by Mae Clair
Caith scrunched his eyes shut. It wouldn’t do to let his father see him cry. He was fourteen years old, well past the time when tears were acceptable. Even so, his shoulders shook as the betraying wetness leaked onto his cheeks. Images crowded into his head, fast and furious, punishing him with ugly accusations. It was his fault. Trask was dead, and it was all his fault.
The sob built in his chest. “Trask got in the way,” he wailed. “It wasn’t supposed to be him.” Grief pummeled him. “It’s not fair! We didn’t do anything! We—we were just riding our bikes.”
His father touched his cheek, must have felt the wetness there. “I know.” Moving closer, he scooped Caith into his arms, cradling him against his chest. “Let it out, Caithelden. I promise I’ll be here for you. No matter what happens, I’ll always be here.”
His father had lied.
Grimly, Caith shoved to his feet. How did Aren suggest he fix that?
* * * *
Caith waited until Lew left the caretaker’s house, then picked the lock on the rear door and slipped inside. The home was small, a two bedroom ranch with a living-dining room combination and a boxed kitchen with a breakfast bar. The walls and furnishings tended to browns and russet, forsaking the vibrant jewel tones of the surrounding trees. With the shades drawn, the house felt confining.
Caith moved quickly and methodically, room to room, long accustomed to routine searches. Mail, letters, magazines, photographs, books, drawers, closets, clothing—all were examined. Some thoroughly, some briefly. He wasn’t exactly sure what he looked for, but instinct kept him searching. A desk in the bedroom sported a framed photograph of Lew and a young woman with long, pale hair. The resemblance was clear, and Caith guessed the woman was Lew’s daughter, Galina. Back issues of the Coldcreek Herald were stacked nearby, folded open to Kelly Rice’s viperous articles about the lodge. As Caith leafed through, he saw each column circled in red.
Sitting at the desk, he tugged open the top drawer and rummaged through an assortment of old receipts, scratch paper, pencils, pay stubs, and paperclips. At the bottom of the pile he found a single sheet of paper folded neatly in half. Tilting it to the light, he realized it was a background check similar to the one he’d had Connie Clark pull on Lew.
The major difference was this profile had been run on Caithelden Fenwyck Lairen.
* * * *
Caith avoided Veronica and Lew for the remainder of the day. He left Lew’s house exactly as he’d found it with the exception of the background profile, which he slipped into his pocket. Later, he visited with Derry and Morgana, taking care to leave before his father arrived in the evening. Worried that Veronica would be at the lodge by herself, he had his mother call and extend an invitation to dinner with the stipulation Veronica spend the night. Backed by Derry, Caith knew she wouldn’t refuse.
Satisfied by his mother’s assurance Veronica would be there shortly, Caith headed for the nearest hotel hoping to find Dean Bowerman. Like Lew, there was something about the self-professed ghost chaser that didn’t ring true. Caith had done a thorough search of the Hummingbird Suite once the lodge closed, but other than the passageway to the basement which he’d discovered earlier, found nothing of note.
From the desk clerk at the Coldcreek Inn, he learned Bowerman was registered as a guest, but was currently out, timing that suited him fine. Caith distracted the young man by knocking a pen off the counter, then angled for a glimpse of the computer screen when the clerk bent to retrieve it. He apologized for his clumsiness, thanked the man, then left through the front door. Jogging to the back of the building, he entered by the rear entrance, located the nearest elevator, and rode it to the fourth floor. Bowerman’s room number was 412.
“Room service.” Caith knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he did a quick check to make sure no one was in the hallway. Even hotel keycard locks couldn’t stand up to the small microcontroller he slipped from his pocket, a tool that read the code embedded in the lock and popped it within seconds. Available for purchase on the Internet, it was a device hotels and security firms had yet to find a safeguard against. He wasn’t in the habit of breaking and entering, but knowing a trick or two definitely had its advantage.
Once inside, it didn’t take him long to search the room. Bowerman had packed light. Even his clothing was sparse, a few pair of pants, some pullover sweaters, and flannel shirts. He found a digital camera with images of the lodge, lake, and boathouse stored on a memory card. There were even a few shots of the lobby, desecrated with blood and manure that Bowerman had managed to snap before police hustled everyone out. Three yellow legal tablets contained notes about the history of Warren Barrister and speculation about paranormal activity at the lodge. Tucked in the top drawer of the dresser, Caith found an ID badge with Bowerman’s picture. The name on the tag read Dean Porter, Paranormal Register.
“Damn.” The name clicked immediately. Kay Porter had told her brother about the apparition she’d seen. She’d also indicated he was an “expert” when it came to paranormal research. Considering he worked for a paper that regularly fed its audience sensationalistic garbage, Caith would have used the term loosely. A few facts and a lot of embellishment went a long way in selling supermarket tabloids. Irritated, he tossed the badge into the drawer. The last thing BI needed was another yellow journalist snooping around. Deciding to buy some insurance, he removed the memory card from the camera and pocketed it. Back at the front desk, he asked for paper and pen and scribbled Bowerman a note.
“Would you see that Mr. Bowerman gets this?” Caith slipped the note into an envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the desk clerk. “He’ll know where to find me.”
Three hours later, Caith headed to the Jade Club, arriving well before ten. He found a booth in the back facing the door where he could observe the bar, surrounding tables, and anyone coming or going. The waitress brought a beer, a steak sandwich, and an order of fries at his request, adding to the complimentary basket of pretzels already on the table. Passing over a bottle of ketchup, Caith chose instead to douse the fries with a liberal supply of yellow mustard. Eating with his fingers, he scanned the bar slowly.
Despite the somewhat trendy name, the Jade Club was nothing more than a neighborhood grill. The owners had dressed it up with a lot of brass and hunter green accents. The walls boasted sports memorabilia and candid black-and-white photos of various sporting events from the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s. The bar curved in a smooth horseshoe rather than straight angles, and the booths and tables bore black lacquer finish.
Though it was late on a Monday night, the club was fairly busy, most of the tables full, a smattering of patrons at the bar. A hefty man with a ruddy face and crew-cut sat three tables away with a slim brunette. Caith didn’t recognize the woman, but thought the man looked vaguely familiar.
Nick Fontaine stepped through the front door and their gazes met. Bursting into a wide grin, he crossed the room in a few quick strides and slid into the seat across from Caith.
“Damn! We didn’t bump shoulders much in high school, but I sure as hell keep running into you now. Hey, uh…” Nick’s lopsided grin faltered only briefly. “You don’t mind if I hang out a while, do you?” Deciding the matter himself, he motioned to the waitress for a beer.
The hint of a smile touched Caith’s lips. He’d already finished his dinner, was on his second beer, and it was still twenty minutes to ten. Nick Fontaine wasn’t exactly his idea of company, but their rivalry was over twelve years old. It wouldn’t hurt to pass the time with someone who had the inside track on Coldcreek, not to mention Kelly Rice.
“You weren’t meeting anyone, were you?” Nick asked after the waitress deposited his beer and left.
Caith shook his head. “How about you?”
Nick took a swig from the long-necked bottle. “Dateless these days. I’m not ready to brave the fire. Divorce does that.”
Caith leaned back in his seat. Across the way, the hefty man with the rudd
y face pounded his fist on the table, talking sharp and rapid to the slim brunette. The woman cringed in her seat, hunching her shoulders and lowering her head.
Domestic abuse. Caith was sure of it. He’d seen enough as a cop to recognize the signs. As part of homicide, he’d also seen the end result when violence erupted in tragedy.
Nick followed his gaze. “Looks like McClure’s winding up to a good drunk again. I pity poor Lucy when he gets there.”
“McClure?” The name clicked somewhere in Caith’s memory. “Lance McClure?”
“Yeah, you remember. Should anyway. He whooped your ass in the ninth grade. Course, he was three times your size. Whooped mine in eighth. These days he just beats on his wife, Lucy.”
Caith frowned. Lance McClure had grabbed Veronica during lunch in the cafeteria, shoving his hand under her blouse. With Lance’s friends watching and chortling like ogres, Caith had gone crazy, jumping on his back, wrestling him to the floor. Three teachers eventually pulled them apart and they were both suspended. A week later, Lance and his friends caught Caith alone behind the bowling alley. Lance hadn’t needed much help in beating him senseless. The most his friends had done was yell encouragement and keep Caith from escaping. Without adrenalin and rage spurring him on, he’d been no match for the bigger boy.
Soured by the memory, Caith took a swallow of beer. He didn’t want to think about McClure. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you and Kelly.”
Nick chuckled. “Sounds odd coming from you. Then again, you never were her type. Too brainy and quiet. You know why she went out with you, right?”
Caith kept a straight face. “You mean aside from the fact I’m wealthy and good-looking?”
Nick guffawed. “You ain’t so bad, Breckwood.”
“Lairen.”
“Give it a rest. Nobody buys that shit, including you. I don’t know what happened with you and your old man, but I bet you’d still turn cartwheels if he asked.”
Caith cleared his throat. His beer was almost empty and the talk was making him dry. He thought about ordering another, but decided he needed his wits about him. A few feet away Lance McClure raised his voice, demanding to know if his wife thought he was an idiot. Tempted to answer for the whole room, Caith returned his attention to Nick.
“Why do you think Kelly has it in for BI?”
Nick shrugged. “Coldcreek ain’t exactly heaven if you’re not a friend of the Breckwoods.” He popped a pretzel in his mouth and washed it down with a swig of beer.
“She wasn’t always vindictive.”
Nick scrunched his mouth to the side, considering. “She still talks to me even though our marriage went belly up years ago. She hasn’t come right out and said it, but I’d bet money she’s seeing someone. Or was. I know she took a bunch of weekend trips out of town. Once she even told me she’d met someone rich and powerful who was gonna change her life forever.” Nick chuckled sourly. “I get the feeling that didn’t work out like she planned.”
“Any idea who?”
Nick hesitated. He dragged the silence out by finishing off his beer. Plopping the empty bottle on the table, he leaned forward and batted it back and forth between his hands. “Once when I stopped by her office, I saw a note in her appointment book. She was meeting someone with the initials GB.” He cast Caith a wary look. “Your brother Galen goes out of town a lot, too. It might be coincidental, but his marriage was on the rocks long before it went sour. I figure when he didn’t marry Kelly, she decided to put the screws to him. She couldn’t out-and-out say what he’d done…what she’d done…so she started attacking him through BI and Stone Willow.”
Caith let the insinuation wash over him. “You think my brother was having an affair with Kelly?”
Nick shrugged. “How many wealthy, powerful men do you know in Coldcreek with the initials GB?”
Lance McClure chose that moment to spew a loud stream of profanity at his wife. Distracted by the outburst, Caith watched McClure lurch drunkenly to his feet.
“Get up, you stupid whore,” McClure snapped.
“Lance, please. Stop it.”
Caith heard desperation in Lucy’s quiet voice. When she made no move to stand, McClure wrenched her violently to her feet, manhandling her as he’d once manhandled Veronica. Her chair clattered to the floor, turning heads at nearby tables. The man had no concept how to treat women, then or now.
“Bastard,” Caith muttered. He sent Nick a tight, darting glance. “Excuse me.”
Before he could think it through, he slid from the booth and approached the quarreling couple. He’d dealt with drunks enough to know the situation required a calm, nonthreatening manner. Holding his hands away from his sides, palms open, he spoke in a placating tone. “Take it easy, buddy. What’s the problem?”
Lance McClure narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell are you?” He gave a sharp, brutal tug to his wife’s arm and she stumbled against him.
Caith caught a glimpse of her face. Her skin was bone-white, her eyes enormous and wet with tears. “Please, Lance,” she whispered.
Conversation stopped in the bar as people turned to watch. A few of the men rose to their feet, ready to intervene. “Go home and sleep it off, Lance,” the bartender yelled, disgusted.
“That’s not bad advice,” Caith said.
McClure squinted like an albino pig in the sun. “I know you.” He swayed, licking his lips as the memory registered. “I kicked your runty ass good when you were a kid. You’re a Breckwood. The brainy one.” He belched and dragged the back of one massive hand across his mouth. “You know who that is, Luce?” He shook her shoulder until she staggered a step. “Ah, hell, maybe you don’t. He bailed before you got to Coldcreek. I bet you wanna ball him anyway dont’cha, you little whore.”
“Let her go, Lance.” Caith took another step forward, his voice lower.
The drunk man tottered, dragging Lucy with him. “She’s my wife. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”
“Don’t be stupid. No one has to get hurt.” Another step, his hands still in front of him, his voice carrying the same smooth cadence it had from the beginning. “You need to take it easy. Let’s sit down and talk about this.”
“Screw you. I’m gonna have to kick your ass again.” In one violent move, Lance shoved Lucy aside. Bellowing like a madman, he lurched forward, swinging at Caith.
Accustomed to dealing with violent offenders, Caith sidestepped with ease. He caught Lance by the arm, yanking it behind his back. His free hand clamped on Lance’s neck like a vise. Thrusting him facedown across the table, he held him pinned in place. “Calm down. No one wants to hurt you.”
“Fuckin’ ass.” McClure roared. “You’re gonna pay for this, Breckwood. I swear I’ll make you pay.”
“I said calm down.” Authority cracked in Caith’s voice. “You either get it together or I’ll have Cameron throw you in jail for attempted assault.”
McClure grunted. He twisted sharply, his breath coming raggedly between clenched teeth. Caith increased the pressure on his arm and neck until he stilled. Eventually his breathing evened into a steady flow. Releasing him, Caith took a step backward.
“You best get home, Lance,” Nick Fontaine said, appearing at Caith’s side.
McClure looked ready to commit murder. He balled his hands into fists, silently looking between the two. With a black glare for his wife, he stalked from the bar.
Timidly, Lucy approached Caith. “Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t stay with a man like that.”
Shamed, she lowered her eyes. “You don’t understand.”
“You’re wrong, I do. I’ve seen too many situations like yours end in tragedy.” He fished a business card from his wallet and passed it to her. “I’m staying at Stone Willow Lodge. If you need help, call me. I know people who can help you out of the situation you’re in. There’s no excuse for a man who treats his wife like property. You don’t have to stay in an abusive relations
hip.”
She smiled sadly, and Caith had the feeling the card would be forgotten the moment she got home. He’d seen the symptoms before. Terror, dominance, and dependency often went hand in hand.
“Thank you for caring.” Pushing on tiptoe, Lucy kissed him on the cheek.
Nick gave a low whistle after she’d left. “What the hell kind of fancy move did you pull on Lance? I ain’t never seen him handled like that.” He laughed, enjoying the memory. “Ho-boy. It ain’t every day you see Lance McClure shoved across a table. I’m guessing he’s hot enough to piss blood. Probably yours.”
Caith slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. “I only wish I could do more to keep him away from her.” Frowning, he glanced at his watch. It was already a few minutes after ten. “I’ve gotta run, Nick. I’m late for an appointment. Stay out of trouble, huh?”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a saint.” Nick sent him a salute as he headed for the door.
Voices and light dwindled behind Caith as he stepped into the darkness. The night air was cold, underscored with the promise of heavy frost. Caith moved from the front parking lot around the building to the rear. An overhead lamp illuminated a single door in a narrow cone of yellow light. Used solely by staff, the lot was unlined, its asphalt surface cracked and patched in numerous places. To the right of the doorway, a Dumpster overflowed with trash. The air smelled of barbequed steaks, fry oil, and sour garbage.
Caith glanced at his watch. Ten-oh-four. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, waiting as cold air scraped across his face. He heard a car pass out front, a dog yap in the distance. Dry leaves scuttled across the parking lot, clustering at the base of the Dumpster. Looking closer, he realized a square of white paper fluttered in the wind, anchored by a large stone.
Crouching, Caith retrieved the single sheet. In the mucous glow of yellow light, typewritten words became visible. The paper contained a single line: Look closer to home.
He barely had time to register the thought before heavy footfalls crunched behind him. Caith turned, half rising, unprepared for the sight of a baseball bat angling for his head. He raised his left arm on instinct as he shifted, taking the blow on his shoulder. The impact sent him reeling off balance in a sea of swimming darkness as the asphalt reared up to greet him. Something solid caught the edge of his cheek, splitting skin, igniting rockets in his head.
