Tempest Rising

Page 6

I furrowed my brow, narrowing my eyes into their best “Wow, how interesting, I wonder why that could be?” look, and focused my gaze somewhere above Grizzie’s head. If I could have whistled innocently I would have.
“So they don’t know how he got there, or who did it. There aren’t any fingerprints anywhere. Nothing was taken except for that file where he kept his notes for his book, which wasn’t valuable at all. Oh, wait, his car is missing. But it was a beater, so why would somebody kill him for that? Plus, if it was the person in the Mercedes who killed Peter, they obviously didn’t drive off in his car. The police think that the killer must have used Peter’s car to dump the body, and then abandoned it. They’re organizing a small search party to find it, but it could be anywhere.”
She looked from one to the other of us for effect. “So it can’t have been a robbery or some kind of an accident. Whoever killed Peter Jakes came to Rockabill expressly with the intent to commit murder.”
Tracy sighed. “He seemed like such a quiet man,” she said ruefully. “But I guess we all have our secrets.”
The veracity of Tracy’s words was demonstrated by how, standing in our little circle, we avoided each other’s eyes. We three knew all about secrets.
Work went by quickly. Lots of people stopped by Read It and Weep ostensibly for a coffee or a newspaper but really to take advantage of Grizzie’s well-known capacity for gossip. Then a busload of oceanographers on a day trip from a conference at the University of Maine came to see the Old Sow, and we let them drink their takeaway coffee at our café tables while the rest bought souvenirs and stuff. One of the tourists was pretty creepy and kept staring at me. He was a little greasy for an academic, but otherwise fit the bill: big geeky plastic-framed glasses, chinos, and a button-up Polo shirt. His lank brown hair fell in his face and he stared like I had sprouted horns. I shivered, checking the front door. It was shut, but a cold draft from somewhere had raised goose pimples on my flesh. When I looked back, Creepy McCreeperson was still staring at me. Of course, I knew better than to think he was admiring my effervescent personality or understated beauty: He probably remembered me from the papers. I hope I lived up to my headlines.
By the time the oceanographers left and I’d put the café back to rights, it was nearly four. Nothing more had developed regarding Peter’s murder: The car was still missing and the small search party had called it quits, as it was getting dark.
We were all pretty beat from our unexpectedly busy day, so we went ahead and closed a half hour early. I faked bundling up against the cold, hating the fact that I felt I needed to be circumspect even around Tracy and Grizzie, then said my good-byes and started off home.
My daily commute was about an hour on foot, but I despised driving. Plus, it’s not like I had much of a social life, so walking helped fill my time. I only took the car when I had to pick up groceries; otherwise, I left it at home so Dad could go out if he wanted to do something.
There were still more people around town than usual, and the Trough was packed. Nothing like a grisly murder to bring people together, I reflected bitterly. I knew all too well how otherwise decent people got off on the tragedy of others.
My anger subsided once I got to the end of our little main street. I took a few deep breaths and unwound my scarf, then unzipped my coat and stuffed my mittens in my pockets. I knew the air must be cold; my breath steamed away from me so thick it appeared solid. But my body told me it was comfortable, and if I’d had more courage I would have taken my coat off altogether.
After all the stress of the afternoon and the night before, I was happy to let my mind wander and enjoy the walk home. I loved this time of year. The sea was actually slightly warmer than usual—although still bone-chilling—as it took longer to cool down from summer than did the earth itself. But because the outside temperature was so cold and the tourists were almost entirely gone, I didn’t have to be so paranoid.
It’s not like I could ever really be comfortable in Rockabill, but walking home every day without seeing a single soul, tourist or native, went a long way toward helping me relax. That said, sometimes the long walk home in the darkness could be creepy—especially when somebody had just been murdered and I’d been the one to find the body.
I couldn’t help but shudder, remembering poor Peter’s clammy skin and staring eyes. And the wound on the back of his head…
I had unconsciously picked up my pace, but I forced myself to slow down. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. This is Rockabill. Whoever Peter really was, he must have brought the trouble with him, and sent it packing with his death. Little villages in Maine are not apt to become the site of serial killings. Unless that village is Cabot Cove, of course.
I couldn’t help but smile, imagining Angela Lansbury down at Rockabill’s tiny Sheriff’s office: George Varga shaking his head and saying, “Gee, Mrs. Fletcher, I had no idea that the butler did it!”
I realized that I was mixing up my genres, and that butlers were about as likely to be in Rockabill as were serial killers or fictional murder-mystery characters, when I heard a resounding snap.
I froze. The forest surrounding me on either side of the road was deathly quiet, which was not at all normal. Rockabill was out in the middle of nowhere, really, and my dad and I lived as far out as we could and still be considered living in the village. Our woods were replete with all sorts of wildlife and birdlife at any time of year.
When had it gone quiet?
I was listening as hard as I could, when from my right there was the slightest sound of movement. But it wasn’t the random scurrying of little feet. Whatever made that noise was coming toward me at a steady pace.
I turned toward the sound, desperately peering into the dark woods. The moon was but a crescent sickle hanging in the sky and I couldn’t see a thing.
Suddenly, my heart lurched as my peripheral vision registered something large dart across the road about twenty feet behind me. Then I started to run.
Panic sent a flood of adrenaline rushing through my system, and I was running like I’d never run before. I wasn’t thinking about anything except pumping my little legs and trying not to fall over my flapping scarf. I somehow managed to wrench it from my neck and let it fall on the roadside when a shadow darted across the road again, this time in front of me.
Shit! I thought, and veered off the road. Part of my brain acknowledged that leaving the road was a very bad idea, but the rest of my brain was just trying to put as much distance between myself and that menacing shadow as possible.
I also knew I was going in the direction of the beach and that if I could get in the water I’d be safe. My running took on a new purpose with that thought. Nothing could follow me into the water, but if I brought the trouble home with me, what could my dad do to protect us? We didn’t own a gun, and he was too sick to take somebody on. So I had to get to the beach. That was better than leading whatever was behind me to my only family.
I tripped, cursing, just barely managing to keep my feet. Loud rustling from the forest behind me meant I was still being followed. But my pursuer wasn’t getting any closer, and that actually worried me. With the exception of when I was swimming, I was definitely built for comfort rather than speed. I could possibly outrun a three-year-old, but anything else?
I started to swerve left, the shortest route to the sea and escape. I could smell the ocean beckoning, guiding me to the safety of her waters.
But once again a flash of darkness darted on my left, forcing me to veer back to the right. For a second, I caught a glimpse of the whites of eyes and the flash of teeth. Whatever was chasing me was some kind of animal.
Under the circumstances, I certainly wasn’t capable of being glad of that fact, but some part of my brain recognized that whatever was following me couldn’t have killed Peter. Large-toothed beasties don’t club their victims over the head with decorative stones and then stuff them in a car for convenient disposal.
That part of my brain, however, was quickly being hedged out by exhaustion. The first burst of adrenaline had faded, and my lungs and legs were aching. I may have had tons of stamina in the water, but on land I was about as nimble as your average guinea pig. Whatever it was could easily have caught me. If it didn’t want to catch me, what did it want to do with me?
I tried again to veer left. The beach was close this way, the salt air whispering to me of safety. But once again, the dark outline of my pursuer steered me to the right, and my fears were confirmed.
I was being herded.
Whatever this thing was, it was moving me where it wanted me to go, like I was some damned sheep.
My legs were aching so bad that I don’t know how I kept going. Only those little glimpses of moving darkness kept my feet churning. I was really starting to slow, my energy almost totally spent. And I was starting to think my best bet was to stop in my tracks and confront whatever was behind me.
But then I realized where I was: right at the back of my secret cove. It was only accessible through the forests to the side of my property or by the sea. Except for its slender strip of beach and a narrow breach on the cove’s far side from the sea, it was surrounded by natural rock walls. If only I could make it to the cove…