Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  “What?” Mac jumped to his feet.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gretchen murmured.

  Pelligree was sober. “Her brother identified the remains.”

  “I’m going,” Mac said, snatching his coat and heading out the door.

  For once Gretchen remained behind, sinking slowly into a chair. She and Pelligree looked at each other in the wake of Mac’s departure.

  “He was right,” she said on a note of admiration. “There’s a helluva lot more to this case than any of us thought.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Soft music…some vaguely familiar hymn whispered through the funeral parlor. Becca sat staring vacantly at the closed coffin, a testament to how badly Renee’s body had been mangled in the “accident.” Sprays of flowers surrounded the glossy wooden casket and candles burned brightly, but the cloudy, gray day seeped through the windows, bringing in the gloom of winter. The gangly nondenominational preacher with a bad comb-over and rimless glasses stood at the dais as the music faded. He led the mourners in prayer, though Becca could barely concentrate.

  Seated next to a grim-faced Hudson, a few chairs away from a blubbering Tim Trudeau, Becca kept her own ragged thoughts at bay. The group of mourners was larger than the small room in the funeral home, and the back doors had been opened to a covered area that had been extended with tents and outdoor heaters. Either Renee had made an incredible amount of friends in less than forty years, or a lot of those who’d come to pay their respects were the curious.

  Renee Trudeau’s death had made every major and local paper, as well as the news. Her connection to St. Elizabeth’s, a school that had been previously riddled in scandal and murder, as well as the discovery of the bones and the supposition that they belonged to Jezebel Brentwood, had given her an unwelcome celebrity. The police had yet to make a formal statement, but Becca was certain it would be forthcoming soon. She’d seen the news van parked in the lot and had witnessed Detective Sam McNally arrive and slide into a back row, just inside the doors.

  “…tragic loss…trust in the way of the Lord…always be remembered as a wife, friend, sister…”

  Becca’s fingers were linked with Hudson’s, but he was staring straight ahead, miles away, his gaze upon the preacher but his sight turned inward to thoughts of his twin.

  Would Renee still be alive if she hadn’t been so fascinated with Jessie’s disappearance? Whether her car had been intentionally pushed off the road or sideswiped by a hit-and-run driver—which seemed more and more unlikely—Hudson’s sister’s death could be directly attributed to her quest for the truth about Jessie.

  Becca thought of her visions and felt Hudson’s grip tighten over her hand. Fighting tears, she bowed her head when instructed to pray and heard Tim, Renee’s soon-to-be ex-husband, sniveling and snorting, as if he’d lost the love of his life.

  Maybe he and Renee could have patched things up. Now no one would ever know. Nor would Becca be able to reconnect fully with Hudson’s sister, his twin, the only family member he’d had left.

  She was gone…

  Killed. As was Jessie. As was Glenn…

  All of the group from St. Elizabeth’s was in attendance, all mourning and grief-stricken, all not saying what everyone was thinking—Who’s next? Becca had caught a glimpse of The Third, taciturn as he fingered the small pamphlet about the service, and she’d seen Mitch chain-smoking on the porch right before the service, looking like an absolute wreck. Tamara, toned down in a long black skirt and sweater, was a couple of rows over, not far from Zeke and Evangeline. Zeke was glum and Vangie was a doe in the headlights.

  None of them could believe another member of their group, Hudson’s vibrant, passionate sister, was actually dead.

  Becca’s insides twisted and she fought the sting of tears as the preacher recalled some of the most noteworthy times of Renee’s life. As he brought up Renee’s education and her graduation from St. Elizabeth’s she felt Hudson stiffen beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tamara, shaking her head in sadness.

  God, this was horrible. Never in a million years would Becca have thought that she would be at Renee’s funeral at so early an age. But then, there were lots of things she wouldn’t have imagined. She caught a glimpse from Scott Pascal, who sat, hands clasped between his knees, his brown suit jacket pulling at the seams. He looked away and then Becca felt someone staring at her. Hard. Like a knife between her shoulder blades.

  She stiffened, half looked behind her, but at that moment the preacher asked them all to pray and Becca bent her head.

  But she was being watched. She felt those eyes digging into her. Whoever was staring so intently at her wasn’t a friend. Just before the end of the prayer she hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder and saw only a sea of bent heads before she caught McNally’s unguarded stare. He’d asked her and Hudson a ton of questions about Renee’s accident but they’d had no answers for him. Now his eyes were trained on hers and she looked quickly away, whispering a quick “amen” as the preacher closed the service.

  Becca couldn’t wait to get outside, away from the coffin, away from the heavy onus of death. But there was a gathering afterward at the grave site, and though there were fewer people in attendance, all of their friends made the trek to the hillside cemetery on the outskirts of Laurelton.

  Flanked by old-growth timber dripping in moss and knifing into the low-hanging clouds, the manicured acres of grass dotted by headstones appeared bleak and somber. More prayers were said, more condolences whispered as high heels sank into the rain-sodden loam and Tim tossed a rose onto the coffin before it was lowered into the neatly cut earth. A hundred yards away, a man sat smoking on a big yellow piece of earth-moving equipment. As soon as the crowd disbursed he would make short work of filling the hole where Renee’s coffin was resting.

  It wasn’t just close family friends at the grave site. Seated in his car, parked with a view of the graveside ceremony, Detective Sam McNally, their group’s nemesis, was just far enough away not to be part of the service, close enough to observe. Now, gazing at them through his windshield, he seemed to be talking on his cell phone. He just never gave up. Not for twenty damned years. “Obsessed,” The Third had once called him. It wasn’t far from the truth.

  And now he was here at Renee’s burial two decades later.

  The entire ceremony was disturbing.

  As the crowd dispersed, Hudson spoke to old friends of his family while Becca huddled with Tamara and The Third, both usually flamboyant and now quiet and reserved.

  “This is Jessie’s doing,” Mitch said as he approached. He was lighting one cigarette off the butt of another.

  “This is not the time, man,” The Third said.

  Mitch blew out a stream of smoke. “You all know it, you just won’t admit it.”

  “Don’t talk crazy.” Tamara shook her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “It’s not the end, you know. More of us are gonna get it,” Mitch predicted, glancing at the dark trees surrounding the graveyard. “How well do you know your friends?” he yelled to the group as a whole. “Somebody’s a killer!”

  “Shut up!” Tamara fished in her purse for her keys and Becca noticed that the detective had gotten out of his car and was approaching Hudson. “God, Mitch. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I know too much,” he muttered. “And none of you do.”

  Tamara retrieved the jingling keys and snapped her purse shut.

  “Tamara’s right, man, pull your shit together,” The Third said as Hudson, hair blowing in the wind, spoke to the policeman.

  “You should all watch out,” Mitch said.

  “Look, I’ve gotta run.” The Third was having none of it as he made his way to his BMW and slid inside.

  “You could be next,” Mitch called after him. “You got one of those notes, too!” The BMW roared away.

  “That’s what this is all about? Those damned nursery rhymes?” Tamara demanded. “You look like hell, Mitch. Really.
Get some sleep.”

  “It’s more than that,” Mitch said. “The cop’s still hanging out, isn’t he? Mac? And he’s talking to Hudson.”

  “He’s investigating,” she said tightly. “That’s what he does.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to an area where a solitary tree stood next to the firs in the surrounding woods, then took another long drag, as if the smoke were life-giving rather than stealing. “Oh, hell, just forget it.” He left them as he headed for his Tahoe, shoulders tight.

  Tamara whispered to Becca, “I think he’s using again—mixing his prescription drugs. He had a little problem before.” She pulled her coat closer around her slim body as her eyes watched his Tahoe disappear. “He’s losing it.”

  We all are, Becca thought. Some of us just hide it better than others. She stared into the forest, her gaze following the same path that Mitch’s had only a few minutes before. The trees were shrouded in fog, ferns, and faulty shadows. For a second Becca thought she saw someone hiding in the dark, misty depths, but as the wind shifted, the mist lifting a bit, there was no one standing beside the gnarly old oak tree.

  She, like Mitch, was imagining things.

  And yet…

  Hudson walked toward them. “Ready?” he said to Becca.

  “Sure.” She managed a small smile that she didn’t feel.

  “You need a ride?” he asked Tamara, but she shook her head.

  “Got my car.” With a wave, she picked her way through the wet grass to the spot where she’d parked her Mazda.

  Becca watched her drive away from the passenger seat of Hudson’s truck. He put the pickup into gear and said, “Zeke told me McNally wants to talk to him at the station. What do you think that’s about?”

  Becca stared out the side window. “He never got a note.”

  “Must be something more,” he said wearily as he slid his truck into the slow file of vehicles driving toward town. “I’m getting to the point that I don’t even want to know.”

  Becca felt that same stabbing sensation of being watched. She glanced back toward the trees, watching their limbs flail in the stiff breeze. “I don’t, either,” she said firmly.

  The scent of betrayal, of unholy lust is in the air, teasing at my nostrils, reminding me that I must not s, reminding me that I must not fail.

  She looks my way.

  Through the haze I see the worry in her eyes; so like Jezebel’s.

  You can’t see me, Demon Bitch. I’m invisible to you, but you feel me, don’t you?

  You know I’m coming for you.

  I sense your fear.

  God will make you pay for your pact with Satan, Rebecca. I am His messenger.

  And I’m coming for you…

  “Have a seat,” Detective McNally told Zeke, indicating a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

  Zeke did as he was told, his body as taut as a bowstring. He cupped his jaw in one hand, his arms tucked in tight, a position of defense.

  Mac gave him a moment to relax and drew a long breath himself. He’d spent half the week in Tillamook County, learning all he could about the accident that had taken Renee Trudeau’s life, and half the week in Laurelton dealing with a double homicide where the only man left standing—thirty-one-year-old junkie Harold Washington—claimed the deceased man and woman with the fatal gunshot wounds had fired at him first. They were all meth users—a lovely bunch of Johnny Ray’s clientele—and it was hard to say just what had happened at the rented three-bedroom ranch at the east side of town. Gretchen was in her element; she loved interrogating low-life scum like Washington. Mac was tired of all that, and as he sat down at his desk across from Zeke St. John, he wondered if he might be becoming the burnout everyone thought he was.

  “Know why I asked you here?” Mac asked.

  “I’m the father,” he blurted out. “That’s what you’re going to tell me. I’m the baby’s father.”

  Mac had put the paternity issue aside in the wake of Renee Trudeau’s death; he’d been too caught up in those events to even think about it. His thoughts had been occupied by Renee, Hudson Walker’s sister. Why had someone pushed her car off the cliff? Did it have something to do with Jessie’s murder? Whatever the case, the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department was on an all-out hunt for a vehicle with a smashed front end.

  So when Zeke jumped in and hit the issue head-on, Mac was slightly surprised. “That’s exactly right,” he admitted. “You are the baby’s father. You slept with Jessie.”

  He nodded jerkily. “A couple of times. She was trying to get back at Hudson. She teased like mad. She was so wild and scary. I don’t think she slept with anyone else, though she acted like it. She chose me.”

  “Because you were Walker’s best friend.”

  “I thought she wanted me, at the time.” He looked faintly ashamed.

  “Walker have any idea?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s going to have to know now,” Mac said.

  “Yeah. I see. Yeah…”

  Mac thought over a few things and the moment stretched out between them. The pause made Zeke antsy. His eyes darted around the room as if now that he’d made his confession, he wanted to escape.

  “You think this has something to do with the fact that you never received a nursery rhyme note?” Mac finally asked.

  Zeke looked flummoxed. “What do you mean?”

  “Does anyone else know about your relationship with Jessie?”

  “No…uh-uh. I don’t get what you’re driving at?”

  Mac said, “You’re Jessie’s baby’s father, and you’re the only one of your buddies who didn’t get a note. You see? It’s a difference. Something that stands out.”

  He went quiet, internalizing, and his face seemed to grow more gaunt.

  “It’s a connection that doesn’t make any sense,” Mac said. “Unless maybe…” Zeke’s gaze flew to Mac’s. “Someone is trying to direct the attention away from you?” Zeke didn’t respond, though it looked like it was taking all he had to keep quiet, so Mac pushed a little harder. “Someone who knows you’re the father. Someone who thinks you killed Jessie?”

  “No.”

  “It seems like a woman’s idea of terror.”

  He gulped out a laugh. “Now you’re going to tell me Jessie’s alive!”

  “I don’t think it’s Jessie.”

  Zeke’s eyes were hollow, like he’d stared into a hellish world. “Vangie did not kill Jessie! She couldn’t have done that. She doesn’t have the strength.” He was breathing rapidly. “And what about Renee? And Glenn? What happened to them?”

  Gretchen had been at her desk when Zeke came in but she’d moved closer to hear the exchange. Mac felt her presence behind his right shoulder and was glad she had chosen to keep her mouth shut instead of breaking in.

  Zeke looked ready to fall into pieces. Mac told him the investigations into Glenn and Renee’s deaths were ongoing, but he didn’t seem to hear. He was lost in his own thoughts and when the interview concluded he rose from his chair in a daze. Together, Mac and Gretchen watched him walk out of the station.

  “He thinks his fiancée wrote the notes,” Gretchen observed.

  “He’s been thinking that for a while,” Mac concluded.

  “You gonna let him drop that bomb on her?”

  Mac shrugged. “Do you see Evangeline Adamson as Jezebel Brentwood’s killer? Following her into the maze, stabbing her in the ribs? Murdering her and her baby?”

  “Zeke’s baby, too.”

  “I agree with Zeke. I don’t think she has the nerve. The note sending is more her style, sneaky and anonymous. She was trying to protect Zeke, when in fact she pointed an arrow right to him.”

  Gretchen’s blue eyes narrowed and she smiled her thin smile.

  “What?” Mac asked.

  “You better stop this, or I might start thinking you’re a decent detective after all.”

  Mac harrumphed and turned away from her. He didn’t want to start lik
ing Gretchen, either. She was a pain in the butt, then, now, and forever.

  Hudson drove away from the house Tim and Renee had shared and tried not to hate the guy. All he’d wanted was Renee’s laptop and notes about the story she’d been working on, but Tim didn’t have them. Stunned that his wife was gone, Tim was a walking automaton. He acted like he didn’t hear Hudson’s request, going on and on instead about what a great relationship he and Renee had had, how much he’d loved her, how alone he felt now, how miserable. He seemed to have conveniently pushed away all the contention their relationship had been fraught with at the end. Hudson had wanted to explode at him, but had held his temper in check by sheer will, and finally Tim paid attention enough to say that the laptop hadn’t been found when her Toyota was pulled from the sea. It, and whatever luggage Renee had carried with her, had been lost. Not that a computer that had been submerged in the sea would be of much help.

  “I’ll have to add that to the insurance report,” Tim said to Hudson. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  In a foul mood, Hudson pushed thoughts of Tim aside as he drove home. Ignoring the calls from reporters on his answering machine, he spent the rest of the day caring for the livestock and fixing a broken gate. The physical labor of forking hay into mangers, shoveling manure from the stalls, and replacing hinges and broken boards gave him time to think and sort things out.

  He tried to remember more of what she’d said in their last phone conversation, but there didn’t seem to be anything there that meant anything. He knew her user ID and password, so he switched on his computer and flipped through her unread and “kept as new” e-mails. There weren’t a lot of them. And none of them had to do with the story she was working on. Less than an hour later, he logged off in frustration.

  Maybe the only way to learn something was to follow in her footsteps, like she’d followed in Jessie’s.

  His cell phone chirped at the same moment he heard tires crunching on his gravel driveway. He answered the phone, then glanced up the stairs, where Becca was working on her own laptop, getting some overdue work done for her job. “Hello?”