A Dark Lure (14 page)

“I guess his wife came from the States. Oh, shit—” She hit the brakes suddenly and backed up to where the ranch boundary fence had been recently cut and peeled back to create an opening the width of two vehicles. Tire tracks led through the hole into the dark, muddy, dense forest beyond.

“Bloody poachers.” She wound down her window to examine the vandalism. “Or squatters. That’s the old deactivated road that goes into the otter marsh and out the back.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Jimmie and I used to play in that swamp, much to my mother’s chagrin.”

“I’ll need to come back and fix that.”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

She shot him a glance.

He blew out a heavy breath. “While I’m here. I’ll do it.”

“This is my job, my—”

“And it is my father’s place. I don’t like you doing this stuff alone. It’s not safe. Those vehicle tracks look recent. Someone could still be in there. And likely armed, given that it’s open season.”

She stared at him, an odd look entering her eyes.

He shrugged. “Call me chauvinist if you want.”

She didn’t call him anything. She drove back in silence.

When they returned to the lodge, Cole hung up his jacket and saw that a fire was already crackling in the living room hearth. Two girls sat reading on the long sofa in front of the fire, one on either end, as if they didn’t know each other. A robust balding man with broad shoulders stood with his back to them, hands deep in his pockets as he watched the news on a large flat-screen television mounted on the back wall.

“Looks like we have new guests to check in,” Olivia said as she hung her jacket next to his in the hall.

She made her way into the living area. Cole glanced at his watch. It was still too early to go to the library and wait for his dad. He followed Olivia.

As she neared the man, a “Breaking News” banner flared across the big television screen. The program cut instantly to an anchorwoman in the CBC newsroom. The man reached over and bumped up the sound. The anchor’s voice blared loudly into the room.

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news out of Mount Currie,” the anchor said. “Please be warned, sensitive viewers will find the following material disturbing. A woman’s body was found hanging by the neck from a tree yesterday afternoon, alongside the Birkenhead River in Mount Currie, a First Nations community about thirty minutes north of the popular Snowy Creek ski resort. The Lower Mainland’s integrated homicide team has taken over the case and is currently on scene, assisting both local and tribal police.”

Olivia stalled, body rigid.

The two girls on the sofa spun around to watch.

“
CBC reporter Mike Stone is currently on site. What can you tell us at this point, Mike?”

The footage cut to a reporter in a blue windbreaker in front of trees yellow with fall leaves.

“Two teens from Mount Currie were out fishing yesterday afternoon when they made a very gruesome find,” said the male reporter into his mike, looking a bit shaken himself. Cole stepped closer.

“They came across a woman’s naked body hanging by the neck from a tree. Police are not commenting at this point other than to say the death is suspicious. But I spoke with Joshua Philips, a cousin of one of the teens who made the discovery. And again, a warning to sensitive viewers, the following information is disturbing. Joshua, can you tell us what your cousins found?”

The camera focused on a young man in a fleece jacket. He was bloodless under his naturally tawny complexion, his black hair ruffling in the wind. “My cousin and his friend were going to check out the spawning coho when they came across it hanging in a stand of cottonwoods.”

“By ‘it’ you mean the body?” said the reporter.

The young man nodded. “It . . . was gutted. At first my cousin thought it was a deer being field dressed by some hunter. But it was a woman, hanging by her neck from a big metal hook. Her eyes had been gouged out, and her entrails were spilling out.”

Olivia made a strange sound. She stumbled sideways, reached for the back of a chair. Cole’s gaze darted between Olivia and the TV.

“Homicide and forensics arrived at the scene from Vancouver late yesterday evening,” the reporter said. “The area has since been cordoned off, and tents have been erected over the site, where investigators have been working through the night with the aid of klieg lights. No one can get closer than where I’m standing here, and police are not saying if the body has been identified.”

Olivia’s knees buckled, and she slumped to the ground.

Cole surged instantly to her side. The man in front of the TV spun around, shock on his face. He stared at Olivia.

“Turn that thing off, now!” Cole barked at him as he helped Olivia up into a wingback chair. “And get those kids out of here, for God’s sake.”

“Tori,” the man demanded of one of the girls. He sounded shaken. “Go into the office. Wait there. And take your friend.” He reached for the television controls, turning it off as his daughter skulked through the door into the office. The other girl hurried into the kitchen.

Olivia was sheet-white, her skin cold, clammy, her breathing shallow. Cole felt for her pulse. It was racing. Irregular.

Adele rushed out of the kitchen. “Dear God, what happened? Nella said Olivia fainted.”

“Put your head down,” he told Olivia. “Right down, between your knees. Adele, can you bring her something sweet to drink?”

“Can I help?” the man said.

“If you could just wait in the office,” Cole said. “Someone will be with you guys shortly.”

“Here.” Adele returned with a glass of orange juice.

“Drink this,” Cole said.

Olivia lifted her head slowly. “I . . . I’m okay.” Perspiration gleamed on waxy skin. Her hand went to the cut on her head. Her pupils were dilated. She looked confused. She was having trouble breathing.

Cole set the glass down, reached for the bandana around her neck, began to untie it.

“No!” Her hands clamped fast over his. Her eyes flared wide. “Please, don’t.”

“You need to breathe properly.” He pushed her hands away and removed the bandana. Cole’s blood turned ice-cold.

A vicious, ragged, ropey scar ringed her neck like a dog’s collar.

Adele gasped softly. Her eyes shot to Cole, horror in her face.

CHAPTER 9

Adele leaned over and whispered into Cole’s ear. “Jason, the chef, said Olivia had what he thought was a panic episode in the kitchen yesterday.”

“Thanks.” He glanced up at the housekeeper. “I wonder if you could leave us alone a minute?”

Her eyes narrowed. Her gaze flitted to Olivia. “Sure. I . . . I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Look at me, Olivia,” he said softly. “Focus. Here, have some juice.”

“I don’t want any. I said I’m fine.” The spirit in her eyes had been broken. She looked frightened, vulnerable. Compassion crushed through his chest.

He placed his hand on her knee, but her body snapped wire tight and her eyes shot back to his.

He moved a lock of hair away from the crack she’d taken on the skull. “Talk to me.”

“Don’t,” she said through her teeth. “Please . . . do not touch me.”

He removed his hand, surprise, confusion rippling through him. She scrabbled quickly for the bandana at her side and hooked it back around her neck.

“Please, leave me alone. Thank you,” she said, attempting to retie the ends of her bandana with trembling fingers, but she kept fumbling the knot.

“Let me do that.”

“No.”

Moving her hands aside, he overruled her and tied the knot gently, repositioning the fabric to nicely cover her scar.

“There.” He smiled.

She swallowed, her eyes glimmering suddenly with moisture, her hands fisting tightly on her knees.

“It was shocking news,” he offered. “Visceral stuff. They should have given better warning further out. Those kids shouldn’t have seen it, either.”

She broke his gaze, looked away, visibly struggling to marshal her emotions. She cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, then met his eyes again. Her control had returned.

“Thanks.” The fight had crackled back into her eyes. “I’ve been feeling a bit off lately. I think I might be coming down with a bug. I should attend to the guest in the office.” She came to her feet, bracing herself a moment on the back of the chair.

“I can do that,” he said.

“You have a meeting with your father shortly.” She held his gaze, as if daring him to ask about her neck scar, to voice the thoughts and questions she had to know were crowding his mind. He said nothing.

She turned abruptly and strode toward the office, shoulders square, her boots clicking on the wooden floor. Cole watched her disappear into the door. He blew out a chestful of air and scrubbed his brow.

No wonder this woman had walls. She’d most likely tried to kill herself, as evidenced by the scars on her wrist. And she’d had something terribly violent happen to her neck—something she was desperate to hide. She also had issues with physical proximity and being touched.

Cole went into the kitchen, where he introduced himself to Jason and his daughter, Nella, and he asked about Olivia’s panic incident yesterday.

“It was the deer meat in the freezer that set her off, I think,” Jason said. “I was pushing it along the rack and bumped it into her.”

The words of the newscast played through Cole’s mind.

It was
. . .
gutted. At first they thought it was a deer. But it was a woman, hanging by the neck
. . .

“She did say that she hadn’t been feeling well, so maybe she’s coming down with something.” Jason turned suddenly to his daughter. “I forgot to ask you, Nella. Liv was fretting over a basket of berries left outside her cabin door when she came in here yesterday—did you leave them for her?”

Nella, who was sitting drawing at the kitchen table, shook her head and eyed Cole warily.

“You look like him,” she said suddenly.

“Who?” Cole asked.

“Mr. McDonough.”

A smile curved over his mouth. “I
am
Mr. McDonough.”

“I mean, you look like your father. In the old photos in his office, when he was younger. I bet you’ll be just like him when you’re old, too.”

His smile faded a little.

Olivia entered the office. The guest had his back to her as he examined the fishing lures for sale under the glass counter. Mounted on the office wall behind the counter were framed photographs of previous Broken Bar guests, many of them regulars, holding wild silvery trout, big grins on their faces. The wall with the door to the outside boasted windows that looked over the lawn and the lake beyond.

An elk’s head dominated the wall opposite the counter. The stuffed animal owned a massive rack of antlers and eerily realistic glass eyes that seemed to track Olivia whenever she worked in here. If she had her way, she’d have gotten rid of it long ago. Once upon a time, before her abduction, she didn’t mind this sort of thing—these trophies of the dead. Now she was strictly a catch-and-release gal herself. If she hunted at all, or kept fish, it was for food.

Out of nowhere, a dark memory—
his
voice—smoked into her mind.

. . .
We all have it, Sarah. Blood lust. That primordial thrill that comes from a chase, the hot rush of pleasure when you make that kill
. . .

She wiped her damp palms on her jeans. PTSD sucked. It was a dragon that lived inside her own head, shaking loose more and more nightmarish memories, each one prompting another like dominoes tumbling.

. . .
It was a woman, hanging by her neck from a big metal hook. Her eyes had been gouged out
. . .

That murder on the news was heinous. But it had nothing to do with
him
. Or her past. He was dead. Gone.

“Good morning,” she said crisply.

The guest spun around.

Olivia forced a smile. “I apologize for that little episode back there. My name is Olivia West. How can I help you?”

He returned her smile, but his dark blue eyes quietly assessed her. He was big. Fit-looking, balding. Maybe late fifties. Broad shoulders, hands like hams, thighs of a lumberjack. He wore jeans and a casual fleece jacket over a white T-shirt. He exuded an air of capability.

“Gage Burton,” he said, reaching forward to shake her hand. She noted the gold wedding band, his solid grip, the power in his arms and shoulders, the way laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. He had a good vibe. She liked him immediately.

“Some nice flies here.” He nodded to the counter. “Who tied them?”

“Most of them I designed myself. They’re lures specific to this lake, or to the local rivers.”

“I’d like to give some of them a try. We—my daughter and I—were wondering if you have any cabins available for the long weekend. We did drive around to the campsite first, but thought we’d shoot over and see if you had a cabin.”

The girl who’d been sitting in the living room earlier suddenly appeared from behind the rack of postcards in the corner. Dark-haired and sullen, she held her shoulders in a hunch and regarded Olivia in heavy silence.

Gage held out his hand. “This is Tori.”

“Hey, Tori.” Olivia forced another smile. “Had a long drive?”

The kid turned abruptly and shoved out the door. The bell chimed, and the door swung shut silently behind her. She stomped down onto the lawn. Ace, who was lying on the grass in the sun outside, got up and wiggled over to her. Tori bent over to scratch the dog’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Gage said quietly. “She lost her mother six months ago, and she’s”—he hesitated—“we’re both having a hard time coming to terms with it. We have a long road ahead yet. Things were . . .” He cleared his throat. “Thanksgiving would be rough at home. I thought some country air, wilderness, fishing, making some new memories together, might help.” Gage regarded her intently as he spoke. As if he were still weighing her. “I left it late, though. I should have planned ahead properly.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He smiled, rueful. “I don’t need sympathy. Just a cabin.”

The hurt on his face, the sudden visceral aura of loss around him, it got her in the gut. Olivia stole a quick glance at the black-haired girl outside. Tori was now kicking at stones. She’d given up on Ace, who was waiting at the glass door, looking to come in. Olivia went over and opened the door. Ace made for his basket.

“How old is Tori?”

“Eleven. But she likes to call it ‘almost twelve.
’
”

“Must be a rough age to lose a mother, just as you’re about to head into your teens.”

“It is. She’s a sensitive child to begin with. Very smart, creative, but also an introvert. She doesn’t make friends easily, and her mother was her closest companion. She’s been hitting out at the world in an effort to hide her pain, so I apologize for her behavior in advance.” He paused. “My wife and I used to fish together. And I . . .” Embarrassed, he dragged his big palm over his head, eyes gleaming. “I’m sorry. I’ve . . . that’s more than you need to know.”

“We can do a cabin,” she said quickly, uncomfortable at the rawness of emotion in this powerful-looking man. “We have a two-bedroom available, and a one-bedroom with a pullout in the living area.” She went behind the counter, showed him the rate card. “The cabins all come with a wood-burning stove, a small kitchenette. Hot water via propane. There’s no electricity or phone lines. We supply the wood. It’s stacked on the deck.”

“We’ll take the two-bed,” he said, perusing the rate card. “For the full weekend, including Monday night.”

“I should mention we’re expecting possible snow on Monday or Tuesday. Roads could become impassable for a few days if a serious storm sets in.”

His eyes flared up, met hers. Something flickered through them. “That’s okay. We’ll take the cabin until Monday night, play it by ear if necessary.”

Olivia entered his name into the computer and gave him the spiel about meals at the lodge.

“Here’s the menu for tonight.” She slid another card over the glass-topped counter. “It’s casual dining. Guests sit together at several tables. It gives people a chance to meet others if they want. And this is a map of the ranch. Your cabin is here.” She marked it with an
X
in marker pen. “The Buckeye cabin. We have boats for guest use. The dock is right here.” She marked it on the map. “Life jackets are in the boat shed on the beach, near the gazebo.”

“Thank you.” He gathered up the pieces of information she’d given him.

“I should mention that cell reception is spotty and weather dependent, but there are certain areas on the lawn in front of your cabin where you can pick up a signal from the tower.”

“Gotcha.” He hesitated. “That was some nasty news on television.”

She glanced up, held his gaze for a moment. “Yes, it was. Do you have a credit card? For the reservation?”

There was a beat of silence. He took out his wallet, handed her his card. “I might as well just pay up front and be done.”

She processed his card, gave him the receipt.

“Could we reserve for dinner tonight, too?”

“Absolutely. I’ll put you down. Jason, our chef, has venison on the menu.”

He opened the door, gave her a nod. Olivia watched as he walked down the lawn to join his daughter. He put his arm around his kid’s shoulders, but she jerked away.

They walked toward their truck and camper, together but apart. The child’s black hair was dead straight and reached almost to her waist. It shimmered blue-black in the sunlight.

Olivia swallowed, a strange feeling washing over her skin.

An elusive memory, like a fingernail against glass,
tick tick ticked
against the surface of her mind, trying to get in.

Cole stared at the enlarged framed photo of himself mounted above the hearth, in pride of place in the library—the old cover shot for
Outside
magazine. He went to the bookshelves. Olivia was right; his father had copies of his works. He picked up one of several framed photographs of Jane and her family displayed on the shelves.

Olivia’s words sifted into his mind.

. . .
I had a gut feeling Myron needed to see his kids. You especially
. . .
I believe he needs to atone, for whatever it was that happened between you and him. He needs to make his peace. I felt it might be good for him. Maybe even both of you. To say sorry
. . .

If Cole knew one thing about his dad, it was pride. Do-it-all-himself machismo. A genetic inability to admit he was wrong. Or say sorry.