Deadline

She swam with one hand, keeping the other braced on the life ring. He did likewise.

“Do you cover a lot of weddings?”

“No. Never. I’m a crime reporter.”

She frowned. The same uncertainty he’d seen in her face, when she’d brushed him off before, filled her eyes. She’d probably run from him again if she had anywhere to go.

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier,” she said, “I thought you wanted to interview me about the wedding I’m organizing this weekend. But now I’m realizing that probably wasn’t it.”

He nearly laughed. “Is the couple rich or famous?”

Another pause, filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies cutting through the water.

“Not really,” she said. “Just young and immature. The bride’s grandmother owns a big chunk of the island, so the wedding is pretty lavish. The bride lost her parents when she was young and was raised by her grandmother. The bride and groom have both seen far more than their fair share of tragedy actually, which might be why they decided to get married so young. The groom’s parents died just last year, and his cousin was in a bad snowmobile accident years ago.” She glanced at him sideways. “In my experience, reporters like poking around in human misery.”

There was a bitter edge to her voice, as though she’d been hurt before and was still cradling the wound.

“Trust me, I’m not that kind of reporter.”

“So, what did you want to ask me about?”

The distant shoreline appeared and disappeared in a haze of rolling fog. The rain grew heavier. Lord, help me find the right words. It was hard to imagine a worse time for this conversation. But he also had no idea what was going to happen when they got to shore, and she deserved to hear it from him first, before they reported the attack to the police. He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Krista Hooper, Eliza Penn or Shelly Day?”

“No. Are they brides?”

“They’re murder victims.”

Her face paled. “I don’t understand.”

He kept his voice steady, focusing on the facts, not theories. “All three died recently in Toronto. In each case, there is evidence suggesting that the killer was wearing an orange raincoat.”

She stopped swimming so abruptly he accidentally yanked the life ring from her hands. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose? Is he the one who tried to drown me?”

He pushed the floatation device toward her. She didn’t grab it. “I’m saying I honestly don’t know. A couple of days ago, my paper, Torchlight News, ran a full, front-page article by me that argued we were dealing with a serial killer. I thought it was solid. But the chief of police held a press conference yesterday and announced investigators are still confident they’re just three unrelated attacks.” Not to mention the chief had then denounced his article as fear mongering, almost destroying Jack’s career and reputation in a fatal blow.

Meg treaded water. “But three young women were murdered?”

“In a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”

“But what about the orange raincoat?”

“It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”

“Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”

Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.

“What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”

“In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”

“What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”

He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”

“Me too.”

He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.

They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it comes to avoiding any potential witnesses.”

Considering how close he himself had come to not venturing out on deck, the killer had almost pulled off the perfect crime yet again. Jack was stunned by the strength and determination it must have taken Meg to fight for her life long enough for him to reach her.

“Now,” he said, “there are over six hundred people on that ferry right now. All of whom are probably crammed into the interior cabins like sardines waiting for the ferry to dock any minute now. So, even if I am right, the chance of him finding another attractive, solitary, female victim in that crowd, and then killing her without anyone seeing anything, is so close to unlikely that it’s borderline impossible. And why would he be looking for anyone else? If he came on the ferry to commit a murder, then he probably thinks he succeeded. For all he knows, we’re both dead.”

It was likely the killer had slipped his disguise back into his bag and was now mingling with an unsuspecting public. Was the killer now standing, sullen in a corner, watching the crowd? Lurking in a hallway? Blending in with the crew? Or was he still on deck, staring back toward where he’d just thrown Meg’s bound and helpless body?

It didn’t matter what the chief of police, Jack’s boss or the naysayers believed. Everything in his gut told him the gentle fingers now brushing against his had just fought back against a ruthless, relentless serial killer.

If only he’d been wrong.

THREE

Meg’s bare feet brushed against a sheet of rock. Slippery but comforting nonetheless. She stumbled up shore, half walking and half climbing, until rock gave way to dirt. Thank You, God. When her body had first hit the water, she thought she’d never feel solid ground again. Nausea swept over her at the memory of the attacker’s hand around her throat. Her head swung down between her knees. Jack’s fingers brushed against the inside of her arm, pressing lightly against her skin. “You okay?”

She stared down at long legs, ending in sturdy brown boots with double-knotted laces. No wonder he hadn’t kicked them off. She didn’t even know when in the struggle she’d lost her shoes. His hand reached for hers. A strong hand, without any sign of a wedding band. She let him help her up onto the shore. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

She turned toward him, coming face-to-face with the wet black T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. His dark, unflinching eyes seemed to stare right into hers as if she were a mystery he was intent on solving. There was something about him that made her feel both small and protected at the same time. It was unnerving.

And for some reason she was still holding his hand. “Thank you. Again. For everything.” She let go and started walking quickly up the bank toward the harbor, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush that had risen to her cheeks.

The rain had stopped and the fog had cleared, but a general damp still hung in the air. They’d drifted into the woods not far from where the ferry docked. Yet another reason to be thankful.

Her keys were still in her pocket and thankfully she’d left her purse locked safely in her car. “We have to contact the police. But I think I lost my phone in the lake.”

“Your phone’s in my bag on the boat. Sorry, I forgot to mention it. You’d dropped it so I picked it up. But I left all my stuff on the deck when I jumped in after you.”

“You didn’t bring your car on the ferry?”

“I don’t have a car and I left my motorcycle back in Toronto because I heard you were expecting storms up here all weekend.”

Motorcycle? It was all she could do not to imagine his dark eyes peering through a helmet visor. “Then how were you planning on getting around the island?”

“Taxis. Transit.” He shrugged. “It was a very spontaneous trip. But I’m good at finding my way around, and I don’t tend to plan things too tightly. Spontaneous works pretty well for me.”

Well, that made one of them. Typical city dweller. With a permanent population of just a few thousand, Manitoulin Island was actually one of the few places left where hitchhiking was still many people’s transit of choice. But good luck thumbing a ride if you were a stranger from Toronto. A very tall, very attractive stranger at that.

Stop right there, Meg. Before you get all swoony over him, keep in mind that he’s also the kind of reckless man who rides a motorcycle and leaps off moving ferries. Not to mention his life’s work is writing about criminals. He’s absolutely perfect for that one moment when your life’s in mind-numbing danger. But not the kind of man you’d count on to be there the morning after. Let alone the kind that a sensible woman could consider building a life with.

No, a man like that might get her pulse racing. But she already had one man in her life whose risk-taking and adventurous spirit left her pacing the floors at night wondering if he was going to come home safely—her brother, Benji. The last thing she needed was another one.

“So, I’m guessing you’re heading back to the mainland tomorrow? The island is hardly a hotbed of criminal activity.”

He shrugged. “My boss doesn’t expect me back until Monday. So I’ll probably try to find a hotel room somewhere, then chase a few hunches before I head back home. Maybe spend some time boating or fishing too.”

Well, if he’d come all this way to find a connection between the island and a serial killer, he could expect to go home empty-handed. The island rumor mill was so well oiled it was impossible to so much as ding a mailbox without the whole island knowing. It was hard to believe someone could be hiding a big, dark secret on Manitoulin Island. And she still wasn’t about to let him interview her for the newspaper, not even about her ferry attack, even if he had just saved her life. If what had happened to her family after her brother’s accident had taught her anything, it was that small-town gossip could be insidious, unfair and so packed full of lies that even the most innocent person didn’t have a shovel big enough to dig his way out from under it.

She didn’t even want to guess what would happen if prospective brides searched her name online and discovered she was linked with something as gruesome as an investigation into a potential serial killer. Obviously she’d cooperate with the police and do whatever she could to help make sure her attacker was brought to justice. But she could also count on the police—especially the island cops—not to release her name to the public. She could hardly say the same for the press.

Her attacker might not have taken her life, but the resulting story could still kill her business.

“Well, good luck finding a hotel room on such short notice. My brother has a pretty decent sport’s shop, though, if you want to rent a boat. It’s on the other side of the island. Something tells me the two of you are cut from the same cloth.” The kind that came with far too many warning labels.

He grinned, then ran a hand ran through his tousled wet hair.

Oh Lord, why are the good-looking ones always the most dangerous?

She started picking her way along the shoreline. “Now, come on. Civilization, such as it is, is this way.”

He picked up the life ring and slung it over one shoulder. “Would you like my boots?”

“No, thanks. They’re way too big for me and there’s no point us both getting sore feet. Besides, my little brother and I grew up here. We practically spent our childhood running around barefoot.” At least he hadn’t offered to carry her. She wasn’t sure she could handle the embarrassment, or the rush it would bring to her already exhausted chest.

“The good news is that we’re not that far from town,” she went on. “We’ll pick up my car at the ferry and then drive to the police station in the middle of the island. It’s about half an hour away. I’ll need to check in with the wedding party too. But under the circumstances, a quick phone call to the bride will just have to do, until we’ve talked to the police. I wish we’d been able to let the police know before everyone disembarked.” The serial killer had probably just walked off the boat into the general population.

Jack frowned. “Why would we have to drive halfway across the island to get to a police station?”

“The closest town doesn’t have a police station. You’re in Northern Ontario now. Most towns up here are barely more than a few stores and handful of streets.” She slid over a fallen tree. “But there’s a very popular diner just on the edge of town. There’s a good chance we’ll find a cop in there. We’ll try that first. Even if there isn’t a cop there, we can at least call the station and ask if they want us to come in or if they’ll send someone to us.”

Although the last thing she was going do was incite island-wide panic by walking into the diner and announcing a possible serial killer had just arrived on the ferry. The gossip mill would be abuzz before she’d even manage to get creamer in her coffee. No, there was a way to handle things in a place like this. Go to the police. Have a quiet word. Trust them to handle it. Jack had said the Raincoat Killer liked his victims isolated. Well, this whole island was full of isolated places. But it was also full of people who understood hunters.

“What can you tell me about the victims?” she asked. “Were any of them connected to the island?”

“Not that I know of. Kristy Hooper was studying musical theater and the performing arts. The killer appeared to have broken into her dorm room through the fire escape, possibly looking to rob her. The police think she came home and interrupted him, so he hit her over the head with a lamp. Two different witnesses saw someone in a raincoat on the fire escape that night.

“About a month later, a florist, Eliza Penn, was run over in a back alley leaving work. The car was stolen. Security footage showed the killer wore gloves and a raincoat.

“Then just two weeks ago, another student, Shelly Day, was stabbed. Her landlord found her. I went on a walk-through of the crime scene. It was pretty violent. This one had the clearest security footage too. The killer actually walked right into the lobby of her apartment building, in a raincoat, waited until someone was leaving and grabbed the door to let himself in. Of course, there’s no footage of the actual murder, but the timing matches up with the time of death, and everyone else shown entering the building has been accounted for. Someone let a potential serial killer into their building and didn’t even notice.

“That’s when I stormed into the police station and urged my contacts it was time to go public, and warn people this killer was out there. They said the evidence was circumstantial and they didn’t want to create a panic. So I went to my editor, Vince, and talked him into running the story. I thought I was saving lives.”

His words were flat, matter-of-fact, like a newsman reading off a press release. Was there something more to this than he was telling her? She caught a depth of emotion in the recesses of his eyes. Sadness. Frustration. Along with the unspoken question How are you connected to all this?

She wished she knew.

The trees gave way to an unpaved road. A dilapidated convenience store came into view. Its windows were covered in posters for unsavory movies and advertisements for pornography, live bait and lottery tickets. Two teenaged boys sat on the front step, a mass of badly done body piercings and haphazard tattoos, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag back and forth. Kenny and Stuart Smythe. Kenny was eighteen and had been expelled from the island’s only high school for fighting and selling drugs. His brother, Stuart, was three years younger and rapidly heading in the same direction. A lot of people were looking forward to the day the young men hopped a bus off the island to find trouble in a big city, somewhere else and far away.

She wasn’t. As long as they were here, in the fishbowl of a small community, there was a chance someone would get through to them. At least, that’s what she prayed.

Meg smiled politely at the boys and kept walking.

Jack touched her elbow. “Shouldn’t we use their phone?”

She shook her head. “Trust me, we’re better off heading to the diner.”

“Hey, Meg!” Kenny hollered behind her. “You look like dirt! You and your boyfriend fall off a boat?”

Right, Jack was still carrying the life ring. Stuart snickered. Meg kept walking.

“Hey, dude!” Kenny’s voice was slurred, either from alcohol or his infected lip piercing. “Who are you? Why are you covered with mud?” More laughter. When stupid kids were that drunk and high, they thought everything was funny. “You sure you want to be seen in public with a girl that messed up? You do know her little brother killed a guy?”

White-hot anger shot like an arrow up Meg’s spine. No, she was not going to give them the satisfaction of a response. They were just stupid, drunk, drugged-up teenagers who didn’t know what they were talking about and were just trying to get a reaction. Her fingers clenched into fists. Angry tears filled her eyes. No wonder she still felt trapped by the past. Kenny and Stuart had practically been babies when Benji nearly died in that accident, fourteen years ago, and yet here they were, catcalling her about the terrifying moment that had filled her nightmares ever since.

She kept walking. Jack didn’t.

“Come on. Trust me, it’s not worth it.”

Jack’s boots planted themselves firmly. “Gentlemen, I think you should apologize to Ms. Duff.”

Stuart glanced uncertainly at his older brother. Kenny laughed. “Oh yeah? And what if we don’t?”

Jack’s stare grew harder. A grin that was anything but cheerful crossed his lips. Here was a man who’d probably seen more than his fair share of rude, drunk teenagers and wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by seeing two more—or, apparently, by the prospect of putting them in their place. For a second it seemed as if Kenny was actually going to try and stare him down. But Stuart scrambled backward up the steps and pulled his brother by the hood until he followed him.

“Whatever.” Kenny shrugged. “Sorry if you can’t take a joke. But just so you know, Meg, your brother just got arrested for stealing McCarthy’s dog.”

The door clanged shut behind them.

“Poor idiots.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to them, please. I just hope they get the help they need before they end up in serious trouble.” She kept walking. Jack matched her pace. “Thank you for standing up for me. I just didn’t have it in me for another fight. Their father owns the store and he’s just as bad, which is why I wasn’t about to use his phone. I guarantee that if you called the police on them for underage drinking, by the time the cops got here the boys would be gone and their dad would swear he hadn’t seen them all day.”

The dirt road turned to pavement beneath their feet. Small stores and businesses lined the street ahead of them. She couldn’t see the docks, but judging by how busy the street was up ahead, the ferry must have arrived on schedule. They passed a couple of people, strangers. She smiled, nodded, but didn’t make eye contact. Two muddy people walking down the street, one of them carrying a life ring, were sure to set tongues wagging. The smartest move right now was to get to the police and file a report. The diner was only steps away, just across the street. It was a main hangout for cops, but even if there were none there, she was sure the owner would let her use the phone discreetly. Not to mention probably pouring her some coffee.

“Meg. About your brother. Does he actually have a criminal record?”

She stopped so suddenly he nearly fell on top of her. Her eyes darted down the street in both directions. Was anyone close enough to overhear him? Not that she could tell. “You’re not seriously going to listen to those two, are you?”

He sighed, and for a moment she could almost see an imaginary microphone appearing in his hand. “Look, I promise I won’t include it in my article unless it’s relevant to the story. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least research the possibility your brother could be connected to what just happened to you.”

No. This couldn’t wait. It had to be said, and it had to be said now.

“Come here.” She stepped backward into an empty lot, and behind a Dumpster. “We’d better get this out before we go into the diner. Because I’m not about to say this twice.” Her hands snapped to her hips. His eyebrow arched, but she didn’t dare let herself back down.

“Now, you listen here, Jack Brooks, crime reporter from Toronto. I’m still not entirely sure why you’re up here on the island, or what you’re trying to accomplish. But I do know one thing for certain—I have more than enough to deal with in my life right now. So if you start going around stirring up trouble for me and my brother, please believe me when I say I won’t have anything to do with you.”

FOUR

Fire flashed in her eyes. Jack felt his chest tighten, as the depth of her emotion tugged at something deep inside him. Compassion? Concern? For the first time in his career, the journalist found himself struggling to find the right words to fit his thoughts. All he knew was he could feel the urge to wrap his arms around her surging through his veins, making him want things he could never have. Like the feel of her head tucked safely into the curve of his throat as he promised her he’d never do anything that would ever hurt her.

Don’t let yourself get emotionally compromised, Jack. You still have a job to do and your future depends on your ability to stay objective. Even if you did just save this woman’s life.

His career was hanging by a thread; he’d just witnessed an attack he believed to be by the very serial killer whom he’d risked everything to expose. Plus, he’d promised the Lord, years ago, he’d never again let his feelings compromise the truth of a story. No matter how strong those feelings might be.

“My little brother is one of the kindest, most generous, most bighearted men you’ll ever meet.” She was practically hissing. “Benji loves God and other people more than anyone I know. He’d practically treat our home like a free hotel to every sports nut coming through the island if I let him.”

Oh, if he had a nickel for every woman he’d heard arguing that her brother, son or husband was really a good guy, while the man was being dragged off by the police for committing some violent crime for the umpteenth time.