Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  No face.

  No dead eyes.

  No one looming, ready to pounce.

  Just the shivering shadows from the fir tree standing near the porch.

  A raving, paranoid freak, that’s what you are!

  She returned the knife to its spot, then quickly she closed all the shades, double-checked the windows and latches, then went back to her computer, one eye ever vigilant. On the Internet she searched for anything she could learn about Jezebel Brentwood, St. Elizabeth’s High School, girls who’d gone missing around the same time as Jessie, and Detective Samuel McNally of the Laurelton Police Department.

  She didn’t go to bed until after two, only after rechecking all the locks. Keeping the butcher knife on the bedside table, she fell into a restless sleep where dreams of high school kept her tossing and turning.

  The next morning, suffering from sleeplessness, she saw the big-bladed knife she’d left on the nightstand and mentally chastised herself. “Fool,” she muttered. She was still letting herself be affected by the odd elements of the story.

  Determined to shake it off, she showered, threw on beach clothes, and spent nearly two hours walking along the foggy beach, feeling the salt spray against her nose and cheeks. Then she hiked back to the cabin and reviewed her notes again, hoping something would leap out at her. She had an address for the Brentwoods’ cabin. One of the reasons she’d come to the beach was to find it, so she climbed into her Camry and tried to follow a local map of the area, wishing she owned a GPS system. It took a while, and she drove down a number of dead-end streets, but she finally found the place. The house was weather beaten and slightly tired, like many others along this stretch of coastline. She eyed it carefully, a low-slung ranch with a picture window and, when the sun was out, an incredible view of the ocean. Today, though, it was still gray and close, with mist clinging to the surrounding hills and obscuring the horizon. The sea itself, the color of steel, was hard to discern in the fog, the abandoned lighthouse on that craggy rock off the shore, invisible.

  Had Jessie ever been here during one of her runaway adventures? Renee was half inclined to wander around the place and check, but changed her mind when a maid-cleaning crew arrived in a van and parked in the drive. They glanced toward Renee, who turned back to her car. The house was obviously a rental now. No place for Jessie to hide.

  Renee returned to Deception Bay and parked near a local coffee shop and bakery where a few patrons were sipping their morning jolts of java and munching on cinnamon rolls, croissants, and scones. The interior of the Sands of Thyme was warm and smelled of coffee and spices. Newspapers were left open on a few tables and the walls were lined with coffee, tea, utensils, and cups, all for sale.

  “Do you know Madame Madeline?” Renee asked the girl at the cashier stand.

  She made a disparaging sound. “She’s more than a few rolls short of a dozen, if you ask me. Makes those cultees at Siren Song look normal.”

  “Hey!” a man in the back yelled, shooting the girl a don’t-gossip-with-the-customers look as he bagged the sliced loaf and the espresso machine screamed as it spewed white foam into huge cups.

  “Siren Song?”

  “That big house up on the cliff.” She pointed away from the ocean toward the other side of the highway where the land broke upward sharply into the Coast Range. “They all wear weird stuff and act strange. I expect their heads to turn around if you look at ’em too long.”

  “They mind their own business,” the man from the back said loudly.

  The cashier mouthed, “Sorry,” to Renee, who took her cappuccino to a table, picked up the newspaper, scanned the headlines, and decided the Coastal Clarion made a rag like the Star look sophisticated. Thinking it might be better to approach Maddie a little later in the day, Renee passed the time working on a word puzzle, realizing that an elderly man and woman at a nearby table must have overheard her conversation with the cashier because she heard Siren Song mentioned several times. The elderly woman unfolded a plastic rain hat from her purse and said tartly, “…nothing but trouble up there, if you ask me. Like those ones in Waco or…Arizona. Got all kinds of strange ways of behavin’. Been that way for over a hundred years.”

  The man with her, in thick glasses, plaid jacket, and driving cap, nodded as he stood and folded his paper under his arm. “Bad news, that. Good thing they keep to themselves.”

  They walked—he with a cane, she with her arm linked through his—out of the bakery and into light, sprinkling rain, leaving Renee to eavesdrop on a trio of women obviously on a weekend getaway together but laughing and outtalking each other about the hilarious antics of their small children.

  Renee packed it in, making tracks from the bakery and taking a turn through town, her breath fogging in the chilly air, the smell of the sea ever present, and peek-a-boo views of the sea visible along the streets running east and west. A few cars ambled along the narrow roads, though few pedestrians braved the winter elements as a thin drizzle leaked from the sky. She wasted some time at a cozy antique shop whose proprietor, a middle-aged woman with a silvery gray bob, watched her closely. Renee struck up a conversation with her by asking about the lodge called Siren Song, but the woman responded quickly, “It’s a cult. Mostly women. Been there longer than Deception Bay. You could look it up. I heard a couple of the girls worked in town for a while, but they were yanked back real quick-like.”

  “You have some colorful characters here,” Renee observed. “I ran into Madame Madeline earlier.”

  “Madame Madeline?” She snorted. “If she’s a psychic, I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

  Renee didn’t know whether that made her feel better or worse. But when her watch read ten, she walked back to her Camry and headed in the direction of Maddie’s old motel. Her tires scrunched on the weedy gravel, and as she pulled to a stop a dark cloud blocked out the faint rays of a watery sun. She climbed from the car and then hesitated again. Why was she here, really? What could this old woman tell her that she didn’t already know? What kind of answers could there be?

  Annoyed with herself, Renee got back in her car and drove back toward the cabin, taking a last-minute detour to drive in the direction of Siren Song. It took her a while to find the large house shaded by fir trees from the road. All she could see were snatches of windows and cedar shakes and stone chimneys, and she was reminded of an old northwest lodge much like the one built at Crater Lake or Timberline, although not nearly as large.

  At the cabin, she headed for her laptop, wondering whether she should stay and work some more or head back to Portland and the myriad of problems that awaited her with Tim. Stuffing the laptop into its case, she headed for the bedroom, grabbing up a T-shirt she used as a nightgown and tossing it into her bag. She packed up some toiletries from the bathroom, then shot a last look around the bedroom, intending to close her bag.

  Her gaze skated over the nightstand, then snapped back.

  No knife.

  She looked more closely. Not on the nightstand, nor was it on the floor beside the bed.

  She inhaled and exhaled a long breath, then headed to the kitchen where the knife block was filled—except for the single slot wherein the butcher knife had rested.

  Renee bit back a sound of disbelief.

  Where the hell was it?

  Dear God…how? Who?

  Oh, shit.

  Listening to the sound of the wind pushing against the old cabin, the creak of ancient timbers, the light patter of rain on the roof, the thunder of her heart, she strained to hear any foreign noise. Was someone in the cabin with her even now? She thought of the loft, the second bedroom where she never ventured, and her blood became ice water.

  She had to go up and check it out. The prospect filled Renee with dread. She was on the bottom step when she thought better of it and turned, grabbed her bag, laptop, and purse, and headed swiftly out the door, locking it behind her.

  She had seen a face in the window. She had. A dark figure with soulless eyes.

&nb
sp; She had…hadn’t she?

  Sliding behind the wheel of her Camry, Renee spun backward out of the driveway, nearly hitting a post before slamming the car into Drive and glancing at the cabin again. The curtains in the loft window moved slightly and she was damned sure there was something dark and ominous behind them.

  Only when her car was miles away, heading north on 101, and she was pushing the speed limit on the winding road high above the sea, the lighthouse barely visible on its tiny island, did she breathe again.

  From the upstairs window, I watch her leave.

  Frightened.

  Trembling.

  Scrabbling around like a frantic chicken running from a fox. Throwing her bags into the backseat. Too late. I’ve seen what’s on her computer screen, know where she’s been, what she’s doing. She’s getting close—stopping by the old woman’s shop, asking questions.

  That damned old hag. Never to be trusted. I should have known, should have dealt with the crone.

  I think of it—the killing of the old one, the traitor. I’ve thought of it often enough, suspected she knows more than she pretends, but here, in this tiny gossipy town, it might prove difficult.

  And now there are others, one of whom is fleeing even now.

  But she can’t run far.

  And I know where she’ll go.

  Back to the others.

  She’ll lead me to them.

  Standing behind the gossamer curtains, I finger the long-bladed knife in my hands and wait until the taillights of her car disappear around the corner, heading east, away from the sea, to the highway that runs parallel to the ocean, wandering in twisting turns north until it reaches the intersection where it splits and she’ll head inland.

  To the others.

  As she vanishes I rub my thumb over the razor-sharp blade, imagining what the thin steel edge can do. Quick and clean, a neat slice across the jugular and carotid.

  But the time isn’t right. I need this one to lead me to the others.

  Even though she has no scent, no odor.

  She’s not one of them.

  But she must be followed.

  And she must be stopped.

  Once I have no further use for her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Glenn Stafford raced down the stairs of his house, a gargantuan Georgian building of nearly four thousand square feet that Gia had insisted upon. He hoped his wife wouldn’t catch him on his way out. He was late getting to the restaurant. Late getting tasks done. Late, always late.

  And that asshole cop McNally had called, wanting to meet with him. Wanting to meet with all of them, he’d said. But was he telling the truth? Or had he singled Glenn out? Not that there was any reason. Lord, no. He’d barely known Jessie Brentwood. She’d been Hudson’s girl, flirt that she was. But she’d had no serious interest in him, or any of them, well…maybe Zeke?…but that was short-lived. Nope, the girl had been interested in Hudson Walker, then, now, and probably forever.

  Glenn headed toward the back of the house. He’d put McNally off. God, he didn’t need more damn stress. The restaurant was enough. Hadn’t he heard over and over again how difficult it was to make a go of a restaurant? Hadn’t he? But he’d believed in himself, believed in Scott. But Jesus…things were running in the red. How, how to get more interest in the place, more exposure? Did they need more Internet advertising? What the hell did it take to make a spot “in” or “hip” or whatever they called it these days? Not enough people knew about Blue Note, and that goddamned venture in Lincoln City wasn’t even hardly off the ground and Glenn felt it already might be doomed. Bleeding money. Scott had more faith in the place; he was the one taking off for the coast, trying “to get ’er going.” But Glenn was in charge of Blue Note, and it was bad business. Bad, slow business.

  And…something was off financially. Things just weren’t adding up, literally. Did they have a sneaky employee who had found a way to siphon off funds and juggle the books or inventory? The books just didn’t seem right, but Glenn hadn’t found where the discrepancy was—yet. It was only a matter of time.

  Passing through the kitchen, his hand on the door to the garage, he saw the pile of yesterday’s mail. Damn Gia. She hadn’t even looked through it. Probably a mountain of bills that he couldn’t pay. And that damn lease on the restaurant. Highway robbery. It was drowning them in a sea of red ink. Drowning them.

  Glenn felt a burning in his throat. Acid reflux. His stomach was probably riddled with ulcers. He didn’t even want to jump Gia’s bones anymore, but then ever since her last miscarriage she’d been a crying, chocolate-devouring, weepy-eyed rag doll. Hell, she’d sworn she never wanted children when they got married, but now she came after him with lacy, baby-doll lingerie and a panting avid mouth, the only spark of energy she could ever muster—all in the name of pregnancy with a capital “P.”

  Lucky for him, Mr. Ready spent most of his time curled up and flaccid these days.

  Which wasn’t helping their marriage much, but Glenn had bigger fish to fry.

  He almost ignored the mail, irritated at Gia’s apathy. If sex wasn’t on the agenda, she was useless. Like a queen bee.

  Only good for mating and laying eggs. Tended to by minions. One of those repulsive insects—maybe termites—had a queen that was a white, quivering blob—couldn’t move unless it was pushed and prodded by the workers. Well, that was Gia these days. A blob.

  “Glenn?”

  He looked over. Well, there the blob was. Risen from her bed. Red-eyed and scraggly haired. She’d been pretty once, not so long ago, but now she didn’t care. Simply didn’t care.

  “Where’re you going?” she asked.

  “To work.”

  “I thought you had tonight off.” A whine entered her voice.

  “I never have a night off. Never. I work all the time. It’s called owning your own business, y’know?” And what do you do?

  “Why can’t you divide your time with Scott?”

  “Because Scott’s at Blue Ocean, trying to get the menu in line with the clientele. And we have problems at Blue Note.”

  “We have no life, Glenn. No life!” She threw up her hands in despair. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do. I’m going to work.”

  “When’s Scott coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” Glenn mumbled. A lie. Scott usually returned on Sundays, after the weekend, and then he sure as hell put his time in at Blue Note. The man was everywhere, looking over Glenn’s shoulder, criticizing, pointing out when things weren’t done to his satisfaction. Glenn couldn’t fault him, though he’d like to. Right now he wanted to fault someone. Anyone. And he really didn’t want to face Scott tonight, though his partner had said he’d be in later. Well, good. They needed to talk. Seriously talk. Something had to be done or the business would fail. Since he’d personally guaranteed loans against Blue Note and Blue Ocean, everything, including this monster of a house, would be stripped away. How would Gia feel then? “Why didn’t you go through this mail?” he asked.

  “What? Oh.” She rubbed her forehead with both hands. The useless piece of dead weight seemed to sleep all day and all night. Glenn couldn’t imagine what she ever thought she’d do with a kid. From what he’d heard, they never let you sleep at all. “I—I don’t know.” She lifted her fleshy shoulders in a shrug.

  God, she was useless.

  Glenn swept up the pile and sifted through it, making a big production about it, just so she’d know he was the one doing all the work, he was the one supporting them, he was the one.

  “What time’ll you be back?” Her chin was bent down and she looked at him from the tops of her eyes. If she thought that was sexy, she had a rude awakening coming her way. She was about as sexy as cold meatloaf.

  “I’ll call you,” he muttered.

  Bills, bills, bills.

  An advertisement for some new cell phone deal that would probably cost him a fortune in hidden charges. Several notices to
“occupant,” which really was a pisser, when you thought about it. Couldn’t be bothered to find out who lived in the place. Those went straight to the trash.

  And a card addressed to him with no return address: Glenn Stafford.

  No Gia listed at all.

  Huh?

  Gia was smoothing back some of her bleached-blond hair. “I could wait up for you.”

  Fat chance. She’d be out cold in an hour if she got into the wine, which she did almost every night now.

  Yep. A marriage made in heaven.

  “I’ll be late.” Glenn stuffed the envelope in his pocket and banged out the back door to his car. A Honda. He’d traded in his Porsche last year. Traded down. It had hurt like a hole in his heart, but he hadn’t been able to afford the payments along with two mortgages. He kept thinking the damn restaurant would turn around, but it was a hungry alligator and its teeth were planted firmly in Glenn’s backside. His ass was getting chewed off bit by bloody bit, month by month.

  He drove to Blue Note, a dark cloud over his head, and he checked his rearview mirror more than usual. All the talk and speculation about Jessie Brentwood was kinda making him crazy and paranoid—as if living with Gia didn’t do a good enough job of that as it was. No one appeared to be following him, at least not tonight, but lately he’d had the feeling that someone was watching him.

  Gia. It’s Gia, you idiot. She wants to know where you are every second.

  Parking the Civic in a spot at the rear of the building, he cut the engine and spent several moments listening to the tick of the motor as it cooled.

  What was he going to do?

  What the hell was he going to do?

  He was trapped.

  No way out.

  Angry at the world, he slammed out of the car and swore he saw someone skulking around the bushes flanking the parking lot, but on second glance, he saw only a raccoon lumbering off after raiding the Dumpster.

  “Damned pests,” he muttered, circling around and entering through the front door. He liked catching the staff unawares, seeing who was standing where, who was actually working versus who was yakking. Pete was sure a waste of space. The guy schmoozed and glided around, wooing the customers, and he didn’t help out in the least with the grunt work. Why people liked him was a complete mystery to Glenn. He’d already banged two of the waitresses in the back, one up against the wall, according to Luis, who could barely speak English. But Luis had communicated the incident well enough so Glenn had had to confront the oily Pete, who simply smirked and said it was beyond his control. Glenn would have fired him on the spot, but Scott had stepped in. Pointed out that Pete brought in good business, which, damn it all, was the truth.