Fugitive

by Shirlee McCoy

  “The way that you’re talking, I’d say that I didn’t miss out on much.”

  “You didn’t miss out on anything. Josiah was Green Bluff’s golden son. On the surface, he was a philanthropist, a savvy business man and a strong Christian. He used his reputation to swindle the government and to manipulate the system. He also used it to hide at least one murder.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “Yeah. When the people of Green Bluff realized the truth, they turned their backs on him.”

  “Sounds like you know a lot about the guy.”

  “I lived with his family for five years, and I was the one who made sure that he paid for his crimes.”

  “You think he might be behind what’s happening to you?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What about his wife?”

  Good question. Logan had always thought of Mildred as a follower, a woman who’d gone along with her husband’s schemes because he’d been stronger than she was, his personality overshadowing hers. She had been spiteful, though. The handprints on Laney’s cheeks had always been hers. The scratch marks on Laney’s arms, the bruises from pinching fingers always Mildred’s.

  “She went to jail for a couple of years. While she was there, she divorced her husband. That’s about all I know.”

  “Maybe it’s time to learn more.”

  “Maybe. Thanks for the lift, Osborne. Give Catherine my best.”

  “I’ll be back in town Monday.”

  “It would be better if you weren’t.” He got out of the truck.

  “Hold on a second. Catherine packed these for you.” Darius thrust two bags into Logan’s hands and dropped a backpack on top of them.

  “Tell her thanks.” He hurried to the front door. Locked. A lifetime ago there’d been a key under the welcome mat, but the mat was gone.

  “You think you can get in?” Darius called.

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe I’d better stick around until you do.”

  Logan nodded, looking up at the attic window. He’d removed the lock on it himself his very first night in the house, making sure he had easy access in and out because he’d hated being locked up. He still hated it.

  It took a while to make it up through the thick pine boughs, but he managed, his arms burning and his chest heaving as he opened the attic window and dropped into the room beyond. Dark and dank and cold. Just like it had been the first night he’d slept there. He wouldn’t let the memories control him, though. He ran down the attic steps and through the empty house, his feet pounding on old wood, the darkness edging in, reminding him of the years he’d spent creeping around the place.

  He opened the front door, cold air blowing in and chasing away the memories.

  “You sure you want to stay here?” Darius thrust the bags into his hands again.

  “For now.”

  Darius gave a curt nod and jogged back to the truck.

  Logan didn’t watch him drive away, didn’t second-guess his decision to come back to the house that he’d once wanted to burn to the ground. He just needed a few days to think up a plan, to make a list of suspects, to try to find some order in the chaos that his life had become. The house he’d hated would provide that.

  Sometimes, the worse things we’ve ever lived through make us the best people we could ever hope to be.

  Amanda had said that after her fifth miscarriage, her face streaked with tears as she’d told Logan that she’d wanted to adopt.

  He’d held her, wiped the tears from her cheeks and told her that they could adopt a dozen children and fill their house with laughter and family.

  She’d died two months later, her life slipping away as he’d tried desperately to save it. He’d failed her and himself.

  He walked into the kitchen and scrounged through the drawers until he found the key ring with the spare keys. Josiah Mackey had loved cars, and he’d kept dozens of them out in the old barn. Maybe Logan could get one of them started. Having transportation would offer options, giving him a way to run if he needed to.

  For now, all he wanted to do was curl up under a blanket and sleep. He carried the bags and backpack up to the attic and lay down on the old cot that he’d spent five years sleeping on. He could have used one of the guest bedrooms or even the Mackeys’ or Laney’s, but he’d have a better chance of escaping from the attic if someone entered the house looking for him.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to.

  Not for a while, anyway, because right now, all he felt capable of was sleep.

  * * *

  The farmhouse looked the way Laney remembered it.

  White clapboard siding. Black shutters. Doublewide stairs leading to a wraparound porch. Everything just a little older than when she’d lived there. A little dingier. Time hadn’t spared the old Mackey place, and she was glad. The place had no magical powers. It was just a house that should have been a happy place to grow up.

  She stood in the snow-covered yard, calf deep in fresh powder. Three days of pacing her Seattle brownstone, and she’d finally decided to go with her original plan. She’d flown from Seattle to Spokane International Airport, rented a car and driven toward her old home, the key that her father’s attorney had sent her a month ago heavy in the pocket of her jeans. Hopefully, Christopher Banks had also had the electricity turned on. She didn’t want to spend the night in a dark, cold house.

  She dragged her suitcase from the back of the rental car and made her way up the porch stairs. Her hand shook as she pulled the key from her pocket.

  So many years, and she’d never had any desire to return. Even now she wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  She unlocked the door and stepped into the oversize foyer. Her great-great grandfather had built the house from the fortune he’d made. He’d chosen prime land on the Spokane River, had planted extensive orchards and made another fortune shipping apples all over the country.

  Laney had heard the story a thousand times, and she’d always hated it because it had tied her family to property at the edge of a town that thought the sun rose and set on the Mackeys. More than a hundred years of charitable contributions, a church paid for and built, a youth center founded in the 1970s—all because of Laney’s family. Anyone watching from the outside believed that charity and love were part of the Mackeys’ genetic makeup. That faith had built a family so vital and strong that its power spilled into the community and the people who lived there.

  Smoke and mirrors.

  Laney knew every trick.

  She shuddered, leaving her suitcase in the dust-coated foyer and walking into the living room. She flicked on the light, relieved to see that Christopher had done as he’d promised and had the electricity turned on.

  Someone had covered her mother’s prized white couch and love seat in plastic. Still not a mark on the fabric. The antique tables and lamps were coated with dust, but the place hadn’t been vandalized or looted. Laney wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed about that.

  She ran a finger over the fireplace mantel. From the time she’d been old enough to stand on a chair, she’d been responsible for dusting the wood and wiping down the Victorian tiles. She’d never minded the job. Loving the old house had been bred into her. What she’d hated was what came after. No completed job was ever good enough. No chore ever ended without harsh words or harsher punishment. Whatever her great-great grandfather’s legacy of faith and giving, it had been lost in translation over the decades. Now there was nothing left of it.

  Her throat tightened on the thought, her heart beating a hard, rough rhythm. If things had been different, she’d have stayed in Green Bluff, married there and raised her children in the family home.

  Instead, she’d sell everything that the Mackeys had stood for. The house, the land, the history behind it all. Sh
e’d go back to Seattle and do the same with the house that William had so lovingly restored—his legacy to the children they’d planned to have together. Now it would be someone else’s legacy. She’d already made up her mind about it. She had known when she’d left the hotel and driven west that she’d call the Realtor and sign the papers to list the brownstone. As much as she loved the place, it wasn’t the same without William in it.

  The wood creaked as she walked up the curved staircase, another hint at time passing without any attention or care being given to the old place. Her mother had hated creaky floors and musty smells. She’d seen none of the beauty and craftsmanship of the old house. She’d wanted new and modern. Only the thought of the community’s reaction if the Mackey house were razed to the ground had kept Mildred from insisting that the place be torn down and built again.

  Laney ran her palm along the wooden handrail that had been carved by local artisans long before her parents had been born.

  Christopher had been right. Tearing the place down because of the things that had happened in it made no sense. Someone would love the place into happiness and, maybe eventually, the place would be what it had been in her great-great grandfather’s time.

  A soft thump sounded from somewhere above, and she froze, her foot on the landing, her heart pounding wildly. There was nothing up there but the attic and the little room where foster kids had always stayed. One window, a rollaway cot, a closet without a door. Frigid in the winter and scorching in the summer. Dark in the deepest part of the night.

  Laney had spent time in the attic.

  Too much time in the overcrowded storage room, sitting in the antique tall-backed chair.

  You move a muscle and I’ll make you pay. You hear me?

  Her mother’s voice, and Laney still heard it.

  She swallowed bile.

  Nothing there now. Just the house settling the way old houses did.

  Another thump and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she felt the past pressing in. Nothing good had happened in that house. Not in Laney’s lifetime.

  Except for Logan.

  There’d been no report on his recapture, and Officer Kane hadn’t mentioned him again. Was he okay? Had his friend brought him to safety?

  She wanted—needed—to know.

  Thump.

  Her heart skipped a beat, her blood cold with dread.

  Creak.

  The attic stairs. She knew the sound, having heard it thousands of times. After Logan had moved in, she’d listened for it, knowing that he was sneaking out of his room and coming to check on her.

  Are you okay? He’d whispered under the locked door, and she’d felt better just knowing he was there.

  She crept across the landing and stood at the attic door. Beyond it narrow stairs led up into the room that had once been maid quarters. Laney had only ever known it to be a place where kids disappeared. Troubled kids. Kids who had no one and nothing and who came to the Mackeys’ place to be loved and rehabilitated.

  Only there was no love in the house.

  She grabbed the old-fashioned glass doorknob, her palm slick with sweat despite the cold air that seeped under the door.

  Just open it, Laney. You’ll see there’s nothing but memories there.

  She yanked the door open, a scream wrenching from her throat as a dark shadow lunged out.

  SEVEN

  She slammed into the wall. No breath to scream again. Clawing at the black thing that pressed in, grabbed her arm and twisted it high against her back. Just a little tighter and it would snap.

  She stilled, cold with fear.

  Please, God. Please!

  She butted her head into a hard chin.

  No spirit or demon swooping in from the past. Someone.

  “Laney! Stop!” The growl vibrated against her ear and ruffled her hair.

  She stilled, her body responding even as her mind struggled to make sense of her name and the sudden gentleness of the hand smoothing down her arm, massaging away the pain.

  She felt sudden warmth where there’d been ice, and she jerked away and looked into Logan’s pale face and dark blue eyes. Her legs wobbled, her body weak with relief. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “It’s my house. I told you I had to clean it out and put it on the market.” She wanted to throw her arms around him, and that annoyed her. She’d spent years learning to be strong and independent. Even with William, she’d never allowed herself to completely rely on him. She’d maintained her career and made her own decisions about her life and how she wanted to live it. She’d loved him and all the dreams he’d represented, but she’d never allowed him to be her everything.

  “I thought we agreed that you’d stay in Seattle.”

  “We didn’t agree on anything.”

  “This isn’t good, Laney.” He ran a hand over his hair, the dark circles under his eyes speaking of sleepless nights, the pale cast to his skin alarming.

  “Are you sick?” She ignored his comment, reaching out to touch his forehead and his cheek.

  Logan grabbed Laney’s hand and pulled it away from his cheek. She shouldn’t be there. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she was.

  “I was sick. I’m better now,” he told her, his throat still raw from whatever bug had attacked him. He did feel better, though. About a million times better.

  “You don’t look better,” Laney responded, her eyes shadowed, her face a shade too pale.

  “You didn’t see me two days ago or you wouldn’t be saying that.”

  “Why don’t you lie down in one of the guest rooms? I’ll make you some tea. Have you eaten recently?”

  The words poured out of Laney, and Logan wanted to press a finger to her lips and seal them in. His head throbbed, his body weak from a fever that had finally broken that morning. “Ignoring what I said won’t change the truth of it.”

  “What?” She paused with her hand on the railing, her green eyes misty and wide, her hair a wild mass of curls around her face.

  “It’s not good that you’re here.”

  “This is where I’m supposed to be.” She hadn’t said that he was the one who didn’t belong, but he was pretty sure she meant it.

  “Okay, then. I’ll leave.”

  “Wait.” She grabbed his arm, her fingers curved around his biceps, her fingers warm against his skin. Heat speared through him, so sudden and unexpected that he took a step toward her.

  Her eyes widened, and she dropped his arm, obviously as surprised as Logan.

  “There’s no sense in you leaving now. No one knows you’re here.”

  “People know that you’re here, though.”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

  “You’ll have visitors. That’s the way this town is.”

  “And you’ll stay hidden in the attic or in one of the bedrooms until the visitor is gone.”

  “I think—”

  “How about we discuss it over some tea? I could really use a cup.” She jogged down the steps, and he let her go. If she wanted to make tea, fine, but she wasn’t going to convince him to stay.

  There were seven bedrooms in the house. He knew each one. Mildred and Josiah’s. Laney’s. The nursery converted into an office. The four guest rooms all decorated the same. Antique bed frames, oversize armoires. Everything coated in dust and grime.

  He walked into one of the rooms and sat on the bed, the history of the house alive around him. He’d spent the past three days steeped in memories of his childhood, of his time with the Mackey family, a raging fever bringing him to the edge of hallucinations. With it gone, he’d planned to tackle Josiah’s cars and see if he could get one of them star
ted so that he could get out of town.

  He had a woman to find.

  One he hadn’t seen in thirteen years.

  One who might very well be holding a grudge against him.

  Mildred Mackay.

  The name had been rolling around in his head since Darius had asked about Josiah’s wife.

  “Here you are.” Laney walked into the room carrying a big silver tray. A silver teapot sat in the center of it, two white porcelain mugs to either side. She set it down on the bed and handed Logan one of the cups.

  “I’m not much of a tea drinker.”

  “I put plenty of sugar in it. Of course, maybe you’ve outgrown your sweet tooth.”

  “Not even close.” He sipped the hot, sweet brew, letting it slide down his throat and warm his stomach.

  “Me neither.” She eyed him over the rim of her mug. “I guess I should ask you why you’re here. Of all the places in the country your friend could have brought you, this seems like the worst.”

  “I figured the best place to hide was right under the noses of the people who are looking for me.”

  “You are taking a big chance. If one person had noticed that someone was here, you’d already be back in jail.”

  “I haven’t even looked out a window. Besides, you know how lonely and isolated the farm is.”

  “I always thought it felt that way because of the things that happened in it. All the secrets that were forced on us. But I guess it is pretty far from everything.” She smiled, her full lips trembling. “Does it seem strange to you, being back here after so many years?”

  “A little. Maybe not as strange as it seems to you. I’ve seen the place a lot over the past decade. You haven’t.”

  “True. It’s in pretty good shape, all things considered.” She wiped dust from the elaborate headboard, her palm caressing satiny wood.

  “You should be able to get a good price for it.”

  She nodded and swallowed another sip of tea.

  “That’s not what you want?”

  “I think it is, but this is my legacy. My family has been steward of it for over a century. It’s a little harder than I thought it would be to think about ending that.”