As Gray weighed the stain that would inevitably attach to Henry's reputation if he ordered the man tested, against over twenty years on the job without a blemish on his record, the cell in his pocket vibrated. Gray whipped the phone out and scrutinized the screen. Crap, he'd forgotten all about Wicks.
“Lt. Wicks, where are you?”
“At the Hazard's residence. No one's home, and the housekeeper won't let me in.”
“Flash your ID at her and tell her what you need. Tell her you don't need to come into the house.”
“She's a 'no hablo ingles' type, boss.”
The scorn in Wicks's voice shaved Gray's patience with the lieutenant to nut-cracking point. “You don't speak Spanish?”
“No,” Wicks snapped.
“Put her on the phone,” Gray barked.
It took less than five minutes to soothe the housekeeper's bruised ego and have her deliver two unwashed T-shirts to Lt. Wicks.
Gray checked his watch—four o'clock; Susie would be dropping Sorcha back at the cabin soon. “Where's Henry?”
Lt. Ted de Hoost answered, “Off duty as of fifteen minutes ago. Need something, boss?”
“No. I'm heading out. I'll be on my cell if anyone needs me.”
Precisely seven and a half minutes later, Central phoned as he drove past the Discount Supercenter owned by the Hazard family. CSI had completed the bone analysis. He gave the female agent his laptop fax number, asked her to send the report pronto, and hung up.
Groaning when the cell phone vibrated yet again, he checked the LCD but didn't recognize the number. Before he gave in to the temptation to ignore the call, Gray flipped the phone open.
“Sheriff White.”
“Uh, um. This is James Brown.” Although Gray'd given the kid a card at the end of his interview and stressed that if he remembered anything, anything at all, he should phone right away, the call still came as a complete surprise. Kids teetering on the brink of a criminal career didn't cooperate with the sheriff's department.
“What's up, James? How're you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
Rolling his eyes, Gray resigned himself to a bout of getting blood from a stone. “Did you remember something?”
“Uh, it's, like, you know, probably not important.”
“I once solved a murder because a six-year-old remembered seeing a yellow umbrella.” Gray gave his standard reply to James's diffident remark.
“Kevin was pissed with Ken.”
“Did you hang out with both brothers?” Teenagers—did they do the verbal torture routine deliberately? Gray wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel.
“You crazy?”
At last, a gut reaction. Gray homed in on the kid's incredulous tone. “You and Ken didn't get along?”
“He and his old man were, like, rednecks, you know, the shoot-up-all-the-spics-and-kikes-and-niggas kind of rednecks.” James spat out the words. “Kev wasn't like his folks or his bro. He made a guitar sing, you know, like he was the white Jimi Hendrix. He was going places.”
Gray let the silence string out.
“Uh, anyways, Kev said Ken was hanging with these KKK guys up at Leader Lake. Ken and some of those guys wrecked Mr. Morgan's shoe place. Kev was there trying to stop them. The others ran off when the cops arrived.”
Crap; he stepped on the brake. Gray wanted this call complete before he arrived at the cabin. “Did Kevin know who these guys were?”
“Nah. He said these dudes were nasty. They like to do these, like, animal sacra…sacrileges, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Gray shoved a hand into his hair. “Did Kevin mention any names?”
“Nah. Are you gonna find who killed Kev?” James's facade faded, and pain and anger and sorrow made his voice, which tended to a Mike Tyson squeak, gruff and growly.
“I'm going to do my best, James. Nobody deserves to die the way Kevin did. Thanks for calling. Your information helps a lot. If you hear or remember anything else, you call me right away. Night or day, it doesn't matter.”
“I hope you get him and fry him.”
The call ended after Gray pinned down James's contact information.
Gray hit the indicator as he approached the Route 166 turnoff for the cabin. He punched the windows open. Pebbles sprayed like waves crashing on boulders as the SUV tires hit the graveled road. In rapid succession, Gray phoned Chad, Joe, and Mike and arranged a meeting for eight that night.
Three vehicles crowded the circle at the end of the cabin's access road: Susie's 4Runner, Wicks's county-issued automobile, and another he didn't recognize. He memorized the license plate for further investigation.
Doug Wicks leaned against his car, one elbow propped on the hood, the other dangling a lit cigarette.
Unfiltered nicotine tar assaulted Gray's sensitive nostrils.
“Lt. Wicks.” Gray noticed two plastic evidence bags littering the car's hood. “Those the garments I asked for?”
“Yes, boss.” Wicks dropped the cigarette to the ground and smashed the glowing tip with one black boot until the orange color disappeared.
“Thanks. You off after this?”
“No, I'm on till ten.”
“Hope it's a quiet one.”
Wicks took the hint, handed over the bags, got into his vehicle, and switched on the ignition.
Gray waited until the lieutenant's vehicle disappeared around a bend before heading to the cabin's front door.
Ariel and Taylor squealed when he stepped into the living room. The two girls pelted across the kitchen and wrapped tiny arms around his calves and thighs.
“Uncle Gray,” Ariel yelped. “Kumar speaths like me.”
“Me too, me too.” Taylor loosened her death grip on his legs and began hopping on one foot.
The bird had learned to imitate both children in a less than two hours? Amazing. Gray shook his head. Deciding to contain the two tornadoes, he bent over, hefted a girl in each arm, and stood. “Where's your mama?”
Ariel stuck her thumb in her mouth and said, “Thunroom.”
Small, grubby fingers dug into his shirt pocket. Taylor flashed a smile Cleopatra couldn't have bettered and brandished his cell phone. With the expertise of an adolescent, she flipped the phone open and began pressing keys. “E-mail, Uncle Gray.”
He grimaced when she hit Send and prayed the combination of numbers she had thumbed didn't amount to a call to the space station. White appeared in the bedroom doorway. Gray noticed the dog kept his distance. After an afternoon spent with Ariel and Taylor, he would too.
“Traitor,” he muttered as the dog jogged ahead of them to the sunroom. Adjusting his nieces so their little legs rode his hips, he followed the Lab.
To his surprise, his sister Melanie had joined Sorcha and Susie in some sort of female powwow. The three women all lay in the wide hammock on the back porch fronting the conservatory. How women bonded never failed to fascinate Gray. Sorcha lay on her stomach in between Melanie and Susie, who lay on their backs.
Dusk approached a tad early because of the overcast weather, and the intermittent light filtering through an oak tree shaded the hammock. A pitcher of lemonade decorated a card table within reach of the occupants of the green canvas hanging on metal stands.
Would it always be like this?
The first sight of Sorcha after only a couple of hours apart felt like a hero's homecoming. The way she lifted her head when she sensed his presence, the way her Washington blues caressed his features one by one, the slow, sultry curving of her rosy lips—the moment played like a fairy-tale ending.
The house phone's ringer sounded. Gray hesitated before doing an about-face.
Taylor clamored, “Put me down, Uncle Gray.”
He obliged.
The phone rang again.
“Me too.” Ariel tugged his earlobe.
Once more Gray dropped to one knee, and the little girl squirmed out of his embrace.
“Hello.” Aileen O'Riley's voice shocked him into a fro
zen immobility before he located the source of the sound.
“He's been doing that all afternoon,” Sorcha muttered. She scrambled to get a grip on the edge of the cloth as the hammock rocked wildly.
“And asking for Harold. Long time no see, big brother,” Mel said, flashing him one of her cheeky grins. She swung both legs over the canvas and levered to her feet. She offered Sorcha a hand.
“You driving the Highlander outside?” Gray asked.
Accepting Mel's momentary assistance, Sorcha hopped out of the hammock, got her balance, then marched straight to his side—no hesitation, no hint of uncertainty as to where she belonged. From the moment he scented her when he entered the cabin, Gray had been fighting to contain his arousal. Surrendering to the inevitable, he drew her in front of him and looped his arms around her narrow waist, effectively concealing his embarrassing erection.
“It's a loaner. Mine's in the shop. Tommy Houndtree sideswiped me last night.” She held up a hand. “Even Mike thinks it was an accident.”
“You didn't file a report,” Gray snapped, knowing his team would have informed him immediately.
“Helen begged me not to.” Mel shook her head. “Don't even bother to go there. She told me you pressured Dana Werner into cutting a deal with Tommy's lawyer. Dana recommended parole and community service instead of asking for two years in jail. He's on parole, Gray, and I know an accident could send him directly to jail. I will not do that to another mother.”
How many times had his middle sister brought home wounded doves? A born nurturer, Melanie had a magnetic effect for the injured of any species. Gray couldn't begin to count the number of strays and dysfunctional characters she'd fetched home. He made a mental note to have Ted check on Tommy.
“Don't do this. I beg you.”
Sorcha gasped, and she went limp in his arms.
What the—A familiar stench hit his nostrils.
Every muscle contracted, he straightened, battle instincts in command.
Even as his mind buzzed, Gray realized the cockatoo had uttered the pleading words.
Kumar burst into an earsplitting, demonic cackling that splintered alarm and shards of dread into the thoughts of all the females in the sunroom. Gray knew the second panic and terror erupted and coalesced into a Mount St. Helen's explosion in their minds.
Kumar abruptly stopped cackling.
“You'll never get away with this,” the cockatoo mimicked a deep, Barry White voice.
Susie's complexion paled, and she gripped the chair back so tightly, her knuckles whitened. “Those were your mother's and father's voices, weren't they?”
Chapter Fourteen
“Everyone into the house!” Gray shoved Sorcha through the sunroom's doorway.
He ran back, snatched Taylor and Ariel into his arms, reversed his path, and deposited the girls at Sorcha's feet.
“Don't move an inch. Hold on to them,” he ordered.
White galloped to her side and positioned his torso sideways, shielding the children. The Lab bared his teeth and stared unblinkingly at the open glass door leading to the back porch.
Sorcha ducked as Kumar sailed through the bedroom and glided to the wooden perch standing adjacent to the fireplace.
Gray herded Susie and Mel through the door frame and slammed the thick slab of wood shut. He snapped dead bolts into place, three in all—top, middle, and bottom.
“Living room—all of you. Get going.”
Relieved Gray's roaring had subsided into a low growl, Sorcha obeyed his command. Melanie led the way, followed by Susie, who walked a few paces behind, hand in hand with her daughters. Sorcha and Gray formed the rear.
“I'm going to settle the girls in front of that TV in the study.” In no way did Susie's matter-of-fact tone belie the horrified terror blazing from her dark eyes. Her jaw clenched, and she gave a little shake of her head before turning her attention to her children. “It's almost time for Barney, and you can watch two episodes.”
“Ith a Barney mawathon, Mommy. Can we wath thwee?”
The girl's familiar lisp acted like a shot of Valium, soothing Sorcha's reeling mind. She focused on the small details, on everyday tasks, though her mind was on DEFCON alert.
In the distance, Sorcha heard Susie ask, “Girls, milk and cookies, or OJ and popcorn?”
Ariel grimaced, popped her thumb out of her mouth, and muttered, “Mommy, popcornth only for movieth.”
“Milk and cookies it is.”
Sorcha forced her legs to take a step forward, then another.
On autopilot, staring unseeingly at the six-foot square birdcage built into the rocky cliff that delineated the rear of Gram's property, the magnitude of the events in the sunroom white-watered Sorcha's thoughts and emotions. Her hands clung to the rim of the sink as the enormity of what happened mere seconds ago kicked in; her knees caved, and she gripped the granite counter as if it were the only solid object in a raging sea.
Kumar's perfect imitation of her mother's voice had acted like lightning cleaving a tree in half. Her memories hadn't returned in snippets as she'd expected, but in one cataclysmic flood.
Five minutes earlier, she had been tentative, fearful, worried, and confused. Hearing her mother's voice had erased any uncertainty.
Gray's arms bracketed her body. “Your scent's changed. You've remembered, haven't you?”
She should have been surprised, as his approach had been as stealthy as ever, but somehow she'd known he would be behind her, his strength cocooning her, protecting her.
“I have.” Spots danced before her eyes. “My father didn't kill my mother. There was someone else there.” The kitchen windows receded and swam forward, and the wooden frame merged with the ceiling. The room spun, her eyesight narrowed to a pinpoint, and her vision blurred as her legs trembled and gave way and the scenery did a giddy slip-slide.
As she collapsed, Gray firmed his hold on her. “Breathe, honey, breathe. Open your eyes.”
Easing her around, one hand at her waist, the other curved her jaw and cheek and tilted her face to his. “Honey, open your eyes. Come on. One eye. That's it,” Gray crooned as she responded to his hypnotic voice. His face came into focus, and she clung to his gaze the way a drowning sailor clings to a life buoy.
“Breathe, honey. Take a deep breath in.”
His eyes glowed amber, and his near panic registered. She inhaled, licked her dry lips, and croaked, “Need a moment.”
It seemed to take forever before the color of his irises returned to black.
“I'm okay. Just hold me for a moment.”
“Thank God,” he growled, and a gentle hand urged her cheek to his chest.
Burrowing her nose into his shirt, Sorcha shuttered her lids. If she opened her eyes, she'd be sick. Swallowing compulsively until the bile rising up her throat tasted less acrid and her gasps slowed, she took a deep breath. His familiar musky aroma soothed the frenetic tangents ricocheting her brain with a potency Valium couldn't begin to match.
“That's it. Breathe in, breathe out. Mel, will you bring me a glass of water and a cracker? Top right-hand cabinet opposite the sink.” The arm around her waist slipped under her thighs, and he hefted her off the floor, strode over to the couch, and sat.
A forefinger touched the underside of her chin.
“I'm good now. Honest.” He had a way of making her feel safe and secure, and Sorcha realized she spoke the truth.
He wouldn't let her eyes stray from his as he fed her bits of the cracker and gave her tiny sips of water between bites. When she finished the wafer, he rested his thumb on the pulse at her throat for a few seconds, then said, “That's better. The roses are back in your cheeks, and your heart rate's back to normal.”
The doorbell rang, and it might as well have been an alarm at a fire station.
Sorcha watched the scene unfold as if she hovered above the room, a strange detachment numbing her mind, her limbs. Mind and body on slo-mo, her gaze crept to the wooden door.
The whol
e cabin erupted in a maelstrom of noise. White barked, Kumar screeched, Melanie yelped, Gray growled.
The ding-dong repeated.
Susie stomped to the door and flung it open.
Joe, Chad, and Mike marched into the cabin and headed straight for the kitchen.
“Food's here,” Joe boomed as he dumped four large pizza boxes on the kitchen counter. Chad thunked three two-liter bottles of Coke next to the food.
Gray settled Sorcha more firmly in his lap.
“Okay?” he asked, tracing her jaw.
“I think so,” she whispered. “My dad didn't kill my mom, Gray.”
I remember. I remember.
Daddy, you're not a monster.
All these years I've been ashamed of you, ashamed of myself for loving you.
I'm free. I'm free.
“I heard you before. You said someone else was there.”
“Excuse me, you two,” Susie said, one hand braced on her hip, the other slicing the air between their faces.
Sorcha flinched, pulled back, and tilted her chin up to find a half circle of staring eyes. A funereal silence shrouded the cabin. The logs in the fireplace erupted into a roaring blaze, the green pine hissing and cackling like a coven of witches.
“Don't you dare think there's any way I'm leaving here until I hear the whole story of the night your parents were killed,” Susie growled, one sandal-clad foot doing a rat-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor. “You're going to have to tell us all what you've remembered, so you may as well tell it only once, Sorcha. 'Sides, the men brought pizza and wings. Big brother, you seem to be in no shape to take control, so here's how things are going to unfold. Food first, story right after. Any objections?”
Gray's long exhale feathered Sorcha's collarbone. As his lungs emptied, the rigid set of his jaw slackened, his square shoulders relaxed into the sofa's plush upholstery, and one side of his mouth quirked. “Hard to believe you're the youngest, sis.” He shook his head. “I don't know how you manage her, Joe.”
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