Beneath Winter Sand

by Vickie McKeehan

  “Because I’m not fit to be around anyone just now, especially you.”

  “Hear that, Molly? For your information, we don’t have to talk…about anything. But we all do need to eat. Step aside while I make supper. You may not be hungry, but I’m starving.”

  Stepping inside his house, she flipped on lights all the way to the kitchen. Molly trotted in behind her. It was Caleb who brought up the rear.

  Hannah dumped rice into a steamer, poured olive oil into a skillet for grilling the chicken, and then chopped up enough garlic to hold off several vampires. She threw in fresh ginger and nodded toward Caleb, who stood on the other side of the kitchen, watching it all play out. “If you intend to just stand there gawking, make yourself useful. Chop up the red and yellow peppers. See if you have any broccoli. It’s the one thing I didn’t bring.”

  Dutifully, Caleb dug in the fridge for anything green. In the crisper, he found a bag of snap peas and celery. “Will these do?”

  She snatched them out of his hand. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “No. I should be thanking you.”

  “Yes, you should. But that’s okay. I don’t hold grudges. Much.” She turned back to the stove to mind the chicken. Deftly she seared the veggies to a tender, golden edge before scooping out rice, and plating the food.

  “Do I at least get a glass of wine for my effort?”

  “Sure. Sorry.” His wine cooler held a variety of merlot and white. He selected a chardonnay with a fruity hint of peach and spice. As he peeled off the foil, he watched her flitting from counter to counter and realized he was feeling much better about…his life. Hannah had managed to bring him out of the doldrums with one, well-timed meal.

  “This looks delicious.” With the first bite, her culinary skills were evident. “How’d you get the chicken to turn out like this?”

  “It’s called marinade,” she said with a grin.

  “Do you like the taste of the grape?”

  She picked up her glass, took a generous taste. “It’s delightful.”

  “I’m sorry I pissed you off. But as I look at my plate, maybe I should do it more often if it gets me a meal like this.”

  “You’re just lucky I didn’t leave you here to sulk.”

  “I know that now.”

  “What is it that put you in this kind of mood? Are you upset with Landon because he took some of the gold?”

  “He was entitled to his share. No, that wasn’t what set it off.”

  “Then what?”

  “Something inside me clicked this afternoon. I realized that, to some extent, Cooper’s been right all along. Eleanor will always be this monster that won’t let go. She’ll never accept defeat. How will I ever have kids and be able to explain to them what I come from?”

  “Do you want children, Caleb?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t you?”

  She tried for levity. “I have a few goals before I reach that point to find out.”

  She took his hand when she realized how deep his hurt went. “I get your concern. I felt much the same way after reading the police report and what they said my father did. When I was old enough to understand it, I was devastated. How could I pass that kind of madness on to my children? Surely I would have to remain childless for the rest of my life.”

  “It’s not the same, Hannah. Your father most likely didn’t kill anyone. There’s hope for you. Not for me, I’m afraid. There’s no mistaking the destructive path my mother created. To some degree, she’s still making sure there are plenty of victims—her kids, her brother—you get the point. Simply put, she’s most likely a serial murderer.”

  “But she’s locked up. She isn’t getting out. It’s entirely up to you whether you continue to remain under her thumb like this. You can’t let her get to you every time she gets the urge. You can’t allow her to mess with your head. This isn’t you, locking yourself in the dark like this? Look at what you’ve done, Caleb, what you’ve accomplished. You have a beautiful home, a wonderful job, a family who loves you. What more do you need?”

  He stood up and went to her. “Right now, I’m pretty sure all I need is you.”

  Twenty-Four

  Hannah was doing a load of laundry at Murphy’s house when the call came in from Brent.

  “I don’t want to tell you over the phone so could you come into the station so we can sit down and talk.”

  “Sure. It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

  “Hannah, let me do this my way, okay?” Brent said. “I prefer to see your face when we go over the DNA. I’m not trying to sound mysterious, but I really need you down at the station. Now.”

  “Is it okay if I bring Caleb?”

  “Absolutely. Bring anyone you want.”

  After she hung up, she sent Caleb a text message to meet her there.

  They pulled up at almost the same time in front of the station. She watched as Caleb got out of his truck and skirted the hood to put his arms around her.

  “No matter what I said Sunday, I’m nervous,” Hannah admitted.

  “It’ll be all right.”

  “I feel like this is the first drop of rain, Caleb, like we’re prepping for a storm before the flood waters rise and this is the first round of the devastation.”

  “You’re strong. Remember that. But it wouldn’t hurt to remember that we’re stronger together. We’ll get through this. Whatever Brent tells us in there, we’ll deal with it together. That’s a promise.”

  “Thanks for being here with me.”

  Once inside, Brent escorted them into his office and motioned for Hannah to sit down. “I’m sorry it took so long even after I put a rush on things, but…the lab had some trouble getting…sufficient…DNA…out of the…bone marrow. The little bones were so brittle and dried up that the poor little thing—” His voice trailed off and he stopped in mid-sentence. “Sorry. I’m sure you get the picture.”

  He studied the paper on his desk and looked across the room at Hannah. “Anyway, the DNA from that baby—it was a girl by the way—did not come back as a match to you.”

  Hannah wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “I thought…” Her shoulders dropped. She let out a loud sigh. “I thought you were going to tell me…”

  “I know what you thought.”

  “Then it’s good news for me, for Micah. Although I still have to figure out what happened to him, and who took him? Nothing’s solved. I don’t understand. I’m not sure why I’m here, why Scott pointed me in this direction.”

  “You said it yourself,” Caleb reminded her. “Micah’s alive. We just have to find him.”

  “Exactly,” Brent said. “And I have to find out who killed our mystery baby. I have some ideas on that. Several witnesses have come forward. Now that I have a DNA profile I plan to start with Douglas Bradford. Since the remains were found on his property, he’s under the most scrutiny. Quentin has agreed to provide a swab to send to the lab.”

  “What good does that do?” Hannah wanted to know.

  “I’m hoping to get a familial result,” Brent concluded. “Truth is, if that baby belonged to Douglas, then Quentin’s DNA will come back to having at least a few markers that match up to the baby’s. I’m still amazed that science is able to narrow it down like that.”

  “And if those few markers are present…?”

  “Then I get a court order and head to Eternal Gardens, exhume Douglas. Until then, I try to narrow down the list of all those who had relationships with…our former mayor…of the intimate variety.”

  Hannah chewed the inside of her jaw. “So, before I go, a little help in the right direction would be nice. Last week you said you wished I had stopped in here first to let you know about Micah. Now I’m sitting here asking for your help. Where exactly would I go to find a list of twenty-year-old men living in Pelican Pointe?”

  “Have you thought about starting with one of the online sites about adoptions and genealogy. Maybe he’s figured out he’s adopted and is trying to find you.”


  “You aren’t serious, are you? I registered with those sites as soon as I turned eighteen. I had hope back then, until someone pointed out to me that Micah was stolen. His adoption is probably nonexistent, as in, illegal.”

  Brent looked chastised. “Right. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “This is the reason I have a tough time letting go, putting my faith in anyone but myself to do the job.”

  Caleb straightened in his chair and raised his eyes to meet Brent’s. “Why couldn’t you just run DMV records for her, records that list all the guys who turned twenty in the area? Micah has to have a driver’s license.”

  “I suppose I could do that. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll get Eastlyn to run it over to you.”

  “And just like that I’m still left to wonder.”

  “Sorry,” Brent added. “But think of it this way. There’s still hope.”

  After Hannah and Caleb left his office, though, Brent went over to see Quentin at the clinic. He had to wait thirty minutes for the Doc to finish seeing all his patients for the day.

  Once the last patient, Oliver Danson, paid his bill, Sydney led Brent into Quentin’s office. “It won’t be long. He’s on the phone with a patient trying to help them with a problem. I’m heading home to start dinner. Remind Quentin that he has to help Beckham with his science project later tonight.”

  “Will do. What’s the project?”

  “Something about growing bacteria, which is why Quentin is trying to prove a point to Beckham about washing his hands more often.”

  “Ah, teenage boys.”

  “Exactly. They aren’t what you’d call clean freaks.”

  A couple of minutes later, Quentin came into the room and plopped down at his desk. “I bet you’re here for the swab.”

  Brent handed him the test kit he’d brought with him. “That, and to pick your brain about what the coroner told me.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Female, probably less than three months old, approximate age, because anything definitive is just not possible after such a long time in the ground. He speculates that she most likely died shortly after birth.”

  “Newborn? That’s…heartbreaking.”

  “Do you think the mother could’ve suffered from that thing River had? What was it you called it?”

  “Postpartum hysteria, not to be confused with postpartum psychosis. No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s true postpartum hysteria most often deals with depression, but sometimes it surfaces when the mother starts having weird thoughts. Now those weird thoughts can and do morph into having scary thoughts directed toward the baby. The baby doesn’t look right, he’s not acting right, in other words, something’s off or just plain wrong. As I recall in River’s case, Eli wasn’t crying enough. Mommy’s thoughts might seem harmless enough but can turn into bigger problems over time. Especially when the new mom stops sleeping, has fits of crying jags, starts coming up with even weirder ideas in her head. Postpartum hysteria is a fairly common problem, occurring in one in seven women after giving birth. There’s a fine line between it and the more serious illness known as postpartum psychosis. That’s the one that can end up with deadly consequences if left untreated. But make no mistake, new mothers can experience symptoms from both categories, inconsequential and serious. If you’re about to ask me if this baby, this newborn at Bradford House, could’ve been the victim of a such an occurrence, the answer is simple. I would have no way of knowing that with absolute certainty without a lot more information. You said it yourself. After such a long time, you may not even be able to find this woman.”

  “I think I can. What about the other category, the more serious one?”

  “Postpartum psychosis is rare. It occurs one or maybe two out of one thousand births. It’s treatable. Doctors have been making great strides in researching the subject. I find it highly unlikely that what you’re dealing with at Bradford House would ever link back to postpartum psychosis.”

  “You’re saying it’s more than likely, outright deliberate murder?”

  Quentin gave him a cold stare. “Not without an autopsy report stating that fact. Did the medical examiner speculate about stillbirth, an accident at birth, sudden infant death syndrome, anything along those lines that would indicate the baby stopped breathing because of a medical reason?”

  “I see your point. That must be why he listed the cause of death as unexplained. I shouldn’t jump to a conclusion then?”

  “I don’t see how you can unless there were broken bones, arms, legs, skull. Was the hyoid bone intact? That’s the horseshoe-shaped bone at the neck and breaks easily when pressed, as in strangulation. The baby could’ve even been smothered, which wouldn’t leave a mark on her.”

  “Maybe you should talk to the coroner.”

  “Sure. If you think it’ll help, I’d be happy to.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Set it up. I’ll make myself available.”

  “Thanks. Is there anything you remember about your uncle that might help me understand this guy any better? From what I’ve found out he’s either a rock-solid saint—that came from Jack Prescott, by the way. Or, he’s a cad, a playboy, a real ladies’ man—that came from Murphy and one of my eyewitnesses.”

  Quentin unpacked the contents of the test kit. “It’s easier to give you DNA than to tell you anything worthwhile about Douglas. He was a mystery. He didn’t go out of his way to keep in touch with his only link to family, his sister, my mother. I grew up seeing him maybe twice before my father was killed. I think Douglas came for a visit to Tahoma about that many times. I remember him acting strange, as though our little town was beneath him. I don’t think he cared much for my mother’s choice of husbands. A Native American wasn’t high on his list of suitors.”

  Quentin swabbed his own mouth in front of Brent, slipped the Q-tip into a vial, and capped the sample closed before continuing. “Certainly, after my mother took her own life, Douglas was even less involved. He seemed even more distant and determined not to have anything to do with me or Nonnie. When I got older, Nonnie let me read my mother’s journal. In it, I learned she missed having contact with her brother. It became obvious she thought the reason he kept his distance was because he had a secret life he didn’t want anyone to know about. That secret, according to my mother, was that Douglas was gay. She believed it and I took that for the truth, and didn’t think any more about it.”

  After scrawling his name on the sample, Quentin handed it off to Brent. “Imagine my surprise coming here and discovering no one thought that at all. In fact, it was just the opposite. I learned from Charlotte, Beckham’s grandmother, that the former mayor gave so many lavish parties that he often had a string of female companions who routinely stayed overnight. Douglas took them on trips with him to conventions, on cruises and to resorts, fancy dinners at nice restaurants. He even bought them cars. That little tidbit came from Kinsey, who as his lawyer might know a helluva lot more about the guy than me. The point to all this is I didn’t really know Douglas Bradford at all. The last time I saw him he came to college graduation, strutting around because his little Native American nephew had set his sights on the medical profession. I’m downright sorry I can’t be more help to you, especially now.”

  “You think that baby belonged to Douglas?”

  “Yeah. I do. But what I think isn’t as important as what you think.”

  “Right. It’s just that I have a witness who saw Douglas burying something right near that spot. That event took place during the right timeframe. And he wasn’t alone.”

  “From what I’ve heard Douglas rarely was…alone, that is. Now all you have to do is ID the woman your witness saw. My guess is that would be the baby’s mother.”

  “Do you think I’m dealing with a murder?”

  “I’ll be better able to answer that after I talk to the coroner.”

  Twenty-Five

  That evening a cold winter rain battered the coast with a
line of storms packing forty mile per hour wind gusts.

  While the weather outside worsened, Caleb and Hannah settled down in front of a toasty, crackling fire with Molly snuggled in her bed. The laundry basket had been replaced by a cozy insert made from foam and covered in soft denim that hadn’t been cheap.

  Caleb knew full well Hannah felt down. She’d had the blues ever since leaving the meeting with Brent. But like she’d done with him and pulled him out of the doldrums, he intended to do the same with her. “I won’t let you spend another minute wallowing in self-pity.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “You know what’s great on a rainy, winter evening like this?”

  “Reading a good book in front of a cozy fire?” she quipped.

  “There is that, but that’s not where my mind went first. Keeping one eye on your mood, I’d say having a bout of hot, sweaty sex tops just about anything else. It’ll make you feel better.” He crooked a finger. “Come closer so I can see your eyes. Let’s make it interesting. You’re a lover of games. Let’s play chess. Strip chess.”

  “Talk about incentive. That isn’t bad. Okay, you have my attention. So how would it work? Every time I capture one of your game pieces, you lose a piece of clothing? Is that it?”

  He cocked a brow. “You think you can beat me at chess?”

  “Scared?”

  “Not a bit. But let’s go over the rules. Let’s say I take your bishop, rook, horsemen, or king.”

  “As if.”

  “Oh, it’s gonna happen.”

  “Really? That’s a shame since I’m already picturing you without that shirt you’re wearing and minus the pants.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I’ll lose on purpose.”

  “That would be the smart way to go. Let’s throw in one caveat for good measure, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to dance. Can you dance an Irish jig, Caleb? Move your feet to an Irish beat?”

  “You mean like a river dance sort of thing? If it gets you naked, absolutely.”