He studied the altar. Something was amiss. In his agitation, he’d miscounted. It was a foolish mistake and he berated himself while he corrected the error. There, now it looked right. Now it was perfect.
He slipped the knife back into the sheath and turned toward the clubhouse.
CHAPTER 48
MYRNA MAYHEW WANTED TO GO home. She had work to do and gardening to keep up with. The vegetable patch needed to be put to bed for the winter and she had about a hundred bulbs that needed planting before the first frost hit. She wanted to forget about the volcano, forget about the murders, and go on with life, as usual. Mr. Rico Ferguson hadn’t even lived in the neighborhood. He had a fancy island house and now the road between here and there had been washed away. There was no reason to think that whoever killed him and his staff was in Mountain Vista. If you killed someone, didn’t it make sense to get as far away as possible? The killer was long gone.
But Harp insisted that they move into the clubhouse and stick with the group. She knew he felt some sort of responsibility for the assembly of neighbors, but she didn’t understand why. Harp was a funny man, stubborn and often ornery, but she loved him with a fierceness that gripped her heart. He’d married her back in the day when interracial marriages were frowned upon and he’d never let her feel, for one moment, that he ever regretted it. Even when times were hard. He came to her, now, as she stood on the deck of the clubhouse, overlooking the trout pond.
“Myrna, my dear, let’s take a walk.”
“What about staying with the group? We’re not supposed to go anywhere alone.”
He drew her close and planted a kiss on top of her head. “We won’t be alone. I’ll be with you and you’ll be with me.”
“We could do that at home.”
She saw that he’d tasted the tartness in her tone. The wrinkles came out on his forehead. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m sure we’ll go back in a day or two.”
She gave him a hard look and he shrugged in apology. “Maybe three or four.”
Myrna rolled her eyes and took his hand, tucking her arm beneath his. “Where are we going on this walk?”
“I want to observe the water level in the lake and see how much the sediment has stirred. This is a momentous event and even from this distance, there is a lot to take note of. I want to compare what I see here with what I remember from Mount St. Helens.”
They navigated the wooden stairs and struck off across the road toward the lake. They walked out on the swimming dock and Harp stooped to touch the water, rubbing grit between his fingers.
“Let’s go around on the far side, just a little ways up the path. I want to observe the color of the runoff into the lake.”
They walked along the grassy shore until the blackberry bushes grew too thick and they had to keep to the paved cart path. As they rounded the bend into the western side of the lake they heard a shout. They looked ahead to see a man near the small glade of trees that graced that stretch of shoreline. Myrna squinted her eyes and saw who it was. He beckoned to them from the trees.
“I found some ash deposits in the trees,” he said as they drew near. “I thought you might be interested to see them, Harper.”
Harp quickened his step and Myrna felt the eagerness in him. He had such a lively interest in anything to do with nature and she found it deeply endearing. He was like a child, a clever and curious child. They followed him into the trees and Harp stepped forward to see more clearly where he was pointing. The man was behind him, now, and he took something from his pocket and held it out toward Harp. Myrna saw two wires spring forth and bury themselves in her husband’s back. She froze, shocked, and drew breath to scream, but before she could make a sound, the killer raised a stone from the ground and brought it smashing down toward her head.
Myrna’s world went black.
CHAPTER 49
HIGHWAY 3, ONCE LIVELY AND thriving, stretched out now like a severed tentacle. Topper’s boots against the blacktop made clapping noises, the slow applause of a one-man audience as he progressed down the road. Soon he’d reach the old service road that wound up behind Mountain Vista. The abandoned ranger hut was up on the ridge that backed the neighborhood.
He’d woken this morning to a blank slate, unable to remember where he was or how he’d arrived there. Then he’d heard the sound of a woodpecker scrounging up breakfast and the pieces flew together. He stared up at the tarp, rippling in the breeze, feeling the slippery pine needles beneath the sleeping bag. It was time to pack up and move.
He ate two granola bars for breakfast and downed half a bottle of water, stashing the rest in his backpack. He disassembled his tent and laced up his boots. The sun filtered down through fir trees and maples, diffused by their leaves into a green mist. Topper shouldered his pack and set off to find the highway.
He walked the lonely piece of the severed artery and found the turn-off for the service road. As he rounded the first bend, he thought he heard a car pass by on the highway behind him, but it might only have been the trees, sighing in the wind. The sun had reached its zenith and was now starting down the other half of the sky. Topper followed it, keeping it just a little to his right, until the forest closed over him again. He came to the locked gate which closed the road off to unauthorized personnel. The padlock was rusty and disused. It was a long time since anyone had ventured beyond the gate. He vaulted it and kept going.
At length he reached the footpath that led down a rocky pass to the lake. Should he follow it down to Mountain Vista and find out how the neighborhood was handling the disaster? He thought about the residents, many of them pampered and unprepared for rough times. He knew there would be much he could do there.
He decided to press on. Right now he needed solitude, a quiet period in which to think and recharge. After that, perhaps he would hike down into the neighborhood and meet up with some people. He left the road and set off through the trees, using his internal compass and his memory of this place to find the hut. He took care through the underbrush, watching for poison ivy and bear traps.
The air was scented with pine and he drew in a deep breath, cleansing his lungs. The trees thinned and soon gave way to a clearing where the dark brown hut sat, a little crookedly, beside a stand of alders. A mass of early fall leaves, orange and gold, had blown up against the foot of the structure, adorning it like a cake frosting border. Topper walked up the sagging front steps to the porch. They stretched and creaked under his boots, the shriek of tortured nails clinging to old wood.
He dropped his pack to the dust-laden floor of the porch and stepped up to the half-rotted doormat. His key scraped in the keyhole, but the knob turned and he let himself into the musty interior. There was no electricity, but once he got the grimy windows open, there was adequate light for now and butane lamps for later.
This would be a good place to rest and reflect. Topper started to think about lunch.
CHAPTER 50
MYRNA SWAM UP, OUT OF the dark abyss. The light pressed against her eyelids, causing star bursts of tremendous pain. Her eyes were closed, but the scene kept playing across the stage of her consciousness. The two wires thrusting out, Harp going down, the rock plunging toward her head, blocking out the sun. Blocking out the sun.
Harp! She forced her eyes open. Her vision was a blur of muted colors and waves of nausea engulfed her throat, nearly causing her to retch. She made herself focus on the place where Harp went down. In the shadows, she could see him, and he was drenched in darkness, his lifeblood spilled around him. The killer moved in a strange, trance-like dance, circling a pile of sticks and stones. She knew that Harp was gone. She imagined him plucking at her elbow, urging her to move herself, to get away.
There was nothing she could do for Harp, not here and not now, but she could take the most important part of him with her. The killer continued his eerie movements, absorbed in his profane ceremony. Slowly, and with the utmost caution, Myrna eased herself up, bracing against the dizziness. She knew she must avoid catching hi
s eye and forced herself to maintain small movements until she could reach the cover of the trees. Once there, she moved as quickly as she dared and, without thinking, headed for home.
The house she had shared with Harp was the fourth one on the far side of the lake, closer than heading back to the clubhouse. She tried to find hope in having the home field advantage in a game of stealth, but she could not fasten upon a scenario in which the killer would not find and eliminate her. He was committed to that outcome. She had seen him and she would tell.
She looked behind her in an ecstasy of terror, running with frantic and erratic steps. As she neared the driveway, she thought she heard a howl of fury in the distance behind her. A burst of adrenalin pushed her up the steps and she fumbled the spare key from the secret panel Harp had built under the windowsill.
As the panel slid open, her mind cleared like clouds blown by the wind, leaving a shining blue sky, and she knew where to go. It had been years, decades even, since she’d thought of it. The children had loved that secret hiding place, a niche within a niche. Under the stairs, Harp had fashioned a playroom for Sandra and Kelly and, to their delight, it included a hidden room. He had not known, when he built that secret place, that it would be her refuge, that it would save her life.
Sternly, she took hold of herself. No time now for tears. She let herself in, locking the door behind her. Acting on instinct, she grabbed a pillow and an afghan from the couch as she sped by. Taking care to leave no trace of her passage, she entered the room under the stairs and secreted herself in the tiny hidden room, working to steady her breathing, wrapping the blanket around her to stave off the shock.
Several minutes ticked by and then, in the quiet, she heard the tinkle of glass as someone broke a window and entered the house.
CHAPTER 51
RICK HAD PUT IN SIX years as a Navy SEAL. He knew his way around the water in hazardous conditions and could drive a boat like he was born to it. He’d spent hours walking the marina, pondering the possibilities. Wrinkling his nose against the odoriferous cocktail of ozone, sulphur, and hot mud, he looked out over the debris-strewn water.
The lahars had dumped tons of mud, rock, and garbage into the Sound, dislodging whole trees, bridges, and lumberyards full of logs. Travel by boat would be a suicide mission and he knew it, but he had been trained to succeed at all costs and he was running out of options. His biggest problem now was that he didn’t own a boat and no one he’d spoken with was willing to loan theirs out.
He was contemplating theft when another thought occurred to him. It was clear that his best hope of getting from point A to point B was by air. He had to keep pushing in that direction. He wondered if the journalist who’d written the piece in Forbes had spoken with any local helicopter owners who hadn’t made the final edit. Perhaps there were sources as yet untapped. It was a long shot, but seemed a better bet than stealing a boat and trying to work it through a passage of water choked with obstructions.
He spent a tedious ninety minutes tracking down the journalist’s address and was relieved to find that Chris Bardot lived just six miles from the station. He could get there by car and was pulling into the driveway by mid-afternoon.
He walked to the front door, surveying the row of houses tucked behind semi-scruffy lawns. A tangle of hula hoops and beach balls graced one side of the front porch, topped by a pair of roller skates, the adjustable kind that fit over a child’s shoes. By the size, Rick gauged the kid would be about nine years old. He pressed the doorbell.
He kicked himself when he realized that, once again, he was ringing an electric bell with no electricity. He knocked and waited an interval, then knocked again, peering through the elongated window that flanked the front door. The house appeared empty.
“Can I help you?” The voice behind him sounded peaved and Rick turned to face a giant of a man. He was Tongan, or perhaps Samoan, his long black hair pulled into a ponytail, meaty fists resting on substantial hips.
“I’m looking for Chris Bardot. Is that you?”
The man surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “Are you a cop?”
“Yes,” Rick admitted.
The giant face split in a huge grin. “Then join the party.” He placed a ham-sized arm around Rick’s shoulders and escorted him to a backyard two houses down. “We’ve had some issues with prowlers, people looking to loot empty houses. I’m Lou,” he said. “I’m married to a cop, Alessandra. Bothell City PD. You’ll love her.”
Rick caught the smell of barbecuing meat as they neared the yard and he realized he was famished. Three or four families were gathered there and a picnic table was laden with bags of chips, cold beans, and warm beverages.
“We got no cooking power inside, so it’s all barbecue, all the time,” Lou told him.
Rick accepted a paper plate and the invitation to load it up. He took a bite of burger and chewed while Lou steered him to a man in a lawn chair.
“This is Chris Bardot,” he said. “Chris, this is the guy who was snooping your house. He’s a cop.”
“Really?”
The journalist leaned forward, extending a hand. They shook and Rick lowered himself onto a rickety-looking chaise lounge. It lurched, protesting, then decided to take his weight.
“What brings you here?” Chris asked.
“I’m hoping you can give me some information.”
The journalist regarded him with a cold eye. “Usually it’s me pumping the cops for information. I’ve learned a whole lot of ways to say take a hike.”
“I hope you won’t send me packing. This is matter of life and death.”
“Yeah, I’ve tried that one a time or two, but it cuts me no ice.”
“Look, Chris, I get it. I apologize for any short shrift my fellow officers have dealt you in the past, but I could really use your help. Is there any way I can get you on my side?”
The journalist hesitated, a doubtful expression crossing his face. A sudden ripping sound tore through the air and one of the threadbare straps on the chaise gave way. Rick’s hind end fell through and the whole contraption collapsed, dumping him onto the lawn.
Hoots of laughter broke out and Chris stood, pulling Rick to his feet.
“I think you just did it.”
An hour later, when Rick left the backyard barbecue, he had a full belly and a name with a reachable address.
CHAPTER 52
NATE PUSHED OPEN THE VESTIBULE door and Riley cringed, hands pressed over her ears.
“That needs about a gallon of WD-40,” she said, following him through to Meeting Room C. They finished their search of the clubhouse, but the knife remained unaccounted for and Nate understood the dire implications. He invented an errand and sent Riley upstairs where the others were. He needed a moment alone to process, to work through the mess in his head.
A bolt of tension was building in his neck, splitting to stab just behind his ears, an unbearable tightness that radiated pain through his skull. He’d learned that a hot bath or a massage could relieve the pressure, but he had time for neither. He closed his eyes and kneaded the back of his neck, trying to relax, trying to think.
“Detective Quentin?”
He dragged his eyelids open and saw Brenda Marsh standing in front of him, hands clasped in a supplicating gesture.
“I saw the Mayhews go off by themselves. That was over an hour ago and they haven’t returned. I’m getting worried.”
And with good reason. Aloud he said, “Which way did they go?”
“They set off around the north side of the lake.”
“I’ll check it out.”
Nate let himself out the basement exit and circled the building to the parking lot and the Explorer. He grabbed his jacket off the back seat, spilling the pamphlets he’d taken from Amanda Horton’s bookshelf onto the floor. Checking his gun and holster, he pulled a metal box from under the seat. It contained ammunition magazines and he shoved a backup into his jacket pocket and went looking for Riley. He found her in Meeting Room A, vi
siting with Annette Dawson and her daughter, Wynn. Nate greeted them and stole Riley away, guiding her into the empty corridor.
“We’ve got a situation. It’s possible the Mayhews have run into trouble. I’m going out to investigate.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No need. I’m sure they’ve simply gone for a walk. I’ll find them and route them back here.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Riley—”
“Unless you intend to cuff me to the railing, I’m going out to look for them. I can go with you, or head out on my own.”
Nate felt a spike of heat, quelled by a shiver of apprehension. “You sure know how to pinch a guy. Let’s go then.”
“Hold on,” said Riley. He watched her disappear into the dining room, returning a moment later with one of Frank’s fancy siren gadgets. He nodded his approval and they left the clubhouse and crunched down the gravel walk to the road over the bridge. Nate turned and led the way down to the lakeside path, sweeping his eyes slowly across the terrain, putting out his feelers for anything off-kilter.
It was only mid-afternoon, but the sky was tinged gray, making it feel like dusk, and the air had an almost metallic tang to it. He spat on the ground.
“Tastes bad, doesn’t it?” Riley said.
Nate looked to the east. “Yep, and I’m afraid it’s getting worse.”
“Brenda quoted me a scripture today, something about the east wind bringing destruction.”
“It’s unusual for us to get an east wind, but it seems like the weather is all over the place now. Anything could happen.”
They walked in silence until they reached the end of the blackberry bushes and the path curved around the long side of the lake.
Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One Page 15