Left for Dead (13 page)

Sherita quickly grabbed the smock she’d worn to work today. Clutching it in front of her, she moved toward the top of the stairs and glanced down at the front hall. The light from the kitchen spilled into the foyer. At first, Sherita didn’t see anyone. Then a shadow swept across the hallway floor. She heard the floorboards creaking again.

“Owen, honey? Is that you?” she nervously called.

In response, she heard a muffled grunt.

She figured Owen was in a bad mood, or he had food in his mouth.

“Let’s order pizza, okay?” she yelled, heading back into the bedroom.

Sherita didn’t hear him answer, but then, Owen almost always said yes to pizza. She switched on the radio in her bedroom, and ducked back into the bedroom. Taking the towel off her head, she worked the blow-dryer over her damp hair for a couple of minutes.

Once she shut off the blow-dryer and put it away, Sherita could hear him again—past the music on the radio. He was coming up the stairs. She returned to the mirror, and put on some lipstick. The bathroom door was open. She saw him behind her—a blurred figure in the mirror. He’d just stepped into the bedroom.

She was too busy with her lipstick to focus on him.

“Think I’ll go with your basic no-frills cheese tonight,” she said, reaching for a Kleenex.

He stopped in the bathroom doorway.

Owen still had his jacket on. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The pizza,” Sherita explained, applying a bit of mascara to her eyes. “I’m going for plain cheese. What do you want on your half?”

“Oh, we’re ordering pizza tonight?” he asked.

“Duh, yeah.” She squinted at his reflection. He was taking off his jacket. “Didn’t you hear me earlier?” Sherita asked. “I said, ‘Let’s order pizza.’”

“Earlier?” Owen asked. “You mean, this morning?”

“No, just a few minutes ago. I called down to you.”

“You didn’t call down to me, baby.” He tossed his jacket on the bed. “I just got in. I heard the hair dryer and came upstairs.”

Slowly, Sherita turned toward him. “You mean, you weren’t in the kitchen earlier?”

Owen shook his head. “I just came in the front door a few seconds ago.” He caressed her arm with a cold hand. “Here, feel. It’s getting chilly out.”

Indeed, Sherita felt something. She felt her skin crawl.

When Owen and Sherita searched the town house, they discovered the back door open. Nothing was missing. But the contents of her purse had been spilled across the breakfast table. The wallet was untouched. But her address book was open to the “S” section.

“Whoever it was, he wasn’t looking for money,” Sherita murmured. She stared down at the address book.

“I’m calling the cops,” Owen announced, heading toward the phone. “First thing tomorrow, we’re getting you an alarm system, and I’m changing the locks.” He lifted the receiver, but hesitated before dialing. He frowned at Sherita. “If he wasn’t looking for money, what do you think he was after?”

“A name,” Sherita replied. “An address…”

She glanced down at the address book again—at the “S” page. Claire Shaw wasn’t listed among the names. But he’d been looking for her there.

Sherita knew he would probably keep looking until he found her.

A report to the Bellingham Police regarding a break-in at the home of Sherita Williams was taken by an operator at 8:53
P.M
.

Seven and a half hours later, and approximately 110 miles south of Bellingham, a phone call was made to the police in Auburn, Washington.

The call, logged in at 4:39
A.M
., was from Jim Korabik, an engineer with the Burlington Northern railroad night crew. He’d been in the engine of a grain train en route to a plant near Auburn. They were experiencing their third night in a row of rain. Parts of the ravine running parallel to the tracks had become like a swamp.

Visibility was poor, due to the early morning hour and the steady downpour. But Jim Korabik saw something, and another member of the train crew glimpsed it too.

They saw a man in a dark rain slicker. He was weaving through the bushes, the mud, and the tall reeds beside the tracks. Jim’s coworker claimed the man was carrying a dead deer. But Jim had done his share of hunting. And that was one hell of a strange way to haul a dead animal.

Except for the way he was staggering though the marsh, that shadowy figure almost resembled a groom carrying his bride over the threshold.

When the police operator pressed him, Jim admitted he didn’t get a good look at what the man was holding. “I’m not sure if it was an animal, a human being, or a bag of wet towels,” he told the woman on the phone. “I just know, that thing in his arms was dead.”

At 5:20 that morning, eight policemen wearing rain gear and boots, searched the ravine by the Burlington Northern tracks near Auburn. They discovered the nude body of Janice Dineen, twenty-seven. She had been missing approximately thirty-two hours. Her throat was slashed—just below a piece of jute that secured a plastic bag over her head. Mud and bits of leaves covered the blue-white corpse. But with that plastic bag, Rembrandt had preserved the work he’d done on his victim’s face and hair.

In a strange way, the dead woman almost looked pretty.

Linda and Ron Castle didn’t come with Harlan to the hospital. According to Harlan, the Castles had to go to Everett, and see Linda’s mother, who was in a nursing home there.

“You know, she has Alzheimer’s,” Harlan explained. “They had problems with her last night. Anyway, Linda feels bad they couldn’t come today.”

Dressed in a blue blouse and khakis, Claire was throwing some of her things in the suitcase, which lay open on the bed. “Is that the truth?” she asked. “Or is this ‘sick mom’ excuse just another cover story?” Claire shut the suitcase and locked it. “Ever since I called Linda a liar three days ago, she’s been incommunicado.”

“Her mother’s really sick,” Harlan said. “And yeah, Linda was hurt. She’s been a good friend to both of us, Claire, and all she gets from you is suspicion and sarcasm.”

“Is that a quote from Linda?” She sat down in the wheelchair.

“Sweetheart, if it weren’t for Linda and Ron, I would have gone nuts the last two weeks. And that’s all I’ll say on the topic.” He grabbed her suitcase and moved it to the door. Then he peeked down the hallway. “I don’t see why they have to wheel you out. You can walk on your own. Where’s that damn nurse anyway?”

“That
damn nurse
is my friend,” Claire said, frowning.

“All right, all right, so you’ve pointed out on several occasions.” He patted her shoulder, then sat down on the bed. “Boy-oh-boy, you aren’t even home yet, and already we’re fighting. This isn’t a good sign.”

“Sorry,” Claire muttered. The truth was, she’d hoped against hope that Brian would have returned home before her. Now that she realized it wasn’t going to happen, she was in a foul mood. And she wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to Deception Island today.

Harlan was on edge too. They’d given him the news this morning, and he’d passed it on to Claire: the police had found Janice Dineen’s body. The police weren’t sure if it meant Rembrandt was moving on—or perhaps getting closer to Claire. They didn’t think it was a bad idea that Harlan was taking her home.

Harlan was right. It seemed like forever, waiting for Sherita to arrive with the hospital release forms.

When she finally breezed in and handed the folder to Harlan, she told him. “After you see the bill, I’ll have to wheel
you
out of here. Hah, that’s my standard joke. Usually gets a laugh.”

“Not this time, I guess,” Claire said, sighing.

Frowning, Harlan was looking over the documents.

Claire remembered something Brian had said about her husband:
“He’s not the zaniest guy in the world, is he?”

He carried the suitcase as Sherita wheeled her down the corridor. Tess was waiting in the hallway for them. She was wearing her kimono, and brandishing a bottle of champagne for them. “Here, I paid one of the orderlies to smuggle this in for me.” She handed Harlan the bottle. “Pop it open when you get home, and raise a glass for me.”

Tess rode down on the elevator with them. They had to take Claire out a side door. News of Janice Dineen had reached the press. So a mob of reporters had gathered outside the hospital’s front entrance.

While Harlan fetched the car, Claire reluctantly said her good-byes to Sherita and Tess. Claire felt good standing outside, breathing fresh air again. But she loathed leaving her friends. By the time Harlan pulled up beside them with the car, all three women were crying and hugging each other. Claire climbed into the passenger seat, and rolled down her window.

“Don’t forget,” Tess said, clutching her hand. “We have a date to go shopping in Bellingham just as soon as I get out of here, day after tomorrow.”

Claire nodded and blew them each a kiss.

She was still teary-eyed as they pulled out of the hospital lot. “I’m such an idiot not to have brought along Kleenex for the trip,” she muttered.

At the first red light, Harlan handed her his handkerchief. “Thanks, sweetheart,” Claire said, wiping her eyes.

The light changed, and they started moving again. Harlan stared at the road ahead. “Your friend in the kimono, what’s-her-name, she—”

“Tess?”

“Yeah. She mentioned a shopping trip the day after tomorrow. What’s that about?”

Claire dabbed her eyes again. She didn’t want to tell Harlan about her plans to hire a private detective to find Brian. Harlan hadn’t done a very good job trying to locate her son, but of course, he didn’t see things that way. She figured he’d try to talk her out of it.

“Oh, Tess wants me to go shopping with her in Bellingham, that’s all.” Claire glanced out the passenger window. They were headed toward the freeway on-ramp. “She’s been wearing maternity clothes the last few months, and she needs some new things. I told her I’d come along. I figured—”

“The day after tomorrow?” Harlan cut in. “No, that’s not a good idea.”

Claire stared at him. “What do you mean?”

He merged onto the Interstate. “I don’t want you leaving the island for a while,” he said. “After what happened to you, I thought the last thing you’d want to do was go on another shopping trip with another girlfriend. I figured you’d just want to stay put.”

“Well, I don’t want to stay put,” Claire replied. “And I don’t remember the other shopping trip. It might do me some good to get out for the day. I want to do this, Harlan.”

“I won’t allow it,” he said, eyes on the road. “It’s too dangerous. As long as this psychopath is out there, I don’t want you leaving the island. You shouldn’t go off anywhere on your own. It’s asking for trouble.”

Claire frowned. “Harlan, you can’t hold me prisoner on this island. You’ll have to allow—”

“You’ll do what I tell you,” he interrupted. “That’s it. End of discussion, okay? Tell your girlfriend in the kimono that you’ll have to take a rain check. She’ll understand. You’re not taking any chances, Claire.”

She took a couple of deep breaths and gazed at the freeway traffic. She said nothing.

“This Rembrandt task force is planting a couple of their men on the island,” Harlan continued. “You’ll be safe there, that is if someone new is handling things, and not that cocky asshole in charge of hospital security. Huh, you should have seen that guy, goofing off at his desk while that murderer was roaming around the hospital. When I think of that poor girl in the flower shop…” Harlan shook his head. “Well, I’d like to wring that weasely cop’s neck all over again.”

Lieutenant Elmore shoved a piece of paper across his desk. “That’s the ferry schedule,” he said. “The last one leaves Anacortes for Deception Island at 8:50 tonight. Be on it. Claire Shaw is homeward bound as we speak. You and Al Sparling will stay on the island, babysitting duty. Might be a few weeks, so pack accordingly.”

Tim Sullivan shifted in the chair facing Lieutenant Elmore’s desk. He tapped his foot nervously. “I don’t mean to second guess you, Lieutenant,” he said. “But am I really the best guy for that job? Claire Shaw’s husband hates my guts. You were there when the guy practically took my head off.” Tim Sullivan frowned at his superior. “Mr. Shaw got some bad information, and he’s under the
delusion
that I’m in charge of hospital security.”

The younger cop’s words hung in the air for a moment. Elmore didn’t say anything.

Finally, Tim cleared his throat and shifted in the chair again. “Anyway, I’d just as soon give Mr. Shaw a wide berth. I don’t think he wants me on that island either. Couldn’t someone else go with Al?”

Hands behind his head, Elmore leaned back in his chair. “Most of the other guys on the team have families. You and Al are single. It won’t matter if you’re not home for a few weeks.”

“It’ll matter to me,” Tim muttered.

Lieutenant Elmore leaned forward, his eyes narrowed at him. “Gosh, I’m sorry, Sullivan,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is this inconveniencing you in any way? Maybe we should draft a letter to Rembrandt and tell him to stop murdering women, because it’s kind of putting a crimp in your lifestyle.”

He reached for his coffee mug, and sipped his coffee. “Shit, cold,” he grunted. He gave Tim a weary sidelong glance and shook his head. “Y’know, you’re smarter than most of the other guys around here. You have more on the ball. All the reports you’ve turned in have been fine, well written, very detailed. You’re a great desk-jockey, Sullivan. They told me that about you when you were assigned to this task force. They also warned me that you’re a quirky son of a bitch, very aloof, not a team player. You’re a snob, Sullivan. You never hang out with the others. You could learn a lot from them too. But you don’t want to go the extra mile.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Tim said. “But from the minute I clock in every morning until I leave, I’m on the phone or digging through mail with all these leads—most of them crackpots. Then I’m writing up reports at home—usually past midnight. I don’t exactly have a lot of time to hang out with the guys and bullshit.”

“Well, then,” Elmore said, stone-faced. “This babysitting job on a quiet, little island is just the break you need, isn’t it?” He nodded at the timetable in the younger cop’s hand. “The last ferry for Deception is at eight-fifty
P.M
.”

“Are you okay there, Claire? I can carry you, if you want.”

“Oh, how gallant!” she said, with a little laugh. “No, I’m all right. But thank you, Walt.”

Claire stepped down from the pier onto Walter Binns’s Chris-Craft yacht. Harlan followed with the suitcases.

Harlan had used a company vehicle to pick up Claire at the hospital. Chemtech had three cars at the Anacortes dock for business use on the mainland. As the chemical plant’s manager, Harlan got away with utilizing the cars for personal errands.

Harlan’s best friend, Walter Binns, had volunteered to take them home on his boat. Walter had also put in several years at Chemtech, but he’d retired early after inheriting a quarter of a million dollars from his father. There was another inheritance—sixty thousand dollars—when Walter’s wife, Tracy, died. She’d been best friends with Harlan’s first wife, Angela. They’d died together in an auto accident, driving home from a sorority sister’s wedding in Portland.

Apparently, the whole gang had attended the wedding: Ron and Linda, Harlan and Angela, and Walter and Tracy. Four of them had flown down, but Walt and Tracy had driven to Portland in the merlot Mazda Miata convertible he’d just given Tracy for her thirty-fourth birthday. After the wedding, Tracy and Angela had decided to stay on an extra day and drive back together. They’d never even made it out of Oregon. With Tracy at the wheel, they’d slammed into the back of a Pepsi truck on the Interstate.

The way Claire heard it, Linda Castle looked after both widowers for several months, taking on their household chores and cooking for them. Claire imagined Harlan and Walter choking on Linda’s godawful casseroles. There was still a magnet on Harlan’s refrigerator, showing a cat dangling from a rope ladder, and it said,
“Hang in There!”
That was something from Linda—along with
“Footprints in the Sand,”
which she’d copied on parchment paper with a calligraphy pen, then framed. Never mind the misspellings
(“That was when I caried you…”),
it was still hanging in Harlan’s breakfast nook. In fact, when she first moved into Harlan’s house, Claire felt as if she were taking over Linda’s kitchen, not Angela’s.

She figured Linda absolutely relished playing part-time wife to Harlan and Walt. After all, both widowers were very handsome men she’d known most of her life: Harlan with his chiseled features, and salt and pepper hair; and Walt, lean, and still boyishly cute with curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a endearingly crooked smile. And there was Linda, married to a guy who looked like Bob of Bob’s Big Boy.

Linda still had a key to Walt’s house, and insisted that he come over to dinner at least once a week. Perhaps that was why Walt spent so much of his time sailing, or working with The Guardians, a local civic men’s group that did good deeds for the community.

Ron was also a Guardian. Harlan did work for them too, but he wasn’t an official Guardian yet. They helped establish parks on the island, coached little leagues, oversaw teen centers and art fairs, and provided funding for local families who had fallen on hard times. The Guardians threw a pancake breakfast for the community every other month.

When Claire had first come to the island, she’d hoped to start painting again. She’d imagined selling her work at the harbor art fairs and craft shows. She’d also been very optimistic about Brian turning his life around. The Guardians sponsored all those activities for local teenagers: whale-watching expeditions, kayaking, camping, and sports activities. With Harlan as a father-figure role model, and The Guardians keeping Brian busy, Claire had hoped her son would stay out of trouble on Deception Island.

Now, as she boarded Walt’s yacht to sail back there, she felt such an aching emptiness inside her. Deception Island was 34.9 square miles, with a population of 3,100. If Brian was on the island, someone would have spotted him. Claire was heading home—to what seemed like an empty nest.

The smell of fish and salt water filled the air, and gulls swarmed overhead. Claire settled below in the cabin. At Walt’s urging, she sat with her feet up on the built-in sofa. He set her bags in the bedroom. Up on the deck, Harlan was an adept first mate, untying the mooring lines and getting the boat ready.

Before going topside to join his friend, Walt paused at the step-ladder stairs to the deck. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital,” he said. “I wanted to come, but Harlan said you weren’t up to having visitors. Did Linda bring you the flowers I gave her?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, thanks, Walt. You’re very sweet.”

And he was, staring back at her with those brown eyes and that sheepish look. Claire wondered if he would be a good match for Tess. In that Irish knit sweater he wore, he could have passed as a Kennedy.

Walt sighed. “I was so sorry to hear about the mugging. I hope they get the guy.”

She grimaced a bit. “Um, Walt, I guess they didn’t tell you. They should have though. You’re Harlan’s best friend.”

He squinted at her. “Tell me what?”