Wicked Lies

by Lisa Jackson

  It’s a simple matter to change out the plates and hot-wire the van. It starts easily, which is good, and the gas gauge indicates the fuel tank is nearly a quarter full. Enough for tonight.

  Slowly, not bothering with the headlights, I cruise out of the bait shop’s lot and up a short rise toward the highway that snakes along the coast.

  I have business to attend to. . . .

  James Ferguson stared in disbelief at his brother’s empty room.

  He was gone? Seriously?

  Mikey had really taken off?

  James searched his brother’s room for the third time, then the garage and the family room and the whole rest of the house. He’d called Mikey’s phone a dozen times and left him messages as well as a kazillion texts. Desperate, he’d even called some of the dweeb’s friends, but no one copped to knowing where Mikey was.

  “Great,” he growled as he flung open the slider door off the kitchen dining area and stepped onto the covered patio. Rain dripped down from the corrugated plastic roof to puddle around the edges of the concrete pad and soak the yard. Where the hell was that little jerkwad? Mom and Dad were due back in a couple nights and James was in charge and now that little freakoid was gone! James hadn’t seen him at all after school, and he’d thought maybe Mikey had cut out early with friends. After all it was the last week of classes . . . but . . .

  “Shit! Fuck! Hell!”

  James thought about the little jerk’s fascination for that psycho at the beach, the escaped whack job. Mikey couldn’t get enough info on that sick dude. He was really pushing James to drive over to the coast before their folks returned and . . . oh, son of a bitch! The douche bag had taken off on his own.

  Standing on the back patio, looking into the wet night, his stomach already a rock-hard knot, he worked up the nerve to call Belinda Mathis. She was on his speed dial, though he never called, or hadn’t until right now. He hit the button and waited impatiently for her to answer. Just the thought that he was trying to contact her caused his palms to sweat. He thought of her pretty pixie-like face and incredible long hair. Then there was her tight ass and . . .

  Her phone went to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message and texted instead:

  does your sister know where my brother mike is?

  There was a few second gap as the rain plopped steadily on the ground, and James noticed the neighbor’s Siamese cat skittering quickly across the top of the fence, only to look his way and hiss before gathering itself and jumping to the far side.

  “Perfect!” As the testy cat disappeared, James’s phone chirped to indicate he was receiving a text.

  Belinda Mathis’s phone number, along with her pretty face, appeared on the screen of his cell.

  Her short reply was: k says at the beach she thought he was with you

  James’s stomach dropped as he typed quickly, his fingers flying, his head pounding with about a million questions.

  James: im at home how did he get to the beach

  Belinda: dk

  dk—Don’t know. Crap! If she didn’t know, who would?

  James: when did he go

  Belinda: k says maybe 2nite

  “Shit!” he said aloud, but typed: thx

  Belinda: tell him to call k

  “Oh, sure that’s what I’m gonna do,” he said aloud as he texted Mikey again and felt another wash of embarrassment that the only way he could talk to the coolest girl in school was because of his dumb shit of a brother.

  He curled his fist and jammed it into the metal post that supported the overhang. Bam! Pain erupted in his hand. Water splashed off the roof. There wasn’t so much as the tiniest dent in the post.

  He knew what he had to do. If he didn’t get his brother back here, ASAP, Mom and Dad would kill them both!

  And it would be the little creep’s fault. All Mikey’s goddamned fault!

  Laura had to hand it to Harrison.

  He hadn’t been lying.

  She did like the bed-and-breakfast. In fact, she liked it a lot. Situated on a steep hillside, the old Queen Anne–style home was poised to look out over the mouth of the Columbia River. Inside, the house had been renovated, with interior plumbing in each of the suites, though the rooms held their original charm, Tiffany lamps glowing warmly on gleaming woodwork, a runner protecting the stairs, tables and settees scattered around a foyer.

  Their room was on the third floor. A bay window looked over the roof of the carriage house and the lights of the city to the black waters of the wide river. Lights glowed on the waterfront and shone upward on the massive Astoria-Megler Bridge, which spanned the wide Columbia River as it linked the two states of Oregon and Washington. The Oregon end of the bridge rose to the heavens, making it tall enough for freighters to pass in the deep channel; then the span dropped suddenly to flatten over the rolling waters as it stretched to the Washington shore.

  “That must’ve been quite a favor,” Laura said as she dropped her bag on the four-poster bed. In her mind’s eye she saw Harrison under the thick covers, his dark hair mussed on the linens, his naked body stretched next to hers. They would touch and kiss and . . .

  And it was too soon . . . too soon. . . .

  A deep sadness welled inside her, and she dropped into one of the side chairs near the window. “Justice reached out to me again, but I closed him out.”

  “Don’t think you’re so special. Remember, he called me, too,” Harrison said.

  “This is getting worse and worse. So many people.” She found his gaze. “It’s not just me, or my sisters. Justice is terrorizing everyone he’s ever dealt with. I saw Conrad Weiser today, the security guard who was supposed to help transfer him, and his condition hasn’t improved.”

  “When the bastard uses Zellman’s phone again, the police might locate him and figure out where he’s holed up.”

  “There could be so many places,” she said. Even though Justice had an attachment to the ocean, Tillamook County was only a portion of the Oregon coastline. If he headed north, as they had, he could travel into Clatsop County and into Washington State, or to the south into Lincoln County and beyond. And that didn’t count on the fact that he could head inland, if he followed Becca and Hudson, which she believed, hoped, was a long shot.

  “I brought protection,” he said and slid the gun from the waistband of his jeans.

  She stared at the gun. For a moment she’d thought he meant something else, and she had to fight to keep her emotions from showing on her face.

  “You know how to use it?” he asked.

  “Only from what I’ve seen on TV.”

  “It’s not too heavy, but it’s got a little kick to it, so if you have to use it, use both hands, okay?” He handed her the gun, came around behind her and, placing his hands over hers, leveled the pistol.

  She quivered. “I hope it doesn’t come to this.”

  “Me, too. But here, let me show you.” He pointed out the parts of the gun. “Tomorrow we’ll go to a range and you can practice.”

  She held the 9 mm in one hand, then the other, then with both, frowning at the weapon as she tested its weight.

  Harrison pressed it onto the table. “For now, it’s peace of mind. Tomorrow it might become something more. Let’s just leave it.”

  She nodded but every once in a while glanced at the gun, safety on, lying on the antique table.

  They talked for a while, getting nowhere; then Harrison offered to go out and bring back some kind of dinner.

  “It’s ten o’clock,” she protested, but he waved off her concerns, promising to be back soon. As soon as he stepped out of the room and locked the door behind him, she stripped out of the clothes she’d worn through both her shifts, twisted her hair onto her head, and took a hot shower. She was still bleeding, but already her flow had slowed. She didn’t break down. She almost did, but once again she channeled her emotions into anger, plotting how she would face Justice.

  What the hell was Justice doing calling Harrison on Dr. Zellman’s cell phone?r />
  She toweled off and put herself back together, tossing on an oversized T-shirt to sleep in. Hearing the door to the suite open, she grabbed the thick robe left hanging on the door and slipped her arms through the wide sleeves, then walked into the living area.

  Harrison, his hair wet and windblown, was just walking through the door from the hallway. In his arms was a cardboard pizza box and a bottle of wine. “Pepperoni and Merlot,” he said. “Pretty high class.”

  “Very.” She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “What could be better?”

  “Nothing,” she said simply, her voice cracking a bit.

  Harrison threw her a look. “We’re going to get him,” he said as he placed the box and bottle on a lacquered pedestal table, then served up the pizza on napkins. There were wineglasses and a corkscrew tucked into a small glass-fronted cupboard. Harrison found what he needed, uncorked the wine, and poured them each a glass, then set the bottle near the open corrugated box. “Anyone ‘call’ while I was gone?”

  “If you’re talking about Justice Turnbull, the answer is no.”

  He clicked the rim of her wineglass with his. “Here’s to catching bad guys.”

  “Real bad guys,” she added.

  “Real bad guys,” he agreed.

  It was all Harrison could do to keep his hands off her as she fell asleep on the bed beside him. She looked sexy as hell in the oversized T-shirt, with her hair piled on her head, her long neck exposed, but he stayed on his side of the bed and simply watched as her breathing grew regular.

  He knew she cared about him, had felt her response the last time they’d kissed. Her blood had heated as fast as his had, but tonight she was a little withdrawn, and his sister’s words echoed through his brain.

  Take it slow, okay? Laura’s not the only one who’s falling in love. . . .

  Much as he hated to admit it, Harrison grudgingly decided that he was feeling something deep for Laura. And whether she was truly falling for him was yet to be determined; she seemed to run hot and cold. Then again, maybe she was riddled with the same doubts he was. He’d started out intending to write a story that would blow the public away. Now he was embroiled in some kind of creepy mind game with a psychopath while falling for the monster’s latest intended victim.

  He watched the rise and fall of her chest and softly brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. His heart twisted and deep inside he felt a male response. He tamped that down as best he could but risked brushing his lips over her forehead. She moaned in her sleep, and he watched as her lips twitched.

  That was it. He couldn’t do this.

  Sliding off the bed, he grabbed his pillow, found an extra blanket in the armoire and, still cold, slipped on his jeans before lying on the floor. The settee in the room was just too small for his six-foot frame.

  This, him sleeping on the floor, either at Kirsten’s or his own damned apartment, on the Aero Bed, was getting to be a habit.

  Pain in the ass.

  The bait shop van is mine for the taking. Risky, but I need to hurry. My mission cannot wait any longer. Carefully, I pull around to the road and turn, out of view, and then I’m gone.

  The witches are slumbering.

  It doesn’t take long and I’m there, but I park far away from their lair, hiding the van on an unused driveway, then walk more than a mile through the darkness to the fenced grounds.

  Though the main gate would be the easiest to breach, it could be watched and is far too risky, so I ease around the corner, deeper into the forest, the surrounding trees a canopy, their branches heavy with the rain. Through the Stygian darkness, I move, and I feel that quick little frisson of anticipation, the soul-jarring excitement that comes before a kill.

  For a split second, my mind wanders and I nearly stumble. Voices call to me. Voices from my youth . . . or are they nearby?

  I whirl and stare at the gloom behind me.

  Is it a creature of the night? Some rodent stirring the brush? Or just the rain?

  Or your imagination . . . You know you’ve seen things that can’t be.

  But I’m dizzy for a second, and I think with fury of the one who dares call me . . . Lorelei. Her scent is faint now . . . farther away.

  I grip the rough bark of a nearby fir, squeeze my eyes shut, and slowly count to ten, forcing a calm through my center, trying to capture that bit of reality that, I’m told, sometimes escapes me.

  Slowly, I recover. I release the tree and slip my weapon, Lorelei’s knife, between my teeth as I scale the fence, away from the front of the grounds, toward the back. There, in the shadows, I stare up at the huge edifice where lights still glow.

  They are inside.

  Unaware.

  While the sea pounds the shore far below. I draw deep breaths, filling my lungs with the salty air, listening to the thunderous cadence, imagining the crash of waves against the rocky shoals. Rain runs down my face. Clears my head. Helps me focus.

  There is so much to do. And it must be done tonight. All of it.

  In my mind I hear the taunts of the witches . . . “Bastard,” “Imbecile,” “Freak,” and my blood rages, thundering in my brain, their cruel taunts like a drill with a dozen heads piercing my brain. Hateful, evil spawn of Satan! Whores who procreate like their sinister bitch of a mother!

  My head throbs, and then I remember the doctor who thought he could treat me. Fool! Sanctimonious, supercilious, arrogant idiot! How dare he think he can determine my fate?

  But I fooled you, Zellman. Proved you to be unworthy, a charlatan. But that’s not enough. You need to feel my pain. . . . You need to feel the same depths of despair . . . . Oh, there is so much to do, so many things to do.

  Tonight . . .

  In my mind I see the doctor in his office, his eyes knowing . . . his smile false and forced, and he thinks he knows me. . . .

  I blink. Feel the rain on my face. Return to the moment.

  There is no more time for planning. No seconds left to savor my intentions. Staring at the house, I see movement behind the windows, and I smile as I recognize her glancing worriedly through the panes before she draws the shades.

  My fingers curl around the hilt of my knife, now in a death grip in my right hand.

  She peers through the small space where the curtains don’t quite meet.

  Too late, bitch.

  Far, far too late.

  CHAPTER 40

  His cell phone, tucked inside the front pocket of his jeans, vibrated, and Harrison was instantly awake. The first streaks of dawn were piercing the windows, and Laura was still sleeping soundly, breathing deeply, dead to the world while he had barely been asleep. He glanced at the clock. Six a.m.?

  He fumbled for the phone, checked the screen, saw that the number belonged to Zellman’s cell phone.

  Justice!

  Scrambling to his feet, he flipped the phone open and slipped through the door to the upper landing.

  “Frost.”

  “They’re dead,” the rasping voice declared. “Zzzzellman and his family!”

  What the hell was he hearing? “Zellman? Dr. Zellman?”

  “Along with his evil sssspawn! And they’re not the lassst,” the voice assured him in its hissing, sibilant tone. “You can write about them all. And don’t forget the ssisssterss!”

  Full-blown panic struck Harrison. Hard. “Wait! No! Turnbull! You can’t—”

  But the monster had clicked off.

  “Damn!”

  Desperately, Harrison called back.

  No answer.

  “Don’t do this . . . for the love of God. . . .”

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he muttered under his breath, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Was this serious? Had Turnbull slaughtered Zellman’s family and then called to brag?

  He punched in the cell phone number for Detective Stone. “Come on, come on,” he muttered when the phone rang four times and
went to voice mail. “God damn it.” He waited impatiently for the voice mail to answer, then left a message. “This is Harrison Frost. I just got another call from Turnbull. He says he killed Zellman and his family. I’m on my way to their house now, but I’m in Astoria, so it will take a while. Call me.” He snapped the phone closed and walked into the room.

  Laura was still sleeping.

  He noticed the gun on the table and grabbed it; then he found his shoes, shirt, and jacket and slipped out, locking the door behind him. If he bothered waking her, she’d insist on coming with him and he didn’t want to risk that. There was a chance—a good one—that Turnbull was screwing with him, maybe even setting a trap, so it was best to leave Laura here, where she was safe. He’d call her later, as soon as he knew what was really going on.

  The owner of the B and B was already awake, working in the kitchen, where his wife was baking some kind of cinnamon rolls for breakfast, when Harrison reached the foyer. Harrison pulled him aside, told him that he’d left his girlfriend sleeping and, if anyone came looking for her, to please call him immediately.

  “Is she in some kind of trouble?” the guy asked.

  “No. She’s just really tired. When she wakes up, have her call me.” He didn’t have time to explain further and dashed through the rain to his car. He backed around Laura’s Outback and hoped by the time she woke up, this would be sorted out.

  Flipping on his wipers, he wound down the hillside to hit the highway. It was early enough that traffic was thin as he drove south, pushing the speed limit, passing slower cars and trucks. All the while he thought about Turnbull’s call and his sudden interest in Harrison.

  Why call him? To get his story out there? Why not Pauline Kirby, where Justice Turnbull would get television attention?

  He knows you’re with Lorelei. That’s what it all comes back to. You’re with one of his “sssissters.”