A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  Quickly he stoked the fire up, added another log.

  “I’m going to get you some socks.” He went back into the bedroom.

  Her drawers were completely devoid of clothes. He found socks in one of her packed bags. Clearly she was intent on leaving. It was his fault. He should never have tried to kiss her like that. Remorse, self-recrimination sliced through him.

  Returning to the living room, he got down on hands and knees to rub some circulation back into her feet before putting the socks on. She squirmed, trying to hide her damaged toes. “Please,” she said, voice small. “Don’t touch my feet.”

  But he took them in his hand, gently massaging and warming them, not avoiding the stumps. He met her gaze. “You need to get warm. I’m getting circulation back.”

  Her gaze fell to his hands against her maimed toes, and Cole knew what she was feeling. Embarrassment. Shame.

  He put her socks on.

  “You’ve got blood down your shirt,” she said. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  “Just a surface cut. It’s fine.”

  She stared at the blood.

  “Drink that tea. It’s sweet, hot, and will relax you a little, before the adrenaline shakes really kick in.”

  Her eyes held his as she sipped.

  Cole’s heart cracked at the vulnerability he saw there. This woman had been stripped naked before him, body and soul. Her physical secrets laid bare. And it was killing her.

  “There’s no shame, Liv,” he whispered, taking the mug from her and setting it on the small table next to her. “No reason to hide yourself from me. You’re the strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting, and I mean it in more ways than one.”

  And for the first time since he’d barged in here, emotion pooled into her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.

  Cole drew up a chair and sat beside her. He leaned down and scratched Ace’s neck. “There’s no need to finish packing those bags in there, no need to leave because of this. Nor because of me.”

  She swallowed, looked away. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  He remained silent.

  She turned slowly, looked into his eyes.

  “I know there’s a name scrawled on your sheet that’s not ‘Olivia.’” He still needed it to come from her. Fully. On some gut level Cole knew it had to happen that way, knew that it would be good for her.

  “It’s not me,” she said softly. “Sarah Baker is not me.”

  “I know.”

  “I left her behind.”

  “Most of her,” he said, quietly. “But you brought the strong parts with you. You brought the survivor in Sarah here to Broken Bar. And you’ve taught me something—you were right. I know dick about surviving.” He smiled.

  She stared at him. “It was my reaction to the news on TV that clued you in, wasn’t it? You went and looked it up, the Watt Lake story. You found Sarah, and you found she was me.”

  “I did.”

  “Fuck,” she whispered. She turned away, and for a long while she stared at the flames behind the glass in the little iron stove. Outside the wind increased.

  He said nothing, just sat there, being there for her, letting her take the steps on her own. And there was no other place in this world that Cole wanted, or needed, to be right now.

  “I built a new life. I . . . I don’t want anyone to know.” She began to shake—the adrenal aftereffects of shock. “He was here. Inside my cabin. My bedroom. My bed. How can he be here, how can he be back?”

  “He’s not back, Olivia. Sebastian George is dead. This is something—someone—else.”

  Her eyes flared to his, a desperation clawing through her features. “Who would do this? Why?”

  She clutched the blanket tighter under her chin, and reached for her mug of tea. She spilled some as she sipped again, shaking badly now. “The rose hips . . .” She inhaled. “They’re a sign of fall. Like wild blueberries and the cry of the geese flocking south, like the scent of coming snow. Time to finish the hunt . . .” Her voice cracked. She paused, gathering herself. “He said those words to me. How could anyone here possibly know this—about the rose hips, and berries, and what they mean to me?” She stared into the distance, into the past, eyes haunted.

  “He kept me a whole winter. I knew it was spring by the lengthening light that was coming through the slats in the shack. By the dripping sounds of trees and the water leaking into the cabin. By the smell of the forest and soil around the shed. He kept me in the dark, and my sense of smell grew acute. I would smell him coming. I know his smell—I’d know it anywhere. I smelled him on my sheets in my bedroom.”

  “Transference, Liv. It’s not possible that he was in there. He’s dead. Someone else did this.”

  She slammed the mug down on the little table beside her chair. “Who! Dammit, who? Why?!”

  “I don’t know why, or who, but what I do know is this: I looked up the Watt Lake story and I saw an old photo of the last victim, and recognized you instantly. If I could do that, anyone can. And my guess is someone did, and is now using this fact to scare you. It’s the only possibility.”

  “The rose hips?”

  “There must be some reference in one of the archived stories about rose hips.”

  Doubt flickered through her eyes. “Why scare me—what have I done?”

  He dragged his hand over his hair. “Maybe it’s what my father has done. By rewriting his will. If you take over the ranch, it’s pretty darn clear there will be no sale, no big development windfall. Someone might simply want to scare you into packing your bags and leaving, so that Broken Bar reverts to me and Jane. So that the development will go ahead.”

  And the document that I signed will ensure the sale . . .

  Guilt twisted through Cole. With it came a bite of urgency. He had to get to Forbes first thing in the morning.

  He splayed his feet and leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “From what I understand from my sister, there’s already big money invested in a future development proposal for Broken Bar land. Someone might have high stakes and really need the sale to go through. You can’t let them win, Liv. You can’t let them spook you off.”

  “Who would know about your father’s amendments to his will? I mean, the change is so recent.”

  “Adele heard about it. She came into the library, remember? She also saw your neck scar and your visceral reaction to the television news of the Birkenhead murder. And you heard what she said before dinner—her son is handling investment for Forbes Development. If Adele told Tucker what she knew, Forbes might also know about the will, and about you.”

  A more sinister thought struck him. Jane knew about the will. Jane and Todd had big stakes hanging on a sale. His sister was a little Machiavelli, always had been. Acquiring physical things had been her way of handing their mother’s death and life on this ranch with a bitter father. He would not put it past Jane to hire someone to do something like this, and the idea hardened Cole’s resolve. He felt responsible.

  “Look, I’m going to sort this out. I’m going into Clinton first thing in the morning to lay down the law with Forbes, make it clear there will be no sale. I’ll inform him that he needs to pull the plug and start damage control. And I’ll find out who did this. Someone must have come in here while we were all at dinner. So it could have been Adele—”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “I think she has a lot at stake here. Her husband is on disability. Her job at the ranch is in question with my father dying. She feels she’s put her whole life into Broken Bar. She likely believes she has some right to at least part of it. And her son’s neck might be on the line with the investment. Desperate people can be driven to do very desperate things. And you made it easy—you didn’t lock your door.”

  “I never locked my door because I refuse to be scared. After the news
that Sebastian George had hung himself, I made a commitment to be free. I felt safe here. It was my way of taking a stand, fighting back.” She gave a weak, self-deprecating snort.

  “And look at me now—” She opened her hands, palms up. She rubbed at the dried blood she saw there. His blood. Her wrist scars caught the coppery gleam from the fire. “I’m a pathetic mess of PTSD, jumping at my own shadow. Losing periods of time.” She looked up slowly. “I almost killed you. I . . . I thought you were him. I . . . hadn’t had a flashback in years. The therapist said there was a risk they could return, if exacerbated by stress or a traumatic incident.” She rubbed her temple, as if in pain.

  “But I honestly began to believe they were over. Until I felt an acute sense of being followed the other morning. There were boot prints paralleling mine when I laid a track for Ace. And someone dropped that scarf on my track.” She nodded to where a soft-looking scarf was draped over a hook by her door. Cole glanced at it.

  “When I returned to my cabin, I found a basket of wild blueberries outside my door. Berries were how Sebastian lured me to the river. Then came the news about the Birkenhead murder, and the flashbacks started.”

  She swallowed.

  “And then there was the fishing lure in the newspaper. The Predator. I created that design. I gave Sebastian that fly . . .” Her voice faded again as her face twisted with dark memories.

  Cole’s chest tightened. “Who else knew about the fly?”

  “Only the homicide investigators who came up from Surrey, and a criminal profiler—a consultant from Ottawa. They questioned me for hours over a period of days, about how he came into the store, stalked me. What he said and did. I told them about the Predator, and how, after I gave it to Sebastian, he responded by sharing his own secret about where the blueberry stash was.”

  She shook her head. “Blueberries. He lured me with simple blueberries. Because I wanted to bake a pie for Ethan.”

  She fell silent for several long beats. The wood in the stove cracked and popped as it burned. “It was because I loved Ethan, who could never love me again afterward. Not after what had been done to me.” She rubbed her hand over her mouth. “He couldn’t even look at me.”

  It hit Cole—that was part of her shame. Her own husband had made her feel ugly. Responsible, even, in some way.

  “And what was Gage Burton doing with the Predator?” he said gently. “How did that happen?”

  “I told you—he said he got it as a retirement gift just before he left.”

  Cole chewed on the inside of his cheek. “And he just happened to leave that particular lure inside a page with reference to the Watt Lake killings?”

  “It could just be a coincidence. I mean, once people start copying a fly design, it could end up anywhere.”

  He nodded. He also needed to talk to Burton—something still wasn’t jibing about the guy. Like his father had said, Burton could be totally innocuous, and this whole scenario was far more likely a scheme backed by Forbes to scare Olivia with her own past—threaten her with the revelation of her true identity—run her out of town. Sick bastard.

  But he was going to sound Burton out when he returned from Clinton.

  He reached over and moved a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. It was drying in a soft, dark spiral. He hooked it behind her ear.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of this, Liv,” he said, softly. “I’ll find who did this. But one thing you can’t do is let them win and chase you away. You need to unpack those bags.”

  “I can’t live here with people knowing who I am. If you figure Forbes knows, the whole bloody town will know. I can’t do this. I need to go where I can bury Sarah Baker again.”

  “Then you’ll forever be running,” he said. “He—Sebastian—even in death will always have power over you.”

  “Says the man who’s been running his whole life?”

  “I’ve stopped.”

  She held his gaze.

  “I have. I’m serious about staying here, putting down some roots. And remember this: You are beautiful. You are strong. You are enough. You don’t need to be anything more. Or less.”

  Her eyes flooded, and she swiped tears away with the sleeve of her robe.

  He got to his feet. “Where do you keep spare bedding? Or have you packed it all?”

  “That closet over there.” She nodded toward the far wall.

  He opened it and removed a fresh fitted sheet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making your bed.” He smiled. “Then you’re going to get some sleep.”

  Horror widened her eyes, and her gaze flared to her bedroom door. She opened her mouth to protest. But he placed two fingers on her lips, bent over, and kissed her ever so gently on the forehead.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered against her hair. “I’ll stay with you until morning.”

  Olivia woke with a shock to find a man’s arms locked around her body. She blinked rapidly into the dark, holding her breath, before she became fully cognizant and realized where she was, what had happened. She was in her own bed, in clean sheets, with Cole, fully clothed, spooned around her.

  His nose was buried into the crook of her neck, in her hair, against her scar, and his breath was warm. His arms were hard muscle, and she could feel the steady, comforting, solid beat of his heart.

  Slowly she breathed in deep. It was almost overwhelming to just be held like this. Loved. No pressures. Accepted. Not reviled for the grotesque mutilations on her body.

  You are enough . . .

  Tori’s vision was blurring, and she could hear her father’s deep, rhythmic snores coming from the other room. But she was unable to put her e-reader down.

  A man who said his name was Sebastian George was arrested after a fifteen-hour standoff at a remote homestead deep in the Bear Claw Valley. George was a man with no ID—invisible to the system. A man with the same strange amber eyes that the staff sergeant had looked into on the gravel banks of the Stina River when he’d accepted the Predator lure.

  George now sat opposite two homicide investigators at a table in the Watt Lake interrogation room.

  From behind two-way glass the staff sergeant watched as one of the officers placed on the table the fly the man had given him on the Stina River. Sarah Baker had already said it was exactly the same as the one she’d designed and given to George when he’d come into her store.

  “Do you recognize this fly?” the officer said to George.

  The suspect shook his head. Eyes blank.

  “Is this the fly you gave to a fisherman on the Stina River?”

  George remained silent.

  The staff sergeant leaned forward and keyed a mike that fed into the earpiece of one of the interrogating officers.

  “Ask him about the books in his cabin.”

  The interrogator’s brow furrowed—the staff sergeant was not supposed to interfere. The big homicide guns had taken the case over, that much had been crystal clear to him.

  Yet the interrogating officer acquiesced. Leaning forward, he said, “Tell me about your books. You have a lot of heavy literature in your cabin.”

  Sebastian George stared in silence at the interrogating officer. His eyes were empty. Not even a glimmer of the feral fire, the deep, intellectual crackle that the sergeant had glimpsed in the eyes of the man on the river.

  “You must like reading,” the interrogating officer prompted.

  “Can’t read,” said George.

  “But you can write,” the interrogating officer said.

  “Can’t write,” George said.

  Yet written messages had been secreted into the right eye socket of each skull they’d excavated from the graves around George’s property.

  “He’s lying,” the staff sergeant snapped into the mike. “Press him!”

  The interrogating offic
er shot him a hot warning glare through the two-way mirror, and the line of questioning was dropped.

  George’s claim to illiteracy—despite his cabin shelves being stocked with well-thumbed books, including tomes by Hemingway, Thoreau, Algernon Blackwood, an old William Godwin treatise on libertarianism—never made it to discovery.

  The jury never learned about his books.

  It was deemed a minor anomaly better swept under the carpet in the face of all the other overwhelming evidence—DNA, fingerprints, dental impressions. George had already admitted guilt in each count of murder. Sarah Baker had also identified him in a lineup. He was the same man captured on security camera footage visiting Sarah in the Watt Lake sporting goods store.

  When the staff sergeant, beyond his purview, questioned this omission, he was reminded that Sebastian George was a slick, lying sociopath who was trying to con them all. The case had become political. The Mounties needed a smooth conviction. A stamp against crime before the next federal election. The less that could complicate a trial, the better.

  A clean conviction was also the horse that homicide team leader Sergeant Hank Gonzales, a peer of the Watt Lake staff sergeant’s, was riding toward a promotion.

  Tori glanced up, a chill crackling down her spine. Gonzales was her dad’s boss in Surrey. He was the assistant commissioner now. How much had her mother ripped from the headlines? Heart galloping, she read further . . .

  But the staff sergeant continued to press Gonzales. Yet again, he was told to back down, toe the official line. This time the order came direct from big brass in Ottawa, which irked the hell out of the sergeant, and made him even more determined in his assertions that the Mounties had somehow gotten the wrong man.

  Then came transfer papers to a remote detachment in Fort Tapley. He was being reassigned, stripped of his managerial role because of his apparent insubordination.

  Even so, beyond overwhelming evidence or rational explanation, the sergeant continued to believe the man from the river was still out there . . .