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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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As his car shot over the summit, Dutch experienced the tightening in his chest again, that same old sense of panic that squeezed him whenever he thought of the night the Taggert kid died. Deep in the darkest reaches of his heart he suspected that one of his daughters had bashed in the boy's skull.
Which one? Which one of his girls had done it? His firstborn, Miranda, a lawyer working for the district attorney's office, was ambitious to a fault, her pride unbending. She looked so much like her mother it was spooky. Randa had inherited Dominique's thick dark hair and sultry blue eyes. He'd heard comments that Miranda was haughty, that she had ice water running through her veins, but she certainly wasn't cold enough or stupid enough to have murdered the Taggert kid. No, Dutch wouldn't believe it; Randa had been too self-possessed, a woman who knew what she wanted out of life.
Claire, his secondborn, had been the quiet one, a romantic by nature. As a kid she'd been gawky, plain in comparison with her sisters, but she'd grown into her looks, and he suspected that she would be the kind of woman who, as the years passed, would look better and better. At the time of Harley's death she'd been a soft-spoken athletic girl, the middle sister, one to whom he hadn't paid much attention. She never gave him any trouble except that she'd fallen in love with Harley Taggert. Then there was Tessa. The baby. And the rebel. There was no reason she would have wanted Harley Taggert dead. At least no reason Dutch knew about. And even now that thought settled like a stone in his gut.
Until recently, Dutch hadn't lost much sleep over the Taggert boy's demise.
Now, his fingers grew sweaty around the steering wheel. Claire, with her haunted eyes and smattering of freckles, wasn't a killer. She couldn't be. Christ, there wasn't a mean bone in her body. Or was there? What of Miranda? Maybe he didn't know his eldest as well as he thought he did.
The sun was hanging low over the western hills, blinding him with its bright rays. He flipped down the visor. The road split and he turned toward the small town of Chinook and the old lodge he'd bought for a song.
The Caddy shimmied as Dutch took the corner too fast, but he barely noticed as he slid over the center line. A pickup going the opposite direction blasted its horn and skidded on the gravel shoulder to avoid collision.
“Bastard,” Dutch growled, still lost in thought. His youngest daughter, Tessa, was and always had been the maverick in the family. Blond and blue-eyed with a figure that, at twelve, had been obscenely curvaceous, Tessa had forever been the wild card in the deck that was the Holland family. Whereas Miranda had tried to please, and Claire had faded into the woodwork, Tessa had brazenly and willfully defied Dutch whenever she could. Knowing she was his favorite, she'd rebelled at every turn. Trouble—that's what Tessa had been, but Dutch couldn't believe, wouldn't, that she was a killer.
“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered as he chewed on the end of his cigar. If only he'd been fortunate enough to have sired sons. Things would have been different. Far different. God had played a cruel trick on him with these girls.
Daughters always gave a man grief.
Easing off the accelerator at the crooked pine tree, the one he'd planted a lifetime ago, when he'd bought this place for Dominique, he guided the car into the private lane leading to the estate. He'd been a lovesick fool at the time he'd set that little pine into the ground, but the years had changed him, worn that love so thin it had shattered like crystal hurled against stone.
He unlocked the gates and drove along the cracked asphalt of the once-tended drive. The silvery waters of the lake winked seductively through the trees. How he'd loved this place.
Nostalgia tugged at his heart as he rounded a final bend and saw the house, a rambling old hunting lodge that, nestled in a stand of oak and fir, rose three stories to look upon the lake.
Home.
A place of triumph and heartache.
Thinking his wife would love it as much as he did, he'd bought the vast tree-covered acres for Dominique. From the moment she saw the rough timbers and open beams, she'd hated everything there was about their new home. Her appraising eyes had studied the steep angle of the roof, the cedar walls, plank floors, and pitched ceiling. She touched the wooden railing of the stairs, with its hand-carved banister and posts decorated with handcrafted Northwest creatures, and her nostrils had flared as if she'd suddenly come across a bad smell. “You bought this for
me?”
she'd asked, incredulous and bitterly disappointed. Her voice had echoed through the cavernous foyer. “This . . . this monstrosity?”
Miranda, barely four, the spitting image of her mother, had eyed the old house solemnly as if she'd expected all manner of ghosts, goblins, and monsters to appear at any given second.
“I suppose this”—Dominique pointed a long finger at the salmon carved into the lowest post—“is considered art?”
“Yes.”
“For the love of God, Benedict, why? What possessed you to buy it?”
Dutch had felt the first premonition of dread steal through his heart. He spread his hands. “It's for you and the girls.”
“For
us?
Out here? In the middle of nowhere?” High heels clicked indignantly as she walked through the foyer and into the living room, with its vaulted ceilings and three chandeliers created by nesting dozens of deer antlers together. “Away from my friends?”
“It's good for children to grow up—”
“In the city, Benedict, where they can meet other children their age, in a house that does them justice, where they'll be exposed to culture and the right people.” She sighed, then, spying Claire toddling through open French doors where the back of the house flanked the lake, Dominique started running, heels clipping ever faster. “This is going to be a nightmare.” Snagging Claire from the covered porch before she was anywhere near the shoreline, Dominique turned and glared at her husband. “Living here won't work.”
“Of course it will. I'll build tennis courts and a pool with its own house. You can have gardens and your own studio over the garage.”
Tessa, the baby and always a fussy thing, gave out a lusty cry and wriggled in the nursemaid's arms.
“Shh,” Bonita, barely sixteen and illegally in the States, whispered to the red-faced cherub.
“I can't live here.” Dominique was firm.
“Sure you can.”
“Where will the girls learn French—”
“From you.”
“I'm
not
a tutor.”
“We'll hire one. The house is big.”
“What about piano, violin, fencing, riding . . . oh, dear God.” She looked about to break down, her huge blue eyes suddenly moist, her manicured fingers pressed to her lips.
“It will work, I promise,” Dutch insisted.
“But I can't possibly . . . I'm not cut out to be a maid . . . I'm going to need more help than just Bonita, here.”
“I know, I know. I've already talked to a woman—Indian woman by the name of Songbird. You'll have more than enough help, Dominique. You'll be able to live like a queen.”
She'd made a deprecating sound deep in her throat. “The Queen of Nowhere. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”
From that day forward, she'd hated living here, despised the lake, predicted that nothing good would happen anywhere near the sandy banks of Lake Arrowhead.
As it turned out, she'd been right.
Now Dutch cracked the window a bit farther, letting in the moist summer air. The water, spangled by the hot summer sun, appeared placid, incapable of causing so much heartache and agony.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, cigar firmly between his teeth as he grabbed the bottle of scotch he'd brought from town, climbed out of his car, and waded stiffly through the thick layers of cones and needles to the front door. It opened easily, as if he'd been expected. The soles of his shoes slapped against the dusty floorboards, and he thought he heard a mouse scurrying to a dark corner.
In the kitchen he rummaged through the cupboards and found a glass, dusty from years of neglect. He'd called ahead and the electricity, phones, gas, and water had been turned on. In the next few days the house would be cleaned from top to bottom, and his grown daughters would arrive, whether they wanted to come back or not.
Wiping the glass with his fingers, he poured himself a generous shot, then climbed the stairs to his bedroom—the one he'd shared for years with Dominique. The bed, a massive four-poster was stripped bare, the mattress covered in plastic. He walked to the windows, opened the drapes, and, sipping his drink, glanced at the swimming pool, long dry, a nest of leaves and dirt clogging the drain. The pool house, positioned near the diving board, was locked up, had been for years. Then he looked past the pool to the lake he loved. Staring at the tranquil water, he felt dread, like the ticking of a clock, pound ceaselessly in his brain.
What had happened so long ago? What would he discover? A shudder coursed through him. He tossed back his drink, felt the fiery liquor splash the back of his throat and warm his belly as he headed downstairs, away from this morgue, with its dark memories of old, disappointing sex and so little love. Christ, Dominique had turned into a bitch.
In the den, he fished his wallet from his pocket, extracted a single page he'd ripped from the notepad on his desk, and stared at the three telephone numbers of his daughters. None would be glad to hear from him, but they'd do what he asked.
They always did.
He picked up the receiver, heard a click and a dial tone, and set his jaw.
Damn Harley Taggert. Damn Kane Moran. And goddamn the truth, whatever the hell it was.
Two
“It's not fair!
We
shouldn't have to move.
We
didn't do anything wrong.
We're
not the perverts!” Sean glowered at his mother, his eyes partially hidden by his shaggy hair, his jaw tight and strong. A spattering of freckles bridged his nose despite his summer tan. Rebellion radiated from him in indignant waves, and his hands opened and closed into fists of frustration. In the glimmer of a moment he looked so much like his father, Claire wanted to fold him into her arms and never let go.
“It's just better this way.” She dumped the contents of the top drawer of her dresser onto the bed and stuffed her socks and underwear into an empty cardboard box, all the while wishing she believed her own words. The pain would eventually go away—it always did—but it would take time. Lots of time.
“Dad's the one who should be leaving!” Sean slumped onto a packing crate and frowned through the open bedroom window to the gnarled apple tree, where a tire swing swayed slightly in the breeze. The old whitewall was suspended by a fraying, blackened rope, a sad reminder of her children's youth and innocence; innocence that had recently been destroyed. The kids hadn't used the swing in years, and thin yellow grass had finally grown back in the ridges where their sneakers had once scuffed the earth bare. But that seemed eons ago, in a time when Claire had convinced herself that she and her small family were content, that the sins of the past would never invade their lives, that she could find happy-ever-after in this sleepy little Colorado town.
How wrong she'd been. She slammed the empty drawer shut and started working on the next with a vengeance. The sooner she was out of this room, this house, the whole damned town, the better.
Standing, Sean fidgeted and shoved his hands into the ragged back pockets of cutoffs that looked as if they might at any moment slip off his slim hips. “I hate Oregon.”
“It's a big state—a lot of country to hate.”
“I won't stay.”
“Sure you will.” But she detested the sound of determination in his voice. “Grandpa's there.”
He made a deprecating sound of disdain.
“I might have a job there.”
“As a substitute teacher. Big deal.”
“It is. We can't stay here, Sean. You know that. You'll adjust.” She glanced up to the dusty mirror, where she could see his reflection, tall and muscular, a few hairs beginning to sprout over his upper lip and chin. Defiance edged the corners of his mouth and his jaw, once soft with childhood, had begun to take the hard, forceful shape of a man's.
“All my friends are here. And Samantha, what about her? She doesn't even understand what's going on.”
Neither do I, son. Neither do you.
“I'll explain it to her someday.”
He snorted in disbelief. “What're you gonna tell her, Mom? That her freak of a dad was balling a girl only a few years older than her?” Sean's voice was a harsh, disbelieving whisper. “That he was screwing my girlfriend?” He hooked his thumb to his chest.
“My
goddamned girlfriend!”
“Stop it!” She tossed her nightgowns into the box with her socks. “There's no reason to swear.”
“Like hell! There's plenty of reasons. Admit it. This is why you finally divorced Dad after all those years of separation, isn't it? You knew!” His face had turned scarlet, his eyes filled with tears that he wouldn't shed. “You knew and you didn't tell me!”
Fury and humiliation burned through Claire, and she stepped over to the door and shut it so that the latch clicked softly. “Samantha's only twelve; she doesn't need to know that her father—”
“Why not?” Sean demanded, angling up his chin. “Don't you think she's heard things—all our dirty little secrets, from her friends?” Then he smiled without a trace of humor and shook his head. “Oh, that's right, she doesn't have any, does she? Lucky for her. Then she doesn't have to listen to 'em tell her that her old man's a perverted rapist—”
“Enough!” Claire cried, her voice strangled as she shoved hard on the second drawer of her bureau and it shut with a bang. “Don't you think this bothers me? He was my husband, Sean. I know you're hurting, you're embarrassed and mortified, but so am I.”
“So you're running away. Like a chicken-shit dog with her tail tucked between her legs.”
So cynical for one so young. She grabbed him by both of his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles, her head tilted back so she could look squarely into his angry young face. “Don't you ever talk to me like that again! Your father made mistakes, lots of them and . . .” She saw the wounded look in his eyes and something inside of her broke—a fragile dam she'd tried so hard to erect. “Oh, Sean.” Folding his stiff unforgiving body into her arms, she wanted to break down and cry. But falling apart wouldn't do any good.
She whispered, “Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. So sorry.” Sean remained immobile in her embrace, a statue who didn't dare hug her back. Slowly she released him.
“It's not your fault, is it? You . . . you didn't drive him to—” He looked away, bright color climbing up his neck.
The insinuation ricocheted through her brain. She'd asked herself the same question a thousand times over. Was she not woman enough to keep her man? Her man. What a joke! Deep inside she knew that what had happened wasn't her fault. She only wished she'd seen it coming so that the ugly accusations, the whispered rumors, the dark soul-scraping pain hadn't blind-sided her children. All her adult life she'd only wanted to protect them. “Of course not,” she answered shakily. “I know this is hard for you. Believe me, it's hard for me, too, but I think it's best for all of us—you, me, and Samantha—if we start over somewhere.”
“We can't hide.” His gaze was hard and had seen far too much for his tender age. “It'll catch up to us. Even in some little backwater town in friggin' Oregon.”
Rubbing the back of her neck, she shook her head. “I know. But by the time it does, we'll be stronger and—”
“Mom?” The door creaked open and Samantha, lines of worry marring her smooth forehead, slid into the room. At twelve she was gawky, her arms and legs a little too long, her body lanky and athletic rather than curvy. For nearly a year she'd been hoping to grow breasts, but the little nubs on her chest barely filled out the training bra she disdained to wear. Most of the girls in her class had already developed, and everyone seemed to know who wore a B cup, who filled out a C and, God forbid, who was cursed with a double A. Samantha was a late bloomer. A curse as far as Samantha was concerned; a blessing to her mother's experienced eyes. “What's going on?”
“Just packing up,” Claire said brightly—too brightly. Her cheer sounded as false as it was. Sean rolled his eyes and flopped onto the bed—stripped of sheets and blankets and now covered with belts, T-shirts, shorts, slips, and pajamas. Claire tossed a mateless shoulder pad into the throwaway bag near the door.
“You were yelling.” Samantha's worried gaze moved from her brother to her mother.
“Not really.”
“I heard you.”
Not now; I can't deal with this now.
“Sean doesn't want to move,” Claire explained, frowning at a purse that she tossed into another bag with items to be given to the Salvation Army. “He doesn't want to leave his friends.”
“His friends are all jerks and stoners.”
He sat bolt upright. “You don't know anything!”
“Benjie North's mom found his stash—right in a fake mailbox in his bedroom. Marijuana and hash and—”
Claire's gaze fell on Sean, her worst suspicions confirmed. She could barely breathe. Her fingers curled around the strap of a second purse. “Is this true?”
“It was a setup.”
“A setup. By whom?”
A beat. Just a moment of condemning hesitation. “His older brother,” Sean lied. “Max hid his stuff in Benjie's room to fake out his parents. Benjie's clean. I swear.” He shot his sister a look that could cut through steel.
“Max is only seventeen.”
“You can do dope at any age, Mom.”
“I know.” She let go of her death grip on the purse's handle. “That's what worries me.”
“Worries you?”
“What about you, Sean?”
“I've never done anything!” Defiance sparked in his eyes.
Samantha started to open her mouth, thought better of it, and sealed her lips.
Sean swallowed hard. “Well just cigarettes and some chew, but you already know about that.”
“Sean—”
“He's telling the truth,” Samantha said, her gaze meeting her brother's, a secret hanging between them. With a chilling start, Claire was reminded of the secrets she'd shared with her sisters.
“How would you know?” Claire asked her daughter.
“I go through his room.”
“You what?” Sean whispered in quiet fury.
Samantha lifted a shoulder. “All he's got is some condoms, a couple of
Playboy
s, and a lighter.”
“You sneaking little creep!” Fists clenched in frustration, he crossed the room and loomed over her. “You had no right to go through my things! You stay out of my room, or I'll read that damned diary you think is so secret.”
“Don't you ever—”
“Stop it!” Claire ordered, realizing they were getting nowhere. “Enough! Both of you—stay out of each other's things.” Then, to lighten the mood, she added, “That's my job. If there's any snooping, I'll be the one to go through drawers and closets and secret hiding places—”
“Oh, sure,” Sean mocked.
“Try me.”
Yanking the rubber band from her ponytail, Samantha checked her face in the mirror and scowled at a pimple as she shook out her hair. “Well, I'm glad we're moving. I'm sick of everyone staring at me and saying all those lies about Dad.”
Give me strength!
Crossing her arms under her chest, Claire leaned a hip against the bureau for support. “What lies?”
“Candi Whittaker says that Dad is some kind of weirdo, that he did something nasty with Jessica Stewart, but I told them they were wrong; that Jessica used to be Sean's girlfriend.”
Sean groaned and turned his back on his sister.
“And what did Candi say to that?” Claire hardly dared ask.
“She laughed—a real creepy laugh, it gave me the willies—and then she told Tammy Dawson that I was in a classic case of denial and that she should know because her father's a psychiatrist.” Samantha's gaze was troubled, but she lifted her chin, refusing to be beat down by what she assumed were lies about her father. “It's not true, is it?” Her voice was suddenly so small, her fingers lacing and unlacing in worry. “Daddy didn't do something awful with Jessica, did he? That isn't why you left him?”
Claire's heart sank. Biting her lip, she fought an onslaught of fresh, hot tears and took Samantha into her arms. Sick inside, she admitted the truth. “Daddy and I had lots of problems, you know that.”
“Everyone does. You said so.” Doubt cracked Samantha's voice. Her blond head, so recently proud, bowed.
“That's true, honey. Everyone does. But—”
“No.” She tried to wiggle away, to hide from the truth, but Claire decided that there was no time like the present, especially if Samantha's friends were giving her a bad time.
“But it's also true that Jessica says she and Daddy were . . . well, were intimate.”
Samantha's body began to tremble violently. “Intimate?”
“Meaning that he fucked her,” Sean clarified.
“No!”
“Sean, hush!” Claire clung to her daughter. “Don't use that kind of language around this house—”
Samantha's eyes were wild. “But he didn't, did he? Daddy would never, ever—”
“Whatever happened, you have to have faith in your father,” Claire heard herself saying, though the words rang like the hollow sound of a lonely bell. She'd lost faith in Paul a long time ago; she'd given up on him and their sham of a marriage years before. She'd only stuck it out for the kids. Now that seemed like a cruel, disgusting joke. Her children would forever bear these scars. “Daddy and I were already separated when . . . well, when Jessica said that it happened.”
“You're saying that Jessica lied?” Samantha asked, hope in her tiny voice.
“No way!” Sean sneered. “I walked in on them. They were humping like dogs in heat!”
“Stop it, Sean!”
“No!” Samantha shook her head violently. “No! No! No!”

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