“In order to see a book through to the end, you have to have discipline, so carve out time every day—no excuses. When you get ready to write your novel, outline it first. There’s nothing worse than getting halfway through and realizing you’ve painted yourself in a plot corner.”
—JANET EVANOVICH
Mick is halfway to Pines & Quill when Libby’s ringtone jangles in his jeans pocket.
“Hey sis, I’m just heading back from talking with the police team on the bluffs. I’m going to swing by Austen to see Emma—”
“Mick, come straight to the main house. It’s urgent.”
Not pausing to question the dread in his sister’s voice, he bolts.
As she looks toward the mouth of the cave, Emma sees that day has just been born. With still-young light, she can just make out the shadowy shape of her wheelchair.
Nodding toward it, she asks Jason, “May I?”
It takes him a moment, but he finally responds. “Hmmm. I was thinking no, but since you asked so nicely, yes you may. I use positive reinforcement for training dogs. The look of astonishment when you inflict pain after a reward is extremely satisfying.”
Sickened, Emma keeps her tongue in check and drags herself across the guano-covered, rock-strewn ground.
Reaching the wheelchair, she assesses it carefully, sets it to rights, locks the wheels in place, and begins the difficult task of pulling herself up and into the seat.
Hearing soft applause, she turns to see Jason’s eyes locked on hers.
“Brava,” he says, feigning interest in her accomplishment. “You seem to have quite the upper-body strength.” Tapping his temple with his index finger, he says, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“It depends on what it is. Try me.”
“Earlier you said you were going fishing and that you’re going to use me as bait. I don’t understand what you’re trying to catch or why. Will you please explain?”
Libby and Niall are waiting for Mick when he arrives through the mudroom.
Passing Hemingway, he heads straight into the kitchen. His sister and brother-in-law appear to be okay, so he asks, “What’s so urgent?”
Libby says, “I didn’t want to contaminate any possible evidence, so I put the Pines & Quill journal down once I’d read the most recent entry. I left it open to that page so you can read it without picking it up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Follow me. I don’t know what it means either,” Libby says. “But whatever it is, it isn’t good.”
When Mick bends over the oak stand and starts reading, Libby and Niall both watch the color drain from his face.
“Ms. Winters, you had quite an extraordinary evening,” Dr. Zimmerman smiles as she reaches out her hand.
Extending her hand to meet the doctor’s, Cynthia smiles. “Please call me Cynthia. Everything’s still a bit fuzzy. Can you help refresh my memory of what happened?”
“I don’t have all of the details, but from what Sean McPherson tells me, you were attacked by someone on the bluff over the bay. You’re fortunate that whoever did this to you only nicked your femoral artery. That was bad enough. If it had been severed, you would have bled out and died.”
The pieces in Cynthia’s memory start fitting together. And while she still doesn’t have the full picture, she remembers that Hemingway saved her from Jason, and that a storm-driven gust of wind toppled him over the side of the cliff.
“Did they find his body?” she asks the doctor.
Wrinkling her brows in question, “Whose body?” Dr. Zimmerman asks.
“The last thing I remember is that a blast of wind slapped Jason Hughes over the side of the cliff.”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Zimmerman says. “There were no reported fatalities last night. I’d like to take a few of your vitals while we talk. Is that okay with you?”
“That’s fine. When will I be released?”
“I’m determining that right now,” Dr. Zimmerman says, smiling. “Libby MacCullough called and wants to know the same thing. Since you’re staying at Pines & Quill, you must be a writer,” she says, continuing her examination. “Please hold your head still and follow this pen light with your eyes.”
“Yes,” Cynthia answers. “I’m here working on a book.”
“Now breathe deeply. That’s it.” A moment passes. “Again.” Dr. Zimmerman takes gentle hold of Cynthia’s wrist. Her thumb, where it rests on Cynthia’s skin, is warm and soft. When she’s satisfied, she takes a chart from the table and writes something. The doctor’s cursive is precise and unexpectedly neat.
“Tell me about it. I’d like to hear.” And while Cynthia gives her a thumbnail sketch of the book, Dr. Zimmerman finishes her examination.
“I’ll dismiss you today if you will make, and keep,”—she emphasizes the word “keep” with a pointed look—“a promise.”
“I’m sure that I can. What is it?”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, but not enough for a transfusion. In other words, because your body’s remaking blood, you have to rest. And by rest, I mean you need to remain still.”
“Yes, I’ll—”
“I’m not quite finished. You also have an impressive number of stitches on the inside of your upper thigh. They, too, need to rest.”
Waiting to make sure the doctor has finished, Cynthia says, “Yes, I promise that I’ll rest.”
“Then I’ll go call the MacCulloughs and let them know they can pick you up this afternoon. In the meantime, please lie still and get some rest.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome. I hope we don’t meet again under these circumstances.”
A deep quiet settles over the room. Cynthia rests her eyes and tries to reconstruct the events of last night. In her mind’s eye, she sees herself being wheeled down a long corridor, and remembers ceiling lights flashing rhythmically through closed eyelids.
Mesmerized, she slips into sleep again.
“Niall, call the police and get them back out here. Let them know that Chris, Herb, Joe, and Toni are familiar with the case and we’d like one of them,” Mick says before leaving.
Fifteen years his senior, Libby stays on Mick’s heels as they run over the smooth walkway—fueled by fear—to Austen cottage.
Not bothering to knock, Mick pushes the door activation button. “The deadbolt’s been thrown,” he says over his shoulder to Libby as he rounds the corner of the cottage.
“Emma,” he shouts, sliding the glass door open. “Emma!”
Libby’s right behind him.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mick says, while his eyes drink everything in, looking for clues. “It doesn’t look like there’s been a struggle.”
“I can’t imagine where she’s gone, or why she’d throw the deadbolt and use the sliding glass door to leave,” Libby says.
“I don’t think she would have,” Mick answers, his voice laced with steel. “Please go back to the house and wait for the police. I’m going to my cabin, and then I’m going to Thoreau.”
“Why are you going to your cabin?”
“To get my gun. Call me when the police arrive.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m putting my cell on vibrate so it’s silent when you call. I don’t want a ring to alert anyone of my presence.”
“Oh, my God, Mick. Be careful.”
From the tone of his people’s voices and the way they’re pacing the buttery pine floorboards in the kitchen, Hemingway knows that something is wrong.
He can smell their fear from the mudroom.
Alert to possible danger, Mick’s adrenalin spikes as he loads and holsters his Glock 22, the same type of service weapon he’d been issued when hired by the SFPD. Once a cop, always a cop, he thinks. And though the clip holster is meant for ultimate concealment inside his waistband, he doesn’t give a damn about that right now.
Stashing another magazine with fifteen rounds in his back pocket, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and storms toward Thoreau.
The moist cave wall feels cool to his back as Jason positions himself so he can keep an eye on Emma and the mouth of the cave. Though the light is dim, he can see Emma take in his every move. I don’t give a damn. I have the upper hand.
As he holds his right arm across his chest, fingers resting on his left shoulder, his other hand taps an empty bottle of Jack Daniels on top of his thigh. Now and then he raises it to his nose and inhales deeply, relishing the fumes. “So you’d like me to explain why I’m using you as bait. Is that right?” Jason sneers.
“Yes,” she answers evenly, with no trace of emotion in her voice.
“It doesn’t really matter what you know because you’re going to be dead shortly, and I’m the one who’s going to kill you.”
Jason feels excitement tingle throughout his body. Just saying the words brings an explosion of pleasure.
“You’re the ideal bait because I’ve seen how Lover Boy looks at you.” His lips twist in a sneer. “Once he realizes that you’re gone, he’s going to come looking for you, and I’m going to derive a great deal of pleasure watching him crumple as I slit your throat. You’ll be the second person I kill that he cares for.”
“Who was the first?” Emma asks.
“His name was Sam. Poor, unfortunate bastard. He was McPherson’s partner.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A little slow on the uptake, aren’t you?”
Shaking his head in derision, Jason continues. “Five years ago, my brother and I orchestrated a heist involving well over ten million dollars in heroin. The problem was, the goods were in the SFPD evidence lockup. But we had someone on the inside helping us—a dirty cop. Stay wary,” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, “for treachery walks among you.”
He watches with pleasure as Emma rubs the goosebumps on her arms, then continues. “The only thing we had to do was empty the station house. Police are predictable creatures. When an officer falls, they rally. Every one of them.
“All we had to do was kill a cop—any cop would do.
“We used a diversionary tactic to draw a squad car to a bridge. And that’s when I got the driver in my sights and squeezed the trigger. Boom! Sam was out of the game.”
“I don’t understand why you want to kill Mick. He’s off the force. And you got your drugs.”
“Aah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I didn’t get the drugs. My brother was one of three people who got caught. He’s the one who stashed the drugs. He’s the only person who knows their location.”
“And he won’t tell you where they are?” Emma asks.
“Dead men tell no tales,” Jason retorts with an angry snarl. “My brother was killed in jail before he could tell me. So, I’m out ten million bucks, and McPherson’s going to pay.”
“But why Mick?” Emma asks. “You said any police officer would do, and you shot Sam. So why Mick? Why now? Why five years later?”
Jason smirks and says, “Consider it tying up loose ends, just like I’m going to do with you.”
Emma closes her eyes and remembers a captivating article she’d read on the flight from San Diego to Seattle. It discussed the notorious “Golden State Killer” and the difference between sociopaths and psychopaths. It said, “Psychopaths are more dangerous because they don’t feel shame or experience guilt connected with their actions. They point blame instead.” It went on to say, “A psychopath is a human predator who wears a mask of sanity, an aggressor who preys on others merely for the pleasure of it, simply because they can.”
Emma shudders.
Mick approaches Thoreau from the rear. With his weapon drawn, he drops into a half squat and edges his face around the corner. Peering into the solid glass wall, he does a tactical scan. He can see everything inside the cottage except the bedroom and bathroom.
Making his way to the front door, he tests the handle and discovers that it’s not locked.
He enters crouched. Ready.
Pivoting on his heel, he performs a 180-degree sight line. Clear.
He listens for sounds. Nothing.
His senses are on high alert as he makes his way to the bathroom and bedroom. His torso swiveling, his gaze sweeps the space, drinking everything in like a dry sponge soaks up water. Empty.
Satisfied, he stands for a couple of beats taking it all in.
The closet reveals that Jason hasn’t hung any of his clothes.
Mick opens the first of two suitcases sitting on the floor next to the bed. It contains folded clothing, a pair of shoes, and a lightweight jacket.
The second one contains folded white towels that appear to be from a hotel. Divided into two stacks, the top two towels have rectangular name badges pinned to them. The one on the left says Rose and also bears the name and logo of a hotel. The one on the right says Yolanda with a different hotel name and logo.
Lifting those towels, Mick discovers that each subsequent towel in the suitcase also has a name badge affixed. Linh, Teagen, Mai, Teresa, Amala, Veronica, Devi, and Silvia.
The two common denominators that he can readily see are white hotel towels and badges with female names. But each badge belongs to a different hotel.
Racking his brain, Mick recalls dropping Jason off at Thoreau on that first day. In his mind, he pictures him with a suitcase in each hand, and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Where’s the backpack?
Back in the central part of the cottage, Mick finds numerous empty bottles of Jack Daniels. He also sees the empty boxes UPS delivered with Jason’s manuscript—the pages are nowhere to be found.
I wonder what was really in these boxes?
The cell phone in his pocket vibrates. Mick sees Libby’s name on the screen and answers.
“The police are here,” she says.
“I’ll be right there.”
When the vehicle sensor buzzes in the main house, signaling the arrival of the police, Niall buzzes them in and Libby phones Mick as he requested.
The cruiser pulls into the roundabout just as Fran arrives.
“Is everything okay?” she asks the officer who steps out of the car.
“Mr. MacCullough asked me to come out,” Joe offers. Extending his hand, he continues, “And you are?”
“I’m Fran Davies, one of the writers staying here this month.”
All heads turn as Libby opens the front door.
“Oh, Fran,” she says, looking surprised. “You’re here too. In all of the commotion, I forgot we were going to pick up Cynthia.”
Stepping out of the way, she continues, “Come in everyone, please.”
Fran and Joe follow Libby to the kitchen.
“My God it smells good in here,” Joe says. As he extends his hand, Niall says, “I bake when I’m upset.”
“He bakes regardless of the emotion,” Libby says smiling. “Please have a seat.”
“Did the hospital say they would release Cynthia today?” Fran asks.
“With the recent developments, I haven’t called yet.”
Niall sets a plate of freshly baked scones on the table, and Libby pours coffee for everyone. After taking a bite, Joe says, “Seriously, what is this? I’m in heaven.”
“They’re chocolate-drizzled chocolate scones with chocolate-and-orange-speckled clotted cream and orange marmalade,” Niall answers. “Chocolate is my drug of choice.”
“What developments?” Fran interrupts.
Before anyone can answer, Mick arrives. After thanking Joe for coming back, he says, “First and foremost, we’ve got to find Emma. Emma Benton.
“When Libby and I went to Austen cottage this morning, the front door was bolted, so we went around back and entered through the sliding glass door. She wasn’t there, and we didn’t see any signs of a struggle.
“It’s important to note that Austen cottage is specifically designed around the needs of a person in a wheelchair. I lived there myself, that’s where I recovered.”
His look is grave as his eyes travel from face to face around the table. “I’m point on this case.” His tone brooks no discussion as he leaves to get the journal.
Returning from The Ink Well, his glove-clad hands set the book on the table. Before opening it, he brings them up to speed on the towel-filled suitcase he found in Thoreau.
“When we’re done here,” Joe says, “I’ll retrieve the suitcases. They could be evidence. I’ll run the names on the hotel badges against the hotels to see if we get any leads. From what you said, I don’t recognize any of those hotels as being from around here.”
Turning back to the book, Mick says, “Each of our guests has access to and is encouraged to write something in the Pines & Quill journal. This morning, a newly coned Hemingway,” he nods in the direction of the Dutch door, “knocked over the stand this sits on,” he says, tapping the edge of the book.
Nodding toward Libby, he continues, “When my sister picked it up, she saw a new entry.” Pointing to it he reads out loud. “‘Look in the mirror and what do you see? An eerie reflection that looks like me.’ It’s signed, Andrew Berndt. He’s one of the two ringleaders in the drug heist that killed my partner, Sam.
“I think that Jason Hughes is the other ringleader. I think he’s Andrew Berndt’s fraternal twin.”