The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (25 page)

The only other park employee she’d met was Garrett Smith. Had Garrett actually crept into the lighthouse intending to harm her? Had he killed Sylvie, too? Even if some thread of a tangled relationship with his ex-wife had snapped and he’d killed Sylvie, Chloe thought, why come after
me
?

Jagged memories flickered through her brain as she ran, trying not to trip, trying not to fall. Garrett tense with worry, Garret professional and friendly. He’d been calm and collected when she’d found Zana’s body, and he’d been solicitous and concerned afterwards
…
Afterwards, like when she’d told him about hearing children laughing in the night. Several days later, it seemed, someone had placed a cassette player beneath her bedroom window set to play a loop of recorded laughter. Maybe Garrett is coming after me, Chloe thought, because he hadn’t been able to scare me away from the lighthouse. Maybe Garrett and Mel are working together.

Run-run-run.

She stumbled more often, breaking stride, once or twice going down on hands and knees. By the time she started down the final slope her lungs were burning. Anyone following would have no trouble hearing her gasping for breath.

Chloe was clinging to a single strand of hope. Aside from the men she was fleeing, only one person knew she was on Rock Island: Jack Cornell, captain of the
Karfi
. She had no idea what time it was. Maybe he’d already made his four o’clock run. And unless some campers had shown up, Jack might not make the trip anyway. Since she’d brought her backpack on her return to Rock that afternoon, he might reasonably assume she was settling in for her final night at the lighthouse. She hadn’t thought to tell him she’d need a ride back to Washington.

But maybe I’ll get lucky, Chloe thought. Maybe the timing will be perfect. Maybe I can get away on the
Karfi
and Jack will help me find Stig—

The memory of meeting Deputy Stig Fjelstul that first night on Rock slapped Chloe like a physical blow. Stig had been wearing his old DNR jacket. Garrett Smith and Melvin Jenks were not the only two local men who owned DNR uniforms.

Chloe burst from the trees and scanned the channel. She spotted the
Karfi
—not anchoring at Rock, but instead motoring back into Jackson Harbor a mile away. Captain Jack
had
come to make sure Chloe wanted to spend the night on Rock Island. But she’d reached the dock too late.

She stumbled to a halt and leaned over, hands on quivering knees. The last ferry of the day had come and gone. The main park compound was empty, and the campground too. And she was still alone on the island with two men who seemed to want her dead.

Forty-three:
August, 1891

Ragna was hauling water
up from the beach when she saw
smoke pluming from Carrick Dugan’s chimney. She put the bucket down. So. He had come. She stood for a long moment, listening to the waves gently slapping the stones, hearing gulls squabbling down the shore, feeling sunshine warm as a blanket on her shoulders.

Then she walked to her cottage and fetched the pistol. It was clean, oiled, loaded. She paused here as well, touching Anders’ pipe, the wooden animals he’d carved for Paul, the baby blanket she’d made for Christine. Then she left the cottage.

When she reached Dugan’s cabin she opened the door and stepped inside. He sat at his table with half a loaf of bread and some dried fish on a plate. He looks old, Ragna thought. While she’d lived with her own changing body, her aches and pains, she hadn’t been so close to Dugan for fifteen years, and he’d lived in memory as she’d known him then. Now gray dulled his red hair. His cheeks were hollow. Deep lines had etched patterns into the skin.

Dugan slowly rose to his feet. His gaze flicked from her face to the pistol in her hand.

“I know you killed Anders,” Ragna said. “And I know Anders saw you using an illegal gillnet. The day after you killed him I came to this place and found the ashes where you’d burned it. But I also found a scrap that survived, and measured the mesh.”

A muscle twitched in Dugan’s cheek.

“You would have been fined, nothing more.” Ragna was pleased with how even her voice was—no trembles. “But you hated Anders. Learning what he intended to do was more than you could abide. Did you shoot him from a distance, like a coward? Did you knock him senseless and wrap him in a weighted net before tossing him overboard to drown?”

Dugan took one small step sideways, clearing himself from the table. His trousers were stained, threadbare.

She took one step as well, matching him. “Did you hate us so much?”

“It was him.”

“
Why
? Why did you hate Anders so much?”

“No man tells me how or where to fish.” Dugan’s eyes never left her face. “Besides
…
he was just so damn cheerful.”

He lunged as Ragna raised the pistol, but she’d expected that; sidestepped. In the seconds before the explosion she wondered if whitefish were confused when nets caught their gills, or if they knew they were about to die.

Forty-four

Chloe was unable to
find a drop of hope in the
Karfi’s
wake. Flooded instead with a profound loneliness, she watched the ferry dock a mile away. From the hill she could see the deserted compound, the wooded campground beyond the Viking Hall, the narrow spit of land that curved from Rock Island’s southern tip. Nothing offered solace.

Run-run-run.

Blinking back tears, Chloe jogged on down the hill. The
Ranger
now bobbed at the dock, and she made a quick detour to see if the pilot—Mel? Garrett?—had conveniently left the keys in the ignition. No such luck.

She pushed on past the Viking Hall. Her knees felt like jelly. Her lungs felt Lilliputian. Panting, she paused and glanced over her shoulder just as a figure emerged in the distance from the lighthouse trail. If she could see him, he could see her. Chloe willed herself back into motion.

The trail entered the woods and wound past dim, deserted campsites. Should she try to hide? No. Her pursuer knew the island much better than she did. She couldn’t trust anyone wearing a DNR uniform. Melvin, Garrett, even Stig. Was Stig a murderer? Had his concern been a ruse? If so, why come after her now? She’d been at the lighthouse for almost a week; alone with each of these men during that time. Someone had tried to scare her, but no one had tried to harm her. Something had changed.

Run-run-run
.

The trail forked. No point in circling back toward the lighthouse. Chloe took a smaller side path that continued south.

Soon the trees gave way to scrubby shrubs, the skeleton of a dead birch, a few stunted cedars, clumps of jewelweed and asters. Then earth surrendered to loose cobbles. Rocks shifted underfoot, grating like thunder in Chloe’s ears. She stopped, listening for the scrape of rock on rock behind her. All she heard was the gentle lap of tiny waves reaching shore off to her right.

Finally Chloe passed the last shrubby cover. A stony, barren spit stretched in front of her, pointing south. She felt horribly exposed, but it was too late for second thoughts. She exhaled one shuddering breath and picked her way forward. Now water whispered against stone on each side as the spit shrank to just a few yards in width. Then she hit water in front, too. She’d reached the beginning of the reef that zigzagged from Rock Island to Washington Island. Clouds filled the sky, gray as gunmetal. The water looked cold and unwelcoming.

Lake Michigan is a single ecosystem,
Brenda had said
. A thunderstorm in Escanaba affects conditions here. You can get current going one way over the reef, and wind going the other—the water just boils.
Chloe had no idea if it was storming in Escanaba, but the water did not appear to be boiling between here and the Washington shore.

Besides, what choice did she have? OK. She was going for it.

Chloe waded into Lake Michigan. It’s not so cold, she told herself, fending off the shock of soaked shoes, socks, jeans. Brenda had said the water was between knee- and waist-high on the reef. She could handle that.

The skin between Chloe’s shoulder blades twitched in sick anticipation—what if Guy Two had a gun?—but it was impossible to hurry. The reef was formed of stones which moved with each step. At first she could see them clearly. As the lake rose to her knees the stones appeared to waver beneath the moving water, distorting her view. Once she felt the stones beneath her right foot give way. She lunged toward the reef’s solid center, landing with a splash.

“Terrific,” she muttered, staggering back to her feet. Her whole left side was wet now. She began to shiver.

Chloe clenched her jaw and got moving again. Step carefully. Don’t look back. Step carefully. Keep going. Don’t look at the gravel bar over there; it’s not part of the reef. Stay on the reef.

The water that had looked so placid from shore grew animated, tugging at her legs. Chloe walked with arms out, fighting for balance. If only the cobbles weren’t so treacherous. If only the water weren’t so cold. If only she weren’t so tired. If only the current didn’t seem to be gaining strength. Her vision of stones and water wavered into different images—Zana, drowned, lying on one stone beach; Sylvie, drowned, lying on another stone beach; even the carved face of Aegir in the Viking Hall, whose wife, Ran, pulled drowning travelers into the depths of the sea with her net.

One more wobbly step. Another. Chloe felt her forward motion slowing, slowing. She was shaking convulsively. Her numb legs became harder to control. The water rose inch by inch, pulling at her, wanting her. By the time it reached her hips it was hard to stand erect, much less make progress.

I don’t think I can do it, she thought. But—she would not give up. Lake Michigan might win in the end, but she’d fight it all the way.

OK, she told herself. Don’t look up. Take one step more. Then one step more. She forced one leg forward, probing for a secure spot before shifting her weight. One more step
…

Chloe almost lost her balance when a burst of fluid motion pierced her peripheral vision. By the time she steadied herself the kayak was approaching quickly. The woman paddling looked determined, capable. Chloe blinked in bewilderment. What was Natalie doing here?

Then a flood of gratitude washed away confusion. Natalie had come to the rescue after Chloe found Zana’s body. Chloe was happy to let Natalie come to the rescue again.

Natalie didn’t speak, clearly saving her energy as she angled the kayak toward the reef. But—
dammit!—
the current flowing over the reef must be stronger than she’d realized. She’s miscalculated, Chloe thought. The kayak slid over the reef a foot or so away. Natalie dug her paddle vertically into the reef, trying to stop forward momentum. The paddle served as a pivot instead. Chloe saw a blur of green plastic slamming toward her. She threw up both arms, palms out, trying to stave off collision. The kayak hit her hands with hurricane force.

Pain shuddered through her arms as she tumbled backward. Her butt hit cobbles and she plunged underwater. She tried to hold her breath but sucked in lake water instead, disoriented by the frigid shock and odd echoes of sound. Panic forced another dash of adrenaline through her veins. When her feet hit rocks she scrabbled for purchase. For an agony of time the cobbles gave way. Then one sole found firm stones.

Chloe pushed up hard and surfaced, coughing, choking, her vision blurred by icy streams of water. She shoved hair from her forehead, looking frantically about for Natalie. There she was—not too far away. Chloe croaked, “Try again!”

Natalie positioned herself for another approach. “Throw me your life vest!” Chloe called as the green kayak came near. An actual rescue would prove impossible on this spit of shifting stones and racing water.

Instead of unbuckling her vest as the kayak drew close, Natalie lifted her paddle from the water.
Yes
—that would be quicker. Chloe stretched one arm forward, fighting the current, struggling to remain upright. “Go ahead!” she gasped. “I can reach it!”

Natalie raised the paddle over her head. Then the blade sliced down.

Chloe threw herself sideways. The blow landed on her shoulder instead of her skull. She went under again, Lake Michigan numbing the explosion of pain.

This time she landed more solidly on the reef. She got her feet beneath her, broke the surface, and launched herself toward the kayak, landing on the paddle before Natalie could wrestle it aloft again. Chloe’s weight anchored one blade on the reef.

Natalie still clung to the paddle with two black-gloved hands. “Let
go
!”

Chloe wrapped legs and arms around the narrow blade and clung, leech-like. Natalie, her mouth an ugly scrawl, fought to free her weapon. Chloe had no idea how to get away from her. Hang on, she told herself, as the paddle twitched beneath her. Just hang on.

Natalie gave one more mighty heave. The paddle jerked Chloe inches closer to the kayak. The boat was slowly swinging east toward the open lake, pivoting around the paddle, surrendering to the water surging over the reef. With another yank Natalie managed to wrench Chloe closer still.

Chloe was shuddering with cold and trembling with exhaustion. The younger woman looked fresh, determined. Natalie’s going to win, Chloe thought. Her brain felt numb. The next pull loosened Chloe’s grip and she slid sideways, now clinging to the paddle with only her left elbow and knee. Natalie’s eyes blazed with triumph. She repositioned her grip and heaved again. Chloe’s left knuckles scraped the kayak.

But her right hand flew from the water clutching a heavy cobble. The stone hit the side of Natalie’s forehead with a sickening thump. For an instant Natalie looked shocked. Then she slumped forward. The kayak pitched away.

Momentum rolled Chloe into the lake. The current tumbled her on over the reef to deep water. She managed to surface, gasping, and glimpsed the green kayak drifting out toward Lake Michigan’s expanse. A yellow kayak streaked past, heading toward the other boat. Tim.

No time to think about Tim and Natalie. Treading water, Chloe looked toward Washington Island. It seemed
so
close! What, maybe half a mile? But she didn’t have the strength to swim that far. She had to get back to the reef.

Chloe faced into the current and tried to swim.
Stroke! Kick!
Her arms and legs did not obey. The flow was dragging her ever farther from the reef. She had no reserves left. With a flash of clarity she understood that Lake Michigan was stronger than she was. The struggle was over. I’m sorry, she thought, as the current swept her away.

_____

“She wouldn’t have gone this way,” the woman said.

Roelke ignored her. They stood at the tip of a narrow spit of cobbles extending south from Rock Island. He scanned the reef, the gravel bars, the marshy shoreline on the far side of the channel. Nothing.

“Officer McKenna.” She put a hand on his arm. “Chloe and I talked about how dangerous this crossing can be. She
must
be hiding somewhere on Rock.”

Roelke couldn’t remember the woman’s name. He’d met a handful of people in the last hour or so, and he couldn’t remember any of their names—even the volunteers helping him search. Ever since they’d found that SOB with the broken leg in the lighthouse, Roelke’s brain had shed the extraneous and funneled down to the essential: Chloe was missing.

“We’ve got nine hundred acres to search,” the woman added. “Let’s head inland.”

Roelke looked back across the channel. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Chloe
had
tried to get off the island on her own. “No,” he said. “I need to search the Washington shore.”

“Well
…
all right,” she said. The look in her eyes said what she did not:
This will be on you.
“Let’s head back to the boathouse.”

Once they met the others, the return trip to Washington took an eternity. No one spoke. When the boat docked Roelke leapt to the pier. “Which way?” he barked.

One of the men pointed east. “Current would have taken her that way.” Roelke took off.

The shoreline meandered, sometimes sandy, more often rocky. The first stretch was wild and undisturbed. Then they moved onto private property. Some of the secluded homes built along Washington Island’s northeastern shore had lawns; some wooded shores. Roelke kept moving, searching among marshy edges, scanning manicured yards. Nothing.
Nothing
, Goddammit, and Chloe was missing.

He whirled when a flash of motion caught his eye. Just a dog on a patio, lifting his head to survey the trespassers. The local man who’d kept up with Roelke said, “It’s OK, boy.” The dog didn’t bother to bark.

Roelke clenched his jaw. Cop mode, he needed to stay in cop mode. Just keep moving, keep looking. Chloe was missing
…

They’d gone a mile, maybe two, before Roelke looked ahead through some trees and saw something moving on the ground. He pointed, unable to find words. Chloe was creeping toward a house on hands and knees—soaked, shuddering violently.

“
Jesus
,” the other man said.

They plunged through some juniper trees and into the yard. Chloe didn’t seem to notice. Roelke sucked in a deep breath, needing a second to steady his knees. The other man ran past, taking the lead.

They were almost upon Chloe before she turned her head. Her eyes went wide with a look of fear that tore into Roelke’s heart like a blade.
“Chloe!”

Her gaze shifted from the other man to Roelke
.
“Oh, thank God,” she whispered. Her eyes closed, and she slumped to the ground.