One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (21)

Chapter 21

By the time Liam returned to his parents’ house it was afternoon. He’d texted Rory, explaining, and she’d texted back that she was handling things. How, he didn’t know, but the thought made him smile as he parked in the circular drive and noted that Rory’s car was angled near an older model Toyota plastered with bumper stickers. Darlene, he guessed. Good. He only hoped that when he walked inside, all hell hadn’t broken loose. His parents weren’t exactly models of temperance, and the house had sometimes been more like a war zone than a haven when he was growing up. That’s why he’d lammed out as early as possible, finding refuge in college and his own independence. And yet . . . he’d returned, not to live under the same roof as Stella and Geoff, but to work for the company.

The thought tightened his stomach a little as he climbed from the Tahoe. He’d barely put one foot out when Derek wheeled up in a shiny black sports car. He climbed out and glanced at the house. For a second his face was severe as he stared at the stone-and-cedar walls, and Liam remembered his half brother as a younger man, full of piss and vinegar, as they say, a young buck always battling the old man. Derek had fought with Geoff long and often, though those fights had abated after Geoff had been confined to a wheelchair. Before Geoff’s injury, Geoff and Derek had almost always been at odds. In those days Geoffrey had been fit, worked out at a gym, even taken on younger men as sparring partners and boxed for sport. He and Derek had come to physical blows more than once, and even the week before Liam’s wedding had gone at it so hard, wrestling in the den and rolling against a table leg, that it caused one of Stella’s treasures, a crystal vase, to roll and crash to the floor. Derek had ended up with glass in the heel of his hand, and when Stella, hearing the smash of glass, had run to the den and seen them lying on the floor, breathing hard, their clothes disheveled and torn, blood smearing the hardwood, she’d snarled, “You’re barbarians! Both of you! Clean up yourselves and this mess right now!”

Liam had heard about the battle later that day when Derek had called him and confessed, “He’s such an asshole, you know. Our old man. Only out for number one. I hate him.”

Liam had only said, “You might try to avoid him, or at least not provoke him.”

“He provokes me. Hell, he provokes everyone. Including Stella.”

“They’re married.”

“And so are you, bro. You should take a good look at what it’s all about. Shit. And now this farce of a wedding when you’ve already tied the knot.”

“Mom’s idea.”

“Well, it’s a piss-poor one, and the fact that you agreed to go along with it only shows what a wimp you are.” He’d hung up then.

Liam hadn’t called him back.

For the most part, these days, everyone got along—at least on the surface—but remembering the days when father and son had gone at it brought the bile up the back of Liam’s throat to burn in his mouth.

Lifting a hand, sun at his back, Derek yelled, “Hey, bro!”

His brother’s name for him. As if they’d always had each other’s back, but both of Geoffrey Bastian’s sons had been hellions, just as the old man had probably been. That’s why they’d always been at loggerheads, always spoiling for a fight. In Derek’s case, he’d felt the back of the old man’s hand and his wrath more often than not.

“When’d you get the Corvette?” Liam asked.

Derek grinned like a devil. “Think the old man’ll finally loosen the purse strings and help me pay for it? Or maybe, like Uller, I’ll ask for a loan from the company. Whad’ya say, Mr. CEO?”

“You’d have a better chance with the old man.”

Derek laughed, made a gun out of his hand, and pointed it at him. “What I figured.”

They headed toward the house together. The acid in Liam’s gut roiled at a particular memory, one he’d forgotten, or more likely buried, from long ago. He’d been fourteen at the time and it was summer. He and his friends had planned an overnight by the river on property belonging to the Bastians. Somehow everyone’s parents had agreed to the campout, mainly because Derek, older, had promised to look in on the younger boys. Of course the whole plot had been a recipe for disaster, but even Geoff and Stella had given Derek and Liam the green light as long as they “were responsible” and “made good choices.” This was in a time when cell phones weren’t as prevalent by any means, but Stella had offered hers up to Derek, “in case of an emergency, which, by the way, I don’t think there will be.” She’d leveled her most don’t-disappoint-me glare at both boys, and dropped the massive phone into Derek’s outstretched palm.

They’d been home free.

But Liam hadn’t left it at that and had decided it would be an awesome idea to pour a mixture of his father’s whiskey from the decanters on his desk into a flask he’d found in Geoff’s hunting gear. He thought about telling Derek what he’d done, then decided against it. Derek didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. Where Liam had chosen a select few times to test the boundaries, Derek was always on the wrong side of something.

Late that afternoon, Liam had taken his pilfered treasures, rolled up in his sleeping bag, to a spot by the Willamette’s shore. A few boats were speeding across the clear water, pulling skiers, while fishermen, mostly drinking beer, were lazily trolling, their poles visible, lines disappearing into the river’s uneven surface.

A hawk circled above the water, wings spread against a blue sky, where gauzy clouds slowly scudded. The summer sun hung low, casting ever-longer shadows onto the shallows as Liam stashed his booty into the root hole of a huge fir tree standing guard on the crumbling bank. A rocky beach stretched out below the ridge and the fresh, wet smell of the river filled his nostrils as a gust of wind toyed with his hair, which was “far too shaggy” to meet Stella’s standard. Well, tough, it was summer, he was free except for the hours he helped out at his old man’s job sites—too young to officially be on the payroll but old enough to help load trash and scraps into a Dumpster. He considered taking a pull on the flask, just for the hell of it—after all, he’d taken all the risks that day and he owed himself a swallow of the booze.

He only had a few hours to wait.

He found a smooth stone on the rocky beach and, flipping his wrist, flung it into the river, watching it skip, creating wavering pools on the slow-moving river. Yeah, he loved summer.

He glanced back at the fir tree and headed back to the deep hollow in the bank. It still looked a little weird, like he was hiding something, which he was, the exposed dirt between the tangled roots too fresh, so he covered the area with a piece of driftwood and littered it with dry needles and cones, effectively, he hoped, hiding the burrow. He was dusting his hands when he heard a commotion—shouting and cursing—coming from the winding path leading up the short rise to the house.

“You goddamned thief!” Geoffrey roared over the buzz of motor craft on the river. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Stealing from me? Me?”

Liam flattened himself against the bank. What the hell had Derek done?

“I didn’t take anything!” his brother threw back at the old man.

“I marked those bottles, Derek. I know just how much was in each one,” the old man roared, infuriated.

Oh, shit! His dad had figured out that some of the booze was missing. Already. As if he’d been lying in wait. And he blamed Derek for the crime. Of course he did. Derek was always in trouble, and Geoffrey Bastian had a dark side, a cruel side that he tried and failed to keep at bay. It didn’t help that Derek couldn’t keep from yanking the old man’s chain.

“But I didn’t, Dad. I didn’t take anything. Swear to God!” Derek sounded frantic and angry.

“Like you didn’t take the Porsche out? Like you didn’t bring some girl into the house when we were gone? And she was barely sixteen! You’re so lucky—”

“Am I?” Derek threw back at him.

Thwack! The sound of a fist hitting something hard.

“OWW! Jesus, Dad, why did you—?”

Thwack! Another hard smack and this time Derek groaned.

“You’re a bastard, you know that, don’t you?” Derek groaned. “A sick, old bastard.”

“And you’re a privileged, snot-nosed thief who would steal from his old man and lie about it. My own damned kid! You’re lucky I don’t beat you within an inch of your life.”

“I’ll call 9-1-1!” Derek snarled. “Tell them, social services or whatever, that you beat me.”

“Go ahead. Let’s see how that turns out.”

Dad was beating the living shit out of his brother for a crime Liam had committed. No! God, no! Liam had to stop it.

“Think about it, son. Think real hard about what you did,” Geoff spit out with sheer malice.

Then there was silence, oppressive, horrifying silence. Scared to death, sweating wildly, his damned heart beating like it would jump from his rib cage, Liam forced himself away from the bank just as he heard his brother growl, “You’ll get yours. Just you wait!”

Thump! The sound of a boot or shoe thudding against flesh, then Derek roared. “What do you want to do? Kill me?” His voice was in the stratosphere, filled with pain, a shriek of agony.

Liam couldn’t just let this kind of brutality happen to his brother, especially when he was the one who’d stolen his dad’s whiskey. If Derek could take blows from the old man, then so could he, damn it. He thrashed out of his position under the bank and started up the path, only to find Derek half lying in the bent grass and holding a hand to his nose. Blood dripped between his fingers and stained his T-shirt. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he snarled, fighting tears and blinking up at Liam. There was no sign of their father.

“Are you—?”

“Shit, I’m okay.” Derek let out his breath and pulled his hand from his face. The blood flow had stanched to a trickle, but he looked bad. A cut above his eyes, his nose probably broken, bruises appearing. He was shaken up. Even scared. And mad, too. He rolled to a sitting position and with his wrists propped on his knees, looked down at the water. “That old fart can’t beat me up like that and get away with it.”

“Call the police,” Liam urged.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Then tell Mom.”

“She’ll only back him up,” Derek growled, sniffing. “Fat old cocksucker!” He stood and winced, then suddenly realized, as if for the first time, that Liam had appeared out of nowhere. “What are you doin’ down here?”

“Getting ready, y’know. For tonight.” He hesitated to add anything else as Derek, muscles coiled, was still furious and dangerous.

“What do you mean?” One of Derek’s eyes was swelling shut, but still he managed to narrow his gaze suspiciously on his brother.

In a split second Liam realized there was no way out of this. Sooner or later Derek would figure it out, that he’d just taken the beating of his life because of his younger brother. “It was me, okay? I took the old man’s booze and . . . and some of Mom’s smokes.”

“You?”

“Yeah. I . . . I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.”

“I bet you are,” Derek said, spitting a globule of spittle mixed with blood onto the sparse grass. “You did it and you let me . . . let him . . . oh, fuck . . . you little shit!” Derek didn’t wait, just sprang, rounding on Liam and landing a punch that sent him sprawling, his back hitting a stick, his shoulders slamming into the hardpan beneath the grass.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

“I just bet you are, you little bitch.” Derek sprang just as Liam started to scuttle away. “Ooof!” The older boy landed on Liam, knocking the breath out of him, pounding wildly with his fists as Liam, wriggling like a worm on a hook, tried to get away.

Bam! A fist connected with his jaw. Pain exploded behind his eyes.

Thud! Another jab hit him hard in the ribs.

Liam cried out, “Stop! Derek!”

“Dickhead!” Derek hissed, bringing his head low so spittle rained on Liam. “Do you want the old man to come back?”

“No! Stop!”

Derek hauled back to hit him again and Liam threw himself upward, head-butting his older sibling. Crack! Agony ripped through his skull and Derek slumped over, rolling off him. On his back, Liam crab-scuttled away. His head throbbed and his stomach heaved. He turned to one side and threw up all over the long grass.

“Damn you . . . you’re a dead man!” Derek spat out, then groaned loudly, writhing and holding his head. “I’m going to beat the living hell out of you. Right after I make the old man pay.”

Now, years later, as Derek realized Liam was lost in thought, he asked, “What?” with a shrug.

“Nothing. Just thinking. Come on.”

They walked inside to a complete madhouse. The kids were chasing each other, running in and out of the open door to the pool area. Through the windows Liam caught sight of a twentysomething girl, the errant babysitter having returned, he presumed. She was lounging in one of the deck chairs, soaking up rays, and paying more attention to her cell phone and a bevy of text messages than she was to her charges. Dressed in a flamingo-pink bikini, her blond hair twisted into two little knots on her head, she looked up, frowned, and said, “Hey, be careful. Landon, Estella, no running!” then glanced back at her phone again.

Rory and Darlene were in attendance, too, seated together around a small table in the shade of its umbrella, so at least Charlotte and her cousins were being supervised. As he walked through the family room, Rory caught sight of him and the smile that curved her lips made his heart leap. She was wearing sunglasses, and, with the concealer, she almost looked as if nothing had happened. He could see the scratch on her chin, mostly because he knew it was there, but with her hair down, red curls swinging around her face, it was almost impossible to discern.

Darlene, gray hair braided down her back, granny sunglasses propped on her nose, a lacy caftan covering her body, lay back in a lounge chair, bare toes visible. She visibly brightened at the sight of Liam.

“How’re you doing?” he asked as he crossed to the outside table.

“Surviving,” Rory said.

“Great!” Darlene responded.

“Hey!” Charlotte careened across the patio and looked up at him with big eyes. “We are going to swim,” she announced, waving a floatie-clad arm at the pool.

“I see that.” He knelt so that he could look her in the eyes. She looked so much like Rory, but again, he saw a bit of his sister, or maybe himself. Wishful thinking? He didn’t believe it. In his heart he knew this little girl belonged to him.

“You can, too.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Mommy can, too!”

“Yeah . . .” His gaze caught Rory’s and his heart twisted. If only they could turn back the clock, he thought, knowing he was being ridiculous, wanting it anyway.

“Come on!” Charlotte insisted and tugged at his hand.

“I, uh, think maybe I should find a suit.”

“Charlotte, Liam will swim with you later,” Rory said.

“You, too, Mommy,” she said, then giggled, let go of him, and took off.

“Don’t run!” Rory called, looking away from him, her shaded gaze following Charlotte as the little girl struggled to keep from racing to the pool.

If only things were simpler, but, of course, they weren’t, he thought, straightening.

The babysitter echoed Rory, calling distractedly, “No running,” and waved her hand in the general direction of the pool. Liam’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he saw that Mick Mickelson, the detective from the Seattle area, was calling. Again. So far he’d ignored the man, but he’d have to call him back soon. Just not at the moment.

Charlotte was on the first step of the shallow end, water lapping around her. Swinging her legs and splashing, she chortled in sheer delight as her cousins swam around her.

As if none of them had a care in the world.

The way it should be, and Liam wished, not for the first time, that the cloud of mystery, the ever-present sense that there was danger lurking around every dark corner or in any dark crack, would evaporate.

“Where’s Viv?” Derek asked as he stopped by the refrigerator in the kitchen and grabbed a beer before sauntering onto the patio.

“Who knows?” Stella asked as she appeared, the sharp slap of her sandals against tile heralding her arrival. “She’s in and out, leaving us with”—she sent a disapproving look at the babysitter—“Candace.”

The sitter twisted her head when she heard her name. “What?”

Stella’s smile was brittle. “Nothing, dear,” she said, giving a little wave of her hand, her French manicured nails catching in the sunlight. “Go back to your little friends on your phone.”

Candace hesitated, then decided she’d better show some interest or she might lose her cushy job with all its tanning benefits. “Okay, kids,” she said, setting aside her phone by placing it on a small table near her lounge chair. “Do you know how to play Marco Polo?”

Stella heaved a long-suffering sigh and slid her designer shades over the bridge of her nose. Derek flopped into a lounge chair not far from Candace. If possible, Stella’s lips twisted into deeper disapproval. She said to the group in general, “Vivian should be home soon, I would think, though heaven knows where she goes.”

Liam said, “To the office.”

Stella just laughed.

“She started today.”

“Well, where’s she been going all this time? Never here. Always has somewhere else to be.” Stella glanced at the pool, where the kids were splashing and laughing. “She has children, you know.” She threw a pointed glance at the lazing Candace. “And I’ve already raised mine. Which reminds me, I’d better check on your father.” She got up from the chair and slapped away.

He met Rory’s eyes, but was unprepared for her next words, “Mom says Everett wants to meet with me today.”

“What?”

Darlene hurriedly put in, “I think you should both meet him.”

“Oh, there’s a good idea. Meet with the guy who killed Pete DeGrere,” Derek drawled.

Liam said, “Just because Cal Redmond is in custody and Pete DeGrere is dead, doesn’t mean this is over. Whoever hired DeGrere, if he was the actual shooter, is probably still around. Still willing to do damage.”

“But Everett took a lie detector test, and nothing’s happened for five years,” Darlene pointed out.

“I bet you can lie to those things,” Derek said.

“Everett’s changed,” Darlene insisted.

“This is my family,” Liam stated firmly. “I don’t like it that Everett’s suddenly showing up.”

“It’s because Rory’s come back,” Darlene said. “It’s been on the news.”

Derek lifted his brows over his sunglasses. “He wants to see Rory after all this time?”

“You didn’t say anything to him?” Rory asked her mother.

“Of course not. You swore me to secrecy and I . . .” She gestured with her finger and thumb pressed together, sliding them over her closed mouth, effectively miming zipping her lips.

“I’m not meeting him, Mom.”

Darlene glanced to one side, avoiding Rory’s gaze. “You’ve always said you want answers. Well, here’s your chance to get answers.”

Rory gazed at her mother with dawning horror. “Where are we supposed to meet? You didn’t tell him I was here, did you? You wouldn’t tell him where I am.”

“I may have said we were staying here for a few days.”

Derek whistled under his breath. Rory looked apoplectic and Liam wanted to throttle Darlene. “I don’t want him here,” Liam said through his teeth.

“Neither do I,” Rory seconded.

Again Darlene pulled a face and Derek muttered under his breath, “Wow. This should be interesting.”

Liam had a picture in his head of this moment in time: the kids in the pool, the disinterested babysitter, he and his brother, his wife, her mother . . . And a shadow passed over it, the threat of the unknown danger sliding over this innocent group.

Darlene cleared her throat. “He might be on his way.”

“No,” Liam said as Rory stared at her mother, aghast.

“I don’t know how many times I have to say it. He’s changed. Really changed. Believe me, I’ve talked to him and I . . . I even talked to Laurie about him. She says it’s more than possible that he’s turned over a new leaf, a better one, he’s found—”

“It’s not happening here,” Liam cut in just as the sounds of chimes from the front doorbell rang through the house, tinkling through outside speakers.

“Oh, bro, I think it is,” Derek said as the slap, slap, slap of Stella’s sandals could be heard as she made her way to the foyer.

* * *

All of Rory’s feelings of safety shattered in an instant. The specter of Everett Stemple loomed behind her eyes. Tall, muscular, with a voice like sandpaper whispering in her ear. It’s okay, baby, just relax . . .

Rory flew to her feet, nearly knocking over the table. Ready to scoop Charlotte out of the pool and start running, she took two steps toward her daughter and stopped dead in her tracks.

But panic overtook her and her heart thudded crazily, fear pulsing wildly through her veins. The world seemed to spin faster on its axis. Everett was the person who had followed her, frightened her, threatened her . . . in one insane instant she was certain of it.

“I’ll take care of this,” Liam said, suddenly beside her, one hand gripping her forearm, his face inches from hers. Strong. Determined. Fiercely protective. “Don’t worry.”

God, she wanted to believe him. But the wedding. Cal’s attack. The madman who had rained bullets on the assemblage. The sound of balloons popping. Do as I say, or you both die. I’ll slit your throat and then I’ll slit his. Yes, that threat had been Cal’s, but deep inside she’d thought he’d been working with the shooter and in her gut she’d believed, if not the gunman himself, Everett was somehow behind the shooting.

Would he kill his own brother? No. That had been an error. The rifleman—DeGrere—had made a mistake and killed Aaron by accident.

Maybe.

And when DeGrere had gotten out of prison Everett had killed him, slit his throat.

Her terror must’ve shown on her face because Liam’s fingers tightened over her arm a bit. And his voice was calm as he said, “Trust me. I’ve got this.” He waited until she nodded and let out her breath, then asked, “Okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed with forced calm.

“Good. Hang in there.”

“But Charlotte—”

“I won’t let anything happen to her.” His face was a mask of determination. “And neither will you.”

“Yes . . . right.”

“Good.”

He released her arm, then strode to the patio door, where Stella, slightly bewildered for once, was now standing to one side. Beside her was a tall man, a big man, with long hair starting to turn prematurely gray. His face was fleshy, his waistline enormous, his features nearly unrecognizable.

“Rory,” Everett said with the hint of a smile. “I’m so glad to see you again.” His voice was still gravelly, and as he stepped onto the patio she braced herself. “I have something for you.”

“Stop right there.” Liam blocked the bigger man’s path.

Everett held up both of his meaty hands and Rory flinched when she spied something black in one hand.

Until she recognized it as a book . . . no, not just a book, a Bible.

“I came to apologize, for every wrong I did you.” Again the peaceful smile, so out of place on the man she remembered. “I’ve taken Jesus into my heart.” Here he paused. Even the kids playing in the pool seemed to quiet. Rory couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but Everett was staring past Liam, his strong gaze holding hers. “I’d like to talk to you and ask your forgiveness.”