A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  “Tori,” he said quietly, darkly. “This was something that your mother was working on. It’s not ready yet. She was going to finish it, and let you read it when you were older.”

  “She’s not going to finish it now, is she?”

  They both stared at each other. Wind gusted and raindrops plopped against the dark window. Branches brushed and scratched at the eaves.

  “It’s . . . adult material,” he said. “There’s violence.”

  “I read adult books. I’ve read Mom’s others. I got them from the library. I read sex.” She spat the word at him, shaking inside. “What do you think? I’m almost twelve. I know thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds from school who have sex. Julia Borsos did it with Harlan. Did you know that? Did you know that’s why I punched her face and burned her books, because I hate her guts because Harlan was my boyfriend. And she took him away because she’s a slut, and she can do that. And I wouldn’t. Do you think I don’t understand the mechanics of sex? And death—I was there when Mom died. She died in my hands. I . . . I couldn’t pull her out. I felt her struggling to live . . . it . . . was my fault.” Her eyes burned, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

  He blanched. Another squall of raindrops beat against the window.

  “You need to give me those pages, kiddo,” he said, his voice going thick, his own eyes filling with emotion.

  He took them gently out of her hands. She let him. She had to. She was worried about enraging him again. In that terrible moment when she’d thought he might strike her, she’d glimpsed in his face the same tightness, the same hot glitter, the same black, blinding rage that had consumed her when she’d found out about Julia and Harlan. A terrible, frightening sort of violence that had turned her into an animal over which she’d had no control.

  “Thank you.”

  “I really do hate you,” she whispered. Tears washing softly down her face now. “You were going to hit me.”

  He reached out with his arm. “Come here.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders, tried to gather her against himself like he used to when she was little. She pulled away, squirmed, but his grip tightened. He forced her into a great big bear hug, and he would not let go. His familiar dad smell wrapped around her, stirring warm childhood memories. And in a few beats she felt her muscles give. A sob racked through her body.

  He stroked her hair, rocking her gently as she sobbed. And sobbed. Until she was dry. Then she just leaned into her dad’s body, feeling like she used to when she was a child, when she’d needed her dad. When he could stop all the evil in her world. When she would race into his arms when he came home, and he’d lift her all the way up to the ceiling and spin her around and around in laughing circles.

  She felt a wetness against her brow. And with shock Tori realized her big cop dad, the detective who hunted down killers and stuck them in prison, the man who’d protected her all her life, was crying. Hurt. Vulnerable.

  Inside Tori went dead still.

  That was perhaps the most terrifyingly alone feeling of all—realizing her dad was not invincible. That he was as lost as she was.

  And he was sick.

  There was something terribly wrong with him. She’d heard him talking to Aunt Lou on the phone, and she was too afraid to ask him, to make it real, to let him know that she’d eavesdropped.

  “I miss her too, sweetie. God, I miss her too.”

  She bit her lip hard.

  He moved hair back from her face, looked deep into her eyes.

  “I’m going to take you away, okay?” he whispered. “Just me and you. We’re going to go away for the Thanksgiving weekend. We can eat someone else’s turkey dinner. Make some new holiday memories. We can stay longer than the weekend if we want, not worry about school. Spend some time together again. Get away from the city, out of this rain. We’ll leave tomorrow, okay, at first light? I’ll have the truck and camper ready.” He cleared his throat. “Come, let’s get you some dinner and into bed. Early start tomorrow. I’ll clean up here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “A place called Broken Bar Ranch,” he murmured against her hair.

  Cole pushed open the door quietly and stepped into his father’s room. His attention shot immediately to the wheelchair next to the bed. Shock plunged through him. He had no idea his father was in a chair. The indignity of that wheelchair had to be killing a man like his dad. A man who once used to stride this land, hunt these forests, fish these streams . . .

  His gaze shifted to a drip and oxygen machine against the wall, then settled on his father’s shape in the bed. He was snoring great big bear snores, but he was a gray shadow of the man he’d once been. His cheeks appeared hollowed, very lined. His skin was rough in texture and sallow, his bushy beard unkempt. Perspiration sheened his face. He seemed vulnerable in sleep.

  Cole walked quietly over to the window that looked toward the lake and mountains in the distance. He dug his hands deep into his pockets as he studied the view. He felt exhausted suddenly.

  He caught sight of Olivia below, walking across the grass toward the alders. She had a slight awkwardness to her gait, a bit of a limp.

  His father stirred behind him. Cole’s pulse kicked. He shot a glance at the bedroom door that he’d left slightly ajar. He should leave, quickly, before his father woke, giving him some dignity.

  But as he carefully crossed the room, a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. Cole stilled. Too late. His father’s eyes popped open.

  “Who’s there? Who is that!” His father blinked as he tried to focus. “Cole?”

  “Hey, Dad. Yeah, it’s me.”

  A myriad of emotions chased over the old man’s features, from shock to pleasure, confusion, then firming into tight anger. His fists balled the sheets as he fought to sit up.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d stop by, see how you were.”

  His father struggled to get himself into a position where he could lean back against the headboard, but as soon as he did, he sucked air in sharply and doubled over in pain. He groped blindly for the bedside table, fumbling and knocking over a container of pills.

  Cole surged instantly to the bedside and caught the bottle from falling off the edge. He handed the container to his father, then tried to help him sit back up.

  “Get your hands off me.” He smacked Cole away and fought himself up back into a sitting position. “You come to check on your inheritance? Did you talk to Forbes on your way up about selling?” He battled with gnarled joints to open his pills. His eyes, once such a piercing, clear gray, were rheumy and bloodshot.

  “That’s not—”

  “Who did this? Who called you? Halliday?”

  “Olivia.”

  “Shit.” He looked away. Then he swore again as he tried once more to open his pills.

  “Need some help with that?” Cole nodded to the pill container.

  “Get the hell out of here. I don’t need any help.”

  Cole’s heart beat hard against his ribs, tension rising in his gut. He remained, silent, watching his dad struggle with the pills.

  “What’re you standing there for—what do you want?” his father said again. “What the fuck did Olivia tell you that made you leave Cuba?”

  “Florida—I was in the Keys. She told me you were dying.”

  Myron stared. Silence hung. Then he reached over and bashed the intercom button on the wall next to his bed with the base of his fist “Carrick! Where in the hell are you, woman. Get upstairs. Now.”

  He managed to pop the lid off his pills. He fisted a couple and stuffed them into his mouth. With shaking hands he reached for the glass of water on the stand.

  Cole handed the glass to him. His father stilled as their eyes met. He helped his dad drink. The old man closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if awaiting the effect of th
e medication. Cole read the label. Big-gun painkillers.

  Eyes still closed, perspiration beading on his brow, his father said, “Is Jane here, too? Have the two of you cut a deal to sell this place before I’m cold in my bloody grave?”

  Cole blew out a chestful of air, guilt twisting through him. “Would you stop beating that drum for a moment—I don’t want this place. I don’t care what you do with it.”

  Myron’s eyes flared open. With the back of his fist, he hammered at the intercom button next to his bed again, repeatedly, angrily, in frustration, pain.

  “Get me Mrs. Carrick,” he barked. “Tell Olivia I want to see her. Now. Where is she?”

  “I saw her heading down through the trees.”

  His father winced, then took a deep, slow breath.

  Adele Carrick entered the room.

  “Thank God, woman,” his father muttered. “Pass me my clothes, please. And get my son out of my bedroom. Give me some dignity and space here.”

  She hesitated, glanced at Cole, then bustled about the room, gathering clothes.

  “Shall we get you ready for dinner, then, Mr. McDonough?”

  “Not hungry. Just get him out.”

  “Shall I prepare one of the lodge bedrooms for Cole?”

  “He can have the empty staff cabin. Give him the keys.” He looked at his son. “You’ll prefer the privacy, I’m sure.”

  Cole stepped outside the door, adrenaline hammering through his blood. From the passageway he heard his father muttering, “Thirteen goddamn years and he’s standing there next to my bed while I’m sleeping. The prodigal son returned. No warning, nothing . . .”

  Cole started down the passage toward the stairwell.

  What in the hell was he doing here anyway? It was a mistake. On so many levels.

  Adele came out, closing the door softly behind her. She caught up to him. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McDonough.”

  “It’s Cole, please. You make me sound like my father. And it’s fine—I didn’t expect less.”

  “He’s in a lot of pain. He’s not thinking clearly. He asked if you would meet him in the library tomorrow at eleven.”

  “Right.” He snorted. “A formal meeting.”

  “Come, I’ll give you those cabin keys. They’re in the office downstairs.”

  Eugene sensed the subtle shift in the weather. He could taste the coming snow on his tongue. Tick tock, nature’s clock. He hummed softly—a refrain from Beethoven’s Fidelio—as he wound shimmering purple thread around the hook secured in the vise clamped to the camper table. His mother used to like Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Händel. Some Wagner. She used to play operas on vinyl records using an old turntable powered by solar energy and water from the creek. Totally self-sustainable they’d been.

  He threaded one of the red beads and wound it onto the body he was creating around the hook. He added two more beads. Once the beads were securely tied, he dabbed them with a clear nail varnish he’d found in the bunk box beside the mattress. He shifted to a strain from Mozart’s Don Giovanni as he shredded pieces of lime-green surveyor’s tape.

  Sarah would like this gift.

  CHAPTER 7

  Vancouver. Saturday morning. Two days to Thanksgiving.

  The day dawned in shades of gray, and rain fell in a soft mist. From her upstairs bedroom window Tori watched her dad in the driveway. He was jacking up the camper so he could drive his Dodge Ram under it. He didn’t look sick. She wondered what could be wrong with him. Memories sliced through her—his big bear hugs. Him laughing at Mom’s jokes. A strange feeling tightened in her chest, and she was filled with a moment of compassion. He missed his wife. She’d seen real pain in his eyes yesterday. And now he looked so alone out there in the dark, wet morning. Alone like she felt. Her hands tightened on the windowsill.

  He’d told her to pack her bags, and her gear was on her bed ready to go. She figured he’d be another twenty minutes at least, getting the camper hiked up and secured properly on the bed of the truck.

  She took her digital reader and cord into her mother’s office and quickly powered up her mom’s laptop.

  A dialogue box popped up asking for a password. She cursed, racking her brain for ideas. On a whim she entered her own name into the box. Victoria.

  It opened.

  Tori stared.

  Her own name had unlocked the private world into her mother’s computer. Emotion stung her eyes. Love, a huge aching hole of it, burned in her chest. She heard the big diesel engine of her dad’s truck rumble to life. He’d be reversing it under the camper now. Her heart hammered. She didn’t have long. Hurriedly she did a computer search for the title of her mother’s draft manuscript: The Pledge.

  Her father had locked the paper copy away, but there had to be a digital version in here.

  Bingo. There it was.

  Her hands started to shake a little as she plugged in her USB cord and connected her e-reader to the laptop. She hit the keys to send the manuscript to her e-reader. The truck’s engine went suddenly silent. She tensed.

  The file transferred. Pulse racing, Tori disconnected her digital reader.

  The downstairs door banged.

  “Tori! You ready?”

  She closed down the computer, and, grabbing her e-reader, she ran softly on socked feet out the door and down the passage. Leaning over the banister, she called down the stairs. “I’ll be down in a sec, Dad.”

  “I’m just hooking up the trailer now, then we’re good to go.”

  Mouth dry, hands clammy, she hurried to her room, closed the door. She checked her e-reader. It was there—her mother’s last work in progress was safely stashed inside her device. She was going to be able to take something of her mother with her. She was going to read her last words. Tori closed her eyes, clutching the reader to her chest. And she mouthed the words: Thank you.

  Cole was awake before sunrise. Last night he’d showered, shaved, and crashed like the dead. This morning he was a new man—without a hangover for the first time in six months, something of a stranger to himself. He made coffee in the small kitchenette that overlooked the lake. The staff cabin was tiny but warm from the woodstove, and Adele had seen to it that there were basic supplies in the cupboards and fridge. Propane heated the water in the bathroom and at the kitchen sink, but there was no electricity. Internet access was apparently available via the sat dish on the lodge roof. He’d be able to charge his laptop in the lodge and work down here. If he found the inspiration.

  He shrugged into his jacket, took his mug, and stepped out onto the small porch. He sipped his coffee, listening to the loons. From here he could glimpse the other staff cabin through the trees.

  The sun was just peeping over the ridge, the first gold rays hitting the snow on the Marble range. Ribbons of yellow deciduous foliage cut through the dense green décolletage of the mountains, and the air was delicate with cold. He could feel the whisperings of winter creeping silently over the high plateau.

  He’d missed the sharp definition of seasons while in Africa, Cuba, Pakistan, Afghanistan. He’d always loved this time of year, when salmon came home to spawn, silvery and red in shining water. When the leaves turned gold and crackled underfoot, and hoarfrost grew on berry branches. When the scent of wood smoke mingled with the fragrance of pine. Memories, a bittersweet mix, filled Cole’s mind as he sipped his brew.

  What now? He stood at a crossroads. Sober, he now had to face what he’d been avoiding—finding a way to move forward. To write again. A new story. Something that interested him.

  He stilled as the door of the other cabin opened. Out came Ace followed by Olivia. She marched determinedly over the frosted grass. Long legs. Slim jeans. A thick down vest over her long-sleeved sweater. Her ponytail swung jauntily.

  “Morning!” he called.

  She stopped dead in her tracks. Stared.

  A
ce gamboled over and up onto his porch. Cole bent down and ruffled the dog’s fur.

  Olivia came across the grass. “What are you doing in the staff cabin?”

  “Apparently I like the privacy.”

  “Myron said that?”

  “He doesn’t want me in his house.” He sipped from his mug, watching her.

  She stared up at him. This morning her eyes were the color of the lake—a pale green made luminescent by the underwater white marl shoals. Her cheeks and nose were pinked with cold. She seemed to be reevaluating him, taking in his cleaned-up appearance.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  He shrugged. “I knew it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.”

  “Why did you come, then?”

  He snorted. “Good question. I was on a plane before I had a chance to sober up and change my mind. So, what’s on the ranch work agenda this morning?”

  Her shoulders stiffened slightly. This was her turf, and he was muscling in.

  “I never got around to checking those campsite guests in yesterday. And I need to clean up the bins, put in new garbage bags, that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  A wariness snapped through her eyes. He could see her walls shooting back up.

  “Come on, humor me. Show me the lay of the land, how the ranch works. I’m not so bad to be around.” He set his mug down on the railing, reached over and shut his door. Jogging down the stairs, he zipped up his jacket.

  She frowned. “I’d rather do it alone.”

  “What? You don’t want interference from the ranch heirs? Feel like we’re taking over too soon?”

  “You’re as blunt as your father is, you know that?” she said crisply. “No wonder you two don’t get on.”

  He felt the corners of his mouth curve into a smile in spite of himself.

  Her gaze held his—a subtle challenge with an underlying flicker of unease. She huffed, spun around, and began to walk up the path. He followed her through the aspen grove. Gold leaves quivered and fell like rain upon them. Their breath misted in clouds.