Cherry Two

Part 37

Chapter 35

Sonia wandered through the open door of the study as Keenan sat motionless, deep in thought. She could tell right off something monumental had just happened by the glum expression etched in his face.

She went around the desk and stood over him, almost dreading what he might say—words spilling from his mouth that could change everything because of lies established at a time of great trauma. Trauma that impacted not only her life. These were the big lies, perpetuated for decades, extending out across continents.

"I could hear you talking." Tension crackled in her voice.

He exhaled slowly with eyes tight closed. "To your father. Alain knows, darlin'. Before you jump, I don't think it was Bob's fault."

Sonia sank to her knees beside his chair and rested her head on his lap. To her amazement the earlier crying episode didn't resume. Keenan ran his fingers through his wife's hair.

"We took a risk bringing Calley here, but I never thought it would happen this way," she muttered with a hand to her mouth. "It's a day I always dreaded, but not like this. I've lost Kent and now Alain, because I lied to him all his life. I'm no better than my father. What do we say to him, Keenan? And what the hell do we say to James?"

Keenan stood, hauled Sonia to her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Tonight—nothing. Let it be. We all need to calm down. Alain and Calley will be back home by tomorrow evening. Alain won't blame you for holding back on the truth, trust me, he's a better man than that. I know my son."

Still dry-eyed, Sonia looked up as Keenan placed the emphasis on the word my. Keenan seldom displayed high emotion. He seemed able to cope with upheaval in a way Sonia could never match, the recent Kent debacle being a perfect example. He was right: this night would be painful and restless, but a breathing space they all should take.

***

Chuck "Smokey" Bearden's shift ended at 5:00 A.M., generally a solid nine hours of boredom. None of the city patrol had reported seeing a speck of Marty Growe or his unmarked cruiser. Bearden glanced at the wall clock and sighed. Twelve-thirty.

The dumb bastard would be shacked up with some broad for the night, no doubt with an implausible cover story already concocted inside his head. Marty was breaking all the rules on this one and heading for a tough suspension if Captain Hollander got wind.

Minutes later an incoming Seattle call requesting Detective Corporal Marty Growe got redirected to Chuck's desk. Lethargically he picked up the phone.

"Detective Growe is unavailable. This is Sergeant Bearden. Can I be of assistance?"

"Er, yes, I hope so. I'm Terry Wolanchuk of The Paladin Group. We're a private investigation company out of Seattle. I'd already contacted Detective Growe concerning a missing person, but it's been several hours..."

The conversation only lasted a minute. This didn't sound right and sent a cold chill into Bearden's empty stomach. Something had happened at this farmhouse in White's Creek that had nothing to do with Marty Growe's rampant hormones. Bearden immediately issued an alert.

Inside the Port Angeles night patrol cars the radios sounded off with the dispatcher's urgent voice. "All available units: a ten-seventy-eight in the vicinity of White's Creek. Use caution. Possible officer down."

Three city cars responded at speed with flashing lights and sirens blaring. Within minutes they had covered the four miles of 101 and wallowed up the rural road to converge on the Benson farmhouse.