by Lisa Jackson
Caleb made it to the bridge and started hauling up his pots. As the first emerged from the clear water he counted five—no, six—of the little buggers trapped within. A great haul, and some of them were good sized.
His spirits rose as he lifted the cage, water cascading back into the stream, the surprised crabs clinging to the netted sides, when he felt a change in the temperature. And not just from the spray of water that had splashed over him, but something else, like the breath of an unseen predator whispering up the back of his neck. He glanced up quickly, his eyes searching the surrounding woods.
Did he hear a soft moan, a quiet sob, something out of the ordinary over the dull roar of the ocean just over the rise?
He swallowed hard.
Saw nothing.
No one visible.
And yet . . .
Barely audible, he heard it again, a low groan, like an animal in pain, the sound murmured on the stiff ocean breeze blowing inland.
Where the hell was it coming from?
Had someone come up behind him?
He froze, looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see a game warden standing on the bank, his pistol drawn.
But again, nothing. No officer of the law drawing a bead on him.
Despite the cool temperature, he began to sweat.
“Jesus,” he whispered, surprised the single word sounded like a prayer. It was time to get the hell out of here.
“Ooowwwwwaaaahhhh. . .”
The sound was louder now, a definite moan. He turned quickly to stare at the spit of land that jutted between the inlet and the ocean, where the beach grass danced against a backdrop of sodden gray.
His heart clutched as he spied her.
A wisp of a thing, in a long white dress, her pale hair playing wildly around her face, obscuring her features.
But he knew.
Goddamn, he knew.
“Elle,” he whispered, his eyes rounding, his basket of crabs dropping back into the creek, icy water splashing. He backpedaled, gaze fixed on the apparition, the heel of his boot catching on the lip of the bridge. He fell backward, landing on the soft, wet ground when in a blink, as the fog settled in closer, she vanished. Evaporated.
“Holy Christ.” He scrambled frantically away, climbing to his feet and running as if Lucifer himself were on his tail. What the hell was that? Her ghost? Frantically he got into his truck, turned on the ignition, and started backing up, the pickup’s tires spinning in the sandy soil before finding purchase. He gunned the engine, then half turned in the seat, his hands clammy on the steering wheel as he steered backward.
At the gatepost, he twisted on the steering wheel, backing so quickly that his back bumper hit an exposed boulder. He didn’t care. Not even if he’d bent his towing hitch. Too damned bad. He slammed his gear shift lever into drive, and with his tires kicking up mud, tromped on the accelerator.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, he saw the image again—the ghostly, waifish figure. “Shit!” he cried, and nearly rammed into an RV lumbering down the county road. The driver of the coach, a guy who had to be eighty, maybe ninety, scowled at him and shook his finger at him.
Caleb didn’t care. He just hit the gas again and, while driving one-handed, snagged the bottle of Jim Beam from the passenger seat. He flicked off the cap and took a long belt, drinking several throat-searing gulps, draining what was left of the bottle.
Only then did he check his mirror again.
This time, he saw only the ribbon of asphalt and the huge RV disappearing into the fog.
No woman’s figure.
No ghost.
No nothing.
Yet his damned heart kept drumming as if the very maw of hell were about to swallow him whole. He glanced at the empty bottle he’d tossed into the well in front of the passenger seat. Not a swig left.
But he needed another drink.
He drove into Averille and pulled into a free parking spot in front of Spike’s Bar and Grill. He’d go inside, have a couple of whiskey neats, then, once his nerves weren’t so jangled and he’d calmed himself, he’d drive back to the access road and little bridge, grab his crab pots and what was left of his catch, drive out again, and lock the gate behind him.
Or, maybe not.
No big hurry, he decided, race-walking past a couple of guys in jean jackets and baseball hats smoking near the doorway.
Inside he was met with a wall of heat, and a cacophony of sounds—rumbling conversation, clicking billiard balls, hissing soda guns, and bursts of laughter. Flat-screens flickering with some ball game were mounted between neon beer signs and racks from long-dead deer and elk. The bartender, Monty, was on duty and swabbing down the polished length of century-old oak that was the bar. Bald as one of the cue balls, a full black beard making up for the lack of hair on his head, he glanced up and grinned. “The usual? PBR?”
“Nah.” A little calmer, Caleb slid onto one of the bar stools. He needed more than a beer, even a Pabst. “Whiskey. Jack Daniel’s. Rocks.”
“Black label?”
“Whatever.”
Within seconds the glass was in front of him, amber liquor over ice cubes. He took a calming sip, then let out his breath.
“So I heard you were the one who found the body,” Monty said, and the muscles in the back of Carter’s neck tightened.
“Just a jawbone.”
“And later a skull?” Monty let out a long whistle. “Man, oh, man, that would have scared the spit out of me.”
Caleb took another drink, nearly emptying the glass.
“You know, there’s been some people in here asking for you.”
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. “That right?”
“Yeah, a reporter of some kind. Works for an online newspaper. Kelsey something or other.”
“Kinley,” Caleb corrected. He knew. She’d left messages on his phone.
“Yep, that would be the one.”
“She came in here?” He finished the drink and crunched one of the ice cubes.
“Yeah, said she heard you were a regular. Asked a few questions, you know, about the body being discovered, but I didn’t know much. Then she told me if I saw you that she’d like to talk to you.”
Shoving his glass toward Monty, Caleb tried to ignore the feeling that somehow he’d stepped across an invisible barrier separating this world from the next, that in digging up the jawbone, he’d crossed a forbidden line and now he was cursed. He let out his breath slowly and wondered what to do. Then it hit him and he said, “I’ll have another.”
For now, he’d just get wasted.
* * *
It had been a long night that had spilled into the morning. Inside his cabin with its peekaboo view of the ocean, Lucas had spent hours at his desk or on the couch with his laptop, a fire blazing in the hearth. He’d called the state crime lab, gone over the old files, surfed the web, and come up with more information on the witnesses and suspects who’d been at Camp Horseshoe.
Lucas had double-checked on Waldo Grimes, making certain that the prisoner was still indeed missing, and he’d coordinated everything he’d done with Maggie, so that they covered every detail, but didn’t waste too much time going over the same information.
Now, it was past noon and after only a few hours’ sleep between one a.m. and five, he was propped on his old couch. Roscoe, his rescued shepherd, was lying near the fire, the remnants of take-out food spread on the coffee table in front of him, not exactly out of the danger zone of Roscoe’s quick attacks. For now the dog was keeping an eye on the white sack, where only a few leftover French fries were congealing in spilled catsup.
Lucas clicked on the television and checked the local news. As expected, the discovery of a partial skeleton was the headlining story, with an anchor in the newsroom in Portland questioning a reporter who was standing in front of the Neahkahnie Sheriff ’s Department.
He’d seen the reporter before, an African-American woman with short hair, dimples, and intelligent go
ld eyes, and now focused on her words: “. . . still not identified, though the skull is definitely female and the sheriff’s department is focusing on what was once Camp Horseshoe, a Christian overnight camp located just south of Averille, Oregon. The camp, whose minister, Dr. Jeremiah Dalton, was also its owner, has been closed since three people associated with the camp went missing twenty years ago.” At that point, the screen split, the reporter on one side, and on the other, an older picture of Lucas’s father standing in front of the rec center, Naomi at his side. Lucas felt a surge of conflicting emotions as he stared at the faded image of Jeremiah and his wife. God, how young they both appeared. Jeremiah had been in his early forties, not that much older than Lucas was now, and Naomi had been in her thirties. His gut twisted as the reporter continued, and the picture of his father and stepmother was replaced with single head shots of Monica O’Neal, Eleanor Brady, and Dustin Peters, the victims who had vanished.
He listened to the report, then using the remote, clicked off the television and walked to the French doors that led to a small deck, beyond which was his view of the bay and ocean beyond. Today, the panorama was distorted, fog rolling in, the whitecaps, waves, and horizon invisible.
Roscoe gave up his vigil at the table and followed Lucas outside. He held his nose to the salty breeze, his tail wagging gently. Lucas had adopted the dog six years ago, or, more correctly, the shaggy black and tan stray had adopted him, showing up at the old house when he’d been renovating the floors, refusing to leave and just hanging out. Lucas had tried to find the dog’s owner, had gone to the local vet and newspaper, had checked with the dog shelters, and then had finally accepted the fact that, like it or not, Roscoe was his.
Best decision of the dog’s life, he figured.
Maybe the best of his own as well.
They were pretty much inseparable, except when Lucas was on the job.
After a few moments, he turned to the dog and said, “Come on, time for a break.”
He went inside, grabbed a jacket, made sure there were a couple of tennis balls in the pockets, then tied on running shoes and, with the dog at his heels, took off through the French doors and down the steep steps to the yard. Together they ran the back roads to the bay, around the edge of the water to the jetty, and out onto the beach. Once there, winded, Lucas threw the tennis ball and Roscoe, who never seemed to tire of the game, took off after it, scaring up a flock of birds who’d been wading along the shore, to retrieve the ball and return to drop it in the wet sand at Lucas’s feet, only to take off running again, so Lucas hurled it after him.
Today, as he gave chase, the shepherd disappeared into the fog and Lucas was reminded of the night Elle disappeared. His jaw clenched and he wondered if the skull that had been discovered would prove to be hers and, if so, what had happened to the rest of her body? Severed intentionally? Or had it naturally, over the years of deterioration, become detached?
Or was it someone else’s entirely? Monica’s? Dustin’s? Or some other unlucky person whose body had ended up in this part of the Pacific?
The breeze off the sea slapped at his face, chilled his hands, and kicked up whitecaps, making the pewter-colored ocean appear restless, striations of darker gray reminding him how deep and deadly were the waters.
Had Elle ended up in the Pacific that night? A wave pulling her out to sea? He hated to think so and had found some kind of ludicrous solace that her body had never been found, which left a glimmer of hope she was alive and well somewhere.
“Yeah, right,” he muttered sarcastically. From his years on the force he knew better.
Even with all the time that had passed, he still thought about her, wondered about her, and despite the fact that he’d told himself over and over again that what had happened to her wasn’t his fault, he’d never quite bought it.
Now, it was all dredged up again.
And yes, he’d found any information he could on Bernadette Alsace Warden, who, court records claimed, was divorced. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself, as he watched Roscoe loping back with the now wet and sandy tennis ball.
Scooping up the ball, he flung it in one swift motion. “Last time,” he told the dog, who took off, sand and foam flicking up from his paws as he raced along the edge of the tide. Lucas heard the familiar whump-whump of a helicopter’s rotors and spied a Coast Guard chopper flying low, skimming along the coast line.
“Roscoe, come!” he yelled over the crash of the waves as the helicopter passed, but the dog wasn’t listening, was still chasing the ball, which he caught up to, grabbed in his mouth, and spun around, returning. Lucas, his head clear, started jogging across the beach to the dunes and the bay, heading inland. He glanced over his shoulder. Roscoe was following, gaining on him, and would probably beat him to the stairs.
Lucas would shower, take a final look over his notes, then give Maggie Dobbs a call and let her ask any and all of her damned questions.
It was time to revise his statement of twenty years earlier.
No more secrets.
CHAPTER 22
Seaside, Oregon
Reva
Now
Reva could’ve picked Jo-Beth out of a throng of a thousand strangers. She was still tall, slim, and, from the tilt of her head, just as much of a snob. Her hair was shorter and there were the barest traces of lines near her eyes, probably spots that Botox couldn’t fix, but she was chic, almost elegant as she sat in a booth in the back. If she’d wanted to blend in with this crowd of loggers, fishermen, and regular barflies, she needed to take it down a notch. The designer outfit, perfect makeup, and chic hairstyle were at odds with the common man’s or woman’s jeans, T-shirts, hoodies, and battered work boots or tennis shoes.
The crowd in Barnacle Bob’s was thin—it was still early. The seven flat-screens bolted to the rough cedar walls were each flickering with different ball games and, if the sign outside was to be believed, broadcast via satellite dish, which was somehow sign worthy.
She wended her way through a few scattered tables, then slid into the booth opposite Jo-Beth, who had stood, as if she’d expected a damned hug or something. Reva was too keyed up for niceties and really, did she want to hug Jo-Beth? No. Besides the whole point of this meeting was to blend in, not be noticed.
“I need a drink,” Reva announced, and searched for a waitress or barkeep or anyone who would bring her some damned alcohol.
Country music was playing through speakers mounted on the walls while the various games continued and a waitress, a pencil-thin woman with white-blond hair streaked with green, strolled over. She wore jeans and a black T-shirt with BARNACLE BOB’S embroidered over an appliqué of a winking shellfish, presumably a barnacle.
“What can I get you?” she asked, not bothering with a pad or pencil.
“A mojito,” Reva said, noting that Jo-Beth was sticking with some kind of white wine. Well, fine and dandy, but she needed something stronger. “Make it a double.”
“Well, alllll right! Ready to get the party started?” She grinned, her eyes brightening. “Anything to eat?”
“Maybe some pretzels or popcorn or whatever it is those men are having,” she said, looking pointedly at a couple of guys at one of the tables positioned in front of the largest flat-screen. They were guzzling beer, a half-drunk pitcher sitting between their near-empty mugs, a glass wine carafe being emptied of some kind of party mix.
“You got it.” The waitress actually twirled and headed to the L-shaped bar situated near two unoccupied pool tables.
“A double?” Jo-Beth said.
“Uh-huh, and it might not be my last. What the hell is going on?” She was anxious and didn’t understand why the other woman could be so calm. Or was it just an act? “I mean, they find freaking Monica now?”
“Part of her. I heard it was just a skull. Or maybe just a portion of the skull. There was something about a jawbone being disconnected or missing, or found and then lost or something.”
Reva shivered. “After all th
is time? And she really is dead. Jesus H. Christ, I can’t believe it.”
Jo-Beth took a sip of her wine. “So we have a problem.”
“You think we have ‘a’ problem. I can think of a few more than that.” She lowered her voice as the waitress returned and placed Reva’s drink in front of her. “What about you?” the blonde asked Jo-Beth. “Ready for another?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Jo-Beth’s glacial smile was enough to get the waitress to leave. When she was out of earshot, Jo-Beth said, “So we’re on the same page here, right? What happened that night is that I had cramps, you went to the meeting, everyone agreed to say they were together on the night Elle disappeared, and that’s all we know of it.”
“But—”
“We just have to keep it simple. Don’t veer from the story. Not an inch. That’s where we’ll get into trouble.”
“What about Tyler?” Reva took a long swallow from her drink, felt the cool rum slide down her throat, the flavors of mint and lime erupting in her mouth. It tasted like heaven.
“What about him?” Jo-Beth’s voice was sharp.
“What’s he going to say?”
“That he didn’t see me. I was in the latrine, with the damned cramps. Remember?”
“I get that, yeah, but what’s he going to say that he was doing?”
“That he went to meet Monica, to break it off with her, at that old chapel, and she never showed up.” Something ugly flashed in Jo-Beth’s eyes, a hint of the same emotion she’d displayed twenty years earlier. “I talked to him. He’s in Coos Bay now, still on the coast, just farther south. Owns a sawmill down there.”
“I thought he came from money.”
“He did. His father owned a string of mills, but they were mortgaged and he lost them during the recession. Now there’s only one, and Tyler owns it.”
“He married?”