Page 85 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Shea shook her head. “I’m a writer, and you knew I eat that kind of stuff for breakfast!”
“I realize now it was totally wrong! But—I needed to get some publicity for the place and—” Holt’s chest heaved, and he released a sigh. “Listen, when you booked the place, you said you were a writer. I wasn’t surprised you were interested in Annabel—anyone who comes here is. But I thought you were going to keep it simple, not dig into it like an archaeologist! Shea, it’s this sort of research that might’ve gotten Jonathan Marks shot. And look what happened to Pete? We can’t play aroundwith this anymore. This is something longtime local legend the old-timers around here take very seriously!”
“Point made,” Shea said. She was discovering that all on her own.
“I’m not here to hurt you or Pete. I’m here to get you away from the lighthouse. Let Annabel and Rebecca and Edgar ... everyone else—just let them all be.”
“Why?” Shea challenged. “What if their story needs to be told. For Penny’s sake. For Captain Gene’s sake, her father. If all this stuff really happened, then there could be a silver map somewhere around here that belongs to Penny and her father. They deserve it. They shouldn’t have to lose out on their legacy just because someone out there thinks they’re owed it!” Shea threw her hands in the air, her words ending with a hiss.
Holt grimaced as the sound of tires crunching on gravel alerted them. He yanked her down behind some trees as the car parked yards away from the lighthouse, the headlights off. The engine purred and then was silenced. A car door opened, and a form emerged from the driver’s side. The driver was male, stoop-shouldered, and he hesitated as if trying to find his footing before starting toward the lighthouse.
Holt leaned into Shea and whispered in her ear, “What room is Pete sleeping in?”
“One of the attic rooms,” Shea answered.
“Okay.” Holt sucked in a steadying breath.
Shea reached out and gripped Holt’s arm. “Why? Who is that? And what’s he here for?”
Holt’s look was grim. “You should have that figured out. You’re the one who wanted to meet Captain Gene.”
Thoroughly confused, but knowing this wasn’t the time to interrogate Holt, Shea followed behind him as they moved ahead slowly, staying out of view in the tree line. When a stick snappedbeneath her shoe, she froze, but Holt waved her on. It was apparent that Captain Gene hadn’t heard it, as evidenced by his hunched form continuing to lumber his way toward the lighthouse as if he owned it—or maybe as ifitownedhim.
Shea was perplexed. Why was Holt slinking around the edge of the woods to avoid being seen by Captain Gene? A ninety-something man couldn’t pose much of a threat, could he?
She tugged the hem of Holt’s shirt. When he glanced over his shoulder at her, she whispered, “Why are we sneaking around like this? Let’s just go talk to him.”
“You don’ttalkto Captain Gene.”
Holt’s answer was unsatisfactory, and Shea told him as much. “I’m going to talk to him.” She pushed out ahead of Holt, and he clamored for her, gripping her wrist in a viselike hold that pinched her skin.
“No!”
More annoyed than cautious at this point, Shea spun and rammed her finger into Holt’s chest. “I’m not afraid of an elderly man. I’m not afraid of Annabel’s ghost. Iamafraid of what’s going on that threatens anyone who dares to investigate. So how about we just end this once and for all so that no one else gets hurt?”
“Orkilled?” Holt growled back. “You mean killed, right? Because that’s what happens when anyone messes with Annabel’s story.”
“Again with the cryptic nonsense. Doesn’t anyone around here tell the truth about anything?”
Holt gave a quick shake of his head. “We don’t have time for this. We need to reach Captain Gene before he can enter the lighthouse.”
“And then what? What’s he going to do if he gets in the lighthouse?”
Holt’s response sliced through Shea like a razor-sharp knife. “He’s going to protect his family. He’s guarding family. A familythat started more than a century ago. You don’t understand what you’re digging up here, Shea, and if I’d not been so stupid and greedy, I’d have sent you packing the day after you arrived.”
“Why? What do you mean he’s ‘guarding family’?”
Holt hesitated, then said, “Justtrustme, okay?”
“Why should I?” Shea snapped. She didn’t trust Holt as far as she could throw him. The fact was, at this point, she was confused enough to wish she’d insisted she and Pete just return to their mundane and boring lives back home. But she was also invested enough that she knew she’d never be content with that—not now, not after all that had happened.
Moments later, they had reached the back door of the lighthouse, which stood ajar, inviting them in like unsuspecting victims. Only they did suspect ... something. Shea just didn’t know what it was. Yet concern for Pete urged her to follow Holt in silence, at least until she was better able to assess the situation.
She noticed wet footprints across the wood floor of the kitchen. Large feet, the soles probably those of rubber boots. They were staggered, and Shea noted that a set of the prints were only partially applied, and one of the kitchen table chairs was cockeyed from its normal position. It appeared Captain Gene was unbalanced of body. He hardly posed a threat!
Willing to play along with Holt’s melodrama, Shea continued following him through the spotty darkness. Narrow strips of light filtered through from the moon shining through the windows, just enough to negate the need for a flashlight and for Shea to make out Holt’s face. He stopped at the doorway to the lightkeeper’s bedroom—her room—and held up a hand.
Captain Gene stood across the room, his hands braced on the doorway that led to the spiral stairs and Pete’s room. The elderly man’s shoulders lifted and fell in heavy breaths as he struggled with the effects of advanced age. Again, hardly a threat.
