Whispers (44 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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She snorted. “Not thrilled at all.”
“Where would he go?”
“I don't know. I waited a couple of hours and then drove around.” She bit her lip and moved her finger along the edge of the counter. “I went to a couple of places where kids hang out and then called three boys he's mentioned since we moved here, but I couldn't find him and if the boys know where he is, they're not saying.”
“It hasn't been that long.” But there was something in his voice, something he wasn't saying.
“I know,” she said as she heard a beep stutter on the handset. “Another call is coming in. I'd better take it. It might be Sean.”
“I'm on the road, only twenty minutes away. I'll be right over. Stay put,” Kane said and hung up.
Claire took the call that was waiting. “Hello?”
“Claire?” Tessa's voice sounded far away and frightened.
“Where are you?”
“Sean's with me.”
“You found him? Good. Bring him home.” She glanced at the clock. “We can still make the party if we push it—”
“I'm not going.”
“Why not?” Dread skittered through Claire's heart. “Wait a minute. Let me talk to Sean.”
“I can't.” Was Tessa's voice slurred?
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because it's too late, Claire. It's too late for us all.”
“Wait a minute, Tessa. Where are you? Tell me where you are and I'll come to you.”
Click. The line went dead.
Claire was left standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at the shifting shadows. Tessa had Sean, they were together. Tessa had killed Harley. Tessa sounded desperate on the phone—different. Dear God, what was she planning to do?
Quickly she picked up the phone again and dialed Kane's cell. One ring. Two. Three. “Come on, come on,” but his voice mail picked up and she hung up in frustration. He was on his way, hadn't he said so? Give him time to get here. She needed to calm down, to think clearly. What could she do? Call Miranda. As an assistant DA she had enough connections in the police department to get the help they needed to find Tessa and Sean. Tessa's Mustang wouldn't be hard to spot.
Claire punched in the numbers of Miranda's cell and waited as the phone rang. God, wasn't anyone answering tonight? One ring. Two. Three. Finally she heard her sister's voice.
“Hello?”
“Miranda, it's Claire. You have to help me. Tessa has Sean and—”
“Hello? Hello?” Miranda's voice crackled over the phone.
“Miranda, it's me! Tessa's got—”
“Claire is that you? I . . . breaking up . . . call back . . . minutes.”
“Miranda! Please, you have to listen to me!” But the static on the phone got more intense and suddenly the phone went silent.
“Damn it!” She started to dial Kane's number again.
“Mom?” She whirled, hadn't expected to see her daughter standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Samantha's face was pulled into a knot of worry as she stood wearing a yellow two piece dress that showed off part of her flat little abdomen. Her hair was piled onto her head and she was wearing too much eye makeup, lip gloss and something that made her skin shimmer. “Is something wrong?”
Everything.
“I'm just worried about Sean,” she said, trying to stay calm. No reason to panic Samantha.
“He'll be back.”
Oh, God, I hope so.
“He's just being a prick—a jerk.”
If only I could believe that.
“You're not dressed . . . Hey, is something wrong?”
“I said I'm worried. I, um, might not be going to the party after all. Kane's on his way over and we're going to look for Sean.”
Samantha's face fell. “This means we're not going to Grandpa's party, right?”
“We'll go later. When we find your brother.”
“That's what he wants, you know. To mess things up.” She rolled her overly shadowed eyes and crossed her arms under her chest. Her dress rode up, exposing more of her stomach.
“Why don't you change into something more appropriate,” Claire suggested though her mind was screaming with fear for her son. Where the devil was Kane. True it had been only a few minutes since she'd talked to him, but it felt like an eternity.
“I like this.”
“It's fine. You look good in it, but you need something a bit more conservative.” She was marching her daughter upstairs and into her room. Once there she rifled through the closet, but anything she pulled out, Samantha vetoed.
“You want me to look like a nerd.”
“No, I want you to look like a geek,” Claire shot back, forcing a humor she didn't feel. She didn't have time for this kind of argument. She didn't have time for anything other than finding her son.
Where the hell were Tessa and Sean? Why was her sister pulling this stunt? And Kane, why the hell hadn't he—
She heard the sound of an engine roaring toward the house. “Look, Sam, I was just kidding. Why not wear this?” she asked, and pulled out a navy blue sheath with beading at the neck and hem.
“Bor-ing. Aunt Tessa wouldn't be caught dead in something like this.”
“I wouldn't call Aunt Tessa a fashion maven. Let's not put what you're wearing up to her . . . or even down to her standards.” She dropped the dress over the back of Samantha's desk chair. “Just find something sedate and tasteful, okay? Kane's here.”
“And you're really worried about Sean.”
“Yeah,” Claire admitted, “I am.” She was already racing out of the room but caught her daughter rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath.
“. . . always ruining everything . . .”
“Stay put, I'll be back,” Claire called as she hurried down the stairs. She'd reached the first floor and already grabbed her purse, cell, and keys when she heard a pounding on the door. Relieved she threw the door open, expecting Kane, ready to fall into his arms. “I've been trying to find you, Tessa called and—”
Weston Taggert stood in the shadows of the porch. “And what?”
Fear dark as death slithered down her spine. “Wait a minute. What are you doing here?” she asked, her lungs constricting as she saw desperation in the corners of his mouth. Her knees threatened to give way.
“I think you'd better come with me,” he said, his expression grim.
“With
you?
Why?” But she knew. Oh, God, with mind-numbing certainty she knew.
“Because, Claire, I've got your boy.”
Thirty-four
Kane drove like a madman. He tromped on the accelerator and took a corner too quickly. His tires squealed in protest and an oncoming car swerved, the driver blasting his horn before disappearing into the fog. Kane didn't care. He had to get to Claire and find Sean. The minute he'd hung up from Claire, he'd started for the door and realized with chilling certainty why Claire had every right to fear for their son. Because of Weston Taggert.
Paige had admitted to being on the dock that night, of thinking she saw an enraged Kendall kill Harley for being with Claire, but it had been Tessa she'd seen and not knowing the truth, she'd held her tongue for sixteen years, protecting Kendall and doing her own quiet penance for not helping save Harley's life by taking care of their father.
But Neal Taggert had provided the real clue. The only person to have gained from his brother's death was Weston. That he hadn't killed Harley was, in Kane's opinion, just luck. The other two men who had been rumored to be his half brothers had met quick, untimely ends. Kane didn't know why Paige, the only other Taggert progeny had been saved, but it probably had something to do with Neal's will.
He nearly missed the lane for the Holland estate, but managed to make the corner, the beams of his headlights cutting through the mist and splashing against the mossy trunks of giant Douglas fir trees. If Weston truly had killed off all of his father's sons, wouldn't he also want to get rid of their sons, Neal's grandsons? Jack and Hunter had died without fathering children. So had Harley, but Weston might not think so. If he'd seen Sean and done the math, wouldn't he assume that Claire's child had been sired by Harley?
Don't even think it,
he told himself,
the kid is mad, that's all, and he took off to cool off. He's safe somewhere. Probably already home with Claire.
Barely visible through the mist and trees, the lights of the old lodge glowed warmly. Kane rounded a final corner and stepped on the brakes. He cut the engine, pocketed his keys and was halfway up the steps when the door opened and Samantha wearing a black dress, stood, backlit by the houselights. “Mom—? Oh.”
“Isn't your mom here?” Kane asked.
“I don't know. She was.” The girl was obviously worried. “I was upstairs getting dressed for Grandpa's party and Mom and I had kind of a fight and she went downstairs, I thought. But she's not here.”
“Her car's parked in front of the garage.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Are there any other vehicles missing?”
Samantha was shaking her head. “I don't think so.” She bit her lip. Looked troubled. “She was worried about Sean and I think someone came here. I saw a car drive in and then leave.”
“Who was it?”
“I don't know. I was getting dressed and the radio was on and, and . . . now she's gone!” The girl was getting worked up, biting her lip, looking as if she was about to cry.
Kane placed an arm around her shoulders. “Listen, I'll find your mom,” he said. “Can you call someone to come be with you—no, better yet let's find someone you can stay with.”
“I'll come with you.”
“I don't think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because it might take me a while to find her. You don't have any idea where she is? Or who she was with?”
“No. We were supposed to go to the party.”
“What about the car . . . you saw the car?”
Samantha shook her head, then stopped. “It wasn't a car,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she concentrated. Her lower lip trembled. “I think it was a truck.”
“A big truck?”
“A . . . a pickup.”
“What color?”
“Black . . . or real dark.”
“Did you see anyone inside?”
She shook her head slowly. “It was too dark and foggy.” Swallowing hard, she said in a small voice, “Is Mommy in trouble?”
“I don't know, Samantha. But I want to find her. Let's call someone to stay with you.”
“But I want to come.”
“I think it would be best if you would stay here.” He heard the sound of a car approaching, saw headlights through the fog. “Let's get inside,” he suggested, edging her over the threshold just as the car rounded a final corner.
Gravel crunched as the Volvo stopped. Miranda, wearing a long black dress, flew from behind the wheel. “Where's Claire?”
“Missing,” Kane said.
“What do you mean, ‘missing'?” she demanded as she climbed the steps to the porch.
“She left with someone. Samantha can tell you the story. I'm going after them.”
“Who's them?” Miranda demanded.
“I'm not sure.”
“Wait a minute. What's going on?”
“Samantha will fill you in. I think Claire and Sean could be with Weston Taggert.”
“Taggert—why?” she asked.
“He's into this—whatever it is—up to his eyeballs,” Kane said, not elaborating because of Samantha.
“But Claire called me, I think, something about Sean.”
“I think Taggert's been behind all of it. From the beginning,” he said so that she would understand that the situation was grave. “I think he's been systematically getting rid of anyone who is a threat to the Taggert fortune.”
“But Paige—”
“I don't understand about her. Yet. But we don't have time to sit and conjecture. Take Samantha inside and lock all the doors. Then call whoever it is you deal with at the police department and have them look for a black, or dark blue or dark green, pickup. Do you have any idea what kind, honey?” he asked, looking back at Samantha. “Did you see the license plates?”
She was standing next to Miranda and her eyes were round with fear. She shook her head. “It was dark and foggy.”
“Shh. It's okay,” Miranda said, obviously grasping the severity of the situation. “I'll see to Samantha and I'll call the station. I've got a friend, Petrillo. He'll see that this is handled right.”
“Good. Go inside. Lock the doors. You can call my cell,” he said and rattled off the number as he made his way to his Jeep. The thought of Weston and Claire together made his heart nearly stop. Weston the rapist. Weston the murderer. Weston who wouldn't think twice about killing Claire or Sean.
Kane jammed the Jeep into gear and cut a tight circle. Accelerating down the lane, he decided to drive to Taggert Industries. The murders had started with men who were employed by Neal Taggert and now Weston was at the helm of the corporation.
 
 
“That's right,” Miranda said as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder. Cooped up here at the old lodge, she was climbing the walls as she talked to Petrillo. Fortunately Samantha was in the den, wrapped in a blanket and watching television. Still, Miranda kept her voice low. “I don't care that Sean hasn't been gone for twenty-four hours, this is serious. Kane Moran thinks Weston Taggert killed Jack Songbird and Hunter Riley.”
“What about his brother? Harlan?”
Miranda steeled herself. “I don't think Weston was involved in that one.” Dear God, how long would she have to lie? Could she protect Tessa? And where the devil was she now? Hadn't Claire said something about Sean and Tessa being together? The phone connection had been spotty, but that's what it had sounded like. “But I want Weston Taggert brought in for questioning. Now.”
“You got it,” Petrillo said as he hung up. Miranda tried Claire's cell . . . again . . . got her voice mail. The damned phone wasn't turned on. So where was she? Where would Weston take her? If she's really with Weston. Samantha hadn't seen the man who lured Claire away. Had she gone willingly—no, certainly she wouldn't have left her daughter without saying where she was going. It seemed more likely that Claire had left quickly so that Samantha wouldn't be involved.
Absurdly, she thought of Denver Styles and quickly dialed the only number she had for him, a cell phone that beeped at her. Damn this part of Oregon with its high cliffs, mountains, deep chasms, and patchy cellular service. Like it or not, she'd have to wait.
She walked to the den and saw that Samantha was huddled on the couch, her overly shadowed eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep. Miranda walked into the room and the girl stirred. Battling tears, she said, “You don't know where Mom is, do you?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think something awful happened to her?” A tear slid from a corner of Samantha's eyes and Miranda's heart tore. As brave as Samantha was trying to be, the kid was scared out of her mind.
Miranda settled onto the couch and draped an arm over her niece's shoulder. Samantha was trembling. “Don't worry, sweetheart,” Miranda said, hoping she was just soothing the girl. “We'll find your mom and brother.”
“It's all his fault,” Samantha said, choking a little as she tried to keep from sobbing. “He should never have left.”
“Shh. He didn't know this would happen,” she whispered and added silently, “None of us did.”
“Where are you taking me? Where is Sean?” Claire demanded as Weston, careful to obey the speed limit drove along the narrow highway that snaked high above the sea. They were in a pickup with a gun rack, but the rifle wasn't clipped into the rack. It was propped beside Weston's left hand, impossible for her to reach. At the sight of the gun, she shivered inwardly. Just how desperate was this man? Where was Sean? The thought that her son might already be dead sent chills to the very heart of her. No, she wouldn't think that way. Sean had to be alive. He had to. And she had to save him. Somehow. Some way.
Tonight the ocean wasn't visible in the fog, the only way of knowing where the asphalt ended was the white stripe painted but fading along the shoulder. Face etched in stone, Weston drove continually south and though Claire couldn't see the guardrail that was often as not missing along this stretch of road, she knew the drop-off from these cliffs was hundreds of feet to the swirling angry sea.
“Where the hell are we going, Weston?”
“You'll see when we get there.”
“Is my son all right? You haven't harmed him yet, have you, you bastard.”
“Just shut up.”
But Claire was trying to keep Weston distracted as she reached into her purse, her fingers moving silently until she found her cell phone. She didn't dare bring it out, had to fumble in the dark. Thankfully Weston had the radio turned on and was listening to the news, checking the weather report. Her fingers found the phone and she flipped it open, coughing and clearing her throat loudly as it clicked on. She could see the digital readout in her purse and with quick glimpses, she fumbled, trying to turn the volume down. Her heart was pounding a million times a minute and she could barely breathe, but she prayed she could call 911 without him realizing what she was doing.
A car bore down on them from behind. Headlights in the rearview mirror. Weston glanced at the mirror and slowed, as if hoping the guy would pass. He didn't.
“Damn it all,” he ground out and saw a turnout, a vantage point overlooking the ocean on a clear day. The car behind them passed. Weston checked his watch, then eased back onto the highway. Claire saw the readout of her phone glowing in her purse. Nervously she punched out the numbers, then covered the speaker with her hand. She stared straight ahead and when she thought the connection was made, said, “Where are we going? What's south?”
“I told you not to ask any questions,” he said, and she imagined she heard a female voice say, “Police Dispatch.”
“But I want to know where you're taking me,” Claire said loudly, over the radio. “You've got my son, Taggert, and my sister, too, so where do you think you're taking me and why? I have the right to know if you're kidnapping me.” While she was talking she thought she heard a muted voice say, “Police dispatch. Do you have an emergency?”

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