Wicked Lies (29 page)

“You okay?” Carlita asked and Laura snapped out of it.

“Yeah,” she said, trying not to sound uncertain, even though “okay” was far from how she was feeling.

Carlita’s friend had grabbed a lid and straw and had moved farther into the cafeteria, so Carlita hurried to catch up to him. Laura’s heart twisted. Guilt burrowed deep into her soul, and she gently touched her abdomen, reminding herself of the baby growing within her.

Oh, Lord, what a mess.

She left the cafeteria on leaden feet as she walked back toward the first floor nurses’ station. Who was the unknown woman? Someone she knew? Again, she thought of her sisters; they were the most likely victims. Hadn’t he said he would kill them all?

She paused in the hallway and concentrated.

No, she told herself. It wasn’t someone from Siren Song. She would know. If not from instinct, then someone from the Colony would have tracked her down and delivered the news. Catherine would know if any of her charges had gone missing.

Still, two people were dead. At Justice’s hand.

Maddie and someone else . . . an unknown victim.

“Bastard,” she growled under her breath as she thought of him. “Murdering, soulless bastard.”

“Hey? You talkin’ to me?” a patient pushing an IV stand demanded. Balding, his hospital gown draping off one shoulder, he glared at her as he passed.

“Sorry. No.” Her head began to pound. She was still on break, so she turned toward the staff room and, once inside, blindly navigated to an isolated table at the back of the room. Lost in thought, she barely noticed two nurses huddled together over a crossword puzzle, and another watching the news while dunking her tea bag into a steaming cup. Laura stared at the screen as the facade of Seagull Pointe came into view and a reporter gave a few more details than Carlita had of the tragedy.

Did Harrison know what had happened at the nursing home . . . ? Surely he did. He worked at a newspaper, for crying out loud. Funny how her thoughts kept running to him.

When the story on the television flipped to a fire at an old sawmill, she’d had enough. Pushing back her chair, she walked out of the room and hurried to the bank of lockers where the staff kept their personal belongings. Twisting open her combination lock, she grabbed her cell and dialed Harrison’s number, without hesitation this time, aware how much she’d come to depend on him in such a short period of time.

He didn’t answer and she was instantly deflated. She planned to just hang up, but then changed her mind and left a message. “Hey, it’s me. You probably heard what happened at Seagull Pointe. I think Justice may have killed Madeline. Maybe another woman, too.” She paused, filled with emotion suddenly. Fear. Need. Anger. “Call me,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

The Sands of Thyme Bakery wasn’t doing much of a business in the late afternoon, though the smells of cinnamon and coffee lingered and the glass cases held a few loaves of bread and overlooked muffins, left after the morning and noon rush. Only a few customers were scattered amongst the small tables, each nursing a cup and picking at the crumbs on their plates.

Harrison found his sister leaning on her elbows at the counter and reading the morning paper.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, looking up from his article in the
Breeze.

“The
Breeze
isn’t the
Ledger.
”

“Yeah, well, it’s not really about the paper. It’s about the story,” she said, quoting him. “This Deadly Sinners story is the kind of thing that gets picked up. A bunch of privileged teens burglarizing their friends’ homes.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she gave him a long look. “Aha. I get it. Someone’s already trying to yank this story from you, maybe steal a little of your thunder.”

She was needling him, one eyebrow lifting. “Who? Not that jerk who was always breathing down your neck.”

“That guy was at the
Ledger.
No, it’s Channel Seven.”

“Pauline Kirby?” Kirstin guessed, sounding appalled. “Lord, she’s a witch with a capital
B
.”

“Down, tiger,” Harrison warned, though he knew how she felt. Channel Seven’s reporting on Manny’s death had not been a warm and fuzzy experience for any of them. In fact Pauline’s team had shone their camera lights directly on Kirsten’s face and captured the glittering track of her tears for all to see. The other stations weren’t much better, but Kirsten had a real thing against Pauline, which Harrison appreciated.

“She’s not my favorite, either,” he said now.

His sister’s eyes slit, and he guessed she was remembering how callously she was treated by the press. “They’re all the same.”

“Reporters?”

“Yes,” she shot back. Then, after a moment, her lips twisted wryly. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

He smiled back, fleetingly; then his tone changed. “I should’ve been there more for you after it happened. I was too . . . single-minded.”

She waved that aside with a brisk snap of her hand. “You wanted to prove Manny had been murdered. I wanted you to, too. But it’s all water under the bridge now.”

She sounded so final, it surprised him a bit. “You think it was just a case of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time now?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Kirstin glanced toward the door as two of the patrons left their table and made their way outside, the bell over the door tinkling. “I don’t know if I’ll ever know. What I do know is it’s over and I have to move on.” She touched the back of Harrison’s hand. “Sad, I know, but true.” Then she let out a long sigh and retrieved her fingers while a customer ordered a coffee to go. With a smile, Kirsten took his money, gave him a smile and a cup, and pointed him in the direction of the freestanding thermoses.

Harrison gazed at his sister, realizing for the first time how he was the only one still hanging on to Manny’s death, the only one who couldn’t let go.

As if reading his mind, she said, “I’ve got Didi to think about. All this dwelling on the past isn’t good for her. I don’t want this dark cloud of suspicion hanging around us all the time. I’ve got a new life with my daughter and our dog. And we’re happy to have you in it, too, of course,” she added, again reaching a hand across the counter to catch his. “It’s just . . . every time you and I are together, one way or another, we’re either talking about or thinking about Manny’s death. I’m not saying I want to forget him. Lord, no. I want to
remember
him. Like he was. Like it was between us before all the really bad stuff started.”

“You want me to give up the investigation completely?” he asked, surprised.

“That’s not what I’m saying. Do what you have to do. Just . . . let’s . . . not make it all that you and I are about anymore, okay?”

“I didn’t know I was doing that.”

“
We
were doing that. Both of us. Even when it seemed like we weren’t.” She stared at him with eyes far older than her age.

Harrison took it in, realized she was right. He’d been too immersed in his own need for revenge to really pay attention to what Kirsten was thinking. But then, he still believed in Koontz’s duplicity. “I’m not going to give up unless you tell me to.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. Let’s just not have a postmortem on everything, okay?”

“Okay.”

“That said, I think
this
story could launch you back into the bigger pond again.” She retrieved her hand and, with one finger, tapped on the paper with his article.

“You think the
Ledger
will have me back?” he asked dryly as one of the customers placed his empty cup and plate in a tub before flipping up the hood of his jacket and stepping outside.

She cocked her head. “I’m pretty sure you’re done with them. But yeah. They’ll want you back. Especially if you follow up the Deadly Sinners with the Justice Turnbull story.”

“Did I say I was on that story?”

“Oh, please. Of course you are.”

The bell over the door jingled again as a new customer entered the shop. Harrison held up a hand in good-bye to his sister and headed out. His cell phone beeped at him as he was crossing to his car, and he realized he’d missed a call somehow. Before he could ring back his voice mail, however, the phone buzzed in his hand. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw it was the
Breeze
. Buddy. “Yeah?” he growled as soon as he’d snapped it on.

“I didn’t give them the number,” Buddy stated before Harrison could say anything else. “I promise. But they’re right here. And they’re planning to film in front of West Coast High and they’d like to see you.”

“They’re right there in front of you, at the paper?”

“You got it.”

“Is Pauline there, or is it just production?”

“Production.”

“I’m not anywhere near you. I’m in Deception Bay. Don’t tell them that. Tell Pauline to call me and I’ll . . . I don’t know . . . give her a quote, or something. Better yet, have her call the public information officer at the sheriff’s office. That’s what she’s paid for.”

“But—”

“Oh, hell. Give her my cell number. Give ’em all my number.” Clicking off, he climbed into the Impala, irked. He was going to have to hand out his digits to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, because Kirsten was right: his days of being banished to a small town were nearing an end. He was headed for the big game, which had been his plan all along, right? And if he was going there, he needed people to be able to reach him.

And then, as if already knowing he was changing his protocol, his cell phone buzzed at him again.

Without looking at the caller ID, he answered, “Frost.”

“Hi, there,” Geena Cho said. “Got a minute?”

“Geena, for you . . . always.”

She snorted at his bullshit, then said, “You know what happened at Seagull Pointe?”

“No.”

“Where the hell have you been? Hiding under a rock?”

“Something like that,” he hedged, realizing he hadn’t been near a television all day.

“And you call yourself a reporter?” she joked. Then, before he could answer, her voice lowered. “So get this. It looks like Justice killed his mama, Mad Maddie. And some other lady, too, who was just found in a wheelchair, apparently, half dead. They transferred her to a bed and she later died. We’re putting her picture on the evening news because she’s unidentified at this time. They’re keeping Maddie’s death under wraps as long as they can. Don’t want to cause a panic about Justice, but they’re pretty sure he’s the doer.”

Harrison’s heart nose-dived. “Where did you say this happened? Seagull Pointe?” he asked, more convinced than ever that somehow Laura had reached him, taunted him, challenged him. His throat tightened at the thought, and he was sick that she, along with the two people already murdered, was in the psycho’s sights.

“You got it. And you owe me a drink tonight at Davy Jones’s. I’ll be there around eight. Don’t tell anyone I told you. . . .” And she was gone.

“Son of a bitch,” he said into the phone. Switching on the ignition he was about to throw his Chevy into gear when he remembered to check his phone log and the call he’d missed. He recognized the number as Laura’s. His heartbeat ramped into overdrive. “Damn.” He hadn’t expected her to phone him from work, and he listened tensely to her message.

Justice may have killed Madeline. . . . Call me. . . .

So, she’d already learned that Justice had possibly murdered his mother. But at least she was alive. Safe. Or had been when she’d called.

Quickly, he pressed in her number, then waited impatiently while the phone rang and rang and rang. Swearing under his breath, he debated on leaving her back a response on voice mail, then instead decided on “Got your message. Call me back.”

“Damn it all to hell.” He snapped on the radio, finding an all-news station, then revved out of the Sands of Thyme’s lot. He considered driving straight to Seagull Pointe, but he would really like to talk to Laura first. Make sure she was all right. He called again as he hit the highway and, like before, was sent directly to her voice mail. Swearing, he hit the gas, pushed the speed limit.

He knew she was working, that she didn’t have her cell on her. That was undoubtedly the reason she wasn’t picking up.

Still . . . his mind wheeled to unconscionable images—Justice Turnbull, the icy-eyed psychotic with his need to kill, and the victims. His own mother. An unknown woman and the others . . . oh, Jesus! He punched the accelerator and headed straight to Ocean Park, taking the curves on 101 a little too quickly, the cliffs and dark forest racing by on the eastern shoulder of the road, the sea shrouded by fog stretching to the west. The hospital was on his way to Seagull Pointe, and he intended to stop. If only for a few minutes. He needed to see Laura, to witness for himself that she was okay.

Despite getting hung up behind a logging truck mounded with a heavy load of fir, he pulled into the lot at Ocean Park within half an hour. He parked what seemed a mile from the front doors, as the place was full of vehicles. Jogging, he made his way through the vehicles and into the building, where he didn’t bother with the reception desk, entering purposely and heading straight for the elevators. Ocean Park was only three stories high, but he wasn’t sure which floor Laura worked on and he would rather discover where that was on his own than reveal his intent to the beady-eyed, suspicious woman manning the desk.

In the end he found that Laura worked mainly on the first floor, and he wound his way back to her nurses’ station, only to learn that she was busy with a patient. A petite woman with spiked hair and too much mascara asked him if he would care to wait in one of the two molded plastic chairs set against the wall. Unhappily, he planted himself on the edge of the first chair, taking out his phone to check the time. Five p.m. He’d really wanted to get to Seagull Pointe before the dinner hour. He hoped to interview as many people as possible about both Madeline Turnbull’s death and the unidentified woman left in a wheelchair. That was headline news in itself. Who was she? Did her condition have anything to do with Justice Turnbull?

“Harrison.”