You Can't Escape (10 page)

“Nothing happened. I moved away.”

Now, of course, he knew about the shooting so he assumed her departure had something to do with that. If he’d felt more like himself, he would have plied her with more questions and/or started a side investigation, just for his own personal reasons. As it was, the mystery would remain a mystery, for the moment, unless Jordanna suddenly decided to unburden herself, which didn’t seem likely.

But at least her colorful history had kept his mind off his own problems momentarily. She wanted to poke around about the Saldanos, though, like worrying a sore tooth, which he didn’t want to do until he’d had some time to really think things through. Right now, he was too muddled to make any kind of decision. He just wanted time to
be.
He didn’t want his friend, or any of the Saldanos, involved in something criminal.

Is Max culpable?
his brain posed, even while he was trying to shut down his thoughts.

He rubbed his eyes and then pressed his fingers to his temples, thinking. His friend was cheerful and upbeat and uncomplicated, a far cry from his sister, who was sultry and brooding and full of secrets, though it was just those qualities that had attracted him to Carmen in the first place. Living with the woman, however, had quickly dissipated those feelings. She was too demanding and unsatisfied in who she was, enraged at a deep level that her father had chosen Max as his right-hand man, overlooking her because she was a woman. Dance could have told her that Max was simply the better choice. Besides being easy to be around, he had a quick appreciation of business that Carmen just didn’t have. The one time Dance had sought to have a heart-to-heart with his unhappy wife, he’d damn near gotten his head bitten off. She did not take kindly to hearing her faults, even if it was just as a comparison to her brother, whom she loved fiercely though Max was less enamored of her.

Therein lay the problem, he thought. Carmen was devoted to Max and her father, and while they might love her, they didn’t really want to deal with her.

If only you’d known that before you tied the knot.

Well, he was out of that now, for better or worse, and he was lucky that she’d been the one to finally see that their marriage wasn’t made to last.

He heard a quick shriek, then muttered swearing, as Jordanna stomped back into the house. “Squirrels,” she muttered. “And a goddamn raccoon family! They’re in the crawl space beneath the house.”

“You planning on killing them?” he asked mildly.

She looked at him in horror. He could just make out her expression in the uncertain light from the woodstove. “God, no, but I don’t want to live with them, either. Let’s hope they move on now that we’re here.”

“I heard water when we pulled in, somewhere behind the property,” he said. “Maybe that’s where the raccoons fish?”

“Yeah, there’s a stream out back.”

“Part of Fool’s Falls?”

She shook her head. “That comes from the foothills of the Cascades. Benchley Creek runs behind the house,” she added after a moment, as if she wasn’t too certain about revealing that fact. “It meanders around and catches up with the Malone River. Malone’s the nearest town east of here.”

“Benchley Creek.”

“Named for the infamous Benchleys, who married Treadwells, many of whom died from insanity, or so the story goes.”

“What story?”

“Never mind.”

“Your story?” he pressed. When she didn’t answer, he said, “You tantalize me with all these hints from your past. When are you going to tell me the whole tale?”

She was already heading back to the kitchen and he had to raise his voice to make sure she heard him. She yelled over her shoulder, “I’ve got peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. I don’t want to hear that you’re allergic.”

Dance almost smiled. “I love peanut butter,” he called back, and heard sardonic muttering beyond the wall that sounded like “Hallelujah for nothing.”

Chapter Six

The generator was working so the pump was pumping and the water was flowing. Jordanna could’ve cheered. But the hot water heater was being finicky and she didn’t know how much propane was left to run the generator. Didn’t much matter for the moment, but Jordanna was going to have to take care of things in the morning.

She helped Dance to bed, and by the time he was lying on the clean sheets she’d put on the air mattress, beads of sweat were standing on his forehead. “Maybe you did leave the hospital too soon,” she said ruefully.

“Not soon enough” was the taut answer.

She nodded. At least they still agreed that it was better his whereabouts were temporarily unknown.

He’d taken his jacket off but was still in the clothes he’d changed into. “You need anything else?” she asked as she placed a plastic bottle of water on the floor beside him.

“No. See you in the morning,” he said, and Jordanna left him and went back to unloading the rest of the items she’d brought from her apartment. By the time she was finished it was after 11
PM
, and when she laid another sheet over the back of the couch and across the cushions, she just wanted to fall onto it. She stripped down to her underwear, then pulled on her own sweatpants and a T-shirt that advertised Holcomb’s Hardware, a gift from Marty Holcomb after she’d written a piece about the Holcomb family and the family business that was one of the oldest in Laurelton. The logo included a smiling man holding a chain saw. Then she covered herself with one of the extra blankets she’d brought. She’d known, sort of, what she would encounter at the house because since her father’s remarriage he’d all but abandoned the place.

Just before she climbed into her makeshift bed, she switched on her cell phone, which she’d turned off to save battery life. There were several e-mails from acquaintances, one from her bank, and a surprise from her sister, Kara, who wanted to know if she was going to be home this weekend. Since a visit from her wanderlust sister was rare, Jordanna quickly e-mailed back that she hoped to be, wondering if she could make that happen. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be here with Dance, and she didn’t want to explain about him to Kara. Her and Dance’s plan was so half-baked that anything could happen.

Switching off the phone, she threw a glance toward the short hallway that led to his room. Now that she’d met her one-time idol up close and personal, she wasn’t sure what she thought of him. Maybe she didn’t even like him. She wanted to save him from harm, but he put her on edge. The man was handsome, but so what? She’d hoped, dreamed, of maybe working together with him somehow, someway, but those thoughts had dried up and blown away.

Be careful what you wish for.

Yeah, well, when had she ever listened to that old saw?

As she fell into exhausted sleep, her thoughts turned uncomfortably to her father and older sister, Emily, the mess she’d made of things . . . and how she’d become the scourge of Rock Springs.

Jay Danziger’s dreams were full of tattered images of the bombing. He was aware enough to know he was dreaming but couldn’t quite wake himself up. There were pieces of information, too, that he sensed were real, but every time he reached for them, they disappeared like fairy dust deeper into his subconscious. He surfaced to wakefulness several times, but then would just fall back into deeper slumber, never able to grab hold of the pieces beyond a sense of flying debris and fear of injury to his head. He could recall throwing his arms over his face. There was also a sensation of weightlessness and an overriding feeling of dread. When his eyes finally popped open into full wakefulness, it was pitch black outside. The moon was undoubtedly obscured by the low-lying clouds that had dogged them all the way to Rock Springs, and without the benefit of streetlights, or any other ambient light, it was damn dark.

He had to go to the bathroom, and with an effort that had him biting back swear words and gritting his teeth, he managed to lever himself upright against the nearest wall. His head throbbed with the effort, which pissed him off. He tried putting weight on his injured leg but felt a rip of pain that had him imagining flayed tissue and permanent damage.

“Son of a bitch,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

Knock, knock.
Gently done.

“Yeah?” he snapped.

“You need help?”

“No.”

“You sound like you need help.”

His full bladder was sending a message of discomfort to his brain, reminding him painfully that he’d better get relief soon. “I’m heading to the bathroom,” he informed her.

She opened the door and saw him leaning against the wall. Sliding up to his right side, she said, “Lean on me,” and he tried to walk while she half-carried him to the room. She left him standing in front of a toilet that he could just make out from the faintest of gray light that came through a high window in the darker recesses of the bathroom.

“You might want to sit,” she said as she left the room.

Another time, he might have been amused by that, but he was too weary and goddamn mad to do more than mutter, “Close the door.” He ignored her advice however. There was just so much indignity he could stand. In the darkness, his eyes made out the new package of toilet paper, a towel on the ring and two more on a bar. There was no shower curtain surrounding the tub yet, but she’d done what she could.

When he flushed the toilet, he heard the pipes groan as if in pain.

She appeared without asking a few moments later to find him leaning against the sink. “The bathrooms were added sometime in the forties. There’s one upstairs, too.”

“Great.”

“Just letting you know we don’t have to share.”

She put her arm around him to help him walk as he asked, “How old is this place?”

“Turn of the last century. Craftsman style. One of those homes you could buy in a package from the Sears catalogue.”

“Historic home,” he said. “You don’t seem to like it much.”

“It’s a good hideout for you.”

“Why’d you shoot your father?” he asked again.

“Like I told you, he—”

“Deserved it, I know. But why? Was he molesting you?”

She made a strangled sound that could have meant anything. “Not me” was what finally came out after she’d helped lever him back onto the bed.

“Your . . . sister?”

“You’re a good guesser,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “Yes, my sister. Emily. She’s gone now. Died about a year after I took the shot at our father.”

“What happened to her?”

“Car accident on an icy road.” She looked toward the rear of the house. “Up in the hills.”

There was a long silence during which he thought maybe that was all she was going to say, but she didn’t immediately leave his room. Finally, she said, “Emily swore she was sleepwalking, dreaming about our mother, and that she’d wandered into his bed.”

“The night that you . . .”

“That I shot him,” she said impatiently. “You can say it. The night I shot my father, I found my sister in bed with him. Emily said it was all a mistake, but I heard her call out ‘Dayton!’ which is what woke me up. I grabbed the rifle and charged in there. I just kinda knew. Emily was half out of the bed and he was reaching for her and I shot him.”

In a distant part of his mind, Dance thought he should be more worried, frightened, even, by this midnight confession, but he only felt curiosity and an empathy he usually reserved for victims of crimes, not perpetrators.

“About a year later she was driving along the ridge back behind the house.” She moved her arm in the darkness and waved it in the direction of the long woodshed. “It was icy and Emily lost control and the car went over the edge and into the trees down below.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Nobody wanted to believe me. It was easier to believe in my father . . . and Emily,” she added reluctantly. “They put it down to the Treadwell Curse and everyone just backed away and hoped I would get better.”

“What is this ‘Treadwell Curse’?”

“Nothing I really want to go into.” Her tone said,
Ever.

“What happened when you left this home? Where’d you go?”

“You writing a story?’ she asked sardonically.

“You’ve been following the Saldanos, following me, my work. How long?”

“A while.” She moved toward the door. “Call for me if you need any more help.”

“You don’t like talking about yourself.”

“No, and I bet you don’t, either, so we’re even.”

In that, she was right. Dance never wanted to talk about his own life. It wasn’t so much that it was something to hide; it was just . . . uninteresting. Unlike Jordanna Winters, it seemed, he had a pretty mundane, middle-class childhood, the only bump coming when his parents divorced. He’d lived with his mother after his father remarried and started another family. He hadn’t liked it, and he’d been relieved to go to a junior college and eventually to the University of Washington. After college, he’d left Washington for California, but then had ended up in Oregon. He’d thought about law school but had been interested in reporting and had worked to become a feature writer for
The Oregonian
. His thirst for tougher stories had veered him into investigative work. Now, he stared up at the ceiling, dark as a tomb. Everyone was going to wonder where he was. If Carmen weren’t a Saldano herself, she, too, would probably think the Saldanos had fitted him with some concrete shoes, such was the feeling about the family he’d married into. Dance had told himself for years that the world’s suspicions were crap, but that was before he’d been given the unsolicited audiotape.