Cape Refuge (33 page)

 

M
organ mothered Sadie's room, smearing her tears with trembling hands. “When's it going to end?” she muttered. “So much violence.”

Jonathan tried to calm her with a hug, but she slipped away and straightened the comforter on the girl's bed. “She'll be okay, honey. They'll find her.”

“Like they found Rick?” Her voice choked off, and she went to the mirror, where Sadie had a picture of Caleb wedged in the wood frame. What would become of the baby?

Blair stood dry-eyed in the doorway. Morgan could tell her wheels were turning, working through scenarios, solving the crime. “I know the judge is involved,” she said.

Morgan took Sadie's pillow off the bed and pulled the loose sham over it. Her gaze drifted out the window, and she searched the street, silently praying that it wasn't too late. . . .

“That article came out in the paper,” Blair went on, “full of lies, yet Nancy wouldn't print a retraction, then Rick disappeared, making him look doubly guilty, only to show up dead. Meanwhile, Jack shows up out of nowhere after Cade told Randy about him, and he comes straight to where Sadie's staying, finds her where she's hiding—”

Morgan turned from the window. “Why haven't they found her yet? It's a tiny island. How hard could it be?”

Jonathan put his hands on her shoulders. “Maybe they're not on the island,” he said. “Maybe they got out before anyone knew to start looking.”

Blair slid her fingers through the roots of her hair. “And that delay is, once again, traced back to our judge.”

“Then what're they waiting for? Why don't they arrest him and force him to tell them where she is?”

“Cade's working on it. I'm sure he'll get him soon. But he's also trying to catch up with Jack and Sadie and figure out what happened to Rick.” Blair walked to the window, and she too looked out. It was still raining. Dark clouds hovered over the water.

She imagined Sadie, soaked and beaten up, terrorized by the man she feared the most. She wished she believed in prayer. Instead, she believed in the gun she had in her pocket.

“I need to go home,” she said. “I need to use the computer at the library. I was getting to the bottom of this dummy corporation thing, all these businesses that owned East Coast Properties, Incorporated. Maybe with a little more searching, I can find out who owns what.”

“What difference does it make now?” Morgan asked her. “I don't really care who owns East Coast Properties.”

“But it could tie in,” Blair said. “I have a hunch.”

“You can't go alone,” Jonathan said. “It's too dangerous.”

“Then come with me,” she said. “Please. It's something I really need to do. Maybe it'll shed some light on all of this.”

“All right,” Morgan said. “But we have to tell Cade where we're going in case he finds Sadie.”

 

 

W
ithin half an hour after getting to the library, Blair had found what she was looking for—the owners of each of the dummy corporations.

“Just what I thought,” she said. “Randall and Nancy Simmons . . . and look—Fred Hutchins.”

“The mayor?” Jonathan asked. “You've got to be kidding.”

“So this is why he was so gung ho about closing us down. Between him and Nancy, they got the whole city council inflamed against us.”

“Boy, this smells bad,” Blair said. “The mayor convincing the City Council to close us down, the judge casting doubt on Gus and Jonathan by keeping them locked up. Rick Dugan dead after Nancy publishes a bunch of lies about him, Sadie kidnapped from their very house—”

“I think I'm gonna be sick,” Morgan said through tight lips. “To think that Mama and Pop might have been—murdered over money.”

“I bet they knew about all these dummy corporations,” Blair whispered. She turned around in her chair. “Morgan, remember that day—how confident they were about the City Council meeting? When I talked to Pop that afternoon, he told me not to worry, that there had been some new developments. Maybe they'd discovered who was behind East Coast Properties and that the city's threat to close them down was only to force them into selling, so the mayor and the judge could get their hands on the property and turn it into some kind of tourist trap. Maybe the judge knew it and wanted to shut them up.”

“But what about Jack? Where does he fit into the whole thing?”

“Maybe he's just a pawn.”

Jonathan grabbed his keys. “Come on. We're going to find Cade and tell him what we know.”

 

T
hey found Cade at the South Beach Pier, where Rick's body had washed up. The rain hammered down as they approached the yellow crime scene tape and asked for Bruce, the police sergeant, to get the chief. Rick's body wasn't visible from where they stood, for a crowd of police blocked the view. If it had been, Blair would have had to turn away. She couldn't bear the sight of another dead body.

Cade's eyes were alive with fire and fury as he crossed the sand toward them.

“What happened to him?” Blair asked.

“He was murdered,” Cade whispered. “Neck was broken. He was probably dead before he hit the water.”

“Cade, we need to talk,” Blair whispered. “I just finished tracing the companies that own East Coast Properties. You'll never guess who's on the list of owners.”

“Who?”

“Judge Randy Simmons, his wife, Nancy—and the dear mayor of our town.”

“My uncle?”
Cade asked. He took a step back, turned around to the crowd of cops working the scene, then settled his eyes back on Blair. “It's not possible,” he whispered. “My uncle's not a killer.”

“They were trying to force the sale through,” Blair said. “He was in on it, Cade. I think our parents knew. I think they'd found out and were going to expose them. That's why they wound up dead.”

“Blair, it's one thing to carry out a shady business deal, but to kill over it . . . ?”

“Think about it. If it came out that Randy and Nancy Simmons and Fred Hutchins were part owners in the company, people all over the island would put two and two together. They own dozens of places around town, and a lot of them were sold when the owners were at the end of their ropes financially, sometimes due to hassles from the city council. East Coast Properties happens to extend an offer at the right time, and people are so fed up they sell. The judge would lose his bench and be disbarred, no one would ever trust Nancy's paper again, and the mayor would be forced to resign. Not to mention the fact that they'd probably be in trouble with the IRS once all their holdings were exposed.”

Cade looked back to the place where Rick's body lay. “So the article about Rick and his subsequent death . . . were just to make Hanover House look even more dangerous. . . .” He closed his eyes. “And I told Randy about Sadie hiding from Jack. I even mentioned that she was one of the reasons you probably wouldn't let go of Hanover House.”

“He called him,” Morgan said, her face twisting at the danger they had brought upon Sadie. “Randy helped Jack get to her. So help me, if anything happens to her—”

“Can't you just go and arrest Randy?” Jonathan asked. “Right now. Handcuff him and parade him out like you did me?”

“The problem,” Cade said, “is he's the one who issues the arrest warrants.”

“But there must be somebody you can go to.”

“There is,” Cade said. “The supervising judge in the county. I can get a warrant from him. But I have to be able to convince him, and right now all we've got is circumstantial evidence and hunches. It's going to take some heavy persuading . . . and some time.”

“We may not
have
time,” Morgan cried. “Cade, you've got to hurry before they kill again.”

Cade swallowed and looked back toward the body. When he turned back to them, that fire in his eyes burned brighter. “Okay, you've got to keep this quiet,” he said. “If word gets out, it could all slip through our fingers.”

“Not a word from us,” Blair said. “Just please hurry. Randy may know where Jack went with Sadie. If you can get him to talk, it could save Sadie's life.”

 

A
s Blair, Morgan, and Jonathan drove back toward Hanover House, Blair scanned the woods through one car window and the water through the other. They drove past the Crab Shack tourist trap, carefully hidden in the woods on the north side of the island, where the boats made their way up and down the Bull River. They drove past Chutney Creek, where Toothless Joe started his dolphin tours. And they drove past the gate to their own boathouse.

It was open and there were tire tracks in the mud. Blair caught her breath.

“Jonathan, were you at the boathouse today?”

“Not in this rain.”

“Then why's the gate open?”

Jonathan met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “You don't think . . .”

“Turn the car around!” Morgan cried.

He made a U-turn on the road, then pulled into the muddy driveway. The boathouse couldn't be seen from the entrance. He stopped the car. “There are clear tracks going in, but it doesn't look like they came back out.”

Morgan's face lost all color, and she grabbed her husband's arm. “Jonathan, we've got to get to a phone. We have to call Cade.”

“How would Jack know about the boathouse?” Jonathan asked. “Sadie wouldn't tell him.”

Blair clutched the gun in her pocket and opened the car door. “Maybe Randy did, as a way to help him stay low until he could get out of town. I'm going down there to find out. Cade said he's driving an old gray Malibu. If it's his car, I'll signal you, and you can go call the police.”

“No, Blair!” Jonathan said. “If anybody's going, I am. Get back in the car.”

But Blair's mind was made up. She jumped out of the car and took off into the trees before anyone could stop her.

 

B
lair's feet slipped on the mud. She fell to her knees, got up, and steadied herself on a tree. She searched for footholds, rocks or tree roots or grass. . . . The storm roared overhead, dripping through the trees.

She trudged on, stepping carefully, her feet sliding and sucking. She pushed through the brush, stepping over decayed logs and straining to see the boathouse through the trees. As the small structure came into view, she saw the Malibu parked in front.

Just as she started to turn back and tell Jonathan and Morgan, a scream ripped through the air—

Sadie!

Something erupted inside her, hot and volcanic. Another murder was taking place, and she was close enough to stop it.

She launched forward, tripping and skidding in the mud. She reached the door and threw it open. Jack stood over Sadie, who was crumpled in a heap at his feet.

He swung around, training his rifle on Blair. She raised her .22.

Sadie raised herself up behind him and flung her body at him as his gun went off. The bullet missed as Blair hit the floor. She kept the gun aimed at him, but she knew she couldn't fire. Sadie was too close . . .

Suddenly, Jack dove for Blair, knocking the breath out of her and grabbing her pistol.

Sadie's screams shrieked through the air, and she got into the boat and hunkered down. Jack put his muddy boot on the scarred side of Blair's neck, holding her down with the barrel of his rifle on her temple.

Blair's mind raced with hot, dizzying images: her parents' bodies on the warehouse floor, Rick dead on the beach, Morgan terrorized in Blair's own home, Sadie on the floor of the boat, abused and beaten . . .

Adrenaline burst through her head, and she told herself she would not die here . . . not like this . . .

She twisted her body, knocking him off balance. The gun fired again as she scrambled into the boat. Sadie grabbed her, trembling. Blair groped around. There were things she could use for a weapon. The anchor . . . where did they keep the anchor . . . ?

But there was no time.

He brought her .22 up . . . aimed . . .

Blair grabbed Sadie, threw her off the end of the boat, and dove in after her. Her face slapped the cold water, but she pulled deep into the emerald darkness, her eyes open and searching for the girl . . .

Sadie's eyes were panicked as she groped toward the top for air, weakly fighting the current. Blair followed her up toward the angry, rain-rocked surface and drew in a deep breath as she came out of the water.

She heard a crack like thunder, and pain shattered through her, thrusting her back under, ripping through her side. She gurgled water, and blood floated up around her as she sank deeper, deeper . . .

She was dying, she thought. Bleeding to death at the hand of a maniac . . .

She sputtered in the water and tried to pull herself up, but the current was too strong, and the strength had been blown out of her . . .

Darkness closed over her as the water marked its claim.

 

 

S
adie gasped for air, sputtered to stay at the top, and searched frantically around her for Blair. Jack stood in the bobbing boat, holding that rifle.

She tried to swim, but pain ratcheted through her arm, rendering it useless. Where was Blair? She had to find her.

She went under again, her face stinging in the salt water, and saw the cloud of blood.

She shot out of the water and sucked in air.

The gun fired, and she screamed wretchedly, desperately . . .

Jack splashed into the water.

Sadie blinked the water from her eyes and tried to find him. She saw the blood rippling out from where he'd fallen.

Confusion played in tandem with her fear, and she found it hard to focus, hard to think, hard to tread water—

Then she saw Randy Simmons, standing on the opposite bank with a gun in his hand. The world slowly shifted into clear focus. The judge had shot Jack. He had come to rescue her. He could save Blair, and pull Sadie from the water. It was over, she thought. All over.

She started to swim toward him, her rescuer, her salvation . . .

But he slowly raised his gun again.