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Authors: Nancy Bush

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BOOK: Nowhere to Run
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Della was older than Hague by about a decade and was a nurse-cum-attendant-cum-friend and maybe lover. She’d been with Hague for most of his adult life, ever since his release from Grandview Hospital, the mental institution for teens where he’d been sent briefly while Liz was at Hathaway House. Even though Liv had been adopted by the Dugans—a fact the birth certificate she’d just received spelled out clearly—and wasn’t related to Hague by blood, it sure seemed like mental illness relentlessly plagued their family. Hague was a genius with a 160 IQ but it didn’t mean he knew how to live in this world.
Maladaptive
was the word often used to describe his behavior. On that, Liv was way ahead of him, though her problems had been diagnosed as derived from mental trauma, not from a mind that moved in ways the rest of the so-called normal humans couldn’t understand. As the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said—as quoted by Della more often than Liv cared to count—“Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.”
That and a dollar would buy you a newspaper. Maybe.
Della’s white-blond hair was scraped into a bun at her nape and her icy blue eyes raked over Liv as if she were someone she’d never seen before. It irked Liv, but then she knew it really was a reflection of the suspicions her own brother held inside himself as well.
“You didn’t call ahead,” Della said.
“Hi, Della,” Liv said. “The last time I called the line was disconnected.”
“It’s been reconnected for over a month.”
“Under whose name?”
She hesitated briefly. “Mine.”
“No matter what you may think of me, I’m no mind reader,” Liv said. “I’ll leave that to Hague.”
Her nose twitching in annoyance, Della stepped aside and Liv was allowed into the dim recesses of her brother’s den. The place smelled like bleach and lemon and everything clean, which was a relief given the fact Liv’s eyes were adjusting to a whole lot of clutter. Hague might be a hoarder of sorts, but everything had to be squeaky clean, per his decree and by Della’s hand.
“He’s in his room,” Della said, leading the way to the northwest corner of the apartment. She knocked on the door panels and when he barked, “What?” she said, “Your sister is here.”
A long silence ensued, before Hague bellowed, “Well, let her in!” as if Della’s interference were just that, interference. She ignored his tone and opened the door and when Liv crossed the threshold, Della was right on her heels.
Hague sat in a brown leather chair that nearly swallowed him whole. He was lithe to the point of wispiness but he was tall like Albert—his biological father and Liv’s adoptive one. He looked a lot like Deborah, too, Liv realized, seeing those hauntingly large blue eyes of her dreams stare at her from Hague’s thin face.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
“Nice way to greet me. I came to find out if you know anything about this.” She held up the manila envelope and his eyes followed it, a frown creasing his brow.
“What is it?”
“Guess that answers my question.”
“What is it?” he demanded more loudly and Della moved to his side and laid a comforting hand on his shoulders.
“It’s from the law firm of Crenshaw and Crenshaw. Ever heard of them?” Liv asked.
“ No.”
“They were directed to send me this package when I turned twenty-five.”
“Last Friday. Happy birthday.”
She smiled faintly. Hague didn’t live by the world’s time line though he understood it perfectly. “It had pictures of our mother and some other people inside.” She handed him the series of pictures she’d pored over throughout the last two days. This morning she’d decided to go visit her brother directly after work and see what he made of the package’s contents. “And it has my real birth certificate and several other papers.”
“Who directed the lawyers?”
“Our mother.”
His eyes caught hers. “What?”
Liv explained how the lawyers had gotten hold of her and sent the package. “She—Mama—wanted me to have this, but I don’t really understand why. My birth certificate, okay, and personal stuff, but who are these people?”
“That’s our father.”
In one of the pictures Albert was standing beside Deborah in a grassy field, possibly the one behind their old house.
“But who’s this?” she asked, pointing to the man trying to grab for the camera.
Hague was ignoring her as he selected a piece of paper, holding it up between his thumb and index finger, away from his body, as if it might bite him. He glanced at her expectantly.
Liv had read the missive, knew what it was. She said carefully, “It’s a note from Mama to me.”
Hague was utterly silent. Liv gazed at him and her heart squeezed. Framed by his scruffy hair and beard were a pair of glittering blue eyes and a handsome face that he would never—could never, apparently—let the world see.
“Read it,” Liv urged him gently.
Hague brought the note closer and stared at it hard for several seconds, then he said in a monotone: “
Livvie, my sweet girl, if you’re reading this then everything I’ve feared has come to be, and I’m not around to tell you these things for myself. You know you were adopted. Your biological parents are listed on your birth certificate. I’ve enclosed some snapshots for you to have of me. Know I love you. . . . Mom
.” He peered at the photographs, then up at her quizzically. “Why these pictures? They’re not even that good of her. I have better ones.”
“Do you remember anything about those other people?” Liv asked.
Hague glanced at the photographs again, zeroing in on the one Liv had pointed to with the angry man. His shoulders tucked in and his head tilted back, his gaze glued to the photo.
“There he is again,” he said in a strained voice.
Liv looked at the man in the picture. “
Again?
You’ve seen him before?”
“Zombie,” he said.
Kill you . . . Kill you!
Liv’s head spun a bit. “This is the zombie man?” she demanded, pointing to the picture.
“They keep their hands in their pockets and wear rigor smiles.” His eyes rolled away, stretching wide as he looked into some distant horror only he could see.
“Hague,” Della said uncertainly.
“He follows me,” Hague said in a harsh whisper. “If I look, he’s always there. Out of the corner of your eye. Just there . . . almost . . . there . . .
there!
” He jerked violently and Liv and Della both jumped, too.
“Hague,” Liv said sharply, recognizing the signs that he was leaving reality. She hoped to keep him with her. “Hague!”
But his eyes closed and he drifted away. Into one of his fugue states.
Gone...
Chapter 3
“You put him in a trance!” Della snapped.
Liv looked at Hague with resignation. She wanted to call him back, but it was too late. It was futile to try to rouse him when he disappeared into his own world.
She slid a glance at the photograph.
Zombie man . . .
Della fussed over Hague, tilting his head back in the La-Z-Boy recliner he practically lived in. Hague didn’t trust computers or telephones, especially cell phones; he was more of a Luddite than Liv. He was absolutely certain malicious groups bent on evil and destruction were tracking him. He spent hour upon hour calculating figures on lined yellow paper with an ink pen. Della worked part-time as a care assistant at a nearby assisted living/nursing home facility. Hague, who’d never been able to keep a job, received government assistance, and she thought maybe her father subsidized them as well. However, that would only be if Lorinda, the evil stepmother, didn’t know about the tap on Albert’s finances, which was questionable.
As if she could read Liv’s thoughts, Della said, “Albert’s coming by.”
Liv reached for the pictures, note and birth certificate and she saw that her hands were trembling. She felt guilty enough for sending Hague into the trance; Della’s accusation hadn’t been necessary. “He is?” Liv couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her father.
“
He
called,” she said with a certain satisfaction.
Ignoring that, Liv asked, “Does he see Hague often?” Since Lorinda had entered their lives, both Liv and Hague’s relationship with Albert had suffered, and in Liv’s case it had become basically nonexistent.
“Now and again. He’s not good with Hague, either.”
“When is he showing up?”
Della shot a glance at the old grandfather’s clock, which stood against the living room’s far wall. It was the kind that was wound with a key. Hague liked to limit their amount of electricity use in any way he could, and it wasn’t that he was trying to lessen his carbon footprint, he just wanted to make himself smaller and more indistinct in the world, and therefore less traceable. The less information the “government” or “powers that be” had on him, the better.
“Anytime, now,” Della answered.
“I’ve got to be going,” she said.
“Oh, no, stay. Maybe Hague’ll come out of it. . . .”
Liv arched a brow. She and Della both knew Hague’s fugue states were unpredictable, but it was rare that he snapped back within a few minutes.
Della added, “We could go down to Rosa’s Cantina and talk. Hague has his own table there.”
Rosa’s Cantina was on the street level of the apartment building. Liv had seen its bright green and yellow neon sign when she’d entered. She knew Hague went to Rosa’s; his only habitual place of business, and she suspected his “own table” was the establishment’s way of appeasing him, and wondered what would happen were someone already at his table should Hague arrive. An ugly scene, no doubt.
In any case, he wasn’t going to make it there tonight, and Liv wasn’t interested in going there with Della. “Is Albert bringing Lorinda?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” Della made a face. Their mutual dislike of Lorinda was the only thing Liv and Della totally agreed upon. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” Now she was accommodating with a capital A. “Have you had dinner? No, you’re just off work. I could make up some sandwiches. Tuna. Hague doesn’t really like meat, as you know. Or, grilled cheese?”
“I appreciate it, but I really should get going.”
“I’m sorry I was a bitch,” Della said suddenly. “But with Hague like that . . .” She glanced toward him where he sat with head lying back, his eyes now open and staring sightlessly toward the ceiling, “I don’t really know what I’ll say to Albert. We don’t have a lot in common except your brother.”
Liv didn’t have a lot in common with her father, either. “I’ve got groceries in the car,” she lied.
“Tell me more about this package. I can talk about it with Hague and it’ll be easier coming from me. I know him.”
“He already read the note and saw the photos. There’s not a lot more to tell.” Liv glanced at her brother. “He was a toddler when our mother committed suicide.”
“I want—”
But what she wanted was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, a deep
dong,
like a ship’s tolling bell.
“He’s here,” Della said. She lifted her chin as Liv girded her loins.
Della walked briskly to the door and threw it open. Liv followed after her, a few paces back, and when she looked past Della she saw her father and Lorinda appear inside the open freight elevator as it bumped to a stop on their floor. Albert slid back the metal bar, stepped into the hallway in front of his wife, then looked up to see them.
“Liv,” he said, stopping short in surprise.
Lorinda quickly moved out of the elevator and half stood in front of him, as if she were protecting him. “Olivia?”
“Hi,” Liv greeted them.
“What are you doing here?” Lorinda demanded and Liv inwardly sighed.
Lorinda Dugan hadn’t changed much in the almost twenty years since she’d married Liv’s father. Same dyed black hair that looked even more unnatural than it had then, same line between her brows, same flat mouth and lack of expression. If Albert had been in the market for a shrew, well, he’d hit the jackpot. Liv didn’t like her then, and she didn’t like her now, and the feeling was mutual. Della might be a pain, but she was good for Hague. What part Lorinda played for Liv’s father was a mystery that had no reasonable answer, but then, since the terrible night of Deborah’s death, Liv hadn’t been all that comfortable with her father either.
“I was just visiting Hague,” Liv answered.
Lorinda sniffed. “Yes,” she said, as if Liv merely stating the obvious were one more horrendous fault.
“How is he?” Albert asked, his jaw tight.
Della said, “He’s in one of his states. Come in.”
“He was last time, too,” Lorinda answered with a sniff, her dark gaze snapping between Della and Liv.
“Stress brings them on,” Della responded as she and Liv both stepped back, making way for Lorinda and Albert to enter the small apartment. Having them crowd into the room as well only made the place seem darker, the air denser. Liv felt anxiety crawl around under her skin and surreptitiously glanced toward the grandfather’s clock, wondering how many minutes of them she would be able to stand before she needed to bolt.
“What’s that?” Albert asked, his gaze on the envelope in Liv’s hands.
Liv couldn’t think of how to respond, but Della had no such qualms. “Pictures of Deborah and some documents,” she said. “A note from her.”
Albert blinked. “
What?
”
“Oh, my God,” Lorinda murmured, recoiling as if the package could somehow jump up and bite her.
“It’s nothing bad,” Liv assured them. “Just some snapshots of my mother with some friends.”
“Show him,” Della said.
“Her friends?” Albert asked.
Lorinda turned her face away and stared over their heads, lips pressed together as if she had a lot to say but was taking herself out of the situation.
Feeling like she was leaving herself bare, Liv reluctantly reopened the package and handed the envelope to Albert. “The package came to me at work,” she said, then explained about Crenshaw and Crenshaw and how they’d found her and sent the package to her.
Albert’s fingers were faintly shaking as he pulled out the pictures and examined them carefully. “Who are these people?” he asked.
“I thought maybe you’d know,” Liv said.
He shook his head. “She . . . your mother . . . had a secret life.”
Lorinda had deigned to look back and was now gazing raptly at the photos. She seemed to keep her own counsel with an effort. “There’s one of you with her,” she finally said tightly to her husband, but Albert merely grunted at that.
Liv glanced toward Hague, whose eyes were still open. He remained utterly still and she didn’t know if he was aware of them or not. To her father, she said, “Do you think . . . is it possible . . . that she didn’t commit suicide? That maybe these people know something about what happened, and they—”
“We’ve been over this,” he cut her off. “Deborah was sick and unhappy.”
“Who told the lawyers to send you the package?” Lorinda demanded.
“Well, my mother, of course. . . .” Liv had thought the answer was self-evident, but now saw both her father and Lorinda react with shock. “She set it up before she died.”
“It’s upsetting,” Della said, shooting a worried glance toward Hague. They all followed her gaze, but Hague didn’t respond in any way.
“You brought this to
Hague?
” Lorinda asked, as if Liv had lost the little bit of mind she still possessed.
“Goddammit, Liv,” Albert muttered, his face red.
“I thought Hague might remember something,” Liv defended herself. “Remember what he said about the zombie man?”
“No,” her father stated flatly.
“How
old
was he at the time of Deborah’s death?” Lorinda reminded them. “One? Two?”
“You shouldn’t have brought this to him,” Albert chastised her.
“Should I have brought it to you first?” Liv asked tightly. “There were other women killed about the same time that Mom died, remember? Strangled. One of them in the field practically behind our old house. That’s a fact.”
“That woman was a prostitute,” Albert bit out.
“So?”
Lorinda said, as if Liv were dense, “Your mother committed suicide.
That’s
a fact. You shouldn’t be digging into this!”
“This came to me for a reason,” Liv said, holding onto her temper with an effort. “I’m sorry that I want to look into it. I’m sorry that I still want answers. I see her, you know. In my nightmares. Hanging there. Sometimes she even talks to me.” They both looked at her sharply. “I’ve always found it hard to believe that she would kill herself. Especially that way, with me in the other room. She wrote me a note and put it inside.”
“A note.” Albert, holding the photos, reached inside the package again to pull it out, but his wife snatched the package from his hands before he could. She would have grabbed the photos back too but he jerked them out of her reach.
“Stop all this,” Lorinda snapped, shoving the package back into Liv’s hands. Upset, she told her husband, “Give Olivia the photos.”
Liv put out a hand and Albert, very reluctantly, handed the pictures back to her. “I think my mother was afraid,” Liv said, tucking everything back inside the manila envelope and closing the clasp. “Those women’s deaths scared her.” She hesitated, thinking over whether she should reveal her thoughts to them or not. “Most of the victims were strangled . . . and hanging’s a form of the same thing.”
“Some maniac strangled them with nylons. That’s how he killed them, not by a noose,” Lorinda said. “And they were all whores, anyway.”
“Not all of them,” Liv said levelly. Lorinda’s prejudices never failed to rile her.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Della whispered harshly. “If Hague wakes up, I don’t want him to hear this.”
“All I’m saying is she was scared of something, and she sent me this package for a reason,” Liv said.
Albert stalked over to Hague and looked down at his son, then he turned to gaze hard at Liv and stated flatly, “You don’t really think she was scared of the strangler.”
Liv frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’re still blaming me,” he spat out. “Just like you told the police.”
“I don’t—”
“Deborah and I had that fight,” he interrupted angrily. “That’s all. It got physical. I told the police all about it after you turned them on me.”
“Turned them on you,” Liv repeated. “I was six years old!”
“Those bastards ran me through the wringer, all right,” he growled. “Didn’t matter that Deborah gave as good as she got.”
“You’re making this about you, and it’s not. It’s about my mother. I think she was scared of the strangler, and she sent me this because she was . . . I don’t know . . . scared for me, too.”
He lifted both arms and tossed them down as if he were completely through with Liv and her issues.
“Can’t we ever put this to bed?” Lorinda asked tiredly.
“She hanged herself,” Albert said. “That’s all there was.”
“You shouldn’t have brought this here,” Lorinda declared, waving a hand toward the package.
“I didn’t expect to see the two of you,” Liv reminded them. “Like I said, I thought maybe Hague would remember something.”
“It’s just so disrespectful of you to bring all this up again!” Lorinda declared.
Liv counted silently to ten.
All this
was her father and mother’s physical fight. Her parents had been furious with each other that night and Albert had left in a silent rage, banging out the back door. He told the police he didn’t remember leaving it open, but it hadn’t been locked, either, so the consensus was the door stayed open after he left. Liv half-believed someone had come back inside after she’d been banished to the den, and
that
someone had then killed her mother and staged the suicide. And Liv still thought it was a good bet the killer was the same one who’d left several women’s bodies in the rocky foothills of the Cascades twenty years earlier, too. That’s where she wanted to start looking for her mother’s killer. That’s where this trail led.

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