"I'm good at it," he said. "Everyone dies sometime. I just make it happen sooner."
"Who told you to kill me? Did you know it was me?"
"Actually, I didn't. Not that it matters. But life is funny sometimes."
"You think this is funny?" She shook her head in disbelief. "I know you weren't always like this. You had to have been human sometime. People told me when I was a little girl that it was the drugs that changed you, that you weren't born evil, that somewhere inside was a decent person."
He laughed. "They told you a fairy tale."
She saw the wild light in his eyes and knew that it hadn't all been a fairy tale. "You're high now, aren't you? You feed on the drugs and then you kill and then you get more money to buy more drugs. It's a never-ending circle."
"Pleasure after pleasure," he said, his voice silky. "It's a hell of a way to live, baby girl."
"Don't call me that. Don't stand there and say you're going to kill me and then call me your baby."
"You have a lot to say for someone who's going to die."
"Someday someone will catch you. They'll make you pay," she told him, her anger driving her on. She couldn't think about whether or not she was saying the right thing. She just had to say what she felt.
"No one ever catches me. I'm invincible."
Looking at his face she could see that he believed everything he said. He was the god of his own mind, the ruler of his own world. And she knew without a doubt that, daughter or no daughter, he would take her life. She hated to plead, but she wanted to live more than she wanted to save her pride. "You could let me go. You
should
let me go," she amended. "I'm your child. You owe me that much. You took my mother away. I grew up alone, without anyone."
"You were better off without her."
"When will it stop? You're not a young man anymore. You're . . . old," she said, noting the gray in his hair, the sag in his cheeks, the lines around his eyes. The monster was suddenly beginning to look more human.
His hand shook ever so slightly. "I can still take you out."
Catherine held her breath, her gaze fixed on his finger and the trigger. She could be dead in another second, or—
She didn't have time to finish the thought. A large rock hit her father square on the back of the head. He fell to his knees, the gun hitting the deck with a clatter. She reached for the weapon as Dylan came storming down the pier like a linebacker intent on making the hit of his life. Her father had barely gotten to his feet, blood streaming off the back of his head, when Dylan barreled into his midsection. The force of the tackle took them both to the edge of the pier.
Her father took a swing at Dylan's face, connecting with his nose.
More blood.
Dylan punched back with a roar of fury.
The two men grappled with each other as they skidded off the deck.
Catherine screamed in terror as they lost their footing and went into the water. She ran to the edge, gun in hand. If she could just get a clear shot she would take it.
Wouldn't she?
Doubt flashed through her head. Could she kill her own father?
For Dylan . . . for her mother . . . for all the people her father had ever hurt. She could do it, and she would.
But she couldn't risk hitting Dylan. The men were fighting, fists flying, the water swirling around them, as they each tried to push the other under the water. The waves from their struggle sprayed her face with a fine mist. She wiped her eyes just as they disappeared under the dock. Then she heard a couple of heavy thuds.
Kneeling down, she searched the water, her gut clenching as blood turned the white edges of the waves red. She could no longer hear their battle. It was quiet, very, very quiet.
"Dylan!" she screamed.
He didn't answer. No one did.
Chapter 20
For long, tortured seconds she watched the waves. Where were they? Dammit, she was not going to stand by and let Dylan die. Without any more thought she kicked off her shoes, threw off her sweater, and jumped into the water.
The icy cold stole her breath away, but she dove under the next wave, searching for Dylan.
It was so dark, so deep. She couldn't see anyone. She had lost him. Her heart shattered. She wanted to die herself. But she couldn't give up. It couldn't end like this.
She dove down again, swimming under the pier. Then she saw him sinking into the water facedown, his body limp. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't moving. She grabbed him around the neck and pulled him to the surface. It seemed to take forever to get to shore. She didn't think he was breathing, and the thought terrified her.
"Don't die," she prayed. "Please don't die."
Finally her feet touched sand. She dragged his heavy body out of the water up on the rocks, and rolled him on his back. His lips were turning blue, his face white. She cupped his chin and tilted his head back, trying to remember what she'd ever learned about mouth-to-mouth. She squeezed his nostrils shut and then leaned over and breathed into his mouth—once, twice, short, quick breaths. Pausing, she pulled back and put her finger on the pulse point on his neck. It was slow and weak, but it was there. She pressed on his chest, trying to keep his heart going, then breathed into his mouth again, rotating her movements, not sure whether she was doing it right but trying to find some rhythm.
"Breathe, dammit!" she yelled. "I'm not going to lose you, too."
She put her mouth over his again, willing him to live, focusing on the connection between them, breathing her life into his body.
He jerked, then coughed. She pushed him over onto his side, pounding him on the back as seawater poured out of his mouth. When he finally seemed able to breathe on his own, she crawled around to face him.
He was alive!
She stared into his dazed eyes, noting the gash on his head. He must have hit the edge of the pier when they were fighting and been knocked unconscious.
She sat on her knees and brushed the hair away from his eyes, delighting in the fact that he was alive. He was going to make it.
She loved this man. She loved him more than she'd ever loved anyone in her life.
"Where . . . where is he?" Dylan asked, choking out the words. "Did I kill him? I had my hands on his throat. And then my head must have hit something hard.. . ." Dylan struggled to sit up and look around.
For the first time she remembered her father, the man who'd been intent on killing her. "I don't know. He disappeared under the water. I went after you. I didn't see him anywhere."
Dylan stared at the water for a long moment. She followed his gaze, searching for odd bubbles, a swirl of water, a shadowy monster coming out of the sea. Was he really gone? Was her father dead? Was the man who had haunted her for more than twenty years finally vanquished? She wanted to believe it was over, but she still felt uneasy, uncertain.
Dylan turned his head to look at her, his eyes still conveying his shock. "You saved my life. I would have died if you hadn't come after me."
"You saved my life. He was going to kill me. If you hadn't thrown that rock at his head I'd be dead now."
"I never wanted to hit a target so badly in my life."
Dylan grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her over to him, kissing her again and again, his mouth impatiently seeking hers, his need to reaffirm that they were both alive echoing through both of them. His fingers dug into her skin as if he were afraid that she'd slip through his fingers, but she wasn't going anywhere. She was going to hold on to him as long as he held on to her. Eventually they had to come up for air. Catherine's heart broke with emotion as she saw the tenderness in Dylan's eyes. He cupped her face with his hands and just looked at her.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Dylan asked, his gaze searching.
"No, not in a physical way. I don't really know what happened. He came up behind me at the cemetery. I didn't hear him. He put a cloth over my face. It knocked me out, I guess. The next thing I knew I was in the trunk of his car." She licked her lips. "I was really scared, Dylan. Not like in my dreams. This was real, way too real."
"I know. I've never experienced such terror as that moment when I realized you were gone. I shouldn't have sent you even ten feet away from me. You told me he was coming after you. I should have kept that in my head."
"It's all right. I'm okay. But there's something you don't know about that man."
Dylan's hands dropped to his sides, his gaze narrowing on hers. "What did he tell you? Did he say who hired him? Who wants us dead?"
She shook her head. "I asked, but he didn't answer." Mentally she replayed the scene between them, feeling once again the horror of recognition, the realization that he would kill her, even knowing who she was.
"Catherine," Dylan prodded. "What else?"
"I know why I was connected to him now. I know why I could hear his voice in my head, why I could feel his evil all the way into my soul. That man who was going to kill me was my father."
Dylan's jaw fell open, his eyes widening in amazement, disbelief. "That's . . . that's unbelievable."
"He didn't know it was me," she said quickly. "Not until we got down here to the dock, and he finally looked me in the eye. Before that I was just a job to him. That's what he does. He kills people. All these years . . . all those nightmares . . . all those victims . . . they were his victims. I saw them die. I saw him kill, and I couldn't stop him. I couldn't save anyone, not even my mother." Her eyes filled with tears. "I remembered the night she died, everything—how I crept out of bed when they started yelling, the awful things he said to her. He thought she was crazy. He was high on drugs. He was wild, like an animal, a vicious animal intent on ripping his prey apart. I tried to throw my arms around his leg once, but he shook me off, and after that I just stood there and watched. How could I do that, Dylan? How could I just stand there?"
"Oh, Catherine, you were a little girl." He pulled her into his arms, pressing her face against his chest, stroking her hair. "You did try to stop him, but you couldn't. No one could have."
She wanted to believe him, and in her head she did, but the emotional guilt would run through her veins for a long time to come. "Maybe I wouldn't have succeeded," she admitted. "But I should have tried harder."
He held her away from him so he could look at her. "You tried damn hard to save me, and you did. Think about that, Catherine. Let the past go. It's over. He's dead. He's gone."
"I wish I could be sure he's not going to come out of that water. What if he just swam away?" She could see by Dylan's expression that he'd considered the same possibility.
"I don't think he did. I saw his eyes bug out when I had my hands on his neck. He couldn't get his breath. He was going down."
"But you said you hit something hard. He must have knocked your head into the pillar under the dock. You were unconscious when I jumped in the water. He could have gotten away."
He inclined his head in agreement. "I guess it's possible. But you didn't see him, did you?"
"No. I didn't see him. I just saw blood everywhere."
"I think he's gone, but you don't have to believe me. You know what's in your heart. What do you feel?"
What
did
she feel? She shook her head, not sure she could go there so soon. "I don't know. I'm confused. And I don't really want to try to reach him again."
"Well, that's understandable."
"You finally trust my connections, don't you?" she asked, a little amazed at the idea that Dylan had come around to believing in her so completely. She'd thought that there was a part of her that his logical brain wouldn't ever be able to accept.
"They brought me to you," he said. "I heard you talk to me. You described the house, the bird feeder, the stone chimney."
"Oh, my God. Really? So you're saying you heard voices in your head? You'd better not tell the police that. They'll take you to the loony bin."
"Not voices, your voice." He gave her a slow smile. "Apparently you're not the only one who might be a little psychic, but why don't we keep that between the two of us?" His smile dimmed, his eyes turning more serious. "I also remembered the place from a long time ago. My mother used to come here. I think she met him here, my father. There has to be a meaning to this location. That's all I can think of."
"I wish I could have made my father say who hired him."
"We know, Catherine. It's always been about our fathers and our mothers, and the odd parallels between our lives. I can't believe I'm admitting it, but I'm beginning to see that life isn't just about facts. It's not black and white. It's filled with a million shades of gray and things that don't make sense."
She knew it had taken a lot for Dylan to realize that he didn't have all the answers and that he wasn't in complete control of his life or his destiny. But he was starting to accept his emotions and have faith in what he didn't understand.
For a moment they just sat on the pebbled beach, staring out at the water. She didn't know if Dylan was searching for signs of her father, but she certainly was. He would have had to swim a long way to get out of sight, to be able to come to shore without their seeing him, but it wasn't impossible. Maybe she was the one who needed faith.
"We should go," Dylan said. "But before we leave the island, before we go back to face my father, I want to see if I can find anyone here who can tell me exactly how my mother drowned. Maybe one of the neighbors will know. Some of the people who live on the island have been here for years."
"All right," she agreed. She got to her feet and ran her hands through her wet hair. Her clothes were still dripping, and she leaned over to wring out the edges of her shirt and pants. She retrieved her shoes and sweater from the deck, standing there for a moment to take another sweeping perusal of the area. She drew in a breath and tried to be really quiet. She didn't want to reconnect with her father, but she had to see if she could get to him one last time. Her mind could call up his image. She could see him wrestling with Dylan, falling into the water, but there was nothing else. She couldn't feel him inside of her. Maybe he really was gone.
* * *
Dylan shifted in his seat, his soaked jeans sticking uncomfortably to his legs, but being wet was the least of his worries. Despite his confident proclamation that Catherine's father was dead, he wasn't absolutely sure. Nor was he willing to let down his guard in any other way. They'd escaped one bad guy; who knew how many more were waiting in the wings? If there was anything he knew about Richard Sanders, it was that the old man got what he wanted, and he never gave up. But Richard had probably never expected the pro he'd hired to fail. They were both supposed to die on this island, far, far away from Richard's life.
Still, if Richard had wanted to distance himself from the crime, why hadn't he sent them somewhere else, steered them in another direction? Why send them back to a house that he owned? Frowning, Dylan knew something wasn't adding up, but he couldn't figure out what it was.
Hell, maybe the plan had been to kill Catherine and frame Dylan once again. Perhaps he'd never been meant to die, just to be held responsible for the deaths of a bunch of innocent people. It was a sick thought, but his father had to be unbalanced to have lived the lies he'd lived for twenty-plus years.
Not his father, he reminded himself. Richard Sanders was not his father. His ugly, nasty genes did not run through this body. Thank God for that.
Glancing over at Catherine, he realized she was still feeling on edge, because her father—her ugly, nasty father—had tried to kill her. It was amazing that the shooter had turned out to be her father—or maybe it wasn't. Maybe, as Catherine said, the universe had thrown them together for a reason. Whatever the reason, he couldn't imagine how she'd felt facing the man who'd killed her mother. But she certainly hadn't shown fear. When he'd come down the path she'd been standing strong and tall. She hadn't wavered in front of her father. She'd faced him head-on. Dylan was more than a little proud of her. It had to have taken every last ounce of courage she possessed to look her monster in the eye.
Besides being proud, he was also more than a little grateful to her for saving his ass. If she hadn't jumped in the water, pulled him out of Puget Sound, and given him mouth-to-mouth, he'd be swimming with the fishes right now—or worse yet, with her insane father.
They made a good team. It was going to be hard to say good-bye to her.
Why should you say good-bye?
a voice inside his head asked.
Because she'll want more than you can give. She'll take everything—your heart, your mind, your soul. You'll never be your own person again. You'll never have complete control over your own life.
But hadn't she already taken everything he had? And hadn't she given him back far more?
She glanced over at him, offering him her beautiful, generous smile. She held out her hand, and he took it.
He didn't have to say good-bye just yet.
* * *
After parking the car in front of his mother's house, Catherine and Dylan headed across the street to knock on the door of the nearest neighbor. Dylan had certainly recovered the bounce in his step, Catherine thought, following him a bit more slowly. She still felt uneasy. It probably had to do with the fact that she hadn't really seen her father die, and it was difficult to believe he wasn't going to pop up out of nowhere and finish the job. She tried to push the bad feeling away and concentrate on Dylan. There were so many things he would never know about his mother, but perhaps she could help him at least find the answer to how she'd died.
"I remember I used to play over here with a couple of girls," Dylan said as they approached the blue house with white shutters. "I can't remember their names. I know our parents were friends. We barbecued together on the weekends. There's a car in the driveway. Hopefully someone is home and can tell me what I need to know."