Going Overboard (24 page)

But the kitchen was empty. A pot sat near the stove, not quite cold, a cut baguette nearby.

“Did you heat this?”

Archer shook his head.

“She was here not long ago.” McKay strode out to the terrace and scanned the rose garden. “Where did she go?”

“No one has left the grounds,” Archer said tightly. “No one has come in since this delivery from Bridgetown.” He pointed at the cartons of food stacked outside the pantry.

“What time was the delivery?”

Archer rubbed the bridge of his broken nose. “A little after seven. I signed for the food myself. The order was placed three days ago, and everything was as expected.”

A uniformed officer opened the back door. “No one in

the garden or on the beach. We've checked the road, too. She isn't there.”

“Do it again,” Archer ordered.

“But—”

“Do it,” McKay growled. “I'm going to recheck the house. Maybe she was in the projection room and I missed her.”

But she wasn't there or anywhere else. Searching the house took seven minutes, and Carly was nowhere to be found. Her clothes were still in the closet and there were no signs of a struggle. Her borrowed camera equipment lay on a table beside the bed.

“Call the company that delivered the food,” McKay ordered. “Find out if the driver was a regular man or a fill-in. I'll need his address and current whereabouts.”

As Archer picked up the phone in the upstairs hall, McKay scowled at the elegant grounds. The garden was filled with birdsong, and roses gleamed under the shelter of the high trees. McKay moved away from Archer and dialed his cell phone.

Izzy answered immediately. “What's all the activity?”

“Carly's missing.”

“Impossible. She hasn't been outside. Only ones moving were the regular staff and a delivery van about seven.”

“Keep watching.” McKay cut the transmission. Where
was
she?

Archer put down the phone. “The driver was a regular man. He claims he saw nothing unusual on the drive. There was a school bus dropping off children and a telephone truck down near the beach road, but nothing else.”

McKay sprinted back downstairs, gripped by the certainty that she was nearby. The grounds were being monitored and intruders would have been noticed. That left only the house. “Did you actually see the truck being unloaded?” he called.

“I'm afraid not. It didn't occur to me to watch.” Archer

turned at the low peal of a cellular phone. “That's coming from the office. I'll answer it.”

McKay stayed behind, pacing the kitchen and staring at the cooling pot of soup. Carly had been here. What had made her leave? He checked the long pantry, then pulled open drawers and cupboards.

“No one there, just static.” As Archer spoke from the doorway, the phone in the office rang again.

McKay raced down the hall and swept the phone off a polished rosewood table. “What?”

There was only static.

“Who is this?” he snapped.

Out of the electronic hum came the low wheeze of labored breathing. “Here. Help …”

The words vanished into static.

McKay's hand tightened. “Who is this?”

“C-cold.” The words were nearly drowned by a metallic whine. “Need you—”

“I can't hear you. Say again.”

Suddenly, he knew.

With a curse, he turned sprinted to the kitchen and saw what he hadn't seen before. Silver wire covered the freezer door handle, twisted tight to lock it securely.

McKay grabbed a cast-iron pan and slammed one side against the heavy, twisted wire. “Shears,” he called to Archer, who thrust a pair into his hand. “I'm coming, Carly. Hang on,” he shouted tearing at the wire. “Get some blankets, Archer. Then run a bath. Not too hot.”

Archer left, and McKay continued to hack at the wire. Finally, the metal strands tore free and he lunged into the freezer. Through swirling clouds he saw Carly sitting motionless with a burlap bag over her shoulders and her knees drawn up to her chest. A cell phone was clutched in her rigid fingers and he saw that she had stacked heavy cartons all around her in a vain effort to block the cold. Near her was a second burlap bag, a frozen elbow emerging from the ragged cloth.

Sinking beside her, McKay draped a blanket over her

shoulders. Her skin felt unnatural and tight as he pulled her into his arms. “I'm here,” he whispered. “Talk to me, Carly.” His hands tensed when she didn't answer. “I'll cook if you want. I make a fair omelet. Just talk to me, dammit.”

Her hand moved against his chest. “Hot. Something h-hot.”

“I'll give you five-alarm hot,” he said raggedly.

Archer had drawn a bath by the time they got upstairs. McKay stripped off Carly's jeans and jacket and carried her into the tub. She still hadn't opened her eyes and her breathing was labored.

Holding her tight, he sank into the warm water. “Can you look at me, Carly?”

“Hurts.”

McKay raced through the basics of his first-aid training, knowing he had to do something about her eyes. Very gently he laid a wet washcloth over her face. “This should help.” He backed against the side of the huge Jacuzzi and pulled her closer, frowning as shudders raced through her rigid body.

She began to cry soundlessly, tears trickling down her cheeks where the washcloth had shifted. “Why?” she rasped, her fingers digging into his chest. “Why did they do this?”

“It doesn't matter. You're safe, and no one will get to you again.” He stroked her damp hair. “I promise you that.”

Her breath was shaky. “D-don't want to be here. I don't—know who I can trust. Take me somewhere else.” She pulled away the washcloth and squeezed her eyes tight, as if she was afraid to open them.

“Look at me, Carly.”

Her eyelids fluttered. She squinted up at him.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Looking good.”

“Looking like hell, and we both know it.”

“Not to me.” He eased a wet strand from her cheek. “Smart move, using the cell phone.”

“I found it in the shirt. The man—the body,” she said shakily. “The phone was in his pocket. If it hadn't been there—”

McKay's hands tightened. “Don't think about it now. Just tell me when you want to leave.”

She drew a slow breath. “Now. I can't stay here.”

“I know a place with people we can trust.” Thank God for Izzy's plan B, he thought. There was clearly a breach in Inspector St. John's security and from now on, no one but Izzy would know their location.

“Then let's go.”

“You've got it.”

McKay dried her off, then helped her dress and pack. He kept his arm securely around her as he guided her outside into the hall, where Archer was pacing anxiously.

“She'll be fine.” McKay passed Archer, walking her carefully down the corridor.

“Thank God.” Archer followed, frowning at Carly's packed bag. “You're leaving?”

“I'd say that's a stupid question, Archer.”

The big man didn't speak for a long time. “I guess it was. She's not safe. Not even here, is she?”

McKay kept walking, his eyes wintry.

“It wasn't your fault.” Turning, Carly put one hand on Archer's massive shoulder.

He only shook his head. “I should have noticed sooner. That makes it my fault. Take care of her,” he said tightly to McKay.

“I'll have her checked out as soon as we get where we're going.”

“You're not going to share your location?”

“Under the circumstances I doubt it would be safe. Meanwhile, you'd better phone Inspector St. John,” McKay called from the door, his arm circling Carly's shoulders. “Tell him there's a body in your freezer. I have a feeling it's one of his men who got too close to some answers.”

M
cKay took no chances as they left Paradise Cay. He arranged for one of Inspector St. John's men to drive the Triumph out of the estate at dusk, while another man slumped low in the passenger seat. Ten minutes later, a dusty truck belonging to the gardener lumbered down the gravel drive and turned south onto the beach road toward Bridgetown.

Archer was at the wheel, delighted to make any contribution to Carly's safety. McKay and Carly sat hidden in back, with McKay checking the mirror constantly to see that they weren't followed. When he was finally satisfied that the ruse had worked he motioned for Archer to stop.

Except for the drone of insects, the road was quiet in the darkness. “I'll take over from here.” McKay opened the passenger door and jumped down. “It's less than a mile back to the fork. You can phone for a ride from the store there.”

Archer watched McKay take his place at the wheel. When he was ready to close the door, Archer gripped his arm. “Keep her safe,” he said stiffly.

Then he disappeared into the darkness.

McKay found the road on the third try.

The house belonged to an old friend of Izzy's, a man with a security background and unquestionable integrity.

Most important, he was an outsider who would never be connected with Carly or McKay.

Following the narrow road, they climbed into the mountains along the center of the island. Ragged clouds veiled the horizon to the west, blocking the view out to sea. Izzy had said to make a sharp right at the baobab tree, and McKay did just that, passing beneath a huge tree with fantastic, intertwined trunks. Carly said very little, and he didn't bother her with questions, knowing she needed to work through the harrowing experience. She was too smart not to realize that somewhere in St. John's chain of command there was at least one traitor.

A big fieldstone house came into view, surrounded by crimson bougainvillea.

“These people are your friends?” It was the first time Carly had spoken since they'd left Paradise Cay.

“The owner is a friend of a friend. Don't worry, you can trust him without question.”

“He isn't—someone from Santa Marina?”

The question cost her, and McKay was sorry for that. “No, he isn't. He doesn't even know the Brandons. He and his family settled here only a few years ago.”

Carly nodded as two dogs exploded through the grass. A tall man walked behind them, improbably dressed in a dark kilt. He spoke calmly to the dogs, calling them to heel, then reached out to shake hands through the open window of the truck.

“You would be Ford McKay.” He spoke in the soft burr of the Highlands. “Duncan Campbell. Welcome to Campbell's Hill.”

“Glad to see you.” McKay crossed around to the passenger door and helped Carly down. “This is Carly Sullivan.”

“Welcome, Ms. Sullivan. Everything's ready for you. My wife and daughters are on a trip to St. Croix this week, but I've a stew and fresh bread prepared.” He picked up Carly's bag and looked at McKay. “Any problems getting here?”

“All quiet.”

The Scotsman nodded, tapping out his pipe on a granite seat at the edge of the drive. “The guest house is just beyond the garden. You'll have a view right down to the sea.”

“We don't want to disturb you,” Carly said uneasily.

The Scotsman studied her, one brow raised. “My dear girl, you are my guests, and all I have is yours.” It was a simple statement, but said in a way that brooked no further discussion. “Why don't you go on ahead? Take your time and be comfortable.”

McKay was fascinated by the race of emotions in Carly's eyes as they walked in silence toward the blue-shingled house. Her steps slowed as they neared the little fence marking the front lawn. “Duncan trained as a medic. I want him to check you out, then have a look at those stitches.”

“Later.” She ran a hand through her hair, then pushed open the wooden gate and stepped through. “It hits me when I don't expect it. First the cold, then the memory of that horrible body.”

McKay saw the flash of fear in her eyes, the agonizing doubts about people she knew and loved. Right now one of those people could be trying to kill her. Down the slope the Scotsman ambled into view. Izzy's friend was still fairly young, newly retired from the SAS. He seemed content with his life as an island landowner, happy to turn his back on the shadow world of intelligence. But the habits were intact, McKay saw. As Campbell called his dogs to heel, he continually scanned the area, his body loose, yet well centered, ready for action.

As usual, Izzy had made a good choice.

Carly, too, watched their host as he calmed his golden retrievers and scanned the woods with the same quiet intensity she'd seen in McKay. They were from the same world, she realized. Both were dangerous men, well trained in deadly skills.

The thought did not repel her as it had only hours before.
Carly knew those deadly skills might be the only things that could protect her.

She felt all her old rules and attitudes slip away like sand. Probably that was to be expected in the wake of a brush with death.

A red ceramic tortoise stood beside the door of the guest house, flanked by a bright blue rabbit. “Do you want to go in?” McKay asked.

She nodded. “I don't want to see other people. Not yet.” Her voice was dull and flat.

“Take your time.” He guided her into a room bright with batik pillows and painted rattan furniture. “Ready to eat?”

“Actually, I'd like to clean up and change.” Maybe a shower would help erase the chill memories.