Eye Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz
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could end up out on the streets again.”
“Like you said, she’s lost so much. Maybe she feels she has nothing more to lose.”
“There’s her life.”
“What’s the point if she always has to live in fear? Maybe she’s tired of running, Gray. Did you think of that?”
A skewed barb? “I couldn’t take you with me, Bryn. And even if I could have, you wouldn’t have come. You fit too well here.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Nothing he could say would change her mind. “I care about Abbie. You know that. I have to find her before Vanderveer’s snitch does. In your heart you know that, too. Where is she?”
But Bryn didn’t answer. The push of her body against the door yielded a loud creak.
He sprang up and pounded on the door. He wrenched the doorknob, but the lock wouldn’t give, and he’d long ago lost the key. “Bryn, you have to help me. Please. I don’t care if you hate me till the day you die. But you have to care that Abbie’s life is in danger.”
Bryn’s footsteps padded away. The dog’s toenails clicked on the linoleum as it followed its mistress.
A moment later “Stayin’ Alive” blasted from a stereo.
He wasn’t stupid. He got the hint. As always in this town, he was on his own. He turned and strode toward his car. His being here was causing Bryn grief, and whatever he represented to her was a threat. Too bad she couldn’t think of her friend. He needed to find Abbie to help her stay alive. Couldn’t Bryn see that? He yanked the car door open and fumbled in his soaked-through pocket for his keys. With one last look at the sad house that looked like a tired, made-up whore, he cranked on the ignition.
As the engine growled to life, a smile cracked his lips. He reached into the glove compartment for the holey gym sock he kept there to wipe fog off the windshield and dried his sunglasses.
“Stayin’ Alive.” From the soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever. Maybe Bryn hated him, but she did care about Abbie after all.
DON’T THINK OF IT, Abrielle. Nobody knows where you are. Nobody can find you. Still, the edge of her peace started to curl at the sound of the ferry’s horn. Once a day it brought supplies, mail and possibly people. And a troop of fear. That was the one chink in this otherwise perfect armor.
Out here in her refuge of growing fog, she listened for Bert’s footsteps on the rocky path that were the pre-arranged all-clear signal. Only the gentle lap of water against rocks reached her. Was there a problem this afternoon? Had someone suspicious gotten off the ferry? She fiddled with the aperture ring on the camera Bert had loaned her. Let it go, Abbie.
Bert wouldn’t spill her secret.
Strains of “High Noon” crept into her mind as Abbie imagined five-foot-two Bert in a showdown with one of Rafe’s thugs. She laughed out loud and the fog swallowed her voice, replacing it with the quiet push and pull of water on rock.
After the chaos of the past year, this quiet was a blessing. She lifted the camera and forced herself to relax into the calming rhythm of nature around her. Back to basics, Abbie. The first essential of a good photograph was awareness. What personal statement did she want to make today?
“Part of finding your God,” Bert had said when Abbie first showed up on the convent doorstep begging for sanctuary, “is finding yourself.”
And here in the cool afternoon air, with a pale white haze on the horizon, Abbie could almost believe she’d have a chance at connecting with her lost self—and surviving for another eight days.
Though the Sisters of Sacred Heart were in the midst of their summer tourist season, Bert—Sister Bertrice Storey to everyone else—had found a room for her in the old granite convent. People came to Retreat Island at times of transition—divorce, death, milestone birth-days—that made one want to look deep into oneself or beg some higher source for answers to questions that really had none. But the quiet did heal and it had a way of leading one to some sort of peace.
There were no televisions here, no mad schedules, no hectic running from one appointment to the next. There was room for a dozen overnight visitors to find their own voices in the silence. They could join the sisters in their daily prayers. They could work in the gardens. They could walk in the woods. If someone needed to talk, a sister was there with a willing ear. Chapel bells woke the residents at six every morning, and small signs on the walls discreetly reminded guests that their silence was their gift to their companions.
Though Bert had insisted they had a full house, the island was big enough that Abbie hadn’t run into any of the other guests. They, like her, were seeking solitude. And two days into her ten-day retreat, that sense of peace was starting to envelop her as thickly as the fog bank tucking in around the island.
Fear retreated and she lost herself in the beauty of nature around her. Viewpoint and composition. Light, form and tone. Texture. Pattern. Through the lens of the camera she searched. The scent of spruce and sea air and damp earth connected her to the here and now and grounded her to her surroundings. Crouched among the rocks and boulders that lined the western shore, she aimed the camera at the departing ferry that was moving into the fog like some sort of spaceship and snapped the shutter.
Fog folded in around the ferry’s departing bulk, swallowing it whole. Bert’s footsteps crunched on the path. All was safe for another day.
Her sigh filled the night air. With a smile she straightened, threw her head back and spread her arms like Julie Andrews at the beginning of The Sound of Music, then twirled on her rocky perch to meet Bert. Before she could start singing, the sight of a wind-carved spruce bending over a ledge of rocks caught her eye. She lifted the camera and focused on the image that gave the impression of a pointy-hatted gnome stroking its long, bristled beard.
Bert’s footsteps stopped on the trail.
“What took you so long?” Abbie asked, moving one foot to a neighboring boulder in order to accentuate the spruce gnome’s nose. “I was starting to think something happened.”
“Your Sister Bertrice is one tough cookie. It took me a half hour to convince her I was one of the good guys.”
At the sound of the male voice Abbie jerked around, lost her footing on the wet rock and landed hard on her backside. Fear serpentined through all of her limbs, setting them shaking. How could Bert have trusted anyone after what Abbie had told her? Men—all men—were a threat to her. No matter how charming—especially if they were charming—they belonged to Rafe, and the only thing Rafe wanted from her was permanent silence. Scrambling, she managed to get up and over the rock, away from this threat.
“Abbie! Hey, wait, no!” The dark shape scurried after her, swearing as he slipped on the slick rocks. “It’s me. Gray.”
“Gray?” Heart hammering, she froze, holding the camera against her heart like a pitiful shield. Gray had once had a way of making her feel as if her mere presence in this world made it a better place. What teenage girl didn’t want to see herself as a goddess in a handsome boy’s eyes? Then she’d ruined it all with just a few words. “What are you doing here?”
“Can we climb down from here?”
“No.” She needed distance. This was too unexpected, too startling. Gray, here, now. Wrong time. Wrong place. She shivered and wished she’d worn a sweater over her sleeveless blouse. He detached himself from the fog, and she sucked in a breath.
Familiar features formed as he drew closer, and the sizzle she’d thought of as teenage infatuation stirred her blood. His sandy hair now sported a salon do instead of the home-butchered bowl cut. His high cheekbones still begged for a camera’s attention. His lips were still tempting. He still wore the mirrored shades he’d taken up in high school. Cool then, scary now because she couldn’t read his intent in his eyes.
Her hands tightened around the camera and she struggled with her desire to inch it