Wicked Lies (47 page)

“You knew?”

“Suspected,” Byron snapped. “My God, I can’t believe this. You’re a professional and I’m a doctor. I can’t . . . defend . . . all of that.”

“We’re divorced, remember?”

His lips tightened. “You’re still connected to me, Laura. And if you’re carrying my child, then things are even stickier. And, for the record, you even still have my last name. So be careful. Some people think we’re still married!”

“Then make sure you let them know we’re divorced. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your rep.” She was shaking her head as his cell phone beeped and he glanced down at the number. “Me being from the cult and all.”

CHAPTER 37

M
ike Ferguson wasn’t about to wait around for his dickhead of a brother to grow a pair. Not when Justice friggin’ Turnbull was on the loose. He lay on his bed and tossed a tennis ball upward, seeing how close he could come without actually hitting the ceiling and catching it, only to toss it again.

How cool would it be if he could get a picture of the psycho? Or grab some kind of memento from one of his lairs? Or even help bring the bastard down?

He snapped the ball from the air, then let it drop as he rolled over and hopped off the bed to look at the wall over his desk. He had cut out articles about Justice Turnbull and had pictures tacked to the wall. Justice Turnbull’s mug shot, a picture of the shabby old motel where he’d nearly killed his mother, and the lighthouse perched on the island known as Serpent’s Eye.

Man, would he love to go there. Just to look around. Maybe climb the steps to the top and look out to sea . . . and take some pictures, of course. He could do it easily on his iPhone.

He’d impress a lot of kids at school then.

Maybe even James.

The jerk.

Mike kinda knew that he was suffering from what James had called “nerdy delusions of grandeur,” which said something as those were pretty big words for James’s vocabulary. But Mike wasn’t about to be thwarted. His parents would be returning home over the weekend, and then the opportunity to go to the coast would be over. No way would they let James drive over to Deception Bay for a day.

If only he had his license. He wouldn’t wuss out like James.

He could steal the keys, he supposed, while James was sleeping, but he’d eventually be caught, and it wasn’t like he had a driver’s license or even a learner’s permit. But really, how hard could it be to drive? Stick in the key, twist on the ignition, find the right radio station, and put the car into the gear. Then all you had to do was hit the gas, right?

His mother did it while on the phone and eating a snack bar, so Mikey figured he could handle it.

But he’d rather not add grand theft auto or anything near it to his growing list of sins. His mom would kill him.

No, the best thing to do would be to try and convince James that the trip was necessary, but James had been in a real bad mood the last few days. Still, Mike tried again, walking into his brother’s bedroom and finding James lying on his bed, flipping through channels on the televison while playing a game on his iPhone.

“No!” James said before even looking up at Mike in the doorway.

“You don’t know what I’m gonna ask.”

“Sure I do. You wanna go to the coast and me to drive you. Well, forget it.” He frowned as he stared at the phone in his hand.

“I already told you how cool it would be. And we have to go right away. In two days the tide is going to be the lowest of the year.”

“So what?”

“So then it’s easier to get to Justice Turnbull’s lighthouse. We can walk across the rocks, maybe.”

“How do you know all this crap?” James grumbled. “And why do you care? Oh, I forgot. Cuz you’re an obsessed freak.”

“I’m not—”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Listen to yourself. You want to wade out in the ocean to go to an abandoned lighthouse where a serial killer used to live. Wait, no, make that a serial killer who’s currently on the loose again and killing people.” James rolled over onto his back. “Do you know how nuts that is?”

“He won’t go there. The cops will be all over it.”

“Then the cops’ll catch you!”

“They won’t be looking for me.”

“You’re a moron, you know that?” James threw his brother a look of pure disgust. “I said, ‘No way,’ so leave me the hell alone.”

“But—”

“Look, dickwad, it’s not gonna happen.” His phone must’ve vibrated, because he picked up the call and got caught up in it.

Mike took the hint and headed back to his bedroom. If James wouldn’t drive him, he’d find another way. In fact, he was already making a plan. “You’re just scared,” he called over his shoulder.

“You’re just a dumb shit.” A football rocketed out the door, and Mike dived to the floor. The ball smacked against the hallway wall, leaving a mark. Mom would be pissed. But then she was gonna be really mad, anyway, if she ever figured out that Mike intended to hitchhike to the beach.

Catherine stood at the bedroom window on the west end of the lodge. From her vantage point on the second floor, she was able to see through the trees to the ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun. Far off, on the horizon, a stubborn bank of clouds threatened to roll inland, bringing with it drizzle and fog, staving off summer for a few more days.

Things had become complicated again, perhaps more complicated than before. There was the visit from Becca and Lorelei; that in and of itself was disturbing. And Catherine had witnessed the expressions on the rest of her charges, especially Ravinia, who was forever stroking her long blond hair. She’d glowered a bit, and Catherine sensed she was readying to leave. Cassandra had warned her, and Catherine could see the rebellion in Ravinia’s expression, the way she’d listened hungrily to Becca and Laura. With Ravinia, who had always been disobedient and questioning, it was only a matter of time before she bolted. Catherine wouldn’t be able to stop her.

Ophelia had appeared a little wary, but then that was her nature.

Lillibeth was the most troubling, as the girl, confined as she was to her chair, desperately wanted her freedom, yet she was slow to develop, filled with innocence and naïveté, the kind the outside world took advantage of. Still, she knew there was something out there beyond the walls of Siren Song, and she was chafing at the bit, expecting a world of joy, excitement, and answers, perhaps even help for her condition. She had no knowledge of society’s cruelty, how even in times when people were supposed to be “enlightened” and “politically correct,” there was still so much hatred, hostility, and distrust.

And then there was the very real, very physical threat of Justice Turnbull.

Catherine, though sometimes considered a jailer, was a pacifist. The old shotgun hidden in the attic had been left there for years; now, however, she’d gone so far as to clean and polish the gun and kept it ready at her bedside. She also had a smaller weapon, garnered from one of Mary’s lovers, and she’d placed that handgun in the cabinet in the dining room, hidden behind the silver platter that was used only on special occasions. It was loaded and ready. Pacifist or no, if Justice came for them, she wouldn’t think twice about blowing the bastard away.

Anyone who intended to harm any of the women she cared for would have to go through her to get to them. That was just the way it was.

Or had been.

She sensed the life she’d carved out for herself, for the others, was about to change. She only hoped all the girls would be able to adapt to life outside these carefully tended walls when the time came.

Most of the girls were in their rooms now, before dinner. Studying or reading, talking to each other, but observing the quiet time Catherine had insisted upon since she’d been in charge. She took advantage of this time now to hurry down the stairs and outside.

Into the forest she walked. Briskly through the thick ferns and clumps of salal, past berry vines that stretched forward with their thorny vines and under the looming, mossy firs, their branches spreading wide, squirrels scolding from the branches.

Earlier she’d seen Becca and Lorelei walk this same path to the cemetery, watched as they’d huddled over Mary’s grave.

Oh, Lord.

That was the trouble with lies, Catherine thought as she passed through the gate and into the small cemetery. If one began to unravel, the whole fabric would soon fray and the ugly truth would be revealed. She eased around some of the plots, images of those who had died sliding behind her eyes, then stopped at the spot where Mary’s grave was marked, where once, years before, the earth had been turned and a coffin lowered into a dark hole.

Though some of her children might have been too young to remember the lowering of the ornate pine box, or dropping flowers onto the glossy lid as rain began to fall from the sky, they had stood and watched the loamy earth and sand being shoveled over the coffin.

Catherine remembered.

Once again she felt that old animosity, that depth of fury boiling through her blood, as she thought of her sister’s callousness, her disregard for those children she had brought into the world.

Mary, in her own way, had been a monster.

And so, Catherine had killed her. Oh, not physically, of course. Killed her memory. And that was when the lying had begun, here, in this forgotten graveyard where Mary’s casket now rotted, nothing inside it but stones.

Mary, or what was left of the woman whose mind had slowly soured upon her, was still very much alive.

In exile.

Trapped on a solitary little island beyond the rocky dot of land known as Serpent’s Eye, where the lighthouse stood. Mary’s island was just as small and even harder to reach, so no one ever bothered but Catherine, in Earl’s boat.

Mary lived there in a life of solitude, and none of her daughters knew it.

Now Catherine peered through the surrounding stands of fir and hemlock, to the peekaboo view of the ocean. Here, where large rocks, capricious winds, and high tides made travel difficult at best, it had been easy enough to get rid of her sister. Her gaze centered on her sister’s island, the one that had been named Echo Island by the locals for the way the sound refracted off the island’s sharply planed rock walls. Earl, who had worked for the Colony most of his life, had been there the most recently to drop off supplies.

Catherine couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Mary.

“Dear God,” she whispered, closing her eyes and praying that none of Mary’s daughters ever learned of what she’d done.

The first cramp cut through Laura’s abdomen as she stood in line at the deli counter of the Drift In Market, the store where she’d worked as a teenager. One second she was peering through the glass case in the deli department and trying to decide between the turkey on sourdough or the ham on rye sandwich, and the next a dull, swift pain was searing through her.

“No,” she said aloud, and the girl behind the counter glanced up, her knife poised over the hero she was about to halve.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Laura held up a hand and made her way to the restroom near the back of the market. Fortunately it was free. She bolted the lock and tried to convince herself that she was wrong, that she hadn’t felt the contraction, that she wasn’t miscarrying . . . but the evidence was there.

She was spotting.

Oh, please . . . no . . .

The sharp pains, cramping as if from a heavy period, slicing through her lower torso weren’t a good sign. She knew what was happening, and she also knew it wasn’t uncommon to miscarry within the first two months of pregnancy. Still, it shocked her just the same, and she wanted to deny it, to fix whatever was broken inside her, to save the precious life that had barely begun to form.

But there was too much blood. She waited as long as she could, buying supplies inside the bathroom, crying silently. Empty and alone, she experienced a piercing grief to the point that she couldn’t move for almost an hour. People jiggled the door handle but she didn’t answer.

When she could, she walked numbly out of the store, lunch forgotten, and drove straight to her house without consciously being aware of the other cars and bicyclists traveling along the road.

All her thoughts were concentrated on the tiny life that she’d so desperately wanted. But it was too late . . . too late. . . .

Harrison had just finished with the lock on the back door, and the new window was in place when she arrived. She managed a weak smile for him but dodged a longer embrace. “Give me a sec,” she said, then grabbed some clean clothes from her closet and locked herself in her bathroom, where the signs of her miscarriage continued.

She’d lost the baby.

Tears filled her eyes and her throat swelled shut.

Sadness clamped around her soul.

She’d only known she was pregnant for a week, and yet she’d felt such a bond with this baby, such hope for their future.

Twisting on the handles on the shower, she bit back her sobs. Stripping out of her clothes, she stepped under the needles of hot water; then, once the water was loud enough to muffle her voice, she let go, crying softly as the warm spray washed over her muscles.