No Turning Back Read online

  Besides, she could follow up later.

  “Fine,” she uttered tersely.

  As they single-filed their way out of the woods, thoughts like guilty footsteps hurried through her skull. Someone should stay with the body, but that meant leaving Tawny because Liz was the only legal driver.

  The hell with that, Liz thought with sudden resentment that this was her problem. Let somebody else be a hero.

  * * *

  Hawk pushed a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. Weak sunlight filtered through deep, gray clouds and raindrops prismed into vibrant purple, orange, and red, then glittered from the drooping leaves of an oak that stood at the end of Anita Brindamoor’s ruler-straight concrete driveway. The series of gaping holes that flanked either side of the drive were silent testimony to the thievery she’d so adamantly insisted had happened. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to remove the trees. A lot of trouble. It had all the earmarks of a prank and yet they’d taken the whole lot of them.

  Yew trees? Hawk thought in disbelief.

  A dog was barking somewhere behind the house. Hawk hadn’t paid it a lot of attention, but now he walked along the edge of the concrete toward the noise, examining each rain-sogged hole as he passed by.

  A barn stood just past the house. Hawk could see inside the upper door, which was cracked open about three feet. It was on line with the second story of the house, just about the same distance the detached garage had been from Joey’s bedroom window.

  Joey . . . Dark, trusting eyes, scared but full of confidence that Hawk and his buddies would save the day. He’d been so young.

  A familiar dryness filled Hawk’s throat and mouth. Psychologists had faded in and out of his life offering all kinds of advice. It’s been less than two years, Mr. Hart . . . It takes a lot of time to get over this kind of trauma . . . You can’t shoulder all the blame . . . It’s not your fault . . . not your fault . . .

  Glancing down, Hawk was annoyed to find his hands were faintly trembling. He turned them over and looked at both the backs and palms, eyeing them like the traitorous strangers they were. Once, they’d been incredibly steady. So steady he’d sighted down a rifle barrel without so much as a lift in heartbeat. Detached. Just doing his job. Squeezing the trigger had been part of his daily routine, and he’d done it without so much as turning a hair.

  And Joey had died.

  The shaking in his hands was now matched by tremors in his thighs. Hawk stopped short, counting the painful beats of his heart. No detachment now, by golly. Every attack of conscience created physical fallout.

  Shit.

  “You need to see a good shrink,” Perry had told him . . . again.

  “I’m okay,” he’d growled automatically.

  “You’re about as far from okay as you can be, but don’t listen to me. Just go on being dark and morose and stupid.”

  Well, of course he hadn’t listened. Perry knew about as much about Hawk’s problems as he did about fine art, and considering he still had that picture of dogs playing poker and smoking cigars in his man cave, Hawk wasn’t inclined to listen.

  But that didn’t mean Hawk was unaware that something was wrong. Fussing and digging and generally chipping through layers of self-preservation to find his core just wasn’t the route he was willing to take. Time, that healer of all healers, was what he needed. Lots and lots of time. And work. The kind of work a man could immerse himself in with the passion and dedication of a lover.

  And that’s why he was checking out Anita Brindamoor’s missing yew trees.

  The good lady herself came out onto the porch, eyeing him with distrust and displeasure. A spark of recognition filled her eyes, but even that didn’t loosen the clench of mouth muscles too long used to tightening a death grip alongside her mouth.

  “So?” she demanded, her spine as straight as an iron rod.

  “I don’t believe it was a prank.” Hawk stood, feet apart, waiting for the blast he knew was coming.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Protecting your own, huh?” she charged. “I saw the resemblance, don’t think I didn’t! That hooligan of yours deserves some time behind bars, don’t you know! Too soft, today’s youth. Too much time smoking that marijuana.”

  She pronounced every syllable so it sounded like mary-ju-anna. Irked, Hawk reminded himself that a verbal skirmish with Mrs. Brindamoor was a complete waste of time.

  “This theft is specific to your yew trees. It’s systematic and complete. No vandalism. Nothing else taken. Just a collection of trees.”

  “I’m missing a gun, too.”

  Hawk’s ears pricked up. “What kind of gun?”

  “My husband’s hunting rifle.”

  This sounded more in the realm Hawk was used to dealing with, but somehow it didn’t jibe with the yew trees. “Show me where it was kept.”

  This proved to throw Anita Brindamoor off. She waffled and hesitated and wasted time, until Hawk, whose patience had never been his strong suit, finally suggested, “Could you have misplaced it?”

  Twin spots of color heightened her lined cheeks. “I don’t misplace anything!” she declared, finally admitting him into her house.

  The gun closet was made of oak with a glass front, rather crudely but beautifully hand-hewn. Though he could see through the glass, she opened the door and pointedly showed him how empty it was, apart from a few leftover cartridges on an upper shelf.

  “Was it only one gun?” Hawk asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I look around the house?”

  “Why?” she asked cagily.

  “Shouldn’t we make certain nothing else has been taken?”

  “Everything else is here.”

  “So, the thief stole your yew trees and a rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  “You noticed the rifle was missing at the same time the trees disappeared.”

  “I noticed the rifle was missing.”

  Hawk studied her. Her chin was inched up belligerently. He would have bet his life savings she’d just thrown the missing rifle in for good measure, hoping more suspicion would land on Jesse and Brad because gun theft was more in keeping with a youth crime. She wanted it to be the boys. She wanted to be right.

  “Does anyone have a grudge against you? A disgruntled neighbor or . . . anyone?”

  “What are you implying?” Her back drew even straighter, if that were possible.

  “I’m interested in finding the perpetrator.”

  “I’m going to ask that someone else be assigned to this case!” she practically yelled. “You’re incompetent . . . and biased!”

  “That’s certainly your prerogative, ma’am.”

  His complacency sent her blood pressure skyward. “You’re a disgrace!”

  For the first time in weeks, Hawk felt like grinning. His mouth twitched, which only added to her fury. She looked about to explode, so Hawk merely nodded at her and headed outside, forestalling what looked to be a hurricane of rage. He was met by the barks of the still wildly frenetic dog, detained somewhere outside his vision.

  Hawk stopped short. “The dog didn’t hear the thieves?” he asked as Anita Brindamoor was at his heels.

  “What?”

  “Was the dog barking two nights ago, when this happened?”

  She blinked several times. “I—um—I didn’t hear Hugo.”

  “Does Hugo always announce strangers?”

  She was silent, cagey, worried somehow that this bit of information might spoil her theory. A line drew between her brows. “He wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “Kind of sluggish and tired.”

  “Was that the day of the theft or the day after?”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  Yes, she was. She was entirely sure. And he’d bet money it was the day after. Someone had drugged Hugo, and that someone had had to sneak around the back of the house and deliver the dog some kind of doctored tidbit—probably hamburger with a dose of doggy tranquilizer in
side. Then they’d ripped out the trees while Hugo was sleeping, and Hugo had spent the following day recovering, sluggish and tired. Whoever had taken the trees had been, as Hawk had said, yew tree specific. No prank. Someone had wanted those trees.

  And Anita Brindamoor was damn lucky whoever it was hadn’t decided to just poison her beloved Hugo and be done with it.

  But telling her his theories would only irritate her because she’d already made up her mind about Jesse and Brad. “I’ll tell Perry Dortner you want someone else on the case,” was his bland response.

  “Now, don’t go getting your nose all out of joint,” she called after him.

  Hawk left without another comment, though several formed inside his head.

  * * *

  It went against every responsible fiber of her being, but Liz’s own cowardice helped her drop Jesse and Brad in front of the police station without going in herself. The reason was one Hawthorne Hart. Past lover. Handsome male. Father of her child. She just couldn’t face him yet. And when she finally could and demanded to see their son, she wanted Hawthorne’s full attention. This unfortunate incident wasn’t the introduction for that. Yet she did feel like she was abandoning her duty here somewhat.

  “I want a full accounting of this report,” she warned Brad, pointing at him as he unfolded his long legs from the cramped back of the Miata.

  He nodded. “We’ll come see you right after.”

  Liz wasn’t entirely certain her home was the proper venue for a psychologist and one of her young charges, but Tawny’s bright, “I’ll be there,” cinched the deal before she could protest. Besides, she consoled herself, so far everything had been handled properly, hadn’t it?

  Oh yeah? And what about that body out by the river?

  The image returned. His fixed eyes and bullet-riddled body were enough to give her the heebie-jeebies all right. Who was he, and why had someone felt compelled to gun him down?

  Tawny, hunched in the seat beside her, said suddenly, “Can I stay with you tonight, Aunt Liz?”

  Liz smiled at the endearment. She wasn’t Tawny’s aunt and she couldn’t recall the last time Tawny had addressed her as such. It was another measure of how upset she was. “Sure thing, sweetie. But what about your mom?”

  “I’ll call her.”

  Liz wondered if Kristy should really be left alone, even if she did agree to let her daughter spend the night with Liz. But Tawny’s reasons were easy to read: She was as disturbed and scared as Liz. Maybe more so. Liz could easily remember what it was like to be a teenager and she ached inside at all the emotional hurdles awaiting the impressionable girl beside her.

  “Maybe your mom’ll come over, too,” Liz suggested without much real hope.

  “Maybe,” Tawny murmured and they headed to Liz’s cottage.

  * * *

  Brad and Jesse appeared at dinnertime and Liz shepherded them in from the rain and fed them leftover pizza—Tawny’s choice—while she waited for them to tell their tale. Tawny had been allowed to stay over, but it was because Kristy just wanted to be alone. It bothered Liz vaguely, but because there was no changing Kristy’s mind, she let things stand as they were.

  “We told Chief Dortner all about it,” Brad revealed, looking to Jesse for corroboration. Jesse sat in a chair not far from Tawny, seeming more attuned to her than anything Brad had to say.

  “What did you tell him?” Liz asked, relieved to hear Hawthorne wasn’t around or involved in this case yet.

  “That we found this dead guy in the woods by Hummingbird River.”

  “Did he ask you to show him where?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Why not?” This was sounding fishy.

  “He said he’d go look later.”

  “As soon as another officer returned,” Jesse chimed in unexpectedly, glancing at Brad. He turned his blue eyes on Liz. “I don’t think he believed us.”

  “I knew it! I should have gone in with you.”

  “They’ll go look together. It’s okay.” Jesse shrugged.

  “I don’t like the idea of that body spending the night outside when I know about it.”

  “You’re not going back there!” Tawny cried in alarm.

  Liz had no intention of returning to the scene of the crime, but she was nettled—mostly at herself—for letting cowardice rule common sense. She should have gone in the station with the boys and insisted this was a real matter deserving immediate attention. “No, I’m not going back there,” she assured Tawny. With the oak limbs dancing in the wind, rain splattering in rushing waves, and the sky black as pitch, Liz had no desire to trek through dark woods to rediscover a dead body.

  “Maybe I should call the station,” she said, thinking aloud, “and explain that I was with you.”

  “No!” Jesse leaped lithely to his feet. “God, it pisses me off that no one listens to us. Like we’re morons or something!”

  Brad gazed anxiously at Liz, expecting her to chastise him for his language. Before she could decide what to do, Jesse was at the door. “I’m leaving,” he told Brad, slamming through the door.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll find the body,” Brad told Liz, following in Jesse’s wake.

  “Will they?” She met his troubled gaze.

  “We did tell them. They’ll go tonight.”

  Liz’s, “Do you need a ride?” was lost in the bang of the door and the snatching fingers of the wind. Tawny, who’d climbed to her feet, sidled over to Liz, and they both stood silently at the window, watching the blackness outside as if there were ghosts lingering in the shadows.

  Picking up the receiver, Liz placed a call to the station and asked for the chief of police. She learned Chief Perry Dortner was out on a case at the moment, which relieved Liz of the burden of retelling the saga of the bullet-riddled body in the woods. She hung up with a few vague words about calling back later, then turned to Tawny.

  “Let’s make coffee,” she suggested, and by mutual consent neither one of them brought up Brad, Jesse, or the dead body again.

  Chapter Five

  Late in the evening, with Tawny snuggled asleep on the couch beneath Liz’s afghan, Liz stood by the fireplace and gazed into stacked oak chunks, ready for an unseasonably cool July night. Touching a flame to the wood, she inhaled deeply of the burning scent, cognizant of time passing and her own paralysis when it came to her life.

  She was disturbed by the male body lying lost in the leaves. Disturbed in the normal sense that a person felt when suddenly faced with the enormity of death. But she was disturbed by her own reluctance as well. It was like a kind of death, this tick, tick, tick of daily life that seemed to lead endlessly onward with no tangible end. She’d taken the first step, however; she’d moved to Woodside. But her feet were in concrete when it came to proceeding further. She knew Hawthorne worked at the police station. She’d had the opportunity today to walk in and see him—and she’d purposely squandered it.

  She was way too cautious now. Once, she’d been headstrong and spontaneous, rushing pell-mell toward life, but she’d been burned.

  Still . . . if she had to do it over again . . .

  Liz paced the room, easing tension from her shoulders every few steps, closing her eyes and inhaling the fragrant, smoky scent of burning wood as the fire took hold. Though it wasn’t cold, she hugged herself closely. Memories did that to her. Memories of a time that had altered the course of her life.

  She’d been seventeen and full of vinegar when she met Hawthorne Hart. He was older, how much she hadn’t been quite certain at the time, but it hadn’t mattered. She herself looked and acted twenty and considered it quite a coup that he believed that to be her age without question. It was only later, when she looked back with the hindsight of misery, that she realized he’d been so immersed in his own pain that he’d been incapable of understanding she might actually have tricked him.

  She’d just broken up with her boyfriend and she was restless. Not that Rich hadn’t been cool. He was coolness personified.
And she’d been lucky to have him, especially with him being voted the hottest senior guy. In fact, all the girls had wanted Rich. He was a football star with college aspirations. Cute, too, with a lock of hair forever falling over his forehead and a slow grin that brought girls to their knees.

  Liz was the envy of all her friends and she’d milked it for all it was worth. It was a great self-esteem builder, especially because she’d been so paranoid and knock-kneed as a freshman. She would look in the mirror, smile at her reflection, and think, I’ve got Rich. He’s mine. All mine . . .

  There was only one problem: Rich was an intellectual zero. That didn’t actually bother Liz that much. She wasn’t looking for meaningful philosophical discussions over a greasy basket of fries. But sometimes she looked at his twenty-two-inch neck and wondered if having Rich was really all it was cracked up to be.

  Still, it was a life. A life better than what waited for her at home. There she was treated in the same way the Havers’ expensive champion-pedigreed golden retriever was: all for show and good manners. Any love doled out was earned by way of achievements: straight As; part of the varsity volleyball team; homecoming princess, etc. As Liz matured from a gawky freshman to a young lady, she was fairly adept at achieving these honors. Unfortunately, she began believing a bit of her own press, and it didn’t do a damn thing for the fulfillment she so sorely longed for: unconditional love. Her parents just weren’t great at providing for that need, something she understood and accepted now but had ached over during her teen years.

  So, it was prom time. Just weeks before her eighteenth birthday. Rich had asked and Liz had dutifully accepted, but as the date neared, she was itching to be free. Every other girl might want Rich, but his fumbling attempts at “turning her on” had worn thin, and Liz, feeling unsettled and claustrophobic, spent most of that special day simply watching the hours pass with lukewarm enthusiasm.

  Prom itself was as she’d expected. She would dance with Rich for all the slow songs and be subjected to hot breath and sweaty palms, then she would wait out the fast songs while her friends with less “cool” dates, but who obviously possessed more rhythm, danced around to cheerful laughter and shouts of glee. Rich couldn’t bear to unbend for the festivities, so when it was time to go home, Liz was definitely ready to leave.