Silence fell over the table. Every head swiveled to face her.
She looked around. “What?”
“Dear,” Margaret asked in even tones, “have you thought that you might be pregnant?”
Elizabeth’s expression went from disbelief, to indignation, to nausea, to disbelief again, to anger, and back to disbelief. “That’s impossible!”
Garik shook his head. “Elizabeth … think.”
“Theoretically, it’s possible, sure. But … but I’ve been taking … pills…” Elizabeth looked around at the way everyone was trying to keep a straight face. “This is not funny!”
“I’m sorry, but it sort of is,” Kateri said. “You had strep throat. You took antibiotics. You’re a scientist. You know what antibiotics do to the effectiveness of oral contraceptives.”
“Yes. But I didn’t think…” Elizabeth seemed honestly indignant. “It was only once!”
This time, no one could quite smother his or her laughter.
Margaret leaned across and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “Don’t you want children?”
Elizabeth thought as if the idea had never occurred to her. “I suppose. Yes, we could have children.” She turned to Garik. “Don’t you think we could?”
He laughed softly. “I think perhaps we are.”
“But this would be badly timed,” she said. “I’ll be pregnant when the dig is at a standstill for the winter, and have an infant in the summer when it’s busy!”
“In my experience,” Margaret said, “children are the definition of inconvenient.”
Garik stood up and took Elizabeth’s arm. “Let’s go talk about it.”
Margaret watched them leave the restaurant, then looked at Summer and Kateri. “Talking about it is how they got in this situation to start with.”
Summer laughed, and stood. “Thank you, and please thank Sheriff Jacobsen and Elizabeth for me. The food, the surroundings, and most of all, the company made this an incomparable evening.”
“Come back, then. You, too, Kateri.” Margaret put her hand on Harold’s arm, and he helped her out of her chair and escorted her out of the room.
“So are you glad you came?” Kateri asked.
“I guess. Looks like your ride got distracted by the news he is going to be a father. You want me to take you home?”
“Thanks, that would be great.”
But when Summer came back into the dining room with their jackets and Kateri’s cane, Kateri was nowhere in sight.
One of the waiters nodded toward the deck. “She’s out there.”
Summer slid out into the night. The fresh, salty wind blew in her face, tossed her hair around, raised goose bumps on her arms. “It’s chilly,” she said as she joined Kateri at the railing.
Kateri stared steadfastly, silently into the night.
Summer pulled her jacket on, then, unbidden, tossed Kateri’s over her shoulders. She faced the invisible horizon, tucked her arms tightly around her middle, and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Listening.”
Summer listened, too. She heard the seagulls cawing, the snap of the American flag on the roof, and the raw, constant roar of the waves crashing against the cliff.
“What do you hear?” Kateri asked.
“I can hear the first autumn storm far to the north, taking form. I can hear the power of the ocean. It’s awe-inspiring. And terrifying.”
Kateri turned her head and looked at Summer, and in the light from the resort, her pupils were distended, her eyes like holes drilled into an old, weary soul. “Most people look at the mountains and think they’re pretty. They hear the ocean and talk about sandy beaches and date palms. They don’t understand that nature carries its own death sentence.”
“I didn’t understand. Before.”
“Nor did I. Before.” Kateri hooked her hand through Summer’s arm. In a voice fraught with humor and pathos, she said, “I occasionally come out to the sea to ask the Frog God what the hell he plans to do with me. Surely he had a reason for destroying and transforming me. These trials could not possibly be purely the capricious whim of a god. Could they?”
Summer closed her hand into a fist, and felt the smooth, scarred end of her little finger. “I like to think there’s a meaning for all this.”
The two women turned away from the Pacific, massive and relentless, and headed through the resort and the parking lot toward the car. Summer unlocked the doors and the two women climbed in. She started the Judge and put it in gear, turned onto the coastal highway between the resort and Virtue Falls, and drove carefully, watching for cars, for headlights moving too fast, for anything out of place. Nothing illuminated the way except the patches of dense white fog.
Then, about halfway to town, she saw flashing red and blue lights in her rearview mirror. She pulled to the narrow shoulder of the road.
Sheriff Jacobsen’s patrol car whipped past her.
On her way home from cleaning the library, on a Virtue Falls side street, Mrs. Dvorkin had been hit by a speeding car.
The driver did not stop.
CHAPTER FORTY
One golden day of autumn slipped by, then another, then a week, and Summer waited. Waited for the rain to start, waited for Kennedy McManus to appear … waited to be murdered. But a whole bunch of nothing happened, and that, paradoxically, made her tense enough to cause Rainbow to comment that some person needed to remember who had saved her ass. By which Summer understood she had been snappish. She reined in her frustration … and waited some more.
Now Summer drove the coastal highway to Eagle Road, then to the circle drive. She turned in and parked at the rear of the Hartmans’ house.
Over fifty years before, the broad, one-story ranch home had been built with wide windows that faced the ocean. At a mere four thousand square feet, it was puny for a wealthy family’s vacation home. The charm lay in the location. A lovely stand of cypress, twisted and gnarled by the constant winds, surrounded the home. A long, winding path led through water gardens to a narrow set of rickety stairs. Those wandered down and around to a wide, private beach where the family played, picnicked, and walked.
The Hartmans were Summer’s first clients; yesterday they had contacted her to let her know they had loaned out their vacation home and to ask her to get it ready. Which was odd, because one bad experience had taught the Hartmans to never allow strangers to stay. But perhaps this was a friend, coming to Tony Parnham’s Halloween party.
Virtue Falls was buzzing about the guest list: celebrities, movie stars, and Hollywood power brokers were converging for the event. The invitations had become the objects of envy and gossip. A catering service had been brought in from San Francisco; they were hiring extra waitstaff from town, and everyone under the age of twenty-five who had acting aspirations applied.
Summer was lucky; she held one of the coveted invitations. Tony Parnham’s Halloween masquerade would be the first social event she had attended as a guest in over a year, and she intended to enjoy herself.
At the Hartmans’ back door, Summer sorted through her keys, let herself into the laundry room, and punched in the security code. Once she was inside, she reactivated the alarm. She adjusted the whole house thermostat to seventy-two. The sheets and towels were stored in a dehumidifier, so necessary in the damp marine climate. The Hartmans had been unsure about the number of residents who would be staying, so Summer counted out five sets of sheets, one for each bed. After she had prepared the bedrooms, she would return for towels.
The house was quiet, and she missed Mrs. Dvorkin, not merely because she would have to do the cleaning Mrs. Dvorkin normally did, but for her company, too.
But Mrs. Dvorkin was barely out of the hospital, covered with abrasions and recovering from a concussion. If not for her own quick thinking, she would have been hurt much worse, but at the first sound of the accelerating car, she had run for the alley. The car had made a sharp left turn and followed, hitting the brick wall first, then knocking her off her feet and into th
e air. She had slammed into a plastic garbage can, then bounced off the pavement. People hurried out of their apartments. The car backed out of the alley and sped away. A description of the car, a brown Subaru Forester, and the first three Washington license plate numbers yielded nothing; the make of the car was common in Washington, and Sheriff Jacobsen believed the plates to be stolen.
So until Mrs. Dvorkin was back on her feet, Summer would prep the house. To fill the silence, she entered the living room and headed toward the stereo system. She reached toward the controls—and heard a sound behind her.
She dropped the sheets and turned, smoothly pulling the pistol from the holster under her jacket. She pointed it at the man who had risen from the easy chair beside the fireplace.
He raised his hands to show they were empty.
She took a long breath to slow the pounding of her heart, and lowered the pistol. “Kennedy McManus. You are here at last.”
Kennedy McManus. He had found her. He had come for her. And looking at him in the flesh, seeing him alive and breathing, his blue eyes steady and fixed on her as if he would absorb her, body, mind, and soul … well. Summer didn’t know if she was glad this moment had finally arrived, she only knew she would behave as if this moment was expected and normal. Not that it wasn’t expected—but nothing could ever make this meeting normal.
She said, “It’s a good thing I’ve been waiting for you to turn up, or you would now be sporting a hole in the middle of your chest.”
“Taylor Summers.” His hands were steady as he let them fall to his side. “You’re quick with that pistol.”
She had listened to him online; his voice was exactly as she expected, yet to have him say her name, the name so few people knew, sent another terrified jolt through her system. “Summer. My name is now Summer Leigh.”
“Summer Leigh,” he repeated.
“You’re a friend of the Hartmans?”
“A friend of a friend.”
Kennedy had connections. Of course. “You got my e-mail?”
“Joshua Brothers passed it on.”
“How did you find me?”
“I am good at what I do, and one of the things I do is strategic data retrieval. I needed a place to start, and your e-mail to Mr. Brothers provided that information.” Kennedy’s dark hair was trimmed and neat. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, a burgundy tie. He dressed like a businessman attending a stockholders’ meeting.
Yet the trappings of civilization were nothing but a disguise. Beneath the tailored jacket and starched shirt, his body was that of a dockworker, a wrestler, a warrior. Any smart woman would note the contrasts, and handle him with care.
Summer was a very smart woman. She fastened the safety on her Glock 26 Gen4, slid it into the holster, and straightened her jacket over the top. “It’s like a knit scarf. Pull one thread and the whole thing unravels.” Leaning down, she started to pick up the sheets.
Without warning, he was standing right in front of her.
She straightened.
He was tall, muscular, with big hands and big feet. How had he moved so quickly, so quietly?
He took her shoulders. He looked down into her startled face and fiercely asked, “Where have you been?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer; he pulled her into his body and hugged her, as if … as if she were a vanished lover, a wife believed lost at sea, the most precious memory of his life brought back to life.
She stood stiffly, cautiously, as she tried to judge his mood, the reason for his actions. Did he intend to surprise her? Hurt her? Was he nuts?
But he simply … cradled her. The heat of him surrounded her, eased into her bones, let her relax in slow increments. And that spelled trouble, because she hadn’t touched, hugged, loved anyone in over a year. Her body was starved for affection. “What are you doing?” she asked cautiously.
“A year. A year I’ve believed you were alive, wondered where you were, what you were doing, and now you’re here and you—” His voice caught as if snagged by a great emotion.
“We do not know each other.” She spoke definitively, wanting him to hear, to realize the truth. “We have never met before.”
“I do know you.” He slid his hand up the back of her neck and his fingers into her short crop of hair. He pressed her head, urging her to rest it on his shoulder.
She let him, testing his strength.
But it was her strength that was lacking. “So you don’t believe that stuff they said about me in the news?”
His snort was a masterpiece of derision. “That you had anything to do with kidnapping Miles? Why would I be so stupid?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid, but the news said Miles had fallen and had brain damage, so I didn’t know if he could clear me.”
“Not true. He was superficially hurt. We gave out the story about brain damage to assure the kidnapper Miles could not give us pertinent information that would lead to an arrest.”
“I’m so glad your nephew is okay.” She had worried.
“The important information which he was able to give me was that you were innocent.” He massaged her neck.
That felt good. “I’m glad he did that—but why did you then allow me to be destroyed in the media?”
“For Miles’s own safety, I had put out that he had no memory of the events. I could not contradict the police’s theory that you were involved. I hoped you would realize that I did believe in your integrity.”
“The reports drove me into hiding.”
“And drove me crazy with wondering where you were and what had happened.”
Sarcasm bubbled right to the surface. “Poor you.”
He hesitated, adjusted, changed his tactics. “I’m sorry. I know it must have been difficult to see your character destroyed.”
“Difficult?” An understatement. “I could not believe it was happening. I couldn’t believe the lies … my own mother. So she could go on Dr. Phil.” That was a relationship broken beyond repair.
“I am sorry. When this is over, we will do damage control.”
“You bet we will.”
“Why did you finally contact me?”
“Everything I read about you said you were a man who listened to reason, who was impeccably honest. I thought I could convince you I was innocent, and if by some chance you refused to see reason, I could make a deal with you to protect me, and you wouldn’t break it.”
“I never break my word.”
“I know.” Before her backbone disintegrated, she asked, “Don’t you want to know who took your nephew?”
“Yes. Of course I do. Will you tell me?”
“I will. When we have come to terms.”
“Okay.” How could he sound so … so reasonable? So willing to let her make the decisions?
Damn him. She had looked at his online portrait and decided that he was relentless, ruthless, analytical, cold, and the kind of man with whom she never, ever wanted to be involved. She was right about everything … except when he embraced her, he didn’t feel cold. And if this display of fondness wasn’t passion, it was a ploy to … to do what? What did he hope to gain?
He smelled good.
She took a cautious breath. Like pine and citrus, like the promise of Christmas with gifts waiting to be opened and long-anticipated surprises.
Not important. What mattered were his intentions and his strategy.
He leaned his cheek against her head.
She closed her eyes and sighed.
If he had bad intentions and an evil strategy, he was cleverly disguising them with warmth, gentleness, and that alluring scent of sin.
He tilted her chin and kissed her. He took her quick breath of surprise as if she owed it to him. He sank his tongue into her mouth, dominated, explored …
Wait a goddamn minute.
She shoved him away. She backed up as fast as she could. She wiped her hand across her mouth. “No.” Because being hugged was one thing. Friends hugged. Friends did not French-kiss. “Who do you t
hink you are?”
He stood with his chest heaving, his eyes intensely blue, his hands outstretched in appeal. “I’m the man who never gave up on his search for you. I always believed you were alive.”
Which was either charming or creepy, depending on your point of view.
She looked at Kennedy, at his businesslike demeanor interrupted by that one strand of dark hair that hung carelessly over his forehead, and those brilliant, persuasive eyes.
So … a vote for charming. “No matter.” She spoke to herself as much as him. “It doesn’t follow that within two minutes of our first meeting, you get to put your tongue down my throat.” She retreated toward the entry, the front door, and an escape route in case this guy turned out to be a rapist or a nut case.
Or … a man who thought she could be controlled through seduction.
Yeah. That had to be his scheme. Gain control by using her loneliness against her. “Do you try to sleep with every woman who sends you a drawing?”
“No. Only you.”
She bet he had a beautiful singing voice, all deep and baritone. “Well … well, we’re not lovers.”
“You liked my kiss.”
He made her knees shake, and she leaned her hip against the side table. “That doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with every guy who grabs at me.”
“I know that.”
But she didn’t trust him. She already knew when he chose, he moved quickly. “How do you know so much?”
“For the past year, I have stared at your picture every day and every night. I’ve read your e-mails, your work notes, your texts. I know who you slept with, who you didn’t, why you broke it off with your fiancés. Although you didn’t attend your father’s funeral, I suspect that his death broke your heart and your spirit.”
She expected him to research her, yes, but not like this. Not so that he could poke his finger at her emotions. “How dare you presume—”
Kennedy watched her; his blue eyes were brilliant, deep, intense. “I’ve read your high school diary.” He hadn’t moved.
She hadn’t moved. She still leaned against the table. But she felt stalked, trapped by his words, his height, his attitude. “Where did you get my diary?”
Obsession Falls Page 21