Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake)

by Rachel Caine

  “She get inside okay?”

  “Yes. And her new alarm system was installed yesterday; I made sure she set it after she went in. But it’s anybody’s guess how diligent she’s going to be with it. You know Vee.”

  “You see anything odd?” I’m transferring the contents of my pockets to the table, and taking off my shoulder holster to put that away too. “Anyone watching her?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “But God knows it’s easy enough to set up a surveillance camera these days. Our guy doesn’t even need to be close to be watching her. Or us, for that matter.”

  That is a particularly specific paranoia that I hadn’t tripped over until now, and I have to resist the urge to storm out the front door and check the trees for cameras. And our neighbor’s trees and eaves too. Which will just make me look strange, so I rein myself in. If he’s watching, there’s not much I can do about that.

  I wasn’t going to tell Sam everything, but now I realize that I need to. He needs to understand where things stand and what might happen, and so I tell him about chasing down Len at the mailing store, about tackling him, about being seen and noticed coming and going. And he takes it about as well as I could have expected.

  “Gwen, dammit—” He stops, takes a breath, and shakes his head. “I know you didn’t deliberately put yourself in danger, but damn. If he’d had a gun—”

  “I had a gun,” I point out. “And he didn’t draw one. Which is good, because I don’t know how I’d have played off a broad-daylight gunfight.” I sound confident, but I’m not. “Sam. I’m okay. Really. But we do need to be aware that this could trace back to me, if the KPD really, really wants to take an interest. And then it could get rough.”

  He nods, but his eyes stay dark. “Okay. Would you consider handing all this over to J. B., or Kezia, or, well, anyone? Just get out of the middle of it, please. I don’t like where this is going.” He doesn’t ask me for things like that often; he knows me all too well. But he’s right. This isn’t just a simple harassment campaign.

  “I’ll give everything I have to J. B. as soon as I look into the Melvin message boards and groupies,” I tell him. My boss is damn good at what she does, and she hires people who are even better at specific things. One of them will be able to make this work where I might not.

  He doesn’t really believe me—as well he shouldn’t, as obsessive as I usually am when it comes to anything Melvin Royal–related—but he lets it go. I take a few seconds to use the login info I swiped from the mailing store and find the footage of myself; I wince when I realize it probably would be a pretty clear tipoff that something was up, and erase it. I put the thumb drive containing the probably useless surveillance footage on my desk, kiss him, and go and hug my kids. They’re fine, of course. Connor, ever observant, says, “You’ve got dirt on your pants. What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I tell him. “I brushed up against a dirty bumper.” I don’t like lying to him, but I don’t want to spark any worry either. Bad enough for me and Sam to be on edge. I don’t need the kids to be there with us. “Hey. So. Counseling. You ready?”

  He nods and closes his laptop. I give him a pat on the knee and get up to get Lanny in motion, but she’s already putting on her shoes. I don’t know where my daughter gets her excellent taste in footwear, because I’m very utilitarian, and I’m always startled how well she coordinates. “Half an hour until our appointment,” she says. “We should probably get going, right?”

  “Five more minutes.” I want to chase down the lead to Melvin’s groupie hangouts, but I’m well aware that might take a while. I can’t slack on talk therapy right now, in the midst of what’s going on. We need it. So I just go change to a more comfortable outfit, brush my hair after releasing it from the ponytail, and we’re on the road headed to Dr. Marks’s office right on time. I feel a little better, having all of us together and apparently harmonious. We need this pressure release today, and then we can see where to go from there.

  My cell phone rings when we’re two miles from our destination; I ignore it and let it go to voice mail.

  Then Sam’s phone rings just half a minute later. I look over at him, and he looks at me, and we both know that’s not a good sign. He looks at the number and says, “Norton Police Department,” before he slides to answer the call and put it on speaker. “Hey, Kez,” he says. “Is everything . . .”

  “This isn’t Kez,” Prester’s rough voice says. It sounds emotional. Prester is rarely emotional, and I feel a cold void form in my stomach. “It’s about her.”

  “What’s happened?” I blurt it out before Sam does. Dread bolts through me, and I taste blood and ashes. Feel every muscle in my body brace for impact.

  “She’s been in an accident,” Prester says. “Some asshole set a trap for her on the road when she was in pursuit. She’s alive. Got herself a head injury, maybe a broken rib. Lucky it wasn’t one hell of a lot worse.”

  Oh God. I let out a shaky breath and focus on the good part. She was lucky. Head injuries are tricky and worrying, but I have to hope that she’s going to be okay. But then I remember her new pregnancy. I nearly ask if the baby’s okay, but I can’t; I don’t know if she’s told Prester, and I don’t want to violate that confidence. “Where is she?” Sam asks when I don’t speak. “Norton General?”

  “She was closer to y’all when it happened,” he says. “They flew her to UT Medical Center. Javier’s taking leave from his reserve unit to get here, but I don’t know how long he’ll be making it back.”

  “Did anybody tell her dad?”

  “I’m stopping by there right now to give him a ride up to the hospital.” Prester clears his throat. “I think this is my fault. And yours.”

  “Mine? Why?” I sound sharp and defensive, and I wish I could take it back. I admit it: I’m afraid of the answer.

  “Both you and I let her push to keep after this damn case,” he says. “The little girls in the water. Sheryl Lansdowne. She should have stepped back and let TBI take it. We all should have.”

  My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “She found something?”

  “Guess she did,” he says. “And whatever it is, it’s going to TBI and we are ending this. Now. You keep poking around in this swamp, your ass is going to get gatored. Understand me?”

  He sounds tired. Old. Worried. And I feel the same, suddenly. Overwhelmed by it all. I just want to turn the car around, take my children home, and never set foot outside again.

  But I say, “We’ll go to the hospital right now. And we’ll stay until you and her dad can arrive, at least.”

  The University of Tennessee Medical Center has a fine trauma center, and I’m afraid as we arrive, breathless, to ask after Kezia’s location that she’ll be in the ICU . . . but she isn’t. The elderly lady on duty at the front desk checks her computer and says, “Your friend’s already out of the ER; they’ve got her up for tests right now, but she’s listed as stable. If you want to have a seat, I’ll let you know when they get her into a room.”

  Stable. That is a huge relief. Then, with a jolt, I remember. “She’s pregnant,” I say. I keep my voice low. “Do they know that?”

  “I really don’t know, ma’am, but I’ll make sure to tell the nurse right now.”

  I was already scared for Kez, but now I’m sick as well. If she’s lost the baby because of this . . . I don’t know how she’ll come to terms with that. What it will do to her. Please, I think, and send it up as a silent prayer. Please keep them safe. Both of them.

  We start to walk to the chairs, and she calls me back. “Oh, I see there’s a note in the file . . . apparently, the county sheriff says there was a dog in the car, and they need to find out who can take him. A big dog, apparently.”

  “Boot,” I say. “His name is Boot. Was he hurt?”

  “They took him to a vet, but he seemed to check out okay, according to the note. Just shaken up. They need somebody to pick him up from the vet’s office.” She gives me the address, and I text it to Prester’s ce
ll phone. It’ll be on the way for him, and if I know Kezia’s dad, he’ll want that dog close to him anyway. A small comfort in what has to be a very difficult time for him. He doesn’t often show it, but Kezia is his whole world. I’ve feared for my children before. I understand how agonizing it is, and how desperately, claustrophobically lonely.

  Then we wait. Sam and I hold hands; the kids quietly whisper to each other and check their phones like their lives depend on it. I keep thinking, what if, but I don’t let it get any further than that. I can’t. It’s hard for me to trust, to love. I can’t afford to lose a friend like Kez.

  “Ma’am?” My head jerks up as the lady at the counter motions to me. “She’s been moved to a room. Here you go.” She slides me a piece of paper with the number on it. “Elevator to the left.”

  They’re taking this seriously. A uniformed Knoxville police officer is standing guard by her room, and he checks our IDs before he allows us in. “Don’t get her riled up,” he tells us, and I nod. “She’s supposed to rest.”

  Kezia is, predictably, not resting. Oh, she’s in bed, and she has a bandage around her head, and scratches and bruises visible on exposed skin. But she’s got a tablet device and is blinking to focus as she types.

  “Hey, friends,” she says, and puts it aside with a warm smile. But it’s fragile, I can see that. She’s not herself. Seeing someone like her—someone so young—hooked up to an IV and monitors makes my heart race with anxiety. “First thing is, I’m okay. Just got a good knock on the head and some cuts and bruises.”

  “And a broken rib,” I say. “That’s what they told us.”

  “Only hurts when I laugh. Or cough. They’ve strapped it up.”

  There’s absolutely no sign of giving up in this woman. She’s still got her teeth sunk deep into this. I don’t want to ask, but I have to. “Kez . . . the baby . . .”

  “Baby’s fine,” she says, and blinks. Her eyes clear a little. Her left hand, the one not tethered to the IV, moves to cover her stomach. “Tough little thing, thank God. We’re okay.”

  For now, I think. I am deeply worried.

  A little sharpness comes back into her gaze as she reads my expression. “I was following him, Gwen. I nearly had him. Swear to God I did. Close enough to smell that bastard.”

  “Too close,” I say, and take her hand. She feels warm—not feverish, thank God. Her fingers squeeze mine. She’s broken off a couple of nails, and I wince when I see the ragged edges. “How?”

  “I hunted down video along the way. I expect he was hoping to get it himself first, and when he realized what I was doing, he wanted to stop me.” She pulls in a sudden breath, and winces. “Boot’s okay, right? They told me he was, but—”

  “Boot’s fine,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

  She nods, but she’s still frowning. Her gaze is distant, blurred by the medication she’s on. “Gwen, he had me. I was down. He could have killed me but he didn’t. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just glad you’re okay. Kez, no more, okay? No more chasing. No more poking around. It’s enough now. Let the FBI and TBI take care of this. He’s on the run, and he’s not going to get away.”

  “He hasn’t gone anywhere, and he could have. He should have.”

  “You need to promise me that you’re giving this up. For real.”

  “Why?” She studies me for a second or two. “Will you?”

  “I’ve got my own problems,” I tell her. “I’m going to step back. And I’m asking you to do that too. Please.”

  “I’ll be fine. This is my job, Gwen.”

  “No. Your job ended when this got kicked upstairs, you know that. And you need to stay safe. Hell, even the Knoxville police are taking this seriously. That’s why there’s a guard at the door.”

  “Is there?” She looks startled. “I didn’t ask for one.”

  Prester must have called somebody and demanded protection. I know that, and she must realize it, too, from the way her expression changes. It’s more of a cop mask now, trying to keep her feelings to herself. Pain medication renders it a little less effective.

  “My cop daddy thinks I’m a target,” she says. “I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to warn me off. He could’ve taken me out if he’d wanted to.”

  “Maybe,” Sam says, and steps up next to me. “But are you willing to risk your baby’s life on that?” I didn’t tell him—it was Kez’s secret, not mine—but he couldn’t have missed the discussion just now. I’m not sure she intended him to hear, but he has. I’m glad he knows.

  Kez blinks slowly, and I see her realize that Sam’s right. And I’m very glad Kez has protection stationed right outside. “Okay,” she says. “Maybe you’re both right. Maybe I’ve been going at it too hard.” I see tears form in her eyes and spill over to form glistening tracks down her cheeks. She quickly wipes them away. “Damn. That’s the drugs.”

  Drugs and stress. I squeeze her hand. We move back and let the kids talk to Kez a little while Sam and I linger near the door. I don’t like how any of this is unraveling . . . Kez, hurt and sidelined, at least for a while. Me, frustrated and unable to see where my own enemies are hiding in the trees while they take potshots at all of us.

  We stay an hour, and Kezia’s already asleep before Prester and her father arrive; I warn them with a finger to my lips, and the tears in Easy’s eyes make me swallow hard. “She’s okay,” I whisper to him. “Just resting right now.” I hug him, and feel him shaking. Sam pushes a chair over so Easy can sit down, which he does, wincing as he favors his bad leg. He looks years older than he did when we last visited him just a few weeks ago.

  Prester doesn’t look much better, if I’m honest about it . . . his usually healthy dark color has taken on a silvery undertone, and he seems thinner. Slower, somehow. He gestures me to the other side of the room, and I head there with him. “She tell you anything about what happened?”

  I give him as much as I can remember, and he nods and notes it down. When that’s done, he pockets the notebook and gives me a bleak look. “She thinks Sheryl Lansdowne’s actually a killer,” he says. “Probably killed her own girls too. But I don’t know why. Based on what the TBI’s told me just now, Sheryl got in that SUV of her own accord early Monday morning; they’ve got video of her at a truck stop. Kez found it before she took off in hot, stupid pursuit.”

  “Was he waiting for her to find it?” I say. “Jesus.”

  “Don’t know if it was that, or he was working out a way to wipe that footage somehow and they just crossed paths. If so, that was bad luck. Either way, Kez took the bait, and he reeled her right in. She’s out of this. No more, Gwen. And you get out of it too.”

  “We’re out,” I tell him. What I can’t tell him is that I don’t think that means anything at this point. I think the man in the black SUV, the ghost Kez chased, is the same man who paid Len to send me those letters. He’s been awfully busy, but I suspect Len’s not the only help he’s hired. Flyers could be posted by anyone; once he got them going viral, he didn’t need to do more.

  I have no proof that MalusNavis is the driver of that black SUV . . . except one thing.

  I take the credit card that Len gave me out of my pocket, sealed in a plastic bag. “I ran across this today,” I tell him. “Someone who was hired to harass me had it.” That’s close enough to the truth, without leading him into dangerous territory. “Look at the last name.”

  “Maguire. Jesus.” He turns his sharp eyes to me, and as always, I’m sure he sees more than I intend. “Why’s he harassing you?”

  “Because I was helping Kez.” Also true. Just not completely accurate.

  “Well, like I said, you get the hell out. Now.”

  I just nod. I don’t want to promise him anything, because I know that we’ve gone way past that particular exit. Maybe there never was an exit at all; maybe the second I went to that pond, the second he saw me there, he intended to come for me. I don’t know.

  But I do know he’s coming. I just don’t
know how he’ll do it, or how bad it will be. He promised I’d have a choice.

  All I have to do is choose not to engage. I hope.

  16

  KEZIA

  I hate hospitals worse than the woods. I hate being hooked up to tubes, and it’s strange but I’m scared to bend my arm in case something tears loose. I have nightmares, bad ones, but I can’t seem to wake up.

  When I finally open my eyes again, Pop’s there, with Prester looming in the background. If we talk, it disappears into vague smears when I start to drop off again. He holds my hand; I feel the warmth of it like a promise. I have a blurry, unformed impulse to tell him about the baby, tell him the baby’s okay, but I don’t act on it before I slip away into dreamless rest.

  When I wake up again, they’re gone. Instead there’s someone in the room placing a gigantic bouquet of flowers on the ledge across from my bed. It’s a vague shape in the dim light, and I blink to try to bring him—I’m pretty sure it’s a him—into more focus. He’s white, with close-cropped hair, wearing some kind of uniform jumpsuit and a baseball cap. I say, “Who sent those?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am,” he says. “I just deliver them. There’s a card if that helps.”

  I look over at the door, and the Knoxville police officer is there holding it open. He seems tired and impatient. “Okay, let’s go, buddy, let her get some rest. On your way.”

  The deliveryman nods and half turns toward me. Says, “I hope you get well soon.”

  When I blink again, he’s gone, the door’s closed, and I’m halfway convinced that I hallucinated the whole damn thing, except the flowers are still there. A riot of color in the otherwise bland room.

  I sleep again, and it’s deep dark outside the window when I wake up. A nurse comes in and changes IV bags, takes my vitals. I need to pee, and she helps me drag my IV stand into the bathroom, then gets me back safe in bed. I feel pretty good, considering. Better than I expected. I tell her so.

  “You’ll be sore by morning,” she tells me. “They’re taking you off most of the medications, but you tell me if you start feeling too bad, okay? Oh, and you have a visitor who arrived. It’s really late, and we don’t usually allow them, but he says he’s your boyfriend?”