Chill Waters (33 page)

“And he has Rachael, Peter,” Iris said, her own voice breaking.

“No…” A single word of denialdenial of the unthinkable.

“Sorry,” Sorrel said. “Wish I had more time for tact, folks. But your friend is in serious trouble. I’m going to check the cabin out. I’ve already called for backup.”

“I’m going with you,” Peter said.

“No, he could have a weapon. It’s better if…”

“You’ve got a gun. Use it if you have to. I’m going, damn it, Elton.”

“Me too,” Iris said. “I’ll get another flashlight.”

“Great,” Sorrel muttered, but he didn’t argue further.

As the three made their way up through the woods to the cabin, Peter and Iris walking behind Captain Sorrel, Iris recalled the words Rachael had used in describing her tenant: ‘Too good to be true’. Oh, dear Lord, why wasn’t I listening? Even at the dinner last night, the bad feelings had churned inside her like some foul witch’s brew. A couple of times when someone spoke to her, it was as if the voice had come from far off, out of some other dark and alien dimension.

The cabin came into view. Elton moved toward it warily, gun drawn, his other hand waving them back, telling them to come no further. But it was evident that no one was inside.

The door to the cabin was wide open. The first thing Iris saw was the overturned chair on the floor, strips of tape still clinging to the arms and legs. The sight restricted her ability to take a complete breath.

As soon as they stepped inside, Iris saw what looked like a pair of women’s gloves lying on the floor. Rachael’s? Last night, Rachael had casually mentioned that her good leather gloves were missing. Her daughter had given them to her, she said. Iris’ gaze shifted to the Lysol can on the floor. To the cigarette butts overflowing in the sardine can, by the cot. The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke. She looked back at the gloves, took a step in their direction.

“Don’t touch anything,” Elton ordered. He was down on one knee shining the flashlight over the blade of a shovel propped against the wall, behind the stove. “Looks like blood,” he said to no one in particular.

“Oh, no…”

The note of horror in her whispered words made him look up. “It’s dried, Iris. Been there awhile.” Leaving the shovel, he checked out the washroom and broom closet, retrieved an olive green boot from the closet floor. Holding it up gingerly by its top, he looked questioningly at them.

“Sure as hell looks like one of Hartley’s,” Peter said hoarsely. “Why did they let this bastard out if they knew he was cold blooded killer?”

He’d asked the same question himself. “From my conversation with Whittaker, I gather Morley could be downright charming when it suited him. He was crazy, but apparently not stupid. He told them what they wanted to hear, so they figured he was better and let him go. Shrinks like to think they cured you. Makes them feel god-like.”

Peter shook his head at the comment and went outside, returning a few minutes later. “George’s boat’s missing.”

“That right?” Sorrel said, frowning, but making no immediate connection between Peter’s news and the missing woman.

“Just the two sawhorses left that it was sitting on.”

“Kids, you think?”

Peter shrugged. “Who else would bother with that old siv?”

The singular thought struck the three of them simultaneously: Charlie Morley would have no way of knowing what condition George’s old boat was in?

Forty-One

Like a child learning to swim, Rachael splashed feebly at the water. Ineffective, clumsy efforts at best. She was so tired. She wanted only to sleep. Just close her eyes and sleep forever. So tired. So very tired. Stop moving your arms and you’ll just slip away. It will be over. Just then a rogue wave crashed over head, nearly taking her under. When it subsided, she gulped in precious air and knew how badly she wanted to live. I want to get to know Peter better. To become a better artist. I want to hold my grandchildren.

Yes. And you will.
Her grandmother’s voice again.

I’m not so sure, Emily.

She pushed on even though her efforts now were barely moving her forward. It was not long until her arms refused to lift out of the water at all, until she could not feel her legs. She floated on her back for a time, starred up at the upside bowl of stars, fragmented in her blurred vision. She was moving her arms just enough to keep her drifting farther away from shore.

In her darkest moments when letting go seemed the easy choice, even the welcome choice, the voice would return to her, urging her on. Encouraging her. But the voice was growing fainter now and she had to strain to hear it. Her arms and legs kept moving as if with a will of their own. But barely. Now and then she would call for help, but she was no longer sure if she was making any sound. Thought and memory flitted through her mind like birds on the winglike bluejays darting from tree to tree. Images of Peter laughing, of Iris brushing green paint onto the rim of a bowl. Of her children creating playdough creatures at the kitchen table back in Deering. She moved as if in a dream. Once, she even imagined she heard a siren.

Then, ever so faintly, she heard the drone of what sounded like an outboard motor. She must be hallucinating. Everything had an unreal quality about it, like in the grey zone between sleep and waking.

But the drone was louder now. In her dreamlike state, she turned her head in the direction of the sound, and saw a yellow light bobbing above the surface, speeding through the night toward her, growing larger and larger as it came closer, like a huge yellow sun. She blinked her eyes, expecting it to disappear again, merely a mirage to further torment her. But it didn’t disappear. Rachael tried to raise an arm to signal where she was, but managed only to slip beneath the water. Resurfacing, coughing the salt water, she cried out weakly, “I’m here. I’m here.”

Minutes later, familiar, gentle hands were lifting her from the water and helping her into a boat. As those same hands wrapped her in something warm, she heard Peter say, “Hit it, Captain.” He held her close, murmuring “You’re safe now, Rachael. It’s over.”

His reassuring words kept repeating themselves in her heart, and at last she gave herself over to the blessed oblivion of nothingness.

Forty-Two

Rachael remained in hospital for four days recovering from severe hypothermia and exhaustion. Ironically, Greg was up on the next floor, in intensive care, following the removal of his spleen. She went to visit him two weeks later and was relieved to see that he was almost back to his old self, even to flirting with one of the young nurses. Clearly, there would be other Lisas.

He had wanted her back not because he loved her, (though he insisted that he did) but because she represented safety to him. As Jenny’s Cove had represented safety to her. But she knew now that the only real safety came from within.

Fingerprints lifted from the cabin proved beyond doubt that Martin Dunn and Charlie Morley were indeed one and the same person. Other connections would be made, linking him to the murder of a number of women, Heather Myers among them.

The body that washed up on the beach turned out to be that of Jimmy Ray Dawson, the Bate’s nephew. From the large gash in his head, it was clear he hadn’t come to Jenny’s Cove alone. The general consensus was that he’d met up with Charlie Morley at some point. Iris thought Jimmy Ray might have lured him here with talk of his uncle’s hidden
stash.
Maybe Morley decided he didn’t want to share. Or maybe Jimmy Ray just knew too much about him.

Sadly, it was not to be the end of the horror. While Rachael was recovering in the hospital, the skeletal remains of a woman were discovered buried under the broken and buckled cement floor of Nate Prichard’s fire-ravaged welding shop. Tommy tearfully identified the pale blue coat with its double row of pearl buttons, as belonging to his mother, Rita Prichard.

Nate must have discovered that his wife was planning to leave him, and followed her that day. And beat her to death. He’d apparently had a more devious mind than Iris had imagined.

Two weeks later police found the remains of Hartley McLeod buried in the woods. Almost within an hour of finding him, Luke died. As if he knew and passed on to serve his master on a different plane. Some people believed such things were possible. Rachael was one of them.

EPILOGUE

Snow was falling outside her livingroom window. A fire crackled and snapped in the fireplace. Carols played on the new stereo, a gift from her children.

“You always did have the best tree on the block, Mom,” Susan said.

Jeff, his arm around a very pregnant Nancy, agreed a little too heartily over his mug of rum-laced eggnog. They were all coping as best they could with the divorce. It would take time. Jeff, Nancy and Susan would be spending New Years with Greg in his new condo. Greg’s coming so close to death himself had softened his son’s heart toward him, made forgiveness possible.

The new brown and white wriggly puppy she’d named Teddy, Peter’s gift to her, was ecstatically wrestling with a piece of wrapping paper, delighting everyone with his antics.

Betty’s Poinsettia brightened the corner by the door. They didn’t see much of one another now. Perhaps because Rachael was a different person from the one Betty knew, the dynamics of their relationship had changed. But the bond would always remain.

She was blessed. Even the nightmares were coming less frequently. Now and then, Rachael wondered if it really was her grandmother’s voice she'd heard out there on the water that night, or if she’d merely conjured it out of a sheer will to survive.

She would never know for sure. And somehow it didn’t matter.

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

As well as penning Award-winning suspense novels including Chill Waters, Nowhere To Hide and Listen to the Shadows, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Reader, Atlantic Advocate, The Toronto Star, Mystery Scene, True Confessions, Home Life magazine, Seek and various other magazines and newspapers. Her short story, “Dark Reunion” was selected for the Anthology, Investigating Women, published by Simon & Pierre.

Joan also tutors with Winghill Writing School and is a Voice Over pro, narrating books and scripts. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada with her husband Mel and dog, Scamp. 

She is currently working on her latest suspense novel.

ALSO PUBLISHED BY BWLPP

Nowhere To Hide

Listen to the Shadows

Night Corridor

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