Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  “Yeah?” He popped the tab of his soda. “What?”

  “It’s about your father.”

  “He’s a pervert.” He took a long swallow of Coke.

  “No, Sean, I’m not talking about Paul.”

  “Shit, then what—?” He looked up sharply.

  She laid her fingers across his forearm and felt his muscles tense. “Paul St. John isn’t your biological father.”

  “What the fu—?” He drew away from her as if he’d been burned. “What do you mean—not my biological father?”

  “Just that. Listen to me. I wasn’t married when I conceived you. I was involved with someone, and he went into the army and didn’t know about you.”

  “What?” He jumped off his stool and it scooted across the floor to bang into the wall. “What? For Christ’s sake, Mom, is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “No joke.”

  “But . . .” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Kane Moran’s your father.”

  Sean’s mouth went slack. “The guy with the motorcycle?”

  “Who got you out of the shoplifting charge.”

  “He’s my father?” Sean’s voice cracked. “This is just another lie, isn’t it?”

  “No.” She eyed him in dead seriousness and his color changed from ruddy rebellion to ghost white.

  “No way.”

  “Yes, Sean, I should have told you sooner.”

  “Damn straight you should have! What is this, Mom? Are you gonna tell me that my whole life is a lie?”

  “No, but—”

  “Jesus, I can’t believe this!” Tears sprang to his eyes. “You were screwing him and then passing me off as that pervert St. John’s. For the love of God. What about Sam?” His voice cracked again and his eyes filled with unwanted tears.

  “Paul’s her father.”

  “Holy shit, Mom.”

  “Sean, just listen—”

  “No way!” Backing up, tripping over the stool, he made his way to the door. “No fucking way!” He barreled out of the door, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Claire chased after him, through the French doors and down the porch, but her heels caught in the floorboards and she couldn’t catch him as he ran down past the garage, past the dock, and into the woods. “Sean!” she yelled. “Sean!”

  “What happened?” Samantha, who had been sitting on the porch swing, asked.

  “I gave him some news he didn’t want to hear.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I’ve got to find him.”

  “Just let him cool off,” Sam advised. “He doesn’t really have to go to the party, does he?”

  “He should.”

  “He’d just be a pain if he went,” Samantha said sagely.

  Claire stared into the woods and felt powerless. Maybe Sam was right. Then again, she felt that she should follow her boy, hold him and tell him everything would be all right, that she was sorry she lied, but life would go on. Dear God, she prayed that he was okay and she was doing the right thing.

  “Okay, let’s let him have a little time to himself,” she said to Samantha, and turned toward the house. They walked into the kitchen as the phone rang. Claire snagged the receiver on the third ring.

  “Claire?” Miranda’s voice was shaking. “Have you seen Tessa?”

  “No? Should I have?”

  “She and I were going to the party together, but she’s not in her suite or anywhere else around Stone Illahee.”

  This wasn’t a surprise. “You know how she is.”

  “I know she didn’t want to go, but last night she told me she would.”

  “She’s changed her mind before.”

  “This is different,” Miranda said, and a new uneasiness slithered down Claire’s spine. “I talked to her two hours ago, and she said she’d be ready but the trouble was I think she’d already been drinking.”

  “Sometimes, when she needs a little confidence—”

  “I know, I know, she takes a drink. But . . . oh, well, there’s nothing I can do. I’ll see you at the party. Maybe Tessa will show up.”

  “Maybe,” Claire said, but stared out the window to the woods where her son had disappeared. He’d come home. He always did, but not until he was damned well good and ready.

  She glanced at the evening sky and couldn’t shake a premonition of certain doom.

  Thirty-three

  Weston’s hand trembled as he poured liquor into a glass. He was losing it. Big time. And it bugged the hell out of him. Tonight Dutch Holland was making his official bid to run for governor. And while the bastard was at it, wining and dining Oregon’s elite, dancing the night away, laughing, drinking, getting ready for a late-in-life thrill ride, the police would begin piecing together what had happened to Hunter Riley.

  Not to mention what Kane Moran with all of his damned research had uncovered. Hell.

  Weston lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips and stared out the windows of his office, a panoramic view of the town of Chinook and further, beyond the rooftops, the vast Pacific Ocean, dark and brooding, a mirror of his own fathomless thoughts. His office was dark except for light spilling in from the hallway and he caught sight of his reflection in the glass, a ghostly figure, drinking alone, beyond which the lights of the town glowed fiercely. It was as if he was super-imposed over the rest of Chinook and that was as it should be, a Taggert always in the shadows, always above, always making an impression over the town.

  But there was another image as well, one he saw only in his mind’s eye, a small boy locked in a dark basement, threatened with losing his home, his inheritance, his parents’ love.

  “Don’t you ever talk back to me again, boy,” Neal Taggert had yelled, cuffing Weston alongside his head as he pushed him toward the basement door. “Nor your mother either. If you do, I swear, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your miserable hide and you can forget living here with me, with your ma. I’ll make sure everything goes to Harley and Paige.” His fingers had dug into Weston’s arm and he’d leaned over, closer to his son’s ear. “And I’ll even make sure any bastards I sire get more than you do.” He hadn’t laughed or smiled. Neal Taggert’s expression had been hard as stone, his eyes dark with disappointment and rage as he’d told Weston to walk into the cellar alone. Trembling, Weston had done as ordered and visibly started when the door had slammed shut behind him and he’d heard the lock slide into place.

  There had been no light in that tomb, the switch had been placed at the bottom of the stairs on the other side of the door. Neal Taggert had sworn under his breath as he’d mounted the stairs and Weston had been left alone, the barest hint of light under the door his only source of illumination. He’d waited for hours, each minute seeming an eternity, fear crawling steadily up his spine, his imagination running wild with the thought of rats and spiders and bats. He’d sat at the door, his arms over his knees, his bladder so full he’d nearly passed out before he’d finally stumbled to a far corner and relieved himself against the wall. Later, the stain discovered by a maid, he’d been beaten again, his father assuming that he’d pissed just to show even more rebellion.

  God, the old man was a bastard, mellowed now only because age and infirmity had bowed his back and taken away his legs. At least he was no longer capable of spawning more children. And so far, no more bastards had appeared. There had been one . . . Hunter Riley . . . but he was now dead. As was Songbird. Weston hadn’t been sure about the Indian. There had been rumors about Neal and Ruby Songbird, never really proven, but the kid had been such a prick, showing up to work late, getting into Weston’s face, vandalizing cars... and Neal never had wanted to fire the son of a bitch . . . so Weston had put one and one together and come up with two. Even if Jack hadn’t been Neal’s son, he was a thorn in Weston’s side, always getting on him about the way he’d treated Crystal and then the car . . . one way or another the sorry son of a bitch deserved to die.

  The lights of town were fading
a bit as the first wisps of fog rolled in from the sea.

  Weston swirled his drink, then swallowed it as he noticed a police car, lights flashing, racing through town, disappearing around a corner as the fog thickened. He checked his watch. It was time . . .

  Another tragedy was about to take place.

  Weston had already set the wheels in motion. He walked to his computer and sent a couple of e-mail messages, one to his accountant, another to a foreman at the mill, knowing that they would be dated and timed. Then he made two quick calls from the office phone, just in case the police checked any phone records. His car was parked in its usual space, guarded by a night watchman, and he wouldn’t move it—he had another at his disposal, a truck once used for deliveries, one that had been used by Kendall’s father years ago, nondescript, dark blue, a Ford like a dozen others in town, nearly identical to the one driven by Jack Songbird’s father, Ruby’s husband . . . yes, it would do nicely. Especially since the license plates had been switched with two that didn’t match, the front plate Weston had taken from a Dodge parked at a local bar, the back one had been removed discreetly from Songbird’s truck just last night as it had been parked in front of the Songbird double-wide. Everything was set for this night when Dutch Holland intended to announce his bid to run for governor; there were just a few loose ends to take care of.

  Pulling on a pair of tight black gloves, Weston locked the door to his office and stole down the back stairs.

  Noiselessly opening the back door, he slipped unnoticed into the mist-shrouded night.

  Sean kicked at a rock and scowled as it skipped across the street, hit a pothole and ricocheted into the fender of a shiny new Toyota. Great. Just what he needed. More trouble. As if he wasn’t in enough. He kicked his skateboard into place and quickly rolled through the streets of this dumb little town. God, he hated it here in loserville. Why his mom didn’t move back to Colorado, he didn’t understand.

  Sure you do. It’s because of the prick. Your real father.

  That thought stuck in his craw and he spit as he wheeled around the corner and felt the moist air on his face. Luckily it was getting foggy so he could cut through parking lots, yards and alleys at will, with no one spying on him. The thought of his mother and that guy. Kane Moran. “More like moron,” he muttered, hiking up the collar of his army jacket and refusing to think about his mom—shit, she hadn’t been a whole lot older than he was now and she’d been doin’ it with that creep. He didn’t like the guy. Just because Moran liked motorcycles didn’t change things. The guy was a creep, always hanging around and . . . and . . . Sean would never, never call the jerk “Dad.” Oh, hell, no.

  He saw a cop car, lights flashing, heading north through town and he quickly turned south, away from the wailing siren. He didn’t need that kind of trouble tonight. His mom had probably already called the police because he’d been gone so long. Sean felt a niggle of guilt; he didn’t want to worry anyone, he just needed some space, time to think about how to deal with all of this. He knew there was no way his mom was moving back to Colorado, but it bugged him. Maybe he could work a deal with Jeff and his parents—maybe they would take him in.

  Like Claire would ever allow that.

  He heard a car behind him and he shifted his weight so he could turn into the parking lot of the grade school. Expecting the car to drive on, he thought about heading back toward the old lodge, but the headlights, unclear in the mist, turned into the lot.

  Crap!

  Sean headed for the exit.

  The car followed. Twin beams caught him in their diffused light as he skirted a pothole.

  Great. Just effin’ great.

  He pushed off harder, picking up speed and hazarded a glance over his shoulder. No hood rack. Not a cop. In fact . . . the car looked like his aunt Tessa’s Mustang. He felt better. He liked Tessa. His mother’s older sister, Miranda, an assistant DA for crying out loud, struck him as a city bitch. She was way too serious and she worked for the damned cops, but the younger one with her bleached hair, navel ring, tattoo and guitar was cool. He started to slow down as Tessa rolled down her window. “Sean?”

  Busted.

  She’d seen him. No matter what happened, she was bound to tell his mom. Unless he talked her out of it. He slowed and turned. Tessa’s face, illuminated by one street lamp was drawn and white, fear showing in her eyes. “I think you should get in the car.”

  “Nah—I—” Then he noticed the guy. Sitting in the passenger seat. The guy’s face was in shadow, hidden by the darkness and the fog, but the vibes Sean picked up weren’t good, not good at all and then there was the strain in his aunt’s face.

  “Your Mom is worried.”

  Too bad. “She’ll get over it.”

  “Sean, please.” God, she sounded desperate, her voice tight.

  “No.” He turned as if to take off when he saw the man move, get out of the car.

  Adrenaline surged through Sean’s veins. Fear catapulted him onto his board, but the man was around the car in an instant. “You’d better get in the car now,” he said in a voice that scared the living piss out of Sean. He jumped on his board, but the man caught hold of his arm in a punishing grip. “Let’s go, Sean,” he said as his jacket opened to give Sean a glimpse of a gun tucked in a shoulder holster. “Now.”

  Kane tapped his pencil on the table and glared at his notes. Included was the autopsy reports for Hunter Riley and Jack Songbird, two people who died mysteriously, along with Harlan Taggert sixteen years ago. Three men, who, from outward appearances, had little in common other than they all lived in Chinook and worked for Neal Taggert. Harlan, Claire’s lover, had been a spoiled rich kid not fit for his job, Jack, a Native American had been a rebel with a bad-ass attitude, and Hunter had been a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who was trying to better himself. He’d also been in love with Miranda Holland, had gotten her pregnant.

  Two of the men had been involved with Holland women. Two of them were from the poorer part of town. All three were dead before their time.

  Why?

  Who would benefit from their deaths?

  If Tessa had killed Harley, then had she killed the other two? To what end? She didn’t appear a psychotic and she’d killed Harley thinking he was Weston . . . Kane grimaced as he thought of the eldest son of Neal Taggert. Self-important. Manipulative. Just plain evil. The pistol that had been in the water was still unclaimed, but Kane had dug up some information that Mikki Taggert had purchased a small caliber handgun years before, at a gun show. The only reason he knew this is he’d interviewed a former maid who had worked in the Taggert home. She’d sworn she’d seen the gun in Mikki’s dresser drawer and though it looked like the pistol found in the bay near Harley’s body, she couldn’t swear to it. Besides, she’d confided, the gun had been stolen or misplaced months before Harley had died. The staff had been interrogated several times about missing items, the pistol being one.

  But Harley wasn’t killed by a gun. No bullet wound. The gun that had been found by his body had been loaded, but every bullet had been tucked neatly in its chamber.

  Tessa killed Harley.

  Tessa couldn’t have killed Jack or Hunter.

  Kane had mapped out where everyone had been when Jack was assaulted—assuming that he hadn’t just slipped off the cliff face, which, because of the other murders, Kane discounted. It was just too coincidental. Nah. Kane didn’t put too much stock in coincidence.

  He turned to his laptop where an image of a map of Chinook and the surrounding area was glowing. He was missing something. He clicked to another screen, checking a list he’d made of all the primary players in the mystery—the Hollands, Taggerts, Songbirds, Rileys, and wondered at the connection.

  There had been widespread rumors that both Neal Taggert and Dutch Holland were far from monogamous. Hell, his own mother had succumbed to the charms of good ol’ Benedict. Kane’s jaw tightened as he considered his own role in this drama—more like a soap opera when he considered his old man
’s accident, his mother’s betrayal, and Kane’s infatuation with Claire Holland. It seemed that everyone in Chinook was tangled with everyone else.

  There had been talk of illegitimate children fathered by Neal Taggert. The old guy had been romantically linked with several local women.

  Years ago DNA testing hadn’t been available, or so widespread, but now it was possible. Paternity could be proven. Where once there was only a rumor, or a blood test that might prove a man a father, now it was certain. So Kane had checked. The blood tests taken years before proved that Hunter Riley could have been Neal Taggert’s son. But Jack Songbird wasn’t, despite the rumors that had passed through the alleys, taverns, churches and coffee shops of Chinook.

  Kane had tried time and time again to talk to Neal Taggert, but the old man had refused to see him. Tonight, on the night his old rival was going to announce his bid to run for governor, seemed a fitting time for Neal Taggert to come clean. What was the old saying, If Mohamed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain would come to him? Something like that. Well, the mountain was definitely going to Mohamed.

  Leaving his notes on the table, Kane found his keys and walked out of the tired old cabin where he’d grown up.

  Outside the fog was thick and damp, brushing against his collar and flattening his hair. Kane barely noticed as he slid behind the wheel of his Jeep, flipped on the ignition and put the rig into gear. Tonight, come hell or high water, he was going to get the truth.

  Headlights cut through the night, two beams that refracted in the rolling fog as a car—no, some type of SUV pulled into the circular drive. As Paige peered through the blinds, she felt a premonition of bad things to come. No one visited her and her father at night. No, this wasn’t going to be good. She licked her lips nervously as she spied a man climb from behind the wheel. As he opened the door of the rig, the interior light switched on. Paige’s heart clutched as she recognized Kane Moran. His features were blurry in the gloom, but she recognized Kane Moran just the same. Damn, the guy was a pain in the rear, as sticky as gum on a shoe on a hot day.