One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (16)

Chapter 16

The Lamplighter Inn was a relic from the sixties with a faintly Victorian façade that couldn’t disguise the fact that it was a beige, two-level motor court surrounded by an asphalt parking lot with painted lines and numbers designating the rooms. A couple of fake gaslights flanked a gingerbread peak with peeling paint, hence the name, but a flashing VACANCY sign in the front window, with an arrow that pointed to the manager’s office, killed any chance of one’s feeling thrown back to a time of horse-drawn carriages and footmen.

Rory shouldered her way through a smudged glass door to the small lobby. At a battle-scarred reception desk she spoke to a balding man with bags under his eyes and explained that she wanted to pay in cash. She half expected him to deny her and demand a credit card, but it wasn’t that kind of place, apparently. He took the money for the room and a twenty-dollar security deposit in case “you break something or something.”

Ten minutes later she moved her car and parked in her designated spot. It was late afternoon and the sun was slanting down, gilding the fluttering leaves on the maple tree at the edge of the motel’s parking lot. As she climbed out of the car, a soft breeze lifted Rory’s hair off her neck and she breathed deeply before hauling her overnight bag from the back seat. A shiver ran up her back and she straightened quickly, feeling the hairs rise on her nape as she glanced around. That same old sense of being followed had caught her up. Her gaze darted from one shadowed corner to another, her pulse racing.

No one.

She told herself she was being ridiculous, and yet . . .

It felt like certain unseen eyes were following her every movement. She hurried up the stairs as fast as she dared, banging the bag into the rail several times as she headed to the second level, but she made it inside her room without incident. At the door to her room, she glanced down at the parking lot, thought she saw someone moving in the shrubbery surrounding the asphalt, but decided the shifting of the shadows was just a stray dog settling into a shady spot.

Nothing sinister.

She let herself inside the airless “suite,” dropped her bag on the end of the bed, threw the lock, then made sure the curtains were tightly closed. She took a few steps back from the window and door and waited, pulse pounding, expecting . . . something.

Every nerve in her body was stretched thin.

She heard footsteps outside her doorway, but they didn’t pause, and faded.

Then nothing.

God, how paranoid was she?

Still she waited.

Seconds ticked by. From outside she heard a car engine turn over and the dog bark twice, then nothing.

She exhaled heavily and sank down on the bed. Was she imagining that someone was following her? Could it be Everett? Could it? Derek was blaming him for the sabotage at one of the Bastian-Flavel Construction work sites, even though there was no evidence that her stepbrother was now in Portland. This morning a dead woman had been discovered on that same site, and Derek seemed to believe Everett was involved in, if not completely responsible for, her demise as well. Liam seemed to disregard Derek’s assertions, but then he’d been focused on his daughter and Rory and the past. Her mother had said Everett had turned over a new leaf, was married now, and that Rory’s aversion to him was old information. Maybe Derek was doing the same, blaming Everett because he was a convenient bogeyman from long before. Maybe Everett hadn’t been following her in Point Roberts. Maybe it was all in her imagination.

Maybe...

And Liam . . . She cringed, recalling how cold he’d been. She was pretty certain he wouldn’t be able to forgive her, but then she wasn’t asking for his forgiveness. She just wanted Charlotte. Unfortunately, now he might want his child as well.

She glanced at her overnight bag, feeling weariness overtake her. The long drive from Canada, the nearly sleepless nights at the hospital, and the worry over Charlotte had caught up with her. She could fall asleep on her feet.

Unfortunately there was much more to do. Picking up her bag again, she hauled it with her to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Stripping off her clothes, she waited for the shower spray to heat, then stepped under the rush of water, feeling vulnerable.

Leaning against the tiles, she closed her eyes and forced herself to relax, to rotate her neck, to stretch her muscles as the warm water washed the grime and worry from her bones. Just a few minutes of soothing water. For just a little while.

Fifteen minutes later, she slowly lifted her bent head, turning her face to the spray of water, letting it run down over her eyes, nose, mouth, and down her chin. She just wanted to collapse in a heap, but she couldn’t. She needed to return to Charlotte. She didn’t trust the Bastians, any one of whom could head back to the hospital without her knowing it. She knew she could call Darlene back, but that came with its own problems. Her mother wanted her to throw in with the Bastians, accept their money, and though there was a temptation to do just that, it was too emotionally risky.

Rory finally twisted off the taps but didn’t move from the shower. The motel’s plumbing was noisy and temperamental, but she still just wanted to stay here. She felt almost frozen, zapped of strength. The idea of crawling between the sheets naked was so tempting that she almost did it. Almost.

Instead she resolutely toweled off and put on a clean pair of jeans and a light blue shirt. She then brushed the tangle of her hair, trying to tame the damp, unruly curls. When she gave up, she gazed at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, drew a breath, then headed back to the bedroom, picked up her cell, and saw that Connie had texted: OK?

“No—no, nothing’s okay.” But she couldn’t say that; didn’t want to go into lengthy explanations. She didn’t want Connie to worry, and the last Connie knew, Liam was chasing after her and . . . someone was following him. Who was that? Everett? Someone else? Or was the car just a figment of Connie’s overactive imagination? Rory didn’t know, nor could she worry about it now.

She checked the time. Almost five o’clock.

She wrote Connie back, lying with each keystroke.

Sure? When? That nagging voice in her head kept gnawing at her. When are you going to call Connie and talk to her?

“Who knows?” She let out a sigh, hesitated for a moment, wavering about what she was about to do. In the end she checked the time and switched on the television, bracing herself for the local news. A daytime drama was just wrapping up. On the bubble-faced screen, a well-dressed woman dripping in jewels unexpectedly came upon another couple who were embracing. The woman stopped short and gasped in dismay. Shocked stares all around.

Rory thought her own face might have looked just as shocked as the woman’s on the screen when she’d first encountered Liam again.

If she’d thought seeing him again would chase him from her mind, if what she’d thought of as lingering curiosity about him would have been satisfied, she’d been wrong. Dead wrong. Kidding herself. Because, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she knew now that she’d never gotten over him, at least not completely.

“Perfect,” she snarked at herself as she switched stations to Channel 7 and the news. She figured she might as well find out why they’d been at the hospital. The cheery cohosts, male and female anchors, said a few remarks and then went straight to their reporter, the woman Rory had seen outside the hospital: Pauline Kirby.

“We are at Laurelton General Hospital where we may finally learn what happened to Liam Bastian’s runaway bride, Aurora Abernathy Bastian, who has been missing for five years. You may remember five years ago when a gunman opened fire on a Seattle open-air wedding, killing Ms. Bastian’s stepbrother, Aaron Stemple. The bride, Ms. Bastian, who’d married Liam Bastian in a civil ceremony earlier that year, disappeared before her walk down the aisle that fateful day. Ms. Bastian never resurfaced throughout the police investigation that followed. Former Seattle PD Detective Roger Mickelson was convinced the shooter was one Peter DeGrere, who, after serving time for an unrelated crime, was recently released from prison and, just this week, on his first day out, was brutally murdered behind the Nile, a Seattle area nightclub. That homicide was two days ago, and now Ms. Bastian has suddenly appeared here in Portland, in Liam Bastian’s backyard with a child in tow, a little girl who’s being treated at this hospital.”

“Oh . . . no,” Rory moaned.

Pauline went on. “Before we could interview Ms. Bastian, she ran away from our cameras . . .”

Ran away? Rory drew a sharp breath when the camera moved off Pauline to close in on Rory standing in front of the doors of the hospital, her face drawn and white, her clothes wrinkled, looking for all the world ready to rabbit again. And then, yes, of course, she saw herself retreat back into the hospital and hurry away.

“Members of Seattle PD are anxious to meet with Ms. Bastian,” Kirby went on, “and interview her to find out what she knows about that brutal massacre at her aborted wedding ceremony. Sources close to Ms. Bastian say that the reason she ran from the wedding was that she was attacked by a masked assailant in her hotel room, and that she feared for her life and that of her unborn child.”

“Who said that?” Rory cried. Didn’t matter that it was mostly the truth. Someone had given the press an earful.

Liam. Her mouth set in a thin line. Who else? And yet . . .

Kirby asked, “Was she involved somehow in the tragedy that occurred? Her stepbrother lay dead at the scene. The groom, Liam Bastian, suffered bullet wounds, but recovered. Liam’s father, business tycoon Geoffrey Bastian, was struck down by the shooter as well. He has been confined to a wheelchair ever since.” Pauline consulted her notes and added, “Ms. Bastian has a lot to answer for, and the Bastians are anxious to find out the extent of her involvement in this terrible tragedy. Does she know more than she’s saying?”

Rory swallowed in shock, glued to the set.

“Liam Bastian was surprised to learn that his wayward wife had returned with a four-year-old child, and the questions about the girl’s parentage are on everyone’s mind. Ms. Bastian is claiming—”

“—the child is Liam’s, and the Bastians are understandably requesting a DNA test to establish paternity.”

Requesting? Demanding would be a better word.

“We understand the little girl in the hospital is suffering from this darned summer flu that’s been running rampant.” She looked up. “My usual cameraman, Darrell, has fallen victim to it. Hi, Darrell.” She smiled and lifted a hand to the camera. “Come back soon. We miss you.” She blew him a kiss, then grew serious once more. “There are so many moving pieces to this story, we haven’t gotten a complete report at this time, but this is a story that’s breaking, and be assured, we’re on it. The police have been notified and—”

Rory jumped up and switched off the set. She couldn’t stand to hear it. Kirby’s reporting leaned toward the salacious and it all just made Rory feel dirty. Who had told the press about Charlotte? Couldn’t be Liam. He wouldn’t talk to the press about Charlotte. He wouldn’t expose her this way. He couldn’t. That wasn’t the Liam Bastian she’d fallen in love with. He just . . . couldn’t.

Well, she’d known she would be facing them very soon. Someone from the Bastian camp would alert them. She shook her head. Liam wouldn’t sell her and his daughter out. She wouldn’t believe that.

She couldn’t answer her own question. Apart from those few wild and reckless months of crazy love, he was a virtual stranger. Had what they’d had even been real? She’d thought so at the time, believed it with all her heart.

Maybe not Liam . . . but who, then—Stella? Did Liam’s mother hate her that much?

And it probably only made matters worse that she’d taken off, fleeing from her own damned wedding. Stella must have been mortified. Liam’s mother would never understand that Rory had left to save her unborn child.

In hindsight, she could have handled it all so much better. She’d run because she hadn’t known what else to do. From the beginning she’d suspected that she could never meld her family with the Bastians, yet she’d gone ahead and fallen for the fairy tale, all the while knowing in the back of her head that it wouldn’t work. But she’d wanted it so much! The proverbial house with the picket fence. A man who loved her with all his heart. A perfect baby to add to their happiness.

If she’d stayed . . . would things have been better? If she’d stayed, would she have been gunned down on the bridal path like Aaron, losing Charlotte’s life as well as her own?

Shivering inside, she forced her thoughts away from the “wedding” that had never come off. As ever, it didn’t bear thinking about.

After taking a moment to stop and peek through the curtains to make certain she was alone, she grabbed her purse from the bed, then looked again. There was no one waiting for her as far as she could tell. Even the dog had left.

She stepped outside to the upper gallery and hurried to the stairs. Tired as she was, she needed to return to the hospital. She couldn’t stand being away. Not while the Bastians and Bethany were anywhere near her daughter.

* * *

Ten minutes later she parked in a hospital lot on the lowest side of the building. Laurelton General had been built on a steep lot and this parking area on the north side of the lowest tier was half-full, a smattering of cars baking in the evening heat. As she slipped her keys into her purse, she heard the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle. Shutting the Honda’s driver’s door, she saw a shiny bike wheel into a spot a few yards away. The driver, clad in black leather, a dark helmet shielding his face, killed the engine. She turned from him to make a cursory search of the lot, her gaze sweeping the asphalt as she looked for Pauline Kirby and her entourage, but thankfully there was no sign of the Channel 7 news team . . . yet.

Taking a quick breath, she hurried toward the door on the north side of the building just as the man climbed off his motorcycle and, unstrapping his helmet, loped toward the door ahead of her.

Rory slowed as she grew near, keeping space between them, letting him enter the hospital ahead of her, but he hesitated near the door. Something about his body type, the width of his shoulders, the way his neck turned, sent all her nerves screaming.

Oh, shit! Everett!

She backed up rapidly, nearly falling over her feet as his helmet came off and she stared straight at him, damn near hyperventilating.

No, no, not Everett, but . . .

Hand over her heart, she whispered, “Sweet Jesus . . . Cal?”

“Rory.” He gazed at her as if he were seeing a ghost, which was exactly the same way she felt.

His hair was longer and wilder, and the full motorcycle leathers, gloves, and boots and all, made him look mean and dangerous. At least that was her first impression. After her first words she found she couldn’t speak.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he said, his familiar voice causing her knees to tremble.

It was Cal. Not Everett. Had he been the person she’d felt was following her, watching her? The back of her throat went dry with a new kind of apprehension.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Well, I, I live here now. In Laurelton.”

“You do? I mean, what are you doing at the hospital?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “I saw you on the news and . . . well, I wanted to see you again.”

She felt herself start to sway. Alarmed, he reached out a hand to her, but she backed up, pulling herself together.

“On the broadcast, they said you were at this hospital, had some footage of it, so I came back here. I was cruising the upper lot, then came over to this one and decided you might be inside. Instead you’re here . . .” He half laughed. “Didn’t really believe it would be that easy.”

“Cal.” It felt like all her muscles were liquid. The aftermath of pure fear.

“That Kirby woman—the reporter? She’s kind of a bitch, huh? The way she talked about you? I really thought she could use a punch in the face—” He stopped, hearing himself. “Not really, but you know what I mean.”

Her head was buzzing. She felt like she was in some kind of alternate reality. Memories picked at her brain. The last time she saw him . . . Oh. God. “I . . . I thought I saw you . . . at the wedding.”

He eyed her closely. “Whoa. You look like you’re gonna pass out. You’re not gonna pass out, are ya? Don’t . . .”

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” She was starting to recover herself, but she was far from fine. Seeing him was a shock.

“Okay.” There was a strained silence between them. “I just wanted to say, you know . . . I’m sorry. Sorry I was such a fuck-up back then, you know.”

He was talking about when she’d left him . . . because of his temper and his thievery. After the miscarriage there’d been no reason to stay and so many to leave. All she said now was, “A lot of water under the bridge.”

“Yeah . . .”

“So, you’re here now? Permanently?” she asked, wishing she could just sweep past him and get to Charlotte.

“I guess. Me and Nona, we’ve got a catering business. She does the cooking and I’m the muscle.” He smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Excuse me.” A woman in her forties bustled past them without so much as a glance at Rory. She disappeared into the hospital and Rory found Cal studying her.

He had been hurt when they’d broken up, but had pretended to not let it bother him, although at the time Aaron had confided in her he wasn’t handling it well.

“Watch your back, Rory,” Aaron had warned, his face etched in concern.

She’d run from Cal. Changed her phone and moved apartments, though he’d known where she worked. But he’d kept his distance, hadn’t bothered her. She’d heard from Aaron that he knew about her engagement to Liam, but he’d never challenged it. Everett was the one who’d jeered about her marrying a rich man for his money. “Were you there? At the wedding?” she asked again, not really expecting an answer.

Cal made a face, then lowered his head and looked up at her from the tops of his eyes, puppy-dog fashion. “Well, yeah . . . the police took my name, so I guess you’re the only one who doesn’t really know. I was working in the kitchen. I mean, it’s what I do, right?”

Even though it confirmed what she’d thought, it still surprised her. “You knew it was my wedding?”

“Well, yeah, but honestly, it wasn’t about that. I’d kinda gotten in trouble . . . you know . . . with taking a few things . . .”

“I remember.”

“And I was working my way back in. Aaron got me the job.”

“Aaron?” she repeated in disbelief but remembered her stepbrother had worked in some restaurants in the Seattle area.

“Okay, I begged him. I’m not proud of it, but he told me about it and got me on with the catering staff. They were pretty well-known and I worked my butt off. After everything that went down, a lot of people quit. There was one gal on the waitstaff who kinda got PTSD. She was going to go outside, but then she changed her mind and blam, blam, blam, blam! It was scary as shit and she kinda collapsed. Really screwed her up, for a while at least. Been a while since I’ve seen her.”

“You gave your name to the police?” Rory asked, a hot breeze touching the back of her neck.

“Well, yeah. I had to. They just came through and started asking questions. I told ’em I knew you. They were looking for you by then, but I didn’t know where you were. But mostly they were chasing the shooter. Knew he was on the rooftop, but he was fast. They asked me tons of questions afterwards, but I didn’t know where the hell you were.”

“So, it wasn’t a coincidence.” She wasn’t certain.

“I just needed a job.” He seemed sincere.

She nodded, not knowing whether to completely believe him. “So, now you’re in the catering business with your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, Nona. She’s . . .” He smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes. “I think you’d like her.”

“Well, good for you, Cal,” she said.

“Yeah?” he asked seriously.

“Yeah.”

He cleared his throat. “Glad to hear you say that. I’m in this program, y’know? Not the whole seven steps or whatever the hell it is, but something kinda like it. My own version. I was really pissed when you dumped me for Bastian, and I had a lot of bad thoughts. I’m working through it all, now. Making amends. Telling people I’m sorry, and all that.”

“Well, okay,” she said, surprised. “But for the record, I didn’t dump you for Liam.”

“Maybe. You did break up with me, though. It was a bitch. Took me a while to get over it. I can admit that. Here, let me help you.”

Rory hadn’t realized she’d locked her knees, and when she finally moved she stumbled a little. She reluctantly accepted his gloved hand, wishing she could find a good way to exit.

“I was still a little pissed at you at the wedding,” he admitted as shadows stretched across the sidewalks. “I was sorry I’d taken the job at first. But I didn’t want to let Aaron down. And then, holy shit, Rory. They killed him!”

“They?”

“Well, whoever. The guy that musta done it. The one that Kirby bitch mentioned. DeGrere? He killed Aaron.” His face clouded. “I’m glad that DeGrere’s dead. I was just shit-shocked when everything went down, you know, at the wedding, and so was Everett.”

Rory had started to lose focus, but now she gave him her full attention. “You talked to Everett about it?”

“Well, yeah. And about you just taking off. We talked a lot about it and the shooter. We wanted to kill that fucker, whoever he was. And then you were gone and . . . they found that bloody dress . . . man, what a freak show.” He shook his head. “But like I said, I’m sorry. Where were you all this time? Why did you leave?”

She’d told her story already today and knew she would be telling it again to the police, but she answered, “The guy that attacked me threatened my baby.”

He blinked. “Baby?”

“My daughter, Charlotte, who’s here at the hospital. That’s why I’m here. I’m just going in to see her.”

“Oh. The one that has the flu.”

“Right.”

They gazed at each other awkwardly, then Cal shrugged. “So, are we cool? You and me?”

“We’re cool.”

He relaxed a little and she saw a brief glimpse of the boy she’d fallen for years before. “Are you sticking around, or what’s your story?”

“I just want Charlotte well, and we’ll see. I don’t have a story.”

He paused and out of the corner of her eye she saw another car, a white four-door, roll into the parking lot and take a spot. An elderly couple slowly emerged. Cal asked, “Those Bastians have as much money as they say?”

“I don’t know, Cal. I’ve been gone awhile.”

“They seem to have a lot.” He moved away from her. “You be careful with them.”

Like Aaron had warned her about him.

“Okay,” she said.

“If you do stick around, and they need a caterer . . . tell ’em Nona’s Catering. Google it.”

Then he was putting his helmet back on as the woman in the white sedan pulled a walker from the back seat of her car.

Finally, Rory pushed her way through the door and headed straight for the elevators. Her pulse was running light and fast. The encounter with Cal had scared her weariness away, at least temporarily, making her feel sharp and alert, though she sensed she was running on the very last of her energy.

She called for the elevator, tapping a hand against one thigh. She was anxious as hell to see Charlotte again, assure herself that her daughter was okay. The day had been a nightmare from start to finish, the only good part being that Charlotte was on the mend.

The elevator doors opened and Rory stepped inside to hover near the back of the car just in case Pauline Kirby or one of her cohorts was hanging around the front desk.

Rory was crowded to the rear, which suited her just fine. She squeezed through a knot of riders to step off the elevator into the hallway leading to Pediatrics.

She rounded a corner to stop short.

Two men in suits were standing outside the entrance.

Police . . . detectives, she would bet.

Her heart sank, but the men caught sight of her coming to a halt and regarded her soberly. One of them stepped forward and said, “Ms. Bastian?”

Her head was swimming. Her gut was icy. Her silence was apparently affirmation enough as they came toward her. They were a matched set in height, about five-ten, and weight, somewhere around two fifty, she guessed, but one had a mustache and he was the one who asked, “Are you Aurora Abernathy Bastian?”

She nodded. What could she do? She needed to be here, near Charlotte.

They introduced themselves as Detectives Grant and Susskind of the Portland Police Department; Grant was the one with the mustache. “We would like to ask you a few questions, down at the station. Would you be willing to go with us?”

But what came out of her mouth was a shaky, “Okay. But not this second, not until I check on my daughter. Charlotte. I need to see that, that she’s okay.”

They both nodded and she swiveled toward the doors to Pediatrics, hurried down the hallway, and stopped at the nurses’ station to flag down the first nurse she saw, a lanky blonde with short hair and a quick smile. “I’m Charlotte Johnson’s mother,” she said, her voice catching on the name that she’d created, one more lie in the web she’d spun. “I’d like to know how she’s doing.” She threw a glance at the door to Charlotte’s room, not fifteen feet away. Maybe she should have checked on her daughter first.

“Much better,” the nurse said and walked with Rory to Charlotte’s room. “She was awake a little bit ago,” the nurse said, “but she’s sleeping again.” With a wink, the nurse concluded, “She’s an imp, that one, I can tell.”

“Yes. Yes, she is. Thank you,” Rory said, walking on wooden legs. The police were here. They wanted to talk to her . . . oh, Lord. Would they keep her, interrogate her for hours, even arrest her for whatever they thought they had on her for leaving the wedding? Would she be considered an accomplice?

With the nurse in attendance, the detectives standing less than ten feet from her, she peeked through the open door and saw Charlotte sleeping on the hospital bed, her color normal, her eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. Rory watched as she let out a little sigh.

Tears sprang to Rory’s eyes. Her heart twisted. Would she be pulled away from her child?

“Mrs. Bastian?” the mustached detective said.

Turning, she saw Liam coming off the elevator, stalking straight for her.

Her heart ached upon seeing him. She felt a well of emotion fill her chest, turn her throat hot, her eyes burning. The police . . . She wanted to throw herself into Liam’s arms and cry.