Left for Dead (40 page)

“You’re the trouble,” she made herself say. “I want you gone.”

His eyes—so much like his father’s—started to tear up. “You can’t mean that,” he whispered. “Is Harlan making you do this?”

“No,” she insisted. “But I’m doing it for him. I don’t want to lose him. You—you’re ruining it for me. Neither one of us want you in that house.”

“Mom, please…”

Her heart was breaking. She had to shout over the sound of the approaching charter boat. “I don’t want you calling. I don’t want you trying to come back.”

“Mom, I swear, I’ll get along with him better, I mean it.”

Brian reached out to her, but Claire brushed his arm away.

“I’m sick of your promises. I’m sick of you ruining my life. Now, get on the damn boat!”

Stunned, he stared at her for a moment. Then Brian obeyed his mother.

Claire knew he never would have left if he knew the truth—that his best friend had just been executed for being
a potential threat to the community.
Brian wouldn’t have gone away if he’d known that his mother faced possible repercussions for interfering with the Guardians’ work. If she’d gone with him, the Guardians would have tracked them down. Brian was better off alone. So Claire had to lie.

She didn’t break down and cry until the charter boat sailed away with her son on it. Her arms ached from wanting to hold him.

She remembered now. In a daze, she drove back to the house, where Harlan, Ron, and Linda were waiting for her. To her utter astonishment, no one was upset at her. Harlan just kept apologizing for insisting she come to the Guardian Assembly.

“I told you she wasn’t ready,” Linda chimed in. “Poor thing. It was a terrible shock for her.”

Harlan tried to hug her, but she wouldn’t let him. She ran up to Tiffany’s bathroom.

A few minutes later, Harlan was knocking on the door. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he called to her.

She opened the door for him, then turned toward to the mirror and blew her nose. Her eyes were red from crying. “It’s not just what happened at Silverwater Creek,” she managed to say. “It’s Brian. He’s run away again. I don’t know what I’m going to do…”

Once more, Harlan tried to hug her, but again, she recoiled.

Linda said she might feel better spending the night at their house. She started to pack Claire’s overnight bag. She also insisted that Claire take a tranquilizer.
“You need it, Claire. You’ve been through a lot tonight. This will calm you down…”

Claire remembered now.

She’d made Brian feel so unwanted that he was afraid to show his face on the island. Tim had told her that her “stalker” had found refuge in either one of the boats in the harbor or one of the summer cabins.

She’d never seen that army fatigue jacket or the stocking cap on her son before. She might not have recognized the clothes, but she should have recognized her son. She should have known he wouldn’t have stayed away. All this time, he’d been watching over her.

The boat hit another rough patch, and Claire bumped against the closet door. She stood up, and felt along the wall for a light switch. She found one by the door. Except for a thin mat pushed against the wall, the tiny closet was empty. Claire had been on enough boats to know there wasn’t such a thing as wasted space in a boat cabin. She wondered what Walt used the little room for.

Claire reached for the doorknob and twisted it. Why would he have a lock on the door to an empty closet?

There were scuff marks and indentations by the knob, like someone had kicked at it with their shoe. Earlier, she’d kicked at the door herself, but only a few times. The whole bottom half of the door panel was marred with dozens of those marks.

Claire suddenly realized what Walt used this little closet for. She wasn’t the first woman to be locked inside it.

The boat was still moving at a brisk clip when Claire heard someone come down to the lower deck. She listened to the footsteps getting closer, and then a key rattled in the door.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Harlan gently called.

“Yes, Harlan,” she answered.

He opened the door, and gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry to lock you in here, honey. But you were acting crazy. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Not budging, Claire just stared at him.

“Walt’s sorry too,” Harlan continued. “He said there’s some brandy down here in the galley if you want some.”

“Harlan, can I ask you a question?”

He nodded.

“Walt went out with Angela before you started dating her, didn’t he?”

Harlan let out a bewildered laugh. “Well, yeah, but—”

“He was in love with her, wasn’t he?”

Squinting at her, Harlan shook his head. “Claire, why are you asking me this stuff about my first wife?”

“Tracy and Angela were best friends, weren’t they? Did they wear the same makeup? The same lipstick?”

He laughed. “Christ, I don’t know.”

Harlan reached for her, but she jerked away.

“C’mon, get out of there,” he said, frowning. “You’re starting to act crazy again.”

Claire edged past him, and backed toward the galley. “It’s important,” she said. “Can you remember if Tracy and Angela wore the same lipstick?”

Harlan shrugged. “They might have. Angela mentioned something along those lines.” He nodded. “In fact, yeah. Angela said that for her birthday, Walt went out and bought Tracy a bunch of lipsticks—all the same color as hers.
Scarlet
something. It was that birthday Walt gave her the car too, the Miata.”

“The one they were killed in?” Claire whispered.

Harlan nodded. “Why are you asking about all this?”

“Because I don’t think Walt ever really got over Angela.”

“Hey, I need my first mate up here!”
Walt called from the boat’s deck—for the second time.
“C’mon, Harlan, help me out!”

“I better get up there, sweetheart,” Harlan said, patting her shoulder. They stood in the galley. “Maybe you should come up too,” he suggested. “It’s stopped raining. You could probably use some fresh air.”

He turned toward the steps.

“Wait a minute,” she whispered, grabbing his arm. “Does Walt keep a gun down here?”

Harlan squinted at her. “No.” He patted her shoulder again. “Honey, don’t worry about Walt. Everything will be fine. You just get some rest.”

“My God, you haven’t listened to one word I’ve said.”

Frowning, he let out a long sigh. “I’ve been listening. One minute, you’re telling me my best friend is the Rembrandt killer. But he didn’t try to kill you. No, that was Ron and Linda. And the reason you were running down Main Street like a crazy woman tonight was because Linus Moorehead tried to kidnap you.”

Claire shook her head. “I know it sounds crazy—”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress, that’s all,” Harlan said. “Why don’t you rest down here? We can stay on the boat while Walt joins the posse. We’ll just take it easy.” He went to kiss her on the forehead.

Claire pulled away and glared at him. What was she thinking? What good did it do to confide in him? He was one of them. He was a murderer.

As Claire watched her husband climb up to the deck, she figured he was right about one thing: she was under a lot of stress. Why else would she think he would help her? Why did she even want his help?

Maybe because, despite everything, she had a feeling that Harlan really loved her, and he didn’t have a clue what his Guardian friends were up to. Yes, he was a “soldier” in the Guardian firing squad for
the good of the community.
But he’d decided not to hide it from her. In fact, he was so honest—and so ignorant—he’d thought she would appreciate a front row seat to that lynching.

Was it possible Ron and Linda had tried to kill her on their own? Had they deceived Harlan? He probably trusted them as much as he trusted Walt—and Dr. Moorehead. There was nothing in Moorehead’s e-mail to Harlan today about a plan in the works for drugging and abducting her.

She had no idea where Walt planned to take them. Was he working for the Guardians right now? Or did “Rembrandt” stand at the helm of this boat?

Maybe Harlan knew, or maybe he was being set up. Claire wasn’t sure. Either way, she couldn’t count on her husband to help her.

When she’d first met Harlan, she felt as if he’d come to her rescue. But that wouldn’t happen tonight.

She was alone in this.

“Look who’s come up for air,” Walt shouted over the engine noise. He stood at the boat’s controls with Harlan at his side.

Claire paused at the top of the cabin steps. She stared back at him. The wind whipped through her hair. She’d found a rain slicker in the supply closet. She’d also found a flare gun, and four cartridges. The gun was in her hand—inside the slicker pocket.

“Feeling better, honey?” Harlan asked.

“We’ll be docking at Alliance in fifteen minutes,” Walt announced. Then he smiled apologetically at her. “Sorry to make you a stowaway for a while, Claire. We were in trouble with the boat. It was an emergency situation. Desperate times, desperate measures. Forgive me?”

Claire didn’t respond. She kept staring at him, and wondered if he’d killed Tess yet.

Harlan stepped toward her. But then he glanced over his shoulder, and stopped. “Hey, Walt. Who’s that on our tail?” he asked.

In the distance behind them, Claire saw a speck of light in the choppy, black water.

“What the hell?” Walt said, obviously not expecting company. He had Harlan relieve him at the helm, then studied the other vessel through his binoculars. “I can’t make this guy out,” he said, grabbing the controls again. He handed the binoculars to Harlan. “Check him out with the cheaters. Maybe you recognize him.” Walt reached for a switch, and the lights on the Chris Craft went out. “This might make it easier for you to see,” he said.

Harlan spied the other boat. “Oh, yeah, it’s Phil Gannon’s sloop. Maybe he’s come to help.”

“What for?” Walt shot back. “He’s not a Guardian. I mean—no one would have called him.”

Claire gazed at the tiny light against the dark water. The last time Brian had run away—on his own—he’d “borrowed” Phil Gannon’s boat.

He was following them.

The Chris Craft lurched forward, and she realized Walt was boosting the speed. He hadn’t turned the boat lights back on yet. Claire had a feeling he didn’t plan to either, not until he’d eluded the other boat.

He turned to Claire. “It’ll get a little wet out here,” he said. “You might want to go down below.”

She glanced back at the light on the night sea. It seemed to be fading. Walt was losing him.

“Are you still mad at me for having you locked up?” Walt asked, yelling over the engine noise. “Hey, I should be ticked off at you, Claire. Your husband said you were telling him some pretty fantastic stories about me.”

“You said down at the dock that they were looking for my ‘friend,’ Tess,” she called. “How did you know that Tess is my friend? Did she tell you after you abducted her? Or did you see us together in the hospital when you were stalking me?”

Walt laughed. “Jesus, Claire, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Holding onto the railing, Harlan frowned at her—and then at his friend.

“Why did Linda and Ron copy you when they tried to kill me?” she asked, over the motor’s churning.

“You’re talking crazy, Claire,” he said, an uncomfortable smile plastered on his face. Then he turned to Harlan. “Hey, buddy, I’m sorry. But I think we took her out of the closet too early.”

“You weren’t in on their plan to kill me, were you, Walt?” she pressed. “You were busy that weekend with one of your victims. But you came to the hospital, because you were curious about ‘Jane Doe,’ and this copycat. You didn’t know Linda and Ron were behind it. You didn’t know it was me.”

“Claire, you’re not making any sense—”

“It was no accident Linda and Ron decided to imitate Rembrandt, was it? Did Linda know about you? Was it your little secret? How did she find out? I’ll bet Ron didn’t know. She must have used what she had on you to pull as many strings as she could. I’ll bet she did that copycat job on me to watch you squirm. Is that why you killed her?”

Walt was shaking his head. “Harlan, you better take her down below—”

“Linda’s dead?” Harlan asked numbly.

“I mean it,” Walt said. “Get her out of here.”

“Why? Am I slowing you down?” Claire glanced back at the dark seascape. She couldn’t see the boat light any more. She pulled the flare gun out of her pocket, and raised it toward the sky.

“Hold it right there,” she heard Walt say.

Hesitating, Claire glanced at him.

Walt stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, and the other holding a gun. It was pointed at her.

“Jesus, what are you doing?” Harlan said. “Walt—”

“Put it down, Claire,” Walt warned. “Just toss it on the deck.”

“That’s my gun,” Harlan was saying. “Walt, what the hell—”

“For Christ’s sake, tell her to drop it!” he yelled. The boat listed to one side, and water sprayed onto the deck.

Shaking his head, Harlan stepped toward his friend. “No, no, Walt, this isn’t…you can’t…” He trailed off as Walt turned the automatic on him.

“Stay there, Harlan!” he cried.

Claire raised the flare gun in the air, and fired.

“Goddamn it!” Walt bellowed. He swiveled toward her with the handgun.

The Chris Craft suddenly jolted to one side, and waves lashed onto the deck. All at once, Harlan lunged at his friend, and made a grab for the automatic. The boat was out of control, speeding and snaking through the choppy water.

Claire tried to keep her balance as she pulled out another flare. Her hands were shaking.

A shot rang out.

She looked up, and saw her husband stagger back from his friend. Walt still had the automatic. Harlan was clutching his throat. Blood oozed between his fingers. A look of shock and disbelief seemed frozen on his face. He reeled back toward the railing edge, and toppled over the side of the boat.

For a moment, Claire was paralyzed as she watched her husband die. Then the boat took another jolt, and she almost dropped the flare. She clung onto the railing by the cabin entry to keep her balance.