Jayne Ann Krentz (18 page)

A quick check in the kitchen revealed that that door, too, was still securely locked. With mounting trepidation she walked back out into the hall and turned right. Automatically she switched on lights as she went toward the rear of the house.

The small mudroom was swathed in darkness. She hit the light switch and glanced quickly around the neat clutter. Rain gear, umbrellas, beach shoes, and a stack of old towels filled most of the space. Two brooms and an aged mop stood in the corner.

She studied the door. It was closed, but it was unlocked. She could not have forgotten to lock up before she left for Pamela's earlier in the day, she thought. It simply wasn't possible. She had lived alone in the city too long to neglect such simple precautions.

Even if she had left it unlocked, how had Winston gotten it open? He was a brilliant dog, but he had paws, not hands. It was pushing credibility much too far to believe that he had somehow managed to twist the doorknob and open the door. A specially trained dog might have accomplished the feat, but Winston had never been taught to do fancy tricks.

It was hard to believe that she had left this door not only unlocked but ajar. But she must have done just that. It was the only conceivable way that Winston could have gotten out of the house.

Despair engulfed her. Winston was somewhere outside in the darkness, possibly lost and terrified. If he reached the road, he might get hit by a car.

She whirled around, yanked open a cupboard, and grabbed a flashlight. She would need it. Although there was a moon, the fog was thickening rapidly.

She seized a faded windbreaker from a wall hook, pulled it on, and opened the mudroom door. She stepped out onto the rear porch and switched on the flashlight.

“Winston.”

A faint bark sounded in the distance. It was barely audible above the muted rumble of the light surf at the base of the cliffs, but her heart leaped in relief. Winston was in Dead Hand Cove.

She plunged down the steps and entered the ghostly tendrils of gathering fog. The beam of the flashlight infused the surrounding mist with an unearthly light. With the ease of long familiarity, she made her way toward the path that led down the rocky cliff to the beach.

“Winston. Talk to me. Where are you?”

This time she got a series of hard, sharp, excited barks. They definitely emanated from the cove, but they did not sound as if Winston was moving toward her. She wondered if he had somehow managed to trap himself inside one of the small caves at the base of the cliff.

At the top of the path she paused to shine the flashlight down on the rocky beach. The beam pierced the mist in places, revealing a wide swath of damp sand. The tide was coming in, but it had a ways to go before the water filled the cove. She could still make out the tips of the five fingers. But sprays of foam were already dampening the rocky monoliths. In another hour or so the water would cover all but the tallest of the stones.

Winston barked again, louder this time. She was definitely getting closer to him, she realized. But he was not making any headway toward her.

She started cautiously down the pebble-strewn path that led to the tiny beach. Only the fact that she had used the trail for years and knew it better than she knew the streets of Portland made it possible to navigate it at night with some confidence. The foggy darkness and the slippery rocks made for slow going. Twice she lost her footing and had to grab at a stony outcropping to save herself from a nasty fall.

She was breathing hard by the time she reached the rough beach. Immediately she shone the light along the dark voids that marked the caves.

“Winston!”

Another series of barks sounded in the mist. Behind her now. But how could that be? Fresh alarm swept through her.

She turned quickly to face the fingers. Aiming the flashlight toward the thumb, she started cautiously across the damp sand.

Spray dampened the front of her windbreaker. A wave broke at the entrance to the cove. Cold seawater swirled around her feet. Should have taken time to put on a pair of boots, she thought.

More loud, demanding barks punctuated the mist. Winston was getting impatient. Perhaps he had bounded up onto a finger before the tide returned and was now reluctant to jump down because he would get wet. But that didn't make any sense. Winston wasn't afraid of a few inches of water. She gasped when another swirl of cold foam lapped at her ankles.

She started toward the nearest finger and aimed the beam of the flashlight at the top. There was no dog there. Methodically she shone the light on the next monolith. The spray had thoroughly dampened her hair and face now. She would take a hot shower when she got back to the house. She definitely did not need a case of hypothermia.

It was getting harder to see through the ever-thickening fog, but she managed to make out the shape of the second finger. There was something wrong about it.

Another string of tense barks echoed in the fog. Definitely coming from the vicinity of the second finger.

She hurried forward, ignoring the cold water now swirling around her calves. The beam of the flashlight fell on a large square animal cage perched atop the monolith. Winston was inside.

“Oh, my God, Winston! What happened?” She sloshed toward him through the slowly deepening water. “Who did this to you?”

She found the door of the cage and yanked it open. Winston exploded into her arms. He was damp and trembling. She staggered backward under the impact, slipped, and barely managed to keep her footing. Winston lapped happily at her face. The flashlight beam arced wildly in the darkness as she clutched at him.

“After this little incident, I'm going to have more gray hair than you do,” she whispered into his wet fur. “What on earth happened here?”

But Winston had no answers for her.

She carried him quickly toward the beach. “I'm going to call the police. This is a small town. The chief will know which one of the local punks would pull a vicious trick like this. I'm going to press charges. I swear it.”

Winston licked her ear.

She set him down at the water's edge. “Come on, let's get you home and dried off. I wonder how long you were out there on that rock? I can't wait to get my hands on whoever did this. I'll—”

Winston interrupted her with a low, startlingly savage growl. She flashed the light down at him and saw that his whole attention was focused on the darkness that cloaked the cliff path. The tension in him was the only warning she got.

“Winston, no!” She grabbed his collar just as he leaped forward. “No. Winston, stay.”

He obeyed instantly, but she could feel him quivering with predatory urgency. There was someone in the vicinity of the cliff path. Someone Winston did not like.

Fear crashed through her. She had to assume that whoever was on the trail was the same person who had caught Winston and set him out on the monolith to drown.

At the same instant it occurred to her that although she could not see the person watching from the shadows, he could certainly see her. The flashlight in her hand made a very effective beacon.

She turned off the beam and crouched down beside Winston. “Hush.” She closed her fingers lightly around his muzzle. She did not think his low growls could be heard above the sound of the incoming tide, but if he started barking again, he would give away their location.

Winston shuddered under her hands. His attention never wavered from the cliff path.

One thing was certain, Hannah thought as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the new level of darkness. They could not go up the path. They would run straight into whoever waited there. Nor could they just stay here in the cove like sitting ducks.

Keeping her fingers around Winston's muzzle, she tugged on his collar to guide him.

“This way,” she whispered. “Heel, or whatever it is dogs are supposed to do at times like this.”

If Winston was offended by the command, he was gracious enough not to complain. He paced obediently along beside her. She bent low, not daring to take her fingers off his muzzle as they made their way toward the dense darkness of the cliff caves. She relied on the sighs and splashes of the returning seawater to cloak whatever noise she made as she scrambled over the rocks with Winston.

The biggest danger would come from tide pools that littered the cove. At night, without a flashlight, each one was a potential trap. Things slipped and slithered under her feet, but Winston detoured safely around the edges of the pools.

The deeper darkness of a cave entrance loomed in her path. The scent of rotting seaweed enveloped her. But for once Winston showed no interest in the fascinating odors that assailed his nostrils. He was alert and focused. She did not dare release her grip on his muzzle.

“Hush,” she said again. “Please, hush.”

He gave a low, almost inaudible whimper and quivered tensely.

She put out one hand and felt for the wall of the cave. When her palm made contact with the damp rock she started cautiously forward. Winston must have sensed her intention or perhaps he was merely responding to some ancient den-seeking impulse. Whatever the reason, he willingly took the lead as they made their way deeper into the convoluted cavern.

As soon as they rounded the corner, they lost what little fog-reflected moonlight there was coming through the mouth of the cave. The quality of the darkness took on a deeper, thicker feel. Hannah could see nothing now. She stumbled awkwardly along, blindly following Winston. But after she bumped her head on a rocky outcropping and scraped a knee, she decided to risk the flashlight again.

She kept the beam pointed straight down toward the rising floor of rock. Winston trotted forward through the sandy rubble that littered the bottom of the cavern. He no longer seemed inclined to bark. Cautiously, she released his muzzle.

The path led through a series of small, damp chambers. She stumbled over the remains of an old pink-plastic sandal. Probably one that she or her sister had lost when they had come here to play years ago, she thought.

The cavern branched off in several directions. Some of the tunnels were too narrow for any human to pass through, although Winston could have made it. She selected a passage she had often used in the past. Her brother, Nick, had marked it with an
X
painted in red. Here in the endless gloom the paint had faded little over the years.

Winston strained forward more eagerly now, perhaps sensing the fresh air that wafted in from the far end of the twisted passage. They rounded a bend. There was a difference in the density of the light at the far end of the cavern. She realized she was looking at night and fog now, not at rock wall.

Hastily she doused the flashlight beam again and allowed Winston to draw her quickly toward the exit. His mood had altered. He was still eager, but he seemed excited and cheerful, no longer the hunter confronting danger.

“Hannah.”

The shock of hearing her name called loudly just as she and Winston emerged from the cavern sent a jolt through her. The realization that it was Rafe's voice that echoed in the mist brought a nearly paralyzing sense of relief.

“Over here, Rafe.”

Winston whimpered and bounded up the slope that led to the top of the cliff. She rushed after him. They were both running now.

Hannah did not slow down when she saw Rafe silhouetted against the glare of the flashlight. She kept going at full speed, straight into his arms.

An hour later Rafe heard her stalk back into the kitchen behind him. He removed the pan of steaming cocoa from the stove and glanced over his shoulder.

She had washed and dried her hair and tucked it back behind her ears. A thick white toweling robe was belted around her narrow waist. Her face was pink and flushed. He knew that the high color in her cheeks was not from the hot shower she had just taken. She was still fuming.

He hadn't entirely recovered from the roller coaster of emotions he'd been through in the past hour either, he realized. Hannah and Winston had been through a bad experience, but the whole event had not been a picnic for him. He'd endured his own private ordeal.

First there had been the nightmare images he had envisioned when he knocked on the front door of the house and received no answer. Given the fact that Hannah's car was in the drive, he'd started out with the worst-case scenario—that she was upstairs in her prissy little bedroom with another man. When he'd finally climbed out of the dark pit into which that vision had cast him, he'd summoned up some common sense and logic. Even if Hannah had been engaged in passionate sex upstairs, he reasoned, Winston would have come to the door.

Winston had not come to the door. Ergo, Winston and Hannah had gone for a walk. Given the fog and the late hour, however, that conclusion had induced other, equally disturbing scenarios. The tide was coming in. It was a damfool time to go walking on the beach.

When he'd finally spotted them coming toward him from the vicinity of the caves, the relief that had flashed through him had been stunning. Then Hannah had launched herself into his arms, and he'd realized that she was scared and shivering. Her clothes and hair were wet.

She'd told him the full story on the way back to the house, and he'd been chilled to the bone by the tale. A hundred variations on disaster had assailed him. She could have been swept up in the churning waters of the cove while attempting to rescue Winston. What if whoever she thought had watched her from the path had pursued her and the dog into the caves?

After the visions had come the questions, the primary one being, What the hell was going on? He'd made the cocoa partly as therapy for himself. Cooking always centered him and allowed him to think more clearly.

He'd done a lot of thinking while he stirred the hot chocolate and waited for Hannah to come back downstairs. He'd even managed to reach a few conclusions. He was calm and cool again, he told himself. He was back in control.

“Sit down,” he instructed. “I'll pour you a cup of this stuff. Winston has already had his treat.”

She looked at Winston, who was flopped under the table. Rafe had dried him off and fluffed his fur with some of the old towels in the mudroom. He looked none the worse for his ordeal. In typical dog fashion, he appeared to have forgotten the entire experience.

The same could not be said of Hannah, Rafe thought.

“I still can't believe that that twit at the police station actually said they could not spare an officer to investigate what happened to Winston tonight.” She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. “The woman acted as if I had phoned in a complaint about some stupid childish prank.”

“Try not to take it personally.” Rafe poured the cocoa into a mug and put it on the table. “This is a small town, remember? There aren't many officers on the force. The dispatcher explained that they were all busy out at Chamberlain tonight because of the big rally.”

“I
am
taking it personally. Winston would have drowned if I hadn't found him in time.”

“Maybe, but once you told the dispatcher that you and the dog were okay and that there was no sign of forced entry here at the house, you lost your status as an emergency.”

“I know, I know.” She heaved a sigh and then, frowning slightly, she sniffed. She looked down at the mug of cocoa he had put in front of her. “That smells good.”

“Drink it.”

Obediently she took a sip. “Just what the doctor ordered. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He sat down across from her. “I went back to the edge of the cliffs and looked for that cage or animal trap or whatever it was. But it's gone.”

“Knocked off the finger by the incoming waves, no doubt.” She took another sip. “Maybe it will get washed ashore or left on the sand when the tide goes out tomorrow. I'll watch for it. It's the only evidence I've got.”

“Even if you find it, I doubt if it will prove useful. There won't be any fingerprints left on it by the time the sea gets finished with it.”

She looked dismayed. “You're probably right.”

Rafe glanced down at Winston. “Someone must have opened the back door and enticed him into the trap.”

“Probably wouldn't have been too hard.” Her mouth tightened. “A nice chunk of raw steak would have gotten his attention.”

“The real question is, How did the mudroom door get unlocked?”

She pursed her lips. “I've been thinking about that. It's no secret that Mom and Dad leave a spare key with a realtor here in town who looks after the place when no one in the family is using it. It's not too much of a stretch to imagine someone stealing the key or copying it.”

He thought about it. “Maybe. But it seems like more trouble than the average kid would go to just to play a nasty prank.”

She looked at him with troubled eyes. “You think this was something more than a vicious stunt?”

He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his trousers. “If you put this incident together with the possibility that someone may have been watching your house at night on and off this past week, you've got the makings of a stalker scenario.”

She shuddered. “That occurred to me while I was in the shower. But it would have to be someone who had followed me from Portland, and I honestly can't think of anyone there who is obsessive about me.”

“The ex-fiancé?”

She looked genuinely taken aback by the suggestion. Then she shook her head with grave certainty. “No, definitely not Doug. He's not the type.”

“I'm not sure the type is always obvious.”

“Our engagement ended a year ago. Why would he start stalking me now? And why follow me here to Eclipse Bay to do it? He doesn't know his way around this town. Whoever trapped Winston and stuck him out on that finger knows a lot about this place.”

“Good point. Got to be someone from Eclipse Bay. Someone who knew about the fingers and the tides in Dead Hand Cove. Someone who knew how to get a key to this house.”

“What are you thinking, Rafé?”

“I'm thinking Perry Decatur.”

“Perry?” She sat back, startled. “Oh, no, that's ridiculous. Why would he do something like that?”

“To get even for the way you finessed his move to keep Brad McCallister off the faculty at the institute?”

She chewed on her lower lip for a few seconds and then shook her head again. “I suppose it's possible. But I don't think so. Not his style. Perry's a conniving little twerp, but I don't see him pulling a stunt like this.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, whoever carried that cage out to the finger had to get wet and dirty doing it. Perry isn't the type to get wet and dirty if he can help it. Plus there was a real risk of getting caught in the act if I came home early. Perry doesn't take risks if he can avoid them. He prefers to maneuver behind the scenes.”

Rafe was unconvinced. “I don't know. He was plenty pissed last night.”

She exhaled heavily. “It just doesn't feel like the kind of trick he would pull. More likely it was a local kid. A budding little sociopath who has graduated from setting fires to torturing animals.”

Rafe said nothing.

“You've got a problem with my logic?”

“I'm just thinking,” he said.

“I can see that. And it makes me nervous.”

“Me, thinking, makes you nervous? Why?”

“Because the last time you did some serious thinking you decided to make us partners in Dreamscape.”

“That's different.”

“Bull.”

“It's going to work. You'll see, partner.”

She pointedly ignored that. “What, exactly, are you thinking about what happened tonight?”

He hesitated and then decided there was nothing to be gained by keeping silent. “I'm thinking that whatever is going on here might not be about you.”

“Not about me? That was my dog out there on the finger.”

“What I meant was it might not be about you alone.” He paused. “It might be about us.”

“Us? You mean someone doesn't like the idea that we're—” She broke off and made another run at it. “Someone doesn't like the rumors that are going around about us? But why on earth would anyone care if we're, uh—”

“Sleeping together?” he offered helpfully.

“One time,” she said swiftly. “There was only one time. That does not exactly constitute a flaming affair.”

For some reason he found that observation both extremely irritating and strangely depressing. “Can't argue that.”

She sipped her cocoa for a moment, then put the mug down. “I just had a thought. Maybe whoever did this is one of your old flames. A jealous lover from your misspent past?”

“Doubt it.”

She was undeterred. “Good grief. If I'm right, we've got more suspects than we can count.”

His incipient depression vanished in the heat of a sudden, fierce anger. He sat forward quickly, flattening his palms on the table. “My reputation in this town was always a hell of a lot more exciting than the reality.”

She blinked. “Now, Rafe—”

“Trust me on this. I was there.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, yes, of course you were, but everyone knows about your reputation in those days.”

“This may come as a stunning surprise to you, but contrary to popular opinion, I don't have a legion of old flames hiding in the bushes here in Eclipse Bay.”

“I don't believe I used the word ‘legion.'”

“Close enough. For the record, virtually all of my dates—and there were not as many of them as everyone seems to think—were weekend or summer visitors who came here for the beach, the boardwalk, and a good time. They knew what they were doing and so did I. There was nothing serious with any of them, and I've never seen any of them again.”

Her jaw clenched visibly. “There was Kaitlin Sadler.”

“Yes. There was Kaitlin Sadler. She was a year older than me, experienced, and she could take care of herself.”

“I never implied that you took advantage of her. No one ever said that.”

“I didn't have a lot of rules for myself in those days, but I had a few and I stuck to them. I never got involved with anyone who was married or too young or too naïve to know the score. Hell, you ought to know that better than anyone else.”

“Me?” She gripped the edge of the table. “Why should I know anything about the history of your love life?”

“Because I never laid a hand on you eight years ago, that's why.”

For the space of two or three heartbeats she simply stared at him in utter astonishment. Then she pulled herself together with an obvious effort. “Of course you never touched me. I wasn't your type. You wouldn't have looked twice at me if we hadn't been stuck out there at the Arch together that night.”

A cold, mirthless amusement shafted through him. “You weren't my type, and you were squarely in the ‘don't touch' category as far as I was concerned, but that doesn't mean that I didn't look twice.”

Her eyes widened. “Because I was a Harte? Was I some sort of challenge?”

“The fact that you were a Harte had nothing to do with it.”

“Then why did you look twice?”

“Damned if I know. Pure masochism, probably, because I sure as hell knew that you'd never look twice at me.”

“That's not true.” She shot to her feet. “I had a crush on you. Every girl in Eclipse Bay did.”

“That's supposed to thrill me?” He was suddenly on his feet, too, although he had no recollection of getting out of his chair. “To know that for you I was just the interesting bad boy with the bike and the leather jacket and the dangerous rep? The kind of guy your parents always warned you about? The kind of guy it might be amusing to fool around with but definitely not the kind you would ever marry?”

A fresh tide of hot color rose in her face. He could have sworn he had embarrassed her. Good. Served her right. But her gaze did not slide away from his.

“How did you know what kind of man I'd marry?” she asked evenly.

“You told me that night, remember? You were only nineteen and you already had your damned list of requirements for a husband made out.”

“I was twenty, not nineteen, and I swear, if you mention that list one more time—”