A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  “I need to make sure the guests are leaving, with this snow.”

  “Okay, so once you’ve driven around there, you come back and stay in the cabin. Or in the lodge with Myron. Until I get back—promise me?”

  She gave a soft snort and couldn’t help a smile. “I don’t know whether to be affronted at being ordered around, or grateful to have someone watch my back.”

  “That’s what friends are for—they watch out for each other.”

  Her smile faded.

  He shrugged into his jacket and exited the door with a cool blast of air.

  From the window she watched him marching over the grass, and she was reminded of how he’d appeared in the sky over the southern horizon in his little yellow airplane. And how everything had changed.

  Keep living one day at a time . . .

  Except, she didn’t know if she had time. Her secret would soon be out all over town. Taking her coffee, she went into her kitchen to make some toast.

  She popped a bagel into the toaster and bumped up the volume of the radio as the signature tune for the hourly newscast sounded.

  Snow was coming down a little more insistently now, clouds darkening over the lake, which had turned gunmetal gray. Across the water, spruce marched like black soldiers with spears in the sky.

  You are strong. You are enough . . .

  Cole had given her a gift in those words. They were words that should have come from her family, her husband, her community, and never had. Not even close.

  Apart from that journalist, Melody Vanderbilt, who’d sat with her over so many days and just allowed her to talk. Melody had listened—really listened. She’d offered such nonjudgmental compassion that Olivia had been unable to stop talking to her. She’d just bled it all out. With Melody she’d never felt like a freak or a terrible human being. Melody had shown her a way forward.

  For that, Olivia could not have been more thankful. As she waited for her bagel to pop up, she sipped from her mug, wondering where Melody was now.

  You can always contact me. Look me up. Either through the adoption agent, or via this number on my card . . .

  Melody had given Olivia her business card.

  Never feel afraid to call, even if just to know how she’s doing . . .

  Olivia hadn’t kept the card. She’d kept nothing of the past. But as she stared out the window now, at Ace snuffling along the frosted scrub that lined the shore, she wondered where her baby girl was. How she’d grown. Who she’d become.

  An ache swelled in her chest, and Olivia was consumed with an acute and sudden sense of aloneness. Regret.

  She shook it off, as the bagel popped up. She spread cream cheese on it, listening to the news about the coming storm, reminding herself she’d done it for her daughter.

  It sounded like the front was much more intense than anticipated, and arriving sooner. Snow was already heavy in southern regions of the interior plateau. Olivia glanced at the clock. She needed to get moving and inform any campers who hadn’t already left, give them time enough to decamp and drive out before the roads became treacherous. Clearly the Thanksgiving dinner planned for tonight would have to be cancelled.

  Then the news cut to the murder.

  “IHit spokeswoman Constable Isla Remington says police have scheduled a news conference for 10:00 a.m. CBC has learned that police will release the ID of the Birkenhead River murder victim at the conference and will update the public on the progress of the ongoing investigation. According to a CBC source, the victim had recently undergone knee replacement surgery, and police have traced the surgeon through the serial number on the artificial joint. Remington would not comment further on the similarities between the Birkenhead case and the Watt Lake killings that occurred over a decade ago. The only surviving victim of the Watt Lake Killer was Sarah Baker, the young wife of Ethan Baker who identified her assailant as Sebastian George. Baker later testified against George, who was found dead in his cell just over three years ago. According to criminal analyst Dr. Garfield Barnes, the Birkenhead case could have been the work of a copycat, someone who identifies with—”

  Olivia reached up and punched the radio button off. Her hands shook. Her mouth was dust dry. Blood began to boom in her head. Thud, thud, thud, thud . . . the shovel hitting dirt as she peered through the chinking in her shed. She could see him, digging in the black loamy earth. She could smell the soil, the dampness of the forest, the rot of the siding on her shed.

  He turned and looked toward her shed. His eyes, pale amber, met hers through the hole. Her stomach roiled.

  Olivia grabbed the counter, braced herself, her brain spinning as she fought to stay present.

  Tick, tick, tock, tock . . . the sound of water dripping. Spring coming.

  Time for the hunt, Sarah . . . never hunted a pregnant doe, Sarah . . .

  She spun around, knocking her mug of coffee off the counter. It crashed and shattered on the floor. Hot coffee burned down her leg. Pain, but nothing like the pain in her memory.

  Olivia bent over and braced her hands on knees, trying short, shallow breaths, panting like an animal, stressed. Head down. Blood rushed back into her brain. Slowly she came around and stood up. Her skin was wet. She could smell the acrid scent of fear on her own body. She swallowed and steadied herself by holding the back of the chair.

  How in the hell was she going to control these flashbacks? They were coming closer and closer together now. She had a real and sudden fear that she would actually go mad. End up in an institution. Rage erupted inside her. No.

  No way on goddamn earth was she going to succumb, or remain a prisoner of her past. She’d almost killed herself once—would be dead if some paramedic hadn’t found her and interfered. Now she wanted to live. Someone here on Broken Bar had conspired against her and was sending her back into a living nightmare, and she was not going to let them win. She could not live like this.

  She marched into her room and began to thrust what was left of her belongings into her bags. She changed rapidly into jeans and a sweater, and dumped her toiletries into another bag. She stood in the center of her room for a moment.

  Focus.

  You can do this.

  Move on.

  Leave this ranch.

  Myron was dying—it was over anyway. And she had one little window of opportunity before the snow locked her in. Before she’d be stuck here for days, even weeks on Broken Bar.

  Where to go?

  Didn’t matter where. East. Drive east. Alberta. Next province. Over the Rocky Mountain divide. Lots of ranches and rivers and lakes. Wide, wide spaces. People who didn’t know her.

  She pulled on clothes. Shucking into her jacket, she gathered her bags, and began to lug her belongings up to her truck. Once everything was inside, she covered the back with a tarp and then ran through a mental checklist. All she had to do now was talk to Brannigan at the stables and tell him that she’d call with a plan to transport Spirit to wherever she ended up. She’d pay him to care for Spirit in the interim. She’d give Spirit one last ride before the storm set in, take her around to the campsite, where she’d kill two birds with one stone and check to see all the guests were gone. Then she’d say farewell to Myron and be on her way.

  Olivia stalled. Cole. She dragged both hands over her hair. She had to leave him a note, explain.

  Hurriedly she made her way back down through the grove and reentered her cabin. She found a pen and a piece of paper. On it she wrote:

  Thank you for everything. Thank you for showing me that I was enough. You gave me back a piece of myself, and I will take that with me wherever I go now. With all my heart I wish you well with Broken Bar. Look after it for me . . .

  Olivia paused, besieged suddenly with raw emotion. She gathered herself.

  I know he probably won’t ask you this himself, but Myron made me promise him something. There’s a pl
ace up on the esker, the highest point where the grasses grow tall. It looks out over the entire forest canopy and lake. It’s where I promised Myron I would scatter his ashes, next to the stone memorial he built in your mother and Jimmie’s memories. I will think of him there. Please do it for me. For him . . .

  Emotion snared. Shit. She stopped, rubbed her brow, wincing as she connected with the bruise from where she’d hit her head on the picnic table earlier.

  I’m sorry we did not meet at another juncture in life, Cole. I like to think things could have been different had we crossed paths in another way. Thank you again. Take care of yourself. All my love, Olivia.

  She stared at her hastily scrawled note.

  All my love.

  She could love a man like him. Maybe she already did, a little. With a twist of regret she tucked the corner of the note under her cactus pot on the kitchen counter so it wouldn’t blow off when the cabin door opened.

  Stepping out into the cold, she went down the bank toward the water.

  “Ace!” She waited for him to pop out from the bushes as tiny snowflakes drifted about her. Ace didn’t appear.

  She whistled and called again.

  The wind had died down, things had grown still and colder, whispering frost fingers appearing on the grasses. One day to Thanksgiving Day—always on Monday. Today was the anniversary of her abduction. Anxiety whipped through her, feeding into the adrenaline and urgency already strumming through her blood. She had to leave.

  Ace was probably still busy down in the scrub somewhere doing his business. He’d be fine while she sorted Spirit out and gave her a quick run around to the campsite. Ace’s legs were better rested, anyway. She’d been working him too hard of late.

  She started along the path, heading for the stables, snow crystals pricking against her face. Thoughts of Cole dogged her. The memory of his arms around her, the way he felt, the look in his eyes. She liked him. Too much. Too soon. She blew out a shuddering breath as she neared the paddock.

  It would make things easier for him and Jane if she left. That much she could give him. And she’d brought him home to Myron. She believed she had actually made a tiny, tiny difference. Because now Cole might stay. He might fulfill Myron’s dream. Too little, too late, but she had given them that.

  Tori shivered as she read, but it was more than the cold. A dark sensation was building in her chest. Sarah Baker was real. She’d been mentioned in the newspaper, and she was also in her mom’s manuscript. A journalist from Watt Lake had taken down Sarah’s story. A staff sergeant who was being transferred to Fort Tapley believed the police had caught the wrong man. Fort Tapley was where Tori had been born . . .

  The journalist dished scrambled egg from the pan onto two plates that already held toast and bacon. She carried the plates to the table where her husband was reading a newspaper.

  She placed one plate in front of him. He smiled up at her. He was in his uniform, and handsome. His smile always seemed to light up her life. She loved him.

  Taking a seat beside him, she set her own plate in front of her and reached for the teapot. She poured tea for them both. The window was open wide to a summer morning breeze, fat green leaves clattering in the tree outside.

  “How’re the sessions going? She still talking?”

  “Her therapist agreed with her that it’s cathartic.” She sat silent, looking at the food on her plate.

  “Not hungry?”

  “She’s giving the baby up for adoption.”

  He delivered a forkful of food to his mouth, chewed. “I know. It’s best under these circumstances.”

  “We could take it.”

  He stopped chewing, stared at her.

  She leaned forward. “We’ve spoken about adoption. We agreed . . . since the tests. We’ll never have a child any other way. Why not this baby?”

  “This is—”

  “We can give her the life she deserves. We know her story, the whole background. When she’s old enough to understand, when she’s had the best start we could possibly give her, we’ll be in the best position to help her through it.”

  “You’re serious,” he said quietly.

  “Never more.

  “The optics . . . the case—”

  She placed her hand over his. “You’re not technically on the case. And you have this transfer coming up. We could use it for a fresh start. All three of us. We can go through an agent, a private, closed adoption. No one really needs to know at all.”

  He opened his mouth, but she saw in his eyes he was listening, receptive, and it excited her.

  “I can leave right away with the baby,” she said quickly. “I can set up home in Fort Tapley, and you could join us there. We can tell everyone she was born there.”

  He stared into her eyes, conflict in his own. He shook his head and cupped the side of her face. “I don’t think—”

  “Please,” she whispered. “That child is going to need all the love she can get. Sarah needs this, too. There’s no one else. We’ve been trying for a child—”

  “You’ve already spoken to Sarah, haven’t you?”

  She swallowed.

  The journalist had her heart set on that little baby now, those tiny fingers that had clutched hers, that soft, black hair, the little rosebud mouth, her scent . . . She ached for that baby. She ached with all her soul to give that little infant the life and love that Sarah Baker couldn’t.

  “I think her eyes are going to stay green,” she said. “Like Sarah’s. She’s going to be beautiful. Like her mother.”

  The staff sergeant glanced away.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no reason she should turn out like him.”

  The staff sergeant had been unable to say no. And when he did finally make it up to Fort Tapley, and his wife placed their newly adopted baby girl into his big, solid arms, he was overwhelmed with emotion. The world was suddenly different, big and vast, and it struck him that this smidgen of humanity cradled in his arms was the definition of innocence and vulnerability. She cut to the very core of all the reasons he’d joined the force, wanted to become a cop. A Mountie.

  Defend and protect. Stop the innocent from being hurt. To put away the bad guys.

  And on that day the sergeant made his baby girl a pledge. He vowed to the tiny, innocent, vulnerable being in his arms: “I’m going to get him,” he whispered. “I’m going to find that man from the river no matter how long it takes me. And I’m going to kill him . . .”

  Tori threw back her covers and rushed to the bathroom. She gagged but couldn’t throw up, just dry heaved, which hurt her stomach and burned her throat. Trembling, she washed her face with cold water, flushed the toilet.

  She stood in the bathroom, bare feet on cold floor, looking into the mirror. In her eyes she saw fear. The dedication in her mother’s book swirled into her mind.

  For my dear Tori, a story for the day you are ready . . .

  She began to shake. Fear, confusion smothering her brain as she felt another punch of nausea.

  Rushing back to her room, she yanked on her clothes and a jacket and hat. She took her e-reader and hurried quietly through the living area. She turned the door handle, waited until she heard her father snore again, then she stepped out in a land that was cold and shrouded in shades upon shades of gray. Snow swirled softly. She raced down the steps and along the grass, and just started running faster and faster until her breath burned her chest.

  CHAPTER 21

  Gage put the kettle on and crouched down to open the stove. He added wood to the embers and poked the flames to life before securing the small door with a window of smoke-stained glass.

  “Tori?” he called out as he got up to make tea.

  Silence.

  He stilled, suddenly sensing the emptiness of the cabin. A small kick of panic went through him.

&n
bsp; “Tori, where are you?” He pushed open her bedroom door. The room was empty. Her jacket and boots were gone.

  “Tori!” She wasn’t in the bathroom.

  Panic tightened.

  She was gone. It was cold out, snowing. Why would she leave? Where would she go? He told himself to focus. Before he started hearing voices in his head again. It was probably fine. He’d overslept—in fact he’d slept as if drugged. His health was worsening. He knew it. It was creeping up on him now. She might have gone up to the lodge house in search of breakfast or company.

  Then he saw the newspaper spread out across the table. It was open on the page with the editorial speculating about the similarities between the Birkenhead and Watt Lake murders. He was convinced he’d tucked that paper onto the bookshelf. He flung open the cabin door, his gaze darting across the grassy bank, down to the water, the dock. Snowflakes swirled in frosty air. Cloud was low, the sky dark. Mist sifted through trees.

  “Tori!”

  The campsite. That man she’d been talking to—she could have gone there! He checked his weapons, laced on his boots, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out into the cold.

  Voices called after him, swirling and laughing in the snow.

  What have you done? What were you thinking, bringing her here? He’s got her! He took her! You brought her right to his feet . . . it was he who lured you . . .

  He spun around, hands going to his ears. “Tori! Where are you?”

  He began to run, tripped, stumbling forward as he fought to regain his balance. He had to hold it together. He had to reach his truck, get around to the campsite.

  Cole drove down the main street of Clinton, searching for the Forbes Development Corp building. He’d managed to call Forbes on his cell once he neared town. Forbes said he’d be at his office even though it was Sunday, the day before Thanksgiving—a day many families chose to cook a big celebratory meal together. Snow was just starting to fall in town, which was at a far lower elevation than the ranch. The street was blazoned with orange and blue banners declaring Forbes for Mayor—vote jobs, industry, growth, tourism.