The Lifeguard Read online

  The stairs…oh, God, please, help me—

  “I could just leave you down here, of course,” he went on, hesitating at the very brink of the light. “All these underground caves flood at high tide…or sometimes…in very bad storms.” There was a faint breath of laughter. “But you’d suffer too much. Being so afraid. All alone in the water. In the dark. The bats would come. And snakes. And the rats…”

  Kelsey fought down a wave of panic. A little more…little more…

  “I like you too much to let you suffer. I’ll do it nice and fast. I’m good at it, you’ll see.”

  Her body jolted as the rubber soles squeaked across the rocks, as the tall, slender figure moved out into the yellow light—

  “Kelsey,” the voice whispered, and the cave was full of him— “you’ll never escape me. You’re going the wrong way.”

  She lunged then, into the utter blackness, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that the stairs were close, and she heard him, running up behind her, felt his hands on her back as she screamed and screamed and threw herself away—

  And fell over the body on the floor.

  In that split second of horror, Kelsey saw the face—the eyes—gleaming at her from the darkness—the eyes staring at her above the filthy gag, barely alive below the filthy bandage—the matted hair, the dried blood—

  “Oh, God—Beth!”

  Water surged in.

  As Kelsey hurtled into black liquid space she felt the ocean close over her. Gagging, swallowing, she tried to surface, felt a hand clamp down on her head, pushing her under, holding her. She kicked and twisted—eyes wide with terror, but everything was black and distorted…even her cries…her pleas for mercy…

  The pressure on her head let up. Bursting to the surface, she gulped once before the hand pushed her down again. She was vaguely aware of noises, muffled and very far away, and all around her the water was churning, black, black bubbles, waves knocking her helplessly back and forth…deeper…deeper…

  Second chance…and even in the midst of panic she recognized the irony of it all. Saved once to drown later…

  “Kelsey…”

  From some dream she thought she heard her name, a blurry, garbled underwater sound—

  “Kelsey…where are you—”

  Cold air hit her face, shocking her—and hands, on her shoulders now—she couldn’t see the face or the eyes, but the hands were there, strong and powerful, and shoulders and a bare chest—

  My God, he’s in the water with me!

  A new terror seized her; she struck out and heard him curse as he wrestled her arms, her nails from his face—

  “Kelsey—Kelsey!”

  And she went icy all over, recognizing the voice now—that deep, emotionless voice that she had feared all along—

  She had been wrong.

  The murderer wasn’t Skip.

  It was Neale.

  “No!” she shrieked and went down, her lungs filling with water—Brookfield Murders—Brookfield Psychiatric Hospital—as Neale let go of her and twisted sharply beneath the water. Something was happening, she could sense it, even though the world was black and wavy and nothing really mattered anymore…

  “Kelsey…” And the underwater voice again, Death calling for her, guiding her into the deepest, deepest darkness—

  Her head broke the surface once more, as arms lifted her shoulders and someone, somewhere, was shouting, and the lantern was there, throwing sallow light across the cave…the water.

  “Don’t struggle,” the voice said. “Don’t…it’ll be easier if you don’t struggle…”

  And there was a roaring, filling her head, a growing surge of indistinct sound and another shout, muffled, distant…

  “Don’t…struggle…”

  Justin…And she could see him now, his eyes, his face, so near…his arms going around her…“Justin,” she gasped, gratefully, desperately…you’ve come to save me…to save my life…his arms around her, so strong, so determined…

  His hands…around her neck…squeezing…

  “Don’t struggle—”

  But she was struggling…great gasps of air from lungs bursting, and that split second, that tiny instant of realization as strength gave out and water poured in, black and sickening and endless…endless…

  “Don’t…” and Justin’s voice was fading, as everything was fading, as her very life was fading…ending…

  And in her deep, black nightmare she knew she was dying, knew it just as surely as she knew the faraway echo of Skip shouting, and the frenzied thrashings of the ocean reluctant to give up its own…

  And then, the calm, hollow trickling of water upon a cold, cavern floor…

  And the heartbreaking sound of Neale crying.

  Chapter 24

  THE LIGHT.

  It hurt her eyes, jarring her from a deep cocoon of blissful oblivion, and she drew back from it, whimpering.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” The deep voice was very near; it spoke to her softly, and a hand that had been holding hers slid away.

  Kelsey blinked several more times at the pale sunlight across her pillow, at the unfamiliar window with curtains pulled wide. She looked around the room, her surroundings beginning to come into focus at last—faded green walls, hospital furniture—and as she groped for her face, she felt the bandage there, and stared in bewilderment.

  “You’re in the clinic. Do you remember anything?” Neale asked softly.

  She found him then, where he’d been sitting beside her, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his features taut. There was a shadow on his upper lip, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it many times. She stared at him, nodding slowly. Yes…now it all came back…

  She felt a lump in her throat and tears slipped down her cheeks. “Justin—”

  Neale shook his head, his face drawn. “I tried to pull him out—he kept swimming away from me…”

  Despair washed over her, a long, agonizing wave, and she grabbed for his arm. “I saw Beth.”

  “I know. They flew her to the mainland—Dad’ll be there with her.”

  “But is she okay? I thought—”

  “She’s alive, at least,” Neale said gently.

  “But, Donna—Neale, I think Donna might be down there, too—”

  “No, Kelsey, I’m right here.”

  For the first time Kelsey noticed the two figures standing quietly near the door. Donna, her leg in a cast, moved painstakingly toward the bed on crutches as Skip tried to support her with his arm.

  “Oh, Donna—”

  The girls’ arms went around each other, and they both began to cry.

  “Kelsey…he tried to kill me…” They clung to one another, and Donna went on brokenly. “He thought I was dead, I guess—he pushed me over the cliff, and I landed on some rocks. I guess I was out for a while, but when I came to again, he was gone and I tried to crawl back to the beach. To warn you—”

  Kelsey’s heart ached. She hugged Donna close.

  “The beach was swarming with people,” Donna took a deep breath. “That’s when I found out what had happened in the lighthouse—that Skip had gone on for help, and Neale had stayed with you and Beth, trying to keep her alive—”

  “It was Neale who gave you mouth-to-mouth,” Skip spoke up. “I just stopped your bleeding. No big deal.”

  In spite of themselves, the girls laughed, and Skip pulled Donna back.

  “Come on, I’m taking you home where I can keep an eye on you,” he said gruffly. “Before you get yourself in any more trouble.” He leaned down and patted Kelsey roughly on the shoulder, his expression solemn. “You’re in good hands. Now get some rest.”

  Kelsey nodded, tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Donna and Skip disappeared into the hall and Neale lowered his face into his hands, his voice surprisingly steady.

  “You thought it was me.”

  “I thought it was everyone,” Kelsey said hollowly. “Except Justin.” She couldn’t look at
him, yet she felt his eyes upon her, calmly assessing.

  “I could never have hurt Beth—she was the only one who really cared about me. About any of us. The only one in the family who tried to keep us all together. It was Beth who wanted this summer together, not us. Dad adored her, did anything she asked. He never wanted sons…thought they were too much bother, better to stick them off somewhere so he could get on with his career. Except for Justin—Justin made him proud. Justin made up for all the bother.”

  Kelsey glanced at him guiltily. “I found one of your letters to Beth. While you were in that hospital.”

  He nodded, a half smile forming on his lips. “She was the only one who ever wrote me. I never heard from Dad—he was too busy being ashamed of me, I guess. And as for Justin…well…”

  “What…were you in for?”

  “You make it sound like a prison sentence.” He did smile then, much to her embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No, it’s okay,” he brushed her apology aside. “Not terribly intriguing, I’m afraid. I was depressed, and I didn’t know what to do with my messed-up life. The usual stuff. Except I didn’t have anyone to talk to…so I went kind of crazy. Even thought of doing myself in.”

  “You tried…to kill yourself?”

  Another nod, this one regretful. “Stupid. Stupid thing to do. It happens when you think the world’s against you. I know better now, of course.” He shook his head slowly. “I thought I was the only one with problems. I wish I’d known about Justin…”

  “Then you didn’t suspect him?”

  “No. When things kept happening around the island—I thought it might be Skip.” He looked so sorry, and Kelsey’s eyes blurred.

  “And your dad—he didn’t suspect anything, either?”

  “I guess it’s hard to suspect someone who’s so perfect. Perfect grades. Perfect looks. Perfect personality.” He dropped his eyes, his face sad. “Perfect disguise.”

  Kelsey was silent a moment. “You were in the same town while he was in school.”

  “Yes, that was Dad’s idea. To ease his guilt. He put Justin there so someone in the family would be close by. Of course,” he added almost as an afterthought, “Justin never came. He was too busy—” his look was filled with unspoken horror— “doing other things.”

  Kelsey felt a chill go through her.

  “Cold?” Neale tucked the blankets around her. She was surprised at how carefully he did it, almost tenderly, and she smiled.

  “I’m fine. Have you had lots of experience, tucking girls in?” For the first time she saw a blush creep over his cheekbones. He cleared his throat, trying to look unperturbed.

  “You’re getting kind of personal, aren’t you?”

  “Well you did save my life, after all. How did you find me?”

  “It was Skip, really. He found me on the beach—he was running around looking for you and told me he’d turned the jeep over, and he was afraid you were wandering around out there with a concussion or something—that he’d seen you through the fog, but you ran from him, and went for the lighthouse…”

  Kelsey shut her eyes against the sudden images and turned her head away.

  “Your knee’s busted pretty bad—and your forehead—but I think you’ll make it. Here. It’s probably cold by now, but I got you some tea.”

  “You’re pretty good at this.” Their eyes met…held…she knew that hers had filled with tears again. “Why…didn’t he kill Beth?”

  Neale looked down, not speaking for a long time. Finally he said, “I guess only Justin knows the answer to that. We never will.”

  An overwhelming emptiness filled her. She stared at his bowed head. “What will happen now?”

  His voice was tired but matter-of-fact. “With Skip’s pull around here, and his own story about what happened, I don’t think there’ll be much trouble getting this thing settled.”

  She nodded, finding it hard to speak. “And what will you tell your dad?”

  He hesitated, scanning her face with his eyes. “That it’s over,” he said quietly. “That it’s all finally over.”

  She felt the tears racing down her cheeks, felt his strong, gentle fingers as she groped across the covers for his hand. “Second chance,” she whispered.

  And he smiled at her.

  “Second chance,” he said.

  And raised her hand to his lips…

  And kissed it.

  A Biography of Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Born on April Fool’s Day 1952, Richie Tankersley Cusick was destined at a young age to write scary books. In a career spanning three decades, she has paved the way for young-adult horror writing, a genre she continues to publish in today.

  Although born in New Orleans—home to some of the country’s most ancient ghosts—Cusick spent her early years in a small bayou town called Barataria, which once provided a safe haven for the fearsome pirate Jean Lafitte. A true Southern writer, she took early inspiration from the landscape of crumbling mansions, Spanish moss, and aboveground cemeteries, and began writing stories at a young age. For years a ghost lurked in her family’s house, making particular trouble around the holidays, when he would strip the Christmas tree of its ornaments and hurl them to the floor.

  After graduating from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Cusick took a job at Hallmark and moved to Kansas City, where she once again shared her home with a mischievous spirit. It was then that she started work on her first novel, Evil on the Bayou (1984), based on her childhood memories of life in the eerie Louisiana swamps. Its success allowed her to leave Hallmark and begin writing fulltime.

  When Cusick’s novel-writing career began, horror fiction for teens was a new genre. Along with authors like Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine, Cusick pioneered the form, finding success writing chilling stories with only a dash of the gore that defines adult thrillers.

  Since Evil on the Bayou, Cusick has written more than two dozen novels about everything from vampires to pirate ghosts. In 2003 she began The Unseen, a four-volume series about a young girl who is tormented by the occult. Cusick currently lives with her three dogs in North Carolina, where she enjoys listening to classic horror-movie soundtracks as she writes on an antique roll-top desk once owned by a funeral director. The desk is, of course, haunted.

  Richie Tankersley Cusick at age three in front of her grandparents’ house in Rolla, Missouri. From left to right: Richie’s father, Dick; her mother, Lou; Grandma Tankersley; and Aunt Deanie. Richie’s grandmother was the biggest inspiration in her life, and the first one to really encourage her passion for writing.

  Richie in her senior year at Riverdale High School in Louisiana in 1970. Richie was editor in chief of the school newspaper, the Scotichronicon, and was also voted most creative of her senior class.

  Richie’s official press card as editor in chief of the Scotichronicon. Her responsibilities included writing editorials, thinking up topics, conducting interviews, and assigning stories to the staff.

  Richie started playing guitar at an early age, inspired by her uncles and their love of country music. She has always loved singing, and has written several hundred songs.

  Richie in her cubicle at Hallmark Greeting Cards, Inc., where she worked as a writer from 1975 to 1984. In addition to writing every type of greeting card imaginable, Richie wrote poems and prose for posters, puzzle backs, calendars, plaques, key chains, buttons, coloring books, mugs, and more.

  Richie with her maid of honor and lifelong friend, Lise, at her wedding in 1980.

  Richie’s haunted roll-top desk, pictured here in her former home office in Missouri. The desk belonged to a funeral director in the 1800s, and has been the source of some spooky occurrences, including eerie footsteps, muffled voices, and ghostly singing.

  According to Richie, sometimes the quirkiest little thing can help an author break through writer’s block. In this case, she is using a quill pen and ink.

  A sketch of Beverly Island and the summer house f
rom Richie’s horror novel The Lifeguard. Richie loves to have visuals for her book settings, and made these sketches so she wouldn’t get “lost.”

  Richie chatting with fans at a book signing in Rolla, Missouri, in 2004.

  Richie with her three dogs at her home in Missouri in 2011. From left to right: Halle Berry, Emma, and Audrey. Richie’s dogs are her constant companions, and often get put out when she spends long hours writing rather than playing with them.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1988 by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Cover design by Neil Heacox

  978-1-4804-6907-5

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

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  RICHIE TANKERSLEY CUSICK

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