The Debt Collector (Book 1 of a Jack Winchester Organized Crime Action Thriller) (Jack Winchester Vigilante Justice Thriller Series) (12 page)

T
HE SUN HAD DIPPED
behind a vast line of old-growth pine trees by the time they made it to Rockland Cove’s coastline. It wrapped orange and yellow bands of light around the dangerously sharp rocks that cut into the ocean. Strangely, the light gave off an almost pink appearance. As they reached the mouth of Lighthouse Road, it opened up into a circular parking lot. It was empty, and the asphalt had fallen into disrepair. Dana let the truck idle after placing it into park.

“Be one moment,” she said before slamming the door.

Jack observed her physique as she unhooked a lock around a thick rusted chain that bound two steel gates closed. She had curves in all the right places—the kind that could make a man’s heart race and unearth a deep sensual craving. The wind whipped at her cascade of dark hair. She swept it out of her face as she swung the gate open. On the way back to the truck, she must have noticed he was looking since she offered the smallest hint of a smile. Casting a glance over her shoulder, satisfied there was enough room to squeeze through, she hopped back in.

“So…” he said slowly. “What you need to show me, is out there?” he asked inquisitively.

Beyond the gates were large, flat, granite rocks that extended in a line toward a tiny structure in the distance. They had to have been at least a mile or two from the main land. Like a manmade dock, the breakwater was just wide enough for one vehicle. Either side of that was a collection of jagged rocks, as if the tightrope in the middle and the ocean sloshing around it wasn’t unnerving enough.

“Yeah, you’re not afraid of a little water, are you?” She smirked, seemingly picking up some reservation in the tone of his voice.

Jack looked out, thinking, as a surge of waves splashed up and over the breakwater. Though he didn’t look at her, Jack knew she was still watching him. He feigned confidence and tried not to grimace.

He chuckled. “Are you kidding?” He felt a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

Truth be told, he’d lived his whole life by the eastern shore, and yet in all his time in the city not once had he ridden the ferry over to Staten island. He’d always given the ocean a wide berth. He had his father to thank for that.

There wasn’t anything that caused his heart to pound more than the sight of water. A flashback from his childhood, choking on water and gasping for air, made his chest rise faster. Really, it shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did. It’s not like his father had attempted to drown him in anything deeper than a bathtub, but regardless, subconsciously a deep seated fear had been instilled in him from the age of seven.

The water glistened against the sun in the distance, its glare almost blinding. Finding it hard to see ahead really didn’t help the situation either. He gulped before telling himself to get a grip. It was just water, after all. At the sound of gravel beneath the tires, the truck rolled forward, it’s movement reminding him of a rollercoaster about to drop over the edge.

As they drew closer to the end of the stone jetty, he could see a large, Victorian lighthouse keeper’s house with a red roof and eyebrow porch. Looming behind it was a classic white conical lighthouse tower. In an instant, it was clear that the surrounding grounds hadn’t been taken care of in years. Overgrown grass with brown tips, singed by the summer heat wave, needed cutting; tree limbs reached for the earth and shrubs spider-webbed every inch of the rural landscape. Though unkempt and wild, it still held a certain New England charm that could only be found off the beaten path. Butterflies flitted from one flower to the next. Seagulls circled overhead, squawking. Upon a gentle breeze the salty scent of the ocean carried. In every way it was a coastal treasure that time had forgotten.

“You own this property?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The lighthouse portion has been run by the U.S Coastal Guard since ’89. It was the last lighthouse in Maine to be automated. The home belonged to my parents. They were keepers until…” she said, trailing off.

He noted the way her chin dropped. He chose not to probe any further.

“Anyway, it’s where I come when I want to be alone. I feel safe here.”

By the time they stopped near the house, his knuckles were almost white from gripping the door handle. After climbing out of the truck and continuing to take in the scene, he rolled his head around to relieve the tension that had formed at the back of his neck.

A small, winding pathway, barely visible beneath the foliage, led up to the house. Everything about the place was truly breathtaking. It was easy to imagine what it must have been like to live and work in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by endless beauty, a sea of color, and a cloudless sky.
And yet how could she feel safe surrounded by this much water?
he pondered. Not every day would be as nice as this. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint rumble of thunder, adding to his present fear.

As they made their way up to the porch, the sun bled into the ocean and they could feel the final rays of its warmth against their skin. It would soon be dark. Despite his dislike for the ocean, being with her felt good—right even—as though someone behind the scenes was leading him, guiding his steps. Walking behind her, he wondered again how anyone like her could have wound up with someone like Matt. Then again, his life wasn’t much better than Matt’s had been. Had Matt had friends forcing him to sell drugs? Had the need of running a motel been too much? He liked to think that behind it all, there was a good reason. If only so he could make sense of his own life choices.

“You don’t get out here much?” he said, letting his hand drift through some long reeds that had grown up between the grass.

“It’s been a while, with work and everything over the past year. We used to spend a lot of summers here. Weekends, that is, when we had staff to manage the hotel.”

“If you sell the motel, will you stay here?”

“That’s the plan. I’m not sure when that will be, though. I just know I can’t keep up the motel business. It’s barely breaking even.”

“You’ve never thought of selling this place?”

She gaped. “No way. It’s priceless.”

They spent the next few minutes roaming the grounds while Dana pointed out different areas that had meant a lot to her growing up. A broken treehouse her father had built for her and her sister when she was five. The spot where she fell off a tire swing and broke her arm at age nine. A stone well that had been filled in with soil and turned into a small plot for morning glories. She spoke of sneaking out as a kid, exploring the grounds and at one time nearly falling down the well, after which her father filled it in. He observed the way her face lit up and seemed at ease, reliving her youth and remembering a time far from the stress and pain she had endured over the past few years.

“You never told me you had a sister.”

“She lives on the west coast. We rarely speak.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered under his breath, thinking about his own sister. It had been years since he’d heard her voice.

He was curious, but didn’t question her on it. Dana must have read his mind, since she continued.

“She didn’t approve of my relationship with Matt. That is, me staying in it.”

Her reply only raised further questions. Did she know about Matt’s additional activities? Had she been involved? What had she confided to her sister?

Unlocking the door to the main entrance, Dana flicked on a switch. Light illuminated the short hallway. He could immediately see why this place felt safe. Closing the door behind him, the noise of the wind vanished. The place was built like Fort Knox, but with all the trimmings of a modernized Victorian home. Obviously it had to be able to withstand the severe beatings of Mother Nature. Color photographs lined the walls, holding captive moments in time. Fluffy pillows and throw overs covered furniture. The pine floors had been stripped back and coated with a dark stain. What little light remained of the day seeped in through a large, double paned window that provided a magnificent view of the ocean. The kitchen had an open concept that led into the lounge.

His eyes scanned the scuffed pine floors, brick and mortar walls, and a double barrel shotgun locked in place above the fireplace. A large wrap around bookcase filled with old books, and displaying miniature porcelain dogs, was the focal point of the lounge. Someone was an avid reader and collector. Jack ran his fingers across the leather bound spines.

“Those belonged to my father,” she said, tossing her keys on the counter before lighting the pilot light.

“Coffee?”

“Maybe later.”

He imagined what it may have been like to have met her when she was younger, to have grown up in a small town away from a life of crime. Would it have been the same? Not unless he’d had different parents, he thought. A sudden wave of guilt hit him hard, like the waves crashing against the rocks around them. Surrounded by the beauty of nature and sharing each day with Dana since he’d arrived, it was easy to forget why he was here, and all that could mean to her. All that could be lost. Images of the chaos erupting and obliterating what little remaining peace she had flashed before him.

It was the reason he’d pulled away under the pavilion.

He’d never given much thought to how his actions affected others until recently. The past was like a blur in his rearview mirror, a distant series of memories that he preferred to forget or keep hidden.

The thought of leaving once he found the money, or her finding out why he was really there, had begun to pain him more than he anticipated. Almost unknowingly, being around her was changing him. He scoffed. Maybe he was just trying to convince himself that he could be something other than his past. He’d spent so many years ignoring the shame of who he’d become, the lives he’d taken with little disregard for those left behind. He’d long ago accepted that the road he had chosen, the choices he had made, didn’t deserve a happy outcome.

Then again, a life of crime brought its own penalty.

As the evening wore on, he noticed the way it felt to be around her. There was no denying his attraction to her, and he could now see the feeling was mutual. There was something natural in their interaction. It didn’t seem forced, fake, or needy as many of his past relationships and nights with women had been. Conversation flowed, along with laughter. For maybe the first time in his life, he wasn’t in a hurry to lose the company. Prior to his incarceration, his life had never allowed for anything deeper than a one-night stand. Of course there were those around him who had family and kids, those who spent weekends tossing burgers on the BBQ and trying to appear normal on the surface, but to him it was all smoke and mirrors.

Normal
, he scoffed internally. What was that? A home, a wife, two kids, and having a job you hate? Was that normal? Maybe it was. However, in all his time in the city, he’d never felt at ease long enough to have that. He’d lived with his guard up, his eyes always alert for that one person who might return for retribution.

“You want to see the lighthouse?” she asked.

“Does the coast guard give you access?”

“Sort of.”

He cocked an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly amused.

She smiled, and they set off to tour the historic watchtower. They navigated their way through the back part of the house, occasionally brushing up against each other, exiting through a stubborn backdoor that had swollen from the weather. They admired the view of the gulf of Maine that led out to the North Atlantic Ocean. A short trip across the grounds led to the spectacular conical lighthouse. Instead of entering through the main door, Dana led him around the side to what appeared to be a storm cellar. Pulling keys from her pocket, she unlocked the deteriorating wooden doors and he helped swing them back. Small stone steps led down into darkness.

“Mind your step. Oh, and—” she was about to warn him, but it was too late. The steps were steep, but a beam of wood was a little too low for Jack’s six-foot frame.

Jack rubbed his forehead. From therein he bent slightly at the hip and followed cautiously. A few seconds later, a light came on, revealing the stone coffin they’d entered. At least’s that how it felt: claustrophobic and stuffy. The place smelt musty, like old clothes that had been left inside a closet for half a century. Dana shivered as a cool draft of air brushed against their skin. A few large beer barrels were stacked in the corner. The rest of the crumbling stonewalls were lined with wooden racks of dusty wine bottles.

“What is this place?”

“The safest place in Rockland Cove.” She patted the face of a wall. “My father used to make his own beer and wine here. Before that, it offered protection from serious storms. Tornadoes and such.”

The sound of wind picking up outside and an unknown object tumbling past the entrance way startled them.

“So no chance of this place collapsing in on us?” he said, observing again the dismal state of his surroundings.

“Not a chance. This place is built with rebar through the blocks and then covered in cement.”

“For someone who runs a motel, you sure know a lot about construction.”

She chuckled. “Numerous times growing up we had to dash in here when I was a kid—that was something our father always used to reassure us about. He said this place would be here long after us.”

“Strong foundations,” he muttered.

“Exactly. But it’s what’s underneath that matters.”

“What?”

“That’s what he’d say. Life would throw curveballs, and sometimes things around us collapse. Not much you can do about that. But it’s what’s underneath that determines if we can rebuild again.”

Jack cast a glance around. “You had a smart father.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

In an unspoken agreement they continued on. On the far side of the room was another set of stairs that led to another door. After she’d unlocked it, they found themselves at the foot of a spiral staircase. Dana fished a flashlight out of her jacket and tapped it a few times on the palm of her hand. A beam of light flooded the floor.