Firefly Island (28 page)

“Nothing . . . well, there is something, but . . . Okay, let me stop and start over. I'm not calling because there's a family emergency or anything. Don't queue up any panic-mail to Carol, okay?” If Carol or Mom heard that a ranch truck had just gone off a cliff with a passenger in it, they'd be ordering up a moving van and cleaning out the rumpus room by noon today.

“Oh . . . kayyy . . .” The line crackled with Corbin's expectation as I moved to the bedroom and closed the door.

I took a breath, then spilled the whole, strange story of the last few weeks—Mason's arrival, the change in Jack's demeanor, his state of near euphoria, all the money spending and gift-giving, and then the accident, the sheriff's deputy talking with Mason, Daniel's suspicions, the fact that he'd chosen to stay nearby Jack at the hospital, and the old letter I'd found in the cookbook.

“It's just . . . like, a gut feeling. We don't have any proof, except that early on, Jack told Daniel not to ever park the truck so that it was pointed toward the cliffs. Apparently, Jack's second wife and his stepson made that mistake when they were out Christmas tree hunting on the ranch decades ago. The truck started rolling and careened into the lake. They weren't in it, but it almost ran them over. It seems like a lesson you wouldn't forget, doesn't it? Now I wonder if
that's what the letter in the cookbook was about. Maybe she was running from Mason, not Jack.”

“That's certainly a valid question,” Corbin agreed. “So, how can I help?”

Outside, a peacock called, and I jumped, then checked the room around me, looked out the window, had the strange feeling that someone might be watching from the shadows. “Hang on a minute, Corbin.” I peered into the yard, moved to the kitchen and leaned close to the window, scanned the driveway for any signs of human activity. I walked through the house and located Nick. He'd finished his cereal and settled himself in the front room, watching PBS and playing with the toys that had come from Jack's house. Pecos lay beside him, his ears perked with interest as Nick carried on imaginary conversations between the characters in his pretend ranch drama. He'd included everyone—his dad, Jack, Tag and Chrissy, all the ranch hands. Even the loyal pickup-riding cowboy dogs were part of the story.

For an instant, I forgot about the phone call, the hospital, the questions. I slipped into Nick's imaginary world, took in the squeak-squeak of tiny axles as his hands propelled the toy trucks, the purr of his lips making motor sounds, the thinner look of his fingers, changing daily it seemed as the last baby dimples faded from his knuckles . . .

The child who'd once owned those toys became real in my mind again. The little boy, who for reasons we could only guess at, never had the chance to grow up. Could Mason possibly be involved in something so heinous? Could he have been there the day their truck rolled over the cliffs? Could he have made another attempt as they vacationed in Mexico, and been successful that time?

The question haunted me as I retreated to the bedroom and shut the door again. “Corbin, how much do you know
about Mason West? I mean, what's the scuttlebutt on The Hill? I know he's connected on the federal level, that he has aspirations in national politics. Have you heard anything?”

“Well, the name's not unfamiliar to me. . . . Let me think a minute.” Corbin paused contemplatively. “You're asking in relation to the accident? As in, you really do think he had something to do with it?” Corbin's interest level was perking up, his reporter-nose sniffing out a story.

“Corbin, this has to stay between us.”

“Of course, of course. You know I'm stuck spending ninety percent of my time on local stuff in this rathole, anyway.”

I was reminded again of Corbin's burning desire for that one big story that would get the
New York Times, USA Today,
or the
Washington Post
to look his way. “I mean it, Corbin.”

“I know. I know. I've heard the name, but that's about all I can tell you off the top of my head. I'm not sure if I remember any mention of him in the double murder case against Jack West all those years ago, but I do feel like there's something more recent. Can't quite bring it to mind, but some kind of coverage with his name attached. Let me do a little poking around, see if I can find anything on the research service and whatnot. I'll call you back in a few.”

“Thanks, Corbin.”

“What's a brother-in-law for?”

Nick rattled the bedroom doorknob, and I jumped like a spy caught in the throes of a secret mission. “Corbin, I'd better go. Nick needs me.”

“All right, Mallory. Listen, keep these questions to yourself until I have a chance to do some digging. You're dealing with powerful people here, you know? And when little people dig around in the hidden business of big people . . . well, accidents seem to run rampant around there, don't they? Players like the Wests like to keep their secrets buried.”

Nick pounded on the door because he couldn't turn the handle far enough to open it. “I'll be careful, I promise.” If there was one thing I'd learned in DC, it was that when you're dealing with powerful men, you need to be careful whose territory you tread on.

I opened the door, and Nick was on the other side, dressed in an odd combination of shorts, a T-shirt, his Junior Adventurer vest, and cowboy boots. He gave me an expectant look. “Misser Al's here!” he said and led me to the back room, then pointed at Al, who was sitting on the back porch, patiently scratching Pecos's head.

“We gonna go milk my cow, 'kay?” Nick jittered in place, excited.

Al waved from the porch as I opened the door and Nick bolted through. “Thought you might need some help with the cow this mornin'. Figured I'd better drop by.” She looked me up and down, taking in my sweats and slippers. “Looks like you're not ready to go to the barn yet. Nick and I'll get started on our own.” She held a hand out to Nick, and he pulled her out of her chair.

I thanked her, then stood in the doorway watching them walk toward the gate, and thinking,
Alex Beck . . . Alex . . . Beck . . .

By the time I'd dressed and made it to the back door, Corbin was calling my cell again. I juggled the phone while pulling on the rubber boots I'd bought for barn use. “Hey, Corb, did you find anything?”

“Yeah, just a little. Mason West does have some hefty national connections. There's a long-term relationship with the Reirdon family, as in
Senator
Reirdon, as in committee-chair-of-anything-that-matters Reirdon. Mason West and Reirdon's eldest son were college roommates and fraternity brothers, so the connection goes deep. Reirdon helped Mason get his
start in politics. There's a tight relationship there, and these are not people you want to mess with, by the way—I'm assuming you're aware of that already, having worked in DC. You know that Reirdon had an intern disappear back in the late nineties, and she was found in an alley, murdered after an Internet date? Rumor was that she was meeting a reporter, not a date that night. Her family said she would
never
go on an Internet date, and that she had a boyfriend back home. You really need to be careful about sniffing around these people, okay?”

“All right. Thanks, Corbin.” This mess was getting more complicated, more ominous by the minute. Powerful connections, murdered interns . . . Everywhere I turned, there was a new secret. Was any of this related to Jack's accident? To Mason's reason for being here?

I stood staring out the window, my fingers drumming on the glass. “By the way, Corbin . . . does the name Alex Beck ring any bells?”

Corbin chuckled into the phone. “Whoa, now that's a blast from the past. I'm surprised you don't remember that one.”

I hesitated, unsure I could handle one more surprise. Maybe I was better off not knowing. “I feel like I should know it. . . .”

“Your dad couldn't stand that woman.” Corbin's tone was lighter now. “Reporter. Bleached blond. Did the DC beat for that
Nightcap
news show? Eighties, I guess, maybe early nineties. Remember?
Hard questions, hard-hitting news
.” His tone deepened and took on reverb. I recognized the slogan. It wafted from my memory banks like the scent of high-school cafeteria food, bringing with it snippets of memory.

Corbin was being gentle. My father not only couldn't stand that show, the blond-haired woman reporter was practically the bane of his existence. She had a penchant for exposing lobbyists and legislators cuddled up together on expensive
dinners, trips, golf games, flights on private planes, and other bonding activities. She outted lobbyists guilty of failing to file the proper reports, exposed them to civil penalties, and occasionally uncovered criminal violations of lobbying law. She wrote books exposing Washington's dirty laundry, past and present. She delighted in such things, and as a result, my father's blood pressure notched up several points every time her face appeared on his TV screen.

“
That's
Alex Beck?” I stammered, still trying to paint the woman's face in my mind, to reconcile it in any way with the Al I knew. She was roughly the right age, but other than that . . .

“Mmm-hmm,” Corbin murmured contemplatively. “Can't remember what ever happened to her. She dropped out of sight for some reason a long time ago. There was something . . . but I can't quite tell you what.”

I wasn't sure I wanted to know. “Thanks, Corbin. Listen, I've got to go.” I hung up without even waiting for an answer, put a hand on the doorknob, then just stood there, thinking. Could Al possibly be Alex Beck?
The
Alex Beck? Was that why her past before coming to Moses Lake was such a mystery? Why she never wanted to talk about any of her history?

Was that why she was always so interested in Jack, and now Mason?

Inside the cowgirl rancher, was the rabid reporter still lurking, just looking for the right story to make a comeback?

Most of us, I suppose, are a little nervous of the sea. No matter what its smiles may be, we doubt its friendship.

—H. M. Tomlinson
(Left by Captain Jake, guiding tours on the lake)

I
watched Nick struggling to carry his bucket, balancing his weight against it as he walked, staggering in the little cowboy boots I'd bought him on one of our trips to the Walmart in Gnadenfeld. He was gazing up at Al with a look of unfettered adoration, chatting away, his forehead lifting in a question.

Al laughed and shifted her bucket from one hand to the other, then roughly tousled his blond curls, causing him to stumble sideways and pop a splash of milk from the bucket.

“Hey!” he protested.

“Little milk's good for you. It'll make your skin pretty.” Al shrugged the braid over her shoulder and batted her eyes at him in a maneuver that seemed completely unlike her.

At least, unlike the Al I knew.

Alex Beck must have known how to put on makeup, how to assume a persona. I tried to remember, tried to visualize the face on TV—the one that usually elicited a scathing comment and a disgusted snort from my father. I remembered fluffy blond hair, and that she was pretty, but I couldn't recall the details of her face. It didn't matter, really. I couldn't equate
that face with Al's. How could they be one and the same? How could this sun-browned, no-nonsense, earthy woman have ever been Alex Beck?

“I'm not pwitty!” Nick protested, shaking his head earnestly. “I'm a boy-eee!”

“You are?” Al teased. “All this time, and nobody told me that.”

Nick peered up at her, his face narrowing, lips pursing into a tiny bow of consternation. “I always been-did a boy!” he shrieked, and then laughed, staggered, and sloshed more milk.

“Well, I guess you don't want to come help me boil up some goat soap this morning, then, do ya? You might get some on you and wind up with pretty skin.” Al rolled out the invitation before I could step into the conversation and stop her. “Guess I'll just have to see if Birdie can help me today.”

“Birdie's comin' to you house?” Nick gyrated, milk splashing onto the gravel as he and Al stopped near me.

“I'm going to give this cow's milk to Birdie's granddaddy . . . if it's okay with your mama.” Al directed the question my way. “I caught up with Len in town this morning, early, and I told him about the cow. He said he'd take the milk and distribute it around in Chinquapin Peaks, if you want. He's got some families he supplies with fish, deer meat, garden produce, cow's milk, and that kind of thing. I thought Nick could help me get the milk separated and bottled at my place, and then we'll work on some soap until Len shows up for the milk. I figured you'd be going up to the hospital again today, and Nick would need someplace to hang out. I stopped by there this morning and saw your husband, by the way. No change, sounds like. Your husband said Mason was right there all night, hovering over the ICU like a good son.” One eye ticked shut, and there was the usual hint of animosity.

“I gotta get my hat!” Nick answered Al's invitation and promptly set his bucket down in the driveway.

I caught Nick before he could skitter away. “You know what, sweetheart? Why don't you go in and watch your show for a few minutes?
Thomas the Tank Engine
just came on. Al and I need to talk.”

I felt Al's gaze on me as Nick jogged to the house and disappeared inside.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?”

I fought the urge to leave all my questions unspoken. Al's past really wasn't any of my business . . . unless her interest, her willingness to take me under her wing since our arrival in Moses Lake was really a way of getting to Jack, of looking for the kind of story that could break big, bring back a career.

I let out a long breath, then spilled the question, “Who is Alex Beck?”

Al's chin snapped up, and she eyed me mutely for a moment before setting down her milk bucket. “I'm not sure I understand what you're asking.” Color burned up her neck and into the shadow of her sweat-stained cowboy hat, underlying the sheen of moisture on her skin.

I knew I'd stepped into something large and earthshattering, but there was no going back now. “Are you Alex Beck?”

Exhaling, she crossed her arms over her loose-fitting work shirt. “Why do you want to know? What business is it of yours? Did someone say something about it? Someone around here?” A quick glance toward her truck made me wonder if she was thinking of walking out on the conversation. Unlocking her arms, she rammed her hands onto her thin hips and muttered something under her breath.

“No one said anything to me.” What was going through her mind right now? What was she feeling? “I saw a piece of mail yesterday when I drove your truck. It was . . .”

She stiffened immediately, whirled toward me, her eyes flaring. “So, I loan you my vehicle, and you snoop through my private papers, stick your nose into things that have nothing to do with you? Search my mail?” Her accusation echoed across the barnyard, shredding the morning quiet. In the tree overhead, a peacock cried out and flew across to the orchard.

“Hang on a minute. First of all, I wasn't snooping through your mail. It fell out of the truck, and I picked it up.”

“I'll bet.”

I clenched my fingers, determined not to tumble over the precipice of emotion that had been looming ever since Jack's accident. “Whether you want to believe it or not, that's the truth. I saw the name. It rang a bell. I asked my brother-in-law about it when I called him about Mason West. He refreshed my memory a little. That's it.”

“And now you're talking about me to other people. Nice.” Al's lips thinned, the creases alongside her mouth deepening. “Real nice. That's what I get for helping you. I should've left you on your own to get by here in Moses Lake.”

My stomach sank. Something between Al and me had just been broken beyond repair. “Listen, it's not that I'm not grateful. I just need to know that . . .”

“Some things aren't your business.” She stabbed a finger in my direction, and I stumbled back a step. By the yard gate, Pecos stood up, growled low. Al ignored the warning. “That name doesn't have anything to do with you.”

“Doesn't it?” I pressed, anxious to finish the conversation, to be done with it, whatever the result. “That's what I need to know.
Does
it have something to do with us? Are you here because . . . ? You've mentioned Jack and the murder case to me before. Is that more than just idle curiosity?”

“Oh, so now you're
accusing
me?” Al threw her hands up, then let them slap to her sides. “Of
what
?”

“I don't know, Al.” The anxiety that had been caged for almost a day now burst forth, wild, uncontained. “All I know is that there's one man in a hospital bed, and you don't think it's an accident, but you won't say why. My brother-in-law is telling me I'd better watch my step, and my husband is camped outside the ICU, trying to protect Jack, and everywhere I turn there's a new secret. Yes, I'm worried. There's
something
going on here, and I don't know what it is. I just want the truth. About something. The questions you're always asking me about Jack and about Mason since he got here . . . Are you working on some kind of story? I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just asking for the truth.”

Spitting air, she turned and started toward the truck, then stopped and spun around, her chin jutting out. “You want the
truth
? The truth is, you don't belong here, Mallory. You never did. Go home to DC, where all that matters is face value, and you never know who your friends are. You must fit right in there.” Her voice echoed through the empty farmyard, bouncing off the trees and the barn, slowly slipping into silence as she slammed the door of her truck, started the engine, and peeled out, sending a shower of gravel bouncing against the milk buckets and my legs.

My heart rapped in my throat as I watched the dust settle on the milk, the pale caliche drawing tan swirls on the surface. Somewhere in the distance, a peacock let out a long, lonely call as Al's truck disappeared down the driveway.

You never know who your friends are . . . you must fit right in there . . .
The words stung. I didn't want that to be true of me. I didn't want to be someone who didn't trust, who nursed suspicions, who dug into backgrounds while greeting people with a smile.

But I couldn't afford to be naïve, either. I had a family to think about—Nick, Daniel, and the baby coming.

Last night's dream haunted me.

Maybe Al was exactly right. Maybe we should leave. Even if Jack did recover and come home, who was to say that there wouldn't be another accident, and that the next one wouldn't involve Daniel? If Mason had something to do with this, if he was willing to attempt the murder of his father, why would he even think twice about Daniel's life?

The laboratory was literally full of dangerous chemicals—ammonium nitrate, chlorine compounds, diesel, and other fuels—everything needed for an explosion. Daniel had joked a time or two that, if Homeland Security found out about the place, he and Jack would end up in jail. Someone with Mason West's connections and his access to the ranch could arrange an accident in a heartbeat. . . .

Before I'd even considered what I was doing, I was on the way to the hospital with Nick strapped unhappily in the backseat. We met Daniel in the downstairs lobby, where Nick settled in at the Lego table while Daniel and I talked nearby. The news on Jack's condition was as good as could be hoped for. The doctors had been able to control the swelling in his brain without surgery. He was still unconscious. When his medications were reduced, perhaps later today, we'd know more about what condition Jack would wake up in, or whether he would wake up at all.

“Mason is in there every chance he gets, but the nurses are keeping it pretty limited. They have Jack under close supervision, thank God.” Daniel glanced toward the elevator, as if he was planning to storm the ICU. “Mason isn't letting anyone else in. I think he wants to make sure he's right there, if and when Jack wakes up. He's worried about whether Jack will remember anything about the accident, I can tell. One of the first responders stopped by late last night to see how Jack was doing. I heard Mason talking to him, trying
to find out whether Jack was conscious during the rescue or in the ambulance, and what he might have said. Mason was working really hard to play the good ol' boy card, but the volunteer fireman was really cagey. He's suspicious, and Mason didn't miss that, either. He was sweating bullets after they talked. He really wants me to stop dogging him, too. That's clear enough.”

Daniel walked away a few paces, then came back, checking the lobby and leaning close to me. “After the fireman left, Mason kept trying to persuade me to go home. He actually patted me on the shoulder and said it was above and beyond the call of duty for me to stay here. When I wouldn't leave, he lost it for a minute, said he was in charge now. He all but fired me. I told him that when Jack wakes up and fires me, then I'll go. I thought he was about to wind up and slug me right there in the hall. I wish he had.” His shoulders squared, the muscles in his forearms tightening visibly. I imagined the confrontation, imagined Daniel's lightning-quick anger making him brash and careless with his words. If Mason had any doubt about Daniel's reasons for hanging around the hospital before, he probably knew for certain now.

Daniel ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, as if he were relishing the fight, tasting it. “I'm going to keep pushing him until he cracks. He's close.”

I reached out and caught my husband's arm, thought of everything that was at risk. I thought of Corbin's warnings. “Daniel, listen. You have to go to the sheriff's department and turn this thing over . . . or . . . or tell Mart McClendon and let him relay the information the way he thinks is best, but get out of it. Please. I have a terrible feeling about where this might end. Corbin told me that Mason has powerful connections to people you don't want to mess with. We need to leave. Go back to DC. The job isn't worth this. There are other jobs.”

He drew back indignantly, his eyes a metallic gray in this light. “I can't just walk out. The guy who gave me this job is flat on his back in a hospital bed, for heaven's sake. What kind of a man would I be if I left now?”

“The kind who puts his family before his job.” My voice rose enough that Nick looked up from the Lego table. Clenching my teeth, I took a breath. Everything was running through my head—Corbin's warnings, the fight with Al, the dream, the passage from Grandma Louisa's Bible.

He keepeth back his soul from the pit, and his life from perishing by the sword . . .

If I told Daniel about the dream, he would only mollify me. He'd say I was being pregnant and emotional.