by Nora Roberts
“I’ll top that off, Mr. Brady,” Hailey said, then poured a cup for Rob.
“So did you go into police work like your dad?” he questioned.
“No. I’m a writer.”
“Really.” Rob’s face brightened. “Nothing like a good story. What sort of things do you write?”
“I write nonfiction. True crime.” He waited a beat as he could already see the awareness moving over Rob’s face. “I’m writing a book about what happened to your daughter.”
Rob lifted his cup, sipped slowly. When he spoke it wasn’t anger in his voice, but weariness. “Over twenty years now. Hasn’t everything been said already?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve had an interest in what happened since I was a kid. My father’s connection, how it affected him made an impression on me.”
He paused, weighed his words, then decided to be as honest as he was able. “I think, on some level, I’d always planned to write about it. I didn’t know how I’d approach it, but I knew when the time came, I’d write it. The time came a few weeks ago when Sam Tanner contacted me.”
“Tanner. Why won’t he let her rest?”
“He wants to tell his story.”
“And you think he’ll tell you the truth?” Bitterness crackled in his voice like ice. “You think the man who murdered my daughter, who sliced her to ribbons, is capable of telling the truth?”
“I can’t say, but I can tell you I’m capable of separating truth from lies. I don’t intend for this book to be Tanner’s. I don’t intend for what I write to be simply his view noted down on paper. I’m going to talk to everyone who was touched or involved. I’ve already begun to. That’s why I’m here, Mr. MacBride, to understand and incorporate your view.”
“Julie was one of the brightest lights of my life, and he snuffed her out. He took her love, twisted it into a weapon and destroyed her with it. What other view could I possibly have?”
“You knew her in a way no one else could. You know them in a way no one else could. That’s what matters.”
Rob lifted his hands, rubbed them over his face. “Noah, do you have any idea how many times we were approached during the two years after Julie’s death? To give interviews, to endorse books, movies, television features?”
“I can imagine, and I’m aware you refused them all.”
“All,” Rob agreed. “They offered us obscene amounts of money, promises, threats. The answer was always no. Why do you think I would say yes now, after all these years, to you?”
“Because I’m not going to offer you money, or make any threats, and I’ll only give you one promise. I’ll tell the truth, and by telling it, I’ll do right by your daughter.”
“Maybe you will,” Rob said after a moment. “I believe you’ll try to. But Julie’s gone, Noah, and I have to think of the family I have left.”
“Would it be better for them for this book to be written without their input?”
“I don’t know. The wound’s not raw anymore, but it still aches from time to time. There have been moments I wanted to have my say, but they passed.” He let out a long sigh. “A part of me, I admit, doesn’t want her to be forgotten. Doesn’t want what happened to her to be forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Noah waited while Rob’s gaze jerked back to his face. “Tell me what you want remembered.”
eighteen
The Naturalist Center was Olivia’s baby. It had been her concept, her design and in a very real sense her Holy Grail.
She’d insisted on using the money she’d inherited from her mother, and at twenty-one, degree fresh and crisp in her hand, she’d reached into her trust fund and built her dream.
She’d supervised every aspect of the center, from the laying of stone to the arrangement of seats in the small theater where visitors could watch a short documentary on the area’s flora and fauna. She’d chosen every slide and each voice-over in the lobby area personally, had interviewed and hired the staff, commissioned the to-scale model of the Quinault Valley and rain forest and often worked as guide on the hikes the center offered.
In the year since she’d opened the doors to the public, she’d never been more content.
She wasn’t going to allow Noah Brady to spoil that carefully structured contentment.
With her mind only half on the job, she continued to take her small group of visitors on their indoor tour of the local mammals.
“The Roosevelt, or Olympic, elk is the biggest of the wapiti. Large herds of Roosevelt elk make their home along the Olympic Peninsula. In a very real way, we owe the preservation of this area to this native animal, as it was to protect their breeding grounds and summer range that President Theodore Roosevelt, during the final days of his administration, issued the proclamation that created Mount Olympus National Monument.”
She glanced up as the main door opened and instantly felt her nerves fray.
Noah gave her a slight nod, a half grin, then began to wander around the main area, leaving a trail of wet behind him. As a matter of pride, Olivia continued her lecture, moving from elk to black-tailed deer, from deer to marten, but when she paused by the Castor canadensis, the beaver, and the memory of sitting on the riverbank with Noah flashed into her mind, she signaled to one of her staff to take over.
She wanted to turn around and go lock herself in her office. Paperwork was, always, a viable excuse. But she knew it would look cowardly. Worse, it would feel cowardly. So, instead, she walked over and stood beside him as he examined one of the enlarged slides with apparent fascination.
“So, that’s a shrew.”
“A wandering shrew, Sorex vagrans, quite common in this region. We also have the Trowbridge, the masked and the dusky shrew. There are Pacific water shrews, northern water shrews and shrew moles, though the masked shrew is rare.”
“I guess I’m only acquainted with city shrews.”
“That’s very lame humor.”
“Yeah, but you’ve gotta start somewhere. You did a great job here, Liv. I knew you would.”
“Really? I didn’t realize you’d paid attention to any of my ramblings back then.”
“I paid attention to everything about you. Everything, Olivia.”
She shut down, shuttered over. “I’m not going back there. Not now, not ever.”
“Fine, let’s stay here then.” He wandered over and studied what he decided was a particularly ugly creature called a western big-eared bat. “Want to show me around?”
“You don’t give a damn about natural science, so why waste each other’s time?”
“Pardon me, but you’re talking to someone who was raised on whale song and the plight of the pelican. I’m a card-carrying member of Greenpeace, the Nature Conservancy and the World Wildlife Federation. I get calendars every year.”
Because she wanted to smile, she sighed. “The documentary runs every hour on the half hour in the theater. You can catch it in ten minutes right through those doors to your left.”
“Where’s the popcorn?”
Because she nearly did smile, she turned away. “I’m busy.”
“No you’re not.” He caught her arm, held it in what he hoped she’d consider a light, nonthreatening grip. “You can make yourself busy, just as you can take a few minutes.”
“I don’t intend to discuss my family with you.”
“Okay, let’s talk about something else. How’d you come up with this? The design, I mean.” He used his free hand to gesture. “It’s no small deal, and looks a lot more entertaining than most of the nature places my mother dragged me into before I could fight back.”
“I’m a naturalist. I live here.”
“Come on, Liv, it takes more than that. Did you study design, too?”
“No, I didn’t study design, I just saw it this way.”
“Well, it works. Nothing to scare the little kids away in here. It doesn’t whisper educational in that dry, crackling voice or bounce out with chipper graphics that give the parents migraines. Nice col
ors, good space. What’s through here?”
He moved past the reception counter, where books and postcards of the area were neatly displayed for sale, and through a wide doorway.
“Hey, this is very cool.” Centered in a room where more displays of plant and animal life were on view was the model of the valley. “Hawk’s-eye view,” he said, leaning over it. “And here we are. The lodge, the center.” He tapped his finger on the protective dome. “There’s the trail we took that day, isn’t it, along the river? You even put in the beaver dam. Your grandparents have a house, though, don’t they? I don’t see it here.”
“Because it’s private.”
He straightened, and his gaze seemed to drive straight into hers. “Are you under this glass dome, Liv, tucked away where no one can get to you?”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“My book isn’t likely to change that, but what it might do is sweep out all the shadows that still hang over what happened that night. I’ve got a chance to bring the truth out, the whole of it. Sam Tanner’s talking, for the first time since the trial, and a dying man often chooses to clear his conscience before it’s over.”
“Dying?”
“The tumor,” Noah began, then watched with shocked alarm as her face went sheet white. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
All she felt was her throat, the burn of the words forcing their way out. “Are you telling me he’s dying?”
“He has brain cancer; he only has months left. Come on, you need to sit down.”
He took her arm, but she jerked herself free. “Don’t touch me.” She turned quickly and strode through the next doorway.
He would have let her go, told himself to let her go. But he could still see the shock glazing her eyes. Swearing under his breath, he went after her.
She had a long stride and the dead-ahead gait of a woman who would plow over obstacles on her way to the finish line. He told himself to remember that if he ever had to get in her way.
But he caught up just as she turned into an office past the theater area and nearly got flattened when she swung the door closed.
He managed to block it instead of walking face-first into it, then shut it behind him.
“This is an employees-only area.” Which was a stupid lie, she thought, but the best she had. “Take a hike.”
“Sit down.” It appeared he was going to have to get in her way already, and so he took her arm once again, steered her around the desk and into the chair behind it. He had the impression of a small space, methodically organized, and crouching down, concentrated on her.
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand without either of them really being aware of the gesture. “I wouldn’t have dropped it on you that way. I thought Jamie would’ve told you.”
“She didn’t. And it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. Want some water or something?” He looked around hoping to spot a cooler, a jug, anything that would give him something to do.
“I don’t need anything. I’m perfectly fine.” She looked down, saw her hand in his. With baffled shock she noted her fingers had linked with his and curled tight. Mortally embarrassed, she shook free.
“Stand up, for God’s sake. All I need is someone coming in here and seeing you kneeling at my feet.”
“I wasn’t kneeling.” But he straightened up, then opted to sit on the corner of the desk.
It was more than her hair she’d changed. This Olivia was a hell of a lot tougher, a hell of a lot edgier than the shy college student he’d tumbled for.
“You did speak with Jamie, didn’t you, about my wanting to talk with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell you that Sam was dying?”
“We argued.” Olivia leaned back in her chair. Her head didn’t feel light any longer. She just felt tired. “We never argue, so that’s one more thing I have to thank you and your book for. If she’d intended to tell me, I suppose it got lost in the fray.”
“He wants to tell his story before he dies. If he doesn’t, it dies with him. Is that really what you want?”
The need she’d worked so hard to bury tried to claw its way free. “It doesn’t matter what I want, you’ll do it anyway. You always planned to.”
“Yeah, I did. And I’m telling you straight out this time, up-front. The way I should have before.”
“I said I won’t discuss that.” And just that coolly, she snapped the door shut. “You want what you want. And as for him, he wants to purge himself before it’s too late, and look for what? Forgiveness? Redemption?”
“Understanding, maybe. I think he’s trying to understand himself how it all happened. I want your part of it, Liv. All the others I’ll talk to are pieces of the whole, but you’re the key. Your grandfather claims you have a photographic memory. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said absently. “I see words. It’s just . . . my grandfather?” She leaped to her feet. “You spoke to my grandfather.”
“Just after breakfast.”
“You stay away from him.”
“He came up to my table, which from what I observed, he’s in the habit of doing with guests. I told him who I was and why I was here. If you have a problem with his agreeing to talk to me, you’ll have to take it up with him.”
“He’s over seventy. You have no business putting him through this.”
“I should be in such good shape at seventy. I didn’t strap him on the rack and crank the wheel, for Christ’s sake.” Damn it, would she forever make him feel guilty? “We had a conversation over coffee. Then he agreed to a taped interview in my room. And when we finished the session, he didn’t shuffle out bent and broken. He looked relieved. Sam isn’t the only one with something to purge, Liv.”
It shook her enough to have her running a nervous hand through her hair. “He agreed to it? He spoke with you about it? What did he say?”
“Oh, no.” Intrigued, Noah studied her. “I don’t prime the pump that way. I want what you tell me to come from you, not to be a reflection of what other people think and feel.”
“He never talks about it.”
What was that, under the surprise, Noah wondered. Hurt? “He did today, and he agreed to at least one more interview before I leave.”
“What’s going on? I don’t understand what’s going on around here.”
“Maybe it’s just time. Why don’t we try this? I’ll talk to you, tell you about my wild and exciting life and all my fascinating opinions on the world in general. Once you see how charming and brilliant I am, you’ll have an easier time talking to me.”
“You’re not nearly as charming as you think you are.”
“Sure I am. Let’s have dinner.”
Oh, they’d gone that route before. “No.”
“Okay, that was knee-jerk, I could tell. Let’s try again. Let’s have dinner.”
This time she angled her head, took a steady five seconds. “No.”
“All right, I’ll just have to pay for you.”
Her eyes went molten, a deep, rich gold that made him think of old paintings executed by masters. “You think I care about your money? That you can bribe me. You sleazy son of a—”
“Hold it, that’s not what I meant. I meant I’d have to hire you—as in ask for information on our day packages, including hikes guided by one of our professional naturalists. The professional would be you. So which trail would you recommend for a nice, scenic hike tomorrow?”
“Forget it.”
“Oh no, you advertise, you follow through. I’m a paying customer. Now do you want to recommend a trail, or should I just pick one at random?”
“You want to hike?” Oh, she’d give him a hike, Olivia thought. She’d give him one for the books. “That’s fine, that’s just what we’re here for. Make the reservation out at the desk. Just give them my name and book it for seven tomorrow.”
“That would be A.M.?”
“Is that a problem, city boy?”
&
nbsp; “No, just clarifying.” He eased off the desk and found himself a great deal closer to her than was comfortable for either of them. She smelled the same. For several dizzy minutes, it was all he could think about.
She smelled the same.
He felt the tug, the definite, unmistakable jerk in the gut of basic lust. And though he told himself not to do it, his gaze lowered to her mouth just long enough to make him remember.
“Well, hmmm.” He thought the reaction damn inconvenient all around and stepped aside. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Be sure to take one of our hiker’s guides along with you, so you know how to dress for the trail.”
“I know how the hell to dress,” he muttered, and more annoyed with himself than he thought was fair, he strode out.
She made him feel guilty one minute, he thought, and angry the next. Protective, then aggressive. He damn well didn’t want to be attracted to her again and add one more layer to cloud the issue.
He stopped by reception as instructed and booked the time. The clerk tapped out the information on her keyboard and offered him a cheery smile. “If I could just have your name?”
“Just use my initials,” he heard himself saying. “S.O.B.”
He had a feeling Olivia would get it.
Olivia knew her grandmother had been crying. She came in the back door out of habit, the wet dog prancing at her heels. It only took one look to have her heart squeezing.
Val insisted on preparing the evening meal. Every day, like clockwork, she could be found in the kitchen at six o’clock, stirring or slicing, with good homey scents puffing out of pots and Vanna White turning letters on the under-the-counter TV. Often, Val could be heard calling out advice or muttering pithy comments such as Don’t buy a vowel, you moron. Or shaking her head because the contestant at the wheel couldn’t guess A Stitch in Time Saves Nine to save his immortal soul.
It was a comforting routine, and one that rarely varied. Olivia would come in, pour a glass of wine—it had been a soft drink or juice in her youth—and set the table while the two of them just talked.