Wicked Lies

  “Now we’re cooking,” she said, then plucked her daughter from Harrison’s arms. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room as Chico returned and Kirsten closed the door behind him. “So what about you?” she said to her daughter. “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “Pancakes!” Didi said brightly.

  “Big surprise. Get dressed and I’ll make a batch.” She glanced at her brother, then swung her gaze to Laura. “For all of us.”

  Didi was off like a shot, and with a nostalgic smile twisting her lips, Kirsten said, “Oh, to have her energy,” slanting Harrison a knowing look. “And your damned passion.”

  Laura flushed, but Kirsten waved off any protests and warned her, “Just be careful.” She found three cups in the cupboard and set them on the counter, near the slowly filling carafe. “My brother is a helluva guy who has this problem thinking he has to protect everyone close to him.”

  “That’s a problem?” Harrison said.

  “That you don’t know it, that’s a problem,” Kirsten said.

  Savvy Dunbar drove past the motel that Madeline Turnbull had called home before Justice’s vicious attack on her that had sent her to the nursing home. The place was a shambles, individual cabins falling in on themselves, porches sagging, the fence barely existent on this cliff overlooking the sea. The land had to be worth a fortune; the dilapidated buildings were not worth a plug nickel.

  She pulled into the once-gravel drive. Now weeds and beach grass choked the rutted lanes, and her squad car bounced and jostled through the potholes. No other police cruisers were nearby; there was only so much surveillance possible on the department’s limited budget. Twenty-four/ seven just wasn’t in the cards.

  After checking the grounds and peering into the few windows that weren’t boarded over, she drove along the highway to a turnout where she could spy the lighthouse where Justice had squatted before his incarceration. It had been abandoned for years, aside from harboring the killer a few years back. Now, from the shore, it appeared empty again, a lonely, graying tower on a rocky island in a white-capped sea, a solitary reminder of an earlier era that brought up thoughts of clipper ships and wrecks upon the rocky shoals.

  “Where are you, you miserable son of a bitch?” she said as the wind, fresh with the scent of the ocean, caught her hair and slapped at her face.

  She was tired, as was everyone working for the TCSD these days. With their increased workload, the officers were running on empty.

  And still Justice Turnbull ran free.

  Somehow, someway, she and the department had to catch him.

  Before he started killing again.

  The sun was climbing high overhead when Laura finally stood at the gate of Siren Song. Her heart was pounding, her nerves stretched tight. Harrison was leaning against his car, eyeing the grounds beyond the wrought-iron barrier.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked and she forced a smile.

  “I’m not sure about anything,” she admitted. I wasn’t even sure about spending last night at your sister’s house, with you staring at me from the floor . . . and then that kiss . . .

  She cleared her throat, dragged her gaze from his. “But this is where it all started,” she explained. She’d decided she couldn’t let Justice rule her life. For most of the past week, she’d been dodging him, fearing him, calling him, then running away.

  No longer.

  She couldn’t stand being terrorized, and it wasn’t fair to everyone inside these gates. After breakfast, she’d asked Harrison to drive her here. He hadn’t argued, only insisted that they stop and assess the damage to her house before they drove to Siren Song.

  Neither of them had mentioned their kiss and what might have happened if Didi hadn’t come bouncing in from the bedroom. Laura figured it was just as well. She wasn’t going to pretend the kiss and her response to Harrison hadn’t happened; she just didn’t want to think about it too much.

  For now.

  At her little cottage, he’d come up with the name of a glass company that would drop by later to replace the shattered window. He figured he could replace the lock on the door himself. Laura had left a message for her landlord on his voice mail; then they’d driven the remaining miles to the lodge, and now she stood on the outside of the gate, wondering what answers lay on the other.

  “I guess it’s now or never,” she said.

  Since there was no bell to call the inhabitants, she wrapped her fingers around the thick wrought-iron bars and jangled the gate and chain, while calling, “Catherine! Catherine!”

  Before the words were out of her mouth, Isadora appeared at the front door. Long skirts rustling, she racewalked across the porch and quickly along the stone path to the gate. “Lorelei,” she whispered, clearly distraught as she unlocked the chain and yanked hard on the bars. With a groan the gate opened, and she flung herself into Laura’s surprised arms. “We heard what happened,” Isadora said, her throat obviously thick. “I was so worried . . . so . . . oh, dear God.” She was shaking under the canopy of trees, light from a pale sun piercing the leaves to dapple the ground.

  The ground was still damp, smelled of earth and water, and the scent of the sea wafted through the old growth that surrounded the lodge.

  “I’m fine,” Laura said. “Really, Isadora, don’t worry.”

  “I can’t help it. He’s a madman!” As if realizing they weren’t alone, Isadora looked over Laura’s shoulder to spy Harrison standing near his car. “Oh . . . sorry.”

  “Harrison’s trying to help.”

  Isadora shook her head. “No one can.” Her suspicious gaze cut to Harrison as he walked forward and extended his hand to her. “Harrison Frost.”

  Isadora reluctantly took his fingers in her own. “You’re the reporter.”

  “Yes.”

  “But more than that,” Isadora said aloud as she let her hand drop and her pale eyebrows slammed together thoughtfully. “He’s the one Cassandra talked about. The truth seek . . . ?” she started to ask before seeing the warning glance in Laura’s eyes and let her voice fade. Isadora had been in the room when Cassandra had made the prediction. She’d also heard about the pregnancy, and Laura fervently willed her sister to be quiet.

  “I need to see Catherine,” Laura insisted and was vaguely aware of the sound of tires crunching on the sparse gravel of the lane, the sound of a smooth engine.

  Isadora looked up and cried, “Justice . . . !”

  Harrison and Laura both stiffened, staring down the drive.

  “Come inside,” Isadora instructed. “Hurry!” To Harrison, “You, too!” She was already stepping through the open gate, intent on slamming it shut, when the nose of a Jeep appeared through the trees and Laura saw a tall man behind the wheel, a man with dark hair and a grim expression, the shadow of a beard darkening his strong jaw.

  Not Justice.

  A woman sat in the passenger seat. She, too, appeared worried, and before the Jeep slammed to a stop and she climbed out, Laura knew who she was. This woman was related to her, her sister. Fascinated, she noted the newcomer’s large hazel eyes. Streaked blond hair. Firm, pointed chin. And that certain, indefinable resemblance in her carriage.

  The gate was creaking shut when Isadora suddenly stopped the motion. “Becca?” Isadora whispered, her eyes rounding as Catherine walked from the open door onto the porch.

  “Isadora?” Catherine called out to them.

  “Who’s Becca?” Harrison asked.

  “One of my sisters,” Laura said as the man behind the wheel climbed out and rounded the Jeep. She’d never met Becca before, but she knew she was her sister. She’d read about Becca Sutcliff and Hudson Walker a couple of years earlier, during Justice’s last bloody rampage.

  Becca, who had been adopted away from Siren Song before Catherine had closed the gates forever, had never lived at the Colony, nor had Catherine ever spoken of her, but the sisters had whispered between themselves about those who had grown up on “the outside.” Even though Bec
ca had been adopted, Justice had discovered her and she’d been the object of his deadly rage once already.

  Now, as sunlight pierced the towering fir trees, Becca lifted a hand and flashed an uneasy smile, her hazel eyes worried. The man with her, presumably Hudson Walker, opened the back door of the Jeep, and Becca reached inside only to retrieve a curly-headed girl of about two who had been strapped into her car seat.

  He smells them when they’re pregnant.

  Justice’s terrifying claim sizzled through Laura’s head, and she felt a new, chilling fear. Had Becca been pregnant with this little dark-haired girl when Justice had been tracking her down? Was that why she’d been his primary target?

  Laura’s blood turned to ice as she looked at the toddler. Pale. Wan. Listless. Oh, God . . .

  Becca gathered the child in her arms, but her gaze found Laura’s and she stopped dead in her tracks. “You’re Lorelei,” she guessed. “You’re the one he’s after.”

  “You know?”

  She hesitated, seemed to want to lie, then finally nodded. “I have visions,” she admitted carefully. “I saw him chasing you . . . Lorelei. . . .”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Harrison asked her.

  “We all have ‘gifts,’ ” Becca said. “Didn’t Lorelei tell you?”

  “Well . . . yeah, but . . .” He looked nonplussed.

  “She’s not the only one.” Becca was walking forward again.

  “Isadora!” Catherine yelled. Spying the group gathered at the gate, her back stiffened and her face lost all color. “Oh, Lord!” Holding her skirts high, she stepped off the porch and marched purposely toward them, her linen-colored dress rustling, her hair pulled back in a silver knot pinned at her nape. “What is this?” Anxiety twisted her features.

  Laura sneaked a peek at the house and saw the faces of her sisters in the window—Ravinia and Cassandra. Lillibeth had wheeled her chair onto the porch, her face turned toward the gate.

  A prisoner.

  Of the chair.

  Of Siren Song.

  Of fate.

  Catherine came blistering through the gate. “What’re you doing here?” she demanded, her face a mask of concern as she glared at Becca. “Don’t you know he’s loose again? Haven’t I warned you that you can’t come here? That it’s not safe?”

  “We couldn’t wait.” Holding her daughter protectively, she glared at Catherine.

  “It’s more dangerous now than ever,” Catherine declared.

  Becca was shaking her head. “You’ve stopped me long enough. I don’t care about your secrets.” Catherine tried to say something but Becca wasn’t finished. “Too many have died already, Catherine. Too many of us, too many others. This has got to stop!” She was shaking, fighting tears. “And now . . . and now Rachel,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut as the child stirred in her arms.

  Catherine glanced at the little girl and her face softened.

  “I know you want to protect us but it hasn’t worked!” Becca visibly gathered herself, dispelling her tears and glaring at the older woman. “I’ve been here time and time again, trying to get answers, and you’ve shut me down. Sent me away!” Her voice was rising with injustice. “And now . . . now my daughter is threatened again.” Clinging to her child, she whispered, “Let me in, Catherine. We need to talk. We all need to talk.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Now!” the man with Becca said, his eyes flashing blue fire as he stepped forward. From over six feet he stared down at her, and he, too, was racked with emotion, pain in his eyes.

  Catherine hesitated, then glanced again at the sluggish child. “Fine,” she said to Becca. “But no men. Bring your child with you. Just hurry up.” She glanced at Laura. “You, too.” Standing in the path of the men, she ordered, “Stay here. This is between us,” then she and Isadora guided Laura and Becca and Rachel inside Siren Song’s grounds with the others, closing the gate behind them.

  “Bullshit!” Harrison said, trying to shove himself forward, but Hudson placed a staying hand on the crook of his elbow. “I’m not leaving Laura to—”

  “Let it go,” Hudson said.

  “The hell with that.”

  “We’ll be right here,” Hudson called after Catherine. His lips were a thin blade. “If there’s trouble, we’ll warn you.”

  “What the hell is this?” Harrison demanded of Hudson.

  “Let’s just see if they can help my daughter,” he said. “I don’t have any problem waiting at the gate in case that sick bastard should show up.”

  Catherine gave a curt nod to Hudson and seemed suddenly ten years older than her years. Becca, holding Rachel close, walked briskly up the path, and Laura wondered how desperate she was to bring her child here, knowing that Justice was nearby. Waiting. Lurking. Breathing death for every one of them.

  Sliding her key into the hidden pocket in her skirts, Catherine shepherded them along the path, keeping one eye on the gate, as if she expected to see Satan and his legions marching up the drive.

  Once inside the house, introductions were made quickly. Becca met her sisters as if for the first time. She explained that the man who was with her was, indeed, her husband, Hudson Walker. The women who greeted her offered up their names: Isadora, Cassandra, Ravinia, Ophelia, and Lillibeth, all blond or ash brown, all blue-eyed, all curious. There were still others, too, and some like Laura and Becca, who hadn’t spent all their lives here; some dead, some missing, but all ghosts who seemed to be a part of these old timbers.

  This time Catherine didn’t shoo the younger girls upstairs but led the visitors into the large gathering room off the front hall, opposite the dining room and dominated by a stone fireplace that rose two full stories to the gallery above. A fire was banked, the smell of smoldering ashes heavy in the air. The furniture was old, a hodgepodge of pieces gathered over the last hundred years. Everything from Victorian settees to sleek midcentury sofas.

  Catherine closed the heavy drapes and waved them into the ancient chairs and sofas that were spread around the room. She turned on a few lamps, old Tiffany style, which gave off muted, colored light, then stood near the grate. Lillibeth hung near the doorway, and Ophelia, whom Laura hadn’t seen the last time she was here, took a seat on the hearth. Her eyes were round with fear, and she rubbed her arms constantly, as if chilled from the inside out.

  Catherine’s gaze fell upon the girl in Becca’s arms. Rachel’s hair was darker than her mother’s, but her eyes were a deep green, her skin white as porcelain. Her expression softened. “You’re concerned because Rachel is fussy and feverish,” she guessed, “though there is no medical explanation for her condition.”

  Becca nodded, surprised and encouraged. “Everything was fine for the first fifteen months of her life and then . . . then things changed. Now she can’t sleep at night. I find her staring off into space during the day. She . . . is warm to the touch. . . .” Gently she brushed a strand of Rachel’s hair off her chubby cheek.

  “But you suspect that she might be like you. Or one of your sisters,” Catherine whispered, and Becca, tears forming in her eyes, nodded again.

  “Yes.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “I just want my daughter to be safe and happy,” Becca said. “It would be difficult if she were different. I’m not sure Hudson would understand, but more than that, I just want to know, I mean we both want to know, that she’s all right.”

  “Of course she is,” Catherine said, her voice strangely soft. “She has the gift, that’s all.” She smiled with a bit of melancholy. “She’ll be fine.”

  “I need to know more,” Becca urged as, cradling Rachel, she lowered herself onto a worn claw-footed settee that looked as if it was nearly a hundred years old. “You’ve tried so hard to keep the secrets here, but now . . . because of Rachel, I have to know everything.”

  “It’s best that you don’t.”

  “I have questions and she will, too.”

  Catherine sighed.
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  “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid, he’ll find her.” Becca’s voice broke and Laura felt a pang of guilt. “I need to know what happened to my mother. How did Mary die? And I don’t even know my father’s name.” Becca glanced at the women who were her sisters, and all of them, including Laura, turned to Catherine, hoping for answers.

  “Harrison . . . he’s the man outside, read the history that apparently a man named Herman Smythe wrote,” Laura said.

  “So did I.” Becca was nodding. “But there’s so much that isn’t in those pages.”

  Catherine restlessly walked to the windows, parted the draperies, and looked through the glass. “I’ve dreaded this day. I’ve only kept the secrets here at Siren Song to protect you, and I can’t explain everything. There isn’t enough time, and I don’t even know all the truth. What I can tell you is that you all have the same mother. My sister, Mary. You know this. She . . . was . . . promiscuous.” Her lips tightened. “And perhaps . . . not completely sane. I don’t know who your fathers were. I’m sorry. Mary probably knew, but she didn’t love men. She used them.” Catherine gazed through the slit in the draperies, but, Laura guessed, she wasn’t seeing the grounds outside or the wall surrounding the complex, but was staring at something in the middle distance, something only she could envision . . . images from a different past. “And not long after the youngest of you was born, she died. Mary was walking out on the bluff, which she’d done often. She took a misstep and fell onto a rocky ledge about twenty feet down. The fall shouldn’t have killed her, but she struck her head on an exposed root or rock. By the time we realized she wasn’t returning, that she was missing, it was late, and dark. We found her, but it was too late. She’d already passed.”

  There was silence for a moment while they absorbed this information. Then Becca said, “I couldn’t find an obituary. Or a death certificate.”