The doctor appeared, a young woman with her hair scraped into a ponytail and a stern expression that suggested she’d never suffered a moment of joy in her life. “You’re here for a pregnancy test?”
“And an exam,” Hudson said. “She’s also been suffering severe headaches that seem to bring on delusions.”
The doctor looked at Becca. “Are you having a headache now?”
“I just want to confirm my pregnancy,” Becca said. “I’ll make an appointment with my doctor.”
“I can give you a cursory exam, but it sounds neurological. You might want to schedule further testing.”
“I will.” Becca was firm.
She gave Hudson a look and he seemed about to argue, but then let it go.
“I’ll be in the waiting room,” he said.
Twenty minutes later Becca came out of the room, a smile quivering on her lips. She started laughing as Hudson jumped to his feet and met her in front of the ER’s sliding doors. “We’re going to be parents,” she said, and he hauled off and kissed her hard to a smattering of clapping from the other waiting-room attendees.
“I love you,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes closed, holding on to the moment with all she had.
“I love you,” she blurted.
Tears threatened and she laughed them away. And she didn’t say the words that trembled on her tongue: I always have.
Mac should have felt elated that some of the pieces were falling into place. The Portland Police had Scott Pascal in custody, a confession signed. Two murders had been solved with the killer copping a plea.
But two more murders were still unresolved, and he was no closer to figuring out who was behind them, or even if they were linked, as it seemed they were. Renee was working on Jessie’s story and someone had killed her. A case could be made that she’d learned something that implicated a killer who’d been waiting twenty years.
He was in the squad room, at his desk. Phones rang, a fax machine whirred, and there was light conversation between the cubicles, but Mac barely noticed. Nor could he concentrate on the report he should have been writing about a bar fight turned fatal. Or the domestic violence case where a kid had shot his father rather than accept another beating from the old man’s belt. They were both in his computer, ready to be polished.
But what had Renee learned?
Or was he way off base, trying to make a connection that didn’t exist simply because he wanted the Brentwood case solved? Tim Trudeau was certainly a possibility. His alibi-his cleaning woman had said he was definitely home the day of Renee’s accident-might not prove true. When she’d been questioned, Aida Hernandez had hidden behind a language barrier that Mac wasn’t certain existed. But her interpreter, Sergeant Delgado, had been adamant that Hernandez’s words were the truth. “She’s scared, but not of Tim,” Anna Maria Delgado assured Mac. “Aida’s very religious. She wouldn’t lie easily.” Delgado, whose own parents had been born in Mexico, was as smart as she was beautiful. Her word was usually golden with Mac, but Mac had done some checking on Trudeau and wasn’t completely convinced of the guy’s innocence.
Trudeau had financial motives. Though they were divorcing, at the time of her death Renee had yet to change her will. Her ex would still get the proceeds of a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy, the joint bank accounts worth twenty-three thousand dollars, Renee’s small IRA, and the house she’d paid for and owned outright with the proceeds her brother, Hudson, had paid her for her share of their parents’ ranch. All told: over half a million; closer to three-quarters.
Not a bad motive for murder.
“Damn.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin and thought. Hard. Why did he feel he was missing something; something important, something right under the surface of his thoughts? He glanced at the computer screen. It was split between actual images of Jessie Brentwood at sixteen and the computer-generated one of her as well. Dead on.
No…it wasn’t just coincidence that Renee Walker and Jezebel Brentwood were dead. He couldn’t believe that. Logically, their murders were connected.
And he believed Scott Pascal. That man had been frantic to convince them he had nothing to do with Jessie Brentwood’s and Renee Trudeau’s deaths. His emphatic denial had rung with truth and indignation, as if it made any sense that he could feel self-righteous about not killing the women when he’d admitted to murdering the men-two of his best friends. And for what? Money. Debt.
Lost in thought, he picked up the smooth bit of oyster shell found near Jessie’s grave between his forefinger and thumb. A piece of shell from an oyster found in the inlets and bays off the northern Oregon coast.
Everything led back to the beach.
Jessie Brentwood’s parents owned a cabin overlooking the ocean in Deception Bay.
Jessie was known to have been hitchhiking on the road running from the ocean shore inland not long before she disappeared.
Renee Trudeau, doing research on a story about Jessie, had been killed on her way back from Deception Bay.
Mac glanced at the picture of Levi propped up on his desk. Why not head to the beach, do a little poking around, see what was up. He could take Levi for the weekend, spend some father-son time at the beach while he explored the town of Deception Bay. He could check in with Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and see if they were any further in their search for the vehicle that had rammed Renee’s. The biggest roadblock to that plan would be Connie, his ex. She seemed to think his time as a father should be spent in structured, planned activities all revolving around schoolwork. No wonder the kid was having problems. Connie was pretty insistent that Mac not retire, either, but then she had lots of ideas about how he should run his life; especially when it came to raising their boy, who, she sometimes conveniently forgot, was his as well as hers.
Schoolwork be damned, this weekend he and Levi were going to hang out at the beach. Maybe do some crabbing down on the docks at Deception Bay, watch basketball, play cards, reconnect.
And yeah, he’d do a little investigating as well.
He needed to put the murder of Jezebel Brentwood to bed.
Just like that, his life had changed irrevocably, Hudson thought as he drove to his ranch the next morning. He’d lost a sister and then learned he was going to be a father.
One life ended; another started.
It was a weird sensation.
Not that he ever thought he’d be a father; but this, an unplanned pregnancy, was a shock to his system and an out-and-out high. He hadn’t suggested Becca marry him, wasn’t rushing out to buy a diamond ring, it was all happening way too fast. But he couldn’t imagine not living with her. He wanted to raise their son or daughter together and spend the rest of his life with her.
So marriage was definitely in his plans.
He just had to think things through.
Squinting against the harsh rays of sun that slipped through the clouds, he turned down the long drive to his house. More storms were predicted from the west. It was the end of March and winter would not let go of its grip.
But he was going to be a father!
Becca and he had talked. All yesterday afternoon and into the evening, and after spending the rest of the day and night together, they were on the same page about raising a kid, but it was a little early to ask her to move her things to the ranch. Hell, her little dog still wasn’t certain Hudson wasn’t an enemy. And there was something else, something he didn’t really understand. A “feeling” that Becca wasn’t being entirely honest with him-not about the pregnancy, he trusted her on that one, but there was something off about this whole vision thing. He felt she was holding back. He feared it was physical and that she was in denial, that something was causing these delusions.
Yet…her visions were strangely prophetic.