exposed (Twisted Cedar Mysteries Book 3) (19 page)

“That took a while,” Ed snarled, obviously in a foul mood.

Ed was in his usual spot, in front of the white sheet. Try as he might Dougal couldn’t pick up any noises in the background.

Dougal figured he’d be damned if he’d apologize. “Took a break for some dinner.”

“And here I thought you were in a hurry to get the boy back.”

“I definitely am. But I’m not a machine. That said, I’d like to talk to him again.”

“You will. When we’re done. We’re getting close.”

“First I need assurance he’s okay.”

“He’s the same as before. Playing stupid games on that iPad of his and going through chips and Coke like nobody’s business.”

“I hope he’s got more to eat than just that.”

“You want me to e-mail you his meal plan? He’s
fine
. There’ll be plenty of time for chatting when our work is finished.”

“About that. When, exactly, and how exactly, are you going to set Chester free?”

Ed swore, then raised his eyes to the ceiling in a show of extreme exasperation. “First you have to finish the book and get it published on all the big Internet book companies. Once I’ve downloaded it and made sure you wrote it just the way I told you to, then—and only then—will I make sure Chester is returned to you, safe and sound.”

Dougal bit back a groan. In his mind he’d imagined all he had to do was write the book. Now Ed expected him to self-publish the damn thing, something he had no experience with. Maybe it was a good thing Charlotte had offered to help after all.

* * *

Wednesday April 7, 1976, Basement of Twisted Cedars Library, Oregon

Shirley had no idea how long she and Ed had been down in the basement. It felt like hours but it might have been only fifteen minutes. He’d bound her hands behind her back with a rope and tied her feet together at the ankles. She had to stand very still, or she’d fall, which she’d already done once.

Hard to say what was worse. Hitting the concrete floor without the ability to break her fall with her arms, or having him touch her as he picked her up and set her back on her feet.

Previously she’d avoided looking at him too closely, other than observing, superficially that he was a ruggedly handsome man with rather intense eyes.

But now she catalogued all the familiar features and traits. The resemblance was all too obvious, right down to the timbre of his voice.

He was his father’s son all right.

And he had a plan.

* * *

Every hour Dougal spent video chatting with his father, turned into at least two or three more as he transcribed the material to his computer.

This wasn’t Dougal’s normal writing method.

Usually, he conducted the majority of his research, and prepared an overall outline—a process that took months, sometimes an entire year—before he even began to work on the first chapter.

But this project was different. It was all about getting Ed Lachlan’s version of events in written form so he would let Chester Quinpool go.

Dougal didn’t worry about any of the things that normally preoccupied him on his projects, like dramatic tension, pacing or character arcs. Nor did he care about style, word choice or sentence structure.

He just regurgitated the words as fast as he could—mindful, always of his father metaphorically watching over his shoulder. The last thing he wanted was to sabotage his efforts to free Chester by writing something that would annoy or offend his father.

The scenes he wrote in Shirley’s point-of-view were the only times when he actually felt like an author, working on a story that was his, not someone else’s.

He couldn’t help but find himself relating to the crusty librarian. Maybe it was because he was living in her house, or because she’d been Charlotte’s aunt, or because they had both hated Ed Lachlan.

Probably it was for all of these reasons that he felt this connection. And while it pained him to hear how Ed had delighted in torturing her, he couldn’t help feeling drawn into her version of the story.

For Dougal it felt like he was in the library basement, too. A fly on the wall, watching Ed Lachlan set his vicious trap. The tension was making his head ache and his eyes blur. Dougal paused to get more coffee and only then realized it was two in the morning.

He checked his phone and found three text messages from Charlotte, begging him to take a break and come home for some rest.

Either she was handling the book better than he’d expected her to, or she hadn’t gotten very far into the material. Whatever the reason, he decided to take her up on her invitation.

Fifteen minutes later, he was heading for the back porch where Charlotte had a key hidden under a flowerpot, when he was startled to see Charlotte herself, stretched out on the oversized lounge chair. Her long blonde hair was strewn over the pale blue blanket she’d used to cover herself.

He drank in the sight of her sleeping profile. He hoped she was sleeping deeply—that she was getting a brief respite from the nightmare of the past few days.

After a few minutes he turned to admire the ocean waves sparkling in the moonlight. The rhythmic crashing sounds and the sea-tang of the air reminded him of the first time he’d made love to his librarian. It had happened on this very beach. He could see the spot, just beyond the sea grass, next to a huge chunk of driftwood.

He tried to imagine meeting someone like Charlotte in New York, and couldn’t. She belonged to this spot and after all those years away, he’d come to believe that he did, too.

Too tired to stand anymore, Dougal pulled up a wicker chair. His plan was to sit and watch over Charlotte for a while, but then she moaned and called out his name.

“I’m here,” he answered.

She shifted to the far edge of the lounger and lifted the blanket. Needing no further invitation, he slipped off his shoes and climbed in beside her.

“Nice,” she murmured, tucking her body next to his. “You okay?”

“A little squished.” He smiled, turning his gaze to the sky and the ever-shifting clouds. “You know there is a comfortable queen-sized bed in the house.”

“I like it out here.”

From the start her fascination with the sea and the beach had intrigued him. Charlotte was a self-admitted nervous Nellie. Almost everything outside the radius of her house, the library, this beach and her town—frightened her.

Yet she saw nothing dangerous in middle of the night walks on the beach, or sleeping an entire night on her back porch.

“How did it go tonight?” she murmured.

“I asked to talk to Chester. No go. But Ed did tell me he’d set him free once I had the book self-published on some Internet book sites. Not that I have any idea how to do that.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks.”

Neither one of them spoke for a few moments. Dougal’s exhaustion was catching up to him, but before he let sleep suck him under he had to ask one more thing. “How’s Cory?”

“She and Jamie are asleep in the guest room.”

So his sister had decided to stay the night. Something about that made him feel better, for some reason. Maybe it was just nice knowing he was surrounded by the people he cared about...

A thin band of sky at the horizon had turned a luminescent indigo when Dougal was startled awake by a sob from Charlotte. He tightened his grip around her.

“I’m here, baby.”

What else could he say? Certainly not that it was okay, because it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be, not until Chester was safely home.

“Do you think Ed will really let him go when the book is finished?”

Dougal’s mother and sister had often accused him of being a pessimist. Dougal hoped that, in this case, they’d be proven right. Because he just couldn’t imagine his father bothering. Once he had what he wanted—the published book—Chester would be expendable to him.

But he couldn’t say that.

“We’ve got to operate on the basis that he will. Or, better yet, that the FBI will find them soon. I know they’ve got their best computer experts working on it.”

Charlotte shifted her head so she could look him in the eyes. “The book, by the way, is incredible.”

He could feel his defensive shields going up. Instinctively he shifted his gaze, and drew back from her a little. “How much did you read?”

“All of it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s...riveting, Dougal. I’ve read all your other books. Before I even knew you, I was a fan. But this. It’s different.”

“I’ll say.”

“Don’t disparage. I realize you wrote this under duress. But it’s so raw and powerful and intense. It’s your best yet.”

“Those are words I’d love to hear about any of my books but this one.”

“It hasn’t needed much editing at all, either.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. “That’s good, I guess.”

“It really is. It means that as soon as you’ve finished the last chapter I can start the process of publishing the manuscript.”

“And how do we do that?” Dougal had only worked with the traditional publishing industry to date, and that process was a meticulous one, that generally required almost an entire year for cover design, and the editorial process of revisions, edits and proofreading.

“I’m not sure. But I plan to figure that out today.”

Charlotte pushed up to sitting. Pulling her hair away from her face into a rope that hung down her back, she looked out at the sky. Some lower clouds had pushed in from the southwest and the smell of rain was in the air.

“Looks like our low pressure system is finally getting the upper hand.”

Dougal pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Christ, it’s after six. I better get back to the sheriff’s office.”

“How about a bit of breakfast and some coffee, first?”

He was going to decline, but then he thought about the greasy pastries and the gut-rotting coffee he’d find at the office. “Do you have a travel mug?”

She did. She made coffee in a French press for him, then wrapped up two blueberry muffins and gave them to him along with an apple.

Not only that, but she’d done it in the time he’d taken to grab a quick shower and change his clothes. As he was coming down the stairs, his sister crept out of the guest room where she’d been sleeping, along with Borden. Registering no surprise at seeing him, she gave him a hug.

“Cory?” He nodded at the door.

“Still sleeping,” Jamie whispered.

Dougal scooped up his cat, who turned her face away, as if signaling her lack of amusement at his recent long absences. He scratched her in all her favorite places, then set her down by her food bowl and opened her favorite tin of chicken stew.

Meanwhile Jamie had settled on a stool at the island. Her dark hair was a wild mess of curls, and he couldn’t resist giving one of them a tug.

She batted away his hand, then accepted Charlotte’s offer of a cup of coffee. “So what’s the plan today?”

“I’m going back to work on the book.” Dougal’s gaze shifted to Charlotte. “I should finish today.”

Charlotte gave him a brave nod. “And I’m going to figure out how to get a cover for the book and get it published on the Internet.”

“Okay,” Jamie said. “How about I spend the day with Cory? Maybe take her out to play on the beach before it rains, then take in a movie in Port Orford?”

“I think that would be good for her,” Charlotte concurred.

Dougal felt that he was leaving matters in good hands as he jogged through town, taking the Ocean Way walking path to Driftwood Lane, then across the highway at Second Street.

He felt a keen sense of urgency, fueled by a solid four hours of sleep, and the knowledge that whatever happened next, Charlotte would be beside him.

She had read his book—all of it—and she’d still welcomed him to her bed.

Okay, her lounge chair.

But the point was, people were at their most vulnerable when they slept, and if Charlotte could still let down her guard to do that with him, then the book hadn’t poisoned her opinion of him.

It was unfathomable.

But for now he would accept it as a gift, to be unwrapped and examined later.

* * *

Wade was already at his desk when Dougal arrived. The sheriff looked so rough Dougal felt compelled to offer him one of the blueberry muffins, which Wade accepted gratefully.

“Came in at five,” he told Dougal between bites. “Just got off the phone with the Feds. I’ll give them points for persistence. They’ve put together a team of their very best people to work on this. Even with someone as apparently tech savvy as your father, they feel they have a shot.”

“That’s encouraging. But we don’t have much time. I just got a message from Ed. He wants to talk in about ten minutes. We’re so near the end, this could be our last conversation before the book goes live.”

Wade finished off the muffin, then stood and walked Dougal out of his office. “Once you’re finished writing the book—how long will it take to publish it?”

“Charlotte’s checking into that today. Her guess is that we might get the book up for sale on some Internet sites within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

“That fast, huh?”

“Amazing isn’t it?” As Dougal turned to head for his office, he almost bumped into Marnie.

She was still in minimalist mode—hair in ponytail, no make-up—but her face had a glow that suggested she’d at least grabbed some sleep recently. She was carrying two to-go cups from the Buttermilk Café.

“What have you got there?” Dougal asked.

She frowned, but answered, “One no-fat vanilla latte and a double shot mocha.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Dougal teased, reaching for one.

“Believe me, I didn’t.” She marched past him, handing the larger cup to the sheriff, and saying something in a voice too low for Dougal to hear.

Dougal had to smile. Something was cooking there, for sure, and he was glad for Wade.

* * *

Dougal hesitated before clicking the last button that would open the connection between himself with his father. A double shot of single malt Scotch would sure go down well now. But he was going to need all his wits about him.

He clicked the green button.