Wicked Game (12 page)

She drove almost unerringly to St. Elizabeth’s campus. It was surrounded by chain-link construction fencing, and yellow signs warned interlopers to stay off the premises. But there was a gap in the fencing where vehicles came and went. An opening no one seemed to feel the need to repair. She drove through as if she owned the place and parked at the far side of the lot, closest to the maze. Behind the front building she could see where demolition was in progress. Several large machines with scoops and claws sat idle while rubble lay in untidy piles, one such pile as tall as the cab of a small crane.

Yellow crime scene tape flapped angrily at the entrance to the maze. It had been long enough that Becca suspected the tape had just been left, that it served no purpose any longer. And even if it were still in play, she didn’t much care. She wanted to see the site where the human remains had been found.

Jessie’s remains…

She’d scarcely taken two steps into the maze when she was slapped in the face by a wet branch. She cried out in surprise, then cringed to hear her voice hang in the air. So much for quietly going about her business. Even with the intermittent whistle of the wind, her half scream had seemed loud.

As if in answer to her, the clouds opened up and poured rain that quickly turned to hail, slamming down in a violent rush. Becca stumbled forward, yanking her parka hood over her head, her boots squishing into the water-saturated earth. Late February and miserable. She reached a fork in the maze and turned left, hurrying, wind gleefully tossing precipitation at her face, the ground white with hail beneath her feet.

Three turns later and she was lost. Becca stopped cold, shivering, surprised by her mistake. In high school she would’ve known the way blindfolded. Now she was uncertain which direction to take. The weather and darkness hadn’t helped, but she’d been sure she would find the Madonna.

Mentally she retraced her route and realized she might have erred on the second turn. Holding on to her coat from the snatching fingers of the branches and skeletal berry vines, she reversed her route at the second turn and headed back inside just as the hail stopped, turning to a thick, pelting rain.

Jessie had been a master at the maze. Flirtatious and dangerous, in her way, she would crook her finger and invite the guys in their group to come after her. They ran like dogs with their tongues hanging out. But it had all been for Hudson’s benefit, her need to make him jealous, though it hadn’t really worked. Hudson was cool. Tolerant. Maybe disinterested. Jessie’s machinations hadn’t provoked him in the least and Becca had admired him for it. Loving him had been so easy.

Love, she questioned now, holding back a long branch. A fifteen-year-old’s love that lingered year after year. Could you even call it that? Love? Maybe it was more like obsession. Or habit. Or…

She heard a twig snap behind her. Like in the movies. The signal for danger. But there was no one in the maze but her. She was sure of it.

Are you?
Are you?

She was frozen on the balls of her feet, listening. Was there someone there? Some
thing
there?

After a few moments of listening to the wind soughing through the branches and her own rapid-fire heartbeat, Becca relaxed a bit, forging onward, ears attuned.

Wet shoes slipping slightly, she rounded a final corner and was suddenly in the center of the maze with its ghostly white statue of the Madonna. The ground was torn up and Becca shivered at sight of the large, wet hole at Mary’s feet and the statue tipped on its side, pressed into the dirt and covered with white pellets of hail. Were the bones that had been buried here really Jessie’s?

She gazed through a curtain of rain at the remains of the grave and shuddered inwardly to think that Jessie had been buried in this dark hole all these years. Or had she? Sometimes Becca felt sure the body discovered was that of her sometime friend; other times she wondered if she was just looking for a logical explanation to a mysterious disappearance.

Nothing was for certain.

“Help me,” the wind seemed to sigh.

She froze.

Surely she was imagining things…

Then she felt it; that slight change in the atmosphere.

The hair on the back of her arms lifted. She blinked against the icy rain.

Her head pounded, as if she were about to have another vision, yet she remained awake and alert. Too alert. Anxious. As if she were about to jump out of her skin.

A shadow fell over her and she sensed another presence, something else in the maze with her. Throat tight, she whipped around, bracing herself for another ghostly image. “Jessie?” she whispered.

Wet laurel leaves shivered, moving.

Not ten feet from her.

Becca’s mouth opened on a silent scream.

Her heart thundered.

She felt faint and slightly sick.

She expected Jessie to materialize in front of her.

Readied herself for it.

Waited for the ghost to appear.

Moments passed and she counted her heartbeats.

Nothing happened.

The wind dissipated, dying.

The slapping rain seemed to dissolve into mist.

No one was there. Not Jessie…no one.

And yet…

Becca felt an undeniable presence. Something with a malevolent purpose. Crouching in the thick umbra. Something that wanted to do her harm.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice a whisper.

A frigid drop of rain slid onto her collar and down her neck. Shaking as if from a fugue, Becca tried to concentrate on Jessie, but it was impossible. Something was breathing down her neck. Something dangerous. Something threatening.

And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a looming shadow. Huge. Dark. Threatening. Oh, God. She turned quickly and the beast shrank back. But she felt its eyes on her.

With a cry stuck in her throat, Becca bolted from the maze, racing unheedingly through the shrubbery, feeling tiny branches claw and scratch her face. Feet slipping as she rounded several corners, she ran as if the devil were on her heels, her breath fogging in the air, fear spurring her on.

Who had followed her into the maze?

Not who: What? What had stalked her through the overgrown hedges and berry vines?

Fumbling for her keys in her pocket, she ran on, tearing out of the maze and across the overgrown lawn and potholes of the parking lot to her little Jetta.

She dropped the keys at the door, then scraped her fingers over the broken asphalt as she dived for them. Quaking, dripping rain, she managed to unlock the car. Only when she was inside, throwing the locks with trembling fingers, staring through the partially fogged windows toward the black maze did she feel almost safe.

“Who are you?” she asked the shifting branches dancing and waving in front of her. “Who the hell are you?” She flicked on her headlights and there was nothing there. With shaking arms, she turned the car around and pointed toward the exit. In her rearview mirror a figure emerged from the maze.

Becca hit the accelerator, blinking hard. In that second the image was gone.

But someone was there! Someone had followed her!

Someone who
hated
her.

A sob edged across her lips and she drove down the long, bumpy lane of the campus. A rabbit caught in the headlight’s glare hopped quickly through the brambles. Becca sped by. Barely hitting her brakes, she charged into the traffic of the main road, determined to get as far away from St. Lizzie’s as possible.

“Detective…”

Mac, who’d had a telephone pressed to his ear waiting for the county prosecutor to answer, looked up to see Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal give him the high sign from his office, a glass-walled cubicle at the end of the squad room. Dropping the phone, Mac headed into the lieutenant’s office without a word, and D’Annibal closed the door behind him.

D’Annibal had smooth, silvery white hair, piercing blue eyes, and a love for Armani suits that was paid for by his wealthy wife’s substantial trust fund. He was also damn good at his job, and he expected excellence from all members of his staff. Mac watched as he hooked a leg over the corner of his desk and folded his hands together.

Lecture time. Not a good sign.

“Just got off the phone from the lab,” he said with only a trace of his West Texas drawl audible. “They’re sending PDFs on a couple of pictures of those bones you’re so interested in.”

“Yeah?” At long last. It had been nearly a week since the body had been located, but the lab had been “backed up.” Which was nothing new. In the meantime, Mac had been forcing himself to be patient.

D’Annibal rubbed his jaw slowly, a gesture that meant he was deliberating on how to deliver his next news. Mac braced himself, and after a moment, the lieutenant said, “You know, I wasn’t here when that girl disappeared. I hadn’t moved to the great state of Oregon from Texas yet. I was making my way through the ranks, proving myself, following the path, keeping my aim in sight. Meanwhile, you were out here stirring up a heap of trouble for yourself. Claiming murder without a body. Accusing the students at a private school, some of whom were quite well heeled and whose families were well respected, of killing a young girl—a runaway. From what I understand, you were a regular town crier about it all. That about right?”

“There’s some truth in there,” Mac admitted, though he could feel how rigid the cords in his neck had become.

“You really tore up the turf. Lots of people didn’t like your ways. High-handed. Bullish. Misconceived. Obsessive. Lots of words were bandied about. None of them too complimentary.”

Mac nodded, wondering how long this was going to take. He, above anyone else, remembered what had come down. And yes, he’d been too gung-ho, too convinced on too little evidence, he thought now, in this glassed-in office that suddenly felt stuffy. “Has the lab nailed down the girl’s age from the bones?”

“Give me a moment,” D’Annibal said. “I’ve got to get some things straight. I’ve got to
hear
a few things from you.”

Mac held back his frustration as best he could but was having a helluva time with it. Mentally counting to ten, he asked, “What do you want to hear?”

“I want to hear that you won’t go off half-cocked. I want to hear that you won’t act like you want to pistol-whip innocent people. I want to
hear
that you’ll conduct a proper investigation.”

“I’ve never pistol-whipped anyone, sir.” Mac was having difficulty reining in his temper.

“Only with accusations,” his boss agreed.

“Oh, hell, what do you want me to say?”

“That if I turn this investigation over to you, Detective, you’ll treat it, and everyone you interview, with respect. I don’t want some indignant ass-wipe whining to me about police brutality. And I know”—he lifted a palm against Mac’s protests—“that you aren’t physical. But you’re a badger, and I don’t want you badgering.”

Mac’s pulse began a slow pounding and he was vaguely aware of a phone ringing on the other side of the closed door. “You’re giving me the investigation?”

The lieutenant hesitated and Mac waited. He couldn’t believe it. Could—not—believe—it. After all the sideways looks, hidden sneers, and snickering, the case was coming back his way. Maybe they didn’t believe the remains were Jessie’s, but Mac felt it in his marrow.

“It’s yours if you want it.” He didn’t wait for a response. “I think we both know your answer.”

Jesus! About time. “Is that all?” Mac asked, anxious to get to work. Anxious to pick up where he’d been forced to leave off, so many years ago.

“Not quite. I’ve been reminding you about all this for a reason. There was some…resistance to putting you on the case again, and information was deliberately withheld until a decision was made.”

It wasn’t like D’Annibal to tiptoe, but then Mac could imagine what kind of meetings went on behind closed doors concerning putting him in charge of this case. He decided to push the issue a bit.

“How old was the deceased when she died? Do we know that yet?” he asked.

“About sixteen.”

“Those remains are Jezebel Brentwood’s,” Mac said.
I’ll eat a kangaroo if they’re not.

“No corroborating evidence.” But D’Annibal didn’t sound like he disagreed. This was the first time the lieutenant had acknowledged that Mac might be right. Since he’d come to the Laurelton PD, like everyone else in the department, D’Annibal had been interested first in keeping Mac’s hopes in line, second in entertaining the myth that sixteen-year-old Jezebel Brentwood had simply run away. But these remains had revealed another, more obvious answer—the same one Mac had expounded for years: Jessie Brentwood had been killed.

“How long have those bones been in the ground?” Mac asked.

“More than ten years, probably closer to twenty.”

“Then they’re Jessie’s until I hear differently,” Mac told him flatly.

“All you have to do is prove it.”

“Piece of cake.” He expected another lecture about running on assumptions rather than facts, but the lieutenant surprised him by keeping his own counsel. But D’Annibal had more to say, apparently, because his chin rubbing had turned into a vigorous buff and polish.

“There’s something else…” More rubbing. Mac wondered if the man was going to wear off his top epidermal layer. He waited, watching D’Annibal go through his own mental decision-making, weighing the pros and cons of telling Mac whatever piece of news this was. Must be a doozy, Mac decided, just as the lieutenant drew a deep breath and said, “Nobody wanted to tell you as you were so convinced this was your old case, so we kept it under wraps till we could determine if these bones really belonged to the missing Brentwood girl. We still don’t know, but with the dates and the location of the remains…well…”

“You think my obsession might have some credence now,” Mac hurried him along. Enough with the disclaimers. “What is it?”

“There was a second, smaller skeleton mixed with the bones of the first.”

“Smaller…” Mac grew sober. “A baby?”

The lieutenant nodded. “She was pregnant when she was killed. If it’s your girl, Jessie, she probably knew. ME says she was about four months along.”

Becca didn’t sleep for nearly a week.

Her dreams were peppered with visions of Jessie and Hudson and some dark shape that loomed above them all.

“Nuts,” she told her dog one afternoon. “That’s what’s happening, you know. I’m going damned nuts.” It was after five by the time she finished working on new contracts for the law firm, making the changes where indicated and sending them via e-mail to the administrator at Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer, checking her e-mail one last time before glancing outside where a few slanting rays of sunshine were actually permeating the clouds. “A good sign,” she said to Ringo as she made her way to the kitchen and checked his water bowl.

She punched Renee’s number into her cell phone and listened to the series of rings, then Renee’s voice saying to leave a number and she’d get back to her. “Renee, hi, it’s Becca. You said you were going to call me, after you got back from your weekend at the beach? Since I haven’t heard from you, I thought maybe I should call you instead. Anyway, give me a call when you can. Bye.”

She clicked off and tossed her phone onto the table. “Dumb message,” she said to Ringo. “I sound like I’m desperate for friendship. And now I’m explaining myself to you. I
really
have to get a life.”

It wasn’t like she really wanted to connect with Renee, especially as she was Hudson’s sister, but Becca didn’t like this sense of being in limbo, either.

She clipped Ringo’s leash onto his collar and took him outside for a walk. For once the rain and wind were on hold and the pavement was dry. They walked to the park, only a few blocks away. The oak and maple trees were still bare, only a few other pedestrians on the cement pathways intersecting the thick grass and shrubs. A bicycle passed by, the rider balancing a cup of coffee from the local Starbucks, wires running from his ears to the iPod located in his jacket pocket. Ringo took care of business, tangled leashes with two pugs being walked by a teenaged girl, then barked at squirrels who had the audacity to run in front of him.

But they didn’t encounter any dark figures in trench coats, no looming, indistinct embodiments of evil as they returned to the condo.

It was dark and threatening rain again by the time Becca unlocked the door to the condo and stepped inside. Ringo danced wildly to be fed while Becca checked all her doors, windows, and locks before measuring out a half cup of dog food. Then she double-checked the front door and slider to her small patio area. She was not only desperate, she was becoming obsessive/compulsive, she thought. Ever since the discovery of the bones, and the meeting with the old gang, and seeing Hudson again, then later feeling spooked at St. Elizabeth’s, she seemed trapped in this loop that kept circling back to high school and whatever had happened to Jessie Brentwood.

Her cell phone buzzed on the table, moving itself across the hard surface. Becca snatched it up and saw that it was Renee’s number. “Hello?”

“Oh, hey, Becca. I got your message. I’ve just been so busy since I got back from the beach. Swamped at work and…well, dealing with some personal stuff. Sorry I didn’t call.”

“Not a problem. You just gave me the feeling there was something you wanted to talk about.”

“Yeah…” Renee hesitated and Becca sensed she was in a serious debate with herself. She braced herself for something about Hudson, but when Renee let the silence grow to an uncomfortable level, Becca finally had to speak first, “I went to St. Elizabeth’s, to the maze the other night.”

“Really?” Renee sounded flabbergasted. “Why?”

“Good question. I can’t really explain it.”
So why try? And why to Renee?

“So…was it still taped off?”

Becca nodded, flipped on the switch to the fireplace. Within seconds flames began licking the ceramic logs. “Yeah, I went around the tape. There was no one there, not at the maze or anywhere near the old school. It was almost dark. Well, it was dark by the time I got there.”

“You wanted to see the…grave?” Renee asked.

“I guess I went up there to check things out, see for myself…maybe even to, I don’t know, commune with Jessie.” The minute the words were out, she regretted them.

“And did you? Commune with her?” There was less sarcasm in Renee’s tone than she expected.

Becca thought of the malevolent presence she’d encountered and seen. Had it been real? Or a product of her visions? “I don’t know.”

“You want to meet for coffee?” Renee asked suddenly. “Or a glass of wine? I’d really like to talk to you, in person, and I’m heading back to the beach this evening.”

Becca considered. “I could meet you.”

“Say in about an hour? At Java Man?”

“I’ll be there.”

Java Man was a coffee shop–cum–wine bar not far from Blue Note. Becca changed into jeans, boots, and a heavy jacket with a hood and was on her way to the meeting spot within the half hour. She beat Renee by a good fifteen minutes, checking in her rearview mirror often, just in case.

Just in case, what? Some unknown demon predator is stalking you? Some evil person or beast, the presence you felt in the maze? Get real, Rebecca. Pull yourself together. Just because you had a damned vision…

“Stop it,” she warned herself aloud. She could not fall apart; not now. Not when she was meeting Hudson’s sister, a woman she wasn’t even sure she liked. Snapping on the radio, she listened to songs from the eighties, which was a bad idea. High school. Jessie. Hudson. Old emotions came flooding back in a rush. Angrily, she switched to NPR and some talk radio about the environment.

Safe.

Becca ordered a glass of merlot and a small plate of fruit, cheese, and crackers, then seated herself at a table with a view of the hand-painted dishware, candles, and assorted knickknacks. She wasn’t a person who collected things. Her place was remarkably bare as, without fully realizing it, she’d systematically removed almost all traces of Ben. There were a few items still around: a photograph he’d taken of her on a weekend jaunt, the needlepoint footstool from his grandmother he’d forgotten to grab when he left, a gray parka hung in the laundry room she sometimes threw on to battle the elements.

She glanced around to find the barista cleaning the countertop of the bar. Several couples sat over coffee, and a group of three women in their thirties huddled around a small table sipping wine. Jazz floated from speakers mounted over the wine rack, and a few glasses clinked.

Renee came bustling inside under the protection of an umbrella that the wind seemed determined to snatch away. But her grip was hard and she snapped the umbrella shut and looked around, briefly running a hand through her wind-tossed hair. When her eyes met Becca’s she lifted her chin in acknowledgment, then went to the counter and ordered herself a cup of black coffee.

“Back to the beach, huh?” Becca greeted her as Renee brought her cup to her table.

She gave Becca a look as she scooted in her chair. “Tim and I keep telling ourselves that we want to work things out, but I don’t know. I’ve been staying at a beach house almost every weekend, trying to put things into perspective. Jessie’s not the only story I’ve been working on. I started on this small-town story—you know about the largest Sitka spruce tree in the world? The one outside of Seaside that recently broke apart in a storm?”

Becca nodded. Sipped her wine. “I remember seeing it on the news.”

“People have been sending me pictures from their lives, their parents’ lives, their grandparents…all of them around the tree. Really great photos. Anyway, it’s a piece for the local paper but it could get picked up as a human interest piece in national papers. You never know.” She twirled her coffee cup slowly, spinning it by its handle with one finger. Becca sensed that Renee was prattling on as a means to build up some courage to talk about what she really wanted to discuss, so she just let her go on.