simply existed.
Noah ran through the night until he reached a place that no one else on St. Gabriel Island dared visit…even in the bright, unforgiving light of day.
The concerto of cicadas was very nearly deafening. He drew the thick, balmy air into his lungs, exhaled again and again until his respiration had slowed and his skin had ceased to tingle. A slick coat of sweat had dampened his flesh and he felt cleansed by it.
He moved closer to the looming structure that had once reigned proudly in the center of a clearing. That clearing had decades ago been reclaimed by the semi-tropical forest. Ivy shrouded the ancient chapel’s exterior, hiding the timeworn cracks in its sagging walls, disguising its proximity to inevitable collapse. Inside was cavernous and as dark as a tomb, which was fitting since the rumors on the island had pegged him as the walking dead, a distant cousin of Count Dracula, no doubt.
Some species of the local fauna scurried out through the wide door, open and partially unhinged on one side. Probably a raccoon, Noah decided, unafraid. He waded through knee-deep weeds that grew in the loamy soil as he moved past the chapel and to the cemetery beyond it. He had no fear of anything reptilian or otherwise, he was the walking dead, after all. What did Noah Drake have to fear?
Only the light.
And a past that had destroyed his future, and any semblance of a normal present.
Camouflaged by the creeping flora, primitive head-stones, crumbling with age, marked the final resting places of a few of St. Gabriel’s former residents. No one on the island ever came near the place anymore. Not since the ground had been tainted some thirty or so years ago by the burial of one of Savannah’s premier voodoo queens, or so went the gossip. Noah wondered if the woman had felt as alone in her beliefs as he did in his inescapable isolation.
But he was alone, not lonely, he reminded himself. He didn’t need anyone. And there was his work…his private expression of aloneness.
Minutes turned into hours as he wandered with no particular destination. He didn’t often leave the house for this long, or travel this far from its sanctuary. A simple mistake such as falling and injuring himself could mean certain death if he were unable to return before dawn. But he’d needed to escape the demons from his past and this was the only way he’d known how.
They were coming…for him.
All he could do was wait. It was the waiting that got to him, not the fear for his life. Just the waiting.
Acutely attuned to nature’s predawn signals, he eventually moved back toward safety. He slowed as he neared the house. Inside lay reality. Out here, he glanced toward the east and the pink and purple hues already creeping above the horizon, was freedom, hope, possibility.
But his time was up. Going back inside wasn’t a mere alternative, it was a necessity. If he remained outdoors and the sun came up, which it would inevitably do…he would die.
As he trudged through the sand, he studied the details of the prison he’d chosen. The three-story Victorian Gothic-style house had a long ways to go before she would be fully restored to her former glory, but she was impressive still, at once brooding and enchanting if one was predisposed to romance.
Hurricane shutters, now closed at all times, masked the floor-to-ceiling windows. More than a century after the house’s construction, that detail had become an important one for the new owner. Interior shutters and heavy drapes rendered the numerous massive windows—eyes to the outer world—completely sightless. No one saw in, no one saw out and not even so much as a glimmer of light penetrated his large, aboveground dungeon.
When he reached the screened porch that had been added sometime in the last half of the twentieth century, Noah turned around and looked out over the ocean one last time. That had actually been the deciding factor in his choosing this place. The sound of the surf, the immensity of its boundaries were breathtaking even without the aid of the sun.
It was all that kept him sane.
“Noah, you’ve been gone for hours.” The gently scolding voice greeted him the moment he opened the door into the kitchen.
Tamping down the instant irritation, Noah manufactured a smile for his relentless companion, Lowell Kline. Companion, what an odd designation for his mind to conjure, Noah considered abruptly. But it was true. Lowell was paid well to live here, had been for a year now. Did the shopping, the cooking, the laundry, even the cleaning. He fussed over Noah like a grandmother every chance he got. Most of the time Noah avoided him, but sometimes, as now, Lowell would catch Noah off guard and that annoyed him immensely. Lowell wanted to be a true companion in that he wanted to be Noah’s friend. But Noah didn’t want that. He didn’t want anyone to be too close.
“I’m fine, Lowell.” He regarded his dedicated employee, wondering again what made him stay. It definitely wasn’t the pleasure of the company. Lowell Kline was certainly capable of earning a good wage elsewhere. His still-full head of hair was as white as the clouds Noah remembered from a clear summer’s day. Though not a large fellow, at fifty-five Lowell was quite fit. The older man was well-read and deemed himself the resident expert on the island folklore, including the still-secretly-practiced black voodoo and the long-ago days when pirates and smugglers had frequented the place.
“Have you been up all this time?” Noah inquired. He preferred his solitude. Lowell knew that.
Lowell looked flustered. He tried very hard not to let Noah catch him keeping too close tabs. “Well no, but when I awoke and realized you weren’t back I began to worry.”
Noah nodded, suddenly too tired to discuss the issue. This was his life—existence, he amended. “I apologize if I worried you. Your concern is unnecessary, I assure you. I’m heading for the shower.”
“Noah,” Lowell said, stalling his departure. “You’ve received another…letter.”
The last word hung in the air like the steamy July humidity outside, only heavy with an undercurrent of apprehension…of menace.
“Let me see.” It was only then that Noah noticed Lowell held a bundle of mail under one arm, his reading glasses dangling from his hand. He’d obviously been going through the stack Noah had ignored for the past four days. Noah preferred to do it himself, but whenever he got behind, by choice generally, Lowell took the initiative.
Noah looked at the envelope. As before it was nondescript, white in color, business-size with no return address. The postmark was Atlanta. He reached inside and pulled out the single sheet of paper. It was just like all the others. Letters of the alphabet in different fonts and sizes had been cut from magazines or newspapers and arranged into haphazard words then pasted onto the plain white page.
There’s no place to hide.
Noah sighed, crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room. Anger seethed inside him. The letters had been coming once a week for more than two months. The first few had been nothing more than hate mail. That hadn’t really bothered him since he’d been called worse by the locals on occasion. But the last three or four had grown threatening. Last week’s I’m coming for you had sent Lowell over the edge. He’d insisted on informing Edgar Rothman, the only man involved with the government whom Noah even remotely associated with.
Rothman had overreacted as usual.
“There was a call also,” Lowell said hesitantly, obviously weighing the merits of saying more but duty
