Shadow Lover (7 page)

"They're my family," she'd protested. And immediately regretted the words.

He came up to the bed, looming over her in the moonlight. "No, they're not," he said. "And be glad of it. They eat their family alive."

He reached out his hand and touched her face in the moonlight. "Too bad I can't take you with me, Carolyn," he said. "But you're too young, and I'm not into jail bait. Take care of yourself." And he kissed her.

He'd never kissed her, apart from brief, dutiful pecks on her cheek when ordered to do so. This was on her mouth, but it was no Prince Charming awakening the sleeping beauty. It was rough, hurried, and completely sexual, his
mouth open
on hers, his arms pulling her young body against his. It was a hungry, lost kiss, and she didn't even hesitate, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him back with all her inexpert passion.

It seemed to go on for a breathless lifetime; it was over in a heartbeat. And he was gone, disappearing into the darkness, out of her life forever. Taking a fistful of her gold jewelry, including the only thing she'd ever cared about.

She stood there in shock, trembling all over, and then she moved, throwing on clothes with abandon. He'd taunted and teased and tormented her all her life. He wasn't going to get away with robbing her as well, making up for it with a goodbye kiss that was everything she'd ever fantasized and more. By the time she reached the front sidewalk she thought she could see him heading toward
Lighthouse
Beach
, and she started after him, silent, determined.

Running away from an island six miles off the coast of the mainland was not the easiest thing to do. Alex had tried it before, when he was fifteen, stealing a friend's catamaran and disappearing for over a week. The police had found him in
Boston
and brought him home,
unrepentent
and hostile and enticingly experienced.

Whose boat was he planning to steal this time? Or was he going high-tech and planning on taking one of the small private planes parked at the island airport? Sally had paid for flying lessons for his sixteenth birthday, and she'd regretted it ever since.

But he was heading toward the beach, not the airport, and if she could only see where she was going she could catch up with him. Threaten to scream at the top of her lungs if he didn't give her back the charm bracelet.

He could have the rest, with her blessing. She was willing to pay almost anything to get him out of her life, and he was right. The
MacDowells
were more than generous with their checkbooks, if not with their emotions. If he were gone she could have Sally to herself, with no wicked, beautiful bad boy to distract either of them.

The light from the quarter moon was fitful, and there were dark clouds scudding across the sky, obscuring it. She slipped on the loose stones that led to the beach, going down on one knee, and she could feel the bite of the broken shells through her jeans. She didn't care. She scrambled back to her feet, keeping his tail, straight back firmly in sight.

She wasn't afraid of him, she told herself, over and over again. For all that he'd taunted and tormented her during the years he'd been an almost-brother to her. She wasn't worried that he could try to silence her by force. If she started screaming for someone to stop him from leaving, he'd probably just shrug his shoulders and grin.

And disappear.

The tide was high that night; the sea was rough from the remnants of a late-summer storm. He came to a stop at the edge of the beach, staring out across the narrow channel of water to Chappaquiddick, then turned and looked back toward

Without thinking Carolyn ducked down, out of sight behind an overturned dinghy. She hid there, trying to catch her breath. Silly to be so panicked, she told herself furiously. She started to rise, to go after him, when she heard the voices.

He wasn't alone out there at the edge of the water. She should have known that—he wouldn't be planning to swim off the island. He must have arranged to meet someone.

They were arguing, she could tell that much and nothing more. Cautiously she raised her head, peering over the boat. The clouds had covered the moon now, and the two figures were in shadows. Much of the same size and the same build, she couldn't even tell which one was Alex. Whether the person he was arguing with was male or female, young or old, stranger or almost-relative.

"Fuck you!" Alex's furious voice carried on the night air, and he shoved the other person, turning away and starting down the beach.

It happened so quickly Carolyn thought she'd imagined it, staring in frozen horror as ghastly images danced in her mind. The moonlight glinting off a gun. The sudden, swift move of the dark, anonymous figure. The explosion of sound in the night, a sound that could have been a car backfiring but wasn't. And Alex's recoil and his crumpled body lying on the sand. Even from a distance she could see the dark circle of blood pooling around him from the hole in his back, and she tried to scream, but the only sound she could make out was a faint moaning noise.

She sank back down, shivering, unable to catch her breath as wave after wave of horror washed over her. She had to move, had to go for help, but her body was frozen, rigid. Her breath caught in her chest, strangling her, and she had to struggle to stay conscious, to fight the merciful blankness that wanted to overtake her.

She had no idea how long she sat there, fighting for breath, fighting for calm. By the time her gasping sobs had shuddered to a stop, by the time she managed to scramble to her knees and peer over the side of the dingy, it was too late.

The beach was deserted. The clouds had passed, and the sliver of moonlight lit the empty sand.

There was no sign of footprints. The tide had risen up to the rocks, and whoever had walked on the sand had left no trace behind.

The tide had washed the blood clean. It must have carried Alex's body out to sea. With the fierce storm currents he might not be found for days or weeks. Maybe never.

She had to get help. It might not be too late—she'd lost all sense of time, but it could have been only a matter of minutes since Alex had been shot. Maybe he wasn't really
dead,
maybe the bullet had missed his heart. She started to rise, then sank down again in panic.

Someone was standing at the edge of the path, waiting. Watching. The streetlight was far enough away that she could only see the silhouette, but she knew without question that it wasn't Alex. It was the man or woman who'd shot him. And he was waiting to make sure there weren't any witnesses.

It was cold and damp. The t-shirt she wore was soaked with dew, and the wind off the ocean was bitterly cold against her skin. She curled up in a ball, wrapping her arms around her body in a vain effort to keep warm. She hadn't been seen, she was sure of that. Whoever had killed Alex was just being careful.

She didn't even know that Alex was dead, not for certain. He'd been shot and she'd seen him fall, seen the blood on the sand. But she hadn't actually seen him die.

She closed her eyes, burying her head against her bony knees, breathing hard,
seeking
warmth in her damp breath. She just had to wait. As soon as the coast was clear she'd run back to the house on

Tell her what? Her only child was dead? Murdered by someone, and she couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman? And that Carolyn had done nothing to save him? She lifted her head to stare out at the sea. The waves were rough, surging in toward land. There was no way even a strong swimmer could survive for long in that rough surf, and certainly not someone who'd just been shot. It was too late to go for help.

The figure was still standing there, facing the horizon, waiting with seemingly endless patience. And there was nothing Carolyn could do but wait as well, shivering in the cold.

The sound of the children woke her. Squeals of delight, as a nanny brought her charges down to
Lighthouse
Beach
to feed the seagulls. Carolyn tried to move, but she felt encased in ice, her bones and muscles frozen.

It was a sunny day, even in the early morning. Overhead the seagulls wheeled and screeched in pleasure, and the tide was already going out again. Taking with it all trace of the boy who was once Alexander
MacDowell
.

It took all her strength to pull herself to her feet. She felt battered, beaten, and she moved back up the pathway like an old woman. The children looked at her strangely, and their German nanny herded them quickly out of harm's way.

The house on

She'd almost died. When the rest of the house had stirred and discovered that Alexander had taken off with every piece of loose cash or jewelry he could lay his hands on, full panic had set in. Someone must have checked to make sure Carolyn was asleep in her bed, bundled beneath a surprising amount of heavy blankets, but then she'd been forgotten in the hubbub, the police, the FBI, the panic and anger and recriminations. By the time
Constanza
realized she hadn't been seen all day, Carolyn's fever was one hundred and five and her body was shaken with convulsions.

They didn't tell her Alexander had disappeared until she was released from the hospital some five days later. Sally had stayed with her the entire time, sleeping in a chair by her hospital bed, her once-beautiful face ravaged by grief and worry. It wasn't until later that Carolyn knew that she'd remained by her side rather than go in search of her spoiled, errant son. Sally really did love her after all, and she never spoke Alex's name out loud. Her son had failed her, and in her hurt and anger she simply ignored his existence, turning instead to Carolyn.

It wasn't until years later that Carolyn remembered anything at all, when she woke up screaming with a nightmare, and the horrifying night came back to her full force.

Alexander
MacDowell
was dead, she remembered that much. Someone had shot and killed him. Beyond that, dreams mixed with memories into a drugged haze that sent her into a mindless panic. She'd learned not to think about it. Not to question.

And the dreams had eventually stopped, and she'd pushed them all away, into the forgotten past. Sally had never asked if she knew anything about that
night,
and as the years passed and she began to long for her missing son she never thought to question Carolyn. And Carolyn had never wanted to take away her hope. It was easier to forget that summer night so long ago, pretend it hadn't happened.

She didn't have that luxury anymore. Not with a stranger, a liar, a criminal trying to worm his way into Sally's good graces and into her fortune. Not with the dreams coming back to rip her from her sleep.

She should have told the truth years ago, even though it would have shattered Sally. But she hadn't. She was unwilling to dredge up her own imperfect memories, unwilling to bring that much pain to the person she loved most in the world.

She could hardly come up with the truth some eighteen years later. She could only keep her mouth shut and her eyes open, and wait for him to betray himself.

And hope the dreams wouldn't keep coming back.

* * *

Patsy
MacDowell
looked younger than her son George, and only marginally prettier.
Which was only to be expected, given that her fifty-eight-year-old face and body were a work in progress, an ongoing testament to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, compulsive exercise, and every fad diet known to womankind.
She was a perfect shade of golden bisque, a combination of seventy-five-dollar-an-ounce makeup and state-of-the-art tanning machines. The
MacDowell
brown eyes stared up at Carolyn with their usual vague disinterest, and she lit a cigarette with practiced grace.

"How are you, Carolyn?" she said with her patented greeting. She had absolutely no interest in Carolyn's response, but that didn't keep Carolyn from telling her the truth.

"Disturbed," she said flatly.

Patsy's response was less a smile than a grimace. "Aren't we all? Where is the mysterious missing heir? I didn't disrupt my schedule and drag myself all the way up here to sit around and waste time."

She was stretched out on the sofa in the living room, her perfect legs crossed decorously. It was no accident that she reclined on a rose-colored sofa that accented her pale beige suit. Patsy knew how to choose her accessories, even when it came to which furnishings she graced.