Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake Book 3)

by Rachel Caine

  If I’d gone to get him when Belldene started his shit instead of handling it myself, he probably would have ended it with a staredown instead of a smackdown.

  “You want me to keep an eye out for strangers,” Javier says when I get ready to leave. We can hear the steady, muted hammer of gunfire on the other side of the concrete wall, but neither of us pays much attention. It’s when the firing stops that you have to worry at a gun range, because it means everybody’s paying attention to something, or somebody’s hurt. “Trust me, I will. How are the kids?”

  “Good,” I tell him. I know he still feels guilty that Connor and Lanny managed to sneak out of his cabin and get into trouble after Gwen entrusted them to his care. “They’re fine. And they miss you coming by.”

  He nods, but there’s a certain set to his expression that I read as reluctance.

  “She doesn’t blame you,” I tell him. “Not at all. You did your best to keep them safe.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t good enough, was it?” he says. “I know she doesn’t blame me. Kind of makes it worse, man.” He glances at me, then away.

  “Well, I left them,” I tell him. “How do you think that makes me feel? You were there for them. And I wasn’t.”

  “They love you,” he says. “You made them believe in the idea of having a dad again. Don’t shove that off, it’s important.”

  It is. It’s also scary as hell. I don’t want to hurt them, not ever, and right now . . . right now I can’t see a way of avoiding that.

  I don’t expect the call Mike mentioned to come quite so fast, but it does, right then. I step outside to take it. Another unknown number, but this time from Florida. Miami, it looks like. I accept the call and say, “Sam Cade.”

  “Mr. Cade,” says a calm woman’s voice on the other end, “please hold for Mr. Winston Frost.”

  I don’t know the name, but he sounds like he thinks he’s important. It’s only about thirty seconds of silence before the line clicks and a voice with a London West End accent says, “Mr. Sam Cade, hello, very good to speak with you. Thank you for taking my call today.”

  “Sure,” I say. “What’s this about?”

  “Mr. Lustig mentioned that I’d be calling?”

  “He said someone would be.”

  “Well, the thing is, I happened to have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Lustig recently, and he heard that I was seeking a pilot for our corporate jet. He thought you might be interested in the opportunity. I understand you’ve taken some time off from the business, though, so—”

  Flying. I feel a little jump in my pulse rate. It isn’t deliberate. I don’t want to react this way. But I’ve missed flying in ways I didn’t even realize until this moment. “There have to be a lot of other pilots out there who’d kill for a slot like that,” I say. “You’re calling all the way to Tennessee for a man you’ve never met? Whose records you haven’t even reviewed?”

  “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “Trust me, those records would show my flight hours aren’t exactly current.”

  “You’re speaking like a man who isn’t interested in coming back to the pilot’s chair.”

  I am, and it’s a lie. I want to get back to flying about as bad as I’ve wanted anything. As bad as I want a home? A family? A life with Gwen?

  It rips me inside to even ask myself the question.

  “Let me get back to you,” I say. I’m aware that means no, most likely. I expect him to tell me to go to hell.

  Instead, he says, “Of course, you’ll need time to think it over; you’d need to move to the Miami area, of course, in order to be on call when we need you. The salary will be somewhere on the order of one hundred fifty thousand per year. The usual full-benefits package. We’re not in any hurry, and I do realize that in order to recertify your standing, you’ll need to devote some time to retraining. That is not an issue for us. We’re happy to hire you conditionally while you complete that program.”

  The salary is suspiciously high, considering I don’t even have real private-jet experience, though I can easily get it in training. “Would I be your only pilot?”

  “No. We employ three pilots on standby at all times. Your position would be salaried, plus overtime should your flying time exceed eight hours in a day. So regardless of flight time, your compensation is secured.”

  I pause, and turn to stare off toward the horizon. “What kind of company?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What kind of company keeps three pilots on standby at all times and pays that much money as a starting salary?”

  “A profitable one,” he says. “You’re more than free to research me and the company, of course. My assistant will be in touch in the next few weeks to hear your decision. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cade.”

  “Thanks for calling,” I say. He’s already gone by then, and I stare at the screen until the power goes off.

  Who the hell did Mike recommend me to? And what am I going to do about this? Take an interview? Lie to Gwen? Leave Stillhouse Lake?

  Honestly, in this moment, I don’t really know. But one thing’s for sure: I’m checking this guy out.

  Winston Frost research takes five minutes of time sitting in the cab of my truck with my cell phone. He’s the CEO of Frost Industries, a major manufacturing outfit with plants around the world. Based out of London, but with a second home in Miami and a third one in Shanghai. Pictures of him all over the web, mostly at charity events; he has the usual detractors, but he seems to be legit.

  I send Mike a text about it, but I don’t get one back, at least not immediately. I want to know exactly how Mike knows this guy, and what he knows. Winston Frost’s number tracks back to the Miami offices, so that’s legit. I even redial and get the same cool-voiced assistant, thank her, and hang up.

  Frost wouldn’t be the first rich, evil businessman I’ve run into since meeting Gwen.

  But damn. A steady job, steady pay, flying.

  I don’t want to want this, but fact is: I do.

  4

  LANNY

  I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop open, waiting for Dahlia to pick up my Skype call. It rings and rings. And I start freaking out, the way I always do. What if she woke up today and doesn’t love me anymore? Is that why she’s not talking to me?

  I know that’s dumb. I’ve been through enough therapy to know I have some issues, subscriptions, volumes, libraries—whatever you want to call them. I’m always scared that I’m going to get hurt, even when nobody wants to hurt me. Which is why I reject people hard, first. I’m trying not to do that anymore. I fell in love with Dahlia; she makes my heart race and makes me want to cry inside when we’re separated, and that’s what love is, right? I want to be with her all the time. I’m practical enough to know that’s not going to happen.

  I end the Skype call and check her on social media. Her Instagram shows she’s at someone’s birthday party, looking bored under the poses. But at least I know she’s not ducking me. At least, not today. Don’t be clingy, I tell myself. Be cool.

  I don’t know how to do that. I’ve tried not to care for so long that slowing down seems impossible. At least I’m not jealous. I’m not, right?

  I hear the front door open, the alarm warning sound, and the rapid keypad code beeps. Door shuts and locks.

  Mom’s home. But I don’t hear Sam with her. They’re usually talking when they walk in.

  “Teriyaki chicken prep! Anybody want to help?” she calls.

  I sit where I am, staring at the screen. Does Dahlia look happy, posing with that group of girls? She’s got her arm around a boy in the next photo. Dahlia’s mom said—when we weren’t supposed to hear it—that the two of us were just going through a phase. Maybe she’s right, as far as Dahlia’s concerned. But I don’t think that’s me. Loving someone isn’t a phase.

  “Hey,” Mom says. She’s in the doorway now. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I shut the laptop. “I was going for a run.”


  “Not by yourself,” she says.

  “Mom. It’s not even close to dark. I’m just doing the lake.”

  “Not alone, you’re not. I’ll go with you. I could use the stretch.”

  “You’ll slow me down,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes. “No, seriously, you do.”

  “Well, I’m old,” she says. “And I’m still coming.”

  “What about the dinner stuff?”

  “I’ll do it,” my brother says. He’s coming out of his room across the hall, headphones around his neck. Mom puts her arm around him, and he doesn’t even stiffen up. He did for a while, but he’s better now. At least, I think he is. We don’t talk as much since I found out he was sneaking out to call our dad. I don’t know what to do with that, or how to talk to him about it. It pisses me off that he did it at all. I can’t even begin to guess why. And I don’t want to ask.

  “Garlic and ginger, green onions,” she tells him, and smooths a part of his hair that’s sticking up in the back. “Small dice on the garlic and ginger, okay? And remember to wash everything before you cut.”

  “I will,” he says. It’s probably wrong that I worry that he likes using kitchen knives. I mean, he’s thinking of being a chef, right? Chefs use knives.

  So did our dad.

  Mom goes to her room to change, and I open the laptop again and look at myself. I’m thinking of posting a mood selfie. I like my hair today; it’s at a funky angle, and the blue-and-green streaks I’ve put in through the black are still bright. I muss it up a little and try a pose for Operation Make Dahlia Remember I’m Alive, but my heart’s not in it. I slam the lid again and put on a sports bra and oversize ancient tee over leggings with blood drops running down the sides. I’m tying my running shoes when Mom comes back. She takes one look at my leggings, and I know she’s about to tell me to change, but then she checks herself.

  One thing about my mom: she tries. She knows that I have to deal with the shitty past in my own way. I can’t do it the way she does, at least not all the time. And I love these leggings.

  I raise my eyebrows. She sighs and shakes her head. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  Connor’s in the kitchen when we leave, with a knife and cutting board and all the ingredients he’s going to need prepped. Mom reminds him not to answer the door. He waves. We all know the drill.

  “See ya, runt,” I say.

  “Hey, weirdo? I have a knife.”

  I flip him off on the way out. It’s a typical joke between us. Some tiny little part of me still doesn’t find it funny.

  I’m the one who sets the pace around the lake, but I try to dial it down. I’ve been working at it hard. Mom used to be the fast one, and I wasn’t in shape for it; but now I am. My legs are longer, and when I open up for speed, she has to work to keep up. I’m merciful. I don’t totally humiliate her.

  It should take about half an hour for us to run the full circuit, which is perfect, and we’ve picked the right time of day. The sun’s behind the trees, breaking into pretty rays that hit the water and bounce. As we pass Sam’s old cabin, Mom slows down. I fall back to match her speed. “Something wrong?” Sam doesn’t live there now. It’s fixed up, and now it’s a constant stream of day-trippers who stay there. I’m naturally suspicious about people who don’t stay put when they could. I think about all the nights I cried myself to sleep before moving again to find some temporary safety.

  I don’t cry anymore. Not about that.

  “You thinking about something?” I ask, and Mom shakes her head, digs in, and settles into a longer stride. I easily catch up. We round the next turn, shadows drifting over us, and have to veer around a day-tripper putting a crappy boat into the water, loaded down with a cooler that I doubt is for fish.

  Mom doesn’t want to talk, obviously. We just run, matching strides. I’m already feeling the rush, my body working like it’s made to, my mind soaring on a flood of happy chemicals. Half an hour is a tough pace around the lake, but we keep it up . . . until I see Ezekiel Claremont sitting on his little makeshift lakefront deck, made out of some pallets he’s joined together. He’s an old man, fragile, with wrinkled skin that’s a still little darker than his daughter, Kezia’s. Short gray hair. He has a camp chair and footstool, and he comes out every day to use this spot if the weather allows, and if his bad hip isn’t acting up. Technically, it’s probably not legal to have all this out here lakeside, but nobody bothers him about it that I know of. Maybe that’s because he saved a girl’s life a few months back by calling 911 when her canoe overturned in choppy water and she decided—stupidly—to take off her life vest and swim for shore. If the local lake patrol hadn’t made it to her, she’d have vanished into the lake completely.

  “Hey, Mr. C,” I say, and we ease down to a walk. “What’s going on?” I like Easy. I like his daughter, Kez, too. He’s not funny, exactly, but he’s sharp, and easy—like his nickname—to talk to when I feel like I need that. I come over here sometimes, and talk about my dad. He just listens and nods, mostly.

  “Word is your mother got into some trouble on TV the other morning,” he says. “You all right, Gwen?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Just another day in paradise, Easy.”

  “You think so?” He studies her, then shakes his head. “That other woman, she said a lot of things. People might listen.”

  “They might,” Mom agrees. “I’ve been through it before.”

  “Not like this,” he says. “Those documentary people, they’re already here in town. Staying up at the Vagabond outside of Norton.”

  I draw in a sharp breath. Documentaries mean cameras. People asking questions. People invading our lives. I’d thought maybe it would all just . . . go away after the Howie Hamlin Show; I’d thought maybe the blonde lady who’d been so vicious to Mom would stop what she was doing. I’ve seen her picture before. She’s the mother of one of Dad’s victims. And she’s got a lot of money to spend on making us miserable.

  “They’re here?” Mom’s voice is sharp, and I blink. She sounds alarmed. She immediately changes that, but it’s too late—I caught it. “I mean, I didn’t expect them to be here for a while. If ever.”

  “Been here two days,” Ezekiel says. “So says my daughter, and she ought to know. She keeps an eye on strangers.”

  “Funny,” Mom says, “she didn’t bother to mention that to me when I talked to her this morning.”

  “You went to see Kez?” I’m a little surprised. Mom didn’t say a thing to me. “Why?”

  She ignores the question and focuses on Easy. “You’ve seen these film people?”

  “They been out here today,” he says, and points a shaking, gnarled finger down to a nearby pull-in where visitors park. “Set up a camera and filmed the lake awhile.”

  “That way?” Mom points. He nods. “The lake . . . and our house.” She sounds pissed off. I can’t blame her. “They were filming our house.”

  I feel as shocked and invaded as she does. My bedroom faces the lake. Did they see me? Did I have my windows open? Oh my God, did I close the curtains before I changed into my running gear? I can’t remember. I always do, don’t I?

  People watching us, again. That’s not new, I guess, but I was a kid for most of that time. Now I feel . . . vulnerable. And I don’t like it at all.

  “Well, maybe,” Easy says. “Don’t think you were home then. You and Sam left before they got all set up; they were gone when you came back.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like he finds anything too funny. “Fools tried to ask me about you.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, because Mom won’t. His light-brown eyes focus on me, and he blinks a couple of times.

  “I told them I mind my business, Lanny, what do you think I told them? They want more, they can go fish for it.”

  Mom looks frustrated. “Easy. You didn’t call me? Because I know you have a cell phone in your pocket.”

  “Now, don’t make me tell a tired old joke nobody wants,” he says, and smiles slowly. “I did
n’t call ’cause I didn’t want you and Sam charging out there and getting yourselves in trouble. The film people were here. Film people left. Satisfying as it might feel to beat the stupid out of them, you two’d get arrested, and they’d have even more to put in their damn film. Leave them alone. Best advice I got.”

  He’s not mentioning that I might have come and kicked over a camera, but I sure would have. I will, next time they show up. And I won’t tell Mom before I do it, either, because he’s right: she and Sam would get arrested. If I do, no big deal. It’s not like I’d get jail time. I’m just a dumb kid.

  “What’s in the cooler?” I ask Easy. It’s sitting beside his chair, small enough for him to manage on the way up and down the hill.

  “Why, you want a beer, girl?”

  “I know you’re not offering, and she isn’t taking,” Mom says. Easy pulls out a small bottled water and pitches it to me, then hands one to my mother.

  “Have a little faith,” he says. “And keep your cool, Gwen. Gonna be a long, hot summer around here.”

  We drink our water up fast, and chat some more; it’s worth breaking up a run to talk to Mr. Claremont. He’s an interesting man, and I like him a lot.

  My mom finally eyes the horizon and checks her watch. “Sorry. Got to get home and make dinner. You going to be okay out here? It’s going to get dark in the next hour.”

  “I know. Kez is coming home in a bit. She’ll help me on up the hill.”

  “All right. You call if you need us.”

  “Much appreciated,” he says. “You watch your step, ladies.”

  “Thank you, Mr. C,” I say. As we set off, I hear him pop the top on a bottle that doesn’t have water in it, and when I glance back, he’s sipping a beer and lost in the view of the lake. As we ramp back up to speed, I say, “Mom? Did you know he used to be famous?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Claremont. Used to be famous.”

  “Famous for what?”