Wicked Lies

  “Because there were none. We buried her in the family plot, here at Siren Song, with the previous generations.”

  Becca stated flatly, “I think that’s illegal.”

  Catherine shrugged. She was rarely threatened by what was legal and what wasn’t in the outside world. “You mustn’t keep digging into the past, looking for answers, uprooting scandals.” She looked at Becca. “There’s no reason for it. No good will come of it.”

  Laura remembered Mary’s grave. She’d seen it as a child, a moss-and lichen-covered, graying tombstone marking the final resting place of the woman who had borne her, a woman she barely remembered.

  “I’d like to see the cemetery,” Becca said, but Catherine closed the draperies tight and shook her head.

  “Right now we have to concentrate on staying safe, making sure Justice is captured. I’ve known him since he was a boy and probably realize better than any of his doctors just how sick he is, how twisted.” She worried the draperies’ edge with her fingers. “Rebecca, you and your daughter can stay here. You, too, Lorelei. He’ll suspect you’re here, but this place is a fortress.”

  “Even the strongest fortress can be breached,” Laura said. “And what do we do? Just wait? Hope the authorities catch him?”

  “What else?” Catherine asked, her gaze finding Laura’s.

  Laura shivered inside, wondering if Catherine suspected that she not only had the ability to “hear” Justice’s mental rantings, but that she could call to him as well, taunt him, flush him out. “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t just hide here,” Becca argued.

  “No one asked you to come, Becca. You insisted,” Catherine reminded her.

  “I had to come. Not just because of Rachel, but . . . Justice and all of this. I’ve been having visions again, and this time it’s Lorelei he’s after.” Becca regarded Laura a bit guiltily. “And then I knew he’d attacked you and . . . I should have come earlier.” She held her daughter closer. “I was just so frightened for Rachel.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Laura said. She was already feeling pent-up, as if they were all huddled in a storm cellar, waiting for a devastating twister to threaten them all. She knew she couldn’t just sit here and wait.

  Should she tell Catherine that she could talk to Justice? That it was possible to goad him into some kind of trap? Catherine and her sisters might believe her, whereas the sheriff’s department wouldn’t.

  She walked to the settee where Becca was seated and placed a hand on Rachel’s forehead, which was a little warm, perhaps, but smooth as silk. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  Becca smiled. “Just tell me she’s going to be all right.”

  “Of course she is,” Laura said, though they both knew, as long as Justice Turnbull was alive, it was a lie.

  CHAPTER 36

  So close.

  I came so close.

  I can still feel the knife in my hand as I chased her through the night. My hand throbs from where she stabbed me; the cuts upon my skin are shallow and stinging from breaking the window of her door.

  How had I let her escape when I was so close . . . ?

  It was because of the man she was with, not her husband, but the reporter! I’d sensed him through her mind, the one she thinks of as “the truth seeker.” It was easy enough to identify him and find out where he works, where he lives . . . all compliments of the library computers.

  At first I thought I’d been recognized, but my disguise and the librarian’s obvious myopia allowed me free access.

  But my failure to kill Lorelei and her growing bastard is an onus, one I must throw off.

  Her smell is overpowering. A stench that burns through my nostrils and burrows deep in my soul. There are more of them now . . . The one who got away . . . Becca . . . is back, her child in tow. I feel her and know she is afraid.

  Good. This is good. They, too, must be destroyed. . . .

  It took hour upon hour to make my way back to the bait shop and the rat’s den where I reside, but I’m here. I’m back. And there is a vehicle I can “borrow,” one never used and parked near the boat landing, owned by that blind old fool Carter. . . . It’s parked far from the security lights. . . . I only have to wait until darkness falls. . . .

  A headache pounds behind my eyes and my stomach rumbles, reminding me it’s been hours since I’ve eaten. The money I found in both Cosmo’s wallet and the van driver’s jacket is nearly gone. . . . I will need more.

  My mind wanders back to that reporter. He wants to fornicate with Lorelei. My fists clench. Fornicate with the witch whose seed is already growing inside her!

  I need to kill her . . . kill them all. . . .

  My thoughts are scattered . . . falling away, and I have to work to snatch them back, pull them together. I breathe deeply, but here, locked in my soiled room over the bait shop, I feel confined and weak. . . . I find the hilt of the butcher knife, her knife, and run my fingers along its smooth shaft.

  Now, in my mind’s eye, I can see them, Satan’s whores, gathered together, plotting, scheming, thinking they can outwit me. . . .

  Their images run together.

  Ashen hair . . .

  Steely blue eyes . . .

  Sharp little chins . . .

  Rosebud lips that curl back to reveal tiny, needlelike fangs . . . cat’s teeth . . .

  As ever, they hurl their childish taunts and razor-sharp insults at me:

  “Bastard!” one says with a high-pitched giggle.

  “Idiot!” another cackles, delight sparking in her blue, blue eyes. She feels naughty and oh, so smug.

  “Cretin!” another rejoins to twitter at how clever she is.

  “Changeling!” they cry in unison, as a chorus that resounds in my head, echoing with their wicked laughter. “Changeling! Changeling! Changeling!” Their malicious glee sends them into uproarious gales of hurtful laughter, and I run, faster and faster, away from them, along the ridge over the sea, to the cabins . . . and the lighthouse beyond. . . .

  The call of a seagull brings me back to this, my wreck of a room reeking of fish and diesel. My hands are knotted in the grimy folds of the stolen coat on which I am lying. I stare out the cobwebbed window high overhead and see a seagull whirling in the cerulean sky.

  It’s time to end this.

  Forever.

  “Ssssissttters,” I hiss, but the effort is weak and my own words ricochet back to me, bouncing through my brain. Lorelei has put up a wall against me, just as Catherine has secured the walls around Siren Song. . . .

  But I will get through. I have a plan. . . .

  I need to go to the sea.

  To feel the caress of the salt air and hear the roar of waves thundering against the shore in my heart.

  I will be restored.

  I will be strong.

  And I will kill.

  I feel a thrill at this, a sizzle of anticipation, and I run my finger along the knife’s long blade. A line of scarlet blooms along my fingertip, which I examine carefully, then suck the wound, tasting the salt of my own blood.

  Yes, yes. It’s time. . . .

  Laura and Becca walked along an overgrown path where sunlight, piercing the lacy branches overhead, dappled the ground. Beneath their feet curls of mist rose from the damp forest floor and through the trees; glinting along the horizon was the steely Pacific Ocean. Becca carried Rachel, and the little girl eyed her surroundings suspiciously, though she didn’t say a word.

  In the past few hours, Laura had become reacquainted with most of her sisters again and gotten to know Becca, whose name had only been whispered while she was growing up. More than that, she’d been able to hold Rachel, even scaring up a smile on the little girl’s face. To think that Justice would want to harm any of them, especially this innocent child, was incomprehensible.

  Before she and Becca had started their walk through the grounds of Siren Song, she’d left her cell phone number with Catherine, in case they needed
to get in touch. Just to ensure her aunt didn’t misplace the number, she’d given it to Isadora as well.

  Catherine hadn’t written it down.

  Isadora had.

  “Here it is,” Laura finally said when she spied the short fence that surrounded the small private cemetery on the eastern side of the lodge. As Catherine had told them, their earliest relatives rested here, those who died before the turn of the last century. The graveyard was all but forgotten by everyone except those who lived at Siren Song. Hidden deep in the old growth, high on a ledge, with a rickety fence covered with berry vines and offering little barrier, the cemetery boasted only a smattering of tombstones, marble monoliths or slabs that had grown gray and had disintegrated over time, the names and dates blurred with dirt. There were small, plain crosses and more elaborate stones decorated with angels or rings or flowers, even the Bible.

  “I’m just amazed I’m finally inside,” Becca said, picking her way through a winding blackberry vine that nearly covered the gate. “The sound of the ocean is closer here.”

  “Just your imagination.”

  “Peony Jane,” she said aloud, reading the small headstone. “Darling daughter, birth March seventeenth, eighteen seventy-three, died October thirty-first, eighteen seventy-five.” She held tight to her own little girl and said, “A child. How awful.”

  “The worst.” Laura wended through the markers, some decorated with crosses or angels or an open Bible, and the smaller headstones, indicating the plots of children who had passed in an earlier century.

  “Here it is,” she said as she reached the moss-covered plot where Mary was buried. The headstone, that of an angel looking down, wings folded, was chipped and blackened; part of one wing, cracked. The inscription was simple: MARY RUTLEDGE BEEMAN, LOVING MOTHER, then the dates of her birth and death.

  “I hardly remember her,” Laura admitted. “I was about ten but the memories I have are blurry and I’m not sure if they’re real or dreams or even something someone told me about that I turned into memory.”

  “I never knew her,” Becca said softly.

  Of course she hadn’t. Becca had been adopted as a baby and had grown up in a “normal” family and attended St. Elizabeth’s Catholic School in Portland. She’d been unaware of Siren Song, of the old lodge of a house, of the surrounding walls, of this very cemetery until just recently.

  “Why are there no public records of her birth and death?” Becca asked.

  “Because everything here is a secret.”

  “Or a lie,” Becca said, staring down at the final resting place of their mother. “All we know is what Catherine deigns to tell us and the haphazard ramblings in that book by someone named Smythe. Who’s to say if it’s accurate, or even partially true? All we really know is that we’re related, that mostly only women survive, and that all of us now, if Catherine’s correct, including Rachel, have some telepathic gift.” She shook her head and sighed. “And then there’s Justice Turnbull.”

  Laura glanced at Rachel, the girl’s eyes round as she squirmed in her mother’s arms. “And then there’s Justice,” she repeated.

  “I wish there was some way to find him, to catch him . . . to . . .”

  “Kill him?” Laura asked and felt a frisson of fear touch the back of her neck. She remembered how he’d chased her, how intent he’d been on destroying her, the feel of him so close. . . . The sound of the ocean’s roar reached her ears.

  “He’s planning to kill us. All of us. Including . . .” She stopped herself and looked away. Laura understood that Becca was speaking about her child, and she thought of her own and how Justice wanted nothing more than to snuff out her own child’s life before she was even born.

  Becca’s gaze was troubled, but she stated passionately, “I would do anything to save my child, Lorelei. Anything. And if it means going up against Justice and taking him down, then so be it.” The set of her jaw was determined; her lips flattened fiercely. She meant it.

  A squirrel chattered from somewhere in the higher branches, and at that moment, Laura heard Justice’s voice. That horrid sibilant rasp seeming to slide like snakes through the surrounding trees and into her brain.

  Ssssisstersss.

  Plural.

  Damn. He knew that Becca was near her, and though his voice was weaker than she remembered, she closed her eyes and pushed up the wall around her mind.

  “Laura?” Becca’s voice came to her as if from a long distance. “Hey! Laura!” Sharper now.

  Laura blinked and found her sister staring at her. Becca’s eyes were round with worry as she touched Laura’s shoulder. “For a second, I thought . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “He just tried to contact me.”

  “What?”

  “I think he knows that you and Rachel are here.”

  “Oh, God.” Becca’s face paled.

  “You have to leave. Go far away.” Laura was insistent. “Take Rachel back to Laurelton, somewhere safe. Somewhere Justice doesn’t know about. He won’t go there, at least not until he’s dealt with me. He’ll be looking for me first.”

  He smells them when they’re pregnant.

  “I can’t just let you face him.”

  “I won’t. The police will handle it. I’ll be safe,” she said firmly. “You have visions. I hear him. You can call me anytime, but really, it’s best if you leave.” She glanced around the cemetery and beyond. Even the walls of Siren Song weren’t strong enough. “It would be best. For you and for Rachel.”

  Becca seemed about to argue, but her daughter started to squirm and fuss.

  “Let me deal with him,” Laura told her.

  “I think it’s better if we stand together,” Becca said, but at that moment Rachel, tired of being hauled around, cried, “Down!” Laura’s gaze skated to her niece, then returned to Becca. The unspoken question—how would you feel if something happened to her?—filled the silent space between them.

  Laura said softly but strongly, “You know what he can do. You’ve seen it firsthand. So, please, leave. I’ll keep in contact with you. Promise. But you have to go home. Or somewhere very far from here.”

  “Down, Mommy!” Rachel insisted.

  “We’re going back now, honey,” Becca said and started walking swiftly out of the cemetery, Rachel squirming in her arms. Only when they were in the clearing again did she turn to Laura. “Okay,” she said, “but you have to keep in contact with me. You’ve got my phone number.”

  “I will,” Laura promised.

  They saw Hudson and Harrison, both still waiting outside the gate. Becca headed that way, and Laura gave Harrison a high sign, signaling that she was going back inside to say good-bye to Catherine and her sisters but would be out soon.

  She vowed inwardly that she would find a way to thwart Justice. That he wouldn’t stop hunting them until they were all dead was a foregone conclusion, and it was a miracle that, so far, since his escape, no one associated with the Colony had been harmed.

  But it was only a matter of time.

  Unless she got the better of the bastard.

  “I don’t like us being separated,” Harrison said as he pulled into the employee lot at Ocean Park Hospital. Laura’s Outback was where she’d parked it the day before, and in broad daylight nothing appeared sinister.

  “I’m just going inside and straightening things out with my supervisor,” she insisted and placed a hand over his, and he remembered how close he’d come to making love to her. “I’ll meet you back at my house and tell you all about my family.”

  “You better.”

  She glanced at her watch and frowned. He noticed then the dark circles under her eyes, how white her skin had become. “The glass guy is gonna be there in less than an hour.”

  “Fine.” Harrison took the hint. “I’ll meet him.”

  “I’ll be there soon.” She reached for the door handle, but he caught her wrist.

  “You’re okay?”

  She laughed without humor, and her ga
ze, when it found his, was troubled. “What do you think?”

  “We’ll get through this,” he promised.

  “One way or another,” she said, then leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were warm and supple, and he drew her into his arms, sliding his tongue between her lips and feeling his blood temperature become elevated.

  “Hurry back,” he said and she actually smiled.

  “I will.”

  Then she drew away and was out the door, hurrying toward the front doors of Ocean Park.

  Once he saw that she was inside, Harrison drove out of the parking lot to the highway. He’d spent most of the morning pacing outside the gates of Siren Song, getting to know the rancher Hudson Walker, husband to one of Laura’s half sisters, and certain that somehow, someway, Justice Turnbull would know that Laura was inside. He couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow Turnbull would find her and harm her. Hudson Walker couldn’t have agreed more. He’d expected the rancher from Laurelton to scoff at his anxiety, but that hadn’t been the case. Hudson, too, was worried, had seen close hand what damage the maniac could wreak, and wanted no part of it.

  Hudson had driven to Siren Song under protest; he wanted his wife and child as far from Justice Turnbull as possible. But Becca had been insistent, and Hudson had agreed, only if he came with her. He admitted that his wife could be “mule-headed” but didn’t have to explain any further. Harrison knew firsthand how stubborn a woman from the Colony could be.

  Which was odd, he thought as he drove through the S curves high above the Pacific. The ocean was calmer today, sunlight shimmering on the shifting water, but along the horizon he noticed a dark swelling, clouds rolling inland and promising another storm.

  Harrison had known Laura—Lorelei—less than a week, and yet there was something about her that touched a part of him he hadn’t known existed, something about it that seemed emotionally dangerous in its own right.

  The house was just as they’d left it. Quiet. Secluded. Too secluded, he decided as he found his tool belt in the trunk and, using her key, began cleaning up, then working on the lock. The repairman for the glass window showed up about forty-five minutes later, surveyed the damage, and shook his head.