by Lisa Jackson
Staggering to his feet, he stumbled into the shower, letting the hot spray rain over his head. He didn’t know how long he stood there. Long enough to make water conservationists shudder the world over, he supposed.
From the shower he threw on some gray sweatpants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, then padded barefoot to the kitchen, where he stumbled rotely through the steps of making coffee. He was so lost in thought, he was almost surprised when the coffeemaker beeped at him that it was finished brewing.
After pouring himself a cup, he opened the refrigerator, hoping for cream or milk, knowing there was neither. He drank the coffee black and in between gulps took several deep breaths. After ten minutes he felt almost human, and he switched on his television with its DVR—his one indulgence that was critical to his job—and played back Channel Seven’s eleven o’clock news. He had glanced at it when he’d returned the night before, spent a little time on the Internet, researching the escape of Justice Turnbull, then, exhaustion catching up with him, had slid into the sleeping bag. Now he watched the segment that dealt with Justice Turnbull’s escape in more detail, taking mental notes.
First there was a bit with Pauline earlier in the evening, in front of the redwood and brick facade of Halo Valley Security Hospital. Patrol cars were parked every which way, some with their lights flashing. Pauline was explaining about the two sides of the hospital, Side B being the section that housed the criminally insane. In voice overlay she explained where Justice Turnbull had escaped, and the camera caught the portico outside of Side B, which was on the back side of the building, the eastern side, and mirrored Side A, which faced west. More sheriff’s department vehicles stood in attendance. It looked like they’d sent the whole damn force, and maybe they had.
Questions were asked of law enforcement and the Halo Valley staff. The camera zoomed in on Detective Langdon Stone with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. Harrison gave him a hard look as he seemed to be the officer in charge. If he was going to dig into this story, he would undoubtedly butt heads with Stone at some future point, and it was unlikely to be an easy friendship.
Stone wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots, and his brown hair was tossed by an errant breeze. He said, “No comment,” enough times to make it sound like a rap song. Pauline clearly knew him, or thought she did, and her usual brisk, probing tone held a kittenish note of wheedling. Clearly Stone found her excruciating, and when one of the doctors from the hospital, Dr. Claire Norris, stepped into the fray, Harrison didn’t miss the way Stone gazed at her with an unflinching, yet somehow self-conscious, stare. Something going on between them, he deduced.
Dr. Norris couldn’t shed much light on Turnbull’s escape; she was on Side A, not B. Pauline abruptly switched from them to Side B’s portico, where she interviewed another woman doctor, Dr. Jean Dayton, who was serious, cautious, and clearly freaked out that Justice was gone. Mention was then made of the Ocean Park security guard who’d been injured, Conrad Weiser, and Justice’s primary physician, Dr. Maurice Zellman, whose condition was listed as stable. Conrad was still in the “serious” category. He’d suffered a head injury that had required surgery. Zellman had been through minor surgery as well, for the damage to his throat and voice box, but he was responsive and alert.
There was a brief moment with Dr. Byron Adderley, who just managed to look pissed off; then the camera’s eye turned to Nurse Laura Adderley, her face in profile, before Dr. Dolph Loman’s icy blue eyes and white hair filled the screen with a lot of hyperbole about how great Ocean Park Hospital was.
Pauline cut him off quick, then gave a short history of Justice Turnbull’s previous crimes, primarily leveled against women, and without saying the word cult, brought in mention of Siren Song and even offered a view of tall wrought-iron gates hidden in the thick old-growth timber.
Harrison found his small notebook and jotted down the names of the victims and the hospital personnel listed on the television screen along with nurses Nina Perez and Carlita Solano. He also added Detective Langdon Stone with the TCSD, and Dr. Claire Norris from Halo Valley, Side A.
He stared down at his scribbled notes and had a piercing moment of insight. The real story wasn’t about Justice’s escape, or the victims at the moment of his escape. The real story was about the past and future victims of his murderous passion.
The cult.
That was where he should start.
Rinsing out his coffee cup, he ran a hand through his drying hair. God, he needed a haircut. Then he changed from his sweats to jeans, T-shirt, and plaid overshirt, his “look” for the teenagers, though he wasn’t planning on following that story until later in the day. This one was a helluva lot more interesting and just heating up.
Throwing a glance around his apartment, he fervently wished he had a bed, a few sticks of decent furniture, and maybe twenty thousand or so in the bank.
He headed downstairs to his Impala, examining the bald tires with a rueful eye. He had to get these stories written and turned in so he could be paid. Was desiring some cold hard cash such a bad thing?
As he turned from his Seaside apartment south, it occurred to him that he’d just encountered the sixth deadly sin: greed.
Lang shared a squad room desk with Detective Savannah Dunbar, who sat in a chair against the wall used for collared perps. She was balancing a laptop on her knees and stared at it in concentration. Lang had tried to tell her he didn’t care if he had a desk; the reason for sharing was a matter of space rather than budget. But Savvy just waved him off. She was a young, attractive, serious woman who listened more than talked. She’d risen to detective with the speed of a comet, coming from the Gresham Police Department, a large urban city that butted up to Portland’s east side, having made a name for herself by her deep dedication and willingness to work the hours and then some. She’d come to the TCSD on the heels of Lang himself, although there was really no place for her on their roster. Lang had wondered about Sheriff O’Halloran’s decision until one of the good old boys at the TCSD who’d outlived their usefulness was gently eased out of the department. Then Savvy’s hiring made sense.
Feeling his gaze on her, Savvy looked up. Her eyes were a crystal blue, her hair a lush auburn shade, though it was currently scraped back into a ponytail.
“It’s Saturday,” he said.
“And?”
“What are we both doing here?”
She smiled faintly. “It’s a shame criminals don’t have regular hours.”
Lang grinned and ran a hand around the stubble on his unshaven jaw. He just couldn’t find the energy to shave this morning. “Find anything on Justice?”
“Nothing we don’t already know. He grew up around Deception Bay. His mother’s name is Madeline Turnbull. She’s known around these parts as Mad Maddie. She made her living managing a fleabag of a motel and as some kind of fortune-teller.” Savvy looked up at him with serious eyes. “I don’t go in for all that mumbo jumbo, but some people swear she was uncannily accurate in her forecasts. Two years ago Justice nearly killed her, though it’s uncertain whether that was by accident or design. She may have just gotten in the way when he was targeting Rebecca Sutcliff. Detective Sam ‘Mac’ McNally was lead on the case from the Laurelton Police Department, and Clausen and Kirkpatrick were on it from the TCSD.”
Lang had taken Kirkpatrick’s place when she’d taken a different job. “Clausen was involved in the capture,” Lang mused. “Maybe I should talk to McNally, catch his thoughts.”
“I’ve got the Laurelton PD’s number.” She rattled it off to him, and Lang wrote it down. “McNally’s retired now,” she added.
“Okay.” At that moment Clausen and Burghsmith clambered into the room, looking dead tired. They shook their heads in unison at his lifted brows.
“Nothing,” Clausen said. “The guy’s in the ether.” He let out a sigh. “Goddamned ghost.”
“Psychotic ghost,” Savvy muttered.
“Maybe he went toward the valley,” B
urghsmith suggested but showed no enthusiasm for that theory.
“Nah, he’s coming to the coast.” Clausen gave the other deputy an annoyed look that said they’d been over this and over it.
“So, where’s the hospital van?” Lang said, almost a mantra for him now. “Someone would have seen it.”
Clausen lifted a shoulder. “He either ditched it, or he snuck through and nobody saw him.”
“Unlikely that he snuck through,” Savvy said.
“So, then, where’d he ditch it?” Lang asked. “And does that leave him on foot?”
“Maybe he had someone waiting for him,” Burghsmith suggested and yanked at his suddenly tight collar.
“He’s not that kind of guy.” Clausen frowned as he sat down at another community desk. “He’s too weird.”
“Even weirdos have friends.” Burghsmith was not going to concede.
Clausen was adamant. “Not this weirdo.”
“Okay, then, he’s on foot, or he found some other means of transportation,” Lang said.
Savvy suggested, “Maybe he flagged down another motorist.”
Clausen harrumphed, a sound he made frequently. “It was all over the news about his escape. You think anybody missed that? And just decided to give some hitchhiker a lift?” He slammed open the top drawer and searched around for some gum, pulling out a pack and holding it up in silent query. Everyone shook their head to his offer.
“Somebody mighta missed it,” Lang said.
“Well, then he could be anywhere.” Burghsmith shrugged. “We’ve been trolling up and down the coast, but so far nobody remembers him.”
Lang said, “If we don’t get a clue soon, we’ll have to go to the lodge and talk to Catherine. Warn her.”
“And what about Rebecca Sutcliff?” Savvy asked. “She still lives in Laurelton, as far as we know. She escaped him once, but if he’s as single-minded and on a mission as everyone seems to think, she should be warned.”
“He’s on a mission, all right,” Clausen said. “That’s just who the bastard is.”
“This Sutcliff woman probably saw it on the news, too,” Lang said. “I’ll give her a call, too.”
“In case he heads inland,” Burghsmith said again.
Clausen sent him a dark look. “No way. It’s the goddamned sea that’s in his blood. Like some of the fishermen around here. He’s got a thing for it.” When Lang looked up at him, Clausen added, “It’s in some of the original reports. Trust me, if Turnbull’s heading anywhere, it’s closer to the ocean. Bet a month’s salary on it.”
No one took him up on the bet.
They discussed the extensive search that had taken place up and down the highway to the valley and also their traversing of Highway 101. It had been over twelve hours since Justice’s disappearance.
“Where’s his mom now?” Lang asked Savvy.
“Madeline Turnbull is a patient at Seagull Pointe. It’s both assisted living and a nursing home. She’s on Medicaid.”
“State funding,” Lang agreed. “She’s in the nursing home, out of touch with reality,” he said, repeating something they all knew.
Savvy nodded, her auburn hair gleaming under the unforgiving overhead lights. “I’ll stop by and see if I can interview her in some way.”
“Good.” Lang pushed away from the desk. “I’ll bring O’Halloran up to date,” he said, “and then make a few phone calls.”
“I got some more traversing of 101 to do,” Clausen said. He didn’t even bother looking at Burghsmith, who shrugged and said, “I’m dead on my feet, man.”
“We all need more sleep,” Lang agreed. “Let’s meet back here at noon. With any luck, we’ll have a lead.”
CHAPTER 9
As fog began to creep in from the sea, sending long fingers of mist inland through the old-growth firs with their drooping, moss-laden boughs, Laura nosed her Outback onto the lane winding through the forest to Siren Song. Twin ruts cut through the stands of fir and pine, while the clumps of shiny-leaved salal grew to the height of trees.
Branches scraped the sides of her car, and the rising mist caused Laura’s imagination to run wild. At every turn she expected Justice to leap from the shrubbery, a knife in his hand, the expression of a rabid maniac twisting his features. Her heart was hammering, her fingers sweaty on the steering wheel, as the Subaru bounced and shuddered over hidden rocks and potholes.
Around a final curve, the massive gates of Siren Song loomed. The hair on Laura’s nape rose and her throat was dry. This was dangerous. Exactly what she’d tried to avoid at all costs when Byron announced they were moving to the coast.
But Justice was loose, and there was no believing in safety any longer. He could be here now, lurking in the shadows, lying in wait for her.
Ssssisssterrr . . .
She could almost hear his sibilant warning, but it was a trick of her mind, a memory. She cut the engine, listening to it cool and tick, hearing mournful cries of seagulls, their lonely songs underscored by the distant roar of the sea.
Don’t freak yourself out, she said as she climbed out of the car and locked it. The thick, damp air was cold and pressed against her face, and memories slipped unbidden through her mind, memories of braided hair and dresses whose hems brushed the plank floors of the old, rough-hewn lodge.
Home, she thought, though long ago she’d rejected Siren Song and everyone in it.
Fighting off a shiver, she crossed the damp ground where ferns and nettles abounded and wrapped her hands around the wrought-iron bars of the front gate, where she could see the lodge, dark windows winking in the weird half-light of the shrouded woods.
There was no good way to contact the residents of Siren Song. They didn’t have phones. There was no cable television, Internet, anything electronic. Electricity was through a generator and only on the main floor. The women inside the lodge were living in another century, a decision that was consciously made by Laura’s aunt, Catherine Rutledge, who had made the decree in the late ’80s, when Laura herself had been just a girl. Laura had rebelled against the restrictions and had caused Catherine no end of grief. It was only after she got her way and was allowed into society outside the gates that she came to appreciate the simplicity of their way of life, and even more so, the careful isolation that had been built to keep them all safe.
She called out, “Hello! Catherine?” but her voice seemed to fade. There was no buzzer, so she rattled the gate, but that sound, like ghosts rattling chains, sent another shiver down her spine, and she realized she was on a fool’s mission. What did she hope to accomplish by coming here? Did she intend to warn her family? Or was this lodge a place she ran to as a sanctuary?
If so, it was the first time she’d come here in years. She’d learned to fight her battles outside the gates of Siren Song.
But that was before Justice.
She was about to give up and get back in her car when she caught a glimpse of movement through the branches of the trees, the front door of the lodge swinging open. A woman about her same age stepped onto the broad front porch. For a moment Laura didn’t remember the slim thirty-something—it had been so long—but then she recognized Isadora’s somewhat aristocratic features and Laura’s heart leapt. “Isadora,” she whispered.
Isadora was the oldest of her sisters at the lodge, and she’d remained frozen in Laura’s mind as a younger, more modern woman. Now, however, Isadora’s blond hair was twisted into a single long braid, and the dress she wore was a blue print dress that reached floor length to a pair of sensible shoes.
As if sensing someone watching her, Isadora turned toward the gate. Her eyes were still cerulean blue and welcoming, yet there was a quiet, cautious, almost furtive demeanor to her.
“Isadora!” Laura called, grinning widely. God, she’d missed her! Until right this moment, she hadn’t realized just how much.
“Laura? Really?” Isadora’s face broke into a smooth smile, showing even teeth. Quickly she crossed the stone steps, avoiding the wet mud, t
he hem of her long dress swaying as she walked to meet Laura.
When she was within easy earshot, Laura said, “God, Isadora. It’s . . . it’s amazing to see you again.” She blinked against a silly rush of tears that choked her throat.
“Your hair . . .”
“I know. I dyed it.” She didn’t say why, didn’t have to.
“What’re you doing here?” Isadora asked, her fingers linking with Laura’s on the bars. With her free hand, she dug into a deep pocket in her dress.
“I need to see Catherine.”
“She’ll be glad you’re here,” Isadora said, glancing past Laura as she pulled out a ring of jangling keys from her voluminous skirts. “It’s so great to see you.” She unlocked the gate with a metal screech that scraped Laura’s nerves. “Earl, our regular handyman, has been ill, and we’ve been a little more tethered here,” she said by way of explanation, and then the gate was open and they fell into each other’s arms. Laura fought an onslaught of emotions and blinked against the stupid tears as she clung to her sister.
Was this really home?
Or was she just stressed? Her hormones out of whack?
“It’s good to see you, too,” she said, finally releasing Isadora and looking at her.
“What do you want to see Catherine about?” Isadora asked. “Why now?” Those knowing blue eyes were suddenly sober. Worried. She glanced toward the road, as if she were expecting someone else.
So they knew. “You’re afraid he’s coming here, aren’t you?” she asked, not mentioning Justice’s name.
Isadora’s gaze slammed back to Laura’s. She nodded, as if unwilling even to speak the thought aloud. “Let’s go inside.” As Laura stepped through, Isadora was careful to re-lock the gate.
Laura fell in step beside her, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder as well. Hurry, hurry, hurry, she thought. Justice hadn’t mentally spoken to her for several hours, but she could sense his weighty presence, as if he were walking beside them.