The Drake House (27 page)

“What’s going on, son?”

Sighing, Nick glanced from his mother’s retreating back to his father’s raised eyebrows. “This case.”

“Tell me about it. Maybe it’ll help.”

Nick never brought work home, especially to his parents. Not only because of the case itself, but because they didn’t belong in the ugliness he so often saw. Maybe his dad could shed some light on this one, though. Maybe talking to someone would help. His father would keep what he knew to himself. He wouldn’t risk his son, or the case.

Sinking back against the couch, he laid out the whole case, leaving nothing out but his intimacy with Trisha.

After he finished, his father said nothing for a long time, then uttered, “Damn.”

“Yeah. Plus, I think Trisha’s up to something. She broke up with me, but there’s something else there. She had this look like the wheels were turning too fast to keep up.”

“Does she know about Bethany?”

Nick nodded, running a hand down his face. They didn’t mention his sister often, so the sound of her name from his father’s lips nearly had Nick in tears.

“So you trust her. And you can talk to her. You don’t talk to anyone anymore, son.”

“Dad, don’t…”

“How long have you been in love with her?”

Nick shook his head, unsure why he wasn’t surprised by the question. He hoped he wasn’t this transparent to Trisha. Wearily, he looked at his dad. “I think since the first moment I saw her.”

A breath of a laugh escaped his father’s mouth, but Nick caught the sadness underneath. “Well, I’m happy for you, though it seems to piss you off. She’s a great gal, that Trisha.”

He nodded his agreement. “You only think that cause she’s a baseball fan.”

Grinning, his father said, “It’s a plus.” But the light drained from his eyes. “Are you going to allow yourself some happiness?”

No.
He didn’t deserve it. And she could have so much better. Should get so much better than him. Though she somehow allowed him to feel again, he was still only half a man. “What do you think of the case? Think she’s up to something?”

“I don’t think you could stop her if she was. Just be there. You’re doing everything you can.”

Nick rose. “It’s not enough.”

His father’s gaze fell to his hands folded in his lap. “Sometimes you can do everything right, and it still goes all wrong.”

They weren’t talking about Trisha or the case anymore, and they both knew it. Unsaid words hung between them. Though the words wedged in his throat, the apology was too long in coming. “I’m so sorry, Dad. It should’ve been me. I…”

“You did your job.” His dad’s eyes bore him down, made him shrink six sizes. He stood. “I didn’t blame you, nor did your mother. You were stronger than your sister. Always were. She made a choice. We’re living with it.”

“You
should
blame me,” he ground out in a harsh whisper.

“Why, son? Don’t you do that enough? Did you drive the car into the tree?”

His insides felt hollow. “I may as well have.”

“We lost our baby, Nick. We’ll never get over that. But blame does no one any good. You’re still here, if only as a ghost. It’s time to breathe again.”

His eyes fell closed, trying to block out the agony of his father’s words. He let a woman get too close, and now the thought of losing her, of being unable to protect her, was shoving all these resentments to the surface. “I can’t breathe, Dad. I barely survived Bethany. I won’t survive Trisha.”

When he opened his eyes, his father was nose to nose. “Try. It’s all anyone can expect. Try.”

He thought his father was going to hug him, but as if knowing it was the last thing he needed, he nodded instead and left the room.

Alone, Nick blew out a shaky breath and ran a hand down his face. After a few moments, he turned off the lights, locked the doors, and slipped into his old bedroom with Trish.

She’d left the lamp on for him—a lamp shaped like a baseball bat. His curtains were covered in a Brewers logo, and so was the bedspread covering her sleeping form. It felt like his soul was cracking open, letting an array of closed emotions seep out. Her chestnut hair spread over the pillow, exposing her elegantly long neck. When a rope appeared before his eyes, squeezing the air from that beautiful neck, he pinched his eyes closed and whirled to leave.

“I’m not asleep,” she murmured.

Stopping, he turned back and found her looking at him. “That’s only a full-size bed. I’ll sleep on the couch in the other room.” Yet his feet didn’t move.

She sat up, causing the sheets to pool in her lap. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” she said.

He’d rather lie than tell her what was running through his head. What pictures were splaying through his mind. He must’ve said so aloud, because she rose from the bed and padded over to him in bare feet.

“You’re envisioning my lifeless body, a noose around my neck?”

“Jesus, Trish,” he muttered, whirling away from her. It pissed him off how well she knew him. More so how she wasn’t afraid to put it out there. She wasn’t acting near as frightened as she should.

“This isn’t about retribution over Bethany. You don’t have to save me.”

Something inside him snapped. “This was never about my sister, Trish. That was my fault. What happened with her is nothing compared to you. Some sick bastard is trying to silence you over something you don’t remember. Perhaps something that never even happened. And you’re making jokes.”

Her chin raised defiantly. “I’m not joking here. And I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” he said and ground his teeth. “He killed two of your men, right under us. Your parents and their closest friends are the only current suspects. He wants you dead.” He stepped back, the enormity of the last part finally, absolutely sinking in. “He wants you dead,” he whispered again.

“I won’t go easily.”

“I keep seeing you, pale, with a rope burn around your throat. I can’t… I just…” Trailing off, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Her jaw dropped, but she recovered nicely. “Get the picture out of your head. You can’t work like that. You can’t be objective.”

“Objectivity flew out the window months ago.”

When she looked away, Nick realized she was as torn as he. Wanting what she couldn’t have. Fear of what this guy would do next. Willing to risk everything to stop him. And fighting a desire that could only end badly.

“Come to bed,” she said, resigned. “You need some sleep.”

Sleep was the furthest conceivable thing from his mind. But he stripped down to his boxers and climbed in bed after her. She cut the light and brushed against him. The bed was too damn small. Her peach scent way too close. His arm snaked out, grabbing her waist and drawing her to his side. It would have to do for tonight.

****

The excavation order to exhume Alexandra Drake came a week later, two days after Chuck’s funeral. Trisha stood behind the massive barren house next to Brad and Steve with her arms crossed, watching the Madison crime unit at work just to their left.

The heavy sadness she always felt near the tree line wasn’t present. Once she led the team onto Alexandra’s property, the sadness washed away like a storm, leaving her with a sense of gratitude. She couldn’t help but wonder if Alexandra was finally getting a resemblance of justice after thirty years.

“This is wrong,” Steve muttered for the hundredth time.

Trisha glanced away from the dig and over to Steve. It was his day to babysit her. Ever since their trip to Milwaukee, Nick had ordered a man from the department with her twenty-four hours a day. Nick’s turn hadn’t arisen yet.

“Well, Steve, we can’t do anything about it. Lafferty said this was necessary.”

“The dead should stay buried.”

If only it were that easy. She looked heavenward for patience. The sky was threatening snow. Though the fall harvest set-up on the orchard was ready, they still had stuff to get done before tomorrow when the festivities began. She’d put the men to work, all but Brad who insisted he be right by her side, and she was anxious to get going. Being here, among Alexandra’s shriveled roses and empty house, was getting to her.

Lafferty walked over a few minutes later. “They’re taking her out now.” He removed a plastic bag from his pocket. “I need a DNA sample from you.”

She eyed the Q-tip and then him. “I’m not her daughter. You won’t need that.”

“Humor me.”

Opening her mouth, he swabbed the inside of her cheek and bagged the sample. “How long before you know something,” she asked.

Lafferty shrugged. “Couple days at most. I’ll call you.”

They waited for the van to drive away before taking the walking path to the orchard in silence. Brad straddled a four-wheeler without a word and sped off toward the shed. Trisha turned to Steve.

“You can take off if you want to,” she said in the hopes he would.

“Nice try. Your boyfriend would have my hide.”

Sighing, she led him to the house. Tomorrow, her plan would come to light, and not even her non-boyfriend could stop what came next. She hadn’t heard from Nick, so she was unsure whether any more threatening calls were received. But an autopsy on Alexandra Drake should be enough to get the killer riled. That, and the rumors she intended to let fly.

She was about to willingly let herself be a target.

****

Nick climbed the porch steps to Doc Wilson’s home-slash-medical office, a duplex which rested on the main strip in town. A sign on the door relayed he was open and to just come in.

When a bell over the door rang his entrance, Doc yelled to him from somewhere unseen, “Just have a seat. I’ll be right there.”

Nick stepped into the living room, which was really a waiting area. Off in one corner by a window, a toy box sat over-flowing with toys. Two small plastic chairs rested on either side. In the other corner, a couple of smallish couches were set in a V in front of a television which had a morning talk show claiming he could lose weight with an all new diet secret. Doc’s diplomas and degrees hung on the wall, along with a scattering of enlarged comic strips about various illnesses.

Nick turned when Doc entered the room, drying his hands on a towel. “Well, I hope you’re not sick, Deputy.”

Nick shook his head. “Just need a minute of your time for some medical questions.”

“You’re in the right place then,” he said, waving him deeper into the house.

Nick rubbed his eyes to get one question out of the way. “But first, you don’t have a cat, do you, Doc?”

“Nope,” he answered immediately. “Not sanitary. Upstairs either.” Doc eyed him curiously. “You having an allergy fit? Could be dust. You on anything?”

Nick waved him off and sniffed for effect. “Probably just the weather change. So, let’s see the place.”

Nick followed him through a set of swinging doors and into the kitchen. All the cabinets had locks. When Nick raised his brows, Doc said, “Medical supplies, cleaning supplies, and drug samples. That’s right! You haven’t been in yet, have you? Let me give you the grand tour.”

Leaving the kitchen once more, Nick trailed Doc through the living room and down a hallway. The first would-be bedroom was an exam room. The second held filing cabinets and overstock supplies. The third had a mobile x-ray machine, with a light frame on the wall to read scans. An ultrasound machine was pushed in the corner.

“Impressive,” Nick said. “I wondered how an in-home practice could run successfully. Nice set up.”

“Thank you, son.” He pointed to the kitchen. “Let’s go sit for a bit. I’m not as young as I used to be. Neither are my knees.”

Nick watched Doc ease into a kitchen chair, no small feat, and lean back. A heavy sigh erupted from him as if it was the most difficult task he’d done all day. The man was in his seventies. Nick wondered what would happen when the old goat retires
. Or dies
.

As if reading his mind, Doc smiled. “My grandson is finishing up his residency in Appleton. He’ll be taking over the practice in May. He grew up here, so the town knows him.”

When Nick nodded, Doc gestured for him to sit. Pulling out a chair, Nick sat across from him.

“What can I do you for?”

“I got a call two days ago from Madison with permission to exhume Alexandra Drake’s body.” Nick waited for a response. Other than the man blanching, he received none. “They are doing it as we speak.”

A full three seconds passed before Doc spoke. “I see. And what’s the question you have for me?”

“You didn’t do an autopsy on Drake or request Madison to do one, either. Why?”

If there was any humor left in Doc’s eyes, it all but fled. “There was no need. It was an obvious suicide.”

Nick slid his gaze over the old man’s face. Bet he made one helluva poker player. “Crime scene photos showed defensive wounds on her hands and a bruise on her cheek.” None of that had been confirmed yet, but he wanted to see the doctor’s response.

Finally, Doc broke eye contact and looked at his folded, wrinkled hands on the table between them. “I don’t recall any of that.”

The guy was sharper than a scalpel. No way was his memory shady. “What
do
you recall?”

Doc looked at him, his words holding a sharp edge. “I remember the town witch hanging herself after kidnapping our lil’ Trish.”

Huh.
Someone had told Doc about the meeting with Wayne, the Eatons, and the Hernandezs. Nick had been listening very carefully to the rumor mill in town, no one knew anything about this case except that something was up. Doc could have been responsible for Alexandra’s death, but he wasn’t agile enough to do Chuck or Andrew’s murder recently. Either way, the guy knew something.

But Nick didn’t want to play his hand too soon. He also sure as hell didn’t want what could be one of the players in on what he knew. Doc’s reaction to his questions, and his to-the-point responses were enough for Nick to gauge the old man.

“It was thirty years ago,” Doc said. “What difference does it make now?”

Nick let that statement go. Rising, he said, “Thanks for your time. I’ll come by if I need anything else.”