Miracle in the Mist (15 page)

Alvin cleared the emotion clogging his throat and allowed the memories to wash over him.

***

When he found the apartment door ajar, Alvin got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Alice was fanatical about locking the doors at all times, whether or not they were at home. This was not in any way typical of her. Something was terribly wrong.

He pushed the door wider and stepped into the room. The scene that met his eyes made him want to vomit. The room was in chaos: furniture upturned; books ripped from the bookcase and scattered over the rug; curtains half-torn from the windows; lamps broken and bent on the floor.

Everywhere he looked was blood: smears of it, drops of it, and puddles of it. The furniture and walls were splattered with bright, red spots. Across the beige carpeting were bloody footprints too big to be Alice's.

"Nooo!"

The scream ripped from him. Like a man demented, he raced through the apartment screaming his wife's name. But she was nowhere to be found—until he reached their bedroom, the room in which so much love had dwelt.

There, half in the closet and half on the bedroom floor, as if she'd been trying to hide from the intruder, lay Alice's body, covered in blood. On the floor beside her lay the bloody statue of Venus, the Goddess of Love, a gift he'd brought back last year when he'd gone on a business trip to Italy.

***

Alvin blinked away his tears and roused himself from the memory. He expected to be doubled over with what Ellie had forced him to face. Instead, although still weighted down with the reality of his wife's brutal murder, he felt a strange surge of liberation. As if a huge weight had been lifted from his soul.

Sometime, while he'd been talking, Ellie had moved from her chair and sat at his feet, her cheek rested against his knees, and her hands still clutched his. "I'm so sorry, Alvin. What a horrible thing for you."

"Don't feel sorry for me." He pulled free of her grip and threw himself back in the chair. "If I had… " He sniffed loudly, then drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

"Alvin, I'm sure there was nothing you could have done. It was all over by the time you got home."

He almost laughed. "Yes, by the time I got home. By the time I dragged myself away from my almighty important business deal."

Ellie blinked. "I don't understand."

"Don't you?" he asked, his voice dead. "If I had come home when I should have, instead of staying for another day to close a business deal, I would have been there. I could have saved her."

Pushing herself to her knees to be on eye level with him, Ellie frowned. "But you don't know that. There are all kinds of things that could have happened. Your plane from California could have been delayed or cancelled. You could have missed the plane—"

"But none of that happened."

"How do you know? Did you check with the airline to see if the plane you should have been on arrived on time?"

Alvin shook his head. He'd barely been able to think clearly enough to call 911 and give the detectives the details of what he knew. Why would he have thought to check on a flight he hadn't even been on? To his dismay, he realized that Ellie's arguments made perfect sense, but they did nothing to relieve the guilt he'd lived with for almost six years.

"No matter how many ifs and buts you dream up, the fact is, Ellie,
I wasn't there
. And I wasn't there because I thought my business was more important than being home with my wife."

"You said she was fanatical about locking the door, so how did the killer get in?"

He sighed. Ellie was like a dog with a bone, and she was not about to stop gnawing. "The police said that they found a cap with a messenger-company logo on it on the living room floor. They figured she opened the door, thinking it was a message either from me or for me."

"Is that how they found him?"

He nodded. "He was trolling for something he could sell for drug money." Alvin gave a short laugh that lacked humor. "The funny part is, while he was fighting with Alice, he destroyed most of the things he could have sold." He shook his head and then buried his face in his hands. "Alice died trying to save the damned stereo and TV, and the bastard who killed her ended up with nothing. It was all so senseless." Alvin raised his head and looked at Ellie. "She was a good, loving, gentle woman who didn't deserve to die like that."

Ellie stood and walked back to her own chair. She sat and clasped her hands in her lap. "No, no one does." She paused and looked at him, her gaze steady and strong. "Neither do you."

What was Ellie trying to say? "I don't—"

"If you had been there, couldn't you have been killed right along with Alice?" Ellie didn't wait for him to reply. "Everything happens for a reason, Alvin. Destiny. Yours, like mine, was to come to Renaissance."

Alvin studied her, trying to let her words sink in. Was she right? Had his destiny never been to raise a family with Alice and head up a thriving computer chip business? Had he been intended all along to come here and wander the woods of a tiny village that only appeared when needed? Was he never meant to save Alice from the man who took her life? Was his own destiny to come here, to help others because he had endured and could readily relate to them?

Not that he'd been doing a stellar job of it. He'd done nothing as yet to help Frank…

He looked at Ellie's sweet face, and contrarily, although a part of him still wished he'd died with Alice, it hit him that if he hadn't come to Renaissance, there would have been no Ellie in his life, and that would have been almost as tragic as Alice's death.

So maybe his destiny was here, with her. Maybe he was to mentor others. What did that mean about Frank? Was he not supposed to have saved his wife and unborn child? Was he meant to be here, too? Definitely possible, with him being a doctor and all. If so, then what was Frank's destiny? What higher purpose was there for saving his life and taking his wife's? Then Alvin thought about all the tiny souls Frank held in his hands each time he entered the operating room. Was that why? Or was there more, another purpose that none of them realized as yet? Whatever it was, Alvin knew he had to do his damndest to find a way to help Frank, to free him from his self-imposed prison of guilt.

Unsure of exactly how he'd handle it, Alvin stood. He thanked Ellie and then left the cottage.

She watched him walk across the square and head toward his home. His shoulders, though not as stooped with the burden his conscience had carried as they'd been when he'd come to her, were still bent. However, she thought she detected a lighter step and a purpose in his stride that she'd never seen before.

Chapter 12

Frank lay on his bed staring at the painting Carrie had given him. The opening and closing of the front door grabbed his attention, and then he heard what could only be Alvin's footsteps crossing the outer room followed by the muffled
thud
of his bedroom door. This was the first night since Frank's arrival in the village that he'd actually heard Alvin come home, and it took Frank by surprise.

Other than the one instance when Alvin had prodded Frank about Sandy's death, Alvin had been like a ghost in Frank's life, coming and going without being seen, leaving food for him and then disappearing. Basically, doing his best to avoid contact with Frank. What had changed all that?

Frank blinked and pushed his concerns about Alvin's unusual appearance from his mind. He had more important things to think about than the sudden change in the demeanor of a man he barely knew. He'd just had a day with Carrie at the waterfall that was unlike any other he'd ever lived through, and instead of savoring it, he'd spent the last hour or more trying to justify his feelings about it.

On the one hand, he'd spent an entire afternoon making love to a beautiful, desirable, passionate woman and had experienced the joy of seeing her draw on a strength she didn't know she had to climb to the top of the falls. On the other hand, he knew nothing about her. Had he had the right to make love to her, or had he been encroaching on some other guy's territory? Was she married? Engaged? Did she have children? Had he opened the door to a relationship with no future?

Worst of all, had he complicated Carrie's life even more than it already was?

He sat up.
Dammit
! Ostensibly he'd come to Renaissance to sort through his problems, not add more to the pile.

His gaze was drawn back to the painting. Though he'd waited and watched, Sandy did not appear again, and as more and more time passed, he became more convinced that the first time had been his imagination. Maybe… Even though he'd seen her three times now, he still wondered if it had been real or if his imagination had been playing tricks on him. He wanted her approval, her forgiveness, not so he could live guilt-free—that was impossible—but so that he could bear to live.

Outside a breeze rose suddenly, moving the trees beyond the window. A sliver of moonlight shafted through the glass and centered on the dresser top. Something glittered in the reflected light.

Frank slid from the bed and went to see what it was. When he got there, his breath caught in his throat. Lying in a halo of moonlight was a gold chain. Hooked to the chain was a small gold locket—the locket he'd given Sandy as a wedding present.

He vividly recalled what he'd said when he'd clasped it around her neck in their Jamaican honeymoon suite.

"I give you my heart for all eternity."

Sandy had turned and kissed him, then smiled. "Eternity is a long time. So I won't hold you to it. If the time ever comes when you need it, I'll give it back to you."

He had sworn to her that he was sure that time would never come. Now, here he was, holding it in his hand. She had always known him so well. Then he noticed a small chunk missing from near the bottom of the heart. He smiled. She'd kept a piece of it, as was right.

No matter how long he lived or who he loved, Frank knew that a very small part of him would always belong to Sandy. A part of his heart and the guilt of killing her.

***

Carrie thrashed about in her bed. Her dreams of a lovely waterfall and Frank making love to her had morphed into a nightmare.

***

The rough carpeting burned where it rubbed against her stinging cheek. Carrie lifted her head and tried to stand, but her feet became entangled in the material imprisoning her legs and hampering her escape. Beside her on the floor was a huge pile of… snow?

How could that be? Snow? Inside?

Hoping to grab some of the cold, white stuff to hold against her burning cheek, she reached for it, but her hands closed around not snow, but a silky, slick material. Blinking several times to clear her blurred vision, she finally realized that what she was clutching was white silk. She dragged the material closer and realized she was holding the hem of a wedding gown.

A wedding gown? Whose? Hers?

She looked down at herself and gasped. The front of her nightgown was covered in blood. Hers? From the throbbing in her temple and the blood oozing from several cuts on her arms, it had to be hers. Besides, there was no one else—

Suddenly an indescribable sense of urgency seized her. She had to get out of there, wherever "there" was. Awkwardly fighting off the tangles of nightgown and pulling herself to her hands and knees, she began to crawl toward the door. The sudden appearance of a pair of obviously male legs encased in black pants and feet in shiny, black shoes, stepping in front of her, stopped her.

A dark shadow fell over her. Above her a deep voice emitted an evil laugh. "Is my bride going somewhere?"

Bride? Was that really her gown? Was she his bride? Chills shivered up and down her spine. Terror, cold and icy, gathered in a tight ball inside her chest.

Slowly, Carrie raised her gaze. Above her hovered a man. Him. As before, his features were blurred as if she was seeing them through water. But the bone-chilling fear his voice evoked was the same.

"Who are you?" she choked out on a wave of unexpected courage. "What do you want from me?"

"Your life," he snarled. "I want your life."

***

Carrie bolted up sharply in bed, her eyes stretched wide, her gaze darting around the room. Her pulse raced, and her heartbeat throbbed in her aching temple. She looked down at herself and found the clean, pink nightgown she'd put on the evening before.
A dream. It was all just another dream
.

A sigh of relief gushed from her. Though she felt better knowing it had all been a nightmare, the terror she'd felt remained behind. When would this end? When would she finally be able to put a meaning to her dreams and a face to her tormenter?

But was it a dream… or a memory?

She left the bed and went to the window seat. Sitting down, she drew up her legs and circled her arms around her knees, then rested her chin on them. Below her, shadows played over the garden. Moonlight sprinkled the stream with slivers of silvery light. Where the light hit the banks of the stream, it could have been mistaken for snow.

Snow. Not snow. It was a wedding gown. Hers?

Like a cold, black fog, the dream replayed itself in her head, and for the first time since the faceless man had started haunting her dreams, memories fought their way through the cobwebs cocooning her mind. Pieces of pictures from the far reaches of her lost memory came into sharp focus and flashed before her mind's eye like a slide show.

The wedding gown that had been her mother's. The bouquet of white roses. The church decked out in white bows and stephanotis.

Then the motel, and then pain. A lot of never-ending pain.

Her entire body went icy cold. It had not been a dream. It had been a reenactment of her wedding night. Then a thought so horrible, so terrifying drained her of all strength.

Only one explanation for the dream made sense. She was married. The faceless man was her husband, and he wanted to kill her.