by Nenny May
The people of Tillamook couldn’t live with that.
His fingers ached. He unclenched his fist. Dust rained down his knuckles. She shrieked. She’d called for help… Her floor assistant. He’d left her petrified… He was left with a jarred puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. He shook his head. This wasn’t the time. Nor the place. The only person that could help him make sense of the jarred puzzle piece was the frightened woman he couldn’t get out of his head. Dr. Patterson.
“And what, you feel bad for me?” He bit compelling himself to return to their conversation. He joined her by the counter, taking up a bar stool by the plastic fruit bowl. He reached for a comedically yellow pineapple that wasn’t even the size of his palm. Clutched, he rolled his shoulders and turning, he took in the bare room for an unwanted presence. They were alone. And not much of a religious nut, but he prayed to whoever would bid him a listening ear that she wouldn’t return. His lips twitched in an almost-smile that couldn’t make it. “I don’t want your pity.” His tone was flat. He squeezed the plastic fruit till it nearly flattened in his grip.
“It’s not pity. It’s stupidity on my part.” She turned on the tap over the sink and ducked beneath the counter. He heard rasping and rustling, glass clicking.
“I’m not going to argue with you there.” She straightened; eyes narrowed into slits.
“Whataboutmefacinatingwas,” He hissed, lips pressed in a thin line. What the hell was happening to his tongue? Dread twisted in his gut. She’d eyed him curiously. He shrugged. He needed to speak with Lisa Patterson. Now more than ever, he needed her. When was their next session? He was blank… She hadn’t looked as though she’d been eager to speak with him after he’d awoken helpless in her office.
“Are you okay?” Susanne’s head tilted. He nodded and gestured with a wave for her to overlook it. “I was thinking about your mother. And how you mentioned the other day that you couldn’t bury her.”
“I never said I couldn’t bury her. I said she would stay in a goddamn county morgue for heaven knows how flapping long!” He roared.
“Yes,” She shut off the running water and dipped her bare hands in the clustered sink. “And I was wondering if you’d be interested in a memorial service.”
He scratched his nose. “What?”
“You could go on with the ceremony. Bury a casket in her honor, light candles and celebrate the life she lived at least until the body is released to you.” He gritted his teeth. Burying an empty casket, moving forward with a funeral even though the body was yet to be released from the custody of the county morgue seemed like a grand waste of money he didn’t have. And what would he be he celebrating? She’d died earlier than most women she’d grown up with. Her life had been hell. Television stations and newspapers had her dancing to their sick tunes. She’d been exiled from her own community and her husband continually shadowed her from beyond his coffin. “And afterwards, you could have a wake.” Indisputably, his mother had lived a life that mirrored the lap of luxury. She’d resided in the Campbell manor and wore overpriced sweaters and slacks. She’d hid behind a wealth born from prostitution and resentment festered in him.
They were different people. Blood. But his belt was tighter than hers. He couldn’t afford a memorial service and a wake months or years before he got hold of her limp lifeless body. Nor did he think he had the emotional stability to endure it.
“I don’t want to bury a bloody casket. She deserves to be laid to rest after all she’s been through. And burying an empty box and slapping her name on it isn’t going to work!” He snapped flinging the fake fruit at the glass shelf behind where she stood. It shattered in a loud crash.
She yelped, wincing at the sudden noise. Glass drizzled down, pooling at her feet.
“Get out,” She whispered. He remained unmoved. “I said GET OUT!” No. She didn’t get to dictate when he left. “I was just trying to help!” She side-stepped the shards that dotted the floor, rubble crunching and crumbling beneath her feet. “There’s no need to be a total ass about it. If it’s a bad idea just say so,” She crouched beneath the counter.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” He stood on restless legs. He didn’t want to leave her to the mess he’d created, but he couldn’t help it. “And you were right. It was stupid of you to think about me. Try not to make the same mistake twice.” He breezed across the room and through the doors.
The autumn morning air welcomed him with a slap, reminding him that he didn’t have a jacket. Neighboring stores were bustling with life. Customers drifting in and out onto 4th Street. Cars whizzed by slowing at the intersection to Birch Avenue.
“Think you can work with her?” He made his way down 4th Street past the ice-cream shop by American Angels, the morning sun dancing on his forearms poking its head out from behind an army of clouds, his face scrunched up. His eyes weighed a ton. Couldn’t she take a hint? She was the last person he needed to speak with. Anyone including his mother’s bloody killer would have been a better companion.
He swallowed. He didn’t mean that. However, he had a few choice words for the man that took the life of Blake Campbell. She wasn’t just a hooker. She was a mother. She was mentally sick. She was a victim.
“What do you mean?” He mused. He could feel her trailing him as he curved onto Birch Avenue. A Honda Coupe zipped across the asphalt. He didn’t know where he was headed. But he knew the area well enough. That was the thing about small towns, they barely changed. Come rain, come shine, they were the same through the years. A few homes like Mrs. Agatha Patrick’s little-red-bungalow along Birch Avenue had been subjected to slight changes. Subtle enough that not many would have noticed. The petite one-bedroom had been recoated and touched up.
“You promised you would redo the walls, or have you already forgotten?” Mr. William’s had trimmed his lawn for the first time in decades.
“I don’t know.” The faulty sign outside the twenty-four-seven-convivence store and pharmacy had been replaced. “She’s hot, great when her legs are parted, but she isn’t the brightest bulb.” The portholes on the road had been covered up.
The changes were present, but they weren’t over the top.
“You didn’t even give her a fair chance.” Claire grunted and jogged to catch up with him.
“I listened to her, didn’t I?” He stopped and turned; arms flared. His head throbbed. She was gone. He was taken aback. A woman with her toddler sped past him. In her eyes, apprehension had been written in bold. She’d been careful not to get too close to the crazy man in the middle of the street.
Blake Campbell had been the whacky woman on Miller Avenue.
“Blake deserves to be put to rest, I get that, but until her killer is caught…” Claire continued unbothered.
“Until her killer is caught…” He mimicked. “You know what,” “I’m going to catch that killer myself with my own bare hands and I’m going to make him beg for mercy.” He drew to a stop at Netarts Highway.
“First you thought getting rid of Susanne was going to make me go away, push came to shove you couldn’t lay a hand on her.” He frowned. “What makes you think you can go head-to-head with the man that jabbed holes in your mother?” Anger rippled through him. It was all-consuming. Blinding.
“Mark my words, Claire. I will kill him, and I will kill that bloody bartender too if it’s going to get you off my back.”
◆◆◆
Lisa Patterson shifted impatiently in her seat. They were still a good fifteen minutes away taking in the cluster of cars that lined Laurel Avenue. Luxury cars had been discarded on either side of the narrow street. From Mercedes Benz sedans to Bentley coupes parked outside boutiques, insurance companies and even gas stations. Channel Six had gone all out with its guest list. She only wished the high-class visitors they’d invited had the decency to respect other road users and not shut down people’s schedules for their celebration.
She’d been wrong about Paul. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t the monster she made him ou
t to be. Sure, he’d had a rough enough childhood. He’d been subject to harassment by newspapers, oppression by proxy, but claiming the life of his mother… She’d misjudged him. Gone to varying lengths to paint him in a light he didn’t deserve. She was no better than the newspapers. Than the news stations that referred to him as a troubled kid. How had she, a woman who’d lived her life heal the burdened become a burden?
She had to help him. To save him from himself. He wasn’t the kind of client she worked with. Hell, if the tables were turned, she would have transferred him to another psychologist. She couldn’t do that. Not anymore. Not after what she’d seen in her office. His outburst. He was distressed.
Her brand was rigid. She was known to help women and girls the psychiatry department had shattered. She was the light to bring them from the shell they’d recoiled into. It was after all her brand. She could change things up. It was long overdue.
She would do things the right way. Even if that meant admitting to malpractice and undergoing a suspension of her practicing license.
“I talked to Bernard Sutter the other day,” Regan admitted, fingers drumming over the steering wheel. Shivers of fear wracked her body. She hadn’t told anyone about her meeting with Sutter. Not even Christian and he was closer to her than her neighbors Marie Halter and Norman Kent. Neatly carved eyebrows furrowed, forehead crinkled. She’d been waiting to get that off her chest.
“When?” Lisa glared at her. Good God, she was beautiful, but painfully so. Even wearing a look of scorn, Regan had to admit, Lisa Patterson was unforgivably sexy and managed to open the lust floodgates.
“He wanted to close the case, so I…” Regan trailed off. Rage trembled through Lisa. How had Regan put her life on the line like that? It was careless and disappointing. She didn’t expect that from a lawyer, a District Attorney.
“You what?” Lisa compelled.
“I threatened him.” They crawled behind a Jeep. They were moving at snail’s speed. She couldn’t see beyond the Hyundai two cars ahead. “He knows I suspect him for the murder of Blake Campbell.”
Shit.
Lisa leaned forward in her seat eyes focused on Regan Sinclair’s profile. The radio mumbled; the volume reduced to a hushed whisper. It was a discussion, a debate she couldn’t care less about.
“And you didn’t think to mention this before?” Lisa Patterson’s voice was edged with irritation. Regan Sinclair’s fingers curled around the wheel till her knuckles paled.
Lisa ran her tongue over her bottom lip. Her mouth was suddenly dry.
“I… didn’t care about you then,” Lisa Patterson’s heart somersaulted in her chest. She scratched her nose. Regan Sinclair cared about her. The most gorgeous woman since Madeline cared about her, Lisa Patterson. The thought sent shots of pleasure through her. “I mean I did. Since when I saw you at my office the other day, I haven’t been able to get you off my fucking mind.” Regan’s cheeks blazed pink. “But telling you about my trip to Salem… the look in his eyes… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
She didn’t know how to bring up the threat she made to Blake Campbell’s killer? Lisa found that hard to believe. At times, she could be the farthest thing from approachable. Lisa knew that. However, getting people to open up to her had been her life since fleeing the gorilla-grip of her own mental destitution. Why then was Regan skirmish when it came to letting her guard down to Lisa?
“Oh my God.” Lisa slumped back in her seat. Did Regan realize he could do to her what had been done to Blake Campbell? He could decorate her with just as much holes as he had Blake. He would grasp her by the neck squeezing until she’d coughed her last breath. She’d not only put her life at risk but Lisa’s too! He could come after the counseling psychologist knowing that Regan would have told someone about him.
Fuck!
“It was stupid. I know.” Lisa nodded; arms folded over her chest. What in God’s name led her to believe that was a good idea from the onset? Salem wasn’t a thirty-minute drive. It was about an hour and a half. She’d had an hour and a half to give her decision a second thought and she hadn’t. “He was going to close the case, Lisa. I couldn’t let him.”
Bullshit!
“Let me get this straight. He was going to shove the Campbell Murder investigation beneath the carpet and you decided to risk your life and mine to play the goddamn hero?”
“You?” Her head whirled. “I’m the one that could die and you’re managing to make this about you?” A horn blared. Regan crawled another inch towards the event center.
“I’m not making this about me.” Lisa rose to her own defense.
“Then please, enlighten me, what the hell are you doing?” Lisa Patterson’s lips opened and closed. What was she doing? “And don’t you dare judge me. You were the one willing to risk a malpractice suit to incriminate an innocent man.” Silence wedged itself between them.
Lisa Patterson’s stomach cramped. She felt like she was going to throw up. Blake Campbell had met a gruesome end at the hands of Governor Sutter. She couldn’t imagine a similar fate befalling the District Attorney. The thought had fear swirling in her gut.
“I didn’t mean to make this about me.” They crept past an auto-repair shop. “I… I don’t know what I meant.” Silence. “You said you care about me, why?”
Regan shrugged. “Heck if I know. Normally when Julie does any form of matchmaking, it never works out,”
“Matchmaking?”
“Isn’t that why she sent you to me?” Lisa huffed.
“She recommended you because she thought you were the best attorney for my situation. I can see your head is too far up your ass to notice that.”
Silence.
In the distance, three blocks down, the event center was swarming with news vans, cruisers, and fire trucks. Her throat tightened. She’d seen a scene similar to this on the news. Channel Nine. Blake Campbell’s Miller Avenue Manor had been clustered with a comparable line-up.
“What the hell?” Lisa mumbled beneath her breath, leaning forward to get a better look. The slow-moving pile-up didn’t make it any easier to see what was happening.
Reaching for her phone, she clicked open her news app and reloaded the page for anything she could have missed. If it were nothing more than a celebration, why did Laurel Avenue resemble Miller Avenue the night of Blake Campbell’s murder?
Her eyes landed on the ambulances that sat in wait by the entrance to the event center. Three of them. Then she knew what real terror was.
◆◆◆
“Susanne Ellison?” Lieutenant Wilson leaned against the white countertop; badge clutched in a flaky pallid hand. Claire Fisher was close behind him, purse clutched to her chest. She’d grown weary of checking her phone for some sort of update. The only other person that buzzed her phone was Jay. He’d managed to get Alex involved and both her brothers had brought her inbox to life with all the reasons why she had to return to Portland. They didn’t get it. She loved Paul. She wasn’t going to leave him when he needed her the most.
He had no one else.
His mother had been murdered. He was estranged from his cousins. If she left him… She couldn’t imagine what that would do to him.
Paul Campbell had been spotted at a local bar. American Angels. Claire Fisher was wild with a swelling hope. Fidgety. He wasn’t dead. And from the looks of things, he wasn’t in imminent danger. The woman who’d spotted him outside the district bar had been Stephanie Fuller, mother of four-year-old Dominique Fuller. The banker had picked up her son from daycare and was about to take him for some ice cream when she’d hurried past Paul to their Birch Avenue Home. Up to date with the State of Tillamook, she’d seen the pictures the City Police Department had published. He was a broad male with slender eyes a blue-green hue, a chiseled jaw, sharp, a contrast to full cheeks. Stephanie had reported a frenzied man that met the description of the Missing Persons Report.
“We’re not open,” Susanne said. She didn’t bother the Lieutenant a second glance. Ros
e cheeks flushed, forehead puckered and lips in a hardline, the woman wasn’t in a talking mood.
“We’re not here for drinks.” Connelly Wilson nodded for Claire Fisher to join him by the counter. Ten steps from the entrance and she was by his side. Paul had been under her nose the entire time. He wasn’t a hostage of his mother’s killer.
When the City Police Department’s own Lieutenant had offered to join the search party of cadets that had been turning Tillamook on its back searching for Paul, she could hardly believe her luck. Offering her a ride in his cruiser had been off-putting. He’d then confided that Paul was a friend of a friend. And he was merely sticking his neck out for the Sherriff.
“Then why are you here?” The woman paused, a shot glass and a rag in both hands. At the mention of Sherriff Pierce, respect for her fiancé rippled through her. He knew people in high places. His family was connected through Tillamook Community despite the scorn they faced.
Lieutenant Wilson drew open his blazer and produced a picture. The one that had been published of Paul Campbell. It was a blown-up version of his passport photo. He’d had his lips pressed in a thin line; the lighting hadn’t done his blue-green eyes justice. He’d looked tense in the image.
“Have you seen this man?” He slid the picture across the counter. She leaned; his eyes wandered to her cleavage. The low neckline of her bright dress was doing little to conceal her attractive chest.
“Paul?” She placed the glass down on the counter. Hope welled up in Claire at the woman’s recognition. “What about him?”
“He’s been missing for two…” Wilson turned to Claire. She nodded. “Two days.”