CHAPTER 42
Mike Ferguson found the old motel fascinating as
hell. He’d hitchhiked to Deception Bay first with an elderly couple
in a pickup that looked like it was from the sixties. They took him
as far as the cut-off to Jewell and Mist at a crawl. Then two
teenagers picked him up in a hot Toyota 4 Runner. They didn’t
believe in going less than sixty-five, which was fine by Mike. He
got to the turnoff to Seaside in that cool rig, then had to walk a
couple of miles before the ride to Deception Bay with a guy who
claimed to be a cook at some place called Davy Jones’s Locker. The
driver of the Ford Focus had dropped him off in the middle of town,
and Mike then worked his way to the old motel that Mad Maddie,
Justice Turnbull’s mother, had once called home. Ignoring the
chained fence with its faded NO TRESPASSING
sign that creaked with the wind, he’d soldiered on through the rain
to the front of the motel.
The place was a wreck, but Mike
couldn’t help from poking through the old dilapidated cupboards and
closets of the units. There really wasn’t a lot left. It looked
like someone had camped here at some point and left an old
rat-eaten sleeping bag in the living room of the manager’s unit,
the best one of the whole sagging stream of cabins. Strung together
with carports, each individual cabin was falling apart. The roofs
had gaping holes in the shingles, and bricks had fallen off the
chimneys. A couple of doors had been nailed shut, and there was
plywood over most of the windows. The fence surrounding the place
was like Old Man Ramsby with his mouth of gaps where teeth were
supposed to be.
And it was loud here. Overlooking the
ocean.
But there were a few things that he
considered cool enough to shove into his backpack. An old license
plate from the sixties, way older than Justice, he thought; and a
small picture of Jesus charred into a piece of driftwood, which had
once hung on the wall and had fallen from its nail and down through
a hole in the floor; and a dog collar with a tag that read
SPORT. He’d even found a tarot card and
remembered that Mad Maddie had been a fortune-teller of sorts. So
the death card was a real treasure.
But what was there of Justice
Turnbull’s? What little bit of his boyhood had he left in this
wreck of a building?
Mike thought Justice had lived a good
part of his childhood years here, but he couldn’t find anything
that proved it. He knew only that this place was where he’d tried
to kill his mother and that other woman a few years back. But he
found no evidence of the crime; it had been too long
ago.
Sitting cross-legged on the dirty
floor, he listened as the wind howled. Low tide was still a few
hours away, so he’d hole up here for now. Maybe he’d find something
really cool, something that might impress James . . . or even Kara
Mathis, at the lighthouse. How badass would that be?
He found his phone and turned it on.
Belinda had texted him, saying that James was looking for him.
Yeah, well, he knew that much. James had left a ton of texts and
voice mails. Mike thought about phoning him back, then decided he
didn’t want to be called an idiot. Let him stew. Served the jerk
right!
He’d be home tomorrow,
anyway.
After visiting the
lighthouse.
There was something about Zellman that
really bothered Harrison. As he raced to Siren Song, he tried to
figure out what it was. Something more than his super-inflated
opinion of himself. There was something manipulative about the man.
It was as if Zellman, in reveling in how brilliant he was, thought
he could maneuver people to do his bidding. Except it had backfired
with Justice Turnbull. Zellman had misread his own
patient.
What had Zellman said when asked about
the threats by Turnbull to the doctor? Something about
patient/client privilege? But Zellman wasn’t always so eager to
play by those rules. He’d let a lot of things slip in a previous
interview with the man, even typed it out on his computer, as it
was difficult for him to speak.
Harrison flipped his wipers to a higher
speed and squinted as the rain picked up and the roof of the sky
seemed to lower, the clouds thick and gray. One of the things
Zellman had mentioned was that Turnbull believed he could smell the
women of Siren Song when they were pregnant.
Crazy talk.
But then wasn’t telepathy between Laura
and Justice Turnbull unbelievable?
And something else burned in his mind.
Seeing Detective Dunbar throw up in the bushes at Zellman’s house
had triggered thoughts of when he’d first met Laura and she’d lost
the contents of her stomach.
Hadn’t Laura’s ex, that jerk Adderley,
accused her of being pregnant? Wasn’t that what he’d said in the
parking lot?
An uneasy feeling crept through his
mind. She was tired. Pale. Dark circles under her eyes. And she’d
been distant as well. He’d chalked it all up to the newness of
their relationship and all the pressure she was under with Justice
Turnbull on the loose. But maybe there was something more that was
stealing her sleep and worrying her mind.
“Stop it,” he muttered, disgusted with
himself. He braked for a corner, scaring up a crow picking at the
carcass of something indistinguishable on the pavement. The crow,
disturbed, flapped his wings and flew to the shoulder.
Harrison barely noticed. The tires of
his Chevy sang over the wet pavement as he drove and his thoughts
grew as dark as the heavens. Surely Laura wasn’t . . . She would
tell him if she were . . . what? Carrying her ex-husband’s
child?
“Don’t listen to that asshole
Adderley,” he told himself, but his reporter’s gut instinct that
something was very wrong in a relationship that had just barely
begun wouldn’t leave him alone.
Coming up on the turnoff to Siren Song,
he slowed to a crawl. The twin ruts of the lane were riddled with
puddles, the grass mashed from the tires of several vehicles parked
near the open gate. No chain nor taciturn woman in a dress right
out of the eighteen hundreds was blocking his
entrance.
Instead a row of police cars, lights
flashing, and armed officers kept the onlookers and curious at bay.
No amount of talking would get Harrison inside the walls of the
estate, though he tried his damnedest. The police were conducting a
thorough search of the grounds and the area outside the gates,
trying to discover where Justice Turnbull had entered.
Even Stone, who’d arrived before him,
wouldn’t come out and give Harrison the green light. But Laura, who
had obviously been waiting for him, must have spied his Chevy, as
she came hurrying from the house and along the path to the
gate.
He hadn’t seen her since morning, and
the sight of her chased away his doubts. She was shoving her arms
through a lightweight jacket. She smiled and waved as her gaze met
his, and he remembered kissing those lips and being so disturbed by
her closeness the night before. There was just something so damned
alluring and sexy about her, something that touched him in a spot
he’d never really known existed.
Lorelei, he
thought.
“It’s all right,” she insisted, cocking
her head at Harrison and speaking to the cop. “He’s with me.” She
looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes still visible, as if
she was battling insomnia or the flu. He’d thought he’d understood.
Now he wasn’t so certain.
But he did know that Justice’s reign of
terror was taking its toll on her. Now the madman had not only
chased her down and nearly killed her, but he’d attacked her
sisters. Here. At Siren Song. Where they were supposed to be safe.
No doubt she would be all the more ready to “call” the psycho
telepathically for a showdown.
A bad idea if the carnage at Dr.
Zellman’s house was any indication of what the murderer was capable
of.
It was obvious Justice Turnbull was
escalating, going off the rails. Patricia Zellman was dead, Brandt
Zellman clinging to life, and as he understood it, two of Laura’s
sisters were seriously wounded, though from what he could
determine, they hadn’t suffered life-threatening
wounds.
All in all, a busy, bloody night for
Turnbull.
The officer in charge of the crime
scene, a twentysomething with short red hair and a hard expression
far older than his years, shook his head. “I’ve been told no one
goes in, and unless the sheriff himself says this guy can come
inside, then he stays out.”
“I’ll get Detective Stone to okay
it.”
The officer, whose name tag read
CRAMPTON, was unmoved. “I said, ‘The
sheriff.’” His eyes narrowed on Harrison. “I know you,” he said.
“You’re that reporter. The guy who blew up the story on the murders
around that club in Portland. Boozedog.”
“Boozehound,” Harrison automatically
corrected him.
“Yeah, well, you just stay where you
are.”
“How are your sisters?” Harrison
asked.
“They’ll be okay. I’ll be out in a
sec,” Laura said, obviously deciding that arguing was
pointless.
He had no choice but to wait outside.
The rain had slowed to a steady, skin-soaking drizzle, and there
was talk of a storm rolling in that night, but for now, the wind
had slowed, and the old lodge, visible through the stand of mossy
old growth, looked dark and formidable. He called the offices of
the Breeze, checked his e-mail, and left a
message for his editor that he was working on the Zellman murder
story as well as an assault that happened at Siren
Song.
Connolly called him back about half an
hour into his wait to basically tell him to “keep on it,” then went
on to gleefully say that since the Seven Deadly Sinners story had
broken, the paper had had a 30 percent increase in new subscription
requests from the same time period the year before. The change
might be coincidence, but Vic Connolly wasn’t betting on it. He was
happy with Harrison. Happy, happy. None of it made the waiting
easier.
It was another half hour before Laura
returned, this time, it seemed, ready to leave. In the meantime
Harrison had watched an ambulance and EMTs arrive, and again his
thoughts had turned to Adderley’s accusation that she was
pregnant.
He simply couldn’t get it out of his
head.
“Let’s get out of here,” Laura said as
she walked past the guards at the gate and looked into his eyes. He
reached for her, but she caught his arm and said in a low tone,
“Why don’t we meet somewhere?” Her gaze, with her beautiful,
intelligent eyes, held his for a second. “How about the
Sands?”
“Okay.”
Then she let go of his arm and Harrison
saw that the red-haired cop was watching them, as were two of
Laura’s sisters, one of whom was in a wheelchair. They were both
outside, under the overhang of the porch, their eyes trained on
Laura and Harrison.
He knew she’d suggested the Sands of
Thyme Bakery, but anyone could interpret it as the bar in a hotel
in Seaside named the Sands or a small lunch counter in Cannon
Beach.
He drove the few miles and kept her
taillights in his line of vision. Though it was only early
afternoon, the day was gray and the clouds, instead of breaking up,
appeared to be darkening. The Outback’s taillights were small red
beacons through the drizzling rain.
He followed her into the main road
cutting through Deception Bay. At the west end of the street, past
the storefronts and shops, was the ocean. Dark and shifting,
whitecaps visible, the waves tumbled and rolled. Laura turned into
the tiny parking lot for the bakery. Harrison slid his Impala into
a parking lot across the street. He locked the car, then jaywalked,
his collar turned up against the rain, the crash of waves louder
than usual. He caught up with Laura just as she reached the front
door.
The bell over the door tinkled as they
walked inside to the warmth and smells of baked bread and old
coffee.
“Hey! We’re about to close,” Kirsten
called from the back of the shop before she stepped to the counter
and spied her brother. “Make that we are
closed.” She offered them a smile.
“You’re telling me that you don’t have
one lousy bear claw left?”
“Nada, brother.”
“You alone?”
“My afternoon to close. The barista
just left ten minutes ago.”
“What about something from the lunch
menu?” Harrison suggested, studying the chalkboard mounted over the
deli case. “You said you were expanding it.”
She came around the counter. “Oh, well
. . . I guess I can make an exception this
time and stay open a few more minutes.”
After locking the door behind him and
Laura, she flipped the OPEN sign to
CLOSED in the window, then, wiping her
hands on her apron, said, “So what can I get you? I’ve got a great
roast beef/tomato/mozzarella sandwich, and if you ask nicely, I’ll
add bacon and broil the whole damned thing.”
“You’re on,” Harrison said. “And a
beer.”
“Ha-ha. You can pick anything you want
from the cooler. Unless you want coffee, then grab it from the pot.
It’s still hot.” Turning, Kirsten lifted her eyebrows at Laura.
“What about for you? The same? Or I’ve got a killer Caesar salad
topped with prawns.”
“That would be perfect.” Laura was
nodding as she took a seat at one of the scattered
tables.
Harrison poured them each coffee and
brought over the creamer and a tiny basket of various sugar
packets. “Pick your poison,” he said, trying for a little levity,
though he had dozens of questions for her.
She told him of waking up to find him
gone, then getting the panicked call from Catherine and the
subsequent hours at Siren Song.
Kirsten brought their meals, the
sandwich and a cup of coleslaw for Harrison, the salad and a small
loaf of sourdough bread for Laura. She refilled their cups, then
told them she was officially “off duty.” When they were finished,
Harrison was to bring the dirty dishes to the back, where she was
cleaning up. They could hear her rattling around—water running,
pots clanging, a radio playing pop rock from the
eighties.
Laura pulled off a piece of bread,
buttered it, and sank her teeth into it. “God, this is heaven,” she
said, closing her eyes as if she’d truly entered the pearly gates.
“I missed breakfast this morning.”
“And lunch.” He took a bite of his
sandwich. True to her word, Kirsten had come up with a
“killer.”
“Your turn to tell me,” Laura said, her
eyes serious. “I heard from Detective Stone that Mrs. Zellman was
killed and that their son is in the hospital. You got another
call?”
“Yeah. From Turnbull.” Between bites of
his sandwich, he told her about deciding to let her sleep and to
leave her somewhere safe while he drove like a maniac to the
Zellman house. “The doctor was at work. Early. Despite the fact
that he still can’t talk very well.”
“So Justice told you they were all
dead. But Zellman wasn’t there?” She jabbed her fork into one of
the prawns atop her salad.
“Yeah.” Harrison was nodding. That had
bothered him, too. Then again, so many things did.
They finished their meal. “He’s
escalating,” Laura finally said. “Getting bolder. Taking chances.
Making bad choices.”
“And killing people.”
“Isadora said she wounded him,” Laura
said, picking up her cup with two hands. Her eyes narrowed a
fraction. “Cracked him up the side of the head, but who knows if
that did anything other than save Ravinia’s life.”
“Too bad it didn’t kill
him.”
“I’ve never been one to wish anyone
dead, but Justice . . .” She sighed and pushed her half-eaten salad
aside. “He’s a special case.”
“Amen.”
“I wonder how badly he’s wounded. Where
would he go?” She sipped from her cup. “Somewhere he’d feel
safe.”
“Wherever he’s holed up,” Harrison
thought aloud, “the police will find him. He has no money or credit
cards, no job or car. He’s not got friends or family other than
Siren Song, and his face has been plastered all over the
newspapers. It’s only a matter of time.”
“The sooner the better,” she said, then
looked at him over the rim of her cup. “And the next time you get a
call, would you mind waking me up? Is that too much to
ask?”
He remembered how peaceful she’d looked
lying on the big four-poster, how his heart ached at the sight of
her. Had she been lying to him? “There’s something I need to ask
you,” he said, carefully picking his words. “A couple of times
during this investigation, there’s been mention of pregnancy.” His
gaze was locked with hers, and he noticed her lips tightened almost
imperceptibly. “Zellman, when he was explaining about the
relationship between Justice Turnbull and the women of Siren Song,
his victims. Turnbull bragged to Zellman that he could find them
more easily when they were pregnant.”
She looked away, twisted her coffee cup
on the table.
“And then, when you were talking to
your ex . . . in the parking lot. He—”
“He accused me of being pregnant,”
Laura said, cutting in, turning her gaze a dark, angry blue. “So
you’re asking me if I am. I told him that I wasn’t and it’s not a
lie. I’m not, Harrison.” He felt a second’s relief, until he saw a
bit of guilt in her gaze. She took in a long breath and sighed.
“But in the interest of honesty, yes, I was. Recently.” She bit her
lip. “I was pregnant when I met you, had just found out, and yes,
that’s how Justice found me so easily, but that’s over now.” Her
eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “I just suffered a miscarriage.
In the last few days.”
He felt his entire world begin to rip
apart.
“I didn’t plan it. . . . Byron and I
got together just to try and give our relationship another try.
Obviously, it didn’t work, but I found out I was pregnant just a
little over a week ago and I . . . I didn’t tell anyone. The only
person who knew was Justice.”
Harrison couldn’t think of one thing to
say. He hadn’t really expected to be right, so he just sat in
shocked silence.
“I was still sorting everything out.
I’d wanted a baby for years, and now . . . now I was bringing her
into this world of madness.”
“Her?”
“I assume. There are very few men in my
lineage, and . . . one of my sisters at Siren Song could
tell.”
“So she knew, too.”
Laura looked at him. “Well . . .
yeah.”
“I don’t understand any of this!” He
suddenly exploded. He was mad as hell that she hadn’t told him,
hadn’t confided in him. Mad at himself. He’d found himself
fantasizing about her, about sharing a life with her . . . and this
basic lie had been there all along!
She read the fury burning deep in his
soul, the pain. “I was trying to do what I thought was best to
protect my child. And I wasn’t sure what that was. Run away? Hide
as far away as possible from Justice? Look over my shoulder, her
shoulder, for the rest of our lives? Or face him and try to destroy
him? And then you were there . . . the truth seeker, I thought . .
. and I believed I might be falling in love with you.” She blinked
and scraped her chair back. “Obviously that was a
mistake.”
“Yeah,” he said coldly.
His anger crushed her. “Should I have
bared my soul to you?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I didn’t know how.” She slung
the strap of her purse over her shoulder, strode to the front door,
unlocked it, and stepped outside.
He jumped up and caught the door before
it slammed shut and took off after her, striding through the
puddles and across the tiny lot, where she had already hit the
remote lock for her car and was yanking open the door.
“You should have trusted me!” he called
as he reached her, then forced the door shut with his
body.
“You ask too much!” Lips trembling with
anger, she tugged hard on the door’s handle again. “Get out of my
way.” When he didn’t budge, she looked up at him and said, “What
the hell is it you want from me?” Rain drizzled down her face and
under the collar of her jacket.
I want you. All of you.
Heart and soul. But the words wouldn’t come. When he didn’t
immediately respond, she tossed him a hard, knowing look and
ordered again, “Get out of my way.”
“Laura—”
“You don’t listen! Get the hell out of
my way!”
All he wanted to do was kiss her. To
drag her into his arms and gather her close, press his mouth onto
her wet lips, and try to roll back the hours and days, to start
over. But she’d lied to him. And it was a big one.
She pulled on the door handle, and he
stepped to the side, watched as she slipped behind the wheel. “Tell
Kirsten thanks,” she said, twisting on the ignition and backing up
before jamming her Outback into drive and nosing out into the
street.
And then she was gone.