Secrets and Lies. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
his shoulder and through the window, as if staring at the hills in the distance, but Thomas knew she wasn’t seeing anything other than her own vision of the future and that the vision frightened her to her very bones. He felt her fingers tremble in his hands, saw her swallow as if in fear.
“He’s a coward. A murdering, low-life coward,” she said, her voice cracking. “But he’ll be back. Because of her.” With a strength he wouldn’t have believed she possessed, she crumpled the newspaper in her fist and blinked against the tears that she’d held at bay for over a decade.
“He’s in New York,” Thomas assured her, and they both knew that Thomas had kept track of Jackson Moore ever since he’d left Gold Creek. There were reasons to keep track of him, reasons Thomas and his wife never discussed. “He won’t come back.”
But Thomas was lying. With a certainty as cold as the bottom of Whitefire Lake, Thomas knew that Jackson Moore would return.
* * *
THE HEAT OF THE DAY STILL simmered in the city and the air was sultry and humid, a cloying blanket that caused sweat to rise beneath collar and cuffs. Even the breath of wind slipping across the East River didn’t bring much relief through the open window of Jackson Moore’s Manhattan apartment.
He rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck, then poured Scotch over two cubes of ice in his glass and sat on the window ledge. The air-conditioning was on the fritz again, and his apartment sweltered while dusk settled over the concrete-and-steel alleys of the city.
As he had for the past six summers since he’d started working, he wondered why he didn’t pack his bags and move on. New York held no fascination for him—well, nothing much did. He’d spent too many years chasing after a demon who probably had never existed, before giving up on his past and settling here in this city of broken dreams.
“Keep it up, Moore, and you’ll break my heart,” he told himself as he swirled his drink, letting the cubes melt as condensation covered the exterior of the glass. He didn’t have it so bad. Not really. His apartment was big enough for one, maybe two, should the need arise, and he did have a view of the park.
By all accounts he was a rich man. Not a millionaire, but close enough. Pretty damn good for a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, he thought reflectively, a kid once considered the bad boy of a sleepy little Northern California town. Not that it mattered much. He tossed back his drink and felt the fiery warmth of the liquor mingle with the frigid ice as the liquid splashed against the back of his throat. A nice little zing. A zing he was beginning to enjoy too much.
He flipped through the mail. Bills, invoices and yet another big win in a clearing-house drawing where he would become an instant millionaire—all he had to do was take a chance. He snorted. He’d been taking chances all his life. The afternoon edition of the New York Daily was folded neatly under the stack of crisp envelopes and, as he had every Saturday since her syndicated column had appeared, he opened the paper to Section D, and there, under the small byline of Rachelle Tremont, was her article—if you could call it that. Her weekly exposés were little more than expressions of her own opinions about life in general—or her latest pet peeve of the week, usually on the side of someone she thought had been wronged. Not exactly hard-core journalism. Not exactly his cup of tea. Why he tortured himself by reading her column and reminding himself of her week after week, he didn’t bother to analyze; if he did he’d probably end up on the couch of an expensive shrink. But each Friday evening, when the Saturday edition was left near his door, he poured himself a drink and allowed himself the pleasure and pain of tripping down memory lane. “Idiot,” he muttered, and his voice bounced off the walls of his empty apartment.
He leaned a hip against the table and read the headline. Back to Gold Creek. Distractedly he read the editor’s note that followed, indicating that the column would be written from good ol’ Gold Creek, California, for the next ten weeks while Rachelle returned home to examine the small town where she’d grown up and compare that small-minded little village now to what it had been when she’d lived there.
Jackson sucked in a disbelieving breath. His gut jerked hard against his diaphragm. Was that woman out of her mind? She was always too inquisitive for her own good—too trusting to have much common sense, but he’d given her credit for more brains than this!
A small trickle of sweat collected at the base of his skull as he thought of Rachelle as he’d found her that night in the gazebo, drenched from the rain, her long hair wet and soaked against bare skin where her blouse had been torn. A metallic taste crawled up the back of his throat as he remembered how frightened she’d been, how desperate she’d felt in his arms and how he, himself, had unwittingly used her.
So now she was going back? To all that pain? He’d never thought her a fool—well, maybe once before. But this—this journey back in time was a fool’s mission—a mission he’d inadvertently caused all those years ago.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute and refused to dwell on all the pain that he’d created, how he’d single-handedly nearly destroyed her.
So what was this—some sort of catharsis? For her? Or for him?
The demons of his past had never been laid to rest; he’d known that, and he’d accepted it. But whenever they’d risen their grisly heads, he’d managed to tamp them back into a dark, cobwebby corner of his mind and lock them securely away. And time, thankfully, had been his ally.
But no longer. If Rachelle tried to turn back the clock and expose that hellhole of a town for what it really was, if she attempted to tear open the seams of the shroud that had hidden the town’s darkest secrets, the questions surrounding Roy Fitzpatrick’s death would surface again. Jackson’s name would surely come up and the real murderer—whoever the hell he was—might reappear.
What a mess!
He tossed his paper on the table and swore as he began pacing in front of the open window. His muscles tense, his mind working with the precision that had gained him a reputation at the courthouse, for he’d been known to become obsessed with his cases, living them day and night, he considered his options.
Until now, he’d managed to keep his past to himself. However, things had changed. It looked as if, through Rachelle’s column in the Daily and a dozen other newspapers across the country, that the whole world would find out how he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and left his hometown all but accused of murder.
“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, glancing at the half-full bottle of Scotch on the bar. He plowed both sets of fingers through his sweaty hair and his thoughts took another turn. Not that it really mattered. His life was open. He’d been raised by a poor mother, gotten into trouble in high school and had shipped out with the navy. Eventually he’d gone back to Gold Creek, made a little money and had been accused of murder.
That’s when he’d left. And along with the government’s help and the money he earned working nights as a security guard, he’d made it through college and law school. He’d been hell-bent to prove to that damned town that he wasn’t just their whipping boy, that he had what it took to become successful. And every time a news camera captured him on film, he hoped all the souls in Gold Creek who had condemned him, could see that the bad boy had made good. Damned good.
He’d never wanted to go back. Until now. Because of Rachelle. Damn her for sticking her pretty neck out.
If he returned to Gold Creek, he’d have some explaining to do. Rachelle, no doubt, hated him.
Not that he blamed her. She had every reason to be bitter. From her point of view he’d used her, then left her to fight the battles—his battles—alone. He snorted in self-derision.
Yanking on his tie and loosening the top button of his shirt, he thought about the town where he’d been sired.
Gold Creek. A small town filled with small minds. No wonder he ended up here, where a person could be as anonymous as he wanted, one man in seven million.
He scanned the article one last time and noted that she’d written it while