Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1) (13 page)

He reeled backward as though she’d slugged him. His tanned cheeks paled. “Pregnant. A baby. But…”

Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked furiously, but the dam burst. “I had an … a miscarriage.”

“Oh God. What a hell of a thing.” Scrubbing his knuckles across a day’s growth of dark stubble, he started toward her, but stopped two steps away. Distrustful, or did he perceive her invisible barrier? “Damn, there were a couple of times that weekend we didn’t use protection. I’m sorry. I should’ve known better.”

She swiped the tears off her cheeks and gulped down the lump in her throat. She closed her mind to the images of the lost baby and others that could never be. A boy with Cole’s eyes. A little girl with his dark curly hair.

Her chest ached with tension and regrets. She resisted running into his arms. “We both should have. I admit I blamed you at first. I hated you for the pregnancy, for deserting me, for everything. But later I realized you were the easy target. I was responsible too.”

“I have to know. Can you tell me how it happened, the miscarriage?” His voice throbbed with anguish.

“Not now.” Every cell in her body slumped with exhaustion. She’d tell him about the accident, but another time.

“Aw, hell, of course. I already put you through the wringer.” Clearly, desperation to know more tensed his whole body. “Enough for one night. I can wait.”

Nodding, she escaped to her bedroom.

***

Crows cawing reveille, dragging Cole from a fitful sleep. He couldn’t blame the damn couch. Half the cushions sagged nearly to the floor with his weight, and springs in the rest bayoneted his back. Lumpy as it was, he’d sacked out on worse. Not discomfort but awareness of the woman sleeping in the bedroom had kept him on edge.

He blinked at the window, hazy with sunlight seeping through the fog. Raking a hand through his hair, he headed to the shower.
The hot water pelted his head like a waterfall, but couldn’t wash away last night’s images. She’d opened her soul to him by relating her painful escape from death. Afterward she clung to him, and they kissed until both were aflame.

And then he pushed her into revealing what she kept secret for so long. A baby. His heart twisted. Had he slipped up on purpose? Had he wanted her so much that he risked a pregnancy to bind her to him?
What a farce. As if her parents would’ve allowed it.

He tried to picture her round with his baby growing in her belly. Turning his gritty face up to the shower spray, he allowed a small grin before the rest of what she’d said flattened it. Miscarriage.

Was it a boy or a girl? What caused the loss? So many questions peppered his brain that he felt as wired as if he were dodging an AK-47 volley from an Afghan cave.

Laura had been right to call a halt last night. They had more hurdles before the path smoothed out.
But he wished she’d at least let him hold her and comfort her — and himself, if he was honest — when she was so clearly in pain. She suffered more over the years than he’d imagined.

Yet comforting would’ve for sure led to more.
He kept imagining lying with her in that double bed. The damn iron frame creaked with her every toss and turn. Ten times he threw back the covers to go to her, and ten times he called himself a fool.

The scent of her shampoo perfumed the bathroom.
Spitting out creative expletives in two languages, he dialed the shower all the way to cold.

***

As soon as the rushing shower masked other sounds, Laura stepped into her swimsuit, shorts and secondhand boat shoes. She tiptoed from her bedroom and out the door.

The rising sun was dispersing most of the fog. Over the grass, only cotton balls of mist drifted here and there, but an amorphous swirl curtained the cooler lake surface. From the far shore floated a loon’s eerie tremolo.

Yes, her solo outing was risky, but she didn’t care. She headed for the boat shed. Having Cole under her roof — holding her when she was vulnerable enough to succumb, tempting her — held far more risk. Acknowledgment of her doomed love for him added exquisite torture to an already untenable situation.

Revealing the pregnancy and miscarriage would inevitably lead to more confessions. Including one that she might never be ready to broach.

His constant hovering was only dragging out the ordeal. If evading his presence invited the killer to try something, so be it. She desperately needed a break from being cooped up with him in that tiny cabin.

It was more likely the hour was so early that no self-respecting hit man would be up and about. No one knew she was out here, and the fog would conceal her.
The two DARK men had to be around somewhere, but she saw only Burt mowing by the tennis courts.

The air was cool against her bare arms, and the smudge of the smoldering beach bonfire hung in the still air. She hurried along the path.
There. She was out in the open. A target. Her pulse pounded in her ears and her stomach clenched. Her steps hurried as she neared the docks. Shrouded with fog, they isolated her from view. She’d be fine.

The little regatta between Passabec Lake and East Pond wouldn’t begin until nearly eleven or when the breeze came up. She didn’t need to prepare so early, but aside from everything else, setting up the markers with no one on the calm waters appealed to her.

The fog curtain muffled the only other sounds, Burt’s mower and some too cheerful songbirds.
She should appreciate the solitude. Something she’d grown accustomed to during the past months, but had little of the last few days.

After sliding aside the door to the shed, she hesitated in the opening. Shadows lurked in every corner. She was as skittish as a child seeing bogeymen under the bed. Shaking her head, she marched in to get the marker buoys.
Afterward she climbed into her small outboard skiff. The low and steady putt-putt of the motor reassured her as she steered to a point fifty yards out. The sun’s rays were shredding the fog, parting the curtain as if to aid her in placing the buoys.
No need to be afraid. No harm could come to her with not even a fisherman on the lake.
She idled the motor as she placed the orange marker, one of three tethered to a weight that rested on the lake’s muddy bottom.

Was the fog thick enough to shield her from a sniper? In movies, a telltale glint warned of a rifle. She saw nothing out of the ordinary on shore, but the fine hairs on her nape lifted. She hunched lower in the boat.

To give the young sailors a challenge, she motored farther down the lake, nearly half a mile, to place the next buoy in the triangle-shaped course. She’d neglected to wear a life vest, something she drilled into her students. Rummaging beneath the seat rewarded her with only a paint-smeared hand.

Wet paint? That was odd, and now her feet were wet. A few inches of water sloshed over her shoes.
Oh great, what now? She reached farther beneath the seat.

No bailer. Not even the sponge she normally kept there.

She bailed with her hands, but water poured through a hole in the bottom faster than she could scoop. Water fountained in like a bathtub filling from the bottom. Hand bailing was futile. Her mouth tightened.

Stupid, stupid.
No life vest. No bailer.

She was a strong swimmer, but through the wispy fog the shore loomed light-years from the middle of the lake. No help in sight, and she had one more marker buoy to set. It bobbed to the surface an unreachable distance away. At the absurdity of attempting to place it now, she couldn’t stop a giggle.

With a loud glug, the outboard motor pulled the stern down. The boat followed, and she splashed into the water. Comprehension flooded her. Her stomach wound into a tight knot.
Someone had done this to her, with deliberation and premeditation.

And she knew how.

The water felt warmer than the morning air, but it would soon chill her. She had to get out. She lunged for the orange marker that had plopped out along with her. It would help support her until she could decide which way to swim.

Something stopped her short of the buoy. A steel grip held her right ankle fast. A torrent of adrenaline coursed through her. Her heart hammered.

No! She’d beaten death twice before. She fought too hard to let drowning be her fate.
She kicked and splashed. No give.
She yelled for help, but hadn’t enough breath for volume.

Adrenaline fueling her muscles, she jackknifed down to look.
Her captor wasn’t a hired killer. It wasn’t even human. The painter, the mooring line, was looped around her ankle. Eel grass and the frayed line had interwoven. The tangle imprisoned her as surely as a leg iron.

With the boat as anchor, she was a balloon on a string.

Blood roared in her ears. She peeled off her water-filled boat shoes, then heaved and pulled to free herself. The grip refused to yield.

She was going under with the sinking boat.

AS SOON AS Cole left the bathroom, yawning, he strode into the kitchen. No coffee. No Laura. Not even in the bedroom.

Where the hell was she? Did the woman have no care for her safety? He knew better. What was she up to then? As he stomped into his Tevas, he peered out the front window.

Damn fog. And the trees. He could see nothing. He fitted his 9mm into his inside-the-waistband holster — easier to get to than an ankle holster — and pulled on a fresh T-shirt, leaving it out to cover the weapon. He hit the door.

Like him, she’d thrashed through the night. And this morning probably needed to get out or to get away from him. Probably went to the boat shed. The other officers were out there, but their job was to spot the killer.

Laura was Cole’s responsibility.

Whether she liked it or not.

At the docks, the shed door stood open and her outboard was missing. He squinted across the lake.
What he saw cleared his head and raced his heart faster than a vat of caffeine.

He pounded along the dock toward another outboard bobbing beside her empty spot. He jumped in the boat and released the tether. He yanked on the cord and the little engine roared to life. As he zoomed away, he was vaguely aware of people yelling and running along the dock behind him.

Too bad if he’d taken someone’s skiff. He had no damn time for that. Thank God the fool had left the key in it.

Even as he searched the water’s surface for any sign of her, recriminations writhed inside him. How could he have been so careless? Was he going to have to handcuff her to the bed to keep her safe? Where the hell was she?

At first, she was splashing wildly, fighting something — or someone — in the water. Then as he took off, he saw only her pale head at water level.

Now, nothing but ripples. And the orange markers.

He willed the boat to go faster, but full throttle didn’t get him much. The spot he’d last seen her was so far away. The boat slogged through mud.

At last he reached the buoy. He cut the engine.

Laura popped to the surface.

Thank God! His heart could start again. “Laura, here!” He reached for her.

She sucked in air and coughed as she flailed at the water. “Boat … sank…. Leg … caught …line.”

He clasped one hand, and she gripped the life preserver he extended with the other. “Hang on. I’ll get it.”

He stripped off his shirt and shoes. Leaving behind his 9mm with the clothing, he opened his multi-tool to the serrated blade and slipped over the side.

Following her leg downward, he found the fouled rope. In two swipes, the sharp blade freed her so she could kick upward. He followed and helped her into the outboard, heaving himself in after her.

“You have no idea how scared I was, seeing you go under like that. You used up another of old Murphy’s lives.”

She sat in the bow, facing him, her hair plastered to her shoulders and dripping around her pale face.
Shivering, she gave him a soggy smile. “I should’ve known you’d understand why I used the stable cat’s name.”

He was about to head back to the dock, but she insisted on placing the third buoy for the race. She’d only have to come out again later, she told him haltingly as she recovered her breath.

They motored to the third point in the racecourse. “What the hell happened? Was that an accident?”

“I think the boat sinking was deliberate. I’ll know for sure when we get back to the boat shed. But no one could have rigged the painter to get fouled in grass.”

“Thank God it didn’t sink in deeper water.” He shuddered at the thought. She’d had just enough leeway to reach the surface. She might’ve drowned anyway if exhaustion or hypothermia overtook her before help arrived. “If the boat was sabotaged, it was a damned inept murder attempt. If you hadn’t gotten tangled, you could’ve swum to shore.”

“Maybe to make it look like an accident?” she said.

By the time they reached the dock, the sun had burned away the last remnants of fog and mist. A small group of anxious spectators clustered.

Burt Elwell snatched the painter. “Laura, are you okay? I saw what was happening and ran to my boat here, but Stratton beat me to it.”

“Your boat, is it? Thanks, then. You helped after all.” Calm and collected as if she hadn’t nearly drowned, Laura bestowed a beatific smile on the fawning jerk.

Cole nearly pushed her back in the water. The kid too.

“Easy, buddy. Don’t forget your clothes.” A grinning Kent Isaacs, in his groundskeeper’s green work duds, handed Cole his shirt, with the gun concealed in its folds.

“Thanks.” He slipped the sidearm into his shorts pocket and yanked on the shirt. He tamped down his anger. Every time he saw how the kid looked at her, his testosterone spiked.

He’d check later with the DARK officer to learn what he might’ve seen. For now he hot-footed it to catch up with Laura and the kid, who were headed to the boat shed.

Laura barely heard Burt squawking like a seagull behind her. Her heart sprinted. She needed to see the damaged skiff, to know if what she suspected was true.

“Me and one of the new guys cleaned this place up yesterday while you was gone,” Burt said. “See, everything’s organized. I threw away the old junk.”

Inside, she weaved through equipment to the overturned skiff. A paint rag lay loosely draped over where the gouged hole should be.