“You are shitting me.”
48
WE sat huddled together in the corner. The lodge was absolutely black.
“He put something in the jug of water, didn’t he?” Beth said.
“I think so. Oh, man, if I don’t get up, I’m gonna pass out right now.”
I struggled to my feet, Violet’s .45 clenched in my hand.
A whirlwind spun behind my eyes.
“I can’t stay awake much longer,” Beth whispered.
I staggered over to the broken window, peered out into the woods.
The live oaks glowed in the new moonlight, their twisted limbs lathered in electric blue. The marsh grass that surrounded the lodge stood so still it appeared frozen.
Through the fuzziness, I thought of Violet again, wondered where he’d left her, hoped the thing had been done quickly.
I felt so woozy now.
Beth was whispering my name and it sounded like, “Anananandydydydy.”
As I turned my head the darkness blurred.
She was slumped over, motionless in the corner.
“Anananandydydydy.”
Then it occurred to me that Beth was unconscious.
The voice belonged to a man and it was coming from somewhere outside.
I looked back through the window.
A shadow appeared at the thicket’s edge, its pale face glowing like a moon in the dark.
Luther.
It emerged from the woods and started toward the lodge.
I aimed the .45 through the window, then realized my hands were empty.
The gun lay at my feet.
When I bent down for it, my legs liquefied.
I stumbled backward.
Crashed into the table.
Plates shattering.
I was down on my back.
Footfalls thumping up the steps.
My consciousness twirling and falling out from under me.
The door unlocked, flung open.
And I was gone.
49
AS Vi stepped aboard the 61’ Queenship Sportscruiser, Rebecca, she instantly understood why Gloria was green. The seas rollicked, the yacht tottering so fiercely she had to grab hold of the railing the moment her feet touched the teak deck.
The dinghy was halfway back to the beach by the time Vi had steadied herself. She watched Sam’s wife run it aground and drag the Boston Whaler beyond the reach of the tide. Gloria hadn’t spoken a word to her during the short boat ride to the yacht. She’d just glared. Her husband had begged her to stay on the yacht in light of the fact that a serial murderer was also on the island. But Gloria said in parting: “There’s no way. Fact, I hope he finds me, cuts me up into a thousand pieces. Be better than this f**king nausea.”
Now he led Vi through the curved glass curtain wall that opened from the aft deck into the salon, where she sat down at the end of an L-shaped sofa.
Cherry wood everywhere. Italian leather. A flat-screen TV. Wet bar. Expansive windows, port and starboard.
Vi imagined that on a sunny day in the middle of the sea, the view was nothing but miles and miles of sky and green water.
Pedro, the ship’s mate, emerged shirtless from the crew quarters deep in the hull.
“Gloria no come?” he asked.
“She went back ashore. Head on up and get us going. You know Ocracoke Inlet, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know him. Be bad tonight. Bad any night. No good idea.”
“I know, Pedro.” Sam glanced at Vi. “Can’t be helped.”
As Pedro ascended to the pilothouse, Sam said, “There’s the phone. I’ll be up with Pedro. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there if we don’t ground her.”
He flicked on more lights as he walked through the galley and disappeared up the curving staircase into the pilothouse. After a moment Vi heard the engines fire up, little more than a muffled gurgle in the insulated recesses of the hull.
Her stomach lurched as the boat began to move.
She picked up the phone, then set it down.
She put her face into her hands and took long penetrating breaths.
Taking up the phone again, she dialed her sergeant’s home number.
Talking with Sgt. Mullins before anyone else (911, Coast Guard, SBI) would be the smart move. He’d tell her exactly how to proceed.
A sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Gwynn, it’s Vi. Look, I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I need to speak with Barry. It’s—”
“He’s on call tonight, and you just missed him. He had a suicide.”
“Oh, well, I’ll just page him then. Thanks.”
Vi hung up the phone.
Her hands still trembled.
She looked down the companionway that accessed the master and VIP staterooms.
It all felt so surreal. The violence, the fear, the sudden luxury.
She thought of Max and almost called him. But the gentleness, the everydayness in her husband’s voice would have broken her in two. If she didn’t ease herself out of this nightmare it would shatter her.
Reaching for the phone to page Sgt. Mullins, she realized she didn’t know the number for the yacht. She rose from the sofa but the moment she started for the staircase, a wave of nausea engulfed her.
She barely made it to the galley before spewing her lunch into the sink. Turning on the spigot, she washed the mess down the drain and splashed water in her face. Her forearms against the countertop, she held her head over the basin for ten minutes, eyes closed, praying for the nausea to pass.
Her stomach finally settled and she had just started for the pilothouse to get the phone number for the yacht when Sam came quickly down the staircase.
“We’re here,” he said. “Come on. I gotta get back to Gloria.”
Vi followed Sam back out onto the aft deck. The night was colder, the moon now unveiled and shining down upon the harbor.
Sam offered his hand and Vi took it. He helped her step up onto the dock.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I know this was a big inconvenience, and I hope Gloria feels better.” Sam just rolled his eyes and walked back into the salon.
As Vi headed up the dock she heard the twin diesel engines come to life again. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched the yacht cruising back out into the harbor.
Vi reached Silver Lake Drive and stopped.
Sam had deposited her near the deserted Coast Guard station and the ferry docks.
The lights of Ocracoke shone and reflected in the harbor—a cold twinkling silence. It was midnight and she didn’t have a key to her room at the Harper Castle B&B.
The Coast Guard station was dark.
I’ll just have to wake somebody up.
She would’ve run but it was all she could do to walk, her legs still burning from the sprint across the tidal flat. As she walked along the double yellow line she thought of Andrew Thomas, wondered if he’d still be alive when she saw him next.