Wicked Lies (12 page)

“Nothing,” Clausen said. “The guy’s in the ether.” He let out a sigh. “Goddamned ghost.”

“Psychotic ghost,” Savvy muttered.

“Maybe he went toward the valley,” Burghsmith suggested but showed no enthusiasm for that theory.

“Nah, he’s coming to the coast.” Clausen gave the other deputy an annoyed look that said they’d been over this and over it.

“So, where’s the hospital van?” Lang said, almost a mantra for him now. “Someone would have seen it.”

Clausen lifted a shoulder. “He either ditched it, or he snuck through and nobody saw him.”

“Unlikely that he snuck through,” Savvy said.

“So, then, where’d he ditch it?” Lang asked. “And does that leave him on foot?”

“Maybe he had someone waiting for him,” Burghsmith suggested and yanked at his suddenly tight collar.

“He’s not that kind of guy.” Clausen frowned as he sat down at another community desk. “He’s too weird.”

“Even weirdos have friends.” Burghsmith was not going to concede.

Clausen was adamant. “Not this weirdo.”

“Okay, then, he’s on foot, or he found some other means of transportation,” Lang said.

Savvy suggested, “Maybe he flagged down another motorist.”

Clausen harrumphed, a sound he made frequently. “It was all over the news about his escape. You think anybody missed that? And just decided to give some hitchhiker a lift?” He slammed open the top drawer and searched around for some gum, pulling out a pack and holding it up in silent query. Everyone shook their head to his offer.

“Somebody mighta missed it,” Lang said.

“Well, then he could be anywhere.” Burghsmith shrugged. “We’ve been trolling up and down the coast, but so far nobody remembers him.”

Lang said, “If we don’t get a clue soon, we’ll have to go to the lodge and talk to Catherine. Warn her.”

“And what about Rebecca Sutcliff?” Savvy asked. “She still lives in Laurelton, as far as we know. She escaped him once, but if he’s as single-minded and on a mission as everyone seems to think, she should be warned.”

“He’s on a mission, all right,” Clausen said. “That’s just who the bastard is.”

“This Sutcliff woman probably saw it on the news, too,” Lang said. “I’ll give her a call, too.”

“In case he heads inland,” Burghsmith said again.

Clausen sent him a dark look. “No way. It’s the goddamned sea that’s in his blood. Like some of the fishermen around here. He’s got a thing for it.” When Lang looked up at him, Clausen added, “It’s in some of the original reports. Trust me, if Turnbull’s heading anywhere, it’s closer to the ocean. Bet a month’s salary on it.”

No one took him up on the bet.

They discussed the extensive search that had taken place up and down the highway to the valley and also their traversing of Highway 101. It had been over twelve hours since Justice’s disappearance.

“Where’s his mom now?” Lang asked Savvy.

“Madeline Turnbull is a patient at Seagull Pointe. It’s both assisted living and a nursing home. She’s on Medicaid.”

“State funding,” Lang agreed. “She’s in the nursing home, out of touch with reality,” he said, repeating something they all knew.

Savvy nodded, her auburn hair gleaming under the unforgiving overhead lights. “I’ll stop by and see if I can interview her in some way.”

“Good.” Lang pushed away from the desk. “I’ll bring O’Halloran up to date,” he said, “and then make a few phone calls.”

“I got some more traversing of 101 to do,” Clausen said. He didn’t even bother looking at Burghsmith, who shrugged and said, “I’m dead on my feet, man.”

“We all need more sleep,” Lang agreed. “Let’s meet back here at noon. With any luck, we’ll have a lead.”

CHAPTER 9

A
s fog began to creep in from the sea, sending long fingers of mist inland through the old-growth firs with their drooping, moss-laden boughs, Laura nosed her Outback onto the lane winding through the forest to Siren Song. Twin ruts cut through the stands of fir and pine, while the clumps of shiny-leaved salal grew to the height of trees.

Branches scraped the sides of her car, and the rising mist caused Laura’s imagination to run wild. At every turn she expected Justice to leap from the shrubbery, a knife in his hand, the expression of a rabid maniac twisting his features. Her heart was hammering, her fingers sweaty on the steering wheel, as the Subaru bounced and shuddered over hidden rocks and potholes.

Around a final curve, the massive gates of Siren Song loomed. The hair on Laura’s nape rose and her throat was dry. This was dangerous. Exactly what she’d tried to avoid at all costs when Byron announced they were moving to the coast.

But Justice was loose, and there was no believing in safety any longer. He could be here now, lurking in the shadows, lying in wait for her.

Ssssisssterrr . . .

She could almost hear his sibilant warning, but it was a trick of her mind, a memory. She cut the engine, listening to it cool and tick, hearing mournful cries of seagulls, their lonely songs underscored by the distant roar of the sea.

Don’t freak yourself out,
she said as she climbed out of the car and locked it. The thick, damp air was cold and pressed against her face, and memories slipped unbidden through her mind, memories of braided hair and dresses whose hems brushed the plank floors of the old, rough-hewn lodge.

Home,
she thought, though long ago she’d rejected Siren Song and everyone in it.

Fighting off a shiver, she crossed the damp ground where ferns and nettles abounded and wrapped her hands around the wrought-iron bars of the front gate, where she could see the lodge, dark windows winking in the weird half-light of the shrouded woods.

There was no good way to contact the residents of Siren Song. They didn’t have phones. There was no cable television, Internet, anything electronic. Electricity was through a generator and only on the main floor. The women inside the lodge were living in another century, a decision that was consciously made by Laura’s aunt, Catherine Rutledge, who had made the decree in the late ’80s, when Laura herself had been just a girl. Laura had rebelled against the restrictions and had caused Catherine no end of grief. It was only after she got her way and was allowed into society outside the gates that she came to appreciate the simplicity of their way of life, and even more so, the careful isolation that had been built to keep them all safe.

She called out, “Hello! Catherine?” but her voice seemed to fade. There was no buzzer, so she rattled the gate, but that sound, like ghosts rattling chains, sent another shiver down her spine, and she realized she was on a fool’s mission. What did she hope to accomplish by coming here? Did she intend to warn her family? Or was this lodge a place she ran to as a sanctuary?

If so, it was the first time she’d come here in years. She’d learned to fight her battles outside the gates of Siren Song.

But that was before Justice.

She was about to give up and get back in her car when she caught a glimpse of movement through the branches of the trees, the front door of the lodge swinging open. A woman about her same age stepped onto the broad front porch. For a moment Laura didn’t remember the slim thirty-something—it had been so long—but then she recognized Isadora’s somewhat aristocratic features and Laura’s heart leapt. “Isadora,” she whispered.

Isadora was the oldest of her sisters at the lodge, and she’d remained frozen in Laura’s mind as a younger, more modern woman. Now, however, Isadora’s blond hair was twisted into a single long braid, and the dress she wore was a blue print dress that reached floor length to a pair of sensible shoes.

As if sensing someone watching her, Isadora turned toward the gate. Her eyes were still cerulean blue and welcoming, yet there was a quiet, cautious, almost furtive demeanor to her.

“Isadora!” Laura called, grinning widely. God, she’d missed her! Until right this moment, she hadn’t realized just how much.

“Laura? Really?” Isadora’s face broke into a smooth smile, showing even teeth. Quickly she crossed the stone steps, avoiding the wet mud, the hem of her long dress swaying as she walked to meet Laura.

When she was within easy earshot, Laura said, “God, Isadora. It’s . . . it’s amazing to see you again.” She blinked against a silly rush of tears that choked her throat.

“Your hair . . .”

“I know. I dyed it.” She didn’t say why, didn’t have to.

“What’re you doing here?” Isadora asked, her fingers linking with Laura’s on the bars. With her free hand, she dug into a deep pocket in her dress.

“I need to see Catherine.”

“She’ll be glad you’re here,” Isadora said, glancing past Laura as she pulled out a ring of jangling keys from her voluminous skirts. “It’s so great to see you.” She unlocked the gate with a metal
screech
that scraped Laura’s nerves. “Earl, our regular handyman, has been ill, and we’ve been a little more tethered here,” she said by way of explanation, and then the gate was open and they fell into each other’s arms. Laura fought an onslaught of emotions and blinked against the stupid tears as she clung to her sister.

Was this really home?

Or was she just stressed? Her hormones out of whack?

“It’s good to see you, too,” she said, finally releasing Isadora and looking at her.

“What do you want to see Catherine about?” Isadora asked. “Why now?” Those knowing blue eyes were suddenly sober. Worried. She glanced toward the road, as if she were expecting someone else.

So they knew. “You’re afraid he’s coming here, aren’t you?” she asked, not mentioning Justice’s name.

Isadora’s gaze slammed back to Laura’s. She nodded, as if unwilling even to speak the thought aloud. “Let’s go inside.” As Laura stepped through, Isadora was careful to re-lock the gate.

Laura fell in step beside her, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder as well.
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
she thought. Justice hadn’t mentally spoken to her for several hours, but she could sense his weighty presence, as if he were walking beside them.

The rough-hewn oak door to the lodge swung inward as soon as they reached it, and Catherine, tall, austere, with her graying blond hair scraped into a tight bun at her nape, gazed at Laura through blue eyes that were faintly misty. She wasn’t known for emotion, quite the opposite. But after Laura’s teen rebellion subsided, they’d been close, almost like mother and daughter.

Almost.

“Lorelei,” Catherine greeted her, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Laura swept into the older woman’s embrace, her throat hot. Catherine gave her one firm hug, and then Laura released her.

And when she looked around, she saw all her sisters. Over half a dozen of them. Blue-eyed. Blond hair ranging from a dark ash color to nearly platinum. Wearing look-alike calico-printed dresses, about which Byron, finding the only dress Laura had saved from her youth and holding it away from his body, had disparagingly said, “Hey, Ma. Hey, Pa. Let’s go on a hayride!”

Laura hadn’t explained. She’d merely shrugged and smiled, as if it were some kind of costume.

In a way it was.

Now Catherine shepherded her charges and Laura past the staircase that wound upward to a second story and toward the huge table, an oak plank that was large enough to seat them all in the dining room. A fire, embers glowing bloodred, burned with a quiet hiss in the huge stone grate and tinged the air with the smell of smoke. Overhead, suspended from the tall ceiling, a dimly lit fixture gave off a soft glow as the girls stood silently, their eyes burning with unspoken questions, their fear almost palpable. They all knew, each and every one, about the danger that Justice Turnbull posed, and she had a horrid sensation that she might have innocently brought the madman closer to all of them.

“You’ve all grown up,” she said as the last bench was scooted closer to the table where they’d had family meals and meetings for dozens of years.

“It happens.” Ravinia ran a hand down her long blond tresses, combing the unbraided locks. She was fifteen and full of herself. Even Catherine’s icy stare didn’t get her down. Laura recognized the signs of trouble; she knew them firsthand. She also knew if the rules weren’t abided by, strange and terrible things could befall them.

Cassandra leaned forward. Her hair was the darkest, almost a light brown. “I saw him,” she said on a soft breath. “Justice.”

Laura didn’t have to be reminded that Cassandra hadn’t really seen Justice with her eyes. She’d seen him in some kind of mental picture or dream, her own special gift, but she had seen him.

“You know that he escaped Halo Valley Security Hospital?” Laura looked to Catherine.

The older woman nodded solemnly, the lines on her face more apparent than Laura remembered. “From Cassandra,” Catherine explained.

It was their form of knowing what was going on beyond their gates, and it was narrow . . . and surprisingly accurate. Laura looked to Cassandra, who’d been christened Margaret, but then, when her precognitive skills were realized, their mother simply changed her name to Cassandra, after the Greek goddess who could predict the future but was never believed. Laura had been named Lorelei after the German myth where Lorelei lured sailors to their death by her singing, a take on the Greeks’ Sirens who called to Odysseus and his crew. That myth was how their lodge became named Siren Song, a derogatory gift from the locals who believed the women who lived within the lodge’s walls were capable of bewitching the men and stealing them from their wives, among other things. When she was younger, Laura had deeply resented the way they were treated as outcasts, but she also knew that her family suffered from, or was blessed with, depending on how you looked at it, inexplicable abilities that ranged from precognition to mind reading. Now, for ease and without the intended malice, even she thought of the lodge as Siren Song.

“You predicted I would be pregnant by the end of the year,” Laura said softly to Cassandra, who was only a year younger than Isadora.

Cassie swept in a breath. “It came true!” Her eyes danced and a smile lit her face. “I knew it!”