The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (19 page)

As he was about to exit the front door, Lily came after him into the mudroom.

“What did your mother mean that night, nine years ago, when I overheard you two arguing after Amy and Merilee went missing?”

He stalled, hand on doorknob.
“
What?
”

“When she said all you had to do was say nothing. That you had a career and life to think about.”

Silence shimmered hot between them.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. I know you do. Luke borrowed your Jeep that night, didn’t he?”

“Listen to me, you keep your mouth shut about this. Now is not the time. Things could be taken out of context, and you could take this whole family down. You, me, the boys. Do you want that?”

She stared at him.

“Right, I didn’t think so. Now go see Dr. Bennett. You need to get back on that medication, understand? You’re getting paranoid again.” He hesitated, then took her by the shoulders. “Look, I love you, Lily LeFleur, you got that? We’ve stuck together through thick and thin, we’re not giving up now.”

Tears flooded her eyes. She nodded.

Adam kissed her cheek. His brain recoiled as he caught the strong scent of vodka.

Running lightly down the steps, he swore again under his breath. Cullen had landed in this town like a burning match in a tinder-dry forest. And he had a sense this was only the beginning.

Jeb arrived in the skiers’ parking lot at three thirty p.m. Rachel had given him the keys to her father’s SUV. He turned off the radio, sat for a moment, a warrior preparing his mind. Rachel had done what she’d promised. She’d gone to battle. The news of his return and upcoming meeting with the press had gone viral and had been picked up by the Lower Mainland papers and TV stations, who were tweeting that they would be on location in Snowy Creek at five p.m. to follow the story. Snowy Creek was a high-end destination resort, and there was something salacious in seeing the underbelly of the famous ski town.

As Jeb got out the vehicle, he noticed the wind had died. Everything felt eerily still, dry, like the eye of the storm. He looked up at the sky and felt a sense of pressure building. In the distance, to the west, the sky was clouded by a haze of soft brown smoke.

Pocketing the keys, he walked toward the pedestrian-only village, feeling uneasy that the whole thing might backfire.

The air was cool, leaves bright, as he crossed the plaza at the base of the mountain. Mountain bikers in full helmets and protective body armor bombed down the last run of the terrain park, flying into the air over the final jump, turning somersaults, landing and skidding into base, dust-caked, beaten up, and triumphant.

Others stood around the plaza with bikes, watching, pointing, laughing. Music blared from the Gondola Pub above the gondola building. The chairlift was still operational but not loading bikers, just bringing them down at this hour, along with sightseers and hikers. Jeb paused a moment to watch a rider coming down, hitting the jump, and doing a 360 flip thing off the lip. He felt old, alien. A man who’d been locked away too long. When he’d been taken away in handcuffs, mountain biking was nothing like the daredevil sport it had grown into now, at least not on this scale.

From behind him, music also throbbed from the patio of the Shady Lady Saloon, where people were already crowding around thick wooden tables beneath red umbrellas, servers ferrying out appies and jugs of beer. Later, as it grew darker and colder, the outdoor heaters would be lit.

Jeb moved through the crowds on the plaza and onto the patio area. He pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the saloon and entered the darkened interior. It was quieter inside, most of the patrons still preferring the sunshine on the patio outside, which wouldn’t last long this time of year.

He took a table in the far corner, where he could sit with his back to the wall, see the doors and most aspects of the establishment. He ordered a coffee from a waitress with a German accent. There was a woman working the bar who looked vaguely familiar. No sign of the owner, Harvey Zink.

Jeb had come early to avoid any trouble that might gather outside given the social media frenzy over his publicized interview. Rachel had called him to say comments were being made about how this would hurt Merilee’s family, how he should be run out of town. And worse. She’d sounded worried.

The server placed his coffee in front of him. Her body language, the way she regarded him, told Jeb she knew who he was. But she said nothing, and he didn’t invite chat. Minutes ticked by slowly. He sipped from his cup, eyes fixed on the saloon doors, which began to swing open more frequently, each time slicing blinding white light into the dim interior and silhouetting the incoming figures. It reminded him of an old Western movie scene.

At 4:42 p.m. the doors swung open wide and three built men entered. Firefighters, by their uniforms. The men surveyed the saloon and stilled as they saw him. Jeb’s pulse quickened.

But they did not approach.

They went to sit at a large round table near the bar, all facing in a half-moon in his direction. These would be men under Clint Rudiger. Loyal to their chief. Showing machismo and solidarity. Three more firefighters joined them, including a woman. Then a man about six feet tall entered the saloon. His chest was wide and his arms were those of a weightlifter. His stride was confident as he made his way over to his colleagues. Dark-blond hair, brush cut. Square jaw, handsome profile. A ripple of subtle movement ran through the group at the table as the man approached and pulled out a chair. And as he moved under the light, Jeb recognized him—Clint Rudiger himself. Their boss.

Tension whispered through Jeb. He was outnumbered, outmuscled, no question. His gambit was the publicity he’d already gained; vigilante justice was against the law, and people would be watching those men now.

The saloon doors swung open again. Trey Somerland, wearing his Rescue One jacket. Jeb’s blood began to rush in his ears. Somerland, his nemesis. His longtime rival for Rachel’s affection. Somerland, who’d sparked his rage that night, who’d driven him beyond logic to sleep with Amy. Which in turn had created Quinn.

His skin grew hot.

Somerland scanned the interior of the saloon, found Jeb, and met his eyes. He stood stone still for several beats. Then right behind him another man who Jeb did not recognize immediately entered the saloon. A balding dude with a paunch and macho swagger. It took a few beats to place him as Harvey Zink. Not what he was expecting. While Clint had kept himself buff, Zink on the other hand had let himself slide.

Zink and Somerland joined the firefighters at the round table.

Jeb took in a slow, calming breath. The battle lines had been drawn, and they’d come en masse in a show of solidarity. Had one of those men, or several of them, tried to kill him last night? Set fire to the west mountains? Jeb checked his watch. Almost five.

A uniformed cop entered and moved to sit at a table near the door, facing the room, back to wall. Another man seated himself at a table near Jeb. Possibly plainclothes Snowy Creek PD—he had that aura. The circles were closing in, cornering him. He took another sip of his coffee, which was now cold, and checked his watch.

The door opened again, and the noise of an outside crowd drifted in over the music—chanting, some yelling. The sound was swallowed again as the heavy door shut behind two women, one with dark hair in a braid, lugging photographic equipment, another with short, wispy white-blonde hair, carrying a tote. The blonde pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head. Jeb pegged her as Cass Rousseau, the
Leader
editor. The two women saw him almost immediately. But they didn’t come right over. They first surveyed the scene, who was sitting where. They exchanged words. The dark-haired photographer nodded, and Cass squared her shoulders, making directly for Jeb’s table. The photographer followed.

“Jebbediah Cullen?” She held her hand out, but no smile.

He got to his feet, took her hand. It was slim, cool, her grip firm.

“I’m Cass Rousseau, editor of the
Snowy Creek Leader
, and this is Hallie Sherman.”

The photographer leaned forward and shook his hand with a startlingly strong grip. “If you don’t mind,” said Hallie in a husky voice that brought lounge singers and whiskey bars to mind, “I’ll shoot as Cass interviews, then maybe we do some outside shots after?”

“That’s fine,” Jeb said. “Whatever you need.”

Cass pulled out a chair, wooden legs scraping against the stone floor. Jeb reseated himself. From her bag, Cass produced a digital recorder and set it carefully in front of them. “You okay if I record the conversation?”

“I’m good.”

She pressed the button. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

CHAPTER 15

Adam caught sight of her long dark hair, a gleaming walnut color in the late afternoon sun. Even in a crowd, Rachel Salonen stood out. She closed the distance across the plaza, weaving through the protesters as she made her way toward him and the saloon. Her limp seemed a little more pronounced than he remembered—she was tired.

He stiffened as he saw a group of local activists closing in around Rachel. She was jostled by a woman holding a placard that declared sex offenders should be castrated. Others started chanting at her. Among the crowd Adam noticed Jacob Zukanov and his sons. A visible ripple of emotion passed through Rachel as Jacob, Merilee’s father, personally confronted her. The group circled her and started yelling, pointing fingers in her face. One of Adam’s officers intervened, marshaling them aside.

But Rachel hesitated before moving away from Jacob. Instead she bent her head close to his, said something. Merilee’s father stiffened, then Rachel moved smartly forward. Someone yelled at her from behind. Her face was tight, bloodless. Adam cursed. She’d created a fucking circus.

As she neared the Shady Lady patio, their eyes met and Adam’s chest constricted with anger and something more complicated—a sense of betrayal. She was one of their own. She was Snowy Creek’s Golden Girl, and she was complicating things, dividing a town, digging up old graves. Rachel Salonen was giving Jebbediah Cullen power he would otherwise not have, harboring him and giving him airtime like this. Adam knew from both Trey and Zink that she’d gone and fetched Cullen from Wolf River last night, the night of the fire.

Rachel hesitated when she saw him. But she had to approach. He and other officers were blocking her way by forming a cordon of sorts in front of the patio in case the crowd tried to storm inside. Then suddenly, as if she’d made up her mind about something, she came directly at him, aggression in her stride, her gaze pinned on his face.

As she reached him, she said loud and crystal clear, “You trying to stop me from going in, Adam?”

“I’m trying to stop people from getting hurt,” he said. “Your paper put word out that he’d be here. That was irresponsible. We’re expecting trouble.”

“Trouble like last night? Vigilante violence? Attempted murder?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then my newspaper will happily throw some light on that for you, because Jeb was not responsible for that fire, and I had nothing to do with it, either. Three men tried to kill him. They left him to burn. He was lucky he rolled into a wet gulley, otherwise someone in this town would have murder on their hands. So, if your Constable Pirello or any of your other officers want to set one more foot on my property, you better come backed by a warrant, otherwise you respect my privacy.”

A cameraman from CTV angled closer through the crowd, filming their exchange. Adam lowered his head, furious. “You call this privacy, Rachel?” he said hotly under his breath. “This is a bloody circus you’ve created. What exactly are you trying to prove here?”

She held his gaze. The chanting grew louder as more protesters with placards entered the square. Cameras flashed, people snapped images with cell phones.

“How did you get that cut on your face, Adam?” she said quietly.

He ignored her question. “Do you remember what that psychiatrist said in the witness box about Cullen? He has the markers of a sociopath. He’s a smooth-talking, manipulative liar who was capable of heinous deeds, even as a child.”

“You taking lessons from Trey now? Because he just tried to tell me the same thing.”

“I’m reminding you he’s an adept liar. Always has been.”

“You never did know him. You and the other guys judged him by where he came from, not who he was. It’s easier to lay blame on an outsider than to look into the mirror and examine one’s own friends, family”—she paused—“one’s own brother, isn’t it?”

Adam clenched his jaw. That damn CTV cameraman was in their faces now, catching one of the town’s top cops arguing with the newspaper publisher in public, and now Rachel had gone and mentioned Luke.

“I’m warning you, Rachel,” he whispered angrily as she began to push past him.

She stalled dead in her tracks. “
Warning
me?” she said loudly. She stepped toe-to-toe with him. “I want to ask you something, Deputy Chief Constable LeFleur.” Her voice was strident, carrying over the chanting, being caught by the CTV camera guy. “Does the Snowy Creek PD condone vigilante violence? Or do you care about the truth?” The camera zoomed in. “Why did you become a cop, sir? Did you once believe in the law, in justice? Because if you don’t do something about the attack on Cullen last night, people are going to think you’re protecting someone. Is it your mother? Your brother? Old mates? Town vigilantes? Which is it?” And with that, she pushed past him and marched up to the heavy wood doors of the saloon.

Adam swore viciously under his breath.

I’m shaking with adrenaline as I place my palms on the saloon doors. But before I can push through them, something splats against the wood near my head. I spin round in shock, just in time to duck another flying tomato, which explodes against the wall, spattering warm juice across my face. My heart jackhammers.

“That’s her! Snowy Creek Golden Girl, the publisher giving voice to a murderer! Traitor!” An egg is lobbed into the air. It cracks against the door, slimy contents sliding down the wood.

“Where is the sex pervert! Where is Merilee Zukanov! Where is her body!” A chant starts up.

Where in hell did these people come from?

Quickly I push through the doors as another egg comes flying. The doors swing heavily shut behind me, cutting out the heckling sounds. Momentarily blinded by the dim interior, I stall and wipe warm tomato spittle from my cheek and brow. I feel sick.

As my vision accommodates, I see Jeb and Cass at a table in the far corner. Jeb glances up. Our gazes meet across the room. I swallow, then turn to go sit at the bar. I shouldn’t have come.

As I near the long bar counter, I feel eyes on me. Clint Rudiger and his core team of firefighters, including female Assistant Fire Chief Kerrigan Kaye, have taken command of a big round table at the end of the counter. Harvey Zink and Trey are also with them. The group of men and lone woman at the round table stare, hostile. A challenge. My heart punches even harder. I know Kerrigan well. We used to ski together. I know them all. I have made myself their enemy.

Bracing my shoulders, I raise my chin and go take a seat on a stool at the bar.

Olivia Banrock, Shady Lady’s manager, is working the bar herself today. I order a gin and tonic from her. I don’t usually drink during the day, but I can use one.

“I wish you hadn’t done that, Rachel,” Olivia says as she slides over a coaster. Her eyes are sparking with a quiet anger. “Advertising this on social media like that, making this bar a hotspot for trouble. I don’t like the mood in here, or out there. Thank God the cops arrived or I would’ve called them myself.”

I take a sip, try to calm my slamming heart. “I’m sorry, Liv. I didn’t expect this level o
f . . .
passion.”

“What in hell did you expect then?”

My eyes flick up in surprise. I know Olivia well. We’ve always gotten on.

“My paper is just covering the news. Jeb needed to meet in public because he’s already been attacked in private, in the dark, by men in masks.” My eyes flicker to the table. Zink’s gaze is intent on me.

She glowers at me. “So you pick this bar?”

“He’ll be done soon.” I take another gulp of my drink.

“I can just imagine my father’s face when he hears about this. He’ll have your ass in a sling.”

“Excuse me?”

She flushes. “I mean, he owns half the paper, right? This is going to hurt business.”

Adrenaline begins to slam afresh through me.

“Forty-nine percent,” I say, coolly. “And it’s still a
news
paper Olivia, not a flyer for Banrock ski enterprises and real estate.”

Olivia raises a brow. She turns her back on me to take a large plate of nachos from the hatch, which she carries over to the firefighters’ table. And it sinks into me just how much this fight for the truth might cost me personally. I raise my glass to my lips. There sure as hell better be proof at the end of it all. And it better be the kind of proof I like.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Zink talking intimately to Olivia. They both look in my direction. She yanks off her apron in a huff and heads into the kitchen. Zink comes over, taking up position behind the bar. Tension tightens like a steel bar across my chest. I position my back to the counter, to him. I don’t want to meet Zink’s eyes right now. Instead I watch Jeb and Cass in the corner.

The music from the vintage jukebox segues to some country-western tune, and Trey rises from the cabal at the round table. He also comes over. For a moment I can’t breathe. I take another sip, not looking his way, either.

Quietly, he says at my shoulder, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Having a drink.”

“Jesus, Rachel, those guys at that tabl
e . . .
they’re your team, people who’ve always had your back, both on SAR missions and in everyday life. Now you’re harboring a felon who’s going to tear this town apart. Let him go.” His voice is smoothness over gravel. Old Trey.

Emotion burns behind my eyes. I still refuse to look at him.

“We all know he did it.”

“Do we?” I lurch from my stool, spin round, and glare up at him. I’m slammed with shock—his lip is split. He has a black eye, bruised cheekbone. My heart drops into my stomach like a cold stone as I think of the attack on Jeb last night.

Something in my belly starts to shake as I look into his bruised eyes. “What is
your
goal here, Trey?” I point to the team around the table glaring at me. “What do
they
want? To beat Jeb up? Kill him so the real rapist and killer is not exposed? Why are you even fighting this if there’s nothing to hide?”

His face darkens, tightens. Tension rolls off him in waves. I’m scared. I don’t know this Trey. This is not the man I almost married.

But I continue in spite of my growing fear. “Because I’ll tell you what
my
motivations are right now. I want the truth, however it comes, even if he is guilty. And I want Merilee found. I want closure. So, while everyone out there vilifies me as some enemy tearing this town apart, the bottom line is I want what they all want. What Jacob Zukanov and his sons want, what they deserve. And I told Jacob as much.”

Before my voice breaks, before I start trembling like a leaf, I spin round and aim for the door. It was a damn stupid move to have come. And yeah, I can be stupid with the best of them. Especially when it comes to libido. I hope to hell it’s not a subterranean driver in me right now, that this is not why I am fighting for Jeb.

Trey lunges forward, grabs my arm, forcing me back to face him. I suck air in sharply in surprise.

Jeb rises instantly at his table. Cass turns, watches. The entire saloon goes dead quiet under the country tune.

Trey draws me closer, gripping my arm like a vise. He lowers his voice to a soft growl. “If you need help, if he’s gotten to you—”

My voice comes out shaky. “You know what will help? To know you had nothing to do with the attack on Jeb last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get that split lip? You take a punch from Jeb?”

His eyes flicker. He’s hiding something, I can see. Cold sinks into my bones.

“I don’t know about any attack.”

“Read about it in the
Leader
, then. He’ll describe in detail how three men in ski masks set fire to his land, then tried to kill him.”

He glowers at me, his hand tightening on my arm. I can see thoughts rushing behind his eyes. “It was Stacey,” he says finally. “She hit me.”

A snort erupts from me. “Good one. Now let me go unless you want to start a bar brawl in your buddy Zink’s pub, because Jeb is about to come over and lay into you, and there are two cops watching us right now.”

He releases my arm, slowly. I walk to the door but my legs feel like water.

I shove through the doors. The bright light of the setting sun slices through my eyes right into the back of my skull.

“You’re no better than an undertaker, Salonen!” someone yells at me.

“Castrate the bastard!”

“Make him tell where Merilee is!”

I face forward and walk without looking. The cops keep the hordes at bay. My heart is a bass drum in my chest, my mouth bone dry. I’m fully expecting the slap of another tomato on my body.

Once through the crowd, I run up the flight of concrete stairs leading to the road. I cross and find my truck in the skiers’ parking lot. Someone has stuck a scrawled message on a piece of paper under my windshield wiper. I yank it out.

Bitch! traitor!

I sit in my truck clutching the balled-up note in my fist. I did this. I expected this. So now I have to suck it up. Reaching forward, I fire the ignition, then I see my dad’s SUV parked a few cars down. There is no way Jeb is going to get out of here now without being accosted. I don’t even trust the police will stop it.