Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  “Dear God,” she whispered, thinking of her unborn child.

  She lay motionless, trying to pull herself together, trying not to shiver from the coldness and the fear.

  The bathroom door cracked opened and Hudson, all six feet of him, stepped inside. Seeing her on the floor, he went pale as death. “What happened?” He was at her side in an instant, dropping to his knees as she struggled to hers. “Are you all right? Becca!” Concerned eyes studied her, strong arms surrounded her.

  Wincing against the pain, she remembered the pregnancy test. Where the hell had the wand rolled to?

  “You had another vision,” he realized, concern etched into his voice.

  “Yes.” She rubbed the back of her head where it had hit the floor. God, it hurt. “I’m fine, though.”

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  “No doctor. I’ll be fine.” She spied the pregnancy wand with its two vibrant lines announcing that she was pregnant. Corralling it with one hand, she wordlessly handed it to him.

  He looked down at the two pink lines. “This means…?”

  “Positive. You’re still okay with this?” she asked anxiously.

  “I’d be better if you let me take you to a doctor. You’re pregnant,” he said, as if she needed to be reminded. “And these visions…I don’t like them.”

  “I know, I know.” Becca struggled to sit up. “But you’re okay about the baby? I just need to know.”

  “Yes. More than okay. But we’re going to the Laurelton Hospital ER.” He pulled her, protesting, to her feet. “I want to make sure both you and the baby are okay. We’ll make an appointment with your doctor later.” He gave her a hard look. “You have a doctor?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “C’mon.”

  He shepherded her out to his truck, and despite her continual assertions that she was totally fine, they headed over to Laurelton Hospital, which hung on the edge of a hillside, making the third floor on one side, the first floor where the emergency vehicles entered.

  Becca was surprised when Hudson insisted on going into the cubicle with her. “I can do this by myself,” she said with a smile.

  “I want to talk to the doctor about your visions.”

  “I’ve been through this with my parents. There was never anything wrong.”

  “You’ve never been pregnant before,” he said, and her heart clutched. “You seem to be having them more now. Maybe it’s connected. I don’t know.”

  The doctor appeared, a young woman with her hair scraped into a ponytail and a stern expression that suggested she’d never suffered a moment of joy in her life. “You’re here for a pregnancy test?”

  “And an exam,” Hudson said. “She’s also been suffering severe headaches that seem to bring on delusions.”

  The doctor looked at Becca. “Are you having a headache now?”

  “I just want to confirm my pregnancy,” Becca said. “I’ll make an appointment with my doctor.”

  “I can give you a cursory exam, but it sounds neurological. You might want to schedule further testing.”

  “I will.” Becca was firm.

  She gave Hudson a look and he seemed about to argue, but then let it go.

  “I’ll be in the waiting room,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later Becca came out of the room, a smile quivering on her lips. She started laughing as Hudson jumped to his feet and met her in front of the ER’s sliding doors. “We’re going to be parents,” she said, and he hauled off and kissed her hard to a smattering of clapping from the other waiting-room attendees.

  “I love you,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes closed, holding on to the moment with all she had.

  “I love you,” she blurted.

  Tears threatened and she laughed them away. And she didn’t say the words that trembled on her tongue: I always have.

  Mac should have felt elated that some of the pieces were falling into place. The Portland Police had Scott Pascal in custody, a confession signed. Two murders had been solved with the killer copping a plea.

  But two more murders were still unresolved, and he was no closer to figuring out who was behind them, or even if they were linked, as it seemed they were. Renee was working on Jessie’s story and someone had killed her. A case could be made that she’d learned something that implicated a killer who’d been waiting twenty years.

  He was in the squad room, at his desk. Phones rang, a fax machine whirred, and there was light conversation between the cubicles, but Mac barely noticed. Nor could he concentrate on the report he should have been writing about a bar fight turned fatal. Or the domestic violence case where a kid had shot his father rather than accept another beating from the old man’s belt. They were both in his computer, ready to be polished.

  But what had Renee learned?

  Or was he way off base, trying to make a connection that didn’t exist simply because he wanted the Brentwood case solved? Tim Trudeau was certainly a possibility. His alibi—his cleaning woman had said he was definitely home the day of Renee’s accident—might not prove true. When she’d been questioned, Aida Hernandez had hidden behind a language barrier that Mac wasn’t certain existed. But her interpreter, Sergeant Delgado, had been adamant that Hernandez’s words were the truth. “She’s scared, but not of Tim,” Anna Maria Delgado assured Mac. “Aida’s very religious. She wouldn’t lie easily.” Delgado, whose own parents had been born in Mexico, was as smart as she was beautiful. Her word was usually golden with Mac, but Mac had done some checking on Trudeau and wasn’t completely convinced of the guy’s innocence.

  Trudeau had financial motives. Though they were divorcing, at the time of her death Renee had yet to change her will. Her ex would still get the proceeds of a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy, the joint bank accounts worth twenty-three thousand dollars, Renee’s small IRA, and the house she’d paid for and owned outright with the proceeds her brother, Hudson, had paid her for her share of their parents’ ranch. All told: over half a million; closer to three-quarters.

  Not a bad motive for murder.

  “Damn.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin and thought. Hard. Why did he feel he was missing something; something important, something right under the surface of his thoughts? He glanced at the computer screen. It was split between actual images of Jessie Brentwood at sixteen and the computer-generated one of her as well. Dead on.

  No…it wasn’t just coincidence that Renee Walker and Jezebel Brentwood were dead. He couldn’t believe that. Logically, their murders were connected.

  And he believed Scott Pascal. That man had been frantic to convince them he had nothing to do with Jessie Brentwood’s and Renee Trudeau’s deaths. His emphatic denial had rung with truth and indignation, as if it made any sense that he could feel self-righteous about not killing the women when he’d admitted to murdering the men—two of his best friends. And for what? Money. Debt.

  Lost in thought, he picked up the smooth bit of oyster shell found near Jessie’s grave between his forefinger and thumb. A piece of shell from an oyster found in the inlets and bays off the northern Oregon coast.

  Everything led back to the beach.

  Jessie Brentwood’s parents owned a cabin overlooking the ocean in Deception Bay.

  Jessie was known to have been hitchhiking on the road running from the ocean shore inland not long before she disappeared.

  Renee Trudeau, doing research on a story about Jessie, had been killed on her way back from Deception Bay.

  Mac glanced at the picture of Levi propped up on his desk. Why not head to the beach, do a little poking around, see what was up. He could take Levi for the weekend, spend some father-son time at the beach while he explored the town of Deception Bay. He could check in with Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and see if they were any further in their search for the vehicle that had rammed Renee’s. The biggest roadblock to that plan would be Connie, his ex. She seemed to think his time as a father should be spent in structured, planned a
ctivities all revolving around schoolwork. No wonder the kid was having problems. Connie was pretty insistent that Mac not retire, either, but then she had lots of ideas about how he should run his life; especially when it came to raising their boy, who, she sometimes conveniently forgot, was his as well as hers.

  Schoolwork be damned, this weekend he and Levi were going to hang out at the beach. Maybe do some crabbing down on the docks at Deception Bay, watch basketball, play cards, reconnect.

  And yeah, he’d do a little investigating as well.

  He needed to put the murder of Jezebel Brentwood to bed.

  Just like that, his life had changed irrevocably, Hudson thought as he drove to his ranch the next morning. He’d lost a sister and then learned he was going to be a father.

  One life ended; another started.

  It was a weird sensation.

  Not that he ever thought he’d be a father; but this, an unplanned pregnancy, was a shock to his system and an out-and-out high. He hadn’t suggested Becca marry him, wasn’t rushing out to buy a diamond ring, it was all happening way too fast. But he couldn’t imagine not living with her. He wanted to raise their son or daughter together and spend the rest of his life with her.

  So marriage was definitely in his plans.

  He just had to think things through.

  Squinting against the harsh rays of sun that slipped through the clouds, he turned down the long drive to his house. More storms were predicted from the west. It was the end of March and winter would not let go of its grip.

  But he was going to be a father!

  Becca and he had talked. All yesterday afternoon and into the evening, and after spending the rest of the day and night together, they were on the same page about raising a kid, but it was a little early to ask her to move her things to the ranch. Hell, her little dog still wasn’t certain Hudson wasn’t an enemy. And there was something else, something he didn’t really understand. A “feeling” that Becca wasn’t being entirely honest with him—not about the pregnancy, he trusted her on that one, but there was something off about this whole vision thing. He felt she was holding back. He feared it was physical and that she was in denial, that something was causing these delusions.

  Yet…her visions were strangely prophetic.

  He parked near the garage and studied the old farmhouse with its mossy roof and often-repaired gutters. The windows needed replacing, a family room and third bath added. He had plans drawn nearly a year earlier but hadn’t started the renovation. Now he’d give them to Becca, get her input, and adjust accordingly.

  If she wants to move in with you.

  She wasn’t a hundred percent on that, now, was she?

  They’d skirted the subject, each stopping short of saying, “Let’s live together.” He figured when the time was right, they’d move in or marry, didn’t really matter which order it happened. They had more than a few emotional hurdles to leap over if they were ever going to find happiness, and a lot of those hurdles had to do with Jessie Brentwood and why she was killed.

  With the weak sun warming his back he slid out of the Jeep, nearly whistled to Booker T., then stopped himself short. His dog was gone and he couldn’t really see Ringo riding with him in the truck, trotting out to the barn to feed the stock, but then you never knew.

  He headed alone down the path past the old pump house and willow tree where he was certain his twin sister had spied him and Becca making love years before. He felt more than a little pang of grief and anger when he thought of Renee. He missed her.

  No two ways about it.

  Sorrow surged but he tamped it back down, deciding to look to the future, and as he did, one side of his mouth lifted. In a few years he’d be walking down this path, a young son or daughter at his side.

  You should have told him about your first pregnancy at the hospital. You had the opportunity. Why didn’t you take it?

  And why don’t you tell him about the vision? He won’t laugh at you. He’s worried about you. You need to tell him how you were rammed off the road like Renee, that you lost the first baby—his baby, too!—because of it.

  Becca gave herself a swift mental kick as she e-mailed changes to the latest spate of documents for an ongoing land trust dispute back to the offices of Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer. The television in the living room flickered in the corner, the volume on low. She absently listened to the weather report as she worked, learning that a new storm was forming in the Pacific, blowing inland.

  “Great,” she murmured, but as soon as the weather report was over she heard Scott Pascal’s name mentioned. She looked up sharply to see an image of Scott in handcuffs, his face turned from the camera as he was led past a surge of reporters and helped into a patrol car. It was hard to believe. Everything that had happened seemed so surreal. The news reporter, an earnest-looking woman with dark hair and eyes, suggested that Scott, who had confessed to two killings, might be linked to more deaths. In an instant pictures of Jessie and Renee took the place of Scott’s image: Jessie’s from high school, Renee’s head shot much more recent.

  Becca located the remote, scooped it off the coffee table, and clicked off the television. The image of Hudson’s twin disappeared.

  She sank onto the couch and let out her breath.

  Would it ever end?

  She found it hard to fathom that Scott had killed Glenn and Mitch, but she really couldn’t believe he’d murdered either Jessie or Renee.

  Then who?

  Touching her abdomen, she recalled her last vision, then thought about the baby and, of course, Hudson. Now was the time to be completely honest with him. She knew that. If they were ever going to have any relationship, they had to trust each other implicitly. No lies. No equivocations. No damned secrets.

  “Come on,” she said to the dog, and snapped on his leash. It was getting dark, the watery March sunshine fading into twilight. She let Ringo sniff each twig and branch as the sound of rush-hour traffic on the Pacific Highway only blocks from her condo reached her ears.

  She gazed back at the condo. Was it all too soon? She’d lived here with Ben, hoped to have a family with him, but then that relationship had been based on lies. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with Hudson. Maybe it was finally time to let go of the past and sell this condo. Time for a fresh start. With Hudson Walker.

  He’d told her he loved her. Sure, it was in a moment of joy upon learning they would be new parents, but he’d meant it. And she’d certainly meant it when she’d told him back. And so he hadn’t said it again. He’d shown her in a lot of other ways. And if they could ever learn what really happened to Jessie, she felt the last issues between them would be resolved.

  Picking up her mail from the box, a fistful of bills, credit card offers, and advertisements, Becca waited for Ringo to do his business, then headed inside. Not for the first time, she wondered why her visions of Jessie were backdropped by the ocean—a stormy, raging sea where she could hear the roar of the surf, feel the tide pound the shore, taste the brine on her tongue.

  The answer was somewhere in the cliffs overlooking the angry ocean, and Jessie was adamant that she tell no one about it. In her recent visions, Jessie had been warning her, shushing her. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone of her visions, that much was clear. But she’d already confided in Hudson.

  That had probably been a mistake. Not only might he think her a nutcase, but she might have inadvertently put his life in danger. There was a chance that Jessie was warning her to be quiet for Hudson’s safety.

  Or her child’s.

  Either way, she felt, the answers to everything wouldn’t be found in the soil, debris, or bones at St. Elizabeth’s maze. The answers would be found somewhere on the Oregon coast, most likely in the town of Deception Bay.

  Becca stood for a moment in the fading light, struck by the thought. What had taken her so long to recognize that? That’s where Renee’s research on Jessie had taken place. That’s where the answers were.

  Becca hurri
ed Ringo along, back to the condo. Now that she’d made that decision, she wanted to go. It was early evening and it was a two-hour drive. She could be there by seven, or maybe eight, if it took her a while to pack.

  “Ready for a ride?” she said to Ringo, who dogged her anxiously, sensing her new determination. She pulled her cell phone out of its charger and put a call in to Hudson.

  As she waited for him to answer, she packed a few things into an overnight bag, then once her call was forwarded to his voicemail, left a quick message that she was heading out of town for the beach.

  He called her back almost instantly. “I’m right on the way. Pick me up. I can be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “You want to go?”

  “I want answers, too, Becca. And you’re right, Renee was researching Jessie, following in her footsteps. Something happened, and I want to know what it was.”

  “Well, okay,” she said. “I’m putting Ringo in the car and I’ll be at your place in about half an hour depending on traffic.”

  “Lookin’ forward to it.”

  I love you, she thought, but she didn’t say it.

  “I’m a coward,” she told the dog as she settled him into his fuzzy car seat.

  He looked at her and wagged his tail.

  By the time Becca’s car slid into his driveway, Hudson had cared for the horses and few head of cattle, called Emile Rodriguez to come by and feed and water the stock the following day, made arrangements for a place to stay at the beach online, showered and changed. He was just stuffing a change of clothes into an overnight bag when he spied her headlights against the trunks of the oak and fir trees near the mailbox.

  He hurried downstairs and locked the door behind him just as she pulled to a stop near the front porch. Ringo, true to form, was barking his fool head off and wasn’t all that happy to be relegated to the backseat as Hudson slid into the passenger seat.