Wicked Lies (40 page)

“He alluded to the fact that I should talk to you about them.”

“Because I’m the one who still has an accurate memory,” she said dryly. “But if you’ve read his book, you know about as much as I do.”

Harrison talked to Dinah Smythe for a few minutes more, until he saw a TCSD patrol car coming his way and hurriedly hung up. After the cop flew on by him, he pulled the note from his pocket with the other phone numbers from Herman’s list. He called the first and learned it was a clinic specializing in gerontology. Herm’s doctor, apparently. The second was a pizzeria that delivered.

So much for that.

With a feeling of hitting a dead end, he shoved the Colony aside and concentrated on the road ahead. Here, 101 cut inland for a stretch of miles before jogging out to the coast again. His stomach growled, and he reminded himself that the Subway sandwich he’d bolted down for lunch in Seaside wasn’t sticking with him as much as he’d hoped.

He drove through Tillamook, spying the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, which was located in a building in the strip of land between the northbound and southbound lanes of the highway, the very spot he and Lorelei would meet with the cops. He knew she was uncomfortable talking about Turnbull and how he was connected to her and Siren Song.

Then again, who wouldn’t be?

He glanced at the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of his reflection. “You really know how to pick ’em,” he said to the eyes glowering back at him. Lorelei Adderley was trouble with a capital
T
. Aside from her weird childhood at the Colony, there was her mental connection to a madman, whether real or imagined. Either way, it spelled disaster. Then there was that imperious son of a bitch to whom she’d been recently married, a prick if there ever was one. Yeah, Lorelei came with a lot of baggage, and the worst part of it was, he didn’t seem to care. She was charming and smart, clever, and had a wicked sense of humor, and when she kissed him . . . oh, hell, he was lost in the wonder of her.

“Fool,” he ground out, knowing he was falling for a woman he hadn’t known a week, a woman who seemed to attract the worst kind of trouble.

And as intriguing as hell.

He, a man of fact and science, who had carefully avoided any serious relationships for all of his adult life, was falling for a woman whose beauty and spirit called to him, touched him in a spot he’d kept closed off for years. Just like her damned namesake.

It was a real pisser and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He forced his concentration back to the road, where he was following a flatbed truck that was hauling a load of berries, crates and crates of them strapped to pallets that seemed to shift beneath the tethers that bound them.

He sped past the truck and noticed an SUV follow suit, right on his tail. The minute he tucked into the right lane again, the SUV, with a surfboard atop and what looked like paraphernalia for hang gliding, a sport that was popular on the series of capes that rose above the ocean in this part of the state, along the coastline, flew past.

Yet another idiot, who took the next turn toward the west.

Harrison followed, but the SUV was sprinting and disappeared from sight before he reached the next corner. Once again on the coastline, he drove through a small hamlet, which boasted Carter’s Bait Shop and not much else, then on past Bancroft Bluff, where he noticed several sheriff’s department vehicles and realized they were still swarming around the double homicide, which had come into the paper earlier and which Buddy was writing up. More investigation to follow.

Zellman was lucky he hadn’t built on that unstable section of land; his home was on a rock table, and Harrison slowed down at the sight of the stone pillars that marked the drive and the opened wrought-iron gates. He turned into the long, winding drive, which was asphalt bordered by cut stone, and wound through tortured pine trees and a riotous fifteen-foot-high laurel hedge. The woods thinned out closer to the house, and he suddenly burst into a clearing where an imposing house of sand-colored stone stood, shaped into an obtuse angle, the massive garage one arm, the house the other.

The windows were trimmed in cedar, and there were several flower boxes full of petunias. A few cars were parked along the garage side. Harrison slotted the Impala beside the end one, a dark blue Mercedes. He glanced at it as he headed toward the front door and saw the keys were in the ignition. The car beside it was a white BMW, also with keys in the ignition. A car thief’s dream.

Harrison walked along an auxiliary stone pathway that led to the front door, which was protected by a post-and-beam cedar portico. Massive wrought-iron door handles were bolted to the double doors, and as he pressed the doorbell, he saw it, too, was a wrought-iron rectangle with a raised design of what looked like beach grass.

The door opened, and a young man stood in the aperture, gazing at Harrison through worried eyes. He was thin, with wavy dark hair longer than Harrison’s own, and he was fighting an attack of acne along his jawline. He gazed at Harrison expectantly.

“Brandt?” Harrison guessed.

The worried look turned to a controlled panic. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Harrison Frost. I’m actually looking for your father. Is he home?”

“Oh . . . yeah . . . He can’t talk, though. . . .” He glanced over his shoulder to the dim interior of the home. Harrison could see down a long hallway to a burst of light where windows opened onto the back view. “I thought you were . . . I don’t know. Like coming to tell me something bad.”

“About your car?”

Brandt looked thoroughly confused. “My car? No. Not mine. Matt Ellison was driving a red Blazer.”

“Matt Ellison?”

“I think he’s at the hospital now. It’s senior skip day, and that’s why they weren’t in school. They’re not saying on the news yet.”

“The three-car accident,” Harrison realized. “No, I don’t know anything about that.”

Nodding resignedly, Brandt turned and led Harrison into the house and down the hall to a large, domed room with windows that curved to allow a view of 180 degrees of sky and distant sea. Buttery leather armchairs were arranged in conversation groups. A glossy black baby grand sat to one side.

Dr. Maurice Zellman was seated on a chaise, holding a book. A sweating glass of iced tea sat beside him on a coaster on a side table made of cherrywood and wrought-iron detailing. The doctor was small and wiry with a sharp chin, and he gazed at Harrison with piercing eyes. A white bandage was wrapped around his throat beneath a casual blue shirt. He wore tan chinos, and his feet were encased in matching tan socks.

He looked . . . thoroughly angry.

“My name’s Harrison Frost. I’m with the
Seaside Breeze.
”

Zellman gestured fiercely in a way that made Harrison understand that the doctor knew who he was. Brandt was standing to one side, and he motioned for Brandt to bring Harrison an iced tea as well. Brandt went to do his bidding without asking if Harrison wanted a drink, but it was more because he was distracted than out of general rudeness.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Harrison told the doctor, “but I also wanted to tell you that I found your son’s Range Rover. Looks like it was abandoned. I mentioned it to Brandt, but he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.”

Zellman swept up a small notebook and pen. He jabbed out a note.
Where?

“Just north of Deception Bay. On an unnamed residential access road off Highway 101.”

Brandt returned with the iced tea and handed it to Harrison. Zellman gestured for Harrison to talk to him, so he reiterated where he’d found the younger man’s car.

“My car’s in the garage,” Brandt denied. “I took the Mercedes to school today ’cause it was out front.”

“It had your registration inside. A 2007 black Range Rover.”

“It can’t be.” And then, as the realization hit, he added, “No, wait a minute. I left my car outside. Oh, shit! It shoulda been with the Mercedes and the BMW!”

“Were the keys inside the ignition?” Harrison asked.

“Well . . .” He glanced toward his father, who glared back, agitation visible in his silent gaze. “We just leave the keys in the cars. We always have. Where’s my car?” he asked, the worried look back in full.

“If it’s been stolen, you need to call it in to the TCSD. You have any idea who might have taken it?”

“No.”

Zellman scribbled a note.
Could be any of your juvenile delinquent friends.

“I gotta call Barry,” Brandt muttered, yanking a cell phone from his pocket and heading down a hall toward the bedroom end of the house.

Harrison gazed at the doctor. “Have you heard from Justice Turnbull?” he asked.

Zellman blinked several times and shook his head.
No. Why?

“I think he may be the one who took your son’s car,” Harrison said, trying not to sound as angry as he felt. If not for Zellman’s incompetence, Justice Turnbull would still be locked away and Lorelei would be safe. Jaw tight, he added, “Turnbull terrorized a woman last night who lives near where it was abandoned. Tried to kill her.”

Zellman blinked hard.

“And she’s not the first, Doctor. Several people have already lost their lives since he escaped.”

Zellman blanched and glanced away.

At that moment a door opened from down the hall, and he heard the small
tap-tap-tap
of a woman’s footsteps against the wood floor. Harrison turned as Mrs. Zellman entered the room. Seeing them, she stopped short, then came forward again a bit more cautiously. Harrison saw where Brandt got his perpetual look of worry. She was short and slim and had pretty blue eyes and dark brown hair. She threw an anxious look toward her husband that could have meant anything.

Zellman refused to even look at her.

“What happened?” she asked. “I—I’m Patricia, Dr. Zellman’s wife. I saw the accident on the news. They say the kids are going to be okay, but one of them broke his leg pretty badly.”

Zellman made a chopping motion with his arm, clearly meant for her to cut herself off. She stopped talking and looked slightly stricken. Harrison introduced himself and brought her up to speed on Brandt’s car. When he mentioned Justice Turnbull, she paled.

She turned to Zellman. “Morry, that man . . . ,” she said in an imploring voice. Then she turned back to Harrison. “He’s always scared me. My husband is his doctor, you know. Maurice has really helped a lot of patients. But that Turnbull person . . . I don’t even think God could help him.”

Zellman looked ready to explode. His eyes flashed daggers at his wife, who, though not immune, simply turned away from him a bit, as if putting up a wall.

Like Lorelei claims she does when Justice Turnbull tries to reach her.

Harrison forced himself to keep his voice level. Angering Zellman wouldn’t help anything. “Do you know any reason he might have taken your son’s car?” Harrison asked.

She thought for a long moment. “Availability,” she said, surprising him with her candor. “They’re there and he knows where we live. Everybody practically does. They know this house. I told you we should have fixed the gate!” she tossed out to her husband.

Zellman motioned her out of the room and started writing another missive. She hesitated a moment before doing as bidden, tap-tap-tapping down the hall to the front door. Harrison heard it close behind her.

The doctor held out the note to Harrison with quivering fingers. It said:
My laptop is on the dining room table.

Harrison looked in the direction the doctor was pointing and passed through the kitchen, all stainless steel, granite, and dark wood cabinetry, and into the dining room, which sported a huge rectangular table painted black and made to look distressed, and crowned above by a heavy iron chandelier with a myriad of hatted lights.

The laptop was slim and sleek. Harrison brought it back to Zellman, who fired it up, waiting impatiently. As soon as he could, he pulled up a blank page on his word-processing program and began writing.

My wife does not know Justice Turnbull. He is driven by inner forces. He would not steal a car because of availability. His mind does not work that way. He just moves forward and goes after his goal.

“Nevertheless, I believe he took your son’s car,” Harrison told him. “He was chasing a woman who once lived at Siren Song, and he left it there.”

Why would he come to my house?

“Like your wife said, he knows where it is.” Harrison shrugged. “Because you’re his doctor? Maybe he came for another reason and just found an available car.”

Zellman thought that over for a long time.
You haven’t told the police your theories yet?

“No, but like I said, your son should report the missing vehicle.”

This woman he was chasing . . . she’s a member of the Colony?

“They’re her sisters. Or half sisters. She used to live at the lodge but hasn’t for quite a while.”

Is she pregnant?

Harrison read these last words in surprise. “No. What do you mean?”

Zellman started rapidly typing.
In our sessions, Justice revealed himself in bits and pieces. He was cagey. Didn’t like to give too much away. One thing that came out was that when he was targeting the women, he went after the ones outside the gate. I think he was afraid of meeting them on their own ground. He can’t make himself cross that fence into their territory. But he said, he could smell them when they were pregnant and then he could track them.

“And you’re telling me you believed him?” Harrison asked, trying hard to keep the skepticism out of his voice, barely succeeding.

I’m telling you what he believed. He targeted Colony women who were pregnant and outside the gates.

“Well, he’s tracking this woman because she says they have a mental connection. Like a GPS, I guess. If she lets him in, he can find her. If she shuts the door, he’s out.”

Zellman shrugged, as if he wouldn’t write that off completely.
Justice is capable of many things we may never understand. His psychosis is deep, somewhat indefinable. We made progress, but his world is a dark place with ironclad rules he must follow. He’s been off his meds for three days, and he needs them to keep any semblance of reality. His danger is increasing.