Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  “With you? Why?” But she knew. Oh, God, with mind-numbing certainty she knew.

  “Because, Claire, I’ve got your boy.”

  Thirty-four

  Kane drove like a madman. He tromped on the accelerator and took a corner too quickly. His tires squealed in protest and an oncoming car swerved, the driver blasting his horn before disappearing into the fog. Kane didn’t care. He had to get to Claire and find Sean. The minute he’d hung up from Claire, he’d started for the door and realized with chilling certainty why Claire had every right to fear for their son. Because of Weston Taggert.

  Paige had admitted to being on the dock that night, of thinking she saw an enraged Kendall kill Harley for being with Claire, but it had been Tessa she’d seen and not knowing the truth, she’d held her tongue for sixteen years, protecting Kendall and doing her own quiet penance for not helping save Harley’s life by taking care of their father.

  But Neal Taggert had provided the real clue. The only person to have gained from his brother’s death was Weston. That he hadn’t killed Harley was, in Kane’s opinion, just luck. The other two men who had been rumored to be his half brothers had met quick, untimely ends. Kane didn’t know why Paige, the only other Taggert progeny had been saved, but it probably had something to do with Neal’s will.

  He nearly missed the lane for the Holland estate, but managed to make the corner, the beams of his headlights cutting through the mist and splashing against the mossy trunks of giant Douglas fir trees. If Weston truly had killed off all of his father’s sons, wouldn’t he also want to get rid of their sons, Neal’s grandsons? Jack and Hunter had died without fathering children. So had Harley, but Weston might not think so. If he’d seen Sean and done the math, wouldn’t he assume that Claire’s child had been sired by Harley?

  Don’t even think it, he told himself, the kid is mad, that’s all, and he took off to cool off. He’s safe somewhere. Probably already home with Claire.

  Barely visible through the mist and trees, the lights of the old lodge glowed warmly. Kane rounded a final corner and stepped on the brakes. He cut the engine, pocketed his keys and was halfway up the steps when the door opened and Samantha wearing a black dress, stood, backlit by the houselights. “Mom—? Oh.”

  “Isn’t your mom here?” Kane asked.

  “I don’t know. She was.” The girl was obviously worried. “I was upstairs getting dressed for Grandpa’s party and Mom and I had kind of a fight and she went downstairs, I thought. But she’s not here.”

  “Her car’s parked in front of the garage.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Are there any other vehicles missing?”

  Samantha was shaking her head. “I don’t think so.” She bit her lip. Looked troubled. “She was worried about Sean and I think someone came here. I saw a car drive in and then leave.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. I was getting dressed and the radio was on and, and . . . now she’s gone!” The girl was getting worked up, biting her lip, looking as if she was about to cry.

  Kane placed an arm around her shoulders. “Listen, I’ll find your mom,” he said. “Can you call someone to come be with you—no, better yet let’s find someone you can stay with.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it might take me a while to find her. You don’t have any idea where she is? Or who she was with?”

  “No. We were supposed to go to the party.”

  “What about the car . . . you saw the car?”

  Samantha shook her head, then stopped. “It wasn’t a car,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she concentrated. Her lower lip trembled. “I think it was a truck.”

  “A big truck?”

  “A . . . a pickup.”

  “What color?”

  “Black . . . or real dark.”

  “Did you see anyone inside?”

  She shook her head slowly. “It was too dark and foggy.” Swallowing hard, she said in a small voice, “Is Mommy in trouble?”

  “I don’t know, Samantha. But I want to find her. Let’s call someone to stay with you.”

  “But I want to come.”

  “I think it would be best if you would stay here.” He heard the sound of a car approaching, saw headlights through the fog. “Let’s get inside,” he suggested, edging her over the threshold just as the car rounded a final corner.

  Gravel crunched as the Volvo stopped. Miranda, wearing a long black dress, flew from behind the wheel. “Where’s Claire?”

  “Missing,” Kane said.

  “What do you mean, ‘missing’?” she demanded as she climbed the steps to the porch.

  “She left with someone. Samantha can tell you the story. I’m going after them.”

  “Who’s them?” Miranda demanded.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Wait a minute. What’s going on?”

  “Samantha will fill you in. I think Claire and Sean could be with Weston Taggert.”

  “Taggert—why?” she asked.

  “He’s into this—whatever it is—up to his eyeballs,” Kane said, not elaborating because of Samantha.

  “But Claire called me, I think, something about Sean.”

  “I think Taggert’s been behind all of it. From the beginning,” he said so that she would understand that the situation was grave. “I think he’s been systematically getting rid of anyone who is a threat to the Taggert fortune.”

  “But Paige—”

  “I don’t understand about her. Yet. But we don’t have time to sit and conjecture. Take Samantha inside and lock all the doors. Then call whoever it is you deal with at the police department and have them look for a black, or dark blue or dark green, pickup. Do you have any idea what kind, honey?” he asked, looking back at Samantha. “Did you see the license plates?”

  She was standing next to Miranda and her eyes were round with fear. She shook her head. “It was dark and foggy.”

  “Shh. It’s okay,” Miranda said, obviously grasping the severity of the situation. “I’ll see to Samantha and I’ll call the station. I’ve got a friend, Petrillo. He’ll see that this is handled right.”

  “Good. Go inside. Lock the doors. You can call my cell,” he said and rattled off the number as he made his way to his Jeep. The thought of Weston and Claire together made his heart nearly stop. Weston the rapist. Weston the murderer. Weston who wouldn’t think twice about killing Claire or Sean.

  Kane jammed the Jeep into gear and cut a tight circle. Accelerating down the lane, he decided to drive to Taggert Industries. The murders had started with men who were employed by Neal Taggert and now Weston was at the helm of the corporation.

  “That’s right,” Miranda said as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder. Cooped up here at the old lodge, she was climbing the walls as she talked to Petrillo. Fortunately Samantha was in the den, wrapped in a blanket and watching television. Still, Miranda kept her voice low. “I don’t care that Sean hasn’t been gone for twenty-four hours, this is serious. Kane Moran thinks Weston Taggert killed Jack Songbird and Hunter Riley.”

  “What about his brother? Harlan?”

  Miranda steeled herself. “I don’t think Weston was involved in that one.” Dear God, how long would she have to lie? Could she protect Tessa? And where the devil was she now? Hadn’t Claire said something about Sean and Tessa being together? The phone connection had been spotty, but that’s what it had sounded like. “But I want Weston Taggert brought in for questioning. Now.”

  “You got it,” Petrillo said as he hung up. Miranda tried Claire’s cell . . . again . . . got her voice mail. The damned phone wasn’t turned on. So where was she? Where would Weston take her? If she’s really with Weston. Samantha hadn’t seen the man who lured Claire away. Had she gone willingly—no, certainly she wouldn’t have left her daughter without saying where she was going. It seemed more likely th
at Claire had left quickly so that Samantha wouldn’t be involved.

  Absurdly, she thought of Denver Styles and quickly dialed the only number she had for him, a cell phone that beeped at her. Damn this part of Oregon with its high cliffs, mountains, deep chasms, and patchy cellular service. Like it or not, she’d have to wait.

  She walked to the den and saw that Samantha was huddled on the couch, her overly shadowed eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep. Miranda walked into the room and the girl stirred. Battling tears, she said, “You don’t know where Mom is, do you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you think something awful happened to her?” A tear slid from a corner of Samantha’s eyes and Miranda’s heart tore. As brave as Samantha was trying to be, the kid was scared out of her mind.

  Miranda settled onto the couch and draped an arm over her niece’s shoulder. Samantha was trembling. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Miranda said, hoping she was just soothing the girl. “We’ll find your mom and brother.”

  “It’s all his fault,” Samantha said, choking a little as she tried to keep from sobbing. “He should never have left.”

  “Shh. He didn’t know this would happen,” she whispered and added silently, “None of us did.”

  “Where are you taking me? Where is Sean?” Claire demanded as Weston, careful to obey the speed limit drove along the narrow highway that snaked high above the sea. They were in a pickup with a gun rack, but the rifle wasn’t clipped into the rack. It was propped beside Weston’s left hand, impossible for her to reach. At the sight of the gun, she shivered inwardly. Just how desperate was this man? Where was Sean? The thought that her son might already be dead sent chills to the very heart of her. No, she wouldn’t think that way. Sean had to be alive. He had to. And she had to save him. Somehow. Some way.

  Tonight the ocean wasn’t visible in the fog, the only way of knowing where the asphalt ended was the white stripe painted but fading along the shoulder. Face etched in stone, Weston drove continually south and though Claire couldn’t see the guardrail that was often as not missing along this stretch of road, she knew the drop-off from these cliffs was hundreds of feet to the swirling angry sea.

  “Where the hell are we going, Weston?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Is my son all right? You haven’t harmed him yet, have you, you bastard.”

  “Just shut up.”

  But Claire was trying to keep Weston distracted as she reached into her purse, her fingers moving silently until she found her cell phone. She didn’t dare bring it out, had to fumble in the dark. Thankfully Weston had the radio turned on and was listening to the news, checking the weather report. Her fingers found the phone and she flipped it open, coughing and clearing her throat loudly as it clicked on. She could see the digital readout in her purse and with quick glimpses, she fumbled, trying to turn the volume down. Her heart was pounding a million times a minute and she could barely breathe, but she prayed she could call 911 without him realizing what she was doing.

  A car bore down on them from behind. Headlights in the rearview mirror. Weston glanced at the mirror and slowed, as if hoping the guy would pass. He didn’t.

  “Damn it all,” he ground out and saw a turnout, a vantage point overlooking the ocean on a clear day. The car behind them passed. Weston checked his watch, then eased back onto the highway. Claire saw the readout of her phone glowing in her purse. Nervously she punched out the numbers, then covered the speaker with her hand. She stared straight ahead and when she thought the connection was made, said, “Where are we going? What’s south?”

  “I told you not to ask any questions,” he said, and she imagined she heard a female voice say, “Police Dispatch.”

  “But I want to know where you’re taking me,” Claire said loudly, over the radio. “You’ve got my son, Taggert, and my sister, too, so where do you think you’re taking me and why? I have the right to know if you’re kidnapping me.” While she was talking she thought she heard a muted voice say, “Police dispatch. Do you have an emergency?”

  “Where are we going? Where is Sean? I’m supposed to be at my father’s party, remember. Dutch is announcing that he’s running for governor tonight and if I’m not there, if any of my sisters, his daughters, aren’t in attendance, he’s going to get suspicious.”

  “It’ll all be over before he knows a thing.”

  “Not true. Miranda’s with the DA’s office in Portland. They’re going to hunt you down like the dog you are, Weston Taggert, and if you hurt me or my son or anyone else, they’ll find you.”

  “Like they found out about Harley?” he demanded and then laughed. Her heart stopped. “You don’t know what happened do you? All this time you thought you were protecting your sister, Tessa. Because she slammed him over the head with a rock.”

  Claire froze. What was he saying?

  “That might’ve done the trick, but I couldn’t be sure, now could I? Couldn’t take a chance. I hated to do it, but Harley was weak and I gave up trying to carry his ass.”

  “So you killed him? Wait a minute, how?” Claire said, silently praying that the police dispatch hadn’t hung up and was recording this, Weston’s confession.

  “I was there that night. I saw what happened and I dived into the water. It was instinct. At first I thought I’d save the son of a bitch and then it occurred to me to let him die.”

  “What did you do?” she asked, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.

  Weston slid a glance her way and she shivered for it was pure, undiluted evil. “I just helped nature along. Held on to his ankle until he quit struggling.”

  “But you . . . how did you breathe, I mean . . .”

  “Incredible lung capacity. He’d already taken in water on the way down. I just had to wait.”

  “Oh, God.”

  His smile was a slash of white. “And do you know what my fantasy was back then?”

  She couldn’t answer, didn’t want to know. All she could think about was saving Sean and Tessa.

  “To have all of you Holland girls. I thought it was the ultimate revenge for . . .” He clammed up suddenly as he spied a turnoff, an old logging road that angled upward through the remaining trees.

  “Where’s Sean?” she demanded. “And Tessa.”

  He slid a glance her way. “Safe.”

  “Up here, on this old road. What is it?”

  “Don’t you know? This is where it all started, Claire. Up here was the first logging camp, bought by your old man. It’s fitting as it backs up to Stone Illahee where old Dutch is making his announcement about running for governor. Jesus. Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

  “Who?”

  “Your son and sister for starters. I had them rounded up. That’s right, I didn’t do it. I have an alibi for the time they went missing.”

  Her heart sank as she saw that an old rusted gate was hanging open and fresh tire tracks wound up the hill . . . surely the police would be able to identify the tracks . . . or would they? Even if they did, by that time it would be too late because she was certain that Weston meant to kill them all.

  Unless she could stop him.

  “Did you get all that?” Petrillo asked as he clicked off the recording. Miranda clutched the telephone receiver in a death grip.

  “Yes,” she managed to say, fear scraping her soul. She’d heard the call that had come into police dispatch, had listened with horror to the conversation between Claire and Weston Taggert. The bastard who had raped her. Had killed Harley and let Tessa take the blame. Had killed Jack and Hunter. Her heart twisted with fear. “You have to get them safe,” she whispered, hoping Samantha didn’t overhear her.

  “We’re working on it. Figure from the clues your sister gave us that they’re at Camp Twenty-Four, up along the bluff to the south of Stone Illahee. The place has been abandoned for fifty years. I’ve already dispatched some men.”

  “I hope you’re not too late.”

  “So
do I,” Petrillo said and he sounded worried. “Someone better tell your father.”

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly nine. About the time her father would be making his announcement in the ballroom of Stone Illahee. Miranda’s stomach contracted. “I’ll see to it. Just get to them, Petrillo. Nail that son of a bitch and make sure that my sisters and nephew are safe.”

  “Doin’ our best,” he said before hanging up. She turned and found Samantha standing in the doorway.

  “That was about Mom, wasn’t it?”

  “The police think they’ve found her.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “We think so. I’ll know in a little while. The best detective in the world is working on it. Now, go on upstairs, wash your face and get a move on. We need to go to the party and explain what’s happening to Grandpa.” Samantha was up the stairs like a shot and quickly Miranda punched out the number of Kane Moran’s cell. He was in love with Claire. Sean was his son. He deserved to know what was happening.

  Kane hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. He was only five minutes away from the turnoff to the old logging camp. He’d been to Weston’s office and the security guard had insisted Weston was still there, evidenced by his car parked in his marked spot. But Kane had insisted the guard call Weston and when he hadn’t been able to find him, they’d walked to the office. Weston wasn’t anywhere in the buildings and, upon checking with a guard at a nearby lot, they’d discovered that a dark blue pickup was missing. The same truck that Samantha had seen. The same truck that Claire had climbed into. Kane didn’t dare think about Claire and what could happen to her at Weston’s hands. It was too chilling. But if that bastard so much as touched her, Kane would kill him.

  Period.

  And what good would you be to her then? What good would you be to your son?

  Gritting his teeth and squinting into the night, he didn’t want to think about the consequences. Right now he had to find them. He heard sirens cutting through the night, but couldn’t see their lights in the fog. Nearly missing the turnout, he nosed his Jeep onto the old dirt-and-gravel road. Weeds and potholes greeted him. A rusted gate stood open. He shifted down and gave his rig some gas. He didn’t know how long this road was, couldn’t see over the edge of the cliff as the narrow lane switched back and forth up the mountain.