Gull Harbor (20 page)

Her heart, still racing from exertion, fluttered anxiously. She loved him. And he’d told her he loved her as well. But that kind of love had the power to wound—she’d discovered that once before.

“Something wrong?” he whispered, caressing her shoulders.

Despite his earlier joke about his perceptive abilities, Max had always been able to sense her moods. It was one more reason he’d claimed her heart so completely all those years ago. And one more reason she’d been so devastated when he’d left her.

“Claire?” he asked again, his tone threaded with concern.

He’d picked up immediately on her hesitation. Clinging to him, she focused on the warmth of his body under hers as she pushed her worries aside. She would not let her fears and doubts about the future ruin the present.

“Nothing’s wrong. This is a perfect moment,” she answered truthfully. She was basking in the afterglow of incredible sex, lying safely in the arms of the man she loved. It
was
a perfect moment.

He reached for the tangled bedclothes, settling the top sheet over her back. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she murmured. “Am I crushing you?”

“Please,” he answered, laughing softly. “If I didn’t know you were just being polite, I might be slightly insulted.” He squeezed her tightly. “I’m fine. We should fall asleep like this more often.”

“Mmmm,” was her contented reply. Sleep was coming for her now, pulling at her consciousness. She let it take her, the sound of Max’s steady heartbeat against her ear a comforting lullaby.

****

His eye throbbed with pain. Gary dragged his good eyelid open and peered at the clock on the motel nightstand. Quarter after five in the fucking morning. With a groan, he lifted his head. Weak morning light leaked in through the dusty blinds, washing the room with an odd pink glow that matched the faded bedspreads.

He snatched three pills from the pile scattered on the table top. A glass of water still sat on the tray, along with the ice bucket he’d filled. He’d wrapped ice cubes in a threadbare washcloth yesterday, applying his homemade icepack regularly in an attempt to control the swelling around his sliced eye.

He shuffled to the bathroom, his sore knee complaining with every step. It was nothing compared the fire radiating from his eye. Flushing the toilet with more force than necessary, he prepared himself to look in the mirror.

“Damn,” he muttered at his hideous reflection. The ice had done little to calm the swollen purple flesh. If anything, it looked worse than it had last night. He bent his head and splashed cool water gently on his damaged skin.

He patted his face with another thin towel and left the bathroom. Lighting a cigarette, he crawled back into the bed. This eye injury practically screamed “notice me”—he needed to come up with a plan that accounted for that unfortunate fact.
Think,
he commanded, resting his head against the wood veneer headboard.

So, there was a ghost in the house. Maria’s ghost, apparently—and she was very unhappy about her demise. Claire the psychic detective was getting information from the ghost, and according to Jake, she had already made the connection between Gary and Maria.

Claire had to die, that was a given. But had she told anyone else what she’d discovered? Even if she had, messages from beyond the grave weren’t usually acceptable in court. Although he didn’t want it to get that far. He wasn’t too worried about that; his best guess would be that any rational person would dismiss her claims immediately once she revealed her source. And as long as there was no body, Claire had no tangible evidence.

He had to end this before things went any further and a body was found. He didn’t know if burning down the house would get rid of the ghost within, but he couldn’t think of a better plan. If both Claire and the house were removed from the equation, the ghost had no one to talk to and no place to haunt.

He exhaled smoke slowly, inhaling it back through his nose in a gray swirl. Okay, he had the plan. Now came the trickier part—how to execute it and get the hell off this peninsula.

Ideally, the fire should appear to be accidental. He could pull that off, he thought. He still had the key to the basement door, and he’d seen plenty of flammable material down there: boxes, newspaper, packing materials. He’d bring a gas can and a match and hope the resulting blaze would be blamed on the old furnace.

But he couldn’t count on the fire to kill Claire, unfortunately. Her body would burn, but he needed to be sure she was already dead. He’d suffocate her with a trash bag first, relying on his knife only if necessary. Less mess, the better—for both of them.

He grimaced, touching his eye gingerly. The gasoline was going to be the main problem. He was fairly certain he could fill a gas can at a self-serve station without drawing attention. He could even run inside the station and toss a twenty dollar bill to the attendant wearing his sunglasses; if he acted as though he were in a hurry, that wouldn’t look unusual. But going in a store and buying the gas can was a whole other issue. He’d look suspicious, no matter what—either because he was wearing sunglasses inside or because of his prominent black eye.

There was no getting around it; he would have to steal a gas can from someone’s yard or shed. While he had no problem with theft, he could not be sneaking around people’s private property during daylight hours. He would have to wait until late tonight.

Which meant one more day in this crappy motel. He cursed, stubbing out his cigarette. The pills were finally kicking in, numbing the pain, calming his frazzled nerves. He laid his cheek back on the limp pillow, turning away from the sunlight filtering in through the blinds.

How had he gotten himself into this mess? The captain’s words replayed in his head, taunting him from the past. “You disappoint me, my friend,” he’d said in his thick accent. The condescending grin on the man’s weathered face had filled Gary with irritation. He prided himself on his street smarts—they were essential in his business. But on that morning, in the middle of a drug deal, he couldn’t think fast enough to figure out how a penniless illegal could pay him back for smuggling her into the country.

He scowled, his eyes darting around in the semidarkness, looking for a trap. “Convince me,” he said with what he hoped appeared to be a casual shrug. “If I’m going to take that kind of risk, why don’t you explain exactly what you had in mind.”

The captain returned his shrug. “It makes no matter to me. Take her or don’t. Either way, she is getting off here.” He nodded toward the open sea, then turned and gave the Mexican girl a reassuring smile, as though he weren’t discussing throwing her into the ocean in a language she couldn’t understand. “But you are already taking all that heroin—a big risk, yes? A bag of heroin can only be sold once. A woman”—he gestured toward the pretty teenager with his chin—“can be sold over and over. There is unlimited profit to be made. You decide when she has repaid her debt.”

Gary had stared at the captain, pretending to consider. But he was already sold. The captain’s words made sense to him. And he already had the means to make her submissive. When she had paid her way, he would blindfold her and drop her off somewhere in the city. Clearly she spoke no English, and as an illegal immigrant, she couldn’t exactly go running to the cops anyway.

“Fine,” he decided. He was doing her a favor, in a way—she’d drown for certain if he didn’t take her. “Tell her to get in the boat.”

The captain rattled off some instructions in Spanish, and she climbed willingly down the ladder. The transaction finished, Gary had dropped down beside her and started the engine as the sky began to lighten.

“Should have let her swim for it,” he grumbled now, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. One misstep and the entire plan had gone from a goldmine to a disaster. And now he was paying for it once again, simply because some psychic woman couldn’t mind her own business.

Tomorrow night it would all be over, he told himself as he finally began to drift off to sleep. Claire would be dead, the house would be burning, and he’d be on his way home. Mill Pond Road was so deserted at night, and the house so isolated, he’d probably be halfway to Connecticut before the firefighters even arrived.

Chapter 27

She awoke to the smell of bacon cooking. Possibly the best smell in the world to wake up to, she decided sleepily. Stretching, she smiled as she recalled her night with Max. Either he was cooking breakfast or Maria was playing a nasty trick on her. She rolled out of bed and pulled on clothes.

“I thought I was dreaming,” she said as she padded into the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around Max from behind and made an appreciative noise. “That smells delicious. But I know there was no bacon in this house as of last night.”

“I ran out and picked up a few things. I hope you don’t mind. I can’t survive on a banana and yogurt in the morning.” He turned down the burner and began moving the crispy strips onto a pile of paper towels to drain.

“How could I mind?” she asked, sighing happily as she reached for the full pot of coffee. “You shop
and
cook? I’m impressed.”

He laughed, pulling another frying pan out from the lower cabinet. “Well, I do own a restaurant. I’m a pretty good cook, actually. I discovered I have a knack for it.” He put the new pan over the flame and dropped in a pat of butter. “I’m sorry I haven’t cooked you a meal yet. I’m just so busy during the season. I owe you a romantic dinner when the summer’s over.”

She forced a smile. She wouldn’t be here when the summer was over. Each step that brought her closer to freeing Maria also brought her closer to returning to Boston. “That sounds wonderful,” she said lightly, sipping her coffee. Thoughts of leaving—and of Maria—began poking holes in her good mood.

“Can I make you an omelet? I’ve got diced peppers and cheese.”

“Wow. Sure. Just a small one, though,” she said, watching him crack eggs into a bowl. Her hunger pangs had suddenly dulled as reality had set it. She decided she may as well bring up the subject of Maria now. She needed to fill Max in on the visions she’d had during their argument, or breakup, or whatever it was.

“So, I learned a number of things over the last few days,” she began, picking her words carefully. She described the frightening dreams that had defined her nights recently. “Gary was injecting her with heroin, and she became addicted. When she needed it, and he was late, the cravings were torture. And then he must have given her too much, and she died of an overdose. I don’t know if he meant to kill her or not—I can’t figure out his motive.” She blew out a frustrated breath and sat down at the little kitchen table.

He poured the egg mixture into the pan and then looked over at her, his expression grave. “I think I know. Or at least I have a guess. I saw something similar on a show about human trafficking. The traffickers were getting women hooked on heroin to make them dependent. Then they would withhold the drug for stretches of time in order to give the women a taste of the agony of physical withdrawal. They called that breaking them down.”

Claire shuddered. “My God, that’s awful. But why?”

“Money,” he said with a disgusted shrug. He turned back to the stove. “They make the women compliant so they can sell them. Either directly to customers—johns—or to someone who runs that type of business. A woman who is addicted to heroin can’t put up too great a fight.”

She clutched at her stomach. “I was afraid you were going to say something like that. So we’re talking pimps and prostitution. Against the women’s will.”

“Yes, sadly.” He glanced over to her again, his eyes flashing angrily. “If that’s what this Gary Williams was up to, well, that’s a whole different level of depravity. I think it’s time we turned this over to the police to investigate.”

“Turn what over?” she said, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t have any proof. They aren’t going to accept my visions as evidence. In fact, they’d probably laugh me right out of the station. They don’t even have a record of a missing woman. No one here knew.” Her voice trembled as a wave of hopelessness washed over her. “It’s like she never existed.”

The kitchen lights flickered. Max glanced up and then raised his eyebrows at Claire. “Maria?”

She nodded. “She’s hovering. Lately the headaches have been so bad, I haven’t been letting her in. But I will,” she said loudly, addressing the air around her. “Soon. I promise.”

“How bad are these headaches?” asked Max, concern creasing his forehead.

“Tolerable. I’ve gotten some rest the past few days, I’ll be fine. If she can just show me where her body is—or at least where to look—I’d have something for the police. And something to give her poor family closure.”

The lights blinked again, in a quick, appreciative double flash. Max set a plate with a perfectly formed omelet and three strips of bacon in front of her. “Thanks,” she said, addressing both the handsome man in front of her and the invisible woman who was apparently trying to express her gratitude and intent to cooperate.

Max moved behind her and lifted her wild morning curls, smoothing her hair down the center of her back. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, settling his hands on her shoulders. His thumbs massaged the back of her neck, loosening the knot that was trying to form. “Any plans for today?”

“Not really,” she lied. A plan was forming in her mind, but she knew Max wouldn’t like it—he would probably try to stop her from going alone. Her plan involved a drive to Boston and a confrontation that was long overdue.

“Come by later?” he asked, sliding his hands down to rub the tops of her arms.

“I should be able to.” Truthfully, it was going to depend on how she felt after today’s unpleasant activity. She was afraid she might end up with more than a terrible headache. Her father wasn’t a ghost, but he was definitely dead on the inside. Talking to him was going to sap her energy in more ways than one.

“Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, then crossed to the counter and began making a plate for himself.