Читать книгу The Complete Colony Series - Lisa Jackson - Страница 15

“Hey, Mac!”

McNally pretended not to hear Detective Gretchen Sandler’s demanding nasal tone. For the love of God, that woman’s voice was like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. Truth to tell, she bugged the shit out of him.

He was bent over his computer screen, though he wasn’t near as adept at researching on the ’net as he acted. Sure, he could get what he needed from the electronic equipment that had grown and expanded and reached over the whole department like some alien plant life, invading every aspect of law enforcement, even here in Laurelton. But he still liked to examine real evidence, preferred tromping across crime scenes, and he got off on mentally putting pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle in his brain until he reached that “Aha!” moment.

“Mac!”

“What?” He didn’t look up.

“Don’t act like you can’t hear me,” she said from her desk, which was less than three feet behind him. “I’m zippo on fifteen-to twenty-four-year-old missing females through 1993. Either nobody cares that she’s gone, or we’ve got to go back further.”

“Go back further,” he said, trying not to snap.

He sensed something behind him, something quiet and building. Glancing around, he saw that Gretchen was barely holding in suppressed amusement, as were some of the younger men and women in the department, who, upon seeing his dark expression, moved back to their stations. Gretchen, however, was Mac’s latest partner, a woman who’d earned her job as a homicide detective because she was damn good at her job. Damn good. Just ask her. And she resented being saddled with a has-been, obsessed nut job like Mac who’d earned his promotion to homicide detective out of virtue of simply hanging around long enough. This, of course, was Gretchen’s opinion, not Mac’s.

But it might be a lot of the rest of the department’s as well.

“Maybe I should go back to 1989,” she suggested. “Isn’t there a vic named…oh, let’s see if I can remember…” She snapped her fingers. “Jezebel Brentwood?”

His temper spiked and he bit out, “Maybe you should have started there.”

“And keep you from your obsession? No way. I’ll let you begin at that end and meet you in the middle.”

“If I had DNA on Jessie Brentwood, it would only be a matter of waiting for the results from the bones.” He swivelled in his chair and gave her what he hoped was a cool look, but he felt a muscle working in his jaw.

Gretchen was in her early thirties with creamy, mocha-colored skin and straight black hair, a product of her Brazilian mother, and a pair of icy blue eyes, colder than Mac’s own, a product of her father, apparently, one Gretchen had never known. Or so she’d claimed. “You’re that sure.”

“You got any other missing girls from St. Elizabeth’s?”

“I got a few from the surrounding area.”

“You sure like making it hard on yourself to prove a point.” Mac turned back to his computer as Wes Pelligree, a tall African American detective everyone referred to as Weasel, nudged an unwilling, rain-sodden suspect in damp sweatshirt, dirty jeans, and cuffs toward his desk. Hands chained behind his back, the perp had dirty bare feet, lank, greasy hair, a pimply face, eyes at half mast, and a sneer showing bad teeth, and he reeked of his own puke. An obvious drug bust. But then Weasel had a knack for nailing scumbags who sold meth and crack. Rumor had it his older brother, the one who had dubbed him with the nickname in the first place while Wes was still in grade school, before he’d grown to six-three, had died of an overdose before Wes was out of the Academy. Ever since then, Wes Pelligree had been on a mission.

Which was bad news for the drenched white guy protesting his innocence.

Gretchen, standing too close to his desk, watched them pass and wrinkled her nose as the suspect dropped loudly into a side chair at Weasel’s desk. Phones rang, conversation buzzed, and police personnel in uniform or plain clothes weaved through the maze of desks and cubicles that were crowded into a central area with little privacy and few windows. A heating system that had been “upgraded” sometime in the mid eighties was rumbling and blowing air that was five degrees too warm.

“When are we getting some data we can use?” Gretchen demanded. “The lab techs on vacation, or what?”

“Gotta be patient.” Mac was growing tired of always explaining everything to her. She knew it anyway, but liked to hear herself talk.

“Twenty years patient? I don’t think so.”

She walked off and Mac slid a look after her. She was easy on the eyes. Great figure, nice butt, slim waist, and decent enough breasts, he supposed, but she worked really hard on being unlikeable. He watched a couple of other detectives throw her a glance as she passed. None seemed particularly warm and fuzzy. Mac might be the butt of a few jokes because of his obsession with Jessie Brentwood, but Gretchen was the coworker to avoid. No sense of humor. No big-picture thinking. No fun. She dotted all her i’s and crossed her t’s and fell all over herself in her eagerness to catch the high-profile cases—the few that came along here.

Gretchen Sandler was loaded with ambition, and she didn’t care who got trampled in her climb to the top.

“Humph,” Mac grunted at the computer screen. Though he didn’t give a rat’s ass what others thought of him, if those bones proved to be Jessie Brentwood, he’d go from being the goat to the hero of the department.

The same couldn’t be said of Gretchen Sandler.

The afternoon was dark gray and the wind was shrieking around and under the eaves of Becca’s condo. She’d finished up some work on the computer for Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer, and had luckily not lost any of the documents when the lights had flickered. Climbing out of her desk chair, she worked the knots out of her neck while Ringo, who’d been sleeping curled under her desk, climbed to his feet and stretched. Becca grabbed her now-tepid cup of tea and tossed it down the sink. She was cold inside and out and the storm wasn’t helping.

Deciding to take a bath to warm up, she ran the taps. The lights flickered again. Grabbing her battery-powered radio, she lit the three candles she had arranged in a pewter holder on the tile countertop, just in case. Ringo watched her machinations with interest, his head cocked this way and that.

She’d turned off the lights, opened the shades high over the window of the tub for a view of the sky, and was just climbing into the steaming water when the lights quit altogether, plunging the condo into total darkness aside from her flickering tapers.

Great.

Through the window she saw the limbs of shivering birch trees as they scratched the glass. She gazed past them up at the threatening clouds, then looked over to the fir trees across the way, the same trees that Ringo had barked at on Valentine’s Day as if he’d sensed a mass murderer lurking in the shadows. That had been the same day she’d had her vision, the same day she’d learned of the bones discovered at St. Lizzie’s.

Shuddering, she switched on the radio and caught sight of bottles of bath oils displayed on the counter. She’d bought them primarily for their colors, glowing aqua and deep gold, but now she picked one up, opened it, and poured the liquid underneath the faucet. She was just sinking down into the water again when she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air on the wetness of her skin. Glancing out the window, she focused on the fir trees.

Was someone there?

Watching her?

Seeing the candlelight on her skin?

Instantly she yanked down the blind, her pulse rocketing. Was her imagination running away with her? She seemed to feel eyes watching her at every turn.

“At least you’re not going nuts,” she murmured to the dog.

Turning off the taps, Becca sat quietly, almost suspended, in the hot water. The bath oil was scented, and a light, airy aroma filled her nostrils. It was soothing and after a couple of minutes she relaxed again, listening to the muted classic rock music filtering through the room.

Ringo tiptoed over to the bath mat and curled himself down into a ball. She was glad for the company, because there was no more vulnerable feeling than to be in a bathtub, naked and wet. But was there a more glorious feeling than to practically feel each tightly wound muscle individually loosen?

Becca closed her eyes and let her mind wander. It went to its most natural place: Hudson Walker with his chiseled features and slow-spreading smile, irreverence showing in his expression. Before she could fantasize about him for the most fleeting of seconds, Jessie’s visage appeared, clouding her image of Hudson, coming between them now as she had so long ago. Absently Becca picked up a washcloth and ran it over her neck.

Twenty years earlier Becca had been asked by McNally about the last time she’d seen Jessie Brentwood, had been quizzed like all the others about any and all details they could remember about Jessie the week before she ran away. “Ran away,” Becca repeated to herself now. She’d believed that’s what had happened to Jessie. Even with all the speculation, she’d truly believed Jessie had just run away. It was the most logical explanation. She’d done it before; everyone knew it. Jessie made no secret of the fact.

But if the bones in the maze were Jessie’s then she hadn’t run away. She’d been at St. Lizzie’s all along. Just under the ground. At the feet of the Madonna. Something had happened there that had ended her life.

Becca’s brows furrowed. She didn’t like this new perspective. What did she know about Jessie? She clearly remembered the last time they’d spoken. It had been at school. And it had been about Hudson. Jessie had been standing on the front steps of the school as Becca headed outside, juggling her backpack as she’d shouldered open the glass doors to the gray day beyond.

“Hey, Becca,” Jessie said, kind of quietly, thoughtfully.

Becca had looked at her askance. She and Jessie weren’t exactly close friends, though they ran in the same crowd. And because Jessie was Hudson’s, Becca always felt a bit awkward around her. They hadn’t ever taken their friendship to any meaningful level. In fact, they rarely spoke directly to one another. She waved a hand in the general direction she was heading. “I’m…late…”

“I know something,” Jessie said. “Something I shouldn’t, maybe.” She was eyeing Becca closely, as if waiting for something to happen. A gust of wind blew up, teasing Becca’s hair, making her aware that no one else was around. The walkways and lawns leading up to the front doors were empty, not a soul visible.

“What do you mean?” she’d asked and tried not to notice how eerie the late afternoon sky was—steel gray clouds with burgeoning purple bellies hanging low in the sky.

“Sometimes you have enemies you never even knew existed. Sometimes they’re right in front of you.”

“I’m not sure…what you mean…” Becca felt a jolt, slightly alarmed. It was as if Jessie were reading into her mind about her feelings for Hudson.

“And sometimes they’re not,” she said abruptly, looking away, across the parking lot, her gaze off to a middle distance that probably had nothing to do with the dented Chrysler parked too close to a fire hydrant. “I just have this feeling, you know. Like a storm’s coming. Do you ever think that way? That you get feelings and they come true?”

“A storm is coming,” Becca said, glancing up at the dark heavens and playing dumb. Didn’t Jessie know about Becca’s visions? Hadn’t someone told her?

Jessie skewered her with a disbelieving look. “Not that kind of storm, Becca. You know what I mean.”

Oh, God. Fear curled through Becca’s blood. “I, uh, I’ve gotta go. Really.”

Jessie didn’t look away, though her hair blew over her face. “Don’t be too trusting, Becca,” she warned. “Watch your back.”

Becca had practically run down the steps away from Jessie.

And then Jessie had disappeared. Mysteriously. The runaway back on the road. Or so everyone had thought, including Becca. But Becca’s parents had become overly frightened and even more protective of their daughter. They’d never really known Jessie; Becca and she hadn’t been that close of friends. But they knew Jessie was a runaway and they seemed to think Becca might have picked up some of Jessie’s ways because they constantly checked to make sure Becca was happy after Jessie’s disappearance.

Happy…

Now Becca thought back to her latest vision. How Jessie had mouthed something to her, something Becca couldn’t hear. How she’d been at the edge of a cliff, her toes over the rim, how she’d been frozen in time, the same age as when she’d disappeared. Was that because that’s how Becca remembered her? Or because that’s the age she’d been when she died…

The wind threw the birch branches at her window, clattering and tapping. The radio switched songs and Rick Spring-field started singing about how he wished that he had Jesse’s girl. Becca’s mouth twisted at the irony. How she’d wished that she had Jessie’s boy.

And how she wished that she still had Jessie’s boy’s baby.

She pushed that thought aside with an almost physical effort. No good would come from her wishing and hoping for the past to realign itself. It just wasn’t going to happen.

The electricity switched on, bedroom lamps showing through the open door to the bathroom. Climbing out of the tub, Becca had to nudge Ringo off the mat with a wet toe to make some room. She toweled herself off and grabbed up her underclothes, jeans, and a blue sweater. Padding into the bedroom, she pulled on socks and a pair of sturdy hiking boots. Without really knowing what she intended to do, she grabbed her raincoat and keys and purse and headed to her car, throwing a look toward the stand of firs on her way out.

There was nothing there. No malevolent force. Just branches wavering in the brisk wind, emitting a sad soughing filled with regret.

Becca climbed in the Jetta and headed away from the condo into a heavy sky that was growing blacker by the minute. She glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. Dark as sin already.

Becca told herself she was going out to grab a coffee or a soda as she headed west from her Portland condo. But she passed every coffee shop and fast-food restaurant as night crept up on her. Her hands tightened upon the wheel, her gaze glued to the wet pavement, shimmering in the beams from her headlights. She passed cars and trucks driving in the opposite direction, turned off the main road as if pulled by an unseen force, because not once, consciously, did she admit to herself where she was headed, where she was drawn.

She drove almost unerringly to St. Elizabeth’s campus. It was surrounded by chain-link construction fencing, and yellow signs warned interlopers to stay off the premises. But there was a gap in the fencing where vehicles came and went. An opening no one seemed to feel the need to repair. She drove through as if she owned the place and parked at the far side of the lot, closest to the maze. Behind the front building she could see where demolition was in progress. Several large machines with scoops and claws sat idle while rubble lay in untidy piles, one such pile as tall as the cab of a small crane.

Yellow crime scene tape flapped angrily at the entrance to the maze. It had been long enough that Becca suspected the tape had just been left, that it served no purpose any longer. And even if it were still in play, she didn’t much care. She wanted to see the site where the human remains had been found.

Jessie’s remains…

She’d scarcely taken two steps into the maze when she was slapped in the face by a wet branch. She cried out in surprise, then cringed to hear her voice hang in the air. So much for quietly going about her business. Even with the intermittent whistle of the wind, her half scream had seemed loud.

As if in answer to her, the clouds opened up and poured rain that quickly turned to hail, slamming down in a violent rush. Becca stumbled forward, yanking her parka hood over her head, her boots squishing into the water-saturated earth. Late February and miserable. She reached a fork in the maze and turned left, hurrying, wind gleefully tossing precipitation at her face, the ground white with hail beneath her feet.

Three turns later and she was lost. Becca stopped cold, shivering, surprised by her mistake. In high school she would’ve known the way blindfolded. Now she was uncertain which direction to take. The weather and darkness hadn’t helped, but she’d been sure she would find the Madonna.

Mentally she retraced her route and realized she might have erred on the second turn. Holding on to her coat from the snatching fingers of the branches and skeletal berry vines, she reversed her route at the second turn and headed back inside just as the hail stopped, turning to a thick, pelting rain.

Jessie had been a master at the maze. Flirtatious and dangerous, in her way, she would crook her finger and invite the guys in their group to come after her. They ran like dogs with their tongues hanging out. But it had all been for Hudson’s benefit, her need to make him jealous, though it hadn’t really worked. Hudson was cool. Tolerant. Maybe disinterested. Jessie’s machinations hadn’t provoked him in the least and Becca had admired him for it. Loving him had been so easy.

Love, she questioned now, holding back a long branch. A fifteen-year-old’s love that lingered year after year. Could you even call it that? Love? Maybe it was more like obsession. Or habit. Or…

She heard a twig snap behind her. Like in the movies. The signal for danger. But there was no one in the maze but her. She was sure of it.

Are you? Are you?

She was frozen on the balls of her feet, listening. Was there someone there? Something there?

After a few moments of listening to the wind soughing through the branches and her own rapid-fire heartbeat, Becca relaxed a bit, forging onward, ears attuned.

Wet shoes slipping slightly, she rounded a final corner and was suddenly in the center of the maze with its ghostly white statue of the Madonna. The ground was torn up and Becca shivered at sight of the large, wet hole at Mary’s feet and the statue tipped on its side, pressed into the dirt and covered with white pellets of hail. Were the bones that had been buried here really Jessie’s?

She gazed through a curtain of rain at the remains of the grave and shuddered inwardly to think that Jessie had been buried in this dark hole all these years. Or had she? Sometimes Becca felt sure the body discovered was that of her sometime friend; other times she wondered if she was just looking for a logical explanation to a mysterious disappearance.

Nothing was for certain.

“Help me,” the wind seemed to sigh.

She froze.

Surely she was imagining things…

Then she felt it; that slight change in the atmosphere.

The hair on the back of her arms lifted. She blinked against the icy rain.

Her head pounded, as if she were about to have another vision, yet she remained awake and alert. Too alert. Anxious. As if she were about to jump out of her skin.

A shadow fell over her and she sensed another presence, something else in the maze with her. Throat tight, she whipped around, bracing herself for another ghostly image. “Jessie?” she whispered.

Wet laurel leaves shivered, moving.

Not ten feet from her.

Becca’s mouth opened on a silent scream.

Her heart thundered.

She felt faint and slightly sick.

She expected Jessie to materialize in front of her.

Readied herself for it.

Waited for the ghost to appear.

Moments passed and she counted her heartbeats.

Nothing happened.

The wind dissipated, dying.

The slapping rain seemed to dissolve into mist.

No one was there. Not Jessie…no one.

And yet…

Becca felt an undeniable presence. Something with a malevolent purpose. Crouching in the thick umbra. Something that wanted to do her harm.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice a whisper.

A frigid drop of rain slid onto her collar and down her neck. Shaking as if from a fugue, Becca tried to concentrate on Jessie, but it was impossible. Something was breathing down her neck. Something dangerous. Something threatening.

And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a looming shadow. Huge. Dark. Threatening. Oh, God. She turned quickly and the beast shrank back. But she felt its eyes on her.

With a cry stuck in her throat, Becca bolted from the maze, racing unheedingly through the shrubbery, feeling tiny branches claw and scratch her face. Feet slipping as she rounded several corners, she ran as if the devil were on her heels, her breath fogging in the air, fear spurring her on.

Who had followed her into the maze?

Not who: What? What had stalked her through the overgrown hedges and berry vines?

Fumbling for her keys in her pocket, she ran on, tearing out of the maze and across the overgrown lawn and potholes of the parking lot to her little Jetta.

She dropped the keys at the door, then scraped her fingers over the broken asphalt as she dived for them. Quaking, dripping rain, she managed to unlock the car. Only when she was inside, throwing the locks with trembling fingers, staring through the partially fogged windows toward the black maze did she feel almost safe.

“Who are you?” she asked the shifting branches dancing and waving in front of her. “Who the hell are you?” She flicked on her headlights and there was nothing there. With shaking arms, she turned the car around and pointed toward the exit. In her rearview mirror a figure emerged from the maze.

Becca hit the accelerator, blinking hard. In that second the image was gone.

But someone was there! Someone had followed her!

Someone who hated her.

A sob edged across her lips and she drove down the long, bumpy lane of the campus. A rabbit caught in the headlight’s glare hopped quickly through the brambles. Becca sped by. Barely hitting her brakes, she charged into the traffic of the main road, determined to get as far away from St. Lizzie’s as possible.

Sometimes it’s easy to find them. Sometimes it’s child’s play.

I watch the taillights of her car disappear into a blanket of rain.

Rebecca, wicked girl, you are predictable. Of course you would come to the maze. Of course you would follow her footsteps.

Frightened, aren’t you? You know you’re different. That you’re one of Them. You sense it, like I sense you.

Have you guessed it yet?

I see you shiver and quake and tremble. I hear you cry out. Do you know I’m here? Watching. Waiting.

Do you know your fate, devil’s spawn?

And now you run…RUN…

Go ahead…run as fast as you can, Rebecca.

I watch the taillights of your car disappear as you flee and I can’t help but smile through the rain. Your escape is futile and you know it.

I will catch you.

When it is time.