by P. G. Forte
Camille also owned the real estate agency Marsha had hired to rent out the cabin she’d recently inherited. Marsha was supposed to have had it cleared out and ready to rent by the beginning of September, but she’d put off the task. Accepting Celeste’s death was hard enough. Packing up her things was way more than she could handle. Even visiting the place, with all its reminders of her friend, was painful. She hadn’t been out there in over a month.
She hoped Camille wouldn’t tell her she’d already found someone interested in renting it, but the sinking sensation of inevitability in her gut told her that was exactly what the other woman was going to say.
Marsha felt her attention snap back to her sister just a split second before she heard Siobhan address her. “Marsha, you’re going to be in charge of registration again this year. Maybe you want to explain that part of the process to everyone?”
“Sure,” Marsha said with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Basically, we want to get everyone who participates in the cleanup to sign one of these waivers.” She reached for a sheet of paper from one of the stacks on the table and held it up. “It indemnifies the city in case anyone gets hurt. But what’s even more important – at least from our standpoint – is that it makes it easy to figure out how many people were involved, which is one of the things we’ll need to know when we call the Coastal Commission with our results.”
She put the paper back down and glanced around at the assembled faces. “So, first thing tomorrow morning, we’ll need to set up a couple of tables at the entrance to the staging area, like Siobhan already mentioned, and get our signs up so people will know where to go. And then we’ll need to make sure the tables are stocked with waivers and pens and instruction sheets. That’s it, really.” She looked at her sister for confirmation. “After we sign them in, we send them over to Siobhan; she’ll be giving talks every fifteen minutes or so about safety. And then they collect their bags, gloves and the tally sheets, and off they go.”
“Right.” Siobhan nodded approval. “So, that’s the set-up. Now, let’s go over what everyone is going to be doing during the cleanup itself.”
Once again, Marsha let her attention drift around the table. This time it was caught by Paige Delaney.
The reporter, who had probably heard this talk almost as many times as Marsha, was looking bored and unhappy. Marsha could sense the deep dissatisfaction radiating from the woman and it took her by surprise. Usually Paige seemed supremely self-satisfied. But not tonight.
She tried to think back to the last time she had seen Paige. It had to have been three months ago, just after Glenn’s little rampage. She hadn’t noticed any cracks in Paige’s assurance back then. But at the time, she had been way too busy dealing with her own emotional upheaval, as well as her friends’, to have paid much attention to how Paige was feeling.
To be honest, she hadn’t much cared. She understood, on an intellectual level, that it was the woman’s job to investigate anything newsworthy. And in quiet little Oberon, an unexplained killing spree involving an apparently solid, upstanding citizen certainly qualified. But did she always have to be quite so obnoxious about it? Not that a softer approach would have gotten her any more information in this case. Neither she, Lucy nor Scout had wanted to discuss what had happened with Glenn. And Nick, who had been in charge of the investigation, had been very determined to see the whole thing buried as quickly and as quietly as possible.
Knowing what she did about the way Scout had reacted to similar traumas in the past, Marsha had been more than happy to cooperate when Nick insisted they all keep their mouths shut. Scout, of course, would probably have done whatever he’d asked her to do; and Lucy hadn’t needed any encouragement anyway.
No one seemed to know quite how it had started, but to say that Paige and Lucy had never gotten along was grossly understating the case. All Marsha knew for sure was that the antipathy was as deep as it was inexplicable, and it ran both ways. The two women apparently loathed each other with a deep and abiding passion.
Looking at Paige now, Marsha could sense the same kind of edgy, angry vibrations Lucy aroused in her – only this time there was a wilder, less channeled quality to it. Like a river that had burst its banks and now threatened to flood everything for miles around it. As if years of pain and frustration were suddenly raging out of control.
* * *
Something’s coming, something good... The refrain rang in Sam’s head. He’d spent several hours prowling around the cabin, peering into closets, foraging in drawers and cabinets, feeling more and more like Goldilocks with every passing minute. Completely unable to ignore the exhilarating sense of anticipation that had him in its grip. Maybe tonight...
Earlier, he had tried to place a call to Camille Johnson to ask the realtor about the pantry full of food he’d discovered, and the surprisingly sybaritic bathroom with its large cedar hot tub and enticing array of pleasantly scented toiletries. But he could reach only her machine.
Even though he was using a phony name, leaving a record of his voice on tape was not any part of his plan. So far, by using a series of assumed names and paying for everything in cash, he thought he’d managed to avoid leaving any kind of a paper trail. Which is exactly the way he wanted it.
In the end, he’d given up trying to solve the mystery of the provisions and just made himself dinner, combining curried tofu he’d bought from a deli in town with some rice he found in the kitchen. He even assembled a crude biryani using saffron threads and turmeric and a package of peas and carrots he filched from the freezer.
Now it was time to concentrate on the next phase of his plan.
He considered his predicament as he sipped thoughtfully at the chilled vodka he’d also extracted from the freezer. The clear liquid was still ever so slightly thick with cold. The vaporous silver mist that rose from its surface coated the outside of the tall crystal shot glass with a thin layer of frost, giving it the appearance of something freshly decanted from an alchemist’s retort.
He had always known about Harry’s tendency to stray across the line when it came to legal and ethical matters, which was why he had secretly made it his practice to periodically review his partner’s activity reports. It was tiresome, but there had been advantages to remaining in the partnership. And up until recently, Harry had always managed to stay reasonably close to the line. Close enough that Sam had always been able to fix things before there was any trouble. But this time was different. This time, Harry had gone so far over the line that, even if Sam couldn’t see that he was being set up, he would still have had to take action. He really didn’t have much choice in the matter. But all the same, doing ‘the right thing’ was likely to cost him. Big Time. If he went right now to the National Association of Security Dealers with only his suspicions – and Lou’s uncorroborated report of duplicate stock certificates – would that be enough to convince the NASD of his own innocence?
He sure wouldn’t want to bet the farm on it. No one liked a whistleblower, after all, and his long association with Harry would probably be reason enough for suspicion to fall on him, as well. Even if he could eliminate all the faked records he’d discovered in Harry’s computer – the ones with his name plastered all over them that implicated him in the fraud—all his actions, past and present, were still likely to come under intense scrutiny. Everything he had built up over the years – his name, his reputation, his wealth – everything he had worked so damn hard to achieve, could very well disappear in the storm his actions would unleash.
If he wasn’t very careful, and very smart, he would end up taking the fall right along with Harry. Or, even more likely, taking the fall for Harry. If things went even farther south, he could end up in jail.
But hell, why was he worrying about a little thing like prison? If the suspicions he still refused to entertain about Lou’s death were true, he could just as easily end up in the morgue. Maybe more easily.
He sipped at the vodka. He needed time: Time to get his hands on s
ome solid evidence; time to access all of Harry’s private records; time to clear his name. And maybe even more importantly, to prove beyond any reasonable doubt, to himself as well as the authorities, that Harry really had been the mastermind behind the phony IPO scheme.
He needed a computer for that. He could do an awful lot with his laptop, but he couldn’t very easily install the hard drive he’d stolen from Harry’s office into it. The first hurdle would be to get the equipment he needed out here without attracting any attention. There was no way he could fit everything he needed into the saddlebags on his bike, and he certainly didn’t want anyone delivering anything to him here. He might have to rent a car, but only if he couldn’t think of an alternative. With any luck, Harry still wouldn’t have connected his partner’s spur-of-the-moment vacation with the seemingly corrupted hard drive currently installed in his office computer. But just in case he did, Sam wanted to stay invisible for as long as possible.
He needed a place to hide. Which was why he’d come here.
As far as anyone in New York was concerned, Sam was across the river checking out a facility in the Jersey Pine Barrens that specialized in wilderness retreats for stressed-out executives. And which, conveniently for his needs, strongly discouraged any kind of contact between its clients and the outside world.
The story he had concocted for anyone he met here was that he was a writer, Sam Presley, who’d needed a quiet, secluded place in which to finish his manuscript. It was always best to stick as close to the truth as possible. He had written two books on the stock market, after all. And he still had part of the manuscript from his last book filed on his laptop. If the need arose, he could always call it up and pretend to be working on it.
He just hoped no one would recognize him. It was a long shot, of course, that anyone would. How many people really pay attention to the photos of authors on the backs of the books they read? And the books had been published by a small press that specialized in books on financial theories, so his audience was never very large. But on the other hand, long shots did occasionally pay off. And that Time Magazine cover wasn’t even a long shot. People frequently purchased magazines just on the strength of the cover alone, didn’t they?
‘The Wizards of Wall Street’ the article had called them, describing how, five years earlier, they’d left the brokerage firm where Sam had worked his way up from runner to head trader and Harry had achieved his rock-solid reputation as one of the industry’s top analysts.
Sterling and Vaughn, the company they’d started together, specialized in taking other companies public. For a hefty commission. It had proven an enormously successful venture, and now they were making money hand over fist. Almost more money than Sam knew what to do with.
Too bad the same could not be said of Harry.
Harry was the kind of man who would always find a use for more. And he wasn’t terribly particular about how he got it.
It was part of what had drawn them together in the first place. Sam had recognized the gambler in Harry and it had struck a chord. Once, long ago, when he’d first moved to New York, he, too, had been that way. He could still remember the thrill of living life on the edge. He’d loved the rush of energy it gave him. Just as he loved the energy the city exuded. Even when it was quiet, he could hear a constant hum that hinted at exciting things happening just across town.
“Listen,” he would tell whoever would listen, “if you’re quiet, you can hear the city breathe. You can feel the city’s heartbeat.”
It had been a long time since he’d felt that way. For too long now, his life had been about stability. About work. About making money and becoming a success.
He’d hoped hooking up with Harry would give him the chance to get a little of that recklessness back. But things hadn’t quite worked out the way he’d planned.
Instead, they’d become wizards. Invincible, untouchable, one step removed from infallible. And obviously, the rush that came from buying into his own PR had gone straight to Harry’s head.
Well, Sam had been feeling a rush lately, too. But not the good kind. More like the kind of rush you got from facing down a speeding train.
Wizards. Sam couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. Surely any wizard worthy of the name wouldn’t ever find himself faced with this kind of situation. And if he were a real wizard, certainly he’d be able to come up with a magical solution to the problem, wouldn’t he?
Well, what he was planning to do might not be magical – not in the traditional sense, anyway. Although it did involve a certain amount of sleight of hand. And it wouldn’t be pretty or clean. But if he got very, very lucky, when the smoke cleared and the mirrors were all put away, he might still be standing.
He’d had one bad moment, just after he hit town, when he thought he’d been recognized. That woman at the cafe down near the beach the other morning – she’d looked at him as if she knew him, and it had freaked him out.
But even if she had recognized him, it couldn’t possibly matter, he’d realized, as soon as he had a chance to calm down. Whoever she was, she couldn’t have any reason to come looking for him out here, and even less for contacting New York.
As long as he stuck with his plan, he’d be safe.
* * *
Marsha breathed a sigh of relief when Siobhan finally ended the meeting. She was beyond exhausted. Another drawback of being a sensitive was that, unless she had enough energy to shield herself adequately, she could easily find herself feeling battered by other people’s emotions. Just one of the reasons she tended to shy away from large gatherings. Tonight, between Siobhan and Paige, she felt as if she’d just gone ten rounds with the WWF Tag Team Champs.
All she wanted right now was a nice warm bath. Nothing else. Except maybe a cup of tea and a good book. As she gathered her things together, she did her best to ignore the little voice in her head that whispered of other things she might want. Things she craved even more. Things she had tasted only rarely and fleetingly.
Little things. Like love and tenderness and the glorious heat of passion.
Oh, get over it, already, she told herself roughly. It’s not going to happen and you know it.
She was thirty-seven years old, overweight and scarred, both from her accident and from the c-section she’d needed with the twins, with weird abilities that too many people found threatening. And nothing much else to offer a man. Except, of course, the endlessly entertaining prospect of spending lots of quality time with the adolescent terrorists who shared her household.
In the five years since Alex had left her, she hadn’t met anyone who couldn’t pass up a deal like that. Not that she’d ever had to exactly fight the guys off. Not even when she was younger and thinner and still scar-free. But what the heck? Maybe when she was in her dotage, and the competition had dwindled some, she’d find someone desperate enough to take a chance on her. Until then, it was better not to dwell on what she was missing and content herself instead with long scented bubble baths, endless cups of tea, regular massages every few months or so and every now and then – when that rebellious little voice got too loud to ignore – a couple of really strong drinks.
Just enough to make it shut up again. So that when she crawled into her bed at the end of the day, the only thing she wanted to do there was sleep.
But tonight, before she could get to any of those things, she’d first have to deal with Camille. Who really was a good person at heart. And only a little bit manic this evening.
“Marsha,” Camille clutched at her arm excitedly, “Did you get my messages? I tried all afternoon to reach you.”
“Sorry, Camille,” Marsha said wearily. “I left work early to run some errands and I guess I forgot to check my machine when I got home.”
“Oh. Well, how nice for you.” She looked like she was about to say more – something about workers and the privileged classes, no doubt – But blessedly she changed her mind. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that... I rented the cabin today!” Camille beame
d at her, so pleased with herself that Marsha had to smile, despite the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Perfect. Now she had no choice but to go through the stuff in the cabin.
“That’s great, Camille,” she lied. “So, when are they supposed to be here?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Camille fidgeted slightly, and Marsha’s senses went on alert. “I know what you said about limiting the rentals to vacation leases only, and this is, well... maybe just a little bit longer than your average vacation lease.”
“How much longer?” Marsha asked cautiously, sinking back into the chair she had just vacated. There was a reason she’d stipulated short-term leases. She needed access to the cabin—and to the quiet grove that lay behind it—on a fairly regular basis. Trust Camille to think she knew better.
“Well – and it’s just one person, by the way – he wanted it for a whole month... but... since it’s still only mid-September, I talked him into going for a full six weeks. From now until the end of October.”
“From... now?” Marsha gasped, unable to keep her mouth from falling open as she stared at the other woman, aghast. “You don’t mean – surely, he’s not already – what exactly do you mean, now?”
“Now. The word doesn’t exactly lend itself to an array of interpretations. I saw him this morning, and he moved in today.” Camille looked slightly uneasy, as if Marsha was not responding quite as she’d anticipated. Her mouth tightened. “Marsha,” she continued firmly, “I don’t think you understand what kind of deal this is. It’s just one person – did I mention that? A mature, professional, single man. A writer. I must say,” she paused to chuckle, “He certainly doesn’t look like one. He’s way too dramatic looking for someone who spends his life stuck behind a typewriter. He looks more like the cyber-pirate/space cowboy type. You know, little earring, gray ponytail, moustache, absolutely exquisite gray eyes, dressed all in black. I wish you could’ve seen him. Although you, I suppose, would have found the motorcycle somewhat off-putting. But really, he seems like a very nice man. And extremely quiet. No kids. No pets. Marsha, he’s like... the ideal tenant! Oh, and best of all, he’s already paid. Up front. In full. Security deposit and everything. And in cash, yet! Don’t you just love it?”
