by Lisa Jackson
And it was loud here. Overlooking the ocean.
But there were a few things that he considered cool enough to shove into his backpack. An old license plate from the sixties, way older than Justice, he thought; and a small picture of Jesus charred into a piece of driftwood, which had once hung on the wall and had fallen from its nail and down through a hole in the floor; and a dog collar with a tag that read SPORT. He’d even found a tarot card and remembered that Mad Maddie had been a fortune-teller of sorts. So the death card was a real treasure.
But what was there of Justice Turnbull’s? What little bit of his boyhood had he left in this wreck of a building?
Mike thought Justice had lived a good part of his childhood years here, but he couldn’t find anything that proved it. He knew only that this place was where he’d tried to kill his mother and that other woman a few years back. But he found no evidence of the crime; it had been too long ago.
Sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor, he listened as the wind howled. Low tide was still a few hours away, so he’d hole up here for now. Maybe he’d find something really cool, something that might impress James . . . or even Kara Mathis, at the lighthouse. How badass would that be?
He found his phone and turned it on. Belinda had texted him, saying that James was looking for him. Yeah, well, he knew that much. James had left a ton of texts and voice mails. Mike thought about phoning him back, then decided he didn’t want to be called an idiot. Let him stew. Served the jerk right!
He’d be home tomorrow, anyway.
After visiting the lighthouse.
There was something about Zellman that really bothered Harrison. As he raced to Siren Song, he tried to figure out what it was. Something more than his super-inflated opinion of himself. There was something manipulative about the man. It was as if Zellman, in reveling in how brilliant he was, thought he could maneuver people to do his bidding. Except it had backfired with Justice Turnbull. Zellman had misread his own patient.
What had Zellman said when asked about the threats by Turnbull to the doctor? Something about patient/client privilege? But Zellman wasn’t always so eager to play by those rules. He’d let a lot of things slip in a previous interview with the man, even typed it out on his computer, as it was difficult for him to speak.
Harrison flipped his wipers to a higher speed and squinted as the rain picked up and the roof of the sky seemed to lower, the clouds thick and gray. One of the things Zellman had mentioned was that Turnbull believed he could smell the women of Siren Song when they were pregnant.
Crazy talk.
But then wasn’t telepathy between Laura and Justice Turnbull unbelievable?
And something else burned in his mind. Seeing Detective Dunbar throw up in the bushes at Zellman’s house had triggered thoughts of when he’d first met Laura and she’d lost the contents of her stomach.
Hadn’t Laura’s ex, that jerk Adderley, accused her of being pregnant? Wasn’t that what he’d said in the parking lot?
An uneasy feeling crept through his mind. She was tired. Pale. Dark circles under her eyes. And she’d been distant as well. He’d chalked it all up to the newness of their relationship and all the pressure she was under with Justice Turnbull on the loose. But maybe there was something more that was stealing her sleep and worrying her mind.
“Stop it,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. He braked for a corner, scaring up a crow picking at the carcass of something indistinguishable on the pavement. The crow, disturbed, flapped his wings and flew to the shoulder.
Harrison barely noticed. The tires of his Chevy sang over the wet pavement as he drove and his thoughts grew as dark as the heavens. Surely Laura wasn’t . . . She would tell him if she were . . . what? Carrying her ex-husband’s child?
“Don’t listen to that asshole Adderley,” he told himself, but his reporter’s gut instinct that something was very wrong in a relationship that had just barely begun wouldn’t leave him alone.
Coming up on the turnoff to Siren Song, he slowed to a crawl. The twin ruts of the lane were riddled with puddles, the grass mashed from the tires of several vehicles parked near the open gate. No chain nor taciturn woman in a dress right out of the eighteen hundreds was blocking his entrance.
Instead a row of police cars, lights flashing, and armed officers kept the onlookers and curious at bay. No amount of talking would get Harrison inside the walls of the estate, though he tried his damnedest. The police were conducting a thorough search of the grounds and the area outside the gates, trying to discover where Justice Turnbull had entered.
Even Stone, who’d arrived before him, wouldn’t come out and give Harrison the green light. But Laura, who had obviously been waiting for him, must have spied his Chevy, as she came hurrying from the house and along the path to the gate.
He hadn’t seen her since morning, and the sight of her chased away his doubts. She was shoving her arms through a lightweight jacket. She smiled and waved as her gaze met his, and he remembered kissing those lips and being so disturbed by her closeness the night before. There was just something so damned alluring and sexy about her, something that touched him in a spot he’d never really known existed.
Lorelei, he thought.
“It’s all right,” she insisted, cocking her head at Harrison and speaking to the cop. “He’s with me.” She looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes still visible, as if she was battling insomnia or the flu. He’d thought he’d understood. Now he wasn’t so certain.
But he did know that Justice’s reign of terror was taking its toll on her. Now the madman had not only chased her down and nearly killed her, but he’d attacked her sisters. Here. At Siren Song. Where they were supposed to be safe. No doubt she would be all the more ready to “call” the psycho telepathically for a showdown.
A bad idea if the carnage at Dr. Zellman’s house was any indication of what the murderer was capable of.
It was obvious Justice Turnbull was escalating, going off the rails. Patricia Zellman was dead, Brandt Zellman clinging to life, and as he understood it, two of Laura’s sisters were seriously wounded, though from what he could determine, they hadn’t suffered life-threatening wounds.
All in all, a busy, bloody night for Turnbull.
The officer in charge of the crime scene, a twentysomething with short red hair and a hard expression far older than his years, shook his head. “I’ve been told no one goes in, and unless the sheriff himself says this guy can come inside, then he stays out.”
“I’ll get Detective Stone to okay it.”
The officer, whose name tag read CRAMPTON, was unmoved. “I said, ‘The sheriff.’” His eyes narrowed on Harrison. “I know you,” he said. “You’re that reporter. The guy who blew up the story on the murders around that club in Portland. Boozedog.”
“Boozehound,” Harrison automatically corrected him.
“Yeah, well, you just stay where you are.”
“How are your sisters?” Harrison asked.
“They’ll be okay. I’ll be out in a sec,” Laura said, obviously deciding that arguing was pointless.
He had no choice but to wait outside. The rain had slowed to a steady, skin-soaking drizzle, and there was talk of a storm rolling in that night, but for now, the wind had slowed, and the old lodge, visible through the stand of mossy old growth, looked dark and formidable. He called the offices of the Breeze, checked his e-mail, and left a message for his editor that he was working on the Zellman murder story as well as an assault that happened at Siren Song.
Connolly called him back about half an hour into his wait to basically tell him to “keep on it,” then went on to gleefully say that since the Seven Deadly Sinners story had broken, the paper had had a 30 percent increase in new subscription requests from the same time period the year before. The change might be coincidence, but Vic Connolly wasn’t betting on it. He was happy with Harrison. Happy, happy. None of it made the waiting easier.
It was another half hour before Laura returned,
this time, it seemed, ready to leave. In the meantime Harrison had watched an ambulance and EMTs arrive, and again his thoughts had turned to Adderley’s accusation that she was pregnant.
He simply couldn’t get it out of his head.
“Let’s get out of here,” Laura said as she walked past the guards at the gate and looked into his eyes. He reached for her, but she caught his arm and said in a low tone, “Why don’t we meet somewhere?” Her gaze, with her beautiful, intelligent eyes, held his for a second. “How about the Sands?”
“Okay.”
Then she let go of his arm and Harrison saw that the red-haired cop was watching them, as were two of Laura’s sisters, one of whom was in a wheelchair. They were both outside, under the overhang of the porch, their eyes trained on Laura and Harrison.
He knew she’d suggested the Sands of Thyme Bakery, but anyone could interpret it as the bar in a hotel in Seaside named the Sands or a small lunch counter in Cannon Beach.
He drove the few miles and kept her taillights in his line of vision. Though it was only early afternoon, the day was gray and the clouds, instead of breaking up, appeared to be darkening. The Outback’s taillights were small red beacons through the drizzling rain.
He followed her into the main road cutting through Deception Bay. At the west end of the street, past the storefronts and shops, was the ocean. Dark and shifting, whitecaps visible, the waves tumbled and rolled. Laura turned into the tiny parking lot for the bakery. Harrison slid his Impala into a parking lot across the street. He locked the car, then jaywalked, his collar turned up against the rain, the crash of waves louder than usual. He caught up with Laura just as she reached the front door.
The bell over the door tinkled as they walked inside to the warmth and smells of baked bread and old coffee.
“Hey! We’re about to close,” Kirsten called from the back of the shop before she stepped to the counter and spied her brother. “Make that we are closed.” She offered them a smile.
“You’re telling me that you don’t have one lousy bear claw left?”
“Nada, brother.”
“You alone?”
“My afternoon to close. The barista just left ten minutes ago.”
“What about something from the lunch menu?” Harrison suggested, studying the chalkboard mounted over the deli case. “You said you were expanding it.”
She came around the counter. “Oh, well . . . I guess I can make an exception this time and stay open a few more minutes.”
After locking the door behind him and Laura, she flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED in the window, then, wiping her hands on her apron, said, “So what can I get you? I’ve got a great roast beef/tomato/mozzarella sandwich, and if you ask nicely, I’ll add bacon and broil the whole damned thing.”
“You’re on,” Harrison said. “And a beer.”
“Ha-ha. You can pick anything you want from the cooler. Unless you want coffee, then grab it from the pot. It’s still hot.” Turning, Kirsten lifted her eyebrows at Laura. “What about for you? The same? Or I’ve got a killer Caesar salad topped with prawns.”
“That would be perfect.” Laura was nodding as she took a seat at one of the scattered tables.
Harrison poured them each coffee and brought over the creamer and a tiny basket of various sugar packets. “Pick your poison,” he said, trying for a little levity, though he had dozens of questions for her.
She told him of waking up to find him gone, then getting the panicked call from Catherine and the subsequent hours at Siren Song.
Kirsten brought their meals, the sandwich and a cup of coleslaw for Harrison, the salad and a small loaf of sourdough bread for Laura. She refilled their cups, then told them she was officially “off duty.” When they were finished, Harrison was to bring the dirty dishes to the back, where she was cleaning up. They could hear her rattling around—water running, pots clanging, a radio playing pop rock from the eighties.
Laura pulled off a piece of bread, buttered it, and sank her teeth into it. “God, this is heaven,” she said, closing her eyes as if she’d truly entered the pearly gates. “I missed breakfast this morning.”
“And lunch.” He took a bite of his sandwich. True to her word, Kirsten had come up with a “killer.”
“Your turn to tell me,” Laura said, her eyes serious. “I heard from Detective Stone that Mrs. Zellman was killed and that their son is in the hospital. You got another call?”
“Yeah. From Turnbull.” Between bites of his sandwich, he told her about deciding to let her sleep and to leave her somewhere safe while he drove like a maniac to the Zellman house. “The doctor was at work. Early. Despite the fact that he still can’t talk very well.”
“So Justice told you they were all dead. But Zellman wasn’t there?” She jabbed her fork into one of the prawns atop her salad.
“Yeah.” Harrison was nodding. That had bothered him, too. Then again, so many things did.
They finished their meal. “He’s escalating,” Laura finally said. “Getting bolder. Taking chances. Making bad choices.”
“And killing people.”
“Isadora said she wounded him,” Laura said, picking up her cup with two hands. Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Cracked him up the side of the head, but who knows if that did anything other than save Ravinia’s life.”
“Too bad it didn’t kill him.”
“I’ve never been one to wish anyone dead, but Justice . . .” She sighed and pushed her half-eaten salad aside. “He’s a special case.”
“Amen.”
“I wonder how badly he’s wounded. Where would he go?” She sipped from her cup. “Somewhere he’d feel safe.”
“Wherever he’s holed up,” Harrison thought aloud, “the police will find him. He has no money or credit cards, no job or car. He’s not got friends or family other than Siren Song, and his face has been plastered all over the newspapers. It’s only a matter of time.”
“The sooner the better,” she said, then looked at him over the rim of her cup. “And the next time you get a call, would you mind waking me up? Is that too much to ask?”
He remembered how peaceful she’d looked lying on the big four-poster, how his heart ached at the sight of her. Had she been lying to him? “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said, carefully picking his words. “A couple of times during this investigation, there’s been mention of pregnancy.” His gaze was locked with hers, and he noticed her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “Zellman, when he was explaining about the relationship between Justice Turnbull and the women of Siren Song, his victims. Turnbull bragged to Zellman that he could find them more easily when they were pregnant.”
She looked away, twisted her coffee cup on the table.
“And then, when you were talking to your ex . . . in the parking lot. He—”
“He accused me of being pregnant,” Laura said, cutting in, turning her gaze a dark, angry blue. “So you’re asking me if I am. I told him that I wasn’t and it’s not a lie. I’m not, Harrison.” He felt a second’s relief, until he saw a bit of guilt in her gaze. She took in a long breath and sighed. “But in the interest of honesty, yes, I was. Recently.” She bit her lip. “I was pregnant when I met you, had just found out, and yes, that’s how Justice found me so easily, but that’s over now.” Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “I just suffered a miscarriage. In the last few days.”
He felt his entire world begin to rip apart.
“I didn’t plan it. . . . Byron and I got together just to try and give our relationship another try. Obviously, it didn’t work, but I found out I was pregnant just a little over a week ago and I . . . I didn’t tell anyone. The only person who knew was Justice.”
Harrison couldn’t think of one thing to say. He hadn’t really expected to be right, so he just sat in shocked silence.
“I was still sorting everything out. I’d wanted a baby for years, and now . . . now I was bringing her into this world of madness.”
“Her?”
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br /> “I assume. There are very few men in my lineage, and . . . one of my sisters at Siren Song could tell.”
“So she knew, too.”
Laura looked at him. “Well . . . yeah.”
“I don’t understand any of this!” He suddenly exploded. He was mad as hell that she hadn’t told him, hadn’t confided in him. Mad at himself. He’d found himself fantasizing about her, about sharing a life with her . . . and this basic lie had been there all along!
She read the fury burning deep in his soul, the pain. “I was trying to do what I thought was best to protect my child. And I wasn’t sure what that was. Run away? Hide as far away as possible from Justice? Look over my shoulder, her shoulder, for the rest of our lives? Or face him and try to destroy him? And then you were there . . . the truth seeker, I thought . . . and I believed I might be falling in love with you.” She blinked and scraped her chair back. “Obviously that was a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he said coldly.
His anger crushed her. “Should I have bared my soul to you?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I didn’t know how.” She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, strode to the front door, unlocked it, and stepped outside.
He jumped up and caught the door before it slammed shut and took off after her, striding through the puddles and across the tiny lot, where she had already hit the remote lock for her car and was yanking open the door.
“You should have trusted me!” he called as he reached her, then forced the door shut with his body.
“You ask too much!” Lips trembling with anger, she tugged hard on the door’s handle again. “Get out of my way.” When he didn’t budge, she looked up at him and said, “What the hell is it you want from me?” Rain drizzled down her face and under the collar of her jacket.