Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  “Miranda, for the love of St. Peter, what—?”

  “Hunter,” she whispered, tears falling like rain from her eyes. “Oh, no, Hunter!” She tried to deny what her eyes saw, but she couldn’t, for there, on that lifeless hand, was the ring that Hunter Riley had worn just before he disappeared. He hadn’t run away to Canada she realized, trembling and fighting the urge to wretch. Somehow, some way, by someone, he’d been killed.

  Seated at his worktable, Kane gritted his teeth as he stared at the evidence of Claire’s lies. The state of Oregon’s records of Sean Harlan St. John’s birth were different from the story Claire had told him. She’d said that Sean had been born in July when in actuality he’d entered the world at the end of April, just about nine months after Harley had died. So Sean wasn’t a St. John at all, but a Taggert.

  Or was he?

  Another thought, more damning than the first, raced through his brain. At first he discarded it as wishful thinking, but the longer he turned the idea through his mind, the more convinced he was that it was a concrete possibility.

  Why couldn’t Sean be his son? Hadn’t he made love to Claire over and over again before he left for the army, the morning after the night that Harley Taggert had died? The timing was right. Perfect, in fact. Was it possible? Could he have a boy? A strange, unwanted feeling crept through him. A son. He could be a father!

  “Shit.” He walked through the house to the front porch. The night had darkened the waters of the lake, and a few stars had begun to wink in the purple heavens. The kid looked like him. More than like a Taggert, but maybe that was just foolish male pride talking. He’d like to think that he was the father of Claire’s boy rather than Harley Taggert, but he couldn’t. Hadn’t she named the kid after Taggert? Sean Harlan St. John.

  His fist clenched around the condemning paper. What was Claire thinking, passing off her kid as belonging to one man when in reality, in truth . . . who the hell knew the truth?

  Only Claire. Who had lied to him, to the world, for sixteen long years.

  Cramming the copy of the certificate into the front pocket of his jeans, he strode down the overgrown path to the dock, climbed in the old boat, and revved the motor—only to have it die twice before he realized he was out of gas. He could drive around the lake, but decided he needed time to think things through, to cool off. So he took off at a slow jog, around the perimeter of Lake Arrowhead. It would take him nearly an hour to walk or jog to the other side, but by that time, his head might be clearer, his anger might wane.

  With only faint light from the moon as his guide, he kept moving, over rocks and sandy beaches, through thickets of trees and undergrowth, ever steady, intent on his purpose. The time for lies was over. From here on in, he was only interested in the truth, no matter how painful or disgusting it might be.

  Soon, no matter what, Claire was going to come clean with him.

  He was sweating by the time he saw the patches of light coming from the first floor of the old lodge. He walked past the stables and fields where the horses, sensing him, snorted before turning back to grazing. The birth certificate burning a hole in his pocket, he strode across the lawn and up the path to the front door, but as he approached, voices caught his attention and he walked around the side of the lodge toward the back porch, where he saw the sisters, all three of them, seated around a table with a single flickering candle giving off meager light.

  He was about to shout a greeting when he realized that one of the women was crying softly. He stopped dead in his tracks. No one had seen him yet, as the night was dark and a hedge of arborvitae offered some concealment. The kids weren’t around and he assumed they were already in bed, asleep in their rooms, as it was well after midnight.

  “You’re sure it was Hunter?” Claire asked, her voice touching Kane as no other could.

  “Yes, yes.” Miranda sniffed. “His clothes, his ring . . .” She sobbed, then caught herself, and Kane’s mind was whirling. Hunter? As in Hunter Riley?

  “So he never went to Canada?” Tessa this time.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Miranda was in more control, and a dozen questions raced through Kane’s brain.

  Was Hunter back in town?

  “Whoever killed him wanted him never found.”

  Killed? Riley was dead?

  Kane didn’t move a muscle, and though he felt guilty about eavesdropping, he couldn’t barge in on their private conversation, nor could he tear himself away.

  “You think he was murdered?” Claire asked, disbelieving.

  “Of course. He was healthy, and though the police don’t know how . . . how he died, he was buried in the woods and no one knew about it for God, what? Fifteen, no, sixteen years.”

  “Jesus,” Tessa said.

  Claire sighed. “Oh, Randa, I’m so sorry.”

  “One person knows what happened.” Miranda’s voice was stronger, filled with a new conviction. “Weston Taggert lied to me. The day that I went to see him, to ask about Hunter, he said Hunter was on the payroll in Canada, working for Taggert Industries. That was a lie.”

  “You think Weston killed him?” Tessa asked as she lit a cigarette, and the flame from her lighter illuminated her face. Tears were filling her eyes as well.

  “Or knows who did.”

  “This is all such a mess.” Tessa blew smoke toward the roof of the porch and the scent of burning tobacco reached Kane’s nostrils. “What can we do?”

  “Go to the police.” Claire was convinced, and through the branches of the arborvitae he saw her face, shadowy in the candlelight but still beautiful.

  “I don’t know if we can.”

  “Why not? Look, Randa, we’re talking about murder. For all we know, Weston did it.”

  “There’s more,” she said, and Kane, silently cursing himself, strained to listen. “I saw an object not far from the body.”

  “What?” Tessa asked.

  “A knife. I’d seen it before.”

  “Like the murder weapon?” Tessa drew hard on her cigarette, and the tip glowed deep red in the night.

  “I don’t know. But it was Jack Songbird’s knife. The one no one could find after he died.”

  “So you think Jack killed Hunter?” Tessa’s fertile mind was already jumping to conclusions.

  “No, no. Hunter was still alive when Jack was buried, but . . . but whoever killed Hunter probably killed Jack.”

  And Harley Taggert? Kane’s jaw was so tight it ached. What the hell was happening here? He should burst in on the sisters, demand the truth, but he couldn’t break in on their privacy and grief just yet.

  Claire reached over and touched Miranda on the shoulder, and Randa, always the tough one of the group, slumped a little lower. A soft wail of deep mourning escaping her throat. “I loved him.” Randa shook her head and wrapped her arms around her middle, as if in self-protection. The tough as nails prosecutor was gone, an anguished, grieving woman in her place. “I loved him more than I thought was possible,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Claire whispered.

  “Love sucks.” Tessa shot a stream of smoke into the air, then crushed the butt in a tray on the table.

  “Sometimes,” Claire agreed, and took in a shuddering breath. “This investigation is bound to open up everything again—you know, about Harley Taggert and Jack and Hunter.”

  Tessa snorted. “Kane Moran and Denver Styles have already taken care of that. God, that Moran can be such a pain in the ass and Styles—that guy gives me the creeps. You never know what he’s thinking.”

  “Weston Taggert gives me the creeps,” Claire said.

  “Amen.” Miranda closed her eyes and rocked slightly, as if trying to comfort herself.

  “Okay, but listen. Everything that happened that night is going to come out. Kane and Denver Styles and Dad won’t be the only ones interested,” Claire said.

  “She’s right,” Miranda said, her voice cloaked in doom. “People will start to wonder.”

  “And Ruby
and Hank Songbird will make a stink about Jack’s knife. Reporters from all over the country and Dad’s opponents in the race and even just the townspeople that remember what happened that night are going to start asking questions, nosing around. They’re going to find out the truth.”

  “Oh, God,” Tessa whispered and started to shake.

  “We’ll stick to our story.” Miranda’s voice was calmer again. She was in control.

  “It doesn’t hold water.” Claire was on her feet, pacing the length of the porch, her silhouette dark against the light glowing from the windows as she walked back and forth. “And I don’t know the truth about that night.”

  Kane felt a wash of relief. Claire hadn’t been a part of it—whatever it was. But she lied to you, didn’t she? About your son!

  Claire touched Miranda’s shoulder again. “You never told me what really happened.”

  “It was better if you didn’t know,” Miranda said, as Claire kept up her pacing.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been going out of my mind for years wondering why we were lying, trying to figure out what happened.” She stopped suddenly and wrapped her arms around herself as if to shield her heart from the truth.

  Kane let out his breath. She hadn’t killed Harley, not that he’d ever thought she was involved, but he’d known she’d lied to him. To the world. And she didn’t even know why.

  “It’s . . . it’s my fault,” Tessa said, her voice weak.

  “No, Tessa, don’t—”

  “Shut up, Randa, you’ve been taking the fall for this for years and protecting me.”

  Tessa? The killer?

  Tessa rammed both hands through her short blond hair. “I was drunk and with Weston that night. We were in the pool house when Randa walked in on us and went ballistic.”

  “I should have killed him,” Randa said.

  “Randa tried to break us up, to tell me what a loser he was, but I’d had a lot to drink and he’d come to me and . . . and . . . oh, shit, I was always a fool around him, you know that.”

  Claire didn’t comment, just stared at her youngest sister.

  “I couldn’t take it,” Miranda said. “Weston had already nearly raped me in his office. I got out by kicking him in the crotch, so when I found him with Tessa, I saw red. I tried to break them up and Weston . . . he decided to teach me a lesson, so . . . oh, God . . .” Her voice trembled. “. . . so when I attacked him, he came undone and he . . . he . . . Claire, he raped me so brutally that I . . .”

  “She miscarried,” Tessa whispered.

  Kane’s hand curled into fists. His stomach knotted.

  Claire didn’t move. “Miscarried?”

  “I was pregnant with Hunter’s baby.”

  “Oh, Randa!” Claire walked behind Randa’s chair, fell to her knees, and hugged her sister fiercely. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s not all,” Tessa added. “I just watched him do it to her. I was too drunk, too stunned to do anything but watch as he hit her and kicked her, tore her clothes off her, threw her across the sofa, and dropped his pants and . . . and . . . Oh Randa, I’m so sorry, so damned sorry.”

  “Shhh.”

  Bile rose in Kane’s throat, and he thought he’d be sick. If he ever saw Weston Taggert again, he’d personally coldcock the bastard, then choke the life from him. And that was just the warm-up.

  “I—I was so upset that when I could get my legs to work, I chased Weston down,” Tessa said. “Only when I got to the Taggert estate, I saw him leave again.” She took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I followed him to the marina.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Tessa, don’t,” Miranda said, her eyes flying open. “This isn’t smart.”

  “But it’s the truth, damn it. I thought I was following Weston onto the boat, but it was dark and I was drunk and . . . and he was looking the other way, and I guess I thought Harley was Weston, so I hit him, with a rock I’d picked up and he turned . . . and it was Harley and . . . and he fell over the railing. I didn’t mean . . . I wouldn’t . . .” She started crying and coughing. “I saw him struggling, flailing but . . . but he couldn’t swim. It was like he was trapped and . . . and . . . Oh God . . . I ran. I left him there. I . . . I . . .”

  “No,” Claire whispered, pain cracking her voice. “No. No. No.”

  “I found her walking home, dazed, still holding the rock,” Miranda cut in, her voice surprisingly steady. “She told me what happened, I called nine-one-one anonymously from a phone booth, but the police were already there because someone on another boat saw his body. Anyway, I drove home and we found you.”

  “And the blood on your skirt was from the baby?”

  “Yes,” Miranda whispered. “Hunter’s baby.”

  “What . . . what about the rock that Tessa used to hit Harley?”

  “I don’t know. I threw it away when we stopped the car and told you that Harley was dead. Remember that stretch of road?”

  Claire nodded. Her face was white as death, her expression twisted in horror. She hadn’t known.

  “I pitched it into the woods.”

  Claire was on her feet in an instant, racing to the far end of the porch, where she fell against the railing and threw up over and over again. She was crying and retching so painfully that it was all Kane could do to stay hidden in the shadows. He wanted to run to her, to wrap his arms around her, to comfort her. Despite her lies. Despite the years and circumstance separating them. But he couldn’t.

  Nor could he write the story of Harley Taggert’s death. Not now. Not knowing the truth. Too many innocent lives would be ruined. As of this night, Kane’s personal vendetta against Dutch Holland was over. It had to be. Dutch, the bastard, was Claire’s father and his own son’s grandfather. Kane stood in the shadows of the hedge and knew that he’d destroy everything he had on file. If the sisters wanted to spill their guts, so be it. But he wouldn’t bring them down or haul Tessa in to face justice. Weston Taggert, if he was indeed Hunter and Jack’s killer, would be found out soon enough.

  As for Claire and her lies about Sean, he’d talk to her later. He watched as Miranda scooted back her chair and walked toward Claire. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered, and the two sisters clung to each other.

  “But what about Weston?” Tessa said. “We can’t just let him go free.”

  Miranda’s face was grim. “The police will figure out that he lied about Hunter’s employment records. They’ll put two and two together and besides, I’ve done some investigating on my own with the help of a friend, Frank Petrillo, in the department. Some of Weston’s business dealings, especially that one he’s trying to put together with one of the tribes for a casino, aren’t on the up and up. He’s going to have more legal trouble than he ever dreamt. Not that it matters.”

  “Of course it matters,” Tessa said, her voice a monotone. “He’s got to pay.”

  “Shh. Don’t talk like that,” Miranda commanded. “And have some faith. I know it’s hard, but things will turn out all right.”

  “They’ll never be all right,” Tessa said, as Kane, guilt heavy on his shoulders for eavesdropping like a common snoop, slipped away and headed back to the path that rimmed the lake. But Tessa’s voice chased after him. “I think we’re doomed,” she said in a monotone. “Every last one of us.”

  Thirty-one

  Claire couldn’t eat or sleep. After last night’s revelations she’d spent the remaining hours tossing and turning, staring at the clock and remembering Harley, sweet, sweet Harley. She’d loved him with that silly naive love of youth, and until she’d met Kane she hadn’t questioned her feelings for him. Whatever Harley’s faults, whatever his shortcomings, he hadn’t deserved to die, nor had Tessa deserved to become a killer.

  Claire dressed and showered, took the kids over to Stone Illahee for tennis lessons and a day at the pool, then returned home and wondered how she could ever put her life together. She considered calling the police, reached for the phone several times, then decided
to let Miranda handle it. She was with the District Attorney’s office for Multnomah County, which was basically the greater Portland metropolitan area, but as an officer of the court had some responsibilities to truth, justice, and the letter of the law. The authorities in Chinook would become informed.

  And what about you? Don’t you care about right and wrong? Harley’s death? Weston’s rape of Miranda? The loss of Miranda and Hunter’s baby?

  Pain ripped through her. There was so much agony. Too much.

  As she had as a child, she felt the need for escape, and, ignoring the list of things she was to do today, she walked to the barn and noticed clouds sliding across the sky. Who cared? Within minutes she’d saddled a little bay mare and headed up the familiar and overgrown trail to the sacred grounds of the local Native American tribe, the clearing on the cliffs that Ruby had warned her of all those years ago, that special place where she and Kane had found love.

  Kane. Her heart ached at the thought of him. Surely he would uncover the truth, discover her lies. He’d somehow divine that Sean was his boy. And what then? Would he hate her forever, abandon her, try to gain custody? Her thoughts spun out before her in worried circles. Oh, God, she had to tell him and soon.

  A flock of seagulls rose above the trees and spiderwebs, sparkling with dew were flung between the branches. A few leaves slapped at her face as the mare loped steadily upward toward the clouds.

  At the top of the cliffs, she slowed and reined her mount toward the campsite where she’d found Kane so often. But today it was vacant and aside from cold ashes from a long-ago fire, it showed no hint that anyone had ever been there. A chill crawled up her spine, causing her flesh to rise in little bumps, and she wondered if Ruby was right, that the spirits of the dead inhabited this stretch of land.

  Disappointed, she let the mare graze as she sat in the saddle and stared over the ridge to the ocean, dark and brooding, the clouds above rolling ominously. She hadn’t wanted to ride, she realized, but was hoping to see Kane again. It wasn’t this gloomy little rendezvous spot she’d needed to visit again, but Kane.