Fire on the Water

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Château de Chillon sits plumply in the shallows of Lake Geneva, connected to the shore by a slim drawbridge and covered walkway. Dominant and foreboding in its isolation, it’s the only building positioned where the forested Swiss Alps press in hard against the broad expanse of lake. Water laps all around the base of the ancient fortress; mollusks cling tight to the lowest blocks of chiseled, battle-worn stone.

From where Rachel sat, on a wall beside the lake’s edge, the looming fortifications and turrets blocked any view of Montreux further to the west. The sun was setting, the sky a deep orange hue, and the last rays of light pierced through the heavy layer of storm clouds that had lain dormant above the lake for many days and nights. The eerie luminosity of waning daylight made the tiles on the château’s conical and slanted roofs, and the thin slivers of glass in the highest windows, shine in defiance as they must have done for more than eight hundred years.

Rachel’s gaze fell to the farthest edge of the structure where the water surged and eddied into the barred lake entrance of the dungeon. She could easily imagine being trapped in there, surrounded by raw rock face and stone columns graffitied by men and women who never left its miserable confinement alive. The thought made her own heart clench tight, an ache that had refused to leave her since Jack had been . . . since Jack had been sent back to Chicago.

She opened her laptop to review the paragraphs she’d typed the previous evening. She read them over and over again. The sentences seemed sad, depressing, not representative of her subject at all. They left her cold. Word by word she deleted the offending passages until only one line remained in the chapter. She stared at the few residual words without seeing them and then pressed the backspace button to wipe them from existence, one letter at a time.

The blank page seemed even more disconcerting. She reverted her gaze to the ancient building in front of her.

The château was abruptly lit up by a brilliant sheet of lightning that stretched the full width of the lake before snaking back on itself to plunge into the highest turret. The clap of thunder was immediate. It reverberated off the Alps, echoing back and forth across the lake, making the water ripple. The air vibrated and rumbled, and Rachel’s skin crawled and shivered electric. A second streak followed the same course as the first and hit the same point, and the rolling crash of thunder filled the entire valley. Then came a third strike and its churning, suffocating rumble.

Rachel stared, horrified, as the fire staccatoed across the water and appeared to embrace, to lick, to caress the château with a mesmerizing glow, giving it unexpected life. The air tasted metallic, her hair lifted and cracked with static, and the heat drained from her body to dissipate out into the thickening darkness of approaching night. She closed her laptop and gathered her papers together before stuffing them into the duffel bag beneath her trench coat—not too soon, as the sky fractured and haphazardly split open with torrential rain and a battering, gusting wind flung down from the Alps.

The storm clouds tumbled and dropped to seize both earth and water in a crumpled, disorienting shroud. Rachel conceded it would be a long, wet, and uncomfortable hike back to Montreux and her studio.

Hurrying along Quai Alfred Chatelanant, Rachel squeezed between the whipping waters of the lake and a walled-off pasture, attempting to leave the unbearable thoughts of Jack behind her in the shifting shadows of Chillon’s dungeon. She was submerged in a complete, foggy obscurity. The lake offered an iridescent glow, but still she had to feel her way along the gravel walkway, ensuring she stayed on its central ridge and not trip down into the ditches on either side that now ran fast with water.

Further streaks of electricity cut across the sky. They purged the night and illuminated the precipitation, their momentary intensity making perception even more difficult as Rachel stumbled through the downpour. The hollow clatter of bells echoed around her—unseen cattle in a nearby field, no doubt huddling under the protective canopies of trees. She could just detect the gleam of their eyes but was unsure; instead, she pulled her soaked coat tight about her shoulders, head held low, and continued moving one tentative step at a time toward Montreux.

It was several minutes before the opulent mansions of Quai Ami Chessex and Quai des Fleurs emerged out of the mist ahead of her. They forced her to continue along the water’s edge, but at least the illumination from their manicured gardens and terraces made the route distinguishable. The Casino Barrière de Montreux was still many minutes’ walk around the bay. It sparkled in the distance.

The storm intensified until she couldn’t bear it. The sky itself was tormented and deafening. Rachel hunched her shoulders against the battering force, held her hands over her nose and mouth so she could breathe within the deluge, and concentrated on her feet as they sloshed through the rising depths of water now cascading across the walkway. Every droplet of water around her suddenly pulsed a gangrenous yellow-green, and she realized she was at the marina, near its beacon. She could just make out the shadow of the Rue de Bon-Port ferry terminal behind the insipid, repetitive glow. She ran toward it as fast as she dared, skirting the curve of the small harbor, wary of the waves that crashed and sprayed against the lakeside wall of the boardwalk.

The weight of the assault lifted as she passed the wrought iron columns holding the terracotta-tiled roof high above the open pier. The shriek of the wind skipped and dropped lower. It took several moments for her to catch her breath, and she took in the damp odor of the refuge as she threw off her waterlogged coat and attempted to shake the misery from it. Her blouse and jeans were saturated right through, clinging to her skin, offering no protection or humility. Thankfully her laptop, diary, and notes were dry inside her duffel.

She wiped at the moisture on her face and attempted to wring it from her hair as she studied her surroundings. The terminal was deserted. A small flotilla of pleasure craft bobbed behind its quay. The yachts were all pristine white, glistening in the rain, emblazoned with names in French that declared love and beauty: Beau, Magnifique, Mon Ami, Amour. Rachel was thoughtful of their message, her eyes stinging at the thought of love, not knowing what it meant to her anymore.

At the end of the terminal sat a lonely bench, and she knew she should keep it company—should wait out the worst of the tempest. She started toward it, her footsteps echoing against the concrete, making her stop now and then to ensure the echo was her own. Less than halfway there, she hesitated, standing motionless for several moments in the dim light. She listened to the wind and rain, to her own heartbeat, for anyone who might be sharing this refuge and gone unnoticed. The wind had begun to pick up again and now howled all around her and the space, through the exposed rafters of the roof, through the incessant, quickening thoughts of Jack that refused to leave her be.

In the several weeks since his death she’d been able to think of little else. All her life she’d been methodical, disciplined, and analytical—able to classify and place any aspect of her research, or existence, neatly and precisely into the correct box. But with Jack it had been different. And now that he was . . . now that he was gone, she was left confused and heartbroken. What they’d shared was something she couldn’t label or categorize, something that seemed unreal and incredible. The warmth of his hand against the small of her back. The beguiling or serious conversations whispered into her ear, each thought punctuated by the touch of lips or caress of fingertips. The smell of his skin, his hair, his clothes. The excruciating excitement of his tongue pressed against her own, in between sips of Chardonnay and discussions of Mary and what her creation of the wretch represented . . .

Lightning struck through the night; thunder rumbled in its jagged wake.

As she peered around at the rain-splashed concourse, at the rattling downpipes that somehow clung to their wrought iron columns, her attention settled on the shutters of what she presumed must be the port master’s office. She imagined the slightest movement of shadow and so called out toward it, her voice insignificant beneath the hammering torrent on the tiles above. She approached and knocked on the office door, but there was no answer. The large brass knob turned under her grip, but the door would not open, even with a push of her shoulder.

Again she thought she saw movement in the darkened ticket window. She called out a second time and peered through the grate into the office. The space was pitch black, but she stared into it until she resolved it was indeed empty, that she was alone, that Jack was not there . . .

She looked down at her hands on the ticket counter. Unease nudged at the back of her mind, scratched amongst her deepest fears. Her hands rested on the ledge, her fingers extending into the shadow. At first she dared not move them, then, slowly, she pulled them from the darkness. Unexpected relief caused her breath to catch in her throat as she confirmed they were intact. She clenched her hands tight and pressed them to her chest as she moved to the end of the ferry terminal, as far from the shadows as she could get.

Rachel slumped onto the bench and focused on the cold, hard concrete at her feet.

Uncomfortable, wet, and shivering beneath the flicker of fluorescent light, Rachel sank further than she had previously allowed herself. But she didn’t care. She could suppress her emotions no longer, could hold back her feelings for what had happened to Jack no more. The first sob cut deep, exposing her heart to the full brunt of the turmoil that surrounded her. Somehow she felt glad for the pain, knowing it had to be confronted to be understood—even if only in some small way. The agonizing emotions and memories slashed into her and, one by one, were mangled by thoughts of metal, leather, and flesh, skidding, twisting, and disintegrating across the tar of an unknown Alpine road.

Shadows and puddles flowed and seeped about her as she pulled her feet up onto the bench and bent down until she was lying awkwardly on her side. Wet, trembling hands melded against her face so she could see only the pulsating darkness behind her eyelids, could feel only the painful throb of memories throughout her body, could continue to sob without the past weeks of numbness and restraint. The noise of the night dominated and drowned her anguish, sucking it from her until she was spent.

For the longest time she didn’t move—her body and thoughts lying dormant, tending toward little more than a decayed loneliness, mixed, perhaps, with fragments of relief.

When she again became aware of the wet and cold discomfort, the gusting wind and downpour appeared even more harsh than it had before. Tentatively she lifted her face from her hands to stare out into the darkness—to gaze past the dull ache she thought would never leave her. She rubbed at her eyes. Quick and sharp, the night, the rain, the hack of lightning and reverberating clamor of thunder came back into focus. In the distance, Chillon fluoresced behind the vacillating curtain of precipitation. The lake roiled, waves whipping up to six feet high, their surface broken and spotted by the weather, which refused to halt its attack. The medieval sea wall jutted out into the lake and curved around to a sheltered entrance to protect the small ferry harbor. Waves crashed and broke across it.

And then she saw him.

He stood in the downpour at the end of the breakwater. He was strongly built, his silhouette over seven and a half feet tall, maybe eight, his massive arms hanging lifelessly at his sides. He was wearing dark clothing. Thick, long, dark hair, sodden and miserable, whipped about his shoulders in the storm. Was he barefooted?

At first, Rachel thought he was looking out across the waters toward Chillon, but a swift vein of lightning revealed he was staring in her direction.

He was staring right at her.

It made her feel even more uncomfortable and alone. She looked around the ferry terminal, toward the bobbing yachts, to the mansions several minutes’ run back along the walkway, and then back toward the lone figure at the end of the causeway. He continued to stare, motionless.

The rain cut down upon him.

He clenched his hand into a fist, a slight movement, but one that made his entire body straighten to his full height and give more bearing to his true immensity and conspicuous strength. Rachel stood, wiping at her eyes and her nose, and pulled her wet coat over her shoulders, not daring to look away from him.

He took a step toward her . . . or did he? Her heart pounded and, despite herself, despite the rain, despite what he on the causeway may or may not have done or intended to do, she turned and she ran.

She ran from that wretched bench and her memories of Jack.

She ran toward the lights of the casino.

She ran away from him.