Close to Home

by Lisa Jackson

  “They called Angelique Mama even though she was their stepmother.”

  “I guess. Helen and George would remember their real mother, of course, but the little ones might not remember Myrtle. Angelique, as their father’s wife, was their mother, the only one they’d ever known.” As she said the words aloud, they resonated within her—like a guitar string plucked and trembling nearly invisibly, barely moving, but causing a ripple of sound that toyed with her memory, eliciting images that caused her heart to pound a double cadence.

  Why?

  Was it all the talk of ghosts? Of the mystery of Angelique Le Duc and what had happened to the beautiful mistress of Blue Peacock Manor?

  Or was it something deeper, a chord that touched her own soul in this house, on the very rooftop from which Angelique supposedly plunged to her death? In her mind’s eye, she saw her half brother, Roger, rain plastering his hair and running down his face, his shirt flapping open, his chest bare and dripping, as he cradled her in his arms on the widow’s walk.

  Was he crying? Was that regret in his eyes? Or was it the onslaught from the heavens, rain from the midnight storm dripping from his nose?

  The memory played at her mind, causing her pulse to elevate and the same question to flit through her brain. Why couldn’t she remember? And why couldn’t she completely forget?

  “Mom?” Gracie’s voice brought Sarah back to the present.

  She blinked and stared down at the open journal. What had happened a hundred years earlier had nothing to do with today. So why did she let it bother her?

  “Are you okay?”

  Clearing her throat, she nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, still quivering inside, but managing to keep her voice steady. “Sorry. I kind of spaced out.”

  “Why?”

  “I, um, I was thinking about Angelique and what happened to her,” she said quickly, then slid the diary closer to them, so she had a better view. “Come on, Gracie, let’s figure this out.”

  CHAPTER 29

  He was back!

  Rosalie heard the truck’s engine, then the quiet, after which the lock clicked and the door banged open. Lights snapped on; the interior of her cell was somewhat illuminated as she bit her lip and listened, hoping to learn if he was alone.

  One set of heavy footsteps entered.

  She waited.

  No conversation ensued, no second set of boots ringing against the floorboards. Just one person, walking confidently on the other side of the locked stall door.

  Good!

  Was it possible? Could they get so lucky? For a second, she wondered if perhaps it was someone other than her captor, and she nearly called out, then stopped short. She needed to size up the situation.

  But there was a possibility that finally there would be a chance of escape. If the girl in Lucky’s stall held up her end of the bargain.

  So far Candice had been completely useless, and their escape plans had fizzled into nothing—or, Rosalie thought, her escape plans. Candice hadn’t been able to climb the wall of the stall or find anything to aid in the escape or do anything much more than cry and whimper. But now they had a tentative plot, if the idiotic girl would just remember and act on it. Rosalie crossed her fingers and silently prayed this was their chance.

  Oh, please, please, please,

  The footsteps passed by the door of her stall on their way to the other side of the barn.

  Rosalie crept to her side of the door and hovered as close to it as possible while holding her breath and straining to hear even the tiniest sound.

  A lock clicked, and the door scraped open. “Lucky?” their abductor called, his voice surprisingly even, his tone smooth. The same way he’d talked to Rosalie when she’d waited on him at the Columbia Diner, which seemed like eons ago. “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  Uh-oh, He was acting concerned for Candice? Would she fall for it? Or maybe his actions, his worry about Lucky could unwittingly work in their favor, if it lulled him into a false sense of security.

  He didn’t get a response.

  “You need to eat something,” he said. “Keep your strength up.” He sounded worried, and she was reminded of how easily he’d duped her, how she’d believed that he was giving her a ride home as an act of kindness when in actuality he had planned to kidnap her all along.

  Candice didn’t say a word.

  Maybe that was good. Rosalie clutched the nail file. She was tense, afraid that down in Lucky’s stall he’d get suspicious and yank the door closed behind him, as he now always did when he entered her small cell. But now, as far as she could tell, the stall to Lucky’s door was still ajar.

  C’mon, Candice, Just lure the perv in, and when he’s least expecting it, race past him and slam the door shut, Throw the dead bolt! Lock his sorry ass in the damned box, Squeezing her eyes shut, Rosalie willed her thoughts to reach the other girl. Remember the plan! This was their chance. No way would he expect shy, wussy Lucky to get the drop on him, to bolt. Do it, Candice, What are you waiting for?

  Silent seconds ticked by. She heard noise on the roof, a branch or a squirrel, and the sough of the wind, but nothing from the stall down the row.

  Rosalie wanted to yell at the girl, but she didn’t want to ruin any chances of the plot working, so she bit her tongue, her heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through her blood. If she had the chance, she’d blind the bastard, then slit his damned throat, but she was dependent on the other girl.

  Come on! Her fists were clenched so tightly, the impression of the nail file was imbedding itself on her palm.

  “Lucky?” he said softly, then began talking in a low voice. Soothing. Cajoling.

  NOW! Make a run for it! Lock the son of a bitch in his own prison cell! Do it, Candice! COME ON!

  But the girl was softly crying again, talking in murmured, broken tones. Rosalie couldn’t hear the conversation, but hopefully . . .

  Scrape! Thud! Click!

  What? The door was closed?

  Just like that?

  No!

  Rosalie couldn’t believe it.

  But she heard him stalking down the main area of the barn again, this time in her direction.

  That coward, Candice, had done nothing. Nothing! This had been their chance, when the abductor was alone. So upset she nearly cried out, she had to scramble back to her cot as she heard his footsteps approaching her stall. He came in, didn’t say a word to her, just took care of the business of giving her fresh water and food and replacing her “toilet.” She watched him with sullen eyes, her pulse pounding in her brain, hate and despair warring within her. Ready to leap between him and the door, she never got the chance. He was on to her because of her previous escape attempt and made sure that now, as ever, his body was between her and her escape route.

  She considered leaping at him, flinging her body through the air with her tiny weapon ready to maim and disfigure. She was afraid this would be her last chance, that he would never come back to this awful, smelly barn alone.

  But she was afraid to risk it.

  Why? What are you waiting for! Go for it!

  Too late. He was in and out of her stall before she’d screwed up her courage and gathered her strength.

  Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he was out the door, the lock engaged behind him.

  She dropped the nail file and grabbed at her hair, pulling at it in frustration, silently wailing to the rafters. What were you waiting for? You’re no better than she is! Both of you are fucking chickens!

  Moments later, she bent down and picked up the nail file again, glad it had made barely a sound when it hit the dirt. She was still railing at herself and wondering how she could rectify the situation, turn it around, maybe call out to him and pounce when he entered, when she heard his voice again.

  “Yeah. It’s me . . .”

  He must’ve dialed his cell phone.

  “. . . that’s right,” he said. “I know, you wanted seven, but it may be fewer.” There was a pause, when whoever
was on the other end spoke loudly enough that she heard a male voice, his words indistinguishable.

  “Hey!” her abductor cut in. “I can only do what I can . . . I’m the one sticking my neck out here for you.” Another pause, and then he was calmer. “Okay, just so you and I are both on the same page. I find the girls, you come and get ’em. Look, I’ve got a plan. I’ll wrap up the collection tonight. We’re running out of time. The cops are nosing around.” Another pause, then, “We can’t risk a preview. What the hell are you thinking? There’s no damned time. Just come tomorrow night with the others. This needs to be over.”

  Rosalie’s heart began to pound as she considered what he was talking about.

  “. . . Of course I’ve got an alibi, but let’s not have it come to that.” Another tense few moments, and then, “No, no. Don’t show up that late. If anyone sees five or six vans heading up here in the middle of the morning . . . Come late enough so there’s not much traffic, early enough that no one thinks anything about a few extra rigs . . . Midnight’ll work.” There was another pause, the man on the other end talking. Finally, her captor barked out a laugh. “No, you don’t have to worry about him. He might not be the brightest bulb in the refrigerator, but he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  Who? Who would keep his mouth shut? Scraggly Hair? Or someone else, a silent partner?

  “Yeah, sure.” Her captor sounded a little tense. “I know. Let’s do this thing!”

  He was already walking across the old floorboards toward the outer door, his boots ringing a quick tattoo as if he were in a hurry.

  That was a problem.

  Once the meeting or whatever it was went down, Rosalie’s and Candice’s slim chances of escape would peter to nothing.

  What were the man who’d captured her and his accomplices planning? Who were the other victims—as yet, it seemed, not caught. Another thought crossed her mind. If, in an attempt at another abduction, her kidnapper and Scraggly Hair were involved in some kind of shoot-out and were killed, how would they ever be found? Would she and Candice end up dying here from dehydration or starvation?

  Oh, man, this was bad. Rosalie’s heart was a drum as she slid down the wall to sit on the floor, where there were still flecks of hay along with the spiderwebs and, no doubt, mice. Everything was going down tomorrow night, and she knew it wouldn’t be good. Oh, Lord.

  She bit her lip and thought of her dad and Leo, the guy she’d met online, both a million miles away in Colorado. It had all seemed so perfect a little more than a week ago. All she’d had to do was work as much as she could and save enough money for a car, then drive south to get away from Sharon and Number Four.

  Now, she worried it would never happen.

  Whatever her abductor had in store for her, it certainly didn’t include visiting her father or meeting up with Leo.

  “I—I’m sorry,” a weak voice called from the other side of the barn. Candice was starting to cry again. “I just couldn’t do it. I was too scared. I, uh, I peed myself again.”

  “It’s okay,” Rosalie lied as tears slid down her cheeks and the gloom of the barn seemed to sink into her bones. Going off on the weaker girl wouldn’t help. “Don’t worry about it. Clean yourself up. I’ll think of something else. We’ll get another chance.”

  “But you heard him. He talked about tomorrow night.”

  “But he might come back before that. He’s got to get other girls . . .” Swiping her nose with her sleeve, Rosalie clenched her teeth to keep from breaking down and sobbing like a little girl, like Candice was doing.

  Swallowing hard, she tried to think, to come up with another plan to free them. The trouble was, she was out of ideas, out of options, and soon, she knew, she would be out of time.

  Where the hell was Liam? Mary-Alice wondered as she paced in the parking lot, turning her collar up against a wet cold that seemed to seep into her bones.

  And why was he texting from a weird phone number?

  Waiting near the back of the gym of Our Lady of the River, in the spot where she and Liam usually met, she tried to tamp down her fury. It was Saturday, finally, but it had been a horrible week. Horrible! First her mother had found her cigarettes. Big deal. So she smoked? It wasn’t as if she was using weed or meth or whatever. But her mom had hit the roof, reminded Mary-Alice that Aunt Sally was currently battling cancer, and wrenched a promise from Mary-Alice that she would stop her cigarette habit immediately.

  Mary-Alice had broken the promise the next day because she was so stressed. How could she quit smoking when she was having the worst week of her life? Being assigned as an angel to that awful Jade McAdams was bad enough, but she felt as if she’d blown the SATs again. Her first scores had been little better than mediocre, and though she didn’t yet have the results for her second attempt, she knew they wouldn’t be up to her father’s expectations. Despite her good grades, she’d have to take the tests again after the new year if she wanted to get into University of Washington, “U-Dub,” her dad’s alma mater, which was a real reach anyway, or Gonzaga, in Spokane, where her mother was pushing her to attend. Not that she cared about either of those schools, as she planned to follow Liam wherever he ended up. The trouble was, he was brilliant in science and a stellar athlete to boot, and was being recruited by both Oregon and Oregon State. Again, she might have trouble being admitted to the school he ultimately chose. But at least she could attend one of the community colleges near the universities. One way or another, she was going to be close to him, whether he wanted her to or not.

  He just didn’t seem to care if they attended the same college, which really ticked her off. Lately Liam had been distant, not even interested in sneaking away and being alone with her, which he’d always wanted. He usually couldn’t keep his hands off her, was always trying to cop a feel, but lately he’d been distracted, caught up in his own thoughts, whatever they were. Until recently he’d shared everything with her. Now, not so much. Another reason to be angry.

  Worse yet, he’d actually shown some interest in Jade McAdams and was even worried that somehow he’d broken her phone or something. Why the hell did he have her phone to begin with? The girl was a loser with a capital L, and Mary-Alice wished she’d just drop dead.

  Isn’t that what people in that old house where Jade lived usually did, anyway? According to Mary-Alice’s mother, more than a couple Stewarts had died in that horrible old house on the gorge. So, fine, Jade could vanish and the world would be a better place.

  She shivered at her own thoughts and anxiously looked around the area. At least she wasn’t completely alone. There was a heavy woman in one of those puffy jackets walking her dog around the track. For the love of God, lady, you do not have the body type to pull off that look! Also, there was a guy jogging, lapping the woman with her little Pomeranian or whatever it was; with the fog it was hard to tell. From about midfield on, the track was obscured, the bleachers rising ghostlike and shadowy in the mist.

  She considered getting into her car, parked in a spot that obscured it from the road, not that anyone could see anything in this soup. But she was too keyed up, too worried, too irritated with Liam.

  Cinching the belt of her long coat, she thought she saw a solitary man sitting on one of the benches, but when she squinted, looking more closely, his shadowy image was gone or had become veiled by the thick, ground-hugging clouds.

  Talk about creepy.

  Don’t let your nerves get the better of you, You’re here, at school, This is your playing field, Where you belong, If not the most popular girl, you’re in the top five, But today, with no one in attendance, not even athletes practicing on the soccer field, the school looked bleak, its white walls seeming a dingy gray, the stained-glass windows appearing like a multitude of eyes, dark and ominous as they stared down on the school grounds. She didn’t feel that she belonged at all.

  “Don’t be a goose,” she said, repeating words her mother had spoken on more than one occasion.

  She thrust her hands dee
p into the pockets of her coat, but even though she was wearing gloves, her fingers were cold. In fact, her whole damned body felt like it was fast becoming an icicle. “Come on, Liam,” she said, her breath fogging in the already cloudy air. The whole scenario was weird, and the campus seemed strangely isolated now, even with the dog walker and runner.

  This area was a little remote and private; that’s why she and Liam had picked it—a spot where they could meet on the sly, a place where the only security camera, above the back door of the gym, was broken.

  Rubbing her arms, she wished that he’d just show up as he said he would. Waiting here in the foggy afternoon made her uneasy.

  She’d seen on Facebook that another girl, Candice-Something-or-other had gone missing. Not that Mary-Alice really cared, she didn’t know the victim, had never heard of her; Candice attended public school, while Mary-Alice had been in the Catholic school system since she’d turned five.

  Mary-Alice paced the pockmarked asphalt lot with its ever-growing potholes. She wasn’t going to wait all day! She checked her phone for the twentieth time. Liam hadn’t texted or called, and he was five minutes late. He was never late.

  As the fog thickened, turning day to night, she grew more nervous. Eyeing the track again, she’d lost sight of the guy on the bleacher and the woman with her little dog, but the jogger, a small man in a stocking cap, sweatshirt and tights under his shorts, was still doing laps. She wasn’t completely alone.

  She texted Liam, then remembered he had that new number. What a pain! Everything was changing. She started to text the new number just as she heard a truck’s engine roar up the street.

  Maybe he was finally here!

  The truck’s engine slowed, as if to turn onto the access road that led to the back of the school.

  About damned time.

  Headlights cut through the rising mist, and a pickup she didn’t recognize slid around the corner.

  Not Liam’s truck.

  She was all set to be pissed again when she saw the magnetic sign on the driver’s door, one with the logo and phone number of Longstreet Construction.