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Gathering Lies
Meg O'Brien
A GATHERING OF WOMEN…Six women have come to Thornberry, a small writers' colony on a tiny island off the coast of Seattle. They have come to work on their own writing at this secluded resort, but they have also come to hide, each harboring her own secret.A GATHERING OF DREAD…A devastating earthquake quickly shatters the haven these women have found. The resort is partly in ruin, communication has been cut off from the mainland, and the women are forced to rely on each other for basic survival. Then a man washes up on shore. Is he the salvation they've been looking for…or an even greater threat to their survival?A GATHERING OF LIES…Sarah Lansing, former Seattle public defender, remains suspicious of the man–someone from her past. And when another man arrives–this time a stranger–and one of the women dies in an apparent accident, Sarah suspects that they are stuck on the island with a murderer. But which man poses the greatest threat? And, most importantly, which of the remaining women hides a secret so devastating that it could put all their lives in danger?
The woman sat tied to an upright chair, her arms bound from elbow to shoulder. She no longer squirmed to get free. By now she knew that wouldn’t help.
“Don’t you understand?” the man said again as he paced before her. His tone was distraught, worried. “You’re never getting out of here if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”
“I’ll die first, you son of a bitch,” she managed through dry, cracked lips.
“It’s beginning to look like you just might,” he said.
But his voice shook. She knew he was close to breaking, too.
The woman bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her neck ached from holding it stiff with fear, and her eyes burned from the too-bright light she’d been under for more than seven hours. She didn’t know how much more she could take.
The man knelt in front of her and whispered in her ear, all the while stroking her knee softly, then her thigh, where a bruise darkened by the minute.
“I don’t want to have to hurt you, Angel. You’re a beautiful woman. Just tell me. I promise I’ll let you go.”
“You’ll let me go?” she whispered. “Really?”
“Yes,” he whispered, rubbing her thigh more seductively now. “I promise. I’ll let you go. Just tell me.”
In a flash, the woman jerked back her right foot, then swung it forward with incredible force. Her pointed, high-heel shoe connected with his groin.
“Go to hell!” she yelled, her face contorting. “Go to goddam hell!”
Also available from MIRA Books and MEG O’BRIEN
CRASHING DOWN
SACRED TRUST
Gathering Lies
Meg O’Brien
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
I would like to thank the following people, without whose help this book could never have been written:
My son, Greg, whose editorial skills are truly excellent, and who saved my neck during the infamous “end of the book” when nothing was making any sense.
All my children—Robin, Greg, Amy, Kevin and Kate—who put up with me when the muse takes over and I’m miserable to be around.
Cathy Landrum, who is not only an excellent research assistant, but who, along with her husband and very patient designated driver, Randy, is an adventurous traveling companion, as well.
Heather Iker, for being my expert legal reader and keeping me straight on the ins and outs of the justice system. Thanks for all the hours, Heather, and for being a great lawyer and friend.
Al Wilding, retired Seattle police officer, resident of the San Juan Islands and new friend. By some twist of fate I found him on the Net, just when I needed another expert reader. Many thanks, Al, for your advice and support throughout the past months, and to your beautiful wife, Lotte, who puts up with our constant e-mailing. Thanks, too, Lotte, for spreading the rumor around Shaw Island that Al and I were having an online affair. I can only imagine what that’s done for my reputation at Our Lady of the Rock Priory!
Rick Boucher, owner of San Juan Web Talk, the Web site about the San Juan Islands—which was where I “met” Al Wilding in the first place. Thanks, Rick. Your Web site is an invaluable source of information about the islands.
Last and certainly not least, Amy Moore-Benson and Dianne Moggy, my editors at MIRA, who keep me wanting to write even when I’m ready to hie me off to a nunnery and hoe beans for the rest of my life.
CONTENTS
Prologue (#u9f5d7c72-6b54-52b6-a57c-079031174ffe)
PART I: THE SETUP (#ucbcbad86-b2be-5951-8fed-99b1bc868bfd)
Chapter 1 (#u09192ac4-9962-5f77-951e-3f9f9e1474cf)
Chapter 2 (#u87f70407-223b-5038-b04c-bb7d7efb0db8)
PART II: THE PURSUIT (#u9593403b-c2b7-5b54-82c0-ef866562b9d7)
Chapter 3 (#u5aa1c3cf-9d9f-54c0-b289-023a7ad48851)
PART III: THE CRIME (#u07f9dd90-5092-5728-8691-4453564e4aa7)
Chapter 4 (#ub37ae517-f032-5fc4-bc66-9352263f2e23)
Chapter 5 (#udff300c2-5c1d-50fe-96f5-3ddc7f9963f7)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
PART IV: THE ARREST (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Addendum (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
ANGEL
April 7
The woman sat tied to an upright chair, her arms bound from elbow to shoulder. She no longer squirmed to get free. By now, she knew that wouldn’t help.
“Don’t you understand?” the man said again as he paced before her. His tone was distraught, worried. “You’re never getting out of here, if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”
“I’ll die first, you son of a bitch,” she managed through dry, cracked lips.
“It’s beginning to look like you just might,” he said.
But his voice shook. She knew he was close to breaking, too.
The woman bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her neck ached from holding it stiff with fear, and her eyes burned from the too-bright light she’d been under for more than seven hours. She didn’t know how much more she could take before the inevitable happened, before words poured forth despite her will, words she had vowed never to tell him, not in a million years.
“Get it over with,” she said dully, choking on a sob. “Please. Just do it now.” Her eyes were red and swollen with tears, her tone begging. “If we ever meant anything to each other…”
The man knelt in front of her and whispered in her ear, all the while stroking her knee softly, then her thigh, where a bruise darkened by the minute.
“I don’t want to have to hurt you, Angel. You’re a beautiful woman. Just tell me. I promise I’ll let you go.”
“You’ll let me go?” she whispered. “Really?”
“I told you I would,” he said softly. “You think I like this? God, I hate it! And it could all be over. You could be home, safe and sound. All you have to do is tell me.”
“You’ll let me go?” she said again, looking into his eyes, the eyes she once told him were more lovely than those of any man she’d ever known.
“Yes,” he whispered, rubbing her thigh more seductively now, letting his hand roam to the soft familiar flesh of the dark V, stroking her there as if she were a pet cat. A tingle ran through him as he realized she hadn’t worn panties. That’s how much she had trusted coming here this way.
“Yes,” he said huskily, “I promise. I’ll let you go. Just tell me.”
In a flash, the woman jerked back her right foot, then swung it forward with incredible force. Her pointed, high-heel shoe connected with his groin. The man screamed, falling back.
“Go to hell!” she yelled, her face contorting. “Go to goddamn hell!”
In an automatic response to the searing pain, the man leapt to his feet and swung at the woman with his fist. It connected with the side of her head, and the chair she was tied to wobbled. Teetering precariously, it fell back, striking the cast-iron, wood-burning stove. The woman’s head hit the sharp-edged corner of the stove with a resounding crack. Blood mushroomed from her scalp and her jaw went slack, her eyes staring. The man bent over her, still holding himself against the red-hot pain that seared through his groin.
“No!” he screamed. “Goddamn it, no!”
Kneeling again he quickly checked her pulse. It fluttered, then died. He put his ear to her mouth, but heard only the last sigh of a dying breath.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. “Oh, God, you can’t do this.”
He fancied the woman’s lips curved in a tired smile.
He sat for a long while on the floor beside her. “You were always so damn stubborn,” he said softly. “Why couldn’t you just have done things my way?”
He would miss her. But only a little. And now he would have to explain why he’d failed.
The man stood gingerly, still clutching himself. Light-headed, he stumbled to a telephone on the wall. Lifting the receiver, he punched in a number.
“She’s gone,” he said heavily, when a voice answered.
A small silence.
“No, I mean she’s gone. Dead.”
A tinny rumble of angry sound came through.
“No, she didn’t—Look, it wasn’t my—” He pressed his fist to his forehead. “Yes, I know. Yes. Right away.” He dropped the receiver back onto the hook.
“Damn you, Angel!” he cried, looking at the woman’s lifeless body. “All you had to do was tell me. I would have let you go.”
But he knew that wasn’t true. He would have had to kill her in the end.
And now he’d have to get to the other one. He’d have to make her give up the secret this woman had carried to her death.
If not, he’d be six feet under, along with this pile of useless flesh on his floor.
The pain in his groin ebbed, but not his anger. The man was less than gentle as he lifted the woman’s body and squeezed it into a steamer trunk he kept in the closet. She was too large for the trunk, and as he pushed and shoved he heard bones break.
The lock was flimsy and didn’t catch well. But that was all right. Where the trunk was going this time, it didn’t need a lock. He went to the kitchen and got a towel, which he drenched in cold water. This he used to wipe the blood from the braided rug, then from his hands.
Looking around the small cabin, he debated whether to take the trunk out and bury it now, or leave it here till his job was done. Hell, he might end up with a mass grave before this mess was over.
No, he’d better do it now. The place could be broken into while he was gone.
He dragged the trunk out onto the porch and glanced around for signs of anyone nearby. Even without looking, though, he knew he was alone. That’s one thing he liked about this place. It was a hideaway, for now. But in the future it could be a shelter where he could sit and think. He could picture himself a Thoreau—without, of course, the pond. It was here he might spend weekends and summer vacations, on this very porch, reading.
That is, if everything didn’t go all to hell.
He looked down at the trunk, a moment of sympathy for the woman filling him with guilt and remorse. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Neither was hers.
But it wasn’t his fault. If she’d told him everything right off, none of this would have happened.
