Wicked Lies

by Lisa Jackson

  Blond chick here with info on Manny Rojas killing at Boozehound.

  He stared at the screen, disbelieving. The anorexic blonde? Was this some kind of a joke? The same “skinny blonde” who had stopped into the Sands of Thyme and talked to Kirsten? That was who that was? The one with information on Manny’s death? He felt that quick little rush of adrenaline pump through his blood he always felt when a story was coming together. And this one, about his sister’s husband, was more than just something he found interesting. It was life changing. For Kirsten. For Didi. For him.

  Sliding behind the wheel, he called Buddy, who answered on the second ring. “Is the woman still there?” he demanded.

  “Yeah, but it’s late, y’know? I convinced her to wait, but we’re trying to go home here.” Then, “She is kinda hot, though, in that super-skinny model way.”

  “Is she legit? I mean her story.”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty,” he said. “Tell her I really want to talk to her.” He hit the gas. Was this possible? After all this time, she just came forward?

  But there had been a thin blonde the night of the shooting. . . .

  He slid into a parking spot at the newspaper in fifty minutes, then hurried inside. Sure enough, seated in front of Buddy’s desk, wearing a short skirt, boots, and a long-sleeved T, was a really thin woman with platinum hair feathered around her sculpted face, which had a bored expression. The smell of cigarette smoke surrounded her as she saw him enter. “You’re Harrison Frost,” she said, and Harrison knew, from viewing the tapes from the security cameras surrounding Boozehound, that this was indeed the woman who’d witnessed the murder of his brother-in-law. “I’ve been following what’s been happening with you.”

  “And your name is?” he asked.

  “Marilla Belgard. I was at the club that night, and I know who killed your brother-in-law.”

  “You would make a statement to the police?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why now?”

  She snorted. “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  “Guilty conscience, I guess. I saw that you lost your job and well”—she fiddled with the gold cross danging from a chain around her neck—“the Lord found me and I’ve been atoning . . .”

  Harrison grabbed his notepad and said, “Go.” After a halting start, she gave him the whole story, which included admitting to knowing Bill Koontz, working for him as a party planner, overhearing him talking one night about how to “get rid of Rojas.” She hadn’t known he’d planned to have Manny killed until the shooting. She’d disappeared after the doer shot himself, afraid for her life; then, finding a new faith, she’d decided to come clean to Harrison.

  “I should have done it earlier,” she said, still fingering the cross that dangled between her protruding collarbones.

  “Let’s just deal with the here and now. I’ll call Detective Langdon Stone with the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department. He’s a friend of mine.” Well, that was probably stretching the truth a bit. “It’s not his jurisdiction, but he used to work with the Portland Police Department, so he’ll know where to steer us.”

  “You’ll . . . you’ll be with me, though, right? I’m not really cool with cops.”

  “Isn’t Jesus?”

  Marilla eyed him speculatively. “Are you making fun of me?”

  Harrison shrugged. “I’ll call Stone and we’ll head down in my car together.”

  She relaxed a bit. “If you let me smoke in your car.” She looked at him ingenuously. “I’m not kidding. Cops kinda freak me out.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Harrison said, the bigger problem being the time that was passing and the fact that he was beginning to worry about Laura. He’d let his temper get the better of him, and now, after he’d been beat up by and lectured by Kirsten, zapped by Zellman, and confessed to by Marilla Belgard, he was beginning to cool off and realize how much he missed her, how much he worried about her.

  Escorting Marilla to his Impala, he checked his phone, saw no message from Laura, and figured she had to be still angry. Well, she had a right, he supposed. As soon as he squared Marilla Belgard with Stone, he’d find Laura and they would work this thing out. Of course, he had a story to write, telling the truth about Manny’s death, vindicating himself. But that story could wait a few more days, once Bill Koontz was arrested.

  But Justice was still out there, and Laura wouldn’t be safe till he was caught.

  CHAPTER 45

  Harrison walked out of the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department into a cloud-filled June evening, feeling as if a final page had been written on a chapter of his life that was now closed. He’d introduced Marilla Belgard to Detective Stone, who had listened to her story and called his ex-partner at the Portland Police Department. It looked like Koontz would soon be arrested and finally, finally, Manny’s killer would be brought to justice.

  Justice.

  He felt a frisson slide down his back. The bastard may have been wounded, but he wasn’t dead. He was still out there, still on his mission. And Laura still wasn’t safe.

  Harrison had called Kirsten and broken the news about the new evidence in her husband’s death. Kirsten had been overwhelmed, asking a million questions, and though Harrison shared her relief, he had to put her on hold for a while.

  “I gotta connect with Laura,” he told her, and she reluctantly let him go.

  He’d left Marilla in Stone’s care. The detective had promised to return her to Seaside and the car she’d left at the offices of the Breeze.

  Deciding it was time to eat a major helping of crow, he punched the speed dial button that connected him to Laura’s cell phone, but the call went straight to voice mail. “Hey, it’s me. Call me back. Please.”

  He wondered if she would. A bad feeling settled over him, and he drove straight to Laura’s house. Her Outback wasn’t in its usual parking spot, and the house was dark. He stopped, anyway, and let himself in with his key, as he’d kept one after changing the lock in the place. But, of course, she wasn’t inside.

  But she’d been there.

  He recognized the T-shirt she’d slept in the night before, left on the foot of the bed, the small bag she’d brought with her on the bathroom floor, the clean scent of the perfume she wore lingering . . . So she was planning to stay here? Just went out to . . . grab a late dinner?

  He searched the cottage, making note of the touches that were Laura, the books and plants, the comfortable furniture, eclectic lamps, a haven invaded by a madman. She wasn’t here, of course; he knew that. But he even searched the basement, going outside to the exterior steps, but there was nothing but old boxes and forgotten memories.

  He tried to call her again, and got nowhere.

  So where was she?

  His mind raced to several possibilities, and he was locking up, wondering how to track her down, when his phone rang and his heart lifted.

  Laura!

  But the number printed on the screen of his cell was one he didn’t recognize. He answered, “Frost.”

  “Oh, Mr. Frost,” a woman said, her voice uncertain. “I’m glad I caught you. This is Catherine Rutledge . . . from Siren Song.”

  Harrison’s heart nearly stopped beating. His fingers curled over the cell. “Yes?”

  “I was sworn to secrecy by Lorelei, but I thought you should know . . . she left here and . . .”

  Harrison braced himself for the worst.

  “And she’s taken off after Justice. She’s been gone about an hour. She’s heading to the lighthouse. She’s convinced that he’ll return there. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant. Oh, dear, I really shouldn’t have let her go, but there was no talking her out of it. I . . . I, uh, just thought someone should know.”

  And then she clicked off.

  Low tide had exposed rocks and tide pools with starfish, barnacles, and mussels. Crabs scuttled away, toward the receding ocean, while the seagulls squawked and wheeled over
the sand as they searched for their next meal on the exposed seabed. The rain had let up for a while. A crack in the cloud cover over the horizon showed the last rays of a lowering sun as Laura, hauling the small raft, headed for the island, a rocky ridge bearing the lighthouse, which hadn’t been used for years, except as Justice Turnbull’s lair a few years ago.

  And he’d go back to it; she felt it as surely as she felt electricity in the air, the warning of a gathering storm.

  She had to work fast, get to the island, hide the raft, and then wait. She was as prepared as she could be, had provisions for a couple of days, but she knew she wouldn’t have to spend too many hours on the island. He would come to her. He couldn’t wait.

  Well, hurry up, you bastard, she thought, paddling in the low tide, where thankfully she wouldn’t get tossed around like a cork. She could have walked across the exposed rocks now, but she might need the raft for later, so she cautiously oared over, her mind on her mission.

  Ignoring all the nagging questions, her fears screaming through her brain, she reached the island and made her way to the dock, a dilapidated pier that jetted three feet above the current waterline. It was empty and bleak, covered with seagull droppings. An ancient surfboard, or part of one, had beached upon it. She tied the raft to one of the pilings, said a prayer and, using a flashlight, found the path that switch-backed up the sheltered side of the small island of rock.

  As she climbed, the wind gathered force and blew at her hair, the clouds roiled overhead, and she wondered neutrally if she would ever leave this island alive. Rain slanted from the sky, and she thought of the baby she’d lost, her sisters huddled in fear at the Colony, and Harrison. . . . Her fingers reached in her pocket and she cradled her phone, though she wasn’t certain there was reception on the island.

  Her heart twisted as she thought of Harrison.

  She’d loved him, despite knowing him such a short time, and now she wondered if she’d ever see him again.

  Carefully, she put the phone back. She wouldn’t think of that now. Maybe not ever again.

  James’s heart was a drum. He was scared out of his mind and wondered how the hell he’d let his dumb shit of a brother talk him into this. They weren’t alone on this island, like Mikey had said they would be. The little creep had been wrong.

  Oh, Christ.

  James saw the guy. Tall, his hair blond as it whipped around his face, he stood like the lunatic he was, his feet planted shoulder length apart, his arms flung wide, a long coat flapping around him. He was facing the damned ocean and saying something James couldn’t hear, like maybe praying a sicko’s prayer. And in one hand, his fingers clenched tight around its hilt, was a mother of a knife.

  Mikey hadn’t noticed yet, so James grabbed him by the arm and, with a finger to his lips, pointed with his free hand.

  Mikey looked irritated and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as he recognized the freak. His eyes widened and he blinked, as if he was trying to dispel the image. James pulled him down to the ground so they could hide behind a rock and some tall beach grass that rose higher than the patchy ground at the base of the lighthouse.

  The psycho was standing between them and the only path leading back to the old dock, where they’d ditched the surfboard that Mikey was certain would help them float back to the mainland if need be.

  A crazy idea, James now knew, because the tide was turning, and if they wanted to leave and not have to try their luck with the furious, frigid sea, they’d have to leave now.

  But of course they couldn’t.

  Damn, he’d been a fuckin’ idiot to listen to his little brother with his ridiculous plans.

  Mikey touched him on the shoulder, then pointed to the house that sat at the base of the lighthouse, its back wall nearly abutting. The kid actually thought they could hide in there. . . . It was insane, but they didn’t have too many options. Aside from this rise on the hilltop supporting the lighthouse, there wasn’t any cover, so . . .

  Before he could think it through, Mikey took off running. James caught a glimpse of the psycho, saw that his back was turned, and sprinted behind his brother. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten, five—oh, shit, the madman was rotating slowly, his face in horrific profile.

  Shit! Damn! Fuck! James leapt the final yard or two, landing behind Mikey, who’d flattened himself against the building’s exterior wall. Now all that separated them from the killer was this small house, but it was something.

  Carefully, James inched to the door on the far side of the building. He tried the handle. Locked tight.

  He nearly pissed his jeans.

  Now what?

  A quick peek around the corner confirmed his worst fears.

  The psycho was striding to the house.

  Had he seen them? Oh, God . . .

  Mikey, eyes serious, pointed a finger at the lighthouse itself.

  James shook his head. No!

  He reached for his brother, but Mikey was off like a shot, streaking behind the house, cutting across the small open space, and then, to James’s horror, pushing on the lighthouse’s front door and somehow slipping through.

  He glanced around the corner again.

  Shit! The freak was less than twenty yards away.

  But his view of the base of the lighthouse was blocked by the building.

  James had no choice.

  He took off running as fast as he could.

  He hoped to hell that the freak didn’t see him.

  “God damn it!” The minute Catherine hung up on him, Harrison flew to his car and slid inside, where the odor of Marilla’s cigarettes still lingered.

  What was Laura thinking? No way should she be going to that island!

  Wheeling out of her driveway, he headed to Cape Dread, a spot where surfers often camped and the access to the old lighthouse would be the easiest.

  It was raining again, almost dark, and he nearly missed the turnoff to the beach at Cape Dread, the closest to Whittier Island. Spying the sign at the last second, he slid across traffic, the RV riding his ass behind him nearly rear-ending him. The driver laid on his horn, but Harrison barely noticed. He hit the gas and drove along a short lane to the lot closest to the park.

  Laura’s Subaru was parked, nose in, by a short two-rail fence.

  His heart sank.

  He’d hoped Catherine had been wrong, but now . . .

  And there was another car as well. A Dodge Charger parked at an odd angle, taking up nearly three of the faded marks delineating individual spots.

  Justice’s latest vehicle?

  Jesus, no!

  Harrison’s insides curdled with a new, unending dread as he reached into the glove box and extracted his 9 mm. He checked the magazine and, satisfied, climbed out of his car.

  Were they both on the damned island, at that lighthouse? Had Laura called the bastard, taunted him, urged him to come and find her in some deadly game of hide-and-seek? Oh, hell . . . Harrison stared toward the spot where the horizon would be, that line where sky meets sea, but that line was invisible, blurred by clouds and darkness. The only good news was that the tide was so low, it looked as if it was almost possible to hike to the island now.

  And what then?

  What if you get out there and can’t get back?

  He glanced at Laura’s car again, absently rubbing his arm where Zellman had shoved the stun gun against it.

  To hell with it. Heading toward the ocean, he called Detective Stone’s cell phone and left a voice mail about his position and what he thought might be going down. Heart in his throat, he pocketed his cell, held tight to his Glock, and started jogging through the exposed rocks toward the island Justice friggin’ Turnbull had once called home.

  Rounding a final curve on the trail up, Laura sensed the storm shifting, a malevolence brewing.

  And somewhere Justice could be nearby. She felt it. Her fingers clamped around the .38 as she narrowed her eyes against the rain. It was coming down steadily now, the drops cool against her face.<
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  At the crest of the path, the lighthouse was in full view, a narrow tower that knifed upward and seemed to pierce the darkening heavens. Standing on a rocky tor, with thick patches of beach grass, the tower loomed over the squatty, dilapidated house at its base.

  What horrors have you witnessed?

  Had Justice ever brought anyone here?

  Or had he hidden in solitude, his mind disintegrating with the passing of time?

  It didn’t matter what had happened here; it was only important that it was finally over. She flipped off the safety of her gun, then dashed to the door of the keeper’s house, but it was locked tight. No entrance here. Slowly, still wary, she eased around the building and kept her body flush against the crumbling walls. The windows were boarded, a back exit locked as well. No way to get inside.

  She had brought a few tools with her and could break in if she needed, but first she wanted to make certain she was alone. Cautiously, she hurried to the attached lighthouse, the monolith that Justice, according to what she’d read, had called home. Where he’d found peace. Or whatever it was he’d been looking for.

  The latch on the door wasn’t fastened.

  The door itself was slightly ajar.

  Her heart turned to ice.

  He’s here!

  Inside!

  Oh, dear God.

  Fear turned her insides to water.

  Wait! You don’t know that he’s inside. The door could have been left open long ago. Suddenly she wondered if she’d made a deadly mistake, if she should turn around, call the authorities, save herself. . . .

  Instead, she drew in a long, steadying breath, then pushed the door open farther with the revolver’s short nose.

  As the door creaked open, Laura stepped into the yawning darkness.

  She’s arrived!

  I smell her and her empty, malodorous womb. Foolish, foolish woman. So easily tricked to come here to my lair. I feel a smile curve over my lips as the spray from the ocean caresses my face and the wind plays with my hair. I heard her pathetic voice trying to reach me, to tempt me to this, my home, but I had already arrived.