And he'd go back to it; she felt it as surely as she felt electricity in the air, the warning of a gathering storm.

She had to work fast, get to the island, hide the raft, and then wait. She was as prepared as she could be, had provisions for a couple of days, but she knew she wouldn't have to spend too many hours on the island. He would come to her. He couldn't wait.

Well, hurry up, you bastard, she thought, paddling in the low tide, where thankfully she wouldn't get tossed around like a cork. She could have walked across the exposed rocks now, but she might need the raft for later, so she cautiously oared over, her mind on her mission.

Ignoring all the nagging questions, her fears screaming through her brain, she reached the island and made her way to the dock, a dilapidated pier that jetted three feet above the current waterline. It was empty and bleak, covered with seagull droppings. An ancient surfboard, or part of one, had beached upon it. She tied the raft to one of the pilings, said a prayer and, using a flashlight, found the path that switch-backed up the sheltered side of the small island of rock.

As she climbed, the wind gathered force and blew at her hair, the clouds roiled overhead, and she wondered neutrally if she would ever leave this island alive. Rain slanted from the sky, and she thought of the baby she'd lost, her sisters huddled in fear at the Colony, and Harrison. . . . Her fingers reached in her pocket and she cradled her phone, though she wasn't certain there was reception on the island.

Her heart twisted as she thought of Harrison.

She'd loved him, despite knowing him such a short time, and now she wondered if she'd ever see him again.

Carefully, she put the phone back. She wouldn't think of that now. Maybe not ever again.

James's heart was a drum. He was scared out of his mind and wondered how the hell he'd let his dumb shit of a brother talk him into this. They weren't alone on this island, like Mikey had said they would be. The little creep had been wrong.

Oh, Christ.

James saw the guy. Tall, his hair blond as it whipped around his face, he stood like the lunatic he was, his feet planted shoulder length apart, his arms flung wide, a long coat flapping around him. He was facing the damned ocean and saying something James couldn't hear, like maybe praying a sicko's prayer. And in one hand, his fingers clenched tight around its hilt, was a mother of a knife.

Mikey hadn't noticed yet, so James grabbed him by the arm and, with a finger to his lips, pointed with his free hand.

Mikey looked irritated and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as he recognized the freak. His eyes widened and he blinked, as if he was trying to dispel the image. James pulled him down to the ground so they could hide behind a rock and some tall beach grass that rose higher than the patchy ground at the base of the lighthouse.

The psycho was standing between them and the only path leading back to the old dock, where they'd ditched the surfboard that Mikey was certain would help them float back to the mainland if need be.

A crazy idea, James now knew, because the tide was turning, and if they wanted to leave and not have to try their luck with the furious, frigid sea, they'd have to leave now.

But of course they couldn't.

Damn, he'd been a fuckin' idiot to listen to his little brother with his ridiculous plans.

Mikey touched him on the shoulder, then pointed to the house that sat at the base of the lighthouse, its back wall nearly abutting. The kid actually thought they could hide in there. . . . It was insane, but they didn't have too many options. Aside from this rise on the hilltop supporting the lighthouse, there wasn't any cover, so . . .

Before he could think it through, Mikey took off running. James caught a glimpse of the psycho, saw that his back was turned, and sprinted behind his brother. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten, five-oh, shit, the madman was rotating slowly, his face in horrific profile.

Shit! Damn! Fuck! James leapt the final yard or two, landing behind Mikey, who'd flattened himself against the building's exterior wall. Now all that separated them from the killer was this small house, but it was something.

Carefully, James inched to the door on the far side of the building. He tried the handle. Locked tight.

He nearly pissed his jeans.

Now what?

A quick peek around the corner confirmed his worst fears.

The psycho was striding to the house.

Had he seen them? Oh, God . . .

Mikey, eyes serious, pointed a finger at the lighthouse itself.

James shook his head. No!

He reached for his brother, but Mikey was off like a shot, streaking behind the house, cutting across the small open space, and then, to James's horror, pushing on the lighthouse's front door and somehow slipping through.

He glanced around the corner again.

Shit! The freak was less than twenty yards away.

But his view of the base of the lighthouse was blocked by the building.

James had no choice.

He took off running as fast as he could.

He hoped to hell that the freak didn't see him.

"God damn it!" The minute Catherine hung up on him, Harrison flew to his car and slid inside, where the odor of Marilla's cigarettes still lingered.

What was Laura thinking? No way should she be going to that island!

Wheeling out of her driveway, he headed to Cape Dread, a spot where surfers often camped and the access to the old lighthouse would be the easiest.

It was raining again, almost dark, and he nearly missed the turnoff to the beach at Cape Dread, the closest to Whittier Island. Spying the sign at the last second, he slid across traffic, the RV riding his ass behind him nearly rear-ending him. The driver laid on his horn, but Harrison barely noticed. He hit the gas and drove along a short lane to the lot closest to the park.

Laura's Subaru was parked, nose in, by a short two-rail fence.

His heart sank.

He'd hoped Catherine had been wrong, but now . . .

And there was another car as well. A Dodge Charger parked at an odd angle, taking up nearly three of the faded marks delineating individual spots.

Justice's latest vehicle?

Jesus, no!

Harrison's insides curdled with a new, unending dread as he reached into the glove box and extracted his 9 mm. He checked the magazine and, satisfied, climbed out of his car.

Were they both on the damned island, at that lighthouse? Had Laura called the bastard, taunted him, urged him to come and find her in some deadly game of hide-and-seek? Oh, hell . . . Harrison stared toward the spot where the horizon would be, that line where sky meets sea, but that line was invisible, blurred by clouds and darkness. The only good news was that the tide was so low, it looked as if it was almost possible to hike to the island now.

And what then?

What if you get out there and can't get back?

He glanced at Laura's car again, absently rubbing his arm where Zellman had shoved the stun gun against it.

To hell with it. Heading toward the ocean, he called Detective Stone's cell phone and left a voice mail about his position and what he thought might be going down. Heart in his throat, he pocketed his cell, held tight to his Glock, and started jogging through the exposed rocks toward the island Justice friggin' Turnbull had once called home.

Rounding a final curve on the trail up, Laura sensed the storm shifting, a malevolence brewing.

And somewhere Justice could be nearby. She felt it. Her fingers clamped around the .38 as she narrowed her eyes against the rain. It was coming down steadily now, the drops cool against her face.

At the crest of the path, the lighthouse was in full view, a narrow tower that knifed upward and seemed to pierce the darkening heavens. Standing on a rocky tor, with thick patches of beach grass, the tower loomed over the squatty, dilapidated house at its base.

What horrors have you witnessed?

Had Justice ever brought anyone here?

Or had he hidden in solitude, his mind disintegrating with the passing of time?

It didn't matter what had happened here; it was only important that it was finally over. She flipped off the safety of her gun, then dashed to the door of the keeper's house, but it was locked tight. No entrance here. Slowly, still wary, she eased around the building and kept her body flush against the crumbling walls. The windows were boarded, a back exit locked as well. No way to get inside.

She had brought a few tools with her and could break in if she needed, but first she wanted to make certain she was alone. Cautiously, she hurried to the attached lighthouse, the monolith that Justice, according to what she'd read, had called home. Where he'd found peace. Or whatever it was he'd been looking for.

The latch on the door wasn't fastened.

The door itself was slightly ajar.

Her heart turned to ice.

He's here!

Inside!

Oh, dear God.

Fear turned her insides to water.

Wait! You don't know that he's inside. The door could have been left open long ago. Suddenly she wondered if she'd made a deadly mistake, if she should turn around, call the authorities, save herself. . . .

Instead, she drew in a long, steadying breath, then pushed the door open farther with the revolver's short nose.

As the door creaked open, Laura stepped into the yawning darkness.

She's arrived!

I smell her and her empty, malodorous womb. Foolish, foolish woman. So easily tricked to come here to my lair. I feel a smile curve over my lips as the spray from the ocean caresses my face and the wind plays with my hair. I heard her pathetic voice trying to reach me, to tempt me to this, my home, but I had already arrived.

As ever, I am a step or two ahead of her.

I take in a long, healing breath of salt-sea air, dragging it into my lungs, feeling its glorious healing powers. I look toward Cape Dread, that crooked finger of land that stretches into the Pacific, where it lures the tidewaters and foolhardy sea captains to a certain and deadly fate.

Tonight no lights glow on that cape; there is no sign that the narrow expanse of land is inhabited. That evil lurks within the densely forested cliffs. Which is just as it should be.

I feel my strength returning.

Earlier this day I was weak, recovering. I'd let my guard down with the vile ones. Been foolish.

But now . . .

I'm whole again.

And anxious.

For Lorelei.

Get ready, whore.

CHAPTER 46.

On silent footsteps Laura climbed, one hand on the rusted circular rail, the other gripped over the butt of her gun. The old staircase groaned with her weight, thick, blistering paint peeling beneath her fingertips. Could Justice hear her over the thunder of the sea? She didn't know, but she kept mounting the rickety stairs, her heart pounding an erratic tattoo.

She had two choices. To kill him or wound him badly enough to disable him and wait for the police to arrive.

Otherwise, she was dead.

She knew it.

So did he.

Up, up, up. Her legs beginning to cramp. While the storm picked up and the sea raged, she moved inside and around the lighthouse walls, ever ascending. Her pulse was pounding; her body drenched in a thin layer of perspiration.

Was he waiting for her?

Hidden in the shadows?

Her throat closed in fear at the thought that he could toss her headlong down these narrow stairs or, with his strength, could throw her over the fragile rail and down to the concrete floor some sixty feet below. . . .

Do this, Laura. Do it now.

Gritting her teeth, she kept climbing.

Squinting into the darkness, ears straining at every sound, her fear palpable.

But she didn't stop.

Frigid water, cold as the Arctic, swept into the small cove as the tide shifted, each wave creeping farther inland. The wind had become a battering ram, pushing him backward with every step forward.

Harrison kept diligently moving onward, making headway regardless. He stopped only once to try and reach Detective Stone one more time. Still no answer. Was the cop ignoring his calls? Or just busy with Marilla? He left a second message outlining what he knew and hoped the detective got it.