In the Waning Light (35 page)

“Who were these witnesses?” Tommy said, having to bend down and talk directly in her ear now. The music was going louder. “Are they still around now?”

Kovacs looked up, and saw them. He stilled, drink in hand, watching them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ryan trying to lead Emma toward the doors, and Emma was arguing with him. Tension, claustrophobia, tightened around Meg’s throat. A rushing noise began in her head.

“I need to talk to Dave Kovacs now. I need to tell him what I’ve found out.”

Tommy hesitated, then said, “Good, this is good. Because he’s reopened the case on the quiet.”

“
Kovacs
told you this?”

“He told me you were working with him.”

A cold feeling snaked up her chest. So much for “on the quiet.” She shot another look at Kovacs. He regarded them intently. Fear tightened in Meg’s throat.

The drums thumped louder. Tommy winced at the noise, took her elbow. “Come, let’s go talk somewhere quiet and private. My yacht is right outside the front entrance. I’ll get Dave to join us.” Tommy lifted his hand and made a motion to Kovacs. He nodded, making a sign that he’d come in two minutes.

Meg hesitated. Perhaps Kovacs was not the best person to be looking into Sherry’s case right now, given his father’s involvement and his political interest in the outcome. Her mind went to the photo she’d seen of him in the archives. And the sense she should be remembering something about him intensified. The buzzing grew louder in her head. She was sweating now, but still shivering.

“I also need to share some other information about Emma with you both,” Tommy said in her ear as he started to escort her toward the doors.

Emma the princess, never the queen. Emma who got the silver track medals to Sherry’s gold. Emma always in Sherry’s shadow. Emma who lied to the cops. Emma who wanted, and got, Sherry’s boyfriend. Emma the pharmacist who’d noted her mother’s medication. Emma the bitter, vengeful divorcee.

“What about Emma?” She had to speak loud. It hurt her head. She needed air.

“A suspicion I’ve had. About those pills. Come. This way.”

At the door one of the coat-check people handed him an umbrella. He popped it up as the doors slid open, and stepped outside. Meg inhaled the cool air deeply as she followed, but hesitated. Tommy held out his hand for her. “That’s my motor yacht right over there, just behind the whale-watching boat.” It was literally across from the doors.

She glanced back into the conference area. Kovacs was slowly making his way over, talking to people who came up to him. She’d hear Tommy out, but she made a decision right there—as soon as she had, she was calling the state police. She’d hand everything over to them, and tell them about Geoff and Henry.

Tommy held the umbrella over them both as he escorted her down the gangway and along the dock that led to his sleek, high-end motor yacht. She guessed it to be almost fifty feet in length. Lights were on inside. Bits of plastic, Styrofoam, wood, a bottle, seethed in inky scum around the hulls. The rain was turning thick and gelatinous.

Tommy helped her step onto the swim deck to climb aboard. Out of the corner of her eye Meg saw the figure of a woman running out of the convention center, heading their way. No umbrella. Behind her came two men who looked like Kovacs and Ryan Millar.

“It’s Emma,” she said.

Tommy shot a glance toward the center. “Don’t worry. Dave and Ryan will handle her. This way.” He guided her up the port steps to the aft deck, and he drew open a glass slider that led into the upper salon.

Thunder cracked. Meg winced. A lantern ripped free in the wind and cartwheeled down the dock with a thunking sound. The boardwalk and harbor lights flickered, and the boat tilted. She braced against the glass slider for balance.

“Don’t worry,” Tommy said. “The convention center is backed up by generators. If the power fails they will kick in.” He smiled. His teeth glinted in the dark. “This harbor has been designed to withstand even the most super of a super tide and storms. We have almost a half mile of riprap leading out into the sea, and a secondary reef to guide swells away from the harbor mouth. We’re keeping a close eye on the tsunami alert.”

He turned on the lights in the upper salon. It was warm inside. Sofas were cream and sleek and looked leather. The coffee table was smoked glass. Tommy held his hand toward a recessed stairway. “It’ll be cozier down in the lower salon.”

Don’t go down into the basement, Meggie-Peg . . .
only heroines in stupid horror flicks go down into the basement . . .

Meg paused. Her mind raced. She believed one hundred percent it was Geoff who’d attacked her and left her for dead. And Henry and his red van were involved. But she was still missing a chunk of memory. How did it all tie together? She glanced up at Tommy’s face.

I want to share something with you about Emma . . . about those pills . . .

“Meg! Stop!” a woman yelled outside. “Please. Don’t go with him!”

Meg stepped quickly back out onto the aft deck. Emma called out to her as she teetered down the gangway and onto the dock. Her stiletto heel caught between slats. She pitched forward, toward the edge, but Kovacs caught up from behind, and grabbed her arm, barely managing to halt her plunge into the frigid harbor water.

“Emma, you’re drunk!” Tommy called out to her. She looked up, white-faced, her dark hair plastered to her cheeks, her dress clinging to her body.

“Sherry got everything! She always got everything!” she yelled at Meg as she struggled to shake off Kovacs. Ryan took Emma’s other arm.

“Ryan’s going to take you home now,” called Tommy. “Dave, will you join us once you’ve got her into Ryan’s car?”

Dave made a small salute.

Tommy touched Meg’s elbow. “Come inside. I’m guessing she’s worried about what I have to tell you. And if my suspicions are right, she has reason to be. Dave will join us as soon as he can. He’s going to want to hear this, too.”

Tommy again held out his hand, showing Meg the way down into the bowels of his boat.

Blake shook his brother like a rag, rage turning his vision red. “You going to tell me what happened? Are we going to find
your
DNA matches that unidentified profile? Did you hurt Sherry, too, strangle her? What the fuck
are
you?”

“Jesus, no. No, Blake. I did
not
hurt Sherry. For God’s sake, you
have
to believe this.”

“Make me.”

Geoff swallowed. His gaze darted out toward the bay, as if seeking a way of escaping this.

Blake tightened his grip. “You—you have cost me everything—”

“Bull fucking shit,” Geoff snapped suddenly. “You made your own choices—”

“To cover for you, because I loved you. My own brother. I
believed
in you.”

“And I covered for Henry because I loved him!” He shoved Blake off him, fire flaring into his eyes.

“And what did Henry do that you needed to cover for him?”

Geoff turned to go back to his car. But Blake slammed his hands down on Geoff’s shoulders and spun him around like a toy. “Oh, no you fucking don’t. You’re not going anywhere. Look at me. Did you hurt Meg?”

“She fell. She fell when I grabbed her. She hit her head. I . . . I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Blake stared, his brain flipping over itself. He started to shake. “You didn’t
mean
it?”

Geoff pushed his brother’s hands off him and sank down onto an upended log. He dropped his face in his hands. Rain beat down on his hair, dripped through his fingers.

“Look at me!”

Geoff’s shoulders shuddered. He was crying. Blake grabbed a fistful of wet hair, and, yanked his head up. “Look at me, you shit. Be a—”

“Be a what? Be a
man
?
Man
up? You going to hit me, too, now, like Dad?

“Oh, you sorry-ass loser. This has nothing to do with sexual preferences, or Dad, and you know it. You chased a terrified thirteen-year-old g
irl. You grabbed her and made her fall. Her head split open, and you did what? You
left
her there, lying unconscious on the beach, in the dark, with a storm, and the tide coming in?”

Geoff stared at him, his eyes hollow, haunted, water sheening down his face.

“You left her to die, you bastard.
You
tried to kill Meg Brogan. She’d be dead if I hadn’t found her. That’s attempted murder in my book. And now you and your ‘secret’ have cost me the only woman I ever truly loved. Why? Why on earth
Meggie
?”

Geoff shook his head.

“What did she see? Someone raping and strangling Sherry? What made you try to stop Meg from getting away?”

His brother said nothing. It was as though he’d gone numb. Dead. Frustration exploded through Blake and it was blinding. He hauled Geoff up from the log, and drew back his fist. “Tell me.”

“Go on. Hit me. I dare you. While your own son is watching from that upstairs window behind you.”

Blake froze. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Noah stood silhouetted in the lighted window. Geoff used the distraction, walloping Blake in the solar plexus. Wind blasted out of him, and he coughed, doubling over and stumbling to his knees. Geoff lunged for the open door of his still idling Jeep.

“Don’t you dare!” Blake yelled.

But the door slammed shut. Tires spun, kicking gravel into Blake’s face. He scrambled to his feet, but Geoff spun his Jeep around, and hit the gas. Blake drew his Glock, aimed, fired. Once. Twice. Again. Tires popped. The Jeep skidded sideways. Blake put another bullet into the bottom of the gas tank. Geoff wasn’t going far now, and he knew it, because he hit the brakes, flung open the door, and ran for the marina’s north gangway. Blake gave chase. Thunder cracked, and lightning flickered through cloud. His brother reached the dock, sprinted to the south end, and scrambled into the only boat Blake had left in the water for small emergencies. It had a single two-stroke engine mounted at the stern, a full tank of gas, a spotlight, bailing scoop, and nothing else.

Lightning forked into the bay as Geoff cast free the line and pushed away just as Blake reached him. He yanked the starter cord. The engine coughed to life. He gave it full throttle and powered out into the blackness of the storm.

Shit.
Blake ran his hand down hard over his mouth, his chest thumping with adrenaline. Either his brother would make it out of the mouth by some miracle, or he’d drown trying. His secrets would die with him.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Blake whirled around. Noah was running down the gangway toward him.

“What’s happening!? Where’s Uncle Geoff gone?” He was crying hysterically. “Why did you shoot at him? It’s all my fault, isn’t it?”

Blake crouched down. “Come here, bud.”

Noah flung his arms tightly around Blake’s neck and clung like a limpet. His body convulsed with sobs. “He’s going to drown . . . in the storm. He’ll drown in that boat.”

“Noah, listen to me.” He held his son back and looked into his pale, rain-streaked face. “I never want to hurt you. You’ve got to understand that. I’m sorry about Meg. Will you give me a chance to talk about it later, please?”

An almighty crack sounded, right above their heads. Forked lightning sparked down into the water, throwing everything into a momentary freeze-frame.

Noah nodded, panic bright in his eyes.

“Now, listen carefully. I’m going to get the big speedboat out of the garage and go after Geoff, get him back safe, okay? But I need your help. Your sitter—Anna—will be here any minute. I need you to go inside and wait for her. When you get inside, call 911. Tell them your dad needs help at Bull’s Marina. Tell them your uncle is out in the bay, in trouble.”

“Why . . . what did Uncle Geoff do?”

“Trouble with the sea, Noah. He could hurt himself. And if he does manage to make it out of the mouth, he might hurt someone else.”

“Will he hurt Meg?”

“Not on my watch he won’t.”

“I don’t want him to hurt Meg . . .” His lip wobbled and his body shook. “It’s my fault.”

“No. It’s not. Now do it. Anna will be here. You dial 911. Stay on
the line with the dispatcher. They’ll send all kinds of help. Now
go
.”
Noah turned and ran on his skinny little legs. Blake’s chest clenched
tight. He surged to his feet and made for his truck; his goal was to reverse up to the garage, hook up the boat on the trailer, haul
it down
to the concrete slipway, back it in, and go find his brother.
His big speedboat was equipped with twin two-hundred-horsepower engines, a prow like a blade, a deep, sharp, heavy keel to slice through the waves. And it had spotlights, life jackets, flares, and other emer
gency equipment. He’d gun Geoff down fast,
if
he was still afloat by
the time he found him.

CHAPTER 25

As Meg was about to start down the stairs that led to the lower salon of Tommy’s opulent motor yacht, a terrible scream rent the air. Both she and Tommy froze.

“Was that Emma?” she said, heart kicking.

It came again, shrill and piercing and rising and falling and unrelenting. A woman in terror. It froze Meg. Her mind hurtled back . . . screams, just like that. Sherry’s screams. She’d run toward them that day, her young legs powering her toward a horror even as her brain recoiled and cried:
flee
. An inhuman power exploded through her blood, blinding her. She shoved past Tommy, clattering back up the stairs, through the upper salon, toward the doors, toward the screaming, toward the raw sound of terror.

“Meg! Stop, wait,” Tommy called behind her.

Wait. Stop! Don’t run, Meggie, don’t run!

She made it out onto the aft deck, breathing hard. Rain lashed and the boat tilted. She grabbed the railing. Another scream. A hand grasped at her from behind. She jerked free and stumbled down onto the swim deck, almost slipping off as she hopped onto the dock and ran toward Emma. She was under the halo of a lamp, dress clinging like a rag to her thin body, face sheet-white as she clutched at her cheeks, her mouth an open black hole—she was the universal
Scream
, an Edvard Munch painting against the oily water and shimmering sleet. Ryan Millar was holding her back from the edge of the dock. Kovacs was down on his knees, bending over to reach for something in the water with a grappling hook. People were running over from the conference center.

“Emma,” Meg said, breathless. “What’s the matter?”

Emma released her cheek and pointed with a clawed hand into the black water.

Meg’s gaze shot to the water.

A thing, like a large bloated bull seal, bobbed with the flotsam between the deck pilings and the hull of a yacht. It took a moment for Meg’s brain to register it was a man. Floating facedown in a suit jacket that was puffed up with trapped air. His arms flopped limply at his sides with the loll of sea, his hands ghostly white.

Emma sank onto her knees.

A group of off-duty deputies reached them. Meg recognized Hoberman, in a dress. Kovacs barked for one of them to hold him steady so he could reach farther. Thunder clapped, and wind gusted, stinging them with sleet.

One of the male deputies held down Kovacs’s ankles as he leaned farther, struggling to drag the corpse closer with his hook.

Kovacs managed to roll the body over. Someone panned a flashlight down. Meg took a step back in shock. A chalk-white face gaped up at them with cloudy open eyes, a black hole in the center of his forehead.

“Henry,” said someone next to her. “Oh my God, it’s Henry Thibodeau.”

More flashlights bobbed in the darkness. Someone made a call. A cop cruiser pulled up with uniforms. People gathered up on the boardwalk, holding coats tightly against wind and sleet. More lanterns ripped free. One of the election posters tore from its post and tattered down the gangway to slap against the side of the wet dock.

Tommy helped the deputies pull Henry out. The men grunted with effort as they flopped him onto his back like a dead shark onto the dock. Seaweed hung from his mouth. A hush fell among the onlookers as Kovacs was handed gloves, and a police photographer snapped photos. Kovacs opened the jacket, carefully removing a wallet. He checked the ID.

“He’s been in the water a while,” the chief deputy said, slowly coming to his feet. “Where’s the ME?”

“On her way, sir,” Hoberman said.

Kovacs stared at the flotsam frothing around the yacht’s hull. “He
wasn’t killed here. He must have washed in with all that other crap.”

Meg’s mind whirled. Henry might have been the only person alive, apart from Blake, who knew Geoff was on the spit the day Sherry was murdered. Geoff, who’d suddenly returned home with a gun, after all these years, at the same time Meg had come home to tell Sherry’s story.

Now Henry was dead. Silenced.

Fear kicked her heart.
Blake.
He could be in danger. Noah, too. Noah also now knew that Geoff had been on the spit.

She moved quickly aside from the small crowd to call Blake. Thunder smashed overhead and she ducked as the air seemed to implode around her. The lights along the dock flickered, then died. The conference center went black. Yelling started down the boardwalk. Flashlight beams bounced against silver sleet.

“It’s okay,” someone called. “The generators will kick in.”

Meg put her hand to one ear, trying to listen to her phone ring. Her call flipped to voice mail.

“Blake, it’s Meg. I think Geoff shot Henry dead. He might come for you and Noah. Please, be careful. Stay away from him.” She killed her call, and glanced at Kovacs. Her instinct to tell him about Geoff warred with her growing suspicions. She suddenly trusted no one.

Meg made for the gangway.

“Meg! Where are you going?” It was Tommy, but she kept going, faster, up the gangway, breaking into a run along the dark boardwalk toward the parking lot, urgency building in her chest. She had to get back to Bull’s Marina. She had to tell Blake. She’d call the state cops from her truck on the way.

Geoff goosed his little engine, but the boat was like a cork, spinning atop the surging sea, unable to slice deep into the water with any weight and cut a straight path. He’d never seen the bay like this, a seething monster swelling and writhing beneath the skin of the surface, spitting up tongues of foaming water to drag down whatever dared traverse its face. Fog poured in from the open ocean, so dense he could barely see the flare of the lighthouse to guide him to the mouth and thundering point. Wind tricked him, too, lashing this way then that. His engine sputtered as water sloshed over the prow and chuckled over his boots. Sleet cut like ice across his face.

He’d dared to form a new dream after he’d found Henry sitting in his MINI Cooper on the side of the road. It had coalesced slowly over the night. By the time he woke this morning it was what he wanted at any cost.

Mexico.

Prison was no place for men like him and Henry. Until Blake had pieced it all together, they’d still had enough time to reach the border, cross over, vanish somewhere into the hot jungles of South America where law meant something different, find a sleepy seaside town, a new life,
if
they’d left before this blew.

Now it was blowing.

He might yet make it if he could navigate through the Shelter Bay mouth alive, hug the coastline, just beyond breaker range, head a few miles down the coast, and come in at the new Whakami Bay harbor. Just a mile or so south of Whakami was the Blind Channel Motel where Henry was waiting. Henry had his MINI Cooper. They could drive it through the night, change cars in some small town tomorrow. He had everything else in place. He’d spent the day sorting out his papers and bank accounts electronically. He’d purchased ammunition and a small pistol now holstered at his side. He’d mailed an old-fashioned letter to Nate. His goal had been to babysit Noah, as promised, so as not to alert anyone. Then, once Blake and Meg had returned home, steal out into the night.

Blind adrenaline drove him toward the raging mouth now, bridges burning behind him. Only forward. Live or die. Last chance.

You know what happens to guys like us in prison, Geoff . . .

A horn blasted through the thundering noise of wind and surf. He tensed, looked over his shoulder, saw a white, angry row of lights barreling fast toward him through the fog and sleet. Shit. Blake must have launched the big speedboat.
Shitshitshit.
He tried to juice his little engine further, but his moment of lost focus cost him as a wave slammed him broadside, and he tipped. Geoff dived for the opposite gunwale of the boat, trying to counterbalance with his weight, but water poured in over the bow, and he started to go down into the churning monster that sucked at the weight of his sodden coat and jeans and boots as he flailed to stay atop the glistening surface.

Meg battled against the wind to hold her camper on the road while she dialed 911 from her cell, her wipers fighting to slash arcs into slush plastering her windshield. She cursed as yet again she got no reception. Lights were out everywhere, even at intersections. Traffic was building in a steady stream from the opposite direction as people flooded onto the designated tsunami escape route. She turned up her radio. So far it was only a voluntary evacuation to higher ground. According to the announcer, some residents along the waterfront had opted to stay and try to sandbag their properties. There was also warning that the two massive storm fronts had clashed offshore far earlier than anticipated, catching pleasure boaters and fishermen making for safe harbor by surprise. A Japanese tanker that had lost power earlier was now also adrift, and washing dangerously close to rocks off Cannon Beach.

And then she heard it: landlines were down, and many coastal areas were not receiving cell reception. She cursed as she neared the turnoff to the marina. No pink sign flickered above the building. Blackness down on the water. She turned into the driveway, her beams suddenly lighting on Geoff’s Wrangler parked at an odd angle halfway up the driveway. Her heart stuttered. The driver’s door was open, the tires flat. She hit her brakes, leaped out, and ran to the Jeep. A heavy smell of gas filled her nostrils. She peered inside the Jeep. It was packed with Geoff’s gear, and shopping bags.

She stood back, fear closing her throat. Blake’s truck was down by the water. In the glow of her headlights she could see a boat trailer behind it, in the slipway, ocean rising around it.

She hopped back into her rig and drove it down, parking it so that her beams illuminated the marina building. She left her lights on as she ran up to the office, and banged on the door.

“Hello! Blake . . . Anyone here!?”

Silence, apart from the
thump thump thump
of the buoys in the rafters as they blew in the gale. She sloshed through pooling water to the side window of Crabby Jack’s, wind tearing at her coat. Water drenching her hair. She peered in, couldn’t see a thing. She banged on the window. “It’s Meg! Open up. Hello!”

The office door opened a crack. A tiny beam of light poked out at waist level.

She ran to the door.

Noah stared up at her, white-faced, his eyes holes. In his hand he held a little flashlight.

“Where’s your dad?”

“It’s my fault.”

She crouched down. “What . . .
what
is your fault, Noah?”

He flung his arms around her neck and she picked him up. She carried him inside, kicking the door closed behind her. He was shaking like a leaf. Meg set him down. The building creaked and groaned like an ancient mariner’s ship straining against the mounting storm. Sleet thundered on the tin roof.

“Where is your dad?”

“He . . . had a fight with Uncle Geoff. He shot out the tires—”

“
Who
did?”

“Daddy did. He had a gun.” Noah started to cry.

“Noah . . . easy. Focus. Just tell me.”

“Uncle Geoff took a boat, from the docks.”

“The little one?”

He nodded. “Daddy took the big speedboat from the garage and went after him. He said Uncle Geoff might hurt himself. Or he might . . . hurt you. I . . . was scared. Hiding. He said to call 911 but the phones weren’t working and the lights went out. And the sitter didn’t come.”

“Oh, Noah, come here.” She hugged him but fear beat a hammer into her heart. “How long has he been gone?”

“I don’t know. Since before the power went out.”

“And your dad had a gun?”

He nodded.

“And Uncle Geoff—did he have a weapon?”

“I don’t know.” He started to cry all over again, deep, palsied shudders taking hold of his little body.

Meg’s mind raced. No phones. No power . . . the two-way radio. She’d seen one in the living room.

“Got any more flashlights, Noah?” she said.

“In the kitchen drawer.”

She felt in the drawer for a flashlight, clicked it on, panned it around the room, and found a gas lantern. She lit it and carried the shivering light into the living room. Noah followed. She found the radio, and clicked it on. She depressed the key, hoping that Blake kept it on the right channel and that it had enough battery juice.