Twice Dead

by Catherine Coulter

  Her house. That felt good. She slowly closed the front door and turned to look at her ancient furnishings. Her mother, the antiques nut, would have shuddered. When Marley Senior had furnished this house, she wondered if he’d ordered anything out of the turn-of-the-century Sears catalogue.

  Now that she was settled in, her two suitcases emptied and tucked in the back of her bedroom closet, she decided to explore the town. She locked up the house, got into her car and drove down West Hemlock past one of Riptide’s half-dozen white-spired churches. It was a charming town, isolated, and unspoiled. Just being in such a quaint village made her feel safe.

  When she turned her Toyota onto Poison Oak Circle ten minutes later, she spotted the Food Fort. Everyone there was friendly, including the produce woman, who handed her the best head of romaine lettuce in the bin. Since it was a fishing town, there was lots of fresh fish available, mainly lobster. Becca was eager to give everything a try.

  Her evening was peaceful. She spent the twilight time leaning over the railing of the widow’s walk, staring out at the ocean. The water was calm; waves crested gently against pine-covered rocks that she could barely make out from where she stood. But Marley Senior had named the town Riptide. Was there a vicious tide that pulled people out to sea? She’d have to ask. It was a scary thought. She’d been caught in a riptide once when she was about ten years old. A lifeguard the size of Godzilla had managed to save her, telling her you had to swim parallel to shore until you were free of the strong current.

  She wasn’t being sucked out now, dragged under to die a horrible death. She’d escaped, as she had when she was ten. Only this time she’d saved herself. Like the ocean on this beautiful evening, her life was calm again. She was safe.

  She looked to the left at the dozen or so fishing boats coming back into the harbor. Since it was summer, some tourists were out in their white-sailed boats, enjoying the last bit of the day. The deep scent of brine settled around her. She quite liked it. Yes, she was going to be safe here.

  The phone installers were coming the next day. She’d changed her mind at least a dozen times as to whether or not she would even have a phone. In the end, she’d decided in favor of getting connected, perhaps as a gesture of confidence that her stalker would fail to track her down. Still, she wasn’t about to get another cell phone, not until the monster was gone.

  The next morning after nine o’clock, Tyler appeared again at her door, a little boy at his side, holding his hand.

  “Hi, Becca. This is my son, Sam.”

  His son? Becca looked down at the solemn little face looking up at her. He didn’t look a thing like Tyler. He was sturdy, compact, with a head of very dark hair and eyes a beautiful light blue. Sort of like hers, she thought, and smiled. He looked all boy. He didn’t seem happy to be there. She opened the screen door and stood back. “Do come in, Tyler, Sam.”

  He was so wary, she thought. Distrustful. Or was it more than that? Was there something wrong with this precious little boy? Was this Rachel Ryan’s Sam, the little boy she obviously adored? She smiled down at him, then slowly came down on her knees. “I’m Becca. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.” She held out her hand.

  “Sam, say hello to Becca.”

  There was a slight edge to his voice. Why was that? She said quickly, “It’s all right, Tyler. Sam can do what he wants. I don’t think I was all that talkative, either, when I was his age.”

  “It’s not that,” Tyler said, frowning down at his son.

  The child stared up at her, unmoving, so very still. She didn’t stop smiling. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, Sam? Mine’s just about the best east of the Rockies.”

  “All right.” His voice was small and wary. Thank goodness she’d bought some cookies. Even wary little boys had to like cookies.

  She sat him at the kitchen table, saying, “Do you have an aunt Rachel, Sam?”

  “Rachel,” Sam repeated, and he gave her a huge smile. “My aunt Rachel.”

  Sam said nothing more after that, but he ate three cookies and drank nearly two glasses of lemonade. Then he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. All boy, she thought, but what was wrong? Why didn’t he speak? And he looked so blank, as if his mind wasn’t focused on the here and now.

  “Do come back, Sam. I’ll make sure there are always cookies here for you.”

  “When?” Sam said.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, giving him a big grin. “I’ll be here all morning.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” Tyler said as he took his son’s small hand.

  “I’m going to The Riptide Independent to see if they need a reporter.”

  “Then you’ll be seeing Bernie Bradstreet, he’s the owner and the main contributor. A really nice older guy who has his finger in every pie in this town. He’ll probably be very impressed with you. Hey, it seems like you’re going to stay for a while.”

  “Yes, I just might.”

  “Ah, maybe I’ll see you later when Sam’s with his aunt Rachel. She’s not really his aunt, she’s just a really good friend and his babysitter.”

  FIVE

  Becca pulled the brush through her brown hair. It was long now, to her shoulders. She pulled it back in a ponytail, then stared at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t worn a ponytail since she was thirteen years old. Then she hadn’t known what evil was. No, don’t think about him. He would never find her. She looked back at herself. The glasses changed her looks quite a bit, as did her darkened eyebrows.

  She looked over at her small portable television and knew that during the news they’d soon show another photo of her. They did. It was from her driver’s license. She was grateful they hadn’t gotten a more up-to-date shot. She didn’t much resemble that photo, except maybe on an excruciatingly bad day. With the slight alterations she’d made to her looks before coming to Riptide, she felt reasonably sure that none of the townspeople would find her out. Only Tyler would make the connection, and she felt she could trust him. Now that her story was being flashed on FOX, she’d have to tell him the truth. She should have told him right away, but she couldn’t, simply couldn’t, not then, not at first. Now there was no choice.

  But Tyler beat her to the punch. Not fifteen minutes after her story aired, her doorbell rang.

  “You lied to me.” It was Tyler. He stood on the front porch, stiff all over, so angry he nearly stuttered.

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Tyler. Please come in. I need to throw myself on your mercy.”

  She told him the whole story, and was amazed at how relieved she was to confide in him. “I still don’t know why the cops didn’t believe me. But I’m not hiding because of them. I’m hiding because of the madman who’s been terrorizing me. Maybe he wants to kill me now, I don’t know.” She kept shaking her head, saying over and over, “I can’t believe he actually shot the governor. He really shot him.”

  “The cops could protect you.” Tyler wasn’t standing so stiffly now, thank God, and his eyes had calmed. Just a minute before they’d been flat and very dark.

  “Yes, probably, but they would have to believe I was in danger first. They would have to believe there really was a stalker. There’s the rub.”

  Tyler fell silent. He pulled a small wooden carving of a pyramid out of his pants pocket and began fiddling with it. “This isn’t good, Becca.”

  “No. Is that Ramses the Second’s tomb?”

  “What? Oh this. No, I won it in a geometry competition when I was a senior in high school. You changed your name to Powell.”

  “Yes. You’re the only one who knows the truth, about everything. Do you think you can keep it quiet?”

  “You’re not married, then?”

  She shook her head. “No. Also, I would have run sooner but I couldn’t leave my mother. She was dying of cancer. After she died, there was nothing holding me back.”

  “I’m very sorry, Becca. My mom died when I was sixteen. I remember what it was like.”

  “Thank you.” She
wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t. She looked toward an ancient humidor that sat in the corner and jumped to her feet. She’d just realized what she’d done. “I can’t believe this. I’m a jerk. This is a big mistake. Listen, Tyler, you’ve got to forget all of this. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t want you in harm’s way. And Sam, I can’t take a chance on anything happening to him. It’s too risky. Whoever this maniac is, he’ll do anything, I’m convinced of it. Then there’s the cops. I don’t want them to arrest you for keeping quiet about me. I’ll go somewhere else that isn’t on the map. I’m so sorry I spilled my guts to you.”

  He stood, taller than she by a good five inches. No more anger in him, only determination. It calmed her. “Forget it. It’s a done deal. I’m now up to my neck in this with you. Don’t worry, Becca. I don’t think they’ll ever find you.” He paused a moment and looked down at the pyramid lying in the palm of his left hand. “Actually, I’ve already told a few folks in town that my old college friend Becca Powell has come to live here. Even if someone thinks you look like this Rebecca Matlock they saw on TV, they won’t make the connection. I’ve already vouched for you, and that makes a difference. Also those glasses really alter your looks. You don’t wear them usually, do you? And your eyes aren’t really brown.”

  “You’re right on both counts. I’m wearing brown contacts. The glasses are window dressing; they’re not prescription, just plain glass. I also darkened my hair and my eyebrows.”

  He nodded, then suddenly he grinned. “Yeah. I remember you as a blonde. All the guys wanted to go out with you, but you weren’t really interested.”

  “I was only a freshman, too young to know what I wanted, particularly in guys.”

  “I remember there were some bets in the frat houses on who would get you in the sack first.”

  “I never heard about that.” She shook her head, wanting to laugh and surprised by it. “Guys are immensely focused, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was, too, only it never did me any good, at least not then. I remember wishing somehow that it would be me you’d go out with, but I was too chicken ever to ask. Now, we’ll get through this, Becca. You’re not alone anymore.”

  She couldn’t believe he’d do this for her. She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. “Thank you, Tyler. Thank you very much.” She felt his arms tighten around her back. She felt safe for the first time in a very long time. No, not safe. She didn’t feel alone anymore. That was it.

  When she finally stepped back, he said, “It might even help if you go out with me, be seen with me around town. You know, lull any suspicions, if there are any. You’ll fit in if you’re seen with me, since I’m a native. I’ll always call you Becca, too. That’s a very different name from Rebecca. I believe that’s the only name the media has used.”

  “To the best of my knowledge it is.”

  Tyler slid the wooden pyramid back into his jeans pocket and hugged her once more. He said against her left ear, “I wish you’d trusted me right away, but I understand. I think it’ll be over soon. A three-day news hit and then it’s gone.”

  As she pulled away from him, she devoutly prayed he was right. But how could it be? The man had tried to murder the governor of New York. He was still at large. They couldn’t forget about it. The thing was, there was simply nothing more she could tell the authorities. What if she called Detective Morales and told him she didn’t know anything more, that she’d already told them everything? Immediately after Tyler left, she went back into the living room and picked up the phone before she could second-guess herself. She had to try to make him believe her. She didn’t know the sophistication of their tracing equipment. Well, she’d have to get it over with, quickly, before they could get a lock on her location. She got through very quickly to Morales, which had to be a miracle in itself. “Detective Morales, this is Becca Matlock. I want you to listen to me now. I’m well hidden. No one’s going to find me, nor is there any reason for anyone to find me. I’m not hiding from you, I’m hiding from the stalker who terrorized me and then shot the governor. You do believe me now, don’t you? After all, I’m sure not the one who shot him.”

  “Look, Ms. Matlock, why don’t you come in and let’s talk about it? Nothing’s for sure right now, but we need you here. We have a lead you could help us with—”

  She unclenched her teeth and spoke very slowly. “I can’t tell you anything more than I already did. I told you the truth. I still don’t have any idea why none of you ever believed me, but it was the truth, all of it. I can’t help you with any so-called lead. Oh, that’s a lie, isn’t it? Anything to get me back. But why?” She paused for a moment. Time was passing, he didn’t answer her. She said, “Listen, you still don’t believe me, do you? You believe I shot the governor?”

  “Not you yourself, no. Ms. Matlock—Rebecca—let’s talk about it. We can all sit down and work this out. If you don’t want to come back to New York, I can come wherever you are to talk.”

  “I don’t think so. Now, I don’t want you to be able to trace this call. I will say it once more: The madman who shot the governor is out there and I’ve told you everything I know about him. Everything. I never lied to you. Never. Good-bye.”

  “Ms. Matlock, wait—”

  She hung up the phone, aware that her heart was pounding deep and hard. She’d done her duty. There was nothing more she could do to help them.

  Why didn’t they believe her?

  She had dinner that night with Tyler McBride at Pollyanna’s Restaurant nearly at the end of West Hemlock, on a small curved cul-de-sac called Black Cabbage Court.

  She said over their appetizer, “What’s with the names in this town?”

  He laughed as he speared a cold shrimp, dipped it in horseradish, and forked it into his mouth. “Are you ready for this? Okay, there was this rumor that began floating around in 1912 that Jacob Marley Senior found out his wife was sleeping with the local dry-goods merchant. He was so upset that he poisoned her, and that’s why he renamed all the central streets after plants that are toxic.”

  “That’s amazing. Any proof of it?”

  “Nope, but hey, it makes for a good tale. Maybe he was a closet Borgia, who knows? I think my favorite is Foxglove Avenue. It runs parallel to West Hemlock.”

  “What are some more?”

  “There’s Venus Fly Trap Boulevard, which runs parallel to West Hemlock to the north, Night Shade Alley, that’s where my gym is, and Poison Ivy Lane, to the south of us.”

  “Wait, isn’t the Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle?”

  “Yes. Since I live outside the center of town, it’s Gum Shoe Lane for the likes of me. However, since you’re in Marley’s house, you get his pièce de résistance—Belladonna Drive. Even better, you’re not in a big house next to all the peasants, no, you’re out there all by yourself, surrounded by all those beautiful trees and only that narrow driveway to get to you.”

  She was laughing as she said, “Why did he name his own street Belladonna Way?”

  “That’s supposedly what Marley Senior used to poison his unfaithful wife. Pollyanna’s Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court. That’s the name for this plant in Indonesia that’ll kill you with a single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and that’s how it gets its victims.”

  She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said, “Hello, Tyler. Who’s this?”

  Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her, “Hey, you look familiar, you—”

  “I’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her for the Independent?”

  She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID and now her face was plastered all over TV. She sat there, smiling stupidly, not knowin
g what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything to Tyler. She was a fool.

  Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”

  “Becca Powell.”

  “You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities? Obits?”

  “None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity. I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”

  She’d whetted his appetite. Great. He said, a brow arched, “Like what, Ms. Powell?”

  “Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a spinach salad.”

  “I suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information, stuff like that?”

  “That’s right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds.”

  Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.

  Tyler said, “Dessert, Becca?”

  She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, “Yep, that’s what I am, dessert for a newspaper. I’m low on a priority list, very low.”

  “No,” Tyler said. “I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for you, Bernie?”

  Bernie couldn’t stay. His wife was at the far table with one of their grandkids. “They make special hot dogs for kids here,” he said; then, “Why don’t you drop by with some of the articles you’ve written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article.”

  “I didn’t bring any of them with me, sir, sorry.”

  Tyler gave her a look but didn’t say anything. But his eyes had widened just a bit. He’d finally realized that this was the last thing she needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he ruminated awhile, looking at her, then said, “All right, write me up one—whatever topic you like—not over five hundred words, and we’ll see.”