In the Waning Light (23 page)

“Keep backing away,” he whispered. “Get into the truck. Slowly. No sudden movements. Open the door for me.”

“What about you?”

“Do it.”

Meg slowly backed away, then turned and made carefully for the truck. Blake stood his ground, weapon trained on the attack animal, the bile of hatred rising in his throat. What kind of men did this to a dog?

He heard the doors open, and he cast a careful glance over his shoulder. Meg was safely inside. Slowly, he started moving.

He was almost at the truck when Keevan Mack released the dog with a sharp command and it barreled for him, low along the ground.

Blake turned and ran, breath rasping in his chest. He reached the truck. Meg had clambered over into the driver’s seat on the far side and started the engine. He dived for the passenger seat as the animal’s jaw clamped onto his boot. He shook it off as she started to drive, the door open. She bombed down the dirt road as he pulled himself fully inside and closed the door. His body was wet with sweat.

“Thank God you had the keys inside,” she snapped. Her cheeks were red with anger. Her body was shaking. “They have no right to keep an animal like that. I’m going to report them. Phone Kovacs,” she said, digging in her pocket, handing him her phone. “Tell him the Macks did it. They shot out my house, vandalized it.”

He stared at her. She was unbelievable. Adrenaline was slamming so hard through him he thought his chest was going to burst. He sat back, her phone in hand, and he started to laugh. She shot him a look, her expression puzzled. “What in the hell’s so funny?”

He laughed harder, wiping his eyes, and the relief felt good. Her lips curved into a slow smile, then she laughed, too.

At the bottom of the road, once they’d exited the Braden property, he said, “Stop. Stop right here.”

Her smile died, and she slowed, drawing over onto the road shoulder.

He grabbed her behind the neck, pulled her close, and kissed her hard. She stiffened in shock, then softened almost instantly and turned hungrily, furiously toward him, breathing hard as her hands peeled back his shirt, buttons popping as her lips forced open his mouth, her tongue entering, seeking his, her teeth scouring his lips. He slid his hand under her T-shirt, into her bra, groaning as he found her nipple tight and hard. He felt her hands going down his waist, unbuckling his jeans, sliding into his pants. Her palm, her fingers, were soft, warm, as they cupped his balls, started massaging his cock. He tilted his hips, giving her access as his brain swirled into heady oblivion. She angled her head, coming up higher in the driver’s seat, pushing him back into the passenger seat.

He fumbled wildly to undo her belt buckle.

A loud honking stirred logic, slowly, thickly, back into Meg’s brain. She paused, her lips pressed against Blake’s, her breathing ragged, her skin hot. She glanced slowly up.

“Uh, Blake,” she murmured against his mouth, “I think we’re blocking someone’s driveway.” A woman in a white SUV laid on her horn, long and loud, gesticulating angrily with her free hand.

Meg scrambled awkwardly off him, pulling her shirt closed. “You drive,” she said, voice hoarse, her brain reeling, a wild panic beginning to lick around the edges of her mind. She tried to maneuver her body over Blake’s as he wriggled under her into the driver’s seat. He zipped up his pants and she hurriedly fastened her belt buckle and pulled on her seat belt. She waved a “sorry” to the impatient woman, and groped for her phone that had fallen on the floor. Her lips felt raw, swollen. She was breathing hard.

She’d been so fired up, and so swept into his laughter. And when she’d felt his mouth against hers . . . this couldn’t happen again.

She keyed her phone, put it to her ear.

He pulled back onto the road. The woman in the SUV spat dirt up with her tires and she hit the gas and honked again as she turned aggressively in the opposite direction. Meg’s heart thudded.

“Reminds me of the time we stole Mrs. Hargreave’s apples from her prize tree,” he said.

She shot him a look. Be damned if he wasn’t still grinning, those dimples deep in his cheeks. His eyes danced with light as he met her gaze.

“Remember? You were just a little older than Noah. Me, around twelve. We bundled the apples into our T-shirts and bolted for the brick wall. She set her sausage dog on us.”

The memory stirred through Meg, and she couldn’t help the grin that stole over her face. “It bit your big toe.”

“Moral of the story—never wear flip-flops when stealing apples.” He changed lanes, turning onto the coast highway, heading back toward Shelter Bay. Rain began to fleck the windows. The sea was gunmetal gray, broody. “It was the only time I’d ever been bitten by a dog, and it was a sausage dog. How ignoble is that? At least this one was a Doberman.”

Her call picked up. “Kovacs.”

She jerked back to business. “Dave. It’s me, Meg. I know who vandalized my house. It was the Mack brothers, had to be. They have access to bovine blood, and the wording of the graffiti fits someone angry with me, and my father as a killer.”

Silence.

“You there, Dave?”

“Uh, yeah, Meg, can I call you back in a minute?” The line went dead.

Dave Kovacs killed Meg’s call and continued to watch the interview with Sally Braden through the two-way glass.

“The .22 rifle we found in your vehicle belongs to your brother-in-law, Henry Thibodeau,” the interrogator seated opposite Braden said. “Is that correct?”

She did not reply.

“Did you take it from his gun safe?”

Silence.

“We found traces of cattle blood in the back of your SUV, Sally.”

Sally Braden looked down at the table, a fall of hair screening her profile from Dave’s view.

“The GPS in your vehicle shows that you came from Braden Cattle farm in Chillmook, where you do the books for your cousin. The GPS shows that you drove directly to Forest End subdivision, and into Forest Lane. Was this where you were at four a.m. yesterday, Sally?”

Sally cleared her throat, shifted in her chair, but did not reply.

“We found someone who can place your vehicle there, Sally, parked under a cherry tree. A witness who had the presence of mind to recall your vehicle registration, which is how we found you.”

Silence.

Frustration sparked through Dave. Unofficially, very quietly, after listening to Meg interview his dad, he’d reopened the old Sherry Brogan case. He wasn’t sure what he might find, or whether he’d care for the answers if he did find anything. He trusted his dad. He believed his father had acted with the best intent, and out of a deep
compassion for people he cared about. But for his own sake now, Dave needed to understand fully what had gone down all those years ago, and how it might come back to bite him during the election. And Sally Braden was a confounding addition to the puzzle. What had driven her to spook Meg like this? Was she capable of worse?

Sally had known Sherry Brogan fairly well—they’d been in the same class during their final year of school. Her younger sister, Lori-Beth, had been in Meg’s grade. Sally had been driving drunk with Lori-Beth about six years after Sherry’s murder, and had caused a five-car pileup in which her sister had been paralyzed from the waist down. Her family, a branch of the Bradens in Chillmook, had suffered financially as a result. The accident had killed Sally’s plans for college. After serving her sentence for criminally negligent homicide, she’d gone straight to work at the family slaughterhouse. She had never married and spent most of her time visiting and caring for her sister, perhaps out of some terrible guilt.

The interviewer leaned forward. “Did you intend to harm Meg Brogan?”

Sally cleared her throat. “I want a lawyer.”

Dave cursed, and left the room.

Meg climbed out of Blake’s truck, irritated that Dave Kovacs had not called right back. She reached for her tote and slung it over her shoulder. “Thanks, Blake. I’ll see you at the marina later.”

“Sure you don’t want me to come with you to see Emma?”

“She’ll be far more candid with me alone.”

He held her gaze, his expression intense. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought of how close they’d come to having sex on the side of the road. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

But he waited in his truck until she’d climbed into her own rig, started the engine, and pulled into the road. He followed behind her all the way to the coast road intersection, and when she turned north toward town, he tooted his horn, and turned left, heading to the school to pick up Noah.

Meg drove about a mile before quickly pulling over onto the shoulder.

Engine running, she dialed Jonah. She needed desperately to hear his voice. Sure, he’d broken it off, but she’d also made it clear to him that she was working to win him back. She just needed to hear him speak, to get a sense of what he was thinking, because she was muddled as all hell now. Kissing Blake like that, just being with him, made her feel as though the ground she knew so well had been ripped right out from under her feet, and she was flailing in some other reality.

The call kicked to voice mail. She killed the call, chewed her lip, then dialed his city office.

“Lawson and Associates,” came the crisp French-accented voice of his receptionist, Elise LeFevre. Meg could picture her sitting there in her sleek pencil skirt and white blouse, six languages and two degrees under her belt, an impeccable physique, flawless skin. Mani-pedi once a week. How Jonah had convinced her to answer telephones was still a mystery to Meg. Probably money. Or promise of work on the investigation side down the road.

“Elise, hi, is Jonah in?”

A moment’s pause. “Megan?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s out of town. On a contract. You . . . you’ve tried his cell?”

Genius. “Yes, I’ve tried his cell, and there’s no reply, which is why I’m trying here. Do you know where I can reach him?”

Meg heard the hesitation. She closed her eyes. So this really was it—she was now an outsider to Jonah’s circles. Bitterness filled her mouth. “It’s important I reach him, Elise.”

“He’s in Vancouver.”

“Vancouver, Washington?”

“Canada. British Columbia.”

Her brain raced. She thought of the news reports on television before she’d left home. Four running shoes, different sizes, three left, one right, none matching, had been found over a period of eight months along the beaches and river banks of the Seattle area. All containing the disarticulated remains of human feet. There had been similar finds in Canada, just north of the Washington border.

“Jan Mascioni’s case?” she said.

“He’s been asked to consult, yes. It’s a cross-border joint task force now. I’m sorry, Meg, I don’t know more. The best number to reach him on is his cell.”

“Which hotel is he staying at?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Liar.

“Would you like me to get a message to him?” Elise said.

“No. Thanks.” She hung up fast and sat there with her phone in her hands. A heavy, sad feeling of finality sank through her. Had she just not believed him before, when he’d said it was over? Was her hope so blind and stupid? She rested her head back, calling his face to mind. Those dark indigo eyes, chiseled planes. His sleek, muscular body. Gorgeous hands, she loved his hands so much. They could do the most amazing things. Emotion pooled under her lids.