The Night Mark(91)

If she lived long enough to see 2015 again, that was...

Another shot hit the water near her head. She ducked under the water and when she resurfaced she saw Carrick dive off the pier. He was coming for her, but would he make it in time? Faye kicked harder, dived under the surface again and mermaid swam for as long as she could to escape the choppy waves and Marshall’s bullets.

When she came up for air, a wave lifted her high and dropped her back into the water face-first. These waves seemed determined to kill her, and she couldn’t use her hands to fight back. She paddled backward with her feet, hoping she was heading toward the pier, toward Carrick. Another wave lifted and dropped her, knocking the breath from her lungs and the fight from her body. It wasn’t happening fast enough. She was still in 1921. It didn’t matter anymore if Marshall shot her before she made it back to 2015. She would die from the waves before either could happen. The water pulled her down to her death, and as it took her, she gave her final thoughts to Carrick.

Carrick... I love you. I love you, and not because you look like my Will but because you look like my Carrick. If I can find a way back to you again, I will live in your light the rest of my life.

Carrick or Will or God must have heard her prayer, because just as Faye started to let go and give up, someone pulled her to the surface and into the light of day again. She howled, gulping air into her burning lungs. Hands yanked the rope free from her wrists. That same someone put her arm over two strong shoulders and paddled them toward the beach.

As she caught her breath, her vision slowly returned to her. She looked at her rescuer with confusion. Who was this man? He looked vaguely like a young Gregory Peck and he swam like a dolphin.

A young Gregory Peck?

“Pat?”





22


Pat, if it was him, didn’t answer. Instead, he kept pushing them closer to the beach, cutting through the water with his powerful arms, a young man’s arms. When they made it to within a couple hundred yards of the shore, Faye swam on her own until her feet touched the bottom and she could trudge through the water to the beach. Coughing and sputtering, Faye fell onto the ground, so grateful to be alive she’d almost forgotten about Marshall.

“Get up,” Pat said. “We have to move. Right now.”

Faye sat up and saw that a new storm was brewing. The sky turned purple as a bruise. The waves rose higher and higher, clawing up the beach with each crashing breaker. Pat took her by the arm and dragged her to the tree line. Faye clung to the trunk of a young oak out of harm’s way. Out on the water Hartwell’s boat pitched about like a plastic toy ship in a child’s bathwater.

It seemed Marshall was attempting to run the boat aground on the beach. With the water so wild, there was no other way to escape the storm. Yet no matter what he did, he couldn’t break free of the ocean’s unrelenting grip. The wind whipped across the water, turning the surface white and foamy. Faye watched in silent horror as one wave flipped Marshall’s boat on its side and the next wave capsized it completely. Water rushed over the hull. Wood crunched and splintered. And over the wind she heard a scream.

Instinctively, she started toward the water, but Pat stopped her with his hand on her arm.

“Stay here,” he shouted. “I’ll go.”

He ran off without another word. Pat raced to the beach, stripping out of his shirt before diving into the ocean. How was Pat here? And why? And was it him? She knew it was. They had the same bright but pale blue eyes. The same distinct nose. The same voice. But all the signs of age were gone in this young man—no gray hair, no crow’s-feet, no lines around the mouth, no loose skin at the neck. He had a young man’s body, too—sleek and long and lean and terribly strong as he cut through the water with deceptive ease. Soon he was out so far Faye couldn’t see him. All that she could see were the remains of the small motorboat bobbing in the water.

Waiting was hell. Faye could hardly catch her breath, and tears rolled down her face, hot against her cold skin. She shook and shivered in the rain and wind. She ached for Carrick’s arms around her, for the warmth of his body and the safety of his love.

Had Carrick noticed they’d come ashore this far down the beach yet? Had Dolly? Had they called for help? Could they call for help or had the storm snapped the one phone line between the lighthouse and town? Faye couldn’t wait anymore. She ran down to the beach and narrowed her eyes at the motorboat sinking fast. She searched for any signs of life, even Marshall’s, but saw none.

The storm was subsiding now, blowing out as quickly as it had blown in. Two hundred yards or so out, she saw a man’s face. He came in closer to shore. Thank God, it was Pat. He stood up when he reached shallow waters and walked tiredly toward her.

He shook his head before collapsing onto the sand.

“Gone,” Pat said between rasping breaths. “Trapped...under the boat. Couldn’t get him out. He’s dead.”

“You sure?”

Pat nodded.

Faye sank down into the sand next to him, relieved and yet ashamed of her relief.

“Him or you,” Pat said, still panting hard.

“What do you mean, him or me?”

“It’s why I came back.” Pat rolled forward and grabbed his shirt off the beach. He yanked it on. “I couldn’t sleep after you left. Bad feeling, like I had sand in my mind and it was shifting. I kept trying to remember how Faith Morgan died and I couldn’t. The image kept changing. I got up and went to the lighthouse and saw the plaque on the side. You were still dead. Faith Morgan was still dead. But you didn’t die June 10. You died June 17.”