It was tough living with the fact that their last words had been so ugly.
Eleven
Eastlyn started her day on the road. She heading south out of town to Cleef’s farm as the sunrise tried to push its way through a May gray haze.
Making her way past rolling terrain that dropped its curves into fertile emerald hills, she wanted to get a second look at the Bell chopper. Alone. The plan was to watch the sun finish its climb in the morning sky, drink the coffee from the Thermos she’d brought along, and maybe, just maybe, see if she could dig that old bird out of the muck it had sat in for decades. In the process, maybe she’d rub off a few layers of rust.
As she drove, she realized now she should have kept the confab with Brent to herself. That was the tricky part about getting close to someone. At some point they always felt the need to tell you what you should do and how you should do it.
When would she learn that she was just too independent for a relationship to work the way it did with normal people?
Since her disability, a part of her understood how people might believe she was incapable of doing the same things others took for granted. But she had never considered that Cooper might be one of them.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t seen him in two days. Correction, she’d avoided him for two days.
“After all his talk about my military service, about how proud he was, it turns out Cooper’s just like all the rest,” she mumbled to herself as she made the turn toward San Sebastian.
“You know that isn’t true,” Scott pointed out from the passenger seat of the Bronco.
Eastlyn stomped on the brake. The Ford skidded onto the shoulder to an abrupt stop sending gravel pinging into the underbelly.
She turned in her seat and shot a deadly look at Scott. “What the hell? Why do you do that to people? Can’t a body have a conversation by themselves without you horning in? I could’ve wrecked the car. I could’ve rolled into the ditch. What’s the matter with you?”
Scott sent her a sideways glance. “Did you ever consider that maybe life as a civilian is what you were meant to do? Making plans is great and all. Everybody gets that you wanted a life in the army. It’s time to face facts. Life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan.”
“You know what? Cord and Cooper and Nick are right about you. You’re a know-it-all, an annoying worm that gets inside a person’s skin and won’t go away. Don’t you get it? Why are men so stubborn anyway? I wanted to make a life flying choppers. Now I can’t.” Eastlyn’s frustration bubbled to the surface and she hit the steering wheel with both fists. “I didn’t want to sit behind a desk! What about that is so difficult to understand? I want to fly again!”
“Who’s stopping you?” Scott shouted right back. “You have a chance to fly here. Try not to fuck it up this time.”
“Get out. Get out of my car! Now! You don’t know shit about me.”
“Oh, poor Captain Parker,” Scott drawled. “She got her leg blown off. In case you haven’t noticed, Eastlyn, I’m dead, as in not able to go on with the life I’d planned with the wife I loved and the daughter I never got to hold. I didn’t make it back. You did. Try doing something with your life instead of crawling into a bottle of pills or boo-hooing about what you don’t get to do. Try standing on your own two feet again. Yes, I said your feet. Be grateful you can walk. You’re able to live. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Where’s that pride you used to have?” With that final parting shot, Scott disappeared into thin air.
Once he was gone, a void hung in the air. The confined space started closing in on her. It took her several minutes to calm down enough so she could drive.
When she did manage to get back on the road, her hands started to shake. She rolled down the window to breathe in fresh air.
After another two miles of slow, careful driving, she recognized the rutted lane that led to the farmhouse. Pulling to a stop in front of the barn, she cut the engine, reached for the Thermos. With her hands still trembling, she pulled out the stopper, slopped coffee into the plastic cup.
She hated to admit it but Scott was right.
The day that had cost her a leg, her crew had come under attack. Despite her injury, she’d flown her team out of harm’s way. After getting hit, she’d had to listen to Moe Turner demand that she let him take over the stick. But she’d stuck it out. She’d stayed conscious long enough to orchestrate touch down at the hospital before passing out. It’s the last thing she remembered until waking up in post-op after surgery.
She’d survived.
Dazed at the memory, she leaned back in the seat sipping her coffee. She decided then and there she needed to stop letting the past rule the present. As Scott had pointed out, there were worse things than wearing a prosthetic.
If only she’d been able to square things with her dad before he’d died.
“Let it go,” Eastlyn muttered to herself as she ran a hand through her hair.
“What good does it do to keep blaming yourself for your father’s death? It was a car accident.” Scott’s voice echoed through the Bronco’s interior.
But when she looked over at the passenger seat it was empty.
Tears wanted to come but she fought them back. “Dad left the house that day angry with me. You were right before. We’d had an argument, an ugly one, two stubborn heads butting up against each other. He insisted I should let the army stick me behind a desk. ‘Think of the retirement you’re giving up, the pension. You’re crazy if you give up the military.’ That’s what he said to put a wedge between us,” Eastlyn said, remembering her dad’s stinging words. “It seems ridiculously insignificant now. I couldn’t see his point of view and he couldn’t see mine.”
She stared out the windshield of the Ford. “That was the basis for the argument. He refused to listen when I told him I’d rather do anything other than sit surrounded by four walls. Flying was what I wanted to do. Dad called me immature. He said I was an idiot for choosing to muster out of the military and lose all the hard work I’d put into getting there. I couldn’t do what he wanted. In a dozen years, he’d never have understood the way I felt. Never.”
“Then let it go,” Scott stressed. “It’s eating you up inside. Do you think he’d want you struggling like this? Turning to pills to get by?”
She shook her head.
“Then it’s best for you, for your future, to move past this.”
“Don’t go yet. Do you see him, my father?”
“No. It doesn’t work that way. Kennan Parker was a good father. Remember those times. Honor him by living your life in happiness instead of bitter resentment and disappointment.”
She didn’t need to see Scott go, she felt the air go cold in his absence.
It took her several long minutes to get out of the car.
When she finally slid on work gloves, she made her way into the barn and went straight to the rusted heap. She began to tug weeds from around the helicopter’s base to get a better look at its sad condition.
She patted the old, bubbled metal. “We have something in common, you and me. We both need a second chance.”
While she dug out the dirt from around the skids, she kept picturing the chopper painted a sleek silver and white. And with each layer of dirt that fell away, she made her decision. She’d go see Nick herself.
Eastlyn worked for another hour before she heard a car pull up outside. She stretched her back and went to see who the visitor was out and about so early.
She spotted a woman in her late sixties getting out of the passenger seat of a pickup truck. A man about the same age got out on the driver’s side. They were dressed in jeans and matching shirts.
“Yoohoo, anyone here?” the woman shouted from the pothole-laden driveway about the time Eastlyn emerged from the barn and sent up a wave.
“Just me. I’m Eastlyn Parker.”
“Hi there. I’m Joy Sullivan and this is my husband, Bran.”
“Ah, you guys are the vets Cord bought his business from
. You used to own the cottage I’m living in. Just so you know, I love the little house.”
“Oh, I loved every minute fixing up that place, picking out the paint. We moved out here so we could enjoy our horses. But, out here alone, we’ve come to miss everything about town, especially the people we saw every day. We miss keeping up with what’s going on. There was always a steady stream of people we got to see and talk to, in the office. Now, we live way out here away from Pelican Pointe, down the road about a mile or so, and no one bothers coming to see us. So you’re thinking of buying some of Cleef’s old junk?” Joy asked.
Bran sent his wife an annoyed look for chatting up a virtual stranger. “We were passing by on our way to a flea market in San Sebastian when we saw your truck. What brings you out here so early?” he asked.
To Eastlyn’s mind the question bordered a tad on the nosy side. Instead of taking offense though, she tried for an amused demeanor. “I’m interested in the old Bell chopper inside. You caught me trying to dig it out of its mound of dirt in the barn to get a better gauge on whether or not it’s worth fixing up. So far, I’ve been able to determine the engine’s shot, beyond an overhaul, and will need a new one. After the last couple hours, I’m not even sure it’s worth my time.”
Eastlyn eyed the two busybodies and fired back with a question of her own. “How about you guys? What brings you two out this time of day other than heading to a swap meet?”
“We promised Brent we’d do our best to keep an eye on the place,” Bran explained. “Truth is, ever since Cleef’s murder we’ve been a little spooked living this far out.”
“We sure never bargained for murder,” Joy noted. “Almost right in our own backyard, too.”
Eastlyn immediately felt bad about her initial assessment. These two were clearly bummed about the area. They didn’t even look that happy about their current retirement situation. “I heard about Cleef, but at least the scumbag who did it is locked away.”
“Doesn’t mean we still don’t have problems,” Joy said.
“What does that mean?” Eastlyn asked.
“She means that since moving here we’ve discovered it’s not exactly the great place we’d hoped it would be.”
“We bought our spread about three years ago. At the time, it seemed like the perfect area. But now that we’ve been out here on a regular basis, we’ve found it’s not as idyllic as we thought it was.”
Something in Joy’s words struck a chord. “By any chance, have you shared how you feel about the area with Brent?”
Bran gave her a sheepish look. “We’re no longer Brent’s concern. Living this far out of town we knew we’d be leaving behind that safety net. That’s why I called the sheriff’s department to report what I thought was suspicious drug activity next to our place. They didn’t even send a deputy out to investigate our complaint. Joy wanted me to kick it back over to Brent, but I told her that maybe we shouldn’t make waves. Somebody already tried to scare us by leaving graffiti near our mailbox.”
Joy shook her head. “And my response to that was if these lowlifes are running meth labs they ought to be stopped.”
So there it was, out in the open. Eastlyn chewed the inside of her jaw, now steamed that the couple in retirement had to put up with that type of intimidation. “What kind of graffiti?”
“Warnings to stay out of their business, that’s what.”
“You really should come clean with Brent about being on the receiving end of these bullies. Call him. Report it. Make it official. Maybe one cop to another will have better luck at the county level.”
Joy laid a hand on her arm. “That’s what we’ll do then.”
As soon as she got back to town, she drove to Cooper’s house. The surprised look on his face said it all.
“I wanted to apologize for avoiding you for the last couple of days.”
“Is that what you were doing? So I take it you’ve decided we should pick up where we left off the other night? I’m all for it.”
She let him slide an arm around her waist and nuzzle her neck.
“Down, boy.” She pushed him back a step. “I’d love nothing better, but I’m helping Caleb make deliveries today. I’m running late as it is.”
“Then why are you here?”
She replayed the scene at the barn and the conversation with the Sullivans. “So it seems the drug traffickers in the area are upping their activity. Add to that, they’ve taken to menacing their neighbors. I think Brent should know.”
“Stay out of it, Eastlyn. They’re dangerous people. I didn’t mention this before but I’m pretty sure Harley Edgecombe is the one who supplied Eleanor with her drugs all those years ago. The woman wouldn’t take her prescribed antidepressants but she never missed an opportunity to snort cocaine.”
“Cocaine? I’m not surprised. Did anyone ever find out where the Edgecombes got their supply?”
“Who cares where it came from? I don’t want you going near those scumbags.”
“I’m sorry about your mother, Cooper. I am. But I can take care of myself. It’s best you know that upfront. I came by here to share with you what the Sullivans told me so you’d know my intent hasn’t changed.”
“I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself. I’d be disappointed in your army training if you couldn’t. But you’re only one person.”
“How about this? I suggest we table this discussion for later. Right now, I have to get to work.”
“Then come over tonight. We’ll watch a movie and settle this once and for all.”
With an itch to scratch but not completely ready to get naked with Cooper yet, Eastlyn wondered how much longer she could hold out. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Putting him off seemed rude when she so wanted to give in and sleep with him.
Although she couldn’t make her self-consciousness disappear overnight, she also couldn’t grow back a limb. Her fear that he wouldn’t be able to handle the sight of her stump might be unreasonable to some. But she’d lived through it several times before.
After the last time, she vowed to guard her heart from the embarrassment of that ever happening again. But those men weren’t Cooper Richmond. She had to admit he wasn’t like any of the others. She could only trust her instincts and go where her heart took her.
Twelve
Brent spent so much time mulling over Eastlyn’s suggestion that after almost a week, he finally sought out advice on the matter from his brother Ethan, who’d been a deputy sheriff before following his passion into writing.
On a weekday morning Brent caught up with the writer pushing a lawnmower around the front yard of his home on Landings Bay.
Brent stared at his younger brother, who’d hit the big time with his first novel, a thriller about the hunt for treasure off the coast of California.
Today, the sweaty job had Ethan looking more like a handyman with his raven hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and a bandana wrapped around his head.
The brothers shared Native American roots along with a penchant for “picking up on things” from other people. They shared an intuitive nature with their father, Marcus Cody. It was common knowledge Marcus had solved a number of missing persons cases all over the West coast. The knack for it seemed to run from father to sons, which might be the reason Brent and Ethan were so adept at law enforcement.
As soon as Ethan spotted Brent, he cut the engine on the mower. “Hey, what brings you out so early? How’s the new little Cody doing? Is Seth sleeping any better?”
“Some, last night anyway. Look, there’s something I need to run by you. Got a minute?”
“Sure. Want coffee?”
He trailed after Ethan into the kitchen. “I never turn down caffeine these days. Although what I really need is a nap that lasts longer than two hours.”
“Lots of luck with that.”
“The house is awful quiet. Where’s Hayden?”
“She took the kids over to her sister’s place for a couple hours so they could play with th
eir auntie. I think Hayden was hoping I’d spend the free time jotting down a few ideas for my latest manuscript. I’m behind deadline. But the truth is, I’m having trouble with this one scene in particular. For the life of me I can’t get it to pop.”
“So you thought you’d mow the grass for inspiration?”
Ethan filled two mugs with steaming brew and set them on the counter. “It’s happened before. What’s the latest word on the bones Eastlyn uncovered?”
“Too early to tell. But you know as well as I do what those remains were doing there. I’ve already contacted prison officials to request an interview with Carl Knudsen.”
“Let me know when approval comes in. I’d like to go with you. I’ve been kicking around doing a book about the murders.”
Brent sipped his coffee and sent Ethan a grim look over the rim. “Are you sure you want to travel into the mind of a sadistic killer, one you knew as a kid? That’s a dark path you’ll more than likely regret. I’ve watched interviews from writers who tackled other serials. They all say the same thing. The process was difficult and time-consuming. The journey took them to a dark place they had a hard time crawling out of.”
“That’s just it. If I don’t do it, who will? Who better to write this book than me?”
“Okay. As long as you’re prepared for the hits it will take in your personal life and all the fame and fortune that goes with it.”
Ethan chuckled. “I imagine fame and fortune all the time. Did you know, according to Sydney, Doc Prescott is thinking about retiring at the end of the year?”
“River mentioned it when she took Seth and Luke in for their checkups last month. No one’s blaming Doc for wanting to call it quits after all these years. But I’d hate to see this town lose its only doctor.”
“Nick and Murphy are already putting out feelers for help on that score. They’ve sent inquiries to Seattle and as far away as Chicago. Word is that the pharmacist, Ross Campbell, has a friend, a general practitioner, who runs a private practice in Portland, Oregon. Ross is hoping to talk him into relocating.”
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