River Road (30 page)

T
hree days later, Mason suggested a weekend at the coast. This time neither of them smuggled a few personal items into the car. Instead, there were two small overnight bags in the trunk.

Mason drove. They took the main highway this time. Neither of them suggested a detour past the site of the old commune and the treacherous stretch of road where Sara and Mary had been killed.

The purpose of the trip was not to revisit the scene of the murder, Lucy thought.

This is all about us.

She knew that she and Mason were both searching for the way forward. Nevertheless, for the duration of the drive, they managed to talk about everything except their relationship.

The morning fog had burned off by the time they crested the last of the hills and saw the long stretch of rugged coastline. Mason parked the car on the bluffs above a beach. They climbed out, put on windbreakers and sunglasses and made their way down to the water’s edge. Lucy was still moving gingerly because of the cut on her foot, but she made it down to the beach with a little help from Mason.

Sunlight sparked and flashed on the water. A crisp breeze tangled Lucy’s hair. When Mason reached for her hand, she gave it to him without hesitation. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. They walked for a time, not speaking. The relentless roar of the waves crashing on the rocky shore made conversation unnecessary.

Sooner or later they would have to talk, Lucy thought. But a part of her was afraid to start a conversation that might not conclude the way she hoped it would.

I’m afraid.

An image of Dr. Preston sitting behind her desk in the therapy room loomed in Lucy’s imagination. She could see Preston’s neatly styled gray hair and her impassive, unreadable face.

What are you afraid of, Lucy?

“Well, damn,” Lucy said aloud.

“That’s not a promising way to start a conversation,” Mason said. He sounded wary. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” She laughed. “I just realized I don’t have commitment issues after all.”

Mason relaxed and started walking again, hauling her along with him.

“Congratulations,” he said. “But I could have told you that.”

“Is that so?”

“Can’t see anyone with commitment issues risking her neck and potentially millions of dollars in stock shares to find justice for two women everyone believed had died in an accident. That kind of thing requires a major commitment.”

“That’s different,” Lucy said.

He smiled. “Sure, go ahead, blow it off.”

“Pay attention. This is a very big deal. I never had commitment issues. My problem is that I’ve been risk-averse most of my life.”

“Says the woman who cracked a bottle over the head of a crazy killer armed with a gun.”

“That’s not a good example of risk aversion. I had no choice in that situation.”

“Some people freeze in those situations.”

She frowned. “What good would that do?”

“None,” Mason said. “But a risk-averse person might choose that option. Thinking on your feet is not a natural skill for most people.”

“We’re getting off-topic here.”

“What is the topic?” Mason asked.

“Me and my history of commitment issues.”

“So this is all about you.”

“Absolutely.” She stopped, forcing Mason to halt, too. “Listen up, Fletcher. I have had an epiphany.”

He smiled. “And like everyone else who has ever had an epiphany, you can’t wait to share it with the rest of the world.”

“I don’t give a damn about the rest of the world, but I admit I feel compelled to share it with you.”

“Why me?” he asked.

“Because you are the person who inspired my epiphany. My therapist was convinced that I had commitment issues, but the truth is I have just been extremely cautious when it came to trusting other people.”

“Being cautious is not dysfunctional, it’s a smart survival tactic,” Mason said.

“Exactly my point. To be fair to Dr. Preston, I’ve got a feeling that it’s easy to confuse a bone-deep caution with an inability to commit. And to her credit, I think she was starting to close in on the real problem toward the end of therapy, but I fired her just before we got to the important revelation.”

“Are you sure you’re not overanalyzing yourself here?”

“I’m trying to describe my epiphany.”

“Right.”

“The thing is, there is a difference between being super-cautious and having commitment issues.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “So what?”

“What I’m trying to say is that after everything that has happened, I have come to the realization that life is too short to be lived cautiously.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re going to take up skydiving or bungee jumping?” Mason asked.

“No, I’m trying to tell you that thirteen years ago I got a brief glimpse of the kind of man I would one day want to marry. He was strong and solid, and somehow, even at the age of sixteen, I knew he was a man who, if he made a commitment, would honor it to hell and back. I wasn’t consciously aware of it over the years, but in hindsight I can see that I judged every man I’ve known against the standard he set. It wasn’t fair, not to the men I met or to myself. It’s not right to make those kinds of comparisons. Everyone is different. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. But I made the comparison to you anyway.”

“Hang on here,” Mason said. “Are you telling me I’m the man you used to set your so-called standard?”

“You were the prototype I had in mind when I filled out the online matchmaking questionnaires. Well, except for the poor-communicator thing, of course. I always stipulated that good communication skills were very important.”

“Don’t try to tell me that you’ve been carrying the torch for me for the past thirteen years. I’m not buying that.”

“I wasn’t carrying a torch—not exactly. I had a lot of other things to do during that time. I’ve been busy.”

He looked amused. “Doing what?”

“Growing up, going to college, traveling, meeting new people, finding a career that I love. In short, I’ve been living my life and it’s been good, and when it hasn’t been all good it’s been . . . interesting.”

“Interesting.” He smiled. “Is that the optimist’s way of saying there were times when the shit hit the fan?”

“My point—”

“You mean you’ve got one?”

“My point is that one of the things I’ve had to do along the way was figure out what I really wanted in life.”

“Did you figure that out?” Mason asked.

“Oh, yes. And it’s the one thing I’ve been afraid to risk going for.”

“You want a family.”

She tried to read his face, but it was hard because of the sunglasses.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Give me a break.” He smiled. “I’m a detective.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” She cleared her throat. “After my big screwup with my engagement, I tried to approach the problem of getting married and having a family as carefully and as scientifically as possible.”

“The online-matchmaking thing.”

“I met some very nice men. Well-educated, successful men. Interesting men. Men who passed all the criminal background checks.”

Mason nodded. “Always a bonus, I say.”

“Men who said they wanted what I wanted: a family.”

“Could you hurry this up? I think I’m going to suffer a fit of the vapors at any minute here.”

She ignored that. “But even though, according to the computer algorithms, some of those men met many or even most of my requirements, none of them was right for me.”

“Where are you going with this? Because I’m getting hungry.”

Frustration threatened to overwhelm her. “Where the hell do you think I’m going with it? I’m trying to say that the reason I haven’t had any luck with the online dating services is because you weren’t registered.”

“You were looking for me?” he asked.

“Not you.” She groped for the words. “Not consciously. I was looking for someone
like
you. Sort of.”

“Are you trying to say that I’m not the man of your dreams? If so, I gotta tell you that kind of thing can be awfully rough on a man’s ego.”

Now she was getting mad. She clutched the front edges of his unzipped windbreaker in two fists. “What I’m saying is that I haven’t been looking for a dream man. I’ve been looking for the real thing. Only I didn’t realize it until I walked into Fletcher Hardware and saw you again.”

He cupped her face in his hands and smiled his slow, heart-stopping smile. “Well, why didn’t you say so back at the start of this conversation? You know I’m not good when it comes to verbal communication.”

“Stuff it, Fletcher. You do just fine when it comes to verbal communication. Except when you don’t want to do just fine with it.”

“I don’t see the problem here. You found me.”

“Yes. And it’s perfect, at least for now.”

“You’re thinking short-term?” he asked, his voice going hard and flat.

“Yes.” Lucy smiled, a glorious sense of daring rushed through her. “Nothing lasts forever. I want you to know that I’m not asking for a lifelong commitment. I’m going to practice what Aunt Sara taught me—I’m going to live mindfully and in the moment. No more trying to control the future. I’m going to break the risk-averse pattern if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that we carry on with what we’ve started, which is, when you get right down to it, an affair.”

“Yes. Right. Exactly. An affair.”

“Well, damn,” Mason said. “You just ruined my whole day.”

Shock reverberated through her. “I did?”

“See, I suggested this trip to the coast so that I could ask you to marry me, or at least think about it.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She stared at him, stunned. She could not seem to catch her breath.

“I know it’s too soon,” Mason said. “I know you’re trying to get over your so-called risk-averse issues. I know you want to try to do the Zen thing and live in the moment. And I’m okay with that. For now. I’ll give you time. But you should know that I’ve got my own agenda. I love you, and that’s not going to change. That means I’ll take you any way I can get you, but what I really want is to marry you. I want to have a life together. I want to have kids with you.”

She used her grip on his windbreaker to try to shake him. It was like trying to move a very large boulder.

“Damn it, why didn’t you say so?” she yelped.

“Let’s see. Maybe because you were doing all the talking?”

She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m through talking. For now.”

He touched his fingertip to her lips. “You can’t stop, not just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because we poor communicators have to have things spelled out.”

“Okay,” she said. “I will spell it out. I love you and I am making a commitment to you. To us. Not just for now but for a lifetime.”

“That spells marriage to me.”

“Yes,” she said. “It spells marriage to me, too.”

“You said you spent the past thirteen years getting your act together so that you could take the risk of finding the right man. I’ve spent the time searching for something as well. I just didn’t know what I was looking for until you walked into Fletcher Hardware.”

“What were you looking for, Mason Fletcher?”

He traced her cheekbones. “My own personal guardian angel. I met her thirteen years ago. I’ve been looking for her ever since. Now I’ve found her again, and I’m not going to let her go. I love you, Lucy. That being-in-the-moment thing is all well and good as far as it goes, but when it comes to us I want now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” Lucy said.

Mason kissed her there in the forever light that flashed and sparked on the surface of the ocean. Lucy realized that they had both just spoken their vows. Later they would make it formal and legal and there would be a celebration. But promises had been made and she knew they would be kept.

Now and forever.

London

Amity blamed herself for failing to realize until too late that there was a man concealed in the shadows of the cab. It was the rain, she concluded. Under most circumstances she would have been far more observant. Traveling abroad, she made it a point to pay strict attention when she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings. But this was London. One did not expect to be kidnapped straight off the street in broad daylight.

True, she had been distracted when she left the lecture hall. She was still fuming because of the countless inaccuracies in Dr. Potter’s lecture on the American West. The man was a benighted fool. He had never so much as set foot outside of England, let alone bothered to read her pieces in the
Flying Intelligencer
. Potter knew nothing of the West, yet he dared to present himself as an authority on the subject. It had been too much to take sitting down, so of course she had been forced to stand up and raise some serious objections.

That had not gone over well with Potter or his audience. She had been escorted out of the lecture hall by two stout attendants. She had heard the muffled snickers and disapproving sniffs from the crowd. Respectable ladies did not interrupt noted lecturers with the goal of correcting them. Luckily, none of those in the audience were aware of her identity. Really, one had to be so careful in London.

Irritated and eager to escape the dreary summer rain, she had leaped into the first cab that stopped in the street. That proved to be a serious mistake.

She barely had time to register the odd, shuttered windows and the presence of the other occupant before the man wrapped an arm around her neck and hauled her close against his chest. He pressed the tip of a very sharp object to her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he gripped a scalpel in one gloved hand.

“Silence or I’ll slice open your throat before it’s time, little whore. And that would be a pity. I’m so looking forward to photographing you.”

He spoke in a harsh whisper but the accent was unmistakably upper-class. His face was covered by a mask fashioned out of black silk. Openings for his eyes, nose and mouth had been cut into the fabric. He smelled of sweat, spice-scented cigarettes and expensive cologne. She was vaguely aware of the fine quality wool of his coat because of the way he held her pinned against him.

He moved, reaching out and around her to pull the door shut. The vehicle jolted into motion. She could tell that the carriage was moving at a rapid clip, but with the view through the windows blocked by the heavy wooden shutters she had little sense of direction.

One thing was evident immediately. Her captor was stronger than she was.

She stopped struggling and allowed her arms to go limp. Her right hand rested on the elegant fan attached to the silver chain at her waist.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, striving for a thoroughly indignant and outraged tone of voice.

But she knew the answer. She had known it from the moment she saw the scalpel. She had fallen into the clutches of the fiend the press had labeled the Bridegroom. She struggled to keep her voice cold and assertive. If there was one thing she had learned in her travels, it was that an air of coolheaded self-control was often the most useful defense in a crisis.

“I’m going to take a lovely wedding portrait of you, my sweet little harlot,” the killer crooned.

“You’re welcome to my purse, but I must warn you that there is very little of value inside.”

“You think I want your purse, whore? I have no need of your money.”

“Then why are we going through this pointless exercise?” she snapped.

Her insulting tone enraged him.

“Shut your mouth,” he rasped. “I will tell you why I have taken you. I am going to make an example of you, just as I have done with the other women who displayed a similar lack of shame. You will learn the price of your deception.”

She did not think that it was possible to be any more frightened, but an even more intense wave of terror swept through her at his words. If she did not take some action to free herself, she would not survive the night. And she was quite certain she would only get one chance. She had to plan well.

“I’m afraid you have made a great mistake, sir,” she said, trying to project conviction into the words. “I have deceived no one.”

“You lie very well, Miss Doncaster, but you may save your breath. I know exactly what you are. You are just like the others. You give the outward appearance of feminine purity but underneath the façade you are tainted goods. The rumors of your shameful behavior while abroad reached my ears this past week. I am aware that you seduced Benedict Stanbridge and convinced him that, as a gentleman, he has no choice but to marry you. I am going to save him from the trap you set for him, just as I saved the other gentlemen who were deceived.” The killer traced the blade lightly around her throat, not quite piercing the skin. “Will he be grateful? I wonder.”

“You think to protect Mr. Stanbridge from the likes of me?” she asked. “You are wasting your time. I assure you, Benedict Stanbridge is quite capable of taking care of himself.”

“You think to trap him into marriage.”

“If you feel that strongly about the matter, why don’t you wait until he returns to London? You can inform him of your theories concerning my virtue and allow him to draw his own conclusions.”

“No, Miss Doncaster. Stanbridge will discover the truth about you soon enough. Meanwhile, the Polite World will learn what you are tomorrow morning. Don’t move or I will slit your throat here and now.”

She held herself very still. The tip of the scalpel did not waver. She contemplated the possibility of slipping away from the blade and hurling herself to one side of the seat. But such a maneuver, even if successful, would buy her only a few seconds at most. She would find herself trapped in the corner, her tessen against the scalpel.

The Bridegroom was unlikely to murder her inside the carriage, she thought. It would be far too messy, to say the least. Surely there would be a great deal of blood and that would require an explanation to someone, even if only to the coachman. Everything about the killer, from his elegantly knotted tie to the furnishings of his vehicle, indicated that he was the fastidious sort. He would not ruin his fine suit and the velvet cushions if he could avoid it.

She concluded that her best chance would come when he attempted to remove her from the carriage. She gripped the closed tessen and waited.

The killer reached across the seat to a small box that sat on the opposite cushion. When she caught the telltale whiff of chloroform, another current of panic arced through her. She no longer possessed the option of waiting for the carriage to halt. Once she was unconscious she would be helpless.

“This will keep you quiet until we reach our destination,” the Bridegroom said. “Never fear, I will wake you when it is time for you to put on your wedding gown and pose for your portrait. Now, then, lean back in the corner. That’s a good girl. You will soon learn to obey me.”

He prodded her with the scalpel, forcing her to edge toward the corner. She tightened her grip on the fan. The killer glanced down, but he was not alarmed by her small action. She could not see his expression because of the mask but she was quite sure that he was smiling. He no doubt enjoyed the sight of a helpless woman clutching piteously at an attractive bit of frippery attached to her gown.

He readied the chloroform-soaked rag, preparing to clamp it across her nose and mouth.

“Just breathe deeply,” he urged her. “It will all be over in a moment.”

She did what any delicately bred lady would do under such circumstances. She uttered a deep sigh, raised her eyes toward the heavens and fainted. She took care not to collapse straight onto the blade, sliding sideways along the seat instead. From there she started to tumble off the cushion onto the floor.

“Bloody hell,” the Bridegroom grumbled.

He moved instinctively to avoid the weight of her body.

The blade of the scalpel was no longer pointed directly at her throat. As if in answer to her silent prayers, the coachman turned a sharp corner at speed. The vehicle lurched to one side. The Bridegroom automatically sought to steady himself.

It was now or never.

She straightened, twisted and stabbed the sharpened steel ribs of the folded fan into the nearest target, the killer’s thigh. The points bit deep through clothing and flesh.

The Bridegroom screamed in surprise and pain. He slashed at her with the scalpel but she already had the tessen open. The steel leaves of the fan deflected the blow.

“Bitch.”

Startled and off balance, the killer tried to ready himself for another strike. She snapped the fan closed and stabbed the points deep into his shoulder. The hand holding the scalpel spasmed in a reflexive action. The blade landed on the floor of the vehicle.

She yanked the tessen free and stabbed wildly a third time, heedless of her target. She was in a panic, desperate to free herself from the carriage. The Bridegroom shrieked again and batted at her, trying to ward off the blows. He groped for the fallen scalpel.

She opened the fan again, revealing the elegant garden scene etched into the steel, and slashed at the killer’s hand with the edges of the razor-sharp leaves. He jerked back, shrieking in rage.

The carriage slammed to a jarring halt. The coachman had evidently heard the screams.

She clawed at the door and managed to get it open. She closed the tessen and let it dangle from the chatelaine. Seizing handfuls of her skirts and petticoats in one hand to keep the yards of fabric out of the way, she scrambled out of the vehicle.

“What the bloody hell?” The coachman stared at her from the box, rain dripping off the brim of his low-crowned hat. He was clearly stunned by the turn of events. “Here, now, what’s this all about? He said you was his lady friend. Said the two of you wanted a bit of privacy.”

She did not stop to explain the situation. She dared not trust the coachman. He might be innocent, but he might just as easily be in league with the killer.

A quick glance showed her that the vehicle had come to a halt in a narrow lane. Once again she hiked up her skirts and petticoats. She fled toward the far end where the cross street promised traffic and safety.

She heard the coachman crack his whip behind her. The horse broke into a frenzied gallop, hoofs ringing on the stones. The carriage clattered away in the opposite direction. The anguished, enraged howls from inside the cab grew faint.

She ran for her life.

There was more screaming when she reached the cross street. A woman pushing a baby in a perambulator was the first person to see her rush out of the dark lane. The nanny uttered a high, shrill screech.

Her horrified cry immediately attracted a crowd. Everyone stared, shock and fascinated horror etching their faces. A constable appeared. He hurried toward her, baton in hand.

“You’re bleeding, ma’am,” he said. “What happened?”

She looked down and saw for the first time that her dress was splashed with blood.

“Not mine,” she said quickly.

The constable assumed a forbidding air. “Who did you kill, then, ma’am?”

“The Bridegroom,” she said. “I think. The thing is, I’m not certain that he’s dead.”

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