Nowhere Safe

by Bush, Nancy

  Back inside the house, she finished rubbing off any sign that she’d ever been there, then she picked up the pencil Mr. Blue had left beside the note and wrote: Thank you.

  Taking the pencil and plastic container of wet wipes with her, she then drove through the early dawn to a gas station to refuel first, then back to Ugh’s house, parking in one of her usual spots. She was going to have to find a new home base. Some No-Tell Motel where the manager wouldn’t blink when she paid in cash. A place, in fact, that might actually prefer cash to a credit card. A place where no questions were asked.

  She watched the end of the driveway, her mind wandering. After a while, she decided to walk along the neighbor’s hedge again and see if she could get a closer view of what was going on. Ugh would probably be getting ready for work and—

  Her attention suddenly snapped back as the nose of the black Lexus appeared at the end of the drive. The car pulled out with Ugh at the wheel and his roommate sitting in the passenger seat. Lucky turned over the ignition and followed, keeping far back from the vehicle. By the time they’d crossed the Willamette River and were heading east on I-84 she’d decided they must be heading to the airport. Maybe the girlfriend was going on another trip?

  Fifteen minutes later her suspicion was answered in the affirmative when they turned onto Airport Way. She followed the Lexus onto the upper level drop-off zone. When Ugh squeezed the Lexus to the curb in front of the United counter, she drove on by, pulling over at the far southern end, slipping into a spot in front of Alaska Airlines and hoping she wouldn’t be hassled by the airport traffic cops.

  Luckily, Ugh’s drop-off was fairly quick. In only minutes the Lexus slipped past her and headed back down to Airport Way eastbound. She followed at a discreet distance as he took the curving ramp to 205, figuring he was now on his way to Twin Oaks and, apart from his quick jog into a Starbucks drive-through, that’s exactly what he did.

  So, the wife, or girlfriend, or whoever she was, was on a trip.

  Maybe it was time to make his acquaintance, and, on the heels of that thought, wondered just how young she could make herself look.

  September had planned to be at work early but could barely make it out of bed by eight-thirty and only then because her cell phone forced her up. Yesterday had been horrendous. The bug had gotten her down and just wouldn’t release its grip on her. This morning her headache was gone, but she still felt achy and stiff and uncoordinated, as if her limbs were reluctant to respond to the messages her brain was sending them.

  It hadn’t helped that Marilyn Cheever had been half out of her mind with grief, alternately apologizing for what had happened to Jake and almost blaming him for her daughter’s death, praising him for all the hours he spent trying to help her get better and railing at him for failing at the task. September had listened without saying anything; she’d had to tune it out to keep from saying hurtful things back. Her eyes kept turning away from Marilyn and back to Jake, taking in his bandaged head, his growing beard, the closed eyes, the drip of the IV, his arm in its protective sling.

  At times she’d wanted to snap at Marilyn Cheever for her unfairness, but she’d held herself back. And truthfully, she’d also been just too damn tired and sick with worry to engage her, so she’d let Loni’s mother do her worst and simply said nothing.

  Eventually, the woman had taken in a last deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes.

  Then September turned all her attention to Jake and just ignored her. She still didn’t want to get too physically close to him. She didn’t want to risk infecting him with the virus, but at least she could look at him from across the room. She’d let herself wonder when the surgery on his arm was scheduled, but she couldn’t think about his head injury and what that might mean.

  She’d left his room about an hour after she’d entered it, and Marilyn had roused herself and followed September out of the room as well.

  “I’m sorry, too,” September told her at the elevator and she’d nodded, accepting September’s words, though Marilyn could have just as easily launched into another diatribe about Jake, his relationship with September, and what that had done to her daughter.

  She’d driven home and fallen into the bed she shared with Jake, pressing her face into the pillow, drinking in his scent. In the darkness she’d completely broken down, feeling the soft scratch of the pillow against her cheek, recalling how it felt to be wrapped in his arms, remembering the way his mouth curved in amusement at things she said, the sweep of his lashes, the feel of his lips.

  She’d awakened slowly, not wanting to leave the bed as dawn stretched its gray fingers across the room. Then her cell phone rang by her ear and she reluctantly plucked it from the nightstand to hear July’s voice asking her how she was doing.

  “Fine,” she’d told her, seeking to get off the phone as quickly as possible, but not before July extracted a promise from her that they would go to Stefan’s memorial service together.

  Just what she wanted to do.

  Now she wheeled into the station’s back parking lot and entered the building through the side door, which was generally unlocked during the daylight hours. She could hear the babble of voices, hushed through the walls, and the sound of the furnace and the squeak of desk chairs as she entered. The place sounded as if it were almost back to capacity, and as if to prove her right, she rounded the corner into the squad room and there was George, still a bit peaked, back at his desk.

  She set her fears aside with an effort and said, “You look like you’ve lost a few pounds.”

  “Well, I should. Couldn’t keep anything down till last night.” A small, opened bag of Fritos sat by his left hand, and he reached into it without looking up from his computer, placing several chips in his mouth.

  Blake Maharis was already at Gretchen’s desk, talking on the phone, and September fought back a wave of annoyance. She liked Maharis. But she didn’t like the way he usurped her partner’s desk. Auggie might have left, but Gretchen was coming back.

  “Where’s Wes?” she asked.

  “Break room,” George said. “He got here just before you did. I was early.”

  That’s a first, September thought.

  Wes appeared at that moment, looking loads better than the day before. “I left a message on the Tiny Tots Care voice mail last night and got a call back from Mrs. Linda Vasquez this morning.”

  “What’d she say?” September asked.

  “Well, she didn’t say she moved because of Christopher Ballonni. Said it was because of a lot of other things: her husband’s job, the cost of the Laurelton rental, a chance for a lease option, like that. But she did remember Ballonni. And yeah, she thought he was a little too friendly, but her day-care kids were always in the back if they were outside, on the equipment. Not in the front by the mailbox.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “We might take a trip to Tiny Tots Care,” he said. “She was distracted when we talked. People dropping off their kids. Maybe she’ll say more if we’re actually there.”

  “All right.”

  Maharis looked over at her. “Jilly still hasn’t shown up.”

  “No calls from her picture?” she asked.

  “Not so far. I talked to Thomas and he’s finally worried.”

  “What a guy. Did you connect with her other boyfriends?”

  “One of them was out of town last Thursday. I checked and he’s telling the truth. The other one finally answered his phone. When I mentioned Jilly’s name, he was kind of rude about her, but in an affectionate way.”

  “How do you do that?” September asked coolly.

  “Said ‘my little slut’ and stuff.” Maharis was slightly embarrassed. “He said he hasn’t seen her since before Thursday, though.”

  September nodded, her lips tight. She didn’t really want to talk to Maharis anymore and it must have shown on her face, because he protested, “Hey, I’m not trying to be an asshole, here.”

  “Try harder,” September suggested,
and out of the corner of her eye she saw Wes fight a smile and turn away so that Maharis wouldn’t see him.

  “What about that older guy who was interested in her?” Maharis asked now, a bit belligerently.

  “I haven’t got to him yet, so check with some other bars. See if he’s been trolling for young girls elsewhere,” September suggested. “Gulliver’s probably isn’t the only place.”

  He nodded curtly and turned back to Gretchen’s desk.

  September looked over at Wes, who was on the phone. He caught her eye and held up a finger. A few minutes later he hung up and said, “If we get to Tiny Tots around four, some of the kids’ll be gone.”

  “Isn’t Tiny Tots the name of a brand of sardines?” George put in.

  September turned her attention back to him, thinking his weight loss might be very short-lived. “I’m going out for a while,” she said.

  “Where to?” George asked, and September could see Maharis cock his head, listening for her answer as well.

  “Gotta talk to my brother about something,” she said.

  “I heard he’s moved to Portland PD full time,” George said.

  September didn’t bother to answer. For one thing, she wasn’t interested in talking about Auggie right now. She was still wrapping her head around the fact he was leaving and she didn’t feel like sharing. Yes, she knew Auggie found the work more fulfilling in the larger arena, and she also knew she would slowly forgive him. She just didn’t feel like sharing that with the others yet. He was her twin, and he was there for her when she needed him and she would get over feeling left behind.

  But the other reason she hadn’t responded to George’s comment was because she hadn’t meant that brother. Where she was going was Castle Rafferty to talk to March, her oldest brother. March was as stiff and remote as Auggie was accessible. She was planning to broach a delicate subject with him, one she had no earthly idea how to go about—their ex-stepbrother’s suspected pedophilia and the long periods of time he’d been in close contact with March’s daughter, Evie. And it wasn’t going to be easy.

  The Creekside Inn was located near a culvert that had a dirty stream of water moving behind it, runoff from I-5 mainly, which, Lucky supposed, in the widest sense could be considered a creek. It rented rooms by the day, week, or month, and that was all she cared about. She wore a sloppy shirt and her loosest jeans, unlaced shoes that she could clomp in, her hair in a low, untidy ponytail with strands falling around her face, and a pair of big, round sunglasses. She’d specifically adopted a vacant look, dropping her mouth open a little, when she asked the day manager—a young man still fighting acne—for a room for a week. He was reading an erotic novel that he slid under the counter when she walked in, and he was apparently so distracted by it that he took in her sloppiness in a glance and simply had her fill out a form. Paying with cash in advance didn’t phase him, either. As she headed to the car for her bag, he was already back deep into the book.

  She had several bags but she only hauled in the one that held most of her clothes and makeup, and the box Mr. Blue had given her, which she hid in the back of the motel room’s closet. Ugh’s partner was out of town and it was unlikely she would be back this evening, which meant he was footloose and fancy free. She’d bet her last dime that he would take advantage of the time alone and pick up a date for the evening. And she would be there to make sure the date was of legal age.

  Beyond that, Lucky had a plan forming for Ulysses Graham Harding. With Mr. Blue’s help once again, she would neutralize him once and for all.

  The pseudo Bavarian-style rambling mansion where September had grown up, Castle Rafferty lay under a slate gray sky looking blank and foreboding. As a result of the fire, the siding was still missing around newly installed garage doors, and September could hear hammering as she climbed from the Pilot, which she’d parked on the wide apron in front of the house next to Verna’s car.

  She rang the bell and listened to it peal sonorously through the house at the same time she tried the door. Locked. A few minutes later it was opened by Rosamund, the lady of the house herself, looking ever more pregnant and a little flushed.

  “September.” It wasn’t exactly a big welcome and September guessed her current stepmother blamed her, as well as Auggie, for foisting Verna on them.

  “Is March here?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. He and your father have some meeting in Portland. But Verna’s here,” she said with false gaiety. “Maybe you’d like to pay her a visit. Oh, and Evie’s here, too. But steer clear of her. She’s sick. She’s in the corner bedroom, vomiting, I believe. I told Braden that if I get that thing, I’m divorcing him. You’d think her mother could do something for her, but her days with Evie are set in stone, apparently. March has to take care of her on his days, whether she’s sick or not.” She smiled tightly. “That’s not the kind of mother I’m going to be.”

  She’d stepped back from the door a little as she delivered this speech but still September had to practically bully her way inside. She hadn’t expected to see Evie herself and it was an opportunity she was going to take regardless of Rosamund, who, with her shining dark hair and imperious ways, looked surprisingly beautiful in her last trimester.

  The hammering, which had briefly stopped, started up again, coming from the kitchen area. Rosamund threw a dark look at the closed door behind which work was clearly being done. “The cabinets. Finally. The noise is about to drive me insane!” She turned back to September, narrowing her eyes, as if recognizing she’d wormed her way inside. “What do you want with March?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait. I think I’ll check on Evie and then I’ll go.”

  “But I just warned you!”

  “I know.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Then take her some dry toast. Suma was supposed to be here by now, but she’s late, and I’m not going near Evie.” She bypassed the kitchen and turned to the butler’s pantry where a toaster and microwave sat on a granite shelf. Two pieces of wheat toast were sitting in the toaster. Pulling out a plate from the overhead cabinet, Rosamund plucked out both pieces of toast, plopped them down, then thrust the plate at September.

  Verna appeared at that moment, looking frail and beaten down. She placed a hand on the wall separating the living room from the dining room. “September,” she said in a dry whisper, as if all the energy had been drained out of her. “Will I see you at the memorial service tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there with July,” she said, feeling awkward. She had no idea how to deal with Stefan’s broken mother, especially with what she suspected about her son.

  Verna nodded and Rosamund said to her stiffly, “Did you want something, Verna?”

  As September carried the plate down the long hallway that led to the bedrooms, she heard Verna respond with a bit of her old spunk, “I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you, dear. Unless there was some coffee made . . . or maybe some of that toast . . . ?”

  The room Evie was in lay at the farthest corner of the house. September hesitated outside the door, knowing she should really talk to her brother first, completely aware she wasn’t going to. March was difficult at the best of times. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. Her brother always said no first, no matter what the issue, and she didn’t think she could stand that right now.

  Raising her hand, she knocked lightly on the solid core walnut door. “Evie? It’s September. I have some toast for you.”

  “Come on in,” was the muffled reply.

  Twisting the knob, she let herself into the darkened room, the only light coming from a small gap at the base of the blinds, though the gloom of the day didn’t penetrate much of the cavernous room. On the bed, Evie was working herself into a sitting position as September entered. A glass of water sat on the nightstand and she reached for it, allowing September to set down the plate of toast.

  “I don’t feel hungry,” the girl admitted.

  “Rosamund said you’ve been throwing up.”

  “Onl
y all the time.” She made room for the glass next to the plate, then sank back into the bed, her blond tresses fanning out on the pillow. “Rosamund doesn’t want to come in here because of the baby.”

  “She’s not wrong. I just got over what you’ve got. It takes a few days.”

  “It takes forever!”

  “Feels like it . . .” She drew a breath. “Evie, I don’t really want to bother you when you’re sick. I came here today to talk to your dad, actually, but he’s not here and this has to do with you, too.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Uncle Stefan.”

  She jerked with surprise and then her gaze dropped to the coverlet. “They said some lady killed him.”

  “It looks that way,” September agreed, trying to think how to go on.

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out.”

  She looked up. “Was she mad at him?”

  “Maybe. We don’t know her reasons yet. That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you. You were around him a lot when he lived here, and I think maybe he took care of you once or twice?”

  A long moment passed, and then she said, “You want to know if he was weird with me.”

  “Umm . . . yes.”

  “He took pictures of me in the bathtub,” she said. “He tried to act like he didn’t, but I saw him. And he was always trying to touch me. I mean, sort of. Like get up behind me when I went into a room, touch my arm and head. I told my dad about it, but he said I was just making things up.”

  September fought back her own horror. “Did you tell your mom?”

  She shook her head. “She might not have let me see my dad anymore, and then I couldn’t have come over here.”

  “If that kind of thing happens, ever again, you need to tell someone.”

  “I just wanted to stay out of his way,” she admitted.

  “I understand. But you need to tell someone. That’s the thing. It needs to not be secret. You should tell your parents.”

  “I can talk to my mom, I guess. . . .”