Dearly Beloved (40 page)

Only the thought of Keegan had allowed her to regain control.

I can’t lose it, because if I do, he’ll kill me. And I’m not ready to die. I have to get back to Keegan. I have to tell him that I really do love him. I have to explain why I left him.

And if she manages to get out of this and get back to him, she vows, she will never, ever, let him go again.

Desperation threatens to edge into her voice as she asks Stephen, “Are we going to leave now?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. . . . Maybe we should stay here,” she tells him, trying to sound casual, despite the terror building within her. “Just for tonight. Because of the storm.”

“Well . . .”

He appears to be considering that, then shakes his head. “Too risky,” he tells her.

“Oh, Stephen, come on. You’re such a strong, brave man. Don’t tell me you’re afraid to take a risk.”

Please!
she screams at him inside her brain.
Please don’t try to take the boat out now.

He has to be insane to even consider it.

She doesn’t know which prospect is more chilling—meeting her death at his hands or in the violent storm-tossed sea.

“All right,” he says after a moment, with a nod. “We can wait—if not until morning, at least until the weather lets up. It can’t stay like this forever. Come on.”

He reaches out and offers her a hand pulling her to her feet.

It’s nearly impossible for her to walk in the skintight gown with the boat beneath her feet rocking and rolling over the waves.

“I’ll carry you,” he says, turning and seeing her moving awkwardly across the floor.

Before she can protest, he’s lifting her into his arms, holding her in a powerful grip against his blood-spattered clothing. “There . . . isn’t that better?”

Feeling trapped Jennie can only nod as he starts up the steep steps. The rancid smell of drying blood, mingled with the overpowering scent of dying roses that had filled the house, assaults her nostrils, and it’s all she can do to keep from vomiting. A blast of wind and snow hits her as soon as they step out onto the deck, mercifully eradicating the scent of blood and roses.

Jennie squints against the driving snow, turning her head down toward the deck to see if there’s any sign of Jasper.

The sight that greets her there causes her to gasp in utter shock and horror.

“What is it?” Stephen asks, stopping and looking down at her.

Speechless, she can only stare at the heap of corpses on the deck.

Oh, Sandy . . .
She shakes her head, gazing at the unmistakable chubby figure encased in white satin that’s streaked with rust-colored blotches.

And Liza . . .
She sees the matted, blood-soaked blond hair and shakes her head in despair.

And . . .

The third body is face up, unlike the others, the face coated with snow, the eyes open and staring at the stormy night sky. It takes a moment for Jennie to realize where she’s seen him before . . .

Patrick Gerkin.

“Jennie?”

It’s Stephen, his blue eyes probing her face.

“You . . . you killed them! Oh, God! You’re a murderer!” The words spill out of her before she can stop them, a harsh, unforgiving accusation.

For a moment, he merely looks surprised, and Jennie tells herself that it’s okay . . . she can take it back, convince him that she didn’t mean to react that way . . .

But then, before she can open her mouth again, his eyes harden into icy daggers and his grip on her tightens so that she can barely breathe.

He says nothing, only stalks across the deck toward the ladder leading to the dock.

Jennie’s heart sinks as she realizes what he’s going to do.

Take her into the house . . . and kill her there.

Like the others.

“Please,” she says on a sob. “Please don’t hurt me. I love—”

“Shut up!” he hollers at her. “You don’t love me. You never did. It was a lie. You’re like the others, just as I thought. But I almost believed you! How could I believe you? How could I think you were different?”

He’s talking more to himself than to her, shaking her, ranting, and squeezing her tighter with every sentence so that she feels as though her ribs are going to shatter. She can no longer speak, can’t inhale . . .

She’s going to die like this, she realizes in horror, gasping for air . . .

He’s going to squeeze the life right out of her.

Oh, God, Keegan . . . I’ll never—

“Let her go!”

The words reach her ears on a gale, and Jennie thinks that it’s only the wind. It can’t be . . .

But that voice . . .

No, it can’t be. It’s just your imagination again. It’s because he’s on your mind, because you’re so terrified, because you know that you’re about to . . .

“I mean it. . . . Put her down!”

This time, Jennie realizes that the voice is real—and familiar.

It’s coming from the dock above the boat, and Jennie looks up just in time to see a dark figure leaping through the air, landing on the deck a few feet away.

Stephen is so startled that he drops her as Keegan McCullough scrambles to his feet and faces him.

“You son of a bitch!” he bellows above the roaring wind and sea, as Jennie stares in disbelief.

Keegan . . .

But how . . .

Why . . .

“You son of a bitch!” Keegan repeats, advancing on Stephen.

But Stephen has regained his control and is standing his ground before Keegan, a bemused smile on his face.

“And who are you?” he asks, his hand slipping into his jacket pocket.

“Keegan, no!” Jennie finds her voice and screams as he makes a move to tackle Stephen. “He’s got a gun! No!”

But Keegan is already upon Stephen, hurtling at him with a guttural cry of fury. The two men topple onto the pitching deck.

Horrified, Jennie struggles to get up. Her right leg is seared by an agonizing pain. It had twisted beneath her when she landed, and now she can only claw at the deck helplessly with her hands, unable to put any weight on her leg.

She hears another shout from the dock above. In despair, she looks up to see a second man, a stranger, standing there. He’s poised as though he’s about to jump onto the boat and help Keegan when, suddenly, his gaze drops to the battered corpses on the deck.

“Oh, Sweet Jesus, no!” His strangled cry pierces the noise of the storm. “Oh, God, not Sandy. No . . . please, not Sandy!”

Her brother? The one who called . . .

In numb horror, Jennie looks from the grief-crazed man on the dock back at the tumbling blur of arms and legs on the wildly pitching boat deck.

Then she sees a flash of the gun in Stephen’s hand.

She opens her mouth to warn Keegan when, with a sudden, swift movement, he knocks the weapon out of Stephen’s grasp, sending it skittering across the icy boat deck.

Sobbing in desperation, Jennie strains to pull herself toward the spot where it lies near the railing as the two men scuffle in the opposite direction. She’s about to close her fingers over the barrel when a hand moves in and grabs it away.

Stunned, Jennie looks up to see Jasper Hammel standing over her, clutching the gun against his chest and looking dazed.

Water streams from his hair and over his body, and there’s blood trickling from his temple. The bullet Stephen fired only grazed it, Jennie realizes, knocking him overboard and he must have pulled himself back on board the boat somehow without Stephen’s realizing it.

“You bastard!” The voice belongs to Keegan, yet it sounds far off and muffled.

Jennie jerks her head around to see that only Keegan’s lower legs are visible as Stephen dangles the rest of him backward over the rail of the boat, holding onto his ankles.

“Are you ready to die, Mr. Hero?” Stephen shouts, wearing a deranged grin.

“No!” Jennie screams, looking desperately toward the man on the dock to do something, to help Keegan somehow.

But he’s gone—running across the snow-covered lawn toward the house, shaking his head blindly as if to shut out the sight of Sandy’s body.

Jennie turns her head back to look at the two men by the rail just as a shot rings out.

She hears a blood-chilling shriek, not realizing for a moment that it’s coming from her.

It becomes a high-pitched wail as she squeezes her eyes shut to block out the horror, knowing that when she opens them, Keegan will be gone, just as Harry was . . .

But then she hears his voice saying, “Drop the gun.”

Astounded, Jennie opens her eyes and sees Keegan scrambling back up over the rail and onto the deck . . . where Stephen lies writhing from a bullet wound in his side.

Relief courses through her and she gasps his name on a nearly hysterical half-sob, half-laugh.

“Drop the gun,” Keegan repeats.

Jennie turns to see that Jasper Hammel is still holding the pistol straight in front of him in both hands, arms rigid trembling all over.

“What are you doing, Arnie?” Stephen gasps, clutching his side and looking up at Hammel in bewilderment. “What are you doing? Don’t do anything foolish, Arnie. It’s me, Stephen . . .”

“I know it’s you.” Hammel’s voice is a bitter sob. “You lying bastard. You lying . . . You never planned to bring me with you when you left. You . . . I loved you. . . . I was the only one who stood by you. And you . . . you tried to kill me.”

“No, Arnie . . .”

Stephen starts to say something more, but Hammel closes his eyes tightly and fires again, this time hitting Stephen square in the throat. His words die instantly in a gurgle of blood.

“Drop it,” Keegan says again, taking a step closer to Hammel.

For a brief, terrifying instant, Jennie believes that Jasper Hammel is going to fire again, this time at Keegan. But then, with a shudder, he drops the weapon at his feet and opens his eyes.

At the sight of Stephen’s bloody body, he sobs. “Oh, look at you. . . . Look at what I’ve done to you. . . . I loved you, you lying bastard.”

Keegan moves forward and grabs him, pulling his arms behind his back. Hammel doesn’t resist, but, as if in a stupor, allows his wrists and ankles to be tied with two lengths of rope Keegan finds in the compartment where the life jackets are stored.

Only when Jasper Hammel is restrained and lying on his stomach on the deck, weeping bitterly about Stephen, does Keegan turn to Jennie.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently, bending over her and touching her cheek.

“My leg hurts, but . . . I’m going to be fine,” she assures him, meeting his gaze. “Now that you’re here.”

“Oh, Jennie . . .” He gathers her into his arms. “Thank God you’re all right. Don’t you even think of leaving me, not ever again.”

“I won’t,” she promises. “I’ll never leave you again, Keegan.”

Epilogue

T
he sun shines brightly on New Year’s Day, glistening on the drifts of snow that blanketed Boston overnight.

“Be careful now, Jen,” Laura, wearing her black-velvet matron-of-honor dress, warns as her sister’s white-satin pumps hover over the sidewalk in front of the church. “It’s probably icy.”

“I’m all right.” Jennie gathers the voluminous ivory skirt of her antique wedding gown over her arm and steps down from the horse-drawn carriage.

Laura is right behind her, carrying her bouquet and Jennie’s.

They’re not roses—Jennie had told her sister she’d carry anything but roses.

She has no idea how Laura got her hands on lilacs in January, but her sister had come through for her.

“Are you ready?” Shawn is waiting on the sidewalk, handsome in a dark suit and tie.

Jennie nods at her brother-in-law. He’d been so happy when she’d asked him to give her away. “I’d be honored,” he’d said and Laura had positively beamed at his side.

It is hard to believe that six months have passed since their June wedding—that it has been almost a year since Jennie’s ordeal on Tide Island.

But she pushes the thought of that out of her mind. This is the happiest day of her life. There’s no room today to let unpleasant memories haunt her. . . . There never will be again.

Jennie takes Shawn’s arm and they walk toward the church with Laura right behind them, fussing with the back of her sister’s antique-lace veil.

The church is hushed and filled with waiting friends and family.

Jennie stops at the edge of the satin runner and takes a deep breath.

“Nervous?” Shawn whispers.

She smiles serenely and shakes her head.

The organist begins playing Pachelbel’s “Canon in D.”

It’s time.

Laura leans toward her sister and plants a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Jennie.”

“I love you, too,” she says, and watches as her sister starts down the aisle, each step a saucy little sashay typical of Laura.

Then it’s Jennie’s turn. She and Shawn step onto the white-satin runner, and she looks up. The congregation has stood, blocking her view of the groom.

It’s all right
. . . .
I’ll see him soon enough,
she thinks, and begins to move forward.

Familiar faces beam at her from the pews.

Midway toward the front, she sees Danny and Cheryl Cavelli. In Danny’s arms is their three-month-old baby girl, Sandra. Cheryl had been pregnant on that icy February day on Tide Island. She had been keeping it a secret, planning to tell her husband on Valentine’s Day.

Jennie nods slightly at them as she passes and is rewarded with two slightly wistful, but happy smiles—and one drooly one from the baby.

Then she’s nearing the altar . . .

And there he is, waiting for her, tall and dashing in his charcoal morning coat and striped ascot.

Keegan, the man she’s going to spend the rest of her life with.

He steps forward as she arrives in front of him, taking her arm from Shawn, looking down at her face with teary eyes so full of love that a lump rises in Jennie’s throat.

Together, they take the final few steps to stand in front of the priest.

Looking down on the bride and groom with a benevolent smile, he begins. “Dearly beloved . . .”