Something Wicked (13 page)

“Kyle's the one who said you dumped him for your boss,” Lang reminded, though in truth, Hillary was right on in her assessment.

“I've got to see this TV interview,” Hillary declared.

“If Kyle said that, somebody must've put the idea in his head and he just repeated it.”

She was one smart cookie, Savvy thought with admiration. The reason she'd come to the station was that she knew there was no truth to the accusations and she wanted to nip this story in the bud. Lang sensed it, too, because he leaned back in his chair and regarded the woman thoughtfully.

“You think you could get Kyle to talk to us?” he asked.

“If he doesn't want to come to the station, I could go to him.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Can you help me with Kyle?”

“I don't see him anymore, but I could call him, I suppose,” she said reluctantly.

Lang nodded, pointed to her purse, and Hillary, catching his drift, grabbed up the purse, dug around inside it, then pulled out her cell and placed the call. After a moment, she said, “Voice mail,” in a stage whisper. Then a few more moments passed, and she launched into, “Hey, Kyle. It's me. The police want to talk to you. Just try to tell them the truth, okay? I don't appreciate your lies. You know I wasn't with Marcus Donatella. Don't be such a dick.” Clicking off, she looked up at them half angrily, a flush creeping up her face.

“Thanks,” Lang said, closing the file.

“Are we done here?” she asked.

“For now. We appreciate you coming in.”

For the first time she relaxed a little. “I was afraid you were all going to be so eager to close the case that I would have to get a lawyer and time would go by, and the real killer would be still out there. I want you to find him and lock him away forever. I liked both of them, Marcus and Chandra. . . .” She trailed off, and her eyes became slightly moist. “String the bastard up.”

Fifteen minutes later Hillary Enders was on her way back to Seaside, and Lang, Savvy, O'Halloran, and Burghsmith were looking at each other.

“Back to square one,” Lang said.

“You think she was telling the truth?” Burghsmith asked.

“Uh-huh,” Savvy said, and they all nodded in agreement. “Where's Clausen?” she asked.

“Had to cut your friend Mickey loose on the trespassing violation, so he followed him to make sure he wasn't heading right back up to Bankruptcy Bluff,” Lang revealed.

“He will go back there,” Burghsmith said knowingly. “They always do.”

“What about Toonie?” Savannah asked. Toonie was Althea Tunewell, who ran a shelter on the south side of Tillamook. She was often contacted by the department when there was a homeless situation.

“We called her, and she came by,” Lang said. “She offered him space, but he didn't sound ready to go. There was a lot of Jesus talk between them, but Toonie's for real, whereas your friend Mickey just spouts off stuff randomly, so I'm not sure it's gonna take.”

“Why is he my friend Mickey?” Savannah asked.

“You found him,” Lang pointed out.

The sheriff, who'd been standing by, listening, cleared his throat and asked, “Dunbar, can I see you in my office?”

Savvy shot a look toward Lang, who just raised his brows in that “Didn't I warn you?” way. She followed O'Halloran into his office and waited as he took a seat, his chair squeaking in protest under his weight.

“When are you due?” he asked without preliminaries.

“Sean, I know you want me to quit now,” Savvy responded. “I don't want to, but I will soon. I just have a couple things I want to finish first. Tomorrow I'm driving to Portland to interview the Bancroft Development employees in that office. I saw Hale St. Cloud today, and he's let them know I'm coming. On Monday I'll come in and file a report on those interviews, and then . . . okay . . .” She felt slightly depressed, but it was sort of a relief, too. She was pissed off and tired of fighting, and there was only so much she could do, anyway.

“We'll talk about this on Monday. It's just the fieldwork we need to cut out,” O'Halloran said.

“Okay.”

“You sure you want to go to Portland? Could be bad weather. Somebody said something about a cold front coming.”

“I'll stay in Portland if the weather gets bad.”

He held up his hands in surrender, and Savvy left the room, feeling like she'd won a major battle, even if she'd lost the war.

 

 

Hale entered the house through the garage door and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, by the phone. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped on the charger, which was already plugged into the electrical outlet. Then he went back into the garage and took off his jacket, leaving it on the coatrack that hung next to the row of cabinets that held lawn and gardening tools.

They'd lived in the house for about two years. It was Sean Ingles's architectural design, the last of his work for Bancroft Development and Hale personally before he'd left for Portland. Everyone said how beautiful the house was, how the rock and wood beams and shingled siding were a work of art, depicting the beauty of the Northwest to perfection. Hale supposed it was true, but somehow it had never felt like a home. Maybe it was too staged for him. Maybe it was too perfect. All he wanted when he came home was an easy chair in front of a television and a glass of wine or a beer and a good meal, which constituted anything from take-out pizza to soup and/or sandwiches to something gourmet and elegant. His tastes ran from pedestrian to exotic. He wasn't picky, and he'd even cook himself, although his repertoire was somewhat limited.

He didn't, as a rule, think he was hard to live with. Yet somehow Kristina made him feel like he was. Was he kidding himself?

Well, he'd moved the meeting over the office condo project per his wife's instructions, and now he was trying to work up some enthusiasm for the romantic evening she had planned. Since he hadn't seen her, he wondered if she was already in the bedroom. Uncomfortably, he recalled the conversation he'd had with his grandfather when he'd walked him to his car.

“Woman troubles?” the old man had asked after complaining loud and long about not needing a babysitter to get to his vehicle. Hale had accepted the verbal scolding in silence until Declan's last comment.

“Kristina and I have a lot of stuff going on right now.”

“That's a lot of bullshit, son. Pardon my French.”

Hale wasn't about to go into it further and said simply, “Maybe Kristina and I can straighten some stuff out tonight.”

Now he walked down the hall to the bedroom, carefully pushing open the door. The nightstand lamps were on, set to the lowest setting of the three-way lightbulb, giving the room a soft ambiance. There was no sign of Kristina, however, and Hale stepped into the room and then ducked his head into the en suite bathroom. The room gleamed in chrome and Carrara marble with white towels. No Kristina.

“Where are you?” he asked aloud, wondering if she was playing some game. His gaze swept over the room, and he realized there was a note wedged between the quilted tan pillow shams. Apparently, it had fallen between the two pillows. He crossed the room in two quick strides and grabbed it.

 

 

It was such an about-face, he might have wondered about its authenticity, except it was written in her distinctive handwriting.

He strode back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, grabbing a Corona. There wasn't much of anything in the realm of leftovers, so after a moment he picked up the phone and called Gino's for the second time in two nights. This time he ordered a calzone stuffed with pepperoni, provolone cheese, mushrooms, and olives. For a strange moment he thought about ordering two, though he knew that Kristina wouldn't touch it. But then he wasn't thinking about her. He was thinking about Savannah.

“Is that all?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

“Yeah.” Hale hung up and went back out to the garage, grabbing up his cell phone and jacket on his way to pick up the meal.

 

 

Kristina wasn't a religious person in any way, shape, or form, but if there was such a thing as hell, she was surely living it.

She drove north and tried to calm her mind and her body. She'd been so susceptible, so hungry, and the things she'd done.... It made her blush to think of them. But even worse were the memories of other things. The sheer horror and depravity and the knowledge she possessed that could get her in serious trouble with the authorities or worse. And when she thought of Marcus and Chandra . . .

A small cry escaped her lips, and she pushed those horrific memories aside, seeking to bury them, as she had for months. She hated herself, and she was embarrassed, too, at how she'd appealed to Hale. Yes, she'd meant all those things, but even if he'd thrown her down on his desk and slid hard and deep inside her, driving to her core, though she might have had sexual fulfillment, she still wouldn't be free.

She said it aloud, “Free,” tasting it on her tongue to see what it felt like, aware her voice had a hollow and fearful quality to it.

She'd made a pact with the devil, and it had ruined nearly everything good in her life. She had to stop it before it consumed her and all the people she loved. She had to stop it tonight.

The rain had abated, and an icy wind had taken its place, the harbinger of a cold front that was moving in from the north. She realized she was shivering uncontrollably by the time she reached the house, and she worried briefly about her tires—would she pick up a nail?—as she drove into the gravel drive, with its fine layer of sawdust, the last traces of which were evident in the blowing wind as it scrubbed the area almost clean.

Clean.
Another word she wanted to apply to herself. In her mind's eye she envisioned a huge eraser that was inside her brain, exorcizing the terrible thoughts and desires that had taken root there.

All because of
him.

Her jaw tightened. Well, she was through with him. Through with all his persuasions and lies, his cold eyes and even colder smile. He was a monster, and she'd been so weak. But now . . . now . . . she was feeling stronger. She and Hale were about to have a baby, and maybe it was latent motherhood—God, she hoped so—but all the nearly incoherent fretting and babbling she'd done for weeks no longer felt necessary. She was going to
do
something, by God. Tonight. Now. And he could just go fuck himself.

Picking up her flashlight from inside the pocket on the driver's door, she tested the beam.
Strong
, she thought with a flutter of assurance. Just like she was. She climbed out of the Mercedes and looked at the old house. She'd chosen the venue for once—the Carmichaels' house, which Hale was reconstructing. She wanted to feel Hale's strength running through her. This was his project. A home base of sorts for her.

Exhaling on a sigh, she mounted the steps to the porch and tried the door, not surprised to find it locked. But the house was scheduled for demolition, and she knew it wouldn't be tightly secured. The windows were either painted shut or wouldn't close. Hale had said as much to her in passing once.

She was early. She'd planned it that way. She needed to catch him unaware to have any hope of coming out of this alive and well. Nervously she walked around the porch, which ran along every side of the house. In the dark, the old, decrepit building seemed sinister and almost anticipatory, like it was waiting for her. She shivered and shook that off.
Ridiculous.
Turning a corner to the beach side, she was hit with a slap of wet wind. She tucked in her chin and groped with her fingers for the window, tugging to open it. No luck. It took her until the third window and a growing desperation before she could get her fingers into the gap beneath it. With all her strength, she shoved it upward. It gave with a wrenching cry, and cradling her purse, she could finally shoulder her way in.

When she climbed through to the living room, she was accompanied by another gust of water-soaked wind, the water dragged off the ocean, as the rain had stopped. There was a puddle inside—the gap in the window had allowed its entry—and she felt dread settle into her heart. What she had planned was unnerving, and yet she intended to go through with it.

She stepped gingerly, still in the peep-toed shoes and outfit she'd worn to Hale's office, hoping against hope to entice him with how desirable and luscious she looked. Her mind shied away from the humiliation of that failure.

Switching on her flashlight, she shone its beam upon the wooden rafters and the balusters of the narrow balcony above. She had been through this house with Hale and hadn't liked its cottage style, though its ocean frontage was fabulous. But the house she and Hale had built was even more fabulous, and the ocean was right there, too. Maybe not at ground level, like this, but accessible via a stairway that hugged and curved down the headland.

Inside she was cold. A quiver had set up residence in her gut. She had told him she would meet him at seven, and then had burned up the road to be here by six thirty. It was her turn to lie in wait. She'd played enough sexual games with him to know his MO, and though she had been a slave to his game—and had admittedly been sick with desire—she'd learned a thing or two along the way. Oh, yes, he had power and a way of setting her senses on fire, but after what had happened, she'd slowly been released from his grip. At first she'd thought it was his doing, that he'd let her go. But she'd come to realize over time that no, this was her own pleasure-drugged conscience slowly awakening, and though she'd panicked with Hale today, begging him to give her the same burning sexual thrill that the devil stirred in her, that same panic had given her a cold-eyed view of what she must do: confront him and kill what was between them forever, no matter what that took.