Wicked Lies

by Lisa Jackson

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I—I fell and it just went quiet. He was up above and I saw him. I think. It was hard to tell. Too dark and all this fog . . . but I think he looked down at me but couldn’t come down, probably for fear of being seen with the headlights from the traffic. I don’t know. Anyway, he’s gone. I hope . . .” She buried her face in his shoulder. Harrison clutched her as hard as she clutched him, feeling her warmth, the desperation of her grasp.

  Harrison glanced back up the short cliff. Justice could still be on the grounds, waiting. Hidden in the shadows.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Scraped a little. I was scared. I just fell, but it was okay. I heard you on the phone, but I was running and I lost it and . . .” She shuddered.

  He squeezed her and whispered into her hair, “Don’t move. Stay here. I’m going to check the house—”

  “No!” She scrambled to get her legs under her. “I can’t stay here. No way. I—I’m going with you!”

  “I don’t think—”

  “And I don’t care.” She was emphatic, her spine stiffening as he held her.

  He sighed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”

  “You’re the first.”

  “Yeah, right. Okay. C’mon.” Clasping her hand, and keeping low against the cliff face, he led her along the ditch until they reached the access road that led east and upward toward her driveway. “You okay?”

  “Okay, enough.”

  Climbing the steep few feet to the top of the ditch together, Harrison held on to her tightly. As one, they crept up the road. He tried to shield her body with his, but in the shadowy, thick night, Turnbull could be hiding anywhere, could leap out from behind the solitary fir tree or the laurel hedge or the car.

  Harrison squinted into the darkness. He held on to her fingers with one hand; in the other he still clenched the smooth-barked stick. Approaching her driveway, he spied both their cars and the bright squares of the windows of her bungalow.

  He squeezed her hand and they both stopped. For a long moment they stood quietly, eyes and ears straining, hearts pounding rapidly.

  Harrison said in an undertone, “My phone’s in my car. I should’ve called nine-one-one.”

  “No . . . ,” she murmured.

  “It’s time the police were called. Past time.”

  “I know. But . . . do you think he’s here? I don’t think he’s here anymore. I knew he was here before, and it doesn’t feel the same now.”

  “Lorelei, I’d like to trust your instincts, but he came after you this time. Physically. There’s a difference.”

  “I know. But I just want to go inside.”

  Against his better judgment he gave in and led the way to the back door, which was gaping open, unable to close, because Justice had smashed the lock through the casing. Now Harrison pushed at the door panels with one finger, opening it wider. A knife with a short, bloody blade lay on the floor in the shards of glass.

  “I left that,” Laura said, her voice slightly unsteady. “That was my weapon, but I wanted the phone.” As Harrison bent to pick it up and place it on the table, she said, “He has my butcher knife.”

  “Jesus.” Harrison’s gaze scraped the interior of the cottage again.

  “He’s not here. He’s gone.” She looked around the room a little wild-eyed.

  “You’re bleeding,” Harrison said neutrally, though seeing the blood soaking through the knee of her uniform’s left pant leg was a bit harrowing.

  Following his gaze, Laura said, “Oh,” then bent down to it, pulling up the pant leg and revealing a long bloody scratch. “It’s not deep.” Remembering, her fingers then flew to her cheekbone, which was red and sporting a coming bruise. “Got hit by a branch. But he’s gone. He’s not here.”

  “Let’s make sure.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He grabbed the knife with his right hand and transferred the stick into his left. Carefully, with Laura in tow, he crossed the living room and closed and locked the front door, which had swung open, giving a sweeping glance around the porch first. Then he checked the bedrooms, bathroom, and closets.

  “You’re right. He’s not here,” he said, returning to the kitchen.

  “He must’ve run away when he heard you, or after he realized he couldn’t get to me. I thought I heard something crashing through some brush.”

  “Which direction?”

  “North, maybe? Or up the hill into the woods?”

  “How did he get here?” Harrison asked, more to himself than to her.

  “I think he was already here when I got home.”

  “Well, we’re not staying here.” Harrison reached for her hand again. “We’ll call the police and—”

  “No! Not tonight.” She let out a weary sigh. “I know I should have called them earlier, and I kicked myself that I didn’t, but . . . I just can’t face them and all their questions.”

  “You have to.”

  “I know. But . . . can it wait? Until morning at least? Please. I just can’t.”

  “He’s a murderer. An escapee from a mental hospital.”

  She nodded and shook her head. “All right. They can check the break-in. Tell them to come over. But I’ll talk to them in the morning.”

  Harrison weighed the options. “Okay, then, we’ll go to my sister’s. She doesn’t live far.”

  “No . . . I . . . don’t . . .”

  “You’re not staying here,” he insisted. “It’s not safe. And tomorrow we’re going to the authorities,” he stated flatly. “Tonight it’s either my place, a motel, or my sister’s. But wherever it is, I’m not leaving you. Your choice.”

  She swallowed, glanced down at the knife, then very deliberately picked it up and placed it back on its magnetic holder. “Your sister’s?”

  “My sister’s,” he repeated. “Right after I call the police.”

  She remained silent.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, hearing her unspoken reluctance. “They’ll have a fresh trail. You can talk to them in the morning.” His gaze met hers. “We have to.”

  “Oh, hell . . .” She nodded. “Fine!”

  Something was off. There was a strange, pillowy thickness to the air, and Justice felt both lost and intensely furious with Lorelei as he strode, head down, along the edge of the surf, which curled and licked at his boots.

  Lorelei . . .

  Justice ground his teeth together and squeezed his mind hard, seeking to reach inside her evil head. He threw all he had into making a mental connection, but she thwarted him. Oh, she was strong! Stronger than he’d believed. He’d had his hands into her Medusa hair, and now his skin felt on fire.

  He was walking along the beach, but inside he was running. How many miles was he from the bait shop? Six? Eight? Maybe ten? He wouldn’t be able to walk the entire distance on the beach; there were several rocky cliffs that broke up the sand. Those would be the dangerous places. When he would have to move from the beach to where people could see him. But he wouldn’t have to walk along the main highway, either. There were twisting roads and paths between 101 and the ocean. He could find his way.

  He would make it.

  He fingered the butcher knife in his jacket pocket.

  Tomorrow he would finish her.

  He knew where she lived.

  He knew where she worked.

  He knew her.

  The baby . . .

  Laura ran a hand lightly across her stomach as Harrison drove with controlled urgency to a rather dilapidated cottage a little less than ten miles south of her bungalow. As he’d promised, he’d called the police, and they had come to the house. They’d talked to her quickly, the interview was shorter than she expected, but the officers assured her detectives would want to speak to her again in the morning. In the meantime, her house was being cordoned off as a crime scene.

  Now, two hours later, she was looking at the home of Harrison’s sister. Like hers, it was perched on the uphill/ eastern
side of Highway 101, facing toward the sea, and also like hers, there were a lot of buildings and foliage on the western side of the highway, which obscured most of the view, though as soon as she stepped from Harrison’s car, she could hear the sea’s dull roar.

  She’d wanted to tell Harrison this was a fool’s errand the whole way, but she hadn’t the energy. He’d suggested she pack a bag and she had, like an automaton, her thoughts dull and scattered, focused on Justice and the indelible etching in her mind of his features, a cold, lean face with glaring, empty eyes. A nightmare.

  She’d forcefully pushed thoughts of him aside, and her next fear had leapt into the space in her brain: the baby.

  Her fall hadn’t been far but it had been jarring. She’d lain out of breath and slightly dazed, adrenaline pumping, fear magnified, as she’d thought he might fling himself over the edge after her. Only the traffic had kept her safe while she huddled in the ditch beside the road, far enough down that she was shielded by debris and Scotch broom from the sight of passersby.

  Harrison climbed from the driver’s side and around to her. They both skirted a blue Honda Accord parked on the cracked asphalt drive. His sister’s, she surmised.

  Harrison glanced toward the front window, where a sliver of light escaped through drawn curtains. “Didi’s probably asleep, but Kirsten’s still up,” he said. He gave her a sober look. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.”

  They both knew it was a bald-faced lie. She wondered if she’d ever be “okay” again. He squeezed her hand and her heart turned over. A glance at his face and the beard shadow covering his jaw almost convinced her that she was falling in love with him. Which was ridiculous. Still, the flash of his teeth when he smiled, the slight dimple in his cheek, and his eyes . . . hazel eyes as green-gray as the Pacific . . . She almost laughed at her stupid romantic fantasies.

  She didn’t know why she’d agreed to come. Maybe because she hadn’t wanted to be alone. Maybe because she wanted to be with Harrison. Maybe because she felt he was right and the time for fooling around with Justice was long over.

  Maybe because there was no other choice.

  She led the way up a short path lined with small white shells that glowed under the faint light from the crack in the blinds and a half-moon that was playing tag with scudding clouds. There were two steps leading to the small cement porch, which was dark beneath a burned-out exterior light.

  Harrison knocked on the door, then called, “Kirsten, it’s me.”

  A dog started yapping wildly, and Laura heard Harrison mutter a series of swear words beneath his breath and something that sounded like, “It can’t even see me, the little bastard . . . !”

  “Are you talking about the dog?” she asked, but then the door opened and a slim woman in gray sweats and a white, collared, fuzzy sweater with a front zipper appeared.

  Her gaze swept over them, landing on Harrison. “What are you doing?” she demanded, annoyed. “It’s after ten!”

  “I’ve got a small favor to ask,” he said.

  “Ask it in the morning!”

  “I’d like to stay here tonight, with a friend. At least I’d like her to stay and me with her.”

  That caught her attention and she turned toward Laura, who stood motionless, feeling slightly idiotic. “Okay,” she said carefully, waiting for more as her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “This is Laura Adderley,” he introduced. “Would you just open the door and let us in?”

  She stepped back and a small, hairy dog charged forward, barking madly. “Shut up, Chico,” she muttered fondly. “Damn it. You’ll wake Didi! Harrison, get in here and sit down. Chico!” she hissed through her teeth. To Laura, she said, “Hi. Sorry. The dog and Harry just don’t connect.”

  Chico, ignoring her, kept barking at Harrison, who, once the door was shut behind them and locked, walked to the far end of the living room and a straight-backed chair, his gaze on the dog, who glared fearlessly right back. Chico’s barking turned to a low-throated growl.

  “Good grief,” Kirsten muttered.

  Laura saw the resemblance. Kirstin looked like Harrison in a way, the same eyes and mouth, but whereas he seemed to cultivate a scruffy, “I don’t care” kind of look, her hair was combed into a sleek ponytail and she seemed more put together.

  Kirstin gazed apologetically at Laura. “Umm . . . I’ve got an air mattress that I could put in the living room? The sheets are in the hall cupboard for it and the vacuum’s there to blow it up. Or, I can move Didi into my bed with me, and we can remake up her bed. . . .”

  “Don’t worry about us. Lorelei can have the blow-up and I’ll take the couch.”

  “The couch will break your back,” Kirsten said dryly. “As you well know.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.” He shifted in the chair, where Chico stood stiff-legged in front of him. The dog’s little black lips quivered and Harrison looked askance at his sister. “Really . . . ?”

  “C’mon, Cheeks.” Kirsten scooped the dog into her arms, and he wriggled and yapped and tried to keep his gaze on Harrison. Kirsten gave Laura a pitying look before she went down the hall. “You really shouldn’t get involved with him, you know. He’s nothing but trouble.”

  “I’m just her bodyguard,” he stated before Laura could respond.

  “Sure you are.” Kirsten disappeared out of view.

  As soon as they heard her bedroom door close, Harrison got to his feet and found the vacuum and bedding for Laura and an extra blanket for himself. He blew up the mattress, and then they put the sheets and blankets on the air mattress together, but as Harrison straightened, he saw Laura had taken the extra blanket and snuggled onto the couch.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “It’s too short for you,” she said. “And I don’t want your back to break.”

  He gave her a studied look. “You could share the mattress with me.”

  Laura, feeling the effects of a very long day, tried to muster a smile. “I’m going to go change out of these pants and check the scratch on my leg. Make sure I have a pillow when I get back.” With that she scooped up her bag and headed to the bathroom. All the while she wondered what she was doing, staying another night with Harrison, this time at his sister’s place. As odd as it was, she somehow felt at home. “You’re a head case,” she told her reflection as she stared into the mirror of the medicine cabinet mounted over the sink, then brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth. “A bona fide head case.”

  And, deep down, she feared she was falling in love.

  “The least of your problems.”

  When she was finished with her evening ablutions, she returned to find he’d tossed a pillow onto the couch.

  As she settled down, she was unnerved to see he was lying on his back on the air mattress, staring at her.

  She stared back, her pulse rising with each silent moment. Feeling a bit breathless, she turned away, wrapping a protective arm around her abdomen, and reminded herself that she was pregnant.

  With her ex-husband’s child.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was barely 8:00 a.m., Lang realized, glancing to the clock on the wall, yet it felt like a year had passed since he’d awoken this morning. As soon as he’d gotten to work, a murder-suicide had been reported by a neighbor from one of the expensive houses along Bankruptcy Bluff, as Bancroft Bluff was euphemistically called, since a number of the homes had fallen off the bluff or been condemned, having been built on a geologically unsound area that had eroded beneath them. Supposedly the problem had been fixed, at least temporarily, but the homes’ sales had first languished and then, with the economy’s downturn, fallen off altogether, so to speak. The people that owned the houses along the bluff were fighting a bitter battle with the developer and the city, and it was anybody’s guess how long it would last and if anyone would come out a winner.

  His cell phone rang and he saw
it was Fred Clausen, who’d gone out to check the crime scene. “What’s it look like?” Lang asked.

  “Scratch murder-suicide,” Fred said. “Looks like double homicide. The husband and wife were bound and shot. Message spray painted on the walls had to do with Bankruptcy Bluff.”

  Lang grunted. It wasn’t a surprise, really. The situation was a mess, and it waxed and waned in volatility. “What did it say?”

  “The message was blood money. The victims are Marcus and Chandra Donatella. They were in business with the builder, and some of the other home owners think they paid off the city to get approval for the project.”

  “This has already been through all the lawsuits,” Lang said.

  “I know. It’s just a total cluster fuck,” Clausen agreed. “Nobody was really screwing anybody. It was just a stupid place to build with half-assed geological information. But these people are dead, so somebody’s pissed off.”

  Lang frowned. “Any chance it could be something else, and the Bankruptcy Bluff stuff is just a convenient smoke screen?”

  “It’s early days. Could be anything.”

  “Stick with it, then. O’Halloran’s backing off the patrols around Justice’s habitats and giving you some help.”

  “Yeah . . . ?” Clausen sounded as unsure as Lang felt.

  “We know he was at the home of Laura Adderley last night, but he’s in the wind again, probably running scared. We’ll know more once we interview her and see what the crime scene guys get. Helluva thing that. We’ll just have to patrol as best we can, stretched as thin as we are.”

  “Okay.” Clausen hung up and Lang felt a rising frustration. Where was the bastard? It was Monday. He’d been missing since Friday and leaving a trail of bodies behind. In Lang’s estimation, Turnbull was still on the coast, in some hidey-hole they hadn’t found yet.

  But they would. He only hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

  Lang swiveled in his chair, but before he could get up to refill his coffee cup, his desk phone rang again. “Detective Stone,” he answered tersely.