Roan (34 page)

“What's obscene is piling it up for show or to make some meaningless list of millionaires. What's obscene is having me abducted with the idea of putting a permanent end to my ability to interfere in your financial fun. As for giving away what I own, that will happen only if—” She stopped, since the answer to that line of reasoning was far too obvious.

“If you die,” Harrell said with grim anticipation in his face. He put a hand under the linen jacket that he wore, and took a snub-nosed pistol from the hollow of his back. The bore was ugly, snoutlike, as it centered on her midsection.

“There's no benefit in killing me,” she said with tren
chant reason, even as she felt her abdomen muscles clench and her lips turn cold.

“Nothing except making sure that you don't talk to anyone who matters.”

“Roan knows already. If anything happens to me, he'll be looking for you. As will my lawyers.”

“Maybe, though your lawman is in Louisiana and may not care to chase after a dead woman.” Harrell gave a doleful shake of his head even as he waved his pistol toward the door, then crowded her, heading her in that direction. “Besides, there's not much any of them can do if you take your own life, now is there? And I think you just may. You've been unstable for years, and Paul will vouch for it. Now there's this strange behavior of running off with two weirdos on a crime spree, getting yourself shot, pretending amnesia—oh, yes, and getting involved with the lawman who shot you. You've been ripe to tip over the edge for a long time, no doubt about it. It won't be a big surprise if you take a long swim out into the gulf and don't come back.”

“
I'm
headed for the edge?” she asked in grim sarcasm. “You're the crazy one, especially if you think I'm going swimming any time soon.” She eased away from him as she stepped through the door into the foyer, but there was no way to make a break for it.

“Oh, I didn't say you were going alone. It will be my pleasure to join you, then make sure that you go out with the tide. It's in, you know, and it's high.” He indicated the hallway that led off at a right angle. “Come along, darling. Let's get this over.”

He really was insane; there was no other word for it.

She thought of refusing, of making him drag her kicking and fighting from the house. Dignity wouldn't allow it.
More than that, it seemed foolish to waste energy that she might need for better things.

Appealing to her stepfather for intervention seemed worse than useless. He'd raised no objection to Harrell's plans to this point, and there was no reason to think he would, or that Harrell would listen if he did. All she could do for now was move ahead of her former fiancé while keeping her eyes open for a chance, any chance, to get away from him.

It seemed so unreal that she might die. In spite of what she'd gone through in Turn-Coupe, her mind rejected the possibility. She felt invincible inside herself, full of life and hope and promise. That it could all end, that one person could remove the surge and flow of life from another human being, was an outrage and a tragedy. It should not be physically possible.

The hall they were in led to an exercise room and sauna on one side and a courtyard on the other. The courtyard was a secluded oasis of greenery and silence, with palms that cast moving shadows on the walls and a wrought iron gate for beach access.

The live-in housekeeper was nowhere in sight. She was either preparing dinner in the kitchen wing of the house, or else had retreated to her own quarters. Harrell seemed alert to her possible presence since he kept checking behind them and paused before stepping past open doors. Only when they reached the courtyard, moving along the winding path that led to the beach gate, did he appear to relax his guard somewhat.

Sanibel was an island with few public beaches. Gulf or bay frontage was private, a privilege included in the astronomical cost of beachfront real estate. The stretch that went with the Vandergraff place was larger than most, a wide swath of deserted beige-white sand. It was washed this eve
ning by the thunderous waves of an offshore storm combined with high tide. The wave action had left a black lace border along the sand's edge of broken shells and plant debris. The wind off the water was strong enough to take the tops off the surf and carry the salt spray all the way to the courtyard. It rustled the sea grapes and waved the palms overhead so they clattered with a sound like rain. Gulls dipped and soared overhead, their sharp cries piercing and mournful yet wild.

The evening light still lingered out over the water, but the beach was almost dark. Few lights shone from the houses set back amid their tangles of greenery. Most were winter homes, open only during the high season from Christmas to Easter. Their occupants had rolled down the hurricane shutters over the windows and retreated from the fierce heat, monsoon rains and tropical storms of summer to cooler climates. A few houses belonged to true islanders, but they had sense enough to stay in, avoiding the beach during a storm tide.

Harrell laughed, a hard and satisfied sound, as he saw the deserted sand. He motioned her away from the house, then fell into step beside her as she walked toward the water line with her high heels sinking into the sand.

She couldn't just march calmly to her death. She had to say something, do something, to gain time. She had to get past the sense of disbelief so her mind would work enough to find some way to stop him. But how? How?

“This…really is a lunatic idea,” she said, her voice not quite steady as she lifted it above the wind and waves. “I'd advise you to rethink it.”

“Would you?” His tone was patronizing, too full of assurance to be curious.

“Police have all kinds of ways to tell what happened to a murder victim now. According to what I've been reading
lately, they can tell whether a person drowned or was choked or suffocated, whether skin damage came before or after death. You can't touch me without leaving a mark of some kind, and if you think I'm going to walk in and drown for your convenience, you need your head examined.”

“Oh, I think you will. You've been shot once. I'd be surprised if you risked it again.”

Her scalp tightened at the idea, but she ignored it. “That's not much of a choice. But maybe I'll take the one that's most likely to get you death by lethal injection.”

He gave her a narrow look. “That what you're doing?”

She shook her head so quickly that the wind tore soft strands from her French twist. “I'm only suggesting that you may have a problem.”

“The problem's yours, darling,” he said with emphasis, “though you do have a point. If it wasn't for leaving those marks you're talking about, I'd like nothing better than to give you exactly what you deserve.” He continued for several more sentences with a graphic description of what that might be.

“You're a sick man,” she said, looking away from him at the endlessly rolling breakers. Cars were passing in the distance on the San-Cap Highway, the main island artery. The sound came and went with the wind gusts, making it sound as if they were slowing near the driveway of the house before speeding up again. People were going about their safe, ordinary lives neither knowing nor caring what was happening here on the beach.

“But a rich one,” he answered, “or I'm going to be.”

“I give you less than six months,” she said in contempt. “Then you'll do something so stupid and arrogant that either the police or your own new business partners will take you out.” It might not be the wisest thing in the world to
goad him, but she felt reckless and defiant, and he could only kill her once.

“You wish.” He laughed. “Truth is, I'm going to make a mint. Then I'll buy the fanciest beach house on Sanibel and rub my money in the faces of all the Ivy League idiots who smiled behind their hands and looked down on me because I wasn't born in a dollar-lined diaper.”

She turned to search his face in the dim light. “That's what's behind this,” she said in sudden recognition. “You really hate me.”

“I didn't, not until you decided you couldn't lower yourself to my level. Then I despised you as an idle, whining, poor-little-me rich bitch.”

“Breaking our engagement had nothing to do with your birth or how you made your living!”

“Oh, come on! I saw the way you looked at me, at how I dressed, my car, my apartment and my friends. You thought you were above me in taste and culture and stupid-ass breeding—as if that kind of thing matters a shit when push comes to shove. I was so far beneath you, you couldn't even bring yourself to crawl into my bed, much less fall in love with me.”

She didn't want to feel sorry for him, and she wouldn't. She wouldn't. Standing toe-to-toe with him, she said, “You've got that backward, don't you think? Or maybe not, given your mentality. So you had me kidnapped to pay me back as much as to keep me from screwing up your deal, is that it? You thought I deserved to be hauled off by the two creeps you hired. You thought whatever they might do to me would be just fine. Before they killed me, of course.”

He snorted, before a snide grin curled one corner of his mouth. “I paid them to haul your pretty little ass to Louisiana. When they got there, they were supposed to save it
for me, since I was scheduled to check out the gaming boat site. Afterward, the alligators could have what was left.”

She'd cheated the death he'd planned for her in Louisiana. She'd escaped it, and found something else that she'd needed all her life. She'd found a place where money and social position were neither a source of conceit nor a goal worth killing for, and a man who stood for home and family and everything else that was right and good. She'd found love. She'd found Roan.

She'd found him, and she didn't want to die without ever telling him how she felt, without knowing if there was some hope that he might care about her, at least a little. She didn't intend to give up and let things happen to her without protest, as her mother had done. She would not be cheated out of life. She would not let all hope of love and joy go without fighting back.

Rage, blood-tinted and life-giving, surged up inside her from some internal reservoir she didn't know existed. She didn't think, never once considered the consequences. She just doubled her fist as she'd been taught in her self-defense class and hit Harrell in the nose with every ounce of her strength behind it.

He staggered back with a yell, then tripped in the wet sand and went sprawling. Tory didn't hesitate, and took off at a dead run.

Behind her, she heard him cursing. She snatched a backward glance in time to see him roll over and get to his feet. She expected any second to feel the impact of a bullet between her shoulder blades. She didn't care. The salt wind was in her face, plastering the silk of her suit against her. The surf hissed around her feet as a single wave reached farther up the wet sand. She had done this a thousand times, running every morning for years.

He was coming after her. She could hear his treads pounding on the sand.

He didn't want to shoot her, that was it. He was going to run her down. He still meant to drown her. Fine. Let him try. She'd been swimming in the gulf most of her life. He might find it harder than he thought.

But would it be hard enough?

Her mind was clear, moving at warp speed under the impact of adrenaline. Escape, she had to escape. She could hit the water, since it would make her a harder target. But she couldn't move as fast against its drag, and it was where he wanted her. She wouldn't do that, wouldn't make this easier for him. Run, she had to run.

Her breath was coming in gasps. She wasn't as strong as she had been. The days of forced inactivity had taken their toll. Her shoulder ached. Her heels caught in the sand. She could go faster if she kicked them off, but there was no time for that. She could hear Harrell's thudding footfalls closer behind her. He was gaining.

Run, run. She was running away. Running again, as always, in spite of everything.

Only this time she was going to get caught.

H
arrell grabbed the back of her jacket, dragged her to a halt. Pain ripped through her shoulder as he slung her around. She jerked free for a second, staggering backward with her own momentum. His face was twisted, his eyes murderous as he lunged after her. She snatched her wrist from his grasping fingers and danced away with her eyes narrowed against the wind. A wave washed around her ankles so she almost tripped in waterlogged sand. He splashed after her, grabbed a handful of her blouse front, and snaked an arm around her waist. She gave a choked cry as she was dragged against him and lifted off her feet. He laughed, a raw sound of triumph as he began to wade deeper into the surf.

She couldn't breathe for the arm that clamped her to him. Agony throbbed in her chest and shoulder. Her shoes were sucked off her feet by the water. Roaring like a gunned engine sounded in her ears, one that that seemed to grow louder with every step Harrell took. She tried to kick, tried to bring her knee up between his thighs, but the waves rising around them absorbed and deflected her efforts. She scrabbled for purchase with her toes, but could find none. Desperately, she clawed at his back in an obscene parody
of a passionate embrace. Her nails only found cloth. Darkness crowded into her brain. The roaring of wind and waves was so loud now that it drowned out thought and hope, leaving only terror.

Then she touched metal. Harrell's pistol that he'd shoved into his belt against his spine again, the better to grab her. She curled her fingers around the butt, jerked the pistol free. She rammed its snub-nosed barrel into his armpit.

He jolted to a halt. His curse had a strangled sound.

Then a huge wave hit them, as if some monster had plunged from the darkness to strike the water behind them. Harrell was knocked sprawling. Tory was torn away from his grasp. The pistol was plucked from her hand. Tossed like a rag doll, she rolled in the water. Waves thundered around her, over her, gurgled in her ears. Her lungs ached. Her throat and nose burned. She hit sand, scrubbed against the sea floor with her face. Shoving against it with her good arm and hand, she tried to find her feet, began to struggle upright.

Abruptly, she was caught again. Long arms wrapped around her like steel hawsers. Blind from stinging salt water and sand, she struck out in a wild punch.

Her arm was captured, held in a loose grip even as she was gathered close and was rocked side to side. The man who held her rested his cheek against the top of her head as he crooned above the sound of wind and waves and crying gulls.

“It's all right, Tory. Don't, don't. It's me, it's only me.”

Roan.

He was here.

She didn't know how or why and didn't care. She flung herself against him, holding tight, absorbing his strength and the security of his arms for the space of a deep, half-
strangled breath. Then panic surged inside her again. She wrenched backward as she said, “Harrell! He's—”

“He's over there.”

Roan swung her gently to where she could see the beach. Harrell lay there on his belly like a beached shark, as if he'd been thrown down while Roan went to her aid. He was cursing in a vicious monotone, spitting sand and salt water with every word, while the surf washed back and forth around his legs. His hands were cuffed behind his back and a second pair of cuffs decorated his ankles.

“I don't think he's going to be a problem any longer,” Roan said, his voice even.

Nor did she. Still, her attention didn't linger on her ex-fiancé. She stared past his prone figure toward the dark-purple bulk that sat up to its windows in the water.

“The Super Bird,” she said in wonder and distress. “How did—”

“I was here at the house earlier, but you were out. Vandergraff answered the door when I returned just now. He said you'd gone again, had maybe driven down to some beach at the other end of the island where you liked to walk. That didn't quite add up to me since the Bird was still on the drive, parked facing the gulf. I walked over and climbed in to check it out. You'd left the keys in the ignition. I had my hand on them when I saw Melanka dragging you out in the water.” Roan lifted a shoulder. “Running him down with the Bird seemed as good a way as any to get his attention.”

The torn-up sand that stretched from the beach to the house told the tale plainly. Roan had driven the Bird, his pride and joy, straight into the corrosive salt water of the gulf. She'd heard the engine's roar without recognizing it.

“It got his attention all right,” she said in tight acknowledgement as she recalled the great wave that had torn her
away from Harrell. It had also saved her ex-fiancé's life, she thought. Another second, and she'd have pulled the trigger on the pistol. At least, she thought she would have, was almost sure of it.

“My stepfather was a part of…of everything,” she said. “He was going to let Harrell…”

“I know.” Roan's arm tightened a fraction as he cut across what she was saying. “Don't think about it. I spoke to the authorities here. Seems they've had their eye on Vandergraff for some time. This should do it for him. He and Melanka will be picked up as soon as I give them a call.”

“Good,” she said quietly. “Good.” It was over, really over. She closed her eyes and leaned her head on Roan's shoulder. With her right hand, she held on to the strong wrist of his arm, which circled her waist. She could feel his pulse, steady and firm, beneath her fingers. He was so alive, so alive. And so was she.

“We'd better go in,” he said, easing away, then urging her toward dry land. “I can make that call from the unit.”

“Hey! Hey, what about me?” Harrell yelled from where he lay on the sand, twisting his head around to watch them over his shoulder.

The sheriff of Tunica Parish barely glanced in his direction. “You'll keep. The tide will turn before long.”

Tory didn't want to go. She'd much rather have stayed where she was, away from the problems that must come, the explanations and the endless, endless questions. Or rather she longed to run away again, back to Dog Trot with Roan where things were simple and no one dared interfere with the man who was The Law in Turn-Coupe.

She couldn't do it. There were things that had to be done, and only she could do them.

“Yes,” she said on a long sigh.

“Lean on me,” he said.

She didn't need his support now, could have walked by herself. Still, she waded at his side, in the strong circle of his arm, as they left the boiling waves and went up the beach toward the big, faceless house among the trees.

Roan made his call. They had five minutes, perhaps ten, to wait until the police could arrive. The two of them stood in the tree shadows, watching the house. There was no movement, no sign that Paul Vandergraff was aware of the change in his circumstances.

Roan was restless. He paced, alert and impatient. It galled him, Tory thought, that he had no authority to go in and make the arrest that would end the fiasco once and for all. He wasn't used to standing back and allowing someone else to do a job he was more than capable of handling.

In an effort to distract him, she said from where she leaned against a casuarina tree, “I haven't thanked you for what you did just now, have I? I really am grateful that you came, more grateful than I can say.”

“No need,” he answered, though his gaze remained on the house. “You must have known I would.”

“Not really. Oh, I know I left without telling you….”

“You escaped.” The words were flat.

“Did I? I mean technically speaking, since no charges had been filed? You could have let me go, could have written me off. But even if you only came to get me, I'm still amazed.”

“Is that what you think, that I came to take you back?”

“Unless it was to retrieve the Super Bird. It occurred to me that you might, just not so quickly. I'll have any damage repaired, I promise. They know all about saltwater problems down here.”

He lifted a dismissive shoulder, as if he'd barely heard her. After a moment, he raked his fingers through his hair and turned to face her. “I'm sorry I didn't believe you
when you first told me what happened to you, more sorry than I can say. If I had just listened…” He stopped, compressed his lips.

She couldn't read his face in the dim glow from a mercury vapor security light half-hidden among the tree branches. Since she had no clue to what he was thinking, what he was feeling, she could only do her best to be honest. Moistening her lips, she said, “I didn't exactly make it easy, I know. I wasn't used to…to trusting anyone. I'd run away before, a lot of times, when I was younger. No matter what I told the police, they always sent me back to my stepfather.”

“So you thought I'd do the same.”

“I was afraid you'd send word to him, and that he'd turn the responsibility for bringing me back to Sanibel over to Harrell. Since that could have been a death sentence, it wasn't a chance I wanted to take.”

“Smart move,” Roan said succinctly. “Even if it did get you shut up at Dog Trot.”

“I didn't mind. After a while.”

He was silent, staring at her through the darkness. When she thought he wasn't going to speak again, he asked, “What happened once you got here? Where did you take off to so fast that you were gone before I could catch up with you? And how did Melanka persuade Vandergraff that drowning you on his property was worth the risk?”

She told him, leaving out nothing of her visit with the lawyers or of her confrontation with Paul and Harrell later. It was a relief to be perfectly open with Roan about it all, to know that the secrets she'd kept for weeks no longer lay between them.

He whistled when she finished, a low sound of amazement followed by an admiring shake of his head. “You have nerve, lady. I'll hand you that.”

“It would have been much smarter to wait and let my lawyers handle it,” she answered in wry disagreement. “But I suppose I'd been holding everything in too long. It just all came out.”

“I'd loved to have seen you stand up to them.”

She grimaced. “It was no big deal. They just made me mad.”

“Remind me never to do that.” Humor laced the edges of his voice.

“You think I overreacted?” she inquired in quiet tones. In the distance, she could hear the sound of sirens. The police were coming, drawing nearer with every minute.

“Could be, I suppose,” Roan drawled, tilting his head to one side. “I mean, why should you be so hacked off when all they wanted was to take your money and put you away?”

He was teasing her in his own dry fashion. It was her turn to look out to where Harrell still lay on the sand as she said, “It's over now.”

“Is it? When you'll always carry the scars. Particularly the scar of my bullet?”

“You didn't know I was innocent when I tumbled out of that van.” She didn't like the sound of self-blame she heard in his voice, though not long ago it might have been balm to her wounded ego. Her impulse now was to excuse it, to urge him to forget it.

“Doesn't matter. I just keep thinking—what if I'd killed you?”

“It didn't happen.”

“It could have, nothing easier.”

She took a step toward him, lifted her hand to put it on his arm. Whether she meant to absolve him or only to comfort him, she didn't know. She did neither, however, for he turned away at that moment, toward where the screaming
police units were turning in at the drive. Headlights swept through the trees and pinned them where they stood. The flashing blue lights of a black and white illuminated the grim lines of Roan's face, caught the desolation in his eyes. Tory's heart hurt in her chest, but there was nothing she could do. It was time to step out where they could be seen.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Harrell was hauled up from the beach and taken away. Paul Vandergraff, confronted in his study where he'd taken refuge, shouted and protested and demanded a lawyer, but was finally hustled out of the house and into a police unit. The housekeeper, Maria, was questioned but had seen nothing, heard nothing, because of the action movie she'd been watching. Tory was allowed time to shower and change from her wet, salt-encrusted clothes, then was driven to the police station for a statement.

The recital of the events over the last few weeks was long and detailed and seemed to take an eternity. Roan was there, using both his comprehensive knowledge of the law and strong right arm to ensure that she received respectful treatment and room to breathe. Without pushing himself into the picture, he not only shielded her but advised and guided her on the finer points of her story. Early in the proceedings, he asked for the name of her lawyers and went away to call them. A team of three soon appeared, and protecting her interests became a collaboration between these legal representatives and Roan.

Finally, it was done. Roan drove her back to the house on the beach. He pulled onto the parking apron and cut the engine. Tory sat for a long moment, making no effort to get out. She was suddenly so tired, too tired to do anything except stare out through the trees at the beach and the endless waves that shimmered in the moonlight. In her mind's
eye, she could see Harrell forcing her closer to the water, see the cold calculation in his face.

“Don't,” Roan said, his voice rough as he turned in his seat to face her. “Don't think about it.”

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, then let it out with a sigh. Leaning her head back against the seat's headrest, she said, “No. No, I won't.”

“It's done. Now you can rest.”

“It's hard to realize that someone really wants you dead,” she said. She opened her eyes, faced him in the dark. “It must have happened to you before. How do you get past it? How do you get over something like that?”

“You let it go and get on with your life. You push it aside, into an unused corner of your mind, and shut the door on it. One morning, sooner or later, you wake up and you're all right. Or else, you think of what happened less and less often until the night comes when you lie in bed and realize it's been months since it crossed your mind, much less interfered with your sleep. It's nature's way. Nothing lasts forever, not doubt, not pain, not terror or grief. You just…live over it.”