Dangerous Revelations

by Lisa Jackson

  “I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” Brian said after they’d gone through the motions of a less-than-enthusiastic handshake and Rachelle had turned on her recorder. Though he attempted to be civil to her, the temperature in the room was cold and he didn’t bother smiling.

  “I decided it was time to visit.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” she replied with a smile.

  But he ignored her attempt to change the course of the conversation. His eyes narrowed and he tugged thoughtfully at his tie. “I just thought you were smarter than that, Rachelle. There’s nothing for you here, and any column you write about Gold Creek isn’t going to be all that interesting.”

  “We’ll see,” she replied, taking out her notepad.

  “You know my family doesn’t much care for you,” he said slowly. “I said I’d do this interview just because I thought a little publicity wouldn’t hurt the company, but no one’s forgotten that you stood up for that lyin’ bastard who killed my brother.” He said the words with such deadly calm that she thought he must’ve rehearsed them a hundred times.

  “Jackson didn’t kill anyone,” she maintained, her spine stiffening.

  “Sure he did. There just wasn’t enough evidence to put him away. Everyone in Gold Creek knows it and you know it, too. And, from what I hear, he’s back. Probably to make trouble again.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Brian threw his hands up in the air. “Who knows? Can anyone figure out why he does anything he does? Look at the cases he tries, for God’s sake. He’s always defending some loser who shot a lover or stole from his boss or forged a million dollars’ worth of checks. I have no idea why Moore does the things he does. As far as that goes, I can’t even figure out why you’re here. Just what is it you want from me, Rachelle?” He picked up a paperweight—a crystal golf ball—and polished its clear surface over and over again with the corner of his sleeve.

  “I’d just like some answers about the company. Gold Creek, is, after all, what a lot of people would consider a company town. Or it was when I left here eleven years ago. The Fitzpatricks are an integral part of the town’s history as well as the primary employer. What Fitzpatrick Logging does, affects most of the citizens in town.”

  Mollified somewhat, he leaned back in his chair.

  “Just tell me, Brian, what’s changed around here in eleven years? You’ve lived through it—you’ve never lived away from Gold Creek, not even when you went to college. Even then you commuted. And you’ve been in charge, right? You were promoted to president of Fitzpatrick Logging the minute you finished school.” He seemed flattered by the statement and relaxed a bit.

  “What’s changed around here,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Not a whole helluva lot. I’m the boss now, but everything else is about the same.”

  “But the Fitzpatrick organization has stretched into other businesses.”

  “Not me. My dad has a little.”

  “A little? Just about everything in town has the Fitzpatrick name on it.”

  “That’s Dad for you,” Brian said. He told her of the changes at the logging company, which were a result of the environmental issues—clear-cutting timber, water rights and habitats for endangered species. He explained the value of “old growth” timber and reforestation, and talked at length about import problems and quotas. But throughout his well-rehearsed answers, he maintained a distance from Rachelle, keeping his responses short and to the point. He was obviously uncomfortable, not with the subject matter so much as the woman doing the interviewing.

  “I’ll still want to talk to your dad,” she said when she’d run out of questions, and Brian had checked his watch for the fifth time.

  “I don’t know if he’ll go along with it.”

  “Not even for free publicity? Rumor has it he plans to run for the state senate.”

  “Rumors can be wrong.” Brian stood, and he paused at his desk, tapping the pads of his fingers along the smooth surface as Rachelle collected her briefcase and recorder.

  “You may as well understand something, Rachelle. The night Roy died, my dad changed. Our whole family changed. Mom was…‘inconsolable’ would be putting it mildly, and everyone else paid.” He gazed thoughtfully through the window, to the lumberyard where trucks and men were milling about. “Toni and I—don’t get me wrong, my folks loved us, still do—but Toni and I have never quite measured up. Roy was special—the golden boy. Everyone knew it. Hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. And Mom and Dad have never gotten over the fact that he was cut down in his youth.” Brian leveled hard eyes at her. “As far as my mother is concerned, you gave Jackson Moore his alibi. She figures you lied just to save Jackson’s useless hide. That goes for my dad, too. So don’t be surprised if, when you start asking questions of the old man, you get a door slammed in your face.”

  The intercom on his desk buzzed and Marge Elkins’s nasal voice filled the room. “Mr. Fitzpatrick? Your wife’s here.” Her voice grew softer for a minute as if she’d turned her face from the receiver. “No, wait, he’s with someone. You shouldn’t go in there just yet. Mrs. Fitzpatrick—Oh, dear, I’m afraid—”

  Before Marge could finish, the door to the office burst open, and Laura, dressed in a royal blue suede skirt and jacket, walked quickly into the room. Her blond hair was cut shorter than it had been in high school, her nails were polished a deep rose and her makeup was perfect. She was as gorgeous as she had been in school, maybe even more so. Her gaze swept the room, paused for a second on her husband, and landed with full glacial force on Rachelle. “I heard you were back in town,” she said, forcing a cold smile. “And I’ve got to tell you, I’m surprised.”

  “You and everyone else in Gold Creek,” Rachelle replied with a smile. She stood and offered Laura her hand. “How are you, Laura?”

  Laura looked at Rachelle’s outstretched palm, then ignored it. Rachelle, embarrassed, let her hand drop to her side.

  “How am I? You really want to know? Well, I’m upset, Rachelle, really upset. I thought we’d put the past behind us, gotten on with our lives.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “My family has been through a lot….” She glanced up at her husband with worried eyes. “…And now you’re back. You and Moore.” She shook her head. “It’s hard to understand.”

  “I came back to write a series of—”

  “I know, I know,” Laura replied, waving off Rachelle’s explanation. “But what about Jackson Moore? What in God’s name is he doing here?”

  “Good question,” Brian said. He’d rounded the desk and stood next to his wife. “What does Moore want?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Rachelle said, deciding she couldn’t be his spokesperson. If the Fitzpatricks wanted to know what was on Jackson’s mind, they could ask him themselves.

  “No way. He’s got to stay away from the family,” Brian said firmly. “My mother’s very frail. Her health’s declined ever since Roy died, and I’m sure Dad would refuse to see Moore. There’s just no point to it.”

  Laura clutched Brian’s sleeve, but she stared at Rachelle. “Don’t you remember all the pain, all the agony that the Fitzpatricks have been through? Why would you want to put any of us—or yourself for that matter—through it all over again?” She fumbled in her purse, found her lighter and cigarettes and lit up.

  “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” Rachelle said, surprised at Laura’s outburst.

  Laura’s lips softened slightly. She touched Rachelle on the arm. “Then take some advice, and let things lie. As for Jackson Moore, if I were you, I’d avoid him. He’s trouble, Rachelle. The man killed Roy.”

  “He didn’t,” Rachelle replied quickly.

  “Oh, Rachelle, it’s over. You don’t have to protect him anymore—”


  “I didn’t. He’s innocent, Laura,” she replied quickly. “I can’t speak for Jackson, but as for me, I’ll see anyone I want to while I’m here in Gold Creek.”

  “That could be a mistake,” Brian said.

  “No doubt, but that’s the way it is.” With a quick “thank you for your time,” she walked stiffly out of the offices of Fitzpatrick Logging and tried to stem her temper. She hadn’t liked being told what to do when she was in high school and now, at twenty-nine, she was even more independent. Where did Laura get off, telling her whom she could see and whom she couldn’t?

  Frustrated, she tossed her purse onto the passenger seat and slid into her car. Calm down, she told herself. The Fitzpatricks had reasons to be suspicious of Jackson, though she didn’t buy their reasoning. Why, if Jackson really had killed Roy, would he come back here to clear his name? No, it didn’t make sense. The Fitzpatricks were just too tunnel-visioned to think that one through.

  She stuck her key into the ignition and the Escort’s little engine turned over. The interview with Brian had gone badly. But she still had to face Thomas Fitzpatrick. Trying to question Roy’s father would probably end up being torture—for both of them.

  “More fun,” she said sarcastically, her anger stemming a little as she glanced to the yard where log trucks were being unloaded. She thought she saw a familiar face—a face from the past. Without thinking, she turned off the car, pocketed her keys and climbed back out of her car. Half running across the parking lot, she stopped at the high chain-link fence separating the yard from the business offices. Eventually, one of the truck drivers noticed her. He waved to the foreman, Weldon Surrett, who spotted her and, a sour expression on his face, strode her way.

  Beneath his hard hat, Surrett’s eyes were stern, and when he recognized her, his lips pulled into a scowl. “I heard you were back in town,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Surrett.” Still foreman of the company, Weldon Surrett was a big bear of a man. He was Carlie Surrett’s father, and Rachelle hadn’t seen him in eleven years. He’d aged a great deal in that time.

  Near retirement, he was a little stoop-shouldered and he walked with a slight limp, as if arthritis had settled into his hips. His hair was still jet-black and thick, but craggy lines marred his otherwise-handsome face, and a day’s growth of bristly dark beard shadowed his jaw. He yanked off his rough leather gloves, fished in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a can of snuff.

  “I s’pose you’re lookin’ for Carlie.”

  “Is she around?”

  “Nah.” He stuck a pinch of tobacco against his gum. “She don’t come home much.”

  “Where’s she staying?”

  “Been ever’where. New York, Paris, Rio de Janeiro—you name it. Big career, y’know. Modelin’. Made more in a day than I take home in a month. Now, I guess, she’s givin’ that up and becomin’ a photographer up in Alaska, I think. Her mother knows. I can’t keep up with that girl.”

  “You must be proud of her.”

  He shook his head and spat a thin stream of tobacco onto the ground. “Proud? Humph. Nope. She’s got no business gallivantin’ around the world dressed in underwear, all painted up like a cheap hussy. She shoulda stayed here, settled down and had me a couple of grandkids—that’s what she shoulda done.” He eyed Rachelle and a sadness seemed to radiate from him. “But she couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this town off her feet. After all that stink with the Fitzpatrick kid, and the trouble with the Powell boy, there wasn’t nothin’ good enough in Gold Creek for her. Nosiree. She became Missy Big Britches, that’s what she done.” He didn’t say it, but the stare he sent her accused Rachelle of making the same mistake. “That’s the trouble with kids today. They don’t stick around and take care of their kin. Well, it’s not the way we raised our girls, and sooner or later, Carlie’ll come to her senses and come home.”

  It sounded like an old man’s final hope—a hope he didn’t dare believe himself.

  “Do you have an address where I can reach her?”

  He stared at her sullenly. “Yer not fixin’ to drag her into all this again, are ya? I heard yer writin’ about the town—what’s become of it—and I know that the Moore kid’s back, bringin’ a whole passel of trouble with him. I don’t want Carlie mixed up with any of that business. It’s no good, I tell ya. All it’ll cause is a lotta hurt feelin’s and Thomas and June Fitzpatrick have had more’n their share already.”

  “I’d just like to talk to Carlie—catch up with her,” Rachelle replied.

  He rubbed his chin and ruffled his hair before placing his hard hat back on his head. “Call the house. Thelma’s got it somewhere.” He spat another long stream of brown juice, then donned his gloves and headed back to the yard.

  Rachelle was left standing alone, feeling a fool and wondering if this series of articles she’d felt so compelled to write were worth the trouble. Everyone in Gold Creek seemed to resent her—including Jackson himself.

  “The price you pay,” she told herself as she settled behind the wheel of her little car and with one final glance over her shoulder at Fitzpatrick Logging, drove back through the open gates and headed to Gold Creek.

  * * *

  JACKSON AVOIDED RACHELLE for three days. He told himself he didn’t want her, that getting involved with her would only complicate his life, that she obviously hated him and that he should, if he had a decent cell in his body, leave her alone.

  But he couldn’t. Not now, probably not for the next few weeks. He walked to the window of his motel room and stared outside. Twilight was descending over the town, purple shadows lengthening along the sidewalks and streets. The first few stars glimmered seductively and the moon began to rise.

  Jackson curled his fists around the windowsill and rested his head against the cool glass, hoping the cold would seep through his skin and into his blood. He had no right to her. He’d given up all claims he might have had long ago. And yet…and yet the hardness in his jeans made him groan. He was over thirty, for God’s sake, and his blood was on fire. Why was he as anxious and hot as a nineteen-year-old?

  He gritted his teeth, trying to force back the desire that thundered through his brain. Just the thought of her caused an unwilling reaction in his loins.

  As long as he knew she was in the same town, he realized with fatalistic acceptance, he would be unable and unwilling to let go of her.

  He’d tried. God, how he’d tried. After she’d thrown him out of her house, he’d wanted to turn his car around, pound on her door and when she opened it, grab her and kiss the shock and anger from her face. But he’d managed to talk himself out of going to visit her again and by sheer matter of will he refused to follow her all over Gold Creek. The times he’d run across her had jarred him to his very bones, especially when she’d half accused him of Roy’s murder!

  And for years he’d thought she was the one person in town who had believed in him. “Damn it all to hell,” he whispered, because he knew now that she doubted him, as well. He should forget her. Leave her alone. Even find another woman to keep his mind off her. But that was impossible.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. No way. No how.

  Though he didn’t believe in the rubbish of physical chemistry, there was something about her that kept him awake nights and brought sweat onto his skin.

  Lust. Nothing more. He wanted her. There was a uniqueness in her spirit, a defiance that he felt compelled to tame. Like a randy stallion with a herd of mares, only one of which was unwilling, he wanted that single female he couldn’t have.

  “Damn you,” he muttered, clenching his eyes shut and losing his resolve. The fact that she was so near was dangerous and like a magnet near iron, he couldn’t stop himself from giving into her incredible pull.

  Before he realized what he was doing, he
snagged his jacket off the back of the couch and grabbed his keys from the small table. He’d just go talk to her again, that was all. Find out what she’d learned. But he’d keep his hands off her. That much was certain.

  Maybe she could help him. Though he’d at first disdained her aid, he now convinced himself he needed her insight. So far, he’d come up with dead ends on the Fitzpatrick murder. He’d spent a day in the library, going over old newspaper articles about Roy’s death. He’d even called in a few markers, asking for information from a man who worked in the governor’s office and had once been Jackson’s client. The man had promised to get hold of whatever information he could from the local D.A.’s office.

  And he’d hired a private investigator in San Francisco, a man named Timms who was supposed to be, according to Jackson’s partner, the most thorough detective in California. So far, the man had come up with nothing.

  Jackson was out the door and down the steps before he could think twice. He drove to Rachelle’s house and found it dark. When he knocked on the door, no footsteps hurried to greet him and the only sound he heard was the tinkle of wind chimes and the growl of her damned cat that was perched on the windowsill.

  Well, what did you expect? That she would be waiting for you? Angry with himself, he refused to acknowledge any sense of disappointment, but the thought did cross his mind that maybe the guy on the phone had shown up and he’d taken Rachelle out for a night of dining, dancing and romance. You had your chance, Moore, and you blew it. Years ago. The woman’s entitled to her own life, her own boyfriend, her own lover. You’ve got no claims to her. None!

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and decided to wait.

  * * *

  THE DAY HAD BEEN A DISASTER. Once again, Rachelle had been stood up by Thomas Fitzpatrick and this time the receptionist hadn’t been friendly. She hadn’t gotten much information from the library and later, at the sheriff’s office, when she’d wanted to interview some of the cops who’d been on the force for twelve years, she’d been asked politely to leave.