Summit Lake
Page 22
Small cover-ups continued through her childhood and into adolescence. A broken lamppost was fixed without alerting the Eckersleys, trash cans run over when Becca was first conquering the steep angle of her driveway were replaced overnight, empty beer cans found in Jenny Houston’s bedroom the night after Becca slept over were properly confronted but never snitched to her parents. So it was not odd, after thirty minutes of talking with Livvy, that Becca felt comfortable dishing a few secrets about Jack. Hell, all the secrets of her life sat silently in the journal next to her, and Becca was tempted to open to page one and start reading. She hungered to tell someone about the man she loved, about her marriage, and about the baby growing in her womb. Becca wanted to spill her secrets—so securely kept over the past year that she sometimes wondered if they were real. Wanted to open her mouth and let them all flow from her vocal cords and lighten the anchor they were on her life.
“It sounds serious, you and this young man,” Livvy said.
“It is serious. We’re not just dating, you know?”
Livvy paused. “Not really. What do you mean? You two are exclusive?”
Becca shook her head. “More than that.”
Livvy’s eyes grew wide. “Becca Eckersley, are you engaged?”
Becca smiled, swallowed hard, and shook her head.
“Then what? You two are about to get engaged?”
Becca took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Remember when I peed my pants at the zoo when I was a kid?”
Livvy thought for a second, then nodded.
“Remember how you kept that a secret?”
Another nod.
“This is the same thing, okay?” Becca said. “You can’t tell anybody.”
“What is it?”
Another deep breath. “I’m married.”
“Well, Rebecca Alice Eckersley! Your mother didn’t mention a word about it when I talked to her.”
Becca took on a sheepish grin. “That’s ’cause she doesn’t know yet.”
CHAPTER 36
Peter Ambrose
Summit Lake
March 15, 2012
Day 11
After breakfast with Kelsey, Peter headed to the hospital. He dropped his wallet and phone onto the top shelf of his locker and showered in the staff locker room. Donning blue scrubs and a long coat twenty minutes later, he attached his hospital ID to his breast pocket and rounded on patients for an hour and a half. An elderly man was having difficulty with a drainage tube Peter had placed after removing the man’s gallbladder two days prior. It took Peter another hour to prep the patient and replace the failing stent. By the time he finished, it was close to 3:00 p.m.
He entered his office and sat behind his desk. This was not his forte, tracking people down. He pulled out the information he had on Becca Eckersley’s old roommate and got to work. After an hour of searching he realized locating someone with only their first name was harder than he imagined. It was past 4:00 p.m. when he discovered a first-year Stanford law student named Gail Moss. Some more digging confirmed she attended George Washington University and roomed with Becca Eckersley freshman year. A solid hit.
Peter wrote down three phone numbers he found from a search site online before he noticed the commotion in the hallway. Sticking the phone numbers in the breast pocket of his scrubs, he walked to the doorway of his office and saw uniformed police officers at the nurses’ station. He left his office and slipped back into the staff locker room. From his locker he grabbed his wallet and phone, noticing several missed calls and texts from Kelsey. A partial text was displayed. Peter caught only a sentence of it.
Entire police force looking for us. Detective Madison was
Before he could swipe his phone and read the full text, the locker room door slowly swung open. In the mirror, Peter saw an officer walk through the door. Ducking below the row of lockers, he hurried into the shower area without being noticed. Entering a shower stall, Peter pulled the curtain closed and started the water, adjusting the showerhead away from him. He stood close to the wall and tried not to get soaked.
A full minute passed.
“Dr. Ambrose?” the officer called into the showers with an authoritative voice.
Peter ducked down a bit. “No, Dr. Ledger,” he yelled over the rush of water. “Ambrose is in the ER. Is there a problem with a patient?”
“No, Doc. No problems.”
Peter waited, the minutes dragging by, until he finally peeked around the shower curtain. When he was sure he was alone, he walked out of the stall with the shower still running. In the back of the locker room was a service elevator. He climbed in and pressed the button for the basement. The elevator dropped into the bowels of the hospital and Peter pulled open the accordion-like metal grate when he landed. He walked into a storage area filled with cleaning supplies stacked on tall shelves. Mops and buckets and electric floor polishers lined the walls, as did five-gallon buckets filled with chemicals meant to rid the place of the many diseases that circulate and percolate and otherwise infest hospitals.
Past the supply room, Peter entered the laundry area. Industrial washers and dryers rumbled with bedsheets and blankets. Towels and linens were stacked tall on large carts that employees pushed around. He caught more than one glance from the hospital employees who likely wondered what a physician, dressed in scrubs and a long coat trailing him like a cape, was doing in the basement.
When Peter made it through the laundry room, he found himself in the delivery bays. Three large garage doors were pulled open. The trailer of a semitruck filled one bay. A forklift hummed as it lifted crated supplies from inside the trailer. At the second bay, a big rig was just arriving and backing into the spot, the beep beep beep filling Peter’s ears as the truck was set in reverse. The third bay was open, and Peter walked to the edge and jumped down to the pavement. He pulled off his coat and dumped it, along with his hospital ID, into a garbage can. Then he walked from the back of the hospital and off campus. When he reached the lake, he headed south toward town. Far enough away now, he stole a glance back. The front of the hospital was filled with police cars parked at odd angles and lights flashing. A similar scene was present in front of the ER entrance.
He knew he wouldn’t get far in blue surgical scrubs, and he didn’t consider going home. Instead, he headed into town. There, too, he noticed heavy police presence. He took back streets and deserted alleys until he found a lakefront pub. He ducked in and found a booth in the corner. There were only two people in the establishment, both bellied up to the bar and not at all interested in Dr. Peter Ambrose.
He ordered a Coke from the waitress and pulled out his phone. There were four text messages from Kelsey. The first warned that police would likely pay him a visit at his house or the hospital. The second told him she was holed up in Rae’s apartment writing a draft of the Eckersley article to send to her editor. The third was a request for a call back to let her know he was okay. And the final text told him that she and Rae had made a break in the case and were heading into the foothills to talk to one of the men from Becca’s journal, whose family owned a cabin there.
Peter dialed Kelsey’s number, but the phone went straight to voice mail. The waitress delivered his soda and Peter declined the menu she offered. He looked around the empty pub, keeping his eye on the front door. Finally, he pulled Gail Moss’s contact info from his breast pocket. The first two numbers were misses, but on the third call he convinced a pleasant young lady to connect him to Gail’s dorm room.
She answered on the third ring.
“Hi. Is this Gail Moss?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Hi, Gail. My name is Peter Ambrose. I’m a physician in Summit Lake and I’m working on Becca Eckersley’s case.”
“Are you with the police?”
“No, not exactly. But I’m trying to help them figure out what exactly happened that night. To Becca. I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“No one’s talked to me yet. The police, I mea
n. They haven’t asked me any questions.”
“Really? I’m sure they will soon. Things, as you can imagine, are still a little hectic up here. Gail, you knew Becca well, correct? You were roommates?”
“Yes, we were best friends.”
“I see. Do you know who Becca was dating?”
“Sure. Jack Covington.”
Peter scribbled down the name. “Did you know Jack?”
“Of course, we all went to school together. We were close friends.”
Peter collected his thoughts. He originally imagined having more time for this conversation. “Gail, do you know anything about Becca and Jack getting married?”
“Married? No, Becca wasn’t married. I mean, I’m sure someday they would have gotten married. They were really in love. But, no, she and Jack weren’t married.”
A pause. “Do you know anything about Becca being pregnant?”
“What? No, no. You’ve got things mixed up, sir. Becca wasn’t married, and she sure wasn’t pregnant. That’s ridiculous.”
“Did Becca and Jack have any problems?”
“Like what?”
“Like, was their relationship volatile or strained in any way?”
“No, they were totally in love. What are you getting at?”
“I know this will be confusing to hear, but there is a suspicion that Jack might have had something to do with Becca’s death.”
“Jack? No, sir. You’re on the wrong track.”
“I know it’s hard to hear. You being friends with him and all.”
“It’s not hard to hear. It’s impossible.”
“Listen, Gail. There are some things developing here in Summit Lake that point to Jack being a strong suspect in this. There’s evidence developing that suggests Becca and Jack married privately. Just before she was killed. And it’s been confirmed by one of my colleagues that Becca was pregnant the night she died.”
“Dr. Ambrose, I don’t know anything about the evidence—that Becca got married or that she was pregnant. I can only tell you that if those things are true, she never told me. And that would be very shocking. But one thing I’m certain about is that Jack Covington had nothing to do with Becca’s death. He certainly didn’t kill her.”
“Like I said, I know it’s hard to hear, but I just need to get an idea—”
“You’re not listening to me. It’s not hard for me to hear, it’s simply not possible.”
“No matter how unlikely it seems that Jack—”
“Sir!” Gail said with force. “It’s not unlikely. It’s impossible.”
“If you let me explain, I might be able to change your mind.”
“You’ll never change my mind.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Jack died the same day Becca did.”
CHAPTER 37
Becca Eckersley
Summit Lake
February 17, 2012
The night of her death
“Thanks a lot for this, Milt,” Jack said as he settled into the small jet. It sat fourteen passengers, was owned by Milt Ward Industries, and was scheduled to leave Denver, Colorado, at two in the afternoon and arrive in DC three hours later. From there, Jack would drive to Summit Lake and surprise Becca, who didn’t expect him until the following evening. If things went well, he figured he would pull into Summit Lake about 10:00 p.m.
When Milt Ward heard Jack’s predicament, he told Jack to cancel his commercial flight for Saturday afternoon and jump on with the senator, who was heading back to DC Friday afternoon and was happy to help Jack out.
“It’s no problem,” Ward said. “Family always comes first. Before work. Before a campaign. Before everything. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack pulled out his laptop and tweaked a speech the senator was giving over the weekend to a group of coal miners. Thirty minutes after takeoff, the small jet began to rumble with turbulence. Jack had never been on a plane until his first trip to George Washington University, but since joining Milt Ward’s campaign he logged many hours in the air. The turbulence went unnoticed until it grew strong enough to rattle his laptop and spill his soda. He looked around the small plane and noticed a few other concerned faces and fake smiles. A sudden dip of a hundred feet sent screams through the cabin. Jack slapped his computer closed and secured it next to him, quickly folding the tray table closed and forgetting about the spilled soda.
Another deep dip and more screams. Then a thud, like the jet hit something solid. The turbulence continued. One more dive and the oxygen masks fell from the ceiling and dangled in erratic fashion around the cabin. Jack gripped the elbow rests while a strange cold filled the cabin.
Then another dip. Unlike the others. This was a continuous dive. One that never ended, until four minutes later when the small jet crashed in a prairie outside Omaha, Nebraska. There were no survivors.
Thirty minutes after Becca left Millie’s Coffee House, with hair still warm from the hair dryer and wearing cozy sweatpants and heavy wool socks, she sat at the kitchen island of the stilt house. She felt light and free, the heavy burden she carried for so long was finally lifted from her shoulders when she told Livvy Houston about her and Jack’s marriage. To get it out and off her chest, to simply tell someone—even if it was only her fifty-year-old former babysitter whom she talked with twice a year—was a relief. Becca considered it practice for when she and Jack would soon have a similar discussion with her parents.
Before diving back into ConLaw, Becca pulled the ultrasound photographs from her purse. There were eight pictures, black and white, spaced one on top of the other on a long piece of paper the technician printed during her last appointment. Becca looked at them now, studying the small baby growing in her womb. The tech showed her what she was looking at, and now Becca recognized the baby’s hands and feet. She smiled when she thought of herself as a mother; then she laughed out loud. What a crazy road.
Folding the photos, she stuck them in a white, business-size envelope. Then she pulled out a clean sheet of paper and laid it in front of her. She didn’t know where the inspiration came from, or what prompted her to write a letter to her unborn child, but somewhere in her heart Becca wanted to communicate with the child growing in her womb. She wrote for ten minutes before she signed the bottom with her initials, folded it in thirds, and slid the letter into the envelope along with the ultrasound photos. She wrote To My Daughter across the front and placed the envelope on the corner of the kitchen island. She might have tucked the envelope into a private place had the thought come to her, maybe slipping it into the back pocket of her journal. But Becca was unaware—perhaps intoxicated by the freedom from her conversation with Livvy Houston—that she had left her journal on the chair at Millie’s Coffee House.
CHAPTER 38
Kelsey Castle
Summit Lake
March 15, 2012
Day 11
They walked down the back stairs to the alley behind the café.
“Wait here,” Rae told her. “Under the stairs so nobody sees you. I’ll get my car.”
Kelsey hid in the shadows of the stairs to Rae’s apartment. Things had broken for them, and heading into the foothills to interview one of Becca’s friends who might provide insight into Becca and her relationship with Jack was the best lead she had. That this young man might have been in Summit Lake the night of the murder was also an intriguing angle. Kelsey had to chase it. Getting out of town was not a bad idea either.
As she took cover, with tiger stripes of late-afternoon sunlight finding their way through the deck stairs and painting her face, an uneasiness set in. It felt like a lifetime since she decided to come to Summit Lake. In reality, it had only been two weeks since she fled Miami and her house and the office and the demons that hid along her once-safe running path where this whole thing started. Commander Ferguson was gone, fired because he offered her information about an unsolved murder in his small town. Peter was unreachable and surely in a world of trouble for hel
ping her. The town was teeming with police, and her hopes of escaping Summit Lake were placed in the hands of a twenty-year-old girl she met a week and a half ago. If there was a picture of losing control, this was it.
A car pulled around the corner and into the alley. The passenger side door swung open and Rae leaned over the seats. “Get in.”
Kelsey quickly climbed in, and they drove down the alley and turned right when they reached the end.
“Stay down,” Rae said. “They’re on every corner. Maple Street is a traffic jam of police, this is crazy.”
“Do you know where you’re going? How to get out to this house?”
“She called it a cabin. I know the area, so I’ll get us in the vicinity. She left directions, so when we’re close I’ll have you navigate.”
With Kelsey slouched in the passenger seat, Rae drove through town and turned to avoid the congested main drag where squad cars lined the streets. The Winchester was their hub, with police milling around the entrance and on the street out front. Rae looked in her rearview when they got to the edge of town. She saw the WELCOME TO SUMMIT LAKE sign behind her, and a few minutes later Kelsey sat up. Thirty minutes after that, they entered the foothills to chase their lead.
CHAPTER 39
Becca Eckersley
Summit Lake
February 17, 2012
The night of her death
Becca stared at the letter to her daughter a moment longer, then opened her textbook and got back to work. Had she not been secluded in the mountains with the television off, Becca would have seen the news story that percolated across the country over the last few hours. Had she decided to take a break from studying and distract herself by clicking the browser on her laptop, she would surely have seen the story that was hot across the Internet—a small jet owned by Senator Milt Ward had crashed not long after takeoff from Denver. Emergency crews were on-site, as were federal investigators, but looking at the fiery wreckage there were certainly no survivors. Twelve members of the senator’s campaign were onboard.