You Will Pay

by Lisa Jackson

  They were heading to Cape Horseshoe and the forgotten camp that sprawled on its southern face. Though the actual cape was part of a state park and could be reached by the parklands to the north, the southern side was still owned by his father.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true.

  Legally in Oregon, no one owned the actual beachfront property, it all belonged to the state, but the acres abutting the wet sand area that were indicated as state lands could be private, including Camp Horseshoe. So the beach wasn’t part of the camp, but the property leading up to it, on the south side, was.

  The law had always bothered his father. Jeremiah didn’t like the fact that hikers and sightseers were legally allowed to approach the camp from the north. Even with Reverend Jeremiah Bernard Dalton’s close relationship with the Almighty, there had been nothing he could do about the state law, aside from erecting fences around the camp’s perimeter.

  “It’s a darned shame,” the reverend had told his family. “Nature’s beauty should be honored and cherished by God-fearing folks, those who will take care of it.” He’d shaken his head, his black hair gleaming nearly blue as he’d stood on the cliff and surveyed the moonlight casting a shimmering ribbon on the dark Pacific.

  “I thought the law was there to ensure everyone could enjoy the beach,” Lucas had ventured.

  His father had frowned but never broken his gaze from the frothy waves rolling into the shore. “Well, see, that’s the problem, son. What gives the nonbelievers the right? I mean, of course there are plenty of those who would look at the wonders of the Lord and take in its beauty without doing it harm. Sure. But then there are those who are heathens and troublemakers and, well, criminals, who litter and spray graffiti, vandals, you know. Criminals really. They spoil it for everyone, so it’s best to keep these pristine lands for those of us who are good shepherds, who will preserve it and take care of it.”

  The lecture that Lucas had thought was sure to come did not, fortunately. Nor did his father ask him to recite verses to make his point.

  All the same, Lucas had spent too many hours to count working with his stepmother’s sons from her first marriage, repairing the seemingly endless miles of fence line surrounding the camp.

  It had been the one and probably only thing that he, Ryan, and David had agreed upon; they’d all hated the constant job of making and fixing the damned fence.

  “You think I’m putting the cart before the horse,” Maggie observed now, not looking up from her cell phone as Lucas took one of the ess curves south of the town of Cannon Beach, where the road curved twice, offering wide-angled views of the ocean. Whitecapped swells rolled beneath a gray canopy of clouds, and the horizon was blurred, no definitive line visible in the drizzle.

  Lucas answered, “We’re not certain about the identity of the skull, nor have we found any more bones to go with it, so it could have become detached from the body in the surf. We don’t know if the bones are male or female, or how old they are. The damage is significant, but it doesn’t take long to decompose or deteriorate in the sea.”

  Leaning a shoulder against the passenger window, she said, “So you think we might be on a wild goose chase. That just because the majority of missing persons and unsolved cases happened near or in Camp Horseshoe and the bones were discovered only feet from the camp’s borders, that we’re wasting our time.”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  “So what did you tell the sheriff when she asked you what you knew about everything that happened twenty years ago?”

  “Same as I told you. My statement hasn’t changed.”

  “And she didn’t pressure you for more?”

  “There isn’t much more to tell, and back then it was all fresh. Newer. Seared in my mind. Over time, memories get fuzzy and you can twist them to suit your needs.”

  “And she just let you go?”

  “Yep.”

  Actually, her phone had rung, an important call, and as she picked up, Locklear said she’d get back to him. Her actual words had been, “This isn’t the end of this, Dalton. You’re not off the hook. I’ll read over the file, but you and I?” Her dark gaze had been determined. “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat. This is my department and I won’t have it compromised. Find everyone who knew Monica O’Neal, Dustin Peters, and Eleanor Brady. Get them to come in for a statement. I don’t care how far they live, I want to see them, face-to-face.” She’d picked up the phone then and Lucas had gotten the message. He’d already started making calls.

  Now, reaching the familiar turnoff, he drove through the forest and into the center of the camp to park near an array of vehicles belonging to the county and state. Wedged between two county marked SUVs was the crime lab van, and nearer to the old rec center stood a pickup with its tailgate open, coffee urns and cups available. Two deputies stood near the truck, each with a steaming paper cup, the older guy smoking a cigarette as Maggie and Lucas walked past. They hiked through the woods and down the switchbacked trail to the shore. A team of searchers was scouring the bleached driftwood and the rocks that separated the cliff from the sand. More searchers were sifting through the sand near and in the cavern. Lucas and Maggie avoided the searchers’ grid, stepping past the ropes marking off an area that would probably be eroded away when the tide turned and washed closer to the shore.

  “How’s it going?” Lucas asked a woman who was busy looking through the smooth rocks surrounding a tide pool.

  “Slow. Haven’t found any more bones that we think are human. Just the remains of a sea lion and a couple of birds, possibly California gulls, and a lot of junk.” She was ruddy-faced, her short hair tethered by a hat, and she was dressed in rain gear and wearing gloves. She had to speak loudly over the wind and tide so that she could be heard. Indicating a bag of what appeared to be trash, pieces of paper and plastic and fishing line that had washed ashore as debris from the sea, she said, “Who knows what treasures we’ll find?”

  “Good luck,” Lucas said, and turned up the collar of his jacket as he and Dobbs headed toward the cavern where just yesterday he’d met with Caleb Carter. “Anything new?” he asked Gina Leonetti, a raw-boned woman wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Tufts of short graying hair poked from beneath the wide brim of her hat, and lines feathered from the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. She was working with a heavy-set man, both wearing rain slickers, pants, boots, and gloves.

  “Not yet,” she said. She paused to clean her glasses with a bit of cloth she pulled from a pocket. As she wiped the wet lenses, she added, “I sure hope this isn’t all for nothing. I can’t tell you how often I’ve been called out to the middle of no-goddamned-where, only to be told, ‘Oh, sorry. Guess we were mistaken.’ ” Sharp brown eyes narrowed as she stared at Lucas, slipping the specs onto her face again. “I detest wasting time.”

  “Me too,” her companion said, his voice echoing in the vaulted grotto. He yanked off his hat and rubbed the stubble that apparently wasn’t allowed to grow into a full head of hair.

  “Found some candles, though. Buried here, in the dry sand. All white tapers. All burned down to about an inch. Five of ’em.”

  “Is that significant?” Lucas asked.

  Gina shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  The man near her said, “Could be like points in a pentagram. You know, witchcraft.”

  Gina rolled her eyes. “That’s a leap, Howard.”

  “I know. I’m just saying.”

  She flashed what Luke supposed was intended to be a tirelessly patient smile. “I guess not, then.” She was turning back to the area in the cave they were excavating when they heard a man shout.

  “Hey! Over here!”

  Lucas and Maggie moved outside to where one of the searchers was working on an area covered with driftwood, snags, and limbs. As they approached, Gina Leonetti on their heels, the searcher shined a light between a short piece of charred wood that had probably been used for a campfire at one time and a snarl of roots from what had been a
stump.

  “Whatcha got?” Gina demanded, and shot past Lucas to reach the mass of twisted logs and peer into a hole lit by the shaft of the searcher’s flashlight. “Dear Jesus,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to Lucas. “Looks like we just hit the mother lode.”

  Lucas peered over her shoulder and sure enough spied a scattering of twisted bones, which appeared, at first glance, to be human.

  “How about that? If these bones are a match to the skull, we should be able to figure out pretty quickly if we’ve got a male or female, and maybe how long they’ve been down here,” Gina said.

  “Or you might end up with more than one body if they don’t match. We have two or more cases,” Maggie pointed out.

  “Possibly.” Gina was clearly pleased their work had amounted to something. “Let’s get to it,” she said with renewed energy. “I think I might need a bigger crew.”

  As the ocean pounded the shore, salt spray blowing up against the cape jutting into the sea, Lucas realized that life as he knew it would be no more. Maybe that was for the best.

  While the crew excavated the area, extracting the bones and anything that might be of interest in the area—tissue or clothing or personal belongings, anything that might help identify the body or bodies—Maggie and Luke headed back to the Renegade. “Looks like we got lucky,” Maggie said, climbing the steep path leading to the old camp.

  “Lucky.”

  “I wonder if we’ll find more than one body along that stretch of beach.” She sounded eager, the thought of solving cold cases energizing. “It just feels that way, y’know?”

  “Yeah.” Lucas couldn’t speculate. Didn’t want to. He thought of Elle Brady, the first missing girl. According to local legend and ghost stories, her spirit still haunted this stretch of coastline. Over the years, several reports had been made, though, of course, never substantiated.

  She was a myth, a local legend.

  He couldn’t help wonder if now, at last, they’d discovered her grave.

  Turning his collar to the wind, he held his thoughts to himself and kept hiking. As they made their way along the wet trails, the rising mist thickening, Maggie called into the station and asked for more deputies to secure the scene. “Partial skeleton so far . . . don’t know if it’s part of the skull that was discovered . . . yeah, that should do it.” She killed the connection just as they reached the boarded-over rec center.

  The two cops they’d passed on the way down were no longer hanging out at the coffee urn, but as Lucas reached his Renegade, he heard the rumble of an engine and turned to spy a Cadillac SUV tearing down the lane. Water and leaves flew from beneath the silver vehicle’s tires and behind the wheel, glaring through the windshield, was the reverend himself. Good old Dad.

  Praise be.

  The Caddy had barely stopped when Jeremiah Dalton, his face a color close to crimson, burst from behind the driver’s side. “What in heaven’s name is going on here, Lucas?” he demanded. His hair, once raven black but now definitely more salt than pepper, was clipped and neat, but catching raindrops as they fell.

  “Looks like they found a body, or partial body, or more than one body down on the beach,” Lucas answered.

  “And so the sheriff’s department thinks they have the right to set up here?” he demanded. “This is private property!”

  “With access to a potential crime scene.”

  “So you gave them permission?”

  “No one asked.”

  “Exactly.” Jeremiah was livid as he strode up to Lucas. Two inches taller than his son, Jeremiah had the advantage of staring down at him.

  Lucas was used to it. Didn’t give an inch as the passenger door of the Caddy opened and David Tremaine, a year younger than his brother, Ryan, appeared. David was about five ten and built more solidly than his brother, his hair almost blond, his eyes as blue as his mother’s, his attitude evident in the set of his jaw. He squared a baseball cap on his head and approached the small group.

  “David,” Lucas said with a curt nod, and made hasty introductions. “Detective Margaret Dobbs. My father, Jeremiah, and . . . what the hell are you to me, David? My ex-stepbrother?”

  The corners of David’s mouth tightened within his three days’ growth of beard. “Acquaintance.”

  “That’ll do,” Lucas agreed. He didn’t understand why Naomi’s sons were still hanging around Jeremiah but suspected it had something to do with this very camp and the smell of money. With an upswing in the economy, developers were eyeing the camp for some kind of resort the last Lucas had heard, not that he paid that much attention. However, he couldn’t miss the scuttlebutt as it swept through the small cafés, shops, and coffee shops in town.

  “You tell that sheriff that she can’t just come onto private land or she’ll hear from my attorney!” Jeremiah fumed.

  “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” Lucas said, and the old man actually sputtered.

  “You always were an upstart.”

  Lucas nodded. “So I’ve heard. And worse. Just this morning, in fact.”

  “Why I try to reason with you, I don’t know. The Good Lord has tested me with one son, and I should have paid more attention to

  Proverbs 23:13: ‘Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. ’ ”

  “I know the verse,” Lucas gritted, feeling the decades-old outrage and fury burning through him. “You always brought it up about the same time you undid your belt and then proceeded to beat the shit out of me.”

  His father’s jaw slid to one side and Lucas smelled a fight, saw the flare of anger in the older man’s eyes.

  “Go ahead,” Lucas goaded, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the edges of David’s mouth twitch. The last time his father had taken the belt to him, Lucas had been eighteen and had grabbed that vicious strap of leather, wrapping the slim whip around his own fist before his old man could jerk it away. The belt had cut deep, blood had oozed from between Lucas’s fingers, but he’d held fast, and when he and his father were nose to nose, Jeremiah, teeth gritted, cords standing out on his neck, muscles bunched in hatred, had taken a swing at him. Lucas had ducked and swung hard in return, smashing his free fist into his father’s chest and cracking two of the older man’s ribs.

  That had been the last of Jeremiah’s attempts to physically rein in his son. Once Lucas’s jab had connected, the old man had dropped his belt and, holding on to his rib cage, had kicked Lucas out.

  Naomi had protested, but that was it. From that point on in his life, Lucas Dalton had been on his own. And he’d made good, in spite of his old man.

  Lucas said, “What about this one? Ephesians 6:4? ‘Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.’ We could probably stand here all day and spout Bible verses at each other to no end. I got your message and I’ll pass it along.”

  Jeremiah scowled and glanced at the path leading toward the beach.

  “Off-limits,” Maggie said, as if sensing that he might want to make his way down to the beach. “You can take the path down to the strand, but the area where the tide reaches is now considered a crime scene.”

  Jeremiah’s head swung around to stare at Lucas’s partner.

  Maggie didn’t flinch as she added, “We’re posting deputies to ensure that no one can compromise or contaminate the scene. Once we’re finished, the beach and cavern will be able to be accessed again.”

  “The cavern? What the heck did you find down there?”

  “Human remains. Yesterday a skull, and today, possibly, more bones.”

  His lips blade-thin, Jeremiah rubbed his chin. “Okay, I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.” He threw his son a look. “I want the camp off-limits to anyone but the authorities, all right? No press. No gawkers or lookie-loos coming out here. As I said before, ‘This is private property.’ ”

  “We can do that,” Maggie assured him.

  “You agree?�
� Jeremiah asked Lucas.

  “Yup.”

  Jeremiah hesitated long enough to witness a county cruiser pull into the drive and park next to his SUV.

  “The cavalry,” Maggie explained to Jeremiah as two deputies emerged from the vehicle. “They’re here to make sure no one unwanted shows up.”

  “Good enough?” Lucas asked his father.

  Jeremiah said grudgingly, “Guess it’ll have to do.” With a hitch of his chin to David, the preacher climbed into his silver rig and once they were both inside, switched on the ignition, reversed, and swung wide, then drove off, the taillights of the Caddy disappearing into the tendrils of mist floating through the craggy-barked firs.

  The heavier deputy who had been riding shotgun grinned as he saw Lucas and Maggie. “Such a pleasure working with detectives Dalton and Dobbs, the Double Ds.” His idea of a joke. Frank Allen’s sense of humor hadn’t evolved since the fifth grade.

  “Can it, Allen,” Maggie said, cutting him off. “We’ve got work to do.”

  The leering smile fell from his face as his partner climbed out of the cruiser.

  Lucas said, “Let’s get to it.”

  After a few minutes of discussion with the deputies, Lucas and Maggie slid into the cool interior of his Jeep. Lucas was behind the wheel and reversed to the steps of the building that had housed the office and was connected with the infirmary, where all of the counselors had originally reported for duty. He remembered seeing Bernadette for the first time as she’d climbed up the dusty steps twenty years earlier. Wearing white shorts and a loose T-shirt, her auburn hair wound to the top of her head in what these days would be called a messy bun, she, with her younger sister in tow, had approached the counter and smiled confidently at his stepmother.

  Lucas had been striding in through the back door of the reception area. Sweaty from spending the morning mucking out the stable and grooming the horses, he’d needed the keys to the pickup and had retrieved them from a peg behind the reception counter.