Erin Solomon Mysteries, Books 1 - 5 Read online

  I landed on my back, hard, tasting the cold copper of blood in my mouth as I fought for breath. He was on me in an instant, a thick body with no fat, his movements fast and fluid as he grabbed my bangs, tearing them out at the roots. His fingernails dug into my scalp and he pulled my head forward, then smashed my skull back into the floor.

  The world exploded into fragments of light on impact.

  I just lay there for a moment, too stunned to fight.

  He didn’t move, still straddling me. When I finally got my wits about me again, I writhed beneath him, bucking my body, trying to free my arms to strike out. It didn’t work; he pinned my wrists over my head with one large hand, the other wrapped around my throat.

  I could smell his breath, could feel it against my face as his lips found my ear.

  “Stop looking,” he whispered. His hand tightened around my throat until the blackness gave way to white light swimming behind my eyelids and I tensed, bucking harder as I fought for breath.

  And then, the world went still.

  I didn’t move for a good five minutes after I finally came around again. Einstein was still yelping frantically, from somewhere that sounded very far away. I managed to get to my hands and knees before dizziness and terror and pain took hold, and I threw up on the hardwood floor.

  When I felt like it wasn’t too radical a move, I got up slowly, walking my hands up the side of the wall like a toddler just learning to stand. My throat was sore, my voice raw when I called out to Einstein, trying to soothe him before I finally staggered down the stairs and let him out of the pantry where he’d been trapped.

  My cell phone rang while Stein was still trying to reassure himself that we were both all right. I flipped it open, glanced at the caller ID, and tried to steady myself before I answered.

  “I’m on the island. Can you come?” My voice sounded anything but steady.

  “I’ll be right there.” Juarez hung up without asking for details. I sank to the floor and gathered Einstein in my arms, both of us still shaking.

  We waited for the cavalry.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  “You didn’t see him at all?”

  “It was dark. I couldn’t—ow,” I pulled away from Juarez’s probing fingers when he touched my cheekbone, sending a lightning bolt of pain straight to my aching head.

  “Sorry.”

  We were sitting at one of the old picnic tables in the meeting room. Einstein had been trying to climb inside me ever since I’d managed tof ree him. Now he was in my lap—all forty pounds of him—whining incessantly. When I flinched, the whine became a growl. Juarez dropped his hand.

  “I don’t think anything’s broken, but we need to get you to the hospital. You could have a concussion.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital.” I took his index finger and raised it until it was eye level, then moved his hand back and forth across my line of sight.

  “See? No problem tracking the movement. I checked my pupils, too—equal and reactive, just like on TV. I spent enough time tagging along as a kid with my mother to know what I’m talking about. There’s no concussion. I’m fine.”

  Juarez didn’t look so sure about that. I knew I’d sounded shaken on the phone, but now I was back in control. Sort of. A little freaked out and very sore, but in control all the same.

  And very, very pissed.

  “I didn’t get a look at him because it was so dark, but it was definitely a man. I think he had a beard.”

  Juarez nodded. Despite a blazing fire and feeling slightly better than I had an hour ago, I couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Did he say anything?”

  I thought of his mouth at my ear, the smell of stale breath. “Just ‘Stop looking.’ Short and sweet.”

  “And you didn’t recognize the voice?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about smells? Close your eyes.”

  I did, but re-opened them almost immediately when the images came back too fast. “Can we do this later?”

  “Sorry.” He sat down beside me. “This kind of thing happens and I go straight into cop mode. Are you sure you’re all right? If you won’t go to the hospital, at least come back to the mainland with me. You need to lie down for a while.”

  “I will—later. But first…” I stood, then reconsidered when gravity proved more formidable than usual. “How are you at petty crime?”

  Whatever you might say about his driving or his horrific musical taste, Juarez had it all over Diggs when it came to breaking and entering. Since the stairwell up to Isaac Payson’s apartment on the third floor was so narrow, I let Juarez lead the way. He took a couple of small tools from his wallet, fiddled with the door for a few seconds, and, voila, he was inside. He glanced back my way.

  “You want me to…?”

  “Yeah, go ahead. I’m right behind you.” My heart hammered in time to the pounding in my temples; the last thing I wanted was to be the first one entering another dark, forbidding room.

  If I’d been expecting mirrors on the ceiling or chains on the walls, I was disappointed; Payson’s lair was tidy and innocuous. There were more of the same kinds of creepy religious paraphernalia found around the rest of the house: crosses and paintings; moldy needlepoint with Bible verses; Christ with kids and lambs. The first bedroom in the apartment was small, with just enough room for a bureau, a four-poster bed, and a couple of nightstands. I searched for photos of Payson and his wife Mae, but found none.

  Juarez opened a door at the far side of the room and looked to me for the okay before he went inside. I followed him into a long, narrow alcove with a low ceiling and three twin beds spaced evenly apart from one another. There were no windows, and just the one entrance. Juarez and I both bounced our flashlight beams over the walls, where we found children’s drawings and more Bible verses tacked on peeling floral wallpaper.

  The room was warm compared with the rest of the house; it was hard to get a full breath in the fetid air. I remembered playing a game as a kid, where I’d jump onto my bed from the furthest point possible so any monsters lurking beneath couldn’t grab my ankles. Standing there beside Juarez, just inches from beds that had belonged to children whose laughter I could still remember, I felt the same fear of unnamed beasties and ghosts from beyond the grave.

  “His children slept here?” Juarez asked.

  I nodded. “Micah, Sarah, and Ezra.”

  “You knew them?”

  I walked out of the little alcove abruptly, my breath coming harder. “I knew everybody.”

  I headed for the door, intent on leaving the Paysons behind. Just as I was reaching for the doorknob, my flashlight beam bounced off something beside the dresser. Juarez stood by as I went to investigate.

  Half-buried in dust and grime, almost hidden from view behind the old bureau, was a rosary. The crucifix was made of cut glass, the beads carved from what I suspected was bone.

  “Why would someone running a Pentecostal church have a Catholic rosary?” Juarez asked, looking over my shoulder

  I examined the pendant carefully, then paused when my fingers stumbled over letters etched into the glass. I shined my flashlight on the area. “RW,” I said, half to myself.

  “Payson’s wife’s name was Mae, wasn’t it?” Jaurez asked.

  I nodded.

  “So, who was RW?” he pressed.

  I shook my head. The motion made my headache worse, and the surroundings weren’t doing much for my mood. The kicker, of course, was the dawning realization that someone had tried to kill me. Okay—maybe kill was too strong a word. If my attacker had really wanted me dead, he sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten much resistance from me, based on how ineffectual I’d been at fighting him off. But he had wanted me to go home, and he’d clearly wanted me to take his recommendation seriously.

  I didn’t know who RW was. I thought of the lamb’s body still in my father’s old bedroom, and the puddle of vomit in the hallway that I had yet to clean up. It wasn’t even noon yet, and the whole
world had turned upside down.

  Juarez touched my shoulder. “Erin?”

  I nodded. Standing was a monumental act of will. “Yeah. I don’t know—I don’t have a clue who RW was. I don’t have any more answers than you do, at this point.”

  His hand remained at my shoulder. It was warm and solid, and after a moment it migrated to the back of my neck and his thumb brushed against my nape, his fingers kneading the tense muscles there. I closed my eyes.

  “Let’s go back to the mainland,” he said. “You should rest.”

  For once, I didn’t argue.

  It was still raining when Juarez and I got back home that afternoon, a very bedraggled Einstein following in our wake. Diggs was still at work, for which I was grateful. Juarez made lunch while I popped a few Tylenol and avoided every mirror in the house. The chicken was sautéing and I was at the table contemplating my mysterious rosary when Juarez sat down beside me. He inched his chair closer to mine.

  “How’s your head?”

  “I’m all right.”

  He cupped my cheek in his hand. It was cool and callused. After a second’s hesitation, I leaned into his touch.

  “I’m glad you called me,” he said.

  “I’m glad you came out.”

  He dropped his hand, but didn’t move any further away. “Of course. But I still think we need to tell someone—report what happened. You could have been killed. And whoever did this is still out there somewhere.”

  “Not yet—I don’t want cops swarming the island. I probably just surprised some squatter. If he’d wanted to do more damage, he could have. I’m fine.” I couldn’t tell whether he bought the story or not.

  “I think Diggs is right about this,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out there alone.”

  “He told you that?”

  “We had a talk the other day. He’s just worried about you.” He stopped. We’d managed to go all this time with neither of us mentioning the kiss he’d walked in on the night before, or why I’d called him instead of Diggs this morning. I had a feeling that streak was about to end, though.

  “There’s nothing going on between us,” I said.

  “I know that.”

  Well, that was certainly easier than I’d expected.

  “I spoke with Diggs this morning—he said the same thing,” Juarez said.

  “That there’s nothing going on,” I repeated. It was fine for me to say it, but I felt inexplicably annoyed that Diggs was singing the same tune.

  “It’s not my business,” he said. “He’s concerned—we can leave it at that.” His gaze fell back to the rosary in my hand. Apparently, that conversation was over.

  “May I see it?”

  I handed him the rosary.

  “It’s well made,” he noted. “And old, I suspect. Do you remember anyone in the church with those initials?”

  “I’ll have to go back over the roster of members.”

  “I would have thought you’d have it memorized by now. No one comes to mind? Rachel, Raymond, Randall. Rebecca?”

  I looked at him. His proximity was suddenly anything but comforting, and the intensity in his eyes was downright unsettling. I eased my chair backward.

  “My head’s not quite where it should be,” I said. “Otherwise, I’m sure I’d remember.”

  He got up to tend the chicken and laid the rosary back on the table. I stood.

  “I’m sorry—it turns out I’m not feeling quite as well as I’d thought. I think I’m just gonna take a shower and try to get a little sleep.”

  I took Einstein—who wasn’t at all keen on leaving the chicken behind—and we retired to our room. When I was safely inside, I realized that my heart was beating too fast yet again. Another adrenaline surge like the ones I’d experienced today and I was likely to go into overdrive. Or sink into catatonia. I locked my bedroom door, my fingers curled around the rosary—the latest piece in a puzzle I was beginning to doubt I’d even survive to solve.

  August 10, 1990

  The sun is a distant white haze, the field around thick with blades of tall grass gone yellow from the drought. Rebecca revels in the silence. The buzz of bees at her ankles, the sweetness of pine and sea salt on the wind, the call of island birds basking in the warmth of their summer home.

  There was never peace with her husband, but there was immeasurable peace without him. Early mornings after Joe would leave for the boat, before Zion awoke, Rebecca would be alone. She would check on her son first, watching his chest rise and fall. Then, she would go down to the water and listen to the surf break over the granite shoreline. The constant tension of a warring homefront made those reprieves more than cathartic—they were like a lungful of air before she was pulled under once more.

  It is early afternoon, and Rebecca feels she has earned a few moments of solitude. Seated on a boulder in a thicket of pine and spruce, she hears the crack of a dead tree limb underfoot. She knows before he enters her hiding place exactly who it is. Whispering through the silence, Rebecca looks up to meet Matt’s eye.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she says.

  Despite the fact that he is now the constable of Littlehope, Matt Perkins looks the way he always has to her: too fragile, slightly off-center, his blue eyes watching the world with the suspicion and naked hope of a beaten dog.

  “I could say the same. I came to get you.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m staying, Matt.”

  “The hell you are. Get Zion—I’ll take you someplace safe.”

  “Will you, now?”

  He takes another step toward her. Rebecca notes for the first time that he’s wearing his uniform. She wonders if he is armed. This might be cause for concern in anyone else, but Matt isn’t anyone else. He’s no one. The boy she loved grown to the only man she trusts. It doesn’t matter, though; she knows his limitations.

  “He’ll find us. You know that,” she says.

  “He’ll find you here, too.”

  “Isaac can keep us safe.” The way you can’t. She doesn’t say the words, but she knows he hears them nonetheless.

  “It isn’t good for Zion. You don’t know anything about Isaac Payson.”

  “I know he wouldn’t hurt my son, and I know that he wouldn’t hurt me. I know that he’s been chosen.”

  Matt steps in closer. She can tell that he hasn’t been sleeping. The whites of his eyes shine like glass, splintered with red veins. She remembers the same look when he used to sneak into her room at the home late at night, shaking from the latest nightmare. Pleading to stay with her.

  “I’ve been reading about this, Becca. Talking to experts. People die in these kinds of places.”

  He stops. An instant later, Rebecca hears the rustle of leaves behind them. She turns, following Matt’s gaze, to find Adam approaching. It’s plain by the way he smiles at them both that he’s heard at least a portion of their conversation.

  “Good morning, Rebecca. Matt.”

  Matt nods, immediately assuming his role. For a man as weak, as tremblingly fallible as Rebecca knows Matt Perkins to be, he is still one of the best actors she’s ever known. He smiles, and it appears entirely sincere.

  “Nice to see you, Adam.”

  The men study one another. The sun bears down on Rebecca’s back until she feels a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades.

  “How’s everything on the mainland?” Adam asks.

  “Fine. Couple of bar fights over at the Shanty. Kat patched everybody up and they were laughing it up by the end of the night.” He keeps his eye on Adam. “Your girl was with her. Doesn’t seem like the best way to raise a little one—patching up bloody fishermen, Erin playing pinball till closing while her mum drinks her weight in whiskey and leaves with whoever’s sober enough to get ’em home in one piece.”

  The words strike their mark, as intended. A flicker of pain crosses Adam’s face; she sees Matt’s satisfaction in the way his arms hang loose at his side, a smile that’s very nearly a sneer at the corner of his
lips. He is not a cruel man—not as cruel as Joe, at any rate. He can be mean, though. She has seen him take pleasure in another’s suffering more than once, always surprised to see the trait in one who has only shown her kind words and a gentle hand.

  “Katherine has her problems, but she loves our daughter,” Adam says. “She’s a good mother.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

  “It’s better than being out here, I guess. An island out in the middle of nowhere’s no place to raise a child.” Matt looks at Rebecca meaningfully. She holds his eye until he looks away, as though ashamed of his behavior.

  “There’s nowhere safer than here for most children. You should speak to some of the young people raised on the island, Constable. Self-assured, well-adjusted, healthy. At peace.”

  “And yet, you toss your little one to the wolves on the mainland. Why is that, Adam?”

  Rebecca waits for his answer, having considered the question herself. The man looks lost for a moment. When he comes to, he nods up the path toward the house.

  “Isaac is at the greenhouse, Constable, if you’d like to see him. I’m sure he’d be happy if you joined us for lunch.”

  Rebecca sees the annoyance on Matt’s face before he can hide it. He clears his throat; looks over his shoulder.

  “No, I should get back—I just came to see Becca. Just wanted to make sure everything’s okay out here.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Adam says. His façade of peaceful self-assurance has been restored. “She and Zion fit in very well.”

  Despite his words, Matt makes no move to go. Adam likewise remains where he is. It’s a staring contest between two little boys, but Adam doesn’t seem shaken by the competition. The smile on his face is less the easy warmth of an apostle, more the sleeping fire of an archangel. He does not budge. Matt looks away first. For a moment, Rebecca feels her old friend’s defeat as though it were her own, and is disappointed to find a tiny stone of hatred for Adam beginning to form somewhere deep.