The Complete Colony Series - Lisa Jackson The Colony

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Sixteen

      The offices of Salchow, Wendt, and Delacroix were in Portland’s Pearl District in the Grassle Building, a gray granite and glass monolith that knifed upward thirty stories. Today, a black and gray sky hovered outside and Christopher Delacroix III gazed at it with a grim expression as he dropped the receiver to his office phone into its cradle.

      Detective Samuel “Mac” McNally had called. He’d wanted to know if The Third had received a nursery rhyme note in the mail.

      Now The Third opened a desk drawer and pulled out the blue envelope. Initially, he’d been more perplexed than alarmed. It was childish. The work of some amateur who was trying to goad them. He’d talked to Jarrett and learned he’d received one, too, so he’d assumed the rest of the guys had gotten one.

      But he’d kind of hoped the notes would escape McNally’s notice. They would just add fuel to the Jessie fire, and he was getting really sick and tired of even thinking about her. She’d been a high school tease, for crying out loud. None of them had gotten lucky with her. Jarrett sure as hell hadn’t and neither of those losers, Mitch and Glenn, ever got close.

      He closed his eyes, feeling a jolt of regret. The fire and discovery of a body at Blue Note was all over the news. It was clear that the body was Glenn’s, though that piece of information hadn’t been officially released as yet. Glenn. Dull, unhappy Glenn. He and Jarrett had used both Glenn and Mitch as their personal whipping boys over the years. He knew it. Usually didn’t care all that much. But today…

      “Damn you, Jezebel,” The Third said quietly to the boiling dark gray clouds beyond his windows.

      His intercom beeped gently, a soft tone that befitted the moneyed appearance of his office. “Yes,” he said, depressing the switch.

      “A Mr. Walker and Ms. Sutcliff would like to see you. They don’t have an appointment.”

      The notes…and Glenn’s death…

      “Send ’em up,” The Third said.

      Becca and Hudson rode in the Grassle Building’s glass elevator in one of two cubicles that shot upward and offered a dizzying view of downtown Portland and the Willamette River. It gave Becca a disembodied feeling that she could have done without, and she was glad to step onto the dark gray carpeting of the twenty-fourth floor.

      The Third had a corner office, and his desk faced away from windows that gazed toward another building farther west whose windows stared back like a row of unblinking eyes. The whole room was made of glass and chrome and black leather, a far cry from the wood-paneled offices of the firm Becca worked for. It wasn’t a surprise that The Third’s law firm was as slick as he was.

      The Third himself was dressed in a navy blue suit and crimson tie, and as they entered he waved them toward a set of black and chrome director’s chairs on the other side of his desk. Neither Becca nor Hudson took a seat, preferring to stand.

      “I’m guessing you want to see the note,” The Third said. He slid open a drawer, pulled out a card, and handed it to Hudson, who held it for Becca to see. Christopher was written in an uneven hand on one side of the white card and the same nursery rhyme was on the other.

      “Just like mine,” Hudson said.

      Becca felt a chill slide down her spine. “Did Jessie call you Christopher instead of The Third?”

      “Beats me.” He shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

      “I got one. You got one. And you said Jarrett got one?” Hudson turned the card over and examined Christopher’s name more closely.

      “Yep. And Glenn. And Mitch.”

      “You sound certain,” Hudson said.

      “Well, that’s what McNally told me.”

      “McNally? You talked to him?”

      “Just got off the phone with him.” He pointed to both of them. “Expect calls. He’ll probably want to talk to everyone. He said Mitch got a note, and Scott told him Glenn got one.”

      Hudson took a moment to absorb that news. “How about Scott?”

      “I didn’t ask. I just assumed.”

      “Zeke hasn’t gotten one yet,” Hudson said.

      “Maybe today.” The Third sounded almost bored, but then they realized it was more grief than apathy when he said softly, “Damn, I just can’t believe Stafford’s gone.” He drew a long breath and eased himself farther into his desk chair, which made protesting noises. “God, what a weird world.”

      “Got any idea who would send these notes?” Hudson asked him.

      “God knows. Not Jessie, though.” When neither Hudson nor Becca responded, he skewered them with a look. “You can’t think she’s still alive.”

      “No.” Hudson was positive.

      “She was a tease, though,” The Third said. “She loved this kind of stuff.”

      “Maybe someone knows that.”

      The Third gave him a hard look. “And is pulling this shit for their own reasons.”

      “Maybe.”

      “Why?” Becca asked. “Who?”

      “To make us think she’s alive?” The Third proposed. “To send the hounds in another direction?”

      Hudson nodded thoughtfully.

      “Yeah, well. Jessie’s a ghost and now Glenn’s a corpse.” He grabbed the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet. “What’s with you two? Are you together now?” He waved a hand to encompass Becca and Hudson. “Your own little team?”

      “Something like that,” Hudson said.

      “Great. Amateur investigators. Just let this damn thing blow over so we can all get back to real life instead of looking for dead girls who don’t exist.” He opened and slammed shut one drawer, then another, yanking out his keys and a wallet. “What time is it, eleven? I’ve got a lunch meeting at twelve, and I want to get there early so I can have a few drinks first. Sorry to rush you out, but there’s nothing much more to talk about. Anything else, take it up with McNally.”

      With that he shoved his chair back, then strode out of the room, leaving Hudson and Becca to look at each other and follow suit.

      On Saturday Becca drove herself to the site of Glenn’s memorial service, a small nondenominational white clapboard church with a steeple cutting upward to a sky thick with gunmetal gray clouds. As she pulled into the gravel parking lot, she saw Hudson standing outside with Renee, Zeke, and Evangeline, the wind blowing the women’s skirts around their knees and playing havoc with their hair. Evangeline wore a wide-brimmed black hat that she anchored firmly to her head with one hand. Renee seemed oblivious to the weather, her face turned away from the church, her short dark hair whipping around her cheekbones, her eyes fastened on some remote point that Becca was pretty sure she wasn’t even seeing.

      Zeke’s hands were in his pockets, his head bent, his expression stony though Becca got the impression he was desperately holding his emotions inside. “Why didn’t I get a note?” she heard him ask Hudson as she approached.

      “You haven’t got one yet,” Hudson pointed out.

      “Oh, who cares?” Evangeline’s nose and eyes were red and she was sniffling. “Be glad Jessie didn’t send one to you.”

      “Jessie didn’t send the notes,” Renee said woodenly, as if she’d repeated the same words a thousand times. Her cheeks were as hollow as someone dedicated to a starvation diet. “She’s dead. Remember?”

      Hudson frowned at his sister. “You okay?”

      “I’m more than okay,” she snapped right back. “I keep telling you.”

      “Think

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