Jeb might never have been framed by Sheila Copeland LeFleur.
Crime, Annie had learned over the years, was never so clean-cut and simple as television or books might have one believe. Motivation, human motivation, was far slipperier, trickier. Messy. There were not many premeditating hunter-type killers like Clint Rudiger out there. Not in her repertoire, anyway. And what always interested Annie were the spider threads of connection between the crime and the families and friends of the criminal. The fallout. The insidious collateral damage done when everyday life, ordinary people, were suddenly thrust into the intersection of an investigation. Those women, their kids, this town. All had been affected by that one night.
Her kettle whistled. Annie jumped, took it off the stove. She poured water over a tea bag and took her mug with the bag still in it to the table.
She reseated herself and continued reading.
Lily, Adam’s wife, had left town. It didn’t say so in the paper, but it was obvious that she’d learned of her husband’s affair with Brandy Jones. Adam might have died a hero in some people’s eyes, but not in Lily LeFleur’s. She’d packed up her bags and taken her sons.
Beppie Rudiger had given a full statement. The techs had been able to pull a lot from the recording she had made, and it jibed with her account, and with Jeb’s.
The poor guy. Imprisoned like that all these years.
Beppie herself was not being charged for anything, especially because she was cooperating now. The river had been dragged below the gorge but no body had been found. Clint Rudiger was probably wedged under a rock, or being held down by the force of the waterfall. They might not find his remains until years down the road, although they would try dredging again in the spring, once the snows went and ice melted. It niggled Annie, this. She was all about closure.
She reached for her mug, sipped her tea, turned the page.
Levi had been taken into custody in West Vancouver. Zink had been picked up trying to cross into the States at the Peace Arch crossing. Banrock was lawyering his son up, but the old man Rock was being uncharacteristically quiet, keeping a low, low profile. He was a fighter, though. He’d come through this personally intact. As for Levi, Annie figured he’d go down hard, thanks to Beppie. Zink was going to have an even rougher time of it because Levi, at least, had tried to stop them at one point. They’d really hammer Zink, especially in the absence of Clint, and given the fact he had been trying to flee the country.
Annie reached up behind her neck and undid the chain she was wearing. Threaded onto the chain was Claudette’s ring.
She turned the ring slowly over her fingers as she listened to the sound of sleigh bells outside. Apart from this ring—which they’d let her keep after logging and examining it—investigators had so far found no other evidence that Clint Rudiger had been involved in the disappearance of Claudette and her husband, Jean Lepine.
From the trinkets and other evidence in the bag that Beppie had given them, it looked as though Clint was responsible for at least nine other missing women. A massive joint forensics investigation on a par with the investigation into Robert Pickton, the notorious pig farmer and sexual predator from the Lower Mainland, had been launched by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and several other agencies. The SCPD had been sidelined on this one, though, because of local police “corruption” involving the Merilee Zukanov case. Mackin was not a happy camper there.
Merilee Zukanov’s body had been located down the mine shaft, and the investigation team was opening up other cold cases and looking into unsolved reports of missing women around BC, Alberta, and the Yukon, where Clint used to hunt. They’d begun excavating the Rudiger property, starting under Clint’s shed. DNA analysis on the contents of his freezer was also under way. Already, the press was reporting that DNA from three different women had been found in his freezer. Only very small amounts, and it had been on other meat. So far no human parts had been found. The DNA could have come from cross-contamination with a knife.
Annie inhaled deeply. It would be Christmas soon. And when the snows melted in the spring, she was going to try and organize a search party of her own to go up into the mountains. She was not going to give up on Claudette.
Claudette had never given up on her.
Annie would find her sister yet. She was closer to learning the truth; she’d done okay so far. She’d applied for her detective exam, and she had hope a promotion would follow all this.
Feeling a little stab of loneliness, she turned to build a fire. Thinking of Christmas usually did that to her. Maybe she should go down to that shelter and adopt a cat or something.
Maybe she should take up that invite from Rachel and Jeb to dinner.
A knock sounded on her door. Startled, Annie stilled. No one knocked on her door. The rapping sounded again. She went to open it. Snow flurried inside.
“Hey,” Novak said, stomping his boots in the snow. “I was just heading down to the village to meet with the guys and do a little tribute thing for LeFleur. Nonofficial like, since . . . you know.” He shrugged. “Just thought you might want to come along. Rescue One guys will be there, too.”
“Tribute?”
“Excuse to get shitfaced.” He looked awkward. Then again, the asshole always looked awkward. “They’re also going to talk about starting a fundraiser for Trey Somerland. For his medical shit and stuff. Maybe . . . I dunno, just getting together and putting some peace to all this.”
“I was just going to light a fire.”
“Sure, okay.” He turned to go, but hesitated. “Brad Nicks, one of the Rescue One guys, asked if you might want to come along.”
“Why couldn’t he ask me himself?”
Novak shrugged. “Yeah, well, I thought you wouldn’t want to go.” He stomped away, down the path in the snow.
Annie wavered, then yelled, “Wait! I’ll get my coat.”
I push open the door.
Trey is propped up against white pillows, looking pale and gaunt.
“Hey,” I say, placing a basket of fruit and cookies on the table near his bed. “You’re doing better, I hear. Much better than expected.” I take a seat next to his bed. “You’ll be back at the helm of Rescue One in no time.”
He snorted softly. “At least I’m out of the coma, huh? Baby steps.”
I moisten my lips, compassion mushrooming through me. It’s been a hellish and long road for him. After several surgeries he developed a severe infection and slipped into a coma, but Trey is a fighter. He’s pulling through. This is the first time I’ve been able to actually speak to him.
I smile.
His face sobers.
“I want to thank you for calling me,” I say. “For letting us know that Clint was going to blow up the evidence. I think you saved Beppie’s life, too, by doing that. Because I wouldn’t have called Constable Pirello, and Beppie would never have gotten that confession of Clint’s on tape.”
He’s quiet for a long while, watching me. I feel a pang of affection for him still. We go back a long way. I hope he will find the right person in his life. I feel guilt about him, too.
“I was wrong about Jeb,” he says finally as he reaches for a glass of water. He takes a sip, struggles to replace the glass. I restrain myself from jumping in and doing it for him. I know Trey. He’ll be wanting to do these things himself now.
“I was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. “It’s tough to swallow something like this, to think about the mistakes we make and how deeply those mistakes can affect another person’s life.”
“We were all wrong about a lot of things.” I cover his hand with mine.
“Is he here?”
“Jeb? Yeah. Outside.”
“I want to speak to him.”
“You sure?”
He nods.
I call Jeb. We enter together. Trey looks nervous, Jeb looks antsy. I feel guilt agai
n. These two are nemeses, have been since school. And I’ve been an issue between them.
He looks at Jeb. “I’m sorry,” he says simply.
Jeb clears his throat. “Yeah, well. Thank you for calling us, about Clint. Jesus, you paid big-time, confronting him like that.”
Trey glances at me, a sadness entering his glacial eyes. “Yeah, we all paid in a way for Clint’s shit.”
When do things begin and end . . . has the last ripple finally lapped against the shore . . .
Trey inhales deeply. “Look, I know I’m not exactly in a fighting-fit position to say this, yet, but I have every intention of getting back to the helm of Rescue One. And I sure could use a member with the mad man-tracking skills you once had, if you’re up for it, and some more training. It’s pretty intense.”
Jeb stiffens. I can see he’s shocked. And leery. But he’s covering it up well. He stares at Trey in silence for several beats. Trey holds his gaze steadily.
“The other guys?”
“They’re on board.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Jeb says. “Thanks. I . . . um, I got to go move the truck, parked in a no-park zone. Talk later?”
“For sure.”
“See you outside?” Jeb says, touching my arm. I nod.
Jeb leaves fast. I know it’s because he can’t hide his emotion much longer. Jeb is being accepted again, he’s being welcomed into an inner circle that he’s been excluded from most of his life. Snowy Creek is, for the first time, opening its arms wide to Jebbediah Cullen. After all these years.
I lean forward and kiss Trey lightly on the cheek. “You’re a damn fine dude, you know that, Somerland?”
“You ain’t too shabby yourself, Salonen. I hope we see you back on the team more too now.”
“Yeah,” I say. And I’m in the mood for skiing again, for getting my ski legs back. And even though I’ll never have the same skill again, I yearn to feel that winter wind in my hair, the mountain falling away beneath my feet. And it strikes me that something inside me has been set free, too.
I go out to the truck. Jeb is waiting in the snow.
We drive in silence to fetch Quinn from school, where she is rehearsing for the upcoming Christmas play next month.
As we pull in to the elementary school parking lot, he stops the trucks and says, “I want to get married.”
My jaw drops. I recover, laugh. “And this is your idea of romance? Proposing here, in the school lot like this?”
“Actually,” he says, turning in the seat to face me, taking my gloved hands in his, “I meant to propose a long, long time ago. But I had a few obstacles in the way.”
Something inside me sobers. I feel nervous. Thrilled. Unsure. Overwhelmed by what we’ve all come through.
He glances at the squat, square school. The snow. The Canadian flag. The kids like bright jelly beans in their snowsuits, rolling around the kindergarten playground.
“Besides,” he says with a slow, sexy smile that darkens his eyes with promise and mystery, “this is where I first met you, this school. You were my first friend.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lips. “My best friend.” He leans forward, kisses me, and I melt into him. The truck windows mist as snow quickly covers the windshield. Tears fill my eyes.
First love.
It’s powerful. It’s impossible to forget. I feel we’ve come full circle, and I’ve never been happier, so happy my heart hurts.
December. Christmas Day.
I’m on the lakeshore, near the dock. My down jacket is warm. Snow is falling: those fat, perfect flakes you can catch on your mitt and see the shape of the crystals. The air is still. Icy cold.
I know it sounds odd, but I’ve come down here because this is where I feel them. Here, looking out over this water with the snow-draped mountains soaring up into the clouds on the other side, I feel the presence, or spirit, or whatever you want to call it—memories even—of my father and grandfather. And now Sophia, too.
In my heart I offer thanks. And Christmas blessings. I want them to know, to feel, how complete I am now. I want them to understand how I’ve come home, become myself, become whole, in a way that I never dreamed possible after that terrible, fateful night.
Jeb has his daughter now. And I have them both. We’re a family. Jeb and I plan to marry early next summer. He’s organizing his new business and will reopen the Wolf River rafting and guiding operation. He’s going to hire a manager to live out at the new lodge once he’s built it. Jeb has money saved. He’s a natural entrepreneur, and his energy has been infectious. He had time enough in prison to get a degree in criminal justice, specializing in restorative justice. Already he’s started volunteering with the First Nations group in the next valley. His goal is to be in a position to stop kids with backgrounds like his own from getting into trouble, from being forced to wear a negative label. He explained to me how restorative justice is not about punishment. It’s about understanding the crime, the victims, the damage done. It’s about the community coming together, and it’s about restitution, forgiveness.
Forgiveness is what I needed for betraying his secret. He has given me that. And I have told him that he needs to forgive himself for what happened with his father. The town, in many individual ways, has also asked for forgiveness from Jeb. Sometimes with an anonymous gift left outside our door. Sometimes with a touch of a hand in the supermarket. Sometimes an invitation to join a group. Other times with a direct request: Can you ever forgive me?
Where do things end, and where do they begin . . .
I still don’t know the answer to that, but because of that terrible event nine years ago, the three of us have come together as a family.
After the “Missing Girls” case, many more women lost their lives. I hope Annie finds her sister. I lift my face to the swirling flakes and almost smile. Annie Pirello—I disliked her on sight. Now we’re almost friends.
“Hey.”
He’s behind me, wrapping his arms around me, kissing my neck. I laugh. He smells, feels, so good.
“The kitchen buzzer went,” he says. “Turkey is done. Quinn has finished making the cranberry sauce and icing the cookies. We’re kinda stuck without you now.”
I smile.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he whispers, then turns me around and he holds my face, kisses me on the mouth. My hands slide into his jacket, into his warmth.
“I love you, Jeb.”
“I know,” he murmurs over my lips. “And I have always loved you. It’s written.”
“Oh, really? And where is this written?”
He laughs, the sound deep and masculine. “My mother would say it’s written in the rings of trees, in the patterns of leaves, and in the sound of water.” He takes my hand. “But why should it matter where it’s written? Come, we’re hungry.”
Wind gusts and the flakes swirl. We walk up to our home, the Christmas tree lights glowing inside. I still haven’t bought blinds. Trixie comes waddling down through the snow toward us. I reach down, ruffle her fur, and I’m glad she was locked in my truck and couldn’t run away with all the noise of helicopter and sirens scaring her. She was sitting there safely, if thirsty, when we came home after our night in the ice cave.
As we slide open the door, Quinn jumps off her stool. “I finished the icing, look!” She runs over, holds out the tray.
She’s made Christmas angel cookies with silver beads for eyes.
“Our first Christmas,” I whisper, staring at the angels.
“One of many,” says Jeb.
And I know we’ve all finally come home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Bringing a book to life is rarely a solitary endeavor and more often the combined effort of a small community. A heartfelt thank-you to Deborah Nemeth for her early editorial insight and for the galvanizing encouragement. Thank you also to those readers who took prec
ious time to post reviews during what I shall call a “soft launch.” You guys make more of a difference than you can know. Much gratitude to my dear writing friend, Alison Kent, aka Mica Stone, for helping bring this story to the attention of Montlake Romance. To JoVon Sotak for reading the book and extending an offer of partnership. To Lindsay Guzzardo and Deb Taber for the editorial polishing. To the Amazon Publishing teams behind the scenes who made my book look wonderful and who helped put it into the hands of readers. Thank you Toni Anderson and Olivia Gates for kicking my butt on this project when I needed it most. To Roxy Beswetherick and Nell White for the beta reads—you are both my harshest and most valued critics, and you keep that bar raised. And as always, much love and gratitude to my husband, Paul Beswetherick, for his unquestioning and continued support. Of course, I’d be remiss not to mention my hairy muse—the Black Beast who never ceases to remind me how to live purely in the moment—aka Hudson. It wouldn’t have happened without you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Paul Beswetherick
Loreth Anne White is a multipublished author of award-winning romantic suspense, thriller, and mystery. A double RITA finalist, she has won the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Romantic Suspense, is a double Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award finalist, a double Daphne Du Maurier finalist, and a multiple CataRomance Reviewers’ choice winner.
Lorethhails from South Africa but now lives with her family in a ski resort in the moody Coast mountain range of North America’s Pacific Northwest. It’s a place of vast, wild, and often dangerous mountains, larger-than-life characters, epic adventure, and romance—the perfect place to escape reality.It’s no wonder it was here thatshe was inspired to abandon her sixteen-year newspaper career to escape into a world of romantic fiction filled with dangerous men and adventurous women.
The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) Page 39