Читать книгу The Complete Colony Series - Lisa Jackson - Страница 27

Soft music…some vaguely familiar hymn whispered through the funeral parlor. Becca sat staring vacantly at the closed coffin, a testament to how badly Renee’s body had been mangled in the “accident.” Sprays of flowers surrounded the glossy wooden casket and candles burned brightly, but the cloudy, gray day seeped through the windows, bringing in the gloom of winter. The gangly nondenominational preacher with a bad comb-over and rimless glasses stood at the dais as the music faded. He led the mourners in prayer, though Becca could barely concentrate.

Seated next to a grim-faced Hudson, a few chairs away from a blubbering Tim Trudeau, Becca kept her own ragged thoughts at bay. The group of mourners was larger than the small room in the funeral home, and the back doors had been opened to a covered area that had been extended with tents and outdoor heaters. Either Renee had made an incredible amount of friends in less than forty years, or a lot of those who’d come to pay their respects were the curious.

Renee Trudeau’s death had made every major and local paper, as well as the news. Her connection to St. Elizabeth’s, a school that had been previously riddled in scandal and murder, as well as the discovery of the bones and the supposition that they belonged to Jezebel Brentwood, had given her an unwelcome celebrity. The police had yet to make a formal statement, but Becca was certain it would be forthcoming soon. She’d seen the news van parked in the lot and had witnessed Detective Sam McNally arrive and slide into a back row, just inside the doors.

“…tragic loss…trust in the way of the Lord…always be remembered as a wife, friend, sister…”

Becca’s fingers were linked with Hudson’s, but he was staring straight ahead, miles away, his gaze upon the preacher but his sight turned inward to thoughts of his twin.

Would Renee still be alive if she hadn’t been so fascinated with Jessie’s disappearance? Whether her car had been intentionally pushed off the road or sideswiped by a hit-and-run driver—which seemed more and more unlikely—Hudson’s sister’s death could be directly attributed to her quest for the truth about Jessie.

Becca thought of her visions and felt Hudson’s grip tighten over her hand. Fighting tears, she bowed her head when instructed to pray and heard Tim, Renee’s soon-to-be ex-husband, sniveling and snorting, as if he’d lost the love of his life.

Maybe he and Renee could have patched things up. Now no one would ever know. Nor would Becca be able to reconnect fully with Hudson’s sister, his twin, the only family member he’d had left.

She was gone…

Killed. As was Jessie. As was Glenn…

All of the group from St. Elizabeth’s was in attendance, all mourning and grief-stricken, all not saying what everyone was thinking—Who’s next? Becca had caught a glimpse of The Third, taciturn as he fingered the small pamphlet about the service, and she’d seen Mitch chain-smoking on the porch right before the service, looking like an absolute wreck. Tamara, toned down in a long black skirt and sweater, was a couple of rows over, not far from Zeke and Evangeline. Zeke was glum and Vangie was a doe in the headlights.

None of them could believe another member of their group, Hudson’s vibrant, passionate sister, was actually dead.

Becca’s insides twisted and she fought the sting of tears as the preacher recalled some of the most noteworthy times of Renee’s life. As he brought up Renee’s education and her graduation from St. Elizabeth’s she felt Hudson stiffen beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tamara, shaking her head in sadness.

God, this was horrible. Never in a million years would Becca have thought that she would be at Renee’s funeral at so early an age. But then, there were lots of things she wouldn’t have imagined. She caught a glimpse from Scott Pascal, who sat, hands clasped between his knees, his brown suit jacket pulling at the seams. He looked away and then Becca felt someone staring at her. Hard. Like a knife between her shoulder blades.

She stiffened, half looked behind her, but at that moment the preacher asked them all to pray and Becca bent her head.

But she was being watched. She felt those eyes digging into her. Whoever was staring so intently at her wasn’t a friend. Just before the end of the prayer she hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder and saw only a sea of bent heads before she caught McNally’s unguarded stare. He’d asked her and Hudson a ton of questions about Renee’s accident but they’d had no answers for him. Now his eyes were trained on hers and she looked quickly away, whispering a quick “amen” as the preacher closed the service.

Becca couldn’t wait to get outside, away from the coffin, away from the heavy onus of death. But there was a gathering afterward at the grave site, and though there were fewer people in attendance, all of their friends made the trek to the hillside cemetery on the outskirts of Laurelton.

Flanked by old-growth timber dripping in moss and knifing into the low-hanging clouds, the manicured acres of grass dotted by headstones appeared bleak and somber. More prayers were said, more condolences whispered as high heels sank into the rain-sodden loam and Tim tossed a rose onto the coffin before it was lowered into the neatly cut earth. A hundred yards away, a man sat smoking on a big yellow piece of earth-moving equipment. As soon as the crowd disbursed he would make short work of filling the hole where Renee’s coffin was resting.

It wasn’t just close family friends at the grave site. Seated in his car, parked with a view of the graveside ceremony, Detective Sam McNally, their group’s nemesis, was just far enough away not to be part of the service, close enough to observe. Now, gazing at them through his windshield, he seemed to be talking on his cell phone. He just never gave up. Not for twenty damned years. “Obsessed,” The Third had once called him. It wasn’t far from the truth.

And now he was here at Renee’s burial two decades later.

The entire ceremony was disturbing.

As the crowd dispersed, Hudson spoke to old friends of his family while Becca huddled with Tamara and The Third, both usually flamboyant and now quiet and reserved.

“This is Jessie’s doing,” Mitch said as he approached. He was lighting one cigarette off the butt of another.

“This is not the time, man,” The Third said.

Mitch blew out a stream of smoke. “You all know it, you just won’t admit it.”

“Don’t talk crazy.” Tamara shook her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“It’s not the end, you know. More of us are gonna get it,” Mitch predicted, glancing at the dark trees surrounding the graveyard. “How well do you know your friends?” he yelled to the group as a whole. “Somebody’s a killer!”

“Shut up!” Tamara fished in her purse for her keys and Becca noticed that the detective had gotten out of his car and was approaching Hudson. “God, Mitch. What’s wrong with you?”

“I know too much,” he muttered. “And none of you do.”

Tamara retrieved the jingling keys and snapped her purse shut.

“Tamara’s right, man, pull your shit together,” The Third said as Hudson, hair blowing in the wind, spoke to the policeman.

“You should all watch out,” Mitch said.

“Look, I’ve gotta run.” The Third was having none of it as he made his way to his BMW and slid inside.

“You could be next,” Mitch called after him. “You got one of those notes, too!” The BMW roared away.

“That’s what this is all about? Those damned nursery rhymes?” Tamara demanded. “You look like hell, Mitch. Really. Get some sleep.”

“It’s more than that,” Mitch said. “The cop’s still hanging out, isn’t he? Mac? And he’s talking to Hudson.”

“He’s investigating,” she said tightly. “That’s what he does.”

He glanced over his shoulder to an area where a solitary tree stood next to the firs in the surrounding woods, then took another long drag, as if the smoke were life-giving rather than stealing. “Oh, hell, just forget it.” He left them as he headed for his Tahoe, shoulders tight.

Tamara whispered to Becca, “I think he’s using again—mixing his prescription drugs. He had a little problem before.” She pulled her coat closer around her slim body as her eyes watched his Tahoe disappear. “He’s losing it.”

We all are, Becca thought. Some of us just hide it better than others. She stared into the forest, her gaze following the same path that Mitch’s had only a few minutes before. The trees were shrouded in fog, ferns, and faulty shadows. For a second Becca thought she saw someone hiding in the dark, misty depths, but as the wind shifted, the mist lifting a bit, there was no one standing beside the gnarly old oak tree.

She, like Mitch, was imagining things.

And yet…

Hudson walked toward them. “Ready?” he said to Becca.

“Sure.” She managed a small smile that she didn’t feel.

“You need a ride?” he asked Tamara, but she shook her head.

“Got my car.” With a wave, she picked her way through the wet grass to the spot where she’d parked her Mazda.

Becca watched her drive away from the passenger seat of Hudson’s truck. He put the pickup into gear and said, “Zeke told me McNally wants to talk to him at the station. What do you think that’s about?”

Becca stared out the side window. “He never got a note.”

“Must be something more,” he said wearily as he slid his truck into the slow file of vehicles driving toward town. “I’m getting to the point that I don’t even want to know.”

Becca felt that same stabbing sensation of being watched. She glanced back toward the trees, watching their limbs flail in the stiff breeze. “I don’t, either,” she said firmly.

The scent of betrayal, of unholy lust is in the air, teasing at my nostrils, reminding me that I must not s, reminding me that I must not fail.

She looks my way.

Through the haze I see the worry in her eyes; so like Jezebel’s.

You can’t see me, Demon Bitch. I’m invisible to you, but you feel me, don’t you?

You know I’m coming for you.

I sense your fear.

God will make you pay for your pact with Satan, Rebecca. I am His messenger.

And I’m coming for you…

“Have a seat,” Detective McNally told Zeke, indicating a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

Zeke did as he was told, his body as taut as a bowstring. He cupped his jaw in one hand, his arms tucked in tight, a position of defense.

Mac gave him a moment to relax and drew a long breath himself. He’d spent half the week in Tillamook County, learning all he could about the accident that had taken Renee Trudeau’s life, and half the week in Laurelton dealing with a double homicide where the only man left standing—thirty-one-year-old junkie Harold Washington—claimed the deceased man and woman with the fatal gunshot wounds had fired at him first. They were all meth users—a lovely bunch of Johnny Ray’s clientele—and it was hard to say just what had happened at the rented three-bedroom ranch at the east side of town. Gretchen was in her element; she loved interrogating low-life scum like Washington. Mac was tired of all that, and as he sat down at his desk across from Zeke St. John, he wondered if he might be becoming the burnout everyone thought he was.

“Know why I asked you here?” Mac asked.

“I’m the father,” he blurted out. “That’s what you’re going to tell me. I’m the baby’s father.”

Mac had put the paternity issue aside in the wake of Renee Trudeau’s death; he’d been too caught up in those events to even think about it. His thoughts had been occupied by Renee, Hudson Walker’s sister. Why had someone pushed her car off the cliff? Did it have something to do with Jessie’s murder? Whatever the case, the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department was on an all-out hunt for a vehicle with a smashed front end.

So when Zeke jumped in and hit the issue head-on, Mac was slightly surprised. “That’s exactly right,” he admitted. “You are the baby’s father. You slept with Jessie.”

He nodded jerkily. “A couple of times. She was trying to get back at Hudson. She teased like mad. She was so wild and scary. I don’t think she slept with anyone else, though she acted like it. She chose me.”

“Because you were Walker’s best friend.”

“I thought she wanted me, at the time.” He looked faintly ashamed.

“Walker have any idea?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’s going to have to know now,” Mac said.

“Yeah. I see. Yeah…”

Mac thought over a few things and the moment stretched out between them. The pause made Zeke antsy. His eyes darted around the room as if now that he’d made his confession, he wanted to escape.

“You think this has something to do with the fact that you never received a nursery rhyme note?” Mac finally asked.

Zeke looked flummoxed. “What do you mean?”

“Does anyone else know about your relationship with Jessie?”

“No…uh-uh. I don’t get what you’re driving at?”

Mac said, “You’re Jessie’s baby’s father, and you’re the only one of your buddies who didn’t get a note. You see? It’s a difference. Something that stands out.”

He went quiet, internalizing, and his face seemed to grow more gaunt.

“It’s a connection that doesn’t make any sense,” Mac said. “Unless maybe…” Zeke’s gaze flew to Mac’s. “Someone is trying to direct the attention away from you?” Zeke didn’t respond, though it looked like it was taking all he had to keep quiet, so Mac pushed a little harder. “Someone who knows you’re the father. Someone who thinks you killed Jessie?”

“No.”

“It seems like a woman’s idea of terror.”

He gulped out a laugh. “Now you’re going to tell me Jessie’s alive!”

“I don’t think it’s Jessie.”

Zeke’s eyes were hollow, like he’d stared into a hellish world. “Vangie did not kill Jessie! She couldn’t have done that. She doesn’t have the strength.” He was breathing rapidly. “And what about Renee? And Glenn? What happened to them?”

Gretchen had been at her desk when Zeke came in but she’d moved closer to hear the exchange. Mac felt her presence behind his right shoulder and was glad she had chosen to keep her mouth shut instead of breaking in.

Zeke looked ready to fall into pieces. Mac told him the investigations into Glenn and Renee’s deaths were ongoing, but he didn’t seem to hear. He was lost in his own thoughts and when the interview concluded he rose from his chair in a daze. Together, Mac and Gretchen watched him walk out of the station.

“He thinks his fiancée wrote the notes,” Gretchen observed.

“He’s been thinking that for a while,” Mac concluded.

“You gonna let him drop that bomb on her?”

Mac shrugged. “Do you see Evangeline Adamson as Jezebel Brentwood’s killer? Following her into the maze, stabbing her in the ribs? Murdering her and her baby?”

“Zeke’s baby, too.”

“I agree with Zeke. I don’t think she has the nerve. The note sending is more her style, sneaky and anonymous. She was trying to protect Zeke, when in fact she pointed an arrow right to him.”

Gretchen’s blue eyes narrowed and she smiled her thin smile.

“What?” Mac asked.

“You better stop this, or I might start thinking you’re a decent detective after all.”

Mac harrumphed and turned away from her. He didn’t want to start liking Gretchen, either. She was a pain in the butt, then, now, and forever.

Hudson drove away from the house Tim and Renee had shared and tried not to hate the guy. All he’d wanted was Renee’s laptop and notes about the story she’d been working on, but Tim didn’t have them. Stunned that his wife was gone, Tim was a walking automaton. He acted like he didn’t hear Hudson’s request, going on and on instead about what a great relationship he and Renee had had, how much he’d loved her, how alone he felt now, how miserable. He seemed to have conveniently pushed away all the contention their relationship had been fraught with at the end. Hudson had wanted to explode at him, but had held his temper in check by sheer will, and finally Tim paid attention enough to say that the laptop hadn’t been found when her Toyota was pulled from the sea. It, and whatever luggage Renee had carried with her, had been lost. Not that a computer that had been submerged in the sea would be of much help.

“I’ll have to add that to the insurance report,” Tim said to Hudson. “Thanks for reminding me.”

In a foul mood, Hudson pushed thoughts of Tim aside as he drove home. Ignoring the calls from reporters on his answering machine, he spent the rest of the day caring for the livestock and fixing a broken gate. The physical labor of forking hay into mangers, shoveling manure from the stalls, and replacing hinges and broken boards gave him time to think and sort things out.

He tried to remember more of what she’d said in their last phone conversation, but there didn’t seem to be anything there that meant anything. He knew her user ID and password, so he switched on his computer and flipped through her unread and “kept as new” e-mails. There weren’t a lot of them. And none of them had to do with the story she was working on. Less than an hour later, he logged off in frustration.

Maybe the only way to learn something was to follow in her footsteps, like she’d followed in Jessie’s.

His cell phone chirped at the same moment he heard tires crunching on his gravel driveway. He answered the phone, then glanced up the stairs, where Becca was working on her own laptop, getting some overdue work done for her job. “Hello?”

“Hey, Hudson. It’s Zeke. I’m just pulling into your driveway.”

“Yeah? What makes you come out here?”

“Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Come on in. Door’s open.” He hung up and yelled, “Zeke’s here.”

When she didn’t answer, he headed upstairs and caught her coming out of the bathroom, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You all right? Zeke’s just pulling up. He wants to talk to me.”

Becca grimaced. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me. I’ll be right down.”

“Okay.”

Hudson clambered back down the stairs and Becca watched from the upper rail. She’d just lost her dinner. Food poisoning, or…pregnancy?

Too soon to know, she told herself with a flutter of anxiety in her already nervous stomach. She couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t hope. Yet elation was building, a sudden, blinding certainty that ran down her nerves like electricity.

No. No. Oh, please…yes!

It took her a few moments to collect herself, to quash her growing thrill and put it in perspective. This was way too early. If it was true, she was barely a month pregnant. But then, she’d known immediately last time she was pregnant as well.

Oh, God, let it be true!

By the time she joined them, Hudson and Zeke were in the kitchen. Hudson was in a chair, but Zeke was standing. Becca’s head was full of swirling thoughts and it was all she could do to even wonder why Zeke had suddenly stopped by.

“I just got back from the police station and McNally. I went home but I couldn’t stay there.”

“What’s wrong?” Hudson asked, frowning.

Zeke hesitated, clutched his fingers around the back of an empty chair, then rocked back on his heels. “The DNA proved I’m Jessie’s baby’s father.”

“What?” Becca asked softly and Hudson stared at Zeke like he was speaking a foreign language.

“The body has to be Jessie’s,” Zeke went on raggedly. “It has to be, because I didn’t sleep with anyone else…except Jessie…at that time.”

“You slept with Jessie,” Hudson repeated. Zeke’s gaze implored his friend’s, but Hudson was having trouble shifting gears.

“You can hate me, man. I wouldn’t blame you if you did! She was just trying to get back at you and I was a fucking idiot. I don’t know. I don’t have any excuse. She was just hot and I wanted her. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry!”

Becca’s pulse shot into the stratosphere. Her mind was a jumble of pieces of information. Jessie’s baby wasn’t Hudson’s. Zeke slept with Jessie. Hudson’s best friend slept with his girlfriend. Jessie’s baby wasn’t Hudson’s!

“Who killed her?” Hudson asked in a strangled voice.

“I don’t know, man. Not me.”

“Did you know about the baby?” Hudson demanded.

Zeke shook his head. “No way. I just thought she ran off, maybe because we were screwing. She was messed up. So was I. I’m sorry.”

“Do you think she knew?”

“About the baby? It was, like, a few months along. That’s what McNally said.” He turned blindly to Becca. “Girls know that stuff, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Becca said weakly.

“I don’t think she knew I was the father. I mean, you and her…” Zeke struggled for words, his gaze on Hudson, who’d gone unnaturally quiet. “You were together during that time?”

There was a long silence. Zeke’s anxiety and torture over wondering what Hudson was thinking and feeling filled the room. Becca felt light-headed and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. The past consumed the present. You’re not pregnant, she told herself. You just want it so badly your subconscious is making you think you are.

But you haven’t used birth control, have you? Haven’t thought about it!

Hudson’s cell phone rang and Zeke and Becca both visibly jumped. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the Caller ID. “It’s Mitch,” he said.

“Maybe I should go.” Zeke looked to Hudson for confirmation, but his friend had turned his attention to his cell. Becca nodded to him. There wasn’t much more to say, and Hudson was clearly still processing.

Zeke hesitated, but when he heard Hudson say, “Hey, Mitch, what’s up?” he left, shoulders hunched, through the back door.

Becca glanced over and saw Booker T.’s empty water dish. She wondered when Hudson was going to put it away. The dog wasn’t coming back.

But maybe there’ll be a baby…

Hudson listened for a few moments, then said into the phone, “Why don’t you just tell me, Mitch? I don’t think anything could surprise me now. If you know who killed Glenn, just say it. And don’t tell me it’s Jessie, because I just learned those bones are definitely hers. Yes. For a fact.” His gaze met Becca’s and he said into the receiver, “That’s right. Jessie did not send the notes because she’s dead.” He listened a little longer, then half sighed and said, “You’re at the garage? How long are you gonna be there?” A pause. “Sure, I’ll stop by.” He shrugged to Becca as he hung up.

“Mitch is working late at the garage and wants me to stop by so he can talk to me about who killed Glenn.”

“All your friends are suddenly into confessions,” Becca murmured.

“You still feel sick, or do you want to go with me?”

“I’m okay. I can go. Think it’ll be all right with Mitch? Maybe he wants to see you alone.”

“To hell with that. I want to be with you.” He pulled her into his arms. She hugged him so hard he started laughing.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her face pressed into his chest. “After what Zeke said?”

He exhaled a short breath. “Y’know, I’m almost relieved. Thinking the baby was mine, and I never knew…pissed me off. I’ve been really mad at Jessie—and she’s been dead for twenty years! She never told me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I was goddamned mad at her.”

“I understand.” A whisper of fear swept over Becca’s skin. She’d kept that same secret herself.

“I’m not mad at Zeke. I would have been at the time, but a lot’s happened and I just don’t care.” He stroked her hair. “And I believe Zeke. He didn’t know she was pregnant. I don’t know why she was killed—maybe she just ran into the wrong person—but I don’t think it has anything to do with the pregnancy.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you ready to go see Mitch?” he asked.

She curled her fists into his shirt and said, “Would it be bad of me to say, ‘not just yet’?”

“Did you have something else in mind?” She heard the thread of amusement in his voice.

For an answer, she took his hand and led him back upstairs.

The garage was full of the smells of oil, dirt, and stale cigarette smoke, though no one was allowed to smoke inside. Mitch swiped the sweat from his brow with a red cloth stained with grease. He was sweating like a pig and trying like hell not to freak out. The card he’d received had scared the shit out of him, but now he had other worries loading him down. He’d had stomach problems ever since Glenn had died in the fire at Blue Note. He forced a picture of Glenn trapped in that damned inferno from his mind, but hell, he missed him. They’d been good buds. He’d listened when Glenn pissed and moaned about Blue Note or Gia. He’d been there.

And he and Glenn had bonded over getting their asses kicked by The Third and Jarrett time and again. Jesus, those bastards could make life miserable if you had a few extra pounds or some other kind of weakness.

Good old Glenn.

He tasted acid burning up his throat.

“Just the medication,” he said, then clapped his trap shut. He didn’t want Mike, the owner of the garage, to have any inkling that he was on prescriptions. Mike, an ex-druggie, was death on anything put in a person’s bloodstream, even those prescribed by a doc.

So Mitch kept his pills on the down-low. No one but his doctor knew what medications were in his night table drawer or his body. But lately these new antidepressants coupled with his sleep aids had been playing tricks with his mind. He’d been hallucinating.

Or at least he thought he was. Who the fuck knew?

“Hey.” Phil, the skinny sixtysomething mechanic whose craggy, collapsed face might scare little kids, lifted a hand as he headed through the bay and out the big garage doors. “You’re closin’ up, right?”

“After the Grand Am.” Mitch checked his watch. He still needed to put in some time on the car, and Hudson had agreed to stop by. Mitch wasn’t sure how much he was going to say to him. He hated being a tattletale, especially if his ideas were wrong. And it was kind of a betrayal, too. But Glenn was gone…and Renee, too, though he still was blaming that one on Jessie.

“She’s dead,” he reminded himself aloud. Hudson had confirmed it.

It just sure didn’t feel like it.

“You talkin’ to me?” Phil asked.

“Hey, change the channel back to country and close the doors, will ya?”

“Look who’s the boss.”

“You want to work on the damned Pontiac?”

“Fine, fine.” Phil adjusted the station from the all talk radio that Mike always insisted upon and soon Randy Travis’s voice boomed through the bays. “Tomorrow,” Phil called as he pressed the electronic opener button so that the doors began their clattering descent. Before they closed completely Mitch caught a glimpse of Phil as he pulled himself up into the cab of a pickup that was jacked two feet into the air to support its huge tires.

With Phil gone, Mitch was completely alone. Everyone else, including Elsa, the greyhound, Mike’s rescue dog and unofficial garage mascot, had already left for the day.

These days, Mitch didn’t really like being completely alone.

With an effort, Mitch turned his attention to the Pontiac supported by a hydraulic jack. Something wrong with the front-end U joint. A big job. Shit. He slid beneath the vehicle on the creeper, rolling it into position, then began working. He hooked a lamp over the axle and frowned at the under-carriage. A trick one, this, but he’d always enjoyed working on cars, ever since he’d been a freshman at St. Elizabeth’s, years before he could drive legally. He began humming along to Brooks and Dunn, spying what looked like another oil leak—more problems—when he heard something…a scrape of a shoe? Or just some static from the radio?

No one was in the place.

Mike had been gone since two.

Phil had left less than twenty minutes ago.

Mitch strained to listen over the sound of country twang and the thrum of guitar chords.

It was the damned medications, making him all paranoid. All the weird shit surrounding those bones, and the damned notes, and the fire and Glenn…and then Renee up and dying. Made him crazy, that’s what.

Still nervous, he slid out from under the Grand Am bumping his head on one of the rims. He stepped outside for a smoke, and ducked under the awning of the overhang where they’d once pumped gas. Now the old tanks were empty and Mike only did auto repair work. The parking area under the overhangs was used for cars waiting for a part. Rain was starting to fall again, beating on an old tar roof.

He finished his cigarette, lit another, and wondered what was taking Hudson so long. Maybe he shouldn’t have called him. Maybe he should’ve called that cop. But what did he know, really? Not the kind of evidence they were always yammering about on those TV shows. More like suspicions.

And he didn’t know anything about Renee. Nothing. Whatever happened to her at the beach was just a weird coincidence, probably. The work of thrill-seekers who just ran her off the road, maybe. He didn’t see how it could tie into Jessie.

Maybe her dick of a husband did her in. What a fucking asshole that guy was.

Then there was Glenn…God, he wished Hudson would get here.

Mitch took a last, long drag, then walked around the corner of the building and through the open door, only half aware that it was ajar. Once under the car again, he went back to work, moving leisurely on the creeper. He knew he could wrap this job up if he could just get the fuckin’ universal joint—

Scccrraaaape.

Someone was inside.

“Hey!” he yelled.

No answer.

Just the sound of static over the notes of a slide guitar. “Phil? You there?”

Every hair on the back of Mitch’s neck rose.

“Listen to me, you cocksucker. If you’re fuckin’—”

The lights in the entire garage went out.

All the bays were plunged into darkness.

Holy shit!

Mitch’s ticker about exploded.

He started to roll out from under the car, but the Pontiac groaned above him.

He reached an arm out, scrabbling for purchase, desperate to get out from under the car. Before he could shift free, he heard the snap of the release on the jack. “Shit,” he whispered, his mouth turning to an “O” of horror just before three thousand pounds of General Motors metal pinned him to the creeper, which somehow didn’t fold in on itself. Something punched into his chest. The weight of the car crushed him, cracking his bones. Pain like he’d never felt before screamed through his body. His lungs burned. He gasped for breath. Heard the hiss of his lungs. His heart was pumping furiously and he sensed blood leaking from his broken, aching body.

His eyes rolled back in his head, but he clung to consciousness. And then he saw her…as she was twenty years earlier—beautiful, sexy, and teasing.

“What are little boys made of?” she said.

“Jessie,” Mitch cried, his voice strangled. “Jessie…”