Unquiet Ghosts Page 21

  “Not a single one.”

  I meant it. But I could tell by Tanner’s face that he was unconvinced. “Take care, Ms. Kelly. Remember, the deputies are right outside.”

  Courtney squeezed my hand. “Call me if you need me. And even if you don’t.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” She kissed my cheek and followed Tanner out.

  I watched them walk down the gravel pathway, climb into their car, and drive off. I moved back into the kitchen, expecting the phone to ring any moment. Sixty seconds. I watched the second hand sweep past the minute.

  My phone didn’t ring.

  I waited, clutching it in my palm, looking at the screen, ready to answer the call. Two more excruciating minutes, and I was still waiting. I checked the volume—twice. It was set at max.

  Five minutes more, and fear burrowed into my chest.

  Still no call.

  Seven minutes past the deadline.

  I sat there, wringing my hands, fidgeting, until five more minutes had passed.

  I felt on edge, hanging by a thread.

  And then I had the most awful feeling slam into my heart like an Arctic chill.

  Jack wasn’t going to call—ever again.

  I felt like throwing up at the thought. I didn’t care about any priceless Persian death mask, money, or Cayman Islands bonds. Didn’t care a rat’s about Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan. I cared about my children. I cared about Amy and Sean. I felt a growing rage, a weird kind of rage.

  Rage at Jack, for making me vulnerable again, for sending my life spinning out of control again. For putting me through all this uncertainty, this anguish.

  I let out a cry of frustration as I picked up Tanner’s empty coffee mug and threw it against the wall. It smashed and shattered into a cascade of white pieces, scattering on the kitchen floor in all directions.

  A split second later, my cell phone rang.

  I expected to hear Jack’s voice.

  Instead, I heard Chad’s.

  “Kath . . .”

  Chad was the last person I expected to hear from. He had barely crossed my mind since we parted ways at Thunder Mountain. I knew I needed to thank him for the helicopter ride and the offer to be there for me, but there had not been time in the madness since Jack’s phone call. “Chad . . . I’m expecting a call. I’m sorry, can you call back?”

  “This won’t take a second, Kath. I’ll keep it short.”

  His voice had its usual deep, commanding tone. “Chad, I—”

  “Kath, I didn’t hang around at the crash site because I knew you wanted to be alone, but we need to talk. We need to meet.”

  “Why?”

  I heard a sigh, then a sharp intake of breath. “There’s . . . there’s something . . .” He paused, as if he was wary of discussing it on the phone. “Could you come over to my house? I’ve got an important business meeting in a minute with some Middle East customers. But I should be free in just over an hour.”

  “Why? What’s it about, Chad? I’m really busy.”

  “It’s about Jack.”

  I heard the pause, the pregnant beat.

  And then Chad dropped his bombshell. “I think I know the real reason he vanished.”

  52

  * * *

  I waited another thirty minutes, anxiously pacing the kitchen.

  No call from Jack.

  I felt so on edge, as if a bomb were about too go off next to me.

  I had the terrible feeling that Jack was never going to call again.

  If there was one thing you could always take Jack’s word on, it was time. If he said he’d call at a certain time, he called. He was a stickler for timekeeping, ever since his Army days. He saw not keeping a deadline as a sign of disrespect. I used to get tired of hearing that line if I was a minute late getting ready.

  “Disrespect, Kath. You’re showing disrespect. We’ve got to leave now, honey.”

  “I’ll be showing disrespect if I turn up half dressed, looking like a deranged woman with my hair in a mess and wearing no makeup. Give me just five more minutes, Jack, for Pete’s sake.”

  “You need to plan better. Get yourself organized. Why’s that so hard? Plan. Prepare. Otherwise you panic, and we’re late, every time.”

  Jack was right, of course, but I was disorganized at the best of times. My weakness. I should have been better, coming from a military family, but there you go. Offspring don’t always fit their parents’ mold.

  When I felt I could wait no more, I made up my mind. If Jack was going to call, he’d call me on my cell phone, so I moved out to my car parked by the barn.

  What Chad meant I had no idea. But the moment I heard his words, my body had stiffened. He had me hooked, on edge again, my curiosity on fire. What did he mean? What could be the real reason Jack vanished, other than a whole lot of money, as I now imagined? This whole thing was getting murkier by the minute. My head was throbbing. I took three ibuprofen, and as I knocked back a glass of water, a thought struck me.

  I remembered the thin black book I’d found in the cottage, hidden between the rafters and the roof insulation. I’d left it there. With all the drama after the intruder Tasered me, I’d put it out of my head.

  I felt a powerful urge to see what was inside the book.

  But equally powerful was my reluctance to enter the cottage again.

  I could feel my body tremble at the mere thought.

  I fought the fear, tried to steel myself.

  Then I slapped the glass onto the kitchen table, left by the back door, and hurried over to the cottage.

  I reached the front door. I couldn’t recall if I had closed it behind me, but it was closed now. I turned the knob, pushed in the door, and stepped into the ransacked cottage.

  I moved past the open drawers, scattered cushions, and Amy’s and Sean’s toys. I tried to keep my eyes half shut, not to see the wreckage all around me, but it was no use. My mind felt tormented by my desecrated precious memories.

  I was finding it hard to breathe again as I raced up the stairs, the pain stabbing at my chest.

  I turned into the bedroom; the door into the storage space was still open, clothes and junk strewn about. I couldn’t bear even to look into Sean and Amy’s bedrooms—that would have been too much. Jack had not called back. I wondered if he ever would. To have my hopes raised and now to worry that they’d be dashed totally crushed me.

  I looked inside the crawl space. The open plastic food-storage box with the red lid lay on the floor, along with Kyle’s small plastic bags. The stench of stale marijuana drenched the air.

  I saw the thin black book still wedged between the rafters and the roof insulation. I reached in and yanked it out.

  The book looked like a journal or a small art book and was closed with a studded clasp. I flicked it open. A blast of must hit my nostrils. Most of the pages were blank. A folded piece of paper fell out.

  I picked it up and unfolded a copy of a newspaper clipping. The black-and-white photocopy was frayed and flimsy at the creases. It showed a convoy of U.S. Army Humvees and trucks.

  They passed under a symbol I knew well: a pair of triumphal arches in Saddam Hussein’s Baghdad known as the Hands of Victory. Each arch consisted of an enormous hand holding a giant sword, and the two swords crossed in the middle of the arch.

  The original newspaper photo had been trimmed so it didn’t denote any newspaper or magazine, and the article itself, if it existed, had been cut away. All I saw below the picture was a headline in bold black ink: “Operation Babylon Well Under Way.”

  I put down the worn paper and flicked through the journal. For a time when Kyle lived at the cottage, I had witnessed him sketching in notepads. I once picked one up and was shocked to see pictures and squiggles that seemed to reflect a kind of childlike torment.


  The writing in this notebook was Kyle’s, I was sure. Near the edges of a few of the ripped pages, I could make out some letters—t, an i, maybe an m—and a complete word—if—but little else. Had Kyle ripped out the pages, or had someone else? I flicked to the front of the journal.

  And for some reason, my heart quivered.

  On the inside cover was a drawing in red ink that looked like a doodle. Kyle had an arty side, and he used to sketch. He often used to fill his art books with secretive little doodles when he was drawing, stuff that meant something only to him. This drawing looked like a boulder, a rock, or a stone.

  It could have been doodling, but the image looked pretty defined and deliberate. Was it meant to be cryptic? Something of significance to Kyle? My mind ran through the permutations of what was the image might suggest. Red stone? Or maybe just a boulder? Rock? Mountain?

  Was it just a harmless sketch that meant nothing at all? I was perplexed. But I realized why my heart quivered: that word again, Red. It felt as if alarm bells were going off in my stomach.

  I was conscious of the time passing. I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes to make it to Chad’s.

  I closed the notebook and snapped shut the clasp. After taking one last, shuddering look around the ransacked bedroom, I hurried down the stairs.

  53

  * * *

  The sheriff’s deputies were still out front. They might hear me if I started up the engine. So I walked out to where one of them sat in his car. A big old guy with prominent ears, a red-veined nose, and a beer gut. He got out as I approached. I wasn’t going to tell him about the break-in; that would just complicate things right now. “I’ve got to go out for a short time.”

  “Where to, ma’am?”

  “Just a neighbor’s nearby.”

  “Let me go with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Agent Tanner said we were to watch over you.”

  “I’ll be fine. And I don’t want to alarm my friends with the police in tow. I’ve got my cell. I can call 911 if I need to.”

  “I understand, ma’am, but—”

  “Am I under arrest? Or house arrest, whatever that it is?”

  “Arrest? No, ma’am.”

  “Then let me be the judge of where I can go.”

  I turned and walked back to my car. As I slid in, I saw him get on his radio.

  I started my car. I knew something was weird immediately.

  A big white business envelope lay on the passenger seat. I knew I hadn’t left it there. My father was out of town, and besides, he never left stuff in my car; he never used my vehicle. My car had been locked. My first thought was that someone had broken into my car.

  I picked up the envelope.

  There was something hard inside, filling the flat space, like a photograph.

  No postage, no address. The envelope was sealed. I heard the crackle of a radio.

  I looked back. The deputy had his radio to his mouth.

  I started the car, reversed, and drove out along the back garden track that led toward the main road.

  After three hundred yards, I reached the main road. No one followed me.

  No police cars in sight. I drove on another few hundred yards and pulled over, keeping the engine running. It occurred to me that Tanner might go ape if he knew I’d left. The last thing I wanted was a posse. I decided to call Courtney. She could square it with Tanner. As I fumbled to tear open the envelope, I called her. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, glad you called. I wanted to give you a heads-up. We got an ID on the bridge shooter.”

  I put down the envelope. “Who was he?”

  “His photograph and prints match a guy named Quentin Lusk. Ever hear of him?”

  “Never.”

  “He’s a former corporal who served in Jack’s unit in Iraq.”

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “He suffered from PTSD after he got blasted in an explosion and lost part of his face. Seems it tore out part of his voice box, too. Last known address was down in Florida. Had a small farm there and kept to himself. He was seeing a Miami shrink to deal with his PTSD but hadn’t been keeping his appointments in quite a while. Quentin had developed a reputation for being odd, eccentric, a loner.”

  “What about violent?”

  “No mention of that. But his shrink said Quentin had tipped over the edge since Iraq and was prone to chronic paranoia.”

  “Any other link to Jack?”

  “We don’t know yet. We’ve got some people on their way to conduct a search of his property, to see what more we can learn. I’ll get back as soon as I have more details. You OK?”

  “For now. Look, Courtney, I’ve got to go out for a little while. It’s no big deal, but I don’t want a sheriff’s posse following me.”

  “Going where?”

  “To see Chad, among other things.”

  There was a definite beat, a complete silence, before Courtney said, “Why Chad?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? He arranged for the company helicopter to take me to see the crash site. He’s been kind and good and helpful. I wanted to thank him.” I didn’t want to tell her the truth about Chad’s call. Not yet, at least.

  Another silence, and then Courtney said, “Don’t tell me Chad’s on the scene again?”

  Was it my disturbed imagination, or did I sense a hint of jealousy? I had to be wrong. Courtney and Chad were over and done a long time ago. OK, Courtney would probably claim that they remained friends. But I was assuming that friendship was just a distant memory at this stage—unless it was recently rekindled—and whatever sexual or romantic allure they once had for each other was by now long gone.

  “There’s no scene, and he isn’t on it.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure. You don’t still like him, do you, Courtney?”

  “Heck, no, honey, I just don’t want your heart broken again.”

  “It’s bulletproof at this stage.”

  “Yeah, mine, too. Solid Kevlar.”

  It was strange. We still never talked much about our mutual love of the same man. As if it was a taboo subject. I don’t know why I said it, but I did. “You ever miss him, Courtney?”

  “Chad? He was a little rich for my peasant blood. Too rich, too good-looking. I didn’t grasp it at the time, but I guess we all get blinded by desire.” She laughed. “You ever think how gullible we women can be sometimes? How we can fall for looks and physical attraction just as easy as men do?”

  I was tempted to smile.

  Courtney said, “OK, keep in touch. And remember what Tanner said. We’ll talk later. Call me if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Courtney.”

  I ended the call. No mention of me leaving my home. Had Tanner not known yet, or had he told her? I picked up the envelope and tore open the flap.

  I spotted a couple of color photographs inside and pulled them out.

  Ice ran through my veins when I saw the images. One of my mother and father taken years ago, another of my father in military uniform.

  I frowned. What was this?

  The photo of my father showed him in combat fatigues, seated at one of two big wooden tables. On each table was a mountain of cash, in what looked like U.S. currency. The hills of money totally dominated the room. There must have been hundreds of millions there. My dad was smiling and had a wad of notes in each hand, showing them off for the camera.

  On the table in front of the cash was a pile of what looked like artifacts. One of them looked just like the Persian mask that Tanner showed me.

  The ice in my veins felt even colder.

  I looked at the other photograph. My parents at a function, maybe twenty years ago. My mom with a cocktail glass in her hand. Smiling. Dad smiling, too. A happy shot of the two of them. No one would hav
e had this photograph except someone in my family. But what disturbed me most, what chilled me to the bone, what made my heart leap into my mouth, were the words scrawled in black indelible marker along the bottom of the shot:

  Nothing is what it seems.

  He killed her.

  54

  * * *

  The written note made me quake. Totally unsettled me. I had the pics on the seat beside me all during the drive to Chad’s. I kept shifting my eyes to the black marker note every now and then—I didn’t recognize the block handwriting—and then a horn blared at me on the interstate, and I almost crashed. After that, I kept my eyes on the road.

  Nothing is what it seems.

  He killed her.

  Killed whom? But I knew. I knew what the note meant. My father had killed my mother. There was no other meaning my mind would entertain. But who had typed the note? And why? Was it the truth? Or meant to mislead me? The money, the same Persian mask. What did it mean? I couldn’t get the words out of my mind.

  My mind even returned to that most disturbing of memories. For some weird reason, I recalled when I caught Courtney and my father half clothed and in an embrace by the lakeshore. Had my father and Courtney ever had a long-term affair? Was there more to it than Courtney always claimed?

  Had my father been seeing other women during his marriage? Might he have killed my mother because he wanted to be free of her in order to pursue another relationship? But my father never had another relationship that I knew of, nothing really until long after my mother’s death.

  As I turned off the interstate, heading to Chad’s, my cell phone rang.

  I looked at the screen. The number was private. I felt a thud in my chest. I answered as I slowed and pulled the car onto the shoulder. Please let it be Jack.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s been a change of plan. I’ll call you soon.”

  It was Jack.