Wicked Lies (53 page)

Normal people, with normal lives . . .

Cloths covered the six tables; a bud vase with a single rose adorned the center of each. Upon the long sideboard, carafes of chilled tomato, apple, and orange juice stood next to the coffee urn and teapot. A woman wearing an apron and a bright, welcoming smile carried in plates filled with some kind of quiche, sausage, and the rolls.

“Excuse me, have you seen Mr. Frost, in three-oh-two?” she asked as the waitress left the plates on the table.

Her smile faltered and she shook her head as she headed toward the kitchen. “Sorry.”

“Thanks.”
Don’t panic. Just because he’s not in the room doesn’t mean . . . But the gun, he took the damned gun!
Laura’s heart was knocking, her mind racing to all kinds of awful scenarios as she stepped barefoot onto the front porch and jogged to the corner that overlooked the parking lot.

Rain was slanting from the heavens and gurgling in the gutters. Clouds were hanging low over the wide chasm that was the Columbia River, adding to the gloom.

Shrubbery fronds were dripping; the ground was sodden; the asphalt of the parking lot, slick with rain.

And Harrison’s car was gone.

“Damn it,” she muttered and turned on her heel. She hurried through the thick front door and raced up the stairs, running up the two flights to their room. Finding her cell, she checked for messages. . . . Nothing. No voice mail, no texts. She punched out his number and, after four rings, heard his voice mail message. “It’s me,” she said, going quietly out of her mind. “Where are you? I’m—I’m still here at the B and B, but . . . just call me.” She clicked off and felt a knot in her stomach.

Why would he have left without waking her or leaving a note or calling? “Come on, Harrison,” she said, anxiety twisting her guts as she stared at the cell. “Come on!”

With the phone in her pocket, she packed her things, twisted her hair onto her head, and added a little make-up. Justice’s vile message rolled through her brain.
You’re nexxxt, Ssisster.

She caught the edge of the sink to steady herself.

What the hell did that mean? Next? Did the monster have Harrison? Her heart filled with a new, dark fear. If Justice had wounded Harrison . . . or
killed
him . . .

Spurred by her thoughts, Laura grabbed her things and headed to her car. She thought of calling Kirsten but didn’t want to worry Harrison’s sister. Nor did she want to leave a message at the paper.

Climbing behind the wheel, she tossed her overnight bag into the backseat, then jammed her keys into the ignition.

Only to stop.

See her reflection in the rearview mirror, witness the mind-numbing terror in her own eyes.

So where are you going to go? What’re you going to do? Harrison thinks you’re here. If he comes back and misses you . . .

“He can damned well call!”

She turned on the car, flicked on the wipers, and rammed the Outback into reverse. Her heart was a drum, every muscle in her body tense, as she hit the brakes; then, before her vehicle had stopped rolling backward, she shoved it into drive and sped down the hill.

Harrison heard his cell phone ring but couldn’t answer it, as his hands were cuffed and he was locked in the backseat of a sheriff’s department cruiser that smelled of some kind of lemon cleaner, which couldn’t quite mask the scent of vomit, probably from an arrest the night before.

He didn’t have to see the readout to know that the caller was Laura.

She was awake and wondering where he was. New panic assailed him.

Stay put. Don’t go anywhere. You’re safe in Astoria.

Desperately, he yelled through the glass and tried to get someone to talk to him, to tell Stone that he was here, but he was left by himself as more cars arrived and, to his horror, he saw a vehicle from the medical examiner’s office.

He did kill them! That whack job killed the Zellmans!

It seemed like hours before he saw detectives Stone and Dunbar walking out the front door, when it had been less than twenty minutes.

Serious faces, deep in conversation, they didn’t notice. Dunbar said something Harrison couldn’t hear. They stepped out of the way as a collapsible gurney was pushed through the front door to a waiting ambulance.

Harrison craned his neck as the gurney passed.

Zellman’s teenaged son, Brandt, was lying pale as death, an EMT in attendance and holding an IV bag as the boy was loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance. Thank God. At least he was alive!

Stone looked up, spied Harrison in the car and, with a quick word to his partner, strode over. He unlocked the back doors. “Come on out,” he said and, as soon as Harrison was on his feet on the drive, unlocked his cuffs. “You don’t listen,” the detective said, “but it’s what you should expect if you show up at a crime scene brandishing a weapon.”

“I know.” Rubbing his wrists, Harrison heard the sound of a car’s engine racing and looked up just as Dr. Maurice Zellman’s black Lexus, headlights glowing, squealed to a stop.

“Oh, hell!” Stone was already heading toward the doctor’s sleek car. “Stay put,” he ordered Harrison over his shoulder as the doctor threw open the door of his car.

“Brandt?” Zellman whispered brokenly, his face ghostly pale, his eyes round in horror. “Oh, no, oh, no!”

“Doctor Zellman, if you’ll get back into your car until we sort this all out.” Stone was all business.

“Not Brandt. Oh, God, not Brandt. He’ll be all right!” Disbelieving, he collapsed across the hood of his car. “Not Brandt. I . . . I have to go with him! I’m a doctor,” he rasped weakly as Detective Dunbar crossed the drive to the Lexus.

The doors to the ambulance slammed shut, and an EMT got behind the wheel. Sirens shrieking, lights flashing, the ambulance took off, roaring down the drive.

Zellman appeared confused. “I don’t understand . . . Brandt . . . son . . . I have to go with him. I should never have left. . . .” His eyes were dark with guilt. And then he swallowed hard, with difficulty, it appeared. He seemed dazed, almost a zombie. . . .

“Dr. Zellman,” Savannah Dunbar said and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh.” Blinking several times, he looked around. “Patricia? Where’s my wife?” He cleared his throat and his eyes glittered. “What the hell happened to Patricia?” His gaze was nearly accusatory as he glared at the detectives. “What did that bastard do to her?” He glanced from one of the cops to the other, then collapsed to the ground. “He said he’d ‘get me.’ That’s what he said. And I knew . . . oh, dear God.” His voice was nearly mute.

“He threatened you? You never said?”

“Patient-doctor confidence,” Zellman snapped, sitting on the wet pavement, rain plastering his hair. Then, less angry, he added regretfully, “And I didn’t believe him. . . .”

“He was a convicted murderer,” Stone said in disbelief.

Zellman’s eyes closed. Then he seemed to gather himself and, with Stone’s help, climbed to his feet again. “Where’s my wife?” he whispered. “Patricia. I want to see her.”

Harrison felt that little tickle of apprehension that was innate, an inborn response that came right before a devastating blow. Maurice Zellman felt it, too. His head was already shaking when Savvy Dunbar said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Zellman. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Laura’s cell phone rang just as she was driving through the north end of Seaside, trying to determine if she would attempt to locate Harrison’s apartment or stop at the offices of the
Breeze
to see if someone had heard from him.

Eyes on the road, she dug through her purse, retrieved it, and flipped it open. Ignoring the fact that it was illegal to talk on a cell phone without a hands-free device, she answered, “Where are you? I was scared out of my mind that something happened . . .”

“Lorelei?” a fragile woman’s voice said.

Laura’s heart dropped like a stone.

“It’s Catherine. You said to call if there was trouble.”

Oh, no!

“What’s he done?” Laura demanded, fear jetting through her blood as she remembered Justice’s threat.

You’re nexxt, Ssisster.

“It’s Ravinia and Isadora,” Catherine admitted, her throat catching. “Justice attacked them.”

Laura’s heart froze as she braked for a red light.

“He had a knife. . . .”

My knife,
Laura thought, remembering her missing butcher knife in Justice’s hand as he stood outside her kitchen door.

“I’ve been so wrong,” Catherine said, her voice, barely a squeak, catching.

“Are they all right? Isadora and Ravinia, are they okay?” Laura demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“But they’re alive?”
Oh, please God.

“Yes.”

“Call the sheriff’s department. Detective Stone. No, better yet, call nine-one-one. Have you done that?”

“No, we’re private here, you know—”

“Damn it, Catherine! He attacked my sisters! Your nieces! In the one place they were supposed to be safe! Where is he now?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Look, I’ll be there in . . . ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Hang on.” She hung up and then, before she thought twice, dialed 9-1-1. To hell with Catherine and her secrets, her need for privacy, the gates, and the whole damned thing.

Until Justice was either locked up forever or killed, no one would be safe!

Paying no attention to the speed limit, hoping she would pick up a cop who was in some unseen hidey-hole and waiting for speeders, she blasted on toward Siren Song. Was that where Harrison was? Where was he?

No police car followed, only a guy in a low-slung Porsche, who sang past her as she pulled into the turnoff to the lodge, swerving to a stop. For the first time in memory she saw the gate open and a man standing on the far side.

“You Lorelei?” he asked, eyeing her and nodding to himself as the front door to the lodge swung open and Cassandra flew down the steps, her blond hair flying out behind her.

“Yes, Earl. This is my sister. Come on!” Cassandra’s pretty face was twisted with worry, her eyes round, and she paid no attention to the fact that the hem of her skirt was taking on water and dirt as it skimmed the wet ground. “Hurry, Laura!”

“Where’s Catherine?”

“Inside.”

Laura glanced at the man. “Who’s—?”

“Earl’s our groundskeeper. You don’t remember? He’s been gone for a week or so, but he’s back. It was his cell phone Catherine used to call you.”

The groundskeeper was tall and slightly stooped, with a thin swatch of gray hair. He wore an open rain jacket over a flannel shirt and overalls and boots caked in mud. He was nodding his agreement as he closed the gate behind the two women.

“Don’t lock that!” Laura ordered. “And please, stay here. I’ve called the police.”

“Oh, no!” Cassandra sent her a panicked glance as they reached the porch. “Catherine will kill you.”

“She’ll have to stand in line. What happened?”

“It was Justice!” Cassandra shuddered. “He climbed over the wall and tried to kill Ravinia. If Isadora hadn’t been there . . .” She shuddered again. “I don’t know what would have happened.”

They walked through the open front door and into the parlor, where a fire smoldered and Ravinia was lying upon one of the long couches that had been draped in white sheets. Isadora was seated in the rocker, bandages surrounding each of her forearms, while Ophelia and Lillibeth hovered nearby.

The smells of ashes, smoke, and something savory, like stew, were partially hidden by the acrid scent of antiseptic. Bleach and iodine, Catherine’s answer to ridding germs from everything.

Catherine, ashen faced, was filling glasses of water from a pewter pitcher Laura remembered from her youth, something that had been passed on for generations, or so she’d been told.

Her hair pulled into a long, solitary braid that snaked between her shoulder blades, Catherine looked up as Laura and Cassandra entered. “Thank God you’re here,” she said, hurrying to greet Laura. “You’re a nurse. I was hoping you had your own kit with you.”

“Let me see how bad it is, but no, I don’t have a kit.” She noticed gauze strips and patches, in sterile packets, along with a role of adhesive tape that had to be a quarter of a century old. “Don’t suppose you have any butterfly bandages or . . . never mind.”

A bandage was over Ravinia’s shoulder, the white gauze turning scarlet. “What happened?” Laura asked and Ravinia looked away.

“She was trying to escape,” Catherine said, not bothering to hide her accusatory tone. “And she ran into Justice.”

“He was here?”

“
Inside
the fence,” Ravinia clarified, her voice low, her lips turned down at the corners. Obviously, her run-in with Justice and brush with death hadn’t lessened her rebellion. Her gaze flicked to Catherine, as if the older woman were a jailer. “It wasn’t safe here. If he hadn’t seen me, he might have come into the house and slaughtered all of us. All he had to do was wait until we were asleep.”

“She’s right,” Cassandra said.

None of the other sisters were in the room besides Ravinia, Cassandra, and Isadora.

“Tell me what happened,” Laura said to Ravinia as she knelt beside the couch on which her sister lay, “I’ll take a look at your wounds.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“You were outside?” Laura was unwinding the bandage. Blood was still seeping a bit.

“I’m just so sick of this place.” Ravinia threw her aunt a look. “We never get to do
any
thing, not even socialize with other home-schooled kids, and no computers or telephones, and television only once in a while. . . .” She cast a look at an ancient bubble-eyed console that stood in the corner. “It’s a weird, weird life.”

“That’s because we’re weird-weird,” Cassandra murmured ironically.

“But you got out.” Ravinia glanced up at Laura as she unwound the last bit of blood-soaked gauze. “You and Becca. She even married and had a kid. And you, you were married, too. You got to have a real
life!
”

Laura’s lips flattened. Real life, be damned. She lifted the bandage, and Ravinia sucked in her breath as the gauze pulled away from her wound, a deep, nasty cut that might have been deeper if the knife hadn’t been partially deflected by her collarbone. Fortunately, her artery hadn’t been nicked, but she thought Ravinia’s muscle might be damaged. “So you were outside. . . .”