by Lisa Jackson
Before she could find a way to wrest the book from his grasp, he’d walked over to a chair by a window and sat himself down. She hovered nearby, worried, but he ignored her and concentrated on the book.
There wasn’t much to learn. The narrative read more like a family tree than an account of their lives, and it stopped at Catherine Rutledge and Mary Rutledge Beeman, the last descendants of their family. There was a branch that included Madeline Abernathy Turnbull. Maddie’s father, Harold Abernathy, was a cousin to Catherine and Mary’s grandmother, Grace Fitzhugh Rutledge.
“Apparently, Mary was married to someone named Beeman,” Harrison said aloud. “And she and Catherine are distant cousins to Madeline, who married someone named Turnbull.” He glanced up at the woman, who had stayed within earshot.
She pressed her lips together, torn between freezing him out and bending an ear to gossip. Gossip won, and she came a few steps closer, taking off her glasses and polishing them. “There are no documented marriages,” she said, warming to her story and, he thought, really wanting to let him know how much knowledge she’d accumulated. “Madeline Abernathy’s mother was the daughter of a Native American shaman who moved in with Madeline’s father, Harold, when she was only fifteen and against her father’s wishes. She died giving birth to Madeline. Madeline’s father, Harold, who by all accounts was a very strange man indeed, raised Madeline on his own, and she became the town oddball, a kind of idiot savant, actually. She began reading palms and telling people their futures as a means to make a living. She was in her late forties when she gave birth to Justice in nineteen seventy-five, but this account ends around nineteen seventy. You can see that pages have been ripped out of the back. That’s the way it came to us.”
“How do you know about Justice Turnbull, then?”
“Oh, I’ve volunteered here for years. Was told the year of his birth by Dr. Dolph Loman. He’s a doctor who’s lived around here forever, on the staff at Ocean Park, I think. Anyway, he gave us this account upon the death of his brother, Dr. Parnell Loman, over fifteen years ago.”
“Maybe Dolph Loman has the rest of the book,” Harrison suggested.
“Or maybe it’s been lost.” She shrugged.
“So, there’s no record of Justice’s father or this Beeman whom Mary married?”
“Not here.”
Harrison thanked her, and she seemed a little more inclined to trust him after their talk, so she left him and moved back to her desk. Before giving her back the book, Harrison studied it a bit longer. There was definitely some intermingling with the Native American population, and there were several shamans listed, as if the Abernathy-Fitzhugh-Rutledge clan couldn’t keep away from them, even though no marriages were listed.
There was also the mention of “dark gifts,” which seemed to present themselves mainly in the female descendants of the Abernathy-Fitzhugh-Rutledges. There was even speculation on Loman’s part that said female descendants found relationships outside their marriages with said shamans, but there was no written proof of these rumors.
Harrison closed the book thoughtfully, wondering if Lorelei truly possessed some of those “dark gifts” or if she’d been spoon-fed the idea of such a thing and the power of suggestion had taken over from there. Was he being too cynical? But what was the alternative? To believe she and Justice Turnbull shared a mystical bond of communication?
If not a mental, telepathic link, then at least some weird connection Harrison didn’t understand.
He handed the slim volume back to the woman at the desk and said, “I met the chronicler of this account, Herman Smythe.”
“At Seagull Pointe?”
“Yep. He seems a little foggy now, but he’s the one who compiled this information?”
“His name’s on the book,” she pointed out, again puffing up with her specific knowledge of the area.
He left the historical society building and placed a call to Laura, glad when she answered right away. She was still at his sister’s, but getting ready to go to work. From the sound of it, she’d had a wonderful morning with Kirsten, who had gone to work but was planning to take a break from the bakery to drive Laura to the hospital soon. Laura had tried to dissuade her, but Kirsten refused to listen. Harrison remarked that stubbornness was a trademark of his sister’s.
“The police,” he reminded her, but could tell, before Laura said so, that she was going to refuse him again.
“I have a dinner break. If you still think it’s necessary later this afternoon, then I’ll go.”
“I don’t want to talk to them again, either. But yeah, I think it’s necessary.”
“Okay,” she agreed reluctantly, and they made a date for him to pick her up from work at her dinner hour.
Harrison then flirted with the idea of heading to Zellman’s house and seeing if the good doctor was up for an interview, but the Deadly Sinners story still required a few final touches, so, though it chafed him, he decided to wait on that till later. Instead, heading for the Breeze, he put a call into Dinah, Herm’s daughter, his curiosity about the Colony definitely on an upswing. But he reached her voice mail, as ever, and ended up leaving his name and number.
Buddy was coming out of the back when Harrison entered the Breeze offices. He signaled that Vic Connelly was in his office, and Harrison walked along a short hallway, then knocked on a frosted glass door and heard Vic’s gravelly voice call, “Yeah?”
Harrison stuck his head inside. Vic’s wild white hair was especially flyaway today and looked like pale cotton candy. “Just checking in,” Harrison told the editor.
“You following up on those teen thieves some more? We’re getting a lot of good feedback from that Kirby woman jumping on it. People want to talk to you.”
“What people?”
“The ringleader’s dad, for one. Bryce Vernon. The land developer? Thought he was gonna blow a gasket. Acted like you’d slandered his little darling. But then the little darling himself called for you.”
“What? Noah Vernon called the paper?”
“Sure did,” Vic said. “Buddy took the call but wasn’t sure you wanted to give out your cell number. What the hell’s that all about?”
Swearing, Harrison turned on his heel and strode to where Buddy was seated at a computer. Buddy, smiling, picked up a piece of paper and waved it at Harrison, who snatched it from him.
“I told you to give out my number,” Harrison growled.
“Is that a full green light?”
“Don’t be a pain in the ass. Yeah. Whatever. What time did Noah Vernon call?”
Buddy glanced at the clock. “About seventeen minutes ago. I knew you were on your way, so I thought I’d wait and give you the message in person.”
Harrison was out the door before Buddy finished speaking, pressing the buttons on his cell phone once again, this time with Noah Vernon’s number. It rang several times and then Noah himself answered with, “Yo. Who’s this?”
“Yo. It’s Harrison Frost. You called me.”
A moment. Then, “Oh, yeah, the reporter. Well, I’m offering you an exclusive for a little cash.”
Harrison laughed. “You don’t need the money. What is this?”
“I do need the money. My old man’s cutting me off.” He sounded offended.
“I’ve got thirteen dollars and twenty-nine cents on me,” Harrison said.
“You know what I mean.”
“Noah, I’m not going to pay you for your exclusive. A lot of this tale’s been told already. But if you want your voice heard, I’ll put it in the paper. That’s all I can offer you.”
“I’m under eighteen, man,” he said, testing.
“Until tomorrow.”
“You’re dialed in,” he said, surprised.
“Do you want to meet?”
“I’m, like, under house arrest by my dad,” he admitted with repressed fury. “But he’s a dickhead and I could use a smoke. Can you pick me up?”
“What about being under house arrest?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Harrison told him, and then made good on his promise by driving ten miles over the speed limit to pull up in front of a beautifully restored turn-of-the-century home on a sidewalk lined by trees on J Street, one of Seaside’s alphabet letter blocks.
Noah must have been waiting for him, because he came through the front door as soon as Harrison pulled up to the curb. He wore pants that looked like they would fall off his hips and a long blue T-shirt that stuck out from under a black nylon jacket. A black watch cap was stuck snugly on his head, and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to bake beneath the growing heat of the sun.
He slid into the passenger seat of the dusty Impala and said, “Nice car,” with a smirk.
“Do you always dress like you took your clothes off a street bum?” Harrison rejoined.
“Yeah.” He glared at Harrison through fiery blue eyes.
It was with a bit of surprise that Harrison realized Noah Vernon was an exceptionally handsome young man. It irked him that someone so blessed with looks, money, and an obviously caring family, no matter if Noah thought Dad was a dickhead or not, could thumb his nose at every gift he’d been given.
“I can’t wait to hear why you’re so messed up,” he told the kid. “Really. It looks like life’s really knocked you down.” He glanced back at the immaculately groomed property.
“Well, fuck you,” Noah said.
“Back at ’cha,” Harrison replied as they drove out of town. He had sized Noah Vernon up immediately and, almost without thinking, knew how he was going to treat the kid: like the loser dirtbag he’d shown himself to be.
“Where are you taking me?” Noah demanded as soon as they left Seaside’s city limits and headed south down 101.
“Don’t know yet. Where do you want to go?”
“This is kidnapping!”
Harrison actually laughed. “Really? That’s all you’ve got? Lame, Noah. You know absolutely nothing about anything, yet you think you have all the answers.”
“You can’t say that to me!” he declared, shocked. “Wow. I thought you were cool. You’re a reporter! You’re supposed to take down what I say.”
“I’m not cool with people who threaten someone close to me,” Harrison said in a cold voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Harrison said. He had no intention of telling him anything about how he knew the woman Noah had caught eavesdropping. “Just wanted to be clear on how I felt about you.”
Noah blinked in disbelief. “How you feel about me? Seriously?”
Harrison told him, “I don’t like you. But I’ll write up your story, let others make a judgment on you. Is that what you want? To be heard, Envy?”
“I got a right to be heard.” His blue eyes were searching out the window, half panicked, as if he truly believed Harrison was taking him somewhere against his will.
“I’m all ears,” Harrison said. The little shit had everything going for him, and he was determined to be as ungrateful as he could possibly be. Pauline Kirby was right: he did think Noah should be given more than a slap on the wrist for his exploits.
“Okay,” Noah said.
“Then we’ll stop at Ecola Park and you can tell me all about it.”
Kirsten dropped Laura off at the hospital, and Laura turned and waved her a good-bye, to which Chico wagged his tail wildly in response.
It was strange, but Laura felt like she’d really made a friend of Harrison’s sister, who’d been fascinated that she was a member of the “cult.” Laura had managed to convince her that they weren’t as weird as the locals made them out to be, but equally, Kirsten pointed out that their behavior and chosen way of life set them up to be targets of gossip and innuendo.
But then the conversation had eventually turned from Laura and moved to Kirsten and Didi and the tragic situation that had brought them to the coast. “I miss him,” she said, after telling Laura how she’d met Manny Rojas, how he’d made her laugh, how she’d fallen in love in one minute. “I’ve put the bad stuff behind me, pretty much,” she said, her smile faint. “But I wish I had him back.”
“I’m sorry,” Laura said, meaning it.
Kirsten shrugged, as if shaking off the depression and gloom physically. “So, okay, we’ve covered your family and mine. Tell me more about you and Harrison. If you tell me there’s nothing between you, I won’t believe you.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
“I don’t believe you.”
They both laughed and then Laura said, “I’ve just gotten a divorce. I’m very far away from a relationship with anyone else for a lot of reasons.”
“Like what else?”
For one crazy moment, Laura had wanted to confide in her about the baby. But reason reasserted itself, and in lieu of answering, she said, “Justice is after me and my family. Harrison’s helping me. We’re going to the authorities later today, and I’m going to tell them that . . . Justice attacked me. That’s why we showed up at your house.”
“What? You didn’t say that before!”
So, Laura explained about the events the prior evening that led Harrison to take her to Kirsten’s cottage, and Kirsten, now aware completely, insisted they both stay with her again that night. Laura agreed, conditionally, needing Harrison’s vote on the decision as well, though it was undoubtedly a slam dunk. She didn’t want to go home. Ever. Well, at least until she fixed the door Justice had broken in, and even then she worried she might never feel safe there again.
Now, as she entered the hospital and headed for her locker, the first person she ran into was Byron. He was standing outside the staff room door, as if he was waiting for someone. Her? Or, just anyone to sweep into his trap?
He watched her as she approached, and she couldn’t contain the groan that passed her lips. How, how, had she ever thought she was in love with him?
“You look even worse than the last time I saw you,” he told her, his laserlike gaze raking over her with a surgeon’s impassivity.
“Hi to you, too.” She turned toward the room, but his hand caught the crook of her arm.
“You are pregnant,” he stated flatly. Then, “See, you’re not the only one who can diagnose around here. Is it mine?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I’m not pregnant. I guess I am the only one who can diagnose around here,” she challenged, hoping the lie didn’t show on her face.
“If it isn’t mine, whose is it?” He leaned closer to her.
“Is the issue that you’re worried there might be a host of little Byrons incubating around the area? Maybe you ought to check with a current girlfriend or two and leave your ex-wife out of it.”
His lips parted in true surprise. “When did you turn into such a witch?”
“I’ve always been a witch,” Laura said with a trace of bitterness. “Ask anyone around town.”
She left him with a lost look on his face that was priceless. It made her almost laugh. He didn’t know her history, of course, and therefore didn’t know she was associated with the “cult” at Siren Song.
But as soon as she’d taken ten steps away, she was seized by a wave of reality-based fear, and she leaned against her locker as she opened it. The truth was, she was pregnant. And it was his baby. And no amount of wishing and hoping was going to change that fact. Sooner or later, she was going to have to stop shoving the issue aside and face it head-on.
CHAPTER 31
Ecola State Park was on the outskirts of the town of Cannon Beach, named for the cannon replicas from shipwrecks that were placed in vehicle turnouts located at either end of the entrances to the town. Cannon Beach was a more chichi place than Seaside, full of expensi
ve candy stores and clothing shops and restaurants, in contrast to the Coney Island feel of its northern neighbor. It was the “it” place to go on Oregon’s northern coastline, although the affluent were slowly moving to towns south of it as well.
Harrison pulled into the park and inwardly sighed as Noah jumped out of the car almost before it stopped moving, slamming the passenger door hard enough to give the Impala a case of the shakes.
The kid walked to an empty picnic table and threw himself onto the bench. Harrison had shed his jacket earlier, when the sun first threatened to come out from hiding behind the clouds, and now he watched as Noah yanked off the watch cap and ran a hand through his rumpled light brown hair. He next pulled off his black jacket, and without the armor he looked skinny and vulnerable and young.
Grabbing the bench opposite Noah, who was facing the ocean, Harrison made sure he wasn’t in the way of the kid’s view. Noah stared toward the sea for a few moments, then dragged a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, throwing Harrison a dark look in the process to see if he was going to stop him. When he got no reaction, he shook out a cigarette, jammed it to his lips, then pulled out a lighter and touched the flame to the end, sucking hard. He had to fight back a minor cough, which made Harrison inwardly sigh; then he blew out a stream of smoke and said, “They think they’re so smart, you know. The ones we target. Got all the answers. Well, they don’t know jack shit.”
“Mind if I make notes?” Harrison asked, pulling out his notebook from his back pants pocket.
“Do what’cha gotta do.”
“The ones you target . . . Do you mean your classmates or their parents, or both?”
“Their parents are fucked up, man. That’s for sure. So are mine.”
