12

The call came in just after dark.

Jeremy stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening to his father talk. He eavesdropped a lot; sometimes it was his only way of knowing what was going to happen before it did.

He didn’t care much about this conversation, though. It was just about someone showing up unexpectedly, some private investigator. But no private investigator had shown up here, and that was what mattered.

Yawning, he nearly walked back into his room to listen to his music. When the iPod he’d saved up for was playing in his ears, his father ceased to exist. But before he could turn away, he heard anger in his father’s voice—and the name Les. Then he froze. He knew who Les was. His father had found Les through a cousin who lived in Wyoming. Cousin Blake got himself in trouble a lot. He’d even been in prison—twice. He’d said Les was a person who could “take care of anything.” Jeremy had heard his father use those exact words when he arranged for Les to “take care” of David. And then David died and everyone started calling it an accident. That was how good Les was. His father even said he was good, said it out loud as if he’d included Jeremy in his plans from the beginning. His father was like that sometimes.

Claire’s name came up next. He’d been right to be so worried these past few days. She was getting herself in trouble, just like he’d feared when he followed her to the cabin. If Les was coming back to Pineview, that was bad. His father had once said to Les, “How many people have you…helped the way you’re helping me?” And the answer must’ve been big because his father had whistled.

Jeremy wanted to warn her, but he couldn’t. She’d ask how he knew, and that was something he couldn’t ever reveal.

His father slammed down the phone. The floor creaked, keys jingled, the garage door opened and the Jeep engine roared to life.

Where was his father going? Not to hurt Claire…

Wringing his hands, Jeremy paced in the laundry area for several minutes while images—terrible images—crowded his head. His father wouldn’t act right away, would he? Someone might see or tell. He’d wait for Les, and Les lived someplace called Idaho that sounded far away.

Again, Jeremy wanted to go to Claire. Instead, he grabbed his flashlight and hurried to the crawl space under the stairs. He hadn’t been in there for years, not since he’d attached six padlocks to be sure nothing could get in or out. The dank smell and spiderwebs alone were enough to keep him from wanting to return. But maybe it was time to check on the situation under there. He’d known he would probably need to make changes at some point. That was what kept him up so often at night.

He never forgot a number, so he had no problem with the combinations for the locks. But the five-foot space was far too short for him, and it grew more cramped as he neared the outer edges. Where the dirt had been thrown up against the foundation, he had to crawl.

The scent of the moist earth filled his nostrils. He imagined another smell, one that made him gag, but he kept going and before long, he sat on his haunches, aiming his flashlight at the dusty suitcase he’d hidden there fifteen years earlier. It was worn on one side, completely scraped from when he’d had to drag it up the driveway. It’d been a cheap case to begin with, one without wheels, which had made his job harder. He could really have used some wheels…?.

His heart slammed against his rib cage—ba-bump…ba-bump—which happened whenever he thought of the crawl space because then he remembered the night it all happened. How weak he’d felt when he brought that suitcase here. How badly he’d been shaking and sweating. He’d vomited after he got to his room. The contents of the suitcase—he couldn’t bear to think of what was inside in any other way—had been so much heavier than he’d expected. Then there was the disgusting liquid that’d begun to leak out. He’d thought the trail it left behind would lead anyone who chose to look right to him.

But the storm had washed it away. Big fat raindrops had started to fall just when he was certain he’d be caught. The wind had even concealed his grunts and labored breathing. It was almost as if he’d been invisible—not that anyone would be able to overhear him, anyway. He and his father lived in the woods.

Absently, Jeremy rubbed his stomach, which was cramping as if this night was that night, and studied what was left of the case. If he had to move it, he supposed it wouldn’t be heavy anymore. Things changed with time. He’d seen proof on TV.

It’d been a decade and a half—he heard that often, whenever anyone spoke of Alana. What would he find if he unzipped the lid?

Don’t think about that! You’ll be sick again.

Maybe he should get a shovel. He hadn’t before because he’d wanted that suitcase to be easy to reach if he ever had to retrieve it. Besides, any sign of freshly disturbed dirt could give away its location if the police ever came to call. They looked for that type of thing. One program he’d watched showed them using a ground sensor to locate a dead body that’d been buried for several years.

The idea of the police coming into the crawl space, with or without such a device, made it difficult to breathe. He didn’t want to go to prison. His father had told him what would happen if he ended up there.

There are hundreds of men ready to rape you in the ass, little buddy. And that’s after they knock your stupid block off.

Jeremy covered his ears, but the words were still there, humming in his brain. He couldn’t avoid them. Probably because, with Claire causing trouble the way David had caused trouble, he had to do something. If the sheriff came to their door, he had to be ready…?.

The taste of blood made him realize he was biting his lip. Too hard. Ease up. He’d think of something. His father wouldn’t be happy to learn the suitcase was on the property. But Jeremy hadn’t been able to abandon it in the woods as he’d been told. A bear might get to it.

If he buried it, he’d bury it here, where no one would stumble on it. Then it would be safe but gone.

Unless the police brought in a ground sensor…

Jeremy began to rock back and forth. What to do? What to do? It was always so hard to decide…?.

Dropping his head, he rubbed his eyes. His cheeks were wet. When had he started crying? Grown men didn’t cry. Nothing made his father angrier.

What a pussy! What’d I ever do to deserve a son like you?

“Shut up, Dad!” His voice was vehement, but only because his father wasn’t around. He’d never dare say that to his face. The hitting would start if he did.

Maybe the suitcase should continue to wait right where it was. Knowing his father, there might soon be another thing to hide.

Jeremy grimaced. If only he could stop that…

But he couldn’t. Not unless he wanted those men in prison to knock his block off.

The phone rang and rang, but Claire wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t trust herself to speak to anybody tonight. There was no predicting what she might say. She’d already argued with her sister, her stepmother and her stepfather. She didn’t want to alienate anyone else.

But it wasn’t her family who kept calling. They were so angry she wasn’t convinced they’d ever bother with her again. It was Isaac. She could see his name lit up by caller ID, and couldn’t bring herself to answer. Why was she letting their paths cross again? He was the one she couldn’t trust, wasn’t he?

“Go away.” She threw her extra pillow at the phone, knocking it off the hook. She could hear him saying, “Claire? Claire, are you there?”

No, she wasn’t. Not completely. Or she wouldn’t be going around hurting everyone close to her.

Now you think I killed her? Do you trust anyone?

No, I don’t…

Those ungrateful words plagued her long after Isaac’s voice went silent. The beeping that started after he hung up finally ended, too. Then there was nothing except blessed silence…?.

The whine of a chain saw intruded, blasting her eardrums. Claire couldn’t hear her own voice above the noise, but that didn’t stop her from screaming as blood spurted onto her face, making it impossible to draw breath.

Her mother’s suitcase lay open on the ground nearby with a severed arm and a leg inside. As she watched, Alana’s head fell, creating a splash in the growing pool of blood as Claire fought with the person doing the cutting, whose identity switched among Leanne, who could miraculously walk, Roni and Tug.

“No! Stop pleeeeease!” she cried, but the words were drowned out by the rrrr…rrrrrrr…rr…rrrr.

Claire was trying to keep Leanne from turning the chain saw on her when a knock at the door startled her awake.

Drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, she lay staring at the ceiling until she realized she was safe in bed and had all her body parts. Based on the amount of time that had passed since she’d last looked, she hadn’t been sleeping long. The clock showed barely thirty minutes.

Still, she was glad to be disturbed, glad to be released from the clutches of that terrible nightmare. She’d been sobbing and thrashing about while struggling to stop the chain saw.

“Congratulations. You escaped,” she muttered. But her mother hadn’t. Alana was as gone as ever.

Wiping away the tears that’d rolled into her hair, Claire told herself to calm down. She’d had this dream before. It’d just never been as vivid. And she’d never been able to identify the person wielding the saw.

“Claire?”

Isaac called to her from the front stoop. But she didn’t want him to know she was so…down. That was part of the reason she hadn’t answered when he’d tried to call earlier. She needed to be strong when she dealt with him so she could maintain some emotional distance.

What now? It wasn’t as if he’d just walk away. What she’d done with the phone must have spooked him. She should’ve answered.

Determined to regain her composure, she got up, pulled on a pair of sweat bottoms and padded through the living room.

Answering the door in what she’d worn to bed—David’s T-shirt—she tried to forget that last night it’d been Isaac’s T-shirt. “It’s late,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

She hadn’t turned on the porch light. She hadn’t turned on any lights. Thanks to an almost full moon, however, it wasn’t difficult to see.

His gaze lowered to the O’Toole Insurance logo on her chest before sweeping over the rest of her. But he was frowning when he raised his eyes to her face. “You okay?”

The air smelled like rain, which made Claire wonder if they were in for a summer shower. “I’m fine.”

“Really? You look wiped.”

She was damp enough that what would otherwise be a mild night felt chilly. “I was…having a bad dream.” Another bad dream, only much worse.

“Is that why you didn’t pick up earlier? You were already asleep? You scared the shit out of me.”

She’d scared him in a manner of speaking. She needed to qualify what he said. That kind of statement didn’t mean he really cared, as it would with David. Isaac had said things like that when they were together before.

“I’m…sorry. I must’ve thought the phone was in my dream and knocked it off the hook.” It was still off the hook. She’d purposely left it that way. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to hear from. Except David, which was impossible. Or her mother, which was probably just as impossible.

A slight wind ruffled Isaac’s hair. Besides his amber-flecked eyes and artist’s mouth, his hair was one of his best features. He wore it on the long side but it had enough natural curl to give it body.

“We need to talk,” he said when she made no move to let him in.

The gravity in his voice caused her stomach muscles to tighten. “About…”

“Les Weaver.”

The man who’d shot David. She straightened. “You called him already?”

“I paid him a visit.”

“You drove all the way to Coeur D’Alene?”

“Got back an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you call him?”

“I wanted to see his face and check out his situation.”

What did he find? She doubted he’d show up at her door wearing such a serious expression if he’d come to report that David had been killed accidentally, as everyone believed. “I’m not…doing so well right now,” she admitted. “Maybe I could get back to you in the morning after I’ve…I’ve had some sleep.” And a chance to prepare myself for what you might say…?. Somehow the idea had been less upsetting when it was all conjecture.

He wiped the sweat beading on her upper lip with his thumb. It was an intimate gesture; she would even call it tender, if she’d thought he meant it that way. “Because of the dream?”

“Because of…everything.”

“What have you eaten?”

The panic crushing her chest seemed to ease a little. “Why do you think food solves everything?”

“You can’t cope if you don’t take care of yourself. And you’re looking more fragile as the days go by.”

“I’m coping.” She lifted her hand to wave him off, but that only enabled him to push the door wide enough to squeeze past her. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t need an answer. She could see that he was heading straight to the kitchen.

“Get in here,” he said when she didn’t follow.

With a sigh, she went as far as the entrance. “What are you doing?”

Cupboards slammed as he rummaged through them. “Do you have any tea?”

“To the right of the sink. But…I hope it’s not for me. I don’t like tea.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“For Leanne.”

“Depending on what kind you’ve got, it might help you sleep.” He found the box she’d directed him to. “Chamomile,” he said, showing it to her. “This should do the trick.”

“Ugh!” She grimaced. “Right now, all I need is a sleeping pill.”

He filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. “Sorry, you’re not getting started on pills.”

She blinked at his response. “You’re joking, right?”

“Not in the least. Maybe if you didn’t look so depressed I’d consider it, but—”

“You have no say in what I do!”

“You need to address the problem, not mask it,” he said.

She was sure he meant well, but his response irritated her. “And how am I supposed to address the fact that I have to watch someone cut my mother into pieces with a chain saw whenever I close my eyes?”

He hesitated. He must have heard the bite in her voice, but he didn’t react to it. She detected a hint of empathy in his face as he added the tea bag to the water and set it in front of her. “Let’s try this first.”

Convinced she wouldn’t get him out of her kitchen until she’d drunk the darn tea and listened to what he’d found, she sank into the closest chair. “Tell me.”

He didn’t ask her to clarify. He knew what she was talking about. “In the morning.”

“Now.”

“It’ll only upset you when I’m trying to help you relax.”

“The truth has to be better than what I’m imagining.”

“Not necessarily,” he said, but he must’ve understood that she needed to assert her will on something.

Taking the seat across from her, he spoke in a somber voice. “Les is an oily bastard. An attorney.”

Claire couldn’t remember Mr. Weaver ever telling her what he did for a living. But he’d handed over quite a chunk of money—five thousand dollars—so she assumed he wasn’t hard-pressed. “And that makes him untrustworthy from the get-go?” she said with a weak chuckle.

“It was more the look of him. He just…didn’t fit the stereotype.”

She grimaced at the taste of the tea, but he leaned forward and stirred in a spoonful of sugar. Then it wasn’t too bad. “Not every hunter does.”

“Exactly. So I ignored what my instincts were telling me and asked him a few questions.”

“Like…”

“Had he been in the area before? Did he still hunt? That sort of thing.”

The hot liquid soothed her despite the suspense. “And?”

“He didn’t talk like a hunter, either. I asked him about previous hunts, but he wouldn’t elaborate. Every hunter I’ve ever met can give you a list of where he’s been and what he’s bagged.”

“Maybe killing David soured him on the whole experience.”

“That’s what he wanted me to believe. He even told me that after David died he got rid of every gun he owned. Said he can’t bear to even look at a firearm.”

“I can understand why.”

“Me, too. Except…”

She shifted, trying to brace for what he had coming. “Except…”

“He’s still got a whole gun cabinet filled with them. That’s hardly getting rid of all his guns.”

Cradling the mug, Claire concentrated on the smooth ceramic and the way it transferred warmth to her cold hands. “How do you know he has that many if he told you—”

“I saw them through the back window. They were right there in the living room, next to the couch.”

“Shit… Why would Weaver lie?”

Isaac rubbed his chin as he answered. “He wasn’t expecting me to check.”

“But he volunteered that information, correct?”

“I believe he wants to appear more contrite than he feels—”

“Prick!”

“—so that no one looks any closer.”

She studied Isaac from beneath her lashes. “He killed David on purpose.”

“That’s my guess.”

“This changes everything.”

“It could.”

Or it could lead nowhere. She’d learned, long ago, not to get her hopes up. “We’d have to prove it, find someone in Pineview who has some connection to him. And that might be easier said than done.”

“Not if we get the sheriff involved again,” he said. “Someone needs to take a look at his phone records, and that requires a subpoena.”

“Do you think one lie over whether or not he still owns guns will be enough to get a judge to sign off? It’s such an invasion of privacy. He’s an attorney. That’ll make everyone cautious.”

“I’m going to do some more research first, see if I can come up with more on him.”

With a nod, she forced herself to finish her tea. But when she stood to carry her cup to the sink, he took it from her and rinsed it himself.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” It was true. But she was pretty sure his presence and his support had more to do with it than anything else.