Shattered (9 page)

Carol smiled and turned to the rail, gesturing up the beach. “My house is that gray one with the turrets and the widow's walks. It's a great house, but I bought it for the view.”

Ken Carlton returned her smile, tilting up his sunglasses as he moved his gaze from the beach to her face.

“I must be moving into a good neighborhood, then, if the realtor lives up the street,” he said.

“Does that mean you'll take it?”

“I can't think of any reason not to. It looks like just what I had in mind. And since I'm going to have to be here for a while, it’s bound to beat living on my boat—or in a tent on the beach. I've done so much of both these past few years I'm not sure I'll be able to adjust to having a real roof over my head again.”

Carol responded lightly, “No camping on the beach. Also, no open fires or glass containers. This part of the beach,” she went on when he chuckled, “is under private homeowner's association rules. And since every lot is a half-acre or more and only residents are allowed to use the beach, you'll find it’s the quietest place on the island, even in summer. In the winter or spring, you practically have the place to yourself.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“About fifteen years.”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise and Carol laughed. “Some days it seems longer. We didn’t even have cable TV out here for the first ten years, and they only put in the cell tower last year. If you can believe it, up until then we had to rely on the tower on the other side of the bridge, which means we didn’t have cell service if there was so much as a heavy fog. We've been petitioning for a cell tower out here for almost five years, but the environmentalists held it up.  I guess it finally got to the point that even tree huggers couldn’t live without their cell phones.”

“It can be a mixed blessing,” said Ken with a shrug. “The places in the world where you can get away from modern technology are growing few and farther between every day.”

“That's certainly true. Will you be commuting to Tallahassee much this summer, Mr. Carlton?” She had done enough quick research to determine that his office address was in the state capitol.

“I certainly hope not. I try to stay out of the city as much as possible.”

They stood in companionable silence for a time, enjoying the sun. Carol watched as a small blue-and-green lizard made its way with quick darting motions up the rail between them, then said, “We'll circle around by the river on our way to the office. There are some beautiful properties there, if you prefer a marsh view.”

He turned his attention for a moment toward the antics of the little lizard, which had reached the top of the rail and was now poised, head cocked intelligently, as it surveyed its surroundings. Carlton smiled and leaned on the rail again, looking at the ocean. “How many lots are still available in this section? Maybe we could take a look at a few of them after I get settled.”

That was generally the kind of question Carol held her breath waiting for. An award-winning architect—one who had already admitted he was here to pursue development possibilities—building his dream home on one of Beachside Realty's prime oceanfront lots could bring a dozen times the price of the lot in new business and free publicity. Not to mention the fact that, if she played her cards right, Carlton might be easily persuaded to trust exclusive listing rights on his development project to Beachside, or even consider going into partnership with them on other major development plans. The possibilities were dizzying, and Carol had made her reputation and her success by assessing and exploiting just such opportunities.

But when Ken Carlton spoke, Carol didn't hear him. Her attention was on the beach, where a young girl with long dark hair tied back in a pony-tail jogged by in a pink sweatsuit. For a moment Carol's breath caught and she thought ... incredibly, she thought...

But then the girl glanced in their direction, and there was no resemblance at all. Her face was too narrow, her eyes almond shaped, her skin dark; she was obviously of Asian descent. When Carol looked more closely, she realized the girl was shorter and plumper than Kelly and she wondered why she had ever thought there was a similarity.

Of course, as Laura had pointed out only this morning, it had been two and a half years. Carol had no idea what her daughter looked like now. If Kelly was still alive....

“Carol? Is that a problem?”

Belatedly, Carol registered his question and turned back to him with a smooth smile to hide her confusion. “Not at all. I was just trying to decide which lots you might like best. We have about a dozen beachfront listings now, but you might also want to look at some of the second-tier lots. They're bigger and even more private, and run about half the price of beachfront. Best of all, because of the building restrictions, you would always have an ocean view, even on second tier. Of course the second-tier lots are so lush with natural vegetation that they're practically pre-landscaped for you. That can be a real advantage with the price of landscaping these days, and you know how hard it is to get anything to grow at the beach.”

He made a thoughtful sound of agreement. “I guess there are strict building restrictions about tearing up the vegetation.”

“Some of the strictest in the state. We're on such a shallow little island here that the ecosystem is very fragile. Interestingly enough, the very sternness of the restrictions attract some of the most creative architects in the country. They like the challenge, I guess.”

He grinned at her. “You're quite a salesperson, aren't you?”

Carol replied modestly, “It's what I do.”

He said, “I might like to take a look at what some of those other architects are doing. Of course,” he added apologetically, “I've already taken up a lot of your time and I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“I've got all the time in the world,” Carol assured him. “Especially since you're taking this house, because I won't have to show it again. And if you decide to pick up a couple of lots on the side, too, all the better.”

He chuckled, once again favoring her with a smile that crinkled his eyes at the edges of his sunglasses. “I might just do that. I always liked this area.”

“It's a great place to build a part-time home,” Carol agreed, “or even raise a family.”

“You must work for the chamber of commerce in your spare time.”

She laughed. “Sometimes I think they should give me a cut.”

“Do you have children, Carol?”

The question caught her off guard and something must have been reflected on her face because he explained, “You mentioned something about raising a family here. I thought you might have children of your own.”

“Oh,” she said, without expression. “One daughter. She—um, she doesn't live with me.”

It was always uncomfortable, that moment of explanation, and Carol avoided it whenever she could. Carlton quickly sensed the shields she put up, and did not pursue the subject. In a moment he said, “Well, then. How soon can I move in?”

 Carol relaxed. “As soon as you sign the rental contract. The house is ready for occupancy now.”

“It will take me a couple of days to get things together. Is the weekend okay?”

“Of course. We'll prorate the rent from the day you move in.”

“Great.” He glanced at his watch. “We could get the paperwork taken care of now and if you're free, I'd like to take you to lunch.”

“I was about to suggest the same thing—only the other way around. Taking clients to lunch is what I do, after all.”

“We'll argue about the check later. And I'll still want to look at some lots when I get settled, so don't sell all the best ones before next week.”

She said, “No promises. These are prime lots and they go fast.”

“Shall we go then?” He touched her shoulder lightly.

“Sure,” Carol said, and returned his smile. The day, she told herself, was definitely off to a good start.

But that did not help her get the memory of the voice of the girl on the telephone out of her mind.

~

Chapter Nine

T
he girl in the tower had lived a long, long time; longer than any of the others, longer than she deserved to live, longer, she sometimes thought, than she had ever wanted to. She had no way to measure the passage of days, or perhaps it was months or even years, so she could not say how long long was. Forever, or yesterday. It was all the same to her.

She was confused a great deal of the time, and she had forgotten a lot. She remembered almost nothing of the early days, and now she realized—in a dim uncertain way that she did not entirely trust—that the confusion and the lethargy were due to the drugs he gave her. That he still gave her drugs was almost certain, hidden in her food or in the bottled water that always tasted strange, but somehow they didn't affect her the way they used to. She could think more clearly now. And she was remembering.

She thought it all began when he brought her to this place. She wasn't even sure where this place was, but she knew she remembered it, or remembered things about it. She didn't like remembering. Most of the time it was a painful thing. It made her cry out inside for the things she remembered. It made her desperate and helpless; it made it hard sometimes to pretend. And pretending was how she survived.

At first she had screamed in the dark, alone and terrified in the small closed space. She had screamed and screamed until she became aware there was no one to hear her except the wind and the sea, and she had screamed still. She screamed giant silent puffs of air until finally she screamed the last of her spirit away and all that was left of her was a husky breath of air, like the remnants of her ruined voice. Sometimes, after that, she used to hear the others scream, in voices that never left her dreams, but she was never tempted to join them. No one had screamed here in a long time.

She thought about killing him. She dreamed of it sometimes and she awoke from those dreams feeling peaceful and quiet, believing for those first few moments of wakefulness that she had really done it, that it was over and she was free. She knew just how she would do it, too. With something sharp. She would hurt him like he had hurt the others. She would see the look of terror in his eyes just as she had seen the terror in other eyes, and then she would kill him. In her dreams she always killed him more than once, killed him even after he was dead because dying just once did not seem like enough.

She knew she would never do it, though. She knew she wouldn't because she had had chances—a paring knife left carelessly in an apple, a heavy tool put down within easy reach, a line cutter or fillet knife merely waiting to be tucked into the folds of her skirt when she went on deck—but she had never taken them. She would never kill him, any more than she would ever try to get away. And the worst part was that he knew it.

But things were changing now. She was stronger. Things made sense to her more often now; horrible, terrifying sense. But it was like cloud patterns: If you looked at them long enough, pictures began to form, and it was better to see dragons than to see nothing at all.

Possibilities began to form when she discovered the telephone. It was a tiny thing, barely bigger than a credit card, and he carried it in his briefcase. When it rang, he unfolded it and spoke into it. It was amazing. He made calls from it. He spoke to people outside this place on it. For the first time she began to believe—really believe—that there were people outside this place, a world that existed apart from the one he ruled, and slowly, in bits and pieces, memories of that world began to come back to her.

It took many tries before she figured out how to work the phone. She kept pushing buttons, the same seven digits over and over again, and nothing happened, not even a dial tone. Finally she noticed the “power” button. When she pushed it, she got a dial tone, but still she couldn't make the call go through, and she was frustrated to tears. Before that day, it had never occurred to her that she could pick up a telephone and someone would come to help. Before that day it hadn't been possible, and how could she imagine what wasn't possible? Perhaps, early on, she had fantasized about freedom, about home, about escape, but those days were so very long ago, the possibility so dim and remote, that she could barely remember wanting it. Now, all of a sudden, the possibility of freedom was in her hands—she understood its potential, and she wanted it with such a blind obsessive intensity that she could barely breathe.

She did not figure out how to put a call through that first time.

How many days passed between his visits she had no way of telling, but on his third visit after she had discovered the telephone he brought lumber and tools and worked outside. But he left his briefcase in the boat. Two visits after that, he left the briefcase in the building with her. When she was alone, it took her a long time to work up the courage to open it, to take out the telephone. She hid it until he was asleep.

That time she noticed the “Send” button. And when the call went through, when the voice answered, it was as though something broke inside her and all kinds of memories came flooding through: memories too fast and full and furious to even be captured or understood, as though a door had opened on a galaxy faraway where another girl lived another life at twice the speed of light. And then she couldn't do anything but cry. Then, just when she thought she could remember what to say, could make the words that she needed come out of her mouth, he made a sound as though waking. She panicked, and she turned the phone off and put it away, but he hadn't been waking up after all.