CHAPTER 33
The roads were a mess, traffic snarled, the storm relentless as it dumped more snow over northwestern Montana. It took over an hour for Trace and Kacey to collect her dog, computer, and an overnight bag. Trace’s truck slid twice, but he was able to finally reach the old farmhouse he called home.
She’d never seen it before, this big, square home perched on a bit of hill nearly an eighth of a mile from the county road. Snow was thick on the roof, icicles were dangling from the eaves, and a bitter wind was blowing through the naked trees in a small orchard. Trace pulled into an open garage at the back of the house, where a Dodge pickup, nose facing toward the road, was already parked, three inches of snow piled on its hood. Outbuildings stood in the distance, security lamps offering pale, almost eerie, illumination through the curtain of falling snow.
As he grabbed Kacey’s overnight bag, he whistled to her dog, opened the driver’s door, and stepped outside. Bonzi scrambled after him, leaping and breaking through nearly a foot of powder, while Kacey hauled her computer case up a path broken through the snow.
They took three steps up to a broad back porch, where they tromped the snow off their feet, then stepped through an unlocked back door. Heat, and the smell of wood smoke and spices, hit them full force as they removed their coats and the dog explored.
“Hey there, fella,” a deep male voice from somewhere deeper in the house greeted. “Who the hell are you?” There was a sharp bark, and the same voice said, “Hey, Sarge. Enough! Looks like you’ve got a friend here.” Then a chuckle.
The kitchen was large enough for a full-sized table, its butcher-block counter pressed up to a wide window overlooking the back porch and the outbuildings beyond.
“How’s Eli?” Trace asked as he walked through a wide archway into the living area, where a fire burned in the grate and a man and woman were seated in front of a television blasting the news. The woman was knitting; the man had an ear cocked toward the TV set.
“He just conked out after dinner,” Tilly told Trace as she stuffed a skein of fuzzy yarn into her bag and gave Kacey the once-over. To her husband, she yelled, “Ed, turn that thing down, would ya! I can’t hear myself think!”
Ed snorted, blinked, and did as he was bid, bringing the noise level down several decibels. A large man, Ed Zukov wouldn’t need anything other than a red suit and fake beard to play Santa Claus.
Trace made hasty introductions.
“Nice to meet ya,” Tilly said, but there wasn’t a lot of warmth in her smile. Ed, though, stood and shook Kacey’s hand as if he meant it, then settled back into his corner of the couch, his hands fingering the remote control before it slipped off the sectional’s arm.
Tilly wasn’t finished giving Trace a report on his son. “Poor little thing was plumb tuckered out. Probably the medication,” Tilly said.
“I think I’ll look in on him,” Trace said, peeling off his jacket and dashing up a flight of stairs near the front hallway. Sarge and Bonzi followed closely behind.
“Nice dog,” Ed said. “He yours?”
“He is now. I just adopted him.”
Ed’s whitish eyebrows raised. “Guard dog?”
“Not much.” She smiled.
“Hunter?” Ed persisted.
Kacey shook her head. “Bonzi? I doubt it. Probably will never know.”
As if he’d heard his name, Bonzi came running back down the stairs and bounded past a coffee table, to place his head near the armrest of the couch and Ed’s hand. “Yeah, you’re a good boy,” the man said as Sarge and Trace returned to the living room, too. Sarge, cone surrounding his head, curled up on a rug near the fire.
“Don’t he look silly?” Ed muttered with a deep-throated chuckle.
Tilly patted her husband’s jean-clad knee. “We’d better get going. The storm’s only gettin’ worse.”
Ed struggled to his feet again and pulled a face as he cracked his neck and tried to keep up with his wife, who was walking briskly through the kitchen. “Ain’t gettin’ any younger,” he admitted as they gathered their things, slid into jackets that had been hung on pegs near the back door, and wound hand-knit scarves around their necks.
Once she was bundled up, Tilly said to Trace, “Now, don’t forget, there’s chicken in the refrigerator, along with mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy.”
“That would be Tilly’s killer chicken,” Ed said with a grin. He was rewarded for his compliment with a good-hearted swat from his wife.
“I hate to brag, but he’s right, you know.” Tilly beamed a little. As an aside, she said, “It’s the paprika. The Colonel, he can have his eleven herbs and spices or whatever. Let me tell you, I’ve got paprika!”
“No one remembers that old herbs and spices thing!” Ed hitched his chin toward Trace and Kacey. “These two, they’re too young. Way too young!” He settled his hat on his head and walked to the porch, where his work boots were waiting.
“Thanks for watching Eli and feeding the stock,” Trace said.
“Anytime,” Tilly answered with a smile, though, when her eyes met Kacey’s, the smile faltered a bit. As Ed yanked on his boots, she pulled a stocking cap over her gray hair, then shepherded Trace aside and whispered something to him while she eyed Kacey skeptically.
“Come on, Mother. Let’s go,” Ed said, opening the door. A blast of cold air swept inside. “Oh, sweet Mary, we’d better get home. I heard on the news there’s gonna be a helluva storm, and for once, it looks like they’re right. You’d better draw some water in the bathtub and the sinks, just in case you lose power here. No reason to be out of water, too.”
They stepped outside, and the door closed behind them with a bang. Through the window Kacey saw the branches of the trees still dancing wildly. Snow was swirling crazily. Already drifts were piling against the side of the house and the outbuildings.
Ed was right. It looked to be one helluva storm, even by Montana standards.
Once the older couple had climbed into their truck and rolled out of the driveway, the taillights of their old Dodge disappearing in the falling snow, Trace locked the back door. Kacey was already removing Tilly’s leftovers from the refrigerator. “Let me guess,” she said, peering over the top of the refrigerator door. “Tilly pulled you aside to give you the word on me, right? I bet she thinks I look a little too much like your ex-wife.”
Trace lifted a shoulder. “And Jocelyn.”
“Huh.” She kicked the door shut. “Now I’m a type.” Placing the containers of food on the counter, she felt immediate contrition when she thought of Jocelyn Wallis and how she’d died. Realizing she was tired, hungry, and her nerves were strung tight as guy-wires, she said, “Sorry. Guess that’s a little bit of a sore point.”
“Tilly’s impressed that you’re a doctor.”
“Well, great.” She cringed at how sharp she sounded. “I think I’m hungrier and grouchier than I thought.”
“Maybe it’s the arsenic,” he said soberly.
“No. I’m fine. Even if they find it in the coffee grounds, I haven’t had much coffee at home lately. What about you? You drank some this morning.”
He shook his head. “Either it’s not there or just not in what you served up today.”
“That’s something to celebrate, then,” she said fervently.
“You’re right.” He grinned then, and it made her heart clutch a little. “Here . . . let me heat this up,” he said, reaching for the leftovers.
“Mind if I check on Eli?”
“No. Please. Go.”
Though Trace had looked in on his son the second they’d arrived at the house, it had been half an hour or so ago. Bonzi, who had explored every corner of the downstairs and had checked out Sarge, seemed to want to follow her, but the command “Stay” from her and the smell of chicken kept him in the kitchen with Trace. Sarge, too, had taken up a spot under the table and was watching anxiously, hoping Trace would drop a savory morsel. Kacey hated to think what kind of growling, snarling dogfight might ensue if any chicken hit the floor. “Be good,” she told her dog.
Kicking her shoes off at the base of the stairs, she hurried up the five steps to the landing, then turned and climbed the rest of the flight to the second story, where an old railing with heavy newel posts prevented anyone from falling down the staircase.
Eli’s room was tucked under the eaves on one side of the hall, along with a spare room, used, it seemed, for storage. The door to the third bedroom hung ajar, and she pushed it open a little farther, the light from the hallway spilling onto unused furniture, plastic tubs, and stacked boxes.
The bath was located at the end of the hall; the largest bedroom next to it. She looked inside, saw a neatly made massive bed and a small dresser with a flat screen mounted over it. Trace’s room, obviously.
Across the hall, wedged between the bathroom and the room used for storage, a door was open slightly, and she deduced from the trail of toys leading through it that this was Eli’s area of the house. Pushing the door open farther, allowing more light inside, she spied Trace’s son tangled in the rumpled covers, facedown in his pillow. He was breathing loudly, his arm with its cast flung to one side. She stepped closer, careful not to crush toys on the floor, but a floorboard creaked. Eli moaned softly, then rolled onto his back. Blinking, he looked up and his little face twisted in confusion.
“Mommy?” he asked in a sleep-shrouded voice.
Kacey’s throat constricted. “No.” She sat on the edge of his bed and touched the fingers sticking out of his cast. “No, honey, it’s Kacey. Dr. Lambert. You remember me.”
He was still eyeing her, and even in the semidarkness she saw the hope on his face fade.
As the storm raged outside, her heart cracked for the boy, but she forced a smile and pushed the hair off his forehead.
He glanced at the closet, which was dark, its door closed tight, then to the window, as if he were trying to get his bearings. “But—”
“It’s okay,” she said when she recognized his disappointment. He swallowed hard and bit his lower lip to keep from shedding tears.
Her own eyes burned. “So . . . how’re you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“You want anything?” Other than your mother.
“Nah.” He shook his head and flopped back onto the pillow.
“Okay. Then go back to sleep and I’ll check on you later. Okay?”
He was too tired to argue, it seemed. Closing his eyes, he burrowed deeper under the covers, and though his forehead was creased with confusion for a second or two, soon he was breathing deeply again, probably dreaming about having a mom nearby. As she observed Eli for a few seconds, Kacey mentally swore that if she were ever to run into Leanna, she’d wring her neck.
Stop it! She could be dead, for all you know.
That could explain why Trace hasn’t heard from her, why she seems to have completely deserted her son.
Give the woman a break. Leanna could be the victim of an accident, like the others. There is a chance her body just hasn’t been discovered.
A cold chill slithered through her body, but even so, she was angry with a woman who could abandon her child.
Satisfied that Eli was sleeping soundly, Kacey walked back to the hallway and down the stairs, where the scents of Tilly’s killer chicken were wafting from the lower level.
Her stomach had the bad manners to growl loudly as she entered the kitchen.
Trace, gingerly lifting a bowl from the microwave, looked over his shoulder. “How was he?”
“Confused. Thought I was Leanna,” Kacey admitted. “Kinda like Tilly.” She managed a smile as she found plates and set them on the table. “I’m giving your son a pass. He’s on medication and just a kid. Tilly . . . I’m not so sure.”
“She’ll come around,” he said.
He served the dinner, and Kacey, seated on a beat-up kitchen chair that looked to be at least fifty years old, had to admit Tilly’s killer chicken was the best meal she’d eaten since Thanksgiving with Maribelle, maybe better.
They ate in silence. The chicken was succulent, and the beans were seasoned with soy sauce and garlic. Even the mashed potatoes, tasting slightly of butter and sour cream melted in her mouth and really didn’t need the gravy that she’d ladled on, anyway.
“Okay,” Kacey admitted, once her plate was nearly empty. “So she can cook. And knit. And didn’t you say play checkers?”
“And a lot more. Give her a chance.”
“If she gives me one.”
“No promises there,” he teased. “I’m going out and double-checking the stock. Make sure all the hatches are battened down. Wanna come?”
She glanced out the window just as a gust of bitter wind rattled the shutters. “You know, I think I’ll pass,” she said. “Stay in with Eli and clean up the kitchen.”
“Can’t get a better offer than that.”
She watched him put on his jacket again, long arms sliding through the sleeves. What was it about him she found so damned attractive? She, who had always been interested in professional men, city guys.
Like JC?
Or maybe a guy who is more like one of Gerald Johnson’s sons, not the men themselves, but a man in a suit and tie, with an uptight attitude?
“Nope,” she said aloud.
With both dogs on his heels, Trace made his way outside to check on the cattle and horses for the night. Kacey, meanwhile, cleaned the kitchen, then settled onto the couch with her laptop. The TV, turned to an all-news channel, was still at a decibel level loud enough to cause her permanent hearing loss, so she scrounged in the cushions of the couch until she found the spot where the remote control had fallen, then softened the volume.
Currently, a weatherman was standing in front of a screen showing parts of Montana, Idaho, and Canada. With a sweeping movement of his arm, he explained how arctic air was blasting down from Saskatchewan and Alberta to dump somewhere between eighteen inches and three feet of snow in the next forty-eight hours. “Looks like we’ll be getting that white Christmas a few weeks early,” he said happily, then cut to a reporter standing near the interstate, shivering and reporting on the freezing weather conditions as semis rolled down the highway behind her.
A second later the television screen changed, and the image of Elle Alexander was visible. “The Pinewood County Sheriff’s Office is asking for your help in locating the vehicle that may have pushed a local Dodge minivan off the road and into the Grizzly River,” an anchor said as the screen switched to that section of road, right before the North Fork Bridge, where in the snow, flowers and candles had been left to mark the spot where Elle Alexander had lost her life. Minutes later the news was reporting on the death of a “lone cross-country skier,” whose name hadn’t yet been released pending notification of next of kin.
She drew a breath, then hit the mute button, hearing the storm outside really start to rage, the wind shrieking, a branch beating against the house. A glance at the clock told her Trace had been gone nearly half an hour. He should be back soon, she figured.
After walking into the kitchen, she stared through the window and told herself to relax. Her gaze followed the path broken in the snow as it led to the outbuildings.
There was another path as well, smaller, going around the side of the house and almost obscured by the new snow.
Odd.
But then Tilly and Ed had been here with Eli and Sarge. Perhaps one of them had taken Sarge outside . . . ? Tilly, probably, since the path was thin and she couldn’t imagine Ed’s size twelves tamping down the snow like that.
Except, of course, the new-fallen snow changed the footprints, softened them, and made them appear smaller.
Huh.
She told herself not to worry, not to let the recent accidents, her own house being compromised, or her supposed poisoning get the better of her. She was safe. Here. With Trace.
And yet the feeling that something wasn’t right here hung with her. “Just a new place,” she whispered, wishing one of the dogs had stayed in the house with Eli and her. With one last look at the fast-disappearing path, she returned to the living room, where the crackling fire dispelled some of her unease. Curling up on the couch again, she opened up her laptop and did a little more research on Gerald Johnson, his company, and his family.
Your family.
“Never,” she said aloud as the lights flickered once and a branch began beating against the side of the house like it was trying to get inside.
Again, she glanced at the back door, wishing Trace would return. Other noises assailed her: timbers creaking, the common sounds of an old house settling, the squeak and soughing of tree limbs rubbing against each other. Telling herself she was letting her nerves get the better of her, she fought a ridiculous panic attack and turned her attention away from the dark night beyond. She Googled everyone in the Johnson family and remembered her own impressions of Gerald and his children.
Her father was an enigma. Strong. Smart. Educated. Hard-edged. A man who solved problems and faced adversity.
Ruthless?
Probably.
As for his firstborn, Clarissa, she was a little more transparent, or at least it seemed so on first look. Bold and arrogant, abrasive and downright bitchy, she was married to the Thor-like Lance. Two peas in a pod. Kacey wondered if either one of them had an inkling about a sense of humor. And yet they had children. Kacey had trouble imagining anyone less motherly than Clarissa Johnson Werner, but she’d only seen her agitated. She couldn’t help but think there was something going on with Clarissa, her snarly exterior hiding some darker emotion.
Then there was Judd, next in line, quieter, but the kind of guy that made you think of the old “still waters run deep” adage. Who knew what he was thinking or what he was capable of? He was a lawyer, as was Thane, but Judd was definitely the more uptight, by-the-book corporate type and, from what she had read about him, was divorced from a wife who had moved to Portland. No kids.
Thane was a mystery. Quiet. Friendlier than the rest, slightly amused. The black sheep who hadn’t quite run off. Almost a rogue, but not quite. The one person in the group who wouldn’t settle for being under his father’s thumb. At least not completely. Never married. Of all her half siblings the one she might be able to talk to. The least standoffish. She made a note.
As for the twins, she didn’t know where she stood with them. Cameron who had smoothed his hair on more than one occasion in the meeting had been more openly antagonistic toward her. However, Colt hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy, either. The smiles he’d offered seemed cold, as if he were amused by a private joke at her expense. Or had she imagined that?
Neither twin had ever been married, at least not to her knowledge, but she knew very little about them other than that they were salesmen for their father’s company and that their jobs took them all over the country and into Canada.
Was it possible they were the culprits? Perhaps working in tandem? One offering up alibis for the other while their jobs provided the perfect cover as they flew all over the country. Could they both be so perverted and twisted?
“Unlikely,” she said under her breath, but told herself to dig a little deeper, find a way to check their business trips and how they could have coincided with other unexplained accidents to unfortunate women who may have been born with the aid of a fertility clinic in Helena, Montana.
“That’s nuts,” she told herself, and turned her attention to Robert Lindley, the oddball, the one half sibling most like her. He was older than she, and again, she’d found no record of his marriage. Granted, she hadn’t had time to dig deeply into any of their lives, but a marriage should have been easily discovered, a matter of public record. Robert, too, had been antagonistic; she’d felt his distrust of her from the second he’d walked into the boardroom.
Did he still feel as if he were an outcast, even though he was a part of the family, at least as far as the company went?
But the ones she’d met weren’t all of Gerald Johnson’s children. Two of his three daughters had died from separate accidents: Aggie, as a child; Kathleen, when she was still in college.
Kacey wondered about them.
Accident victims.
Was there such a thing when it came to Gerald Johnson’s female progeny?
But Clarissa. She’s survived. Apparently her father’s right-hand woman. How does that make any sense?
“It doesn’t,” she said aloud as the wind whipped around the corners of the house and the lights flickered again. Her skin crawled and she had to fight the feeling that someone, or something was outside, something malicious, something waiting and watching.
The storm was a bitch! Rattling the old windowpanes, whistling through the rafters of the barn, causing the cattle to low and move restlessly. The dogs, too, were edgy, whining at the noise. Bonzi, for appearing tough, was really a wimp, it seemed.
“Hang in there,” he told all the animals and to the rescue dog, “We’ll be fine.”
But Bonzi’s tail hung low as another blast of wind shook the building. Trace ignored him and began rewrapping some exposed pipes that were freezing. It would take some time, but he wanted to ensure that the cattle continued getting water and that the pipe wouldn’t burst.
The lights flickered once, then again ... Great, he thought as he hadn’t yet even broken a path to the horses in the stable a few yards away. The last thing he needed was to lose electricity.
Bonzi cowered, whining through his nose, but Trace kept on insulating the pipes as best he could.
Hopefully things would be better when he reached the stable.
So they separated.
How Perfect.
From his hiding spot, night goggles allowing him to view the snowy landscape, he watched the house, had seen the old people leave. His eyes followed O’Halleran as he trudged to the barn with both dogs in tow. Aside from the kid, Acacia was alone in the house.
And he could deal with the boy.
Things were finally falling together after the scare earlier today, and the feeling that he was being followed again. He’d seen the BMW that he’d thought he’d caught tailing him the other night. He’d told himself he was imagining things, letting his paranoia rule, but again, today, earlier, he could have sworn someone was following him.
Pull yourself together! Do you see anyone out here? Hear them? Has there been any glimpse of a damned BMW for hours?
No!
You’re just jittery because tonight’s the night. It’s all come down to this. Time for revenge, now, isn’t it? Soon, oh, so soon, Acacia’s life will be in your hands.
Despite the cold and the wind rattling the icy branches of the surrounding trees, he felt his cock twitch at the mental image of her lying beneath him, quivering in fear, eyes trained on the knife that he would use to slit her perfect throat ...
No! That’s not how it’s going down. This is not sexual and there can be no knife. It has to look like an accident. Just as you did with all the others. Don’t stop now. Stick to the plan . . . she’s one of them, those progeny of Gerald Johnson who are mentally insufficient, even deranged. They all are . . . even Clarissa, probably. She, too, cannot be spared even though she’s an ally. Eventually, she will have to die . . . But now, concentrate. First you have to incapacitate her, then you have to take out O’Halleran, get him back to the house and stage the scene. Make it look like murder/suicide and then burn the house to the ground. By the time the volunteer fire department arrives, it will be much too late.
Training his gaze on the windows and the light beyond the panes, he caught glimpses of her walking through the house. Each time he saw her, he felt his blood heat in anticipation, knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Now, Acacia was in the kitchen and looking through the window, straight at him. His heart stopped for just an instant.
Then he realized she couldn’t see him through the shroud of snow, didn’t understand that he was observing her closely while plotting the details of her death. He mentally chastised himself. Do not unravel. Do not fall victim to your own paranoia! You have a mission. Do not be distracted by lust or fear. . . . Goddamnit, be strong!
Sucking air in through his teeth, feeling the cold burn through his lungs, he forced his thoughts clear. To center. Then he saw her again, peering through the night and a new power overtook him. It was as if he could talk to her through his mind
You asked for this, bitch. You wanted to find me. . . . He felt a smile twist the corners of his lips as he eyed the farmhouse with its gabled roof. Most of the windows were darkened, especially those on the second floor. Shifting his rifle from one gloved hand to the other, he realized exactly how he would deal with her.
Another gust of bone-rattling wind cut through him and the lights in the house blinked nervously.
Again, she looked his way, her beautiful face drawn into an expression of worry. Oh, if she only knew. . . .
Get ready, Acacia, he thought grimly, heading through the snow toward the front of the house, where the porch was dark. I’m coming.
Where the hell was Trace? Just how long did it take to check on horses and cattle that Ed had already fed?
“Come on,” she said and thought about putting on her coat and boots and plowing her way to the outbuildings. But she didn’t want to leave Eli alone. What if he woke up again and called for his mother?
Feeling like an idiot, she decided to call Trace on his cell, and using her own phone, punched out his number and waited.
A phone rang inside the kitchen, and she jumped. Then realized the cell belonged to Trace. He’d left his damned phone on the counter.
He’s fine! He has to be!
The lights shivered once more; and this time Kacey was spurred into action.
Remembering Ed’s advice, she drew water in the tub of the bathroom downstairs, found buckets and a flashlight in the kitchen. The fire was already blazing, wood stacked near the hearth; as she returned to the living room.
Klunk!
A noise overhead. From the floor above.
“Eli?” she called, her heart hammering. She started for the stairs, had taken two steps when the lights failed. Darkness fell in an instant, only the fire offering a flickering red-gold illumination that cast the room in shifting, uneasy shadows.
She hadn’t been aware of the furnace rumbling or the refrigerator humming, but now there was total silence, a frightening quietude broken only by the howl of the wind and that same damned branch beating against the house. Waiting, she hoped to hear a generator switch on, prayed the lights would flicker and hold, the furnace would churn to life.
Nothing.
Now what?
She felt cold as death, as if the wind outside were blowing through the bones of this old house. Her skin crawled as she thought of all the things that could go wrong in the dark, without heat, without light, with a homicidal maniac on the loose....
“Stop,” she told herself sternly.
Fumbling her way to the kitchen, where she’d left the flashlight, she banged her knee once, bit back a curse, then automatically groped for the light switch before stopping herself, then finding the flashlight on the counter. She pushed the button; and a weak yellowish light signaled that the batteries inside were nearly gone.
Eli.
He would know where more batteries were; and besides, she needed to haul him and his blankets downstairs so they could stay close to the fire.
Glancing outside to the darkness, where no exterior lights offered the slightest illumination, she said, “Come on, Trace!” The lights had gone off in the barn and stable, too. . . . Surely he’d return ASAP.
In the meantime . . .
Following the week, thin light from the flashlight, she mounted the stairs. Darkness seemed to sink into her from every corner of this old, unfamiliar house. She rounded the corner of the landing and heard another thud against the house.
What the hell was that?
Eli?
Swallowing back her fear, she thundered up the remaining stairs, swung around the newel post in the hallway, and pushed open the door to Eli’s room.
The bed was empty; sheets and blankets had slithered onto the floor. “Eli!” she cried, searching crazily, swinging the beam of her flashlight through the room. “Eli!” She threw open the closet door and found nothing but clothes, then ran through the bathroom and Trace’s room, the flashlight growing weaker but giving up no trace of the boy. “Eli!” Oh, God, oh, God! Where was he?
Now in a full-blown panic, Kacey was sweating despite the cold, fear clawing at her throat. She looked through the third bedroom, around the draped furniture, under the hems, through the maze of boxes and pictures stacked around the bed and mattress, pushed up against the wall. “Eli!” she called and then, thinking he might be as frightened as she was, said, “It’s Kacey, honey. Where are you?”
Oh, sweet Jesus, she’d lost him!