Just Fall (32 page)

Magic hour. Ellie peeks out the doorway of the storeroom. The sky is painted with deep pinks, dense purples, a coppery umber. Dark clouds cluster and scud along the horizon, a fiery heat at their center.

Ellie is trembling. She wants to get going. She never wants to see St. Lucia again. She glances over at Rob. He is joking with P.J., old buddies. How can he be so relaxed? The events of the last few days overwhelm her. The man she killed, the woman who died protecting her, that little boy, Thomas, fate unknown. She fights against self-loathing. She thinks of Quinn, left injured and bleeding and bound to a chair in that creepy house. Then she remembers. In her haste to escape, she left her beach tote behind. The remains of her cash. Her I.D. The screwdriver. Her shiny new wedding band twisted into a corner.

“Soon?” she demands impatiently, dropping down onto an overturned wooden crate, her hands rubbing her thighs. “Are we going soon?”

“Matt should be back any minute,” P.J. reassures. “It’s almost dark. We’ll go then.”

Ellie presses her fingers over her eyes. She can’t sit still any longer.

Abruptly she rises from her seat.

“Where are you going?” There’s an edge in Rob’s voice she pretends not to hear.

“Water.” Ellie slips through the kitchen and into the service area of the restaurant. “That’s okay, right?” She doesn’t wait for a reply.

Ellie slides onto a rickety stool in front of the curved bar. The restaurant is casual. Cheerfully mismatched chairs and paint-splashed wooden tables. The work of local photographers on the wall: richly colored landscapes and two black-and-whites of a solemn, graceful young girl with cornrows. It’s before the dinner hour; only a few sunburned early-bird diners tuck happily into barbecue.

The bartender, British and red-faced, is deep in conversation with three adorable Dutch backpackers, telling tales with great gravity. The girls are rapt, hanging on his every lie.

“…built by an American businessman as a vacation home,” the Brit tells them. “But while he was coming down to oversee the construction, he took up with a local girl. He became obsessed with her.”

The bartender whispers the next bit. “She was a voodoo priestess, she was. That’s how she snared him. But when her spells ran dry and the man returned to his wife, Marianne killed them both and then herself. And now
this.
” He shakes his head.

Ellie didn’t think anything could surprise her anymore. But this story—so different from the one Crazy B had told her, in which Marianne had been an innocent victim. It hits her hard: Truth is elusive when viewed through the prism of multiple perspectives.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, sliding a cardboard coaster in front of her.

“Are you talking about Maison Marianne?”

“Bad for the whole island, that,” he answers. “But no point in denying it. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?” The question catches in Ellie’s throat. She knows what he’s going to say.

“Police found another dead bloke up there this afternoon,” he confides. “American, I hear. Murdered. Stabbed in the gut.”

“Stabbed?”

He nods and slides a frosty bottle of local beer toward her. “On the house. Strange times.”

Strange indeed. The charming restaurant tilts on its axis. White noise explodes in Ellie’s head. Dead. Quinn couldn’t be dead. He was alive when they left him. Stabbed. How?

Rob. He was the last one to leave Maison Marianne. He killed Quinn. He killed Quinn before they left.

But why?

Did he think killing Quinn was the only way to free them from someone so powerful and depraved? The logic of this resounds with her. But that she understands Rob’s point of view terrifies her. She is not a killer.

But wait. She is.

She glances toward the open door of the restaurant, at the dusk-tinged streets beyond. She could walk right out. But go where? Do what? Ellie’s very last dreams of a life with Rob spill away with swift, sad finality, sand through an hourglass. The truth slams her. She doesn’t know her husband. Not at all. She never did. And she can’t trust him. She feels stripped bare. Scraped hollow.

The floodgates of doubt open. Isn’t it just weirdly convenient, this P.J. guy happening to be in St. Lucia? Why exactly is Walsh risking his own neck for them, anyway? Has Rob really told her everything? Suspicions scream through her brain, cacophonous, jumbled, ugly.

She feels the grip of the bartender’s hand on her arm.

“You all right there? You looked like you might slide right off.” He gives her a toothy grin.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Ellie plants her feet firmly on the floor. She needs to sift to the truth. Needs her inchoate suspicions either proven or denied.

But now she knows one thing for certain in a world where nothing is certain: She needs to disappear. When and how will depend on what she learns.

Her hand gripped the knife tightly. His powerful hand closed over hers. Together they plunged the blade deep through white icing and lavender fondant flowers. The photographer snapped a photo. Ellie looked up at the flash. Saw her mother just behind the photographer; she was crying, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Ellie and Rob sliced a piece of cake. Fed bites to each other. They had agreed in advance to handle this tradition with decorum, no messy smashing of cake into faces. Ritual dispensed with, caterers swept in to cut the cake and serve it to the guests.

Ellie felt an unexpected, piercing sadness. Their wonderful wedding was almost over. All those months of planning and excitement, details and decisions, and soon it would all be in the past. A memory that would shift to solidify around the pictures taken, as the “real” of it drifted into the ether. She reminded herself to remember every little facet she could of this, the most important day of her life.

She found her mother and put an arm around Michelle’s shoulder. Michelle blew her nose and smiled through her tears. Swayed on her high heels. It was then that Ellie realized her mother was drunk.

“It was a lovely wedding,” Michelle slurred.

“It’s not over yet,” Ellie replied. “We have the band until two.”

“I know. I just—I just can’t help but think about Mary Ann today.”

“She’s here somewhere, Mom.”

“She shouldn’t have died.” Michelle wept openly. “It should be her wedding. She always was my favorite daughter.”

The remark was offhand, as if it was something Michelle was used to saying, something Ellie should be used to hearing. Ellie gasped, a harsh intake of painful breath. She reeled away from her mother. She felt dizzy.

Air.
Yes,
she thought,
I need air. And a moment with Rob. My husband. My love. Where is he?

P.J. leads them through the bustling harbor. Quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention. Fishermen pull in their final catches, day boat rentals return to dock, snack shops and snorkel shacks fold for the night just as the bars and restaurants come to life. Along with the scent of rum, snatches of conversation drift in the humid air. Chatter about flights off the island—vacationers trying urgently to change their plans, book hotels in Aruba or Barbados. Journalists debating the latest details, spinning foolish headlines:
The St. Lucia Sadist;
Holiday in Hell.

Darkness closes like a fist as fear-laced talk buzzes the dock. There is a madman on the loose on this island. The police are out in full force. It will take years for tourism to recover; how will St. Lucia survive?

Slipping past two fishermen sharing a smoke, a hushed, frightful fragment balances in the air: “…another dead guy. Stabbed, just like up at the hotel. And his lip hacked off.”

Rob’s head jerks back. His foot stops mid-stride. But he recovers smartly. He glances at Ellie. Her face has gone pale. She heard it too.

P.J. and Matt have stopped a few yards down, by a battered fishing boat,
Devocean,
painted on the side in a faded, flowery script. Matt hands a barrel-chested stranger a wad of cash. The stranger tucks the money into the pocket of his shorts. Gives Matt a half salute and murmurs, “Later, Pascal,” as he is swallowed up by the night.

Matt boards. P.J. follows. Rob reaches a hand to Ellie. She hesitates.

“Ellie, we’ve got to go.” Rob seizes her hand, crushes it in his, surprised at how cold her skin feels in the moist tropical heat. She follows him aboard the boat with jerky steps and eyes that avoid his.

The motor rumbles to life. P.J. guides the vessel away from the harbor and out to sea. Dense gray and black clouds coat the night sky. The ocean is roiling, slate gray, unforgiving. Matt and P.J. stay above deck. Rob leads Ellie to the cramped cabin below.

The cabin stinks of fish guts and diesel fuel. Bleach and tar. A top note of salt spray, a low note of decay. Rob feels queasy.

“Why did you slice off his lip?”

Rob startles at her vehemence. “Ellie, no…I didn’t.”

“Why did you kill Quinn?”

“I didn’t.”

“I saw you! Just now on the dock! Your reaction! Quinn’s
dead.
I bet you thought we’d be long gone before they found him, right? That you’d never have to tell me?”

“Ellie, I swear I didn’t kill him.”

“So who was it, then? P.J.? Or your friend Matt? Don’t you think it’s convenient? That your old friend P.J. just happens to live in St. Lucia? That Matt found him so easily?”

“Why are you saying these things?” Rob’s throat tightens. His tone turns acid. “I’d call it lucky, given that we’re heading out to sea on the boat he found for us.” Why is she questioning everything? Why won’t she just let things
go
?

“Yeah, and how did he find it? He
knew
the man we got the boat from. How?”

“What you heard was just street gossip. We don’t even know if Quinn is really dead. And now you accuse Matt? After he put himself in danger by coming down here to help us?”

“Is there no end to the lies you are going to tell me?” she demands brazenly.

“I swear to you I didn’t kill Quinn. None of us did. You have to trust me!”

“Is that what I have to do? Trust
you
?” A hollow laugh escapes Ellie. Her face reddens with anger. “Someone sliced Quinn’s lip off. So who was it, Rob? That was
your
message, yours and Matt’s!”

“Stop it! I won’t listen to this! Just drop it! Let it go!”

Desolate uncertainty shrieks in Rob’s head. But he is sure of one thing. He had believed Ellie was the light. His way out. His salvation. Now he knows there is no escape. He is shackled to violence and murder for the rest of his days. Heat radiates throughout his body. His hands tighten into fists. The aggression rising within him is terrifyingly familiar. “Where did you go every Tuesday?”

“What?” Ellie is startled.

“Did you think I didn’t notice? I followed you. Who’s in that hospice, Ellie? What else are
you
hiding from
me
?”

His seeking eyes find a fish-gutting knife lying atop a dirty rag. He reaches for the blade.

Ellie shrinks back and away from him. The terror in her eyes thrills him in his darkest center.

Ellie felt simultaneously solemn and giddy as Rob lifted her veil. Her mother beamed a smile from the first row. Her father stood next to Rob. How kind Dad was, standing in for Rob’s cousin. Ellie’s eyes darted around the ballroom.