No Turning Back

by Nancy Bush

  In his bedroom, Barney had several posters of big-breasted women bursting out of bikinis. Barn’s appetites clearly hadn’t matured over the years. Hawk lifted the blind and discovered a picture of Barn and Lora Lee on the windowsill. The fancy brass filigree frame suggested Lora Lee had bestowed the gift on her favorite guy. It looked to be a fairly recent photo, but Barney’s expression seemed merely patient, while Lora Lee fairly glowed.

  Poor, poor thing. Hawk, who generally refused to acknowledge or tap into deep emotions, couldn’t help feeling sorry for Lora Lee Evans. He’d lost someone he loved to death. Its finality could be paralyzing.

  He hoped Lora Lee would pull herself together and recover more quickly than he had.

  Wandering aimlessly around the apartment, Hawk rotely catalogued the same information in his head he had his first time through: the same chip in the wall, the same hum of the refrigerator, the newspapers, the furniture, the pile of wood bits on the counter, the scent of dog urine that never quite faded.

  The missing dog had been a mystery until the landlady, directly beneath Barn’s unit, admitted that she’d taken the animal in when she’d learned of Barn’s death. It was a tongue-lolling mutt who seemed as brain dead as the public declared Old Barn to have been. It certainly hadn’t learned good toilet habits, or maybe Barney hadn’t cared.

  Hadn’t cared ...

  Hawk understood about not caring, about giving up, about sinking into subterranean levels known only to the deeply depressed and mentally ill. He’d been there twice: once after Laura’s death, though alcohol had been a twenty-four-hour friend that time; and once after Joey’s. Jesse’s impending birth had shocked him out of his first slide; this second one was more difficult to shake because no matter what Perry said, it was his fault.

  He thought about that now, but surprisingly, its power had abated somewhat. Searching through his brain, he slammed smack dab into the cause: Liz Havers. Seeing her had pushed aside his misery like nothing else. She was bad news. She wanted to know Jesse. She was here to steal him away.

  How weird. Hawk jerked as if physically struck. It had been Liz both times who’d brought him back from the brink.

  So, what was she doing now? Plotting some way to infiltrate Jesse’s life? Planning some scheme to win her son’s affections after she’d abandoned him? Hoping to play mother now that it was eons too late?

  For a moment Hawk thought serious, dark thoughts; then he suddenly threw back his head and laughed. Was he crazy? He must be.

  She’d be lucky Hawthorne Jesse Hart didn’t steal her goddamn black Miata and burn the interior with one of his cigarettes!

  His heart lifted a little. One could only hope . . .

  * * *

  Liz pulled her car to a stop at the end of a field of small trees. Sprinklers were working overtime to keep their slender stalks from frying in the now ultrahot August sun. Climbing from the convertible, Liz leaned down and examined the nearest group of trees. Yew trees. Pacific yews, to be specific. Of the variety known to produce the drug Taxol, derived from the yew’s bark.

  Yep. She’d done a bit of research through the Forest Service.

  And they’d suggested she meet with one tree farmer, Mr. Avery Francis, who lived about five miles outside of Woodside and whose main interest was the growing of Pacific yews for the production of their bark for Taxol.

  Now, as she climbed back in the Miata and put it in gear, Liz wondered what the hell she expected to learn. She was no investigator, for Pete’s sake, and she sure as heck didn’t want to tell her theories to one Hawthorne Hart.

  Or did she . . . ?

  Speeding up the dirt pathway that bisected the yew tree fields, Liz left a plume of dust behind the Miata that could be seen for miles. By the time she reached the rather dilapidated farmhouse stuck in the middle of the fields, it was clear the occupant, Avery Francis, was already aware of her presence.

  Expecting to meet some crusty old farmer, Liz was amazed when the man who walked onto the front porch was in his midthirties and wore a white shirt and holey blue jeans. Brown hair and eyes assessed her carefully and the suspicious look that had marred his features evaporated and he broke into a welcoming smile.

  “I generally don’t get such pretty company,” he said, holding open the screen door. “Come in.”

  “I talked to some people at the Forest Service and they suggested I meet you,” she said, although they’d already covered these particulars on the telephone.

  “You said your friend’s taking Taxol?”

  “She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and has had both ovaries removed, but she’s taking Taxol, too.”

  “It’s darn near a miracle drug,” Avery said with a smile. “Taxol appears to be effective in combating breast, lung, and rectal cancers. An amazing discovery.” He gestured toward the living room of the farmhouse, done in warm tones of fir and oak. “I’m a bachelor,” he said, his gaze falling on the sparse and fairly unremarkable furniture tossed around the area. “Don’t know a thing about decorating. Let me get you a chair.”

  It was an oak dining chair, a cheaply made rip-off of a classic style Liz had also invested in. She smiled. “You don’t have to apologize to me. If it works, it’s perfect.”

  “Could I get you something to drink? Coffee, soda, lemonade?”

  She glanced outside to the back porch. A rusted double swing with a flowered cushion hung from the rafters. The thought of lemonade on a dusty summer afternoon, gently rocking in a swing, brought a smile to Liz’s lips. Avery’s gaze followed hers and he answered himself, “Two lemonades. I’ll meet you out there.”

  He returned a few moments later with two tall glasses of lemonade—from a powder, not fresh squeezed. He was, after all, a bachelor. But it was heaven anyway, and while Liz touched a toe to the porch floorboards and sent her swing swaying softly, Avery sat on a rocker made of twisted tree limbs, which he explained had come with the house.

  “I’m new at farming,” he admitted. “Just got the bug and went into the yew bark business. It’ll be a few years before I can harvest, though, so I’ve got some other things going, too.”

  Liz glanced at the little trees, valiantly reaching upward to a terribly hot sun. “How old do they have to be before you can harvest the bark?”

  “Three to five years or so.” He shrugged. “It takes long-term planning and a lot of prayer. If we get an Arcticlike freeze, they could be wiped out.”

  Liz made a sympathetic sound. “Did you know a lady in Woodside lost all the yews lining her driveway? Someone took over twenty of them. Just ripped them out of the ground.”

  “What? Ugh.”

  “Do you think it could be for their bark?”

  “Probably. Poachers are out there. It takes about nine thousand pounds of dry bark to produce a pound of Taxol. And Taxol sells for over twenty-five thousand dollars an ounce.”

  Liz grimaced. “So that’s why Kristy’s medicine costs an arm and a leg.”

  “And a few more limbs besides,” Avery agreed. “That’s why I’m growing the stuff.”

  “So, in your mind there’s no doubt the trees were taken for their bark.”

  He spread his palms expansively. “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. Besides, yew bark is collected only in the summer, when the sap’s warm.” He paused. “I think it’s a duck.”

  Liz smiled. “The lady whose property was robbed thinks it was juvenile vandalism.”

  “I bet the police don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t know,” Liz answered truthfully. “I haven’t talked to them.”

  “You’re just interested because of your friend?”

  That sounded as lame as it was. “And I have teenage friends who’re tired of being blamed.”

  “Ah . . .” He gazed at her with open appreciation. “What do you do, Ms. Liz Havers?”

  “I’m a psychologist specializing in young adult problems. I’ve been hired by the Woodside schoo
l district, but I see patients on my own as well.”

  “Some of your patients have been on Anita Brindamoor’s hit list, I take it.”

  “You know Mrs. Brindamoor?”

  “I’d heard about her trees already,” he admitted.

  “Any idea who might have taken them?” Liz asked.

  “Anybody who could be talked into doing a little midnight raiding for a quick buck or two.”

  “That could be quite a list,” Liz realized.

  “Well, they’d have to have the equipment to fell twenty-some trees, but there are a lot of ex-lumberjacks in this state, and some have been out of work for years.”

  Liz found she’d run out of questions. What was it to her anyway? This wasn’t exactly her area of expertise, and a part of her knew she only cared because she wanted to free Jesse of suspicion and because she wanted to somehow show up Hawk with the information. Childish, yes. Fruitless, undoubtedly. But she was as human as the next person, and the thought of beating Hawk at his own game and scoring a few points warmed the cockles of her heart.

  “Thanks so much for everything,” she told Avery as she helped him take the glasses into the kitchen.

  “My pleasure. And now I want something in return.”

  Liz’s antenna went on alert.

  “A return engagement. You have to promise this won’t be the last time we see each other.”

  “You’ve got it,” Liz said. She gave him a friendly glance. Why not? She’d been alone a long, long time, and Avery Francis was an interesting man.

  What about Hawthorne Hart?

  Liz snorted to herself. What about him? She and Hawthorne were as compatible as fire and ice, and she didn’t give a goddamn about him anyway.

  And there was absolutely no truth in that old axiom that she doth protest too much.

  * * *

  Splat! Brad shot a stream of tobacco juice somewhere near Jesse’s feet. Examining the pool of brown liquid, Jesse stated tautly, “Watch it. Your aim sucks.”

  “I wasn’t aiming for you.”

  “I know you weren’t, but you damn near got me anyway.”

  “Sorr-eee. Jeez, you’re touchy.”

  Jesse didn’t answer. As far as he was concerned, he had a lot of things to be touchy about. Tawny and he were together—kind of—but she was all wrapped up in her mother’s illness and her dad’s noise about moving her to Seattle. To top it off, she had some dance thing coming up the last day of August that was all she could talk about.

  What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  “Hey, c’mon,” Brad said, quickening his pace. They’d been walking along the railroad tracks east of town and had reached an older neighborhood surrounded by fir trees. It seemed like half the houses used rusted car parts and trucks up on blocks as part of the landscaping.

  Brad was in hog heaven. “We could steal some parts and sell ’em on the side at Lannie’s.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Lannie’s never there. We just do it all our way. It’s great.”

  Brad’s stab at employment wasn’t exactly improving his character. Privately, Jesse felt he should have taken the job cleaning houses under construction for his uncle Roy. He, Jesse, had helped Brad out a time or two so he wouldn’t get fired.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Brad demanded when Jesse lagged behind.

  I’m sick of it, he thought. Sick of passing time and trying to think up another criminal prank.

  “Shit,” Jesse muttered aloud, wondering if he were growing up and thoroughly embarrassed at the idea.

  “C’mon, there’s the Listers’,” Brad encouraged, jogging down the road to another ramshackle home choked with dry, brittle weeds. No car parts here. Just an overall sense of too little time invested in home, hearth, and real estate.

  Jesse slowed to a walk behind Brad. “You want to see Carrie?”

  “Yeah, why not? She’s a good time.”

  Jesse wasn’t so sure. Whether Brad knew it or not, or whether he cared if he did, Jesse remembered how Carrie had turned it on for him at Liz’s office that day. If he’d given her half a glance, she would have been all over him. Jesse, who was still a virgin by choice, had experienced enough to know certain girls would get on you if you looked even marginally interested—sometimes if you didn’t at all.

  And that wasn’t the kind of girl he wanted.

  “Maybe you should start using the phone again and call up your Texas girl,” Jesse suggested.

  “I prefer ’em in the same state.”

  “Brad . . .”

  “What?” Brad swiped back his hair, which had grown really shaggy and unkempt. Jesse thought of his own wild strands and wondered if it was time for a trim.

  “Never mind.”

  Carrie spied them coming and ran out the front door and down the cracked concrete steps. Her black hair was pulled into a braid that made her look younger and more appealing, but her matching black lips didn’t do it for him. Just imagining kissing her made the priesthood look inviting. And he wasn’t even Catholic.

  “Hey, guys,” she greeted them with a grin. In a ragged pair of denim cutoffs and a navy tank top, her slim body was tough and athletic. A tattoo peeked from beneath one shoulder strap.

  “So, what are you doing here?” she asked, her gaze all over Jesse.

  Brad didn’t appear to notice. “Just hangin’. Want to do something?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “The Ryerson twins are back from vacation . . .” He spread his palms open.

  “We’ll scare the shit out of ’em!” Carrie enthused.

  “I’m out,” Jesse stated flatly.

  Carrie was crestfallen. “Why?”

  “I don’t give a damn about the Ryerson twins. Let’s move on, for Christ’s sake.”

  “All he can think about is that dead body we found,” Brad declared, to which Carrie naturally asked a thousand questions because she hadn’t heard who’d discovered Barney Turgate’s body. Brad expounded upon the whole saga. Jesse remained silent. To hell with it all.

  “Were you scared?” Carrie asked, sidling close to Jesse. She gazed up at him raptly.

  “Nah.”

  “Yes, he was!” Brad crowed. “Ran like a rabbit!”

  “So did you, asshole,” Jesse reminded him angrily.

  “Now he wants to solve the crime, just like his old man,” Brad continued, desperately working to turn Carrie’s attention his way and discredit Jesse. More power to him. Jesse wanted nothing to do with her.

  “Yeah, well, I know one crime that’s solved: that old bitch’s missing trees.”

  “Who did it?” Jesse asked, dropping all pretense.

  She gazed at him, assessing how much she should reveal. Her eagerness to gossip overcame her inclination to reel in Jesse by his interest in crime and she blurted out, “My mother’s boyfriend. The dumbass and some buddies actually took down those trees all in one night. Had to drug the dog to do it.”

  “Why?” Jesse asked.

  “Just being assholes, I guess.” Carrie shrugged.

  “How do you know this?”

  Called upon for serious information, Carrie grew cagey. “I heard the asshole braggin’ about it.”

  “I’m surprised the old lady didn’t wake up,” Jesse murmured. “I can’t believe anybody could think we could do it.”

  “She’s old and stupid,” Brad declared, uninterested.

  “And deaf as a post—to quote my mother,” Carrie said, lips forming a sneer.

  “Nobody’s that deaf,” Jesse was sure.

  “Oh yeah? You taken a look at her? Double hearing aids—when she feels like wearin’ ’em. And she doesn’t ever wear ’em around the house, because I was there once with my mom. That lady don’t hear nothin’, believe me.”

  “But twenty-two trees? I mean, trees!”

  Carrie shook her head. “That’s what I’m sayin’. She can’t hear, period. She goes into town bitchin’ and moanin’ about us juvenile cases, but she can’
t hear a bunch of assholes rippin’ her trees out of the ground. She doesn’t know jack shit.”

  “Maybe somebody put somethin’ in her drink, like they drugged the dog,” Brad suggested.

  “Oh sure. Like you’re going to have a drink with someone like her.” Jesse snorted his annoyance.

  “Maybe he walked into her house and put somethin’ in her drink.” Brad stuck out his chin belligerently, refusing to be wrong.

  “The asshole did that once. Spiked the jar of iced tea we keep in the fridge. He said he wanted to get me drunk.” She shrugged. “We were all wasted that night. Mom thought it was her wine, but I was flyin’ high, too.”

  “Great guy,” Jesse muttered.

  She nodded. “He’s a bastard.”

  “You didn’t like getting drunk? Oh, come on.” Brad laughed aloud.

  “I don’t like him,” she clarified.

  “Brad, I’m heading back,” Jesse said, itching to get motoring away from Carrie Lister and all this talk. It bothered him at some level he couldn’t assess.

  “Go on, then,” Brad dismissed him.

  “No, don’t go,” Carrie whined.

  Jesse paid no attention. Breaking into a jog, he headed back toward what passed as civilization in this rural hellhole. But the thought of facing his father—whom he shared grunts with over what his daily itinerary might be—turned his feet in the direction of Tawny’s.

  * * *

  Kristy sat just inside her back porch on a rattan lounge, her feet tucked within a blue and green afghan. She sipped iced tea, courtesy of Liz, and listened as Liz and Tawny wrangled good-naturedly on the patio about whether Tawny should invite her father to the dance recital.

  “I don’t want him to come,” Tawny said, showing an unusual obstinacy.

  “It’ll do more good than harm,” Liz argued. “If he sees how locked in you are to the community, he’ll—”

  “He won’t care. He’s obsessed.”