Chapter 12
TWELVE
GABE – WEDNESDAY MORNING, WESTFORT
In hindsight, waiting for the scrape on his forehead to fully heal before heading back into Westfort to seek information about Heidi Karne, née Holly Pritchard, might have been a smarter plan.
But Gabe hadn’t been thinking about his recent foray into town when he parked at the end of Water Street and walked over to the public library.
And to be fair, Casey had been a distraction that morning. All hot and sexy and right there in Gabe’s bed before he headed off to do ranger stuff for the day.
He stopped for a moment to take in the magnificent architecture from a bygone time before climbing the steps that led to the grand two-story structure.
He certainly wasn’t thinking about the identifiable scrape and greenish-black bruise, he was thinking about Heidi and her Big Fucking Secret.
About Juliet Carter. And about the inscrutable Lynn who’d cared for Heidi’s belongings for decades.
Last night in bed with Casey asleep beside him, Gabe had thought about his childhood. The longer he lay there thinking, the more irritated he’d become. Because a pattern emerged.
Admittedly, he’d never noticed it because he never taken a lot of time to think deeply about how he’d been raised. But it seemed to Gabe that, if he was going sort out this current fuckery, he was going to have to dive into their shared past in order to get to know his mother a little better.
He’d learned early that there were only two good things about the past: learning from one’s mistakes and getting to where one needed to be in the present.
Thus, Gabe rarely looked over his shoulder; it had always been about moving forward to the future and the next mark.
And that was one hundred percent a habit set for him by Heidi.
Do you like where you are now, Chance? Then it’s all good.
As a kid, he’d known they’d moved more often than other families because of Heidi’s “jobs.” Maybe the mark had become suspicious, either legitimately or not, something along those lines. Maybe Heidi had gotten what she wanted. Or maybe the target had flat-out disappeared.
Which had happened sometimes.
When he was twelve, they had lived in Laguna Beach for a year or so. Heidi had landed a gig working in an art gallery and “had an understanding” with the owner, an art collector with deep pockets and a cocaine habit.
So very late eighties of him, Chance.
This interlude had stuck with Gabe because he’d been quasi fascinated with the guy, who wore Don Johnson-style suits and a lot of gold necklaces, even a pinky ring.
Then one day he’d been gone. Poof. Nowhere to be found.
By that point, the guy had trusted Heidi enough to let her have her own set of keys.
His name had been something boring, like Phil Jones.
What had really happened back then? Why had the guy disappeared?
Had Heidi been involved or merely an accidental bystander?
Gabe doubted his mother was ever a bystander, not once she was on her own and savvy enough to practice the art of the con.
Gabe himself was probably the last “accidental” event Heidi allowed to happen.
Heidi had helped herself to a couple of Jones’s paintings. She’d taken them right off the wall while Gabe stood back and watched. She’d told him they were in lieu of payment for services rendered.
I’m sending you a hairy eyeball, Mom.
After wrapping them up and packing them into the trunk of their late model Chevy sedan, they left town without stopping at their apartment and headed due north on the Pacific Coast Highway.
Gabe remembered being disappointed at leaving the golden sand and sunshine of California for Seattle clouds and rain.
What had happened to those paintings from Southern California? They hadn’t been stored at Lynn’s. Gabe wasn’t sure he’d ever seen them after they went into the trunk, like a kidnapping gone bad. Heidi had never shown much interest in fine art after that.
And how had she known to keep Gabe home from school that day?
“Seriously, Heidi, some answers would be great,” Gabe said aloud as he finished the climb. “I’d even read a third fucking letter.”
He’d reached the landing of the Westfort Public Library’s stairs and a set of double doors beckoned. Rolling his neck and ignoring the ever-so-slight pulse of pain in his forehead, Gabe looked up and took in the grand building one more time.
You’re stalling, Chance.
Maybe he was. But although Gabe was not one who generally appreciated architecture, he could tell the structure had been built with the help of a Carnegie grant.
It had that very specific look to it. Like other towns and cities across America, a band of intrepid Westfort townspeople had banded together sometime around the early 1900s and convinced the Carnegie Foundation to help them build a library.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he whispered, pulling one of the doors open and stepping into the quiet beauty.
A conversation with the librarian at the information desk eventually led Gabe to the local reference section.
“We have a local fiction section too, but that doesn’t sound like what you’re looking for,” she informed him. “And if you want to use one of the computers, you only need to show us your library card, and we can get you set up.”
For the first time in his life, Gabriel Karne filled out an application for a library card.
“We’re out of cards at the moment. Your permanent card will come in the mail in a week or so,” she told him.
“Don’t worry, this temporary one is good here and in the Timberland library system but expires when the new one is sent out.
Since your home address is on Heartstone, I imagine that’s the branch you’ll end up frequenting most. You can have requests sent there if the library doesn’t have it on its shelves.
” Then she proceeded to slide the slip of paper across the counter as if it was gold.
Smiling at her, Gabe accepted the temporary card. “Thank you.”
She turned away to help another visitor, but Gabe stayed put for a moment, staring down at the printout.
This piece of paper was one more thing that linked him to Heartstone.
To a permanent address. To Casey, to Elton, even Althea.
He never thought he’d cared before that he didn’t belong, but the funky twinge in his chest said otherwise.
Carefully, he tucked the card inside his wallet and returned to the task at hand.
A few older citizens were lingering around the kiosks, waiting for another silver-haired person to finish up on the public computer, so Gabe headed over to the Westfort and Pacific Northwest section at the back of the facility.
He had his cell phone with him, but the signal inside the library was crap and he didn’t feel like asking for the Wi-Fi password.
If he found anything useful, he’d have to take some pictures and follow up later.
What was he looking for anyway? Now there was a good question.
More Westfort High School yearbooks, to begin with.
He’d learned those were shelved at the library.
But he also wanted to search records regarding birth, death, land ownership, etcetera, and those were stored at the Twana Country Public Records Building, which was just a block west of where he was now.
The kind librarian had informed him that, while most records were also available digitally, “for vital records before 1981, you need to go in person.”
Maybe he hadn’t needed to drive all the way into Westfort to do this research, but Gabe was glad he had. Heidi had been from this town, or at least had lived here for a while, and it made him feel somehow closer to her.
What happened? Why did you leave?
Heidi’s trademark derisive sniff was almost audible.
He located the yearbooks and spent several minutes flipping through ones from before and after 1978 but didn’t learn anything new. The one Heidi had kept had been the last one where Holly Pritchard had been pictured. She’d been a junior, one year to graduation. What the hell had happened?
They knew she’d stayed in the region because she’d been drawn into Elton’s orbit soon after that time. And wasn’t that an incredibly lucky thing? Gabe felt oddly blessed.
With not much to show for his research, Gabe walked down the street to County Records.
Surely, he could at least discover Holly Pritchard’s date of birth and her mother’s and father’s names.
But Gabe struck out there too. Either Heidi hadn’t been born in Twana County, or she’d been born at home, and no records had been filed.
Nowadays, parents were required to file for a Social Security number within days of the birth of a child, but back then it was still possible to be born off the grid.
Frustrated and not sure where to turn next, Gabe stepped out County Records and into the now glitteringly bright spring afternoon sunshine. And then immediately regretted not waiting for his face to heal.
How else had Dirty Socks Randy recognized him?
“I’ve got you now.”
It was a man’s voice, one Gabe hadn’t recognized at first. Squinting, he looked around to see who the fuck was talking to whom.
Shit, was his second thought. There, a mere four feet away, at the top of the steps, was Randy Witherspoon.
The bozo whose house he’d entered in a not-so-legal way, as Casey insisted on reminding him, just two days ago.
Randy even wore the same clothes. Either that, or he had a closet full of matching hoodies and stained jeans.
Which was also likely.
“Is it my face?’ Gabe asked him, pointing to his forehead. “This mug brings all the boys to the yard.”
“You’re the fucker who was at my house!”
“How could you tell?” Gabe edged away from him and toward the opposite side of the staircase.
“I mean, maybe I’m talking out of school, but consider hiring a cleaning service to give you a hand.
Also, I had a key, so I didn’t break in, I unlocked the door.
But believe me, I have no plans on returning, so you can have it back.
” He stuck his hand in his jeans pocket.
“I don’t have it on me, but I’ll drop it in the mail. Don’t worry, I know the address.”
His new friend Randy made an inarticulate sound that Gabe quickly translated as very angry man wants to rip Gabe’s head off.
It was a sound he was familiar with. The guy lunged and Gabe scooted, managing to dodge Randy’s outstretched grabby hand.
For his part, Gabe darted to the right and careened down the records building’s stairs to street level without tripping and falling on his face.
He’d have given himself a small cheer, but that would’ve interrupted his momentum.
There was a scuffle and then a thump, and Gabe risked a glance over his shoulder. Randy had tripped and fallen but, unfortunately, did not appear hurt. Oh, to be that young again. Instead, Randy picked himself up and started after Gabe at a dead run.
Fuck.
It was another mild spring day, and Westfort was a destination town.
Sure, it was March and Wednesday, but people in the Pacific Northwest knew better than to waste a single ray of precious sunshine.
The sidewalks were not exactly crowded on Wednesdays in early March, but there was a significant number of pedestrians out and about.
“Just what I needed, a damn Weeble,” Gabe muttered as he swerved past a couple who emerged from the Pie Shop without checking for traffic.
“Hey!” one of them yelled. “Watch where you’re going!”
Gabe did not reply. They were lucky he had been doing exactly that.
Not wanting to lead Randy directly to where he’d parked his car, Gabe kept moving. When there was a break in the line of cars waiting to turn, park, or whatever, he cut across the street and between two red brick buildings.
One of the things Gabe appreciated about Westfort was how hard the city leaders had worked over the years to save the historic storefronts.
Original painted signage—Genuine Bull Durham Smoking Tobacco and Buhler Motor Company—were among many ghost signs still visible on the sides of buildings.
Also, like the “old days,” there were doors leading in, up, and out, even into the alleyways.
Many of the shops had more than one entrance, and one of those was Windward Kite Shop. And Gabe was friendly with the owner.
He dove into a handy alcove and pressed back into the shadows, hoping that his man Randy couldn’t see him and would keep on going, giving Gabe time to catch his breath. He also hoped that Randy had the sense to let bygones be bygones.
Considering Dirty Socks Randy’s behavior, chances were seventy-thirty.
If Randy did venture down the narrow alleyway, Gabe could step into the kite shop directly behind him. As soon as he had that thought, a shadowy figure wearing a hoodie paused on the sidewalk and peered down the breezeway.
“Hey, fucker!” Randy yelled. “I know you’re around here somewhere. I’m gonna find you.”
Well, dammit.
Randy stood still for a few seconds more, then started in Gabe’s direction.
Triple fuck.
Reaching back with one hand, Gabe pressed the door handle down, pushing in at the same time. Thank fuck the door opened inward. He heard the quiet jingle of a bell somewhere and slipped inside, softly closing the door behind him.