One Last Breath

by Lisa Jackson

  Rory held her breath, wondering what this was all about. Nothing good.

  “That guy roughed you up a little,” he observed.

  “I’m okay.”

  His eyebrows tweaked a bit and she wondered if she should start wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.

  “Would you mind following me to my den? There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Should I come?” Darlene asked, but the dark look Liam’s father sent her made his feelings known. She shrank away.

  With a last look back at her mother, Rory trailed after Geoffrey Bastian, who’d done a police U-turn in his wheelchair and was moving into the main body of the house, turning down a hallway lined with pictures of the family, everyone included, Rory noted, except for her.

  No surprise there.

  * * *

  That morning Liam had had to make a quick detour on his way to the Flavel job site after a call from Jarrod Uller, the foreman under Steele who’d reported a water main had been clipped with a backhoe at the Hallifax building. The driver of the equipment had been beside himself, claiming it wasn’t his fault, so Uller had called in Liam. By the time he made it to Hallifax, the operator, a tobacco-chewing twentysomething, had calmed down some, saying it was lucky it was a water line he’d hit, not gas—and amen to that. The plumber blamed the backhoe operator, and there was a bit of a glaring standoff before the pipe was fixed and work resumed. Afterwards Uller had walked Liam to his SUV and said, “Children,” in his supercilious way, before heading to his own truck.

  Uller was a proficient foreman, but the man was a little too slick for his own good. Liam preferred the older, no-nonsense Steele to the handsome fortysomething Uller.

  Now Liam pulled out his cell as he climbed into his rig. True to his word, Les Steele had sent pictures of the vandalism in a series of text messages. Ugly stuff. Angry and personal. Directed at his family. Bastian Pigs and Rich Bastards were scrawled along the walls with the usual four-letter words used to describe, in graphic terms, what should be done to anyone named Bastian.

  Not teenagers. Someone with a grudge, someone who had it in for the family and the company. Who? Why? Were they seriously dangerous? Or were they just cowards with extra cans of spray paint stacking up in their garages and basements? One culprit? Or more?

  His Tahoe was parked on the street, in the shade of a nearby, mainly vacant, two-storied office building, which boasted a commercial Realtor’s FOR SALE sign in several of the windows. Before heading out, he called Derek, who picked up on the second ring. “Yo, little bro,” Derek greeted him.

  “On my way to Flavel,” Liam told him. “More broken windows, vandalism.”

  “Huh. Maybe we should thank them for doing the demolition for us.”

  “Let’s meet over there.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll call Dad.”

  He heard Derek suck in his breath. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  Liam grimaced, watching a plastic bag caught in the wind float past his car. “He’ll be pissed if we don’t keep him in the loop.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “Yep.” He started the engine of his rig. “Okay, see ya there.”

  “How’d it go with Rory last night?” Derek asked.

  “Well enough.” He wasn’t going to elaborate, though of course his brother probably wanted to know if they’d spent the night together. Let him figure it out for himself.

  “Just like old times?”

  “She’s my wife, Derek.” Liam couldn’t keep the bite out of his words. He didn’t want to discuss Rory with anyone, least of all his brother.

  “No details?”

  “How old are you? Twelve? Just meet me at Flavel.”

  “Ever figure out what Beth meant about knowing something about your family?”

  “Haven’t really had time to think about it.”

  “That good last night, huh?”

  “I’ll be at Flavel in twenty.” Liam cut the connection, then pulled away from the curb. Why was it his brother could so easily get under his skin?

  Because you let him and because he’s still a little pissed that you’re higher up in the company than he is. Dad did that. Favored you, at least in Derek’s opinion. Never mind that you went to college, graduated in business, and worked your way up in the company. From Derek’s view, you’re still the “little bro.”

  As his vehicle melded with traffic, he called his father via voice activation of his Bluetooth connection. But his call went unanswered. Pulling into the right lane, he tried again, this time calling the house, letting it ring until, surprisingly, Vivian answered.

  “Thought this was your first day,” Liam said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying to get back there. Got the babysitter here, and what do you know, she suddenly has to leave. Some problem with her ailing mother, which I think is bullshit, but okay. I had to whip back here, and now I’m trying to leave again.”

  “The office can wait, Viv,” Liam said. They were basically making a job for her anyway, so there was no rush. But she was testy about it, so he added, “Aren’t Rory and Darlene there?”

  “Yes, and Charlotte, but it’s not like . . . I don’t know . . . I can just dump my children on them. We really hardly know each other, and what are you doing with her, anyway?”

  “With Rory?”

  “Is everything cool now? With you and your better half? You just going to forgive and forget?”

  “Where’s Mom?” Liam asked, fighting annoyance.

  “In her rooms. She’s not sharing any space with Rory, or Darlene, or anyone else. You know how she gets.” She let out a huff. “As if Mom would be any real help anyway.”

  A guy in a white BMW swung into his lane, nearly clipping the front panel of his Tahoe, and Liam slammed on his brakes, biting back a curse.

  Vivian was rambling on. “It’s summer and my kids are running in and out of the house and jumping in the pool and screaming their bloody heads off. Charlotte’s there, too, as much as Darlene and your little wifey will let her be, since she just got out of the hospital. Big fight about going in the pool. Everyone’s afraid Charlotte’s going to die or something if she gets wet.”

  Though he loved Viv, sometimes she could be a pain in the neck. “I’ll bring them back to my place.”

  “Oh, don’t be pissy, for God’s sake. I’m just joking. Everyone’s so fucking touchy.”

  Sensing she was about to hang up on him, he said, “Wait, I want to talk to Dad.”

  “He’s in a meeting with your little wifey.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ask them. They just went in his den together,” she snapped, then mused, “Maybe he’s rewriting his will as we speak.”

  “Unlikely.” The truth was, Liam didn’t know what to think, but he sensed that Geoff wouldn’t be welcoming her back to the family. “Tell him to call me.”

  “If I see him, I will. Gotta go.” And she disconnected.

  Liam almost turned around, worry stirring in his gut. But Steele was waiting for him, Derek was meeting them at the job site, and he couldn’t rationally see how a conversation between Rory and his father would be truly harmful. Maybe it would even clear the air. Geoff had a tendency to fall into black moods, before and after the shooting, but he’d always managed to rally for company.

  Arriving at the Flavel building and seeing the neon green and orange paint sprayed so ineloquently across the new stone façade, he set his jaw. He eyed the vandalism as he climbed from his rig to meet Steele, who, in a safety vest and hard hat, was striding across a gravel access road. He was pointing to his head and Liam nodded before reaching into the back seat and pulling out his white hard hat with the BASTIAN-FLAVEL CONSTRUCTION logo.

  Somebody’s got it in for us, he thought.

  Derek’s Ford truck wheeled into the lot in a spray of gravel and cloud of dust. He climbed out and stalked toward them, then stopped short and glowered at the graffiti. “This shit ne
ver ends. First a chick kills herself on our property and now this?”

  Les said, “We’ll get it cleaned up pronto.”

  “Yeah. No shit. Do that. Don’t we have security cams?” Derek asked, searching the surrounding area, shading his eyes as he stared first at the dilapidated building, then farther afield, toward distant buildings screened by overgrown brush that was working its way to the Flavel building’s front door.

  Steele said, “Not yet. Gettin’ them soon.” His fingers searched beneath his safety vest to a pocket beneath, liberating a pack of cigarettes. “There’s no homeless to root out, at least. Some were here, but we had a sweep about three weeks ago. Either Uller or I make it a point to check on the place every morning.”

  “You trust him?” Derek questioned.

  “Uller? Yes.” Lester lit up, drew hard, blew smoke in a geyser from the side of his mouth and gazed hard at Derek. “That’s not where I’d look.”

  “Where would you look?” Derek asked with a trace of belligerence.

  “Derek . . .” Liam had already had enough drama for one day and it wasn’t even noon.

  “Barlow Construction. Ned Barlow,” the foreman said.

  “Ned Barlow?” Derek blinked. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  Liam said, “Barlow might still be upset that Lester and Jarrod came to work for us.”

  “You believe that?” Derek asked Liam curiously.

  “It’s possible,” Liam answered.

  Steele put in, “There’s not a lot of love lost between him and your old man. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Derek frowned at the building again. “Let’s not mention this to Dad. Not until we know something more. It could set him off.” He looked at each of the other men. “Nobody wants that.”

  For once Liam agreed with his brother. They talked for a few more minutes, and Les left to check out other jobs. Liam did a quick tour of the building’s five floors, a walk-up with no elevator. Nothing but broken glass, dust, and bits of trash from earlier homeless encampments greeted him.

  He returned to his SUV where Derek was lounging against the back bumper. Good ol’ Derek. He never wanted to do more than he felt he was getting paid for.

  Derek asked, “You believe that shit about Barlow?”

  Liam shrugged. “Not really. He and Dad had their moments, but that . . .”

  He hitched a thumb toward the crude, scrawled message. “Not really his style.”

  “Maybe it’s Uller, or even Steele himself.”

  Liam’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “I’m not paranoid, bro. Both worked for Barlow, and Les just said it, there’s still bad blood between Barlow and Dad.”

  “Steele’s one of the best foremen we’ve had in a long while,” Liam snapped back, forgetting in the moment that Derek had been one of those less than worthy ones.

  But Derek didn’t take offense. “I didn’t tell you this because you were all caught up in the Rory thing, but Uller’s come to me a couple of times, wanting to borrow money. He lives a little fast and rich, y’know? When I didn’t loan him the money, he went to the accountant and tried to get an advance on his paycheck.” He looked at Liam. “Again, no go. And he’s tried more than once.”

  “How come I didn’t know this?” Liam demanded.

  “Not for publication, apparently. I only know because I was there at the time, at the office, and I overheard the conversation. After Uller left I asked the bookkeeper about it, and he said it had happened a couple of times before, but Uller was always given a turndown. He never mentioned it to me, but he could have talked to Dad.”

  Liam was pretty sure if anything had gone on in the company like that and Geoff found out, he’d be calling Liam on the carpet as fast as possible.

  “And he’s got paint. Saw a couple of cans in his truck. Uses it to mark stuff on the buildings, lets the other subs know where he’s plannin’ to run wires or notch out boxes and switches. Whatever.”

  “Everyone on the job has access to paint.”

  “Okay, maybe I’m wrong.” He lifted his hands. “Just don’t want us to look bad, in case it comes down that way.” His cell phone beeped and he pulled it from his pocket, started walking backwards to his Ford truck. “We done here?” he asked Liam.

  Liam glanced again at the ugly words splayed across the building. “For now.”

  * * *

  Rory sat in the chair opposite Geoff’s desk in a room that was all dark wood, leather-bound editions, and crystal decanters of what looked to be whiskey. A cupboard held scrolled blueprints, their neatly wound ends visible. French doors led to the covered patio outside, and the pool beyond. The hint of a recently smoked cigar lingered in the air.

  The whole effect was designed to portend wealth, power, and probably intimidation.

  Geoff had deftly maneuvered his wheelchair into position on the opposite side of what seemed to be acres of walnut, and now he was staring at her, wheels turning silently in his mind. If this was intimidation, it was working, and Rory stiffened her spine and forced herself to stare back at him. This was, after all, a meeting he’d asked for. Was he just playing with her, or did he really have something to say?

  After a long minute of scrutiny, he finally said, “Do you think I was the target of the attack at your wedding?”

  Rory was a bit surprised. “It’s one theory,” she said slowly, wondering where this was going. “No one’s said for sure that you were the intended victim, just that . . . somehow you were hit.”

  “I know all the theories. What I asked is what you think.”

  “As I said, I’m not sure. The police are working on it.”

  “Are they?” His eyes flashed, his temper and patience snapping in an instant. “They’ve been ‘working on it’ for five years and still don’t have answers.” His face, suffused with blood, turned a dull red. “When I find out who put me in this cage, let me tell you, they’re going to pay.” He slammed his hands down on the arms of the wheelchair. “I don’t care who it is, you understand?”

  She nearly jumped. “Yes.”

  “Even if it’s your brother.”

  So there it was. He thought Everett was behind the attack. Everett, who was on his way to Portland. Funny how his name kept coming up.

  “You understand?”

  “My stepbrother,” she corrected carefully, aware he was working himself up to a full-blown fury. “And yes.”

  “Or anyone in your family. Anyone,” he said pointedly, his gaze drilling into her.

  Did he think she was behind the assault? A part of it? The mastermind? When she’d been running for her life?

  She slowly rose from her chair and leaned across the desk. “If you’re insinuating that I was behind . . . this,” she said, pointing at his chair, “you’re sadly mistaken. I was attacked as well.”

  “And disappeared. Conveniently. You think we’re all going to believe that you had nothing to do with that bloodbath?”

  She could feel her own temper hitting the stratosphere, but was saved from answering when there was a tap on the door.

  “What?” Geoff demanded.

  Vivian poked her head in. “I’m leaving. Just wanted Rory to know because of the kids. I don’t know where Darlene is, at the moment. The sitter’s gone on another emergency, but Mom’s in her rooms. She’ll watch Landon and Estella.” Then, as if sensing the tension in the room, the barely repressed anger, she just lifted a hand and stepped back out.

  “Where are you going?” her father barked.

  “Back to work, Dad.” She looked from him to Rory with a what the hell’s going on here? expression.

  He snorted derisively and waved a dismissing hand at her. “Go.”

  Viv sent one last glance at Rory, a silent question. Rory said, “I’m right behind you,” and followed her out. She wasn’t about to take Geoff’s accusations any longer. Yes, she and Charlotte were guests in his house, but if he threw her out, so be it.

  As she s
tarted out after Vivian, Geoff’s hard voice followed her: “I may be stuck in this chair, but I know men who can get things done. Anything for a price. When the truth comes out, you’d better hope you’re on the right side of this!”

  * * *

  Shanice stared through the windshield of her Ford Escape, her gaze focused on the straight stretch of I-5 in front of her. She and Mick were heading steadily south from Seattle. Since DeGrere’s death there had been renewed interest in the shooting and assassination at the Bastian wedding, and Mick had been fielding calls from Seattle PD and several reporters. He’d been offered a job to learn the truth, and he and Shanice had been on the road for nearly three hours, heading to Oregon, determined to talk to Rory Abernathy Bastian aka Heather Johnson and get some answers.

  Mick was just pocketing his phone after a long, mostly one-sided conversation with a friend in the police department. He cracked the window, then thought better of it with the rush of wind and traffic noise and closed it again.

  “So,” she said, nudging Mick to share. “What are they saying now? Does Seattle PD think Abernathy’s involved in Pete’s death?”

  He gave a quick shake of his head. “Pretty tight-lipped about all that. They want to take and not give. You know how it goes.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Still won’t say if they’ve pegged Pete as the shooter at the wedding.”

  She snorted. “You mean they don’t want to admit you were right.”

  “They’re already getting shit about not finding Abernathy for five years and then all hell breaks loose at once: Pete DeGrere gets out, hardly has time to drink a beer and get a hard-on at a strip club before he’s murdered. And it happened at the time Abernathy shows up in Portland with a sick kid. But that’s not the end of it. Last night Seattle PD gets a call, and guess what? Abernathy was attacked by Cal Redmond, an ex who’s holding a grudge. A big one. According to Abernathy he’s the one who attacked her at the wedding.”

  “But DeGrere’s the shooter.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  She pulled into the slower lane. Her cell phone rang, she saw it was Deon and didn’t pick up. Their relationship had been on its last gasp for too long. The man just didn’t understand the phrase, “It’s over.” Letting the phone go to voice mail, she turned her attention back to Mick. “You think Redmond was in cahoots with DeGrere? They were partners?”