The Masked Man Part 9

Jill's father's fis.h.i.+ng boat was gone when she reached his house. She left him a note saying she had borrowed the ski boat and would be back soon.

The lake was a mirror, the late-afternoon sun hot as she hit the throttle and sped down the lake to the roar of the engine and the spray of the cool water.

She got her love of lakes from her father. He'd moved to Flathead Lake from Billings, bought the modest house on the lake and started an auto-parts business near Yellow Bay. He'd been successful and now, in his sixties, spent his days fis.h.i.+ng on the lake. As the story went, her parents had both given up any hope of having children after years of trying when Jill had come along.

"It must have been the lake water," her father always joked. "Or maybe the good fis.h.i.+ng. But your mother flourished here," he would say, and look at the lake with a kind of devotion. "We were blessed here. We got you."

So it was no wonder Jill loved the lake as much as her father. She'd grown up here and knew the lake well.

Except for what Trevor had named Inspiration Island. The island had always been off-limits. In the early days it had been owned by a wealthy recluse family. After the tragedies there, the island had been fenced and posted.

She'd heard rumors about there being deadly quicksand in places. Those rumors ran as rampant as the ones about the screams heard coming from the island some summer nights. Locals swore the place was haunted and avoided it.

Even her father, who was the most down-to-earth man she knew, always warned her to keep away from the island. He said that something about it frightened him. He never fished near it.

Given all that, she'd been surprised that, when the island had come up for sale, Trevor had talked Alistair into buying it and letting him develop it into an island resort.

The boat trip to the island took about thirty minutes from her father's place at the other end of the lake. Last night from the Foresters', which was closer, it would have taken more like ten, maybe fifteen minutes in the right boat.

Had that been Arnie who she thought got out of the boat at the Foresters' dock last night at eight-fifteen? Or had the man dressed as Rhett Butler been on the boat at all? She couldn't be sure. Once she'd seen the man go into the cottage, she hadn't noticed anyone else.

As she neared the island, she slowed the boat, a chill creeping over her at the sight of the old mansion sitting high on the cliffs at the island's north end. Weathered and dark, the stark frame of the empty structure could barely be seen through the pines, but there was just enough of it to disturb her.

While the other islands were dotted with cabins and expensive houses, boat docks and water toys strewn across the beaches, this island was just as it had been for decades.

She always avoided the island just as her father had and not because of the signs warning trespa.s.sers of prosecution.

It was the stories. Stories of a crazed young woman who'd been kept a prisoner there. According to local legend, Aria Hillinger had been the only daughter of Claude Hillinger and he'd treated her like a princess. But when she was in her teens, she realized she was a captive princess and she went mad.

She escaped once. When her father brought her back to the island, she was pregnant, according to the stories. Claude had delivered the baby himself so his daughter would never have to leave again.

At night Aria would stand on the fourth-floor balcony and cry for help. She was not even eighteen the day her father found her hanging from a rafter on the fourth-floor balcony overlooking the lake. Her child would have been five.

Claude killed himself when he found his daughter hanging there. He jumped from the balcony to the cliffs below. It was weeks before anyone found the two of them. By then, Aria's child was missing. Everyone speculated the child had either starved to death or drowned. Of course, some people said Aria had never escaped the island, not even once, and her baby had been Claude's, which was why she'd killed herself.

Some people still swore that on some still summer nights they could hear the woman's cries miles away.

Jill s.h.i.+vered and wondered why Trevor had thought anyone would want to live on this island again. As she glanced up at the weathered mansion, she also wondered why he hadn't torn down the old structure first thing.

She feared Trevor had planned to capitalize on the tragedies of this island. Why else would he leave that awful monstrosity standing? She could still see the old No Trespa.s.sing signs along the sh.o.r.e and pushed away thoughts of Claude Hillinger. If evil could survive, it did so here, she thought.

The largest cove on the east side sheltered a dock where two boats were moored. She slowed, pulled along one side of the dock and cut the engine. Grabbing the rope, she jumped out to tie it to a cleat, ignoring the large sign on the sh.o.r.e end of the dock: No Trespa.s.sing. Authorized Personnel Only.

She didn't recognize either of the boats, but she recognized the face that appeared at the construction-office window and quickly disappeared from view. Wesley Morgan, one of the investors.

She questioned why someone like Wesley would have invested in this island and then immediately knew the answer. Fast money. The only island left undeveloped in a beautiful Montana lake. Maybe it could have overcome its creepy past. Out-of-staters wouldn't know the history. All they would see was the beauty of the area.

As she neared the office, she thought about Trevor's big plans. High-end summerhouses. A marina. A four-star hotel and restaurant.

From what she could see, none of those plans had materialized. The small office was little more than a shed at the edge of the sh.o.r.e overlooking the dock. She could see no other buildings through the trees.

"Jill?" The voice behind her sounded surprised, maybe a little apprehensive. She turned, glad to see it was Wesley Morgan who came out of the office, not whoever owned the other boat.

Wesley was fiftysomething, slim, prematurely gray with a fatherly face. She watched him glance behind him as if he'd expected to see someone else come out of the office.

"What are you doing here?" Wesley asked, softening the words with a smile and, "Not that it isn't always nice to see you."

Uh-huh. "I wanted a look at the island."

He frowned. "There really isn't much to see."

She could believe that as she glanced toward several pieces of heavy equipment that had obviously been brought out by barge. A narrow dirt road snaked through the pines and disappeared, possibly the same road Claude Hillinger had once used to get to his mansion.

This did seem like a waste of time now that she was here. What had she hoped to find? Some yellow mud. But what would that prove? That the man she'd made love to had been on the island last night? Or at least someone who'd gone into the cottage since last night had been on the island.

She glanced at the office, not ready to give up. "I'd love a tour," she said, and flashed him a smile.

Wesley looked more than surprised. "A tour? I'm not sure-"

"I really need to see this place." She glanced away. "I need to know why Trevor... I just need to see the island for myself."

Wesley looked as if he had better things to do, but finally he nodded and motioned toward a Jeep parked next to the office. "Hop in. Like I said, there isn't much to see."

As she walked along the side of the office, a shadow pa.s.sed the window. She saw Wesley glance in that direction.

"Who's manning the office?" she asked as she climbed into the pa.s.senger side of the Jeep.

Wesley looked uncomfortable as he started the Jeep and backed out. "Nathaniel Pierce. Do you know him?"

She shook her head. But she knew him by reputation.

Wesley seemed to not want to say any more, but must have felt compelled to, given that she'd caught them both out here. "He might be interested in buying the island, but at this point, I don't want to jinx the deal-and he doesn't really want that made public."

She could understand now why Wesley was acting so secretive. Jill knew that if Nathaniel Pierce bought the island the investors would get at least some of their money back. It was no secret Pierce came from old family money.

"Why would he want the island?" she asked, really wondering more why Trevor had wanted it.

Wesley shook his head. "He says he wouldn't develop it. Just let it go back to the way it's been for years. I think he's worried about his view." He shrugged at the whims of the rich. "His house overlooks the island."

Wesley drove south along what was obviously a newer narrow dirt road cut through the trees. The island was only about a mile long and maybe half a mile wide. Through the pines she would get glimpses of the lake. The sun seemed to beat down mercilessly on the island, and the air was eerily still and dry. She yearned to be back in the boat on the cool water and far from here.

"I'm surprised Trevor didn't get more done," she said. Especially as he'd told her he'd been working day and night for the past few months. Uh-huh.

Wesley didn't look away from his driving. "Bet you're not as surprised as the investors."

"Trevor didn't let you come out here, either?"

Wesley shook his head. "He said he wanted to surprise us. Even scheduled a Labor Day grand opening to start selling lots for the next summer season." Wesley's voice was laced with bitterness. "Oh, he surprised us all right."

The road ended abruptly at a gate with a sign that read Restricted. No Admittance.

Wesley stopped and s.h.i.+fted down as he started to turn onto an even narrower road that ran along the west side of the island.

To the south, through a tall, steel-mesh fence, Jill could see pines giving way to cattails, ferns and reeds. With a start, she noticed the tracks going through the gate. The road was rutted and muddy-the same odd mustard-colored mud she'd found in the cottage. The same mud she'd seen on Trevor's boots the last time she'd seen him.

"What's through there?" she asked, pointing at the gate.

"Swamp. The whole south end of the island is worthless, completely uninhabitable, and the north end is high cliffs and not much better. The engineering report that I saw...well, it glossed over some of the island's obvious problems as far as development went."

It sounded more and more like Trevor's only big plans for the island were to bilk the investors and skip town.

"That's a strange-colored mud," she commented. "I've never seen it anywhere else around the lake, have you?"

"No," he said. "Awful stuff. Like quicksand, it's so sticky and deep." Wesley released the clutch. The Jeep lurched up the west-side road.

Jill turned to look back through the fence. Quicksand? That must be why Trevor had gone to the trouble of fencing off the swamp. Seemed like a waste of money, though.

A man's face suddenly materialized out of the trees just beyond the fence.

"Wait!" she cried. "That man-"

Wesley hit the brakes and turned to look in the direction she indicated. "What man?"

She stared at the spot where she'd just seen the blond man from the bakery this morning. He was gone! How was that possible? He'd just been standing there. Where had he gone?

She kept looking. He had to still be there. He couldn't have moved that quickly. Unless he'd realized that she'd seen him and had some reason to hide.

"Didn't you say there wasn't anyone else on the island but Nathaniel Pierce and us?" she asked.

"There isn't. Who did you think you saw?"

She caught Wesley's pitying expression. Did he think she thought she saw Trevor? "I guess it was nothing."

"This must be h.e.l.l for you," he said kindly.

She nodded. Trevor was definitely one reason she'd come out here today, but that wasn't the man she'd seen. She told herself she hadn't imagined him. But then again, she couldn't forget her reaction to him in the bakery this morning. It was so...odd.

Wesley got the Jeep going again.

She pretended to stare at the pa.s.sing landscape. Wesley pa.s.sed an area of sc.r.a.ped rocky earth that might have been cleared for a house. Who knew what Trevor had planned? A few stakes with small red flags on them fluttered in the breeze around the perimeter of the spot.

Why had Trevor bothered if he'd always planned to run out on the investors-and her? Maybe he really had been serious about Inspiration Island at some point. Maybe before the other Scarlett came along. Is that what his mother had meant?

Near the sh.o.r.eline she spotted more wooden stakes, more red flags moving restlessly in the breeze.

Wesley drove over a rise near the north end of the island and the rear of the mansion appeared out of the pines. The heat pressed down on her and for a moment she couldn't breathe.

"That's where they found Trevor's boat," Wesley said, pointing off to the west.

She could feel Wesley watching her, expecting what reaction? she wondered.

"Who found him?" she asked even though Brenna had already told her.

"A fisherman noticed the boat as he was pa.s.sing the island but didn't see anyone inside, so he went over to check."

It seemed strange that Trevor had been killed within view of the island. Within view of the mansion people around the area swore was haunted.

She felt a chill as Wesley drove on past the mansion, back through the pines to the office.

"Anything else?" he asked as he parked in the patch of shade beside the small wooden office.

"Do you know anyone named Rachel?" She watched his face. "She was a friend of Trevor's."

He frowned. "Rachel? No, sorry."

She nodded. "Thanks for showing me around," she said, climbing out of the Jeep. He followed her around to the front of the office.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" she said before he went back inside. She could see that only Wesley's boat remained at the dock. Nathaniel Pierce must have decided not to wait. She hoped her showing up here hadn't made him rush off or change his mind about buying the island. "Did you lose a lot of money in this project?"

Wesley looked toward the lake. "Just my life's savings."

"I'm sorry. I suppose you heard that Trevor was planning to leave the country?"

He raked a hand through his hair, his features taut with anger. "No. When was he leaving?"

"The night of the party."

Wesley looked over at her. "You weren't going with him?"

She shook her head. "Thanks again for the tour." As she started down the slope to the dock, she thought about the three investors. She doubted J.P. was worried about any money he'd put into the project, since the last she'd heard he was worth billions. And Arnie's father, Burt, couldn't have invested much since he didn't have much to begin with.

That left Wesley Morgan. He had the most to lose-and that gave him a motive for Trevor's murder, she realized with a start.

She found herself hurrying, but not because she feared Wesley. She just wanted off this island. It felt cursed. And Trevor's murder seemed to prove it.

But as she got into the boat, started the engine and pulled away from the island, she thought about the man she'd seen in the trees at the south end of the island. The blond man from the bakery that morning.

Instead of turning her boat home, she motored slowly toward the southern, marshy end of the island, staying close to the sh.o.r.e. This end of the lake was shallow and full of weeds.

An enormous flock of pelicans floated overhead, and she could see ducks and geese in pockets of water in the marshy area before the bushes and trees began. She cut the engine and let the boat drift as she neared the far-south end of the island.

A flash of silver caught her eye. A small fis.h.i.+ng boat was tied up under some bushes. She picked up the emergency paddle her father kept on board and maneuvered her boat under the limbs of a clump of bushes in a small cove-a spot just far enough away that when whoever owned the fis.h.i.+ng boat returned, neither she nor her boat could be seen. But she could see him.

She didn't have to wait long.

The man she'd seen earlier behind the restricted area, the same one who'd come into the bakery that morning, appeared from behind the bushes. He was carrying a small navy duffel bag. The bottom of the bag, which was thick with the mustard-yellow mud from behind the restricted area, sagged under the weight of whatever was inside.

He put the bag carefully down in the bow, then untied the bow rope from a branch, shoved out the craft and jumped in. His boat motor spurted to life an instant later.