The Heart of Christmas (12 page)

“Life isn’t always fair, or you wouldn’t have ended up there, either. Prison wasn’t the answer for someone like you. But we can argue about that shit another time. What are you going to do about this latest development?”

“I’m already doing it.” The wind was picking up. Holding the phone in place with his shoulder, Rex zipped his coat. “I’m going to lie low for a while, see if there’s actually anything to be worried about.”

“How will you know?”

“If they’ve found my house or my business, they’ll come poking around before too long. I have security on both that I can check via my computer. And Marilyn will call if anything odd comes to her attention.”

“She’s running the business while you’re away?”

“She’s helping. I’m within driving distance, so I can take care of anything she needs me to do.”

“If that’s true, you’re vulnerable.”

“So?”

“So?”
Virgil repeated. “Do you like the idea of being shot?”

“No, but I’m tired of running. I’m tired of hiding, too.”

“Don’t talk like that. We do what we do because we have no choice.”

Rex sheltered the phone from the noise of a large truck rumbling past. “
You’ve
got no choice. You have to look out for Peyton and the kids. Me? Some days I feel like walking into their damn clubhouse just to flip them off.”

“You do that and you’ll go down in a hail of bullets.”

“It puts an end to it.”

“Don’t let them win, Rex. Whatever you do,
don’t let them win.
”

He pivoted and started walking in the other direction. “I won’t,” he said, but sometimes it was a seductive vision—when he allowed his temper to get the best of him.

“You mean that, buddy?” Virgil asked, clearly concerned.

With a sigh, Rex turned to gaze through the window of the restaurant, where he could see Eve talking to the waitress. How was it that some of the most important decisions of his life had been made before he even knew what he was choosing? Before he even realized what he’d be forced to give up?

“Yeah, I mean it,” he said. “How’s Laurel?”

There was another long pause.

“You’re not going to answer?”

“It’s been years since the two of you were together, Rex. Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about my sister.”

“I’ll always care about her. That won’t change.”

“Caring is one thing, but—” Virgil blew out an audible sigh. “Never mind. She’s fine. She and Miles are happy, in case that question’s coming next. So...if you’re waiting around, hoping they’ll split—”

“No, I wouldn’t want that,” Rex interrupted, and he meant it. “I know he’s made her far happier than I ever could.”

“She had a hard time getting over you, too. Don’t think it was easy for her.”

“You don’t have to justify her actions. I get it. Any woman in her right mind would’ve chosen Miles. The good sheriff comes with fewer...complications.”

“She’s lived a messed-up life, too,” Virgil said. “Between both of you, there was too much shit that’d gone down. But someday you’ll meet the woman who’s right for you.”

“A nice girl I can introduce to the fact that I’m being hunted by my old gang? Hardened criminals who wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in me? That I’m an ex-con, ex-addict and being with me puts her in danger? I’m quite the catch, wouldn’t you say?”

He’d been joking, but Virgil didn’t seem to find any humor in what he’d said. “Peyton and I are making it work.”

“If you call living in fear that The Crew could find you at any moment making it work.”

“If anything happens to Peyton, or the kids, it’s war,” he said. “I hope those bastards know that.”

They didn’t care. They’d welcome the violence. They lived for upping their body count.

“I’m with you,” Rex said. War, he could handle. After living as he’d been living, it would almost be a relief to confront his enemy. He would already have driven to L.A. and barged into whatever shit-hole their leaders were occupying these days if he thought he could put an end to the stranglehold they had on his life or Virgil’s. But he and Virgil had confronted The Crew on several occasions. They’d even killed in self-defense. And it hadn’t changed anything. More thugs just filled the shoes of the ones who were removed.

“I know you are, buddy,” Virgil said. “I’ve always been able to count on you.”

They still had the friendship that’d carried them through so much. But...

Rex turned to glance at Eve again. He wasn’t about to drag a woman into the crossfire. He’d lost too many people he cared about over the years. He couldn’t risk losing another.

13

W
hile Eve was waiting for Brent and the food she’d ordered, a text came in from Cheyenne. Chey had tried calling earlier, but Eve hadn’t picked up. She hadn’t wanted to talk to her best friend in front of Brent. She wasn’t sure she should respond even now that she had some privacy. She knew she was probably making a mistake getting involved with him. All the signs were there. Even Dylan, who didn’t cry wolf unless he perceived a real threat, had tried to warn her....

She felt as if she was hurtling toward the sun, trapped by its gravitational force and unable to change course.

At least it was quite the cosmic ride, she told herself. Especially exhilarating for a small-town girl who’d known most of the other people in her life for years and years. An attractive, enigmatic, here-and-then-gone man like Brent was quite the novelty. And the possibility of being or becoming pregnant intensified the risks
and
the rewards. But the possibility of having
his
baby was beginning to take on special significance—further proof that she was too wrapped up in a man who had already put her on notice that he wouldn’t be part of her life for more than a few weeks.

How’d it go last night?
Cheyenne had asked.

After checking the entrance of the restaurant to make sure Brent wasn’t on his way back in, she wrote,
I’ve climbed aboard the big roller coaster.

That response makes me a little nervous. Want to explain?

Having Brent in my life is both thrilling and frightening.

Frightening is not very reassuring. Did he stay with you last night?

Yes. And it was crazy good....

There’s that. So when did he leave?

He didn’t. We’re in Jackson, about to have breakfast at Jemima’s Kitchen.

He’s there now?

He stepped out to take a call.

This time there was a slight pause before Cheyenne responded—long enough that Eve took a sip of her orange juice and smiled politely at the waitress as she passed by. Finally, a telltale ping alerted her to another incoming text.

There’s no guarantee Dylan’s right, Eve.

So Dyl had voiced his concerns to his wife, which meant Cheyenne was worried, too, and trying to compensate for that. Or she was trying to get Eve to open up so she could warn her again.

There are definitely reasons to be concerned,
she admitted.

Specifically...

I don’t know a lot about him.

That’s usual when you just meet someone.

Which was why she’d been foolish to sleep with him that first night.
He’s also as guarded as Dyl says.

At one point you were worried about the kind of man Dylan was, because of his reputation, remember? And look how well it’s turned out for us. This thing with Brent doesn’t have to end badly.

But it’s going to,
she wrote, then she erased it and put,
Right. I guess we’ll see.

Just take your time. Don’t get in over your head.

Brent walked in before she could respond. Not wanting him to see what she was texting, she slipped her phone in her purse.

“Sorry that took so long,” he said as he sat down.

“No problem. That wasn’t your sister again, was it?”

“No.”

“You must be relieved. Something come up at work, then?”

“It wasn’t work, either. I just heard from an old friend.”

She didn’t bother questioning him further. She could tell by his throwaway tone that this was all the explanation she was going to get. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was upset or frustrated or angry.

“Did you order for us?” he asked, drinking some of his coffee.

“I did.” She straightened her silverware. “The food should be here any second.”

“Good. I’m hungry.” He shifted several times, then started to bounce his knee.

“Are you okay?” She was about to tell him they didn’t have to stay for breakfast, that they could try to cancel their order, but he spoke first.

“When will you find out whether you’re pregnant?”

“In a week or two. At least, that’s what I learned when I looked it up on the internet.”

He nodded.

“Why?” she asked.

“Just curious.”

She picked up the empty sugar packet and twisted it in her fingers. “Will you be terribly upset if I am?”

“Yes,” he said—immediately and unequivocally. “I will.”

* * *

Breakfast turned out to be an uncomfortable affair. They ate and Brent paid the bill. Then he drove her home, all without more than a perfunctory comment here and there.

When he pulled into her drive, Eve started to climb out, but paused with her hand on the door latch. The person Brent had been last night had been easy to want, easy to connect with. She was infatuated with
that
man. But
this
man... This man would always be a stranger to her because he wouldn’t let anyone be more than that. “You’re a difficult person to read. You know that.”

A muscle moved in his cheek. “You don’t have to read me. I’ve been up front.”

“About...”

He wouldn’t look at her. “Just don’t get attached.”

She stared at him for several seconds. “That’s it? Don’t get attached? After making love so many times? I’ve never had a man act as if he wants me with that same intensity. It’s more like...like you
need
me. Like it’s a gut reaction you can’t control. And I can’t help responding in the same way.” It was so potent. “When you’re like that it makes me feel...valued and desired. But then morning comes and—”

“And what?” he snapped. “I’m gone in three weeks, Eve!”

She gaped at him. “I know! I’m not trying to keep you here. But I thought we’d reached a point where the days we did have would be...I don’t know...different. Or are you just passing time, trying to distract yourself from your normal life, whatever it is?”

When he didn’t answer, just dropped his head and pressed his thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose, she laughed without mirth. “Never mind. Forget it. I can’t take the contradictions. I don’t think even
you
know what you want.”

Once she finished climbing out, she slammed the door. She wanted him to come after her, hoped he’d revert to the sensitive man he’d been last night. That person was someone special, someone worth fighting for. No matter how many unanswered questions she encountered, she still believed he possessed so much potential.

But he didn’t chase after her. He sat in her drive for several minutes. She could hear his engine from where she stood listening in the hall. Then he drove away.

* * *

Eve rubbed her arms against the chilly air as she took Ted down to the basement. He’d called her not long after Brent had dropped her off to see if she could meet him at the B and B. He’d wanted to spend some time studying the layout of the murder scene, and she’d been so upset about how her night with Brent had ended that she’d agreed to do it right away, to distract herself from the frustration and disappointment.

“I can see why you don’t like to come down here. It’s creepy, all right.” Ted poked around the old boiler, which hadn’t been in use since the previous owner installed central heating and air.

“Any basement in a house this old would be a little off-putting,” she said. “But the murder of a child makes this one downright disturbing.”

He left her standing at the foot of the stairs and threaded his way among dozens of pieces of old furniture, most of them draped, to reach the workbench her father had used when he maintained the property. “Not all of it’s old,” he mused, examining her father’s tools.

“We haven’t changed much, just that small corner. My dad built a work area so he’d have a place to store his tools and extension cords, that type of thing. He uses it if I need something fixed and he’s in town to do it. But he’s gone so much these days that I usually hire James Reed.”

“I know James,” he said. “He helped build the guesthouse behind my place.” He turned to look around him. “What do you plan to do with all this furniture?”

“Nothing, for now. I’m just hanging on to it, in case I need it later.”

“So where was Mary found?”

She pointed to the closet behind her, under the stairs. “Right there.”

“What made her father look for her here?” he asked when he reached it and opened the door to peer inside. “Did she come down here often? Because I tend to believe that this dark basement would frighten even a child of the Victorian era, especially one who’s only six years old.”

Eve had meant to get him the collection of newspaper articles a team of researchers had dug up for
Unsolved Mysteries.
They would tell him almost as much as she could, since that was where she’d gotten the bulk of her information. But she’d been too preoccupied with Brent the past couple of days to search the attic, where she’d put them. “He told the police it was because she liked to play with a train set he kept down here, out of harm’s way.”

“Harm’s way?”

“He apparently said it wasn’t for her use. And with the boiler...this wouldn’t be the safest place for a child to play.”

“You think he might have killed her for touching something he considered off-limits?”

“That
could
be what triggered his temper. According to the reports I’ve read, that’s what some people believed. He carved the various pieces of the train himself, and they were quite intricate. There was a picture of one in the paper. Actually, it was a hand drawing.”

“Has any of the train survived?”

“No. The day after he died, his wife threw his train set and all his papers in the hearth and burned them up.”

“I’m sure some found that symbolic.”

“I would imagine.”

Ted scratched his neck. “When and how did John Hatfield die?”

“He fell down these stairs and broke his hip soon after World War I began. He was never the same after that.”

“If Mary died in 1871, he must’ve been old by then.”

“Seventy-something. I’m sure his age didn’t help his recovery.”

“Did Harriett stay here long after he passed?”

Eve bent to peer under the stairs as he was doing. She hadn’t opened that door since
Unsolved Mysteries
filmed here. “No. But no one’s really sure where she went.”

The door at the top of the stairs suddenly slammed shut, and Eve froze as her gaze met Ted’s. “See what I mean?”

“It could’ve been a draft.”

“That slammed it with such force?”

He didn’t seem convinced, either, but he shrugged as if it was possible. They waited to see if anything else was going to happen, but when nothing did, she went back to what she’d been saying about Harriett Hatfield. “Anyway, John’s nephew Willard, and his young wife, Betsy, came all the way from Boston for the funeral and were planning to stay indefinitely and help Harriett with the house. But before they could even bury John, she slipped out, made her way to Sacramento where she could catch the train and...disappeared.”

“Without saying a word to anyone.”

“If you’re asking how she bought a ticket if she wouldn’t talk, I don’t know. Maybe she only talked when she had to.”

“No one knows where she went?”

“Most people think she went to live with her sister in South Carolina, where she was from.”

He took the flashlight she’d brought down with them, turned it on and angled the beam into the corners of the closetlike space where Mary’s body had been found. “She was strangled?”

“And beaten.”

He grimaced, no doubt feeling the same distaste she did. “So what happened to this place after Harriett left?”

“John and Betsy tried to stay on. They’d brought all their belongings. But they didn’t last long before heading back. Betsy didn’t like it here.”

“Do we know why?”

“The locals blamed it on Mary’s ghost. Said it wouldn’t give her any peace, since both she and her husband were strong advocates for John. They put the house up for sale but couldn’t get any offers. No one wanted to live in a haunted home, so it sat empty for several years and fell into disrepair—until it was purchased for half its value by an eccentric widow from Portland named Luddy Lewis. She came to live here, alone, in 1925.”

“Luddy didn’t mind living with a ghost?”

“The whole reason she bought the place was to put Mary’s ghost to rest. She said she could be the poor girl’s ‘voice’ and reveal her murderer.”

Ted turned off the flashlight, and the basement seemed even dimmer than when they’d first entered. “How did she plan to do that?”

“Claimed she could converse with the dead.”

“Was she a fortune-teller?”

“No, just...eccentric, like I said.”

“Where did she get her money?”

“That, I couldn’t tell you. I suppose from her dead husband’s estate.”

“And did she learn anything from Mary after she moved in here?”

“You can’t be serious....”

“I’m curious as to what she might have claimed.”

“She didn’t point a finger right away. But after several months, when a newspaper reporter confronted her, she said it was the boy next door. That he raped and killed Mary.”

Ted straightened. “Really! What did the boy next door have to say about that—assuming he was still alive when this happened?”

“The records aren’t complete enough to indicate which boy she was talking about. During the time Mary lived here, there were children, boys and girls, on both sides, so it seemed like a convenient answer to the puzzle—a way to come up with something original that couldn’t be disproved.”

Turning the flashlight back on, Ted pointed it at the corners. “Did Harriett ever accuse her husband? Outright accuse him, I mean?”

“Not that anyone’s ever said.”

“She didn’t come forward, even after he died?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think she’d do that, if she truly believed he was to blame for murdering their child? If he was the reason she wouldn’t talk, why wouldn’t she advertise the truth once he was gone and could no longer punish her?”

“Maybe she thought it was too late. Or she blamed herself. Felt guilty for not leaving him when she first learned he was dangerous or for being unable to stand up to him and protect her daughter.”