The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (17 page)

I glance over my shoulder and watch them. Father and daughter. I see my goals coalescing with his. He’s right. We do want the same things. Happiness and safety for Quinn. Jeb’s real freedom. And as I look at this vignette of warmth in my home, I get a sharp glimpse of something I don’t even want to begin to articulate. Because I’m still so unsure about him, about what we will learn. Unsure of myself. I feel I’m going to have huge trouble extricating myself from the knots of this relationship if things go sideways.

My thoughts are cut short by the sudden sound of Trixie barking and growling at the door. I move quickly to the front window.

A police cruiser is coming down my driveway.

Annie Pirello pulled up near the carport and parked under a tree. She was still pissed to have been partnered with Sam Novak. He was a Luddite. An old jerk on the verge of retirement. She turned off the engine and took in the Salonen house. It was big, rustic, an eclectic mix of old and new that seemed to define much of the architecture in this town. She got out of the cruiser, adjusted her heavy utility belt on her hips.

“You do that for courage?” Novak asked with a slam of the passenger door.

“Do what?” Annie said, walking down the path to the front door.

“Hitch up your gun belt.”

“You going to stand there watching my ass all day, Novak? Or you going to try get a look round the side of the house, or maybe the boathouse.”

She went up to the front door while her partner ambled round the side of the house.

Annie had spent the dark hours of the morning reading up on the Jeb Cullen affair. She’d also seen the impounded bike, the tire iron with blood, the burned helmet, gas cans. Something struck her as off. She didn’t think Cullen was good for the fire. She rapped sharply on the door and squared her shoulders.

The door opened right away, the kid from school glaring up at her as she held it open a crack. Annie smiled. Something about this stubborn little tough-ass kid reminded her of herself at that age. The crazy dark curls, the gap between her front teeth. The soft smattering of freckles. Her defiance. Annie would also have beaten up some of the girls at her old school if she’d been given half a chance. She wouldn’t have told the teachers why, either.

“Hey,” Annie said, dropping down so that she was eye level with the child. A dog wiggled out, barked, hackles raised, half-friendly, half-wary. Old. Border collie mix. Annie reached out, ruffled the dog’s fur. “How’re you doing, Quinn? You remember me from school yesterday?”

The kid didn’t reply.

“Quinn—get back in here!” Someone was coming. Female.

Annie quickly took the printout from her pocket. “We’re looking for this man. Have you seen him? Is he the same guy you saw at school yesterday? Did you see this tattoo?” She pointed to the fish tattoo on Cullen’s neck.

The kid’s eyes went wide. “No,” she said, staring intently at the mug shot. Annie could see she was lying.

“Why are you looking for him?” Quinn said.

Rachel Salonen, the aunt, appeared in a white terry robe at the kid’s side. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale. It looked like she’d just woken up after one helluva night.

“Quinn, get inside.” Salonen grabbed her niece by the arm and drew her back into the house. She stepped outside, shut the door behind her. Annie rose to her feet, taking in the woman’s defensive stance in front of the door.

“Ms. Salonen. Morning.”

“Constable Pirello,” the woman said with a curt nod, pulling the tie around her robe tighter. “What do you want?”

Annie glanced at the barred door. Cullen was here, she felt certain of it. And this woman and kid were protecting him. Interesting change of tone since Salonen’s visit to the station yesterday.

“We’re looking for Jebbediah Cullen, this man.” She held out the photocopied mug shot that clearly showed the tattoo down the side of Cullen’s neck.

Salonen didn’t even look at the printout. “No, I haven’t seen him. And please do not question my niece without my approval,” she said coolly. “She’s been through an incredibly rough time losing her parents.”

Annie met the woman’s brown eyes. Was that a hint of fear she could read in them? “If he’s inside, threatening you, ma’am—”

“He’s not.”

“Would it be all right if we take a look?”

“We?” Salonen’s gaze darted to the squad car, then she stepped forward, catching sight of Novak round the side. “Hey! Excuse me!” she yelled. “This is private property—you got a warrant there, Officer?”

Novak raised his hands in mock apology and moved back toward the cruiser.

Calmly, Annie said, “You came to us yesterday about the incident at school, ma’am. We believe the person who came onto school property and followed your niece is this man. Jebbediah Cullen.”

Salonen’s eyes finally flickered to the mug shot, then narrowed sharply back on Annie. “Are you looking for him because of the school incident?”

“We’re looking for him as a person of interest in an arson investigation.”

“The Wolf River fire? What makes you think he’s involved?”

“Bike registered to him was found last night at the scene, along with a bedroll and sleeping bag.”

Salonen’s gaze returned slowly to the mug shot.

“Thing is, we saw his bike leaving your house around 10:42 p.m. last night,” Annie said.

Her attention flared sharply back to Annie. “Adam had my house watched?”

“For your protection, ma’am, after you came to the station yesterday. We also have several witnesses placing you at the arson scene last night.” She paused. “I understand you have some history with Cullen.”

“The whole damn town has history with Jebbediah Cullen, Constable Pirello. Maybe you should be looking for three men in ski masks driving a silver SUV and a dark truck with a long bed. Because those three men attacked him last night, and it was them who set the place on fire. Perhaps you should take a look at the blood you might have found on a tire iron. Because it’s Jeb’s blood. If he really wanted to burn down Snowy Creek, he’s not dumb enough to start a blaze on the west side of the valley in a strong westerly. And he’s not going to beat the crap out of himself with a tire iron. Now, unless you want to arrest me or something, I’d appreciate it if you left my property.” Challenge crackled in her eyes, and two hot spots had formed high on her cheekbones.

“Three men?”

“If your forensics ident team is doing their job, they’ll find vehicle tracks, maybe some boot prints from those men. The truck plate had a
D
on it.”

Annie hadn’t heard anything in this vein. “Cullen claims this?”

Salonen said nothing.

“Can he come into the station, make a statement?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Annie glanced at the door. She nodded slowly and took a card out of her pocket. “Here.” She offered her card to Salonen, holding her gaze. “In case you want to talk to me about something.”

Salonen didn’t take the card.

“Please.” Annie held the woman’s gaze for a few beats, then added, “I read up on the Cullen case last night.” She spoke quietly so Novak wouldn’t hear. “I know who all testified against him. Why the conviction was overturned. Things might not be what they seem here. I’m new in town; I don’t have a vested interest.”

Salonen swallowed. Reluctantly she took the card.

Pirello went back to her squad car, got in the driver’s side, and belted up. Novak was already in the passenger seat. She keyed the ignition and drove up the rutted driveway, branches scraping at the paintwork.

“There was a guy inside the house,” Novak said. “Saw him briefly through the side window. It’s him. I’d bet my new sled on it.”

Pirello chewed the side of her cheek, thinking as she drove out onto the highway.

He’d been here last night, that much she knew. She’d witnessed an uneasy intimacy of sorts between Salonen and Cullen. Then he’d left, headed north. She’d called it in, been told to stand down. A few hours later fire broke out. His bike was left damaged and lying on its side, stand kicked up. A bloodied tire iron was found nearby. Bedroll down under a tree near the water, as though he might have been sleeping when shit broke loose.

Maybe you should be looking for three men in ski masks driving a silver SUV and a dark truck with a long be
d
. . .

“So why would he come back to town, burn his own land, you think?” she said.

Novak peeled open a Snickers bar. “Hell if I know. He’s a psycho. What he did to those girl
s . . .
” He bit into the chocolate bar, chewed. “Probably intoxicated, if you ask me. They’re all drunks.”

“Excuse me?”

But before Novak could answer, a call came through. Blue Ford Focus was driving erratically on Highway 99 north of the municipal helipad.

Annie reached for the radio mike. “Car Thirty-Seven responding.” She flicked on the siren, hit the gas.

Novak pulled down the visor as sun hit them directly in their eyes. The photo Annie kept in there fell out. He picked it up off his knees. “What’s this?”

Annie tensed.

“Nothing. Put it back.”

“She looks like you.”

Hands tight on the wheel, Annie negotiated a turn on the twisting highway. Peaks rose sharply on either side of the mountain pass, the siren echoing off the rocks.

“That’s because she’s my sister.”

“You keep a photo of your sister in your visor?”

She cursed under her breath. “She’s gone, okay?” The cruiser squealed around another bend.

“What do you mean gone? Like, dead?”

Annie tapped the brakes, then stepped on the gas again as she cut into the next curve. She could see the Ford Focus up ahead, weaving.

“Missing. She went hiking into the mountains with her husband on their honeymoon. They never came back.” She beeped the siren. Then again. The Ford finally pulled over. Annie drew up behind it, tires crunching on the gravel verge.

“Which mountains?”

“These mountains, up near Cayoosh. Four years ago.”

“Shit.
That
was your sister? Claudette Lepine?” He turned in his seat, faced her square. “So that’s why you took this job, came west—you’re still looking for her.”

“You want to put your big mouth to some use and handle this DUI, Novak? Or you want me to stuff a sock in it?”

I sink onto the ottoman in front of the dead fire. Both Quinn and Jeb are staring at me. What line, what threshold have we just crossed, all three of us together, lying to the police like that?

I scrub my hands hard over my face. Jeb comes over, places his hand on my shoulder. “What did they want?”

I flick my head back up. “What the hell do you think they wanted? They want you.”

“The fire?” he whispers.

“Yeah. Fishing expedition, if you ask me. If they really had anything, they’d have come with a warrant. They’re circling, sounding us out.”

“Is your name Jeb?” Quinn’s voice slices like a crystal shard through us both. We jerk round to face her.

She’s still standing near the door, her face pale.

“Quinnie,” I try to say lightly. “Come over here. Come sit on the sofa next to me.”

She hesitates, then sidles slowly over, perches tentatively on the edge. Her eyes are big and dark. She begins to kick the sofa with the back of her heel.
Thump. Thump Thump.

“Yes,” Jeb says suddenly. “My name is Jeb.” He comes and sits on the coffee table, facing her. She kicks harder.
Thumpthumpthump.

My eyes flare to his in warning. This is my house. My territory. But it’s his territory, too. The three of us are locked in this together, a dysfunctional family unit trapped on the wrong side of the establishment, possibly even the law now. And there’s no turning back. I called him Jeb without thinking when I saw the cop car arriving. Constable Pirello clearly gave Quinn his name when she showed her the mug shot.

“Jeb Cullen,” he says.

The kicking stops. Quinn goes frighteningly still. When she speaks, her voice is tight.

“Why do the police want you? Is it because of me? Because I hit Missy Sedgefield?”

“Quinn.” I lean forward quickly and place my hand on her knee. “The police have got a mixed-up message about Jeb. We need to sort that all out before we can let them know he’s here. It’s okay that you lied to them. Sometimes—”
Crap. What am I saying? How do I do this without shattering her apart?