Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(54)

Instead, I move onto Lakeside, past Fresh Pond until I get to the intersection with Snake Hole Road and Mohegan Trail.

There it is: the Painted Rock. Someone has painted it as if it is a ladybug, red with black dots on its back. Clever.

I painted it once, a beach scene with twilight streaks of pink and purple. It was painted over the next day, bright yellow with ‘Happy B-day Mary’ in bright blue. The Painted Rock is an island oddity, painted first in the 1960s as a Halloween prank and then frequently, sometimes every day, since.

As a landmark, it is a good one, and as a place to meet someone, perfect. But as I stand, straddling the bike, I glance around in all directions and see no sign of Ian, or anyone else for that matter. My first reaction is relief. I don’t have to do this; I don’t have to face him. But then a small panic begins to rise in my chest.

I am alone out here. Standing next to a ladybug rock. I am a sitting duck, a good target for anyone who might want to get rid of me, the way Ian got rid of Carmine.

I glance down Snake Hollow. I push the bike into a thicket of brush, hoping it won’t be seen. I hide next to it, watching the road, aware of the trail behind me, the one that leads to Vail Beach. Anyone who does not know the island might not even recognize the trail for what it is, it is so overgrown.

I hear a car coming, but it speeds past. I glance at my watch. Ian is late. If he is coming at all.

Another car approaches, slows down and stops in front of the Painted Rock. It is not Ian in the driver’s seat, but a stranger. As I try to make out his features, I see movement in the passenger seat. Someone else. Another man.

The passenger door opens, and the man steps out of the car. He looks at the rock, then out over the roof of the car. I shrink back further against the brush.

‘She’s not here,’ he says, his voice carrying on the breeze so I can hear him clearly.

The man behind the wheel opens his door and steps out. He is blond, husky and stiff in a suit, as though he’s not used to wearing one. The Hispanic man who gets out of the passenger side is not as formally dressed. He is wearing jeans and a white shirt and a navy windbreaker.

‘Let’s spread out, see if she’s here somewhere, hiding,’ the driver says. It is clearly not a suggestion, but an order. He is in charge. The Hispanic man steps away from the car, closing the door.

They both look back up Lakeside Drive, and right at that moment they have their backs to me, so I take the chance and turn and flee down the trail toward the beach.

The trail is barely that. It is overgrown and tough to navigate, rocks and roots and overgrowth protecting this path to one of the most secluded and yet beautiful beaches on the island. I had been here a year before I discovered it. No one had mentioned it, because so few actually venture here. There are no services, no way to bring beach paraphernalia while trying to sidestep the obstacles. The beaches on the eastern side of the island are familiar, beaches as you’d expect beaches to be, with soft sand and gentle waves. This beach, Vail Beach, is rough and difficult, with an undertow and surf that crashes onto the rocky shore with a violence that only some can appreciate.

I do not stop to see if they are after me, and finally I reach the point where the green growth parts and I can see the cobalt water ahead of me. I hear nothing behind me, so I continue down the path to the water. Once on the beach, I turn to see the rocky cliffs, but no one is coming down the trail.

The beauty takes my breath away. I have always known why I stayed, and why I am now resisting leaving. But I am not here to admire the scenery. It’s possible that they have now found the bike, abandoned in the brush. So I turn to the right and begin to run along the rocky beach, stumbling here and there when my foot hits a stone the wrong way.

These men are not from here, I can tell. They will not know that anyone can walk the beach all around the island, that you can get to any beach from any beach. I am heading toward Black Rock Beach. From there, I can get up into Rodman’s Hollow.

I don’t dare look back, but I can’t help myself. No. I see no one. The backpack is heavy against my body, and I wish I could dump it, but the laptop is in there. I wish I had a cell phone. I’d thought about a prepaid one at one point, but I’ve never really needed one, since my whole world is within walking or biking distance. I have my phone at the house, included in my rent, and anyone who needs me calls on the landline. I pay for long-distance calls, but since I don’t call long distance, that has never been an issue.

Thinking about mundane things keeps me from thinking about what I am actually doing. If Ian had showed up, I would have talked to him. But the strangers’ arrival in his place makes me both angry and scared. Ian clearly told them where I was going to be. I remember his threat about anonymous tips. But since I had told him I would do the job, why would he want me caught?

I skid slightly on the rocky beach as I try to figure out what Ian is up to. I start to run again. I feel the sweat on my back, running down my cleavage, around my hairline. I push up my glasses, which are slipping down my slick nose. My calf muscles are taut, tight, unused to running and the way it makes my body work. I long for the familiar feel of the bike.

I don’t know how far I’ve gone until I realize I’m here. I’m at Black Rock Beach. The trail that goes up the Bluffs is just ahead. I make a beeline for it. It is still so early in the morning that no one is on the beach to see the crazy woman running for no reason.

It doesn’t take me long to reach Black Rock Road. From here, I find the trail that goes into Rodman’s Hollow. It is a three-mile hike to traverse the Hollow on the trails. I slow down to a jog and then finally to a walk. I feel fairly certain that they have not followed me, or if they have, they will not be able to find their way through the Hollow easily. I think about going to Fresh Pond, just to regroup, but it’s time to get out of here, to get back and see if Tracker has come back to the chat room. I make it to the wooden gate and turnstile, where my hike would normally have started. No one starts on the beach; it’s the place they end up.