No Turning Back

by Nancy Bush

  “—understand how much you want to stay.”

  “Wanna bet?” Tawny raked her fingers through her hair. “My recital’s the thirty-first. He’ll make me leave with him. School starts the next week.”

  “He won’t just take you away. He can’t.”

  Kristy cleared her throat, and both Tawny and Liz glanced her way. “He’s looking for an excuse. Just don’t give him one and everything’ll be fine. Tawny, you’ve got to ask him to your recital.”

  “You promise I don’t have to go with him?”

  “I promise,” Kristy said solemnly.

  “I don’t even know him that well,” Tawny whispered, turning to Liz.

  “Hey, babe, I know.”

  “I won’t leave with him.”

  Teen rebellion brewing big-time. Liz recognized it and, upon meeting Kristy’s eyes, realized Tawny’s mother did, too.

  The doorbell rang and Tawny raced through the house to admit Jesse. Liz slowly walked into the family room and took a chair next to Kristy’s. Kristy watched her daughter react animatedly to Jesse and her gaze shifted to Liz. They shared a look.

  Kristy was the only person besides Hawthorne and herself who knew the whole story—at least from Liz’s end.

  “We’ll be back in a while. We’re just going for a walk,” Tawny sang out moments before the front door closed behind them and they were gone.

  When Kristy didn’t immediately remark on the situation, Liz took the initiative. “I don’t know how long I can remain silent.”

  “Have you talked to his father recently?”

  “No.”

  “You said you were going to tell him your theory on the yew trees.”

  “I’ve said a lot of things,” Liz murmured a trifle bitterly. “I know I should try to forge a relationship. I know it would ease my way with Jesse. But it’s so hard.”

  “You want me to talk to him? I mean, his son is seeing my daughter.” Kristy smiled.

  Liz smiled in return. She felt like a heel, absorbed in her own problems when Kristy’s were a million times worse. “How’re you feeling?”

  “The same as when you asked me twenty minutes ago. Fine. Tired. Surgery’s a bitch, isn’t it? But things are going well so far. Remission, though it’s really too early to tell, I guess.”

  “Are you worried about Guy?”

  “No. I mean, come on. I’m doing pretty well, and Tawny’s damn near perfect. I’ve let him have visitation rights, which he’s ignored until now. No judge would grant him custody.” She set down her glass and stretched her arms over her head like a contented cat. She’d been through the fire. She was safe.

  “Tawny would have to suddenly turn criminal before anyone could find fault with her upbringing. Guy’s the loser,” Liz agreed. Still . . . Guy Fielding had a lot of money and even more determination. Like a hungry lawyer desperate for any case, he wouldn’t go away until he’d gotten his way. “All right, you’ve shamed me into it. I’ll go see Hawthorne.”

  “He might be impressed with your theories.”

  Liz’s laughter echoed through the house. Kissing Kristy on the cheek, she murmured, “When did hell freeze over, and why didn’t someone tell me?” With that, she took a deep breath, examined the mettle of her courage, and headed for the Woodside Police Station.

  Chapter Nine

  Doodling on a notepad, Hawk made a face and thought over his latest conversation with the Manny Belding sighters. One of Manny’s buds, who favored a dim bar sandwiched between an old clapboard building that housed a perpetual flea market and a less-than-squeaky-clean laundromat to the relative spiffiness of the Elbow Room, had insisted Hawk have a drink with him—a serious scotch and water, mind you—before he would talk. Because Hawk had basically given up booze after his collapse into its soothing depths once before, he’d declined. But Manny’s pal, Ed McEwan, wouldn’t hear of it, and Hawk had nursed a drink while Ed loosened his jaw.

  Two things happened: Hawk recognized the dangers of alcohol again by waking up dead drunk three hours later and Ed told him that Manny Belding and Barney Turgate were business partners.

  “Business partners?” Hawk had asked with the beginnings of alcohol’s sweet numbness softening all the edges.

  “Big money, Barn said. Big, big money.” Envy loomed in Ed’s booze-reddened eyes. “I been workin’ my butt off for years runnin’ my daddy’s farm. Never worth a penny except for the land, and taxes eat that up anyway. Some inheritance, huh? The old man was a bastard, but it sure didn’t help when he died.”

  This little speech slurred and jerked along, but Hawthorne picked up the gist of it. “Do you know what they were into?”

  Ed snorted. “Farming! Can ya beat that? Barney was in real estate, y’know, but that turned to shit. And Manny was always scroungin’ off some rich relative back East who finally gave him a stupid-ass job bein’ a goddamn rep for a bullshit company he owned. Good way to pass somebody a few bucks, huh? We should all be so lucky.” Ed burped at this juncture, forgot what he was saying, then came back madder and meaner. “They’re both fuckin’ assholes. One’s dead now, and I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Where’s Manny?” Hawk had managed to insert before Ed tore off on a further f-word rampage—something he was wont to do, as Hawthorne had learned.

  “Fuck . . .”

  And that was the end of Ed’s enlightening tale. Now, Hawk wondered if making another pilgrimage to Manny’s garage apartment was worth the effort. Nothing had come of his trip to Barney’s.

  Still . . .

  The station’s front buzzer announced a visitor. Hawk was seated in the back, at the desk reserved for whoever needed one. He’d recently appropriated it, at Perry’s eager suggestion, and now felt as if he did indeed belong here. For too long he’d been living in limbo. Time to heal.

  “Hello, Hawk,” a cool, familiar voice greeted him.

  He glanced up swiftly, surprised. Liz Havers stood before him, crisp and collected in a pair of khaki shorts and a white sleeveless blouse. Her tan limbs glowed with good health and her hair, light brown and shining, swung gently, just brushing her shoulders. But it was Liz’s eyes that arrested him. A shade of blue-green close to turquoise. Lighter, though. And so brilliant he could still remember seeing his reflection in them all those years ago.

  Dim memories. The result of liquor. He fervently thanked the fates that had saved him from a life of alcoholism, and this latest falling off the wagon had just reconfirmed the intensity of his resolve.

  “Liz,” he returned stiffly.

  “I have a police matter I’d like to discuss—with you.”

  Her hesitancy rang out even while her voice held an edge of belligerency. “Chief Dortner is out right now. You can wait or I can have him call you.” To hell with it. She didn’t really want to talk to him, and he certainly didn’t need the aggravation.

  “I said, I’d like to discuss it with you.”

  He eyed her blandly. What you really said was you’d rather fight the fires of hell than be anywhere near me. “Does this have something to do with Barney Turgate’s murder?”

  “No.”

  “What is it?”

  She seemed to want to look anywhere but in his direction. Her gaze moved restlessly over his desk to the front of the building to Dortner’s cluttered mess and back. “I’ve heard a lot about Mrs. Brindamoor’s missing trees.”

  Hawk’s brows lifted. “From Jesse?”

  “Well, partly.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think I might know why they were taken.” She gave him a look. He could read triumph in her eyes. Irked, he said, “So, you’re involved in Mr. Turgate’s murder and also you’ve found out about the missing yews. You’re in the wrong profession.”

  She lowered her lashes, stung. That bothered him, too. He hadn’t meant to be nasty, but Lord, she brought out the worst in him.

  “I think they were taken for their bark.”

  In front of his eyes, she dropped her bravado and transfor
med into a beautiful woman who’d clearly puzzled out an answer—one that could very well be correct, he realized. He wished he weren’t so distracted by her.

  “Take a seat,” he said gruffly, watching obliquely as she crossed her legs and settled into a chair. “Why do you think the trees were taken for their bark?”

  “I met with a man named Avery Francis, who’s a yew bark farmer.” Carefully, meticulously, she explained the nature of Taxol, the cancer-fighting drug that was, coincidentally, one that her friend, Mrs. Fielding, was taking. While she talked, Hawk returned to doodling, way too cognizant of the soft, fresh scent of her perfume and the rise and fall of her voice.

  “So . . . what do you think?” she asked at length.

  He realized he was scratching out a series of evergreen trees, a tiny forest. The connections sizzled, and Hawk found himself admiring her.

  Which pissed him to no end.

  “So, you think poachers felled Anita Brindamoor’s twenty-two yew trees to sell the bark to profiteers?”

  “To someone,” she agreed.

  “Like a drug company?”

  “I don’t know.” A bit of doubt crept into her voice.

  Hawk considered all she’d said. She was waiting. Feeling foolish now, as she realized she hadn’t thought it completely through. But Hawk was impressed despite himself.

  “It sure makes more sense than to believe a couple of teenagers spent a night yanking out twenty-two trees just because they felt like it.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to believe her in the least. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Mrs. Brindamoor’s can’t be the only yew trees stolen, then,” Hawk added thoughtfully.

  “Apparently, there’s a lot of money in it,” Liz added.

  Big money. Big, big money . . .

  Ed’s words came back to haunt him. Hawk wondered if Barney could somehow be involved with this deal. Liz had said Taxol cost about twenty-five thousand dollars an ounce.

  Big money.

  Hawthorne stared into Liz’s eyes. For a moment, he was thrown back in time to when she’d sat across the table from him at the inn where the Elbow Room now stood. It startled him to realize that even though that period of his life was hazy, certain aspects, perfect moments, remained in his brain with awesome clarity.

  He remembered what she’d worn that first day. A pair of slim-fitting denim jeans and a short-sleeved, peach-colored blouse with an open collar. He’d noticed the smoothness of her throat, and over the intervening years, nothing much had changed. The khaki shorts she wore today were casual and sent him a view of slim, muscular limbs, and the sleeveless blouse once again seemed to heighten attention to her long throat.

  In a distant corner of his mind, Hawthorne admitted how beautiful she was. And he could see a resemblance to Jesse in the quirk of her brow, the turn of her head, the shade of her hair.

  With a certain amount of horror, he realized he was still attracted to her. Very attracted.

  And she was the last female on earth he wanted to be attracted to.

  “I hope she quits blaming every teenager in town for the deed,” Liz said, raking a hand unconsciously through her hair. Strands slipped through her fingers. Honey gold. Satin threads. She gave him a quick look. “Think she’ll get off that?”

  “No,” Hawk admitted. “She wants it to be Jesse and Brad.”

  “But if you told her this theory . . . ?”

  “She’s already threatened to have me removed from the case for bias. Unfortunately, Chief Dortner insists I stay on it.” He inhaled deeply. “Although it’s looking more interesting than I thought.”

  Liz smiled, clearly pleased. Hawthorne felt his muscles tighten. Expectation. Anticipation. The old male-hormone thing responding to an enticing female.

  “Thanks,” he said briefly. “Was there anything else?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Have you seen much of Jesse?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I know he’s seeing that friend of your’s daughter. I’m sure you’re right there.”

  His cold tone penetrated. She half-winced. Good. He didn’t want to like her, therefore she couldn’t like him.

  “I’ve seen him a few times.”

  “He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

  “I said I wouldn’t tell him, and I won’t. It is my job, you know, to have some understanding about teens and how to deal with them. He should be told soon, but unfortunately, that decision is really yours.”

  “How noble.” Hawk sent her a faint smile.

  “It just makes sense.”

  “Who are you kidding? You’re going to tell him when you feel like it and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it—except try to keep the two of you apart.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” Liz demanded, her cheeks flushing.

  “Damn near everything.”

  “Liar,” she whispered, her gaze dueling with his. It wasn’t often Hawk met a woman willing—no, eager—to do battle, but Liz Havers had clearly been waiting a long, long time. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting to know my son.”

  “You say anything to him, he’ll turn on you like nothing you’ve ever seen in your sheltered life.”

  “You don’t have to scare me. I know what to do.”

  “Neither of us knows what to do,” he retorted tautly. A pulse beat somewhere inside his head. Anger, or desire? He didn’t want to know.

  She jumped to her feet. “Forget I ever came in here. From now on, I’m handling things my way.”

  “You step in where you shouldn’t, I’ll cut you down.”

  “Strong words, Detective Hart.”

  “I’ve got stronger ones.”

  Bull’s-eye. A direct hit. A flash of indecision and pain in those eyes. Her skin paled beneath her new tan, and a twinge of regret twisted Hawk’s conscience.

  “Good-bye,” she bit out.

  “Think hard about what you plan to do,” he added as a final warning.

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” She walked out the door, back straight, hair swinging, strides filled with repressed fury. Through the window, he watched her cross the street to her little black car.

  As soon as she was out of sight, he sank back into his chair and swallowed hard. Her scent lingered. Images danced behind his eyes from that time long, long ago. Taut, muscular limbs wrapped around him. Soft sighs and rapid heartbeats. Warm, lazy afternoons when he’d locked grief in a distant part of his brain and the rest of him belonged to Liz Havers.

  He’d had years to get over her. Hell, he hadn’t even thought about her. How could it be that after all this time she was the first woman to stir his blood, when she should be the last?

  “Damn it,” he muttered to the world in general. The last thing he needed was another complication.

  * * *

  Brad drew hard on the tip of his cigarette and exhaled like he’d been smoking for years. Which, if Jesse thought about it, was very likely. When Jesse had first arrived in Woodside he’d hooked up with Brad because they were birds of a feather. Brad’s happy-go-lucky nature, coupled with his total lack of inhibitions and a general desire to raise hell, had been a magnet for Jesse. They were two halves of a whole. Young, wild, and looking for trouble.

  Except Brad was really beginning to get on his nerves.

  Thunking his finger against the round can visible through the pocket of Brad’s T-shirt, Jesse asked, “After you’re done smoking, you plan to have a dip?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Why?”

  Jesse couldn’t answer. He was irked. Pissed, really, that Brad was so the same.

  “You’ll be dead before you’re thirty.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. “Just don’t make a sound. Remember what we’re trying to do here.”

  Brad snorted and took another drag. The cigarette tip glowed red in the deepening twilight. They were outside Carrie Lister�
�s house, waiting for a glimpse of her mother’s boyfriend. Jesse wanted to know who this guy was. Carrie thought he had stolen Old Lady Brindamoor’s trees, and it dug at Jesse’s curiosity. When he’d been younger, he might have taken the information to his father; he’d really liked that whole Boy Scout thing once.

  From faraway, a dog barked. Then it howled. A lonely, eerie sound that was echoed by another dog, and yet another. Brad cocked his head, and Jesse shivered a little. He was glad he’d talked Tawny out of coming.

  Faintly, he smiled, remembering their argument. “I want to be there,” she’d declared.

  “No way. We’ll come back and tell you all about it.”

  “What if he catches you?”

  “What if he does?” Jesse asked. “We’re not doing anything.”

  “Trespassing,” Tawny pointed out stubbornly.

  “That’s why you can’t go.”

  His roundabout logic drove her crazy. She set her jaw, looked down at her toes, then glanced up at him in that sideways way that got to him. “I want to be there with you,” she said softly.

  He’d almost caved. Boy, had he ever wanted to. But the truth was, he didn’t know what the hell would come down. Any boyfriend of Carrie’s mother was bound to be trouble; the Listers were just made that way. And if the asshole really had stolen over twenty trees for their bark . . . well . . .

  “We’ll be back,” he’d answered just as softly, and because he’d felt like it, he’d dragged her close and kissed her forehead—a bold move he still couldn’t believe he’d made, but it had felt so right.

  He feared he was in love.

  “Shhh . . .” Brad stepped back into the shadows of the laurel hedge as a pickup swerved into the driveway. Jesse pressed himself against thick green leaves, his shoulder touching Brad’s.

  Moonlight fell across a patch of gravel right at the nose of the truck as it cruised to a stop. The newcomer cut the engine and it hiccupped a couple of times before it shook violently and died. A man climbed out, eased the small of his back, then stumbled forward, as if he’d had a few too many drinks. He staggered on the stairs, swore, grabbed the rail, half-hung on it a second, then struggled the rest of the way up the front steps. With a hammy fist, he pounded on the front door. Carrie’s mom opened the door and immediately they had words. A sharp, angry fight broke out to which Brad and Jesse heard a smack and then wild crying.