Every Vow You Break(73)

She walked slowly over the bluff, saving some energy, cutting diagonally across to where the path began along the cliff edge.

Halfway there was when she heard the dogs, the distant howls and the barking. They’d be out in force now looking for her. She wondered, also, if there was a guard near the cove where she was headed. It was one of the few places where it would be relatively easy to launch a boat. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed to pick up speed. The dogs would be following her scent.

She turned left at the cliff and began down the path, the rim of the kayak’s opening biting into her shoulder. Another bark reached her, this time much closer. She looked back and saw what she thought was the faint glimmer of a flashlight emerging from the dark line of woods on the other side of the bluff. She peered over the edge of the cliff, wondering if it was worth throwing the kayak off and jumping after it. It looked like about a twenty-yard drop, but the brief line of shore below was covered with black jagged rocks.

She kept moving.

The cramp in her side got worse and the roof of her mouth ached, saliva pooling under her tongue. She bent over, resting the bow of the kayak on the ground, and was briefly sick, tasting only the coffee that she’d drunk back in the boathouse. Then she began to run, her shoulder screaming at her, her legs rubbery.

She heard a human voice, a shout that sounded like the words “This way,” and she glanced back again. Flashlights were now visible not too far back and she could make out the dark figure of a dog bounding ahead of the men.

If she hadn’t seen where the path ahead dipped down toward the shore, she would have thrown the kayak off the cliff right there and jumped after it. But the cove was close—thirty feet away—and she picked up speed, reaching the edge and peering over.

There was a man on the beach below, pointing a rifle up at her.

“Hold it,” he said, and she recognized him as Eric Newman.

Without hesitating, she dropped the kayak over the edge and watched as it bumped and skidded down toward where he was standing. He tried to step out of its way, but the kayak hit him just below the knees, then bounced off and kept sliding along the seaweed-slicked rocks. He was on his back, gripping his leg, the rifle to his side. Abigail followed the path down as fast as she could, reaching Eric just as she heard the grunting sound of a dog right behind her. She picked up the rifle, spun, and the dog, a dark brown hound, merely bumped up against her, its tail wagging, sniffing at her, obviously pleased to have done its job. Eric grabbed a handful of her windbreaker, but she easily broke free, spun, and pointed the gun at him.

“Abigail, don’t,” he said, and held up his hands. “I was going to let you go. That’s why I asked to guard this beach.” The dog barked twice beside her.

“Bullshit,” she said, and placed the butt of the rifle against her shoulder.

“Listen to me. Don’t do this. No one was supposed to get hurt.

We’re going to take care of Alec. He’ll pay for what he did.”

She imagined a bullet ripping through his skull, shutting this man up forever, but she pointed the gun toward where he was cradling his damaged leg and pulled the trigger. He jerked his hand away, but his leg bucked back, blood pumping from his destroyed knee. The dog whimpered, then scrambled away.

As he screamed, Abigail turned and took three steps to the kayak, pushing it with her foot out past the rocks and into the cresting surf. She dove onto the hull as she heard gunshots behind and above her. Holding on to the crisscrossed cording at the stern of the boat, she got her feet through the opening of the cockpit, then slid inside, dropping into the seat. She got her body as low as possible. More shots rang out, but Abigail had begun to paddle, digging deep with each stroke and keeping her head low.

The kayak bucked up against a series of waves, and then it was moving steadily along the calm surface, picking up speed. She heard a few more shots, and then there was silence, and then she heard the low howl of the dog, sounding distant and lonely.



When she was far enough away from the island, she pulled her cell phone out from her jeans. It turned on, showing that it had three percent battery power. She checked for service but there was none, then opened her compass app, held it flat in her hand, and adjusted her direction so that she was heading exactly due west.

She’d kayaked plenty in her life, along the Connecticut River and at a pond one town over from Boxgrove, and she easily got back into the rhythm. She was exhausted and cold, but her arm muscles felt good, and her feet had found the footholds up under the bow.

Trying to remain calm, she worked at a steady pace, occasionally glancing down at the phone she’d placed on the floor of the kayak, making sure she was still moving in the right direction.

The night was quiet, and a steady but slight breeze ruffled the surface of the ocean. She kept imagining the guttural thrum of a small airplane coming to find her, but there were no sounds except for the paddle slapping against the water and her own labored breathing. She felt the stitch in her side acting up again, like a hot needle had been slipped between her ribs. She took a quick break, checking the compass to make sure she was still going in the right direction, then finishing the whiskey-laced coffee, its warmth spreading down her center, making her realize how cold the rest of her body had become. She dumped the thermos overboard, somehow imagining that it would significantly lighten the boat, then began to paddle, harder now that blisters were opening up on both of her palms. She thought of Jill again, lying dead on the cold floor of the forest.