by Lisa Jackson
Jo-Beth wanted the floor to swallow her.
Jayla was gathering steam. “I was just coming out of Columbia Hall, I remember it was a really hot day and I came around the corner to the back of the building and they were together, holding each other. Tyler’s shirt was off and Monica had her arms around his neck, but she saw me and pushed him away. Real fast. It was kind of guilty-like, y’know?”
Jo-Beth wanted to deny it, even to this day, because her pride had been so battered at the time. She felt Bernadette’s eyes on her—the weight of all of the women’s gazes on her. “Did you know she was pregnant?” Bernadette asked. “You were supposedly going with him.”
Jo-Beth felt her fingers curl into fists but managed to straighten them. “I don’t know it now,” she hedged.
“You think I would lie about this?” Bernadette was coldly serious.
“I think she would.”
“Monica? Why?” Bernadette wasn’t letting this go. “She seemed convinced. I asked about it and she didn’t say she took a test or anything, I mean, there probably weren’t any at the camp, but she definitely told me she was pregnant and then before I could talk to her again, she . . . she was gone.”
“But you never told this to the police, right?” Jo-Beth said. It would be better to discredit Bernadette now as best she could. “Because you were keeping her secret.”
“That’s right and it was a mistake. So now it’s way past time to come clean with everything,” Bernadette said. “And about this meeting that you called, I can’t help but wonder why. It’s almost like you’re afraid that someone will say something wrong, that you’re covering your ass. You showed up to the meeting in the cavern late, because you had cramps? And, Reva”—she turned to look at the other girl, who was fishing in the minibar again—“you came in late, too.”
Reva let the door to the refrigerator close. “I need a cigarette,” she said suddenly. She snagged her purse and phone from the credenza where a tiny flat-screen was mounted and made her way to the balcony. A blast of cold air seeped into the room as the door opened wide for a second.
Jo-Beth watched as she lit up, her image visible through the sheers, the tip of her cigarette a red dot in the night as she huddled under the overhang of the roof. Suddenly Jo-Beth wished she, too, could escape. And God, what she wouldn’t do for a deep lungful of smoke, though she’d given up the habit ten years earlier. Her nerves were shot and she could use a strong hit of nicotine. It didn’t help that Nell suddenly was on her feet and in Jo-Beth’s face. “What the hell is this all about, Jo-Beth? Why did you call us here to make sure we’d tell the police what you wanted?” Nell hadn’t been a part of the deception, had supposedly only learned what had happened the day after the meeting at the grotto, but Jo-Beth knew better. She’d overhead a conversation suggesting Nell, too, had abandoned her charges and sneaked to the cavern that night to listen in. That’s why she, too, had been invited. And now she was suspicious. “Do you know what happened to Monica O’Neal? To Elle?”
“I wish I did,” Jo-Beth said.
“But you were supposedly almost engaged to Tyler.” Nell scowled. “You knew each other from high school. If Monica was pregnant with his kid—”
“But I didn’t know it. I still don’t,” Jo-Beth said. “And neither do you. For all any of us knows, Monica could have been lying or mistaken.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . I don’t know, maybe she wanted Tyler, intended to trap him. She didn’t make it a secret that her home life was crap. Drunk of a father, whacked-out mom.”
“That’s sick.” Nell took a step back.
“Much as I hate to say it, because she did disappear, Monica O’Neal wasn’t a very nice person. We all know that. No one here really liked her.” She swung her gaze around the room, challenging each woman in turn.
Bernadette said, “It doesn’t matter who felt what about her. The thing is, she vanished and maybe because of foul play, we don’t really know. The police need to know the truth because they need it to find out what really happened.”
“Oh, God,” Jo-Beth whispered, understanding. “You already told Lucas Dalton about this supposed pregnancy, didn’t you?” Jo-Beth had to fight the rage that threatened to consume her.
“That, too, but I’m with Nell. I can’t help but wonder why you think you have to tell everyone here what to say. Why is that?”
“I was just trying to make things simple. I thought we could all get this behind us and go home to our normal lives, if we all just kept our statements to the bare bones of the truth,” she said. “I was trying to streamline the process, that’s all. For everyone.”
Bernadette’s eyes challenged her, silently accused her of lying.
“But hey,” Jo-Beth said, “I guess I made a mistake. Maybe Bernadette’s right, we should just all go on our own memories of that night, even though it was twenty years ago, and we can bring up ghosts and possible pregnancies and admit that we were out smoking weed or drinking or having sex while we left the campers to fend for themselves.”
“I think we owe it to Elle, to Monica, and to ourselves to tell everything,” Bernadette said, picking up her jacket and heading for the door to the hall. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
Great.
“Then go ahead. Do it. Be some kind of hero,” Jo-Beth said, “And don’t forget the ghost of Elle Brady motoring around Averille.” But Jayla and Sosi were nodding, and Jo Beth knew she’d lost them. Annette was already out the door after her sister, the others following.
Reva returned from the balcony, the scent of cigarette smoke still clinging to her. Surveying the nearly empty suite, she shut the door. “How’d it turn out?”
“A disaster.”
“Idiots,” Reva said, stuffing her cell phone and pack of cigarettes into a front pocket of her purse. “You did what you could.”
“I guess.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Reva made her way to the door. “It is what it is.”
“You gonna be okay, with the Dobbs thing?”
“I hope so.”
“What happened exactly?”
“I think she thinks I lied about the accident, that maybe Theo wasn’t driving, that I was behind the wheel when it happened.” She thought for a second, then reached for the handle of the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.” And then she was gone. Jo-Beth was alone. All of her well-thought plans laid to waste. Well, screw ’em. She’d tried to help.
Kicking off her boots, she flopped onto the king-sized bed and leaned up against the stacked pillows. She’d just pulled out her iPad, fired it up, and was checking her e-mail when her cell phone, tucked into her back pocket, vibrated. Expecting a message from Reva that she’d lost her key or something, she checked the screen.
The text wasn’t from Reva.
Tyler Quade’s name came across the screen and she couldn’t help the little uptick in her pulse as she read the message.
Made it to bumblefuck. Hate this place.
In room 216.
Drink?
She thought of the disaster of the meeting with the women, and of the catastrophe of her marriage and the debacle that was certainly about to be her career. Nothing was going right for her. Nothing. So why not meet an old friend? Even if, after nearly twenty years, she was still slightly pissed at him. It was just for a drink, right? She’d meet him, have a drink and a laugh, stiff him for the bill, and if he made any moves on her, give him the cold shoulder. Maybe even play with him a bit. Flirt, make him think she was into him, that he had a chance, then dump his ass.
He deserved it.
She didn’t have to think twice.
But she couldn’t take the chance of being seen with him, she was still married, unfortunately. And she didn’t want to complicate things any more than they were already with the sheriff’s department or her damned job. She couldn’t afford to be involved in any more of a scandal than she already was.
How a
bout my room? 302. Be careful. Bring booze. Take back stairs. Don’t let any cameras see you.
Maybe I should wear a disguise.
Oooh. Kinky.
Could be.
She felt a little thrill and then reminded herself that she was still legally married. What a drag. Then again, Eric was off to who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom. Maybe he was in Big Sur or driving his old bus through Colorado or Utah, off to find the Four Corners and discover the meaning of life or whatever.
What a load of crap.
Eric was in the wind.
Tyler, however, was here in damned Averille, Oregon.
On his way up to her room.
A slow smile curved across her lips and she checked her hair and makeup quickly in the poor excuse of a bathroom—God, the lighting was awful.
Then?
She waited. Nerves strung tight, anticipation causing her heart to race and her palms to sweat, she waited.
CHAPTER 31
Averille, Oregon
Now
Lucas
Lucas was driving home as the dreary day was quickly turning to night. He replayed the day over and over in his mind, meeting with Bernadette at the camp, then the meeting at the office where he’d been kicked off the case.
After being dismissed by the sheriff, Lucas had had to fight his first instinct, which was to drive to the hotel and find Bernadette and tell her about the body being identified as Monica O’Neal. She’d been honest with him and he wanted to return the favor.
Oh, sure, Dalton. You just want to see her again.
The voice in his head was right, he thought, as he drove on 101, heading for his cabin in the hills. Seeing Bernadette again had kick-started all those heightened emotions of his youth and he didn’t want to go there. Couldn’t. So he’d headed to his cabin instead.
They’d been kids, high on life, love, and lust.
Now, though, they were adults.
And he was a cop, even if he wasn’t working the O’Neal case. At least not officially, but he’d still investigate. Hell, he couldn’t just let it go. No way. But no one at the department needed to know that.
He drove by rote to the ten acres he’d owned for the past five years. Located in the hills on the east side of 101, the property offered a peekaboo view of the ocean. After turning off 101, he picked up his phone, found Bernadette’s number, and called her.
She answered before the phone rang a second time. “Lucas? Hi.” So she either recognized his number or had programmed it into her phone.
“Hey,” he said, and decided there was no time for small talk as the afternoon shuttered into evening. “How are you?”
“Fine. Just got out of a meeting with the other women.”
“And?”
“And everyone’s ready to come into the department tomorrow and tell their stories. Jo-Beth wanted everyone to stick to a script. Which wasn’t a lie, of course, but—I don’t know. I think she either has something she’s hiding or is the ultimate control freak. Maybe both.”
“I’d love to interview her,” he said, negotiating a sharp corner, the beams of his headlights washing over the rocky wall of the cliffs rising from the sea. “There’s something else I wanted you to hear from me,” he said as the turnoff to his place came into view.
“What?” Her tone was suddenly wary.
“The skull’s been ID’ed. It’s Monica O’Neal.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath. “No.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh . . . God . . . I mean, I know it’s to be expected, but still . . . Oh, God.”
“Look, I probably shouldn’t have called you; I jumped the gun a bit, but a couple of deputies are giving Monica’s mother the bad news, so the story will break within the hour. I wanted you to know.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, you did give me some information about Monica and the pregnancy, so it’s only fair.”
“I guess.” He heard a hesitation in her voice.
“Thanks.”
“Lucas!” she said quickly, as if she expected him to hang up.
“Yeah?” His fingers tightened over the wheel.
“It was . . . It was good to see you today.”
So there it was. He nodded, as if she could see him, and hit the low beam of his headlights as an oncoming car approached. “Maybe when this is all over we could get a drink or a cup of coffee?”
More hesitation, the seconds ticking by.
“Bernadette, you still there?” he asked as he turned off 101 and onto the county road leading to his house.
“Yeah, I’m here. And sure, I think that would be okay, getting together, I mean,” she said, which wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of the idea, but he’d go along with it.
“Good.” Negotiating the ess curves in the slick road, he said, “There’s something else you should know: I’m officially off the case.”
“What? No!”
“The sheriff thinks there’s a conflict of interest, so she threw me off, the same for Ryan Tremaine, who’s a local assistant DA.”
“Can she do that?”
“Legally? For me? Yeah. I don’t know about Tremaine, but he’s a lawyer, so he’ll figure it out.”
As he drove over a familiar rise he saw the turnout to his house appearing in the twin beams of his headlights. Easing onto the brakes, he thought about telling her about the scrap of cloth and Caleb Carter thinking he spied Elle, but held his tongue. Until the fabric was analyzed, until it was connected to the case, he wouldn’t say a word.
There were just too many damned things he wanted to tell her and most of them he should keep to himself. “Okay, gotta run,” he said, and heard her say, “Yeah, me too.” Then he clicked off and turned onto the gravel lane.
Lucas thought about the case that was no longer his and the woman who, too, was no longer his, a woman who still, unfortunately, caught his eye, and if one kiss were telling, could still turn him inside out.
“Don’t go there,” he warned. He couldn’t be distracted by Bernadette, or anyone else.
Besides, he had work to do, with or without the sheriff’s blessing.
No one in the department knew what had gone down at Camp Horseshoe twenty years ago more intimately than he did. Not even Ryan Tremaine. As far as conflict of interest went? To hell with it. He, as much as anyone, needed to find out what had happened to Elle, Monica, Dustin Peters, and Waldo Grimes.
He pulled into his carport and hopped out to be greeted by his dog. Roscoe had been waiting on the front porch and jumped near the Jeep as Lucas stepped onto the concrete. “Hey, boy, slow down. Yeah, I missed you, too,” he said, petting the squirming mass of fur as the dog gave off a couple of excited yips. “I know. I know. Now, come on, we’ve got work to do.” The dog raced ahead and was bouncing as Lucas unlocked the door and dropped his laptop case and wallet on a table near the kitchen, then walked through the house to the back door. Roscoe trotted expectantly to the hooks near the back door in the kitchen where several leashes dangled. “I don’t think we need those today.” He opened the door and Roscoe took off like a shot, scaring up birds and bounding through the wet grass. As Lucas whistled to the horses, Roscoe returned with that boundless energy and enthusiasm reserved for dogs. Lucas scratched him behind the ears, as the two geldings trotted into the paddock near the barn. “Hungry?” he said to them and the bay tossed his head, jangling his halter and snorting while the older sorrel gave Lucas a stony look that Lucas interpreted as, “What do you think?”
“Well, let’s go.” Dog in tow, Lucas made his way inside the barn as the horses ambled in through a separate entrance.
He snapped on the lights as the familiar smells of oiled leather, horses, and dry hay reached his nostrils. While Roscoe snooped around the tack area beneath the bridles hung from hooks and saddles mounted over sawhorses, Lucas scooped out measures of oats and spread hay into the mangers.
He’d done the same chores most of his life and still
felt a sense of satisfaction, listening to the geldings’ teeth grinding, smelling the rain on their coats. Even the odors of wet horse, urine, and dust were familiar and somehow calming. Leaning on his pitchfork, he watched the animals, patted their long noses, and eventually left them to throw a ball for Roscoe for twenty minutes in the darkness.
All the while he thought.
About the case.
About Monica and Elle.
About Dusty, the loner of a hired hand, and Grimes, the murderer who might have stalked the woods surrounding Camp Horseshoe twenty years ago.
Other than the camp, how were the four of them connected?
And had whoever nearly killed Tyler Quade also murdered Monica and possibly the rest of them? Why those five? Random? Or some deeper connection? Or, possibly, remotely, no connection at all?
Now, finally with the discovery of Monica O’Neal’s body, the search for more corpses ongoing, and the investigation ramped up again, maybe there would be answers.
“Come on,” he finally said to the dog, “it’s your turn.” He led Roscoe inside and fed him, his bowls always at the ready in an alcove that had once been a walk-in pantry near the back door, the only closet of any size in this hundred-year-old cabin. The layout was simple, a rustic bathroom, kitchen out of the forties, one bedroom, and over the living area, a small loft he used as an office. A wood stove was the original heat for the place, but he’d added a small furnace after his first bone-chilling winter in the place. Now, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and twisted off the cap.
His stomach rumbled and he opened the refrigerator, saw the box with remnants of a pizza he’d picked up two nights before, heated a couple of slices, and carried a plate of pizza and a bottle of beer to the loft. Roscoe, having mown through his cup of dog food, was right on his heels and took up his position near the desk as Lucas fired up his computer. As it clicked on he bit into the pizza and washed the first slice down with a long swallow of the beer.
Then he pulled up the files for the missing persons, reread statements, and went over evidence, all of which he’d pulled together over the years while the cases of the four individuals went colder and colder. He typed in the information he’d gotten today at the meeting and as he finished his beer and the so-so pepperoni pizza, remembered that night. So Monica had been pregnant and was meeting Tyler. On the night after Elle had gone missing, the night that he’d broken up with her, Monica hadn’t shown up, had maybe been abducted on the way, or something, and Tyler had ended up with a knife in his back, managing to walk nearly a quarter of a mile, bleeding, the blade lodged between his ribs.