You Don't Want To Know (31 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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Swallowing back her fear, she walked again through the apartment as it went silent again, and she wondered if someone below could hear her footsteps.
But nothing was disturbed. Everything seemed as if someone had shut the door on this floor a decade earlier and never returned.
The silence was crushing.
No more cries.
Only the keen of the wind.
All she could see were draped pieces of furniture. Slowly at first, then more quickly, she started throwing off the sheeting, exposing forgotten kitchen chairs, an ancient chaise used by her grandmother, televisions from the eighties, pictures of long-dead relatives, and an easy chair that had been her father's favorite. One by one, she flung the sheets off, then stopped suddenly.
She thought she heard the sound of a boat's engine over the rush of the wind.
Wyatt!
She had to work faster.
Smarter.
The baby's cries had sounded in Noah's bedroom on the second floor and Wyatt's office on the first, so if the sound traveled down some shaft, then it made sense that it would start from the room directly above, or below; although, so far, she'd discounted the basement. Now she walked down the short hallway to the bedrooms, found the one she thought was in the right area, and stepped inside.
The floor wasn't as dusty in here it seemed, but the room was furnished sparsely, with two twin bed frames without mattresses pushed to opposite walls, on either side of a window. She pulled open the window shade and peered outside, spying the upper branches of the same tree that could be seen from Wyatt's office and the nursery.
This had to be the room.
But it was empty.
She shined her flashlight all along the floorboards, then opened the closet. Empty, aside from some luggage, an old trunk, a few dusty suitcases, and a hatbox on the shelf.
She pulled out the hatbox and found nothing but a pink pillbox hat reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy and the early sixties and a few faded but dressy “hostess” aprons, one with the price tag still on it, all circa 1960.
Heart sinking, the sound of the boat's engine growing louder, she felt as if she'd failed. But she'd heard her son's voice. Loud. From this damned attic—she was certain of it.
She glanced down at the suitcases in the closet. Two red Samsonite bags with plastic handgrips and a smaller roller bag.
She stared at them, feeling the hairs on her arm lift. She had no idea when roller bags came into fashion, but certainly a lot later than the 1960s. It was out of place. Hardly daring to breathe, she carefully unzipped the bag and, pulling up the top, she found what she was looking for: a small digital player and some kind of wireless connection.
“You bitch,” she said between clenched teeth, because she was certain Jewel-Anne was behind this.
But how could she set it up? She's in a wheelchair.
Ava's first thought was to rip the damned roller bag from the closet and drag it down to Jewel-Anne's room, throw it onto her cousin's frilly bed, and lift the top, then demand answers.
But she wouldn't get any.
Jewel-Anne would just deny it. Everyone would insinuate Ava had somehow rigged the equipment up herself. No, that wouldn't do. Somehow, she had to beat Jewel-Anne, and whoever else was behind this, at their own game.
As the drone of the boat's engine slowed, indicating it was being docked, she set the suitcase back in its spot, closed the closet door, and quickly and carefully threw back the dust covers she'd torn off the furniture. The rooms weren't quite as they had been when she'd entered, and the dust had surely been disturbed, but she couldn't worry about little details.
Heart drumming, she glanced around. The screwdriver! She stumbled and groped till she found it; then she turned off the flashlight, let herself out the back window, and climbed back up the fire escape. She only prayed that Wyatt, or whoever had docked the boat, wouldn't see her. With surprising agility, she scaled the ladder, her feet slipping only once. Hauling herself over the rail, she scurried across the widow's walk to the door at the top of the stairs.
The rain was still lashing, but she ignored it as she forced open the door, then reentered the uppermost hallway, grabbed the keys, and locked the door behind her. Her nightgown was dripping on the stairs, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she raced downward, past the third floor, and paused at the second. If she could let herself out here, take the chance that whoever was behind this wouldn't notice the dead bolt had been turned . . .
She had to do it. It was too much of a risk to run down to the first floor and chance running into whoever was returning.
It's Wyatt; of course it's Wyatt. Who else would take the psychiatrist back to Anchorville?
Weird, though—why wouldn't he stay the night?
To keep up pretenses, of course!
Taking a chance, she let herself out of the stairwell and stepped onto the carpet of the second floor, just as she heard the front door creak open.
Damn!
How could she explain herself, the fact that she was drenched? If only she could trust her husband, confide in him, but she was certain he was part of those who were against her.
Why? If he's in love with another woman, why not just divorce me?
But he had been against the divorce before—she remembered that much—and though she knew not a shred of love still connected them, and he was involved with someone else, he refused to give up.
Because of the money. He wants control of this estate and everything you've inherited or made.
That thought had crossed her mind before, but she'd always dismissed it. Wyatt was wealthy in his own right, had a great job, made more than enough money. He didn't want hers. And if he did, why not just kill her and be done with it? She knew the answer to that. Wyatt wasn't a murderer. It wasn't in his blood.
Then why am I so scared? My heart is racing, my hands are sweating, and I'm hardly daring to breathe for fear that I'll be caught.
Because deep in her soul, she believed he wanted her committed, was looking for a way to send her back to St. Brendan's, or worse.
She heard him walk into the den and knew that this was her chance. While he was still settling into his chair, turning on his computer and the lights, she had to dash up the stairs and hope that he didn't notice.
Easing along the hallway, she sneaked a peek over the railing to the foyer and then, seeing the lights go on in the den, she ran, on her tiptoes, soft and light.
Quick, quick, quick! Don't trip!
He cleared his throat and she nearly missed a step but continued around the corner. The door to her room was open, but she didn't dare close it for fear he would hear the noise. In the dark, she opened her drawer, found a new set of pajamas in the bureau, then slipped into the bathroom where she quickly changed and towel-dried her hair. Thinking he might have heard her rustling around, she kicked her nightgown into the corner of the room and flushed the toilet.
She stepped into her room and gasped.
She wasn't alone.
A man stood in the doorway, the light from the hall spilling his looming silhouette into stark relief.
“What's going on, Ava?” Trent asked just as she recognized her cousin.
Ava almost sank to the floor with relief that she didn't have to explain herself to her husband.
“I just went to the bathroom.”
“From the hallway?” he asked. “I saw you in the corridor.”
Busted!
“Oh . . . well, I did go to Noah's room,” she said, thinking quickly. “Please don't tell anyone, but I thought I heard him again, and I just went to the nursery before I realized . . . that it couldn't be. It must've been all part of a dream. A . . . nightmare.”
He eyed her nightgown and wet hair.
“What're you doing up so late?” she asked, trying to deflect the conversation.
“Just got back from across the bay. Wyatt asked me to take Eve, er, Evelyn home.”
“Why didn't he do it himself?”
Trent lifted a shoulder. “Beats me.”
“Where is he now?”
“Again, I don't know, but you should.” He glanced pointedly at the rumpled bed. “Wyatt sleeping in another room?”
She didn't answer and he inclined his head, taking her silence as an answer. “I think I'll turn in.” He gave the door frame a couple of pats. “See you in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
“And, Ava?”
“Hmmm?” Suddenly bone-tired, she was already walking to the bed.
“The next time you go climbing up to the widow's walk in the middle of the night in a friggin' monsoon, you might take an umbrella.”
“Wha—”
Her heart sank as she realized she'd already been caught in one lie and would have to come up with another.
“I saw you, cousin. On the roof.” Lines of concern bracketed his mouth. “What the hell were you doing up there?”
“I couldn't sleep,” she lied easily. “I was thinking of my son and my brother. Kelvin never even got to meet his nephew, and so I went up to the widow's walk because that's the best place to view the spot where the
Bloody Mary
went down.”
“So why lie to me about it?”
Was he actually hurt?
“And admit to doing one more crazy thing?”
He sighed, looking back toward the hall and running a hand around the back of his neck. “Going up there in the rain in the middle of the night, in a rager like the one tonight? It really isn't sane, Ava. It's dangerous. Like chasing after an image of your son and ending up in the bay.”
“Please, Trent. Don't tell anyone.”
He hesitated and she felt his indecision, his faith in her sliding away.
“Please.”
He let out his breath in a rush as from downstairs, the grandfather clock bonged once. One o'clock. “I won't say anything, but you have to promise me you'll get help. If not with Eve, then someone else. This isn't right, Ava,” he said, shaking his head.
“I'm not crazy. I'm really not.” She couldn't help the feeling of disappointment deep in her chest or the slight sound of accusation in her tone.
“You need help, Ava,” he retorted. Then, shaking his head, he added, “Maybe we all do. But go to bed, would ya? And stay there till morning, this time. It's late.”
“I will,” she promised, and as he shut the door, she realized she'd lost the trust of one of the few people she'd considered an ally. Trent would never believe her again.
Now she was completely on her own.
CHAPTER 31
T
he trouble with lies is that they continue to grow and grow and not always in a straight line. Sometimes they twisted, like a writhing snake; other times they split as if they were a forked tree; other times they splintered, flying in all directions, shards of the lie cutting deep and showing up where least expected. If you were going to be a liar, and a good one, you had to be at the top of your game, always remembering to whom you said what, which was difficult. Since a lie wasn't based in reality, there was no sound basis on which it stood, no solid rock; instead it was based on shifting quicksand ready to drag you down and bury you with your inconsistencies.
Fortunately for Ava, lying hadn't been a problem. She'd always been a straight shooter.
Until now.
“Get used to it,” she muttered, her cell phone to her ear as she stood at her window watching the clouds shift across the bay, waiting for Tanya to pick up. After her discoveries last night, Ava needed an accomplice, someone she could trust—and the people in that category were dwindling fast.
She heard Tanya's muffled voice as she spoke to someone nearby, then more clearly, “Okay, I checked my schedule and I really can't get out of here until after three unless I can do some serious appointment shuffling. I've got Gloria Byers coming in at one for a cut and color, and it always takes a couple of hours, minimum. After that, I'm good. Russ has kid duty tonight. He's picking them up after school, trying to play the part of ‘good dad' again, I guess. It makes me nervous, but there's nothing I can do about it, so I've got the evening off.”
Ava glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly ten already. “I'd like to leave by noon, but see what you can do and call me back.”
“Will do. You know, sometimes it's just a bitch being a single mother.” She hung up, her frustration still sizzling over the wireless connection, and Ava tried to figure out what she would do if she didn't have Tanya as her “cover.” Without a friend with her, it would be almost impossible to avoid suspicion about her trip to Seattle for the equipment she needed.
She gritted her teeth, already worried about buying the microphones and video cameras. Wyatt would be able to see the bank statement if she used a credit or debit card, and she didn't want him becoming suspicious.
She'd always had her own, separate checking account, credit cards, and savings. She'd managed her investment account and created her own financial independence only to lose it upon her admission into the hospital. Since that time, however, whenever she'd brought up the need for her “own” money, Wyatt had assured her that they'd “work things out” once she was “better.”
Him having total control over her finances would have to stop. Directly after this subversive trip into Seattle.
As she was reaching for her sweater, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she saw Tanya's number flash on the screen.
“Okay, it's a go,” Tanya said cheerfully. “I managed to switch everything around. Turns out good ol' Gloria needed to reschedule anyway. Looks like I can get out of here at eleven.”
“Perfect. I'm on my way! Can we use your car?”
“You bet. As long as you buy me lunch. And I'm not talkin' about a hot dog and a soda at the ferry landing. Uh-uh. I'm talking
serious,
over-the-top Seattle lunch complete with an expensive glass of wine and a view of the harbor. Treat me like the GD princess I'm supposed to be.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Always.”
Ava laughed for the first time that day. “It's a deal.”
Thank God for Tanya!
The Reynolds case was going nowhere fast, and Snyder was bugged as he sat at his computer, a cup of coffee long forgotten on his desk. He didn't hear the phones ringing nor see the two deputies saunter past his desk on their way to the back of the building. He was too engrossed in his work and was reading the autopsy report on Cheryl Reynolds for the third time.
Not that there were any big surprises in the document, but he'd hoped he'd missed something important in the first two passes. According to the ME, Cheryl Reynolds had died because both her jugular vein and carotid artery had been sliced open, after she'd been nearly strangled to death.
So the killer had to be someone strong enough to crush her larynx before slitting her throat from one ear to the other. Brutal son of a bitch . . . and he probably knew her. The attack seemed personal, as if the person wanted to make a point rather than just kill the woman.
He switched the screen and stared, once more, at the list of trace evidence found at the scene. Nothing that would help. Nothing out of place, except for a single black hair, that, for all he knew, could belong to one of the cats or even another of Cheryl's clients who'd stepped into the laundry room. Nothing stolen, it seemed, and no one even trying to mask the crime as a robbery gone bad.
Again, he thought the attack was pointed and personal.
There were no eyewitness reports of someone lurking about, no neighbor spying a stranger or anyone suspicious on the premises. The tenants upstairs, possibly smoking dope from the scent in their apartment, hadn't heard a thing.
Typical.
Why, he wondered, would a woman who had lived in Anchorville peacefully for decades, with no known enemies, suddenly be the victim of such a vicious, pointed attack?
Random?
It just didn't feel like it.
The last known person to see Reynolds alive was Ava Garrison, but her story had seemed to hold water; her statement and timeline about seeing the hypnotist was spot-on and gelled with other witnesses' accounts who'd helped offer up an alibi for her. But Cheryl Reynolds's time of death had happened soon, if not immediately, after the Garrison woman had left. And she was far from mentally stable, had even tried to kill herself.
Maybe that counted for something; maybe it didn't.
Other than her one suicide attempt, there was no history of violence surrounding her. She had been rumored to be a hard-nosed businesswoman once, a bitch by some standards, but that was before she'd had a son and then lost her only child.
He grimaced. Too bad, that.
She'd never given up on the kid, and after she'd shown up at his office a few days earlier, Snyder had pulled the file and reviewed it. There had been no leads in the case from the get-go and none since. The kid had vanished, and when no ransom note had appeared, when no kidnappers had contacted the Garrisons, his theory had changed. Snyder's private opinion, a theory he couldn't prove, was that there had been some bad accident, where the kid had died and whoever had killed him had dumped the body—stashing it somewhere before dropping it in the open sea.
The mother? Unlikely.
Then again, she had issues.
Frustrated, he drummed his fingers on his desk while he rolled over all the evidence in his mind.
So lost in thought was he that he didn't notice Biggs stroll into his cubicle. Only when the sheriff cleared his throat did Snyder look up and find the ponderous man filling the little extra space around his desk.
Biggs's reading glasses were pushed onto the top of his head, and he was chewing gum with a vengeance. “Anything new on the Reynolds case?”
“Just goin' over the autopsy and evidence reports, but no, nothing.”
Biggs scowled. Chewed harder. “The press is all over the PIO, and I'd like her to be able to give them something positive to work with.”
It figured. “As soon as I have something that won't compromise the case, I'll call Natalie.” Snyder thought about the petite, wiry public information officer and didn't envy her that job.
“The sooner the better. I can't have an unsolved homicide on my watch.” He shook his head, the glasses shifting enough that he pulled them from his graying crew cut, folded the bows, and stuffed the readers into a shirt pocket. “And I'm sick to the back teeth of my ex-sister-in-law calling me about all that shit that goes on out on the island. Buried dolls and all that.” He made a disgusted snort. “Virginia, she doesn't know what
ex
means.” Frowning, he said, “I suppose there's still nothing on Lester Reece, right? I'd love to give the press something to feed on.”
“No recent sightings, no, sir.”
Biggs's eyes narrowed a bit, as if he thought Snyder might be putting him on. “He's never shown up anywhere, you know.”
“Could have drowned. Been washed out to sea. Eaten by sharks or orcas.” Snyder lifted his shoulder. “It's been a long while.”
“Nonetheless.”
“We're always keeping an eye out for him.”
“Good,” Biggs grunted, then shifted and winced. “Goddamned knee. Hurts like a mother sometimes.” Rumor had it that his doctor had suggested knee replacement surgery. That same rumor said Biggs, ever bullheaded, had told the doc just where to shove that idea. Now, still chewing furiously, Biggs headed stiffly toward the back of the office building where the kitchen and restrooms were located.
Snyder turned back to his work and barely looked up when he heard Lyons approach.
“Get the pumped-up ‘we've got to catch this sum-bitch and nail his hide' speech?”
“Yep.” He glanced up at her. “You got something?”
“I found her computer notes. Plan to check 'em.”
“Aren't those confidential?”
Morgan looked toward the ceiling and shook her head. “Not unless you're a physician. Or a lawyer. Which she was neither. I just hope to all that's holy, and unholy, that something in there helps us catch a killer.”
 
From the watering trough where he was repairing a leaky faucet, Dern surreptitiously watched Ava leave. Twisting a wrench on the pipe, tightening the new stem washer over the spindle, he was finally satisfied that there would be no more leakage as he saw Ava hurry along the street. He would've thought it odd she didn't take the car but figured it was because of the limited ferry schedule, and, he knew Wyatt did keep two vehicles garaged on the other side of the bay.
As she disappeared onto the marina, he replaced the faucet's handle, managing to resist the urge to follow her. Just. That part, the leaving her alone, was getting tougher and went against all of his ridiculous, primitive yearnings.
Setting his jaw, he jogged back to the stable where he'd shut off the main valve for the outside water. He opened the valve, then returned to the trough where he checked the flow of water pouring from the faucet, then turned the spigot off and checked his work, confirming that no water was seeping out. The new washer was holding. “Good enough,” he said to himself, and felt one of the horses approaching. Looking over his shoulder, he spied Jasper, who snorted softly, shooting twin jets of hot breath from his nostrils.
“Want to help?” Dern asked. “Or maybe a drink, eh?”
He filled the large cement basin that looked as if it had been around for over fifty years, and the horse moved forward, put his head over the trough, and snorted again, sending the fresh water rippling away.
“You know the old saying about leading a horse to water?” Dern asked, and patted the gelding's broad forehead as he glanced out to the bay and watched a boat head across the steely waters toward Anchorville. “So,” he said to the horse, “how about you and me take a ride?”
Still wondering where Ava was going, he snapped a lead onto Jasper's halter, then led the gelding to the stable where he saddled up before heading out again. It didn't matter that Ava had left the island; Dern considered it a good sign that she was getting off this damned rock, but it seemed wherever she went, trouble followed.
And more often than not, trouble's partner was danger.
Isn't that hypocritical considering your own agenda?
He stared at the boat speeding across the bay and felt an overwhelming urge to take off after it. “Idiot,” he told himself, and fought back the temptation. He couldn't tip his hand. Not yet. If he constantly showed up every time Ava was somewhere off the island, and she caught sight of him, she'd become suspicious and he couldn't have that. She wouldn't buy the whole coincidence explanation. She wasn't
that
crazy. In fact, he suspected, she wasn't crazy at all. But someone on this island was. The buried doll was proof enough of that.

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