Authors: Lisa Jackson

You Don't Want To Know (16 page)

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know

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“Yeah. Dern worked for Donnelly's son before Orson sold his place. He mentioned the guy was out of work, and since Ned had already taken a hike and Ian was a . . . less-than-enthusiastic rancher, I called him, had him fax over his credentials, double-checked with Donnelly that Dern wasn't the reason his ranch was failing, and hired him.” He cocked his head to one side. “You have a problem with the guy?”

“Just curious as to how he just showed up one day. Everybody else who works here I knew before they were hired, or in Simon's case, because he married Khloe.” That much was true. She'd known Graciela because she was a friend of Tanya's younger sister, a local who had grown up in Anchorville. Demetria, too, had lived across the bay but had worked at Sea Cliff before hiring on as Jewel-Anne's personal caretaker. Even Ned had been a friend of Uncle Crispin's, whom he'd hired on years before.

So Dern was the outsider.

“I thought I'd give Ian a break.” One side of his mouth lifted. “Maybe now he'll have a chance to find his true calling.” He leaned forward and, placing his elbow on the desk, said, “Want to talk about your nightmare?”

“Nope.”

“It was about Noah again.”

She didn't bother answering, didn't need to.

“That's one of the reasons you're on medication. So you can rest. Get quality sleep. My uneducated guess is that either the prescription isn't working, or you're not taking your meds.”

“Hmm,” she said.

Frustration darkened his face. “You'd rather hallucinate, or nearly drown, or scream your way through some terrifying dream than take the meds?” When she didn't respond, he said, “I know you don't want to feel doped up. I understand that. But you're not doing yourself any good or the rest of us, who have to be on edge worrying about you, listening to you scream in the night, or fishing you out of the drink before you drown. If Dern hadn't been nearby the other night, I shudder to think what would have happened to you.”

“I can swim.”

“Ava.” He shook his head in disbelief. “If you hadn't drowned, there's always hypothermia and . . . you weren't yourself. Who knows if you'd really be able to save yourself!” He made a sound of exasperation. “I just don't know what to do anymore.”

“How about trying to back off a little?”

“Seriously? And risk you hurting yourself?”

“What are you really suggesting, Wyatt? That I go back to St. Brendan's?” She hadn't even been home a month and he was trying to wash his hands of her. “Is that what you want?”

“No!” He looked at her sharply, his hazel gaze drilling deep into hers. “Of course not. But I'm running out of options here.” His fingers splayed into the air, as if he was about to fend off any other objections. “I just wish you could quit fighting me. I lost a son, too, you know. I'm just trying like hell not to lose my wife as well.”

Her throat closed and tears threatened her eyes as they always did when he was kind to her. “He's alive.”

“I want to believe that, too. Really. But whether Noah's alive or . . . not, he's gone, Ava. You have to accept that. He's not coming back. If he'd been kidnapped that night, then why hasn't anyone contacted us? Why no ransom note? And . . . and if he was sold to another couple who was so desperate for a child, why hasn't he been found? There were pictures of him plastered all over the media. The newspapers. Television. Radio. The Internet, Facebook, and MySpace and you name it. We tried everything. You remember what a circus it was!”

She did. Those first few days filled with hope and despair and panic and the soul-numbing fear that they'd find his body.

Wyatt's face was lined with concern. “You have to face facts, Ava. Noah is gone. It kills me, too.”

“But last night, I heard his cries.”

“You were dreaming!”

“No, they were coming from his room.”

“It was just the wind or . . . or this old house creaking or God knows what, but something was permeating your mind, infiltrating your subconscious and twisting it into some kind of weird manifestations within your dream.”

“I know what I heard,” she said, and from the corner of her eye she saw Jewel-Anne zipping toward the elevator. Jewel slid a glance at the open door of the den but didn't meet Ava's eyes.

Wyatt caught the exchange and pushed back his chair. He rounded the desk and softly but firmly shut the door. Then he crossed the floorboards to stand directly in front of her. “Ava, please, I'm just trying to keep things together.”

“I'm not trying to thwart you, Wyatt,” she said, her voice raspy with emotion. “I just have to do whatever I can to find out what happened to Noah.”

“Even if it means sacrificing your health? Our marriage?”

“I don't want to sacrifice anything, Wyatt. And I shouldn't have to. I just want to find our child. Let me do it.”

She walked out without waiting for his answer.

CHAPTER 16

H
e wasn't getting it, Ava thought the following morning as she grabbed her jacket, slid her arms through its sleeves, and walked outside. Wyatt wouldn't let himself see her need. He didn't understand her and therefore wouldn't, or couldn't, help her. Ever since she'd returned from St. Brendan's, neither she nor Wyatt had brought up the D-word. It was almost as if by silent, mutual agreement they'd decided to try to make the relationship work, that no papers would be filed.

But it wasn't working.

They both knew it.

Wyatt had kissed her good-bye before he'd headed to the mainland yesterday, but the kiss had been a quick buzz on the forehead, nearly an afterthought. A duty.

Theirs was a complicated relationship, and maybe always had been. Maybe she'd been young, naÃ¯ve, and hadn't wanted to peel back the layers and look too closely at their marriage. She pocketed her phone, grabbed her purse, and was on her way outside when she ran into Ian on the first floor.

“I'm going into town to pick up Trent,” he said. “Need anything?”

“Trent's here?” Ian's twin lived in Seattle.

“In Anchorville. He texted a couple of hours ago and asked if I could come get him. He said he tried to reach you, too, but you didn't answer.”

She must've missed the call that had come in.

“Ask your husband. He invited him.”

“Wyatt didn't say anything,” Ava said.

Ian lifted a shoulder. “That's just what Trent told me. I don't think it's a secret. No big deal.”

Ian was probably right and she decided not to start planting suspicions in her own mind. It was crowded enough as it was. “All I want is a ride across the bay, if you're going.”

“You got it. So what is it this time, business or pleasure?” he asked as they walked toward the boathouse together.

“What do you think?”

He laughed. “That there's not much of either going around right now.”

As they passed by the dock, she glanced at the graying boards and tried to convince herself that she hadn't seen Noah the other night, that it had all been just a trick of the fog and her own willing mind.

Blue smoke and mirrors.

Ian ferried her across the bay and offered to pick her up later, but she declined and left him to meet his twin at the Salty Dog.

First stop: the Anchorville Police Department, where she was meeting with Detective Wesley Snyder.

“You know, Ms. Garrison, I'm sorry, but we don't have any new leads,” Detective Snyder said from the other side of his cluttered desk. He was a tall man, his suit coat sleeves riding up his arms. Light gleamed off his bald head, and he looked at her from a face etched with genuine concern. His “office” was a cubicle, one of several with half walls that separated it from other, identical semiprivate offices. Though the walls were padded, the sounds of jangling telephones and other peoples' conversations, the thud of footsteps, and the hum of printers and fax machines seeped into the space.

Ava was perched on the edge of one of the uncomfortable visitor's chairs and trying to find a way to get through to the one man in the sheriff's department she considered an ally. “I just thought that if I saw your notes, what you'd pieced together, and compared it to what I have, maybe I could find something that was missed earlier . . .” She saw the answer in his eyes.

“I'm sorry. I can't do that. We've been over this before.”

“I'm Noah's mother.”

“Doesn't matter. I'm not allowed to let anyone outside of the department see what we've got. It could compromise the case. You know that.”

“It's been two years.”

He ran a hand behind his neck. “I know, but I can't break the rules. However, if you have anything you think might help, by all means leave it with me.”

“I don't have any hard evidence, if that's what you mean. Just what I remember from that night.”

He found a thick folder on his desk and opened it as he plucked a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket, shook the bows open, and shoved the half-lenses onto the end of his nose. “Let's see.” Flipping several pages over, he stopped halfway down the stack, grunted his approval, and pulled several pages from the clip that held them fast. He scanned the pages, then slid them across the desk.

She recognized her statement from the night of Noah's disappearance. “This is what we've got from you. Oh, and I think this, too . . .” He dug a little deeper in the file and found a few more pages, this time part of an interview that had been recorded and transcribed. Most of the information was the same as what she'd compiled over the last few days. He said softly, “Was there something more you wanted to add?”

She started to feel foolish as she recalled when she'd made this statement. They'd been at the house, in the dining room, and Detective Snyder's little recorder had been sitting on the table as the interview had progressed, its pinpoint, red light flashing as she spoke. She'd told him all about the party the night before, where everyone had been in the house, what she remembered of the night. It was the very same information she'd put together again.

“No,” she admitted, feeling the heat climb up her neck as she sat back in the chair. “This is what I remember.”

He replaced the pages and his eyes above the half-lenses were kind. “Well, if you think of anything else, please, let me or someone here know. And I promise, I'll keep you in the loop if anything new develops.” He stood then, indicating the interview was over, and she left feeling deflated.

Of course the police wouldn't listen to her; not without some hard evidence, something beyond conjecture, or her own visions, or her own damned needs.

She walked out of the station and took a deep breath. Clouds were rolling in off the Pacific, dark and gray. A blustery, relentless wind was chasing along the waterfront, and the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees since she'd entered the police department. Tightening the belt of her sweater coat, she walked the seven blocks to Tanya's salon.

Raindrops were just beginning to splash against the sidewalk as she ducked under the striped awning of the Shear Madness salon. A small bell tinkled as she pushed open the door to the small shop. Along one wall was a row of three stations, each complete with pink sinks, pink chairs, and small faux crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. The first station was occupied, a woman leaning back in the sink while her beautician washed her hair, the smell of recently used chemicals heavy in the air.

“Hi, Ava,” Hattie, the stylist, said as she glanced over her shoulder. “Tanya's in the back.” Then to her client, “Okay, that's good,” as the woman sat up and Hattie started gently toweling her head.

Ava picked her way over hair clippings that hadn't yet been swept up, past the two empty chairs, and a huge photograph of Marilyn Monroe on a back door where she knocked and found Tanya standing in the middle of the unfinished back room. A toilet, sink, and stacked washer and dryer were framed in. The rest of the space was still open, and from the temperature, without any heat vents.

Tanya was still wearing the gloves she used to color hair and a dark apron over a long skirt and sweater. She was standing square in the middle of the concrete floor. “Hey, hi,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder as Ava stepped into the unfinished room. “I was just trying to figure out for about the millionth time how to cram in a manicure and waxing station back here, maybe a tanning bed or massage table. Trouble is, I need a hallway to get to the washer and dryer and still have room for a back door and . . . oh, who knows . . .” She peeled off her gloves in frustration and tossed them into a basket near the washer. Then she turned to Ava and gave her friend a hug. “It's good to see you. And you don't need to hear about my space/construction/contractor problems. Besides, I'm going cross-eyed just thinking about them. Maybe I should just leave things as they are. C'mon let's go eat! I'm starving!” She was already untying her apron and reaching for a jacket hanging on a bracket on one of the exposed two-by-fours.

“Perfect.”

“Guido's?”

“You read my mind.”

Tanya opened the door to the salon and poked her head inside. “I'm taking off for an hour or two, Hattie.”

“Got it. I'll hold down the fort,” was the muffled reply.

Tanya let the door to the salon close and, as she zipped her jacket, led Ava to the back exit. She snagged a pink umbrella from a stand, then unlocked the door and held it open for Ava.

Outside, rain was pelting the broken asphalt of the alley that ran the length of the tightly packed buildings. A black cat, belly low, scurried across the alley to hide beneath the loading dock of a furniture store. Beyond, the sky was an ominous, dark gray.

Ava flipped up the hood of her sweater and mentally kicked herself for not bothering with a jacket as Tanya fought with the umbrella. Together, half running, they skirted puddles, parked cars, and trash bins, then turned onto a side street, where they caught up with the sidewalk. Three blocks later, they jaywalked across a narrow street to an Italian restaurant tucked into a storefront. Guido's, an Anchorville institution, had been run by the Cappiello family for as long as Ava could remember.

Inside, the restaurant smelled of garlic, tomato sauce, and warm bread. The floor was black-and-white tile, and a flag of Italy was proudly mounted over the arch leading to the kitchen. The walls were painted with fake windows opening to scenes from Italy. Seascapes of the Italian coastline or panoramas of hills of vineyards were interspersed with “views” of the Colosseum or Trevi Fountain or some other recognizable Italian landmark. Tanya picked a booth that cuddled up to a picturesque “window” with a view of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“This is my favorite,” she explained, peeling off her jacket. “From here I can see the door. I always like that. My dad was a cop, you know, and always faced the door. Just in case.”

“You're a hairdresser.”

She shrugged. “Old habits die hard.” She picked up a plastic-coated menu, scanned the items, and said, “I'm going to have the linguini with pesto. Oh, God, I shouldn't. I've been dieting all week . . . no more than, like, a thousand calories a day, but the pesto, it's all homemade and organic and just a-MAZ-ing!” She snapped her menu closed. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Ava said without thinking. It was true. Tanya was one of the few people she knew she could trust.

“Oh, God, I should really have a salad. With some kind of light dressing or no dressing or . . . oh, hell!”

The waitress, a slim girl in a black pencil skirt, white blouse, and red tie carried two glasses of water to their table. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

“A glass of Chianti,” Tanya said quickly, then checked her watch. “No, I can't. Got one more color job this afternoon.” She glanced across the table at Ava and pulled a face. “Wouldn't want to mess up Mrs. Danake's streaks. Okay. No. I'll have a diet soda. And a house salad. You know, I
want
half the items on the menu. Oh . . . damn, I should be shot, but I'll have a side of the pesto linguini.”

“Lunch size?”

“Perfect.” She rolled her palms to the ceiling where a fan was slowly turning and intoned, “I had no choice.”

“A cup of the minestrone soup and the same pasta,” Ava ordered.

“Oh, wait. We could split an order of the linguini,” Tanya said, brightening. “Half the calories.”

Ava smiled. “Fine with me.”

Tanya, pleased with herself, turned to the waitress. “Could you do that, split the pasta, but maybe the dinner size?”

“Sure.”

“And I'll want bread sticks with my salad.”

“A basket of bread is complimentary.”

“Awesome.” As the waitress disappeared, Tanya leaned back against the hard bench. “I
hate
dieting. It's such a pain. What I really want is a three-course Italian meal, complete with sausage on the side and tiramisu for dessert, and then top it all off with a cigarette.” She sighed loudly. “I'm afraid those days are gone forever.”

“Sounds like what we had when we came here in high school, after a game. Maybe you should join the cheerleading squad again.”

Tanya laughed. “Shhh! No one knew I smoked.”

“Shhh . . .
everyone
knew you smoked.”

“Don't tell my mom, okay?” she said with a sly grin. It was her joke. Tanya's mom had been dead for six or seven years.

“I think she knew.”

“Yeah, she did. I borrowed one too many Salem Lights from her purse and she got wise.”

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know

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