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“This is different,” Miranda said, and a new uneasiness slithered down Claire’s spine. “I talked to her two hours ago, and she said she’d be ready but the trouble was I think she’d already been drinking.”
“Sometimes, when she needs a little confidence—”
“I know, I know, she takes a drink. But . . . oh, well, there’s nothing I can do. I’ll see you at the party. Maybe Tessa will show up.”
“Maybe,” Claire said, but stared out the window to the woods where her son had disappeared. He’d come home. He always did, but not until he was damned well good and ready.
She glanced at the evening sky and couldn’t shake a premonition of certain doom.
Thirty-three
Weston’s hand trembled as he poured liquor into a glass. He was losing it. Big time. And it bugged the hell out of him. Tonight Dutch Holland was making his official bid to run for governor. And while the bastard was at it, wining and dining Oregon’s elite, dancing the night away, laughing, drinking, getting ready for a late-in-life thrill ride, the police would begin piecing together what had happened to Hunter Riley.
Not to mention what Kane Moran with all of his damned research had uncovered. Hell.
Weston lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips and stared out the windows of his office, a panoramic view of the town of Chinook and further, beyond the rooftops, the vast Pacific Ocean, dark and brooding, a mirror of his own fathomless thoughts. His office was dark except for light spilling in from the hallway and he caught sight of his reflection in the glass, a ghostly figure, drinking alone, beyond which the lights of the town glowed fiercely. It was as if he was super-imposed over the rest of Chinook and that was as it should be, a Taggert always in the shadows, always above, always making an impression over the town.
But there was another image as well, one he saw only in his mind’s eye, a small boy locked in a dark basement, threatened with losing his home, his inheritance, his parents’ love.
“Don’t you ever talk back to me again, boy,” Neal Taggert had yelled, cuffing Weston alongside his head as he pushed him toward the basement door. “Nor your mother either. If you do, I swear, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your miserable hide and you can forget living here with me, with your ma. I’ll make sure everything goes to Harley and Paige.” His fingers had dug into Weston’s arm and he’d leaned over, closer to his son’s ear. “And I’ll even make sure any bastards I sire get more than you do.” He hadn’t laughed or smiled. Neal Taggert’s expression had been hard as stone, his eyes dark with disappointment and rage as he’d told Weston to walk into the cellar alone. Trembling, Weston had done as ordered and visibly started when the door had slammed shut behind him and he’d heard the lock slide into place.
There had been no light in that tomb, the switch had been placed at the bottom of the stairs on the other side of the door. Neal Taggert had sworn under his breath as he’d mounted the stairs and Weston had been left alone, the barest hint of light under the door his only source of illumination. He’d waited for hours, each minute seeming an eternity, fear crawling steadily up his spine, his imagination running wild with the thought of rats and spiders and bats. He’d sat at the door, his arms over his knees, his bladder so full he’d nearly passed out before he’d finally stumbled to a far corner and relieved himself against the wall. Later, the stain discovered by a maid, he’d been beaten again, his father assuming that he’d pissed just to show even more rebellion.
God, the old man was a bastard, mellowed now only because age and infirmity had bowed his back and taken away his legs. At least he was no longer capable of spawning more children. And so far, no more bastards had appeared. There had been one . . . Hunter Riley . . . but he was now dead. As was Songbird. Weston hadn’t been sure about the Indian. There had been rumors about Neal and Ruby Songbird, never really proven, but the kid had been such a prick, showing up to work late, getting into Weston’s face, vandalizing cars... and Neal never had wanted to fire the son of a bitch . . . so Weston had put one and one together and come up with two. Even if Jack hadn’t been Neal’s son, he was a thorn in Weston’s side, always getting on him about the way he’d treated Crystal and then the car . . . one way or another the sorry son of a bitch deserved to die.
The lights of town were fading
a bit as the first wisps of fog rolled in from the sea.
Weston swirled his drink, then swallowed it as he noticed a police car, lights flashing, racing through town, disappearing around a corner as the fog thickened. He checked his watch. It was time . . .
Another tragedy was about to take place.
Weston had already set the wheels in motion. He walked to his computer and sent a couple of e-mail messages, one to his accountant, another to a foreman at the mill, knowing that they would be dated and timed. Then he made two quick calls from the office phone, just in case the police checked any phone records. His car was parked in its usual space, guarded by a night watchman, and he wouldn’t move it—he had another at his disposal, a truck once used for deliveries, one that had been used by Kendall’s father years ago, nondescript, dark blue, a Ford like a dozen others in town, nearly identical to the one driven by Jack Songbird’s father, Ruby’s husband . . . yes, it would do nicely. Especially since the license plates had been switched with two that didn’t match, the front plate Weston had taken from a Dodge parked at a local bar, the back one had been removed discreetly from Songbird’s truck just last night as it had been parked in front of the Songbird double-wide. Everything was set for this night when Dutch Holland intended to announce his bid to run for governor; there were just a few loose ends to take care of.
Pulling on a pair of tight black gloves, Weston locked the door to his office and stole down the back stairs.
Noiselessly opening the back door, he slipped unnoticed into the mist-shrouded night.
Sean kicked at a rock and scowled as it skipped across the street, hit a pothole and ricocheted into the fender of a shiny new Toyota. Great. Just what he needed. More trouble. As if he wasn’t in enough. He kicked his skateboard into place and quickly rolled through the streets of this dumb little town. God, he hated it here in loserville. Why his mom didn’t move back to Colorado, he didn’t understand.
Sure you do. It’s because of the prick. Your real father.
That thought stuck in his craw and he spit as he wheeled around the corner and felt the moist air on his face. Luckily it was getting foggy so he could cut through parking lots, yards and alleys at will, with no one spying on him. The thought of his mother and that guy. Kane Moran. “More like moron,” he muttered, hiking up the collar of his army jacket and refusing to think about his mom—shit, she hadn’t been a whole lot older than he was now and she’d been doin’ it with that creep. He didn’t like the guy. Just because Moran liked motorcycles didn’t change things. The guy was a creep, always hanging around and . . . and . . . Sean would never, never call the jerk “Dad.” Oh, hell, no.
He saw a cop car, lights flashing, heading north through town and he quickly turned south, away from the wailing siren. He didn’t need that kind of trouble tonight. His mom had probably already called the police because he’d been gone so long. Sean felt a niggle of guilt; he didn’t want to worry anyone, he just needed some space, time to think about how to deal with all of this. He knew there was no way his mom was moving back to Colorado, but it bugged him. Maybe he could work a deal with Jeff and his parents—maybe they would take him in.
Like Claire would ever allow that.
He heard a car behind him and he shifted his weight so he could turn into the parking lot of the grade school. Expecting the car to drive on, he thought about heading back toward the old lodge, but the headlights, unclear in the mist, turned into the lot.
Crap!
Sean headed for the exit.
The car followed. Twin beams caught him in their diffused light as he skirted a pothole.
Great. Just effin’ great.
