Something Wicked

by Lisa Jackson

  Ophelia gave Ravinia a cold look, one of those “We’ll talk about this later” glares.

  “Fine,” said Ravinia’s silent glare back. “Bring it on.”

  “Maybe you should talk to her,” Ophelia said slowly to the detective, ignoring Ravinia’s smirk of achievement.

  Savannah followed the two Colony women back inside Catherine’s room and gazed over at the woman who’d been so tough and in control just days before. Now, lying on her back, her eyes closed, Catherine looked older and more fragile than her actual fifty-plus years.

  “Aunt Catherine?” Ophelia said quietly, placing one of her hands over one of Catherine’s.

  It took two more tries before Catherine’s eyes fluttered open. Savvy had just opened her mouth to say that maybe it was better to wait when Catherine’s gaze centered first on Ophelia, then Ravinia, then Savannah.

  Ravinia said, “The detective was here at the hospital and wanted to see you.”

  “Savannah Dunbar,” Savvy said, reintroducing herself.

  “I know who you are,” Catherine said in a voice that sounded dry and rusty. She cleared her throat and added, “Ophelia?”

  “Earl brought me. Isadora’s at the lodge with the others.”

  Catherine nodded her understanding. She seemed to collect herself with an effort, and when she spoke, it was to Savannah. “You . . . found out about . . . my question?”

  Catherine clearly didn’t want the other two to know about the knife, so Savannah answered obliquely, “I was at the hospital because I had my baby last night.” And my sister died, she said to herself silently. The real reason she’d ended up at Ocean Park.

  “Is he all right?” Catherine asked instantly, a look of concern on her face, and Savvy saw that she’d inadvertently telegraphed her feelings about Kristina.

  “He’s fine. Better than fine. Great, actually.”

  The older woman relaxed a bit. “What did you name him?”

  “Uh . . . he’s not mine to name.” Another wave of sadness caught at the back of her throat. “I was a surrogate for my sister and her husband. The last I heard, she and Hale were thinking of naming him Declan, after his great-grandfather, but I don’t really know if—” She cut herself off at Catherine’s swift intake of breath.

  “Aunt Catherine?” Ophelia asked with concern.

  “Excuse me. I’m sorry.” Catherine touched a hand to the side of her head, where an ugly bruise had formed near her temple. “Did you say you were a surrogate for Hale St. Cloud?”

  “You know him?” Savannah asked.

  Ravinia had been gazing at Savannah with laserlike intensity, but now she turned to her aunt. Ophelia looked a little startled, like she either wasn’t following the conversation or was surprised by where it had turned.

  “I know of him,” Catherine said, ignoring both of her nieces. “You grow up around here, you know everybody. Girls . . . do you mind leaving me with the detective for a moment?”

  Ravinia said, “Why? What can’t we hear?”

  “I just need a little privacy.”

  Ophelia hustled the resisting Ravinia toward the door. “Can I get you anything, Aunt Catherine?” she asked over her shoulder. “Something to drink?”

  “A cup of tea would be wonderful,” Catherine said.

  As soon as Ravinia and Ophelia were out of earshot, Savvy said, “I followed up on your request. The knife’s being tested now.”

  “Take a seat, Detective,” Catherine said. “You look . . . tired.”

  Savvy did as suggested, sinking gratefully into one of the two straight-backed chairs in the corner. “But I put it through as a possible homicide investigation, not as a private request,” she added.

  “That’s not what I asked for!” Catherine said sharply.

  “I’m sorry, but you think someone killed your sister. That’s what I’m getting from you, and it may come to an exhumation—”

  “My sister’s remains are not to be disturbed. I just want to know if there’s any blood, other than Mary’s, on that knife.”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” Savvy stated flatly. “You said she was stabbed, so it’s up to the ME to determine whether it was accidental or intentional.”

  Catherine sank back into her pillows, an anxious expression tightening her face. “Don’t name your baby Declan. It’s unlucky.”

  Savannah almost laughed at the sudden change of subject. “Unlucky?”

  “Mary used that name for one of her sons.”

  “Declan?” Savvy said, getting a bad feeling about that, especially considering Catherine’s genetics lesson. “One of the ones she adopted out . . . ?”

  “It’s not what you think. Declan Bancroft wasn’t his father.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Where’s the journal?” Catherine asked suddenly. “Is it still in the room, or did Ravinia take it?”

  “I don’t see any journal,” Savvy said, glancing around.

  “It’s all going to come out now that Ravinia knows. If it were just Ophelia . . .” She moved her head fretfully from side to side against the pillow.

  Savannah waited a few moments while Catherine clearly wrestled with herself about something. When the older woman didn’t speak for several moments, Savvy said, “I get the feeling there’s something you want to tell me. More about Mary and what happened to her? But you won’t allow yourself.”

  “Can I trust you, Detective?” She had folded her hands together and was squeezing her knuckles until they showed white.

  “If you’re planning on confessing to a crime, I’m bound by law to report it,” Savannah said with faint humor, “but yes, you can trust me.”

  “Mary named her son Declan because she was playing a cruel joke on me. That’s how she was, especially at the end. Cruel. And delusional. She even listed Declan Bancroft as the father on the boy’s birth certificate.”

  “I see. . . .”

  Catherine gave her a cool look. “You’re wondering why it was a cruel joke. Yes, I had a . . . relationship with Declan Bancroft. It was after his wife died, and it was short-lived. My sister and I were the same in one regard. We were attracted to older men. Not that Mary couldn’t go younger when it suited her.” She paused a moment, then asked, “Have you ever been in love, Detective?”

  Savvy slowly shook her head.

  “It makes you do crazy things. I didn’t believe it until it happened to me. When my sister had Declan, Dr. Parnell Loman wrote out the birth certificate for her. Parnell did a lot of things for my sister that would have probably gotten his medical license revoked, but he was under her spell. He’s dead now, the devil take his soul.” Her voice hardened. “She named the boy Declan, then adopted him out shortly thereafter. Almost from birth, he exhibited . . . traits . . . that were worrisome.”

  “His gift?” Savvy suggested.

  “Maybe. Something connected to it, I’m sure. Parnell helped her with the adoption, too. I don’t have any records, and Mary kept that information to herself. Frankly, at the time, I was just relieved the child was gone, but now I think we need that information.”

  “You think this Declan was involved with your sister’s death?”

  “Yes.” She glanced toward the window. “The boy, a man now, probably knows his birth name was Declan, and he may think Declan Bancroft is his father.”

  “Who is his father?”

  “I don’t know his name. I can see him in my mind’s eye, and I know what he told us, but it was a lie. I think Mary found out, but she kept it from me. But I think Declan Jr.—Mary’s son, that is—may suffer from the same mental problems as his mother, only maybe it’s worse.”

  Savvy felt a coldness creep up her spine and actually looked behind her to see if there was something there. “When you gave me the lesson on genetics, you were thinking of him.”

  “I was hoping Mary’s death could be explained.”

  “But you suspected Declan Jr. killed her.”

  Catherine nodded.

  “And y
ou think his blood may be on that knife,” Savvy said, guessing.

  “It’s possible. But I don’t want an exhumation unless it’s absolutely necessary. I want to find him. I want you to find him and bring him in. If his blood is on the knife, then you’ll be able to make a DNA match, right?”

  “If he’s as . . .” She almost used the word evil, but it sounded so melodramatic that she said instead, “As intent on causing harm as you say, he could have a criminal history already, and his DNA might be in the system.”

  “No. He’s too careful.” Catherine’s blue eyes closed again, and she let out a soft shudder. “There’s probably nothing on the knife other than Mary’s own blood.”

  “How do you know he’s careful?”

  “By a means that would never stand up in court,” she said.

  “You’re talking about your own gift?”

  “I have a little bit of precognition. Not like Cassandra’s, but a little bit.”

  “What else do you know about Declan Jr.?”

  “He’s dangerous, and I believe Mary drew him to her on the island. She set him on a path. She unleashed him, Detective. And he killed her.”

  Savannah gazed at the older woman and said, choosing her words carefully, “It sounds like you’re asking me to start a manhunt for someone you think may have killed your sister, but you don’t want an exhumation of her body. In fact, you’re adamantly against that, even though you think this man could be a danger to others, as well.”

  “Oh, he is. To all of us.”

  Cassandra/Maggie’s words came back to Savannah, and she shivered a little.

  “What?” Catherine asked.

  “Cassandra said she told you about the man and the bones. That he came for Mary, and he was coming for all of you and maybe even me, too. Is that who she meant? Declan Jr.?”

  “Yes,” Catherine answered after a long moment.

  I see only his beauty.... Cassandra had said that, too.

  Now, like then, Savannah felt a cold finger of premonition slide down her spine. She wasn’t really buying into the whole thing; there was a lot of woo-woo and paranoia involved in the story, and she didn’t see how it affected her. But it did get to her viscerally, no matter what she believed.

  “When I get the report on the knife—whose blood’s on it—I’ll let you know.”

  “Detective, don’t dismiss the danger. We’re not the only ones in this man’s sights. He believes he’s Declan Bancroft’s son, and he may act on that information. I don’t have any idea what his timetable is, but be assured that he has one. Yes, I believe he killed my sister, and yes, I believe he’s targeting us now. And his real father was a monster. . . .”

  Savvy shook her head. She wasn’t going to go there. “I understand, but I need something more than . . . conjecture,” she said, for lack of a better word, “to launch an investigation. The knife is a good place to start.”

  “How would you feel, Detective, if the great-grandfather of the son you just bore was suddenly attacked, possibly killed, and you’d done nothing about it?”

  “That’s really a leap, Catherine.”

  “You’d feel terrible. Responsible. Sick at heart. You’d want to find him at all costs. Your sister’s married to Declan’s grandson. See, I do know a thing or two.” She smiled but then saw something in Savvy’s face and asked sharply, “What? What do you know?”

  “My sister was also in an accident.”

  “Oh, no . . .”

  “She died early this morning.”

  “How? How did she die?” Catherine sat up in bed, her eyes filled with horror.

  “A beam fell on her at a construction site.”

  “Fell on her?”

  “There’s speculation that it was something more. The Seaside police are investigating, but it could just be an accident.”

  “You’re trying to tell yourself that because you don’t want it to be murder. Because you, an officer of the law, couldn’t save your sister.”

  “That’s not how it is,” Savannah said sharply.

  “Don’t you see? It’s him! It’s him. Was your sister sexually involved with him? That was Mary’s downfall, and in her son it could be worse. It would be worse. I’ve had feelings about it. He casts a spell, just like Mary did, only it’s a thousand times worse!”

  I asked Hale earlier if he believed in sorcery. . . .

  Savannah felt a pounding in her head. Like hoofbeats clattering across her brain. “I’ve got to go, Catherine. I’ve got a baby to take care of,” she murmured. She suddenly wanted to scoop up that little boy and hold him close.

  “Running away won’t stop him,” Catherine said, the words singeing Savvy’s ears as she stumbled blindly out of the room. “When you want to do something, come to Siren Song. I’ll be there. I’ll help you. . . .”

  He was escalating. He got that. The thrills weren’t as high, and he didn’t want to wait as long between kills. In the back of his head he knew he was really in trouble, because his kills had been working out to more than one a day, what with Garth and Tammie, and then Kristina, and now DeWitt, and hopefully, tonight that bastard at Bancroft Bluff who’d talked to him about the detective with such interest, kept bringing her up almost like he’d been digging at Charlie. Almost like he knew.

  He was going to have to take care of that fucker tonight, kill ratio or no.

  He drew down his ski mask until his eyes were all that was visible. The weather was complying. Goddamn terrible storm made it okay to bundle up like a robber. Ha.

  He looked around the tiny studio apartment that he’d called home since he left the coast. Squalor. Damn near a cell. But he never cared. Sleep, rest, a warm and happy home . . . no, that wasn’t Charlie’s fate or future. He was destined to roam the world, to keep moving or die, like a shark.

  He knew where the asshole was. Like Dimwit, he habituated the same kind of tired dives, rarely moving outside a range of three or four. There was no work on Sundays, as a rule, but that wouldn’t keep his prey from hitting his favorite happy hours.

  Charlie spotted him at the second place he stopped in: Bernadette’s. Just Bernie’s if you were one of the regulars. Big fuckin’ deal. Sometimes it almost hurt that there were such losers in this world.

  He pulled up his ski mask when he walked in. Otherwise he’d be too memorable later, after the fucker was a corpse and the stupid police started sniffing at his trail. Still, his hair was covered and ski masks were the attire du jour in this dead-end place. Yep, it was all good, so he sidled right up to his prey and sat down on a nearby bar stool.

  “Hey,” the man said, looking up from a game of pool. Charlie took note of the cue still in the asshole’s hand and threw on a full-wattage smile.

  “Man, this weather, huh? I wasn’t gonna stay inside like those pussies who won’t drive in this shit,” Charlie said.

  “You got that right.” The man sounded kinda relieved as he leaned over the cue ball and took aim.

  Did he scare people that much? Charlie wondered. Was he changing somehow? In some indefinable way? He’d always been able to pull off the Good Time Charlie persona, but something was different here somehow. . . .

  “So, what are you doing here?” the man asked casually, sighting down the cue.

  Was that a flutter of fear Charlie was sensing? His grin widened as he answered, “Oh, just thought you might be here on a Sunday night. Maybe there’ll be another storm and there won’t be work tomorrow.”

  “Supposed to be clear.” He pushed the cue hard and smacked the cue ball into the fifteen, which careened off the eight, sending the solid black ball into the pocket.

  “Too bad,” Charlie observed.

  “Yeah.” He dropped the cue stick on the table with more force than necessary, disgusted.

  “Let me buy ya a beer.”

  He glared at Charlie belligerently. “Yeah? What the fuck are you doing? Huh? This ain’t no casual drop-in, buddy. I’m not buying it for a minute. I got a woman waiting for me. I don�
��t need this shit. I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m out.”

  “Whoa.” Charlie lifted his hands in surrender. Inside he was grinning and grinning. Couldn’t stop himself.

  With that, his target grabbed up his ski jacket, shrugged into it, and stomped toward the door.

  The man he’d been playing against observed, “Poor loser.”

  Charlie didn’t engage with him. Didn’t want to be remembered that well. He followed his prey leisurely toward the door and watched him get into his truck, spin out in the slushy snow of the parking lot, then chink, chink, chink away, his chains biting down to the pavement.

  Pulling down his ski mask, Charlie got in his own vehicle and followed. He knew where the guy was going. He would just have to lie in wait . . . and maybe he’d get a twofer. The asshole and his woman.

  His cock stirred, and he thought of the detective. She was climbing up Charlie’s top ten hit list. Actually, she’d just leapt over Pops.

  He was going to get them both soon. Top ten? Top one hundred, he thought with a laugh. He had a long way to go. Yessirree. No one was going to stop him.

  “You feel me, bitch,” he whispered, sending the detective his sexual desire in a hot, snaking wave.

  Then he sent another message to his father, too, reaching in his pocket to slide his thumb along the edge of the knife tucked inside. It’s long past time for a family reunion, Pops. I’m coming for you. Soon.

  CHAPTER 23

  Late Monday morning Savannah stood with Hale outside the Hertz rental agency in Seaside in a blowing wind mixed with a slap of rain, the keys to a blue Ford Escape in her gloved hands. The temperature was above freezing and rising, and the snow was off the main roads, but it felt cold as the Arctic.

  Hale had come to her room this morning, early, and had caught her breast-feeding his son. She’d looked up at him, worried about his reaction, but he’d swallowed once, hard, and said, “I’m so glad he has you,” and that had sent Savannah’s hormones into overdrive and she’d felt the sting of tears once again.

  He’d offered to take her home, but she’d asked for a ride to Hertz. Her own Escape was in the process of being picked up by Isaac’s Towing and taken to a repair shop in Seaside. Baby Declan was still at the hospital; Hale was planning to pick up the car seat he and Kristina had purchased and fit it into his car this afternoon. The new nanny was meeting him at the hospital, as well.