An acrid scent stung her nose. Sandalwood. She couldn’t breathe, let alone scream. But screaming, she knew, was the only way out.
Scream, Alex… Scream-
Alex sat bolt upright in bed, eyes snapping open as her scream echoed off the walls.
Her bedroom door flew open. Light tumbled in. “Alex? Are you all right?”
She blinked, confused, still trapped in the circle of men.
“Alex, honey, you screamed.”
Rachel. The night before. She’d stayed.
“A nightmare,” Alex managed, gathering the sheet and blanket to her chin. She realized she was trembling. “I… I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Waking me wasn’t the problem, scaring the crap out of me was.”
Alex reached for her bedside lamp and snapped it on. “Shit. Sorry.”
Rachel crossed to the bed and sat on the corner. “You want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “I just want to forget it.”
“Okay, no problem.” Expression hurt, Rachel started to stand.
Alex caught her hand. “I have nightmares. I’ve had them all my life. They come and go. Right now, I’m in a bad patch. That’s all.”
Rachel squeezed her hand in acknowledgment of what it had cost Alex to share. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You weren’t. It’s just me, I-” Alex smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry I blasted you out of bed.”
Rachel returned the smile. “What a pair we are. You going back to sleep?”
Alex glanced at the clock. “What’s the point? It’s almost five anyway.”
“I’ll make coffee?”
“That sounds like heaven. Everything’s in the cabinet above the pot. I’ll be right out.”
Alex took a minute to throw on sweats and brush her teeth. She found Rachel in the kitchen, back in the clothes she had worn over the night before, staring at the coffee as it dripped into the carafe.
“Slowest coffeepot on earth,” Alex murmured.
“I see that.” She looked over at Alex. “How’s your head this morning?”
“Hurting, though it could have been worse. How about yours?”
“It’s punishing me for my excesses. But I had it coming.”
Alex smiled. “Coffee will help.”
“I’ve never suffered with nightmares, I’m happy to say.”
“One of those who sleeps like a baby? I’m seriously jealous.”
Rachel laughed. “Now, I didn’t say that. I’ve got my own demons, nightmares just don’t happen to be one of them.”
Demons, Alex thought. She would bet she had them.
“Do you really want to hear about my nightmare?”
“Only if you want to share.”
“I need food first.”
Working together, they whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast. Just as the meal came together, the coffeemaker burbled its last. They sat at the table and began to eat. Rachel didn’t hurry her or push, which Alex appreciated.
It was only after she had scraped the last bit of food from her plate and refilled her coffee cup that she began.
“Like I said, I’ve had nightmares for years. As far back as I can remember. Lots of the typical being chased and running for your life variety. But recently, they’re… different. More specific.”
“Like tonight’s?”
“Yes. Tonight I was surrounded by men. Trapped in the middle of their circle. I knew they were aroused and I felt threatened. Really afraid.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “My God. Could you see their faces?”
Alex shook her head. “They wore hooded robes. Dreams are like that, your subconscious plays a game of peek-a-boo with you.”
“They meant to rape you.”
“That’s the obvious interpretation. But dreams are rarely about the obvious. The men, the circle, not being able to see their faces, feeling trapped and threatened were all symbols for something else.”
“What?”
“Dunno. And this morning, I’m too tired to think about it.” She felt a little guilty at the half truth. The complete truth was, if it was Tim sitting across from her, hungover and exhausted or not, she would be eagerly digging in. She wasn’t ready to share her soul with Rachel. Their relationship was just too new.
“I’ve got just the fix for that!” Rachel exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “Manipeds.”
“Manicures and pedicures?”
“I know I can get us booked. It may take a bottle of my best reserve, but I can do it. What do you say?”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“Screw work, I work all the time.”
Alex looked at her hands. Her fingernails were a mess. Her toes were worse.
“We’ll buy a new lipstick, too,” Rachel said, collecting their breakfast plates and carrying them to the sink. “And eyeshadow. Both in some hideous color we’ll never wear.”
Alex laughed. It sounded like fun. The kind of fun she hadn’t had in… well, in forever. “I’m in.”
Rachel rubbed her hands together. “Goody. I have to get cleaned up and check in at work. I’ll call you after.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Thursday, March 11
4:25 P.M.
Alex pulled up in front of the modest home. She shifted into park and shut off the car. She let out a pent-up breath and flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. Her newly painted nails caught her eyes, and she smiled, thinking of the afternoon’s antics. Rachel was crazy; she made her laugh. A lot. And she’d drawn Alex out of herself. They’d been silly, acting more like teenagers than grown women.
Case in point, the color of her fingers and toes: Shocking Pink. Rachel had chosen Darling Clementine-an orange bright enough to make Florida proud. As for their lipstick choice, in true BFF form, they’d picked the same impractical but surprisingly flattering red. The way they’d carried on, Alex was surprised the salesperson hadn’t called security.
Alex swung open her car door, stepped out, then retrieved the basket of flowers she had stowed on the back floorboard. Oddly, her time with her stepsister had given her the courage to do what she had been considering ever since finding Max Cragan dead. Pay her respects to his daughter.
And maybe unearth answers as well.
She took the walkway to the front door and rang the bell. A dark-haired, dimple-cheeked little girl opened the door. Alex recognized her from the picture Max had proudly shown her-the youngest of his three granddaughters.
“Hello,” Alex said. “Is your mommy home?”
The child nodded, stuck her thumb in her mouth and ran off, leaving Alex standing there and the front door wide open.
Uncertain what to do, she poked her head in. “Hello,” she called “Mrs. Wilson, are you home?”
A moment later a woman appeared, daughter in tow. Or rather, it appeared the child had her mother in tow.
Angie Wilson looked like a woman in pain. Grief harshly etched her features, creating a sad clone of the woman Alex had seen in Max’s photograph.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“I’m Alex Clarkson.” She held out the flowers. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”
Angie looked at the basket, then back up at Alex, eyes wet with tears. “Thank you. Come in.”
She took the basket and led Alex inside. The house looked as if a bomb had gone off in it. She supposed in a way, one had.
Angie cleared a space on the couch. Alex sat, then cleared her throat. “Your dad loved you and your girls so much… He told me how God had blessed him.”
Understanding crossed the woman’s face. “You’re from his church.”
When she said she wasn’t, the woman frowned. “Do I know you?”
“No, I… I only met your father once, but he touched me deeply. He was a sweet, sweet man.”
Angie began to cry. The child, who had been at her mother’s feet flipping through a picture book, climbed onto her mother’s lap, expression stricken. “Don’t cry, Mommy. Poppy’s in H
eaven.”
“You’re right, sweetie.” She hugged the child. “Could you go get Mommy a tissue?”
The girl scrambled down, then trotted off to do as her mother asked.
Angie looked at Alex. “You’re the one who found him.”
It wasn’t a question; she answered anyway. “Yes.”
“Why were you there?”
“I have a ring… it was my mother’s… he may have designed it.”
She nodded. The girl returned with the tissues. Alex waited as the woman took them, praised the child, then wiped her cheeks and blew her nose.
“Thank you for the flowers. I… If you don’t mind, now’s not a good time.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” She reached across and touched the woman’s hand. “It will get better. Give it time. I understand how your-” Alex drew a deep breath. “My mother died recently. She… took her own life.”
Angie stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just trying to say, I know how you feel.”
“My dad didn’t kill himself.”
Alex couldn’t hide her shock. “I’m… the police… I-”
“My dad did not commit suicide. He was happy. Content. Even after Mom passed away, he never-”
She stopped and fisted her fingers, as if in frustration. “You saw how frail he was! How do you think he did it?”
Alex blinked. “I don’t know. I just-”
“His hands shook so badly he had trouble picking up his cat. How could he have pulled it off? Set up the stepladder, hung the rope from a beam and tied the slip knot? It’s laughable.”
She hadn’t asked any questions, Alex realized. She had taken the scene at face value. Just as she had her mother’s.
But her mother hadn’t been happy and content. Her mother had attempted suicide before.
Alex cleared her throat. “Had your dad ever attempted this before? Had he ever talked about killing himself?”
She already knew the answer. The man who had trumpeted his blessings to a perfect stranger wouldn’t have hung himself.
Even if he had been physically able to do it. Which was questionable.
As that realization struck, so did another: If Max hadn’t killed himself, then he’d been murdered.
Her hands began to shake; she met Angie’s eyes. “Did you talk to the police? Tell them what you just told me?”
“Of course,” she said bitterly. “They treated me like I was a naive child.”
Alex could see that happening. The cops knew what they knew, and that was it. But in this case, maybe they were wrong?
“You want me to talk to them? I know Detective Reed, maybe if I explain-”
“Why would you do that for me?”
It was a fair question. One she was certain she would have asked if she’d been in Angie Wilson’s shoes.
But she was certain saying she felt somehow responsible wouldn’t go over well. The other reason would.
“I liked your dad. A lot.”
“I already spoke with Detective Reed, he wasn’t too interested in my opinion.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Alex stood. The woman followed her to her feet. “Thank you.”
She walked her to the door. There, she asked, “Did you ever find out if Dad designed your ring?”
Alex shook her head. “I guess I’ll just have to find out another way.”
“Why does it matter?”
Alex looked away, then back. “She’s gone and I don’t… have anyone else. I hoped that maybe it’d be a clue to her past. That somehow it’d lead me to my father.”
“My dad kept a portfolio of his designs. I’ll look for it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Thursday, March 11
7:40 P.M.
“Hello, Son.”
“Dad.” Reed looked past him, expecting to see his mother or his brothers. His father rarely visited without external prodding of some sort. Make that never. But today the porch behind him was empty.
He returned his gaze to his old man. “This is a surprise.”
“May I come in?”
Reed swung the door wider. “Sure. I was making dinner. Let me go take it off the stove.”
His dad stepped inside. He’d inherited the cottage from his maternal grandmother, a good thing because he’d never have been able to afford it on a cop’s salary. Not that it was large or lavish, but Sonoma County real estate trended toward outrageously pricey.
“You’ve got the place fixed up nice,” his father said, looking around the 1940s Arts and Crafts-style cottage with a scowl.
“A compliment? Wow, I didn’t think I’d live long enough.”
His father didn’t comment. Reed headed to the kitchen, turned off the burner and covered his soup. When he returned to the living room, he found his dad pacing. “Have a seat.”
“No, thanks. What I came to say, I can say standing.” He looked Reed dead in the eye. “I hear you’ve been hounding our friends. Interrupting business, stirring up bad memories.”
Apparently, he’d struck a nerve. Enough of one to send out the infantry, guns blazing. “Hounding, Dad? Funny, I call it doing my job.”
“You know how I feel about your career choice.”
“You’ve never made a secret of it. Though as we both know, how you feel about my job has zero to do with what I need to do.”
“All this over some silly tattoo.”
“That ‘silly tattoo,’ as you call it, is a link between two crimes.”
“I’m going to ask you to drop this.”
“Can’t do it.” Reed held his old man’s gaze. “What’s the significance of the vines and snake?”
“It’s nothing.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be here. We both know that.”
“I’m here because you’re making our friends uncomfortable.”
“Who called you?” Reed asked. “Treven? Clark? Carter? All the above?”
“I know what you have. This link between crimes, as you call it. Tom’s tattoo and Patsy’s ring.”
“You know about the ring?”
“I do. And I noticed her daughter wearing it.”
He put subtle, caustic emphasis on the word her, making his disdain for Patsy obvious. “What’s the significance, Dad?”
“Not what you think, I’ll tell you that. And certainly not a link to a murder.”
“What do I think?”
“Don’t play games with me, Danny.”
“You’re the one playing games, Pops. Not me. We may not have always agreed, but you’ve always been a straight shooter. Be straight with me now.”
For a long moment, his father stood frozen. Then, sighing heavily, he crossed to the couch and sank onto it. For a long moment he stared at his folded hands, then lifted his gaze. “The boys were all part of a secret club.”
Reed cocked an eyebrow. “A secret club?”
His dad averted his eyes. Reed frowned. His father was always the take-charge guy in the room. He handled every situation, was the one who made the power play.
Not today. Reed had never seen him look so uncomfortable. Reed took a seat across from him and waited.
“This is very difficult to talk about. Very difficult.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “At the time, I had no idea what was going on. When I learned… it was such a betrayal. I felt as if my heart had been ripped from my body.”
He balled his hands into fists. “Being a parent is about protecting and nurturing. You try to surround your child with all that’s good. And when evil touches-” His voice cracked.
Reed saw evil every day; he knew it existed. But coming from his dad, delivered in such high, dramatic form, he had to laugh. “Not Academy Award material, Dad, but from a guy like you, almost convincing. But frankly, I can do without it.”
“This is nothing to laugh about.”
“What kind of secret ‘evil’ club?”
“An initiation club.”
“Into what?”<
br />
“Sex,” he said, expression harsh.
“And Patsy-”
“Was the initiator. She fucked them. They each got the tattoo after. Some of them were as young as fifteen.”
Reed struggled to come to grips with what his father was telling him, and to jibe the Patsy Sommer he remembered with the sexual predator his father described. An adult having sexual relations with a minor was a crime. Didn’t matter if the minor was a male and willing participant.
“You didn’t go to the police?”
“No. I… we wanted to keep it out of the press. We felt exposing our boys to that notoriety would make it even worse.”
“Who was involved?”
“Which boys?” Reed nodded and he went on. “You know several already. Tom, of course. Carter. Clark. Joe. Terry Bianche. That other kid, they called him Spanky.”
“The one who committed suicide ten or fifteen years ago?” His dad nodded and Reed wondered aloud, “You’re saying my brother Joe was involved. He doesn’t have the tattoo.”
“What was going on came to light before he got his, thank God.”
“Mom knows?”
“No. We decided that the boys’ mothers be kept in the dark.”
“And Harlan?”
“He didn’t know and still doesn’t. We’d like it to stay that way.”
Reed stood and crossed to the pair of windows on the far wall. They looked out over an old vineyard, dark and overgrown. He’d always wondered why anyone would just let it go wild that way. The land was so valuable.
Reed looked over his shoulder at his father. “She had sex with them. That was it, the extent of the club?”
“Not quite. The initiated would watch the new initiates. Cheer them on. Then they’d all take turns with her.”
Reed dragged a hand through his hair, thinking of Alex, wondering how he would tell her. “How did you find out?”
“Joe. After Dylan disappeared, he was completely traumatized. Confessed it all.” His lips curled in distaste. “It still makes me sick to think of it.”
Reed held himself stiffly. He’d seen and heard much worse. And he’d long ago reconciled himself with the ugliness the human animal was capable of. But this sickness had touched his family. His sheltered little circle.
Blood Vines Page 19
