by Lisa Jackson
“What’s going on?”
“I think I might be able to help.” She fished inside her bag for a second, dug into a zippered pocket, then withdrew the set of keys she’d found earlier. She slapped the ring into his palm. “I found these the other day. I’m pretty sure they’re a master set of the keys to Sea Cliff. They belonged to my uncle and probably open every door.”
“How do you have them?”
“Long story. We don’t have time now. Let’s just say I found them.”
“Found them?” His eyes flickered with a dozen questions, but one side of his mouth lifted into that crooked smile she found so sexy. “Okay.” He seemed about to ask another question, then changed his mind and closed his fist around the key ring. “Thanks.”
“Just keep Reece alive so I can find Noah.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than that, okay?”
His eyes flashed. Then, impulsively, he grabbed her again, pulled her close, his body fitting snugly against hers. She gasped as he kissed her. Long. Hard. His lips hot. Her breath caught in her throat as the kiss deepened, an unspoken promise. She closed her eyes and her mind to everything around them, and for a few glorious seconds, while his fingers tangled in her hair and his hips pressed hard to hers, she was lost in him and swept away from the pain of what was real.
Forbidden pleasures sprang to her mind, and for just a heartbeat she imagined what it would be like to love this man, to be with him.
But she couldn’t.
Not now . . .
Not ever.
As if he felt the shift in her emotions, he lifted his head, swore under his breath. “Damn it all to hell.” His gaze held hers for an instant; then, as swiftly as he’d caught her, he let her go. Took a quick step back. Rammed stiff fingers through his hair in frustration. “I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” he whispered, and she felt the heat of the moment still burning on her cheeks.
“Me neither.”
This was insanity! With everything else going on, she couldn’t let herself be distracted for even a moment. She looked away, putting some emotional distance between them just as a stern-faced deputy entered the room.
“I heard you’re with us,” he said. African American and taller than Dern by four inches, the deputy was built more like an NFL linebacker than a typical cop. His nametag read DEPUTY BENNETT RAMSEY and his expression said more loudly than words he wasn’t about to take any crap from anyone. “It’s time.”
“I’m coming, too,” Ava insisted, and glanced out the window. Dawn was approaching, the sky lightening to a gloomy gray, rain still falling from the leaden sky.
“I was told to bring only Dern,” Ramsey said firmly.
“But I know the island better than anyone! I could help. Really!” Frantically, she argued her point. “I’ve lived here most of my life and there’s a chance Reece knows where my son is!”
“Just Dern.” There was a glint of compassion in his eyes, but he stood firm.
“No, really, I have to come with you,” she insisted, frantic. The thought that she would be left behind and that somehow she would lose her chance to find Noah panicked her. If Reece was cornered and fought back, or some cop got trigger-happy . . . “Please!”
The deputy’s impenetrable expression cracked a little. “I’ll talk to the commanding officer. That’s the best I can do, ma’am,” Ramsey said, relenting a little.
“Mrs. Garrison?” Detective Snyder walked into the kitchen. With him was someone from the crime scene team. “Can I have a word?”
“I was just going to go with them.” Ava motioned toward Deputy Ramsey and Dern.
“It’s important.” His face was impassive, but there was something in Snyder’s stance, something a little more aggressive than before that made her take notice.
Dern, too, sensed it. As Ramsey shepherded him toward the back door, he held up a hand. “Just a sec.”
“I only need to speak to Mrs. Garrison,” Snyder insisted.
Ramsey had already opened the doors, the screen screeching as he pushed it out of the way, cold air sweeping through the kitchen. “If you’re going with us, you’d better come along,” he told Dern. “The sheriff doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Ava took a step toward the back door, but Dern gave a quick, short shake of his head, warning her off. “I’ll find him,” he promised as he grabbed a jacket off the back of a hook mounted near the porch. “If Reece has Noah or knows where he is, I’ll find him.”
“But—”
“Ava. Please. Trust me.” And then, before she could launch into any arguments, he was gone, through the door, the screen slapping resonantly behind him.
Ava felt a part of her leave with him.
She held tight to his promise, but she knew it could be empty. What happened in the showdown with Reece, if there was one, would be out of Dern’s control. And even though he hadn’t uttered the damning words, Ava realized Dern, like most everyone else, believed Noah was dead.
Through the window, she watched as the two men jogged toward the stable where officers, some on horses, some with dogs, others in four-wheel-drive vehicles, had gathered. Headlights glowed in the gloom while officers in rain gear, weapons visible, stood in small clusters. A few smoked, two were on cell phones, and another held three dogs on leashes.
Was it possible? After all this time, would they actually find Lester Reece on the island?
Ramsey and Dern joined the group and it looked as if quick introductions were made.
Her throat was thick, her nerves stretched to the breaking point as she thought not only might she never see her son again, but also that Dern, too, could be lost to her. Once he located Reece and brought him to justice, he would have no reason to stick around.
“Mrs. Garrison?” Snyder again. His voice a little sharper. “Would you come with me, please?”
“Of . . . of course.”
“Upstairs.”
She steeled herself at the thought that she might have to view Jewel-Anne’s body again. So far, she hadn’t witnessed anyone carrying a body bag down the stairs, so she assumed Jewel-Anne’s corpse was being checked over. The thought made her shudder.
“This way,” Snyder said as she turned at the top of the steps to head toward the wing her cousin had occupied. Instead, he led her to her own bedroom.
Why?
Then she knew. She was the primary suspect, the person who had found the body, the family member with a very sharp ax to grind. Her heart beat a little faster.
The room was disheveled, black fingerprint powder on all the surfaces, the bed pulled apart, bedding removed, the box springs and mattress separated, the mattress standing on its side near one wall.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, heart drumming. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
“We wanted to ask you about this.” Snyder pointed to her bed where a reddish brown stain was visible on the box springs. Seven or eight inches long, an inch wide . . .
Dear God, what . . . ?
Her gaze moved to the mattress propped on its side, and of course it, too, held a similar stain. Obviously an object had been pushed between the two. Her pulse jumped. “What?” she murmured, a new panic surging through her blood as she got it. The stain had to be dried blood, and it was formed into the distinctive shape of a long-bladed knife. Her stomach convulsed. “God in heaven,” she whispered, and glanced back at Snyder, who was holding a plastic bag.
Inside the bag was the missing knife. Its serrated blade was sharp and deadly, smeared with blood.
Jewel-Anne’s blood!
Her knees threatened to buckle, and she had to steady herself by leaning against her dresser. Obviously the cops thought this was the weapon used to slice Jewel-Anne’s throat. Her stomach roiled, nausea bubbling up at the thought of the ugly blade carving into her cousin’s flesh. She ran into the bathroom and heaved over the toilet. Once. Twice. Her stomach cramped and tears burned in her eyes as images of her handicappe
d cousin being attacked tore through her mind. She retched again, her stomach empty, only foul bile spewing into the toilet bowl. Had Jewel-Anne known her attacker? Obviously the killer understood about her attachment to the stupid dolls. But who . . . ? She felt time passing as she clutched the rim of the toilet, saw beads of sweat drip from her nose into the murky water.
“Mrs. Garrison?” Snyder again. Sounding as if he were miles away when he was standing in the doorway.
Finally, her stomach calmed. After flushing the toilet, she paused at the sink, rinsed her mouth, and caught her reflection in the mirror. Ashen. Hair a mess. Eyes haunted.
Too bad.
She wasn’t guilty!
Her legs still shaky, she made her way into the bedroom and saw that Snyder’s serious partner had joined him.
“Sorry.” Ava focused on the bag he was still holding, the bloody knife visible through the plastic. “That”—she pointed to the bag—“it’s not mine. That knife . . . I don’t know how it got here, in my room.”
Lyons was obviously skeptical. “We have a few more questions for you, Mrs. Garrison. But they might be better answered at the station.”
What? No! “Wait. I . . . I can’t leave. Not now. The search party is out looking for Lester Reece and my son . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized no one was asking her permission. They actually thought she might have killed Jewel-Anne and probably the other women as well. It was all ridiculous. Why would she do such a horrid thing? Commit such gruesome, malicious murders?
Because they think you’re nuts. Homicidal. Probably suicidal as well and any other -idal there is.
Remember, Cheryl Reynolds and Evelyn McPherson knew all of your secrets. Didn’t you accuse good old Doc McPherson of having an affair with your husband? Didn’t you try to fire her? Yeah, that’s right, you did. Everyone knew how you felt about her. Weren’t you the last one to see Cheryl Reynolds alive? Maybe you said something you regretted . . . hmmm? And then there’s that sticky little matter of nearly tossing your dear cousin over the railing the night before. Everyone here at Neptune’s Gate knows how you despised her, how deep the rift between you ran, and then you found out she was Noah’s biological mother. You snapped, Ava. That’s what they all think. You lost it and became a murderous beast. And now they have the knife, the murder weapon. Face it, Ava, you’re screwed. Whoever did this was pretty clever and made sure that you would be the first and maybe only suspect.
Lester Reece, Schmester Reece, the cops and everyone else will think it’s you.
Again her stomach convulsed and she nearly dry heaved thinking how she’d been set up. Her breath was coming in short little breaths and fear crawled up her spine. This, the officers taking her to the station on the mainland, was just one more step in someone’s elaborate plan to destroy her.
Who?
Why?
“I . . .” She was going to deny everything, to spill her inner thoughts, to tell them that someone was manipulating everything that was happening to her, but she realized if she started arguing now, she would appear as paranoid as everyone claimed her to be. Both officers were staring at her, and even the tech, carefully sifting through the drawers, looked over her shoulder at her. Be cool! They’re all looking at you under a microscope, waiting for you to make a mistake! “I . . .” Clearing her throat, she met Snyder’s gaze. “I’ll get my coat.”
CHAPTER 44
The search party reached the abandoned asylum just as the wind kicked up, driving the rain and whipping the ocean far below the rocky outcrop for which Sea Cliff had been named. On horseback, on foot with dogs, in four-wheel-drive vehicles and even helicopters, and with several sheriff’s department boats positioned in the bay should Reece decide to take a dive into the freezing tide, the cops surrounded the hospital.
“This time, he ain’t gettin’ away. Not on my watch!” Biggs had announced as the wind nearly tore his hat from his head and the surf pounded the shore. The group had gathered outside the walls of Sea Cliff where the sheriff intended to stay while the search party fanned out inside the complex. The sheriff’s department wasn’t alone. There were also troops from the Washington State Patrol and the Homicide Investigative Tracking System, over a dozen officers and Dern, all chasing the ghost of one man.
The sheriff had originally ordered that Dern was to stand down and wait on the outside, but since he’d come up with the theory of Reece’s location, knew the hospital, had found evidence of someone living within the walls, and had somehow come into possession of the “keys to the castle” as Biggs had called them, he was allowed inside. It didn’t hurt that he had been a cop and was still in the reserves.
“Just don’t get in the way,” Biggs had grumbled, his face red and raw with the cold, his jacket straining around his girth. “We got this.”
Dern held his tongue. If indeed Biggs’s team really did “get this,” then it had been a long time coming and not without Dern’s help. And, Dern suspected, if things went bad, the press would be all over this story, and he would be the fall guy.
This was Biggs’s show.
Denied his service weapon, Dern was given a protective vest and jacket that identified him as a cop, along with instructions to stay in the rear, as a deputy unlocked the gates and the search party broke into two groups. One started with the residences and outbuildings, the other, of which Dern was a part, began at the hospital.
“I heard you were Reece’s brother,” a female cop said as they approached the front entrance.
“Half. Never knew him.”
“Still.” She glanced up at him. “It sucks.”
Dern didn’t comment, and with four other armed cops, they searched the abandoned building. No one said a word as they passed through unused corridors and restrooms where rust was evident and spiders collected in the dark crevices. Up the stairs and down empty hallways and through individual rooms to the floor where Reece had been a resident, the room with a direct view of Neptune’s Gate.
No Reece, of course.
That would have been too damned easy.
They searched the roof.
Empty, the roofing material spotty, a few vents broken, a single smokestack knifing the dismal sky.
But no Reece.
That left the basement.
“If he was here, he probably already took off,” grumbled one of the male deputies, a burly guy with no neck.
“Damned wild-goose chase,” another said. He was short and wiry, with a ruddy complexion and small, suspicious eyes.
Burly snorted. “Biggs is going to shit little green apples if we don’t find him.”
“Shut up!” one of the women officers hissed.
Everyone quieted. Using high-powered flashlights, they searched the subterranean hallways. Narrow, dark, and labyrinthine, the tunnels connected all sections of the complex. In some areas, the concrete had cracked and water had puddled. Other areas were bone-dry and covered with dust that clogged Dern’s nostrils. The scratch of tiny nails indicated they weren’t alone, that rats or mice or God knew what else were keeping residence in the cobwebby bowels of the old institution, but they found no footprints or other evidence that a human being had walked these twisted corridors any time recently.
Nonetheless, the search was nerve-wracking and Dern’s pulse was elevated, his eyes straining, his muscles tight, and he wished to heaven that he’d been allowed his service pistol.
They reached a room Dern hadn’t been able to break into, and the female deputy, using Crispin Church’s keys, opened the door. It swung open noiselessly, and the minute they stepped into the large mechanical room, the temperature and smell of the area warned them that things had changed.
Dern noticed Burly draw his weapon from its holster, though he assumed the cop had enough brains not to fire the Glock if at all possible. Ricocheting bullets were far more dangerous than the killer.
The beams of their flashlights illuminated the area where huge heat ducts rose to the ceiling and heavy water pipes climbed
up the wall. Electrical junction boxes were visible near huge waste bins, and several disabled furnaces stood next to what once had been an active incinerator, its iron doors black, the smokestack rising upward.
The place was quiet, not a sound as they fanned out, weapons drawn, nerves strung tight. Dern’s ears strained, but he heard nothing other than the other cops as they moved through the area and his own galloping heartbeat.
Carefully he stepped around a furnace. There, blocked by the huge firebox, was the heart of a camp, presumably Reece’s. Got you, you son of a bitch! He motioned to one of the deputies, who shined her light over the filth of a dirty sleeping bag, camp stove, clothes, and garbage scattered in one corner. A couple of pails, one with clean water, one fouled with waste.
But no Reece.
They combed the area.
“He’s gone.” A male cop sounded disgusted. “In the wind.”
“Looks recent,” another one said, shaking his head.
Dern touched the camp stove. “Still warm.”
“Where the hell could he go?” Another cop shined his flashlight over the walls. “Looks like only one way out of here.”
“Heat vents,” another said.
“They go straight up. He couldn’t climb up sheet metal, and they’re not big enough. Reece is over six feet.”
“Shit!”
Dern eyed the cavernlike room, looking up at the ceiling until finally his gaze landed on the incinerator. They’d already looked inside, of course, but something about it bothered him. The big firebox seemed out of place. And there were a few ashes on the outside floor. He opened the door again, but the bin was empty. Shining his flashlight upward, he noticed the interior ladder, used probably for cleaning the chimney.
“He’s on the roof!” Dern was already running for the exit.
“Hey!” Burly shouted after him. “We already checked up there.”
“I know, but he heard us and waited, then climbed into the incinerator and used the ladder. He’s on the friggin’ roof!” Rather than wait for the ensuing discussion, Dern flew up the stairs. He heard boots clattering behind him, even a curse or two, but he kept running, taking the steps two at a time and hoping that at least a couple of the cops climbed the incinerator ladder.