“Maybe she’s just heading home,” Harrison mused. “She always wear her pajamas?”
“Pretty much,” Kirsten said.
“You know her name?”
Kirsten shook her head. “Her license plate says Britt.”
Harrison nodded. A couple came through the door at that moment, and he subsided into silence. The girl’s appearance had reminded him of the other story he was working on, which he sensed was on the verge of taking a turn. He needed to balance that story with Justice Turnbull’s escape. It was an embarrassment of riches when just a few weeks ago he’d been working on nothing more exciting than the coming Fourth of July parade.
Getting to his feet, he walked to the counter so he wouldn’t have to shout. “You know where the lodge for the cult is?” he asked Kirsten.
Before she could answer, Cory, who’d filled two ceramic mugs for the people who’d just entered and taken them to a table, walked around the back of the counter and said, “The Colony? It’s just up Highway 101. Looks over toward the ocean. Sometimes it’s kind of hard to see if your eyes are on the road ’cause of all the bushes and stuff on either side of it. But it’s amazing.”
“Just up the highway?” Harrison jerked a finger toward the north.
“Uh-huh. But you can’t go see ’em, or anything, you know. They don’t come out anymore.”
“Anymore,” Harrison repeated.
“Well, I guess they used to. But they’re like weird, you know.”
Kirsten said, “How do they get their groceries?”
Another man entered and asked for a sixteen-ounce cup. Cory handed it to him, popped open the cash drawer, dropped in his money, and made change. She then slammed the register drawer shut with her abdomen. The man slid a look between Harrison and Kirsten as he stuffed the bills in his wallet and headed for the coffee thermoses.
“I don’t know.” Cory shrugged. “Somebody gets it for ’em, I guess.”
Finishing up his coffee, Harrison tossed the cup in the trash, checked his cell phone for the time, then took a step toward the door.
“I would’ve given you a regular mug if I’d known you were going to stick around,” Kirsten said.
“I didn’t know it myself.”
“Are you taking Chico out anytime soon?” Kirsten called after him.
“God, I hope not. I’ll let you know.”
The door slammed shut behind him. Outside he inhaled a lungful of briny air thick with moisture as he unlocked the Impala’s doors with a remote button. He had to click it several times and recognized he needed new batteries. Sliding into the driver’s side, he fired up the engine. Morning light was dimming with the arrival of a bank of gray clouds. More typical June weather at the coast. Looked like they might descend into a blanket of fog. Peachy.
As he was pulling out of the lot, he saw a middle-aged couple climbing from their pickup truck, both wearing T-shirts that said CLEAN UP THE BEACH! He remembered that today was the annual event whereby people from all over the state combed the beaches for trash.
A noble pursuit, but he had other plans on this day. It was still early, but what the hell. He wanted to get a look at the cult’s lodge up close and personal.
As he drove northward, he thought about the thieving teens, the Deadly Sinners. He suspected it would be afternoon before they started gathering; that was like the teen credo. But he bet his bottom dollar they would be gathering. Their robberies had all been on weekend nights, thus far. Saturdays, mostly. It just felt like tonight would be a great night for them.
Maybe he would forget Chico today and instead go for some other look. Maybe actually follow one of them home. Surveillance was where he was on that story. Follow them around. See who their friends were. Catch them in the act of their next bad behavior. Tonight, maybe . . .
But first.
He missed the turnoff to the lodge the first time he went by. Drove right past it, which was easy to do as it wasn’t much of a road and what there was of it was disguised with laurel and Scotch broom and thick grasses waving in a stiff, brisk breeze. The lodge itself was down a side road that was basically two water-filled ruts that led to a wrought-iron gate and the imposing building beyond, a two-story structure of wood shingles and rock and a flagstone walk leading to the front door.
There was a car parked outside the gate. Theirs? he wondered, pulling up next to it. A green Outback with mud splashed up its sides from the rear tires. Huh. Just didn’t seem to jibe with the whole isolated cult thing, but then, who knew?
He was considering getting out of his car when two women stepped outside into the morning light; he could see them through the right side window of his Impala. They were saying good-bye to each other. An older woman and a younger one. It was a tad awkward, like they didn’t know whether to hug or shake hands or just get the hell out.
They both noticed his car at the same time and froze as if touched by a magic wand.
Harrison whispered on a surprised breath, “Laura friggin’ Adderley.”
What the hell was she doing here? he thought the half second before her resemblance to the older woman slammed into his brain like a meteor.
Mother and daughter? Apart from hair color, they bore a strong resemblance.
They finally became animated again, whispering to each other urgently. Then Laura seemed to draw a deep breath and set her jaw. Her eyes narrowed upon him as she started marching across the flagstones to the gate. The older woman followed, and Harrison saw the heavy keys in her hands. She opened the gate for Laura, then locked it distinctly behind her as she threw Harrison a dark glance that told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t welcome.
No surprise there.
Laura walked straight for the driver’s side of the Outback, and Harrison, whose engine was still running, pushed the button that lowered his passenger side window, where her lower back was perfectly framed as she hit a button on her remote door lock.
“So . . . you’re a cult member,” he said loud enough to be heard over the distant roar of the surf and a few birds calling, unseen in the thick forest.
She stiffened as if hit with a hot prod. After a brief moment, she turned and leaned into the open passenger window. He was surprised at how blue her eyes were, how mesmerized he was by the darker striations fanning from the pupil, how smooth the skin was on her cheeks.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded without the barest trace of a smile.
He asked, “Why do you dye your hair?”
Neither of them answered the other.
Laura seemed to think that over hard; then she abruptly turned away.
“You want me to write up something about you being a cult member? Or, maybe we could catch breakfast together and you could tell me all about it?”
“I’m leaving.” She opened her car door.
“How about I follow you?”
“How about I call the police?” she snapped angrily.
“Somehow I don’t think that’d be your first move,” he said, watching her. She was beautiful in her own way, near-perfect features with a little bit of mystery surrounding her. And married to that prick Adderley, he reminded himself. He knew now they weren’t brother and sister. “You’re related to them, aren’t you?” Harrison asked, hooking his thumb toward the gate and lodge beyond. “Is that why you dye your hair? To hide your resemblance to them?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Are they afraid Justice is coming back for them? What about you? Are you afraid?”
She was slamming into her car, so Harrison climbed quickly out of the Impala and skirted her front bumper to end up at her driver’s window. She gazed at him stiffly through the glass.
“Let me buy you breakfast,” he suggested. “I’d like to talk to you. Off the record, of course.”
She rolled down her window reluctantly. “Of course,” she mocked, distrust twisting her features. “For the record, I don’t believe anything’s really off the record.”
 
; He couldn’t help but smile. So she did have a sense of humor.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she said.
“Okay, okay. So if you want it that way, it will be. I promise. But I am going to write an article about the cult, with or without your help.”
“The ‘cult,’” she repeated, with a shake of her head. “Great. That would be without my help,” she assured him. She jabbed her key into the ignition and, before she twisted her wrist, glared up at him. “And they’re not a cult. They’re a family.”
“Your family.”
She said something unintelligible under her breath. “What ‘they’ are is people who just want to be left alone,” she said, picking her words carefully.
Time to get to the point. “Justice Turnbull isn’t going to leave them alone. What does he want with them? Why are they his targets?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” But she visibly paled.
“No, I’m not. He went after them before. One was dead from over twenty years ago, and he went after another one. And then there was that reporter woman. And his mother . . . the one in the rest home. And you’re one of them.” He motioned again toward the lodge. “So, he’s related to you and bound to be a threat?”
She hesitated half a second, then shook her head. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re all like this! Digging for a story. Avidly searching for that angle, that spin, that something that will make your story stand out! You don’t give a damn about anything but making money. You’re as bad as the paparazzi. Just chasing people down, no matter what the cost!”
“What is that cost?” he asked.
“Everything! You said it yourself. He’s after us. He wants to kill us, Mr. Frost.” Whatever cool demeanor she had left cracked completely, and he saw a gamut of emotions skitter across her features. Fear. Rage. Uncertainty.
For a few seconds, they stared at each other, and the darkness of the surrounding forest seemed like a shroud. He found himself wanting to reach in and comfort her. Rub her back. Stroke her hair. Touch her. It was way out of line, and she probably would scream assault if he even tried.
“I’ve said enough.” She twisted on the ignition and the car sparked to life.
“One breakfast, and I’ll leave you alone,” he promised and wondered why it mattered so much that he talk with her. “Pick the place.”
She closed her eyes. He had the impression she wanted to bang her forehead on the steering wheel in frustration or do anything to make him leave her alone. “Okay. The Sands of Thyme Bakery.”
“Not that place.”
Opening her eyes, she frowned at him. “You just said—”
“I know. My sister works there. You don’t want to go there with me. How about Davy Jones’s Locker?”
“The bar?” she asked with disdain.
“They also serve breakfast. It’s pretty good.”
“It’s a dive bar,” she reiterated and looked at him as if he’d lost his mind or never had one to begin with.
“Hey . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. He was trying hard to be his most charming.
Her fingers squeezed the steering wheel. “I . . . can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m very careful not to do crazy things.”
“Who says this is crazy? It’s not crazy.”
“Your definition of crazy is clearly different than mine.” She gave him a sideways look as she slid her car into gear and said reluctantly, “But if you promise this is our one and only meeting, that I’m off the record, and that after this you’ll leave me and my family alone forever, I’ll do it.”
“Deal. Except I reserve the right to change your mind.” He grinned.
“You won’t.”
“Maybe if you get to know me you’ll like me. I’m not all bad. Yeah, I’m after a story, but I’m not Pauline Kirby. I want facts. The real deal.”
“You’re still a reporter.”
“I’m a truth seeker, Mrs. Adderley. That’s all.”
He didn’t quite understand what he’d said that caused her face to lose all color. “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m—” She hesitated on a half laugh. “I’m not . . . It’s Ms. Adderley, actually. I’m not married.”
“Not married. As in not married to Dr. Byron Adderley?”
“That’s correct.”
He grinned. “Well, that’s a plus.”
“I’ll see you at Davy Jones’s, Mr. Frost,” she said, and he noticed her hands were trembling over her steering wheel. “One breakfast. And that’s all.”
“Whatever you want,” he assured her.
“Off the record.”
“They have really good huevos rancheros there.”
“Off the record,” she insisted.
“Off the record,” he agreed, stepping away from her car as she backed around and turned the Outback’s nose toward the main road. “Unless you change your mind, of course . . .”
CHAPTER 11
Laura pulled into the parking lot at Davy Jones’s Locker. The once red, now sort of pink shingled building looked decrepit with a sagging roof and scarred wood plank steps and porch. She’d never actually stepped foot in the place. When she was younger, it hadn’t held one iota of interest for her. Since she’d been back to the coast, she’d never had occasion to even think about the place, but now here she was.
She had a moment in her car while she watched Harrison Frost’s brown Chevrolet nose into the lot and slide into an empty space at the far end from her car. Her heart was pounding a strong, fast beat. A truth seeker. Could that really be said of a reporter? Could that be said of Harrison Frost? He seemed so . . . blunt . . . and yet . . . friendly. Or was that just a ruse to get information from her?
Could he possibly be whom Cassandra meant?
The skin on her forearms prickled. A warning. She told herself to tread carefully; who knew Frost’s true intentions?
She climbed from her car and locked it, then watched as he skirted puddles that had formed in the gravel lot. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and some kind of thin jacket with a hood. He looked like half the teenagers in the area, she thought, as he approached, but then nobody dressed up at the coast unless they absolutely had to. Harrison Frost seemed to be taking dressing casual to a new level.
He shoved a hank of brown hair from his eyes as he reached her, but the wind gleefully grabbed at it. His eyes were hazel with dark specks, and the smile on his lips was meant to disarm her. He had the trace of dimples, and Laura found herself comparing him to Byron, whose countenance was stern and direct and whose eyes were laserlike; she’d often felt pinned beneath their glare.
This guy was much more approachable.
Or so he’d like her to think.
She reminded herself to keep her guard up.
“Thanks,” he said as a means of greeting as he reached her. “For the record, I’m buying.”
She almost laughed.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said they have the best huevos rancheros along the whole damned coast.”
“I was thinking more of a fruit plate,” she said, smothering a smile as they walked between a couple of pickups both sporting toolboxes in their beds.
He gave her a sharp look and those hazel eyes glinted. “That was a joke, right?” he said, gesturing to the dilapidated building they were about to enter. Then, showing more dimple, added, “You’re funny.”
It had been a joke, because Laura was pretty sure Davy Jones’s Locker was the kind of establishment whose menu was scarce on fresh fruit; it looked like it catered to fried food and plenty of it. She was honestly surprised at herself; joking wasn’t her style, as a rule. She was too . . . cautious . . . to engage in that kind of repartee, that kind of flirting.
Flirting . . . Was that what she was doing? She almost winced. Don’t be taken in by his charm. Do not trust him.
&
nbsp; They headed up the broad worn steps together, and Harrison pushed through the door with its porthole window. Inside were wooden tables and benches and booths with red faux-leather seats lining the room on three sides. The fourth side was the bar, which, though its reddish laminate had a few chips and scars, looked surprisingly clean. Or, maybe that was just her impression since the bartender was wiping it down with a white cloth as they entered.
“Sit anywhere,” the barkeep said, and Harrison led her to one of the booths.
Surprisingly there were a number of people in the place, eating breakfast. It looked like a haven for construction workers of all kinds, and there was a lively conversation going on two booths over about the residential work, or lack thereof, in the area.
“I’m not going to say anything about my family,” she said after hanging her jacket on a peg located on the edge of the booth’s back. She slid into the seat across from him. “I’m not really sure why I agreed to this. I’m . . . I’ll figure that out later. But I’m not going to give you a story.”
“I think you need some breakfast. Two huevos?” he asked her.
She considered her stomach, decided it wasn’t rebelling at the thought, and nodded. “If they’re really that good.”
“They are.”
“Okay. So remember, anything I say is strictly off the record,” she warned again.
The handsome bartender, whose dark skin suggested a Hispanic or Native American ancestry and who doubled as a waiter, apparently, came their way. Harrison held up two fingers and said, “Huevos. Coffee. Two?”
“Sure,” Laura said. “With cream.”
“That’ll be it, then,” Harrison told the bartender. “Unless you have a fruit plate.”
“I got orange juice and other mixers.”
“Thanks, but no,” Laura said with a faint smile.
He nodded and headed back to fill their order. As soon as he was out of earshot, she asked Harrison, “Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard that you want to talk to me,” he responded, which made her lips part.
“I said anything I say is off the record!”
He leaned closer, and she felt herself automatically pull back. There was something too attractive about him, some facet of his personality that she suspected he knew about and was exploiting. “Let me tell you a few things. The media is going to be all over this story until Justice Turnbull is caught. Television, newspapers, the Internet . . . A psycho on the loose is big news. Right now reporters are digging through old reports on what took place a couple of years ago. Justice is part of your family. All of that’s going to be dredged up. Your family can’t escape it. Maybe you can, because you’re on the outside and no one seems to know about you, but the rest of ’em . . .” He slowly wagged his head from side to side. “That lodge isn’t a safe haven. It’s a target with a big red bull’s-eye on it. He’s after them, and that’s where they are.”