Virtue Falls

  The blood. The blood. Misty. Elizabeth. Misty.

  A woman’s gentle voice called him. “Charlie, dear, I hate to interrupt you when you’re eating, but would you come over here?”

  At once, Charles’s heart rate calmed.

  The wonderful thing about the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility was … Misty visited him here.

  As always, the sight of her made him breathless with awe. She was as beautiful as ever, her white-blond hair styled loosely, her blue eyes gently smiling. She stood off to the side of the dining room, beckoning him toward the wall away from the windows.

  Charles pushed back his chair and without a glance at George, or at the patients, or at the staff, he walked over to his beautiful wife. “Of course, my dear. What can I do for you?”

  She stroked his hand. “Stay here with me for a moment, and be safe.”

  * * *

  That was why, when the earthquake hit, and the ceiling fell in over the middle of the dining room, George Cook was knocked unconscious—and Charles didn’t get a scratch on him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As Rainbow put a slice of blueberry pie on the table, Elizabeth Banner looked up from her notes to say, “I ate most of the fries.”

  “Hm.” Rainbow eyed the plate. “I don’t know how you manage to drag your skinny rear all the way out to the river every day.”

  “It’s not far.”

  Rainbow picked up the remains of the burger. “Two miles.”

  “One-point-six miles according to my pedometer.” Elizabeth thought that was a reasonable answer. It was, after all, the truth. But all her precision got her was a disgusted look from Rainbow.

  Conversation was too hard. Elizabeth should have kept quiet. She was good at being quiet.

  After the murder, she hadn’t spoken a word for a year and a half, and discovered that when you were speechless, adults thought you were also deaf and conversed freely about you, the crime, and the trauma you suffered. They also speculated about what had led to the murder, and the answer almost always came back to one simple fact—Misty Banner had been having an affair.

  That’s why Charles Banner killed her. He had seemed such a gentle man, but still waters run deep and his jealous rage had spread blood all over that house, him, and his four-year-old daughter, Elizabeth.

  By the time Elizabeth was six, she had heard the scene described many times, so many that when she looked up the crime scene photos, it almost seemed she remembered it.

  But she didn’t. The psychologists (and after the murder, she had been dragged to many) called it childhood amnesia, and assured her aunt that it was normal. Most memory didn’t start before the age of five, so Elizabeth’s lack of recall surprised no one.

  Except her aunt.

  A person’s first memory was usually of a traumatic event: getting lost in a store, having a finger slammed in the car door, getting bitten by the neighbor kid, and frequently those memories did predate a child’s fifth year.

  Aunt Sandy wanted Elizabeth to remember, because Misty’s body had never been recovered, and her aunt wanted to bury her sister.

  After a year and a half of silence, Elizabeth’s first word had been spoken to her aunt in response to Aunt Sandy’s insistence that Elizabeth had to remember the murder … “No!”

  Her aunt had been so surprised, she had stopped nagging for almost as long as it took to drag Elizabeth to the court-ordered psychiatrist for another psych exam. Even now, when Elizabeth thought about talking to a stranger and knowing she would be written up in a prestigious medical journal as a famous head case, her skin would crawl. Garik had been the only person in the world she’d felt comfortable talking to, and that was because she felt that in his own way, he was scarred, too.

  But who knew for sure? He would never tell her. He never confided in her.

  Elizabeth much preferred sitting alone in this café in the town that considered her a freak than to sit at a table with Garik … and still be alone.

  Rainbow touched Elizabeth’s arm, and pointed out the café window. In a soft, indulgent voice, she said, “Look at that handsome boy. That’s Mrs. Munn’s dog, Keno. He’s got quite an attitude.”

  Elizabeth looked, too. A scottie dog was crossing the street. Cute thing: black and gray, and he pranced so proudly, so happily, that the cars on the street stopped and waited for him without complaining.

  Then no more prancing. He barked once, sharply and in alarm. He sat down. Just sat down. And braced himself.

  Rainbow started to ask, “What do you suppose is wrong with…?”

  The earthquake hit, hard and fast, slamming into the land, tossing blueberry pie into Elizabeth’s face.

  The tourists screamed.

  The building creaked as the tortured earth rolled in waves, lifting and falling. Elizabeth’s chair tilted backward. She scrambled to her feet and, like the dog, braced herself as the ground undulated in great waves.

  Her first thought: This is it!

  The earthquake she’d waited for all her life. And she was here to see it, feel it, experience it.

  Her second thought: I need my stuff.

  She grabbed her bag, reached for her notebook.

  “No, you don’t, honey.” Rainbow yanked her away from the window and pushed her toward the back of the diner.

  A giant swell knocked Elizabeth to her knees. She hooked her bag over her neck and crawled toward the lunch counter, toward the sturdiest structure in a rolling world.

  The cook ran out of the kitchen, holding his spatula, and stood gaping.

  She caught a glimpse of the sunburned tourists, sitting bug-eyed on their bar stools and rocking as if this was the biggest carnival ride ever.

  The walls groaned. Nails popped out of the Sheetrock. Behind Elizabeth, one by one, the windows exploded. Shards of safety glass sprayed the diner.

  Elizabeth’s excitement rose.

  At least an eight on the Richter scale. Maybe an eight-point-five. Not the biggest earthquake ever … but it wasn’t diminishing. It wasn’t done.

  There was a rhythm to the earth surges coming onto the coast, an increasing and glorious roll.

  Behind the counter, the shelves tilted; the drinking glasses crashed backward, then forward and off, heaving themselves onto the floor like Disney-animated crockery. The coffee pot jumped off the heater and committed suicide, splashing hot liquid into the air. Sympathetic porcelain mugs followed.

  Elizabeth was in awe; the floor was rippling, two feet up and then two feet down. She had read about earthquakes so violent, of course she had. But never had she thought she would have the luck to experience one.

  Behind the bar, the cloudy antique mirror cracked in long, loud pops. The glass stubbornly clung to the wide gilded frame, then gave up and smashed on the floor one piece at a time.

  Rainbow shouted something unintelligible, grabbed Elizabeth around the waist, picked her up, and flung her behind the counter. Elizabeth hit the floor on her hands and knees, landing hard. Pain pierced her palm.

  Rainbow’s raw-boned body crowded her tightly against the bar, protecting Elizabeth from the earth’s tantrum.

  Slowly Elizabeth lifted her wide-spread hand to her face.

  Big chunk of glass. She stared at the blood welling under the shard. It hurt, and she wondered how, when the world was coming apart, this one injury could concentrate her attention on something so minor.

  Rainbow shoved her farther under the counter, handling her like a linebacker with a football.

  Elizabeth still couldn’t properly observe the phenomenon that was the earthquake; her own injury fascinated her too much. She plucked the glass from her flesh; blood gushed, bright and red.

  The earth rocked, but not from the earthquake.

  No, this was Elizabeth’s own, inevitable reaction to blood. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She could feel the color drain from her face. Leaning her head against the counter, she took long breaths, trying to gain control of the nausea.

  Rainbow sa
w. Said, “Shit.” Grabbing a bunch of napkins out of a fallen napkin holder, she pressed it to the wound. “How’d you do that? Never mind. You’ll need stitches.”

  Elizabeth looked around. “I don’t know how to find a doctor.” Vaguely she knew that was stupid. More lucidly, she said, “After the quake is over, the doctors will be busy taking care of serious injuries.”

  “Yeah.” Swaying like a drunken sailor, Rainbow crawled to a plastic file cabinet and opened a drawer. Released from its catch, the drawer slid out and crashed to the floor. Frowning fiercely, Rainbow rummaged around.

  Still the earth rolled. Spray-on insulation rained down on them from the ceiling. The tourists shrieked louder, and some woman screamed, over and over, in unremitting panic.

  No, wait. That was the cook. Who knew Dax Black could hit notes that high?

  Rainbow crawled back with a clean bar towel and a handful of Band-Aids. She pulled the napkins away.

  Blood gushed again.

  Elizabeth turned her head away.

  “You can be squeamish?” Rainbow muttered. “Now? When we’re facing certain death?”

  “Actually, most people survive an earthquake, even one of this magnitude.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded sensible, she noted. Even when she wanted to vomit, even when she wanted to pass out, even when she knew that, yes, there was a good chance of injury or death, she sounded sensible.

  No wonder Garik had always been exasperated with her.

  Rainbow wiped the skin around Elizabeth’s injury, applied a bandage to hold the muscle together, wrapped the towel around the hand, and tied it tightly.

  It hurt. Man, did it hurt. But Rainbow was swift, efficient, and having the wound out of sight helped Elizabeth relax.

  “There,” Rainbow said in satisfaction. “That’ll hold you until we get a doctor.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth whispered. Then, louder, “Yes. Thank you.” The red dots before her eyes cleared away. She could see again. Make her observations, take her notes …

  The earth’s movement slowed. For just a second, but it slowed.

  The rocking picked up again. Grew more violent. Then slowed again.

  “It’s almost finished.” Rainbow sounded relieved.

  Elizabeth wanted to shout, No! Not so soon! She had wasted too much of the earthquake feeling queasy. Now it was over?

  The cook’s screaming became a whimper.

  Someone was loudly saying, “Thank God. Thank God!” And putting fervent emotion into the prayer.

  Cautiously, Rainbow rose to her feet.

  Elizabeth joined her.

  The tourists rose, too, holding onto the still-trembling counter.

  Elizabeth looked around.

  The earthquake had shaken the guts out of the building, leaving the diner in shambles, littered with shattered Sheetrock, dangling heating vents, and drooping electrical wires. Outside, through the broken windows, the devastation had brought down the town.

  But what caught her unwilling attention was the people in the diner and on the street. All of them, every single one, were ashen-faced, with wide, shocked eyes and lips that moved, not in speech, but just … randomly, as if words were too difficult, as if brain function had been severed.

  Elizabeth understood as she never had before. Everyone, all of them, had lived secure in the belief that the earth was stable, unchanging, eternal.

  Now no one could trust the ground beneath their feet.

  Yes, the earthquake was the story of destruction, but not just of things. An earthquake destroyed security. It destroyed complacency. It changed the people who lived through it.

  Yet the sun shone as brightly as before, glinting off the scattered silverware and lighting the scattered chairs and tipped-over tables.

  One of the tourists started laughing wildly. “Look at Bert. He has pie all over him!” She laughed and laughed, amusement spilling into hysteria.

  Bert wiped at the meringue on his shirt. “I hope to hell no one’s on the beach. If there’s a tsunami…”

  “Yes!” Elizabeth drew an excited breath, groped for the bag that by some miracle still hung from her shoulder. “A tsunami!”

  Rainbow grabbed at her arm. “Don’t!”

  Elizabeth tore herself away and ran out the door.

  How could she have forgotten, even for a moment?

  A tsunami was coming. Was on its way.

  And she had to beat it to Virtue Falls Canyon.

  Her brand-new Tory Burch sandals were screwed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aurora Thompson joined the small group gathered around Margaret, waited for a lull in the conversation, and asked, “So the Smith family has always owned the resort?”

  “Indeed it has.” Although Margaret was not born a Smith, she was proud of the heritage.

  “You must be getting ready to retire,” Aurora said.

  Margaret’s smile faded. “Not at all. I figure I have another twenty good years in me before I’m ready to retire and take the long dirt nap.”

  Other members of the group laughed or looked shocked, depending on their sensibilities.

  “Retirement doesn’t necessarily mean death,” Aurora said persuasively.

  “Retirement to an active woman is nothing more than sitting around playing cards and drinking prune juice—and I doubt the attendants who watch over dotty old folks would allow me to spike mine with my favorite Irish whiskey.” Margaret kept her voice pleasant. “No, I’ll stay on and manage my resort, thank you.”

  “But if the right offer came along…” Aurora trailed off enticingly.

  Margaret’s spine snapped straight. A real estate woman. The pathetic single woman was a real estate woman, probably sent by Margaret’s own granddaughter to get dear old Grams to give up the task to which the good Lord, old Mrs. Smith, and Margaret’s own tenacious nature had given her.

  All Margaret’s kind feelings toward Aurora evaporated, and in the cutting tone with which Margaret had controlled her staff, her sons, and her dear departed husband, she said, “No offer is generous enough to force me out of my home and away from the work which God has given me.”

  Aurora was too self-absorbed to recognize the threat to her well-being and to the comfort of her stay at the resort. In that amused and patronizing tone that adults reserve for cute children and the elderly, Aurora said, “Surely God allows us all a time to relax at the end of our lives.”

  “When I’m at the end of my life, I will let you know.” Margaret smiled with all her teeth.

  Only then did the stupid woman realize her mistake.

  Luckily for Aurora, Margaret’s manager watched over her. He recognized her rage when he saw it, and swiftly interrupted with an emergency that required Margaret’s attention.

  She excused herself and followed him to the table where the server from their featured winery poured her a small glass of pinot noir. And although she usually didn’t indulge in wine before dinner, she hung her cane on her arm and took it with thanks.

  Harold kept his voice low. “They are all fools. Especially her.”

  “You don’t even know what she was talking about.” Margaret took a sip and grimaced. The floral notes were not to her taste.

  “I have a good idea. She was asking questions earlier.” Harold Ridley was tall and gaunt, a Vietnam vet who’d lost his leg to a grenade. He’d been unemployable, alcoholic and drug-addicted, until she’d picked him off the street and given him a chance. He’d been ready for that chance; he’d cleaned up his act and been her manager for thirty years.

  “I wish…” She paused, startled and confused, and stared at the rocking chairs.

  They were rocking by themselves.

  The resort shivered, as if the old building felt a chill wind. The deck bucked beneath her feet. She stumbled against the table, dropped her glass. It shattered, sending red streamers of wine flying through the air.

  What reason? Why?

  Her panicked mind immediately seized on her greatest fear.

  St
roke!

  She couldn’t get her balance. She was hallucinating. She must have suffered a stroke.

  What other explanation could there be?

  Yet it wasn’t merely her glass that broke. The glasses on the table, the open bottles, flew into the air, creating a havoc of shards and red wine and white wine.

  Someone shouted, “Earthquake!”

  Margaret sagged with selfish relief. It wasn’t her old system betraying her. She wasn’t yet condemned to lie in a bed, drooling and helpless, until the Grim Reaper came to take her to her reward.

  This was merely an earthquake.

  She—and the resort—had lived through them before …

  The earth gave a giant shrug, rolled, and rolled again.

  Harold caught Margaret’s arm to steady her. Then he stumbled away, staggering on his artificial leg, driven by the power of the buckling earth.

  She needed to herd her guests inside, to follow the well-rehearsed program for earthquake survival. But her staff had never rehearsed for this. No one had ever imagined this, an earthquake so massive the inn rose and fell like a ship in a storm off the North Sea, sending the staff and guests lurching, slamming against the sturdy outdoor iron furniture.

  The resort groaned and complained at the unnatural stresses put on the structure, but oddly, the guests were wide-eyed, in shock, and preternaturally quiet.

  And the earthquake went on. And on. Never in all of Margaret’s long years on the coast had she experienced anything so violent, so extended, so terrifying.

  Still holding the table, she turned and shouted, “Inside! Stay calm and get inside!”

  White-faced and paralyzed with terror, the guests stared at her.

  But she had already established her authority over them and the situation. She gestured.

  They headed toward the open French doors.

  Margaret’s cane was gone, she realized, knocked from her arm by the violent rocking. She couldn’t risk leaving the table. She wasn’t steady enough … yet she didn’t dare stay.

  If the deck fell, it was a long way to the ocean.

  Harold recognized her dilemma, but he couldn’t assist her; he was in the same trouble.