by Nancy Bush
Lang had already called Will Tanninger after his meeting with Cade, and they agreed that Lang should stop by the sheriff’s department after seeing Cade’s father. He waved at Dot on the way in and she buzzed him through. When he entered Will’s offices he met the other detective, Barbara Gillette, slim, with short dark hair, whose caseload was enough that they’d allowed Lang to come on board. She’d been on medical leave for a while, Lang recalled, but she seemed fit and determined and slightly suspicious at their first meeting. Lang didn’t blame her. If the situation were reversed, he’d wonder what the hell was going on.
After Lang brought them both up to date on what he’d learned about Rafe Worster, Tanninger said he would coordinate with O’Halloran and the TCSD to do further follow-up on the man’s history—where he lived, his job, if there were any other living relatives, what events had taken place directly before his death—anything at all that would help with the investigation. He concluded by thanking Lang for his help.
Lang responded with, “I’ve got a lead on Jane Doe.” Both Tanninger and Gillette looked up with interest, so he then explained the intricacies of Rafe’s active dating life, per Cade, and brought up the lodge in Deception Bay.
“Cade called it a cult,” Lang finished with a shrug. “I don’t know about that. I banged on the gates for quite a while but no one heard me. Either that, or they just didn’t pay me any attention.”
Tanninger looked surprised. “I know of that place,” he said, to which both Gillette and Lang turned to him with upraised eyebrows. “My girlfriend, Gemma, was from Deception Bay originally. She went there to see what she could find out about her past.”
“She learned something about the cult?” Lang asked.
“The name of the lodge where they live is called Siren Song, and the townspeople refer to the women who live there as the Colony.”
“They’re all women?” Lang asked.
“Seem to be. When you get to TCSD, check with Detective Clausen. Gemma talked to him about her mother, and both he and O’Halloran told her more about Siren Song.”
“I’ll do that,” Lang said.
“Looks like this investigation is moving your way geographically, so do you want to continue?” Tanninger asked. “Or do you want Barb and me to take over?”
“I can keep going.” Lang wanted to, actually, but he didn’t want to step on any toes.
“Fine by me,” Barb said.
“Think O’Halloran or Clausen will know of a way to get beyond the cult’s gates?” Lang asked.
“O’Halloran’s the man to ask. Siren Song’s in his jurisdiction, and everybody in Deception Bay seems to have an opinion about the place.” He made a face. “That whole town’s a magnet for the strange and weird. O’Halloran’s words, not mine.”
Lang shook Will’s hand and promised to keep in touch. He’d then had another meeting with Sheriff O’Halloran; Detective Clausen wasn’t around when Lang arrived because he was following up on Rafe Worster.
“You won’t get Catherine to give you the time of day,” O’Halloran predicted when Lang said he wanted to find a way inside Siren Song. “She knows me and we leave each other alone.”
“Catherine is the older woman who runs the place?”
The sheriff nodded. “There’s a whole history to them. It’s common knowledge, or lore, I guess. You can hear any number of stories about them and other crazies by just sitting at the Sands of Thyme bakery, or on a bench at the beach, or just walking through the town.”
“Other crazies?” he asked, thinking of Will’s girlfriend’s mother.
“You know last year when that serial killer was attacking women along 101 and 26? The one at Halo Valley Security Hospital? He squatted in that lighthouse that’s in Deception Bay.”
“Turnbull,” Lang said with a small shock. He’d been so focused on Heyward III that he’d forgotten who else was incarcerated on Side B.
“That’s the one.” O’Halloran nodded. “Talk to Clausen. He and his old partner were involved in corralling him.”
“You’d think this Catherine would want to know where one of her missing flock was,” Lang said.
“If she’s even one of ’em.” He frowned. “You say this girl is pregnant?”
“Seven or eight months.”
“Then I doubt she’s one of the Colony.”
“Why?”
“’Cause they don’t leave that place. And there aren’t any men there. No way to get pregnant.”
“Rafe Worster worked there, according to his cousin, Cade.”
O’Halloran sniffed, disbelieving. “Okay, sure, that’s a possibility, I suppose. But if a man was anywhere around her girls, you can be sure Catherine had them all in chastity belts.”
“She rules with an iron fist.”
“She rules. Her way. The only way. That’s all.” He shook his head, then asked, “So, when are you coming on board?”
“Next week? I’ve got some moving to do. And I told Tanninger I’d still work on the rest stop murder.”
“Good.”
Lang made a face. “I can’t demand those women let me through the gates, seeing as I have no real authority right now. Any way we can get a warrant and storm that place?”
“Find me some probable cause. I think you’d do better with your charm.”
“I’ve driven to the gates twice and stood there like an idiot. I can’t get anybody inside to even look at me.”
“Oh, they’re looking,” O’Halloran said.
“If they don’t respond soon, I’d like to take more serious action.”
O’Halloran sighed. “Before it becomes a battle, make sure that this Jane Doe is really one of their own or we’ll be crucified by the press for forcing the law upon a private home that houses a group of passive, peaceful, law-abiding citizens, all of whom happen to be women.”
Lang did see the problem. Still, from all accounts, this Catherine of the Gates seemed more like a dragon lady than a serene keeper of the faith.
Lang had then said his good-byes and asked O’Halloran to have Clausen give him a call. As he was heading out the door, O’Halloran hollered after him, “Got those five rivers for me?”
“Still working on it,” Lang yelled back.
Which brought him full circle to the problem of his grinding laptop and its lack of connection capability. One more thing to do before he left the greater Portland area: buy a new computer.
Glancing at the clock, he grabbed up some boxes that were hurriedly packed and ready to go, carried them outside, and stowed them in his truck. Since meeting with the sheriff he’d started packing up his house, and he’d already half-filled his vehicle with his belongings. He’d done some halfhearted apartment hunting, reluctantly putting down a deposit on a unit in downtown Tillamook, close to the department. He already knew he wouldn’t be there long, but it was at least someplace for now. Eventually he planned to rent a house. Even more eventually, if the job worked out, maybe even buy a place. Time would tell.
Also since the meeting with O’Halloran, he’d made another fruitless attempt to engage Catherine of the Gates, but the lodge seemed almost abandoned. If they were watching him, they were damn stealthy about it. It was frustrating. He decided to shove a note through the bars in the hopes that someone would come and pick it up.
“Candlelight,” he muttered aloud.
Talk about the dark ages.
He’d wondered over the past couple of weeks if Catherine and the other women could be behind Rafe Worster’s murder. It wasn’t impossible. If Cat was from the Colony, maybe her pregnancy could cause a violent reaction? Was he being overly melodramatic? Stranger motivations had definitely surfaced throughout his years in law enforcement, and O’Halloran had mentioned the chastity belt thing. Catherine clearly didn’t want her chicks defiled.
But if they were involved in the murder, how could he find out?
Maybe from Cat herself…?
He realized the idea had been rolling around in his brain e
ver since he’d learned of Siren Song, and now as the thought crystallized into action, he decided to make one more trip to that hellhole known as Halo Valley Security Hospital and speak to Cat herself. This meant, of course, getting past the hospital staff, which was almost as difficult as Catherine of the Gates. It also meant he expected Cat to be able to communicate.
He thought about his last trip there and made a face. Not his most shining moment of restraint. He’d wanted to punch out both Marsdons and had pretty much thrown Dr. Norris to the wolves.
But she’d lied about Melody and what she’d said…hadn’t she?
Lang shook off a faint pang of remorse. To hell with all of them. They deserved whatever they got. They were bound and determined to move Heyward III to Side A, and he owed them nothing.
Grabbing the strapping tape, he pulled a strip across the top of a box of office supplies. Stacking it with a smaller box, one that had been sealed for some time that contained family mementos—Melody’s meager belongings—he toted them to the Dodge.
The transfer of Heyward Marsdon III from Side B to Side A was done quietly and without a lot of folderol. Claire felt suppressed anger toward Avanti and Freeson and even Radke, the head administrator, the way they’d professed to need and value her consent and then had gone ahead and done what they wanted anyway.
She was no longer Heyward’s doctor, but he didn’t seem to understand why not. Freeson was in charge of him and he took over the job with relish. In his way, Heyward III was a celebrity, and Freeson loved that kind of spotlight.
By default, Claire had been given care of Cat. A kind of consolation prize. An appeasement. Claire had accepted the assignment with a nod of her head while inside she’d been more than happy with the exchange. She’d always wanted to be in charge of Cat’s care, but Freeson had superseded her. And she knew she couldn’t have been fair toward Heyward, given the circumstances, even if the Marsdons and the rest of the staff had believed in her.
But that didn’t mean she was comfortable with having Heyward on her side of the hospital. Logically, she could tell herself that he was no threat when he was on his meds. She knew that to be true. But fear was irrational at the best of times. It was gut deep. Lodged in her cells. She was superstitious enough to walk a little faster past Heyward’s door than anyone else’s, which was ridiculous, and she would never admit it to anyone.
Now Claire consulted her watch. Eleven o’clock. She’d already met with several patients earlier today in her office and she was en route to Cat’s room to check on her. Then lunch, followed by a one-thirty appointment and a surprisingly light afternoon, as her three o’clock had canceled.
As she passed by the morning room she saw Cat sitting quietly in a chair, so she turned toward her, making a mental note to get Cat some maternity clothes as she was still in a hospital gown, though she was at least wearing her own shoes.
“I was just coming to see you,” Claire said. “I think maybe we need to get you some more clothes.”
The girl’s eyes shot to Claire’s, filled with what looked like panic.
It was a surprise, but a heartening one. She really was coming out of it. “Not the clothes you were wearing,” Claire assured. “Some new ones. It’ll be all right.”
Cat went back to staring vacantly straight ahead. Claire tried to engage her some more but she’d lost contact, and after about ten minutes of a running monologue that Cat didn’t seem to hear, she told her she’d see her again later and headed out for lunch.
Tasha surreptitiously watched the doctor leave, sliding a look from the corner of her eyes.
I think maybe we need to get you some more clothes.
Fear had stabbed an icy dagger in her heart.
Not because of the clothes. She wanted clothes. Needed clothes. What she couldn’t bear was thinking it was something for her distant future! They believed she was going to be there forever! They thought she was sick. Here she was, in this place with all these lunatics. Trapped. She’d spent her entire life trapped inside her aunt’s austere prison, and now this. She had to get out. Had to live.
And she couldn’t wait for someone to bestow a wardrobe upon her. She had to leave now. Like she’d tried to leave with Rafe.
Rafe…she thought despairingly, closing her eyes, remembering.
She heard Gibby drop into the chair next to hers, shifting around. He couldn’t sit still. If Catherine were there, she would lash him down, tie his feet and hands, castigate his behavior.
She reopened her eyes and Gibby was leaning toward her, his face right in front of her, like a bobbing clown. “Hey!” he said loudly. “There you are!”
Across the room that weird Thomas was staring at her as if he wanted to do something to her. Tasha pretended to stare back blankly, like she’d been doing for days, keeping her awakening to herself, as all the staff members remarked whenever she even fluttered her lashes. She didn’t want to talk to them. Didn’t want them to know who she was until she figured out how to escape, find some transportation away from here and to freedom!
She looked down at her hospital gown. It was a smock that tied in the front and touched just below her knees. A kind of dress, but it wasn’t good enough. She needed more clothes, and she couldn’t wait for the good doctor to get her some. Her shoes were fine, but the clothes she’d been wearing were gone. Covered in blood, no doubt. Shivering, she covered the mound of her abdomen protectively with both hands and thought hard.
Beyond clothes, she needed help. Some way to get past the guarded door. The girl at the desk opened the doors by a remote mechanism, and the staff members had plastic cards that they slid into slots and then punched numbered buttons. She’d watched it all. Taken notes. She didn’t have much experience with their world, but she sure wanted to join it.
She’d picked up some interesting language while she’d been here. That Maribel used words that made everyone react with displeasure. And Thomas McAvoy. Borderline personality, whatever that meant. He wanted something. Wanted it. They gave him a lot of pills but he tried not to take them. He surreptitiously stuffed them in his pants pockets, then later he took them out and put them inside a small brass pitcher that was used as a bookend on one of the built-in shelves at the end of the room. He was pretty good at being sly, but Tasha knew his game.
She didn’t know what those pills did, but they were always handed out when McAvoy started getting tense. He would fight them, pretend to swallow the tablets, stealthily transfer them to his pocket, then later, maybe hours later, maybe a full day, he would wander over to the pitcher and plunk them in. Once he’d caught her staring at him and she pretended to be blank. He’d glared and glared, and then, right before dinner, he came by her chair and whispered in her ear, “You fucking fake,” then cruised away.
The two older women inmates who were never more than four feet from each other gazed across the room at Tasha as if she’d done something wrong. Mrs. Merle and Mrs. Tanaway. No one ever called them by their first names. And there was Lester, mumbling and looking outside. And that Donald with his incessant diagnosing.
It was all too much for Tasha. She would never belong there. She needed a plan to get away.
Her gaze swung to the other side of the room. The kitchen was through a swinging door that was locked when they weren’t bringing out the swill they fed to the inmates. Twice Tasha had planted herself in a chair near the door and stared out the window to the laurel hedge and razor wire beyond like Lester, her senses attuned to the room around her, and, when no one was looking, had peeked into the kitchen. Kitchens had knives. As careful as Catherine was, they all worked to put meals on the table, even Tasha, when she wasn’t in trouble, and that’s how Tasha had found a way to steal her knife, the one she’d had in her pocket when she and Rafe made their escape.
The baby kicked and Tasha inhaled sharply. She didn’t know much about pregnancy; it was a taboo subject, though all the girls wanted to know every last detail. They’d learned it took sex with a male to get the job done
, but this changing of her body was kind of frightening. How much further? How much bigger?
She’d learned that there was a time after dinner that she could sneak into the kitchen if she needed to. It might not be a bad thing to have another knife. Especially the way McAvoy looked at her.
“Hey, hey,” Gibby said now, waving his hand in front of her face.
“I need help,” she told him.
“I know. I wants to help you!”
She and Gibby shared conversations; she’d spoken aloud to him on more than one occasion. Gibby wasn’t lying about that. But she needed this deception to keep her safe, to fashion an escape, and she was always fighting the dark curtain that was both a blessing and a curse. Her gift, such as it was. A double-edged one. Not nearly as useful as Cassandra’s powers of seeing into the future. Or even dim Lillibeth’s crystal clarity that popped out at the oddest times.
Tasha would have liked something better. Her sisters were blessed with deeper gifts. The ability to see someone’s intentions. Future calamity. The darkness of the human heart. A man’s devotion.
But instead, she had this darkness that crept around her consciousness. She didn’t really understand it, didn’t want it half the time, but there it was.
She was still silently lamenting her lack of special gifts when the air pressure changed, someone coming up behind her.
“Hello, Cat,” a female voice purred in her ear.
With an effort Tasha stayed staring straight ahead. She wanted to twist around and see who’d spoken.
And then the dark-haired nurse walked into her line of vision, and Tasha’s pulse rocketed. She’d seen her upon occasion the last couple of weeks, had thought she recognized her, had hoped, prayed, that it was her imagination.
But it wasn’t.
Rita!
Now the witch gazed down at her hard. It was all Tasha could do to keep up her act. Rita the nurse. Rafe’s Rita. Rita, who’d chased them down to the rest stop. Tasha had thought that’s who it was, but she hadn’t believed her bad luck. It couldn’t be. Just couldn’t be! But it was. Rita had been hovering around for days, but this was the first time she’d actually spoken to Tasha directly.