Wicked Lies

  It seemed to take forever before he pulled into the drive and past the stone pillars guarding the gate which was still dented and lying open, the result of some unfortunate crash. Carriage lights blazed against the stone house. Cars were parked in front of the huge garage, and he wondered vaguely why they weren’t locked inside it, especially after the son’s Range Rover had been stolen.

  He parked behind a BMW, then called again, trying both Zellman and his wife’s cell. Again, neither call was picked up.

  For a few seconds he surveyed the place, but it looked quiet and occupied, the lights glowing through tall windows. He phoned in his position with the department . . . just in case, then climbed out of the car and eyed the premises again. Still nothing looked out of place, the darkness shrouding the huge house on the cliff over the Pacific was to be expected. A porch light was on, so warily, with one hand on his sidearm, he walked up the front steps and rang the bell.

  From within he heard the sound of classical music, then quick footsteps. A few seconds later a woman he recognized as Mrs. Zellman peeked through the windows near the door, then unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open slightly. A chain still kept the door from swinging free.

  “Detective Langdon Stone, Tillamook Sheriff’s Department,” Stone said and flipped open his badge.

  “Oh . . . yes.” She managed a tight, worried smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I tried to call. Neither you nor your husband answered.”

  “Oh, my . . . well, the music is on in the house, and I was watching television in the den. I must not have heard my phone.”

  “Is your husband inside?”

  “Yes . . . oh, and I’m sure you didn’t reach him, because he’s misplaced his cell. It’s been missing for a few days now. . . .” She let her voice trail off, then asked, “Is something wrong? Oh, dear, it’s that patient of Maurice’s, isn’t it? He’s killed someone else or stolen another car or God knows what else!”

  “Ma’am, I’d like to speak to your husband.”

  She was just rattling the chain when headlights swept across the drive, and Stone recognized Harrison Frost’s old Chevy. The reporter killed the engine and sprinted across the lawn into the light cast by the exterior lamps.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Zellman gasped; then her brows pulled into a knot. “Mr. Frost?”

  “I thought I told you to stand down,” Stone said.

  “And I thought I told you I’d be here ASAP.”

  “Well, come in, come in,” Mrs. Zellman insisted, anxious to close the door and bolt it shut again, as if a chain lock or dead bolt could keep out a psycho like Turnbull. “Maurice,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got company!”

  “Is your son here?” Stone asked, but she shook her head as she led both men down a short hallway.

  “Brandt’s out with friends. Something about a late movie, I think.” She opened the double doors to a wood-paneled study, where the doctor was sitting behind a massive desk, notes spread upon the top, books piled in the corners, the music much louder within the octagonal room. Through the windows, Stone guessed, was an incredible view of the ocean, though now, with the night, all that was visible was darkness.

  Zellman looked up over the rims of his glasses and blinked, then reached behind him and pushed a button on a console and the music ended abruptly. His neck was still bandaged, and he didn’t look pleased to see them.

  “Maurice, this is—”

  Scowling, he waved impatiently at her and nodded. He knew who they were. But, obviously, he still didn’t speak.

  Stone said, “We want to talk to you about your cell phone.”

  Zellman wrote: It’s missing. Haven’t seen it for the better part of a week.

  “You lost it?” Stone said.

  Mrs. Zellman cut in. “I told you this already,” she said and opened her hands to the ceiling, as if to explain to her husband that she was sorry for the disturbance, that she’d tried to intercept the visitors before they bothered him.

  Frowning, as if the detective were stupid, Zellman wrote: Obviously I misplaced it.

  “Then you’ve made no calls on it in the last twenty-four hours?”

  No. How could I? Zellman shook his head and, somehow while seated, appeared to look down his nose at them. Why?

  “Someone called me from it,” Harrison said, “and he hissed a message that made me think it was Justice Turnbull.”

  Mrs. Zellman whispered, “No!” and clasped her hand over her chest, and even Zellman’s facade of superiority dropped as Frost relayed the conversation.

  “Oh, my God, Maurice!” Mrs. Zellman said, walking behind the desk to put her husband between herself and the disturbing news. “But how? And why?”

  Zellman began typing furiously. You think my phone was stolen? And then before anyone could answer, he added, By Justice Turnbull? When he took the car?

  “We don’t know.”

  “No . . . oh, no . . . I was afraid of this,” his wife said, her eyes wide, her skin an ashen color. “When you deal with all of those mentally unstable . . . murderers. And that . . . maniac. He’s the worst! I told you, didn’t I?” she said to her husband. Frantically, she looked out the windows to the darkness beyond and worried aloud. “He could be here now. . . . Oh . . . and what if he got the keys to the house? From Brandt’s ring? Oh, dear God!” She began walking to each of the windows and drawing the drapes.

  You’re sure it was Justice who called you? Zellman typed, then looked up at Harrison Frost.

  Frost answered, “I’ve never spoken with him but he said some things that were pretty freaky and he said them all as if he were hissing. He said things like ‘sssisster.’ ”

  Zellman looked away. Closed his eyes for a second. Shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if denying what he knew to be true.

  “Dr. Zellman?” Stone asked.

  Zellman sighed. Guilt crossed his features as his wife walked into the next room and started lowering blinds and pulling drapes frantically, the zip and clatter of the closure filtering into the study.

  He doesn’t always hiss, Zellman wrote, his fingers nearly trembling on the keyboard. Only when he’s agitated, when he’s talking about the women of Siren Song, his sisters. Justice Turnbull refers to the women who live there as his ssssisssttterss. He paused, then wrote: Is that what you’re talking about?

  “Yes.” Frost’s voice was stone-cold, serious as a heart attack.

  “How did he have Mr. Frost’s cell number?” Stone asked.

  I put it into the phone menu.

  Stone asked, “Is there any chance he could have a set of keys to the house?”

  The psychiatrist’s brow furrowed as he shook his head. I don’t think so. The keys were returned with Brandt’s car, and the house key was included.

  “He could have made a copy,” Stone said, though he doubted it. There just hadn’t been enough time. Then again, anything was possible.

  Justice Turnbull isn’t that patient or organized. He works off emotion and opportunity. As he wrote the last line, Zellman flushed and grimaced. Stone guessed the psychiatrist was thinking of how he’d played the doctor for a fool out of emotion and opportunity. He’s also off his meds, so he’s even more unpredictable, more out of control.

  “Son of a bitch,” Frost muttered, staring at Zellman’s computer screen.

  “Someone else is here!” Mrs. Zellman said, her voice rising as if she was about to panic.

  “Probably my partner.” Stone walked out of the study and told the nervous woman, “Let me get the door.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Zellman said gratefully. “I’m afraid all of this business with Maurice’s patient has me beside myself.” She lowered her voice. “I warned Maurice about him, you know. To no avail. Even after that maniac threatened Maurice with his life, it didn’t matter. Not to my husband and his damned job.” She threw a dark look in the direction of the study, then rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled before turning away.

  Savvy Du
nbar entered a few minutes later and the discussion continued, but Stone didn’t learn much more. The doctor appeared embarrassed that Justice had somehow stolen his phone—probably because he’d left it in an unlocked car. When asked about his health, Zellman said he already had speech therapy scheduled and planned on returning to work early in the morning. Stone told him not to shut his cell phone service off; there was a chance that they could locate Justice by GPS. If he made any more calls, they could zero in on the killer, hopefully before he struck again.

  Shaken, Zellman agreed.

  Mrs. Zellman seemed a little calmer by the time they all left, but she vowed she was changing the locks on every door and having the gate to their estate fixed as soon as she could get a repairman out.

  “Good idea,” Stone told her and only hoped it wasn’t too little, too late.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sisssttterrr!

  Laura nearly dropped the thermometer she was holding for her patient. She’d let her guard down and Justice was calling her.

  It’s gone, isn’t it? The evil incubus . . . you lossst it!

  How does that feel, bitch? It’ssss gone!

  There was a snarling sound of satisfaction in his hiss. Her knees nearly buckled. She closed her eyes and threw out her own taunt: Come and get me, you sick freak. Just try.

  And then she slammed up her mental wall. Fast. Hard. Before he could respond.

  “Hey!” her patient said, a man who’d had his appendix removed the day before.

  “Sorry.” She forced a smile just as the electronic thermometer beeped, showing that Mr. Greer’s temperature was perfectly normal. He glowered up at her as she gave him the good news, then demanded more ice in his water glass and a change on his menu, one he’d chosen the night before, when his pain meds had, apparently, colored his options.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, “but I can’t promise anything.”

  How could Justice know that she wasn’t pregnant any longer?

  Just how deep was her connection to him?

  “Time to end it,” she muttered under her breath as she left fresh ice with Mr. Greer before heading to the nurses’ station. Sooner or later she’d have to come face-to-face with Justice, and that thought both terrified and galvanized her. She had to be ready, both mentally and physically strong.

  Somehow she had to shake off the melancholy of losing her child and let anger burn through her, directed at her tormenter. But today . . . today she just felt sad and overwhelmed.

  By the time that Laura was through with her double shift, she was ready to tumble into bed and never wake up. She needed to regroup, then somehow get the drop on Justice.

  How much easier it would be if the police would catch him.

  But she was losing faith in the authorities as the days since his escape wore on. Wherever he’d holed up, it was a dark, well-concealed hiding spot.

  “He can’t hide forever,” she reminded herself as she clocked out.

  Grabbing her purse from her locker, she headed toward the main doors of the building. Working in the hospital had helped take her mind off losing the baby and Justice’s attack and her conflicted emotions about Harrison Frost. Falling in love with him was definitely not on her agenda, but then neither had been getting pregnant, suffering a miscarriage, or fighting her mental and physical battles with a homicidal maniac.

  A week ago, her life had seemed boring. In a rut. Predictable.

  But now . . .

  She clicked on her cell phone and saw that she had half a dozen messages, mostly from Harrison. She was about to phone him back when she rounded a corner and nearly ran into Carlita Solano heading the other direction. Carlita was carrying a patient intake packet but stopped short when she spied Laura. “Hey! You outta here?”

  “Uh-huh.” Laura kept walking.

  “That reporter, the guy who was here from the Seaside Breeze, he’s been waiting for you.”

  It was amazing to Laura how Carlita’s nose could smell out gossip. Rarely did anything go on within the walls of Ocean Park that the nurse didn’t know about. Right now Carlita’s dark eyes flashed, as they always did when she sensed gossip. She fell into step with Laura as they passed a visitors’ lounge where several people were leafing through dog-eared magazines.

  “Have you heard anything about Conrad?”

  Laura shook her head. “Still comatose, from what I hear.” What she didn’t admit to was going to the ICU and checking the man’s vitals herself early in her shift. Conrad lay on the bed, eyes closed, tubes running in and out of his body, his heartbeat monitored by a computer screen.

  “That’s what I heard, too. It’s all just so weird,” Carlita said. “It seems that every time I turn on the local news, I see Ocean Park on the screen. Or at least that reporter who’s been hanging out around here. Pauline What’s-her-name.”

  “Kirby,” Laura supplied as she passed the admissions desk, where several patients, insurance cards and forms in hand, were seated in plastic chairs by a few strategically placed ficus trees while waiting to be admitted.

  “Right. What a bitch.” Laura didn’t comment and Carlita asked, “So, what’s the deal with you and the guy from the Breeze?”

  Laura shrugged. “He’s probably after a story,” she said and forced a smile she didn’t feel as she pushed through the doors just as Nurse Solano’s pager went off and she bustled away.

  Harrison was parked next to her in the lot, near one of the security lamps. Gone was the good weather. A soft rain was falling, causing the lamp’s light to look a little fuzzy and creating a slick sheen over the pavement.

  He climbed out of his car as she approached, and she felt a little jolt in her heart at the sight of him. His beleaguered jeans, T-shirt, and beat-up leather jacket, along with his scruffy hair and beard shadow, added to the I-don’t-give-a-damn allure. Something she’d thought she was immune to.

  “Don’t you have a job or anything?” she asked as she approached him.

  His smile was brief. “Doin’ it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Look, there’s a lot we need to talk about.”

  She glanced back at the hospital and wondered if anyone, including Carlita Solano, was taking note of their conversation. “Not here. How about at my house? I’m really beat.”

  “You know you can’t stay there.”

  She didn’t want to hear that, but she knew he was right. “Then how about a five-star hotel, somewhere with room service, decadent desserts, and a Jacuzzi tub . . . ?” she suggested with a wan smile.

  He laughed. “In your dreams.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “I have an idea. A little B and B owned by a friend of mine in Astoria. He owes me a favor.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Laura noticed Byron striding out of the hospital. Her stomach did a nosedive. She wasn’t in the mood.

  “Laura!” Byron called, loudly, zeroing in on her.

  “Want me to get rid of him?” Harrison asked.

  “He is a doctor here. Could be considered my boss, in a way.” When Harrison’s brows slammed together, she touched his arm. “I know,” she said, then reluctantly turned to meet her ex-husband halfway across the lot.

  “I’m off duty,” she told him curtly.

  “I know.” He seemed a little less hostile than before. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened at the house, about that maniac chasing you down, and I know I’ve been kind of rough on you lately.”

  “Really.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I know. A jerk, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it is.”

  He struggled not to argue further but said instead, “And the baby?”

  “Oh, for the love of God. How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not pregnant! Seriously. Forget about any delusions you have. There is no baby!” Her heart cracked at those last words, and she felt a rush of tears, which she somehow managed to blink back.

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; Byron stared. “I almost believe you.”

  Laura silently counted to ten, then left him to stalk back to her car and a waiting Harrison.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Another misunderstanding,” she bit out. She heard a car door slam and then a powerful engine roar to life. Byron was gunning his Corvette. A moment later he shifted into second before reaching the street, where he tapped his brakes, then sped onto the highway.

  Harrison’s gaze followed Byron, too. “I can’t believe you were married to that guy.”

  “I was young.” And stupid. So easily and ridiculously impressed. Clearing her throat, she said, “Let’s get back to you trying to convince me not to go home.”

  He turned his attention to her again, and she noticed his hair starting to curl and darken in the mist. “I did a feature on the B and B when I first moved up here, and the owner got a lot of free publicity. He said I could stay anytime. I think this qualifies as anytime.”

  She was so weary. So, so weary. Seeing her waver, he touched her shoulder as he reached for his phone with his other hand. “You’re gonna love it.”

  She wasn’t so sure but climbed behind the wheel of her Subaru as he stood outside his Impala and made arrangements for the night.

  “We’re set,” he said. “The name of the place is Heritage House. You want to follow me?” He gave her the address before climbing behind the wheel of his own car and starting the engine.

  Like an automaton, she headed after him, north to Astoria. She hoped he didn’t have any thoughts of romance, because it just couldn’t happen. With a sigh, she said, “I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it.”

  I sneak down the stairs to the bait shop’s parking lot and drink in the scent of the sea. It’s foul here, rank with the scents of oil and dead shellfish and diesel, but still, there is a hint of brine to fill my lungs.

  I wonder if the van will still work. Faded letters advertising Carter’s Bait Shop, along with a phone number and an image of a sexy mermaid, cover the driver’s side. The plates are expired, so I quickly switch them with those of a Toyota parked in the corner. The Toyota belongs to Carter’s daughter Carrie, but she leaves it whenever her boyfriend picks her up in his winched-up 4x4.