by Lisa Jackson
Tyler hadn’t sent that message, at least she didn’t think so. She saw the deputy at the end of the hall, his eyes glued to the screen of his iPad. He heard her coming and looked up quickly. “You leaving?”
“Just going to find my sister.”
He nodded. “She said she was going out for a while.”
“And you didn’t stop her?”
One eyebrow raised. “I’m here to keep the hotel secure, but I can’t keep anyone from leaving if they want to. My job is to keep the bad guys out, not the good guys in.”
“But it’s the middle of the night.”
“My exact words, but Annette was determined. And an adult,” he said as Bernadette decided arguing with him would get her nowhere. She took the stairs down to the first floor, then finding a door that wasn’t locked, she ran outside to the damp night. Fog lay in patches, a breeze moving the mist ghostlike across the lawn.
As Bernadette reached the yard, she saw Annette starting to back out of the parking slot.
“No! Wait!” For the love of God. That was the trouble with Annette: outwardly calm, inwardly a mess. “Annette!” Bernadette sprinted across the wet grass of the back lawn, then hurried across the parking lot, gravel crunching under her feet, puddles splashing as she ran. She raced to the Honda and as Annette braked, grabbed the passenger side door. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked as she yanked open the door just as the car jostled to a stop.
“Go-going for a drive. Seaside. All-night restaurant.” Annette was pale as death.
“That’s crazy,” Bernadette said, and thought something was off, something more than her sister driving thirty miles for a burger.
“It’s . . . It’s what I’m doing.” She stared at Bernadette with round, worried eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she squeaked out, but she looked as if she might pass out.
That’s when Bernadette realized what was wrong. No interior light had flooded the car when she’d opened the door. No alarm bell indicating that a door was opening while the car was in gear had dinged.
“Annette—?” The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
“Get into the car,” a voice ordered from the darkened back seat, and for the first time Bernadette realized someone was huddled behind her sister, hidden in the darkness by the head rests and tinted back windows. “Get in now, or I swear I’ll shoot your sister right here and now.”
Bernadette stared at Annette, then as she looked behind the front seat, she saw the gun, muzzle pressed to the back of the driver’s seat, aimed straight at Annette’s back. Obviously the assailant had somehow forced her sister through the hotel, past any security and into the car at gunpoint, probably threatening her life.
“I’m sorry,” Annette said, and tears began to slide from her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“Get in,” the familiar voice ordered. “Now.”
Bernadette wanted to run, to scream for help, but she believed that the assailant would easily squeeze the trigger and shoot Annette. But she had her phone in her pocket. If she could just slide it out. Cautiously, she slid into the passenger seat.
“Close the door.”
She yanked the door shut, though she knew it was a mistake.
“Now drive,” the assailant commanded.
“Where?” Annette squeaked out.
“To the camp,” was the even response. “Where else?”
CHAPTER 41
Tillamook, Oregon
Now
Lucas
Following the motorcycle wasn’t difficult. The roads were nearly deserted, the bike’s taillight a red beacon. Lucas hung back, sometimes turning off on a side road only to return to 101, just in case the woman on the bike was paying attention.
He tailed her through Tillamook, where there was more traffic, early risers driving, on their way to work, or conversely, those who were on their way home from a night of partying. The town stretched along the highway, the smell of cattle manure from the surrounding dairy farms noticeable, neon lights of businesses and street lamps offering some illumination, headlights flashing past. He lagged behind a semi as they reached the center of town, where the buildings were older and taller, pushed together in city blocks and the road split into one-way streets.
Lucas kept the bike in his sights and watched as she headed east, toward the surrounding hills, where dawn was just beginning to send fingers of light through the low-hanging mist.
The fog was a blessing and a curse, providing him cover, but also creating a blanket that sometimes hid the motorcycle speeding toward the mountains.
Who the hell was she?
What was she doing?
Why had she been hiding upstairs when he’d visited Jeanette Brady?
He nearly got caught behind a tractor-trailer rig and was forced to pass as the town gave way to suburbs and then rural countryside. The taillight of the bike glowed bright for seconds, only to become obscured as the fog became thicker.
Lucas stepped on it. He couldn’t afford to lose her. The road curved up through the mountains, trees rising on either side. Eventually this road would lead to the Willamette Valley and beyond, and he wondered how far he would follow her before either giving up or calling for backup.
And say what? That he had a gut feeling about a woman who’d spent the night with Jeanette Brady? That he’d chased her for miles with nothing more than instinct that “something was off” about her? Maybe he was making a big mistake. “Mine to make,” he said aloud, and saw the bike turn off the main road. His pulse leaped. This would be the tricky part. Until now if she’d spotted him, she could tell herself that he wasn’t following her, that his headlights were just part of the normal flow of early-morning traffic. But from the looks of the narrow gravel road onto which she’d turned, she would have more difficulty rationalizing that any vehicle behind her wasn’t tailing her.
He drove past the spot where she’d turned onto the smaller road, glanced to see her taillight disappearing around a bend, then kept driving. Only when he rounded another corner did he initiate a quick U-turn, doubling back.
This time he didn’t pass by the gravel road, but slowed and eased onto it. A sign reflected in his headlights: NO TRESPASSING. GUARD DOG ON DUTY.
Rolling down his window, he heard the whine of the bike’s engine, lugging down it seemed, slowing. He couldn’t risk keeping to the road, which was little more than twin ruts winding through thickets of fir and pine.
The sky was lightening enough that he could cut his lights as he continued driving slowly, all the while straining to listen. Soon enough the motorcycle’s engine was cut. Immediately he eased off the gas and parked in the middle of the lane as there was no shoulder. Stealthily he opened the door, grabbed his stake-out bag and service weapon, then started jogging, following the road, wondering what the hell he would find. Running through drifts of fog and slippery puddles with the canopy of branches above him, he moved quickly, around several turns until he spied a cabin, not much larger than his own, set in a clearing and ringed by mossy-barked trees. A motorcycle was parked on the front porch. No dog in sight.
Still, he surveyed the area.
Two windows were patches of light that shone bright in the gloom of the forest. Whoever was home was up, and he saw no reason now not to walk up to the door and knock. At least he’d know what he was dealing with. He took the two steps in one stride and pounded loudly on the front door.
Nothing.
The house seemed to go incredibly still. No sound, not so much as a footstep from within could be heard.
No warning growl or scrape of paws on the floor.
Lucas waited.
He strained to hear even the slightest sound, but the only noise was the sigh of a soft breeze rustling the fir needles overhead and the soft murmur of wings—bats on a final forage before daylight settled in. Sweating a little, he knocked again, more loudly this time, and when the door wasn’t immediately opened, he yelled, “Police. Ope
n up.” Pistol in hand he flattened himself against the side of the house just in case whoever was inside came out blasting a shotgun. Obviously whoever lived here didn’t want to be disturbed.
Muffled voices reached his ears, but he couldn’t make out the words.
Still no sound of a dog.
The voices stopped.
Footsteps approached.
Jarringly, the door opened.
His heart clutched and for a second he was thrown back in time. Elle Brady, or her damned doppelganger, stood backlit, in the doorway.
* * *
Bernadette sat in the passenger seat and wished to high heaven that she had a gun or some kind of weapon. Her little Honda, Annette at the wheel, was speeding down 101, closing in on the access road to the camp, the woman in the back seat never flinching but holding the gun steady in her gloved hand, ready to fire point-blank at Annette’s back.
“What do you want?” Bernadette asked, and snuck a peek at Naomi Dalton. She’d aged in twenty years, her beauty having faded with time and, Annette suspected, her own bitterness.
“It’s not what I want,” Naomi said, “it’s necessary. Payback.”
“You’re the one who sent the texts?”
“See, you are clever. Not just a pretty face after all.”
“You will pay? What’s that mean? I don’t understand.”
“Nor do you have to,” she said, and to Annette, who had eased off the gas, “Keep driving.”
“What are you going to do?” Annette asked, and her voice shook, tears drizzling from her eyes.
“Just take care of business. Okay. The turnout’s up ahead. Slow down.”
Annette did as she was told, driving into the lane leading to Camp Horseshoe.
“The police will be here,” Bernadette said, hoping to waylay whatever plans Naomi had in mind. “They’re going to search the beach. To look for more bodies.”
“I don’t think so.” A tone of satisfaction had entered her voice. “They’re busy at the hotel, with that nasty business of Jo-Beth Chancellor and Tyler Quade.”
“Leroy,” Annette said. “Her name was Leroy.”
Naomi muttered, “Whatever.”
The Honda bottomed out on the hump between the ruts and Naomi said sharply, “Be careful. Unless you want to be shot right now!”
Annette threw her sister a panicked look. She’d driven to the camp without incident, but she was frantic, biting her lower lip, sweat beading on her brow, blinking against the tears that collected in her eyes.
Bernadette, too, was fighting panic, wondering how to stop this madwoman. Her heart was racing, fear in the form of adrenaline fueling her pulse. Somehow, someway, she had to fight back, to turn the tables on Naomi. God, was the woman homicidal? Bernadette had seen her anger before, had noticed a cold calm she was able to force upon herself, but this? Kidnapping? Possible murder?
They rolled into the parking area in front of Columbia Hall and, as Naomi had predicted, there were no other cars around. The camp was deserted, the broken and boarded windows, sagging roof, and general sense of despair of the decrepit buildings heightened in the fog.
“It’s too bad about this place,” Naomi said as if she’d sensed the grinding dreariness of the area. “It used to be so beautiful, you know. It once held so much promise.” Her voice was almost wistful before she cleared her throat. “But that was a long time ago. A very long time ago. Before you all showed up and the trouble began. You know, if you”—she turned her attention to Bernadette—“if you wouldn’t have come here, Lucas would never have ended it with me.”
What? This was about Lucas? No. “What’re you saying, that you were in love with Lucas?”
“What I said was you coming here was the start. The start of the end. For me.” From the back seat, she poked the muzzle of the gun against Annette’s shoulder. Annette visibly started. Naomi ordered, “Hand me the keys. And both of your purses.”
Annette reached for the ignition switch but hesitated. “Just let us go.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Why?” Bernadette asked.
“What are you going to do?” Annette was shaking. “Kill us?”
“What do you think?” she said. “All of us, we’re going to have a big campfire, kind of just like the old times, remember?” She gave a little laugh. “But trust me, no one’s going to be singing ‘Kumbaya.’ ”
Bernadette’s blood turned to ice.
Annette screeched now in a full-blown panic, “What? You’re going to what? Start a fire. Oh, Jesus, burn us?”
Naomi hit her with the pistol. “Shut up! Give me the keys and your purses.”
“No! Annette! Get out! Run!” Bernadette yelled as she yanked the keys from the ignition and Annette opened the car door. Bernadette hurled the keys hard, straight at Naomi’s face, then in one swift motion opened her door. The keys struck Naomi in the eyes and she howled, screeching to the heavens. “Aaaauyyyrrrh!”
Annette was already out of the Honda. “Run! Just run!” Bernadette screamed.
Shrieking in pain, Naomi fired.
Blam!
A blast shattered the back of the seat, the bullet screaming past Bernadette’s ear as she threw herself out of the car, rolled to her feet, and took off at a sprint.
She heard another blast and prayed that Annette was okay as she dived around the corner of the rec center and hoped to put distance between herself and the deranged woman who’d kidnapped them. What the hell did Naomi want?
To kill you. And Annette. And possibly the others. Run, Bernadette! Run like you’ve never run before.
She dove into a copse of saplings before she remembered her phone. Still in her back pocket! Fumbling, still running in the half-light of breaking dawn, she stumbled through the trees and prayed she had a signal.
Within two seconds she was able to punch out the numbers for 9-1-1. As the operator answered, she yelled, “This is Bernadette Warden. I’m at Camp Horseshoe south of Averille and a woman, Naomi Dalton, is trying to kill me and my sister, Annette Alsace! Send help! Now!”
“Do you have the address?”
“No!”
“Stay on the line—”
“I can’t. She’ll hear me! Just send someone to the camp south of Cape Horseshoe! That old church camp off of Highway 101! Tell Detective Lucas Dalton!” she said, and spied a shadow darting through the trees.
Naomi!
“Dear God, send someone now!” She clicked off and ran headlong down the path that led to the old chapel. The roar of the ocean was in her ears and the smell of salt spray filled her nostrils, raw fear propelling her. The trail was overgrown, vines and brambles cutting into her skin, cobwebs brushing her face. She thought she saw Naomi in every shadow of the forest, around each tree trunk. And Annette, where the hell was Annette?
Breathing hard, she doubled back, hoping that she’d drawn Naomi away from her sister.
Why? Why was this happening? Why did Naomi hate them enough to want them dead? It wasn’t just about losing Lucas to Bernadette years ago. No, no . . . that didn’t make sense.
It doesn’t have to be logical. You’re dealing with a homicidal maniac!
Heart in her throat, Bernadette turned onto an overgrown side trail, stubbed her toe on a rock, and paused, gathering her wits, trying to slow her breathing, hoping to figure out a way to save them. The sun was starting to rise over the eastern hills. A good thing, or bad? How much time did they have before the police arrived? Good Lord, where were they?
Barely daring to breathe, she poked her head around the bole of an old-growth Douglas fir and froze when she spied a figure slinking through the forest. A woman’s silhouette in the rising mist. Friend or foe? Annette or Naomi?
Bernadette couldn’t take a chance. Heart hammering, she slowly crouched and silently reached around her, fingers scrabbling through the dirt and weeds, brushing against something slimy before she felt the jagged outline of a rock, the only weapon she could find.
It wasn’t
much against a gun.
Nothing in fact.
But she clung to it as if it were a lifeline and straightened just in time to see the figure heading in her direction. Her heart pumped crazily, beating so hard she was certain whoever was nearby could hear.
Heart in her throat, nerves strung tight as piano wire, she poked her head around the edge of the trunk and squinted into the sunrise.
Nothing.
Just plays of shadow and light in the thick woods.
Where did she go?
Dear God, where?
She peered around the other side of the bole and thought she spied the woman again, this time hiding behind a huge, jagged stump.
Annette!
Her sister spied her as well and then, to Bernadette’s horror, gathered herself to run away from her cover.
“No!” Bernadette mouthed, shaking her head violently, then screamed, “No! Stay back!”
Blam!
A shot blasted through the forest.
Annette’s body bucked and she squealed in pain. In horror, Bernadette saw her sister fall to the damp forest floor.
CHAPTER 42
The Coast Range Mountains
Elle
Now
“Elle?” Lucas said, even though he knew in his heart this young woman couldn’t be Eleanor Brady.
Glowering at him, she shook her head, platinum hair fanning around her face. “No.” Light spilled onto the porch and she eyed him suspiciously, her gaze taking stock of his battered face. “Man, you look like shit.”
“And that’s about how I feel.”
“Let him in,” a weak voice called from within.
The girl turned her head and yelled over her shoulder. “Are you sure, Mom?”
“Yes.” The faint voice was so damned familiar. Elle.
Giving Lucas a once-over, the girl said petulantly, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“For God’s sake! It’s over, Rebecca! Let him in.”
Rebecca?
“Ooookay.” Reluctantly, the girl, the spitting image of Elle, opened the door wide enough so that Lucas was able to step into a rustic cabin not much larger than his own. A kitchen ran along one wall, a battered table separating it from the living area that was dwarfed by a massive fireplace. A fire burned within the blackened grate and a long couch stretched along one wall. Upon the cushions, covered with a mound of blankets, lay a woman.
