The Secret Night Page 3

  “Perfectly.” Emma took her sister’s arm. “It’s a step toward self-actualization, a merging of your spirit with the cosmos.”

  The platitude came straight from a Caldwell lecture, and, thank God, Margaret seemed to recognize it. After a little resistance, she allowed herself to be led from the mansion and down the path toward the water.

  Emma knew the way quite well. She had explored the grounds as much as possible, while being careful not to attract attention, looking for quick exits. Caldwell had a cabin cruiser moored at the end of the dock, but even if she had the key, the cruiser was beyond her navigational abilities.

  The rowboat she’d spotted yesterday, however, was not. She was relieved to see that it was still pulled up on the beach near the pier, small waves lapping gently at its hull.

  Emma looked out over the water. The Miles River wasn’t all that wide—less than a mile, she guessed, at the point where she stood—and she was in good shape. She could row the small boat to the opposite shore. Once she got Margaret that far…

  Well, one step at a time. She’d worry later about how she’d convince her brainwashed sister to keep traveling away from the Refuge.

  Of course, they’d be leaving behind everything they’d brought with them, including the car she’d rented at the airport. But that was nothing compared to their lives.

  Fighting to keep her tone light and casual, she said, “Remember when we were kids, when Mom was married to Larry?”

  “He was a jerk,” Margaret huffed.

  “Yeah, but a rich jerk.”

  Margaret chuckled—an encouraging sound given her near-robotic state. If she could still laugh, maybe she was still capable of thinking about something besides the crap Damien Caldwell had drummed into her head.

  “Remember Larry had that cottage up at Moonlight Lake?” Emma said. “We’d go swimming there.”

  After a brief pause, Margaret replied, “That was fun.”

  “Yeah, it was. And sometimes we’d take his boat out.”

  “We were too young to be doing that unsupervised,” Margaret said in a tone that echoed her old, ultraresponsible persona.

  “Well, we’re not too young to do it now.” Emma gestured toward the rowboat. “Let’s go for a ride. You can be captain—just like the old days.”

  Her sister eyed the small craft. “I don’t think we’re supposed to go for boat rides. We’d better ask first.”

  Emma felt her desperation rising. “If you ask and they say no, I’ll be really disappointed. Come on.” She tugged on her sister’s arm. “Let’s just do it. Do it for me, Marg.”

  Margaret dug her heels into the sand and eyed the water. “It’s getting dark and…sort of spooky.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s beautiful. Look at the stars. You used to love the night sky, remember? We’d lie on our backs and you’d point out constellations. I’ve forgotten them, though, so you could show them to me again.”

  “No!” Suddenly Margaret let out a high-pitched yelp and shoved her away.

  “Quiet! Someone will hear you,” Emma ordered, reaching for her sister.

  But Margaret kept backing away. “I know what you’re trying to do, Emma. You’re trying to kidnap me. They warned me that you might.”

  “Shhh!” She tried to cover Margaret’s mouth—and felt her sister’s teeth sink into her finger. “Ow! Margaret, stop it! Someone’s going to hear us.”

  “Good! I want them to hear me. I’m going to find the men and tell them what you’re doing. You never really embraced Damien’s lessons—his wisdom and kindness. I know you, Emma. I know you’re too independent to be a follower of any philosophy, no matter how good and true it is. You’ve been lying to me—and, worse, to the Master—saying you believe. But you don’t and you never will.” Margaret wrenched herself from Emma’s grasp and started running.

  As she watched her sister’s retreating back, Emma felt her throat clog with tears. Now what? Knock her sister out and drag her onto the damned boat?

  When she started to follow Margaret, Emma heard her sister shouting, “It’s my sister! She’s trying to kidnap me! I need help!” And in that instant, Emma saw her choices swept away.

  She had to leave. Now.

  Before they could catch her, she pushed the little boat into the water. Then she climbed in, sat on the center seat and grabbed the oars, conveniently left ready in the oarlocks. It had been a long time since she’d rowed a boat, but it came back to her. She maneuvered the craft around, pointing the bow at the opposite bank, then began rowing in earnest, the oar tips digging deep into the dark water. As she pulled swiftly away from the shore, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Margaret running down the path—followed by two of the guards.

  “Come back!” one of them shouted.

  It was fully dark now, but the pole light at the end of the dock provided all the illumination necessary for her to see the man taking off his shoes and slacks. Oh, God, he was coming after her.

  In the next instant, a volley of bullets sprayed the water, missing the boat by inches.

  Emma cursed, wishing she had a weapon to defend herself. Ted, another of her stepfathers, had been big into self-protection, and he’d dragged them all, her mother included, to the shooting range on a regular basis. At the time she’d hated any suggestions that came from the creep, but she’d since come to appreciate knowing her way around firearms.

  Not that the knowledge was doing her a bit of good right now. She’d been afraid to bring a gun with her to the Refuge. Which meant her only option was to row like hell until she was out of range—and hope the gunman’s aim didn’t improve.

  She thought she must have succeeded when the shooting stopped. She breathed out a sigh of relief—then heard a splash that told her the guy who’d been stripping on the dock had plunged into the river.

  In quick over-the-shoulder glances, she saw him swimming toward her—and catching up. Groaning, she forced her burning arm muscles to row faster until, finally, she was outpacing him. By the time she was three quarters of the way across the river, he gave up and turned around.

  She muttered a prayer of thanks, knowing she wasn’t home free. For all she knew, Caldwell had people stationed on the other side of the river. All it would take was a call to a cell phone, and his goons could be waiting to snatch her when she landed. Even if the guards weren’t already in place, they could drive over the bridge a few miles upstream and still be there to catch her.

  In all of her life, Emma had never been so frightened. With the palms of her hands blistering and her muscles screaming under the strain of pulling the oars, she rowed for her life—and for Margaret’s. She had come this far, had escaped Caldwell’s horribly misnamed Refuge, and she could damn well make it the rest of the way.

  She had to make it. For herself and for Margaret.

  A speedboat came racing up the river. It seemed to be heading directly toward her, and her whole body went rigid. What if it was full of Caldwell’s men? Or what if it rammed into her in the darkness? Either way, she’d be dead. As the speedboat came closer, she prepared to leap over the side of the rowboat.

  When the larger craft sped by, she sagged in relief. She could hear people laughing and talking—vacationers, probably, or local residents out having fun on the river. For a minute or two, she slumped over the oars, breathing hard.

  She wanted to curse at her sister for turning her in—for getting them both into this mess in the first place. But she knew it wasn’t Margaret’s fault. Her mind was like a sponge for Caldwell’s orders, and she was behaving as he had trained her to act. How long did Margaret have before her brain turned completely to mush? Was there a point beyond which she would be irrevocably lost?

  Or would something even worse happen? Would Caldwell punish Margaret for her sister’s disobedience?

  Emma straightened, her gaze fixed on the moonlit shoreline ahead. In her effort to save Margaret, had she, in fact, signed her twin’s death warrant?

  Should she go back?
>
  The rowboat had lost its forward momentum and was drifting with the current. She let it drift, while she sat caught in a storm of emotions more intense and painful than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.

  She might have gone on sitting there, trapped by indecision, if a single thought hadn’t finally bubbled to the surface of the turmoil inside her head: Nicholas Vickers.

  He would know what to do. He could help her save Margaret. She just had to find him and…and what? Tell him to don his armor, saddle his white charger and come to her rescue?

  Emma snorted in self-disgust. How stupid could she be, pinning all her hopes on a stranger? She had no control over her subconscious, the irrational part of her that had turned Vickers into her ideal man—Sir Galahad and the perfect lover rolled into one. But common sense and experience told her that he would turn out to be just a regular, ordinary guy, nothing special. If she was lucky—and it was a big “if”—he wouldn’t be a complete jerk. And he would help her.

  She needed help. That much was crystal clear. Desire and determination weren’t enough. She lacked the skills and training necessary to free Margaret, willing or not, from Caldwell and his guards. If Nicholas Vickers wouldn’t lend his expertise to her cause, she’d have to find someone else who would.

  Meanwhile, she could only pray that Margaret had bought herself some favorable treatment by trying to abort her sister’s escape attempt and by refusing to go with her.

  Feeling marginally better for having come to a decision, Emma took note of the rowboat’s position. The shore was only a couple of hundred yards away—a good thing, since her arms and shoulders felt like rubber. It occurred to her, though, that enough time had passed that Caldwell’s goons could well be waiting to pick her up when she landed.

  She allowed the boat to drift past several docks belonging to large estates. Finally, when she thought she’d gone far enough downstream, she gathered what was left of her strength, rowed the rest of the way to shore and climbed out.

  She started to pull the boat onto the beach, then hesitated, realizing she might as well post a sign that read This is Where Emma Birmingham Landed. She should probably sink the boat. Or she could use it as a decoy.

  Giving the boat a shove, she pushed it into the water again, wading in to give it another good shove, then watching as the current grabbed it and took it away. With a little luck, it would serve to throw the Refuge guards off her trail. They might even think she’d drowned.

  Exhausted and bedraggled, she looked around to get her bearings.

  In front of her was a scraggly wood, full of under brush, but a little way to the right lay a wide expanse of well-tended lawn. And on that lawn, set well back from the river, was a very large house with lights showing in many of its windows. Maybe the people inside would help her.

  Or shoot her as an intruder. Or set the family Rottweilers on her. That, she thought, would really be the final straw.

  Yet if she walked to the road, Caldwell’s men could be waiting to scoop her up.

  She swiped a hand through her hair and sighed. Given the choices, she decided, the house was the lesser of the evils. She started toward it, but she hadn’t trudged more than twenty feet when a large, masculine hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  She opened her mouth to scream—but she didn’t have the chance. The man’s other hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Emma twisted in her captor’s arms. Shooting out a foot, she caught him in the shin and was gratified to hear him grunt. But he didn’t let her go. She managed another kick, and he muttered a curse.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Like hell. She kept struggling and pounding him with all her strength, determined to go down fighting.

  “If you’ve escaped from Caldwell’s estate, I’m on your side,” he puffed. “So stop trying to do me bodily harm.”

  When she kept fighting, his voice took on an urgent note. “I’ll trust you, if you trust me. I’ll take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. Nod if you agree.”

  She could always change her mind later.

  She nodded, and when he took his hand away, she spun around to face him. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Alex Shane. With the Light Street Detective Agency. I was hired to investigate the disappearance of a woman named Anabel Lewis. I have reason to think she’s at the Refuge. Do you know her?”

  Feeling light-headed, as if she might actually faint, Emma tried to gather her wits. “Anabel. Yes. I do know her. She sleeps in the room next to mine.”

  “So she’s okay?”

  “As okay as you can be at the Refuge.”

  “Tell me about it.” He looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I was doing some surveillance, and I saw you on Caldwell’s dock—fighting with some woman. Then I heard shouting, and I saw you take off in the rowboat.”

  Emma sighed. “The woman is my sister. She ratted me out to Caldwell’s guards. She’s… This isn’t going to make any sense to you, I know, but she’s under some kind of mind control—brainwashed, or something. That’s what Caldwell does to people. Your Anabel Lewis is in the same shape.”

  “It does make sense. But come on, we’d better get out of here.” As he spoke, he ushered her along the shore.

  Suddenly, from the darkness of the woods, she heard the crackle and tromping of feet running through the underbrush. Then came men’s voices, low and urgent.

  “This way. I saw her land a few minutes ago.”

  “But the boat’s—”

  “I don’t give a damn about the boat. I tell you, I saw her land. She’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  Swift as a hawk in the night, Alex Shane grabbed Emma and pulled her into the woods, behind a clump of tall, straight pine trees. A few seconds later, two men rushed past.

  She heard the rustle of fabric. Then moonlight glinted off a gun in Shane’s hand. Neither one of them spoke as more men moved toward them, their voices lower now.

  She felt Shane tense. Lord, would he really shoot these guys? Her knees weakened as the men moved past them.

  Shane waited to make sure nobody else was coming, then he took her hand, whispering, “Come on.”

  Without any urging, she followed as he led her through the woods to the lawn surrounding the well-lit mansion. They skirted the house, then walked through another stand of trees to the edge of the road, where an SUV was parked beneath a tangle of vines. In the darkness, the sweet smell of honeysuckle drifted toward her.

  She collapsed into the front seat as Shane started the engine, pulled onto the road and drove away. He didn’t turn on his lights, though, until they’d traveled at least a couple of miles.

  “So how did you end up at the Refuge?” he asked.

  Emma drew a couple of steadying breaths before answering. “My sister took a self-actualization course from Damien Caldwell and decided to burrow in. I came to try to dig her out. That was two weeks ago. I’ve been pretending to be a believer, but…well, I’m not much of an actress. Caldwell knew I was faking it, and…and I heard him tell one of his henchmen he was going to kill me.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “Lucky you got away.”

  “They probably would have snagged me over here if you hadn’t come along. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. The Refuge is a scary place these days. I’ve been over by boat, at night, a couple of times.” He looked regretful. “If this were the bad old days, I would have stayed and tried to forcibly collect Ms. Lewis. But I’ve got a wife and two kids now, so risking life and limb is no longer part of the job description.”

  “You risked your neck just spying over there.”

  He snorted. “Those odds were acceptable. I worked for the previous owner of the estate,” Shane continued. “I know what the layout used to be. Tell me what you think has been changed since Caldwell to
ok over—things that look new or like they might have been altered.”

  “It probably looks like it always did, except that the bedrooms on the upper floors have been divided up and turned into dormitories, with communal bathrooms added.”

  “So what are you going to do about your sister?”

  She hesitated a moment, questioning the wisdom of sharing her plans with a stranger. But then, the stranger had saved her butt. Besides, she knew intuitively that Alex Shane was on the side of the angels.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I had another detective in mind.”

  “Who?” he inquired.

  “A man named Nicholas Vickers.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  Well, so much for recommendations. “Apparently he had a run-in with Caldwell. I’m hoping that puts him on my side.”

  Shane was quiet for a minute or two. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he said, “If I know an operation is going down, I might be able to get some guys from our agency to act as backup.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a card. “As I said, I’m with the Light Street Detective Agency. The main office is in Baltimore, but I hold down the fort on the eastern shore.”

  “Thanks,” Emma said, taking the card and shoving it into her handbag. They had reached the center of St. Stephens.

  “Do you live around here?” Shane asked.

  “No, I’m from Manitou Springs, Colorado.”

  “You’re a long way from home.” He was silent for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. “It’d be easier for you to evade Caldwell in a city—some place big enough to get lost and stay lost. What if I drive you into Baltimore?”

  Again, she had to fight off the tears clogging her throat. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Sure.” He tossed her a crooked grin. “I admire your grit. Besides, you could turn out to be a valuable witness against Caldwell.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, but he’s careful. And his worshippers are loyal. Even if the cops raided the place tonight, I bet they wouldn’t come up with any evidence that would lead to an arrest.”

  “Caldwell may be careful, but nobody’s perfect,” Shane said. “He’ll have slipped up somewhere. Until we find his Achilles heel, we need to keep you safe. So let me tell my wife I’m driving you across the Bay Bridge.”