The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (24 page)

Beppie glanced up from the television as her husband entered.

“He named you,” she said. “He claims he was attacked and beaten by vigilantes who started that wildfire.”

Clint came up to her and kissed her on the cheek. He turned off the television. “He doesn’t deserve airtime.” He ruffled Susie’s hair. “Smells good. Let’s eat, shall we?”

“Susie, go get Janis and Holly.”

As Susie skittered up the stairs, Beppie lowered her voice. “Do you think this is some kind of vengeance, that he wants to mess with our minds? What else could he want?”

“The man is a psychopath. Don’t worry, he’ll do something stupid. The cops will put him back where he belongs.”

“He’s maligning your name. And the others.”

“When has that sort of thing ever worried you, Beps?” He gave her a smile that lit his eyes, and he kissed her on the mouth, his big, square, calloused hands holding her face. Solid. Everything about Clint was solid. Capable. “Relax, this will go away. Nothing for you to worry yourself about.”

“How will it go away?”

“I told you, Cullen will make a slip. Adam’s guys are watching him. He might even go out to where he left Merilee, and they’ll be on him like stink on a skunk. Then they’ll nail him for good, put him away for murder this time.”

They sat to eat as usual.

The washing machine downstairs entered a spin cycle. Everything normal. But something had somehow shifted. Clint was watching her. Beppie felt uneasy. She thought again about what Stacey had said.

When the girls were washing up, Beppie went to fetch the laundry. She came upstairs, clutching the basket of wet washing. “Why do you think Rachel is helping him?”

Clint came up to her, drying his hands on a dishtowel. Her gaze flicked to the grazed knuckles on his right hand. He’d said he hurt his hand fighting the fire in the early hours of Thursday morning.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The guys think she still has something for him.”

She swallowed. Her gaze darted to her girls laughing and busy at the sink, Susie standing on a special box Clint had made so she could reach easily, the other two drying.

“Did you know,” she whispered quietly so her girls wouldn’t hear, “that Quinn MacLean is Jeb’s daughter? The rape baby.”

“What?”

“You don’t know?”

“Where did you hear this?”

“Stacey Sedgefield overheard Trey talking to Rachel on the phone Wednesday night, late, around midnight. Rachel’s sister and brother-in-law adopted Amy and Jeb’s baby. Trey was promising Rachel he wouldn’t tell anyone, no matter what happened.”

Clint stared at her, his pulse suddenly hammering at his neck. “Trey
knew
this?”

“That’s what Stacey told me, Lily, and Vickie at the bike camp. They think this could be why Jeb has come back to town. And maybe it’s why Rachel is helping him.”

A darkness twisted through her husband’s face. “And how long has Trey known this?”

Worry flickered through Beppie. “I don’t know. I assume since Rachel became her guardian, after the fire killed her parents. They were engaged, after all.”

“Fuck,” he said quietly. “Trey never breathed a word to us. And now you tell me he’s making promises to Rachel?”

“Don’t,” she warned, her voice low. “I will not have that language in front of the girls. Not in this house.”

He cupped her face. “Look, whatever they’re all up to, it’s not our worry. Okay?”

“But he’s dragged us into it.”

“He’s dragged the whole town into it. He’s just playing head games. Don’t give him any power over your thoughts, because then he wins. Like I said, he’ll do something stupid. They’ll lock him away.” He hooked his knuckle under her chin, held her gaze. “It’s going to be fine. Now, you go hang that laundry, I’ll help the girls finish the breakfast dishes.”

Beppie made her way down to the washing line, clutching the basket of wet clothes. She began to hang the laundry with wooden pegs even though the air was tinged with smoke. She didn’t own a dryer, didn’t believe in them.

Shaking out a heavy pair of black jeans, she pegged them, then reached back into the basket, and took out a wet black ski mask. Something inside her went ice-cold.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Clint in the kitchen window above the sink, watching her.

Beppie turned and pegged the ski mask to the line. She felt a shift in the air. The wind was turning. She hung up the next thing in the basket, a thick black long-sleeved T-shirt.

Her gaze drifted toward her blue truck, which Clint had borrowed Wednesday while his had been in the shop. Her heart started to hammer.

CHAPTER 19

Assistant Fire Chief Kerrigan Kaye kept half an eye on the small television screen above her desk as she worked on the time sheets. The news was on and it was mostly a recap of the shitstorm that had erupted last night around Jeb Cullen. She and some of the guys from the station had been at the Shady Lady to support Chief Rudiger, but the anger, the sheer depth of the animosity among her colleagues niggled at her.

The clip of Rachel arguing with Adam LeFleur played again. Kerrigan stilled, watched it for a second time. She knew both Rachel and Adam well. Adam through work, Rachel from skiing with her on the provincial team way back. Tension rustled through Kerrigan as she watched the altercation. This thing had cleaved the town in two, and it was causing additional friction here at the fire hall.

She wondered for a moment if one or more of them could even have attacked Jeb. But she rebuffed the idea—none of her guys would risk starting a wildfire in these conditions. Would they?

That was the trouble with stirring things up like this—it started a witch hunt. People started doubting each other. If Jeb and Rachel had achieved one thing with their stunt, they’d sown doubt. Possibly even fear. And it wasn’t just the surrounding forest that was like a tinderbox right now. Whole damn place felt like a powder keg itching to blow.

Kerrigan glanced at the firefighters’ calendar hanging next to her desk. The date for her flight was circled in red—two days away. She had a sinking feeling that with all this shit going down, her big Mexico vacation was not going to happen. Again.

She returned her attention to the time sheets as the newscast cut to commercial. It was Clint’s regular Friday off. He’d also put in long hours with the wildfire crews. While the Wolf River fire had been contained with the use of heavy machinery, air tankers, five helicopters, and fire retardant, the weather forecast had turned ominous. Kerrigan was making certain they had enough staff and reservists on call in case things went to hell.

Margot Rietmann was watching the news as she watered her bonsai in the bay window overlooking the distant waters of the Burrard Inlet. Vancouver on a day like this was a shining jewel. It was why they’d bought this West Van house, for the view. She stilled as the news anchor started talking about Snowy Creek. Sophia and Peter, their neighbors, were originally from Snowy Creek. She watched, water dripping from the spout of her watering can, as footage showed faces in a crowd of protesters gathered outside the Shady Lady Saloon at the base of Bear Mountain. A bolt of recognition went through her as she caught sight of a man putting on a ball cap. The camera zoomed in on his face for a moment.

She dropped the watering jug and lunged for the remote, her cat skittering away in surprise. She paused her DVR, rewound. Hit “Stop.”

Her pulse raced.

“Harry!” she called. “Over here!”

Her husband came hurrying in. “What is it?”

“That ma
n . . .
” She pointed at the screen. “Where did you put that fire investigator’s card, the one he gave us?”

“In my desk drawer.”

“Get it for me.”

“What is it?”

“It’s
him
.” She pointed. “That’s the same guy I saw lurking in the crowd outside Sophia’s and Peter’s house when it was burning, that big guy there. Remember when the cops asked if we saw anyone or anything unusual? I mentioned that guy because I’d never seen him around here before. But no one questioned by the Mounties knew who he was.”

“Are you certain?”

“He’s got the same walk, Harry, the same profile. He’s the right shape, size. Big like that. Same cap.”

Harry scrabbled in his drawer, came out with the card.

The atmosphere in the truck is charged as Jeb and I drive in silence to collect my father’s vehicle from the skiers’ parking lot. Jeb drives it back to my house and I follow in convoy. Once the SUV is safely back home, I let Jeb take the wheel of my truck for the trip to the house where Amy died.

I glance at his profile, the aristocratic lines of his brow and nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. My body warms involuntarily as I recall our lovemaking in front of the fire, and my heart twists. I feel so damn vulnerable. I’m falling so hard, so deep for him all over again, and I just know some other shoe has to drop. I fear he’s keeping something from me, too, and this unnerves me further.

My cell vibrates in my pocket, making me jump. Quickly, I check the incoming number.
Rock Banrock.

“Hal,” I say, nerves skittering through my chest.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

My pulse quickens. I wondered how long it would take him to call. I glance at Jeb and mouth the words,
It’s the Rock.

“This story has even made the
National
now, and right on the cusp of the winter season—you had better pull the plug on this, stat, before the whole town goes to bloody hell in a handbasket.”

“Hal,” I try to say calmly, “if we kill this story now, that’s going to make even bigger news. Journalists will start asking what it is we’re trying to censor, and why.” My blood pounds as I counter the patriarch of Snowy Creek. He’s powerful not only locally, but on a provincial and national level. He has politicians in his pockets. He holds business interests in the palm of his rugged hand. He could sink me in the blink of an eye. But I’m also thinking of Jaako, my grandfather, and why I committed to this story in the first place.

“You should never have pulled such a goddamn stupid stunt to begin with. It’s—”

“It’s what Jaako would have done,” I say. “He founded the paper based on a set of philosophical and journalistic principles and I—”

“It’s a small-town rag, for God’s sake, Rachel. Don’t go talking to me about principles and ethics. This is not some global conspiracy or crisis of democracy you’re facing. Have you forgotten I own half your company?”

Anger coalesces cold and tight in my gut. “Forty-nine percent,” I say coolly. “It’s still mine.”

Jeb shoots me a glance.

“Listen to me, kid.” The Rock’s tone turns soft and patronizing. “As a publisher in a small town, you have a responsibility to balance the economic needs of the community along with the editorial content. What are you now, twenty-five, twenty-six? You need a guiding hand here. And this is bad for business. It’s bad for local morale.”

I point to the street sign as Jeb nears the subdivision where Amy’s duplex is. He swings the wheel.

“Twenty-seven. And you’re wrong.” I watch for Amy’s place. “The coverage has been excellent for our business. We’ve received the kind of publicity you can’t buy. I spoke with our sales manager earlier this morning and already ad bookings are up.” I hesitate as I see the house where Amy died coming up on the corner. “Tell me honestly,” I say as I stare at the brooding dark-brown walls of the old duplex, “that your wanting to kill this story is not about protecting Levi.”

“Christ, Rachel—”

“It was you who hired the lawyer who helped coach us all for the witness box. It was your lawyer who first got me to talk about Jeb’s childhood and what he did to his father.” I can feel the anger rising in my voice. I feel Jeb’s tension at my mention of this. “Does Levi have something to hide?”

“Damn you,” he growls. “You don’t want to go making an enemy of me, girl—”

I kill the call midsentence, adrenaline thumping through my veins. I’ve taken a step in setting right the wrong I did to Jeb in betraying his confession. I’ve fired a salvo at goddamn Hal Banrock. I’m toast, and I don’t care.

“That’s the house,” I say to Jeb. He crooks a brow at me and pulls up onto the grassy curb. I put my head back against the seat. There’s a dull roar inside of my skull.

“I just made Banrock my enemy.”

The corner of Jeb’s mouth curves into a strange sort of smile. “And who said Rachel Salonen was no crusader?”

“Oh, shut up. How do you want to handle this?” I jerk my chin toward the brooding brown duplex.

But he holds my eyes for several seconds. “I love you, Rachel,” he says.

The roar inside my brain grows louder. I can’t breathe. But before I can even think of a reply, he’s already turned and gotten out, door slamming shut.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper to the interior of the truck cab. It’s the second time he’s said he loves me, not that I’m counting or anything.

He raps on the window. “You coming, or what?”

Snowy Creek PD Chief Constable Rob Mackin replaced the phone receiver and sat back in his chair. First a call from Rock Banrock demanding an end to this madness. Then a call from Mayor Thompson saying the Snowy Creek Police Board wanted a meeting ASAP. Now a call from the West Vancouver arson investigator looking into a fire that had consumed the house and lives of Rachel Salonen’s sister and brother-in-law. The investigator had just this second informed Mackin he was coming up to Snowy Creek with some new video evidence. He wanted to meet with Mackin tomorrow. Apparently a woman named Margot Rietmann who had witnessed the fire had recognized a man on the news footage filmed outside the Shady Lady yesterday. She claimed the same man had been acting suspiciously in the crowd outside the burning MacLean house.

Mackin drew his hand down hard over his mouth, thinking. Then there was Adam LeFleur. His second in command. The image of LeFleur arguing with Rachel Salonen on the news played through in his mind. LeFleur’s brother had been linked to this. LeFleur’s mother had sat in this very chair, in this office, nine years ago. She’d led the charge against Jeb Cullen. Whatever was at the bottom of all this, perception was everything.

He reached for his phone, buzzed LeFleur.

When LeFleur entered his office, Mackin asked him to close the door and take a seat.

“This about Cullen?” LeFleur said, continuing to stand.

“The door, please.”

LeFleur bristled, shut the door, met his boss’s eyes, still refusing to take a seat.

“I’m going to need you to step back from this one, LeFleur.”

He opened his mouth but the chief constable raised his hand. “Perception is everything right now. Cullen has accused your brother of perjuring himself. You took a bad tack with Salonen in front of a camera. Your mother was on this case, and a judge has recently thrown out a conviction based in part on a policing error made on her watch. You need distance. I’d like you to take a few weeks of paid leave, starting now.”

LeFleur’s jaw dropped. “Cullen opens his mouth in public, makes some false accusations that border on libelous, and I’m
sidelined
?”

Mackin placed his hand firmly atop a printout of the
Leader
interview on his desk. “Cullen claimed three men in ski masks tried to kill him and started that wildfire. My understanding is that you’re looking at him for arson, not these men?”

LeFleur’s body went still, his face darkening. “You’re not serious.”

Mackin said, “How’d you get that cut on your face?”

“Helping with the fire, branch snapped back. Christ, you can’t—”

“Adam,” Mackin said, using the man’s first name, bringing him down, into focus. “Perception. That’s all this is. Because these questions I just asked you
will
be asked by the media. Let the investigation unfold without you. Take some time.”