Murder Takes the High Road(64)

He looked startled—and pleased. “I’d like that. But...”

I pulled the blankets up again in instinctive retreat. “You don’t want me to?”

“No, not that. I do want you to. But there’s always a slim chance of...danger.”

“Really? You told me in Strathpeffer you were sure there was no danger.”

John said quickly, “Which is true. I think. But when people feel cornered, they can react badly.”

Those violent impulses Vanessa liked to write about.

“Okay. Fine. I’ve been warned.” I was already up and searching for my jeans. I stopped as John rested a hand on my bare shoulder.

His eyes were serious, searching. “This isn’t goodbye. You know that, right?”

“I hope not.”

He drew me up and we kissed. The warm pressure of his mouth was fleeting but heartfelt.

“It’s not goodbye,” he whispered. “No way. We live in the same state. You’re only three hours away from me. Give or take and depending on traffic. We can get together any time we want.”

“We could. We should.”

“I would like to get together,” John said. “The minute you get home, I’d like to get together.” He looked around, grabbed my copy of Pressure Cooker from the bedstand, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something on the first page. “I’m not carrying a card because I was afraid our room would be searched again. That’s my work phone, my home phone and my cell phone.”

I stared down at those lines of resolute black scrawl. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or flabbergasted you just defaced a book for me. But yes. I do really, really want to hear from you.”

“I have your number. I’ll text you as soon as I know what’s happening.”

“Okay.” I scrambled into my jeans and reached for my fisherman’s wool sweater. It was cold. Ridiculously cold. I thought I could see my breath in the gloom. It seemed the wood stacked in the fireplace was not intended solely as décor.

John slipped on his trench coat, picked up his suitcase, and waited as I finished pulling clothes over my goose bumps.

As I shrugged on my coat, he eased open the door and we crept silently into the hall.

A small lamp with blue hanging crystals sat on a table a few yards from our room, lighting the long hallway. It couldn’t quite dispel the shadows that seemed to stretch from every corner. The somber portrait of a lady in historical costume gazed down on us with pursed mouth and disapproving eyes.

“She must have been a barrel of fun at ye olde ceilidh,” John muttered.

I smothered a laugh.

All was silent. I’d have been willing to bet money we were the only people up and moving on the entire island, but John never hesitated. We stepped softly down the hall, glancing at each other every time a floorboard squeaked, softly down the staircase, softly across the front hall with the giant portrait of the fatuous young laird and his equally fatuous hunting dogs.

We unlocked the heavy front door.

The wind almost slammed the door shut again. The smell of the sea and other wild things drifted in, stirring the rugs and paintings.

Still several hours from sunrise, the world beyond this threshold was startlingly dark. No street lights, no other houses, no sign of life as far as the eye could see. Not even stars to guide our way.

And dark as it was, it was even quieter. So quiet I thought I could hear the waves washing against the beach.

Mystery lover or no mystery lover, if I’d been on my own, I’d have gone back to bed. John was made of sterner stuff.

We slipped outside and he pointed upward. “Look.”

Light shone from one of the windows overhead. Shadows moved to and fro behind the drapes.

He was right. Someone sure as hell was on the move.

John gripped my arm, pointed and we ran across the flagstone courtyard and hunkered down behind a short stone wall.

We waited. The damp soaked the knees of my jeans. The clammy sea breeze whispered down the back of my neck.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to apprehend them before they leave the island?” I whispered.

“Yes. Only I’m not a cop.”

Oh. Right. Details.

Just as I was thinking that crouching on the damp ground waiting for villains was maybe a job best left to teenage sleuths, the front door of the castle inched open. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the dark ground as four shades tiptoed into the night, lugging, hauling, dragging their suitcases. They seemed to have a lot of luggage for criminal masterminds, but what did I know? Maybe they packed grappling hooks and black ski masks with their PJs and antacids. Quiet voices carried on the wind, though the words were lost.

“They’re walking all the way to the pier?” I asked. That pier was several miles away.

“No. They won’t take the ferry. They’ll head for the cove. That’s what I would do.”

“I hate to nitpick, but isn’t what you would do what you’re actually doing? Flying out.”

John said patiently, “If I was them, I’d hire a boat to meet me down in the cove where the abandoned vacation cottages are. There’s a dock down there.”

I hadn’t noticed the dock when we’d been looking for Sally, but John sounded confident. We waited, watching, our breath clouding in the night.

Sure enough the four shadows headed the way John and I had walked that afternoon.