In the Waning Light Page 8

  Irene frowned, her eyes going distant. Then her face lit up suddenly. “Ah, yes. Chained. Because of the vandals. There was graffiti. You’re not going to sell it, are you?”

  “Well, I am thinking of listing it—”

  “Maybe you could move back in, Meg? I could come and stay.”

  “I … how about we talk about all that later.” She hesitated. “I’m going to be in town for a while—we’ll have plenty of time.”

  “You stopped visiting your dad, too. You never visited him in prison. You hurt your father, you know that?”

  Shock rippled through Meg, and defensive walls slammed instantly up.

  Well, he hurt me. He hurt all of us. He killed Mom.

  “I did visit him.”

  “You …” Her brow furrowed, and she started scratching at her sleeve again. “You stopped going. That’s it. Now I remember. I know it’s a long drive from Seattle to Salem, but not once in the last five years did you see your father. He died without seeing you again, Meggie.”

  “I stopped going because he refused to see me the last two times that I did drive all the way out there. If I’d known he was sick—if someone had told me …”

  Irene started to scratch her sleeve aggressively. A nervous tic, Meg noted, when her aunt was having trouble recalling something.

  “That’s right,” Irene said. “Yes. Of course. He refused to let me tell you that he was ill. He wanted you to get on with your life, Meggie. That’s why. He said the punishment should be his alone to bear, that you should not have to spend your life driving for miles upon miles to visit him in prison. You needed to move on.”

  A sharp surge of emotion rose up the back of her nose, catching Meg by surprise. Wind gusted outside and dry vine leaves ticked against the window. “I wish I had known,” she said softly, holding Irene’s eyes, once so dark, and bright, like her dad’s. “I’m sorry.”

  “You were always our little Meggie. We only wanted the best for you.”

  Shit. This was sucking her back too deep.

  “How is that man of yours?” Irene said, glancing at Meg’s large engagement ring. “What was his name again?”

  “Jonah. He’s fine.” Meg slapped her knees. “So! How about it—want to help me with the house? I’ll need the keys for the padlock on the gate, and for the house, so I can get in, take a look-see what needs to be done. Then we can make a time for you to come out. Maybe we can go into town for lunch some day, tea? Shopping?”

  Irene’s face crumpled into a smile and her eyes gleamed with moisture. “I’d like that. I’ve got the keys somewhere in my dresser drawer.” She got up, shuffled over to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and started rummaging around. Meg noticed a copy of her new hardcover atop the dresser. It was bookmarked and lying beside a silver-framed photo of her family taken a month before Sherry’s murder. She got to her feet, picked up the frame. Complex emotions corded her stomach. She really did look like her mother. In this photo Tara Brogan was not much older than Meg was now. It brought the memory of her mother suddenly closer. It painted a new perspective around their family tragedy, and it made Meg wonder how she herself would have handled her own daughter’s violent death, her husband going to prison for murdering the assailant in a vigilante rage. She sure as hell wouldn’t have killed herself, leaving her youngest child an orphan, that’s for sure. Meg set the frame down firmly, an old bitterness resurfacing at the back of her tongue.

  Irene set a small, padded box on the dresser. “The keys should all be in here,” she said, lifting the lid. “Ah, here they are.” She handed Meg a fob with several keys attached. “I should also give you Tara’s boxes, all her files.”

  Meg looked up from the keys. “What?”

  Irene’s mouth pulled to the side. She scratched hard at her arm. “It’s all in the boxes, you know. What your mother was working on. I must let you have it all now. Maybe you can make sense of it all.”

  “What boxes? What are you talking about?”

  She hurried over to her closet and yanked open the doors. “Up there, Meg. Top shelf. Two of them. Get them down, will you?”

  Meg stared at her aunt. “What’s in them?”

  Frustration bit suddenly at Irene. “After the fire. I’m so sorry about the house fire, about leaving the candles burning like that. It’s why I decided to come here, to the facility. I was worried it could happen again. Or worse.”

  “I know, I know. Go on.”

  Irene’s hand moved rapid-fire along her sleeve, two hot spots forming high along her cheekbones. Meg placed her hand gently over her aunt’s agitated one. “Tell me, Irene.”

  “The fire and water damage—we had to get in contractors to fix up the kitchen. Tommy’s company came and did it. He did it for nothing, you know. There was that dividing wall between the kitchen and the living room, remember, the one with the bookshelves, where Sherry used to keep her goldfish?”

  Don’t be stupid, Meggie. They live in a perfect world. There are no predators in their water, like the poor wild fish have to deal with in the sea …

  “I remember.”

  “Well, when they came to hack that drywall out, they removed the damaged books from the shelf and found there was a large fire safe at the back of one of the shelves. It had been hidden by those books, which I’d never moved. That was where your mother kept the file boxes, and her journal.”

  Meg felt blood rush from her head. Her breathing slowed.

  “Journal?”

  “Get it all down, will you?”

  She did. Two file boxes. Dust layered the lids. Meg set them on the bed, opened them. Inside were folders, envelopes stuffed with papers, photographs, a leather-bound journal. Meg lifted out the top folder, flipped it open. Ice slid down her spine. She shot a glance at her aunt. “It’s a transcript,” Meg said. “Of the sheriff’s interview with Tyson Mack.”

  Irene nodded.

  Quickly, Meg flipped through more of the folders, her hands beginning to tremble. “Sherry’s autopsy report,” she whispered. “And a diary.” Meg opened the first page of the leather-bound book. Her mother’s handwriting filled the pages.

  I visited with Lee Albies this evening, Ty Mack’s defense counsel. We spoke well into the night. She’s a remarkable woman. Believed passionately in her client. A startling defense she’d been mounting. She gave me copies of everything, and the more I read, the more I believe there was no doubt a jury would have acquitted Ty, at least on grounds of reasonable doubt …

  Meg’s knees buckled, and she sat slowly on the bed. “Who … what does this all mean?”

  “Your mother didn’t believe it was your dad’s fault, killing Tyson Mack. So, she started gathering all the information she could—”

  “But Dad confessed. There was irrefutable evidence. He planned it. He did it. He killed Ty Mack in cold blood. Hunted him down in those woods. Shot him to death and beat his body to a pulp with bare fists, kicked in his ribs and face.”

  “Tara believed he was set up.”

  Meg stared, uncomprehending.

  Irene seated herself on the chair. “My brother, Jack, he was a good man, Meggie, deep inside. A good, God-fearing man—”

  “Yes, who literally believed in an eye for an eye, and had a problem bottling his rage if he touched booze, we know that.”

  “He was a man broken by the defilement of his baby girl, and there were people who knew why Jack didn’t touch alcohol, knew that he was prone to hot passion. That he was capable of violence under the influence … they knew why he’d been forced to leave the Portland police before coming here, and starting afresh …” Her voice faded and her eyes went distant for a moment.

  “Why, exactly, did my dad leave the Portland force?”

  “Oh, Meggie, he’d gotten all heated up and physical while interrogating suspects on more than one occasion.”

  “What?”

  “He was asked to leave, before things got public. Tara was convinced that someone who knew all about your father’s past
told him where to find Ty Mack that day. They said something to Jack that heated his blood—maybe they told him Ty Mack would walk free if he was charged, and it riled Jack enough to turn him to the bottle and make him buy those bullets.”

  Meg’s heart thumped soft and fast against her ribs. Her mind reeled, things that had always puzzled her about her father’s past slowly slotting into place.

  “Who?” Meg said. “Who all in Shelter Bay knew this stuff about Dad?”

  “It’s all in there. In Tara’s notes,” Irene said. “I never knew about her journal, or those files. I had no idea what she was doing before she died … until the fire, until we found the safe.” She rubbed her brow. “I never knew.”

  “You read her journal, you read all this and never called to tell me?”

  “I didn’t know what to believe, Meg. I can’t even be certain that your mother was well in the head when she wrote that diary. And you’d put the past behind you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Blake dropped the orange sack full of squirming crab into the boiler. Steam roiled up into the cool winter air. Rain pecked outside the deck cover and pocked the waters of the bay. He set the timer. Frank and Harry were enjoying a lunchtime beer under the awning on the deck of Crabby Jack’s. The gas fire pit sent flames spitting into the drizzle. A second table housed two intrepid Asian tourists who’d netted a good catch as well, and had opted to have Blake cook the crabs up, and show them how to clean the crustaceans.

  He checked his timer, glanced at his watch. Noah would be home any moment.

  While he waited for the crab to cook, he dialed his brother on his cell. A male voice answered.

  “Geoff?” Blake said.

  “It’s Nate. Hang on—I’ll get Geoff. He’s in his studio.”

  Gulls screeched. Crows beaded the line up near the highway, watching for bits of discarded crab guts.

  “Hey, bro, what’s up?” came Geoff’s voice. “Haven’t heard from you in years.” Then, a shift in tone, a deepening wariness. “Everything okay? Noah all right?”

  The buzzer sounded and Blake pulled the net from the boiling water with his gloved hand. Steam clouded the air under the awning. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the yellow of the school bus through the berry scrub up on the coast road. Emotions churned through him. He and his brother used to get off that bus daily. He hadn’t spoken to Geoff in … how long now? Probably not since Geoff had returned for their father’s funeral two and a half years ago. Theirs were not just philosophical differences, but lifestyle choices. His brother had quit Shelter Bay and the marina for the warmer climes of SoCal the month after Sherry’s murder. He’d gone to study art and classics, leaving Blake to man the marina with their dad. The unease between all three of them was rooted in complex places.

  “Meg Brogan is back in town,” Blake said. “She’s doing a book on the Sherry Brogan murder.”

  Silence hung for several beats.

  “What’re you saying?”

  Blake waved to Noah, who appeared at the top of the driveway. Noah didn’t return the salute. He scuffed his way down the drive. Damn. Something had happened again at school.

  “She’s going to be interviewing everyone, and she’ll probably call you, too. Just a heads-up.”

  Another beat of silence. Blake carried the cooked crab over to the stainless steel cleaning station, phone pressed to his ear. Gray coastal drizzle kissed his skin.

  “Listen, what happened on the spit that—”

  “I won’t lie to her, Geoff. Not by omission. Not this time. Not after—”

  “You didn’t lie. There was nothing to tell. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.”

  “I know you were on the south beach, at the point that afternoon. I found the sack you dropped with your beachcombing shit. What happened? Why’d you leave your bag?”

  “Fuck it, Blake … why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie? There’s no point in dredging up anything else. It’s not relevant, okay? Especially after all these years. We know who did the crime. And he paid for it one way or another.”

  “Or another.”

  “What, exactly, are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying that this might not be over. I’m saying Meg thinks she might be starting to remember something about the attack.”

  Silence.

  A sick weight pressed into Blake’s stomach. He waved the two Asian men to come over to the cleaning station, and said quietly, “Ty Mack was no hero, but the more I think about it now, the more I wonder if there was something else going on that day.”

  Geoff swore. “Mack was a sexual bully. When a woman turned him down, he went apeshit. That’s what happened with Sherry. She went with him to the spit. He made an advance. She said no, and he cracked.”

  “He never did get a chance to stand trial. He maintained he left Sherry safe.”

  “His goddamn DNA, semen, his skin under her nails, his hair, witnesses—all the evidence was there. The only reason he wasn’t charged and tried is because Jack Brogan didn’t give Kovacs time to cross all his Ts and properly arrest him.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what you saw out on the spit that day?”

  “Because I didn’t see a goddamn thing. I was messed up over Dad, that’s all.”

  Noah reached the parking lot and crossed over toward the office door.

  “Noah!”

  He didn’t look up. He shoved through the office door. It swung shut behind him. Blake cursed softly. The Asian men reached the cleaning station, all smiles, ready to learn how to dismember and disembowel their crab.

  “I got to go,” Blake said. “Just wanted to let you know that if she asks, I’m not holding anything back. I’ll tell her you were there that day.” He hung up, and tipped the cooked crab out of the bag. Keeping an eye on the window for Noah, worry rising inside him, he showed his guests how to peel and split the pinked, male Dungeness crab and use the hosepipe attached to the station to wash out the yellow and black innards, sluicing the gunk down the hole that led into a basin he’d dump later. Gulls whorled and wheeled and screamed above.

  He rubbed his brow with the back of his rubber glove as the guys got started. The choices we make, the secrets we keep for those we love, the ripple effect down the years, the prices we pay …

  He glanced out over the bay. Rain was coming down harder. The tide was rising. Nothing could hold back time or tide, or weather, or what was going to come out of this now …

  Meg drew into the driveway of the home in which she’d grown up, and turned off the ignition. Mist fingered out from the woods and closed around the house.

  It looked worse in full daylight. Spooky, with shattered windows boarded up, overgrown with weeds. Obscene graffiti. Dirt patches had commandeered the lawn that was once lush and green, her dad’s pride. The birdbath listed to its side, brown with dead moss. Trees hemmed close to the house, branches brushing eaves and broken gutters as if the forest was coming down from the mountain to reclaim and consume the place. The old chestnut she once used to shimmy down from her bedroom window was now a brooding monster. She wondered if the remains of her tree house were still out back, overlooking the patio where her dad had been barbecuing that afternoon, waiting for her and Sherry to come home.

  Anxiety trickled through her. She pulled up her rain hood, opened the truck door, and jumped down. Slowly, she approached the chained gate, keys in hand.

  Looks like shit, huh, Meg? Remember that day? When you saw Ty pick me up …

  She stilled. Trees rustled in a gust of wind. It was as if they were whispering at her with the sound of Sherry’s voice. Meg glanced around, mouth going dry.

  Sherry? Are you here? Are you going to speak to me, finally, after all these years?

  Another gust, and trees bowed and swished. Bits of debris bombed down. Mist swirled around the house. A chill trickled down Meg’s spine. She told herself this was ridiculous. She bent down and grasped the padlock firmly. It was cold, wet in her hand. She inserted the key,
turned. Nothing. She jiggled it, tried again. It remained unyielding, encrusted with rust. She cursed and tried several other keys just to be sure she had the right one. Nothing worked. Rain beat down harder. She rammed the first key in again, frustration thrumming through her as she wrenched it. Nothing. Did she have some oil in her truck? She glanced up, then her heart kicked as a sheriff’s cruiser slowed in front of her house, tires crackling on the wet street. The window rolled down.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Meg Brogan, our local resident done good, how in the hell are you, girl?”

  She pushed damp hair back off her face, came forward to better see inside the cruiser.

  “Dave, is that you?”

  The door swung open. The deputy stepped out, unfolding to his full and impressive height in his tan uniform. He positioned his sheriff’s Stetson against the rain, and a smile cut into his face. It lit his warm brown eyes. Dave Kovacs was a massive echo of his father, Ike—sans the handlebar mustache. It was like staring at someone who’d stepped straight through a hole in time. Meg couldn’t help but return his smile with a genuine rush of pleasure and a sense of relief just to have company right now.

  “I could have sworn you were your dad for a moment. How are you? They haven’t made you county sheriff yet?”

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she caught a whiff of Old Spice. An old-fashioned, conservative kinda guy—he even smelled like his dad.

  “All the better for seeing you, Megan.” His thumbs hooked into his duty belt and his attention went to the graffiti-covered house. “Nope, not yet. Just the chief deputy. But I’ve put my hat into the ring this time around.”

  “Good for you. So … you were just driving by? Or did you come to give me a warning about the eyesore here?” She jerked her head toward the house.

  He smiled. “Yeah. It’s a problem all round, vandals. Getting more and more of this with the vacant holiday homes, down on the beach especially. I heard you were back. Thought I’d come by.”