You Don't Want To Know (35 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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She gasped. “I thought you said we'd find him. . . .”
He leaned closer over the table and lowered his voice. “I just want you to get better and I don't think you can unless you go back to St. Brendan's.”
“What?”
He wanted to commit her again?
“Look, if you don't want to go there, we'll find another hospital in Seattle or San Francisco or, oh, hell, I don't care where!” He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. “You're sick, Ava. You need help.”
So there it was. His cards, all out on the table. “Why do you want me to leave so much?”
“I just told you.”
“You might not believe this, Wyatt, but I am getting better. I'm starting to remember. Everything. Bit by bit. And it's not because of medications that make me feel like a zombie or a shrink who thinks she's in love with you.”
“I said I'm not—”
“Stop! Just stop, okay?” she insisted, her temper snapping. “I said I'm starting to remember!” She watched as his eyes narrowed a bit. She knew she should control her tongue, but she couldn't. Not now. Not when she was starting to feel like her old self again. “One of the things that I recall a little too vividly is that this affair isn't your first, Wyatt.”
He remained calm. Didn't argue. But the tic near one eye gave his emotions away.
“I thought the reason I'd started divorce proceedings before was because I couldn't get my life on track after Noah disappeared, but it was more, wasn't it? You were having an affair with someone . . . someone in your office. Just before we lost our son and then everything went to hell.”
“That was over a long time ago. I came clean about being involved with a woman in the office.”
“Beth Wells. I remember.” If he was surprised, he hid it admirably. “So I recognize the signs. It's happening again, Wyatt. You're right. We've lost that emotional connection we once had, but it's been gone a long, long time.”
“Have you ever, for one minute, considered that we've drifted apart because of you? Your obsession about Noah pulled you away from me, not the other way around.”
“Not true.”
His jaw clenched hard, the tic working double time. “The only way you're ever going to get well is if you go back to a hospital. I fought the idea. Hoped that you could, with a doctor's help, come back to me. But that's not happening. I made a mistake by letting you come home, and as your guardian, I'm going to see that you go somewhere and get the treatment you need. I've already talked to Dr. McPherson about it, and she agrees that you need more help than she can give.”
Ava was on her feet, knocking a butter knife to the floor, toppling the rest of her drink. “My guardian? Seriously. I don't need you or anyone else to decide my fate,” she gritted out. “You can't send me anywhere, Wyatt. I'll petition the court. I'll . . . I'll prove that I'm sane, that I can take care of myself!”
“Can you? What if Dern hadn't fished you out of the bay? What if he hadn't shown up when you were riding on the ridge?”
“Who told you that?” she demanded.
“Who do you think I asked to keep an eye on you?”
“What?”
A new sense of betrayal burned through her. She couldn't believe it. She'd started to trust Dern, to think of him as one of the few people at the house who was her ally! He was working with Wyatt? “You hired Austin Dern to spy on me?”
He glanced up at her as he fished in his pants for his wallet. “That surprises you?” An amused smile played upon his lips, and he looked suddenly cruel as he recognized how shattered she was. “Oh, no, it's more than that, isn't it?” he tossed out, his voice filled with sarcasm. “You have the nerve to play the victim, to accuse me of screwing around on you when you think you're in love with a man you barely know—”
“I'm not—”
“Oh, come on. It's obvious to everyone.”
Don't believe him. It was just a lucky guess.
But true?
Wyatt must've read the emotion on her face. “So tell me, Ava, how sane is that? Fantasizing about the ranch hand? Coupled with everything else you've done lately, you've got some twisted, convoluted paranoia that everyone you've known for years is out to get you, but you can fall in love and trust a stranger?” His face was bland, the tic disappearing as the enormity of what he was saying sunk in. He'd planned this all along. Every last little detail, even hiring Austin Dern.
“You bastard.” She scooped up her bags and started out of the restaurant.
“Wait! Ava!” He was fumbling with his credit cards while trying to catch the waiter's attention.
Shouldering open the glass doors, she tried to grab hold of the strings of her rapidly fraying grip on reality as the brittle-cold night slapped her in the face. The thought that Wyatt planned to have her committed was devastating, but she should have expected it. Damn it all to hell! She'd never find Noah if she was locked away, forced on medication, under complete observation. Even if she convinced the psychiatrists on staff that she was sane, it would take weeks . . . oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
Don't let it happen! Pull yourself together! You can do this, Ava. You have to. Your son needs you!
Half running along the sidewalk, panic chasing her down, she headed for the marina.
She nearly ran into a teenager skateboarding in the opposite direction. In a thick jacket and watch cap, he was texting and smoking. “Hey! Watch it! Shit!” His cigarette fell from his lips, and adeptly he picked it up. He cruised by, one shoulder connecting with hers.
“Oh!” Her feet slid on the slick sidewalk and she fell.
Bam!
Her left knee cracked hard on the concrete.
Pain jarred up her leg and she lost her grip on one of the sacks. It skidded toward the street.
The teenager rounded a corner, didn't even look over his shoulder.
“Ava!” Wyatt's voice.
She wasn't going to listen to him a second longer. Their sham of a marriage was over, and they both knew it. Struggling to get upright, she grabbed hold of a parking meter and pulled herself to her feet, then yanked up her bag. The handle snapped off and the sack with all its contents hit the wet ground hard.
Damn.
The camera was inside. All of this plotting, the effort, the lies, and now . . .
Angry at herself, she picked up the bag and held it tight to her body, the other sack swinging from her fingers as she started walking again.
“Ava! Wait up!” Wyatt yelled from somewhere behind her. She ignored him. This day had turned into a disaster of epic proportions. “Hey,” he said as he caught up with her at the marina. “I'm sorry.”
“Get away from me.”
“I shouldn't have gotten so angry.” He reached for the crook of her elbow, but she yanked her arm away, juggling the broken bag and feeling a dull ache in the knee that had hit the sidewalk.
“I said I'm sorry,” he repeated, sounding injured.
“I heard you.”
“I'm trying to apologize here!”
When he touched her again, she whirled on him and said slowly, in very distinct words, “I want a divorce. Not someday. Not in the future. Now. I'm calling a lawyer in the morning.” Fury consumed her. “Don't bother coming back to the island.”
“Ava . . .”
His patronizing tone was the last straw. She strode past him toward the bay where the black expanse of water stretched into the frigid night. Murky and roiling, the waters were as uncertain and cold as her own future. She shuddered involuntarily because she sensed, just beneath the dark surface, the truth was rising, fangs sharpened, jaws open.
But at least now she knew where she stood with her husband.
CHAPTER 34
B
oot heels sinking in the soggy yard, Dern walked around the perimeter of the behemoth of a house. The dog was with him, sniffing tree trunks and lifting his leg but never wandering off far.
During the day, Neptune's Gate was inviting, its architecture reminiscent of an earlier era of sailing ships and horses and the dawn of electricity and indoor plumbing. But at night, it loomed dark and foreboding, like one of those sinister-appearing castles in an old vampire movie. No amount of outdoor lighting could soften the sharp angles and ominous appearance of the place.
He was certain that the window he'd viewed from Lester Reece's room at Sea Cliff was part of Jewel-Anne's suite. Unsure of the configuration of her rooms, he figured he'd find a way inside and take note of her bedroom view. As for the widow's walk and third-story windows tucked under the eaves, he'd create some maintenance excuse to work his way upstairs so that he could check the sight line to Sea Cliff.
It's nothing,
he told himself again, and once more, as he walked toward the gardening shed, he couldn't convince himself.
“You're grasping at straws,” he told himself, wondering if he was making some kind of connection that just didn't exist. Lester Reece was in the wind, had been for years, and yet Dern was determined to overturn every slimy rock on this island to be certain.
Walking around the corner to the front of the mansion, he glanced up at one of the windows to Ava's bedroom. She was gone. Out for the day, so his bodyguard duties were over until she returned.
Originally, Ava's husband had hired Dern as a ranch hand with maintenance duties, and then, once he'd agreed, there had been Wyatt's request to “keep an eye on” Garrison's wife. Wyatt had mentioned he was concerned for her safety and while he wanted to let her have a little freedom, he needed another set of eyes to make certain she didn't “hurt herself.”
Dern, needing a job on the island, had instantly agreed, and then, before he'd even met the woman, she'd taken a flying leap into the bay. No wonder the husband was concerned. Dern had taken his duty seriously and had believed Ava Church Garrison was a bona fide nut job, willing to do anything, even hurt herself, in her obsessive need to find her kid. With his duties on the estate expanded to a kind of quasi-bodyguard, he'd had free rein to continue on his own personal quest: finding Lester Reece.
The trouble was that he'd begun to believe that the only person who wasn't losing all their marbles on this island was Ava. Everyone else—from that computer nerd with the bad attitude who lived in the basement, Jacob, to the do-nothing cousin Ian, who seemed to just hang around—didn't seem to be completely together. Even Trent had blown onto the island and seemed to have no immediate plans to leave. Didn't anyone have a job?
And the nutcases just kept on coming. Jewel-Anne with her dolls and Elvis obsession had her own set of issues, and everyone on the staff was a few steps away from normal. Virginia was an opinionated bitch, related to the useless sheriff somehow; Khloe and her husband, Simon, the cryptic ghost of a gardener, were on again, off again and neither one gave him the time of day; Graciela, he suspected, had a secret life, though he hadn't checked yet; and then there was Demetria, the sullen nurse who kept to herself when she wasn't taking care of her charge. Except for Graciela, they, like Dern, all lived at the estate. Not exactly a happy lot, he decided.
So finish your business and get the hell out. Why are you hanging around, still fantasizing about a woman who everyone else thinks is a toehold away from a complete and utter mental breakdown?
Because he didn't believe it.
With his knowledge of her past through records and articles on the Internet, and glimpses past the frail shell-shocked person she'd become to the hard-edged woman lurking beneath the surface, he thought there was a chance Ava would come around.
She's still married.
And that was why he had to wrap this up fast. He had a phone call to make, a report to give, so he turned his collar to the damp night, the dog at his heels, and started for his apartment.
Wyatt had taken off a few hours ago to retrieve his wife.
Soon the happy couple would return, Dern thought sarcastically, and told himself he had no claim to that woman. No claim whatsoever.
Now, if he could just convince himself it were true.
 
Wyatt caught up with Ava at the dock.
“Hey . . . look . . . I'm sorry,” he said, and this time when he touched her shoulder, she held her ground and didn't draw away.
“You don't get to do that,” she whispered. “Attack hard, then apologize like everything's okay.”
“I just don't know what to do,” he said, and for the first time that night, she actually believed him. “You're slipping away, not trusting me, going to all lengths to avoid me and even fantasizing about another man. You do crazy things and then fire your therapist after accusing her of having an affair with me.”
“She quit.”
He turned her shoulders so that she had to face him, to look into his eyes, illuminated only by the streetlamps and the bulbs strung over the marina. “Don't you love me anymore?”
“I don't
know
you anymore.”
Deep brackets appeared at the corners of his mouth. “I could say the same. I would do anything to see you get better,” he said, and something inside her wanted to break, to still believe in him even though she knew better.
“I hired Dern as a ranch hand, yeah,” Wyatt admitted, “but I asked him to look out for you, that's all.”
She doubted that.
“And you're right. I do like Evelyn McPherson. A lot. I think she's done wonders for you. But that's as far as it goes.” The wind blowing in off the sea ruffled his hair and chilled Ava to the bone. “And I did have an affair a long time ago, but it's over and I thought, I mean, I hoped, we were past that.” He dropped his hands. “I just want my wife back. Is that too much to ask?”
“It's not enough,” she said carefully. “You need to want your son back, too.”
His head snapped up. “That goes without saying, Ava.” Then a spark of accusation in his eyes again and his spine stiffened slightly.
She wasn't going to back down.
“Come on, let's go home. Let me take those.” He reached for the bags.
“I can handle them,” she said tautly, then, unwilling to have him even speculate for an instant that she had something to hide, she reluctantly handed him the larger, plastic sack and kept the one with the broken handle. Hugging that bag close to her chest, she said, “Fine. Let's go.”
Heart in her throat, she continued onto the dock and even allowed him to help her into the boat. It rocked a little, and the sharp pain in her knee reminded her of her fall. Looking across the water, she wondered nervously how easy would it be for there to be an accident that took her life?
He could say she jumped into the water. His wife was just crazy enough to do something so bizarre and risky; she'd proved that often enough before. Or, he could say it was an accident. They'd hit choppy water and she'd fallen overboard, never to be seen again. Ava, like her brother, Kelvin, would die in the frigid salt water, the result of a tragic chance event. Her mind raced with scenarios in which she never made it to Neptune's Gate.
When Wyatt stepped into the boat after her, she nearly bolted. Being alone with him on the boat was insane!
Don't make him mad. Just play it cool . . .
Her mind flashed back to the night Kelvin died, to the pain and the freezing waters that surrounded her, the fear that had enveloped her when she thought she might drown.
Panic seized her now.
Get out. Get out!
Wyatt set the unbroken bag onto one of the boat's seats and it slid to the deck, its contents spilling onto the oiled teak. She jumped, ready to hide everything quickly, to force the contents into the sack, but he saw his mistake and reached forward.
“What's this?” he asked, and her heart froze. She was certain he'd found the spy equipment and now had more evidence of her paranoia. “A new purse?”
She tried not to sound nervous. “I told you.”
Play nice, play nice! Don't let him get more suspicious than he already is.
“It's big.”
“Thought it might hold my laptop.” She held her breath as he looked it over, studying the bag.
Don't peek inside. For God's sake, Wyatt, don't peer into the zippered area and find the camera and recorder.
“It might,” he said, dropping the purse into its shopping bag and looking up at her. “So . . . we're good now?”
Not even close. But she had to play this right. “No,” she said cautiously, “we're not good, but maybe better.” She cast him a glance and feigned worry. “Maybe getting everything out, is . . . a step in the right direction.”
“So you're not throwing me out?”
She forced a smile that felt like a grimace. “Undecided.”
“At least not tonight?” He gave her a long look.
She nodded jerkily and tried not to feel sick inside. She was a hypocrite, pure and simple.
But you have to pretend, to play the part of the wife wanting to repair this broken marriage so that you can find the truth, prove that you're not insane. . . .
“Fair enough. Oh, and, Ava?” he asked, his voice a little sharper.
Here it comes! He
did
see the spy equipment! Oh, sweet Jesus, you're doomed!
“Yes?”
“Put this on.” He grabbed a life vest from under one of the seats and handed the flotation device to her. “You know what they say: You can never be too careful.”
 
“So we've got ourselves a witness who's seen Lester Reece,” Lyons said as she and Snyder walked toward the station house. They'd had a quick dinner and were on their way back to the office.
“I don't call Wolfgang Brandt a credible witness.”
“If you ask me, Brandt's just one rung lower on the whopper-teller ladder than some of the others who have ‘seen'—and I use the term loosely—Reece over the years.” Wolfgang Brandt was around thirty-five and had been in and out of trouble with the police for years. “Deputies talked to Brandt, then went out to the old hunting lodge where he'd claimed he'd seen Reece. No one was there. No evidence of anyone but hunters and maybe some teenagers who'd broken in and had a few beers a while back. Big surprise. You're new here. You'll get used to the Reece sightings soon enough. Besides, what does Lester Reece have to do with our case?”
“Why do you have to be so damned negative?”
She was unwrapping a scarf before going to work on the buttons of her jacket as they walked through the reception area. It took a code to get through these days, and a camera was filming their every move. He wondered about that. With all the phone cams and computer cameras and all, why hadn't anyone seen or photographed anything unusual at Cheryl Reynolds's home? The trouble was, her place of business was in a part of Anchorville that was zoned residential; the store cams and traffic cams were located a few blocks closer to the waterfront and the heart of town.
“Brandt's not the only one who saw him. I heard a couple of the deputies talking. One of them—Gorski, I think—plays poker with a group of guys, one of them being Butch Johansen, who claimed, after a few beers, that he ferried a guy who looked a helluva lot like Reece out to Church Island recently.”
“Lots of stories about guys who look like Reece, but they never pan out. Case in point the hunting lodge. Besides, Reece is ancient history.”
“Is he? Doesn't seem like the sheriff thinks so.”
Inside his cubicle, Snyder removed his jacket and sidearm while Lyons motioned toward the restrooms in the back of the building; then, boots clicking, she headed off.
The Reynolds case was getting to him. The only homicide in years and just not enough evidence to put it together. Taking a seat at his desk, he checked his e-mail and found a note with an attachment from the lab. A couple of clicks of his mouse and he was looking at an analysis report of the hair discovered in Cheryl Reynolds's laundry room.
By the time Lyons returned, with a cup of coffee for him and some decaf herbal tea that smelled like old lady's perfume, he'd printed out the report and handed it to her. “Thanks,” he said, taking his cup. “Looks like the mystery of the black hair is solved.”
“Synthetic?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing together as she stood near the desk, leaning a hip against it and reading the report. “Someone was wearing a wig? The killer?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He clicked to a file with pictures taken of the crime scene. “Look here, on the bookcase of her office.” He pointed at the screen. Lyons bent down for a better peek, and he tried not to notice that her breasts nearly brushed the desktop. Again he clicked his mouse, enlarging the photograph on the shelf in question—it was of Cheryl, dressed as a cat, with all of her cats close by. Along with a leopard-print costume, fake tail, ears, painted-on nose and whiskers, she was wearing a long black wig.

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