You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 25


Ava needed to get out. The bedroom walls were closing in on her and she couldn’t stand being in Neptune’s Gate a second longer.

In the bathroom, she found a rubber band and snapped her hair into a quick ponytail. Though she wasn’t on house arrest, she felt a prisoner in the old walls of the home she’d loved so much of her life. Tonight, though, she needed a break. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, the circles under her eyes, the tension in the corners of her mouth, the pale color of her skin, and she cringed.

No more of this being a weakling!

No more being a victim!

No more being pushed around!

She changed into a pair of running pants and top that she’d worn years before, then found her waterproof Windbreaker, complete with reflective tape. She didn’t have to worry about her husband giving her any grief about running in the dark, as Wyatt had already asked Ian to take him, along with Dr. McPherson, over to the mainland.

“You’re going out?” Khloe asked as Ava, shrugging into her jacket, hurried down the stairs. “Now?”

“For a little while.”

“To Anchorville?” Concerned, Khloe glanced out the tall windows in the foyer to the darkness beyond.

“Just to Monroe.”

“It’s raining,” Virginia said as she walked into the foyer, untying her apron.

“I won’t drown.”

Virginia eyed her speculatively and Ava was reminded of how recently they had all thought she would die in the waters of the bay. “Look, I’ve gotta go.”

Before anyone else put up an argument, she grabbed a flashlight and a baseball cap, then headed out the door. Everyone thought she was crazy anyway, so let them shake their heads at her insanity for running in the rain and dark. She really didn’t care.

She bounded down the steps and found the gravel path leading to the drive. From there, she started jogging, slowly at first, feeling the cold air against her face and realizing as the rain splattered against her fingers that she’d forgotten gloves. Too bad. She wasn’t going to retrace her steps and explain herself all over again.

Down the hill to the main road she jogged, her running shoes slapping the wet asphalt, the beam of her flashlight bobbing ahead of her, her lungs feeling the bite of cold air.

And yet it felt good to run, to feel her calves and thighs, to breathe deeply of the salty air. The road followed the curve of the bay, running like a flat ribbon along the shoreline and into Monroe, where a sprinkling of streetlights gave off a watery blue illumination.

Slap, slap, slap!

She increased her pace slightly, her eyes trained on the weak beam of her flashlight, her legs stretching, her breathing regular. Cold rain ran down her neck, but she didn’t care. The feeling of freedom, the exhilaration of actually doing something, was worth it.

So where was Noah?

She didn’t believe he was dead. Wouldn’t go there. But if not, then whoever had taken him hadn’t done it for ransom. So, it had to be someone who wanted her son, and it was definitely someone who was either at the Christmas party as an invited guest, a member of the staff, or someone who had snuck into the house and avoided being seen by anyone.

Unless the kidnapper had an accomplice.

She’d thought of that before. And if there was an accomplice, then it came down to someone she knew or Wyatt knew. The names of the people who’d been at the house that night ran in circles through her brain: Jewel-Anne, Jacob, Trent and Ian, of course. Zinnia, Aunt Piper and Uncle Crispin, Wyatt, and every member of the staff, most of whom were still employed at Neptune’s Gate. And then there were the others: Butch Johansen and several of Wyatt’s clients and acquaintances. Tanya and Russell . . . Oh, God, there were too many to consider.

What about Evelyn McPherson? Had she been there? It would have been before she became your psychologist . . . even then, were she and Wyatt seeing each other?

No . . . Ava had met Evelyn McPherson at St. Brendan’s where she’d been introduced as her therapist . . .

A distant memory sliced through her brain . . . something she’d forgotten. The room was crowded, people coming and going from the party, music playing, glasses clinking, laughter and conversation filling the air. She’d been hurrying down the stairs, her hand trailing along the banister where garlands had been strung, and as she passed by the highest branches of the Christmas tree, she saw a woman through French doors to the darkened den. The panes on the doors reflected the lights of the tree that dominated the foyer, and beyond the glass, a heavy-set woman she’d not met stood in profile. At first Ava had thought the woman was alone, maybe talking on her cell phone, but she’d been focused on something outside of Ava’s field of vision. That woman, whose appearance had altered significantly since, must have been Evelyn McPherson.

Had Evelyn turned to glance up the stairs as Ava had hurried down? Or was she imagining it now? And why hadn’t the doctor appeared on any of the lists that Ava had created since Noah’s disappearance, or the people questioned by the police, or—The toe of her running shoe caught on the edge of a pothole and she was jerked out of her reverie.

She tripped, falling forward, dropping the flashlight as she broke her fall with her hands. Gravel and rough asphalt tore at her skin and ripped the knees of her running pants as she slid, then caught herself.

“Damn!”

She watched as her flashlight rolled down the rest of the hill, sending a wobbly, spinning beam shimmering against the wet pavement. Palms stinging, knees aching, Ava climbed to her feet and was thankful no one had seen her clumsy fall. Her back pained her a bit, but otherwise the bruises were mainly to her ego.

Wiping her skinned hands on her jacket, she looked around, half expecting Dern to appear. The last few times she’d nearly hurt herself, he’d come racing to the rescue, but the night remained quiet and dark, only the sound of the lapping tide heard over the rush of the rain.

“Stupid,” she muttered, then took off after the flashlight that had finally come to rest at the edge of a gutter, its lamp half submerged in a puddle.

Catching up to the damned thing, she picked it up and wiped it off on her jacket, then walked into the small town, past Frank’s Food-O-Mart where two teenagers in stocking caps and heavy jackets were seated on the curb, under the overhang of the roof while smoking cigarettes and drinking Red Bull.

Down two blocks, she moved past the only inn in town and into Rose’s, the small café that was luckily still open. Rosie, the owner, manager, and waitress, was behind the counter, swiping a rag over the old Formica counter.

“I’m closing in fifteen minutes,” she said, squinting a bit before recognizing Ava. With a toothy smile, she added, “Ms. Church! You know my hours are flexible. Come on in!” Rosie was never going to remember Ava’s married name. Now she dropped her rag and grabbed a plastic menu. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” A slight woman with a bit of a rounded back, Rosie was somewhere in her seventies and had owned the place for as long as Ava could remember. “Sit anywhere you want. The joint’s not exactly jumpin’.”

She was right. The small restaurant was nearly empty. A huge man who looked as if he’d be a lot more comfortable in a tavern sat at the counter, his belly pressed against the top Rosie had so recently swabbed. Next to the guy, a kid of about ten was picking at the fries on his plate, the remains of a hamburger in evidence.

“How’re ya doin’?” Rosie asked.

“Okay.”

“You sure?” She handed the menu to Ava.

“Yeah, I am. But don’t ask my family. They all think I’m nuts.”

Rosie chuckled and coughed a little, a smoker’s rattle that she ended by clearing her throat. “That’s what families are for, don’t ya know? To love each other to death, all the while ripping their hearts out. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Glass of wine. White. Chardonnay, I guess.” To hell with the ruse of taking her meds.

“Comin’ right up. Hey, you want the last piece of pumpkin pie . . . huh? Better snap it up or old George there, he’ll get it.” She hooked a thumb at the other customer.

Thinking about the possible caliber of the house wine, Ava said, “How about some cheese and crackers?”

“Only got saltines.”

“They’ll do.”

Rosie was nodding. “They’re for the chowder and oyster stew. Clyde made the stew this mornin’. But we’re fresh out.”

Clyde was Rosie’s husband. They’d been married, off and on, for forty-plus years and currently lived in the apartment over the café.

After a wineglass was deposited on the table, she murmured a quick thanks and took a sip, decided it was passable, and looked out the big plate-glass window as Rosie went back to the counter. From her corner booth, Ava gazed across the black water to the lights of Anchorville, thick strands of illumination around the shoreline that were spattered more sparingly up the hillside.

Of course, the distance across the water made it impossible to see anything in the town clearly, but she stared in the general direction of Cheryl’s studio. Cheryl’s worried image came to mind and the last words she’d uttered to Ava resonated through her brain.

“I think you should be careful. . . . Things aren’t always as they seem or what we want them to be. There’s a lot of bad blood out on the island. You know it. I know it. And sometimes I can’t help myself. I worry about you.”

Cheryl had ended up dead. Murdered. Not the other way around. The danger, apparently, had been to Cheryl rather than to Ava. Odd. Ava frowned, thinking backward to their session. Why had Cheryl been so upset? Was it something Ava had said while she was under hypnosis?

Twisting the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, Ava watched the Chardonnay swirl in the goblet bowl. The motion of the clear liquid reminded her of water sloshing, and a lightning-quick memory burned through her brain.

The day Kelvin died came back to her once again, the painful events of that boat trip somehow tangling up in her head with Noah’s disappearance. Sometimes she felt there had to be a connection between the two; her mind seemed to always try to link both tragic events. She’d never been able to discover what held them together, so she always came to the inevitable conclusion that the only thing tying the two events together was the emotional loss she’d suffered at losing both her brother and her son.

Back when Kelvin was alive, there were fewer people living at Neptune’s Gate and the family had been estranged. Ava had already bought them out, and aside from Jewel-Anne, they had all left the island, most thinking “good riddance” to the rock in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which separated Vancouver Island in British Columbia from Washington State.

They’d only returned for her brother’s funeral, and a few, including Ian, had offered to “help” and stay on.

“We’re closing!” Rosie’s shrill voice broke into Ava’s thoughts, and she looked up quickly to see the glass door opening.

Austin Dern was pushing his way inside, and he didn’t pay any attention to the owner’s screeches.

“Did you hear me?” Rosie demanded, hands on her skinny hips.

“I’ll just be a sec.” He walked to Ava’s booth and slid across from her.

She said to Rosie, “It’s okay. He’s . . . a friend.”

“Humph!” she snorted, but didn’t argue.

“Why am I not surprised that you’re here?” she asked as he shed his jacket. “It seems any time I leave the house, you show up. Ready to rescue me.”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, and she noticed that his lips, beneath his five-o’clock shadow, were blade thin. “Something tells me you don’t need to be rescued.”

“You’re right. Despite what my family seems to think.” She took a long gulp of wine, then said, “Buy you a drink?”

He glanced at the counter where Rosie was refilling napkin holders and sending him looks definitely meant to kill. “I get the feeling the bar’s closed.”

“What’s your deal, Dern? Why are you chasing after me?” She pointed at him. “And don’t give me some garbage about how you just happened to see me leaving or anything like that. And I don’t really believe in guardian angels, so that won’t fly, either. Since I don’t remember hiring you as my bodyguard, there must be some other reason you keep following me.”

Rosie chose that moment to sidle over with a small plate of sliced cheese and three small packs of saltines. “Anything for you?” she said halfheartedly. “Bein’ as you’re a friend of Ava’s and all.”

“How about a beer?” When she lifted an eyebrow, he added, “Whatever you’ve got on tap.”

“That would be nothin’,” she said, lips pursing a bit.

“Then a Bud.”

“That we got.”

At the counter, George instructed his kid to zip up his jacket, then after snagging a couple of leftover fries from the boy’s plate, left some bills on the counter and lumbered outside.

Rosie closed the door behind them and locked the dead bolt.

“About as warm and fuzzy as a mad porcupine,” Dern observed.

Ava felt her lips twitch just as Rosie deposited the bottle of beer and a glass onto the table. “Anything to eat?” the waitress asked, almost as a dare.

“I’m good,” Dern said.

“Clyde’s closin’ the kitchen.” She gave Dern another once-over, then, with her rounded back as stiff as she could make it, turned and swept through a gate that separated the dining room from the cramped area behind the counter.

Ava agreed. “Not the cuddly type.”

Dern ignored the glass and took a long pull from his bottle. Ava watched him swallow, the movement of his Adam’s apple, then forced her gaze back to his eyes. He, of course, was watching her right back.

“So you didn’t answer my question. Why is it I feel that you’re following me? And don’t,” she said, holding up a finger, “even suggest that I’m being paranoid.”

Setting his bottle down, he shook his head. “Wasn’t going to. It’s true. I’ve kept an eye on you. But no, I’m not following you. I saw you jump into the bay, then I was missing a horse, and then I did see you leave for town. I was going to walk down myself, get some fresh air and a couple of things I need.”

“Huh.” She wasn’t buying it.

“Beer, toothpaste, and coffee.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Life’s essentials.”

“But instead of stopping at Frank’s, you showed up here.”

“I did see you come in.” He lifted a shoulder. “Thought we could talk without half a dozen of your relatives eavesdropping.”

“Is that what they do?” she asked, and a slow, crooked smile crept over his lips.

“Yes.”

She couldn’t deny it.

Leaning back in his chair, he nodded. “Not that it matters. Every family’s got its quirks.”

“What about yours?”

“You really want to know?” He seemed skeptical.

“Sure.”

Lifting a shoulder, he said, “It’s all split up. Folks divorced when I was around ten. Never saw my old man after I hit high school.”

“Siblings?”

“A sister in Baton Rouge, a brother who’s God knows where. We lost touch around fifteen years ago.” Dern’s eyes darkened a bit. “Not that we were that close anyway.”

“No cousins?”

“None that I ever knew. Guess I grew up a loner. Learned how to fend for myself.”

“So you’re . . . not married?”

He snorted as if the question landed somewhere between funny and ridiculous. “Not anymore.” Lips twisted a bit. “We were high school sweethearts, if that term’s still in use. It didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

“Too young, probably.” Again a shrug. “I was in the army, came back from a tour and was slapped with divorce papers. Decided not to fight it, as she’d already started living with someone else, and I went back to school.”

“No kids?”

He shook his head. “Probably a good thing in retrospect.”

“And then what? After college you became a ranch hand?”

Again, the flash of a self-deprecating grin. “Isn’t that the normal progression?” He finished his beer. “Just found out that I work better with animals than people. So, what about you?”

“You don’t know my life story?” She shook her head and finished her wine. “I thought it was all public information, common knowledge.”

“I’m not from these parts, remember?” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I worked for Rand Donnelly on a ranch outside of Bend, in Central Oregon. Grew up farther east, near Pendleton.” He reached for his wallet. “Didn’t you check my references?”

“I didn’t even know you were hired.”

“Seriously? I thought you were in charge.”

“Once upon a time, maybe.” When she picked up her purse and pulled out her billfold, he slapped a couple of bills onto the table. “I got it.”

“I said I’d buy you a drink.”

“Next time it’s definitely on you.” As she climbed to her feet, she saw him take notice of the rips in the knees of her jogging pants.

Before he posed a question, she said, “Let’s just say that on my way down here, I embraced my inner klutz.”

“You’re okay?”

Again that question. “A few scrapes, but I’ll survive,” she insisted.

He held the door for her and they walked outside. Her waterlogged flashlight wasn’t of any use, but Dern had an app on his iPhone that offered up enough illumination.

They trudged up the hill together, following the main road in silence. As they turned into the lane, Rover was waiting for them and tagged along after Dern as if he’d known the man all his life. Ava couldn’t help but ask herself why she felt more comfortable with this stranger. After all, Dern was a man she’d met only a few days earlier, yet she somehow thought she was more in touch with him than she was with her own husband.

A man you’d planned to divorce, remember? Before Noah had gone missing, they had been separated most of the time, the Christmas party planned as they tried to fend off what had seemed inevitable. Then, once their son had vanished, they’d clung to each other only to have the tattered fabric of their marriage unravel further. Through their grief and fear, there had been serious discussions about ending their marriage . . . or at least that’s the way she remembered things.

Now, hands deep in her pockets, her breath fogging in the cold air, she remembered her erotic dream in which Wyatt had morphed into Dern and she’d made love to him. Wildly. Without inhibition. Feeling his calloused hands slide over her buttocks and up her rib cage.

Or had it been Wyatt?

He left the rose for you, remember? Feeling the tiny prick on the edge of her finger with her thumb, she closed her mind to all the bizarre possibilities. She would never make sense of her dreams, and besides, she was being distracted.

From finding Noah.

She couldn’t let it happen, she determined as the wind blew off the sea and seemed to send an icy draft through her heart. Her single intent was to find her son. Period.