Stranger on the Shore - lanyon Josh (лучшие книги читать онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗

“I didn’t realize it was such a sensitive subject.”

“The hell you didn’t.” But Pierce sounded cool, once more sure he was in control.

By now they had reached the tunnel of trees. “Enjoy your evening,” Pierce said, coming to a halt.

“I’ll do my best,” Griff told him.

Pierce strode away, there was really no other way to describe that swift, almost forceful gait. His trench coat flapped behind him. A man with things to do and places to go.

Griff continued into the archway of trees, thinking. The light filtering through the boughs seemed to sparkle green-blue, edging the plants and statues with a mysterious luminescence.

He had a lot to consider, so it was irritating that his thoughts kept circling back to Pierce. He kept seeing Pierce’s lean, long-legged image stalking away into the lengthening shadows. Griff had certainly touched a nerve there. Why? He didn’t really think Pierce or his sister had conked Brian over the head and shoved him in a toy box. For one thing, given the circumstances they could never have successfully hidden Brian’s body. And that being true, it was impossible to believe any adult would have aided them.

Griff left the archway of trees. The pink cottage lay before him like a house in a child’s nursery rhyme. The wide and pretty stream tumbled and shone beneath the ornamental bridge. The swans glided tranquilly across the glassy green surface of the upper and lower ponds.

It reminded him of something. Something important.

What?

Still preoccupied in thought, Griff crossed the grassy knoll and started across the bridge.

The breeze had changed and he could smell—or imagined he could—the brisk sea air, fancied he could almost hear the measured thunder of the distant waves.

Midway across the bridge one of the boards beneath his feet gave a sharp and sudden crack. With no more warning than that, an entire section of planks caved in, and Griff dropped through space to the water below.

Chapter Eight

The cold was a shock. The wet was a bigger shock. Brown-gold bubbles churned and streamed up before Griff’s bewildered gaze as he splashed down. Water rushed into his nose and mouth. He was choking, flailing, conscious of wooden missiles plummeting past, birds flapping in panic, taking flight around him.

What? Wait. What just happened?

Instinctively, he kicked and clawed, breaking the surface. The swans were in pandemonium, the chill air alive with wings and hissing. Had he landed on them? Overhead, another thick plank of wood from the bridge splashed down into the stream and banged into him. He swept it away.

Someone was yelling to him.

Still coughing, spluttering, Griff found his footing and stood up. The stream wasn’t much more than five feet deep, but it was wide and the current was surprisingly strong. He turned to see Pierce loping across the bridge.

Pierce leaned over the side. “Are you all right?” he called down.

“Watch it. The whole center section is gone,” Griff called back.

Pierce’s answer was lost as he ducked back. His footsteps thumped overhead as he continued across the bridge.

Griff waded to the bank, which turned out to be slimy and slippery and steeper than it looked. He was happy to see Pierce appear, slogging down through the reeds and mossy rocks, offering a hand. His fingers closed around Griff’s, his grip warm and surprisingly solid.

“Are you okay?” He sounded slightly out of breath.

“That was d-different,” Griff said, scrambling up the bank with Pierce’s help. His teeth were beginning to chatter.

Pierce let go of him as they reached solid ground. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” His shoulder felt bruised where one of the falling boards had hit him. He was lucky it hadn’t struck him on the head. Otherwise he was okay. More surprised than anything.

“Shit.” Griff grabbed at his shoulder. “My camera.” The strap had either snapped or slipped off his shoulder. Either way his camera was gone.

He turned to look at the stream which was slowly settling back into its usual lazy rhythm. No sign of his camera. He felt in his pockets and pulled out his cell phone along with his soggy notebook. “Hell.”

“Be glad that’s all it was,” Pierce said. He sounded terse, as though he didn’t want to encourage any sense of grievance on Griff’s part.

“I am.” It could have been his laptop. That really would have been a disaster. He couldn’t afford to replace his laptop. His phone would be bad enough. But the phone’s plastic case was supposedly watertight. So here was the test. He pressed and the small screen lit offering a screen saver image of surf and sand and the news that he had two messages. His lucky day.

Sort of. Griff stared at the bridge. It had seemed solid enough that morning.

“You’d better get inside and change those clothes.”

Griff nodded, shivering. He felt rooted in place. “It happened so fast.”

“Bad things usually do.”

Did they? Not always, but yes. Part of what made disaster so...so disastrous was the suddenness, the lack of warning.

Pierce touched his soggy sleeve. “Come on.” He sounded...not kind, but not as brusque as usual.

Griff turned and followed Pierce, squelching across the grass. It seemed a long way to the cottage. They climbed the dainty steps to the pink cottage door. Griff’s feet felt heavy. He felt chilled all the way through. He also felt weirdly nauseated. It was only a dunking after all, not a big deal, and he couldn’t have swallowed that much stream water, but yes. He did all at once feel pretty unwell.

He fumbled his keys out, but dropped them. Pierce retrieved them. Griff waited politely for Pierce to unlock and push open the cottage door, and then he brushed past with a quick, “Excuse me.”

He made it to the downstairs powder room—literally a powder room, there was no bath or shower—just in time, turning the sink taps on full and then crouching over the toilet and losing all that remained of his lunch. It was quick and comprehensive. Unpleasant but efficient. Afterward he leaned on the sink, splashing water on his blanched face and rinsing his mouth. He could still taste the stream, and the flavor of mud and wet bird made him shudder.

When he wobbled out of the bathroom, he found Pierce in the tiny kitchen filling a copper tea kettle. “Are we having tea?” he tried to joke. “I think I’m out of cucumber sandwiches.”

“Unless you want instant coffee.” Pierce gave him a measuring look. “After you shower.”

“I just had a bath.”

“How do you like the moss shampoo?”

Griff laughed, and was surprised at how shaky it sounded.

Pierce said, “I’m not kidding about the shower. I’d make it a good and hot one. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re in shock.”

“Shock.” This time the sound that came out was not remotely amused, so maybe Pierce was right. Being dunked in an ice-cold stream had certainly been a very unpleasant surprise. Griff still felt ridiculously unsettled. He said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had instant coffee.”

“And if you’re lucky you never will. Though this is purportedly flavored with French Vanilla.”

“I don’t know what French Vanilla is, but the idea of it is hurting my stomach. I like that you used the word ‘purported’ in conversation.”

Pierce snorted. “You’re definitely in shock, Hadley. Take your shower and put on some warm clothes. I want to talk to you.”

Another talk sounded exhausting. All Griff wanted to do was crawl into that extraordinarily comfortable bed upstairs and sleep for a century, but since that wasn’t looking like an option, it would be better to get this over with.

The hot shower helped. A lot. He examined his bruised shoulder in the square mirror over the highboy in the bedroom, and more clearly understood how lucky he’d been. If that board had hit him on the head, he’d have probably been knocked out, at least for an instant. He might even have drowned, though that was unlikely. Hopefully.