Whiskey Beach Part 77

CHAPTER Twenty

TWICE DURING THE NIGHT ELI ROSE TO PROWL THE HOUSE, the dog padding faithfully by his side. He checked doors, windows, the alarm, even slipped out to the main terrace to scan the beach for movement.

Everyone he cared about was sleeping in Bluff House, so he'd take no chances.

What his grandmother remembered changed things. Not the intruder-he'd already believed there was one on the night she fell. But the location. She'd described seeing someone upstairs, then running down, or trying to. Not someone on the main floor, someone who had come up from the bas.e.m.e.nt.

That left three options.

His grandmother's mind was confused. Possible, of course, given the trauma she'd suffered. But he didn't think so.

It was also possible they were dealing with two different intruders, either connected or completely separate. He couldn't and wouldn't discount that avenue.

Last, a single intruder, the same one who had broken in and a.s.saulted Abra, the same person who had excavated the old bas.e.m.e.nt. Which posed the question: What had he been looking for upstairs? What had been the purpose?

Once the family left for Boston, he'd go through the house again, room by room, s.p.a.ce by s.p.a.ce looking for answers from that angle.

Until then, he and Barbie were on guard duty.

He lay wakeful beside Abra, trying to piece it together. An unnamed intruder partnered with Duncan? Move to the "No honor among thieves" theory, and the unnamed kills Duncan, then removes all records a.s.sociated with him from Duncan's office.

Possible.

Duncan's client, the intruder, hired him. Duncan learns the client's breaking and entering, attacking women. Confronts the client, either threatening to report him to the police or attempting blackmail. And the client kills him and removes the records.

Equally possible.

The intruder or intruders weren't related to Duncan in any way. In doing his job, he discovered them, and was killed.

Possible, too, but unlikely, at least it seemed so at four in the morning.

He tried to s.h.i.+ft his mind to his work. At least there were channels and possibilities in his plot he could solve before dawn.

He'd boxed in his main character-with the antagonist, with a woman, with the authorities. With his life in turmoil, he faced conflict and consequences on every level. It all came down to choices. Would he turn left or right? Would he stand still and wait?

Eli considered all three as his mind finally started to fuzz with sleep.

And somewhere in the maze of his subconscious, fiction and reality merged. Eli opened the front door of the house in the Back Bay.

He knew every step, every sound, every thought, but still couldn't make himself change any of it. Just turn around, walk back out into the rain. Just drive away. Instead, he repeated the loop he'd taken the night of Lindsay's murder and revisited in dreams ever since.

He couldn't change it, and yet it changed. He opened a door in the Back Bay and walked into the bas.e.m.e.nt at Whiskey Beach.

He held a flashlight as he maneuvered in the dark. Some part of his mind thought, Power's off. The power's off again. He needed to kick-start the generator.

He walked by a wall of shelves filled with gleaming jars, all carefully labeled. Strawberry preserves, grape jam, peaches, green beans, stewed tomatoes.

Someone's been busy, he thought, circling around a mound of potatoes. A lot of mouths to feed in Bluff House. His family slept in their beds; Abra slept in his. A lot of mouths to feed, a lot of people to protect.

He'd made a promise to tend the house. Landons kept their promises.

He needed to get the power on again, restore the light, the warmth, the safety, and protect what was his, what was loved, what was vulnerable.

As he approached the generator, he heard the sound of the sea like a hum, a note that rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell.

And against the hum he heard the bright beat of metal against stone. A metronome keeping time.

Someone's in the house, striking at the house. Threatening what was his to protect. He felt the b.u.t.t of a gun in his hand, looked down to see the glint of one of the dueling pistols in a light that had gone blue and eerie as the sea.

He moved through it while the hum built to a roar.

But when he stepped into the old section, he saw nothing but the trench scarring the floor.

He stepped to it, looked into it, and saw her.

Not Lindsay, not here. Abra lay in that deep scar, blood murderously red soaking her s.h.i.+rt, matting those wonderfully wild curls.

Wolfe stepped out of the shadows to stand in the blue light.

Help me. Help her. On the plea, Eli dropped to his knees to reach for her. Cold. Too cold. He remembered Lindsay as Abra's blood covered his hands.

Too late. No, he couldn't be too late. Not again. Not with Abra.

She's dead, like the other one. Wolfe raised his service weapon. You're responsible. Their blood's on your hands. This time you won't walk away.

The blast and echo of gunfire jolted Eli out of the dream, and into fresh panic. Gasping for breath, he pressed at the phantom pain in his chest, stared down, certain he'd see his own blood leaking through his fingers. Beneath his palm, his heart pounded, wild drumming against atavistic fear.

He groped for Abra, found the bed beside him cool and empty.

It was morning, he rea.s.sured himself. Only a dream, and now the sun streamed through the terrace doors and sprinkled white stars on the water. Everyone in Bluff House remained safe, secure. Abra had already gotten up, started the day.

Everything was fine.

He pushed up, saw the dog curled in her bed, one paw possessively over a toy bone. For some reason the sleeping dog settled him down another notch, reminded him reality could be just as simple as a good dog and a sunny Sunday morning.

He'd take the simple, as long as it lasted, over the complexities and miseries of dreams.

The minute Eli's feet hit the floor, Barbie's head came up and her tail swished.

"Everything's fine," he said out loud.

He pulled on jeans and sweats.h.i.+rt, then went to look for Abra in her usual morning spot.

It didn't surprise him to find her in the gym, but it did to see his grandmother there with her. And it struck him as undeniably weird to see indomitable Hester Landon sitting cross-legged on a red mat wearing stretchy black pants that stopped just above the knee and a lavender top that left her arms and, with two deep scoops, much of her shoulders bare.