a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”
“But what about the orange raincoat?”
“It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”
“Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”
Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.
“What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”
“In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”
“What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”
He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”
“Me too.”
He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.
They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it comes to avoiding any potential witnesses.”
Considering how close he himself had come to not venturing out on deck, the killer had almost pulled off the perfect crime yet again. Jack was stunned by the strength and determination it must have taken Meg to fight for her life long enough for him to reach her.
“Now,” he said, “there are over six hundred people on that ferry right now. All of whom are probably crammed into the interior cabins like sardines waiting for the ferry to dock any minute now. So, even if I am right, the chance of him finding another attractive, solitary, female victim in that crowd, and then killing her without anyone seeing anything, is so close to unlikely that it’s borderline impossible. And why would he be looking for anyone else? If he came on the ferry to commit a murder, then he probably thinks he succeeded. For all he knows, we’re both dead.”
It was likely the killer had slipped his disguise back into his bag and was now mingling with an unsuspecting public. Was the killer now standing, sullen in a corner, watching the crowd? Lurking in a hallway? Blending in with the crew? Or was he still on deck, staring back toward where he’d just thrown Meg’s bound and helpless body?
It didn’t matter what the chief of police, Jack’s boss or the naysayers believed. Everything in his gut told him the gentle fingers now brushing against his had just fought back against a ruthless, relentless serial killer.
If only he’d been wrong.
Meg’s bare feet brushed against a sheet of rock. Slippery but comforting nonetheless. She stumbled up shore, half walking and half climbing, until rock gave way to dirt. Thank You, God. When her body had first hit the water, she thought she’d never feel solid ground again. Nausea swept over her at the memory of the attacker’s hand around her throat. Her head swung down between her knees. Jack’s fingers brushed against the inside of her arm, pressing lightly against her skin. “You okay?”
She stared down at long legs, ending in sturdy brown boots with double-knotted laces. No wonder he hadn’t kicked them off. She didn’t even know when in the struggle she’d lost her shoes. His hand reached for hers. A strong hand, without any sign of a wedding band. She let him help her up onto the shore. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
She turned toward him, coming face-to-face with the wet black T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. His dark, unflinching eyes seemed to stare right into hers as if she were a mystery he was intent on solving. There was something about him that made her feel both small and protected at the same time. It was unnerving.
And for some reason she was still holding his hand. “Thank you. Again. For everything.” She let go and started walking quickly up the bank toward the harbor, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush that had risen to her cheeks.
The rain had stopped and the fog had cleared, but a general damp still hung in the air. They’d drifted into the woods not far from where the ferry docked. Yet another reason to be thankful.
Her keys were still in her pocket and thankfully she’d left her purse locked safely in her car. “We have to contact the police. But I think I lost my phone in the lake.”
“Your phone’s in my bag on the boat. Sorry, I forgot to mention it. You’d dropped it so I picked it up. But I left all my stuff on the deck when I jumped in after you.”
“You didn’t bring your car on the ferry?”
“I don’t have a car and I left my motorcycle back in Toronto because I heard you were expecting storms up here all weekend.”
Motorcycle? It was all she could do not to imagine his dark eyes peering through a helmet visor. “Then how were you planning on getting around the island?”
“Taxis. Transit.” He shrugged. “It was a very spontaneous trip. But I’m good at finding my way around, and I don’t tend to plan things too tightly. Spontaneous works pretty well for me.”
Well, that made one of them. Typical city dweller. With a permanent population of just a few thousand, Manitoulin Island was actually one of the few places left where hitchhiking was still many people’s transit of choice. But good luck thumbing a ride if you were a stranger from Toronto. A very tall, very attractive stranger at that.
Stop right there, Meg. Before you get all swoony over him, keep in mind that he’s also the kind of reckless man who rides a motorcycle and leaps off moving ferries. Not to mention his life’s work is writing about criminals. He’s absolutely perfect for that one moment when your life’s in mind-numbing danger. But not the kind of man you’d count
