In the Waning Light (34 page)

Or
was
it real?

Thunder crashed, and lightning streaked down into the bay. She glanced at her watch. She needed to change, or she’d be late, and she suspected Tommy’s event was not going to last long in this weather. Meg turned to make her way to her room, and gasped.

A small, white-faced figure stood silent in shadow at the end of the passage. Watching her. Like a little ghost child.

“Noah? Goodness, you gave me a fright. How long have you been standing there?”

He spun around and disappeared into his room. The door
snicked
shut.

She rapped on his door.

“Go away.”

“Noah, can I talk to you, please?”

Silence.

Meg hesitated and then tried the handle. Locked. Even more uneasy now, Meg made her way to her room, shut the door, showered, and quickly slipped into the red dress. It was a little loose, but she preferred not being sausaged into clothes. She smoothed it down and stepped in front of the mirror. Her heart stuttered in surprise to see a faint memory of her mother looking back at her.

Meg applied makeup, darkening her eyes, making them stand out. Lips glossed, she slipped into her high-heeled boots and shrugged into the fake fur. A wry smile pulled at her mouth. Sherry would approve—retro chic. Going to do battle in the name of her mom.

She smoothed down her hair, slipped her recorder, camera, and notebook into an evening purse, and started down the stairs.

Noah had come out of his room and was in the kitchen, alone, eating bread and Nutella.

“Not waiting for your uncle Geoff to make dinner?”

“He’s not here,” Noah mumbled without looking up.

Meg frowned and glanced at the clock on the stove. Slowly Noah raised his eyes. His body went stone still. He stared at her in her evening outfit with makeup. A small blue vein swelled on his pale temple.

Blake came in from the office door, taking off his work gloves. He stalled as he saw Meg. He whistled softly.

Her cheeks heated.

He came slowly up to her, his gaze locked with hers. Then he brazenly ran his eyes over her, slow, steady, a wolf eating her alive. She swallowed.

“Well, look at you.” Approval darkened his eyes.

She became conscious of Noah still transfixed. He began to kick the toe of his shoe against the cabinet.
Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Noah,” Blake said. “Please stop that.”

He kicked faster.
Bangbangbangbangbang.

“For Pete’s sake, will you please stop that? You’re going to damage the siding.”

Noah’s face turned bright red. His gaze remained locked on Meg. He kicked harder. Blake stepped forward as if to grab his son off the stool, then he pulled himself back. “Listen, I know you’re—”

“You’re a liar!” he spat at his dad. Then he turned to Meg. “My dad and Uncle Geoff are liars!”

“Noah,” Blake said, his voice going low, “what are you talking about?”

“They know stuff about your sister’s murder. Uncle Geoff was on the spit that night your sister was killed. I heard him and Dad talking. I was outside the door.”

“What?” Meg’s gaze shot to Blake. The panic and heat she saw in his face struck a blade clean through her heart.

“Dad and Uncle Geoff have been keeping the secret since that day. Uncle Geoff said if they told you, you’d go looking for the other person.”

“What other person? Blake—what in the hell is he talking about?”

“Noah.” Blake took his son’s arm. “Please, I need you to go upstairs.”

“No!” Meg snapped. “Just
no.
I want to hear this. I want to hear every damn word he says.” She spun to Noah. “
What
other person?”

“Some guy whose marriage would be killed if you found him out.” His voice was going quiet. His eyes were showing fear. “They . . .
they said you’d go on a witch hunt for him because you’re like a dog
with a bone. Uncle Geoff said, ‘let her just write her story, and leave
that part out.
’
”

Every last drop of blood drained from Meg’s head. She reached for the back of a chair to steady herself. She felt as though she’d been shot.

Thunder boomed overheard. The windows shuddered. The buoys outside thumped in mounting wind.

“What does he mean, Blake?” she said, very quietly.

“Meg, I was going to tell—”

She shot her hands up, palms out, backing away from him as though he might be a viper ready to strike.

Blake grabbed Noah’s shirt and pulled him down off the stool, shaking. “Get out of here. Go upstairs.
Now
.”

Noah clattered up the stairs. Blake’s eyes crackled. His neck muscles bulged. “Sit down, Meg.” He pulled out a chair.

She glared at him. “I don’t know you. I don’t know you at all.”

“Sit. Hear me out.”

Slowly, she sat.

He yanked out a chair and sat opposite her. “Geoff was on the spit that day. He went to meet someone. When he came back that night, I saw his face was cut. He told me that my father had hit him early that morning, and I believed it, because I’d heard them arguing. Geoff didn’t want to reveal himself to anyone that night, because he didn’t want the shame of being an abused son. And he didn’t want to say he’d gone to meet someone for fear of being outed as gay.”

“The other person was . . . a lover?”

“A boyfriend.”

“Who?”

“I think it was Henry. Because of what Irene said on the way home today. It just started to add up. And last night in the shed I found a photo of Geoff and some of his schoolmates in front of a red VW van. I was going to ask him whose van it was.”

Dizziness swirled. “That’s why you were upset after the bookstore. You learned Henry had taken ownership of his father’s van, and then you heard Henry might have been gay, and you put two and two together, placing Henry and his red van on the spit because you already knew Geoff was there.”

He nodded, dropped his face into his hands, scrubbed his skin hard.

“
Why,
Blake? Why did you keep this from me? I
trusted
you. We were doing this together.”

“Meg, I know. I told Geoff I was going to tell you—”

“You sat on this for twenty-two years!”

“No. Not all of this. Only that Geoff was on the spit. I was just figuring out the other pieces at the same time you were.”

“Bullshit. How can I put the whole picture together when you two are hiding pieces?”

“Calm down, please. Just listen. Back then we were all convinced that Ty Mack had done it, and it didn’t feel like a big deal that Geoff was on the spit. I believed Geoff back then. And I didn’t want my dad in the news as an abusive father, either. I didn’t want to lose Bull. I didn’t want to be sent to some foster home by social services. Geoff was leaving—I’d have had no one. I did
not
see it as a big issue.”

“But it is
now.
And you’ve been working with me on this for days now. You were with me when Lee Albies told us about a red van.”

“I didn’t know Henry had a red van, Meg, not until Rose told us.”

“You saw a photo in the shed.”

He dragged his hands over his hair. “I didn’t know it was his—I just told you. I was planning to ask Geoff about it. And when I saw that photo I had no idea Henry might be gay.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Geoff begged me to hold off telling you for just one more day, so he could prepare his lover. He said it would destroy his marriage. And if that person is indeed Henry, Geoff is right, it
will
destroy that marriage. It’ll kill a guy like Henry Thibodeau. He’s been living in an iron closet all his life.”

Meg got slowly to her feet. She looked down at Blake, bitterness filling her mouth. “I trusted you, Blake. The least you could have done is trusted me with this, too.”

“Meg, I can see how this looks from your perspective now, in hindsight. But until today—”

“This information about at least two other people on the spit that night could have changed everything. Ike Kovacs would have interviewed them. He might have been forced to look more deeply at the other DNA evidence. He might have scoured the area more thoroughly for witnesses. He might have found that homeless vet who told Lee Albies he’d seen a red van. Then blind Ethel McCray’s testimony about hearing a VW van might have been given more credence.” She paused to catch her breath. “All of this could have painted reasonable doubt all over Tyson Mack. An innocent man might have lived. My father might still be alive, and so might my mother.” She pointed at him. “You and Geoff helped kill my family.”

“Meg, that’s not fair. You’re not thinking st—”

“Forget it. I’m done.” She grabbed her purse from the table, and walked woodenly to the door. Deep inside, her blood started to boil. Part of her desperately wanted to believe Blake, to hear him out more fully, to pull apart his story and try to see when he knew what, and how it might have affected his decisions. But the other part, the old part, was slamming up walls. And it felt easy that way, to be hard. To be livid. To lock out the hurt and the pain of betrayal that was going to buckle her if she let it in.

Just finish the job. Do what you came to do. Then get the hell out of this place and its sick, twisted roots.

Blake surged to his feet and grabbed her arm, stopping her as she made for the door. She swung around, vibrating now, with anger, affront, and yes humiliation. “Don’t,” she said, her voice low, cool. “Do not touch me.” Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she refused to allow them. She was back in her old zone, and by hell she liked it here. Walls up high and safe.

“Where are you going?” he said, voice low, eyes narrowed.

“To the Whakami Bay Marina. For one helluva party.”

“It’s not safe.”

“And
you
are?”

She turned, and yanked open the door. Wind gusted inside, clamoring the office bells. She stepped out into the stormy night.

“You lied, too, Meg!” he called after her, the wind snatching his words. “You lied to cover for Sherry that day. Do you think
she
might have lived if you’d told the truth right away? That everything might have turned out different? Do you shoulder no blame at all?”

“Damn you,” she growled under her breath and ducked out from under the covered deck and stepped into the rain.

“I tried to protect my brother!” he yelled. “You tried to protect your sister; you always did. How are we so different?”

She spun around as something struck her like a mallet between the eyes. She marched back up to him and faced him square under the deck awning.

“You know what I dreamed last night, before you made love to me? I dreamed I saw the face of the person chasing me—the face that has been eluding me for the last twenty-two years. And it was Geoff’s face. I dreamed it was
him
who attacked me that night, and left me for dead. I heard
his
voice yelling,
‘Don’t run, Meggie, don’t run
!
’
And you know what? I wrote it off as my wild imagination, because how
could
it be Geoff? Now I’m wondering if it was true.”

His face paled. He said nothing.

She started to shake inside. “How much do you trust your own brother, Blake Sutton? Who have you really been protecting all these years—a murderer? A rapist? Will Geoff’s DNA match one of those two unidentified profiles? Because you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tell Kovacs everything tonight.”

“Meg—”

She refused to hear him out. She spun around and strode out into the rain. She climbed into her rig in her mother’s red dress and fake fur, and she drove off, leaving him standing outside his tumbling-down marina.

CHAPTER 24

Blake watched her go. Hollow. Shaking. Bereft. Fucking hell. He’d been an idiot! Fucking Geoff. He raked both hands over his wet head, fighting a ferocious urge to hunt her down, bring her back right this instant. But the harder he pushed Meg right now, the further she’d run, and he knew it.

Her words about his brother floated up like a black, slippery oil to mingle with his own dark memories: The blood on Geoff’s shirt. His flotsam bag found near Meg’s body. The haunted look in his brother’s face that night in the boathouse.

Was it possible?

Her dream didn’t prove anything. They needed proof, or an admission, so fine, let her tell Kovacs. Let the chief deputy find Geoff and Henry, question them. At least there’d be a ton of cops at the fund-raiser for the sheriff.

Right now he had to deal with Noah. His kid was an exploding volcano. Triage. Thunder split the sky over the bay, and rain and wind redoubled its assault on his marina, ripping one of the buoys free from its moorings in the rafters. The orange buoy crashed into the crab boiler, and bombed across the gravel, where it smacked to
a standstill against the garage wall.

Blake ducked back into his house, shed his wet gear, and stormed up the stairs.
He hesitated outside Noah’s door. Then he knocked quietly.

No answer.

He knocked louder.

“Go away!”

Blake closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. “Noah, I need to talk to you.”

“Go away.”

“Please, champ. I’m not mad at you. All you did was tell the truth. I understand what you were doing, and why, but I do need to talk to you. I want to see your face.”

“Leave me alone.”

Blake opened and closed his fists. He could hear tears in his boy’s voice and it gutted him.

Thunder rumbled again, and the whole marina building seemed to groan and shift as it braced against the mounting wind. Blake hurried downstairs and put on the radio. He tensed as he heard the host announcing that a tsunami watch had been issued as a result of the tremor late this afternoon. Worst-case scenario was that the two fronts would collide offshore, a few miles out from Shelter Bay, shortly after midnight, creating an epic storm with gale-force onshore winds that would coincide with a pushing high tide, and possible tsunami. A sailors’ nightmare come to life. He needed to start sandbagging.

And the more he thought about Geoff, and Henry, and them being secretive gay lovers, the less likely he could see them brutally raping Sherry. Something just didn’t fit.

He turned his mind back to the conversation he and Meg had had after her flashback over dinner.

“I had a flash of Sherry. Her naked body . . . She was lying on her back, spread-eagled in mud. I . . . had the sense I was fleeing from that image. And that there were several shapes around her wanting to come get me . . .”

Several shapes?

There was also the photo of the red van outside Ryan Millar’s house. Ryan, who was Tommy’s alibi. Ryan, who years later was rewarded with a fat vehicle maintenance contract from Kessinger-Sproatt. And there was the mystery father of Sherry’s baby. Plus another two unidentified DNA profiles. Plus someone had possibly tipped off Jack Brogan. Who? Ike Kovacs? The sheriff who’d, against protocol, handled the investigation himself?

And what about Tara Brogan, who felt she was being followed? Geoff hadn’t been in town during that period. And he’d been nowhere near Shelter Bay when Jack was tipped off, and again when Tara died.

And what of Emma, who’d allegedly lied to the police?

Anxiety speared through Blake, and worry for Meg’s safety tonight reared afresh.

He grabbed his cell and hit the number for his emergency sitter, dragging his hand down hard over his mouth as the phone rang. He wasn’t going to get through to Noah himself tonight. But he
could
keep his son safe while he went after Meg, once he’d sandbagged the Crabby Jack side of the marina building. He paced as the phone rang. Water lashed the windows. It was almost full dark outside now, clouds low and black. The foghorns sounded repeatedly.

“Hello,” came a voice though his phone.

“Anna, this is Blake Sutton. Can you babysit on short notice?”

“How short, Mr. Sutton?”

“Right away short.”

“I . . . Wait. Maybe. Can I call you back in a sec?”

“Please.”

She hung up.

Blake shrugged into his slicker and grabbed his gloves and an oilskin ball cap before heading out to his truck, which he’d backed up to the deck area. He hauled himself up into the bed, and began offloading sandbags with a thud. He’d almost cleared the load when his cell rang. He ducked under the awning, and answered.

“It’s Anna. My mom will bring me in about twenty minutes.”

Relief washed through Blake as he pocketed his phone. He resumed hauling the offloaded bags one by one around to the front deck area of the Crabby Jack cafe, where he began stacking them into a wall. His muscles burned and sweat dripped under his gear. He welcomed the burn. The physical action, the sense of purpose, was keeping him sane while he waited for Anna. He heard a vehicle coming down the drive. Dropping the bag in hand, he hurried around the side of the building, fully expecting to see his sitter. Shock slammed as he recognized the silver Wrangler.

Geoff.

Blake marched toward the car like an angry ox. The door opened as Blake reached it. He leaned in and grabbed his brother’s lapels, hauling him out. Rain slashed silver in the Jeep’s headlights, the engine still running.

“Where in the hell have you been?”

“Jesus, easy, Blake.” Geoff put his hands up in surrender. “I promised I’d be here to sit Noah, and here I am. Just a few minutes late.”

“It was Henry, wasn’t it? That’s who you went to meet.”

Geoff paled.

A gust slammed rain at them, but the brothers were focused solely on each other, oblivious to weather and plummeting temperatures. “It was Henry’s red VW bus parked near where Sherry was murdered, wasn’t it? Was it the same bus that picked her up at the Forest Lane trailhead right after Ty dropped her off safe?” Blake was vibrating now, terrified by the look in his brother’s eyes, the pallor of his complexion, the fact he wasn’t denying
any
of this.

“It was
you
, Geoff.
You
ran after Meg that night, yelling for her to stop. She remembered. It was
you
who hurt her, you fuck!”

Wind tore at her umbrella as Meg marched along the paved walkway that led toward the brightly lit Whakami Bay Yacht Club and Convention Center. Rows of lanterns swung wildly between banners that declared:
KOVACS FOR COUNTY SHERIFF!
Music thumped from the building—a massive, modern affair with a pitched and angled roof and lights way up in steel rafters.

High-end yachts creaked along the boardwalk and swayed against moorings, halyards rattling on masts as wind and tide pushed into the harbor.

Electricity thrummed through Meg’s veins as she neared the glass doors. She was driven by a tunnel-visioned focus, her mind closed to the rest of the world. Her goal was to get in there, find Kovacs.

The big automatic doors slid open, and a blast of wind yanked her umbrella inside out. A valet came running out. Taking her broken umbrella, the man ushered her inside and asked if she’d like to check her coat. She realized she was shivering uncontrollably, and declined.

“Later maybe.” She forced a smile. “When I warm up a bit.”

Meg entered the massive convention area. Clusters of blue-and-white helium balloons bobbed everywhere. Banners strung from steel and wood rafters declared
KOVACS FOR CHILLMOOK COUNTY
. People in evening gear milled in groups. A long bar had been set up to the far right, and a raised dais toward the back hosted a shining grand piano where a man in a black tuxedo tinkled the ivories while a woman in a curve-hugging sequined gown crooned a husky lounge song. According to the sandwich board at the entrance,
BROOKLYN
’
S 17TH BIRTHDAY CLUB BASH WITH LIVE BAND
was “happening” upstairs. It must be this bash that accounted for the thumping techno bass she’d heard outside.

Meg scanned the crowd in search of a familiar face. She spotted Tommy and Dave Kovacs almost instantly. Both wore suits and stood slightly taller than most of the crowd. They were conversing with a group up near the raised dais with the pianist.

She made a beeline for Kovacs.

Tommy glanced up, caught sight of her coming. He separated from the group and came to meet her. He smiled, touching his hand to her elbow. “Meg, thank you for coming.”

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Emma at the bar. Adrenaline kicked through her. “I thought she wasn’t coming,” Meg said.

Tommy followed her gaze.

“She wasn’t. But now there she is. Ignore her. She’s drunk. As usual. And you’re wet. Here, let me take your coat.”

“No. I need to see Kovacs.” She started to push past him.

He frowned, and held on to her arm. “Meg, are you okay? You look feverish.”

She drew her coat closer over her chest, still shivering.

“I’m fine. I just need to talk to Dave.”

“Listen, relax—just give him a minute. See that gray-haired guy he’s talking with? That’s the mayor of Chillmook. And that woman with him is the CEO of the Chillmook County Newsmedia Group. The gentleman to her left is one of our campaign’s top financial backers. Let me get you a drink.”

Emma was watching them now, from across the room. Meg could see Ryan Millar further down the bar, also watching her. The memory of Geoff chasing her suddenly slammed through her again. Her heart began to race, fear circling . . .
wait, Meggie . . . don’t run
. . .

“Is Henry Thibodeau here?” she said.

Tommy’s frown deepened. “No, he hasn’t arrived yet. Meg”—he drew her aside slightly—“talk to me, what’s going on?”

Gaze locked on Emma, she said, “My mom wrote in her journal that she told both you and Emma that she thought Ty Mack might be innocent, and that she was trying to find out who might have tipped my father off.”

“If she did tell me, Meg, I really don’t recall. Tara said a lot of things that didn’t make sense at the time, and sometimes we just let her ramble.”

She glanced up, met his eyes. Compassion softened his features. “Your mother was consumed by grief, Meg. She was also desperate. Her husband was awaiting trial for murder. She was grasping at anything. And the medication . . . who knows what she wrote in that book, or was thinking. I probably wouldn’t read too much into it.”

Anger sparked into her blood. “You’re saying my mother was nuts?”

“I’m saying, just think about it all in context. Now, let me get you a drink.” He started to lead her toward the bar. But Meg held her ground.

“Emma said she called you to alert you to the fact Sherry was going to the spit. Did she?”

“No. Why would she say that?” Realization dawned in his eyes. His mouth hardened. He glanced at his ex and uttered a soft curse. “Oh, I get it,” he said quietly. “My jealous ex is not only bitter, she’s turned vengeful. Why else would she even be here tonight, if not to try and embarrass me?” He met Meg’s eyes. “Her vindictiveness started to get worse when I married Liske. She tried to turn Brooklyn against us, too, and I see what she’s doing now. She’s trying to pin motive on me—give me some reason to have hurt Sherry.” He snorted softly. “And you and your book are the perfect tool for Emma. Because that’s what this looks like. After all, they always go after the boyfriend first, don’t they? But they cleared me, Meg. I volunteered a DNA sample. I had a solid alibi—”

He halted as Emma pushed off the bar and started to weave through the crowd toward them, glass in hand. Tommy raised his chin, nodded at Ryan across the room. Ryan started toward Emma.

“Ryan will take her home,” he said. “It won’t be the first time.”

He always had a bit of a rep . . .

“Your alibi was Ryan,” Meg said. “And in the police report you swore that you were with him from ten a.m. until eleven p.m. on the day of Sherry’s murder.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“You were with him the entire time?”

“It’s in the statements.”

“Did Ryan own a red VW van?”

“What?”

“Did he—yes or no?”

“Meg . . . what does this have to do with—”

“A witness, Tom. Someone saw a red VW van parked on the spit during the time Sherry was likely killed. And someone else places a VW van at the trailhead earlier, where Tyson Mack said he dropped my sister off safe.”

Not a muscle moved. His eyes didn’t flicker. The piano music stopped and something louder started, with percussion.

“Yes,” he said, raising his voice over the increasing drum noise. “Ryan Millar owned a red VW van. But he bought it defunct from Henry Thibodeau the winter after Sherry was killed. He bought it to refurbish it.”

Meg rubbed her brow. She felt feverish. Okay, that made sense. The news photo that she’d seen in the
Shelter Bay Chronicle
had been published two years later. So Henry had owned the red van at the time of the murder, and then offloaded it to Ryan. It was most likely Henry driving it, who’d gone to meet Geoff, as Blake had said.