by Nancy Bush
The boys exchanged silent looks in the darkness. The newcomer had hit Carrie’s mom.
“Fucker,” Brad whispered.
“Who is he?” Jesse asked.
“Don’t know. I’ve seen him around, though.”
“I want to know who he is.”
“Why don’t we just ask Carrie, dumbass?” Brad suggested.
Jesse thought about the scene he’d just witnessed. He shook his head and Brad, showing more intuitiveness than usual, silently agreed. Stealthily, the two boys headed for the road, and as soon as they were out of sight of the house, they ran like wild dogs.
* * *
It was evening. Hot and sultry. Unusually so for Woodside, even in August. Liz wore a full-length, tan sundress that snapped up the front. The snaps were undone to just above her knee, so that she could move freely, and she currently was striding along the boardwalk that circled Woodside’s largest park where, tonight, there was an outdoor barbecue, a fund-raiser for Woodside High’s fall sports. Liz had met several of the teachers and coaches who were helping the kids organize the event, so she’d thought she’d stop in and offer her services. She could flip a burger with the best of them.
A slice of Americana. If there were a traveling carnival pitched down the road with a Ferris wheel . . . nirvana.
Which reminded her of Jesse and his favorite band.
She’d had a conversation with him about it, briefly, one afternoon. He’d been at the Fieldings’, waiting for Tawny. Liz was there, waiting for him, though of course he didn’t know it. Tawny, immersed in a phone call to her father, wasn’t immediately available, so Liz had enjoyed a few extra moments with her son.
It wasn’t that Jesse objected to being with her. As far as adults went, she was about as cool as they got; she could read that clear enough. It was that teenagers didn’t see adults. Their world was so closed that anyone over the age of nineteen was damn near invisible.
Yet Jesse could recite Kurt Cobain’s life story as if he were going to be tested on it. Liz realized her son was merely going through the motions of living in Woodside, Washington. His fantasy life was clearer, closer to him. He wasn’t so different from other teenagers, but his passion, at least currently, happened to be the long-dead lead singer of Nirvana, who was a suicide victim to boot.
It could scare a mother to the depths of her soul.
Still . . . being a good listener was worth its weight in gold. She, too, now knew more about Kurt Cobain than most of the rest of the world.
The most interesting bit of information she’d gleaned was one Jesse didn’t even deem important: Cobain had grown up in Aberdeen, Washington, not so very far from Woodside. He’d found his way to the Seattle alternative rock scene, and then fame hit him like a freight train—something he apparently never really wanted. To Cobain, music was everything. That and heroin. But when an overdose didn’t do the trick, Cobain shot himself with a shotgun . . .
A frisson slid down Liz’s back. The stuff nightmares were made of. Yet most kids managed to find their way through the maze of adolescence without getting lost completely. Jesse might have a fascination with Cobain, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had the same fascination with suicide.
She had to keep reminding herself of that.
And truthfully, though she knew she was probably being overly optimistic, she sensed Jesse was out of danger. Since she’d first met him, he seemed brighter, more focused, yet a little detached, too. As if none of it really mattered as much as people liked to believe.
Lord, she hoped she was right.
Liz turned onto another boardwalk that angled toward the center of the park. Japanese lanterns hung from a wire, casting mellow pools of pastel colors onto the ground. To one side were three propane-powered barbecues going gangbusters, while two administrators and one coach hawked burgers good-naturedly to a generally chatty crowd.
The scent of broiled beef and onions and spicy mustard wafted through the air. The plink , plink, plink of a soft rock quartet, tuning guitars, vied with the screech of jerry-rigged microphones as voices tested the sound system.
Liz smiled and soaked in the sensation. All those years ago of dying to get out of Woodside—what a waste. It was love at second sight. It was coming home.
“Hey, there, stranger,” a male voice said warmly. Liz turned. Avery Francis, in tan Dockers and a white Polo shirt, pointed a finger at her. “What does it take to get you to call me?”
“The phone works both ways,” Liz pointed out lightly.
“Yeah, well, I guess I like this in-person stuff better anyway.”
Liz just kept smiling. She wasn’t sure what to do with Avery. Flirting was long over for her. She was too rusty, and she’d never liked it much in the first place. Besides, she hadn’t made up her mind whether she was really in the mood to date someone. A date sounded so innocuous. One date. But invariably, it led to another, and then decisions needed to be made.
Or worse, you really liked the guy and after one date, poof, he disappeared.
That didn’t, however, appear to be the problem with Avery.
“Could I interest you in a burger?” he asked, lightly touching her elbow and guiding her in the direction of the barbecue.
It seemed easier to acquiesce than demur, which was what she really felt like doing. She and Avery jostled through the line, filled paper plates with hamburgers, chips, a cookie, and picked up a soft drink at the end. They sat next to each other at a picnic table, which Liz found difficult because she had to keep half-turning to talk to him.
And what was there to talk about? She knew next to nothing about him except for the yew trees.
Which was as good a place to start as any.
“How long did you say it would be before you could harvest?” Liz asked, biting into her hamburger. It was rather dry and the bun could have been fresher, but hey, what did one expect from an outdoor barbecue fund-raiser?
“Three to five years, and this is my first season. Wish I’d gotten onto this scheme faster. It’s good money, but you’ve still got to be patient.”
Remembering Hawk’s questions at the station, Liz asked, “Who actually buys the yew bark?”
Avery was eager to talk. “Pharmaceutical companies that want to produce Taxol. One company’s currently got an exclusive contract with the National Cancer Institute to bring the drug to market, so you’ve got to get with them—although that’ll probably change.”
“And all of this Taxol comes only from Pacific yews?”
“Well, no. You can also get it from the needles and twigs of the more common Himalayan yew, which actually produces a chemical precursor of the drug that can then be transformed into Taxol. But Pacific yew bark’s still the most direct route.”
“Interesting.”
He smiled the smile of someone counting money in the bank. “All I really have to do now is prove myself.”
“Prove yourself?”
Avery nodded. “The big wood products companies have millions of trees planted to produce Taxol. They’re in like Flynn with the pharmaceutical companies connected with the National Cancer Institute. It’s like the in crowd, y’know? You’ve got to be in.”
“How do you get in?”
“There are always ways, otherwise the poachers wouldn’t be doing such a bang-up business.” He shoved his plate aside and rested his forearms on the table, as if he were settling in for a long yarn. “There’s so little Taxol available that the black market’s huge. And most of the mature Pacific yews are on Forest Service land, so poachers head onto all that acreage and just take, take, take. Of course, if you get caught—” He dragged a finger across his neck. “Penalties are stiff.”
“How hard is it to catch a poacher?”
Avery thought about that for a moment. “Environmentalists are all over this thing because Pacific yews grow in old-growth areas. And the tree huggers can’t bear to have them cut down.”
Liz wasn’t certain she agreed with his sardonic tone. “Well,
there are limited old-growth trees. It takes years and years. I can see why people would want to preserve them.”
He sniffed. “You sound like a Californian. Tell the truth, you fell in love with those pictures of the poor spotted owl.”
Avery was referring to the owl that had gained national attention because it only made its nests in old-growth timber. Harvesting old growth had displaced the owls and limited their nesting area, hence the creatures were diminishing rapidly and possibly facing extinction. Ads with cute little baby spotted owls looking forlorn and helpless had aided environmentalists in acquiring donations to help save them. Timber companies were the enemy, but timber was used for housing and old growth was the best.
There were no easy answers.
“I grew up in Woodside,” Liz informed Avery a trifle coolly. “And yes, I’d like to save the spotted owl, but I know we need timber, too.”
“Well, there’re a lot of people out there who’d do anything to stop tree harvesting. They go out in the woods and form circles with their friends. Sing and chant and make a goddamn nuisance of themselves. Drives everybody crazy. But once in a while they catch a poacher in action; then they’re vicious. Like to cut the guy’s balls off, if they could.” He paused, then added, “You can’t trust fanatics.”
Liz silently agreed, but a part of her brain had ceased listening. Avery Francis was a bit of a one-note song, and though his interest in yew tree farming was what had brought her to him in the first place, it also appeared to be the only thing they had in common.
As if reading her thoughts, his hand suddenly stole sideways to cover hers. Liz’s first instinct was to recoil, but she refrained. She just couldn’t help her reaction. Would it be this way with any man? she wondered. Or was this aversion to Avery Francis specific?
“How would you like to—” He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath.
Liz glanced around. Spying the reason Avery had cut off so abruptly, her heart started pounding. She slid a sideways glance at her “date.” Hawthorne Hart was on the boardwalk, headed straight their way.
Chapter Ten
“You know him?” Avery asked under his breath, his gaze on Hawk.
“We’ve met,” Liz said carefully.
“He’s a hotshot detective from L.A. who’s moonlighting here with the local police department. A first-class asshole, from all accounts.”
“Really.” Liz hid her expression inside her paper cup, nearly choking on her soda.
To her dismay, Hawk walked straight to their table and seated himself across from her and Avery. This disconcerted Avery to no end, and it didn’t do much for Liz either.
“Detective Hart?” Avery asked, holding out his hand. “Avery Francis.”
Hawk gave him a long look, but he shook his hand. “The yew tree farmer,” he said, and Liz was impressed that he remembered so quickly.
“That’s right,” Avery said, clearly trying to figure out how, or why, Hawk knew so much about him.
Liz jumped in. “Avery was just telling me more about the yew tree business.”
“Ms. Havers said you agreed that poachers may have taken Mrs. Brindamoor’s trees,” Hawk said smoothly. “That right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“So, there’s quite a bit of money in it?”
“Can be,” Avery agreed.
“I’ve been doing a little research,” Hawk put in conversationally, but Liz’s radar went on alert. A little research? Hawthorne Hart never did anything without an express purpose.
With a jolt, she realized how well she knew him for how little time they’d actually been around each other. Food for thought, she told herself, not liking it one bit.
“Most of the Pacific yews around here are on Forest Service land—about eighty percent—and you have to have a permit to cut the trees. But only certain people can get a permit, and those are determined by the Forest Service.” Hawk let that sink in, then said, “Apparently, that’s the Forest Service’s way of making sure trees aren’t being wasted.”
“Makes sense,” Avery agreed. He, too, could see how intense Hawk was, and he was trying hard not to squirm.
“I talked to a guy named Rob over there who said poachers have been showing phony permits. Even some of the people issued real permits have been turning in large amounts of yew bark from a very small number of trees.” Hawthorne’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You find a crook every time you lift a rock.”
“I hope the Forest Service is cracking down on those permits,” Avery said.
Hawk nodded. “It’d be a shame to let some of the opportunists out there slip through the cracks. I’d hate to see the undeserving make some quick money.”
Liz had the distinct feeling she was missing a whole lot of subtext. Clearly, Hawthorne was sending Avery some message she was meant to only guess at.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Avery said, his smile a little forced.
Hawk turned to Liz. She swept in a breath, way, way too susceptible to the shock of his blue eyes. He had no right to look so good.
“Jesse’s missing,” he said, bringing her to earth with a bang.
“What? Did you try the Fieldings?” Liz was supremely conscious of Avery’s listening ears. If Hawk wanted to keep their relationship secret, he was doing a damn poor job of it.
“Someone stole a couple of four-packs of wine coolers from Lannie’s. An employee. Brad’s name came up.”
“But that doesn’t mean Jesse’s involved.”
Hawk lifted a brow, silently saying how naïve she was.
“Who’s Jesse?” Avery asked.
“A friend of mine,” Liz answered. “I told you, I’m the school psychologist.”
“Ahh.” Avery frowned, clearly not getting it.
She lifted a brow to Hawk in response, silently querying him on whether he wanted their relationship to be Woodside’s newest gossip.
His mouth tightened into a knife-blade line. The answer was pretty clear.
“Could I talk to you a moment?” Hawk asked, an edge to his voice.
“Sure.” Liz picked up her paper plate and cup and dumped them in the designated trash can.
“I’ll call you,” Avery said vaguely as Liz walked away with Hawthorne. He watched them as they headed along the boardwalk that bisected the park.
“Did I interrupt a date?” Hawk asked when they were out of earshot. He sounded so much like a spurned lover who was trying hard to be cool that Liz smothered a smile. “What’s so funny?” he demanded, watching her.
“Nothing. We just accidentally bumped into each other.”
“Avery Francis doesn’t seem like the kind of man to accidentally do anything.”
“You don’t like him much, do you?”
Her directness derailed Hawk momentarily. At a loss for words, he merely kept pace with her. Liz took the opportunity to walk past the festivities to the end of the boardwalk, where a small creek bubbled westward, away from the hubbub. Here the gurgle of water and whisper of leaves seemed remote, as if they were a long, long way from civilization with all its traps and trappings.
“You really think Jesse’s involved in this theft?” Liz asked.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Liz wanted to argue but quelled the urge. She knew. Better than most. “Will the store press charges?”
Hawk nodded, his face gaunt in the shifting shadows of moonlight. Illumination from the Japanese lanterns was far away. “It’s their policy. It tends to keep their employees more honest.”
“Oh, Brad.” Liz sighed, more resigned than upset.
“I thought they’d be at the barbecue, but I guess not.”
“Are you sure it couldn’t be someone else?”
“It could be anybody who works there, but they all fingered Brad.”
“He’s their newest employee. Maybe they used him as a scapegoat.”
She expected him to laugh at her, but he merely frowned in a way that she’d come to recognize as his expressi
on when he rolled something over in his mind. “Maybe,” he said at length. “They were pretty solid on it being Brad, which isn’t the way things usually go down. Mostly they protect one another.”
This lightened Liz’s heart. “That’s right.”
“Maybe they’re protecting themselves and to hell with the new guy on the block.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, a curiously sensual gesture. “I wish Jesse would materialize.”
“Maybe he’s already home.”
“That would be a long shot.”
They stood in silence for several moments. The breeze tugged at Liz’s hem, undulating the tan folds around her knees. She felt overdressed, yet that was ridiculous. Hawthorne wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled to just below the elbows, and a pair of jeans. His pants rode low on his hips and were worn around the edges in a very attractive way, the image seemingly imprinted on Liz’s retinas.
So much for worrying she wouldn’t be attracted to another man. Criminy. This man was the worst choice of all.
“So, what was that all about with Avery?” she asked lightly, more as a means to steer the conversation to something neutral than for any burning desire to know.
“What do you mean?”
“You acted as if he were a poacher.” She hesitated. “Is he?”
Hawthorne stretched his shoulders and shrugged. “All I know about Avery Francis is that he suddenly turned up in Woodside, asked a lot of questions, tried to be a little too friendly to some of the locals, who’re suspicious of everyone, and then decided to grow Pacific yews.”
“Something wrong with that?”
Hawk looked at her. Big, big money . . . “I don’t know yet.”
A softball thunked down their way, passing between them. A boy of about twelve loped after it, dark hair flopping. At the same instant, Liz heard a loud pop: a car backfiring. Before she could turn her head, she was slammed to the ground, along with the boy, who screamed and flailed his arms.
She could feel Hawk’s body pressing down against hers, quivering all over.
