Left for Dead (30 page)

For now, she would treat herself, little rewards to make it through each day. Yesterday, she got a pedicure. Later today, her friend Mary Lou would be passing through from Vancouver on her way back to Seattle. They’d planned on having dinner together, like old times. Tuesday, she hoped to see Claire. And to cover her ass so she wasn’t alone on Thanksgiving, she’d already volunteered to help serve up turkey dinner at the Homeless Shelter.

At the moment, Tess had her Italian Roast coffee, chocolate chip muffin, and
New York Times.
She carefully unloaded them from her car. It was going to be a long, leisurely, self-indulgent morning before she started cleaning up for Mary Lou.

She unlocked the kitchen door, then carried in her paper, coffee, and muffin. She set everything on the kitchen table. Her morning of leisure needed music, so she went into the living room and popped an Enya CD into the player. Tess kicked off her shoes, sat down at the kitchen table and took the lid off her Italian roast.

Past Enya, she thought she heard a muffled humming noise somewhere in the house. It seemed to come from the first floor—or maybe the basement.

Tess got to her feet. Suddenly, she heard a buzzer go off. After a moment, she realized it was the clothes dryer in the basement. She hadn’t done any laundry this morning.

Tess moved toward the basement stairs. “That’s the damn-dest thing,” she muttered. She wondered if the dryer had been doing that off and on while she’d been gone.

The buzzer stopped—so did the humming noise.

She switched on the light at the top of the stairs. Parts of the house were still a bit strange to her, and the cellar was one of them. She hadn’t done anything to it yet, except store some boxes down there, and hook up the washer and dryer. Not much light came through the small windows, which were five feet above the cement floor. The walls were painted a dingy beige color. Exposed pipes and a few too many cobwebs hung overhead.

Tess took a deep breath, and started down the creaky wooden staircase. Past the bannister, she could see the washer, dryer, and laundry sink. The dryer’s operator panel was illuminated.

Tess hesitated halfway down the stairs. On top of the washer machine, she saw several footprints. She looked up at the small window above the washer and dryer. The glass was broken, and the frame was stuck out slightly. Whoever had crawled through hadn’t shut it all the way.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. For a second, Tess couldn’t breathe. Her hand gripped the bannister. She just kept gazing down at the basement.

His footprints were all over the cement floor.

Tess swiveled around and started to race up the stairs.

All at once, the light went out. She was swallowed in darkness. Tess could only see a light ahead—from the kitchen doorway at the top of the steps.

Then he stepped into that doorway, blocking her path. She could only see his silhouette. “Hello, Tess,” he whispered.

She stopped dead. She still couldn’t see his face in the shadows. But she recognized his voice.

“Don’t you remember me, Tess?” he asked in gentle tone. “Don’t you remember me from the hospital?”

Thirteen-year-old Amy Herrmann wasn’t a bad artist. Some of her pencil drawings were copied from punk rock CD covers. A couple of her original sketches showed dead angels—seminude young men with wings—shot down and pierced with arrows. Amy had used a red pencil for the blood. The drawings were crude, but disturbing.

“You’re very good,” Claire said. “I mean it.”

Fiddling with the magenta strand of her brown hair, Amy sat at the desk, guarding her art work. Her classmates were ignoring her. With the gothic makeup around her brown eyes, Amy gave Claire a wary look. She snapped her gum, and kept twirling her hair around her finger.

“Where’s your mom?” Claire asked.

“She’s not here,” Amy muttered. “She dropped me off.”

Claire glanced at the sketches again. “These certainly don’t look like they were done by an eighth-grader. Then again, I remember Brian saying you were one of the
oldest
thirteen-year-olds he’d ever met. I think he meant that as a compliment.” She turned and stared into those overly made-up eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know where he is, don’t you, Amy?”

The girl let out a stunned, little laugh, then she glanced to her left and right. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” she said, her lip curled. “You gotta be crazy. You should go back to the hospital.”

“Brian was a good friend to your brother,” Claire whispered. “Even when Derek didn’t deserve it. He was pretty nice to you too, wasn’t he, Amy? You liked him, didn’t you?”

Amy shrugged. “He was okay, I guess,” she muttered. But tears started to well in her eyes.

“Where is he, Amy?” Claire asked quietly. “Where’s Brian? And where’s your brother?”

“Shit.” Her head down, Amy wiped her eyes. “Not here,” she said under her breath. “I—I’ll meet you on the stage, behind the curtains. Five minutes. Now get the fuck out of here, Mrs. Shaw.”

Claire turned away, then browsed a couple of other eighth-grade art exhibits. Linda came up to her side.

“What
ever
were you talking about with that little freak?” she asked.

“I just wanted her to know that I said a Special Intention for Derek at mass today,” Claire answered, trying to look interested in some watercolors.

Frowning, Linda sighed. “And what did she say to that?”

“She said,
‘So frigging what?’”
Claire shrugged. “Or at least, that’s the PG-version of it.”

“Yes, quite the mouth on that little brat.” Linda shook her head. “I’m telling you, she’s no better than her older brother. She’ll end up just like him.”

Claire turned to her. “You mean, in Europe?”

Linda seemed stumped for a second, then she put on a phony smile. “No, I mean, she’ll end up getting into trouble all the time. Did you see her art work? Talk about psycho.”

“Well, it’s provocative,” Claire replied with a shrug. She glanced back, and saw Amy had left her exhibit desk. “Listen, I need to phone home, and check my messages,” Claire said. “I’m expecting a couple of calls.”

She stepped away before Linda had a chance to respond. Claire headed toward the stage—at one end of the gymnasium. Beside the raised platform and heavy, red curtain was the stage door. But she didn’t want anyone following her in there.

She’d helped with a couple of Tiffany’s pageants, and knew the layout. Claire hurried out to the hallway, and walked around the corridor, where there was a janitor’s closet and a second door. It was the door backstage, and it wasn’t locked.

Claire ducked through the doorway, then climbed up a short flight of stairs. Her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. A slice of light peeked through a line where the heavy curtains didn’t quite meet. On the other side of those curtains, the chatter from the mothers and daughters seemed to echo through the gym.

Someone must have had a meeting on the stage recently, because eight folding chairs had been arranged in a semicircle, with one chair facing them. Her head down, Amy Herrmann sat alone in the dark, in a chair at the end of the semicircle.

Claire took the lone folding chair, opposite her. “Derek isn’t backpacking through Europe, is he?” she said.

“That’s where my parents say he is,” Amy murmured. She stared down at the stage floor and snapped her gum. “Only they’re fucking liars.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my brother never said shit to me about a trip to Europe. All of the sudden he’s gone, and that’s the story I got. I looked at my mom and dad’s checkbook. They didn’t take out any money for him, not a goddamn dime. And Christ knows, Derek never had much cash. Last week, they gave away most of his stuff to charity.” Her eyes welled up with tears again. “They wouldn’t even let me keep some stuff of his that I wanted.”

“What do you think happened to your brother?” Claire asked.

“He’s dead,” Amy whispered. “They killed him. My mom and dad aren’t saying anything, because they’re scared. They’re ashamed Derek was always getting into trouble. He pissed a lot of people off.”

Claire moved over to Amy, then sat in the folding chair beside her. “Who killed him?” she asked, a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “How?”

“Why don’t you ask your husband?” Amy sneered. “Or maybe your girlfriend with the stick up her butt? They know.”

“I’ve asked them,” Claire replied. “We’re in the same boat, Amy. All I’m getting are lies. They’re telling me that my son ran away the same night Derek disappeared. Do you know what really happened to him?”

“Brian ran away?” Amy let out a sad little laugh, then stood up. “For my money, he and Derek got about as far as Silverwater Creek. I don’t think either one of them ever made it off this fucking island. Brian’s dead.”

Shaking her head, Claire stared up at her.

“I gotta go now, Mrs. Shaw. I’m really sorry about Brian. If you have any more questions, talk to your husband and your gal pal. And you can tell them for me, I hope they die and rot in hell.”

Amy Herrmann hurried toward the door backstage. She disappeared in the shadows.

Claire closed her eyes, then heard the stage door slam. She bent forward. It felt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. That tough-talking little girl didn’t tell her anything she hadn’t already suspected. Yet hearing actually someone say those words devastated her.
Brian’s dead.

“Well, it’s an interesting theory, Tim,” Dr. Moorehead said, sitting on the edge of his desk.

“I know it’s a stretch,” Tim admitted. “But it’s all I have to go on for now.”

He’d phoned Linus Moorehead from the police station, and left a message. Within fifteen minutes, Dr. Moorehead had called back, saying he’d meet him at his counseling office.

Tim had expected the stereotypical old professor of psychology, a hunched over, bespectacled, white-haired Freud knockoff. After all, the guy’s name was
Linus.

He was surprised when a sandy-haired man with a goatee hopped out of his BMW near the office entry by a florist. He wore a sweatshirt and khakis, and gave Tim a hearty handshake.

Tim had also expected very little cooperation from the psychologist. Once he explained his theory that Rembrandt may have spent time on Moorehead’s couch, Tim figured the good doctor would balk, then give him a lecture on doctor-client privilege.

Instead, Moorehead asked him to sit down, and offered him a bottle of Evian water from a small refrigerator by the file cabinet. Then he listened intently as Tim told him about Nancy Killabrew Hart, Claire’s stalker, and the various attempts on his life.

“I wouldn’t say it’s so much of a stretch,” Moorehead finally said. “But there are a few ‘assumings.’ You’re assuming Rembrandt is on this island. You’re assuming he might have gotten himself into some trouble while here, and I counseled him. Finally, you’re assuming I’ve kept records on everyone I’ve seen since starting work here nine years ago.” He sipped his Evian water and smiled. “On the last one, Tim, you assumed right. If I saw him, I’ll still have the file.”

He sighed. “This is a small island, but I’ve provided therapy to hundreds of people in the last nine years. It’s a rather formidable task you’re setting up for me.”

“If it’s any help,” Tim said. “The Rembrandt task force has him as a white male, single, between the ages of twenty-five and forty. He lives alone…”

The doctor laughed. “That could be me.”

Tim shrugged. “Me too. Listen, I’d be willing to look through some of the files with you—if you’ll let me. Rembrandt could be one of the teenagers you saw in your first few years here. He might have been showing symptoms back then. He might have a history of abuse in his family—like the Davalos brothers. You counseled them, didn’t you?”

Moorehead frowned a little. “How did hear about the Davalos brothers?”

“Claire mentioned them to me. I was looking at their police records just now. Either one of those boys—if they weren’t dead—would be a perfect candidate for Rembrandt.”

Dr, Moorehead nodded soberly. “So we’re looking for someone with a history of violence, possibly retarded sexual development…”

“That’s right,” Tim agreed. He couldn’t believe Moorehead seemed so willing to work with him on this. He had to keep his enthusiasm in check. “Rembrandt’s probably a voyeur. We know he stalks his victims. Barbara Tuttle, the second victim, told friends that she thought someone had been following her. That was two weeks before they found her in a garbage dump.

“So when Rembrandt came to you—or
if
he came to you, he might have been in trouble for voyeurism, you know, Peeping Tom stuff. It’s not unusual with serial killers. As a teenager, Ted Bundy used to sneak out at night and watch women undress in their windows. Once he disabled a woman’s car, just so he could watch her while she was stranded and vulnerable.”

“Sounds like a few of the ones I’ve had in here,” Moorehead said pensively. “I’ll look into some of the sadists too, the dog and cat killers. Any other tips from the Rembrandt task force?”

“Yes. It sounds weird, but try shoplifters too. Rembrandt steals these women and makes them his. He seems to get a real thrill from almost getting caught, and teasing the police. It’s like a game with him.”

Tim listened to himself spouting off like an expert on Rembrandt. Among his coworkers on the force he felt as if he didn’t know a damn thing. Suddenly, he was tapping into everything he’d read and heard while behind that desk in the office. Maybe all he needed was someone to take him seriously.

“This might be a long shot, But I think it’s worth taking—if we can save a life.”

Moorehead smiled. “Looks like I have my work cut out for me,” he said. “I better get started right now.”

Tim sat up in the chair. “Can I help?”

The doctor shook his head. “Not right now. If I work through most of the night, I’ll be finished sometime tomorrow afternoon.” Moorehead climbed off his desk. “Now, scram. I have a lot of work to do. I need to call Fork In The Road and order lunch with extra coffee, then start digging into that file cabinet. Call you tomorrow, Tim.”