by Nancy Bush
Why? Why had she jumped at this opportunity?
Claire took a corner too fast and forced herself to slow down, easing her foot off the accelerator. The rain was in abeyance but that didn’t mean she should be driving at the mercy of her emotions. She was normally pretty good at self-assessment. Years of practice, she thought with a faint inner smile. When her marriage had broken up, she’d examined all the reasons, picking them apart, spreading them out, examining each one. Her ex, for all his faults, of which there were many, wasn’t a bad guy. They just hadn’t been on the same page.
Not all his fault. Not all hers.
Claire had done what so many had done before her upon the disintegration of their marriage: she’d thrown herself into her work. Her job was the one place she felt truly competent. She was good at it. She understood her patients. She made serious headway and glowed under the compliments of a particular one who’d overcome a crippling shyness, got promoted at her job, and gave all the credit to Claire.
Then came Melody Stone’s death…at Heyward Marsdon III’s hands.
Claire’s professional foundation had crumbled and she’d been working to restore it ever since, sometimes with success, sometimes not.
And then Langdon Stone had entered her world and, well, here she was, making rash and strange decisions, acting anything but like her normally rational self.
“Do you have something to prove?” she asked herself as she turned north onto 101 and toward Deception Bay. “What are you doing?”
Glancing into her rearview, she could see Stone’s wide shoulders above the dash and steering wheel.
“You want his approval? You can’t get it this way. You know that.”
With an effort Claire shut her brain down on the subject. She was committed to this task, come hell or high water, so she might as well just follow it through. Time for postmortems and recriminations later.
She drove past the cutoff to her rented cottage on the way, giving it a quick glance as she passed by. It was getting dark and she could see lights on at Dinah’s place. As soon as she’d completed this harebrained attempt to solve the mystery of where Cat came from, she would have a drink with Dinah. Maybe two. Wine, not tea.
The turnoff to Siren Song was along the road that led to the Foothillers’ community, but it was a long, twisting turn and a rutted lane to the front gates. Claire pulled into a spot, bumping over gnarled roots and flattening waist-high grass. There was no parking area, as such; the Colony members didn’t need one.
Lang’s truck bumped along slowly toward her as Claire climbed from the Passat. She could see him swaying back and forth inside the cab as the wheels hit potholes. He turned in next to Claire, a small pine limb brushing his truck’s side, and he had to push hard on the driver’s door to extricate himself, some kind of catch there, Claire surmised. When he got out he surveyed the damage from the limb. His vehicle had seen a lot of hard use, and it amused her that he frowned at an apparent scrape.
“Maybe you can claim it on your insurance,” she said. “Or, since you’re working for the police, maybe they’ll step up.” She shrugged.
“It’s not that bad.”
He walked past her to the gates. He’d either missed her sarcasm or was too single-minded to care. Beyond was the lodge, and so far there were no lights shining from its windows at all in the gathering gloom.
Claire was leaning against her car and he gave her a hard look. “So, okay, you’re the woman. See if you can get a response.”
She walked over to the gates and peered through. The twin ruts continued on the other side and circled around to the back of the house. Huge laurels and Scotch broom and a row of twisted pines, tortured by the winter winds, crowded toward the lodge, whose boards had silvered over time. It was a pretty place, by all standards, but it had a tired, can’t keep up feel to it. Claire bet if they could ever draw nearer, they would find signs of both dry and wet rot. The roof shingles looked okay; there were patches where new light tan ones had been nailed over broken gray ones.
Lang had come up beside her. She could feel heat radiating from his body to hers. The October air felt dense with moisture and night was falling, dropping the temperature. Still, she felt hot and prickly.
“What’s your plan?” she asked him.
He gave her a long look. “You’re the one who stormed over here because Catherine needs to see a woman.”
“It might be better if I were here by myself.”
“You want me to go hide in the bushes?”
“I’m just pointing out that your presence might be the problem.”
“I think I’ll stick around, all the same.”
Minutes passed by. Claire felt a little foolish, but at least she and Lang weren’t in open hostility at the moment, a miracle, given that he now knew that Heyward III had been moved out of criminal lockdown. Inwardly, she winced, knowing this was transitory. He’d granted a cease-fire, but the war wasn’t over; she suspected it never would be.
Rain clouds scudded overhead, gathering ominously, darkening the already deepening shadows. Claire had thrown on her raincoat, but it offered little protection against the cold. She tried not to shiver, didn’t want to show too much vulnerability, but after forty-five minutes of waiting she was fighting full-blown shakes.
“You’re freezing,” he observed. “You should go.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t know. I’ll write another note.” With that he pulled a pen and small pad of sticky notes from his jacket pocket and scribbled something down. “My cell number,” he explained. “Like last time.”
“Maybe you should offer something more?”
“I am.” He was still writing, ripping off one sticky note, continuing onto another, and another, and then sticking them together by their glued edges. Carefully, he slipped them through the wrought-iron bars. He then searched around for something and Claire watched him pick up a rock, which he placed over the note. “It’s gonna rain,” he explained, and almost as if his words turned on the spigot, a deluge poured from the sky, sending Claire scurrying to her car.
“You’re soaked!” she called to him over the roar of the downpour.
He nodded, but his gaze was on the lodge.
“Follow me!” she called.
“Where?” he yelled back.
“My place.”
Claire slammed the door behind her and twisted her key in the ignition. The Passat fired right up and she backed around until she was facing out, driving carefully down the now rain-filled ruts.
Definitely, she’d taken leave of her senses. Definitely.
Two women stood inside the three-story foyer with its rough-hewn beamed ceiling and plank board floor, peering through peepholes strategically placed to offer a view of the front gate and unwanted visitors. Behind them, the wide stairway rose to a landing, turned, then led to the second floor. The lodge had been built by laborers from an architect’s design, to the specifications of Catherine’s ancestors. She’d lived here all her life; planned to remain here for the rest of it.
The woman beside her was half her age and confined to a wheelchair. She was slow by normal standards, but her insight was deep. Shockingly so. Like instinct.
“Are they here about Natasha?” she asked.
Catherine watched the strangers climb into their respective vehicles and drive away, then she pulled out the note that she’d carefully folded and tucked into a hidden pocket in her dress. It only listed the man’s name and telephone number. Langdon Stone.
The girl leaned over to look at the note. “What does cell mean?”
“I believe it’s his telephone number.”
“What does he want?”
“I think you’re right. They’re here because of Natasha.”
“They know where she is?”
“Come along, Lillibeth.” Catherine grabbed the wheelchair’s handgrips and pushed her through the Great Hall toward the kitchen area and the anteroom beyond, an adjunct storeroom that had
been converted into a room that the outside world would have called a den. There were two settees against opposite walls and a wide, square, low table covered with hardbound books. Another young woman was already seated on one of the settees and folded her hands in her lap as they entered.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
Catherine didn’t immediately answer. She’d ignored the first note, but she’d seen him place another and mark it with a stone. Though her face and demeanor gave nothing away, she was in inner turmoil over Natasha and her child’s impending birth.
“He was with a woman,” she said aloud.
“Are you going to meet with her, then?” Lillibeth’s eyes were wide.
“He left another note. When the rain abates, I’ll collect it. Then we’ll see.”
She was talking to herself more than either Lillibeth or Isadora.
“Can I tell the others?” Lillibeth asked.
Catherine nodded. “Tell them to meet me in the Great Hall in an hour. It’s time for decision making.”
Rita felt a smile hovering on her lips as she stared at the ceiling while Paolo pressed her against the wall, grunting and fondling and slamming into her. He probably thought it was the height of sexual wildness, being there in the sole empty room on Side A, meeting with his secret lover. They’d been there exactly nine minutes, about all the time he needed. He’d grabbed her in the hall and pulled her into the room, and she’d let it happen. It was dinnertime for the residents and there was little chance of anyone surprising them. Rita was allowing the indiscretion because she was about to break up with him.
Her period was four days late.
Four days late.
She was pregnant. Had to be. Her only regret was the baby wasn’t Rafe’s.
His breath was hot against her neck. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes.
“I’ve gotta get back on the floor,” Rita whispered.
Paolo increased his rhythm and reached an instant climax. He fell against her, groaning. She’d learned more about him the past couple of weeks. He was divorced twice. No children. That had worried her at first, but he’d admitted that his first wife hadn’t wanted kids and his second had suffered a miscarriage. Why the marriages had broken up didn’t interest her.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered, one of his favorite lines, as if this made it all okay.
It really pissed her off, the way it was always about him. That wasn’t the way it was in Rita’s world.
Quickly she grabbed her underwear and teal scrubs and slipped herself back inside them. She left while he was still buckling his belt. Bastard, she thought without heat. Fucker. She was through with him.
But when she entered the hall she nearly ran straight into Dr. Freeson, who slid her a look as she passed, his goatee quivering a bit. Weasel. He was always lurking about. Well, that was Paolo’s problem. She would deny everything.
She walked on past him, her lips twitching. Pregnant. A baby…
Her happiness took a hit as she cruised by the morning room and checked out the diners. Tasha was there, big as a house. Rafe’s baby would be here soon.
Rafe’s baby.
She closed her eyes and found her way to the staff room, leaning against the wall for a moment. Then she headed into the adjoining bathroom and stall for a cleanup. She didn’t want Paolo leaking out of her and—
No. No! Oh, no!
Rita’s buoyancy disappeared in a whoosh. Her period had started.
No. Her heart beat hard, hurting. Maybe it was a mistake. Nothing to worry about. Maybe it would be okay!
But no…she recognized it for what it was.
No baby.
It took her twenty minutes to pull herself together. Twenty minutes before she could look at her face in the mirror as she washed her hands. She was dizzy with disappointment. Could hardly keep her balance. The old joyless Rita stared back at her. The one that could take over like another personality and do what was necessary to achieve her goals.
She cruised back by the morning room. Most of the residents were gone, but Tasha still sat there, as if she were waiting for something to happen. Gibby hovered nearby and Rita wanted to suddenly smack him silly. She was furious. She wanted to fucking kill him!
But no…this was not the time for rashness. She needed a plan. A plan.
Tasha. Rafe’s baby. That’s what she’d come to Halo Valley for. Paolo Avanti had been a means to an end: to get a job. She’d made him her lover to get hired and had almost lost sight of her goal because she’d wanted so much to be pregnant herself!
Now she let out a little mew of hopelessness, then immediately clamped down on her emotions, her mouth hard, her expression stony.
Rita Feather Hawkings never gave up. Never.
“Tasha…” she said aloud, softly.
Lang yanked on the emergency brake of his truck and cut his headlights after seeing Claire Norris motion to him to join her as she scurried up the back steps of her home, her head covered by her raincoat hood.
He glanced down a sloping split in the driveway to another house, where he could see candles and blue, red, and gold refracted light, as if fed through a prism or crystal of some sort. A woman walked by, stopping for a moment and looking out as if she might be able to see him, which was impossible.
With a sigh, he climbed from the truck and walked steadily through the pounding rain and up the steps to the back door, which Claire was holding open. This was insanity, but he felt powerless to stop.
“Hurry up before we both drown,” Claire said, and he stepped inside, rain puddling at his feet. She’d hung her raincoat on a hook and he took off his jacket and watched water drip rapidly onto the vinyl flooring beside the puddle from her own garment.
What am I doing here? he asked himself.
As if she’d heard his unspoken thought, she said, “You looked so wet, and I felt like it was my idea to go to Siren Song today.”
“I would have probably been out in the rain with or without you.” He inhaled carefully; he didn’t want to relax too much around her.
“You want to come in the rest of the way?”
She’d taken off her shoes, and after a moment’s hesitation he yanked off his cowboy boots. His socks were damp but at least they wouldn’t leave a wet and muddy trail. Running a hand through his hair, he followed her through a small galley kitchen to a sitting room with windows that looked out through the storm toward the ocean.
“I don’t have food,” she said, reaching into a cupboard. “But I’ve got wine.” She pulled out a bottle of red.
“Thanks, but I’ve got to go soon.”
“All right. I’m going to have a glass,” she said, peeling off the foil, then opening a drawer and finding a corkscrew.
Lang felt completely out of his element. This wasn’t how this day was supposed to go. He should be talking to her about Heyward Marsdon, berating her for going against the intention of the courts, arguing with her over what really happened in her office, what Melody might or might not have said. But he didn’t doubt that she wanted to help their Jane Doe/Colony girl, and that’s what he was there for now.
“What did you put in the note?” she asked, pouring the red wine into a stemmed glass.
“I gave them your name and profession. Thought that might stir things up. Not just a woman. A woman doctor.”
His gaze fell on the glass of wine and, seeing that, she held it out to him. Feeling like he was falling into a trap, he reluctantly accepted the drink. There was something sensual about the rain and the wine and the storm outside, and it made Lang feel like a traitor.
“My sister didn’t ask to be killed,” he said again, taking a quick gulp of the wine.
She didn’t respond, just poured her own glass with a concentration that spoke volumes.
“Nobody asks to be killed,” he said hoarsely.
“I’m not going to argue with you.”
“Why did you tell the guard she said that?”
He thought that over. Finally said, “My sister was screwed up, but she wasn’t suicidal.”
Claire started to say that it wasn’t about suicide, that Melody’s plea to “do it” stemmed from her delusion, but stopped herself. Instead, she said, “If I engage in this argument, we’ll fight, but it won’t alter the facts.”
“Great deflection. They teach you that in shrink school?” he demanded.
She took a heavy swallow. “In shrink school, we learned that sometimes we’re the object of transference.”
“You think I’m transferring my anger over my sister’s death to you?” he asked with an edge of danger.
“Yes.”
“So what I’m feeling is simply misdirected anger. Great. I feel so much better. Thanks for the cure, Doc.”
“You should be angry,” she said tautly. “We should all be angry. We failed. The system failed, and nobody wants to admit that Heyward Marsdon the Third is a ticking time bomb. A man—a very sick man—who will likely go off his meds again, and then anything’s possible. Yes, I know, Detective. I’m not hiding my head in the sand. I don’t think he should be on Side A, but does he belong on Side B?”
“Yes.” He was adamant.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Then where does he belong?” Lang demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, finally. An honest answer.”
“They’ve all been honest.”
He wanted to come back at her. He really wanted to yell at her. The cooler she seemed, the hotter he got. But he could tell that she was bothered that Heyward had been moved. Bothered and unsure. Well, hell, why not? The bastard had held a knife to her throat, too, hadn’t he?
A knock sounded on the back door and Claire whirled around, sloshing a bit of wine, her free hand to her throat. Tense, Lang thought, again, understanding how fragile her own state of mind was, no matter how logically she spoke.