Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

“Don’t really have time. The wife, she’s waitin’.” He glanced up at Hudson, then looked away. “Ah, hell! My Lissa, she’s the first grandchild, and she’s got herself in some trouble.”

He ran a tired hand over his forehead, adjusting his cap. “She lives up near Bellingham, in Washington, near the border with her dad and younger brother. My wife and I are going up there.”

Hudson nodded. “Okay.”

“You could call Emile Rodriguez, you know. Guy’s got ranchin’ in his blood and Emile, he’s always looking for a little extra work. He could help out if I don’t get back before Boston foals.”

“I’ve helped a mare foal a time or two before,” Hudson said, thinking of his Appaloosa mare. “So has Boston.”

“Yeah, well, then…I’ll get you Emile’s number. Just in case you need a hand or two.” Grandy headed down the two stairs from the back porch and into the inky, miserable night before Hudson could offer any further resistance. Hearing the older man’s truck’s engine cough and catch, Hudson closed the enclosed porch door against the storm, then leaned against its painted frame. The wind rattled the window casings on the old farmhouse. Hudson had made repair after repair to the place over the past ten years that he’d owned the ranch, but there was no escaping the fact that the building was old and full of cracks and its upkeep was a constant battle. He probably should raze the place and start over, but he didn’t have the time or inclination. A part of him loved this old house with its ancient beams, chipped paint, and years of hard work and toil etched into the woodwork.

The ranch had been his parents’ and after their deaths-his father to heart disease, his mother to cancer-the place had come to him and Renee. Renee hadn’t wanted any part of it. To Hudson, who’d spent his years after college buying and selling commercial real estate, the chance to drop out of the rat race for a while and settle into small-town farming and ranching had seemed like a golden opportunity. He’d bought out Renee’s share and he’d been settling into his new life for the last four years. It still felt like the right thing to do. The sometimes back-breaking work was welcome relief from the stress of “deal making” and “contract negotiations.”

As he walked back into the kitchen, he automatically looked around for his Lab mix, but Booker T. was long gone. He’d died the previous autumn and Hudson supposed it was a blessing. The poor animal had been half blind, all but lame, his death expected and, for Booker T., probably long welcomed.

But the old dog’s passing had left a hole in Hudson’s life. Maybe the hole had always been there even in his youth but had grown wider with time, not smaller. Losing the dog hadn’t helped, and losing Jessie…well, that still bothered him. He wondered about the body found up at St. Elizabeth’s. Was it Jessie’s? Did she die at the feet of the Madonna in that overgrown maze? If so, she’d certainly been killed.

“Christ,” he whispered and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Toeing off one shoe with the other, he decided to pour himself a drink, a stiff shot of scotch. Listening to all the talk about Jessie, then coming face-to-face with Becca again had unnerved him. He’d thought he was long over her, but obviously he’d been wrong. He’d thought about her over the years, of course, but had steadfastly pushed her from his mind. Becca, Jessie, and St. Elizabeth’s were memories he’d tried to repress, and he’d generally succeeded.

Then came Renee’s call about the discovery at St. Lizzie’s and it all came rushing back. He’d dropped his high school friends from his life. He didn’t want to know them. He didn’t want to think about them. He didn’t want to think about Jessie. But as Renee related the discovery of the bones he felt a soul-deep dread-never fully buried-rise again. His sister had never fully gotten over what had happened, either, and she’d spent years writing in a journal about the events, making up stories about what could have happened to the missing Jessie Brentwood. Now it was all real.

“A bunch of kids found bones at the base of the Madonna statue inside the maze at St. Elizabeth’s,” she said. “Human bones. A human hand popped up and reached from the grave at them, or so they thought. It’s Jessie, Hudson. Now we know. Now we finally know.”

Hudson held the phone so tightly he saw his own knuckles bleach white as Renee went on to say that she was spear-heading a get-together at Scott and Glenn’s restaurant to talk things over with some of the “old gang.” Hudson heard her as if from a distance as images of Jessie Brentwood, the same ones that he’d carried inside his mind for twenty years, flashed across the screen of his memory.

“I’m going to write about this,” Renee had told him. “I’ve already been on it, actually. This is a hell of a story.”

“Is it?” he’d asked.

“You’ll be there, right?” Renee responded.

“To talk about whether or not the bones are Jessie’s?” He’d had trouble processing.

“And some other stuff. I’ve got a lot invested in this. It’s…a kind of personal quest.”

Hudson had squinted at the phone, but before he could ask her what she meant, she swept on. “Damn it, Hudson, I’m tired of writing drivel for the Star. I think if I have to write one more insipid article about whose house is for sale, who got a traffic ticket, or who’s upset with his neighbor for cutting down a tree, I might puke. This, the story of the body at St. Lizzie’s, is big, and I’m part of it. We all are. I think we’ve finally found Jessie.”

He’d tried to listen more to his sister, but his emotions had gotten the better of him and he thought about Jessie. Sixteen years old. The first woman he’d ever slept with.

“Catch me, Hudson, if you can,” Jessie had sung out as she’d run through the maze of thick laurel. Her footsteps had been light, her breathing shallow, but he’d tracked her down easily as she’d tried to lose him in the intricate pathways. She’d failed, of course, maybe even let him catch up with her. To Jessie, everything, even lying in the thick grass under the stars in the shadow of the church spire and tearing off Hudson’s clothes, had been a game.

Jessie, are you dead? Are those your remains? Did you die beneath the Madonna?

“The bones they found, they’re female? Young?” he asked Renee.

“Nobody’s saying, yet. But who else?”

“It could be anyone-”

“No, Hudson, it couldn’t. It’s Jessie, trust me. And it makes sense, right?”

“Nothing makes sense.”

“I’m just about at the ranch. See you in a minute.” And Renee had come in moments later, saying, “I’ve got a few more calls to make, maybe you can help me…?”

“I’ll call Becca. She knew Jessie. But that’s it. The rest of this is your show.”

That caught her up. “Becca,” she said, but didn’t say what was really on her mind, though it was probably along the same lines she’d spewed when he’d gotten involved with Becca a year or so after high school. “Rebecca Ryan? Are you nuts? Oh, God, Hudson, get real. Are you a sadist or what? Becca’s only one step further away from the loony bin than Jessie was. What is it with you and beautiful, out-of-touch women?”

“Enough,” he’d said, but Renee wasn’t to be stopped.

“You know, brother dear, if you tried, you could do better. Lots better.”

Hudson hadn’t thought so twenty-no, sixteen years ago-and he didn’t think so now. After Renee left he called Tamara for Becca’s number, then Becca herself, inviting her to his sister’s gathering. He’d wanted to see her again. Face her. Face his own feelings…

And the hell of it was, she was just as intriguing and beautiful as before. Maybe more so. Renee was probably right, he thought as he searched inside a cupboard and pulled out a half-full bottle of scotch. He twisted off the cap, found a short glass, and poured in a splash.