“Louisa Foster … Dennis Foster’s mother?”
“She was—is—one of those holier-than-thou women, pillar of her church, mean little eyes that watch and judge. She didn’t get married until she was well into her thirties, and her husband died when Foster was a little boy. I figured the husband dropped dead to get away from her.”
“I remember her.” And not fondly.
“That scene … I’ll never forget it.” Margaret bunched her bony fists in her lap. “It was lunchtime. She walked into the Oceanview Café where Charles was talking to his team. She stood on the other end of the table, and announced he was the laughingstock of Virtue Falls. He looked bewildered, which made her madder, so she got louder. She told him his wife was running around on him, and when he couldn’t seem to comprehend, she got into his face and said that Misty had taken a lover, someone younger and handsomer than Charles, and Misty was spending all the time Charles was at work having disgusting sex.”
“It sounds as if she knew who Misty’s lover was.” And if she knew, Garik could find out.
But Margaret quashed that hope. “If she had, she would have outed them both. When she saw sin, she took it upon herself to repair the situation.”
“So was Louisa after Charles in particular?”
“Not Charles. Misty. Misty treated Louisa kindly. As if Louisa was someone to feel sorry for. Which Louisa liked because the woman is a world-class hypochondriac. Until!” Margaret raised a finger. “One time, Louisa was railing against this young tourist couple who got caught doing the wild thing in a car—railing at them to their poor, mortified faces—and Misty defended them. Then Louisa’s minister agreed with Misty and chided Louisa in public. I think the man despised her and welcomed the chance to knock her down a few notches. It rebounded on him, of course—within a year, Louisa got him ousted from the job and he and his family had to leave Virtue Falls. And Misty’s actions rebounded on Charles, because after that, Louisa was gunning for them both. Louisa told Charles his wife was a whore who corrupted their young child and daily betrayed him, and if he was a real man he would go home and kill her, and then kill himself for being so weak and gullible. Nasty old harridan.”
“What did you do during this whole scene?” Garik asked.
“I sat there with my mouth hanging open, just like everyone else. Finally, when it was too late, I intervened, but Louisa had dragged herself off her perpetual deathbed to make Charles miserable and nothing short of a bazooka could have stopped her.” Margaret had one helluva temper, and her faded blue eyes now gleamed with fury.
“Charles believed her?”
“Not at first. Not until he looked around the café and nobody could meet his eyes. It wasn’t Louisa who convinced him. It was the rest of us, and our guilty faces.” As she remembered, Margaret’s face was guilty.
“What did he do?”
“He got furious. He … turned colors. Have you ever seen someone who is normally pretty calm get mad? Really mad? A tide of red rose up over his cheeks and flooded his forehead. His eyes got bright and hot. I swear his jaws popped, he had them clenched so tightly. He put his fists on the table and hoisted himself to his feet like he was going to kill someone. We were all voting for Louisa, and she thought so, too, because she backed up, first slowly, then faster and faster. But he strode around her like she was unworthy of his attention, and left.” Margaret lifted a hand and helplessly let it drop. “And for over three hours while Misty was killed and her body hidden, he went somewhere where he had no alibi.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Where did he say he’d gone?” Garik vaguely remembered, but vaguely was as good as it got.
“One of the digs.”
“None of the team were there, because they were all in town.” Garik rubbed his forehead. “Do you remember anything else about the case? Anything of interest? Anything at all?”
“I was there for that one moment. Everything else I know was hearsay.”
“At least I trust you as a source. After so long, most people don’t remember what really happened, only what was reported.” He stood. “With a mother like that, no wonder Foster is such a self-righteous prick.”
“He didn’t have to take Louisa’s teachings as his own. He could have moved out, married, had kids, been normal.” Margaret leaned forward and locked eyes with him. “I might not know what happened between Charles and Misty, but I know Dennis Foster is odd, especially in these last few years. I’ve seen him in his patrol car, parked on a highway turnout, sitting and staring.”
“Sitting and staring?”
“Out the windshield. Every Sunday I drive myself to church—”
“Very slowly?”
“More slowly than I used to,” she allowed. “Which is why I’ve noticed him. Once I stopped and asked if I could help him, and he told me he had been making a call. I didn’t believe him. To get his attention, I had to tap on his window.”
“A cop, and he didn’t realize you were there?”
Margaret nodded.
“All right,” Garik said wryly. “You win. My gut is talking to me, and it’s telling me there’s more to this case than any of us have ever realized.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It was one in the morning when at last Dennis Foster pulled up in front of the darkened single-story rambler he shared with his mother. He stopped the car. Shut off the engine. Took a long breath.
Three days since the earthquake, and this was his first time home.
He got out, slammed the car door—and he knew his mother had heard. She had the hearing of a hawk, and used words like talons. He knew she now waited in her big chair with her arms crossed, her mouth pinched, and her eyes narrowed.
God, how he hated the flutter deep in his belly as he walked up to the front door and stood, afraid to go in. All his life, his mother had made a coward of everyone. But more than anyone in the world, she had made a coward of him.
That’s why he had gone into law enforcement. That’s why he was a master marksman with every kind of firearm. That’s why he learned self-defense and how to fight with his fists. He had to prove to everyone that he was the bravest man in the county.
Unfortunately, he had never succeeded in convincing himself.
No matter how often he told himself she couldn’t harm him, no matter how often he swore he would face her with indifference, he always cringed at the sight of that skinny, rigid figure, at the sound of that high, cruel voice.
But there was nothing for it. He had to go in.
For three whole days, he’d left her alone. He hadn’t gone to check on her. He hadn’t sent any of his deputies in his place. Of course, every one of his deputies would defy him and refuse to come to the house. One encounter with Mother was enough for anyone.
But Dennis was her son.
He ought to be ashamed of himself; Mother would soon tell him he should be ashamed of himself. He supposed if everyone in town ever found out he had left his mother alone for so long after that earthquake, they would also say he should be ashamed of himself.
He wasn’t.
He had his excuses. His duties as sheriff had kept him busy. The disaster took precedence. And he knew if he went home, he would spend his time helping Mother pick up the thousands of religious knickknacks she collected to hang on walls and place on shelves.
He had better things to do. And she wasn’t as sick as she pretended. Once she realized he wasn’t coming home, she would pick up a broom and sweep away the debris. If there was one thing he could depend on, it was that she’d clean the house. Cleanliness was next to godliness.
How many times in his lifetime had he heard that?
Once or twice in the last seventy-two hours he might have wondered if she had been hurt in the quake—the neighbors detested her, so there was no one to check—but about the time he figured he had to send somebody to investigate, she texted him. And she called. And texted. And called.
He refused to answer the c
alls, which made her texts terse and threatening.
Come.
Come home.
You’ll be sorry.
He was already sorry.
At last he put his key in the lock and opened the door.
Usually as soon as he opened the door, she was yapping at him about something. Tonight, he heard nothing.
So Mother was refusing to talk to him.
In so many ways, that was even worse than her nagging.
He walked into the darkened house.
The breeze whispered in his face; the windows were broken. Yet when he shined his flashlight around the living room, the place looked pretty good. All the walls were standing, all the furniture was upright. Except for the crosses and pictures of Jesus scattered across the floor, the house had sustained very little damage.
Not even God dared mess with his mother.
Ceramic and glass crunched under his feet as he walked through the living room. So she hadn’t cleaned up. Maybe he’d misread her, or maybe … The silence was so ominous that he surrendered, and spoke first. “Mother, I’m home.”
No answer.
He headed for her bedroom.
He groped for the light switch, couldn’t find it for the junk that still clung to the wall, then remembered it didn’t matter since Virtue Falls had no power.
Damn, that was a hard thing to get used to. He hoped to hell the power company arrived pretty soon; citizens were starting to complain to him about their lack of electricity, and when he explained the sheriff had no jurisdiction in this matter, they told him to do something anyway.
The moon was out, shining brightly through the windows, but he shone his flashlight around the room, hoping to blind her with the beam. Childish and petty, he knew, but her eternal whining and constant reproaches had been his main meal for almost fifty years. Nothing he did made her happy.
Mother wasn’t seated in her big chair or propped up on the pillows on the bed.
Hunger must have driven her to get up and rummage around in the kitchen for “a few crackers and a dry prune,” which according to her were all she survived on when he wasn’t home, never mind the cans of soup and tuna he found tucked in the bottom of the garbage can.
He walked into the kitchen, stepped in a puddle of something wet, and grabbed for the counter. “What the hell…?” He shone the light around.
The damage was here. The kitchen was trashed. The upper cabinets on one wall had shaken loose and smashed onto the counter, each spilling its contents. At the end of the kitchen, the refrigerator had tipped over, slamming into the countertops opposite. Canned goods, food, silverware, dishes were everywhere.
And where was his mother? In the utility? The other bedroom? Had she left the house?
He started to turn away, and heard a scrabbling noise, like a rodent.
He shoved his way through the stuff on the linoleum, shining his light back and forth—and found her.
Mother. Sprawled on the floor, the open refrigerator door resting on her back, cutting her in half, blood congealed underneath her. She scratched blindly with her fingernails at her cell phone. When he shined the light directly on her, she feebly turned her head from one side to the other, but she didn’t open her eyes.
She wasn’t really conscious anymore.
He stood over the top of her, feeling nothing. Feeling numb.
At last he dropped to his knees beside her. He felt for her pulse; her heart still beat.
But she felt cool to the touch.
In a somber voice, he said, “Oh, Mother. So this is the end at last.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Garik moved like a wraith into Elizabeth’s bedroom.
Elizabeth’s bedroom matched Garik’s own—a richly textured gray carpet on the floor, blue satin drapes, a king-sized bed with tall bedposts, draped with silver gauze. Outside, the waves played music as they caressed the cliffs, tossed the pebbles on the beach, filled the tidal pools and drained them again. Inside, the half-moon slipped through the open windows like the pale scent of jasmine, perfuming the furnishings, the curtains, and especially Elizabeth’s sleeping figure, clad in a white T-shirt, sprawled under the white sheet.
The scene was pure romance … for all the good it did Garik.
He was here for one thing—Elizabeth’s phone.
It rested facedown on the bedside table, and when he picked it up and checked, it showed full bars.
Yes, the area was recovering in fits and starts.
Good thing. He needed information. He needed to burrow into the Banner case and find out the truth.
He didn’t want to look down at her, but he couldn’t resist, and his heart twanged as if it caught on a string of emotion. When it came to Elizabeth, his soul sang a country-western song. One of the morose tunes, about a lost love, a cold, lonely house, and way too much guilt because it was all his fault.
He couldn’t resist dropping to his knees, either, nor brushing a lock of her white-blond hair off her cheek. She moaned slightly, and turned her head into his hand. He closed his eyes as his fingers absorbed the warmth of her, as her smooth skin tempted him to continue touching …
Elizabeth was beautiful, ethereal.
Elizabeth was earthy, practical.
So was his need for her.
From the night he’d first seen her—her pale complexion, her platinum blond hair, her wide blue eyes, the dimple in her chin, that sinful mouth—she had been desirable. From the first moment he’d heard her voice, listened to her expound so logically, realized she was hiding a wounded soul so similar to his—she had been his mate.
Nothing could change that. Not even a divorce.
How had they gone so wrong? The first year had been dusted with gold. Then they settled down to real life, discovered their differences were greater than their similarities, and the marriage had chilled, become disapproval on his part, unhappiness and worry on hers. And no talk.
His fault, he thought, because for all that his earliest years had sucked rocks, when he was eight, Margaret had taken him in, showed him how to have a loving relationship, filled him in on the emotional stuff he didn’t understand. Even now, he couldn’t remember if the chasm between Elizabeth and him had opened all at once, or slowly over the months, only that it was suddenly irrevocable, impossible to cross, and painful. So painful.
His fault the marriage didn’t work. Because yeah, he could open up with an FBI-approved psychiatrist and share all the ugly, nitty-gritty horrors of his early life, but with Elizabeth, it hadn’t been simple. It mattered. He feared that if he showed her his old scars, she would tell him to get over it, to grow up, to stop whining.
Then his soul would have bled to death.
How did it make sense that with the one person he wanted to be close to, he didn’t even try?
It didn’t.
Yet there it was.
She breathed heavily as she always did for those first few hours when nothing could wake her except possibly … an earthquake.
He bent down to her and pressed his nose to her hair.
The resort’s bergamot and cinnamon fragrance scented her, of course, but richer and warmer was the scent of Elizabeth, complex, clever, kind, and his.
He wanted her. He wanted to kiss her, wake her slowly to his touch, hold her under him and stake his claim.
Because, damn it, the one thing that had always worked for them was the sex. Standing, sitting, lying down, upside down. Fucking and making love. Being wild and being sweet. The best sex ever.
He lifted his head, and his hand.
The best sex, and the worst relationship.
Yet although their relationship had sucked, she still cared for him. Why else would she tell him, You’re one of the good guys? Why would she bother? For the husband she’d chosen to leave?
Without even knowing the whole story, she had tried to make him feel better. She had tried to make him stop blaming himself.
Funny thing was … he almost felt as if he could breath
e easier. Almost.
With a sigh, he touched her cheek one more time, and stood. He retrieved her phone, and returned to the suite, leaving the bedroom door half-closed to shield her from the light, and half-open so he could hear her if she cried.
He downloaded the app to set up the router, opened his computer, and got online. As soon as the Internet lit up, he gave a sigh of relief. It had been claustrophobic, being confined on all accounts to Virtue Falls, especially when he needed information, especially when—
A million e-mails, give or take a hundred thousand, popped up.
Crap. Never mind what he’d thought about being claustrophobic. He didn’t need his penis enlarged, or to be thinner. He didn’t need more hair on his head or anywhere else, and he sure as hell didn’t need to hear from Tom Perez, his supervisor at the FBI, demanding to know where he was. Garik scanned the increasingly urgent subject lines, picked one at random, and opened it.
“Ah.” It was actually kind of sweet.
In between the stern demands that Garik report in, the sharp questions about why he’d missed his last psychiatrist’s appointment, the temper tantrum about him taking advantage of Perez’s sweet disposition, ran a real concern.
Come on, man, I need to hear from you. I went to your house to see where you were. Neighbors wanted to know if you were one of the Ten Most Wanted and I was hunting you, which doesn’t say much for your social skills. They said you were a loner and went tearing out of here four days ago and they haven’t seen you since. You left a pistol on the coffee table, for shit’s sake. You’re not supposed to own a pistol. Check in, damn you. Check in.
Garik wiggled his two index fingers, his typing fingers, and went to work. You were in my house. Breaking and entering is a crime, too.
Thirty seconds later. You son-of-a-bitch. Am I glad to hear from you. Where the fuck are you?
Virtue Falls, Washington, home of the biggest, baddest earthquake ever.