If he’s even real. Slow down. He could be a figment of your imagination.
But the little girl, Chloe, saw him, and she knew you did, too.
Unless it was a neighborhood dog. She called him a dog, but she’s only four or five or so . . .
Or maybe she has her own gift . . . she is Elizabeth’s daughter . . . and that could mean anything. “Genetic anomaly,” Aunt Catherine called it.
As the wolf’s eyes glowed in the night, Elizabeth’s porch light clicked off and all illumination for the grounds faded quickly. Ravinia glanced over her shoulder and noticed that each and every blind facing the street in Elizabeth’s home was snapped tightly shut as if in so doing she could cut her daughter and herself off from the world.
Just like Siren Song, Ravinia thought. But it doesn’t work. He can still find you. Still get to you. You’re not safe, Elizabeth. Not safe. Do you hear me?
She tried hard to send a message, but of course it didn’t work. She’d never been one who could send and receive mental transmissions. That was a singular gift bestowed upon only a very few, a line of mental communication between some of Mary’s children or relatives, but one Elizabeth apparently didn’t possess—which was a damn shame.
Ravinia thought of the message she’d thought she’d heard, that almost fuzzy sound. Maybe you just wanted it so badly, she scolded herself. She couldn’t help feeling that if she were going to look as if she were a freak, she would really like to have something better than “soul searching.”
Frustrated, she jogged back to Rex’s car, which was parked around the corner, away from the cruising police car and the woman who’d knocked on Elizabeth’s door directly before them. Ravinia had wanted to ask Elizabeth about her, but she’d barely gotten out her somewhat rambling explanation of her own half sisters and Elizabeth’s mother, Aunt Catherine. She wasn’t even sure if Elizabeth had been listening closely. She’d seemed distracted and well, fearful, and anxious to boot her out the door.
The first meeting hadn’t gone as well as Ravinia had hoped, and it kind of pissed her off that Rex had predicted as much. As she hurried to the Nissan, she heard the sound of a night bird calling and the whir of bats’ wings, smelled the leftover smoke from a backyard barbecue, even heard the rush of traffic on a nearby highway. The neighborhood seemed idyllic, an American dream.
All that would change if Declan Jr. decided to take up his reign of terror on this serene street. Ravinia couldn’t let that happen. She had to find a way to make Elizabeth believe her.
As soon as Rex caught sight of her approach, he switched on the engine and his headlights illuminated the vehicles parked in front of the Nissan and on either side of the neighborhood street. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the wolf, staying near the shadows, running in tandem with her, carefully skirting the twin beams of light.
“If you’re real, you’ve got to leave,” she warned, and the wolf turned its head to look at her again, golden eyes shimmering eerily for a second. “I mean it. Go away. Please . . .” The wolf held her gaze, then melted into the surrounding umbra and disappeared. “Thank you,” she said heavily. Reaching the car, she opened the passenger door, flung herself into the seat, then slammed the door behind her. “Let’s go.”
“Who were you talking to?” Rex was reaching for the gear shift lever, but paused to stare at her as the interior light faded.
“What?”
He nodded to the passenger window. “You were talking to someone just now.”
“Just myself.” She scowled out the window and didn’t think she was actually lying because she still wasn’t convinced the wolf was real as opposed to something she’d just dreamed up . . . though Chloe had seen him. . . .
“I take it things didn’t go well with Elizabeth.”
Ravinia folded her arms over her chest as the damn seat belt alarm started beeping. Snapping it in place, she muttered, “You could say that.” She shot a glance at Rex who was checking the mirror as he made a quick U-turn in the middle of the street. “She didn’t believe me.”
“Imagine that.”
“She has to listen to me.”
“You can’t make her.”
“Yes, I can. I have to. Something’s going on with her. She wanted to believe me. She just . . .”
“It’s a lot to swallow, and it’s up to her now.” He drove to the end of Elizabeth’s street and turned on his blinker.
“Maybe she’ll call me.”
“Maybe.”
Ravinia could tell he didn’t believe her. Just one more person who wanted to think she was a crackpot. Well, fine. She’d go back to Elizabeth’s tomorrow with or without his help and she’d find a way to get her to open up. If she would just trust in her a little bit, but then Ravinia hadn’t really trusted in anyone, either. She threw a dark glance Rex’s direction. She’d expected so much from him . . . had really thought this was her destiny and yet he didn’t seem to care about her quest except for the payment she owed him.
Perturbed, she stared out the side window to the manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and outdoor lights that set off the foliage. Well, Rex was right about one thing. It was up to Elizabeth now. Ravinia’s mission had been to warn her and she had, but it felt like she’d fallen down on the job, that she should have convinced her of the danger or, better yet, stuck around to help her.
Whether Elizabeth believed her or not, Declan Jr. was probably on his way. If not already, sometime. She didn’t know much about him, other than he was relentless. That, in itself, was why Elizabeth needed to listen to her.
Elizabeth peered through the blinds, holding one of the slats open with her fingers for a few seconds as she watched Ravinia jog down the street. Then she pulled her hand back and let the blinds snap into place. She felt a stirring within her, a reluctant acceptance of the fact that, at least partially, she believed the girl was telling the truth. Plenty of fantasy filled Ravinia’s tale, too, she didn’t doubt, but the bits of truth woven into her yarn were compelling. A part of Elizabeth wanted to step onto the porch and call Ravinia back, ask some probing questions, get answers, find out more about Siren Song, the women who lived there and their gifts. Especially their gifts.
Ravinia seemed to believe Elizabeth’s foreshadowing was one of those gifts.
“Come on,” she said, leading Chloe to bed once more.
“I really want a dog,” the little girl said, stomping her feet.
“I know.”
“And you won’t get me one!” She climbed into bed and buried her face in her pillow. Elizabeth rubbed her back, but she wouldn’t turn around. It was only a few minutes before her breathing deepened and she was asleep once more.
Elizabeth walked back to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay and a wineglass, pouring herself half a glass. Eyeing the liquid, she knew it wouldn’t be enough to get her to sleep. Detective Thronson was dead, Ravinia Rutledge claimed she and Elizabeth were related, and Elizabeth’s ability to predict disaster moments before they occurred was a gift shared by her entire family. It sounded like a joke, put like that. It was a joke. She was a joke. She wanted to drug herself senseless. Drink herself into oblivion and damn the consequences. But she couldn’t. Not with Chloe depending on her.
What do you believe?
“I don’t know,” she whispered aloud.
She did want to know more about her birth parents and her family, and Ravinia acted like she had the answers. Did she? Or, was this a really elaborate scam perpetrated by an accomplished con artist?
She’d named Catherine Rutledge as Elizabeth’s mother . . . was that true? If so, why had she given her up? What sort of danger was so great that she’d abandoned her as a baby? And what about her father? Who was he? Was he still alive? Where was he? How did he figure into this? Did he care, or even know, that she existed?
If what Ravinia had told her was the truth, did she have any siblings? It sounded like she had cousins galore, ones who’d been sired by any number of men who’d c
ome in and out of Mary Rutledge’s life.
Elizabeth considered calling Catherine, through the number for Ophelia’s cell phone, but did she really want to? What would she say? I think I possess one of your gifts—or maybe two! It looks like I can save people, but I can kill them, too....
Her headache had ramped up again and started to throb. She needed sleep, about three days’ worth, but she’d settle for seven, or even six hours, would that her mind could rest enough to allow it.
She tucked Joel “Rex” Kingston’s card into a drawer in the kitchen and, after double-checking the locks on the doors and the latches on the windows, and one last peek in on Chloe who was resting comfortably, her cheek lying on the pillow instead of her face pressed down into it, Elizabeth unbelted her robe and walked to her room where she tossed the robe onto a nearby chair, then washed her face and finally sank gratefully onto her bed.
For a second, she stared at the far side of the mattress where Court had slept. She placed a hand in the spot he’d occupied and felt the emptiness, the sheets stretched over the mattress pad. He’d been her husband, Chloe’s father. But whatever love she’d once felt for him was long gone. She was sorry he was dead. Really sorry. He should never have died, nor should have Whitney Bellhard.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, feeling the air go out of her lungs. For some inexplicable reason, she saw Rex Kingston’s face in her mind’s eye. She’d hardly gotten more than a glimpse of him, but somehow his image lingered. A pleasant face, a mouth made for kissing, she thought drowsily.
Her eyes flew open in shock. A mouth made for smiling. That’s what she’d been thinking. He seemed like a nice man, the kind that would help you if you were stranded beside the road with car trouble, the kind who would help a friend put in a patio, or teach a child like Chloe how to ride a bike.
“God . . .” You really are losing it, Elizabeth. With everything that’s happened, this is what you think about? This is the vacation from your thoughts you’ve chosen?
She was so annoyed with herself that she was suddenly wide awake. Punching her pillow, she flopped down on her back and tried to drift off again but her thoughts kept churning over and over. Detective Bette Thronson’s dead and Officer Maya seems to think you had something to do with it. The media’s gotten hold of your save at the restaurant and your friends know it was you. You wished them dead . . . you wished them all dead . . . Chloe said he loves you, but he did some bad things. . . .
Though Elizabeth dozed off and on, she always awoke with a start, fear breaking through her subconscious, only to realize she and Chloe were home and safe, then drifting away only to wake again and check the digital readout of her clock throughout the night. Some time after four AM she fell into a deep sleep only to drag herself awake at the sound of Chloe’s bare feet scurrying along the hallway. Frightened, her eyes popped open and she eyed the clock again. Six thirty-seven. Morning.
“Ugh.” she said, wanting to burrow back into the blankets and sheets. No time for that. Throwing off her covers, she told herself to face the world even though she was sure there wasn’t enough coffee in the universe to kick-start her after that miserable night. But she needed something, anything to get her through the day.
Chloe had already climbed onto a bar stool and was waiting for her breakfast when Elizabeth entered the kitchen. She looked no worse for wear after being woken up by Ravinia and Rex Kingston. Her mind touched on him again and she felt heat suffuse her cheeks. She instantly wanted to turn away in embarrassment, more at herself than anything her young daughter would notice.
“Hungry?” she asked with forced brightness.
“Uh-huh.”
“Let’s do something about that.” Intent on heating leftover coffee in the microwave, she poured a cup from the half-full pot before catching herself. Wait. Just how long had the sludge been sitting on the kitchen counter? One day? Two? Longer? Didn’t matter. She tossed the murky dregs into the sink, washed the carafe and started over with fresh grounds and clean water.
As the coffeemaker gurgled to life, she pulled a box of cereal from the pantry, poured her daughter a bowl, added milk, and set it in front of her.
Chloe looked at her with solemn eyes. “You want to talk now?”
“Are you ready?” So much had happened, Elizabeth had thought Chloe had forgotten their deal.
“Can I eat first?”
“You bet. I’ve got to get ready anyway.”
Elizabeth quickly went through her morning routine, starting with a quick shower. Normally, she cranked up the hot water to just below uncomfortable, but today she threw the taps to cold and dunked her head under the spray. Frigid water blasted her and she gasped in shock. She shampooed her hair in record time. Good . . . great . . . she needed to wake the hell up and push aside all her fears. And she also needed to freeze out crazy thoughts of Rex Kingston’s mouth.
A few moments later, she switched off the taps, briskly toweled off, then grabbed up her robe, cinching it around her waist. Brrr . . . But it felt good, too.
She returned to the kitchen and found the coffeemaker had hissed to a stop. Pouring herself a cup, she watched Chloe slide her bowl across the counter. Elizabeth caught it just before it plunged over the edge to crash on the floor.
“More cereal,” her daughter demanded.
“More cereal what?”
“More cereal . . . please?”
“You know you’re a carb-freak, right?”
Chloe’s little eyebrows knitted. “Not a freak.”
“Poor choice of words,” Elizabeth agreed but didn’t add that she, with her visions, was certainly the freak in the house. She found the carton of milk in the fridge and topped off Chloe’s small bowl so that the Cheerios were swimming again. “Do you know who this man is who did some bad things?”
“You mean, the one who loves you?”
“I guess so, yes.”
Chloe shook her head.
“You don’t . . . um . . . see him in your mind?”
“Uh-uh. He just says how much he loves you, and you’re going to find out pretty soon.” She moved her spoon around in her bowl but had lost all interest in her cereal.
“I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“I don’t like him very much.”
In a terrible moment, Elizabeth’s coffee cup halfway to her lips, it occurred to her that her own sudden interest in Rex Kingston was an aberration. Was he the man Chloe seemed to be sensing? “It . . . um, he wasn’t the man who came to the door last night, was he?”
“What man?”
“The one with Ravinia?”
“No,” Chloe said, looking at Elizabeth as if she were way off base. “Was that his dog?”
“I don’t . . . think so.” She was relieved that Chloe had been so positive about Rex.
“Are we done with the deal now?” she asked anxiously.
Elizabeth nodded, then left to work on the tangle of her hair and to get dressed. She dried the still-wet strands, twisted them up into her ubiquitous messy bun, then brushed on enough makeup to disguise the dark circles under her eyes. When she noticed that the bedside clock that had been her tormentor during the night was registering eight fifteen, she found her cell and, though it was low on battery life, put in a call to one of the numbers Ravinia had given her. The Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.
“Could I speak to Detective Savannah Dunbar?” she asked when the phone was answered.
To her surprise, she was immediately connected.
“Detective Dunbar,” a woman’s voice answered evenly.
“Oh, hi. Uh, my name is Elizabeth Ellis. I live in Southern California and I got your number from Ravinia Rutledge.”
“She called you?” The woman sounded dubious.
“No, I met her.”
“In California?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
“So, you do know her, then?”
“Yes, I know Ravinia.”
>
So far, so good. “She’s down here because she claims she and I might be related and, well, she had a lot to tell me about Siren Song and the women there. You’ve heard of it?”
“I’ve been there, and I’ve met with Catherine Rutledge a number of times. She’s the matriarch, I guess you would say.”
“And she’s Ravinia’s aunt?”
“Yes. Do you mind me asking you how you’re related?”
“I can only tell you what Ravinia told me.” Elizabeth then relayed the highlights of Ravinia’s story.
Detective Dunbar confirmed that Ravinia’s tale was both fact and lore. “I can’t explain everything. I’ve seen some things that would make me . . . want to know more, if I thought I were related. You understand?”
“You’re talking about the gifts, as Ravinia called them?”
“I don’t know what to call them, but I guarantee you, the women of Siren Song are unique. If you’re one of them, you should make the effort to meet them. They don’t have a phone, but it’s worth—”
“I have a number for a cell phone. Ophelia’s, I believe.”
“Oh, well, good.” The detective hesitated. “Any chance you could meet them in person? If I had any advice for you, that would be it.”
“Yeah, I hope to,” Elizabeth murmured. Swallowing, she screwed up her courage and asked, “Can any of them predict the future, or . . . or sense something dreadful happening before it occurs? I know that sounds ridiculous, but Ravinia alluded to a few things. I didn’t want to just call. I just . . .” Didn’t want to sound like a lunatic or find myself talking to a bunch of lunatics.
After a moment of dead air space, the detective said, “Ravinia would probably know. Well, or maybe Catherine.”
Catherine. My mother . . . “What about wishing a person dead?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, like if one of them hated someone, or were enraged by them. Could that woman from Siren Song, say . . . could she get angry enough to literally cause their death?”
“No.”
Colony 04 - Wicked Ways Page 31
