Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

Inside a heater blasted warm air around a near-empty cavernlike room with plank ceilings to match the floors and fishing nets filled with dusty glass balls and fake fish draped along walls paneled in rough wood. A couple of twentysomethings in stocking caps played pool, an older man in a ski jacket and full graying beard nursed a drink at the end of a long, timeworn bar, and a middle-aged couple sat in a corner, drinking beer and staring at the big screen positioned over an area Becca assumed was sometimes used as a dance floor.

Becca and Hudson took seats opposite each other in a booth near the huge rock fireplace. Kindling had been lit and now hungry flames crackled and hissed over mossy chunks of oak and fir. A fading stuffed marlin leapt over a rough-hewn mantel, and wood smoke covered the scents of frying food and cigarette smoke drifting in whenever a side door opened.

Becca swabbed some crumbs from the table and noticed that it, secured into the wall, listed slightly. Soft music-some kind of nondescript jazz-played from speakers mounted on the walls, pool balls clicked, and the deep fryer sizzled, the scent of oil-fried food rising above the sound emanating from the kitchen.

Hudson ordered a microbrew to go with his Dungeness crab cakes while Becca settled for sparkling water to wash down the spicy clam chowder. They shared a small loaf of sourdough bread and lathered it in garlic butter, but Becca barely tasted any of the food.

What was it about this town that made her feel as if she’d been here before? Certainly not just because Jessie had spent time here. And not because Renee had visited. But something…something she didn’t understand had infected her, made her think she’d peeked around the corners of Deception Bay.

The restaurant was warm enough that she shed her coat, but during the hour they spent over dinner, watching the few people enter and leave, making small talk, Becca never completely lost the chill that had burrowed into her spirit.

Hudson left bills on the table, helped Becca with her coat, then together they dashed the few steps through the lashing rain to the car. She switched on her wipers though they were nearly useless against the downpour and she drove slowly, creeping up the hill to the bed and breakfast, a two-storied rambling hundred-year-old manor with eight bedrooms and a panoramic view of the ocean, now dark as tar.

Hudson carried the bags and she shepherded Ringo into a wide foyer with an antique chandelier suspended from the ceiling that rose high over a sweeping staircase. Hudson had already paid for everything online, and they found their key in a lockbox just inside the door. With Ringo leading the way, they headed to the second floor and a cozy room complete with a glowing gas fireplace, canopied bed, and Victorian antiques. His and Hers robes were draped by a jetted tub behind an obscure shade.

“Nice,” she murmured.

“Only the best.”

“Or the only place available on short notice.”

He smiled and she relaxed a bit as she stood at the window, looking out to where she knew the Pacific should be. With the ocean dark, no moon offering its glow, and rain peppering the glass, she couldn’t see anything but her own pale reflection, a worried woman searching the storm.

As she stared at her own weak image she felt another pair of eyes, not Hudson’s, who had opened his laptop and was struggling with a barely existent wi-fi connection. Nor did she feel Ringo’s dark eyes upon her as he was sniffing the connecting rooms, hardly paying attention to her. Whoever was staring at her, she was certain, was on the other side of the glass, observing her through the shroud of the storm, following her every movement, reading her damned thoughts.

She snapped the blinds shut and turned around.

Hudson abandoned his computer and came around the desk to gather her in his arms. She snuggled into them gratefully. “You make me feel safe.”

He kissed the top of her head. Then he tucked a finger under her chin, turning her face up to his. “You make me feel…something else,” he said suggestively.

“Ahh…” she said, her mood lightening. And when he kissed her again, more passionately, she kissed him back with all her pent-up love and desire.

Nothing could hurt her and her baby as long as she was with Hudson.

From my lighthouse, I stare at the shoreline, barely visible through the night. But she’s there. Becca. Close.

And rutting like a whore!

I feel my lip curl in disgust, though I shouldn’t be surprised.

Isn’t it what she does, what they all do?

Jezebel was the mistress of fornication.

Rebecca is no different.

Fingering the knife I stole from the cabin, I tamp down my frustration. I’d known she would come, of course, had felt her need as the sea pulled her. But I’d thought she would be alone.

Who is this man? This stud?

I push open the door and it’s nearly ripped from its hinges with the force of the gale, the door thudding hard. The old metal walk is rusted, but I step outside naked, feeling the slap of the wind, hearing it howl and whistle as it whips the breakers into froths of whitecaps and swirls of angry foam.

I had to pass her in the mountains, take a chance and speed by her in an effort to outrun the storm and get to the lighthouse. As it was, I barely made the crossing, the waves washing over the sides of my craft, threatening to plunge it to the bottom of the ocean.

I will have to kill them both.

Once again, I’ll need to attach the grill guard to my vehicle. Two bolts to secure the bars across the front of my truck and then I’ll force them off the road as well. My truck will go unscarred, the grill guard hidden securely.

I finger the edge of the knife and wish I could use it as my weapon. Feel the lifeblood ooze out of Rebecca’s body. Like it did with Jezebel. With a smile I remember her rounded eyes in the moonlight, her gasp of surprise. She, too, had been curious and, foolish girl, had thought she could better me, lure me to her and then stop me from my mission.

Talk me down?

Convince me of the sin of my ways?

Offer up sexual favors for me to ignore my duty?

Or did she really think she could kill me with her tiny little knife, the one I turned on her?

She’d been shocked to know that she’d lost.

Jezebel who had always won.

And now it is time for another.

Rebecca needs to die.

And die soon.

“So you wanna watch a movie? There’s a Star Wars marathon running all night,” Mac said to his son. Levi sat on the edge of a plaid couch, his bare feet propped on the edge of a metal and glass coffee table, his head bent over a handheld computer game. “We missed the first one, but the second comes on in twenty minutes.”

“Okay.” Levi’s lack of enthusiasm was palpable.

“I picked up some microwave popcorn and red licorice.”

Levi winced, but it was from missing something on his game system. He hadn’t heard a word Mac uttered. The kid was placating him. They were stuck together in a small cabin in a coastal town in the middle of nowhere, and Sam McNally realized for the first time how little he knew his son.

“I’ll put in a pizza.”

“Yeah.” Levi stopped and for once Mac thought he’d caught the kid’s attention until his boy picked up his cell phone, read the display, and began texting like crazy. Mac hadn’t even heard the damned thing ring.

“Someone callin’ ya?” Mac turned on the oven, preheating the ancient thing.

“No.”

“But you saw a message.”

“I texted Seth. No big deal.” The phone either vibrated or made some inaudible noise and Levi snapped his head into the direction of the tiny screen. Once again his fingers flew over the keypad.

“Seth must’ve had something pretty important to say.”