Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

Renee Trudeau’s death had made every major and local paper, as well as the news. Her connection to St. Elizabeth’s, a school that had been previously riddled in scandal and murder, as well as the discovery of the bones and the supposition that they belonged to Jezebel Brentwood, had given her an unwelcome celebrity. The police had yet to make a formal statement, but Becca was certain it would be forthcoming soon. She’d seen the news van parked in the lot and had witnessed Detective Sam McNally arrive and slide into a back row, just inside the doors.

“…tragic loss…trust in the way of the Lord…always be remembered as a wife, friend, sister…”

Becca’s fingers were linked with Hudson’s, but he was staring straight ahead, miles away, his gaze upon the preacher but his sight turned inward to thoughts of his twin.

Would Renee still be alive if she hadn’t been so fascinated with Jessie’s disappearance? Whether her car had been intentionally pushed off the road or sideswiped by a hit-and-run driver-which seemed more and more unlikely-Hudson’s sister’s death could be directly attributed to her quest for the truth about Jessie.

Becca thought of her visions and felt Hudson’s grip tighten over her hand. Fighting tears, she bowed her head when instructed to pray and heard Tim, Renee’s soon-to-be ex-husband, sniveling and snorting, as if he’d lost the love of his life.

Maybe he and Renee could have patched things up. Now no one would ever know. Nor would Becca be able to reconnect fully with Hudson’s sister, his twin, the only family member he’d had left.

She was gone…

Killed. As was Jessie. As was Glenn…

All of the group from St. Elizabeth’s was in attendance, all mourning and grief-stricken, all not saying what everyone was thinking-Who’s next? Becca had caught a glimpse of The Third, taciturn as he fingered the small pamphlet about the service, and she’d seen Mitch chain-smoking on the porch right before the service, looking like an absolute wreck. Tamara, toned down in a long black skirt and sweater, was a couple of rows over, not far from Zeke and Evangeline. Zeke was glum and Vangie was a doe in the headlights.

None of them could believe another member of their group, Hudson’s vibrant, passionate sister, was actually dead.

Becca’s insides twisted and she fought the sting of tears as the preacher recalled some of the most noteworthy times of Renee’s life. As he brought up Renee’s education and her graduation from St. Elizabeth’s she felt Hudson stiffen beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tamara, shaking her head in sadness.

God, this was horrible. Never in a million years would Becca have thought that she would be at Renee’s funeral at so early an age. But then, there were lots of things she wouldn’t have imagined. She caught a glimpse from Scott Pascal, who sat, hands clasped between his knees, his brown suit jacket pulling at the seams. He looked away and then Becca felt someone staring at her. Hard. Like a knife between her shoulder blades.

She stiffened, half looked behind her, but at that moment the preacher asked them all to pray and Becca bent her head.

But she was being watched. She felt those eyes digging into her. Whoever was staring so intently at her wasn’t a friend. Just before the end of the prayer she hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder and saw only a sea of bent heads before she caught McNally’s unguarded stare. He’d asked her and Hudson a ton of questions about Renee’s accident but they’d had no answers for him. Now his eyes were trained on hers and she looked quickly away, whispering a quick “amen” as the preacher closed the service.

Becca couldn’t wait to get outside, away from the coffin, away from the heavy onus of death. But there was a gathering afterward at the grave site, and though there were fewer people in attendance, all of their friends made the trek to the hillside cemetery on the outskirts of Laurelton.

Flanked by old-growth timber dripping in moss and knifing into the low-hanging clouds, the manicured acres of grass dotted by headstones appeared bleak and somber. More prayers were said, more condolences whispered as high heels sank into the rain-sodden loam and Tim tossed a rose onto the coffin before it was lowered into the neatly cut earth. A hundred yards away, a man sat smoking on a big yellow piece of earth-moving equipment. As soon as the crowd disbursed he would make short work of filling the hole where Renee’s coffin was resting.

It wasn’t just close family friends at the grave site. Seated in his car, parked with a view of the graveside ceremony, Detective Sam McNally, their group’s nemesis, was just far enough away not to be part of the service, close enough to observe. Now, gazing at them through his windshield, he seemed to be talking on his cell phone. He just never gave up. Not for twenty damned years. “Obsessed,” The Third had once called him. It wasn’t far from the truth.

And now he was here at Renee’s burial two decades later.

The entire ceremony was disturbing.

As the crowd dispersed, Hudson spoke to old friends of his family while Becca huddled with Tamara and The Third, both usually flamboyant and now quiet and reserved.

“This is Jessie’s doing,” Mitch said as he approached. He was lighting one cigarette off the butt of another.

“This is not the time, man,” The Third said.

Mitch blew out a stream of smoke. “You all know it, you just won’t admit it.”

“Don’t talk crazy.” Tamara shook her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“It’s not the end, you know. More of us are gonna get it,” Mitch predicted, glancing at the dark trees surrounding the graveyard. “How well do you know your friends?” he yelled to the group as a whole. “Somebody’s a killer!”

“Shut up!” Tamara fished in her purse for her keys and Becca noticed that the detective had gotten out of his car and was approaching Hudson. “God, Mitch. What’s wrong with you?”

“I know too much,” he muttered. “And none of you do.”

Tamara retrieved the jingling keys and snapped her purse shut.

“Tamara’s right, man, pull your shit together,” The Third said as Hudson, hair blowing in the wind, spoke to the policeman.

“You should all watch out,” Mitch said.

“Look, I’ve gotta run.” The Third was having none of it as he made his way to his BMW and slid inside.

“You could be next,” Mitch called after him. “You got one of those notes, too!” The BMW roared away.

“That’s what this is all about? Those damned nursery rhymes?” Tamara demanded. “You look like hell, Mitch. Really. Get some sleep.”

“It’s more than that,” Mitch said. “The cop’s still hanging out, isn’t he? Mac? And he’s talking to Hudson.”

“He’s investigating,” she said tightly. “That’s what he does.”

He glanced over his shoulder to an area where a solitary tree stood next to the firs in the surrounding woods, then took another long drag, as if the smoke were life-giving rather than stealing. “Oh, hell, just forget it.” He left them as he headed for his Tahoe, shoulders tight.

Tamara whispered to Becca, “I think he’s using again-mixing his prescription drugs. He had a little problem before.” She pulled her coat closer around her slim body as her eyes watched his Tahoe disappear. “He’s losing it.”

We all are, Becca thought. Some of us just hide it better than others. She stared into the forest, her gaze following the same path that Mitch’s had only a few minutes before. The trees were shrouded in fog, ferns, and faulty shadows. For a second Becca thought she saw someone hiding in the dark, misty depths, but as the wind shifted, the mist lifting a bit, there was no one standing beside the gnarly old oak tree.