CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

On the walk back to the car, Gabriel dialed 911 over and over until he finally got through. He gave his name and said he’d discovered a body at Villa Tuscana and would be waiting out front for the police. The dispatcher tried to get him to stay on the line. He repeated that he’d be waiting by the roadside, hung up, and texted Ricky.

I kept thinking about how we’d tramped all through the grounds and the house. Sightseeing, trading quips and quotes, wandering about, while James lay murdered a hundred feet away.

“How will we explain that?” I said. “Our footprints everywhere.”

“We were summoned here by duplicitous means. We were trying to figure out why.” After a few steps in silence, he said, “Which is exactly what we were doing, Olivia.”

I said nothing.

“You were having visions. We weren’t enjoying a picnic by the beach.”

I heard the distant police cruisers. The first car crested a rise, lights spinning. Then another engine roared and a motorcycle screamed past the cruiser, the driver hunched over, blond hair whipping back.

“Ricky,” I said sharply to Gabriel. “What did you tell—”

“Nothing. I just said we were done and asked him to come get you.”

Ricky skidded to a stop in front of me. His hazel eyes were dark with panic, the collar of his jacket tucked half in, his helmet still attached to the seat.

“I saw the cops,” he said, catching his breath as if he’d run the whole way. “I’d just gotten Gabriel’s text, and I tried calling, and then they whipped by—” He took a deep breath. “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

He swung off his bike, leaving it in the middle of the road. “You don’t look okay, Liv.”

“I—I am. I mean, I wasn’t hurt. It’s—”

“I’ll tell him,” Gabriel said.

“Tell me what?” Fresh panic lit Ricky’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I can—”

“No.”

Gabriel waved Ricky away from me with a look that forbade argument. As he talked, Ricky stiffened and looked toward me, but Gabriel moved in front of him.

Ricky didn’t need a full rundown—not with the police climbing out of their cars—but Gabriel seemed determined to give one. Finally, Ricky turned away, his hands going up, fending off further commentary. Gabriel stepped into his path again and said something, and Ricky nodded, and I heard him say, “Okay, thanks, right, I get it,” obviously intent on escape. Gabriel finally let him go and headed for the police.

Ricky ran his hand through his hair; he looked stunned and a little sick. Then he saw me watching. He caught me in a hug, pulling me tight against him as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

I buried my face against him. I didn’t cry. That was done for now. I just rested against him and—

Someone cleared his throat beside us. Ricky caught my hand and entwined his fingers with mine. Then he turned to face three uniformed officers. Behind them, Gabriel was talking intently to two detectives.

Two of the officers weren’t much older than me, the third maybe forty. All three looked from me to Ricky—or, rather, to Ricky’s jacket. From their expressions, you’d think they’d just stumbled on an Uzi-toting, cigar-chomping Colombian drug lord. Their reaction to me wasn’t much better, though clearly to them I was more Hannibal Lecter than drug lord.

“You’re the Larsen kid,” the youngest said.

“No,” Ricky said, his voice iron-firm. “She is Olivia Taylor-Jones. Preferably Ms. Jones, but Olivia is fine.”

They gaped at him, as if an ape had spoken English with a Harvard accent.

“And you’re . . . ?” the oldest said.

Ricky passed over his driver’s license. As the cop read it, the youngest officer stepped behind Ricky, who reacted like the guy had pulled a knife on him. Obviously, the kid didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with bikers. You don’t walk up behind them. You just don’t.

Ricky let go of my hand long enough to take off his jacket. He held it out with the patch toward the officer.

“Is that what you wanted to see?”

“Satan’s Saints?” the young cop said. “That’s a stupid name.”

“True, but changing it would be a bitch. You’d need to buy all new jackets, and then hold a media awareness campaign to let everyone know. Plus there’s the issue of tattoo reconstruction.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed.

Ricky sighed, tossed his jacket into Gabriel’s car, and took my hand again. “I know you’ll need to speak to Olivia, but—”

“We need to talk to you, too,” the oldest one said. “Seeing as how you’re obviously involved in this.”

“He just got here,” I said. “You couldn’t have missed him, whipping past you on the road.”

“Right,” the youngest said. “Which means he was speeding.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ricky muttered under his breath.

Gabriel came over. “These are my clients, officers. If you wish to speak to them, I have to ask that you include me.”

“They’re both your clients?”

“I represent Ms. Jones, as well as her birth mother, Pamela Larsen. I also represent Mr. Gallagher and his father, Donald Gallagher, president of the Saints motorcycle club. Now, I suggest you allow me to lead you and the detectives to the body”—he checked himself—“to Mr. Morgan.”

“You know the dead guy?”

Gabriel’s voice chilled. “The deceased is James Mills Morgan. Ms. Jones was formerly engaged to him.”

The confusion on the young man’s face looked painful. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m relaying facts which may or may not become important to your investigation. I hope you’re taking notes. The house—Villa Tuscana—was owned by Nathaniel Mills, a distant relative of Mr. Morgan.”

“His maternal great-grandfather’s cousin,” I said.

Gabriel nodded. “Ms. Jones’s family has been close to Mr. Morgan’s for several generations. Connected through the joint enterprise of the Mills and Jones department store, as I’m sure you already figured out.”

From the cops’ expressions, they were a million miles from figuring it out. In short, Gabriel was screwing with them. By the time he led them toward the Villa, they followed him as docilely as lobotomized lambs.

Ricky boosted me onto the hood of Gabriel’s car. When I stiffened in horror, he chuckled and held me there.

“One, it’s a rental. Two, there’s nothing metal on your butt to scratch the paint. Three, even if there was, Gabriel wouldn’t give a shit and you know it.”

As I eased onto the hood, I spotted an owl perched in an elm tree. Ricky followed my gaze to the bird.

“An owl? In daytime? Didn’t you say . . .”

“It’s bad luck. An omen of a shitty day, which means it’s several hours late.” I raised my voice. “Did you hear that?”

The owl ruffled its feathers and continued staring at me.

“Owls in daytime. Creepy and unnatural,” Ricky said. “Which, as I mentioned, I believe applies to owls in general.”

He’d said that when we’d spotted one in the woods near the abandoned psych hospital. He didn’t like the birds—too many stories from his youth. I’d thought it was cute, my biker boyfriend casting nervous glances at an owl.

I thought of the cabin, and when we’d seen the hounds and horses. The Cwn Annwn—I was certain of it. Ricky had brushed it off as a regular hunt, but I’d seen the way his eyes glittered when he heard it. I remembered what he’d told me, about going out at night searching for something in those woods.

“I’d wake up, and I couldn’t sleep. I’d go out and spend the whole night out here, looking.”

“Looking for what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

After we’d heard the Hunt, he’d tried to explain the phenomenon.

“It was riders from the stable. A midnight hunt. Logically, I know that. But when I was a kid, sometimes I’d hear the horses and the hounds, and I’d tell myself it was the Hunt.”

“The Hunt?”

“My nana used to tell me stories. She’s Irish, and she grew up with all that. I liked her stories of fairy traps and enchantments. And the Wild Hunt. Have you heard of it?”

Then I’d seen the Huntsman, another time, watching Ricky sleep.

There are two things you’d best keep close, for protection: the boar’s tusk and the boy there. They’ll look after you.

Walter and Ida, at Gabriel’s office the other day.

End your association with the boy.

The little girl just an hour or so ago, speaking of Gabriel and . . . someone else.

“You protect him as he protects you. And the other, too. The three of you.”

“The other. What other? I have no idea what—or who—you mean.”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

My gut clenched.

It’s not true. I won’t let it be. Take the rest of my life and twist it into madness, but leave me this one normal, perfect thing.

“Liv?”

Ricky looked concerned, and I wanted to kiss that worry away. But I could see Gabriel approaching, with the detectives in tow, and I wasn’t going to be caught making out with my boyfriend at the scene of my ex-fiancé’s murder.

I nudged Ricky aside and hopped off the car.

“The detectives need to speak with both of you,” Gabriel said. “I’ve asked them to begin with Ricky, as his should be a very short interview.”

—

My interview wasn’t nearly as brief as Ricky’s. I got the impression that they thought Gabriel and I had sent each other the messages as some kind of alibi. As for why we’d want to be the ones to discover James’s body if we’d killed him, well, maybe that was part of our defense strategy. Which was preposterous. At last Gabriel suggested that a proper interview should be conducted later, at the station, and the detectives agreed.

As Gabriel led me back to the car, Ricky came over.

“I’d like to get Liv out of here.”

Gabriel nodded. “If you could take her to my office, I would appreciate that.”

“I’d rather—” Ricky began.

“We have things to go over, and it’s best done there. It won’t take long.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll pick up some work, since it looks like no cabin for us—I’ll be stuck in Chicago.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to work—”

“It’ll help. I’ll see you there.”

—

As we neared the office, Ricky hit the brakes, his free hand going to my knee, bracing and warning me. A TV van rounded the corner ahead.

Ricky continued to the next intersection and took the back route. There were three cars and two news vans outside the office. Seeing that, Ricky pulled a U-turn and idled at the curb. We both checked our phones. Ricky lifted his to show me a call and a text from Gabriel. I had three of the first and two of the second, plus one of each from Lydia. The upshot was the same: don’t go back to the office.

I texted Gabriel and Lydia both a quick Got it. Thanks! Then I typed in another message and held the phone up for Ricky to read.

How the hell did the media hear about it already?

“Scanner,” he said, raising his helmet shield. “We’ll go—” When he stopped, I followed his gaze to a car turning the corner. He lowered his shield.

The car reached us and then veered, a guy in the passenger seat jumping out even before it stopped. A camera flew up, snapping shots.

“Eden!” I saw the cameraman mouth. “Rick!”

We were already tearing away from the curb, but the fool tried to jump in front of us. Ricky steered around the reporter and roared off, one hand raised in a middle-finger salute.

When he kept his hand raised, I figured out what he was really doing—making it impossible for them to get a photo they could use.

We rode to Ricky’s place. He detoured around the back of the student-housing complex. Sure enough, the car we’d dodged was arriving from the other direction, and there was already a TV van waiting.

As we pulled over, Ricky took out his phone and typed a message for me: They won’t dare come to the clubhouse. And I suspect they can’t easily find Gabriel’s home address.

There was a third option. I sent a text to Gabriel: Media at Ricky’s. Need your advice.

He texted back immediately: There’s only one safe option here, Olivia.

I replied, Cainsville.

Yes, I’ll meet you somewhere and drive you in.

Ricky, who was reading over my shoulder, shook his head and motioned that he wanted to stick close.

I nodded and replied that Ricky would drive me.

All right. I’ll see you both at Rose’s.