could see the same heartbreak she was feeling reflected in his eyes. Then he turned and walked out the door.

****

She was hit by that feeling as she drove over the Sagamore Bridge, one of the two bridges that connected the Cape to the mainland. The feeling all the locals described as crossing over into another world, leaving home behind. Today she welcomed it. She desperately needed to be in another world, so she’d decided to visit the quiet room in the long-term care facility that served as her mother’s home.

The Cape Cod Canal was dotted with sailboats taking advantage of the windy day. She continued on Route 3, gaping at the miles of cars inching along in the opposite direction.
It’s Saturday morning
, she reminded herself. Vacationers were anxious to make their way over the bridge and move into their weekly rental houses.

She’d had a horrible night. After Max had left, she’d thrown herself on her bed and bawled. When there were no more tears left, she’d pulled up the covers and tried to sleep, but it was still early evening. She could feel Maria trying to get through to her, but she just didn’t have the energy. In order to connect to the realm of spirits, she needed to be able to focus; at the moment, she felt like she’d been ripped into a thousand pieces.

She finally got in her car and drove to the pharmacy, where she purchased a pint of ice cream and a bottle of sleeping pills. After recklessly downing the recommended dosage plus one extra capsule for good measure, she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep that still had her feeling groggy and slow this morning.

Sliding her sunglasses down her nose, she glanced at her eyes in the rearview mirror. Still swollen. Not that her mother would notice, she thought bitterly.

She clamped down on the encroaching self-pity. It would be nice to have a conscious mother to share her sorrows with, but that was not her lot in life. Hell, it would be nice to have a compassionate father to talk to, for that matter.

A fleeting thought tickled the back of her brain, then disappeared. There was an important connection she was missing. Her forehead creased as she struggled to recapture the stray thought, but it was gone, lost in the murky depths of her mind.

She turned up the volume of the car’s radio. She didn’t want to think about her mother, or her father. Or Max, most importantly. Focusing on the blaring music, she sang along to the lyrics she recognized as she made her way to Boston.

An hour and a half later, she was kneeling by a hospital bed, her mother’s limp hand in her own.
Why won’t he just let you go,
she wondered silently as she rested her forehead on their linked hands. These past few years, Claire had sometimes entertained the notion that her father kept his wife alive in order to prevent mother and daughter from communicating. She’d always pushed those thoughts aside guiltily, but now she reconsidered. Obviously her father was willing to do anything to maintain control of the women in his life.

The judge had known that his wife claimed to talk to spirits; whether he actually believed it or not was difficult to say. Claire could vaguely remember her parents together; her mother had possessed the uncanny ability to draw out her husband’s playful side. That spark of lighthearted joy in her father had died when Ileana had been silenced by the accident.

“I don’t know what to do,” Claire murmured softly. Only the whispers and hums of the machines that monitored her mother’s vital signs answered. Sighing, she continued her depressing monologue. “I don’t even know if I’m angry at Max. Dad’s the one I’m actually mad at, but I don’t know where to go with that. Even if I did try to contact him so I could yell at him, he probably wouldn’t accept my call.”

There it was. The thought that had escaped earlier clicked into place. Max had asked her if she’d had any unusual correspondence. And he’d told her there was something he had to take care of before he could give her the explanation for his disappearance. He’d been trying to contact her father—to give the judge one last chance to reconcile with his daughter before the unforgivable truth came out.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, leaning her back against the thin wood of the institutional night table. Knowing Max, her family dynamics had probably also played into his decision five years ago. He had been well aware that she only had one parent left; it was a sad situation that the two of them had in common. He had no doubt realized that when she found out about her father’s threats, her relationship with her last family member would be destroyed beyond repair.

She dropped her head with a moan. “I didn’t even let him finish talking. I kicked him out. Well, Maria and I kicked him out together. I was just so upset,” she added with a sigh. “I still am, but I’ll go by his house tomorrow morning, so we can talk some more.”

Pushing herself off the floor, she leaned over the bed. “It has to wait until tomorrow,” she said, answering an unasked question. “By the time I get back, he’ll be getting ready for the dinner rush. Saturday night is his busiest night. Plus, I have to work as well. I kept pushing Maria away yesterday.”

She kissed her mother’s pale cheek. “I have so much to tell you. I’m going to get a cup of coffee, and then I’ll come back and fill you in.” Turning away, she straightened the framed pictures on the nightstand before she left the room.

Chapter 20

She could hear the stairs creaking under his weight before he opened the door. Terrified, she struggled against her bonds, but she had no strength left. Her hands and feet were numb, and she’d had nothing to eat or drink since they’d tied her to the bed. How long had it been now? Five hours? Eight? She’d stepped onto the man’s boat as the first faint light of dawn colored the sky. Now the sun appeared bright, despite the heavy curtains drawn across the windows.

A small flow of urine trickled from her bladder, warm against her thighs. She’d given up trying to hold it long ago. She’d also given up on the hope that this was all some horrible mistake. She was going to die here, and she had no idea why.

He didn’t speak to her; she wouldn’t have understood even if he had. He simply looped a length of rubber tubing around her upper arm and cinched it tight. Then he produced a syringe, and her eyes bulged in their sockets as she writhed in terror.

The gag in her mouth muffled her pleading moans. Her breathing grew quick and shallow, the air rushing in and out of her nose in rapid bursts. The man cradled her elbow and slapped at the tender skin in the bend of her arm. Then she felt the bite of the needle as he emptied the syringe into her vein.

A rush of pleasure surged through her, replacing the fear and pain. Her breathing slowed as her muscles relaxed. She was floating on a warm cloud, her troubled thoughts breaking apart like the fragile strands of an abandoned spider’s web.

Claire dragged her heavy eyelids open, confused. She blinked and gazed at the ceiling. She was in her room, not the spare room, in her own bed. But her arms and legs were stretched out, spread eagle, as though her limbs were tied to the bedposts.

With a moan, she curled herself into a fetal position, tucking the sheets under her chin. Her mind felt thick and fuzzy; a dull ache was starting in her temples. She tried to relax her tense muscles as she mentally waded through the layers of the horrifying vision.

She’d gotten a good look at the “bad man” this time. His brown, frizzy hair hung to his shoulders. He had a thin face and narrow, pointy features that reminded her of a rodent. She shuddered, gripping the sheet tighter. It had to be Gary Williams. But why would he inject Maria with his heroin?

The only reason she could think of was to make Maria want more, to get her addicted. That couldn’t possibly be the normal way he found customers, though—it was just too extreme. Something more sinister was involved; Claire was sure of it. She would have to talk it over with Max.

“Ugh,” she groaned, as her other problems rushed back in to take control of her thoughts. “I guess I need to talk to Max about a lot of things,” she murmured to herself. She glanced at the clock; it was still early. If she hurried, she could probably catch him either at home or at the diner.

Pushing herself out of bed, she padded to the bathroom. A tired smile tugged at her lips as she gazed at the display on the white porcelain vanity. Her toiletries were arranged in a circle around the sink; the tallest bottles flanked the faucet handles, and the remainder fanned outward in descending order of height. Maria liked to keep herself busy; at least it was in less destructive ways these days.

Forty minutes later, she was sitting in her car across the street from Max’s house. She ran a shaky hand through her still-damp curls. What was she supposed to do now? She was terrible at this sort of thing.

Did she owe him an apology? Or an offer to hear him out? She chewed on her bottom lip miserably. It would come to her, she decided. She just needed to gather her courage and go talk to him.

She eyed his driveway as she took one last sip from her water bottle. Both his truck and his bike were there—he was almost certainly home, unless he was out for a run. “No more procrastinating,” she told herself firmly.

A movement caught the corner of her vision, and some primal instinct made her freeze in the driver’s seat. The door to Max’s house had opened. Had he seen her, cowering in the car? Warm blood surged to her cheeks.

She held her breath, waiting for him to appear. Instead, a woman with shoulder-length hair emerged. Claire’s heart stumbled as she watched Max step outside behind the woman and pull the door closed.

It was Katie, the cute hostess from the tavern. She giggled at something Max said as they crossed the driveway, and he slung his arm around her shoulders. Claire glanced at her watch—it was awfully early for an innocent visit. Besides, Katie didn’t have her own vehicle. She must have come home from the tavern with Max last night.

Max opened the door of his pickup truck for Katie and she hopped up into the front seat. Rage and humiliation warred within Claire, churning in her stomach like curdled milk. How could he do this to her again?

Again. That was the key word. This was partly her fault—she had seen fit to trust him again, despite their past. She brushed away hot tears as she listened for the sound of Max’s engine. The minute it roared to life, she twisted her own key violently, praying her old car would start without faltering.

“Thank God,” she murmured, her voice choking on a sob. She tore down the street without glancing back, hoping against hope that Max had been distracted enough by Katie to have overlooked her own presence at the house.

How could she have been so foolish? Two nights apart, and he was already shacking up with someone else. She shook her head angrily as she drove back toward her house. To be fair, it wasn’t as if they had made a commitment to each other. At least now she knew where she stood. It was better this way. She needed to finish her job here, and then get back to the city.

She pulled into the driveway and stared at the house. Yes, she had a job to finish, but she was in no mood at the moment to interpret messages or solve mysteries. Right now, she needed some alone time. The morning clouds were slowly breaking up, revealing bits of bright blue sky. She would pack a lunch and head to the beach.

****

By the time Max had dropped Katie off, checked in at the tavern, driven by Claire’s house, and finally found her car, the busy parking lot at Gull Hollow Beach was full. It wasn’t surprising—after all, it was a Sunday morning in July. During the summer, parking was a competitive sport around here. His jaw clenched as he drove back up the hill to the road that ran parallel to the shore.

If he’d been on his bike, he could have convinced the teenage attendant to let him slip into a small space that technically wasn’t meant for parking. But he hadn’t returned to his house to change vehicles. As soon as he’d helped Katie into his truck, he’d noticed Claire’s car across the street. And when she tore off as fast as her little car would go, he’d guessed what she must have been thinking.

The anger he’d been trying to control flared, and he tightened his grip on the gearshift, sending a searing pain through his injured hand. He stomped on the clutch, downshifted forcefully, and turned onto a side street. There was a house close by that he knew was unoccupied this weekend; he would park there.

How could she think he would jump into bed with someone else the minute things got rough between them? He slammed the door, locked the truck, and stalked up the road. And with Katie, of all women. She was his best friend’s niece, for God’s sake.

He wasn’t even sure why he was so intent on finding Claire right now. Nothing good was likely to come out of this confrontation, but it had to happen sooner or later. Plus, she’d been lurking about in front of his house, and he deserved to know why.

“Ah, hell,” he grumbled, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt. The humid air clung to his damp skin, providing little relief. He may as well be honest with himself, he thought as he drew his arm across the perspiration beading on his forehead. Angry or not, he needed to know she was okay.

Waves of heat shimmered off the dark pavement of the shore road. Crossing quickly, he entered the narrow trail that cut a path between the mounds of beach grass. He wound his way through the packed sand until he came to the edge of the breathtaking dunes.