Firefly Island (32 page)

This was
her
place. Her haven. Her private island. Peaceful, like the paintings.

I turned away before I could delve more deeply. If Mason really was using Firefly Island in some sort of plot against Jack, she would hate it. She would hate every bit of it.

A steely determination filled me, carried me around the cabin, onto the porch, to the door.

“Hold on a minute.” Al circled the opposite corner and jumped agilely onto the porch, not bothering with the steps. “Let's be careful, here.”

“I don't want to be careful. I want to know what's going on.” Anger and righteous indignation made me bold where I had been fearful, confident where I had been unsure. I'd seen
something under the table, just before turning away from the window. A file box. It looked new.

I was about to find out what was in it.

The old floorboards creaked and complained as Al and I entered the cabin, my tennis shoes moving quietly, Al's boot soles landing with dull thuds.

“Over there,” I whispered, pointing to the dining table. Paper—some sort of map?—had been spread out across the wicker tabletop. It dangled over the edges, fluttering in the breeze of a clattering window air-conditioner with a missing plastic grill.

Al and I crossed the room and stood over the table, studying the contents together.

“What is it?” Mason apparently hadn't been very careful about hiding it. Of course, he had no way of knowing anyone would come to the island.

“I don't know, but it's not for around here. This property is up in far Northeast Texas, near the state line.” Al pointed to the blue ink words at the edge of the map, then traced a long, straight set of lines, obviously a road. “Look at the county names. This is for some kind of development. A plot map. What's this area marked off in the center, do you think? No plots are mapped off there.”

I studied it a moment. “Water, I'll bet. It looks like they're going to build a lake.” One thing about my dad—he believed in taking free business-related vacations whenever they were offered, and he dragged the entire family along. Countless times I'd sat trying to wait politely while developers seeking advice, political favors, or investors attempted to work their sales magic on my father, wooing him with mock-ups of lakes, green spaces, and golf courses surrounded by high-end lots and mini ranches. Dad had done pretty well by joining some of those investment groups. Others, he had shunned. Some
of those eventually became the stuff of legendary lawsuits involving politicians in office and all manner of shady deals.

Al traced a finger along the jagged shore of the paper lake. “All right, so he's meeting here with someone, and they're working out a property development with a lake involved, up in the northeastern corner of the state. Why all the cloak-and-dagger treatment?”

“That's the real question, isn't it? My dad's had some pretty wild stuff pitched at him in relation to property deals, though. You'd be surprised what goes on.” I reached under the table for the file box. “Let's see if there's anything in here.” The plot map crinkled as I set the box on the table and worked the lid free. The container was filled with mock-ups of advertisements and brochures for an upscale development offering lakefront lots and other posh amenities—equestrian trails, club houses, a floating restaurant, parks, and community centers.

“Kingdom Ridge.” Al unfolded one of the brochures, squinting at the text. “‘You really
can
have it all.'” Rolling her eyes at the cheesy slogan, she tossed the brochure back in the box. “Just what we need. More perfectly good land chopped up and filled with cookie-cutter houses.” She tapped a finger to the price point listed on the ad mock-up I was holding. “Starting in the half mil range. Not the stuff of the common man.”

“Yeah, no kidding. But the question is, why would this bring Mason here? Look at the dates on these ad dummies. Some of these are slated to run later this year. With all this on his plate, and his political career and a potential senate run, why does Mason come to the ranch and decide to reunite with his dad after fifteen years? There has to be a connection.”

Something tapped on the window, and I jerked upright, dropping the brochure in the box. Beside me, Al was cucumber
calm, seeming not the least bit worried about being caught here.

“Storm's kicking up in the trees.” She nodded toward the window. “We need to finish and get back to the boat.”

“All right, you look through that side of the cabin, and I'll look through this side. See if there's anything else.” I wasn't sure what I was hoping for . . . but something. Anything to explain what Mason was up to and in what way it involved his father. Maybe Mason had some sort of similar plans for the ranch? Maybe he wanted Jack out of the way so that he and his partners could make West Ranch their next big project—divide it up for vacation homes and ranchettes?

But if he already had a big project going, why start eyeing the ranch now? Mason seemed like an intelligent man. He was calculated and smooth. Not the type to spin more plates than he could deal with at any one time.

Maybe he needed money for his project? Maybe he was hoping to get Jack out of the way and inherit? Maybe he'd been trying to convince Jack to invest, and when Jack wouldn't, he thought he'd go for the inheritance, instead?

An estate like Jack's could take time to settle, though.

What was Mason looking for here? What?

If the cabin had any more clues to offer, they were well hidden. While we searched, branches slapped the windows and scratched along the tin roof, the high, whining sound mixing with the wail of the wind. On the porch, the rocking chair swayed wildly, the motion erratic and angry.

My phone rang, and even Al jumped. “Turn that thing off,” she snapped.

“Daniel's watching at the hospital.” I slid the phone from my pocket, looked at the screen, and answered the call. Daniel.

“You need to get out of there, if you're still on Firefly.” His voice was breathless and frantic. “Mason left the hospital.
He was down the hall, talking to someone on his cell phone, and then the next thing I knew, his car was pulling out of the parking lot, and he was in a hurry. Maybe he knows someone's in the cabin. If that's where he's headed, you don't have much time to get back across the causeway.”

“He couldn't possibly know we're here.” Could he? Unlike Jack's other properties, Firefly Island had no alarm, no surveillance system. Did it? What if the men in the houseboat were watching the cabin? What if they could see movement in here? What if they were on their way to the cabin right now?

Potentially, Mason had already attempted murder more than once, and perhaps been successful. The fact that no one could prove it didn't mean it wasn't true—or that he'd hesitate to make Al and me disappear.

“Don't go back to the ranch house tonight.” Daniel's ominous undercurrent circled me like a cold draft. “Go to Al's place, instead. Better yet, go to Keren's or a hotel. I just want you somewhere safe. I'm going to get in to see Jack while Mason's gone. If I keep my head down, I don't think they'll even notice it's me and not Mason. Jack's been awake for a while, it turns out. Mason has been lying to me. He doesn't want me in there.”

“Be careful, Daniel.” My heart lurched, the fist of fear squeezing tight. What in the world had we involved ourselves in?

“It's you I'm worried about,” he said softly. “Just get somewhere safe, okay? I never should have let you go to that island.”

My heartstrings pulled and tugged. When all of this was over, and Daniel and I were together again, I would never, ever complain about the petty little challenges of an ordinary day. Dirty closets and roach powder in kitchen cabinets hardly seemed an issue anymore.

“I love you, Mal. Get out of there now.”

“We're already gone.” A quick once-over to make certain everything was back in place, and Al and I hurried out the door. Outside, the mist drove sideways now, wet leaves and twigs falling and sticking in my hair as we hurried into the brush cover. At every turn, I thought I heard people following us—behind each tree, around each bend. Each flash of lightning illuminated strange shapes among the trees.

A crack overhead sounded like a gunshot as we scrambled up the side of the canyon. I dropped my flashlight, and it clattered down the trail behind me, lay there shining a half circle over the damp leaves.

Al switched off her lamp, squatted, and pulled me down beside her as the sound reverberated through the trees and a flash of lightning crossed the sky. “Let's go!” she yelled, and we groped blindly in the darkness until we'd topped the hill and started down the other side. Branches tugged at my clothes and whipped my skin, but I didn't care. Below on the shore, a light shone through the trees.

Please, please,
I prayed.
Let that be the Docksiders, not someone else.
What if the men from the houseboat had found them already? Who were those men, and what might they be willing to do to keep things quiet?

A loon's call trilled through the night as we came closer, and I caught a breath. Burt and Nester were waiting. We were almost there.

My sweat shirt was plastered wet and cold against my skin, and the rain had started in earnest by the time we climbed into the boat. A shiver rattled through my bones, and I tried not to think about the crossing. The storm had come in harder and faster than expected. We were far from home free, but we had to get off Firefly Island.

Burt tossed a tarp our way as he started the engine. “Hang
on, girls. Get your life vests on, and you might want to cover up with that. This is gonna get a bit dicey.” He pulled his slicker tighter around his face.

“Don't y'all worry, though. We're professionals.” Nester compacted his cowboy hat lower on his head before he untied the boat and pushed off.

My teeth chattered and my heart pounded as Al and I pulled the tarp over our heads and huddled in the back of the boat. When we left the shelter of the island, spray bounced wildly against the canvas, rain pelting in drops so large they struck the fabric like marbles. The boat roared over swells, lifting and splashing downward. Thunder rumbled and lightning split the sky over Chinquapin Peaks, fanning out in all directions.

“Hang on!” Burt yelled, revving the engine higher. “She'll make it through. Come on, Bertha! Come on, you scurvy girl. Don't fail me now, darlin'!” The motor roared and coughed, struggling to propel the boat against wind and tide.

Something bumped the sidewall, and I squealed, clinging to the railing, the tarp, and the seat all at once. If I ever, ever got out of this, I would never do something so stupid again. Ever, ever, ever. Amen.

Light shone against the canvas. Were we near shore already? I peeked through an eyelet ring. There was nothing but water. Churning water, everywhere. Beside me, Al stretched upward. Raindrops shot in as she pulled the tarp away slightly.

“Stay down, back there!” Nester called. “Somebody's spotlightin' us from the causeway. He'll lose us once we go around the point.”

Al and I huddled low again. The boat pitched and danced. My heart pounded, and the chill needled my skin. My mind filled with unwanted images of what it would be like to be
tossed into the cold, dark water, with waves closing in overhead.

The rocking eased as we rounded the point, but by the time we reached the dock, the lightning show was like nothing I'd ever seen, jagged spears splitting sideways and fanning out across the sky. Burt and Nester tied the boat securely to the old dock and left it, rather than crossing the water to go home.

Inside Al's truck, we huddled wet and bedraggled, catching a breath as Al turned the key and the engine roared to life. The tires slid in the greasy caliche, the truck grinding wet gravel and threatening to bog down as we drove away from the lakeshore.

“W-w-we n-need somep-p-place with Internet s-service . . . and a c-c-computer,” I stuttered out, my teeth chattering wildly. My fingers trembled on the phone as I texted Corbin and Daniel to let them know I was safely back in Al's truck. “D-D-Daniel says n-not to go back t-t-to the house ton-n-night.”

“Waterbird's got Internet.” Nester leaned in from the backseat as we turned onto the gravel logging road that had led us most of the way to the old dock. “Pop Dorsey and Sheila's got a couple of them carry-along computers. Pop likes to play bingo online, and Sheila teaches some college classes that way. They'd be closed by this time a' night, but if we rap on the door, they'll let us in.”

“Let's go,” I said, and Al wheeled the truck sideways at a dirt-road intersection. The rear tires slid, sputtered, and drifted, and I was momentarily compressed against the door. Then the tires caught, and we were rocketing forward, machine-gunning mud and rocks, and heading for the Waterbird. Burt called ahead, and when we arrived, Pop Dorsey and his daughter, Sheila, were waiting with two laptop computers open at the Docksiders' favorite booth.

Only after Nester began sharing the story of our night did I realize that, by coming here, we'd let more people in on our secret. It didn't seem to matter anymore. I had a feeling that this thing was about to grow bigger than any of us could hope to contain. My only worry now was whether we could unearth the details before Mason figured out who had invaded his den on Firefly Island, if he didn't know already. We had to find something incriminating. Soon. So far, Daniel hadn't been able to get any details out of Jack at the hospital. Jack was weak, groggy, and still confused about how he'd ended up in ICU. Mason had already been filling in the details for him. The details according to Mason.

Al and I sat before the computers as Nester recounted the drama of our crossing in the storm. Pop Dorsey and Sheila were wide-eyed with interest.

Al quickly shoved her computer away. “Don't have a clue what to do with this thing. I don't even keep one in my house anymore.”