Land's End (11 page)

She'd turned off the main road onto one of the many narrow lanes that wound through the maritime forest. No big houses or swimming pools at this end of the island. Once in a while the trees grudgingly gave way to a clearing with a small house or a barn and a few cultivated acres. Otherwise all she could see was the thick growth of pines and the live oaks draped with Spanish moss, reflecting silvery green and ghostlike from her headlights.

Depression blossomed in a place like this, in the gathering dusk, and it had come all too easily after Miles's death. What was she doing on such a fruitless quest? Just because Bobby Whiting had said Lizbet went to Cat Isle to gather her moss, that didn't mean she'd seen anything.

She forced herself to repel the gloomy thoughts. They'd de
bilitate her if she let them, sapping her strength and her determination. She had to go on. She'd caused so much trouble already that anything was better than not knowing.

Trouble for herself, for Trent, for Melissa. The thought of the girl's sensitive face, twisted with grief and anger, tore at her heart. If Trent had let her talk to Melissa—

But what could she have said? Melissa had seen them and had recognized instinctively the attraction that surged between them. They hadn't acted on the attraction, but they'd felt it, and Melissa had known.

It's all so tangled, Lord. I hope Melissa was mistaken, that I didn't cause her mother's sorrow, but how can I know? If Lynette sensed something, too…

And that was yet another burden of grief and guilt. Rationally she might know that she hadn't done anything wrong, but somehow that didn't ease the weight.

The road narrowed yet again, so that the forest pressed menacingly, ready to swallow the slight strip of sand and gravel with a single gulp. Spanish moss slapped against her windshield, fragments breaking off and clinging as if they'd attach to the car as they did to the oaks.

She had to be lost. Somewhere, at one of the many small turnings that she'd thought were driveways, she'd missed the main road and driven herself deep into the forest.

Father, I'm lost. I don't know what to do. Let me see Your path before me.

The road, always erratic, seemed to peter out entirely. A small deer bounded in front of her, and she slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. The deer leapt on without a backward glance. She clutched the wheel, letting her pulse slow. If she had an accident here, would anyone find her?

At least people knew where she'd gone—or where she'd
been attempting to go. After the anger Trent had shown when she'd gone to the storage locker without telling anyone, she'd taken the precaution of making sure Geneva knew about tonight's excursion.

Now there was nothing in her headlight beams but tall grass. No road. She'd have to turn around and go back, hoping to find someone who could tell her where she'd gone wrong. She drew forward into the grass, turning the wheel.

Something reflected whitely when the headlight hit it. A gravestone. She wasn't lost after all. She'd found the cemetery.

She parked and got out slowly, gripping the flashlight Robert had advised her to bring. How right he'd been. And luckily she'd worn sturdy shoes and long pants for the trek through the cemetery. But where was the house?

She'd only taken a few steps when she spotted it—a black rectangle against a darkening sky. One window showed a feeble yellow gleam, but that was the only sign of life.

Shining her flashlight on the tall grass, she started cautiously forward. It was really a pity that she was such a city girl at heart.

Evening hadn't brought much coolness to the air once she'd gotten away from the shore. It clung to her, heavy and oppressive, as if she wore a wet wool blanket. Her hair stuck to her neck, and she swatted at a mosquito that attempted to dive-bomb her arm.

A tall monument reared itself skyward on her right, topped with a weeping angel. Her light picked out the lettering, worn shallow by years of weathering. Rufus Allen, 1801–1889. Rufus had had a long life.

A sweep of the torch showed her a wife buried on either side of him, their tombstones suitably smaller. In front was a row of four small stones, each holding a stone lamb. Her heart
clenched. Infant mortality rates had improved over the years, thank the Lord.

Rufus's tombstone would be a good marker to the car on her way back. She was half tempted to leave the headlights on, but it was senseless to risk a dead battery. Her eyes already grew accustomed to the dark.

She went on, the damp grass brushing her legs, swinging the torchlight ahead of her. She tried to cut in a straight line toward the house, but the tombstones were set in nothing that resembled straight rows. Her light touched one with a rounded top, moss-covered, the lettering worn to oblivion—one of the oldest ones, probably. The Ebenezer graveyard had been here since the earliest settlement on the island. In fact, it was probably the graveyard of Robert's folktale.

Like Robert, she was a good Christian who didn't believe ghost stories. Nevertheless, there was something a bit uncanny about walking through the deserted cemetery alone at night.

Not that the cemetery was entirely deserted. The night was alive with chirpings, whisperings, the cries of night creatures she couldn't possibly identify.
City girl
, she thought again.

Something sounded near her that was uncommonly like a human footfall. She spun around, her heart in her throat, holding the flashlight like a weapon.

A raccoon stared solemnly back at her, his masked eyes oddly menacing. She gave a shaky laugh.

“Am I trespassing on your territory? I'll soon be gone.”

He turned his tail to her, apparently unimpressed.

Ridiculous, for her heart to be thumping this way. She was only yards from the house now. She should call out to let Lizbet Jackson know she was coming, so she wouldn't startle her.

Even as she formed the thought, the shrill yapping of dogs assaulted her ears. The barking accompanied a metallic sound,
as if the dogs leaped against a fence or pen. She half expected to see a door open, hear a voice call out, but nothing happened except that the dogs' clamor grew even louder.

A shiver went down her spine. They sounded positively frantic, menacing, as if they'd burst through the fence and attack her for daring to come near.

I'm not afraid. Well, I am, but You are with me.

Another rustle sounded behind her. The raccoon was nothing if not persistent. He must think a human was a source of food. She turned. She'd yell at it, scare it away—

The darkness was cleft by movement. She barely saw a dark figure, the shape of a heavy branch coming at her, barely heard the hoarse intake of breath. Then the branch hit, pain exploding in her shoulder and arm, sending her staggering, stumbling, falling into darkness.

H
er mind couldn't comprehend what had happened, but her body worked on instinct, sending her rolling away from another blow that could have killed—but he was on her, so close, the branch swinging upward to plummet down again in its deadly arc.

Without thinking she struck out with the only weapon she had—the heavy flashlight. If she could intercept the blow…The branch struck the flashlight and she heard the cylinder shatter in the same instant that the lights went out, leaving her alone in the dark with someone who wanted to hurt her, maybe even kill her.

Her vivid imagination presented her with an image of the heavy branch crashing into her skull, shattering bone as readily as it had metal and glass. A wave of terror ricocheted through her, setting every nerve vibrating. No one who was intent on robbery or rape would stage so violent an attack.

Think.
She had to stop acting on instinct. He was as trapped by the darkness as she was. Unless—a second ticked by, then another. No light came on. Either he didn't have a flashlight or he was unwilling to turn it on.

A separate thrill of fear went through her. She must not see her attacker, for fear she might recognize him.

Listen.
The night sounds that had filled the cemetery as she walked had ceased, shut off by the murderous presence. Even the dogs had gone quiet, as if they didn't want to draw attention to themselves.

She held her breath. Swish. Swish. She knew what he did, as surely as if she could see him.

He swung the branch in a wide arc through the grass, searching for her. The sound increased. He was drawing nearer. If she didn't move quickly, he'd be on her.

She forced her legs to move, to creep backward through the grass, every movement a separate chance for him to hear her.
Please.
Her mind sobbed a prayer.
Be with me now. Hide me.

The tall grass closed around her. Before it had been a danger; now it was a sanctuary. The human menace terrified her far more than any night creature could.

She flattened herself to the ground. When she looked up, the grass around her made a tunnel through which she saw the sky. Full dark now, thank the Lord. Dense clouds covered the moon. She hadn't even noticed when she'd had the flashlight on. Her ignorance could kill her if she weren't careful.

Freeze, listen. Pretend you're one of the marsh creatures—a rabbit hiding in the shadows from a hawk. The swish-swish sounded ever nearer, methodical as death's scythe. He searched for her, making ever-widening circles. If she screamed—

If she screamed, Lizbet would hear, but what could she do? She didn't have a phone, and Sarah's spirit cringed away from the thought of bringing the elderly woman out into danger.

She couldn't. But he was coming closer. He'd find her.

Her heart pounded so loud that he must hear it. She'd let panic take over, freezing her to the feeble shelter of the grass. The grass wouldn't protect her from the force of a blow. She couldn't wait for him to find her. Wait to die.

Die.
The word galvanized her, sending adrenaline pounding. She had to move. This wasn't an attempt to frighten her, as shutting her in the storage locker might have been. If she hadn't turned when she did, thanks to the raccoon, that first blow would have landed on her skull. Even now her left shoulder throbbed from the glancing strike.

She moved her fingers cautiously, feeling pins and needles. At least they moved. Her arm—she realized she'd been holding it clamped against her side. She flexed it, sending pain radiating. Nothing broken, she didn't think, but useless in a fight.

Silently she crept backward, always keeping the sound of his approach in front of her—an atavistic impulse not to turn her back on the enemy.
Please, God, please, God
.

Her foot hit something. Hard. Stone. One of the gravestones. She crept into its denser shadow. She was suddenly a child of eight or nine, playing hide-and-seek on a summer night, searching out the deepest shadows, knowing her pale hair would give her away in the slightest glimmer of light.

And on the thought, the moon came from behind the cloud, etching the graveyard in silver and black, a living scene with all the color leached out of it. She could see the figure now, a black bulk, face masked with something dark, too shrouded to betray even its sex. He was closer than she'd hoped. She couldn't stay, but she couldn't move—

Her foot hit something that clattered, obscenely shattering the silence—a metal vase that clanked against the stone and sent the black figure whirling toward her.

No hiding now. Run.

She scrambled to her feet, running desperately in the direction she thought the car was. She could scream now, but she sobbed for breath. Save the breath for running. A step lost could mean he caught her.

She had a head start. If she could get to the car, get inside, lock it, she'd be safe. Had she locked the doors? She didn't remember. She glanced up, frantic to locate the car.

The moment's inattention cost her dearly. She stumbled, felt the ground rushing at her, caught herself, stumbled on, but he was closer. She could hear him, could practically feel his breath. She wasn't going to make it; he was going to catch her—

Someone turned off the lights.

The moon went behind a cloud, the darkness swept down to cover her. In that last instant of moonlight she'd seen it—the tall monument with the weeping angel atop. Without thinking, she dove for its shelter, clutching cold stone like a savior.

He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock.

She caught her breath. She couldn't see him, but she could hear him. He'd gone back to swishing the branch through the grass, coming nearer. She mentally measured the distance to the car, clinging to the rock, reluctant to let go. To run, exposing herself again in a last perilous flight.

But already the blessed darkness thinned. The clouds moved on, driven by an impersonal wind. In another moment it would be bright again. She had to move now.

Please.

She plunged toward the car, seeing chrome gleam as the moon came out, hearing him behind her, praying the door was unlocked, stumbling, fingers connecting with metal, fumbling for the handle, feeling it swing open.

Thank You, Lord, that it wasn't locked.

Diving into the seat, slamming the door, locking it. The dark figure soared toward the car, raising the branch, ready to shatter windows to get at her.

Look at the ignition, not at him, force the key in, turn it.
The motor roared, the sweetest sound she'd ever heard. She stamped on the gas and saw the attacker lurch backward as she rocketed past.

 

Trent paced from one end of the formal living room to the other. If he wanted to walk, he could do it more effectively outside, but the advantage of the living room was that he'd see Sarah when she returned.

It wasn't that he believed her visit to Lizbet Jackson would resolve anything. If the woman had anything to tell, she'd long since have done so. Still, for his own sake, he had to keep tabs on Sarah's investigation.

That was all it was—the need to keep Sarah under control. He certainly wasn't motivated by personal interest. If he told himself that often enough, he might begin to believe it.

Headlights pierced the darkness, and he moved closer to the window to watch the car pull up. He frowned. Odd, that she was leaving her car in front. Normally she pulled around to the garage. A breath of apprehension touched his skin.

She stumbled out of the car, and apprehension vanished in a wave of panic that propelled him to the door. She was disheveled, dirty, limping. As he flew down the steps he saw that she held her left arm close against her side.

“What is it? What's happened?” He reached for her. She seemed to sag, as if her feet could carry her no farther.

“Sorry,” she murmured, stumbling against him.

“You're hurt.” He scooped her into his arms. Time enough for questions later—right now he had to take care of her.

In a few steps they were inside, and he kicked the door closed behind him. “Geneva!”

His shout brought the housekeeper running from the kitchen. Not surprising. He didn't think he'd shouted in this
house more than two or three times. That wasn't his style, but his fear for Sarah overwhelmed other considerations.

“Dear Lord, what's happened to the child?” Geneva's words were as much a prayer as a question. “Here, bring her into the family room where she can be comfortable.”

“Call Dr. Sam. Tell him to get here now.” He strode back toward the family room as Geneva rushed to the telephone.

Sarah stirred in protest at that. “You don't have to bring Dr. Sam rushing here at this time of night. I'm fine.”

He lowered her gently to the sofa. “Of course you are,” he agreed. “Just because you're white as a sheet and you seem to have broken your arm, that doesn't mean anything is wrong.”

“It's not broken.” She moved, searching for comfort, he supposed, and winced, cradling her arm against her.

“You're the doctor. I'll have to take your word for that.” He slid a cushion under her arm, moving it slowly, alert for any sign that he caused her pain. “Is that better?”

She leaned back, sighing. “Better.” Her eyes closed for a moment, the curve of her lashes dark against her pale skin. “I don't need Dr. Sam.”

“You're getting him anyway,” he snapped. If a more stubborn woman existed on the face of the earth, he had yet to meet her. “Tell me what we can do to make you comfortable. Do you want aspirin? An ice bag?”

He thought she'd argue, but she didn't. “Ice would help. Not the aspirin—Dr. Sam might have other ideas.”

“Geneva—” He raised his voice, and she appeared in the doorway, clutching something wrapped in a kitchen towel.

“Dr. Sam's on his way. I brought an ice bag for Sarah's shoulder.”

“You're way ahead of us.” He put his arm around Sarah to lift her so Geneva could slip the ice bag into place. “What
about some of that herbal tea you foist on people for everything from headaches to hives?”

“Coming right up.” She bustled out.

“She doesn't have to go to any trouble.”

He pulled the ottoman over so that he could sit next to Sarah. “There's nothing Geneva likes better than taking care of someone. Let her enjoy it.”

She nodded, eyes closing again, as if even the slightest effort exhausted her. She turned her head against the pillow and he saw the bruise, extending from her neck to disappear under her shirt at her left shoulder.

The passion he felt to smash whoever had done this shocked him. “What happened?” It took an effort to keep his voice low.

“I was going through the cemetery toward Lizbet's house. Someone attacked me.”

Fury pounded along his nerves. “Did he take your bag?” Sudden fear washed over him. “What did he do to you?”

“He wasn't trying to rob me. Or rape me.” A shudder went through her. “He swung at my head with a heavy branch. If he'd connected, I wouldn't be here.”

He grappled to get his mind around it. “You're saying someone tried to kill you.”

“I don't know what he intended, but that's what would have happened. No warning. Just a blow coming out of nowhere. If I hadn't turned at that moment—”

The phone was on the end table. He grabbed it, hitting the button for Chief Gifford.

Gifford picked up almost immediately, and Trent cut through the man's pleasantries.

“Dr. Wainwright was attacked tonight out at the old Ebenezer cemetery. Get some men out there now. I want to know
who did this.” He turned away from the squawking phone to look at Sarah. “What about Lizbet? Was there any sign of her?”

Her green eyes darkened until they were almost black. “I never saw her. Do you think he'd attacked her first?” She started to move, and he pushed her gently back down.

“Have them check on Lizbet Jackson. She was supposed to meet Dr. Wainwright. Get back to me immediately.” He clicked off while Gifford was still assuring him he'd take care of it.

He turned to Sarah, covering her hand with his. “Tell me the rest, before we have everyone here. Did he run away?”

She shook her head, pupils still dilated with what he realized was shock. “He chased me. Through the cemetery.” She swallowed, the muscles in her neck working. “If it hadn't been so dark, I'd never have gotten back to the car—” She stopped.

He reached out to touch her face gently and realized that his hand was shaking. Now was not the moment to pour out his shock and horror. “It's all right. You're safe now.”

She met his eyes, and he cradled her cheek in his hand. He wanted to do more—to draw her close against him and protect her from anything in the world that might harm her.