Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  After the reverend had said a little about Glenn, Scott Pascal rose from a front pew and moved stiffly toward the podium. He made a short speech about his friend, describing how they’d decided to become partners in the restaurant. It was clear Scott felt the emotion of the moment, for he stumbled over his words and had to hesitate several times before continuing.

  Then Mitch jerked to his feet and took a turn at the podium. He glanced over their numbers, his round cheeks red and glistening with sweat under the lights. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his dark suit, and Becca wondered briefly if he was going to have a heart attack or something. He didn’t look well.

  “Glenn and I were friends a long time. He was a good guy.” Mitch looked to Gia, whose gaze was riveted on him. She held herself stiffly, as if her connection to Mitch were held by a tight, invisible rope. “We shared stuff. Good and bad. Now that he’s gone I don’t know who I’ll talk to.” As if of their own volition, his eyes searched through the crowd, fastening on McNally. He blinked several times, then said on a rasp, “We’re gonna miss you, buddy.” His hands were clenched as he walked back to his seat.

  A young woman approached the podium next, and she filled the small church with a beautiful alto version of “Amazing Grace.” By the time the back doors were opened, Becca felt heavy with unshed tears and sorrow and practically gulped air as she headed down the front steps to the graveled lot.

  Hudson was right behind her. One hand dropped lightly on one shoulder. “Hey,” he said softly.

  “I know. I’m okay, really. No vision to worry about this time.” She shot him a smile meant to lighten the mood, but his blue eyes were sober.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  His hand clasped hers and she squeezed hard, feeling emotion sweep over her. As if they’d choreographed the event, they headed to their cars and Becca followed him to his farm.

  Once inside the old clapboard farmhouse, they didn’t waste any time. She was in his arms in an instant and he was taking off her clothes, peeling off her blouse as she kicked off her shoes and worked at the buttons of his shirt. Hudson’s cell rang and he ignored it, turning the damned thing off and leaving it in the kitchen as they hurried upstairs, dropping clothing on the floor, kissing and touching and not getting enough of each other. They made love hungrily, as if in the act of joining they could redefine living, could push away the taint of death, the fear of the unknown.

  Several hours later Hudson lazily reached for his cell phone and reluctantly switched it back on. He kissed Becca’s bare shoulder and she curled toward him as he listened to the messages. Her eyes swept over the trail of clothing their urgent coupling had left in their wake: his pants in a heap by the bedroom door; her bra clinging to the corner of the bed; one of his socks sitting atop the TV at the end of the bed.

  She gazed at him through slitted eyes, afraid if she opened them wide he’d see her love reflected in their depths. She couldn’t be that transparent. Not yet, and she was certain she would be. She’d never stopped caring. All these years. Pathetic. Yes. But true, and if he knew—

  Suddenly every muscle in Hudson’s body stiffened. He lifted half up, the cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “What?” Becca asked, alarmed.

  He clicked off the phone and made himself lie down beside her once more, staring at the ceiling.

  “Who was it?”

  “The Third. McNally talked to the group after the memorial service and told everyone he wants us all to give him DNA samples. All of us. Guys and girls.”

  “What?” she said, sitting up. “Why?”

  “He’s working on Jessie’s case, and he wants to rule out some things. Said the strangest things pop up from DNA testing sometimes. The Third asked him if the bones are really Jessie’s, but he said they still don’t know for sure.”

  “Now wait a minute…why would they ask for that? I’m not a CSI authority, but the only reason they would take DNA is if they had something to compare it to.”

  “Maybe they found more than they’re saying. A weapon, blood or skin samples under her fingernails. They want female DNA as well, so that must mean that there was something buried with Jessie, a clue. Maybe she fought off her attacker and blood or flesh was left. I don’t know. The Third didn’t say.”

  “Did everyone agree to the testing?”

  “The Third’s heading to the station now and having them swab the inside of his cheek. Says he’s got nothing to hide and doesn’t want to wait.”

  All the warmth, the feeling of well-being she’d felt in Hudson’s arms had dissipated. “Were there two calls? What was the other one?”

  Hudson shook his head. “It was Renee. Said she was going to the station this afternoon, then heading to the beach. She sounded…better…stronger, like she’d made a decision.”

  “Good.”

  “I suppose we should give up some DNA.”

  Becca made a face. “I suppose.”

  “But later,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

  “Later,” she breathed into his mouth as it captured hers.

  It was dark by the time they took Hudson’s truck to the Laurelton police station where a tech swabbed both their cheeks, labeling each vial carefully. Becca couldn’t see how giving her DNA could help. There was no way there could be any trace of DNA from whoever had killed the girl, be it Jessie or someone else, after all these years, but hey, if that’s what McNally wanted, fine.

  When Becca and Hudson stepped out of the room together, they encountered McNally himself standing by the station’s front doors and looking toward someone who was just heading out to the parking lot: Renee.

  “Hey!” Hudson yelled, hurrying after his sister. Becca would have followed but McNally said softly, “Have you got a minute, Ms. Sutcliff?”

  No, Becca thought, but she hesitated, watching Hudson approach his sister. Renee’s body language said she was in a hurry and didn’t want to wait. Reluctantly, Becca turned her attention back to the cop and followed him down to a cubicle in a large open room where other detectives were seated at desks, talking on phones, typing reports.

  She sat carefully in the chair next to his cluttered desk and noted a picture of a blond boy of about six, his big smile showing a spot where he was missing a baby tooth—a school picture. So McNally had a kid. Somehow that surprised her.

  The detective gazed at her for a long moment, enough to make Becca feel uncomfortable. She wondered if this was one of those police tactics meant to intimidate criminals into spilling all. She felt like blabbing her fool head off, and he hadn’t yet asked her a single question.

  “Was Jessie pregnant when she disappeared?” he finally inquired.

  “Pregnant?” Becca could feel her eyes widen in surprise, her lips part.

  “The bones of a fetus were found with the dead girl’s remains.”

  Becca felt blood rush to her head, roaring through her ears. Pregnant? Jessie? “I…don’t know,” she heard herself say. Was that what Jessie had been trying to tell her? Was that the secret she wasn’t supposed to speak of?

  She felt faint and she gazed past him to Hudson who, as if called by her urgent need, had appeared in the door to the large room. He strode purposely in her direction, and she swallowed hard as she thought that the baby McNally had told her about was undoubtedly his.

  What the hell was this? Hudson wondered, seeing Becca’s white face and the shoulder she’d turned toward the detective, as if she were trying to block him out.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m coming back from the beach,” Renee had called after him.

  Hudson had hesitated. He’d asked her to postpone her trip. With the strange nursery rhyme notes, Glenn’s sudden death, and her sense of persecution, Hudson wanted his sister to stay within reach. But she was on a mission of her own, apparently, and wasn’t listening either to him or the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

  More people were leaving the station, a group of them, and Hudson had felt like he
was swimming upstream as he pushed his way to reach Becca and McNally. But he found them, Becca seated at the cop’s desk in the Homicide Department.

  “Can I help you?” A tall, African American cop with a name tag that read Detective Pelligree stepped in his way.

  “Lookin’ for McNally. Found him.”

  Pelligree watched as Hudson made his way to McNally’s desk where Becca sat, white as a sheet, her eyes wide. Oh, hell, was she about to have one of her spells again. “You okay?”

  “No,” she was saying to the detective, shaking her head, and Hudson saw that her hands were curled into trembling fists.

  “What’s going on?” He looked to Mac for an explanation.

  “He asked if Jessie was pregnant,” Becca said. “There was a baby…The bones of an unborn child…were there, in the maze, too.”

  Hudson stared at Mac. “You think Jessie was pregnant?”

  “The girl in the maze was.”

  “So that’s why you’re doing the DNA swabs,” he said slowly, thinking. “If I’m the baby’s father, then it’s a pretty sure bet the mother is Jessie.”

  McNally nodded.

  “Jesus H. Christ.” He couldn’t believe it. This had to be wrong. Had to be. “Then…then the remains aren’t Jessie’s.” But even as he said the words, he knew he could be mistaken.

  “Was that the trouble she was talking about?” Becca asked softly.

  “She would have told me.”

  “Would she, Mr. Walker?” McNally asked and Hudson had no answer.

  Gretchen stalked toward Mac like an angry jungle cat, meeting him at the station’s front doors as he came back inside after watching Hudson Walker and Rebecca Sutcliff leave. They were a couple, no doubt about it, and they’d both offered up their DNA. Actually, he’d had no resistence for the request even from that bastard of a lawyer Delacroix.

  Which was interesting.

  But he didn’t have time to think about it as now he was facing the she-cat, all ruffled, claws extended, fangs showing. God, she was wearying.

  She met him at the door and walked with him back to his desk. “You leave me with the tech while you do the interviewing?” Her blue eyes shimmered with annoyance.

  “You could have come to the memorial service.”

  “You remember Johnny Ray, the meth cooker? And the dead body found at his lab?”

  “It wasn’t homicide. It was an accidental explosion. Johnny Ray at his baking worst. I didn’t think I needed to be there.”

  “You did need to be there, rather than running after those rich boys you wanna bring down so badly. The Preppy Pricks,” she harrumphed. “You’d better hope the press never gets wind of that or they’ll crucify you.”

  Not that he cared.

  “As for our meth boy, the sheriff’s department is trying to take over this one, but Johnny Ray’s place is in Laurelton’s lovely city limits.”

  Gretchen’s mockery was because their resident meth problem, Johnny Ray, had a tract house on the edge of the city, where railroad tracks vied with Scotch broom and scraggly volunteer pine trees, all making a hardscrabble living out of rocky dirt. Perfect place for a meth kitchen, successful until Johnny Ray tried to start making pounds of crystal meth rather than mere ounces for his own use. Then he got on the PD’s radar when the neighbors grew alarmed at the smells emanating from the place. With Johnny Ray’s lack of focus, it was only a matter of time before someone stopped paying attention and the place exploded.

  Mac just wasn’t interested. Drug use and abuse amounted to a large percentage of the homicides he investigated, but there was no mystery to the method, means, or motive. It was more an exercise for the legal system: were they guilty of murder, manslaughter, or simple stupidity, and the only question that remained after they were apprehended was for how long they should be put away.

  “Did you ask them about the notes?” Gretchen asked, looking out the window toward the station lot, seeing Hudson Walker’s beat-up truck rumble away.

  “I called everyone. The only one who didn’t get one was Zeke St. John, but it might still be coming because Scott Pascal got his a day late.”

  “And they’ve all given DNA samples.”

  “Yep.”

  “They were all mailed from the same post office, right? In Sellwood. Maybe they were sent at different times,” Gretchen said, though she was looking past him, her tone distracted. She couldn’t care less about the notes, though Mac was fascinated by the mind that would put them together.

  “What are they for?” he asked aloud, thinking about Mitch Bellotti’s reaction. The guy was certain they were from Jessie, and he was all nerves. It had been about all he could do to have his DNA swab taken before he bolted outside for a cigarette—make that two, back to back, or more accurately, end to end. Did he know something? Something he wasn’t telling? Or was there something else at work outside of this investigation?

  “Maybe your little ghost girlfriend just forgot about St. John,” Gretchen suggested, once again trying to bait him into an argument.

  “Maybe,” Mac said. This time he wasn’t going to bite.

  Six days later, Hudson lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling in his bedroom, one arm draped possessively around Becca’s hip as the curve of her spine nestled next to him, skin to skin. He’d spent the time almost exclusively with Becca. Sometimes they were at her condo, most of the time they were at his ranch. Last night she’d even brought her dog over so that she wouldn’t have to leave at the crack of dawn to let him out. Ringo was downstairs in his bed and, after hours of whining, had apparently decided to accept his fate that he wasn’t sleeping in the bedroom with Becca.

  All the feelings from high school that Hudson had done his damnedest to deny seemed to be back full force. He could scarcely stand to be away from her and, lucky for him, she seemed to feel exactly the same way.

  They hadn’t talked about Jessie. Or much about Glenn and/or the fire and his death. They hadn’t pursued further discussion of the nursery rhymes—like The Third said, let McNally figure out who sent them and why. Hudson really didn’t give a damn. He didn’t want to think about Jessie or Glenn or any part of their group dynamics—the secrets, the lies, the undercurrents. If Renee wanted to dig around and come up with a story, she could have at it. All he wanted to do was breathe in Becca’s scent, feel the silkiness of her skin, listen to her musical laughter.

  And make love.

  Over and over again.

  Now his hand caressed her smooth skin. They’d come together twice last night and it hadn’t felt like enough. He hadn’t been celibate the intervening years since his first relationship with Becca, but he hadn’t been actively looking for sex, romance, and female companionship, either.

  It was as if he’d been waiting.

  Maybe he had.

  The sun was just starting to rise, and for the first morning in God knew how long its rays, though coolly blue in the early dawn, were not slanting through a gray haze of rain. Hudson could see the dark outlines of clouds through the window, just beginning to be visible in the first light, but it appeared, at least for the moment, that precipitation had been suspended.

  Carefully, he climbed out of bed, pausing to take a look at the woman lying in the rumpled blankets. Her eyes were closed, lashes fanning her cheeks, her breathing even and restful. He felt like he knew everything about her, yet she was still full of mystery and complexities. It was intoxicating and vaguely dangerous. There was too much going on, too many unanswered questions to start a relationship. But he didn’t care.

  And Jessie Brentwood might have been pregnant at the time of her death, at the time she’d been killed.

  You might have been a father if something horrible hadn’t happened to her in that maze, in front of the Madonna statue.

  How his life would have changed. He wouldn’t be here at the ranch with Becca, that much was for sure. He probably would never have known how it felt to be touched by her or kissed by her. He would have been tangl
ed with Jessie—wild, mysterious, and dangerous Jessie.

  But a kid—a kid who would now be nineteen. Hard to damned believe.

  Pulling on a pair of boxers and jeans, Hudson headed downstairs only to encounter Ringo, whose low growl indicated he wasn’t quite sure of both the new surroundings and the intentions of this stranger. Hudson half smiled as he made a pot of coffee. The sun was lifting higher, widening the arc of its rays, burnishing the outbuildings beyond the kitchen window. He knew Rodriguez would show up soon. Grandy’s replacement had been as reliable as promised, though Hudson would rather have his family’s longtime ranch foreman back.

  It was really too early to make phone calls, but Hudson unplugged his cell phone from his charger and pushed the speed button that accessed his sister’s number. Renee didn’t pick up and he decided not to leave a third message telling her to call him. She’d sounded better. He was being over-protective. And the phone call to her soon-to-be ex, Tim Trudeau, earlier in the week, hadn’t been a wise choice, either.

  Tim had acted as if he couldn’t be less interested in anything to do with Renee, saying only, “When you talk to her, tell her I’m putting the house on the market. Real estate agent’s coming by today and we’re coming up with a price. All I need is her signature.”

  Oh, yeah, pal. I’ll pass that along.

  Renee and Tim owned a house on the east side of the Willamette River, in an area known as Westmoreland. Hudson had steered clear of all the marital infighting that had broken out between them the last few years, but with Renee’s strange change of attitude lately, he’d felt the need for more information.

  His phone buzzed in his hand and to his complete surprise he saw the call was from Renee. He clicked on. “Finally,” he greeted her, stepping onto the outside porch in order not to wake Becca. “Where have you been?”