It's late. Stone might have called it a day.

He considered calling 9-1-1 but thought better of it. What if it wasn't an emergency? What if when he got to the island, he found no one? What if Laura had just parked her car there and . . . and what?

No way!

She was out here. In danger.

He knew it.

Could feel it.

The sky was darker now and he still had a lot of ground to cover before the turning tide rushed in, so he kept moving forward, determined not to fall, intent on keeping his body dry and his gun ready to fire.

With each step over the slippery rocks, his gut tightened a little more. Like notches in a belt that was already too tight. Cutting off his breath. Reminding him that he was only human.

Still he moved forward.

Crossing from one flat rock to another.

Making his way to the lighthouse.

He tried to stay focused, but with each step to the next rock, his insides tightened and he thought of Laura and what she might be going through.

Don't go there.

Concentrate.

He hopped to the next rock, nearly misjudging the distance, and his feet slipped a little. He caught himself.

You can do this. Only a little farther, five or six more rocks.

But the tide was rising, the top of the rocks disappearing under the wildly swirling foam of each wave. He had to center all his concentration on crossing the inlet. Time his steps. Pick out the rocks that were the most exposed, ignore those that were beginning to submerge.

And all the while time was passing. Minutes ticking by. Darkness settling.

He thought of Laura's car and the other one . . . the unknown.

Don't go there. Don't give in to the panic. Concentrate, damn it!

Rain was falling steadily now, the wind screaming and above it all, loud as thunder. The ocean threatened, moving ever inland, destroying the land bridge, making certain that whoever was on the island would be trapped. . . .

His cell phone jangled.

Stone! Thank God.

He tried to snag the phone from his pocket.

And his right foot slipped.

He tried to catch himself, grasping at only air, teetering crazily.

A wave slapped the rock. Cold water splashed over his ankles. His balance, already compromised, gave way.

No!

He slid farther, falling wildly and scraping himself on the rock as he sank, his body sliding beneath the bitter cold water.

His gun fell from his hands and he panicked, tried to regain it, felt it tumbling end over end in the sea. No! He couldn't lose the only weapon he had! Shit! He hit bottom and realized he was still in only six feet of water, the crevice near the base of Whittier Island just deep enough that he couldn't stand.

For now.

With the passing of time, the turning of the tide, the water would rise farther.

He dived down. Cold water surrounded him, moving and shifting, pushing him against the rocks. He felt the bottom of the sea. Nothing! His lungs were on fire, so he stood, sucking in air.

He should go on. Forget the weapon. He was losing precious time, and his arm that had been shot with the stun gun earlier was throbbing. But he needed that gun, damn it! He took in another deep breath, and as the restless water washed over him, he submerged, running his fingers on the sandy bottom, feeling rocks, and a fish that slid away, then seaweed that curled over his wrists like a lover's hands.

His lungs were tight. He needed air. But he kept at it, until he felt as if he would explode.

His fingertips scraped against something metal.

He grabbed hold and dragged the object up with him, gasping and gurgling as he stood on tiptoe. The Glock, probably useless now, was firmly in his hand again.

Move it, Frost. You're running out of time.

He forced himself forward, toward the dock, his clothes sodden, icy weights, his skin colder than it had ever been in his life. It was like slogging through mud, and the sea forever tore at him, pushing against his shivering, battered body. There was no ladder, but an inflated raft was tied to the dock, and he knew now, for certain, he wasn't alone on the island.

Was Laura hiding somewhere here? Or had Justice found her? He couldn't think that she might already be dead, wouldn't let his already anxious mind go there. Using all his strength, his wounded arm practically useless, he hauled himself onto the worn, rotting boards while the rain peppered his already drenched body.

He figured he might freeze tonight.

But he didn't care.

As long as he found Laura and she was safe.

Stone was shrugging into his jacket before heading home when he checked his voice mail. He listened to Frost's messages about Justice Turnbull being holed up on Serpent's Eye and Laura Adderley tracking the killer down at the abandoned lighthouse.

No way.

They'd checked the lighthouse. As best they could, anyway, as most of the time it was inaccessible by land.

Didn't make sense.

But he checked the license number of the Dodge Harrison had phoned in and discovered it belonged to a Ron and Francie Ferguson. Who lived in the valley. Huh. Not reported stolen. Maybe not related to the Turnbull business . . . and yet . . . he reached for his sidearm and his holster. In the last few days Stone had garnered a grudging respect for the reporter. Frost had helped nail Zellman and hadn't printed anything he'd promised not to. He'd brought Marilla Belgard to the police before penning the story that would be his ultimate revenge, a way to clear his name of the huge black spot from supposedly mishandling that mess outside Boozehound that had resulted in his brother-in-law's death.

Yeah, all in all, Frost was okay.

Not one to sound the alarm when there wasn't trouble.

So why the hell wasn't he picking up his phone?

Stone hesitated. Thought of Claire, who was waiting for him with dinner prepared and warming on the stove.

Again.

He had sent Savvy Dunbar to take the Belgard woman back to her car in Seaside and had intended to go straight home. . . .

Oh, hell. It wouldn't kill him to go out to the cove and have a look.

Out of breath by the time she ascended to the top of the lighthouse, Laura found herself in the small room that housed the huge long-dead lamp. Her heart was pounding in her ears and her skin crawled with the feeling-the sense-that Justice was here. She remembered the rage in his last attack, how his finger had scraped her back, how his fury had palpitated from him.

A bona fide lunatic.

She felt as if he were watching her, sensed hidden eyes somehow scrutinizing her every move. Could he see her? When he sent his horrible threats to her mind, was he able to visualize her, too? Watch her like a sadistic voyeur?

She threw off the image and scanned the room. The glass windows were cracked, but intact, the view of the ocean barely visible through layers of dirt and grime. The glass walls were curved, and there was an exit door through one of the windows that led to the metal outside balcony and railing. The lamp itself, long extinguished, filled the center of the circular room, a dead relic of an earlier era.

An era that Catherine, with her long skirts and avoidance of all things modern, tried vainly to re-create.

Laura's skin crawled as she thought of how many times Justice had climbed those stairs, how many times he'd stood in the very spot she now occupied. She imagined him on the platform, arms wide, face turned toward the west as he embraced the sea.

Fear crawled up her spine, its icy fingers clutching at her soul.

Don't go there, she told herself.

Then she heard it.

Over the roar of the surf and the rush of the wind.

That horrid scraping rasp that was Justice's voice.

Sssissterr . . . , he threw out at her and she nearly dropped the gun. She spun, expecting him behind her, but the top of the stairs was empty.

Sssissterrr!

The sound only she could hear reverberated through her mind.

And it was close.

"Where the hell are you?" she demanded and thought she heard a squeak of fear. From behind the lantern? Really.

And then the heavy step upon the uppermost stairs.

She snapped her head up, saw the huge, dark figure looming in the doorway. "Oh, God," she whispered, the gun in her hand shaking.

Justice stepped into the dome, his face a twisted mask of hatred, his icy eyes damning. She stared face-to-face with her mortal enemy as Justice, filling the doorway to the stairs, smiled with a menacing, satisfied grin.

"Foolish, foolish woman," he snarled.

She raised her gun at him. "It's over." The barrel was pointed at him.

He glanced down at her weapon. "Lorelei . . ."

"Don't move, Justice."

"You can't kill me, Lorelei."

"Watch me." Her teeth were starting to chatter.

His grin was pure evil. His eyes cold as a demon's soul.

She heard a whimper and glanced to the side. Was there someone else up here?

Oh, God- In a split second, Justice lunged. "Sssisterr . . ."

She pulled the trigger to blast him to hell.

CHAPTER 47.

Breathing hard, shivering, Harrison hauled himself to his knees. He couldn't slow down. Had to push forward. Up the steep path that wound to the crown of this tiny scrap of land. He had to climb over a sagging, useless chain-link fence, but he kept moving, the salt water in his jeans squishing and feeling like dead weight.

He reached the top of the trail and stared through the dark to the lighthouse. No one in sight.

But she was here. She had to be.

And someone else. The owner of the Dodge Charger.

He crept forward, Glock in hand, breathing hard, squinting in the darkness, staring at the lighthouse.

Blam!

The sound of a gun blast rocked the island.

"Shit!"

A quick fire flash flared bright in the windows of the dome.

Then it was dark again.

Eerily so.

Laura!