Buch lesen: «Deadline»

With thanks to Keren.

My life is less stormy because of you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

EXTRACT

Copyright

ONE

Deep gray fog rolled over the surface of Lake Huron, slipping through the open door to the ferry deck, and blocking out the afternoon sun. Meg Duff braced her palm against the doorframe and took in a long, cleansing breath. The smell of impending rain filled the air. She stood with her feet just inside the threshold of the crowded passenger lounge. Pale blue eyes stared out into the void. Wind brushed against her face, tossing her dark, chin-length hair. A shiver ran down her spine. The deck was deserted.

Just two more days until the wedding, Meg. All you’ve got to do is hold it together until then. Somewhere on this boat were a young bride and groom headed to Manitoulin Island for their dream wedding. The last thing they needed was to find out their wedding planner was having a panic attack.

She glanced at her cell phone. Twenty minutes until they reached shore. Her palm pressed against her chest. She focused on its rhythmic rise and fall. As the only professional wedding planner on a beautiful and remote island, she’d organized more than her fair share of weddings for big-city couples, who’d parachute into her community just long enough say “I do” and cut the cake. But this wedding had quickly become the most expensive and demanding of her career. The young couple were college students in Toronto, who’d agreed to get married on the island to butter up the bride’s elderly grandmother who lived there, and who was paying the bills. The wedding had been organized solely with the high-strung bride, and almost entirely by phone and email. Within five minutes of joining the wedding party at the mainland ferry docks, the bride had launched into a string of ridiculously detailed questions about decorations at the reception venue, while the imposing best man had made an unwanted romantic advance that left Meg feeling both flustered and insulted.

But that was nothing compared to the panic that had coursed through her when she looked into the young groom’s eyes and was struck by flashbacks of a tragic night so many years ago.

Why hadn’t she realized she was actually planning a wedding for the cousin of someone whose senseless death still haunted her nightmares?

It had been fourteen years since a truck had collided with two teenaged boys on snowmobiles—the groom’s cousin Chris, and Meg’s younger brother, Benji. She’d been seventeen. But the young groom, Wesley, had only been seven at the time. His family had moved off the island shortly afterward. She hadn’t even recognized his name until she’d seen his face. He’d given no sign that he recognized hers. Did the groom and his bride even know how that night also tore her life in two? Should she tell them? Surely if she didn’t, someone else on the island would. But how could she damper the happiest day of their lives by bringing up memories like that?

A bag knocked hard against her back, almost forcing her out into the fog. She glanced over her shoulder, but the culprit had already disappeared into the crowd without so much as an apology. She turned back to the gloom, shoved her phone into her pocket and wrapped her scarf twice around her neck. Crocheted strands tumbled down her slender frame, all the way to her knees, but did little to protect against the damp. Silhouettes of the shoreline swirled into focus for a moment, before being swallowed back up by the never-ending gray. She should really close the door.

“Excuse me, miss?”

There was a man behind her. Tall, with the broad shoulders and the tapered build of an athlete. His brown leather jacket was faded and worn, while his tousled, sun-kissed hair would’ve made her presume he was just another thrill-seeking tourist if it wasn’t for how very intently his dark eyes were now searching her face.

A flush of heat rose to her cheeks. “Can I help you?”

His mouth turned up ever so slightly into a casual, laid-back grin. But the intensity of his gaze never faltered for a second. The warmth spread down her neck and through her shoulders. It looked like the smile of a man who’d seen more than his fair share of danger.

It was the kind of smile that made her feel anything but safe.

“My name is Jack Brooks. I’m a reporter with Torchlight News, Toronto.” Too late she saw the voice recorder in his outstretched hand. He raised the microphone toward her. “Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?”

Her blood ran cold. A reporter? Was the press actually going to cover this wedding? As if it wasn’t bad enough she’d had to watch those scandal-seeking newshounds trampling all over her lawn as a teenager, while her brother lay in the hospital fighting for his life. They’d kept coming back, every few years, to revisit the story. Now it seemed she had to face them again, just because she hadn’t been quick enough to realize a connection between that tragedy and this groom. Was the shadow of that night going to follow her for the rest of her life?

All this and it was still only Thursday. How was she ever going to make it through this weekend without falling apart?

Jack Brooks could waste all the handsome grins on her that he wanted. She knew the look of a man who was after something. He wasn’t going to get it from her. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t talk to reporters.”

Then before he could say anything more, she pushed through the open doorway and out into the cool, damp air, barely even noticing something clatter behind her. He didn’t follow. A thick blanket of gray enveloped her body. She strode down the deck. The babble of voices faded completely. Then the light of the lounge disappeared in the fog.

There was muffled sound to her right. A rustling, like footsteps shuffling. Hang on, had someone else actually wandered out on deck in this weather?

Meg turned. “Hello?” No one there. Silence filled her ears, except for the thrum of the engines beneath her. A jittery feeling brushed along the back of her neck. She slid her hands onto the railing.

Enough of this. She was stressed. Rattled. Nothing more. She just needed to pray. A deep breath filled her lungs. She let it out slowly. Her eyes closed as the words of her favorite hymn moved through her mind like a prayer, “Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well. It is well with my—”

The full-body blow was hard and without warning as her attacker pushed her into the railing. The air was knocked from her chest. A scream barely escaped from her lungs before a leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth, forcing her silent.

Ice-cold panic gripped her chest so tightly her body felt paralyzed. The attacker’s other hand grabbed the scarf at her throat and twisted it like a noose. Slowly he squeezed the air from her windpipe. The desperate need to breathe burst through her body. She shoved back against her attacker with every ounce of energy she had. Her head thrashed. The gloved hand slipped just enough to let her glance back. But all she could see was the orange hood of a raincoat.

He shoved her forward again, pinning her body against the railing, her small frame no match for his strength. Then he let go of her mouth. She opened her lips, but could barely make a sound as she gasped to fill her lungs with air. He grabbed hold of the bottom ends of her scarf and twisted them around her wrists, tying her hands together. Then he lifted her off the deck. She kicked out hard, her feet desperately searching for grip while she wrenched her bound hands, trying to get them free. But even as she struggled, he forced her over the railing toward the unforgiving water below.

* * *

Jack leaned back against the door and pulled a page of crime pictures from his jacket. His eyes scanned the images: a ransacked college dorm room, a garbage-strewn alley and a trashed apartment. Places where three different young women were killed. The only connection anyone had been able to find was security camera footage and witness statements that described someone in an orange raincoat at each of the crime scenes.

Oh, Lord, why am I the only one who believes this is the work of a serial killer? He was risking his entire professional career on a hunch. Monday afternoon, he’d finally talked his editor at Torchlight News into running the article he’d cobbled together laying out his investigation thus far on the “Raincoat Killer.” The story ran on the front cover of Tuesday’s paper, and on Wednesday morning the chief of police himself had called a press conference to announce the murders were unrelated and that Jack’s article was nothing but the product of an amateur sleuth jumping to ridiculous conclusions. His editor had suggested Jack take the rest of the week off while the publisher figured out whether or not to fire him.

Jack had decided instead to chase one final lead all the way up to Manitoulin Island. Either he’d find the proof his story was solid or face the fact that when he walked back into the office it would be to kiss his job goodbye. Every well-honed instinct in his journalistic gut was convinced these three murders were somehow connected. Especially now that he’d looked across a ferry and locked eyes on her.

His eyes zeroed in on a picture of the final crime scene. There, amid the broken glass and chaos, two flyers lay on the floor, next to where a young woman had been stabbed. One was an island ferry schedule, with this afternoon circled. The other read Meg Duff, Island Weddings above the picture of a beautiful woman with troubled blue eyes. The very same woman who’d just disappeared off into the fog.

A heavyset man jostled past him, his coffee slopping over the rim of his cup and onto the page. Jack leapt back and tripped over something. A cell phone. Was it Meg’s? Had she dropped it in her hurry to get away from him? He slipped the phone and the wet pages into his bag. Well, she might not want to talk to him as a journalist, but he wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if he didn’t at least try to return her phone.

Jack shoved the door back open and walked outside. Wow. It’s like soup out here. He strode down the deck, choosing a direction at random.

A scream split the air. Female. Terrified. He started running. Then he saw them. A figure in a raincoat had wrestled Meg over the railing. Her hands were tied. Her feet kicked frantically. Adrenaline surged through Jack’s body, pushing his legs into a flat-out sprint.

Meg’s attacker threw her overboard.

TWO

Screams filled Jack’s ears as Meg’s body disappeared. The man in the raincoat turned. Was he face-to-face with the Raincoat Killer? The thought hit Jack like a punch to the gut. His eyes searched the hooded form for some clue to his identity. But he barely had seconds to look before the killer took off running.

Jack gritted his teeth. How long would it take him to find a member of the crew and tell him to sound the overboard alarm? Minutes. He’d learned that from covering too many drownings. Then even more precious minutes would pass as they stopped the ferry, lowered the lifeboat and went back to search the foggy water for the woman now fighting for her life. How long would it take them to find her? Could she even hold on that long? Was he willing to risk it?

No.

His bag hit the deck. Jack tossed off his leather jacket, grabbed a life ring from the railing and clutched it to his chest. Dear Lord, please give me the strength to save her. He leapt overboard. Air rushed past him. Choppy water hit Jack’s body like a tidal wave, knocking the ring from his hands and throwing his sense of direction into chaos. The ring’s towrope unraveled in the water around him. Identical walls of gray filled his vision on all sides. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up swimming in circles until both he and Meg drowned. “Hey! Hello! Shout if you can hear me!”

No answer but the rumble of the ferry departing in the distance. For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes and focused on the fading sound of the engine. Then he tied the end of the towrope to his belt and took off swimming in the opposite direction, dragging the ring behind him. “Hang on! I’m coming!”

Oh, Lord, please let her still be alive. Help me reach her in time.

“Help!” Her frightened voice pierced the gloom. “I’m—” The sound was swallowed up by the gurgle of water filling her throat.

“Hold on! I’m here!” Please, Lord, please, help her hold on. “I’m coming for you.” His long limbs tore through the water. The fog parted and he saw her, breaking through the surface, thrashing against her bonds. Her eyes met his. Terrified. Exhausted. Water swept over her head again. She disappeared under the surface.

He dove for her. His eyes peered blind through the cold, dark depths. He found her, churning the water as she kicked frantically toward the surface. Her foot made contact with his knee. His leg went numb. He gasped and nearly swallowed a mouthful of water. If she didn’t calm down enough to let him save her, neither of them would make it out alive.

His left arm slid around her waist. He pulled her against him. His right hand grabbed her bound wrists and slid them over his head. To his relief, her body fell still against his chest. Now he just had to be strong enough to swim for both of them.

His lungs burned with the urge to breathe. His heart pounded through his skull. The cold seeped through his clothes as his legs battled against the weight of his boots. But the rope tied to his waist kept him tethered to the life ring above. They burst through to the surface. He spluttered, then gasped for breath. She coughed hard; her body shuddered against his. Her head fell onto his shoulder, and he impulsively turned his face toward it, feeling her forehead brush against his chin. Her legs started treading water. Thank God. Just. Thank. You. God.

He pulled the life ring over. “I need you to let go of me so I can untie your hands. Okay?”

She nodded as shallow gasps slipped between her lips. Carefully he slid her arms off his neck, pushed the life ring between them, and helped her lean her weight on it. They floated there for a moment, panting for breath, resting on opposite sides of the ring, their hands linked over the center. Tendrils of dark hair framed her face. Blue eyes looked up into his. Fragile and brave.

Questions poured through his brain. Was this some sick coincidence, or had he actually just saved this woman from the very serial killer that the Toronto police said didn’t exist? Was there a personal connection between her and either the killer or the most recent victim, as he’d theorized from the crime photos? Did she even know about the murder of three young women, miles away in Toronto?

But even as the thoughts filled his mind, he could feel the hard-bitten journalist inside him battling against the unexpected desire to simply to reach up and cup her cheek in his hand, to comfort and reassure her.

Instead he reached for the twisted and torn fabric that still tied her wrists together. Judging by the state of it, she hadn’t been about to give in without a fight.

“Thank you. You saved my life.”

A grin of relief broke over his face. “No problem. I’m just thankful you were able to keep afloat long enough for me to reach you.”

“I don’t...” She shivered. “I don’t know what just happened...or who that was...or why he’d... One moment I was standing on the deck. The next...” Her voice trailed off as her bound hands rose back toward the bruises now forming in the curve of her neck.

A seemingly random attack. By a man in an orange raincoat. This one right before his very eyes. And here he was, floating in the water, miles away from any way to make notes or to contact the police and his editor.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. I promise.” He gently pulled her hands back toward him.

She glanced toward the sound of the departing ferry. He could read the question in her eyes. But what about everyone else still on the boat? He wished he had an answer.

“My name is Meg Duff, by the way. But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

So she’d suspected earlier that he’d sought her out specifically and that his questions for her weren’t going to be just a random survey of public opinion. Again, questions about the Raincoat Killer filled his mind, but the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her any more than she already was. “You’re a wedding planner, right? I saw a flyer of yours back in Toronto.”

“I gave out hundreds at a bridal show there just a few months ago. I’m guessing you already know all about the wedding this weekend.”

He kept his face carefully blank. No, he didn’t know. Weddings, parties and frilly dresses weren’t the kinds of thing he’d ever covered. Not unless they were covered in blood and surrounded by crime tape.

“I’d gone to the mainland today to meet the bride for a dress fitting,” she went on. “Then the rest of the wedding party arrived from Toronto. I was on the boat to escort them all to the island. But then I decided to step away onto the deck for a while to find some peace. They’re a bit much.”

He gently worked his fingers in between the strings and her wrists.

“It stretched,” she added.

“What?”

“The fabric. Cotton does that.” She breathed in deeply. “I thank God it was yarn, not silk, or I’d be dead by now.”

Huh. She’d been attacked, nearly drowned, was now floating in a lake and yet she still had the ability to find something to be thankful for. He separated the loosest loop and yanked with all his might. It snapped. Gently he eased the fabric away from her wrists. His heart ached to see the deep red welts standing out on her pale skin. Then he unbound her neck. “Are you going to be okay to swim for shore?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the ferry to find us?”

He shook his head. “It’s not coming back, unless someone else saw something and notified the captain. I didn’t time have to alert the crew. It was either find help or save you. Last summer, a college kid jumped off a ferry like this and it took them almost fifteen minutes to reach him with a lifeboat, and that was with fifty witnesses pointing their phones at him.” He’d covered the story. The kid had very nearly drowned. “Average ferry rescue time on a good day is twelve minutes. I saw that your hands were tied, and knew you’d need help faster than that.”

Was that more information than she’d needed? He was overexplaining. A telltale sign he was nervous. How many years had it been since that had happened? But something about sharing a life ring in the cold gray water with this beautiful, frightened creature was setting his nerves on edge, and it wasn’t only the hunch he’d just confronted a serial killer.

Keep your emotions out of it, Jack. You know you can’t afford to get emotionally connected to anyone you intend to interview. Now even more than ever.

“Do you think anyone from the wedding party will come looking for you?”

“Not until after they land. I told them I’d meet up with them when we docked on the island. Were you traveling with anyone?”

He shook his head. “I’m up here alone. So chances are no one even knows we’ve gone overboard.”

“Except...” Her voice faltered.

“Except the criminal who did this to you.”

A light rain began to fall, cooling the air and lightening the fog. “I’m ready to start swimming if you are,” she said. “I have a pretty good guess of where we are, and it shouldn’t take too long.”

She swam with one hand, keeping the other braced on the life ring. He did likewise.

“Do you cover a lot of weddings?”

“No. Never. I’m a crime reporter.”

She frowned. The same uncertainty he’d seen in her face, when she’d brushed him off before, filled her eyes. She’d probably run from him again if she had anywhere to go.

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier,” she said, “I thought you wanted to interview me about the wedding I’m organizing this weekend. But now I’m realizing that probably wasn’t it.”

He nearly laughed. “Is the couple rich or famous?”

Another pause, filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies cutting through the water.

“Not really,” she said. “Just young and immature. The bride’s grandmother owns a big chunk of the island, so the wedding is pretty lavish. The bride lost her parents when she was young and was raised by her grandmother. The bride and groom have both seen far more than their fair share of tragedy actually, which might be why they decided to get married so young. The groom’s parents died just last year, and his cousin was in a bad snowmobile accident years ago.” She glanced at him sideways. “In my experience, reporters like poking around in human misery.”

There was a bitter edge to her voice, as though she’d been hurt before and was still cradling the wound.

“Trust me, I’m not that kind of reporter.”

“So, what did you want to ask me about?”

The distant shoreline appeared and disappeared in a haze of rolling fog. The rain grew heavier. Lord, help me find the right words. It was hard to imagine a worse time for this conversation. But he also had no idea what was going to happen when they got to shore, and she deserved to hear it from him first, before they reported the attack to the police. He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Krista Hooper, Eliza Penn or Shelly Day?”

“No. Are they brides?”

“They’re murder victims.”

Her face paled. “I don’t understand.”

He kept his voice steady, focusing on the facts, not theories. “All three died recently in Toronto. In each case, there is evidence suggesting that the killer was wearing an orange raincoat.”

She stopped swimming so abruptly he accidentally yanked the life ring from her hands. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose? Is he the one who tried to drown me?”

He pushed the floatation device toward her. She didn’t grab it. “I’m saying I honestly don’t know. A couple of days ago, my paper, Torchlight News, ran a full, front-page article by me that argued we were dealing with a serial killer. I thought it was solid. But the chief of police held a press conference yesterday and announced investigators are still confident they’re just three unrelated attacks.” Not to mention the chief had then denounced his article as fear mongering, almost destroying Jack’s career and reputation in a fatal blow.

Meg treaded water. “But three young women were murdered?”

“In a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”

“But what about the orange raincoat?”

“It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”

“Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”

Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.

“What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”

“In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”

“What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”

He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”

“Me too.”

He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.

They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it comes to avoiding any potential witnesses.”

Considering how close he himself had come to not venturing out on deck, the killer had almost pulled off the perfect crime yet again. Jack was stunned by the strength and determination it must have taken Meg to fight for her life long enough for him to reach her.