Goodbye Forever
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Bonnie Hearn Hill
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue: Three Years Earlier: The Camp
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Selection of Recent Titles by Bonnie Hearn Hill
GEMINI NIGHT
GHOST ISLAND
MISTRESS
LAST WORDS
IF ANYTHING SHOULD HAPPEN *
GOODBYE FOREVER *
* available from Severn House
GOODBYE FOREVER
Bonnie Hearn Hill
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 by Bonnie Hearn Hill.
The right of Bonnie Hearn Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Hill, Bonnie Hearn, 1945- author.
Goodbye forever.
1. Women radio talk show hosts–California–Fiction.
2. Missing persons–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Detective
and mystery stories.
I. Title
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8586-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-656-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-749-3 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Ann and John Brantingham,
with love
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, I thank Laura Dail for her excellent editing suggestions, advice, and inspiration as my literary agent. I’m also grateful to Larry Hill and my critique family: Jen Badasci, Ann and John Brantingham, Hazel Dixon-Cooper, and Christopher Allan Poe. Every writer needs a strong support team. Thank you, Cyndi Avants, Ted Badasci, Brandi Bagley, Stella Barberis, Anne Biggs, Meredith Booey, Jeani Tokumoto Brown, Gayle Taylor Davis, Jeannie Groves Erdman, Fred and Stephanie Gonzalez, Elbie Groves, Lisanne Harrington, Rochelle Kaye, Kara Lucas, Rome Lucas, Stacy Lucas, Brenda Najimian Magarity, Alice McCord, John Milburn, Barb Moen, Janice Noga, Bob and Carol O’Hanneson, Toni Raymus, Dee and Jon Rose, Dianne Swain, Sylvia True, Unni Turrettini, and Anne Whitehurst.
PROLOGUE
Three years earlier: The camp
Wyatt’s screams have died out like the fire in the cage. Even though Jessica’s blistered knuckles burn, her teeth chatter in the cold. She pulls her jacket tightly around her until she feels the seams threaten to burst. Now, only an occasional whimper rises above the murmurs of the other kids. Poor Wyatt, his only sin being weaker than they pretend to be.
The broken shadows of redwoods loom over them. Hidden here, with smoke still clouding the night air, she can smell the ocean. Jessica breathes it in and tells herself that they really are going to be able to leave. Dr Weaver said only fire, flood, or blood would cause him to cancel his so-called study, and they have given him two of the three.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucas whispers. ‘You’re shivering.’
‘We almost killed Wyatt,’ Jessica tells him. ‘You almost killed Wyatt.’
‘Thanks to you, that fire was out practically before it started.’ Lucas pushes a wisp of his pale hair over his ear, and even though he is only eleven years old, he speaks deliberately, the way Dr Weaver does. ‘He’ll be all right, and now the Weasel will be forced to let us go. You intervened too soon.’
‘Intervened? He could have died, Lucas.’
‘At least that would have gotten us out.’ She whirls around to look at him, and the little boy grins back. ‘Just kidding. I only wish you would have waited another five minutes.’
‘I couldn’t.’ She gestures toward the campground, where Weaver finishes bandaging Wyatt’s arm. ‘And what we did to him is a crime, isn’t it?’
‘We’re minors.’ Lucas chuckles softly. ‘Disturbed children. Besides, you don’t really think the doctor will risk admitting the truth about his pet project, do you? I’ll bet he sends us home tomorrow – tonight even.’
Jessica wants to believe him. Even though he is the youngest in the group, she trusts him more than any of them. He is the one who pointed out that they’re nothing but laboratory rats to Weaver. He is also the one who shoved the burning logs into the cage less than an hour ago, risking everything, even Wyatt’s life, to free them.
Everyone except Jessica had scattered. Wyatt’s shrieks stopped her, though, and as the flames burned her fingers, she yanked at the rickety bars and shouted to the others for help. Soon they were all tugging at the cage, except Lucas, who stood off to the side, watching, as Weaver ran out like the great rescuer.
Now, standing in the middle of the camp, his arm around Wyatt’s shoulder, Weaver calls them back, as always, in the order of their ages. ‘Ike, Theo, Angel, Jessica, Sissy, Lucas.’ He speaks in a sing-song voice. ‘You can come out now.’
One by one, they creep out from behind the trees and go back to the clearing – big Ike tense and ready for a fight, Angel and Sissy holding hands for once like good little girls, Theo nerdy and alone as always.
‘You disobeyed me,’ Dr Weaver says. ‘Due to my quick actions, Wyatt will be fine, but you could have seriously injured him. Who started the fire?’
Silence. Only the ocean and the breeze through the pines.
Weaver’s thin lips tighten. ‘I’ll ask you again. Who started it?’
Lucas, she can hear them thinking alone and together. We have to protect Lucas.
No one speaks.
‘Wyatt?’
‘I don’t know. Couldn’t see.’ He looks down and then glances at Jessica.
‘Jessica.’ Weaver’s voice is a command in the sooty air.
‘Neither could I.’ She forces herself to look right at him, into the weasel eyes that inspired his nickname.
‘Yet you were the one nearest the cage. Hold up your fingers, please.’
She pauses, but then Lucas nudges her, and she remembers that the punishments get worse the longer they put them off. Silently, she lifts her hands, knuckles out, and Weaver squints through his glasses.
‘They’ve been burned, have they not?’
She nods. ‘I was trying to help, to get him out.’
‘Then surely you saw who took the logs from the fire pit and shoved them in there.’
She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’
‘If you tell me, there will be no reprimand for your earlier silence.’ He moves nearer until he is close enough to touch her. But Weaver will not touch her, she knows. His punishments don’t leave marks. ‘Just a name. That’s all I want.’
She stares at a blue-gray blob of smoke as the breeze breaks it up and blows it away.
‘No.’ Her voice trembles.
‘All right, then.’ Weaver watches, almost sadly, as the last of the smoke disappears. ‘I have no choice but to call off the study. Your parents will be notified tomorrow. Wyatt, as you know, has permission to stay here until the paperwork is completed for his new foster home. There’s a little ice cream left from dinner, and I’m sure you’ll agree that he should have it.’
They mumble their responses.
‘My work will continue, however,’ Weaver says. ‘We have enough parents who are interested. I’ll meet you in the kitchen, Wyatt, and I’ll see the rest of you in the morning.’
Their shoes crunch on the branches as they head back inside the barracks.
‘One moment, Jessica.’ She stops, and a chill runs up her neck. ‘Come back here, please.’
Lucas starts to follow her. She gives him a quick shake of her head, and Weaver doesn’t seem to notice. Lucas hurries to catch up with the others. Good. At least he is safe.
When they are face to face, Weaver rubs his chin and gives her a watery-eyed expression that he must think passes for concern. ‘I’m not certain what part you played in what happened tonight, so I must blame you for ruining the completion of this current study.’
‘You’d have to end it whether I told you anything or not,’ she replies.
He clenches his teeth. ‘Indeed I would, and that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You don’t care, you say? Not about anything or anyone?’
‘No.’ Tears fill her eyes.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jessica, and I wish I knew how to help you. Tonight, you will experience a little of what you put poor Wyatt through. Over there, please.’
He wants her to beg, to sob, to rat out poor Lucas, who is probably more scared than she is. If she doesn’t, Weaver will make her stay out here all night in that stinky cage too small for any human, the cage where they had planned to burn Wyatt. God, would they have really done that?
‘Jessica?’
‘All right.’
‘What did you say?’ Weaver asks.
She stands straighter, tries to shut out the thought of what waits, and glares at him with all the hatred she feels. ‘I said all right.’
Unable to sleep, not fully awake, she leans against the cold slats, drifting in numb pain.
‘Jessie.’ She hears her name, opens her eyes, and tries to move. ‘I brought you a blanket.’
Lucas shoves it through the bars, and Jessica wraps it around her. ‘God, I’m freezing. You’d better get back before he sees you.’
‘He’s asleep.’ Lucas moves close to the bars, his eyes large in the hazy light. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was mad at you for putting out the fire too soon.’
‘It wasn’t too soon.’ She breathes in the nasty smell of the cage and hears Wyatt’s screams all over again.
‘All I know is we’ll get the Weasel for this, Jessie. I promise you.’
‘I’ll just be glad to get out of here. Don’t know where I’m going, though.’
‘You’re going with me,’ Lucas says. ‘The next time we come back here, the Weasel will die.’
‘I wish.’
‘It’s not that hard to kill someone. There’s only one of him.’
‘Sure,’ she says, wanting only to calm him down so that Weaver won’t find him out here.
‘No. I mean it.’ Lucas clutches the bars and presses his face against them so that all she can see are his eyes. ‘I have a place, Jessie, and I have a plan.’
ONE
The day she learned of the girl’s disappearance, all Kit Doyle wanted to do was sleep in. That was what people who worked all week did on Saturday. Sleep was an escape from what she had just gone through. It was a way of avoiding this reconciliation that felt neither all right nor all wrong.
Richard wouldn’t get up early and drive her across town just to shop for vegetables, but she didn’t feel like arguing. Six months before, Kit had lost her best friend and almost her own life while finding her biological mother. Now, she and Richard still lived in separate residences by day. By night, they stayed at Kit’s house, lying in the bed that used to be theirs, watching films they had once loved, and reading from new books they wanted to share. They talked to each other. They listened. Most of all, they tried to cling on to what had brought them together in the first place. At its best, what they shared in that bed felt like hope to Kit, and, at its worst, like desperation. Although they couldn’t seem to find what they had lost of their marriage, they couldn’t let go of what remained of it either.
As they headed for the raw-food truck at a Sacramento farmers’ market on that Saturday morning, Kit tried to feel like the wife she almost was, the wife she would sacrifice almost anything to be. The almost was the problem, and, even after everything she had gone through, it hadn’t changed. Richard chewed on his lip, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
‘Something on your mind?’ she asked, thinking she would just as soon learn his reason for this trip now as later.
‘I was thinking about the quote I read you earlier by that Vietnamese monk. If we look deeply at the rose, we see the garbage; if we look deeply at the garbage, we see the rose.’
The point, Kit guessed, was how connected the ups and downs of people’s lives must be. Or maybe just that no one should view anything as unchangeable. Richard could always find an obscure, indirect way to discuss any topic, and she both loved and hated that about him. ‘Meaning that?’ she asked him.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘but thinking about it makes me feel good.’
They pulled in and parked in the dirt. Again, Kit wondered why he seemed both focused and distracted. The farmers’ market stretched out along a seemingly endless strip of grass in what looked like an overgrown parking lot. Vendors peddled everything from jasmine rice pudding and local honey to homemade tamales and the healthy stuff Richard steered them toward. He put his arm around her as if sensing that she wanted to know why he had insisted they come here on her Saturday off.
‘The ones with the green banners are the most sustainable booths,’ he told her.
‘No hotdogs? No curly fries?’
‘Not today. You might like this, though.’
They stopped, and he handed her a paper cup of something the texture of hummus.
‘Cashew queso,’ he said.
Roughly translated, fake cheese made out of boiled nuts.
‘Not bad.’ Kit ate the stuff and then tossed the cardboard dipper i
nto the suspiciously full trash barrel beside the food truck. ‘Why did you really want to come here today?’
‘To help you reconsider the way you eat, perhaps.’ The warm autumn breeze tossed Richard’s hair across his eyes. Farm-dog hair, she thought, silky and untamed.
‘You’re a vet, not a dietician.’ She leaned against him and tried to figure out what he really had on his mind. ‘I eat very well actually.’
‘You cook very well.’ Kit looked up into his eyes and guessed he was doing his best to hold back something. Maybe a secret. Maybe an emotion. Maybe even tears.
‘Am I right in suspecting this conversation is leading somewhere other than the nutritional and political correctness of my sirloin tips in Marsala sauce?’
He seemed to force a smile. ‘Remember my niece, Jessica?’
She felt her lips tighten. ‘Your brother’s daughter? You haven’t mentioned her since we started seeing each other again.’
‘Jessica’s missing.’
‘Missing how?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What do you mean you’re not sure?’ she demanded. ‘What happened?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
Without saying more, he led her to a booth with a sign that read Organic plums. Last of the season.
The unsmiling blond woman behind the counter offered them a tiny black lacquer tray. The thin golden plum slices smelled and tasted like spring. The woman watched Kit as if expecting a comment.
‘These are wonderful,’ Kit told her.
The blonde’s expression didn’t change.
‘This is Sarah.’ Richard nodded toward the woman with the gelled-back hair and long brass earrings. ‘Sarah, this is—’