Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

  In her mind’s eye she saw the woman hanging from the bell ropes last night giving up her last dying breath, and in that split second she knew she had to get away. Now.

  “Move it!” he ordered, wagging the pistol across the seats. “You’re going with me into that fuckin’ packing plant to meet with Xander and then you’ll text your mother from your phone and she’ll come to save you and I’ll be waiting.”

  “For . . . ?” A new terror seized her.

  He stared at her as if she were the dimmest person on the planet. “For revenge, Harper. Haven’t you been reading the papers? Don’t you know that she killed my father and never paid the price? That she got off scot-free after pulling the trigger? She killed him, Harper. Your mother’s a goddamned murderer and the only reason she wasn’t convicted—the only damned reason—was because she was the kid of a cop and her stupid, fucking friends lied for her, came forward and lied about what they saw and heard. So they had to pay, too.”

  Horrified, Harper shrank away from him. If only she had a weapon. Xander didn’t own a gun but there had to be something in this Jeep. He had a toolbox and camping gear in the back cargo area, behind the backseat, but she couldn’t reach either. “That’s not how it was,” she argued.

  “That’s exactly how it was!” Lucas shot back. “And she has to pay.”

  “Why now? After all these years?”

  Think, Harper, think! She glanced at the console; knew a bottle opener was inside and maybe a pen. Not good enough.

  “Because I didn’t really know about it, did I? Everybody including my mom whitewashed it. When I asked, I was told some fantasy story about an ‘accident’ with ‘stupid kids’ and then she warned me not to play with guns, any kind of guns. But lately, I’ve been hearing differently, the real story,” he said, the skin over his face tightening.

  The umbrella! Xander had one tucked under the passenger seat. She remembered him using it recently. Swallowing back her fear, she shifted on the seat, stared hard at Lucas, holding his eyes while her right hand moved slowly to the floor.

  Caught up in his anger, Lucas continued, “I know the truth. I’ve been listening in, with the equipment I bought from Dylan, hearing everything. My mother has been talking to all of the fucking people on that damned reunion committee and she wanted a special shrine to my father and so there was lots of chitchat about him and how he died and I heard her talking to her friend who owns the newspaper when she was interviewed and they went off script a little. They all knew it, Harper. They all knew your mother killed him and they covered for her.” His lips twisted as if he’d tasted something foul just as her fingers brushed the folded nylon of the umbrella’s canopy. “They have to pay!”

  She stretched, her hand sliding downward until she felt the pole. Oh, God, help me. Somehow, someway, she had to get away. But she had to find Xander. God, what had Lucas done to him?

  Lucas was on a roll, unleashing all his pent-up rage, pointing the damned gun at her face, talking as if he’d never stop, his voice rough with fury. “Ned Gaston made sure his precious little girl didn’t go to jail.” His lips curled in disgust. “And all her friends came forward, swore they weren’t sure how he died, but she was the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Oh, God, this was so sick, so twisted, but she needed to keep him talking. She had to grab the umbrella without him noticing. “So why is Xander in the cannery? What did you do to him?” She was trying to sound tough when she was freaking out inside, sweating, her heart pounding, stalling for time, stretching her fingers.

  You have to make a break for it, Harper; you know you do. He’s going to hurt you or worse.

  But Xander? Was he really here? Was he hurt? Alive? Oh, dear God . . . “I . . . I need to see Xander.”

  “You will! I already told you, he’s inside.” Angrily he motioned through the windshield toward the building. “Now, before we go meet him, just one more thing. I want to send one more text to your mommy.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah. Your cute little murderess of a mommy. Now, smile and say ‘cheese.’” Before she could react, he snapped a picture, the flash momentarily blinding her. “Perfect.” He turned his attention to the screen and typed quickly, sending a short message.

  Now! Get out now!

  She snared the umbrella, yanked it from under the seat.

  He caught the movement. Realized he’d been tricked and focused on her. “What the fuck?”

  Now! She dropped her phone, and with all her strength, she used the umbrella like a spear, using both hands and thrusting hard, ramming the folded umbrella with its sharp tip straight into his neck!

  “Aaarrggghh!” he screamed. Blood sprayed and he flailed, the pistol still in his hand. “You bitch! You fuckin’ bitch!”

  She pushed harder still as he squealed in agony, writhing, trying to jerk the weapon from his neck. “Fuck! Shit!” He swung wide with one arm, barely missing her as she took one hand off the shaft and unlatched her seat belt.

  Before he could get his wits about him, she found the button on the shaft of the umbrella, poked it, and, spring-loaded, it expanded with a whoosh, the canopy snapping open, the pointed ferule still jabbed deep into his throat.

  She couldn’t see him, but the ribs of the umbrella caught in the overhead light.

  He screamed in pain trying to point the gun around the canopy, while attempting to wrench it from his neck with his free hand. In his flailing he hit the horn. Inspired, Harper hit the emergency flashers, then unlatched the door and rolled outside, her feet hitting the rough pavement.

  Her phone!

  Oh, crap!

  She thought about retrieving it but saw the muzzle of the gun and took off, sprinting down the uneven asphalt.

  Behind her, Lucas howled and raged.

  The Jeep’s lights blinked. The open door alarm dinged.

  Harper expected to hear a shot, to feel the sharp sting of a bullet in her back.

  But until that happened, she ran.

  Harper Ryder ran as she’d never run before.

  CHAPTER 38

  The street outside of the Wooden Nickel was chaos.

  Patrons from the brewery were clustered in groups, talking and smoking, being interviewed by the cops who’d shown up after the shooting or reporters who had arrived at the scene that they’d cordoned off. Pictures and video had been taken and Kayleigh had watched, distraught, as Cade had been lifted into an ambulance before it had driven off, siren screaming, lights blazing.

  God, she hoped he’d survive.

  As he’d lain on the sidewalk, bleeding, losing consciousness, she’d nailed that bastard Hollander, watching the gun spring from his hand as he fell, two cops from the Seaside PD all over him.

  Kayleigh had run to Cade, talked to him, tried to keep him conscious, fearing his wound would be mortal.

  “Stay with me!” she’d ordered. “Ryder? Cade? Do you hear me? Damn it, you stay with me! Don’t you dare leave me!”

  But he’d drifted away from her despite her best efforts before she could tell him that she loved him, that she’d always loved him, that he just couldn’t die on her.

  Before the EMTs had taken him away, she’d heard his phone bleat and she’d picked it up, reading Rachel’s desperate text, then listening to the voice mail message. It didn’t make sense. They’d caught the killer. Hollander was clinging to life, or had been when he’d been hauled away, under guard and by ambulance, to the hospital.

  So why was Rachel panicked?

  Because her daughter had snuck out to be with her boyfriend?

  Yeah, that wasn’t good, but not exactly abnormal. Teens did it all the time. And Rachel was a bit on the hysterical side, a woman whose fears drove her.

  Still...

  She went into the voice mail, caught the one from Rachel asking Cade to call, and then she listened to a long one . . . another message, a longer one, and her heart turned to ice. It ran for several minutes and recorded a horrifying confrontation between Harper and Lu
cas Ryder. Fear galvanizing her, Kayleigh started running to her car.

  She didn’t hesitate for a second even though she was certain her actions tonight, the shooting of Hollander, would be under review. She could be on leave. Even though when she’d blasted Hollander, the shooting had been caught on police cameras, her actions would be studied and she’d have at the minimum a few days off so that the department could verify her actions were called for.

  But right now . . . while the Seaside PD was wrapping this up, she could get away. She had her own vehicle. And she needed to get to that cannery and fast.

  She found Biggs standing near one of the police cruisers. “I have to leave. Now.”

  “Whoa. Wait.”

  “No time to explain. I can’t deal with any red tape or even questions. Cover for me,” she said under her breath.

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Uh-oh. What’re you planning, O’Meara?”

  “Just cover me. I’ll call.” She was already jogging to her car. She turned, looked over her shoulder, and added, “Oh, yeah, you’d better find a way home.”

  * * *

  Atop his bed, Dylan stared at the screen of his laptop and frowned. Absently, as he watched his monitor, he chewed on a tough piece of jerky and ignored Reno prancing beside the bed, whining for a bite.

  What the hell was his mother doing?

  After cruising through the streets of Edgewater she seemed to be stalled on the west end of town. Near Harper, but not in the same spot.

  He was tracking them both, as he had for the past six months, just to keep tabs. He’d felt it was some supremely cool irony that instead of his mother tracking his phone, he was keeping hers in his sights. Just the opposite of so many kids he knew whose parents were monitoring their whereabouts.

  This spy shit was amazing!

  But now he was worried.

  His mom was on the move again, heading toward Harper, who was at the old fish-packing plant on the edge of town. What the hell was she doing there? Yeah, he’d helped her again by shutting down the old alarm system so she could sneak out and hook up with Xander, but he didn’t think they would go to the building that caused their mother a major freak-out.

  What was that all about?

  Nothing good.

  Right?

  His mom was on the move again, heading to the packing plant.

  Weird, weird, weird.

  Something wasn’t right.

  In fact, it was very bad.

  He reached for the last piece of jerky from what was ridiculously labeled a “jumbo pack,” then, seeing the dog out of the corner of his eye, bit off a piece and threw the rest to Reno, who caught it on the fly and swallowed it whole.

  Lacing his hands behind his head, Dylan watched the screen. He could tell that his mom had turned into the lane leading to the cannery, so she should run into Harper. Right? Harper wasn’t moving . . . or at least her phone wasn’t.

  She wouldn’t leave her cell though.

  It was, like, glued to her.

  But...

  He bit his lip and pulled up his GPS for an aerial terrain view, but could see nothing more. “Come on, Harper,” he said, squinting and beginning to worry, “what’re you doing?”

  * * *

  Rachel’s heart clutched as she drove down the bumpy, pock-riddled asphalt of the cannery’s lane. In her headlights she saw the weed-choked ruts and her heart beat a painful drum the closer she got to the old building. Her skin crawled and she couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been here, twenty years earlier, and the tragedy that had ensued.

  She crossed the bridge and her headlights caught the reflection of taillights. Xander’s Jeep. Parked at the gate, which was ajar, the chain holding it closed snipped by bolt cutters that had been left in a tuft of grass.

  Oh. Dear. God.

  She pulled up behind the Jeep, which was all buttoned up. No one inside. The night was close, the smell of the river teasing her nostrils, a sense of foreboding in the air.

  She speed dialed Cade.

  And he picked up.

  Thank God.

  “This is Detective O’Meara,” Kayleigh answered.

  Rachel’s heart sank. They were together? Cade and Kayleigh? She was answering his phone? In an instant Rachel imagined the two of them in bed, laughing and kissing, touching and . . . no, no, no. They were working together. That was all. And she didn’t have time for anything but finding her daughter. Again she glanced at the sinister complex supported by rotting piers.

  “I want to speak to Cade.”

  “He’s . . . not available.”

  “And you have his phone?”

  What the hell was going on?

  “For the time being, yes. I know that Harper’s missing and I think I might know where she is.”

  “She’s at the damned cannery. That’s what I’m trying to tell Cade. I want someone out here ASAP.”

  “It’s more than that. She’s with Lucas Ryder and I think he’s the killer.” Kayleigh sounded breathless, worried. And Rachel heard the sound of air rushing past, as if Kayleigh was in a car, driving. Where the hell was Cade?

  “Lucas? No. She’s here with Xander. His car is parked at the gate and they’ve broken in.”

  “No, you’ve got it wrong. I’ve heard Harper’s voice mail to Cade. She recorded a conversation between her and Lucas Ryder.”

  “Why the hell are you reading my husband’s—my ex-husband’s—texts and listening to his voice mail? Wait. Never mind. I don’t care and I don’t have time to talk about it. I’m going to find my daughter.”

  “Rachel, wait for me, or for someone from the department to get there. He’s . . . he’s armed. Dangerous. Unhinged. Wait for me. I’m on my way. I’ve called for backup, so just wait. Don’t go into the cannery. I’ve got a deputy who will be there in three maybe four minutes and another one on the way.”

  “My daughter’s in there. Cade’s daughter. There’s no waiting.”

  Rachel clicked off, then saw the text that had come in while she was on the phone.

  From the same anonymous number that had texted before. But this time the message was different and as she read it, Rachel’s heart turned to stone:

  I lied. I don’t forgive you. And by the way, bitch, I’ve got your daughter.

  Along with the chilling message was a picture of a very frightened Harper.

  Her knees threatened to buckle. She stared at the picture a second, then gathered her strength. As she did she spied what looked like blood. Dark splotches staining the grass and gravel, catching what little light there was, leading inward to the cannery.

  To hell with Kayleigh.

  To hell with Cade.

  She picked up the bolt cutters.

  She was going in.

  CHAPTER 39

  “Damn it all to hell!” Kayleigh muttered, hitting her emergency lights and driving like a bat out of hell, heading north on 101. On the way to Edgewater, she called for the deputies to converge on the old cannery.

  They’d been wrong.

  All wrong!

  The thinking had been that Bruce Hollander, currently clinging to life at Seaside Mercy Hospital, was the killer. Not only had he stalked Rachel and tagged her house, but he’d also killed Violet Sperry and Annessa Cooper as some kind of revenge for helping Rachel avoid being convicted of Luke Hollander’s murder. But there had been holes in that theory from the get-go. Kayleigh had checked. Though Hollander hadn’t established an alibi for the night when he was supposed to have killed Annessa Cooper, on the night of Violet Sperry’s death, he’d been at home.

  But they’d been wrong. She’d heard enough of the recording on Cade’s phone to know that Hollander, now near death, hadn’t killed anyone . . . except possibly Nathan Moretti, as he was still missing.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said to the night at large.

  She chewed on her lower lip.

  Hollander had been armed, but his pistol had been
a different caliber from the one stolen from the Sperry house.

  Now, she presumed, Violet Sperry’s pistol was in the deadly hands of Lucas Ryder. How had they missed the signals? Lucas had never once come up on her radar as a possible suspect.

  She had to slow as she cut through Astoria, merging onto Highway 30 winding along the river’s edge. There was little traffic on this stretch, and the few vehicles she came upon quickly moved aside so that she could blow past.

  A deputy called, confirming that he was at the cannery and two cars were parked by the gate that had been opened.

  No sign of Rachel Ryder.

  Apparently she’d overcome her fears and her paranoia, when it came to saving her child.

  * * *

  She slid her phone into a pocket. Then, tightening her grip on the bolt cutters, the image of Harper’s frightened face seared into her brain, Rachel fought her rising panic. She couldn’t go there. Not now. There was time for breaking down later if she had to, but for now, she had to get past a fear that, in the past, had been paralyzing, a fear that had toyed with the edges of her sanity.

  Move, Rachel. Find Harper. You can do this. She needs you!

  A quarter moon had risen, stars flickering in the night sky, the single security lamp offering weak light. The river, ever moving, stretched dark and wide with only a few lights visible on the other side of the expanse on the southern shore of Washington State.

  The land around the old building was as uneven as or worse than it had been twenty years before, and the huge barn door that she’d slipped through on that fateful night was slightly agape, a sliver of an opening visible.

  And the blood was visible: dark splotches on the ground.

  You can do this.

  She inched her way through the opening and immediately the smell of the moldering cannery hit her, that brackish scent that hinted at dead sea life, and took her back to a time when pellet guns popped, kids laughed and screamed, and death was just around the next corner.

  A million memories flooded through her brain. Lila, Violet, Nate, Reva, and Luke, the ringleader, her half brother, the heartthrob to all her friends other than Mercy. It was a lifetime ago. But it felt like yesterday.