See How She Dies

by Lisa Jackson

  She reached up and grabbed his hand with hers. Heat swirled up his arm. “I hope so, Zach,” she whispered, blinking hard as her fingers tightened over his. A jolt of electricity kicked his heart into high gear. She looked so young suddenly, so vulnerable and small. He had to remind himself that this was Kat. “God, I hope so.” She used his arm as a brace and climbed to her feet, her body only inches from his. He barely noticed the lingering pain from his beating.

  To his utter amazement, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss over his cheek. “Thanks for understanding, Zach. I needed a friend.” He turned his face, staring into her eyes, feeling her moist, smoky breath against his skin, half expecting her to kiss him again, but she smiled sadly and let go of his arm, then picked up her things and walked back to the house.

  He was left standing by the pool, dripping, and wondering what the hell had just gone on.

  Pain, as hot as if it erupted straight from the bowels of hell, shot through Witt’s chest. For a second he couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone had locked their fingers over his throat and was strangling him. Where were the pills? He yanked open the desk drawer and saw the vial in the pencil rack. Agony tore at his heart as he managed to retrieve the nitroglycerin pills and shove one under his tongue. He was nearly gasping now and waiting, his elbows propped on the leather desk pad, his head resting in his palms. Sweat broke out over his forehead and the damned intercom began to buzz impatiently. He didn’t answer and knew that Shirley, his secretary of more than twenty years, would get the message.

  The buzzer stopped and five minutes later, he was collected again—the angina had passed and he straightened his tie. No one save McHenry knew about his condition and he planned on keeping his secret to himself. Witt hated weakness and this heart condition was just that…a sign that he wasn’t as strong as he once had been.

  He reached for his humidor, opened the lid, and the heavy scent of Havana tobacco wafted to his nostrils. He grabbed a cigar, wedged it between his teeth, but didn’t light up. Not now. Not after the angina attack.

  He pushed the intercom button, learned that Roger Phelps was waiting in the reception area of the offices of Danvers International, and growled at Shirley to show him in. Disgusted, he didn’t bother lighting up though he longed for a few relaxing lungfuls of smoke.

  Within minutes Phelps was seated on the opposite side of Witt’s desk. He looked like Joe Average. Tan slacks, brown jacket, off-white shirt, and nondescript, department-store tie. His face wasn’t noteworthy, just even features with the beginnings of jowls that matched the paunch developing at his belt line. Witt was more than a little disappointed in the man who had supposedly been an agent with the CIA before dropping out of the government to do independent work.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Danvers?” Phelps said in a nasal voice. He hiked up his pants a bit and Witt noticed that his shoes—cheap loafers, from the looks of them—were scuffed.

  “You must’ve guessed why I wanted you. My daughter, London, was kidnapped. The police and FBI are incompetent jerks. Don’t have a clue where my daughter is and it’s been damned close to a month.”

  Phelps didn’t comment.

  “You come highly recommended.”

  A lift of a shoulder.

  Witt was growing irritated. “Tell me why I should pay you when the government and the police seem to be baffled?”

  Phelps’s expression changed slightly and Witt was reminded of a wolf with his nose to the wind, scenting a wounded doe. “Simple. You want her found.”

  “And you can do that?” Witt settled back in his chair. Maybe there were more layers to Phelps than met the eye.

  “If I don’t, you owe me nothing besides my retainer.”

  “Of ten thousand dollars.”

  “Cheap, isn’t it?” He set his untouched coffee on the edge of Witt’s desk. “All I ask is that your family comes clean with me. No secrets. No lies. No skeletons tucked into closets.”

  “Fair enough. You can question everyone here while we’re still in Portland, but you may as well know that I’m moving them—even the older kids—to the ranch near Bend. I’m not going to chance losing another one. Zachary—” He scowled when he thought of his middle son. Always the rebel. Always cocksure. Always in trouble. “—he’s going first, but he doesn’t know it yet. The rest of the family will follow in a couple of weeks. So you’d better start with him.”

  “He’s the one with the phony story about the hooker.”

  Witt’s back went up. “The story was true. The police talked to the girl…Sophia something or other.”

  “Costanzo. I already spoke with her.”

  Witt moved the unsmoked cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “What’d she say?”

  “Same thing she said to the police. Not much. Gives your kid his alibi, but I have the feeling she’s lying.”

  “A feeling?” Witt was skeptical.

  “Believe me, she’s not telling everything she knows.” He smiled grimly. “But that won’t be a problem. I’ll handle her. And as for Zach, I’ll talk to him, see what he says—maybe he’ll slip up. I’ll catch everyone else before you send them packing.” He pulled out a notepad from the inner pocket of his jacket, scribbled quickly, then frowned slightly, wrinkles lining his brow. “What about your wife? Can I reach her here or is she going to the ranch with your kids?”

  Witt hesitated just a second. He’d been wrestling with this decision, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. She needed to get away. “Katherine will be at the ranch.” Why sending her to central Oregon was a relief to him, he didn’t understand, but he hoped the change of scenery would do her some good.

  Phelps cocked his head at an angle. “And you?”

  “I’ve got a business to run, Phelps.” Already the man was getting on his nerves. “You can reach me here.”

  “Good.” Phelps folded his hands over his thickening girth. “There’s only one thing I want from you, Danvers, and that’s honesty, from you and your family.”

  “You’ve got it,” Witt agreed, anxious for the interview to be over. This blend-into-the-woodwork guy was giving him a case of the creeps, but Witt needed him. He needed someone to help him find London. The police were beginning to look like a bunch of bumbling idiots and the FBI wasn’t any better. A darkness settled into his soul and he wondered if he was being punished. He didn’t much believe in God, though he attended church, but he’d committed more than his share of sins.

  “But maybe you don’t really get it,” Phelps said, cutting into his thoughts. He leaned forward and pinned Witt with eyes that had suddenly come alive. “If I find out that a member of your family is behind this, then I expect to be paid anyway.”

  “You will be,” Witt agreed, though his collar seemed to tighten around his throat like one of those chains you slip around the neck of a guard dog.

  Phelps managed a phony grin and Witt felt as if he’d pulled on that invisible chain. “Good. Just so we understand each other.”

  10

  A dry wind blew across the stubble of the fields, bringing dust and chaff and the thin smell of diesel from the tractor rumbling along the hillside beyond a ragged copse of pine trees. Digging in the heels of his boots, Zach stretched the barbed wire between the posts, his muscles straining with the effort. Sweat stained the red bandanna he’d rolled and tied around his head. The sun was relentless, but Zach didn’t care.

  “Hang in there,” Manny, the ranch foreman called. “Hold tight and I’ll tie ’er off.”

  For the first time in weeks, Zach felt free. His wounds had nearly healed and he loved the ranch, three thousand acres northwest of Bend in central Oregon. Sheltered by the eastern foothills of the Cascade Mountains, the Danvers spread stretched as far as the eye could see. Unlike the brick-walled fortress of the Danvers home in the west hills of Portland, the Lazy M was wild and open and touched the vagabond spirit of Zach’s soul.

  He’d been sent here just after being interrogated by Roger
Phelps, some sort of private eye his father had hired. The detective was patient, talking slowly, luring Zach into saying things he hadn’t intended. Zach had left the interview feeling as if Phelps considered him a prime suspect in London’s kidnapping. He’d thought about telling the truth, but couldn’t see what good it would have done to rat on Jason about the whore. Who cared? One incident wasn’t related to the other. Zach had his own moral code, loose though it may be. One thing he never did was snitch.

  After the interview with Phelps, he’d been shipped out here. Witt had figured that long hours working on the ranch, bucking hay, stretching fence line, herding cattle, and wearing himself out in the saddle would be good for him, better than the dreaded boarding school that had been a constant threat ever since London had disappeared. Witt had told his son that he thought the endless hours of work would keep him out of trouble, and Zach hadn’t argued. He’d wanted out of the house, away from the suspicious glances thrown in his direction by everyone in the family, far from the distraction of his stepmother and nowhere near the cops. Jack Logan, like Roger Phelps, seemed to think he was guilty of all kinds of crimes.

  If they only knew.

  Sure, he’d had his trouble with the law. He’d been caught as a minor in possession of alcohol more times than he’d like to admit, and he’d stolen the hearse from the local funeral home and gone joyriding, leaving the funeral director and a grieving family fit to be tied. Witt had been forced to do some fast talking on that one so that Zach, though underage, hadn’t been charged with grand theft auto. He’d been expelled from school for blowing up the faculty room john and he’d been in his share of fights and motorcycle accidents—some before he’d gotten his license.

  Hell on wheels, Jack Logan had called him on more than one occasion.

  Jason had stood up for his younger brother. “It’s just a phase, a kid sort of thing,” he’d told their father. “He’s rebelling a little, that’s all. No big deal. Let him do his thing.”

  Kat had seemed amused. “I bet you did your own bit of hell-raising in your time, Witt,” she’d said when Witt, in a fury over the hearse incident, looked as if he’d wanted to strangle the boy he’d raised as his second son.

  Nelson, each time Zach was returned home in the middle of the night, handcuffed and bleeding from some fight, had wanted all the intimate details and followed Zach around for days after, telling Zach how he hoped his brother had “kicked ass.”

  Only Trisha had said nothing, smiling as if she were glad Zach was taking the heat instead of her.

  Yeah, he’d been trouble for his folks and he didn’t really give a shit. That bothered Witt the worst, that Zach had no direction, no drive. At least Trisha had her art and Jason was going to be the best damned lawyer in the entire Northwest, but Zach had no ambition, no focus, didn’t seem interested in the hotel business, or the timber business, or anything remotely connected with Danvers International.

  But Zach did love the ranch.

  And he had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Why didn’t anyone believe him?

  Sure, London had been a pain and Witt had spoiled her rotten, but, truth to tell, Zach had liked the little kid who could get away with anything just by smiling impishly up at her father while her blue eyes twinkled as if with a private secret. Anyone who could manipulate the old man was someone Zach respected. Even if she was only a precocious four-year-old.

  He was sorry she was gone and had to keep his mind from wandering too far toward the murky thoughts of what had become of her. He, for one, had written her off as dead. Or else whoever kidnapped her wasn’t going to let her go—not after so long.

  “Okay, that should do it!” Manny tested his post, and, satisfied that this section of fence would stand, gave Zach the high sign. “It’s Friday. Let’s call it a day.”

  Zach checked his watch. Five-fifteen. Since he’d been at the ranch, a little over a week now, Manny hadn’t let him off work until eight at night. The routine had been the same. Dog tired, Zach had returned to the house each night, washed, eaten, and fallen asleep before nine, so that he would be ready for a new day starting at five the next morning.

  He stripped off his bandanna, wiped the sweat and grime from his face, and walked to the shady banks of the creek where he’d left his horse after lunch. He could’ve ridden in the dusty cab of the truck, or even sat on the flatbed as it bounced along the rutted dirt roads of the ranch, but he preferred the horses and this one, Cyclone, was his favorite. A headstrong sorrel colt with four white stockings who was known to kick and bite, Cyclone was the fastest horse on the ranch.

  “Come on, boy,” he said, hoisting the blanket and saddle onto the colt’s back. “It’s time.”

  Ears back, the horse shifted and kicked but Zach was quick enough to dodge the blow and tighten the cinch. “You’re a mean son of a bitch, aren’t you?” He swung into the saddle and yanked on the reins. “Well, that’s all right by me, ’cause I am, too. Hiya!” Heels pressed into the colt’s sides, he leaned forward in the saddle and Cyclone took off. Wind streamed through Zach’s hair and brought tears to his eyes. Spindly jack pine and red-barked ponderosa pine trees flashed by in a blur and once again Zach felt wild and free—as if he could do anything he damned well pleased.

  He didn’t miss his siblings. Jason would sell his soul to the devil for a small amount of cash, while Trisha was rebelling in the best way she knew how—by getting involved with Mario Polidori, son of Witt’s old nemesis, yet again. Obviously she didn’t subscribe to the “once burned, twice shy,” theory. There were whispers that she was into drugs, though Zach had seen no evidence of it. As for Nelson—the kid was a pain—plain and simple. Ever since the kidnapping, Nelson had puppy-dogged after Zach, wanting to hear over and over again about the hooker and the thugs with the knife—like Zach was some kind of war hero. It bothered Zach because Nelson was a little on the soft side, his adoration a little too intense.

  But London, she was another matter. He closed his mind to all thoughts of her, preferring to be numb rather than think about the horrors his little half-sister might have endured. “Come on,” he yelled at the colt.

  Zach kicked the sorrel and the horse responded without a second’s hesitation, gathering speed like a comet streaking across the sky, approaching the ravine where the creek slashed through the field. Massive muscles bunched, then lengthened, and horse and rider were soaring across the rock-strewn chasm where only a thin stream of water trickled.

  The colt landed with a thud on the pebble-strewn bank and, with renewed energy upon sight of the stables, ran flat out across the yellow stubble of the pasture. Grasshoppers and pheasants, wings flapping in a frenzy, were flushed from the straw.

  Zach leaned low over the sorrel’s neck and urged the horse ever faster. Cyclone took the bit between his teeth, his legs flashing over the cracked earth. Wind screamed past his ears and sweat darkened the horse’s coat. Laughing for the first time in weeks, Zach yelled, “Move, you miserable hunk of horseflesh.”

  Only when they were near the paddock did Zach pull back on the reins, wrestling control from the headstrong beast. “Slow down,” he growled, standing in the stirrups. By the time they entered the paddock, the colt had switched from a gallop to a trot and finally into a reluctant walk. Cyclone tossed his head, his bridle jangling as he fought the demanding demon on his back.

  “You did good,” Zach said. Cyclone was blowing hard and Zach kept him moving, walking slowly, until the colt’s breathing was normal again. “That’s better.”

  Zach didn’t see Trisha watching him, didn’t notice her lurking in the shadows of the scrub pine until he’d reined up at the fence and she climbed onto the top rail. With a sinking sensation, he knew he’d have to deal with his family again and suddenly his wings seemed clipped. All the old anger and resentment welled up in him and the ranch that had moments before appeared so vast quickly became confining and small.

  “This place is a prison!” Trisha said as she pushed aside a long-needled br
anch encroaching over the fence.

  “What’re you doing here?” But he knew. They were all here. For good.

  “Family vacation,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm. Her nose wrinkled when she saw the horseflies gathering near the colt’s rump. The smells of manure mixed with urine, sweat, and dust apparently offended her. “Believe me, I tried to talk Dad out of it, but you know how he is when he makes a decision.”

  “Humph.” Zach swung down from the horse’s back.

  “In a way, I understand. Dad’s tired of everyone just sitting around and waiting for the phone to ring at the house in town—even the police and the feds. Doing nothing!”

  Zach remembered.

  “Dad said we were all getting on his nerves—now, there’s something new,” she added sarcastically.

  Zach didn’t respond.

  “Anyway, I think he was worried about another kidnapping.”

  “No way.” Zach hauled the saddle off the horse and hung it over the top rail of the fence. “Aren’t you the one who pointed out that he wouldn’t care if one of us was abducted? Just London.”

  Trisha pouted.

  “You know, if I turned up missing, I think he might buy a bottle of expensive champagne and have himself a celebration.”

  “He’s not that bad,” she said without much conviction, then catching Zach’s steady gaze, sighed. “Okay, so he is that bad. Anyway, it doesn’t matter why he sent us here—the fact of the matter is that we’re all stuck in this godforsaken place.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Including Kat.”

  Zach’s stomach dropped a little, but he managed to keep his face from registering the slightest trace of emotion. “She’ll hate it here,” he said flatly.

  “Already does.” Plucking a few needles from the branch near her head, she sighed and twirled the sprig between her fingers. “You should have heard their fight. It reminded me of Mom and Dad before they split up. Kat put up a battle, I’ll give her that, but despite her excruciatingly loud protests against being shipped out of Portland, she wound up here, with the rest of us, and that really pissed her off. She wanted to stay close to the investigation and I thought she might grab Dad’s .22 and put a bullet through him before she’d leave town. But, of course, Dad got his way.” Trisha’s eyes clouded and Zach knew she wasn’t thinking about Kat any longer.