Unseen (20 page)

And besides, he needed time to plan his next hunt. For her. He knew where she haunted.

His head wanted to explode. He could feel the need building.

Seth had given him time. And he was going to use it.

Chapter Sixteen

What had she been thinking?

Gemma groaned internally as she watched Will work his way through his dessert. She was hovering by the kitchen even though she’d been officially relieved of duty for the day.

Macie gazed at her indulgently. “He’s real cute.”

“I told him I read his mind.”

“How’d that go for you?”

She made a strangled sound. “He thinks I’m a nut case. And now we’re going to go look at Jean’s car.” Quickly she filled Macie in on the call from Patrick Johnson and her trip to his farm. “Why did I call him?” she asked, staring at Will. “If I’d kept it to myself, maybe he would have never known.”

“Oh, you know yourself better than that. If you can’t remember, that’s one thing. But purposely hiding that information? Just not like you, hon.”

An hour later she was in Will’s car again and they were on their way. In her head Gemma had tried out about fifty different openings to explain herself, but none of them seemed like they would work.

Her nerves were drawn tight. As they approached the lane to Johnny’s Farm, she actually pulled back in her seat, afraid of what he would find.

Will flicked her a look, his own thoughts spinning fifteen different ways. It was silly, maybe, but he was having a damn hard time holding on to his emotions, keeping them packed away under lock and key. He didn’t want any of that “I can feel your emotions” to be even marginally true. She’d known he wanted to kiss her before he’d really admitted it to himself. No big mystery. Some people were just better at picking up those kinds of vibes, women especially.

But still…he felt a little out of control and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

Gemma pointed out the lane to turn onto and Will bumped the cruiser along a pothole filled quarter-mile of leanly graveled track. The rain was coming down in shivering fits and the wipers were slapping quickly back and forth to clear the windshield.

As he pulled up to a farmhouse a wiry, older man wearing a fedora stepped off the porch and introduced himself as Patrick Johnson. His gaze flicked over Will’s uniform as he and Gemma climbed out of the car and hurried to the protection of the porch. Will shot a glance at Gemma, whose face was unnaturally white.

“You okay?” he asked her. She’d been pretty quiet in the car.

She brushed hair away from her face and the wind tossed it back in front of her eyes. “Jean’s car’s in the barn,” she said, pointing to the building opposite the house.

“C’mon, then,” Johnson said, leading the way, bending his head against the elements. He threw open the sliding door with surprising strength and they all scurried inside. Johnson left the door open and rain smacked against the back of Will’s jacket as he stared at the beat-up silver Camry taking center stage. Above was a hayloft and leaks in the roof were tossing down streams of water.

One look at the license plate and Will knew that this was indeed Jean LaPorte’s car. He’d read the plate numbers enough times to have memorized them.

And it was wrecked front, back, and center. He, too, shot a look at Gemma and she caught it and understood.

“I’m lucky to be alive,” she said.

“From the looks of it. Yeah.” He turned to Johnson. “Your grandson drove Gemma to the hospital?”

“That’s right.”

“In what car?”

“He has a gray Japanese one, too.”

“A Camry?”

Johnson shook his head. “He’ll be home soon. You can talk to him.”

“You and your grandson pulled the car from the ditch together?”

Will bent down in front of the vehicle, paying deep attention to the front bumper. When he straightened he realized Gemma was shifting her weight guiltily from one foot to the other and Johnson’s frown had deepened as he clearly considered the ramifications of his actions and what the authorities might make of them.

Will said, “I’m going to have the car impounded.” He punched a number into his cell phone and talked to someone who would take care of it.

As Will hung up, Johnson looked around as if he were trapped. “We weren’t trying to hide nothing.”

“You probably saved my life,” Gemma said quickly, absolving him of any wrongdoing.

They headed back outside and across to the farmhouse porch.

“My grandson, Andy…” Johnson spurted out, then stopped himself when a well-used, older model silver Acura bumped toward them up the drive. Billy Mendes got it wrong, Will realized as he watched the car pull to a stop. It had just seemed like Gemma’s savior had been driving her mother’s car, but in reality Gemma’s savior, Andy Johnson, had simply possessed a car that was similar in style and color.

Andy stepped out and stopped short at the sight of the three of them. He looked ready to bolt, but Patrick waved him over. Reluctantly he bent his head to the rain and wind, his head and shoulders getting soaked in those few seconds as he crossed to where they stood, a scowl across his face. “Yeah?”

Patrick explained that Gemma had called the sheriff’s department and the Camry was going to be impounded. “Why?” Andy demanded belligerently. “She just went in the ditch.”

Will didn’t bother to address that. Instead, he said, “Why didn’t you see Gemma into the hospital? Why drive her there and drop her off at the door?”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, son,” Patrick said. “They’re just taking the car and going.”

“I was afraid for her, okay? She was bleeding.” Andy gestured backwards toward the Acura. “All over my car! And she said she was fine. Said it over and over again.”

“Could you show me where you found the car in the ditch?”

Will could feel the reluctance and hostility coming off the younger man in waves. Will had met his type many times. Guys who resented authority figures, especially cops. Andy Johnson had been up to something the night he brought Gemma to the hospital, some smaller crime, Will would bet. Smoking dope with some buddies. Shooting off pistols in their backyards after having a few drinks. Stealing gas from some neighbor’s car. He didn’t really care what it was, he just wanted as much information as he could get.

Eventually, Andy drove him and Gemma to the crash site. They pulled to a stop and all three got out of the car. Gemma held her hand to her forehead to fight off the fits of rain, and Will bent forward to view the ditch. Broken Scotch-broom limbs and deep ruts in the field grass told the story. Will could see the tire marks where Johnson’s truck had backed in and winched the Camry from where it landed.

He didn’t say much as they returned to the ranch, and he said less as he and Gemma climbed back into his vehicle and headed back toward Quarry. Gemma was as remote as a distant moon. There were still hours of daylight left but you’d never know it with the black clouds making everything appear as if night had already fallen. As they neared Quarry, passing by residences, Gemma looked out the passenger window and stared at the jack o’lanterns grinning back at her, as if they knew all her secrets.

“Hard to believe Halloween’s in just a couple of days,” she remarked.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asked as they pulled into LuLu’s parking lot. He stopped next to her truck, the engine idling.

“I’m just tired,” she said. “I’ve been tired all day.” She opened the door, then took a moment before heading into the wind and rain. “I don’t know why I told you all that about me. I probably do sound half nuts. I guess we’ll know more after forensics goes over the car.” She tried to make her voice light but she could hear her own fears coming through. He couldn’t miss it.

“I’ll call you later,” he said.

“Thanks.”

She didn’t know exactly what that meant but it made her feel better. Climbing behind the wheel of her father’s truck, she followed his car out of the lot. All she wanted was a bath and bed and maybe not to wake up till tomorrow, except when he called her.

Charlotte had to wait until the last bell and then she tore from the school. She veered by the buses. If she rode, it would take her home, not to the diner, but she wanted to go to neither. She wanted to go to Gemma’s house, which the diner was closer to than her own home.

But what if Gemma wasn’t there? What if she stayed late at the diner, or just went somewhere else?

She needed to talk to her. Needed to. Maybe she should go to the diner. But that meant a different bus and the darn bus drivers knew her and wouldn’t let her off where she demanded just because she said so. Something about liability.

So, that meant walking, but walking meant going right in front of Robbie Bereth’s house and the idea gave her a crawly feeling all over her arms and legs. If his dad was there…?

The wind shot a gust at her hard enough to make her take a step back. Charlotte thought about it for a few seconds more then raced to her bus and waved at the driver, who’d shut the door but now opened it, a glower on her face at the extra effort. Like it was so-o-o-o hard.

Shivering, Charlotte climbed on. She would call Gemma at home from her house.

Leaves danced and spun down the street in a mini-cyclone. Lucky watched them, the sides of the street seeming to loom closer to each other at the far end, a natural perspective that made her feel claustrophobic. On her near right, LuLu’s diner reminded her of all the diners she’d worked in, the way she’d scratched out a living in the real world like the rest of the working stiffs, while she existed in her own world, where the rules were what she made them.

To her left was a rough-hewn pine-sided tavern with small, mean windows and a big door with an iron pickaxe handle large enough for Paul Bunyan’s hand. Smoke drifted from a river-rock chimney, to be snatched away by the wind and thrown onto the street. She could smell the acrid scent while she held her jacket down with her fists inside her pockets. Her hair flew around her face and she let it as she absorbed this moment. She was meant to be here.

She walked slowly up the street halfway, then back to the bar, aptly named the PickAxe. There was no one out in the wind. Through the windows at LuLu’s, she could make out a few customers in booths, each booth lit by a triangular lamp. They were eating diner food the same the world over: meat loaf, hamburgers, BLTs, iceberg lettuce and crouton salads with an occasional tomato thrown on top, root beer floats, and Cokes with ice.

It was with a sense of inevitability that she grabbed the iron handle and pulled open the heavy door to the PickAxe. Her eyes had to adjust to the gloom. It was just what she would have expected, almost like she’d been there before. Beaten-up fir floors, scarred tables tossed haphazardly around the room; the fireplace with crackling fir smoking up the place; a river-rock hearth meant for sitting; dull brass overhead chandeliers that had seen better days and offered minimal illumination; a couple of prized straight-backed wooden booths along one wall; a big-screen television with silent, flickering images; a highly-polished curved bar with bottles of liquor clinking gently against a background mirror, as someone had opened one of the mean, little windows and brought in the late October weather.

A man and a woman stood behind the bar, the man leaning over its expanse, reading a paper, the woman balanced against the counter with the bottles, arms wrapped under her breasts. Both of them looked at Lucky as she entered, but it was the man near the TV who barreled past the few customers at the tables and came right up to Lucky, leering with big, uneven teeth that caught her attention.

“Crazy bitch,” he said. “What are you doin’ here?”

She gazed at him curiously. He was a bully and he was scared of her. Terrified right down to his center. She sensed, too, that he would love to do her physical harm and was surprised. She’d had her share of men try to take advantage of her but not nearly so fast.

“Hey, c’mon, Kev.” The man at the bar had lifted his head from his paper and he gazed over at them, worried. The woman moved protectively to his side and Lucky saw they were together. Man and wife, by the rings on their hands.

Kev’s lips pulled back. “I know all the LaPortes, Gemma,” he spit out. “All you fuckin’ crazies.” He waved his fingers in front of her face. “Do some of your voodoo shit. Read my future.”

“Voodoo shit,” Lucky repeated.

“Kev.” The other man stepped from behind the bar and wifey charged after him, grabbing his arm as they came to where Lucky stood.

“Fuck you, Rome,” Kev said without heat. “This is between me and the LaPortes.” He pointed a finger at Lucky’s nose. “They’re all thieves. Stole our land. Got it by lying on their backs. Those county records are a fucking lie! I know about your mom and Judge Lafferty, don’t think I don’t!”

“Well, then, you’re the only one,” Lucky said. She was getting pretty fed up with this yahoo.

“Oh, that’s right, you can’t remember. Ha, ha, ha.” He clapped his hands and moved one step back to encompass the few other people in the bar. “Here’s Gemma LaPorte, our resident psychotic, but she never remembers nothin’ important. Convenient.”

Rome put a hand on Kev’s arm, but Kev shook him off and shot him a deadly look.

Lucky suddenly felt a wave of something from Rome. Appreciation? Apology? Maybe a grain or two of lust? The wife clearly wanted Lucky to go back out the door and evaporate. She was having trouble hanging on to her husband.

“He’s not cheating on you,” Lucky said to her. “Yet.”

She reared back and turned big eyes on Rome. The look of horror that crossed his face as he gazed at Lucky was almost comical.

“See!” Kev crowed. “What do you want to say about me, bitch? What about me?” He slapped his chest with his palms.

“I see you in a straight jacket in a rubber room,” Lucky improvised. “Drooling. Playing with yourself, which is the only sex you’ve had since your daddy showed you how. And you thought the LaPortes were crazy…”

Kev’s slitty eyes grew huge. Lucky took a step back, waiting for the explosion. She was pretty sure the top of his head was going to blast off. “Jean screwed all the people who count,” he said in a harsh whisper. “People in power. And she got the records changed, but that’s gonna change back. The Dunleavys are getting their land back. And the LaPortes can just go fuck themselves!”