In the Waning Light

by Loreth Anne White

  “But why? It doesn’t fit. He was my dad’s friend. He wanted to solve this thing for our family. It’s why he took the lead on Sherry’s case against his better instincts in the first place. He knew from their mutual past just how volatile my father could be, so I don’t believe he’d have told him where Ty was.” She closed her eyes, put her head back.

  Blake stole another sideways glance. His chest crunched. She looked vulnerable, and her hair was an untidy mass of curls. But he loved the look. Far more than those sleek and sophisticated photos he’d been seeing of her. She looked more his Meg than Jonah’s Meg. It gave him a small and smug punch of satisfaction.

  “What can I do to help?”

  She cocked one eye open, smiled slightly. “You’re helping more than you can know. Just being there. Feels good to be part of a team.”

  “What made you go into this true crime business anyway? Because of Sherry?”

  She snorted. “You sound like Jonah. Or Stamos Stathakis. I just like the genre, the promise of justice at the end, of real heroes who save the day. Closure. And the story structure. The bonus is these stories are real.”

  He said nothing.

  “You don’t buy it?”

  He shrugged.

  “You think I’ve been seeking closure my whole life, and this is some perverted way of doing it?”

  He snorted. “You know me. I don’t think. I just act.” He grinned at her, and she laughed. And it warmed his soul to be able to put light into her eyes like that.

  She turned to look out the window again, then shot abruptly up in her seat. “Blake, wait. Stop! Back up, quick.”

  “What is it?” He glanced into the rearview mirror, checking traffic, then slowed, pulled over.

  “Back up to that signboard over there.” She twisted around in her seat, pointing.

  He reversed.

  “There!” She gestured at a board that hosted several commercial signs pointing inland, to the Chillmook dairy farming area. “That second logo down—Braden’s Cattle. That was the same logo on the black van I saw at the gas station the night I arrived. The van Tyson Mack’s uncle, Mason, was driving. I didn’t recognize him—but the woman at Millar’s Gas said it was Mason Mack. The way he looked at me, he knew who I was, and he was damned hostile about it.”

  “Braden’s Cattle is a small, independent slaughterhouse,” he said. “Used to be part of Braden Farms, until the family started subdividing.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” she said.

  “Access to bovine blood.”

  “And motive,” she said, her eyes on fire. “And he knew I was in town. Do we have time? Before Noah?”

  “Hell yeah,” he said, swinging the wheel hard to the right.

  CHAPTER 17

  They drove slowly up to the gates of Braden Cattle. The small writing along the bottom of the sign on the gate said, Family Run. Integrity, Quality.

  Meg exchanged a glance with Blake.

  “You sure you want to go in?” he said.

  “If Mason Mack works here, I want to speak with him. That was definitely the logo on the van he was driving that night.”

  “Doesn’t mean he vandalized your house, just because he works here.”

  “Neither does it mean he didn’t. If you think about the words on my wall, it fits that they might have been written by someone allied with Ty Mack, or Ty’s family. At the very least, I might find out where I can get a hold of Ty’s father, Keevan.”

  “You want to interview Keevan?”

  “If he’ll talk.”

  They entered the gates. The place seemed deserted. Blake drove around the back. There were two vans parked in the lot behind the main building. “That’s it.” Meg nodded toward the vehicles. “It looked just like one of those vans.”

  Meg and Blake got out.

  “Hello! Anyone here?” he called into the door of the building.

  A woman in her early forties exited the barn on their left. She was carrying a pail. “Can I help you?” she said, using her gloved hand to hold back blonde hair that blew in the chill breeze. “I’m Debra Braden. We’re closed for a few days because of water damage. Had a breakdown with the plumbing system.”

  “Meg Brogan.” Meg held out her hand. The woman set her pail down, took off her gloves, and shook Meg’s hand, a furrow forming on her brow.

  “And this is Blake Sutton.” He leaned forward, shook Debra’s hand.

  The woman looked at Meg. “You’re … Sherry Brogan’s sister. You’re the one who’s come back to write the story of her murder. I heard about it on the radio.”

  “It’s not the only reason I’m back,” Meg said, forcing a friendly smile. “Did you know my sister?”

  “I knew of her. I didn’t go to school in Shelter Bay. I went to Chillmook Secondary. But who didn’t know of Sherry and Tommy? My cousin, Sally Braden, was in Sherry’s class. She was really messed up by the news of the murder. I think everyone was. Such a shock.”

  A bolt of recognition shot through Meg. “You’re Lori-Beth Braden’s cousin.”

  “Well, she’s Thibodeau now. But yes. Small towns and all that,” Debra said with a genuine smile. “What brings you guys out here?”

  “I was wondering if Mason Mack worked for you guys.”

  “Oh, right,” she said as the connection dawned on her. “Mason. Yeah. Both him and his brother, Keevan. Been here about seven years in all now.” She frowned again. “This to do with the story, with Ty?”

  “It is. I was hoping to interview them.”

  Debra raised her brows, looking dubious. “They pretty much keep to themselves. They live on site. Keevan provides security with his dog at nights.” She turned, pointed to a dirt track. “We’ve got two staff bungalows up that road into the woods along the back of the property over there.”

  “Mind if we take a drive up?” Blake said.

  “Suit yourself. They’re not always the most welcoming, but they get the job done.”

  The road curved up into dense forest and led into a small clearing that housed two cabins about fifty yards apart. There was an old beater of a Toyota propped up on blocks outside. Coveralls on a wash line swayed in the breeze. Empty beer bottles filled a rusting container outside one of the cabin doors. Smoke curled from one of the chimneys. There was no one in sight.

  Meg and Blake alighted from the truck and walked slowly into the clearing between the two cabins.

  “Let’s try that one, with the smoke. Someone must be home there,” Blake said.

  They knocked on the door. No answer. “Hello!” Blake called. Nothing but wind hushing through the pines as the forest stirred. Dark clouds were rolling in off the sea, blackening the sky to the west. Meg could feel the temperature dropping as the front closed in.

  They walked around the back of the cabin.

  A dog lunged on a chain.

  Meg gasped, and jumped. Blake’s arm shot out, holding her back. The dog, a German shepherd–Doberman cross, started to bark, mouth frothing as it jerked and clacked against the chain.

  Meg started to retreat, but Blake clamped his hand firmly on her arm. Her gaze shot to him. His face was tight. His eyes sparking a warning. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  A click sounded. Then an unmistakable kachunk.

  “Shotgun,” he whispered.

  “Where?”

  “Can’t see. But someone has us in his sights.” He scanned the shadows in the encroaching forest, then took her arm. “Just move slowly. We’re going back to the truck.”

  “Hold it right there.” The voice was rough, bass. It came from behind them. “Turn around, now. Nice and easy.”

  Slowly they turned. Mason Mack. A shotgun aimed at Meg’s heart.

  “It’s okay, Mason,” she said quickly, and hated the nerves in her voice. “I … I’d just like to ask you some questions.”

  “Get the fuck off my property. Now.”

  “I only want—”

  “Your family killed our boy. You come
back here again, I’ll repay the fucking favor. You start writing a bunch of shit about Ty, I might do it anyway.”

  Blake’s hand moved to his side, and it struck Meg that he might have a gun.

  “Easy, Mack,” Blake said. “We’re leaving. Just let her leave.”

  But Meg stood her ground. “So you know that I’m writing a book?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Blake hissed quietly at her. “Don’t look, but there’s another weapon trained on us from those trees on our right. We’re outgunned and outnumbered. I suggest a careful retreat.”

  “I was hoping to give Tyson Mack a fair shake,” she called out. “I think he might have been innocent.”

  Hesitation showed in Mack’s posture.

  “Do you know where I could get hold of Keevan Mack? I’d like to talk with him.”

  “Right here.” The voice came from the trees. Keevan stepped out of the shadows, black hair ruffling in the wind. Sinewy, tanned. He looked like Ty. Just older, weathered. He had a rifle trained on them.

  “Shit,” she whispered.

  “Now, unless you get off this property, I’m setting this dog loose, here.” Keevan stepped closer to the growling animal. The man’s eyes were deep blue under his thatch of brow. His features were hard, uncompromising. His threat felt real. Meg shifted closer to Blake.

  “Easy and slow,” Blake whispered. “Just take my cue.”

  “Did you do it?” she yelled suddenly at Keevan. “Did you shoot out my house with that rifle in your hands there? Did you paint that stuff on my walls?” Her voice was pitched with fear and she felt a mounting rage. Her body was wire stiff, vibrating.

  “Megan,” he growled. “Use your brain, for chrissakes.”

  Keevan inched closer to the dog. Mason took a few steps closer to Meg and Blake. Meg’s heart began to jackhammer. Sweat dampened her chest, pooled under her arms.

  “I didn’t touch your house,” Keevan growled through his teeth. “Wouldn’t go near there. Don’t want anything to do with scum like you. You just get the hell out of my sight, or I might just hunt you down like an animal, like your father hunted my boy after your whore sister seduced him. You Brogans killed my son. He was innocent. Not a bad hair on that boy’s head.”

  Meg raised her hands, palms out. “It’s okay, Keevan. I … I want to hear you out. I do—”

  He raised the barrel of his rifle and fired a crack into the air. She screamed and jumped. The sound unleashed a frenzied frothing and barking in the dog.

  Keevan bent down, slipped a collar around the dog, unleashed the chain. It barreled toward them.

  Fuck.

  “Don’t run, Meg! Stand your ground!” Blake unsheathed his pistol, aimed it at the oncoming dog.

  Henry left the house in his cherry-red MINI Cooper with its snappy white racing stripes. He’d called work to say he’d be late. He felt dulled inside. His briefcase lay neatly on the passenger seat beside him. The pistol inside was loaded, the weapon cocked. He’d brought spare rounds. He should have gotten help all those years ago, maybe seen a psychologist or something. Maybe he could have had a half-normal life if he’d been able to seek therapy for what he’d gone through. Maybe he could blame his predilection for violent porn on the past, on what had happened to him. Or maybe he couldn’t.

  You’re sick, you know that? You’re disgusting, a deviant …

  His hands fisted around the wheel. He was going to work—act normal. Appear as if nothing is wrong, even if it’s all falling down about your ears, even if it’s all finally coming to an end. Emotion punched hard through him. His eyes blurred as he reached the T-junction.

  A police cruiser turned in front of him. It went down his street, in the direction of his home. His heart started to stammer, and fear wet his skin. He watched the cruiser in his rearview mirror, indecision swirling through his brain. He pulled a sharp U-turn and followed the cop car, staying a fair distance back. It couldn’t be going to his house, could it? They couldn’t be coming for him. Not yet. Surely? He had to know.

  The cruiser slowed and turned into his driveway.

  Shit.

  Henry tapped his brakes and quickly pulled into a parking space higher up the street, tucking tightly in behind a big Dodge Caravan. He kept the engine running as he watched two sheriff’s deputies alight from the cruiser and make their way to his front door.

  Shitshitshit. Sweat pearled along his brow, leaked down the side of his brow.

  He waited there, watching for almost twenty minutes. Then suddenly his front door swung open. Out came Sally. She had her hands behind her back, head bent forward, hair hiding her face. The two deputies led her to the cruiser. One opened the rear door, and the other held the back of Sally’s head as he guided her into the sedan and shut the door.

  It pulled off.

  Henry stared, dumbfounded. What the hell?

  The dog stopped within inches of them, eyes wild, saliva glistening on incisors, foam frothing at its jowls as it growled and barked. Every impulse in Blake’s body screamed to flee.

  “Don’t look in its eyes,” he ordered Meg. “Get behind me. Right behind me. Hold on to my waist. We’re backing away, slow. Very, very slow.”

  They began to inch away. He prayed she wouldn’t trip. She’d be dead in an instant, that dog on her throat. His only hope was that this was the animal that Debra Braden had mentioned they used as security. Which might mean it was trained. The shock collar Keevan had slipped onto the animal’s neck before unchaining it fueled that hope. It might mean the Macks had control over it. His only other hope was that the Macks would stop the dog short of killing them.

  The dog followed them, step for step, darting closer, snapping, circling, growing bolder as they retreated. Blake’s mouth turned bone dry. His truck felt a million miles away. The Macks did nothing, just watched.

  “Call him off!” Blake yelled.

  The men laughed.

  His raised voice, the exchange, served only to further incense the dog. It lunged and grabbed Blake’s jean leg, tore at it, growling low in its throat. Blake stilled, fighting every molecule in himself. He knew if he kicked, struggled, it would escalate the attack. He’d served with military K9 teams. He knew what could go wrong if the victim tried to fight back. And he kept his Glock aimed at the animal. A last resort, he thought. A very last resort. But he’d do it, to save Meg.

  “I’ll kill it,” he yelled, eyes fixed on the animal. “Call it off or I shoot.” He fired a round into the ground. Dirt exploded with sound. The dog yelped, backed off, then redoubled its charge. Blake aimed his pistol, tightening his finger around the trigger.

  Keevan stepped forward suddenly and gave a sharp whistle. The dog hesitated. Keevan whistled again, and yelled, “Steel! Down!”

  The animal jerked as it was shocked, giving another small yelp. It lay down, panting, eyes wild.

  “Bastards,” Meg hissed over his shoulder. “Fucking bastards.” He could feel her whole body trembling behind his.

  “Keep backing away,” he whispered. “Get into the truck. Slowly. No sudden movements. Open the door for me.”

  “What about you?”

  “Do it.”

  Meg slowly backed away, then turned and made carefully for the truck. Blake stood his ground, weapon trained on the attack animal, the bile of hatred rising in his throat. What kind of men did this to a dog?

  He heard the doors open, and he cast a careful glance over his shoulder. Meg was safely inside. Slowly, he started moving.

  He was almost at the truck when Keevan Mack released the dog with a sharp command and it barreled for him, low along the ground.

  Blake turned and ran, breath rasping in his chest. He reached the truck. Meg had clambered over into the driver’s seat on the far side and started the engine. He dived for the passenger seat as the animal’s jaw clamped onto his boot. He shook it off as she started to drive, the door open. She bombed down the dirt road as he pulled himself fu
lly inside and closed the door. His body was wet with sweat.

  “Thank God you had the keys inside,” she snapped. Her cheeks were red with anger. Her body was shaking. “They have no right to keep an animal like that. I’m going to report them. Phone Kovacs,” she said, digging in her pocket, handing him her phone. “Tell him the Macks did it. They shot out my house, vandalized it.”

  He stared at her. She was unbelievable. Adrenaline was slamming so hard through him he thought his chest was going to burst. He sat back, her phone in hand, and he started to laugh. She shot him a look, her expression puzzled. “What in the hell’s so funny?”

  He laughed harder, wiping his eyes, and the relief felt good. Her lips curved into a slow smile, then she laughed, too.

  At the bottom of the road, once they’d exited the Braden property, he said, “Stop. Stop right here.”

  Her smile died, and she slowed, drawing over onto the road shoulder.

  He grabbed her behind the neck, pulled her close, and kissed her hard. She stiffened in shock, then softened almost instantly and turned hungrily, furiously toward him, breathing hard as her hands peeled back his shirt, buttons popping as her lips forced open his mouth, her tongue entering, seeking his, her teeth scouring his lips. He slid his hand under her T-shirt, into her bra, groaning as he found her nipple tight and hard. He felt her hands going down his waist, unbuckling his jeans, sliding into his pants. Her palm, her fingers, were soft, warm, as they cupped his balls, started massaging his cock. He tilted his hips, giving her access as his brain swirled into heady oblivion. She angled her head, coming up higher in the driver’s seat, pushing him back into the passenger seat.

  He fumbled wildly to undo her belt buckle.

  A loud honking stirred logic, slowly, thickly, back into Meg’s brain. She paused, her lips pressed against Blake’s, her breathing ragged, her skin hot. She glanced slowly up.

  “Uh, Blake,” she murmured against his mouth, “I think we’re blocking someone’s driveway.” A woman in a white SUV laid on her horn, long and loud, gesticulating angrily with her free hand.

  Meg scrambled awkwardly off him, pulling her shirt closed. “You drive,” she said, voice hoarse, her brain reeling, a wild panic beginning to lick around the edges of her mind. She tried to maneuver her body over Blake’s as he wriggled under her into the driver’s seat. He zipped up his pants and she hurriedly fastened her belt buckle and pulled on her seat belt. She waved a “sorry” to the impatient woman, and groped for her phone that had fallen on the floor. Her lips felt raw, swollen. She was breathing hard.