Eclipse Bay

  The front door opened, and Brad walked into the hall. He was a fair-haired man with earnestly intelligent eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. There was a deceptively quiet, deeply thoughtful way about him that belied a quick, razor-sharp brain. He was fashionably rumpled in what passed for academic chic. His button-down shirt and khaki trousers were both wrinkled. The loud, awkwardly knotted tie, scuffed leather shoes, and bulging book bag accented the young, professorial look.

  He barely had time to wave a hand toward Hannah before the two whirlwinds and Kitty descended on him.

  “Daddy, wait until you see the maze I built.”

  “Daddy, Daddy, I want to show you my picture.”

  Brad crouched to greet his children and the family cat. There was genuine pleasure on his face.

  Hannah watched the intimate little family ritual of greeting daddy and was horrified when she detected a hint of dampness on her own lashes. She blinked hurriedly and looked away. What was wrong with her today? At this rate she would soon be an emotional basket case. She had to get a grip on herself. Pamela was watching her with gathering concern.

  “Are you okay?” Pamela pitched her voice below the hubbub taking place in the front hall. “Something wrong?”

  “No, of course not. I’m fine.” Hannah took a long, reviving swallow of tea. “I’ve been a little tense since the scene with Rafe this morning, that’s all. I’ve got to do something about the problem of Dreamscape, Pam. The situation is a mess. It has to be resolved.”

  It was Brad who responded. He wandered into the living room, Rose and Mark bobbing around his legs. “From what I heard this afternoon, Rafe Madison has his own plans for Dreamscape. What’s going on? Are you going to sell him your half of the house?”

  “He isn’t offering to buy it,” Hannah said dryly. “He’s proposing a partnership.”

  Brad considered that. “Maybe he can’t afford to buy out your half.”

  “From what I can tell, money is not a problem for Rafe,” Hannah said.

  Brad met her eyes. “Then what’s the issue? Pamela has told me something about the history of the Hartes and the Madisons. I got the impression that there was no love lost between the two clans.”

  “I’ll admit that we haven’t socialized much in the past three generations.”

  “Why would Rafe Madison want to get involved in a business partnership with you?” Brad asked.

  “Beats me.” Hannah decided it was time to change the subject. “How’s tricks with you, Brad?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have some good news. I got a call from the director of the institute this morning. He offered me the joint appointment. I start the first of the month.”

  “Yahoo!” Pamela leaped off the recliner and threw her arms around Brad. “Congratulations! I knew you’d get it.”

  Brad grinned at Hannah over Pamela’s head. “I think I may have had a little help from my friends. Rumor has it that Perry Decatur mysteriously withdrew his objection to the appointment.”

  “That little S.O.B.” Pamela made a face. “I knew he was the one who was holding up the process. He’s jealous as all get-out. He’s afraid you’re going to show him up for the lightweight he is once you’re on the faculty there. Which you will, of course. Wonder what made him back off?”

  “Why don’t you ask Hannah?”

  Pamela swung around, a hundred questions in her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “Not much,” Hannah said mildly. “Perry asked me to attend the Thornley reception last night. He wanted to impress everyone at the institute with his contacts. You get the picture.”

  “Got it,” Brad said. “The Hartes are one of the most important families in town. Having a representative from the family there last night would have been a coup for Decatur.”

  “As it happened,” Hannah continued, “I discovered that a former Weddings by Harte client was also scheduled to attend the reception. Perry was angling to get him to endow a research fund at the institute.”

  “Tom Lydd,” Brad said.

  Hannah nodded. “You are good. Something tells me you’ll go far at the institute.”

  “And you had a word with Lydd, I take it?”

  “All I did was mention that I knew the institute’s selection committee had your name under consideration for a joint appointment and that you would make a wonderful addition to the faculty. Tom Lydd took it from there.”

  Brad exhaled deeply. “Decatur must have blown a gasket.”

  Pamela slapped a palm across her own mouth and then exploded with laughter. “A classic Harte tactical maneuver. Your folks would be so proud of you.”

  “I owe you,” Brad said to Hannah. He looked serious.

  “No, you don’t.” She grinned, feeling somewhat cheered for the first time since the scene at Dreamscape that morning. “Perry Decatur owed me for something that happened eight years ago. It was payback time.”

  Brad shook his head. “You Hartes sure do have long memories.”

  Hannah wasn’t sure that he meant it as a compliment.

  She drove back to the cottage later that evening after sharing dinner with the McCallister family. The meal, with all its noise and chaos, had done wonders to improve her mood, she realized.

  Maybe she could finally do some clearheaded thinking tonight. She needed to put things in perspective. Not that it was easy to gain any sort of real perspective on Rafe Madison. But the good news was that she was no longer feeling as unsettled as she had for the better part of the day. She was a Harte. As Pamela had reminded her, she was supposed to be good at strategic planning and tactics. Hartes did not allow themselves to get tangled up in messy emotions when it came to business. That was a Madison characteristic.

  She had to start concentrating on the business aspects of Dreamscape. She could not allow Rafe to muddy the waters again.

  Something told her that would be easier said than done. Madisons were very good at muddying things, she reflected as she pulled into the driveway in front of the darkened house.

  She switched off the engine, climbed out from behind the wheel, and started toward the front door with a vaguely wistful sensation. She didn’t have a loving husband and a couple of lively kids waiting to greet her, but at least she had Winston.

  Faithful, loyal, lovable Winston.

  She put her key in the lock and waited for the muted sounds of doggy welcome. But there was no muffled scratch of toenails on hardwood, no happy whine.

  The first tingle of unease shot through her. Winston was an alert dog. His hearing was almost preternatural. Surely he had caught the sound of the car in the drive.

  Quickly she unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped into the hall.

  “Winston?”

  There was no response.

  “Winston? Where are you? Here, Winston. Look, I’m sorry about Kitty. I admit that I patted her on the head a couple of times, but that was all, I swear it.”

  Winston did not come trotting around the corner.

  She switched on a light and walked into the kitchen. Most of the water she had left in one of the twin stainless-steel bowls on the floor was untouched. The expensive chewing bone had been abandoned under the table.

  Unease turned to concern that was only a little shy of panic. Something was wrong.

  “Winston?”

  She hurried back into the living room and started up the stairs. Perhaps he had gotten himself trapped in a bedroom or a bathroom when a door had accidentally closed. Frantically she tried to think of reasons why an inside door would suddenly swing shut. A draft? But if Winston was locked in an upstairs room, why wasn’t he barking furiously to let her know where he was?

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was running. A single glance down the hall showed her that all of the doors stood wide open.

  She darted from room to room, checking under beds and inside closets. There was no sign of Winston.

  It occurred to her that he must have somehow gotten out of the house on his own
and wandered off. It was a very un-Winston-like thing to do, but for all his canine cleverness he was still a dog and dogs were born explorers.

  She went slowly back downstairs and came to a halt once more in the hall, pondering the mystery of how he might have escaped the house. The front door had been locked when she returned. That left the kitchen door and the mudroom door.

  A quick check in the kitchen revealed that that door, too, was still securely locked. With mounting trepidation she walked back out into the hall and turned right. Automatically she switched on lights as she went toward the rear of the house.

  The small mudroom was swathed in darkness. She hit the light switch and glanced quickly around the neat clutter. Rain gear, umbrellas, beach shoes, and a stack of old towels filled most of the space. Two brooms and an aged mop stood in the corner.

  She studied the door. It was closed, but it was unlocked. She could not have forgotten to lock up before she left for Pamela’s earlier in the day, she thought. It simply wasn’t possible. She had lived alone in the city too long to neglect such simple precautions.

  Even if she had left it unlocked, how had Winston gotten it open? He was a brilliant dog, but he had paws, not hands. It was pushing credibility much too far to believe that he had somehow managed to twist the doorknob and open the door. A specially trained dog might have accomplished the feat, but Winston had never been taught to do fancy tricks.

  It was hard to believe that she had left this door not only unlocked but ajar. But she must have done just that. It was the only conceivable way that Winston could have gotten out of the house.

  Despair engulfed her. Winston was somewhere outside in the darkness, possibly lost and terrified. If he reached the road, he might get hit by a car.

  She whirled around, yanked open a cupboard, and grabbed a flashlight. She would need it. Although there was a moon, the fog was thickening rapidly.

  She seized a faded windbreaker from a wall hook, pulled it on, and opened the mudroom door. She stepped out onto the rear porch and switched on the flashlight.

  “Winston.”

  A faint bark sounded in the distance. It was barely audible above the muted rumble of the light surf at the base of the cliffs, but her heart leaped in relief. Winston was in Dead Hand Cove.

  She plunged down the steps and entered the ghostly tendrils of gathering fog. The beam of the flashlight infused the surrounding mist with an unearthly light. With the ease of long familiarity, she made her way toward the path that led down the rocky cliff to the beach.

  “Winston. Talk to me. Where are you?”

  This time she got a series of hard, sharp, excited barks. They definitely emanated from the cove, but they did not sound as if Winston was moving toward her. She wondered if he had somehow managed to trap himself inside one of the small caves at the base of the cliff.

  At the top of the path she paused to shine the flashlight down on the rocky beach. The beam pierced the mist in places, revealing a wide swath of damp sand. The tide was coming in, but it had a ways to go before the water filled the cove. She could still make out the tips of the five fingers. But sprays of foam were already dampening the rocky monoliths. In another hour or so the water would cover all but the tallest of the stones.

  Winston barked again, louder this time. She was definitely getting closer to him, she realized. But he was not making any headway toward her.

  She started cautiously down the pebble-strewn path that led to the tiny beach. Only the fact that she had used the trail for years and knew it better than she knew the streets of Portland made it possible to navigate it at night with some confidence. The foggy darkness and the slippery rocks made for slow going. Twice she lost her footing and had to grab at a stony outcropping to save herself from a nasty fall.

  She was breathing hard by the time she reached the rough beach. Immediately she shone the light along the dark voids that marked the caves.

  “Winston!”

  Another series of barks sounded in the mist. Behind her now. But how could that be? Fresh alarm swept through her.

  She turned quickly to face the fingers. Aiming the flashlight toward the thumb, she started cautiously across the damp sand.

  Spray dampened the front of her windbreaker. A wave broke at the entrance to the cove. Cold seawater swirled around her feet. Should have taken time to put on a pair of boots, she thought.

  More loud, demanding barks punctuated the mist. Winston was getting impatient. Perhaps he had bounded up onto a finger before the tide returned and was now reluctant to jump down because he would get wet. But that didn’t make any sense. Winston wasn’t afraid of a few inches of water. She gasped when another swirl of cold foam lapped at her ankles.

  She started toward the nearest finger and aimed the beam of the flashlight at the top. There was no dog there. Methodically she shone the light on the next monolith. The spray had thoroughly dampened her hair and face now. She would take a hot shower when she got back to the house. She definitely did not need a case of hypothermia.

  It was getting harder to see through the ever-thickening fog, but she managed to make out the shape of the second finger. There was something wrong about it.

  Another string of tense barks echoed in the fog. Definitely coming from the vicinity of the second finger.

  She hurried forward, ignoring the cold water now swirling around her calves. The beam of the flashlight fell on a large square animal cage perched atop the monolith. Winston was inside.

  “Oh, my God, Winston! What happened?” She sloshed toward him through the slowly deepening water. “Who did this to you?”

  She found the door of the cage and yanked it open. Winston exploded into her arms. He was damp and trembling. She staggered backward under the impact, slipped, and barely managed to keep her footing. Winston lapped happily at her face. The flashlight beam arced wildly in the darkness as she clutched at him.

  “After this little incident, I’m going to have more gray hair than you do,” she whispered into his wet fur. “What on earth happened here?”

  But Winston had no answers for her.

  She carried him quickly toward the beach. “I’m going to call the police. This is a small town. The chief will know which one of the local punks would pull a vicious trick like this. I’m going to press charges. I swear it.”

  Winston licked her ear.

  She set him down at the water’s edge. “Come on, let’s get you home and dried off. I wonder how long you were out there on that rock? I can’t wait to get my hands on whoever did this. I’ll—”

  Winston interrupted her with a low, startlingly savage growl. She flashed the light down at him and saw that his whole attention was focused on the darkness that cloaked the cliff path. The tension in him was the only warning she got.

  “Winston, no!” She grabbed his collar just as he leaped forward. “No. Winston, stay.”

  He obeyed instantly, but she could feel him quivering with predatory urgency. There was someone in the vicinity of the cliff path. Someone Winston did not like.

  Fear crashed through her. She had to assume that whoever was on the trail was the same person who had caught Winston and set him out on the monolith to drown.

  At the same instant it occurred to her that although she could not see the person watching from the shadows, he could certainly see her. The flashlight in her hand made a very effective beacon.

  She turned off the beam and crouched down beside Winston. “Hush.” She closed her fingers lightly around his muzzle. She did not think his low growls could be heard above the sound of the incoming tide, but if he started barking again, he would give away their location.

  Winston shuddered under her hands. His attention never wavered from the cliff path.

  One thing was certain, Hannah thought as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the new level of darkness. They could not go up the path. They would run straight into whoever waited there. Nor could they just stay here in the cove like sitting ducks.

  Keeping h
er fingers around Winston’s muzzle, she tugged on his collar to guide him.

  “This way,” she whispered. “Heel, or whatever it is dogs are supposed to do at times like this.”

  If Winston was offended by the command, he was gracious enough not to complain. He paced obediently along beside her. She bent low, not daring to take her fingers off his muzzle as they made their way toward the dense darkness of the cliff caves. She relied on the sighs and splashes of the returning seawater to cloak whatever noise she made as she scrambled over the rocks with Winston.

  The biggest danger would come from tide pools that littered the cove. At night, without a flashlight, each one was a potential trap. Things slipped and slithered under her feet, but Winston detoured safely around the edges of the pools.

  The deeper darkness of a cave entrance loomed in her path. The scent of rotting seaweed enveloped her. But for once Winston showed no interest in the fascinating odors that assailed his nostrils. He was alert and focused. She did not dare release her grip on his muzzle.

  “Hush,” she said again. “Please, hush.”

  He gave a low, almost inaudible whimper and quivered tensely.

  She put out one hand and felt for the wall of the cave. When her palm made contact with the damp rock she started cautiously forward. Winston must have sensed her intention or perhaps he was merely responding to some ancient den-seeking impulse. Whatever the reason, he willingly took the lead as they made their way deeper into the convoluted cavern.

  As soon as they rounded the corner, they lost what little fog-reflected moonlight there was coming through the mouth of the cave. The quality of the darkness took on a deeper, thicker feel. Hannah could see nothing now. She stumbled awkwardly along, blindly following Winston. But after she bumped her head on a rocky outcropping and scraped a knee, she decided to risk the flashlight again.

  She kept the beam pointed straight down toward the rising floor of rock. Winston trotted forward through the sandy rubble that littered the bottom of the cavern. He no longer seemed inclined to bark. Cautiously, she released his muzzle.