Shattered (6 page)

He hurried to join her and they went quickly up the twenty-foot-tall staircase. There was no point in trying to talk in the wind. Carol unlocked the heavy glass door on the first deck, and they stepped inside.

Guy did not miss the house and hadn't even thought to ask for any part of it in the divorce. It had always been Carol's place: She had earned it, she had chosen it, she had decorated it. He had never been much more than a guest there, which was probably why he had spent so little time at home. It was only when he came here now, after all these years of being away, did he realize there was something he missed about it: the smell. It smelled like Carol—a combination of her delicate jasmine perfume, salty breezes, and warm things baking in the kitchen—and that smell, he supposed, would always mean home to him.

Carol, still shivering, hurried toward kitchen. “All right, so I lied. I'll make coffee. I'm freezing.”

The house, when it was built in 1998, had won a number of architectural awards for its open floor plan and innovative features. The entry level was basically one grand room with a vaulted teak ceiling, cypress walls, and gleaming parquet floors. A bank of windows, all different sizes and shapes, faced the ocean, and two sets of glass doors opened onto a circular deck. A spiral wooden staircase was set on either side of the cathedral-like room, one leading to two medium-sized bedrooms and baths, and the other to the master bedroom tower with its glass-enclosed garden tub. An open gallery, which Carol had decorated with green plants, bookshelves, and cozy reading areas accented with Greek statuary, overlooked the main level, with sliding glass doors opening onto a second set of outside decks. Access to the widow's walk, with its hot tub and observation telescope, was via another staircase tower in the master suite.

Carol had decorated the master suite in sea blues and greens, and the lower level in the warm tones of the beach—driftwood gray and sea-oat beige and pale coral. The kitchen area, which flowed off the great room, was a pleasant surprise of yellows and whites, copper pots, and hanging greenery. The kitchen had been the only part of the house Guy had really liked when he lived there—with the possible exception of the rooftop hot tub. Everything else had always seemed too put together, too magazine-cover perfect. Carol, ever the salesperson, was far more concerned with presentation than with livability, and always had been.

Guy said, “I'm surprised you've held on to this place for so long.”

Carol replied from the kitchen, “I guess I just don't have the energy for a move. Besides, it's not a good time to sell.”

Guy had made the same observation more than once over the years, and her reply was always the same. It would never be a good time to sell as long as the memories lived here.

There was a freestanding fireplace in the center of the room and Guy automatically started toward it and the basket of split wood on the hearth. Then he stopped, feeling foolish. It wasn't his job to build fires any longer, and he wasn't sure Carol would appreciate the intimacy of the gesture. It occurred to him that he would have felt far more comfortable building a fire in a stranger's fireplace on the first date than he would performing the same service for this woman who had shared his bed for fifteen years, and the knowledge irritated him.

He stood for a moment uncertainly a few steps inside the room, defeated once again by the intricacies of the rules of divorce. Scowling, he went to the kitchen and pulled out a stool at the counter.

“I'm not staying for coffee,” he said abruptly, straddling the stool. “I just wanted to talk to you about something and I didn't know if you'd want Laura to hear. Truth is, I didn't think it was any of her business.”

Carol turned with the coffeepot in her hand, curiosity and alarm darkening her eyes. But she kept her expression neutral, even light, as she poured the water into the coffeemaker. “Let me guess. You're filing for bankruptcy? You've come down with a social disease? Although I can't figure out why either of those should affect me.”

“This is pretty serious, Carol.”

“I know.” She wiped her hands on a towel, but did not turn to face him. “That’s probably why I don't want to hear it.”

Guy felt bad then. Carol had had enough trouble in her life—God knew, they both had—and he didn't like to think he could be the cause of more. Maybe he shouldn't say anything. He didn't want to worry her needlessly. But if he said nothing and later something happened to her...

She was a grown woman, damn it. She could worry or not worry for herself.

He said, “It's just this. Some nut called me this afternoon at the paper. He claimed to know me from some time in the past, and I got the impression he didn't much like what he knew. He mentioned you, made some reference to you living up here all by yourself. I just thought you ought to know.”

Carol turned slowly, the dishtowel still in her hand, her eyes big. “What?”

“It's probably nothing. Like I said, he was some nut. He wouldn't even give me his name.”

“What exactly,” Carol demanded, quietly and distinctly, “did he say?”

Guy wished intensely that he had never come. But it was too late to do anything now except answer. “Something about how I was hard to track down, and how was my pretty little wife, and were you still living up there in that great big house by yourself—that's fairly close, I think. And when I asked who he was, he seemed insulted that I didn't remember, and then he started singing 'Mary had a little lamb.' Said it would refresh my memory. I don't mind telling you, it was creepy.”

He looked at Carol. She was frowning, clearly no more enlightened about the identity of the caller than he had been. He wished he could stop there. He probably should have. But he couldn't.

“Then he said,” Guy finished, “he said, 'Do you know where your daughter is?' And he kind of laughed, and hung up.”

He watched the color drain out of Carol's face, leaving it pinched and dry and paper-white. She said hoarsely, “My God.” and the way she said it, the way she looked when she said it, told Guy that she was scared—and by more than just his recounting of a bizarre phone call.

He said, “Carol?”

She turned her back to him, bracing her hands on the counter before her and stiffening her elbows as though only by supreme effort could she keep herself upright. Guy got to his feet, but at the scraping sound the stool made, she threw up a hand to stay him.

“Wait.” Her voice sounded choked. “Wait, I have to think.”

He came around the counter, his muscles tense. “Listen, I don't think you should give this thing more weight than it deserves. You know how it is in the news business, you make enemies, you get threats, but none of it ever amounts to much. The only reason I told you was because—”

Carol turned, her expression composed, but her eyes still dark with turmoil. “Last night,” she said, “someone called—a girl. She was crying. She called me 'Mama', and she asked me to help her and—then we were cut off.”

The words hit Guy like a blow to the stomach, because his first instinct was to believe—of course, he believed, just as Carol did—it was Kelly. But it was an instant, just long enough to leave him feeling hooked and sore, a sailfish crashing onto the deck, and then his reporter's rationality reasserted itself.

He said, “Son of a bitch.”

Surprise looked out of place on Carol's face. Clearly this was not the reaction she had expected from him. “What?”

Guy paced back to the counter, absently rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to put order to his thoughts. “This is—damn it, this psychopath, whoever he is, obviously has some kind of plan. Why the hell he would want to torment you—”

Carol said, confusion still heavy in her voice, “It was a girl who called. I told you, she—”

Guy gave a sharp shake of his head, turning back to her. “No, it's a setup. The same guy has got to be responsible for both phone calls. For some reason he hates us enough to use the one thing against us we're most vulnerable about. Carol, don't you have any idea who it could be? Think!”

Carol stared at him as though he were a creature she was seeing for the first time and she could not imagine how he had suddenly materialized in her kitchen. She said nothing for the longest moment; she just stared at him while the coffeemaker hissed and gurgled and the room slowly filled with the aroma of Jamaican brew.

Then she said, clearly and coolly, “Isn't there any room in your scenario at all for the possibility—just the possibility—that it might have been Kelly? That it might have been your daughter who was calling for help and that the man who called you today might know why? That he might even be responsible for whatever trouble she's in?”

Guy drew in a breath and for a moment he had absolutely no idea of what to say. In that moment the doors of time had somehow opened and he had stepped over the threshold and two and a half years into the past; same kitchen, same pain and accusation in Carol's eyes, same helplessness churning in his stomach.

The only way he could react was with frustration. “For God's sake, Carol, you can't be serious! Kelly's been gone two and a half years without a word. Now, suddenly, for no reason at all, she picks up the phone in the middle of the night and calls home—”

“It wasn't for no reason!” she cried. “She was asking for help, she was in trouble—”

“And this phone call just happens to coincide with one I get from somebody singing nursery rhymes and making veiled threats against my family—”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Her voice was shrill. “Do you hear what you're saying? Of course, the two calls are connected, and of course, the man who called you knows where Kelly is or maybe he even has her, maybe he's holding her against her will—and that's why she called me! Damn you, Guy, I can't believe you're taking this so lightly! Why didn't you call the police?”

He stared at her incredulously, his head reeling. It was two and a half years ago. He had stepped back in time. And he was just as horrified, just as miserable and helpless and enraged as he had been then. God, how long could she keep doing this to him? How long was he going to keep letting her?

He spoke coolly and deliberately to mask his anger. “I am not responsible for this, Carol.”

“Oh, no, of course not! You're not responsible for anything are you?”

They stood with stormy eyes and tight lips, and the wall of hurt and anger between them was so thick it practically colored the air. He thought, this isn't right. They both were grieving, they both were scared, and instead of turning to one another, they were turning on each other, just as they had always done. Suddenly he was very tired.

His tone was subdued as he said, “You're probably right. We should talk to the police—separately. I'll have Sheriff Case call you tomorrow. Meanwhile ...” He turned for the door. “Just be careful, okay?”

She said, “You think she's dead, don't you?”

He felt the words like sharpened knives strike between his shoulder blades. He stiffened his muscles against the pain, but did not turn around. He said, “I've thought about it, yes. After all these years with no word ... life is rough for a kid on the streets and, yeah, I've thought about it.”

“You bastard.”

Guy drew in another sharp breath but stopped himself from answering. He left the house without another word.

Carol stood there in the kitchen after he was gone, flushed with emotion and cold with fear, hating herself for the way she had behaved and hating him because he hadn't been able to stop her ... or because he couldn't keep the hurt away or he didn't know how to comfort her or simply because she was scared and he was there.

“Damn,” she muttered softly and pressed her fingers briefly against her eyes to stop the sudden sting of tears.

She squared her shoulders and took one cleansing breath, then turned to pour a cup of coffee. That was when she noticed the blink of the answering machine light from the desk across the room.

She had never been able to ignore that blinking light, not in the deepest depression or most urgent moment, and she certainly couldn't ignore it now. She crossed the room and pushed the button. The tape rewound, beeped, and began to play.

The husky, desperately familiar voice took her breath away.

“Mama? Mama, I was outside today and I could see you. I could see our house. It was still there, just like it's always been. You've got to come get me, Mama. I can't get out of here by myself. Why don't you come get me?”

Carol could hear her heart beat, the air rushing in and out of her lungs, the last sputtering drip of the coffeemaker, the distant thunder of wind and surf outside. What she could not hear was anything else on the message tape, even though the reel continued to spin and she could tell by the blinking light that another message was now playing. The only voice she could hear was that voice, the same voice, over and over again. Kelly's voice. And those words,
You've got to come get me, Mama... . Why don't you come get me?

Carol ran to the door and flung it open. “Guy!” she cried into the wind. “Guy!”

~

Chapter Six

Spring Break Comes to St. Theresa-by-the-Sea

St. Theresa-by-the-Sea was discovered by the Spanish in 1716, forgotten for another hundred fifty years, then rediscovered by railroad magnate Henry Morrison Flagler. It has since remained the private paradise of a select few who call this part of the world home. But St. T. is now in the process of being discovered all over again—this time by the thousands of college students destined to descend on St. T next week.