Wicked Dreams

Book 5: Colony

by Lisa Jackson, Nancy Bush

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling masters of pulse-pounding suspense Lisa Jackson and Nancy Bush reunite in a gripping stand-alone thriller set in the eerie world of The Colony, a haven for a group of women marked for death by a madman.

On the wild Oregon coast, tucked between the mountains and the sea, stands Siren Song, home to a group of women known as The Colony. Their aunt hoped the isolated lodge would be a sanctuary, a place where she could protect them and their special gifts. But nowhere is safe from the man who has marked them for death . . .
 
The note pinned to the dead body found on the remote beach has no name, just Ravinia Rutledge’s phone number and the words “Next of Kin.” Ravinia insists she doesn’t recognize the man on the mortuary slab, but she suspects Detective Nev Rhodes doesn’t believe her. He can tell that she’s one of them—the Siren Song women.
 
Five years after moving away from The Colony, Ravinia has carved out a life as a private investigator whose specialty is helping others locate their missing loved ones. Yet sometimes, it’s better if the missing are never found. “Good Time Charlie” is the name given to a monster from her past, a man whom she and her sisters hoped was gone forever. But the dead man on the beach is a sign that Charlie has merely been waiting, preparing to fulfill his mission to rid the world of the Siren Song women—and anyone else who gets in his way.
 
Rhodes has his own reasons for being fascinated with The Colony and its surroundings—a place marked by unexplained deaths and tragedies. Rhodes plays by the rules, but there are forces at work here that defy notions of law and order. And despite Ravinia’s reluctance to team up with Nev, it’s the only way to stop an adversary determined to see that each and every member of The Colony will die at his hands . . .
 

Release date: December 27, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Reader says this book is...: dark (1) entertaining story (1) suspenseful (1)

Sample

Funerals . . .

Detective Neville Rhodes sat in one of the back pews as the minister gave a glowing review of Henry Wharton’s accomplishments and the character of the older man throughout his fifty-eight years as if he knew him, which he clearly did not. Nev had known the man all his life, and Henry was obdurate and a little mean-spirited, and the father of Nev’s one-time best friend, Spencer. One time. A long time ago. Fifteen years ago.

The woman seated beside Nev stirred in her seat. He could sense her shooting him looks, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, as he wasn’t ready to engage in conversation. Lana had been Spence’s fiancée. They’d gotten engaged just before the accident that had taken Spence’s life, and when she’d seen Nev sitting alone in the pew, she’d slipped in beside him. He didn’t think they’d spoken more than ten words to each other since Spence’s death, but then Nev didn’t talk about the accident. If he could have, he would have erased the memory of that day entirely, but it was always with him. And Duncan’s death too. It didn’t take everyone blaming him for the accident that stole his two closest friends to make him feel guilty. He could do that all by himself, even though he knew it wasn’t true, even though he’d been the one who’d tried to stop the harebrained and dangerous, alcohol-fueled plan to row out to Echo Island and confront the harridan who lived there, even though he’d been the one to point out that numerous boats had been capsized or sunk in the treacherous waters that surrounded that godforsaken, one-mile-wide, rocky island.

The fact of the matter was Spence and Duncan had died, while Neville Rhodes had survived. That’s all anyone cared to know. That’s what had happened.

Lana’s fingers tiptoed across the pew to clasp his hand, giving it a squeeze. He finally glanced her way and saw her ragged smile. I’m sorry, she mouthed.

Nev nodded, not wanting her sympathy. He didn’t want to be here, but if he’d stayed away, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself. If he had forgone Henry’s funeral, he wouldn’t have had the stomach to face Spence’s family with that show of cowardice.

So, here he was . . .

The small chapel was located on Tillamook’s south side, perched on a scraggly hill, with a view between several houses to the bay beyond. Through one of the tracery windows, Nev caught a glimpse of a cool, gray October sky. The weather had just turned, summer shedding into autumn, winter promised. With day upon day of sunshine and heat, Indian summer had prevailed, then there was a sudden temperature drop so precipitous the people inside the church had been forced to wear coats for the first time this season, those coats now hanging open over the back of the pews, as the interior of the building was warm. Nev tugged at his collar but kept his coat on.

“. . . Henry loved his family. His wife, Candy, and his sons, Andrew and Spencer . . .”

There was a slight stir in the room as Spencer’s name was invoked. The perfect son. The one destined for greatness. Several heads turned to look at Nev, and he had to fight a reaction. Years of being in law enforcement had given him an implacable expression, but not today. Not when it came to Spence. Even now, years later in this austere little chapel, Nev could hear his friend’s voice.

“C’mon, Rhodes,” Spence had urged when Nev had resisted taking out the boat and heading toward Echo Island, the cursed piece of rock and dirt tantalizingly outside of Deception Bay, so deceptive itself, seemingly benign and untouched. But a crazy lady lived there, apparently one of that odd cult of women who resided in that weird lodge on the mainland, which was protected by hedges and high fencing.

All the adventurous kids his age wanted to brave the tide and go out and spy on the unhinged woman who lived on the island, although they all knew about the unpredictable crosscurrents surrounding Echo, how it was only safely accessible in late summer, and that even then, you really needed to be an expert boatman to approach it. Echo’s shore was inhospitable, and the tiny dock was washed away practically every year, to be mysteriously resurrected, then washed away again.

The whole place was eerie and unwelcoming.

“We’ve still got time to get there,” Spence had assured him, looking out the window of his bedroom. It was the middle of October that year, almost the same time of year as now, but the weather had been worse.

“It’s too late. A storm’s coming,” warned Nev.

“A storm’s coming next week. This is our chance, now.”

Duncan Wicklund had yawned and said, “You’ve got a hard-on for that place, Spence.”

The three of them were in their last year of college at Oregon State University in Corvallis. They were home for the weekend, or at least Spence and Nev were; Duncan was from northern California but had become a fast friend over the past three years. Whereas Spence was lean and dark, Duncan was redheaded and muscular. Nev was somewhere in between them. Not as dark as Spence, not as fair as Duncan, not as whip-thin as Spence, and not as filled-out as Duncan.

“How many times have we said we’re going to go there?” Spence demanded of Nev. “A hundred? A thousand?”

“It’s you, man, not me,” said Nev. “Duncan’s right.”

“Duncan’s never right,” responded Spence with his trademark sideways, evil grin.

Nev’s mom had always thought Spence was bad news, and she was maybe right, but Nev had loved the guy. He made everything brighter, wilder, better. Nev knew Duncan was enticed by Spence’s schemes and plans as well, no matter what he said.

“I’m right this time,” said Duncan, to which Spence snorted.

Duncan’s eyebrows drew together. “Isn’t this the same place you said was cursed or haunted or something?”

“Local gossip. Old bitches talking, that’s all,” Spence replied, and both were right. The stories about Echo were never-ending and all wrapped up in curses, bad luck, and hauntings. Who really could separate fact from fiction?

Nev couldn’t recall exactly how Spence had talked them into it, but somehow Nev was renting the rowboat, and Duncan was trying to borrow a coat from him as they were going straight into the teeth of the coming storm and were in trouble if they didn’t get away from the island in time, though Spence assured them there was “no way, absolutely no way we’ll fail! If we see the old witch, we try to get something from her, something to show that we were there, like some of her hair, something with her DNA on it, but we gotta be fast.”

Now Lana leaned toward him, breaking into Nev’s uneasy memories as she whispered, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I haven’t seen any of the Whartons since Spence died. They didn’t want him to be engaged to me. You remember?”

Nev nodded.

“I wasn’t good enough for him. Never was good enough for him.” Tiny tears filled the corners of her eyes, and she seemed to shrink into the pew.

It was Nev’s turn to be the comforter. Quietly, he said, “They just didn’t want Spence distracted.”

“From the great things he would achieve? I know. But that wasn’t Spence. Not really.”

“Well, it wasn’t about you.”

She’d been facing forward, chin jutted, trying to hold back her emotions. Now she threw him a look. “It wasn’t about you, either.”

Hah. Neither of them would ever convince the Whartons of that.

After the service, Nev stuck around to meet and greet with the other gatherers for a few minutes inside the church. Henry was to be buried in the family plot in the centuries-old graveyard in the foothills of the Cascades, above the flood zone, but Nev wasn’t making that pilgrimage. Henry and Candy had made it clear someone needed to be blamed for extinguishing the bright flame of their son, and that someone was Neville Rhodes. Lana may have expressed support for him, but Spence’s mother wouldn’t feel the same. Nev had come to the service in duty to Spencer and his father. Now it was time to leave, and he followed a group of mourners outside.

Heading down the concrete steps, the breeze off the ocean whipping his hair and stinging his eyes, he didn’t realize he was going to pass by Spencer’s mother until it was too late to take a different route around the group of friends gathered near the bottom of the steps.

A weak sun threw slanting strips of light through the limbs of a tortured pine, crowning the circle of mourners with undulating illumination.

Nev’s sleeve brushed Candy’s elbow. She glanced up, saw it was Nev, and stiffened as if struck by a freeze ray.

Nev and Candy locked eyes, and Nev drew a breath, flooded with those memories he tried so desperately to keep locked away.

In that split second, he remembered that awful night.

“I’ll go first,” Spence had yelled as they’d neared the island. Nev’s arms ached from rowing. They should have rented a power boat, but none of them had extra cash, and there was a good chance whatever craft they’d chosen would get smacked around in the currents and grounded on the rocky shoal surrounding the decrepit dock. None of them could afford to pay for that kind of damage.

The front of the rowboat hit the dock and shuddered.

Spence ignobly tumbled onto its grayed planks, feet and legs dangling in the water. He scrambled to his feet just as another wave hit. Hard. The bow swung violently and slammed into a post, narrowly missing Spencer. But Spence was already climbing up the pebble-strewn hill.

“Jesus!” Duncan swore over the roar of the surf.

Nev paddled frantically.

No good!

The hull crashed against some slick black boulders whose barnacle-crusted crowns showed above the waterline, dark bergs whose main bodies lay beneath the waves.

“Lemme,” Duncan ordered.

“I’ve got it,” ground out Nev.

“No, you don’t!”

With an effort, Nev swung the boat back around, close to the dock on the undulating water. He was breathing hard. “Thought you were following Spence,” he managed.

“Who wants to see some old witch?” Duncan started working his way toward the stern, as had been the original plan, to trade places for the trip back to shore.

He wobbled, the wind lashing, frigid ocean spray slapping at both their faces.

Duncan was stronger than Nev, but not as experienced with oars. Nev had grown up on the ocean. Had fished and swum and worked along its shores, whereas Duncan had been a city boy. Nev reluctantly switched to the middle, a trick that took all their concentration, given the heaving boat. Spence, on his return, would man the aft.

When Nev and Duncan were finally in their spots, both of their chests were still rapidly rising and falling from the exertion.

There was no sign of Spence.

“Where is he?” Duncan said, his teeth chattering. “I mean, the island isn’t that big, right?”

Nev shrugged. He’d never been on Echo.

They both waited.

How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten? Longer?

Nev ventured a look at the sky, as dark and foreboding as the ocean, storm clouds hovering over the roiling water.

“Did you see him go up there? To her house?” Nev asked tensely. All along, he’d thought Spence would bag out, that he’d bail at the last minute, but now he’d disappeared, and Nev was staring at the overgrown trail leading away from the water, willing him back.

“’Course he did! He’s crazy, man!” Duncan steered the boat away from the dock and into the relative safety of a large eddy. Even so, the wind was rising, and the rowboat was being tossed about. Duncan literally had his hands full.

In those minutes Spence was gone, Nev and Duncan were both inside their own heads. Nev was worried. Counting seconds. The storm he’d mentioned wasn’t just coming; it was here, its infantry a cold, chopping wind. He knew they shouldn’t have come, but they were committed now, and the mainland seemed more distant than ever. If they ran out of time, would it be better to seek shelter on the island? Though it was mostly a rocky tor, there was a house somewhere, supposedly, where the old woman lived. Maybe they should try to pull the boat ashore, find Spence, find a safe place to wait out the storm?

They’d made a foolish mistake, Nev thought grimly. They’d listened to Spence, and they were in trouble.

Duncan’s expressive face was sphinxlike, jaw set. His arms were working the oars, keeping the boat from being tossed around like the proverbial cork on the water.

Then Spence suddenly appeared again. Sliding down the hill from the crest of the island. Pebbles flying in front of him as he half-rode on his butt, hands in the dirt and rocks, trying to control his slide. Duncan steered grimly toward the dock, gritting out swear words, the same words inside Nev’s head.

Spence reached the dock and flopped onto it, his palms scraped and bloody. “Shit!” he cried, the oath thrown away by the wind.

Only Duncan’s strength got them near enough to the dock to allow Spence to clamber in before they were swung around, away from the island but aiming toward the sea, not the shore.

“Why’d you stay in the boat?” Spence demanded of Nev, yelling to be heard above the wind.

“This was your plan, not ours!” Nev yelled back. “Let’s go!”

Spence laughed, his eyes wide, his color high. “I got her hair!” he screamed in delight, balancing precariously. “She invited me in and cut it off for me herself!”

“What hair?” Duncan demanded, shooting a glance at Spence.

“The fuckin’ witch’s! In my pocket. She wanted me to fuck her! Can you believe it? And man, I wanted to! I really wanted it. She made me feel it! If I’d only had more time—”

“For Christ’s sake,” Duncan said. “Sit the fuck down!”

Spence half-fell in by Nev’s feet.

“That freakin’ witch, Mary, she wanted me. And man, I wanted her,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t help himself. Spence was still flying high.

Duncan kept fighting the tide and the currents. He got the rowboat turned around, and Nev and Spence both barked directions at him, coaxing him to guide her to the mainland and the safety of the beach.

But it was a long way off, and the sea was roiling in white caps and waves. Angry gray water reached toward a dark, ominous sky.

“Hurry up!” Spencer ordered, finally grasping how grave the situation was.

From the corner of his eye, Nev saw the monster first: the huge, rolling wave that rose up and came down on them like a fist. His heart lurched hard. He knew they were going to capsize before it happened and screamed at his friends in warning.

“Watch out!” cried Nev.

Duncan’s eyes showed white with fear, but he held on.

SLAM!

One hard thunk, and they were overboard, tossed out of the boat and into the sea.

Nev felt the frigid ocean close over his head. Immediately he stopped fighting, letting himself float upward.

As he broke the surface, he tossed wet hair from his eyes and gulped air.

Spence?

Duncan?

Where were they?

Alarmed, he rode the waves, bobbing on the frothy surface, frantically searching for his friends. Oh. God. But the storm was only playing with them. Its full thrust was yet to come.

Shivering, he frantically scoured the sea. There was no swimming in it. No making it straight for shore. The riptide wouldn’t allow it. Freezing, Nev spied the capsized boat, swam for it, and grabbed wildly, clinging to the ever-moving rowboat, literally for his life.

“Spence!” he yelled, his voice caught in the screaming wind. “Duncan! Jesus!” Again he scoured the angry ocean.

Duncan surfaced, looking dazed.

“Duncan!”

Nev spied a huge knot in his friend’s head, but Duncan saw the boat and swam for it, desperately holding on. Blood stained his forehead, and his short hair was plastered to his head. His eyes were open, but spaced out.

“Hold on!” Nev screamed. “Shit, man, hold on!”

The wind shrieked.

Spence’s head surfaced, dark hair visible. “Spence! Oh, God!”

Spence blinked, and gulped.

“Here! Spence!” Nev was frantic.

The boat bucked wildly.

The bow slewed around and slammed into Spence’s face with the force of a fighter’s knock-out punch.

“Spence!” Nev screamed. Oh, no. Oh, God no! “Spence!”

His friend surfaced again, and Nev flung himself away from the boat to grab him and help him to grip the splintered hull. Spence groaned, but his hands clutched the side of the boat.

Blood ran from the blow that had split the skin of his forehead.

Nev looked across the boat to the space where Duncan had been clinging to the overturned hull. He wasn’t there.

Shit.

“Hold on. Can you hold on?” Nev demanded in Spence’s ear as he searched the surrounding sea.

Spence didn’t answer, but his hands clutched on to the hull with a death grip. Nev tried to circumvent the upside-down boat to find Duncan. “Duncan! Duncan!” he screamed and screamed, treading water, circling, shivering, frantic. Where the hell—

He saw the top of Duncan’s head beneath the water. He grabbed wildly. Tried to haul him up by his hair. He failed, the hair sliding between his frozen fingers. No. No. He tried again and again and again . . .

But Duncan disappeared beneath the churning dark surface.

“Duncan. Dunc—” Salt water slammed into his mouth, choking him. His arms were leaden. He had to give up. Exhausted, holding onto the boat for what felt like hours and sick at heart, Nev hoped for rescue. He’d tried and tried to save his friend, but he’d failed.

As it turned out, someone had seen their capsized boat and raised the alarm. The Coast Guard came to save them, but by then Nev was dealing with hypothermia, his brain and body numb. It was too late for Duncan; his body was found the next day washed up against the shore on the mainland, still in sight of that deadly island.

Spence was alive but had been unconscious as he was dragged from the sea.

Though he didn’t remember it, Nev had made his way back to his friend, making certain Spence wouldn’t slip back into the water like Duncan. He would die with Spence rather than let him drown. He was half delirious himself when they were rescued.

Spence hovered in a coma for three long days and then succumbed to a brain hematoma.

Nev was examined, treated for mild hypothermia with warm blankets, hot tea and broth, and observed before being released.

Nev tried to talk to Henry and Candy, but they cut him dead. “You rowed him out there,” Henry snarled, and Nev, brokenhearted, couldn’t seem to explain that the whole thing was Spence’s idea. Duncan’s parents came for his body and spoke to no one, apart from an angry television interview in which they blamed all of Deception Bay for “giving kids dangerous ideas about that godforsaken island!” Duncan’s father had been pale and had glowered into the camera, his one arm draped around his wife, a short woman who huddled close to her husband and avoided looking into the camera.

It all had been hell.

Now Nev broke eye contact with Candy and took a step back, giving her a nod of acknowledgment before turning toward his Ford 150. He’d made it to the truck’s door when he heard the fast footfalls behind him. He turned just as she came upon him.

“You bastard,” she said, tears standing in her eyes.

“Mrs. Wharton—”

“Why do you get to live? Why does everyone die, but you get to live?” Her chin trembled.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Wharton.”

“Are you sorry about Spence? You took away the best thing in my life. You took away my favorite . . .” She stumbled, even in her agony hearing the truth of her remark, glancing over at her other son, Andrew, tall, too thin, his hair snapping around his face as he hurried up to his mother. She held her tongue, but Andrew’s shuttered expression said he knew all too well what she’d been about to say.

Candy’s face was pale and drawn, her lips tight, her hair coming loose from its tight chignon.

Nev said, through a dry throat, “I miss Spence every day.”

She slapped him flat across the face. Hard. The blow came so fast he had no time to react. His face stung, his cheek on fire. “You don’t know what grief is!” she cried.

Nev was too surprised to do more than take a step back, stumbling against the door of his truck.

“Mom,” Andrew said miserably.

Nev felt his color rise, his muscles tighten.

“You’re a curse on our family!” she shrieked at him, her blond and gray hair flying all around her head like a corona. People on the steps turned to look as she shook from head to toe, her black lace dress whipping in the wind.

“I’m sorry,” he said tersely, wanting to say more, knowing there were no words.

“You should be in jail, not working as a policeman!” she spat. “Henry wouldn’t want you here!”

“Mom!” Andrew’s voice was the crack of a whip.

Neville turned back toward the truck.

“You should have been the one to die!” she screamed after him as he opened the driver’s door.

Yes, ma’am.

The rest of the night Neville spent nursing a beer—a few beers, actually—at an out-of-the-way bar near his rented house in Sandbar, a small hamlet south of Tillamook. Rationally, he knew Candy and Henry were wrong. Spence’s death wasn’t his fault. But at times like these, it was hard to remember. He might know it in his head, but it still hurt his heart. Rarely did he let it get to him any longer. Time had numbed, nearly erased, the pain. But it was always there. Lurking just below the surface. Even though life had gone on, the sorrow and the guilt never really left him.

“Girlfriend?” the bartender asked sympathetically, pointing to the left side of Nev’s face. Candy had really nailed him. He could feel the bruising and now knew it was evident to others too.

Nev just shook his head.

“Line of duty?” The guy knew Nev was a detective with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.

“Something like that,” he said, not wanting to get into it.

He went home and looked at himself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. The handprint had disappeared, but the discoloration made it clear he’d run into something. Tomorrow he was going to have to forgo shaving in the hopes that the beginnings of whiskers might shadow some of the evidence.

He was still feeling the lingering pain of Henry Wharton’s and Spencer’s and Duncan’s deaths the next morning when he rose before dawn, showered, dressed, and headed north past Tillamook toward Deception Bay. He wanted to view Echo Island this morning. The crazy woman who’d lived there was dead, and the island still lay just out of reach. The sea was restless and gray, white caps evident through the trees lining the winding road. He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten, as they always did whenever he drove past that section of cliff where the firs gave way to vast ocean, a vista with the black rocks of Echo Island rising above the surface, breaking the line of the horizon. Today, he threw a glance at the island. It was, as always, left just the way it wanted to be: alone, inhospitable, empty.

There was a place to park on the west side of the highway, space enough for about three vehicles. As he’d been heading north, he yanked on the wheel, crossed the highway, and pulled into the wide space, turning around so that he was facing south, nose out, ready to take off. Stepping outside the truck into a biting wind, he yanked the collar of his lightweight jacket tighter as he faced the ocean, then walked to the guardrail mounted on the cliff face, high above the stretch of sand that looked toward the sea and Echo.

The only way down was a treacherous trail of switchbacks that kept would-be sun worshippers searching for a different beach, which was just as well because it wasn’t safe to—

Wait.

He froze, his gaze scouring the sandy strip below.

For the love of God, was that a body on the beach? Up away from the water?

Yes.

The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he squinted down the steep terrain.

Sure enough.

Alive, or . . .

“Hey!” he yelled. “Hey!” His voice caught on the wind, and as he expected, the person didn’t move.

“Damn it.” He glanced down at his shoes. Sneakers. He was in jeans. Hadn’t gotten dressed for work yet. The sun was barely cresting the mountains, and that biting wind . . .

He grabbed his phone from his pocket, planning to call into the station to report the body, then hesitated. Instead, for now, he shoved the device into his back pocket. Hell with it. He was going down.

He climbed over the guardrail and stepped onto the trail, head bent to the wind, as he eased past rocks, roots, and weeds, slipping in several places, remembering how Spencer had slid down the island hillside to the boat as Nev tried to keep from bloodying his own palms. The trail had nearly washed away at the beach, and he jumped down the last couple of feet, landing with a jar, then running across the packed sand toward the man.

He was on his back. Bending down, Nev checked for a pulse, but there was none. No hint of breath. He was clearly dead, but his eyes were open, an arresting shade more silver than blue as they seemed to stare at the sky.

What the hell happened?

Straightening, Nev threw a glance toward the island, feeling a rise of fury in his chest. It looked like Echo had claimed another victim. What else would this man have been doing on this stretch of beach?

Don’t go there. Anything could have happened. Keep your own demons locked away.

And yet he felt a finger of dread slide down his spine as he narrowed his eyes on the horizon and the island.

Hunching his shoulders against the wind, wishing the sun would beam down some heat, he placed a call to the Coast Guard, explaining the situation.

Then he called into work, after which he sat down to wait as the surf pounded and seagulls cried and wheeled high above.

Though his eyes were drawn to the formidable rocky outcropping on Echo, he turned his gaze back to the John Doe. Something was peeking out from beneath the man’s jacket. A piece of paper? Glancing around, he found a small stick and then carefully lifted the edge of the man’s windbreaker to find a note pinned to the dead man’s shirt.

He leaned over the corpse. The writing had bled down the page, barely legible.

Gazing down at the message, he frowned, his eyebrows drawing together.

He could just make out a phone number. But the words beside it were easier to read, and they caught him up: NEXT OF KIN.

He quickly looked at the man’s face again, then back to the island, then back to the corpse. Whose next of kin? His? Had he written the note and pinned it to himself?

Nev’s skin prickled as he carefully set down the stick, slipped his phone from his back pocket, and took a picture of the note. He thought about it, then he unpinned the note from the body and slid it into his back pocket. It took several hours for the Coast Guard to appear, the craft plowing through the currents, damn near crashing against the southern rocks and cliffside. Nev heard crew members swearing and smiled grimly. He knew exactly how they felt about this stretch of sea and land.

The body was collected and hauled into the boat. Nev watched the boat leave, heading directly out to sea before turning far from the riptides surrounding the island, its course heading south toward Tillamook. Then he climbed back up the hillside, once again clinging to roots and vines and finding toeholds in the rock where the trail failed. He reached the crest, legs aching, heart pounding, and got into his vehicle. His hands were numb, and so was his butt from his long wait sitting on the sand. He started his engine and waited for the cab of his truck to warm. As he sat there, he pulled out the note he’d unpinned from the corpse. He should have left it for forensics, but he hadn’t. He would have liked to give himself an excuse, say he’d felt it might disintegrate, the information lost, if he hadn’t moved it, and maybe there was some truth in that. In reality, he’d wanted the note and number for himself.

He looked out at the island—desolate and forbidding as ever, then placed the call to the dead man’s next of kin.

Bzzzzz . . . bzzzzz . . .

Ravinia’s cell phone rang. She was driving and was halfway from Portland to the beach, deep inside the Coast Range, where tall firs and hemlocks rose on either side of the winding road. She slid her eyes from the road to glance at her phone as it buzzed away, secure in its cradle attached to her dash. Who was calling? One of her sisters? If it was someone trying to hire her, they would likely call her office phone, not her personal cell. Reception was iffy in the mountains. Nonexistent in spots. So even if she answered, she might be cut off, and it sometimes took twenty minutes or more before a faint signal could be reached again, so a whole lot of calls were dropped as soon as they went through.

Bzzzzz . . . bzzzzz . . .

It wasn’t a number she recognized. Not any of her sisters, then. Someone else. Should she answer it? She was feeling tense already. Didn’t really want to make this trip in the first place. She had stuff to do in Portland. A missing wife . . . surveillance on someone with a suspicious employment background check . . . Her fledgling PI business could already use another operative, as she couldn’t be in two places at once, but she couldn’t afford to pay anyone a salary. At least not yet.

Could a potential client have gotten hold of her personal cell number? She rarely gave it out, if she could help it, but sometimes it was necessary.

Bzzzz