23

Although he was still out searching, Isaac had been checking his messages every fifteen or twenty minutes. That was how he finally reached Claire. She said her car was banged up, that she had a broken window and a dented fender, but she was okay and waiting at his house.

He’d been so worried she’d met a grisly end, it took him several seconds to believe the nightmare was really over. He was standing at the pay phone he’d stopped to use, the one outside the Kicking Horse Saloon, his forehead resting against the cool metal long after they’d hung up, when he heard a voice behind him.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

Preparing himself for a confrontation—the tone of the man’s voice certainly suggested there might be one—he turned to face Tug.

“Excuse me?”

“All that crap about David being killed.” Tug looked strung out on stress—judging by the pallor of his skin, the hair that stood up and the way his hand kept twitching. “Don’t you realize you’re only making things worse?”

“Claire’s fine. I just talked to her.” Isaac thought that would handle the situation, but Tug’s response surprised him.

“I heard. Myles spotted her as soon as she drove into town. He pulled her over and radioed for dispatch to call me. But it’s no thanks to you that she’s okay. You’re getting involved in something that’s none of your business. I suggest you let it go.”

“I’d rather not have this conversation.” Isaac pivoted and headed toward his truck, which he’d had to park in the overflow dirt lot because the bar was so crowded. He wanted to get home so he could hear what Claire had to tell him. She’d said to hurry—and he saw nothing to be gained by arguing with her stepfather.

“Maybe that wasn’t a suggestion.”

Isaac stopped. Did that make it a threat? “Do you have something to hide?” he said, turning back.

“I just don’t like you meddling in my family.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You’re not good for her. We’ve asked you nicely to stay away. Now I’m asking you not so nicely.”

Isaac folded his arms. “Or what, Tug? You’ll hire someone to kill me like you did David?”

His mouth popped open. “You son of a bitch! How dare you accuse me of murdering my own son-in-law!”

“Maybe it wasn’t you, but it could have been. Someone hired him. There were at least ten calls between various pay phones in town and Les Weaver’s home in Coeur d’Alene during the weeks before David’s death. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Myles. I went over the records with him today.”

“So? Maybe he has friends here. Have you ever thought of that?”

“Not after he told me he didn’t. Not after he said he’d never been here and knew no one in the area.”

A man and a woman left the bar, but were so engrossed in each other that they didn’t seem to notice the drama playing out near the pay phone.

“When did you talk to Les Weaver?” Tug asked.

“Just a few days ago.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Check with Myles, like I said.”

His hand plowed through his hair along the same well-worn path he’d obviously created earlier in the evening. “But…why would anyone want to hurt David?”

“You’re really going to ask me that?”

“So what if he was looking into Alana’s death! What are the chances he’d find anything? The police couldn’t even figure out what happened to her.” Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “Why can’t we just leave the past in the past?”

“Because it has too much bearing on the present.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“The truth is coming out, Tug. If, for some reason, you don’t want that, you need to be prepared.”

“Stay out of it, Isaac. None of it concerns you.”

“What’s the matter? Afraid Claire finally has the support she needs to uncover the truth?”

He made a dismissive motion. “You have no idea what’s best for Claire.”

“And you do?”

“I know you’re not the man for her.”

“I think that’s Claire’s decision, don’t you?” Isaac climbed into his truck, but he thought about those words the whole ride home and couldn’t help wondering…was Tug right?

Just in case any of it ended up being crucial evidence, Isaac used tweezers to handle the objects spread out on his kitchen table.

Claire paced by the window, waiting for his reaction. “So? What do you think?”

The encounter he’d just had with Tug jumped into Isaac’s mind. He hadn’t mentioned it to Claire, hadn’t wanted to make a bigger issue of the fact that her family disapproved of him. He hated acknowledging the conflict he’d caused, partly because he didn’t want her to believe, as they believed, that he’d let her down, and partly because he feared they’d turn out to be right, despite his good intentions. Considering what he was sorting through, however, he now saw Tug’s threats in a much more sinister light.

“I think your stepfather could be in trouble,” he admitted.

A pained expression crossed her face, and she looked away, probably to hide how hard this was for her. Regardless of what Tug had or hadn’t done, she loved him, couldn’t stand the thought that he might have murdered her mother. But Isaac didn’t know what else to make of the documents Joe had provided. A letter from Tug threatened to kill Joe if Joe didn’t leave his wife alone. Another letter, written by Alana to Joe, confessed her love and the guilt she felt, which confirmed the rumors Claire had always denied. Then there was a ring made out of ribbon. Joe said Alana had teasingly made it for him one afternoon, and Claire acknowledged that her mother had made similar ribbon rings for her and Leanne when they were children.

Most incriminating of all were the pictures of Joe and Alana together. One strip of black and white photographs featured them kissing in the kind of photo booth typically found in a drugstore or old-fashioned grocery. They must’ve been in Libby or somewhere else when those pictures were taken. Pineview didn’t have a booth like that—and they wouldn’t have risked being seen.

Isaac felt awkward being privy to Claire’s pain and all the reasons for it. Not only was she trying to cope with the gut-wrenching sadness of receiving confirmation that the man who’d raised her had a strong motive for murdering the mother she missed so badly, she had proof of her mother’s infidelity. Then there were the calls between Coeur d’Alene and Pineview, and what Myles had found when he ran the background check on Les Weaver. Although Les had never been arrested he had ties to one of the most powerful Mafia families in New York—people who didn’t bat an eye at murder for hire. Myles had even placed a call to the NYPD and learned that Weaver had lived in New York and was suspected of racketeering. They hadn’t been able to prove it, but they were trying. That was probably the reason he’d moved west four years ago, when his brother got out of prison after being convicted of fraud and had also relocated to Idaho. It was his way of lying low.

Claire had winced when he explained all that.

“I’m sorry.” That was hardly any comfort, but Isaac didn’t know what to say.

She gave him a sad smile. “Thanks.”

He watched her at the sink, staring out into the night. “Do you regret going after this?”

Shoulders hunched, she dropped her head in her hands. She’d been so physically exhausted when he arrived home, she could hardly get up off the couch, but now she seemed…pensive, unable to outrun the ghosts that were chasing her. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Do you think it’s possible that Roni was involved instead of my father? That maybe he…maybe he wrote that letter but never intended to hurt anybody? He threatens Joe, not my mother.”

It was far more plausible that the tension between Tug and Alana had erupted into a fight, one with a very sad ending. But Isaac didn’t know that had happened, so he didn’t insist on it. “I suppose it’s possible,” he allowed, trying to be gentle. “There’s nothing here to suggest Roni did it, but—”

“But I told you what April said,” she interrupted.

“April has no proof,” he reminded her.

“She knows something about Tug that very few people know. She and I might be the only two people left who are privy to that secret, other than his first wife.”

“Still not enough to convince a jury.”

Turning to face him, Claire gestured at the things she’d brought home with her. “But this is no better. It’s all circumstantial. It establishes an affair, but not murder. We don’t even have proof that my mother’s dead.”

“It creates motive.”

“For Roni as much as Tug. And then there’s what happened at the studio?”

“What about it?”

“The person who followed me there couldn’t have been him.”

Isaac cocked an eyebrow at her. “I thought you didn’t get a good look at the culprit.”

She seemed to be gaining hope as she built a case in support of her stepfather. “I didn’t, but…Tug’s not in his prime anymore. He couldn’t move that fast. And he would never hurt me.”

If he’d been the reason her mother went missing and David was shot, he already had. “You’re saying Roni could, or would?”

“No, the person at the cabin wasn’t Roni, either. There must be someone else.”

“Whoever pushed you didn’t mean to hurt you, Claire. I think he was spying on you and panicked when you came downstairs earlier than he expected.”

“I don’t care. It couldn’t have been Tug,” she said. “He was at the fireworks show with Leanne and Roni.”

But he could’ve claimed he had a headache and pretended he was going home early. Or said he was planning to meet a couple of friends for a beer. The culprit knew the back way to the studio, which Tug certainly did. “Have you asked them how long he stayed after you left?”

Sliding her hands in the pockets of her loose-fitting jeans, she smoothed the rug on the floor with one foot. “No. I never dreamed I’d need to.”

“Then we’ll check it out, okay? Hopefully, he has a foolproof alibi—for then and the night someone was at your place, rummaging through everything.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “He wouldn’t destroy my pictures of David. Or that painting of my mother’s.”

Isaac didn’t think so, either. That was the one thing that didn’t fit. He could see Tug finding his wife’s birth control pills and getting into an argument with her that quickly spun out of control. He could see Tug, if he was indeed guilty of murder, hiring someone to kill David to keep from being exposed. He had everything to lose—his money, his wife, his family, his standing in the community, his freedom. He could also see Tug following Claire to the studio to see if he had to worry about her resuming David’s search. Hell, Isaac could even see him rummaging through her house for those damn files.

But why the destruction? What he’d seen at her house indicated extreme hatred, and he believed Tug loved her. “I’m impressed that Joe was willing to come forward with this, considering the damage it could do to his marriage,” he said, hoping to change the subject.

“I’m bugged that he didn’t do it sooner,” she responded. “If he loved my mother, why wouldn’t he want her killer to be caught?”

“He had his family to think about.”

“He wasn’t thinking about them when he slept with her.”

“Maybe he kept telling himself that what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He was also afraid he’d wind up a suspect. Could be she tried to break off the relationship, and he killed her in the classic ‘if I can’t have you, no one can’ scenario. I’m actually surprised he came clean at all.”

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she considered his comment. “He said he did it because he still loves her, even after all these years. He told me he wasn’t willing to sit back and let whatever happened to her happen to me.”

“I’m liking Joe more and more,” he said, and got up to cross over to her. “You ready for bed?”

She stepped into his arms and felt instantly better. “Yeah. I’m tired.”

It was a mess. Jeremy had never seen anything like it, except in some horror movie. Instead of shooting him, his father had raised the gun and squeezed off a round that went into the wall. Then, sobbing like a child, even though he said only pussies cried, he’d fallen onto his knees, muttered that he wasn’t worth shit if he couldn’t do what had to be done and put the barrel in his own mouth.

Before Jeremy could stop him, he fired again, and now his brains covered the couch and part of the wall behind it. The rest of him lay sprawled on the floor next to the gun.

Jeremy had been sitting nearby, rocking back and forth and staring at what was left of his father, for hours. He kept asking himself if he should call Hank. But Hank was working, and Hank would go to the police. Anyone would. Which was bad. Jeremy knew what would happen if the police came. They’d take his father’s body away, close up the house and put him in a strange place, a place that wasn’t exactly a house and wasn’t exactly a hospital in some town far away from here. His father had described it to him many times.

You’d better hope nothing ever happens to me.

He wouldn’t have his car. He wouldn’t have Hank, or his job. He wouldn’t have his bedroom. And he’d never see Claire again.

Was Claire even alive? Maybe that was why his father was crying. Maybe he’d killed her. He’d never been the same since Alana.

Jeremy pictured the place where he’d be sent, like the one in that Cuckoo movie his father had shown him. Then he imagined some other family moving into this home. What if that family had a boy who managed to remove the locks and went underneath the house? And what if that boy found the suitcase? The police would come to the sanatorium—that was what his father called it—and put him in prison, just like Don had told him they would.

“They’re going to knock my block off,” he whimpered. He’d been crying off and on. Didn’t seem to matter now that his father wasn’t around to yell about it. There was no one left to get mad. But he wasn’t relieved about that. Not like he’d always dreamed. As mean as his father could be, Don had been there day in and day out. At least most of the time. Without him, a big hole seemed to yawn open right in front of Jeremy. If he moved an inch, he’d fall in…?.

Oh, God…what should I do? He’d been asking himself that ever since his father killed himself, but he couldn’t think of a good answer.

It was three o’clock in the morning before Jeremy came to his feet. He had a headache, his eyes burned and his nose was plugged, but he’d finally figured out that there was really only one solution to his problem. He had to bury his father. He had to get rid of the body and clean up the mess before anyone saw it. Only then could he go on living as he’d lived in the past. With the way his father had been drinking, no one would miss him. Not for a long time. If one of his friends called, Jeremy would make up some excuse. He could always say his father was passed out. No one would question that, no matter how many times he said it.

If that didn’t work…he’d say that the same person who’d made Alana disappear had made Don disappear, too. That was true, wasn’t it? And if that didn’t work…he’d go into the forest and never come back.

He vomited the first time he touched the body. Even after there was nothing left in his stomach, he continued with the dry heaves until he’d wrapped his father up in a blanket. From there, it wasn’t so hard to carry him downstairs and around the corner. But getting him under the house wasn’t easy.

Pushing and pulling, Jeremy managed to move his burden into the crowded space inch by exhausting inch until it was right next to the suitcase. Then he sat back and let himself cry some more.

“You’ve got company,” he told Claire’s mother when he had no more tears to shed. Then he crawled into his bed. As strong as he normally was, he didn’t have one ounce of energy left.

But it was okay. No one ever came to the house. He’d finish cleaning up in the morning.

Isaac’s eyes popped open. It was dark and very late. If the moon was out, it couldn’t be more than a sliver, or it was on the other side of the house, because he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face.

What had disturbed him?

Not Claire. She was sleeping soundly at his side.

He held still for several seconds, listening to the house settle above the sound of her steady breathing. Everything seemed fine, perfectly normal. He told himself he was just anxious about what had happened recently and snuggled closer to her warm body. But a thump, coming from outside, sent a charge of adrenaline through him.

What was that?

His mind reverted to the calls he’d seen on Les Weaver’s phone bills. He believed Les was a contract killer, a person who was able to take someone out and not get caught. If Les knew he and Claire were making waves for him, he just might return to Pineview to be sure they couldn’t continue.

Isaac’s blood ran cold to think someone might have come to kill him or Claire or both of them. He’d been attacked by wolves and bears and wild dogs; he’d been bitten by a poisonous spider. But never before had he felt as if a man might try to kill him.

He slipped carefully out of bed so he wouldn’t disturb Claire—Lord knew she needed the rest, and given the number of scavengers in the forest, this could easily be a false alarm.

After pulling on the jeans he’d been wearing earlier and his boots, he got his revolver from the top drawer. He didn’t like guns. He was too much of an animal lover to enjoy hunting, didn’t understand why it was considered such grand sport to kill when it was far more exciting to document life, but he kept a weapon handy in case of emergency.

The bedroom door creaked as he opened it. Claire stirred, but didn’t wake. He waited until she’d settled again before creeping out into the living room.

Unfortunately, it was just as dark. Here in the mountains the stars were brighter than in the city, but with so many trees towering over his house that didn’t help. The only outside lights Isaac had were the ones he’d installed himself—a flood, activated by a motion sensor, on each side of the cabin.

As he waited in the living room, one of those floods snapped on. An animal could’ve tripped the sensor, something as small as a rat or a skunk, but Isaac knew it could also be something bigger.

Crouching at the window, gun ready, he peered through the glass. He didn’t see anything, but there wasn’t much time to look before a shot rang out, shattering the light.