by Nancy Bush
Rooney shrugged. “The boy’s got a strong back when he cares to use it. Truck wasn’t worth much anyway. I am gettin’ it back, though, right? It is my property, after all.”
“If you own it, it’ll come back to you.”
“When?”
Lang spread his hands and shook his head.
“Huh,” Rooney said, then after a moment, “You want some more water?”
Lang said no, thanked him, then headed out through the still pouring rain to his Dodge truck. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was four o’clock, and as he put the vehicle in gear, his cell phone rang. It was Will Tanninger; he’d plugged his cell number into his contact list and Tanninger popped up on the screen.
“Stone,” he answered.
“Got a call from your doctor friend at Halo Valley, Dr. Norris. I called her back. Apparently there’s some thought that the knife wounds on the pregnant vic’s abdomen weren’t meant to cut out the baby.”
“What? That’s bullshit!”
“A midwife pointed out that they look too unfocused, like an afterthought. You want to go over there and check it out?”
“To Halo Valley?”
“Where are you?”
Lang opened his mouth to say, “Tillamook,” but nothing came out. He was far closer to the hospital than anyone in the greater Portland area. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to make another trip there.
“Stone?”
For a coward’s beat, he thought about pretending his cell phone was breaking up or he’d lost the signal. Instead, he heard himself saying, “It wouldn’t be till later tonight. I’ve got a couple appointments.”
“I don’t think it’s urgent. You could go tomorrow. Or I could send someone else.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Just check it out. Listen to the staff. See what’s going on there. I don’t know why they’d minimize the crime, but something’s off.”
“Okay.” Lang said a few more words, then rang off. He liked Tanninger. He liked the work. He just didn’t like the idea of heading to Halo Valley. He wasn’t much for hospitals in general and certainly Halo Valley in particular.
Rita Feather Hawkings was well into her shift but her eyes were constantly turning to any clock she could find. She didn’t wear a watch and she didn’t own a cell phone to check the time, so she prowled by the nurse’s station more often than usual just to get a fix on the hour.
“What’s with you?” Carmelita asked once.
Rita ignored her and concentrated on her own plans. She would leave tonight, as soon as she got off work. It would be a bit of a problem because she shared a car with her mother, and her mother expected Rita to do all the shopping for her. If Rita were gone for a few days, Delores would wonder why.
But she’d done it before. Lots of times. That’s how she’d learned that Rafe had left her bed to go behind the gates of that cult and screw the brains out of that blond whore! Tasha. One of them. All dressed in their printed cotton dresses, looking like they were from another century. Walking inside the property like zombies. Pale. Stupid. Lifeless.
Siren Song. That’s what their place was called. Rita was pretty sure they hadn’t named it themselves, ’cause she’d had to take some literature courses—as few as she could manage—when she’d first gone to school, and she knew that a Siren was a sexy, mythological female voice that called out to seamen and when they sailed toward it, their boats were smashed on the rocks. Or something like that. But it was a sexy voice, and there was nothing sexy in that compound with its blond female ghosts. They just didn’t seem real. All of them girls. All of them! She’d never seen a man there, except, of course, for Rafe.
He’d been their gardener, their handyman, their deliveryman. And he’d fallen for that fucking Tasha!
He hadn’t told Rita at first. At first, he saw them both, both Rita and Tasha. Rita had been livid when she’d accidentally learned the truth. She’d followed Rafe and seen him with her. Seen them groping each other under a full moon. Watched through the iron bars while hiding in the brush. Groping. Rafe had been all over Tasha and she’d stood there quivering, naked, her skin glowing. Rita had been sure that she herself was pregnant. She and Rafe had made love so many times. Rita was an innovative lover, not like this stick of human flesh that couldn’t even move. She’d wanted to scratch the bitch’s eyes out, and her hands had stretched like claws toward them before she remembered herself and pulled back.
She watched the whole act. Was somewhat embarrassed that she got a secret thrill from watching them go at it. Noticed Rafe’s back muscles gleaming as he humped her hard. Tasha just stood there. Her back to the wall of the building. Her mouth open like she was going to yell. But she was silent and had to clap her hand over Rafe’s mouth as he moaned, “Tasha…Tasha…. Oh, God…Tasha.”
And then Rita saw her hands begin to tentatively explore Rafe’s buttocks. That drove him wild and he jammed into her hard till she cried out with pleasure and Rita sank onto the ground, ran her fingers into her hair, ripping it out by the roots. She was hot herself, her center molten. Oh, how she wanted him inside her. Wanted him filling her up with babies. Her Rafe. Hers!!!
But that blond bitch was fucking him!
She decided right then she had to kill her. Had to.
She slid away from the sight of them. Moved to her mother’s dark sedan, fell inside, drove home in a fury, threw herself onto her own bed, and thrashed on the bedsheets.
Nobody stole Rita’s man.
Nobody.
She had visions of slicing apart the yellow-haired devil. She would find a way to get inside those wrought-iron walls that Rafe could scale so easily and stab her. Take her life.
It took a supreme effort for Rita to pull herself together that night and pretend to Rafe that she didn’t know. It was so difficult. So, so difficult. Sometimes she could barely pull it off, especially when Rafe, clearly lost in thoughts of banging Tasha’s brains out, could hardly get it up for Rita.
Bastard. Oh, how she loved him.
But Rita Feather Hawkings knew about game playing. She could lie. She could smile. She could seduce. She was good at all of it. That’s how she’d hooked Rafe in the first place! He was the best-looking man around. Young. A little immature. But handsome as the devil. Rita had made up a potion from herbs the Fertility Goddess recommended and fed it to Rafe, telling him it was an aphrodisiac, though it was more a narcotic. Still, it slowed his virile body and mind down long enough for Rita to win him over, and once hooked, he was hers.
Until that blond bitch got her talons into him. From then on, Rita had to work twice as hard. She just wished she would get pregnant, then Rafe and the baby would be hers. Hers alone.
Several months passed and Rita believed things were getting better between her and Rafe. He still went to the fortress where Tasha lived, with Rita following, but Tasha didn’t come out; Rita could almost believe she didn’t exist.
But then, one night last April, everything changed.
Rafe, who had access to Siren Song in those days, before the cult-mother learned the truth and tossed him out, wasn’t home when Rita got to his place after a long day at work. He lived in a camper on blocks, not far from Rita’s mom’s, and Rita paced outside the front door, knowing in her heart that something had happened. That evil witch had drawn him back.
She was about to charge to Siren Song herself when he suddenly appeared, driving the rattletrap Chevy truck with its back filled with rakes, scythes, a push mower, handsaw, and other gardener’s tools. His handsome face was bright and happy, but when he saw Rita guilt raced across it.
That fucking Tasha whore…
“Rita,” he gulped. “Sorry, babe. I can’t stay. I’ve got…some work to do. Just came home to grab a few things.”
“Uh-huh.” Rita’s blood started a slow simmer in her veins.
His black hair fell over his forehead and he couldn’t stop the smile of joy that showed his white, white teeth. “But I’ll be back later, okay?
I’ll call you.”
He pushed past her, unlocking the door and disappearing inside the tiny space. The smell of leftover pizza and something sour wafted out, maybe unwashed dishes or clothes. Rita deplored his lack of housecleaning skills, but he was young. That’s what she was there for. He needed her as much as she needed him.
He slammed back out and reversed onto the road. Rita waved and got behind the wheel of her mother’s car, a dark Malibu that had also seen better days. When Rafe raced away, she knew where he was going: to Tasha. Rita’s hopes were crushed. Rafe’s and Tasha’s lovemaking might have waned for a bit, but it was back on. That’s where he was going. Rita was once again forgotten in his blind desire for his princess.
Rita followed a few minutes later, but she knew the routine. Rafe parked on the east side of the grounds and worked his way to one of the remotest lengths of the fence where a sumac and Scotch broom and mountain laurel all crowded together as if dying to get inside as much as Rafe was.
He climbed the bushes and the fence and threw himself over. To get back he had to go closer to the front of the lodge and climb a large rock to throw himself over. Rita knew he’d surreptitiously managed to add more rocks, creating a pile, while he worked on the grounds, thereby making his vault to freedom easier with time.
Rita parked farther away yet, nose out in the long, winding driveway of a nearby vacation home that was never used, as far as she could tell. She worked her way to the wrought-iron fence, tucked into her own viewing position, invisible in the weeds and behind a couple of scrub Douglas firs.
Sure enough, there was Rafe, just over the fence and crouched, walking fast, to the shadowed walls of the lodge. She fantasized about following him over the fence and killing Tasha with her bare hands, but she kept her cool.
And then Tasha appeared, sliding through the shadows to fall into Rafe’s welcoming arms. “I got your note,” he said. “Where have you been?”
“They found out,” she said, her voice quavering.
“About us?”
“They wouldn’t let me out of my room. But I got a key.”
“I’ve missed you.” And then he was all over her, pushing her against the wall, then pulling at her, trying to get her to the ground. “The graveyard?” he murmured, when she wouldn’t comply.
The graveyard. Rita’s nails cut into her own palms. It was taboo in Rita’s mind. You didn’t mess with the dead. But Tasha didn’t care. There was no end to her badness. Rita had witnessed Rafe and her writhing away on top of a grave, had seen her enemy’s breasts laid bare and Rafe’s dark head suckling frantically while Tasha lay like a zombie and stared at the stars.
But tonight Tasha wouldn’t leave the shadows; she kept her back against the building. Rafe was too eager to care, and he was dry-humping her in a way that made Rita seethe with fury.
Then Tasha, distraught, said in a little girl’s voice, “I’m with child.”
With child? Rita’s brain couldn’t process. Pregnant?
Rafe had been scrabbling with her dress, yanking the folds to her waist with one hand and jamming the other into her panties while Tasha stood stiffly.
He froze. “You’re fucking kidding me!”
“Shhh.” Tasha put a finger to his lips. “I can’t stay here. You have to take me with you! We have to leave!”
Rafe stumbled backward, his hands raking through his hair. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jeez-God.”
Rita’s ears were rushing. With child. Tasha was with child. Rafe’s child. Rita’s child. Rita’s child!
“We need to make plans,” she said urgently.
“Plans,” Rafe repeated.
“You and I, Rafe. For us, and our baby…”
Rafe lifted his head slowly and met her gaze. Rita wasn’t exactly sure what happened then. One moment he was in terrible shock, the next it was like Tasha had him under her power because he suddenly bent over and kissed her stomach through her dress. Tasha held his head close and then looked over right where Rita was hiding! They were yards apart, there was little moonlight to see, but it felt like those blue eyes sent lasers searching under Rita’s skin and finding no baby. No child. Just an empty vessel.
Rita shrank back and stared at her enemy.
It was then that she knew she had to take her baby from Tasha. She had to take Rafe back, too. Find a way to break the witch’s spell on him.
But Rafe’s dead….
Rita came back to the present with a bang. Rafe, she thought brokenly. Rafe…
“Rita?” Nina Perez, one of Ocean Park’s head nurses, was eyeing her harshly, enough to make Rita worry that she’d said something, given something away. Nina had caught Rita daydreaming before.
“I feel ill,” she murmured.
“What’s wrong?”
“Maybe the flu…?”
“Well, if you’re really feeling that sick, maybe you should leave.”
“My shift isn’t over.”
“Go home. Get some rest.”
“Okay.”
Rita shuffled away, head down, toward the employee restroom and her locker. She rarely took time off work, was hardly ever really sick. It wasn’t from a sense of duty, or even a need for money. It was camouflage. Rita, the good nurse. The exemplary employee. As dependable as the day was long.
Rita with two days off and the use of her mother’s dark blue sedan.
This time Rita wouldn’t make a mistake. This time Rita would slit the zombie bitch’s throat and take her baby from its surrogate womb.
Chapter 8
Sheriff O’Halloran was back by the time Lang returned to the sheriff’s department. This time he found a parking spot, though it was the only one, and he hurried in the back door with the rain letting up only slightly.
Johnson gave him the stink eye; it was like she disliked him on sight. Not an auspicious beginning, but she said, “Sheriff said if you came back to tell you to go on through.”
“Thanks.”
Lang was conscious of the water squishing inside his cowboy boots. He scraped as much mud as he could at the door, but he couldn’t stop the wet marks that left a trail behind him. Luckily, he could still see the sheriff’s prints on the scarred wood floor as well.
“Good to meet you,” O’Halloran said in a booming voice that matched his large size. He was something over six feet with a wide girth that was spilling up over a belt. Lang pegged him somewhere in his fifties or sixties, with gray hair turning white and bright blue eyes. Another stereotype. The Irish cop. But there was a glint in those eyes that spoke of intelligence behind this act of bonhomie.
Lang realized this job was not just his for the taking. O’Halloran had professed interest in him, but maybe that interest had changed?
“You got yourself pretty wet, there,” O’Halloran observed.
“I was on an interview.”
“Yeah? Around here?”
There was no reason to hide what he was doing, so Lang told O’Halloran about Tim Rooney and his revelation that one Cade Worster had stolen his truck, the truck that was in the possession of the unidentified deceased male and his currently catatonic pregnant companion.
“Cade Worster,” the sheriff mused.
“You know him?”
“He’s been in our jail a time or two. Mostly disorderly contact. Drunk in public. Possession of stolen property.”
“So, you think Mr. Rooney might be right?”
“I know enough about Cade to believe there could be some truth in it.”
“Rooney told me Cade lived in the Deception Bay area.”
The sheriff nodded. “He’s a Foothiller. Know what that is?”
“I’ve been educated.”
O’Halloran’s eyes twinkled. “This the reason you came here, or are you thinking about the job?”
“I’m thinking about the job.”
“Well, good, then. One of my detectives, Deputy Marcia Kirkpatrick, up and left for a position in Phoenix. Left another detective, Fred Clausen, partnerless. We’ve had a few app
licants. Had sort of a trial position thing going, for a time.” He shrugged. “Nothing worked out. It was Clausen who knew your story, suggested I look into your employment situation, so I talked to your lieutenant, and to you, and here we are.”
A detective position. With an experienced partner, by the sounds of it.
“Would it be a trial position?”
“Would only be fair.”
Lang nodded. Actually, he liked that idea. A trial position worked both ways. He wouldn’t have to move immediately, sell his house. He could rent something and give the job some time.
“How long?” Lang asked.
“Three months.”
“When do I start?”
The blue eyes twinkled again. “We got a thing going around here. Tillamook Bay is fed by a number of rivers. Find out their names and how many, and when you’re ready to start, come in here and give a report.”
“Seriously?”
“You wanna finish up the case you’re on, go ahead. Don’t take too long. But yeah, come and give me a report and we’ll put you on. You’re gonna want to meet the other deputies, too.”
Lang shook his hand, a little bemused, wondering if he was getting well, because for the first time in a long time he felt a lifting of darkness from his heart.
Claire checked her schedule for the next day, Friday. It was fairly light. She had an early appointment with Jamie Lou again. An extra one, as Jamie Lou was struggling to do as she’d promised and stay on her meds. Then she had a cancellation, and in the afternoon—
A light knock on her door. She turned with a racing pulse toward the door, as Glenda, her receptionist, hadn’t announced anyone coming her way, and ever since the night she’d met Heyward and Melody, even though that had been a different office, a different setup, she was skittish.
But it was Dr. Avanti who ducked his dark head around the door, smiling. “Got a minute?”
She was instantly wary. Paolo Avanti was no friend of hers. “Come in.”
He moved into the room with a grace and fluidity that some might have described as sexy. She just saw an adversary.