Whispers (40 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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“Take it easy,” she said, driving through the open gate of the chain-link fence surrounding the excavation site. Dust blew across the Volvo's windshield, and the air smelled dry, without the usual dampness from the ocean. Several pickups were parked haphazardly around the area where trees, grass, and boulders had been scraped from the ground. Dutch's Cadillac was wedged between a half-ton pickup in primer gray and a station wagon that was a patchwork of colors because of dented and replaced fenders. Dutch wasn't inside his car, but Miranda spotted him easily.
Chomping on the butt of a cigar, he stood with a group of workmen, staring at a spot in front of an idling bulldozer that was belching black smoke into the hot summer air.
The men were grim, talking in low voices, and Miranda, as she slid out of her car, felt her stomach clench with the premonition that something was wrong—very wrong. Far in the distance she heard the first wail of a siren, and, in an instant, as the sound drew nearer, she realized that for some reason the police were on their way. Her steps quickened across the dirt as dread stole through her. What was it? Had someone been hurt on the job? As she approached, she heard scraps and bits of the conversation.
“. . . been there for years,” a big bear of a man wearing a hard hat and bib overalls mumbled.
“Holy shit, who?” Another worker, skinny with short-cropped hair and rimless glasses.
“No one missin' that I know of.” The bear again.
What were they talking about? Who?
“Never seen the likes of it.”
“Me neither,” Dutch said, puffing on his short cigar and staring at his feet where the ground dropped off as the bulldozer had taken a huge bite of earth from the spot.
“Wonder if there's any ID?”
Behind Miranda, a siren screamed as a cruiser for the county shot through the gates. Still walking, she glanced over her shoulder as the car slid to a stop near her Volvo. Two all-business deputies climbed out and hurried toward the men just as Miranda reached her father's side. She looked down the embankment at her feet, to the gaping hole in the earth, where the dirt was wet and fresh, and tangled in the debris of leaves, rocks, and litter was a body—little more than a skeleton with a few rags still clinging to its bones.
The contents of her stomach rose, threatening her throat. “Oh, God,” she said, as her father finally noticed her.
“Randa, what're you doing here? You should be—”
“I've seen bodies before,” she snapped back, but something about this decomposed body bothered her, and as the first drip of premonition slid into her brain, the deputies approached.
“Okay, what've we got here? Jesus! Would you look at that?”
“Let's rope it off,” the second deputy said. “Don't disturb anything else.” He eyed the bulldozer as if it were a tool of the devil, then swept his gaze over the small crowd. “Forensics and the ME will need to see this. No one's to disturb anything.”
But Miranda barely heard the command. Her eyes were drawn to the right hand of the corpse and the ring that hung loosely around one skeletal finger.
No! It couldn't be!
Her heart dropped. A small cry escaped her lips. “No!” she cried. “No! No! No!”
“What the hell—?”
Her knees gave way, and her father caught her by the arms. Pain screamed through her brain. It couldn't be . . . oh God, please, no. Not Hunter. Not her beloved . . .
“Miranda, for the love of St. Peter, what—?”
“Hunter,” she whispered, tears falling like rain from her eyes. “Oh, no, Hunter!” She tried to deny what her eyes saw, but she couldn't, for there, on that lifeless hand, was the ring that Hunter Riley had worn just before he disappeared. He hadn't run away to Canada she realized, trembling and fighting the urge to wretch. Somehow, some way, by someone, he'd been killed.
 
 
Seated at his worktable, Kane gritted his teeth as he stared at the evidence of Claire's lies. The state of Oregon's records of Sean Harlan St. John's birth were different from the story Claire had told him. She'd said that Sean had been born in July when in actuality he'd entered the world at the end of April, just about nine months after Harley had died. So Sean wasn't a St. John at all, but a Taggert.
Or was he?
Another thought, more damning than the first, raced through his brain. At first he discarded it as wishful thinking, but the longer he turned the idea through his mind, the more convinced he was that it was a concrete possibility.
Why couldn't Sean be his son? Hadn't he made love to Claire over and over again before he left for the army, the morning after the night that Harley Taggert had died? The timing was right. Perfect, in fact. Was it possible? Could he have a boy? A strange, unwanted feeling crept through him. A son. He could be a father!
“Shit.” He walked through the house to the front porch. The night had darkened the waters of the lake, and a few stars had begun to wink in the purple heavens. The kid looked like him. More than like a Taggert, but maybe that was just foolish male pride talking. He'd like to think that he was the father of Claire's boy rather than Harley Taggert, but he couldn't. Hadn't she named the kid after Taggert? Sean
Harlan
St. John.
His fist clenched around the condemning paper. What was Claire thinking, passing off her kid as belonging to one man when in reality, in truth . . . who the hell knew the truth?
Only Claire. Who had lied to him, to the world, for sixteen long years.
Cramming the copy of the certificate into the front pocket of his jeans, he strode down the overgrown path to the dock, climbed in the old boat, and revved the motor—only to have it die twice before he realized he was out of gas. He could drive around the lake, but decided he needed time to think things through, to cool off. So he took off at a slow jog, around the perimeter of Lake Arrowhead. It would take him nearly an hour to walk or jog to the other side, but by that time, his head might be clearer, his anger might wane.
With only faint light from the moon as his guide, he kept moving, over rocks and sandy beaches, through thickets of trees and undergrowth, ever steady, intent on his purpose. The time for lies was over. From here on in, he was only interested in the truth, no matter how painful or disgusting it might be.
Soon, no matter what, Claire was going to come clean with him.
He was sweating by the time he saw the patches of light coming from the first floor of the old lodge. He walked past the stables and fields where the horses, sensing him, snorted before turning back to grazing. The birth certificate burning a hole in his pocket, he strode across the lawn and up the path to the front door, but as he approached, voices caught his attention and he walked around the side of the lodge toward the back porch, where he saw the sisters, all three of them, seated around a table with a single flickering candle giving off meager light.
He was about to shout a greeting when he realized that one of the women was crying softly. He stopped dead in his tracks. No one had seen him yet, as the night was dark and a hedge of arborvitae offered some concealment. The kids weren't around and he assumed they were already in bed, asleep in their rooms, as it was well after midnight.
“You're sure it was Hunter?” Claire asked, her voice touching Kane as no other could.
“Yes, yes.” Miranda sniffed. “His clothes, his ring . . .” She sobbed, then caught herself, and Kane's mind was whirling. Hunter? As in Hunter Riley?
“So he never went to Canada?” Tessa this time.
“I don't think so. I don't know.” Miranda was in more control, and a dozen questions raced through Kane's brain.
Was Hunter back in town?
“Whoever killed him wanted him never found.”
Killed? Riley was dead?
Kane didn't move a muscle, and though he felt guilty about eavesdropping, he couldn't barge in on their private conversation, nor could he tear himself away.
“You think he was murdered?” Claire asked, disbelieving.
“Of course. He was healthy, and though the police don't know how . . . how he died, he was buried in the woods and no one knew about it for God, what? Fifteen, no, sixteen years.”
“Jesus,” Tessa said.
Claire sighed. “Oh, Randa, I'm so sorry.”
“One person knows what happened.” Miranda's voice was stronger, filled with a new conviction. “Weston Taggert lied to me. The day that I went to see him, to ask about Hunter, he said Hunter was on the payroll in Canada, working for Taggert Industries. That was a lie.”
“You think Weston killed him?” Tessa asked as she lit a cigarette, and the flame from her lighter illuminated her face. Tears were filling her eyes as well.
“Or knows who did.”
“This is all such a mess.” Tessa blew smoke toward the roof of the porch and the scent of burning tobacco reached Kane's nostrils. “What can we do?”
“Go to the police.” Claire was convinced, and through the branches of the arborvitae he saw her face, shadowy in the candlelight but still beautiful.
“I don't know if we can.”
“Why not? Look, Randa, we're talking about murder. For all we know, Weston did it.”
“There's more,” she said, and Kane, silently cursing himself, strained to listen. “I saw an object not far from the body.”
“What?” Tessa asked.
“A knife. I'd seen it before.”
“Like the murder weapon?” Tessa drew hard on her cigarette, and the tip glowed deep red in the night.
“I don't know. But it was Jack Songbird's knife. The one no one could find after he died.”
“So you think Jack killed Hunter?” Tessa's fertile mind was already jumping to conclusions.
“No, no. Hunter was still alive when Jack was buried, but . . . but whoever killed Hunter probably killed Jack.”
And Harley Taggert?
Kane's jaw was so tight it ached. What the hell was happening here? He should burst in on the sisters, demand the truth, but he couldn't break in on their privacy and grief just yet.
Claire reached over and touched Miranda on the shoulder, and Randa, always the tough one of the group, slumped a little lower. A soft wail of deep mourning escaping her throat. “I loved him.” Randa shook her head and wrapped her arms around her middle, as if in self-protection. The tough as nails prosecutor was gone, an anguished, grieving woman in her place. “I loved him more than I thought was possible,” she whispered.
“I know,” Claire whispered.
“Love sucks.” Tessa shot a stream of smoke into the air, then crushed the butt in a tray on the table.
“Sometimes,” Claire agreed, and took in a shuddering breath. “This investigation is bound to open up everything again—you know, about Harley Taggert and Jack and Hunter.”
Tessa snorted. “Kane Moran and Denver Styles have already taken care of that. God, that Moran can be such a pain in the ass and Styles—that guy gives me the creeps. You
never
know what he's thinking.”
“Weston Taggert gives me the creeps,” Claire said.
“Amen.” Miranda closed her eyes and rocked slightly, as if trying to comfort herself.
“Okay, but listen. Everything that happened that night is going to come out. Kane and Denver Styles and Dad won't be the only ones interested,” Claire said.
“She's right,” Miranda said, her voice cloaked in doom. “People will start to wonder.”
“And Ruby and Hank Songbird will make a stink about Jack's knife. Reporters from all over the country and Dad's opponents in the race and even just the townspeople that remember what happened that night are going to start asking questions, nosing around. They're going to find out the truth.”
“Oh, God,” Tessa whispered and started to shake.
“We'll stick to our story.” Miranda's voice was calmer again. She was in control.
“It doesn't hold water.” Claire was on her feet, pacing the length of the porch, her silhouette dark against the light glowing from the windows as she walked back and forth. “And I don't know the truth about that night.”
Kane felt a wash of relief. Claire hadn't been a part of it—whatever it was.
But she lied to you, didn't she? About your son!
Claire touched Miranda's shoulder again. “You never told me what really happened.”
“It was better if you didn't know,” Miranda said, as Claire kept up her pacing.
“Are you kidding? I've been going out of my mind for years wondering why we were lying, trying to figure out what happened.” She stopped suddenly and wrapped her arms around herself as if to shield her heart from the truth.

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