High Stakes Bride (19 page)

Carter knocked on the tank—midway the sound was flat and solid, indicating the tank was close to half full. Ironically, they had their water supply, and it was only metres from the centre of the blaze—but for all the use the water was, it could have been a mile away.

Carter took the axe from her fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking outside the square.”

With a fluid movement he chopped at the base of the tank. Comprehension dawned. The house was built on a slope, tilting toward the ocean. The slope wasn't much, but it was enough. Lately, things had gotten certifiably creepy on Galbraith, but the last she'd heard, water still flowed downhill.

The night took on a surreal quality as Carter adjusted his grip on the axe and swung again. A repetitive buzzing sound caught her attention. Her phone.

Thumbing a button, she answered the call. The familiar voice of the emergency services operator registered. “Hang on a minute,” Dani said, stepping further away from the water tank. As she did so, she absently noticed that the back of her hand was covered in a gleaming tracery of blood. One of the rose thorns must have sliced into her skin; she hadn't felt a thing.

The wire-reinforced concrete of the tank chipped and buckled, water spurted. Carter continued to swing, using short chopping motions, marking out a broad circle of damage. When the circle was complete, he sent the head of the axe crashing through the centre. The entire section exploded outward, water gushed from the gaping hole, soaking Carter and sweeping beneath the house in a torrent.

T
he fire under the house reduced to smouldering damp timbers, the E.T.A. of the fire engines just minutes away, Carter did a quick tour of the house then reappeared in the kitchen.

“Where's the furniture?”

Dani blinked. In the adrenaline rush of dealing with the fires, she'd forgotten that she'd virtually emptied the house—and Carter's likely reaction. “It had to be sold.”

Carter said something short and succinct. “Who to?”

Dani gave him the name of the used-furniture dealer.

“You should have told me. I would have helped.”

Dani's jaw tensed. “I don't need charity.”

For a long moment Carter was utterly still, his face expressionless. “It wouldn't have been charity.”

Too late, Dani realized she had offended Carter on a level that had nothing to do with controlling either her or their relationship. She had instinctively always fought against Carter's macho, take-charge attitude, but that was like fighting the testosterone that made him male. With the women in his life, Carter would always react in the same way. He was male, therefore he was in charge and would provide.

A hiss of static broke the silence. Carter spoke into his lip mike, his voice terse. When he was finished he turned on his heel. He paused at the kitchen door. “Stay here where I can see you through the window. O'Halloran's just spotted something over by the barn. I'll be back in a minute.” Then he strode out of the kitchen and melted into the night.

Dani let out a breath. He wasn't about to push the issue now. He'd checked every room of the house, but he still had to check the outbuildings.

Knowing Carter, he wouldn't bother with any further discussion with the furniture; he would ring the dealer direct and coldly demand the furniture was returned. She wouldn't want to be in Docherty's shoes if he had sold any of it.

Placing her flashlight on the kitchen counter, Dani reached into a cupboard and found the medical kit. As she lifted the plastic container off the shelf, the back of her hand brushed against cool metal—a fire extinguisher. Blinking, she stared at an object that was so familiar she had forgotten it was there, placed near the stove for kitchen emergencies.

A breeze sifted through the windows over the sink, making the filmy curtains shiver as she set the medical kit down on the kitchen counter. Despite the familiarity of the room, with the added distortion of the beam from the flashlight, the shifting shadows took on an eerie aspect.

A small shudder moved down Dani's spine—a touch of déjà vu—as she unfastened the plastic lid and began rummaging through the contents until she found sticking plaster and a tube of antiseptic.

“Get real,” she muttered to herself. Whoever the arsonist was, he was a coward—but a clever one—which was why he hadn't been caught. He set his fires and ran, but she couldn't shift a feeling of apprehension. Coward or not, he was dangerous.

Paper rustled, preternaturally loud in the dim quiet of the kitchen, as she unwrapped a plaster and laid it ready to use. The plastic cap of the tube of lotion clicked on the bench, the smell of antiseptic lotion filled her nostrils—and something else.

Dani's head came up, all the small hairs at her nape lifting as she turned and stared in the direction of the living room. She could smell gasoline.

Something moved at the edge of her vision and a chill raced down her spine. With slow, careful movements, she reached upward. Her fingers brushed against the cool cylindrical shape of the fire extinguisher and closed over the plastic handle. “Carter?”

Movement flickered again. A whooshing sound, followed by a flickering glow sent a sickening jolt of adrenaline through her veins. A split second later a shadowy figure, backlit by flames, stepped into the kitchen.

Jaw set, pulse racing, she lifted the extinguisher off its hook. It wasn't a full-sized extinguisher, but it was heavy.

Eyes glittered in a blacked-out face as he charged, and time seemed to slow and freeze as she aimed the extinguisher and depressed the lever. A heartbeat shuddered past. Nothing happened.

She'd forgotten there was a safety feature—a tiny piece of plastic that had to be removed before the lever could be depressed.

In a convulsive movement, she threw the cylinder and ducked to one side. The extinguisher hit him full in the chest, slowing his momentum, but, as he reeled off balance, his shoulder caught hers, bouncing Dani back against the kitchen counter. Hard fingers sank into her arm and panic exploded. He was close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, smell the sharp scent of sweat. Acting purely on instinct, Dani grabbed the flashlight, which was placed on the counter and brought it smashing down on his head.

With a guttural snarl, he released his hold and clutched at the side of his face.

Fingers numbed, but still locked in a death grip on the flashlight, Dani lunged for the door. Halfway across the room a hand caught at the fabric of her shirt. Jerking free, she threw the flashlight. The glare of the beam flashed over his blacked-out face, already lit by the glow of the fire—a macabre freeze frame as he ducked and kept coming. In desperation, Dani put the width of the kitchen table between them and grasped at the only other object in reach, a broom propped against the wall, but before she could swing it, a dark form rocketed past her. Carter.

The two men caromed against the far wall, then reeled back, a blur of movement as they smashed into the table, sending it sliding into the wall. The thud of flesh on flesh was followed by a grunt and the hiss of laboured breathing. A chair was overturned, another splintered as both men went down. A split second later, Carter rolled to his feet and the two men engaged again.

Pulse pounding, and keeping clear of the brawling men, Dani inched around the kitchen until her fingers closed on the fire extinguisher. She didn't know if it would work—it had been stored in the same cupboard for years—but she had to try.

Picking up the flashlight on the way, she raced into the lounge. Smoke and heat filled the room. Several fires had been set and flames had already consumed the drapes on all of the windows and were licking at faded and peeling wallpaper. The old horsehair sofa—the only antique Docherty had refused to take, and the only remaining piece of furniture in the room—smouldered against one wall, refusing to burn. If it had been made of modern materials by now the room would have been an inferno.

Eyes stinging, lungs burning, Dani dropped the flashlight, wrenched the plastic safety guard off the extinguisher and depressed the lever. Her fear that the device wouldn't work dissolved as powdery white chemical blasted the nearest fire, instantly extinguishing the flames and coating the charred wall in a thick residue. Systematically, she worked her way around the room, putting out the fires, aware that the chemical wouldn't last more than a few seconds, leaving the sofa until last. When the canister was exhausted, she backed, choking and coughing from the room. Emptied of most of its furniture, smoke-blackened and charred, it bore little resemblance to the elegant reception room it once had been.

Blue and red lights flickered through the hallway. Blankly, Dani registered the wail of a siren. The fire engine had finally arrived. And so had Murdoch.

Dropping the extinguisher, she picked up the flashlight and stepped into the kitchen. At first glance the room was filled with uniformed police and firemen. Someone had lit a lamp, and the soft glow revealed the extent of the damage. Chairs were smashed beyond repair—the table had a crack clear down its centre. Shards of crockery and the contents of the first aid kit littered the floor, and the pantry door was hanging off its hinges, displaying the fact that several shelves had collapsed.

A dark form was lying unmoving on the floor. Carter stepped through the chaos, lifted the man's head and jerked off the balaclava.

His face was battered, one eye already swelling, but his features were easily recognisable.

George Lynch.

She had known Lynch for years, ever since he'd bought a seaside cottage, but she'd never paid him much attention. Now she registered the scar under one eye, the faint bend to his nose where it had been broken. For a split second time wavered, the sense of déjà vu disorienting, the old fear, visceral and fresh.

She remembered the wreckage of his face twenty-two years ago after
she
had hit him, the flat glitter of his gaze. Then, he had barely registered her existence, but she remembered him. “George Lynch.”

Carter caught her hand and pulled her close. “Real name, Jordan Carlisle.”

Dani leaned into Carter's strength. Her father. The one piece of information she had always resisted knowing, that Susan had never wanted to discuss because she had been protecting Dani.

Lynch/Carlisle's eyes flickered, caught on hers and settled into a cold stare, and suddenly she knew what else he'd done.

“
You
were driving the truck.”

After years of trying, he had finally succeeded; he had killed Susan.

M
urdoch crouched down and checked Carlisle's condition. “A one-man crime wave. Isn't that right, Carlisle?”

Dani's stomach twisted as a flood of old memories renewed themselves. “
He was driving the truck.”

Murdoch's gaze connected with hers, and she saw the moment he registered exactly what Lynch/Carlisle had done.

Sadness and the remnants of grief shivered through her. She had held herself responsible for the accident, but there was no way she could have avoided Carlisle; he had been aiming for the car.

Carter didn't have to ask what Dani meant. With Dani there was only one truck—the six-wheeler that had driven her off the road and killed Susan and Robert. He hadn't checked that report and he could kick himself; it was the one connection he hadn't made, and the most vital. Carlisle/Lynch had outsmarted them all. He'd been lying low in Jackson's Ridge for years under an assumed identity. In that time he'd managed to successfully murder Susan and Robert; then he'd waited until Dani was alone and isolated, with Ellen dead and David away at university, before he had targeted her. The only flaw in his planning was that Carter had come back.

O'Halloran stared at Carlisle. “Carlisle and Sons, the top-end legal firm in Auckland. I thought he was familiar.”

Murdoch's expression turned grim. “He's the eldest son. In theory their finest and brightest. The psychiatric report doesn't make good bedtime reading.”

Briefly, Murdoch filled Dani in on Carlisle's past and the part Susan had played in putting him away. She stared at Carlisle's greying hair, his unshaven jaw, the mystery of the past finally solved. According to her birth certificate, he was her father but, apart from utter revulsion at what he'd done, she felt nothing for him.

An intense sadness for the loss of her mother filled her. It was Susan who had brought her up, Susan who had taken on the mantle of parenthood. Carlisle might have fathered her biologically, but that was all he'd done. As a child the fear he'd inspired had dominated her life, he'd seemed larger than life, but not any more.

Coldly, Murdoch stepped forward and cuffed him. One of the Mason cops began reading Carlisle his rights.

Carlisle stared at Dani, dark eyes like pebbles. “I knew you were at the wheel of that car.”

Carter's expression grew cold enough to send a chill down Dani's spine.

He caught Carlisle's gaze and held it and Carlisle seemed to shrink in on himself. “First-degree murder,” Carter said softly, “on two counts, with two further charges of attempted murder and arson. Even if the jail terms run concurrently they'll be impressive. If you only serve twenty years, by the time you get out you'll be an old man. And if you do get out,
I'll
know about it.”

Murdoch hauled Carlisle to his feet. “And if you're thinking of applying for parole early, don't. The psychiatric report's going to rewrite the text books.”

Carlisle's face went a dull red. A split second later he exploded, but surrounded by cops, he didn't stand a chance. Abruptly Carlisle's expression smoothed out and became frighteningly normal. “Susan's death was an accident. The court made a ruling.”

Murdoch jerked his head at one of the Mason cops, indicating he wanted Carlisle moved out. “You're forgetting the fundamentals. Just because the case was closed, doesn't mean it can't be reopened if new evidence comes to light.”

O'Halloran stiffened. “I can smell smoke.”

Carlisle's mouth twisted into a grimace. “You haven't found that one yet.”

O'Halloran felt his stomach turn. He stared at Carlisle and abruptly something inside of him clicked back into its right perspective. The man who had torched his house and killed his wife and child had been like this. He had seen his face; seen his eyes and, like Carlisle, nothing about him had added up. For over a year he had wondered what he could have done to avert the tragedy and save his family. The answer was depressing, but it finally made sense. Nothing.

He had no better chance than Rawlings of predicting when a mentally unstable criminal decided they would do harm, let alone why.

 

Flames flared as a container of diesel caught alight, sending heat rolling out into the night and momentarily illuminating the faces of the fire crew as they fought to bring the fire under control. Dani stepped back as Jim McCarthy, who had taken over as fire chief now that Walter had been removed from the roll, strode around the perimeter of the fire and roared at one of his men.

The ignition point had been in the tractor shed, but the flames threatened to jump the small alleyway between the shed and the barn and set the barn alight. The angle of the hose was adjusted, sending the water in lower. Seconds later a cloud of steam erupted from the centre of the flames and the fire was out.

Shivering in the cool night air, Dani studied the smoking skeleton of the shed, the twisted wreckage of the tractor and the scorched side of the barn. With the old Ferguson gone, it felt like the end of an era. As problematic as the Dinosaur had been, it had been a link to the past—a seemingly solid, immutable part of Galbraith—and she would miss it.

Change was in the air. She could feel it in the turn of the season, the bite of ozone in the air. Summer was over, and she was no longer needed at Galbraith. Aside from the two horses, there was no livestock to care for. The house was empty and blank, a clean slate, waiting for David to move in and eventually repair the damage and turn it into a home.

She'd stubbornly resisted thinking about stepping into a new life, but now the moment was here, she didn't know if she was ready.

 

Murdoch studied Lynch as Lowell put him in the back of the cruiser. Even though he'd known for the last twenty-four hours who the likely perpetrator was, he still had trouble crediting that George Lynch was Jordan Carlisle. In all his years on the force, the baffling series of arsons had been the most frustrating case he'd ever worked—not least because he was dealing with people he had known—or thought he had known—for years.

If Carter hadn't asked him to check into Susan Marlow's past, the investigation would still be dragging on.

As a criminal Carlisle was a surprising package, and Murdoch wasn't often surprised. Using Walter's arson as a cover for his own crimes had been nothing short of genius. But, criminal flair aside, Carlisle's downfall had always been pre-ordained. His obsessive need for revenge had ultimately aided in his capture, and further down the line would give Murdoch all the motivational evidence he needed to secure a conviction.

Murdoch flipped open the boot of the cruiser and took custody of the evidence: a knapsack containing lighters and an empty container of a popular fire-lighting gel that was used for outdoor fire pots. His expression was grim as he filled out the paperwork and signed it off. There was no way he was losing chain of custody on this evidence. Carlisle's capture had successfully closed eighty percent of Jackson's Ridge's unsolved crimes—including one that had never been suspected.

The Mason cops put Lynch in the back seat of the cruiser. Lowell slammed the door closed and walked around to the front passenger seat.

Murdoch frowned. “Lowell, get in the back with Carlisle.” There was no way he was driving the vehicle with Lynch unattended in the back.

Lowell glanced at O'Halloran.

Murdoch didn't bother to hide his impatience. “Last week you were drinking in the pub with him—
and
he's cuffed.”

O'Halloran took the front seat. “Don't worry, he doesn't have a weapon.”

They'd made sure of that. Lynch had deceived a lot of people, but unless he'd devised a way to store a weapon internally he was clean. In any case the ball was in Murdoch's court on that one. O'Halloran was on official, but unpaid, leave, but even if he was being paid, he wasn't highly motivated to pull on a pair of rubber gloves.

Murdoch glanced at Carter as he slid behind the wheel. “By the way, this afternoon someone reported a couple of ostriches out on the point. If my memory serves me rightly, that land belongs to you.”

One of the cold-eyed cops from Mason actually cracked a grin. “Could be a breeding pair.”

Carter closed Murdoch's door. “You guys are funny. Real funny.”

The two cops from Mason left in a cloud of dust. O'Halloran lifted a hand as Murdoch turned the key in the ignition. “See you around, Rawlings.”

“Count on it.” Carter watched until Murdoch's vehicle disappeared around the bend.

If there was one guy he wanted to see off the premises, cop or not, it was O'Halloran. He'd said he wasn't interested in Dani, but Carter wouldn't believe that until O'Halloran found himself a woman. And he would know when that happened, because he was going to keep tabs on him. O'Halloran was due back at Auckland Central in a week's time. It just so happened that Carter had contacts there. He was also owed a favour, and he would be calling it in. O'Halloran wouldn't be able to go to the bathroom without Carter finding out about it.

Carter found Dani watching the fire crew roll up the hose. Linking his fingers with hers, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her in close. She looked pale and shaken, and she felt as fragile as a bird. His jaw tightened. Worn down from years of guilt and fear, and months of running Galbraith Station on her own.

He had always gone where he felt he could make a difference. For years Jackson's Ridge had never been that destination, but all the time it had been riddled with crime and intrigue—a time bomb waiting to explode.

It wasn't often he missed not just a few clues, but all of them. His neighbours had been murdered and Carlisle had been living right under their noses, a rundown cottage and an apparent lack of money the prime props for the double life he'd been leading. A convicted felon, Carlisle had played a cat and mouse game—not only physically, but financially—with all the locals, exacting his revenge on the community that had made Susan and Dani welcome.

As the fire crew left, Dani pushed free and started toward the house. Carter caught her hand. “Leave it. You're moving in with me.”

She looked bemused. “I should have something to say about that.”

“Say it in the morning.”

Dani wasn't about to argue. She was dirty, tired, and she was mortally sick of fires.

The short walk across the paddock that separated the two houses passed in a daze. Dani blinked as they stepped up onto the veranda and Carter pulled her straight into his bedroom. She lifted a brow. “Romantic.”

The beginnings of a smile twitched at his mouth. “You know me.”

For the first time that night warmth broke through the ice that had encased her ever since Carlisle had started his attack.

Relinquishing his grip he walked to a chest of drawers, slipped something in his pocket, grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door.

“The beach?”

“Humour me.” This time he was going to do it right. No more half measures.

Tiredness slid away to be replaced by an entirely new tension as she let Carter pull her down the shell path that wound downhill. The beach had always been neutral ground—more or less—although some days it was so crowded with memories there was no peace there.

The moon slid out from behind a heavy bank of cloud and Dani's heart rate increased, it was fear pure and simple. She had an idea what it was that Carter had slipped in his pocket.

Carter pulled her to within a few metres of the sea. The tide was in, the swell almost nonexistent, the water glassy.

A morepork hooted in the distance, the cry lonely enough to make the back of her throat ache as he took both of her hands in his.

“Danielle Margaret Marlow, will you marry me?”

The words were clear and distinct, with no room for ambiguity. The use of her full name added an old-fashioned formality that made her stomach tighten.

She stared at their linked fingers. “When did you decide?”

“About six years ago.”

She swallowed. He was serious.

“I got the ring out of the bank when I came back last time.”

But he hadn't asked her because she'd already started to close him out. She'd turned down his suggestion that they live together, then he'd been airlifted out to Indonesia and she had almost lost him permanently.

Her fingers tightened. “I don't want to lose you again.” The words were straightforward, but the baggage that went with them wasn't. She wanted with an extremity that hurt.

“You won't, whether you agree to marry me or not, but I'd like our kids to have my name.”

Arrested, she stared at him. Carter and children. The thought made her dizzy.

They had never talked about permanence and kids. She'd always thought it was because Carter didn't want them, now she was beginning to see why the discussion had never taken place. Like a crab hiding in its shell, she'd been too good at protecting herself, too good at hiding her feelings.