Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (4 page)

He was waiting for a woman named Kathryn Russell. He'd never set eyes on her, never had more than a few telephone conversations with her, but he knew, without question, that she was going to be one monumental pain in the ass for the next seven days.

Amos's scowl deepened as he snapped a spotless white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white linen suit and mopped it across his bald head.

It was bad enough he'd gone back to the profession that had sent him scurrying from the distasteful company of humans in the first place. That he'd taken on a client as eccentric as Trevor Russell was even worse, but Russell had come to him with what had seemed the simplest of requests.

"I'm at that age where I suppose I should have a will, Mr. Carter," he'd said.

Amos, taking a look at the face made ruddy by too much sun, whiskey and women, had silently agreed.

He hadn't liked Russell very much. The man's cavalier, devil-may-care attitude had been almost personally offensive to someone who believed in responsibility, hard work and commitment.

A month after Amos had drawn up the will, Russell had died in a spectacular car crash in Lisbon. Amos figured it had probably been more in keeping with the sort of life the man had led than beachcombing on an all but forgotten Caribbean island.

It had fallen to Amos, as executor, to convey the news of Trevor Russell's bequest to his sole heir, his daughter, Kathryn.

It had been his experience that talk of wills and inheritances following the death of a loved one was usually greeted with choked sobs. Amos was not a sentimental man himself but that was not to say he didn't understand emotion. Anticipating the shock and grief the loss of her father would bring, he'd telephoned the girl, prepared to offer soothing words of condolence and assistance.

But Kathryn Russell hadn't wanted either. She'd wanted answers about the property she'd inherited. What was it worth? And how quickly could she sell it?

Amos had tried to be diplomatic. Elizabeth Island was not what one would call a tourist mecca. It was too far off the holiday path. And, though its beauty was spectacular, its amenities were few.

As for Charon's Crossing itself—the kindest way to describe the house was to say it needed work.

Amos hemmed and hedged and finally said that the house's value was dependent on a variety of factors, beginning with its condition.

"I am afraid, Miss Russell," he'd said politely, "that Charon's Crossing requires repairs before we can assess its worth."

"I see," she'd said, but he felt certain she didn't.

With that in mind, Amos had offered to determine the cost of making necessary repairs to the house. Russell's daughter had responded in a way that still had him bristling.

"Thank you, Mr. Carter," she'd said, "but I prefer to do that myself."

What she'd really meant was that she could not entrust something so important to a stranger but Amos did not consider himself a stranger. He was her father's executor.

The only thing that offended him more than dealing with a client who did not trust his honesty or his competency was dealing with a woman.

The world had changed. It was filled, he knew, with women who insisted on being treated like men, but Amos was of the old school. Attorneys advised the female of the species, they did not take orders from them.

Kathryn Russell, as subsequent phone conversations had proved, was superb at giving orders.

He was to draw up a list of local contractors.

He was to draw up a list of local real estate agents.

He was to arrange to have the house cleaned in anticipation of her arrival.

He was to arrange for her to have use of a rental car.

He was to have a taxi meet her plane.

And he was to understand that she had only a week to spare.

Amos scowled, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his head again.

Kathryn Russell was as ignorant as she was presumptuous.

Contractors? There was a man in town who had a truck, a few pieces of equipment, and a brother-in-law who was his sometime crew. Realtors? There was even one of those, too. Olive Potter had been selling houses on Elizabeth Island for more years than anyone could remember.

One house a year, at least. That was about the market turnover.

A taxi, to meet her? The only taxi on the island was sitting where it had been sitting for as long as he could remember, down on a little back road near the beach and slowly turning to rust.

As for the Russell woman's assumption that you could get anything done in seven days in this part of the world... that was almost enough to make him laugh.

Amos had thought of telling her so. He also thought of telling her other things, that there were disquieting stories of some dark force that roamed the huge, empty rooms of the house she'd inherited.

But each talk with Trevor Russell's daughter only went further to convince him that she would take nothing he said at face value.

And so he had told her nothing. Let her learn the truth for herself, that the island was a sleepy backwater, that Charon's Crossing was a gloomy ruin, and that she'd be lucky if she could sell it for a fraction of what she obviously thought it was worth.

His duty was to implement the terms of Trevor Russell's will, nothing more.

And if, in the process, there was a certain pleasure in watching the imperious Miss Russell brought to heel, well, so be it.

Childish squeals interrupted Amos's thoughts. He looked around and saw a rag-tag band of children racing towards him in hot pursuit of a pair of wild-eyed goats.

Amos danced back sharply but not quickly enough to keep one of the goats from brushing his leg as it bounded past. He glared at the fleeing animal and at the shrieking children, who looked almost as untamed and unkempt as their prey.

Angrily, he whisked his hand across the impeccable crease in his white trousers, brushing away goat hair and something he hoped was only dust.

"Miserable little creatures," he muttered. And, just at that moment, he heard the approaching drone of an airplane.

Amos looked up. Finally, there it was, the ancient red and white Cessna 402 that was Elizabeth Island's solitary acceptance of the fast pace of the modern world.

The plane dipped woozily towards the pink airstrip, the wings waggling as it zoomed over the heads of the children and the goats.

The children laughed and Amos could only assume the pilot was laughing, too. As far as he could tell after ten years here, only crazies flew this run.

Amos looked at the plane as it wobbled to a stop.

Welcome to Elizabeth Island, Miss Russell, he thought.

For the first time all day, he smiled.

* * *

Kathryn peered out the window, saw the ground whooshing towards her, saw a blur of waving children and frantic animals coming closer, and decided her life was about to end.

She shrank back in her seat, shut her eyes, and did what she'd done most of the trip from Grenada.

She prayed.

The flight had been a horror from the minute she'd transferred planes, leaving behind the air-conditioned terminal to search for something called the Out-Island Shuttle.

She had expected to find something like the efficient commuter craft that flew between New York and Boston. What she'd found instead was a plane that looked as if it should have flown by rubber-band power.

The pilot, in oil-stained khakis, had taken her luggage and tossed it into the rear of the tiny aircraft. Then he'd told her to find a seat and put on her seat belt.

After an hour of roasting in the sun, the plane had lurched into the sky, carrying Kathryn, three passengers who chattered to each other in something that was not quite Spanish, and a piglet and a crate of live chickens.

The flight had been terrifying. The plane had dipped low over the water, lurching upwards unsteadily whenever an island loomed ahead. The piglet had squealed, the chickens had squawked, and the passengers had muttered under their breaths while they'd crossed themselves.

That they'd survived the trip was almost impossible to believe. That they were to land on what looked like a pale pink ribbon stretched between scrub-covered hills that began at the edge of a cliff was even harder to accept, especially since it seemed they were going to make mincemeat out bf a bunch of children and a couple of goats in the process.

Kathryn could see the children laughing as the plane skimmed past. The animals' eyes rolled with fear.

I'm with you, she thought grimly.

But somehow, the plane's wheels touched down safely. The engines made a slow, groaning sound and then, mercifully, the Cessna shuddered to a stop.

"That's it, folks," the pilot said as he turned towards them. "Welcome to Elizabeth Island."

Kathryn's fellow passengers were already rushing for the exit. She'd have rushed, too, if her knees hadn't felt like rubber.

The pilot was just tossing her suitcase out onto the runway when she got to the door. She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. What was the sense? It was too late to do anything but grit her teeth and get on with what she'd come here to do.

Stepping out of the plane was like stepping into a furnace.

The heat seemed to lick up from her toes and coil its way around her like a living thing. The air was flame, searing her lungs as she breathed it in. The crisp linen of her pale yellow suit was surely wilting.

She glanced at her suitcase, still lying on the runway, then shaded her eyes with her hand and looked around her. There was nothing out there but blue sky and green grass. If the taxi she'd requested was anywhere within hailing distance, she certainly couldn't see it.

"Miss Russell?"

Kathryn swung around. A small man in a white suit was striding towards her. The wide brim of a Panama hat shaded his eyes but she could see the glint of perspiration on his fine-boned, ebony face.

"Good," she said. "I'd begun to think Mr. Carter had forgotten to send a taxi to meet me."

"Miss Russell, I am Amos Carter."

Kathryn's brows lifted. She had formed an image of the man from his voice. Amos Carter should have been tall, slender, and young. This man was slender but he was also short and he had left youth behind decades before. And he was looking at her with something that could only be described as polite hostility. That didn't surprise her. He'd done everything during their phone conversations but tell her, flat out, that her arrival on Elizabeth Island was going to be one huge imposition.

Kathryn smiled politely and held out her hand.

"Mr. Carter. How kind of you to meet me."

Carter's hand clasped hers. His fingers were bony but his grasp was surprisingly strong.

"A matter of simple expediency, Miss Russell." He dropped her hand and reached for her suitcase. "This is yours, I take it?"

"Yes, but I can manage it myself."

"Nonsense." Carter gave her another thin-lipped smile. "You will find we are somewhat old-fashioned, here in the islands. Men believe in being courteous even if women do not wish it."

It was Kathryn's turn to smile thinly. The putdown was subtle but it was a putdown nevertheless. Terrific, she thought, as Carter set off along a rutted track that led through the scrub. That was just what she needed, an attorney who was an aging male chauvinist. Well, at least now she knew why he'd seemed hostile over the telephone.

She thought of a couple of sharp-tongued rejoinders, then decided against them. She would only be here a week and she needed this man's help. There were negative vibrations in the air already. Why make things worse?

Carter led her to a dusty Land Rover. He put her suitcase in the rear, then opened the passenger door and motioned her inside. When he was settled behind the wheel, Kathryn cleared her throat.

"It really was very kind of you to meet me yourself," she said.

Carter swung the wheel sharply to the right, swerving around the goats that were once again fleeing their pursuers. The Rover shuddered as its tires hit a bumpy dirt track that Kathryn assumed was the road.

"I told you, Miss Russell, it was a matter of expediency." He shot her a faintly amused smile. "I know you expected a taxi to meet you, but I am afraid we have none here on the island."

Kathryn looked at him. "No taxis? On the entire island?"

"I am afraid we lack many amenities."

He didn't sound "afraid" at all, Kathryn thought, her eyes narrowing. What he sounded was damned well smug.

"That's quite all right," she said politely. "I haven't come here for a vacation."

"No. You've come to sell Charon's Crossing. I understand that." Carter glanced over at her. "But I would hope you will understand that your expectations for the house may not quite be in accord with reality."

Kathryn had already been thinking the same thing.

She had never been in the Caribbean before but, like almost everyone else, she'd come here with an image in mind.

Islands in the sun were supposed to be dazzlingly beautiful, with lots of lush, green vegetation, tall palm trees and bright flowers. The sky was supposed to be fairy-tale blue, the clouds puffs of white cotton, the sea emerald green and the sand anything from bone white to flamingo pink to lava black.