Storm Warning (19 page)

She couldn’t hurt him anymore.

She had no control over him any longer.

Someone sat next to him, and he twisted around to see who it was.

“What are you looking at?” Dilated eyes bore into him.

He searched for the guy’s name, something you couldn’t pick out of a mind easily because people never thought about it.

“Kevin, isn’t it?” he recalled with a shiver of anticipation.

“Ugh.” Kevin’s derisive grunt was supposed to be a brush-off.

He grinned. Fate was a beautiful thing. He raised his pint glass, looking through the amber liquid. He recognized destiny when he saw it. Destiny he could shape into revenge for past insults.

The tosser was coming down from a high, and any minute now he’d be craving a faster, bigger hit.

“Get my friend a drink, Freddy,” he told the barman, “and get yourself one while you’re at it.”

“Thanks.” Wrinkles furrowed Kevin’s brow as the barman delivered the beer.

“No problem. Are you having trouble with the missus?” He tried to appear casual, but inside a vein popped.

Kevin scowled and took a drink. “Nah. It’s that bitch she lives with who’s certifiable.”

The knife he carried weighed hot and heavy against his hip. He stroked a finger down the chill glass. He paid Freddy for the drinks, lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into Kevin’s face.

“I’ve got some charlie in the van, if you’re interested?” He spoke quietly, while placing the thought directly into the guy’s pharmaceutically fried brain.

“You?” Kevin’s eyes glittered.

“Aye, me. What am I? A saint?” He curved his lips into a smile. He got his kicks from doing things other than coke, but the wanker didn’t need to know that. “Want some or not?”

Glancing at his watch, he knew he had to hurry. He still had a lot to do before the tide turned. He downed his beer, stood and walked out of the pub, knowing Kevin would follow. Two seconds later the guy barged through the door with his pint in hand, a big grin on his stupid face.

They headed up the hill. Kevin yapped, the drugs loosening his tongue. A few minutes later they were at the door of his caravan down by coastal path to Crail, right on the water’s edge. The van was painted two shades of green, with net curtains and drapes closed against prying eyes. His old battered Ford Escort sat on the grassy space beside it.

He went in first, scanned the surfaces for anything incriminating, but he’d cleared everything away. There was nothing left of him here except the bag of goodies in the bedroom. He didn’t make mistakes and he’d been planning his escape since his contacts on the other side of the Atlantic had been murdered.

By the damned Yank.

“Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the foam-cushioned benches. Two guys shooting the breeze on a windy afternoon. He pulled out a couple of beers from the fridge, handed one to the other man who cracked it open with a smile.

How dumb could you be?
He never failed to be amazed by people’s infinite stupidity. Heading into the bedroom at the back of the van, he grabbed a block of high-grade coke from the holdall he’d packed ready to go. Except now he was going to leave it behind with what he hoped would be the corpse of a viable suspect for the DEA’s drug smuggling investigation. Sure, he’d be implicated, but he’d be long gone with enough money for a new life and new identity.

He scraped some coke into a baggie.

If Kevin had just taken a hit, chances were this one would kill him. It was ten times purer than the shit they sold on the streets.

He sat on the bed and started to laugh. The day was turning out to be absolutely perfect. All the loose ends were tying themselves up like pretty little ribbons.

There was just Sorcha left and he was coming for her next.

It took a lot of fast talking, but Ben had convinced his colleagues at Scottish DEA that Sorcha wasn’t their best suspect for the drug runner. He’d taken Iain Logan’s diaries to Paisley, had them authenticated, photocopied and deciphered. He hadn’t mentioned the ghosts or precognition or any other damn thing that would look squirrelly in a report.

The journals hadn’t revealed any names and ended six months before Iain Logan’s death. Ben needed to check the attic wall to see if they’d missed any.

The entries explained the cash deposits in the bank account. SDEA traced the horse-racing records and the wins checked out. Iain Logan had been a master gambler.

Unethical? Sure.
Ben didn’t give a rat’s ass, as long as the guy hadn’t been involved with illegal narcotics.

The creak of a floorboard upstairs brought him back to the present. He and Sorcha hadn’t had a chance to talk. Carolyn had been a mess. For an intelligent girl, she wasn’t very smart, but she’d been through hell so he was trying to be patient. Ben didn’t know how involved Kevin Cassidy was with the trafficking, if at all, but he did know being around him right now was dangerous. He’d persuaded Carolyn to go lie down and rest, told her he’d drive her to St. Andrews later if she still wanted.

In the meantime, he wanted Sorcha in a safe place. They had some surveillance on the street. A precaution to ease the growing disquiet that had dogged him since the car bomb.

It had taken every ounce of self-discipline not to bust Kevin Cassidy on the spot. But what would that prove? Not a damn thing. And word on the street was something big was going down. Extra officers were on duty and the Coastguard on full alert. Ben wasn’t gonna blow the whole operation for one lousy possession charge that the guy would walk away from with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. He’d worked too hard for a chance to finish this. Jacob had died too young and too violently for him to be satisfied with anything less than a full-term jail sentence.

His hand on the banister, Ben headed upstairs. Standing beneath the attic hatch, he drew the Ramsay ladder down and grimaced at the screech of metal on metal. Carolyn came out of her room. Exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid.

“What are you doing?” She stared at him sullenly, the yellow bruises on her face reminding him why he needed to be nice.

“Sorcha asked me to get something for her.” He nodded toward the loft, and Carolyn’s expression dropped at the mention of Sorcha’s name.

“Well, you can tell her I’m moving out.” She turned on her heel and went back into her room, turning her music up loud.

Ben refrained from rolling his eyes. The drama. He climbed the ladder, grateful for the skylight that let in enough daylight to see. There were no ghosts, no spiking tension or skin-crawling sensation today, nothing but a dust-dry attic with a god-awful view of the sea.

He shuddered as water lapped the beach. His phantoms were tangible. His fear no better today than the day he’d arrived. Hell, he didn’t want to be in Anstruther, except he couldn’t imagine going home to Chicago either. Not that he wouldn’t mind catching a Bull’s game or showing Sorcha the sights.

Christ.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He was so screwed.

They had to talk. But first he had a job to do. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans.

Last night he’d made a hole in the drywall to get the journals out. Squatting beside the gap, he shoved his hand deep into the crevice, grazed his knuckles on the wooden support struts as he poked around.

Instinct was telling him there were more journals here, ones that went right up to the day Iain Logan died. Frustrated, he ripped away another piece of plasterboard and jammed his arm in up to his elbow. His arm muscles strained, his heart thumped his ribcage as he caught the rough edge of paper. Retrieving two more journals, he sat back on his heels and let out a long breath of relief.

He delved back into the wall space. Paper rustled beneath his fingers—a newspaper—wrapped around something heavy. He got a rush as he touched cold, hard metal.

A gun?

Straining further, he grasped it, maneuvered the object out the hole. A matte-black pistol. He carefully pointed the barrel away from himself—not that a ricochet off solid stone would do him any favors—and held it up to the light.
WALTHER
was stamped in wavy type on the side with
P.38
beside it and a six-digit serial number.

Handguns had been banned in Britain since the mid-nineties following the Dunblane massacre. Ben’s fingers tightened on the grip, testing the weight.

Private handguns had to be stored at gun clubs, or collectors’ pieces, like this Walther, had to be disabled if kept at home. He checked the pistol over, noted how pristine it looked considering it had probably been stuck in a wall cavity for half a century.

He palmed the magazine, saw the dull gleam of golden bullets through the peep holes.
Holy shit.
Cocked the gun, knowing this was the genuine article and he had to hand it over to the authorities. Except…

Except now he had a gun, and nobody knew about it.

***

Sorcha trailed disconsolate fingers along the smooth patina of the piano in Ben’s lounge. Her run-in with Kevin had unnerved her, the way Carolyn had yelled at her afterward had upset her, but it was Ben who’d tied her in knots. There was only one reason for the we-have-to-talk moment.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Exhaustion drained her. This was turning out to be one crappy week.

You’d think at twenty-six years old she’d have learned to guard her emotions, to shield herself from potential heartbreak. She hadn’t.

Carefully she raised the lid of the piano with a distant memory of doing the exact same thing as a child. Maggie Johnstone had played beautifully, something else Sorcha had missed without realizing it when she’d been sent away. Tapping a high note, the sound resonated through the room, wavering and fading like the setting sun.

Fifteen years ago Duncan Mackenzie’s childish cruelty had stolen this from her. He’d stolen her community, her family, her birthright.

She twisted the rings on her fingers, her thoughts turning to Ben. Tears suddenly streamed down her cheeks. How had she fallen so hard, so fast?

Crap.
She scrambled through her jeans pockets for a tissue but came up empty. Determined to stem the flow, she headed for the bathroom to wash her face.

If they were breaking up, they could do it in her cottage, on her terms, where she could curl up and suffer in peace. Carolyn could stay or go as she pleased, but Sorcha needed to get on with her life and stop waiting for someone to drop a bomb on her head.

A bag lying inside the front door caught her eye on her way to the bathroom. It lay on its side and a file peeked out, a photograph sliding free. She shouldn’t spy but…She stopped and frowned.

It was a photograph of her.

Ben hadn’t taken any pictures that she knew about. Kneeling on the hardwood floor, she pulled the photo free and stared at it. It was from last week, when she’d been running on the West Sands, St. Andrews. The day before she’d met Ben Foley.

Something wasn’t right.

Another photo slipped free. Her running across the rocks the day she found Alec McCabe’s body.

He’d been watching her.

She hesitated before pulling out the folder and opening it wide, knowing she was snooping. Dozens of snapshots stared back at her—on lunch breaks, at the gym, shopping in the local supermarket. The glossy stills slithered across the floor like litter.

Everything hushed, even the background roar of the sea dimmed, as she tried to figure out what lay before her. Her mind froze because nothing made sense. Why would he take pictures and not tell her about them?

A chill settled over her. She unzipped the main body of the bag and found her father’s journals inside. Her throat hurt as she tried to choke down the emotion.

What did Ben want with her daddy’s journals? Her hands shook, touching the cool vinyl covers. What a fool! She’d known him, what, a week? Slept with him, fallen in love with him. She closed her eyes and sank back on her heels.

How had that happened?

She’d
wanted
to believe in him, the man with the strong arms and dark-chocolate eyes.

The numbness in her stomach spread to her legs, to her heart, to her lips. It stopped the pain and she welcomed it.

Ben Foley was stalking her. And he’d gotten her exactly where he wanted her, isolated and growing increasingly dependent on him. She’d fallen for a dangerous, good-looking fraud.

Fool.

No wonder he thought it was normal to see ghosts. He was a flipping nut job. Unease tingled all the way up her spine and across her shoulders.

Bad things had happened since he’d appeared on the scene. Her breathing grew choppy.
Could
he have attacked Carolyn? No, it was impossible, but her instinct was shot. She’d trusted him, but she knew nothing about him. So where did that leave her? Alone in the house of a potentially dangerous stalker.

Her knees wobbled as she stood. She stuffed the photos back in the file, shoved it against the wall the way she’d found it, grabbed her jacket and stumbled toward the door.

She hesitated. What if he came after her? She didn’t want to raise his suspicions. She needed to buy herself some time to get away by pretending nothing was wrong. Rooting for paper and a pen in her tote, she found them and scrawled a quick note.

Gone to pick up dinner
.
Back soon.

Her handwriting was shaky as she drew a kiss at the bottom. She stuck the note on the table, where he’d be sure to see it, and hoped it bought her an hour or so. That would give her enough time to phone Uncle Davy and get somewhere safe.

Shivers ran over her back, but she didn’t know if they were from fear or gullibility. She strode through the garden gate and along the beach. She paused at the entrance to her cottage.

***

Along the street two detectives sat in an unmarked car. Ben gave them a nod and they drove away so they weren’t made by the locals. No one wanted to jeopardize this op.

The gun was heavy in his jacket pocket, hitting his thigh as he walked. Shoving the journals under one arm, he gripped the pistol, keeping it out of sight. Didn’t want to kneecap himself.

Arriving at his rented cottage, he hesitated and put his hand on the knob. This was it. This was where he blew every chance of having a relationship with Sorcha. And he hadn’t even realized he wanted a relationship until he’d screwed it up.

This was where his romantic fantasy, about a woman who’d been victimized and bullied since childhood, forgave his deception and carried on where they’d left off last night.

You’re undercover DEA
?
No problem. You thought I was a drug trafficker? Well, shit happens, let’s make out.

And if he got her into bed before he told her, made love one last time…it’d be another nail in his coffin. From the hurt he’d seen in her eyes, she already thought he was breaking up with her, like that prick in Australia.

He laughed and rubbed his palms over his face.
Christ.
This was a million times worse. She was gonna kill him.

Maybe he shouldn’t tell her yet? Not until after they busted the drug runners. Because if she threw him out, who would protect her?

Sorcha thought she could handle herself, but most men were stronger than women. It wasn’t sexism. It was a fact of life. Ben ground his teeth and resisted the urge to punch the ancient stone wall. He wanted Sorcha safe and Jacob avenged, but he couldn’t lie to her anymore. He needed her cooperation. Bracing himself, he turned the handle and opened the door.

“Sorcha?”

The living room was empty. Frowning, he closed the door behind him and walked over to the bedroom. His pulse sped up in basic male anticipation, but the bed was empty.

Where was she?

He spotted a note on the table, put down the journals, picked up the piece of paper.

She’d gone to get dinner?

He slumped into a chair. It felt so anticlimactic, unless she was running away from the conversation they needed to have. He lowered his brow. She didn’t strike him as a coward.

He reread the note. Glanced around the room. Stared at the bag behind the front door—Christ, he’d forgotten he’d left it there. Unease spread. Had she gone through his files?

The phone rang. He leaped to his feet, lunging for it, but his forehead connected so hard with a beam on the ceiling he dropped in a white-hot blaze of pain, and barely registered the second strike as his skull crashed off the hardwood floor.

***

He pulled up on the curb to let an ambulance squeeze along the narrow lane, its red lights flashing. Anxiety caused his heart to stutter. Were the paramedics on their way to save poor stupid Kevin, who lay fizzing on his caravan floor? How did they know about him?

But the ambulance stopped a few houses up, at the Yank’s place, and panic turned to curiosity.

What was going on?

He glanced at Sorcha’s cottage and back down the road. Could he risk checking it out? Part of him—the tiny cowardly part—wanted to forget about Sorcha, to let it go. Except he couldn’t ignore the painful dreams or the way their destinies were fatally intertwined.

He touched his knife. He could change fate.

He got out of the car and went to the door, tried the handle. It was locked. He fitted the new key he’d lifted from Kevin and smiled when the door opened.

“Hello?” he called softly into the living room. No answer. He closed the door behind him and locked it, excitement curling inside him.

He focused his mind on the question.
Who is in the house?

For once Iain Logan wasn’t shrouding the place, though a cold sticky sensation rippled along his flesh. He concentrated hard but all he saw was a mass of scenes, a jumble of mixed-up images.

He heard a creak above him, followed by the sound of music. Smiling grimly, he drew the knife and held it behind his back as he crept up the stairs. Not that stealth mattered with the Rocketsmiths blaring. He took a step into Sorcha’s room but it was empty. Hot fury boiled up inside. Damn. He wanted to howl in frustration. Sorcha wasn’t there.