Left for Dead (31 page)

Tim shook his hand. “Listen, I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

Moorehead slapped him on the shoulder. “No sweat,” he said, leading him to the door.

Tim thanked him again, then headed out.

Letting out a long sigh, Moorehead glanced toward his file cabinet. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed.

“Hi, it’s Linus Moorehead,” he said into the phone. “I’m calling from my office…. Yeah, I have an order for you…You listening? Good. I want this cop dead within twenty-four hours. No screw ups this time. The son of a bitch was just in here asking about the Davalos family, for Christ’s sakes. Claire Shaw told him. We need to do something about her too—but fast. She’s starting to remember things…”

“What in the world has gotten into you today, Claire?” Linda said, taking her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her. “You look positively catatonic. I mean it.”

Claire kept her fist against her mouth. She was trembling with rage. For weeks now, she’d tolerated Linda’s lies, because a part of her still wanted to believe it was true that Brian had run away on his own. At least, then it meant he was all right.

But an eighth-grader with a dock-worker’s vocabulary had given her a wake-up call. Derek and Brian were dead. Her husband and “friend” weren’t just covering it up either. They’d played a part in those deaths.

Now Claire couldn’t even look at Linda, she was so full of utter contempt for her. It made her sick to be in the car with her.

“Are you okay?” Linda asked, hands on the wheel. “Claire?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered evenly. “I just need to get home. She couldn’t say anything with Tiffany in the back seat. Biting down on her lip, Claire stared straight ahead. They rode in silence until Linda turned down the cul de sac.

“Huh, I don’t see Harlan’s car in the driveway,” Linda announced. “He must still be at work. Well, don’t worry. I’ll keep you company.”

“No thank you,” Claire said.

“Nonsense!” Linda replied, pulling into the driveway. “Especially if you’re not feeling well, Claire. Plus Harlan would absolutely strangle me if I left you two alone.”

The car came to a stop. Claire swallowed hard. “Tiffany, honey,” she said. “Could you go wait by the front door? I’ll take in whatever paintings you can’t carry.”

“Okay,” Tiffany said, opening the back door. “I think I got’m all.”

“Good girl,” Claire said, staring forward.

“Claire, what in God’s name is wrong with you?” Linda whispered. She turned off the car.

“My son is dead,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I know he is,” Claire muttered, tears welling in her eyes. “I know, Linda. So quit lying to me, goddamn it. I’m sick of your lies.”

Linda let out a stunned laugh. “Listen, you’re wrong, Claire. I’m coming in, and we’re having a nice little talk—”

“I’m through talking with you.” Claire opened the car door, climbed outside, then slammed it shut. “And you’re not setting foot inside the house,” she said through the open window. She was trembling.

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Claire…” Linda started to open her door.

“No, Linda,” she said evenly. “I swear. If you get out of that car, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Linda froze, then stared at her, wide-eyed.

Claire glared back at her.

“I—I—” Linda shook her head. She quickly closed the door, then fumbled for the ignition. The car’s tires screeched as she backed out of the driveway too suddenly.

Still trembling, Claire retreated up the walkway, then stepped inside the house with Tiffany. Her stepdaughter asked if she was sick.

“It’s just a headache, sweetheart,” she managed to say. She worked up a smile. “I was very proud of you today. Your watercolors were just about the best in the whole first grade.” Claire gave her a hug. After a few moments, she pulled back and wiped the tears from her eyes. She wasn’t shaking so much any more. “Listen, Princess, why don’t you put your watercolors away in your room, and change your clothes? Meanwhile, I’ll see what we can make for lunch.”

Once Tiffany scurried upstairs with her paintings, Claire glanced over at the phone in the pantry. The message light was blinking.

She rubbed her forehead, and wandered over to the answering machine. She pressed the message button.
“You have one message,”
the automated voice announced.

Claire sighed, and waited.

“This is Tess calling for Claire. Hi, Claire. I’m in the car. Can you tell? I’m now one of those people I used to hate, a cell-phone driver. I’m probably screwing up traffic right and left, but I’m oblivious. How are you? I’ve been thinking of you a lot…”

Claire smiled. Just hearing her new friend’s voice made her feel a little better.

If for nothing else right now, she could at least thank God for Tess.

“Tess?”

Mary Lou Cadwell knocked on the front door, then tried the doorbell again. “Tess? Are you in there?” she called.

She and Tess had been friends since their junior year at the University of Washington. Mary Lou was passing through Bellingham on her way home to Seattle. She and Tess had a dinner date tonight.

She’d phoned to tell Tess she might be late, but never got an answer—not even from the machine. She’d passed through U.S.–Canadian customs rather quickly, and was actually on time.

But Mary Lou didn’t see Tess’s car in the driveway, and no one was answering the front door. It wasn’t like Tess to stand up a friend. She’d just gotten out of the hospital after losing her baby not long ago. So Mary Lou was extra concerned.

She walked down the driveway, toward the back of the house. Mary Lou stopped dead at the kitchen door. With darkness falling, the temperature had dropped. It was too cold to leave the door wide open—even with the outer screen door closed.

She peeked through the screen. The wind was blowing, and a couple of newspaper pages fluttered along the kitchen floor.

“Tess?” she called. “Tess, honey, are you okay?”

She hesitated, then opened the screen door and stepped inside. “Oh my God,” she murmured, staring at the mess in the kitchen.

A cup of carry-out coffee had spilt across the breakfast table, and the brown liquid soaked part of the newspaper. The kitchen phone was off the hook. Mary Lou could hear the pulsating alarm tone from the receiver.

The dish draining rack had been knocked over. Silverware, broken dishes, and glasses were scattered across the floor. Mary Lou noticed Tess’s purse amid the rubble—along with her cell phone, which had been smashed.

There was a handprint of blood smeared on the white refrigerator door.

Near the refrigerator was a thick, wooden chopping block table with what looked like a small crumpled, white napkin hanging from it. Frowning, Mary Lou stepped toward chopping table. Glass crunched under her feet.

A butcher knife stood on the block, its pointed tip buried in the wood. This close, she could see she’d been wrong. It wasn’t a white napkin pinned to the butcher block. What she saw made her shudder.

A pair of panties were stuck under that knife.

Tess woke up shivering.

Her head throbbed, and she felt sick.

For a moment, she thought she was back in the hospital. But she still had her clothes on. They were clammy and damp with cold, dried sweat. Only something was missing. She touched the front of her jeans. They were unfastened at the top. She wasn’t wearing any panties.

She opened her eyes to utter blackness.

“What’s happening?” she whispered. “Is somebody there?”

She was lying on a thin uncomfortable cot. She could feel the canvas material stretched across poles on either side of her. She clung to a heavy, itchy blanket for warmth.

Wherever she was, it smelled dank and dirty. The air was so stagnant, she could hardly breathe. Had someone stuck her down in a cellar?

She was too scared and disoriented to make a move. If only she could see something—a crack of light somewhere, a shadowy outline amid all the blackness.

Tess touched her forehead. It was sore and bleeding.

He’d hit her. She remembered now. She’d put up a struggle. She’d tried to rush past him at the top of the basement stairs. She’d seen his face, and yes, she’d recognized him from the hospital. But that hadn’t stopped her from fighting him. Even then, amid all the confusion and shock, Tess had known she was fighting for her life.

In the darkness, Tess reached out and fanned at the air until her hand brushed against something. She discovered a table at her side, and heard something roll on top of it. Blindly patting the tabletop, she found a light-weight, plastic flashlight, and quickly switched it on. The beam of light cut through the darkness, and gave her a tiny bit of comfort.

Tess sat up, and moved the light across the cement floor, then up the walls, which were covered with cheap, imitation-wood paneling. One wall hadn’t been paneled yet; a plastic tarp shrouded whatever lay beyond it. Tess wondered if she’d find a door or window back there. She didn’t see a way out anywhere else.

But on the ceiling, paneled with the same cheap wood-board, she noticed a trap door. No stairs or ladder, only a portal—just out of her reach.

Crawling off the cot, Tess felt dizzy. When her bare feet touched the icy cement floor, she flinched and pulled back.

With the flashlight, she searched for her shoes, but didn’t see them. She figured he must not have bothered with her shoes and socks after putting her jeans back on. She wondered why he’d taken her panties. Was he doing something with them right now?

Tess got to her feet. But she stood up too fast, and started to teeter. She reached out for the little table, then took a couple of deep breaths.

Getting her balance back, Tess aimed the flashlight on the table. He’d left her some supplies: six large bottled waters, three boxes of army K-rations (Beef Stew, Chili with Macaroni, Tuna and Noodles), a box of Kleenex, and two towels. On the floor, by the make-shift nightstand was a stainless steel pot with a lid. He must have expected her to use it for a toilet.

Tess’s teeth started to chatter. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, then padded over to the plastic sheet. Peeling it back at one side, she found a solid dirt wall. A few strategically placed wood slats seemed to hold it up.

At least, now she had some idea where she was—underground, in an unfinished room. Perhaps it was part of someone’s basement, or an expanded crawlspace beneath a garage or a barn. “God, help me,” she whispered.

She shined the flashlight at the base of the dirt wall. Behind the plastic tarp was a rumpled pile of women’s clothes, discarded shoes, and handbags. Tess picked up one of the purses. The wallet was still inside. The money was missing, but all the credit cards were still there—as well as the woman’s driver’s license.

Tess shined the flashlight on the plastic card. She recognized the face and name. The woman had been on the news yesterday. Her name was Kimberly Cronin, and she’d been abducted near her college apartment in Bellingham.

They were saying that she could be Rembrandt’s latest victim. Someone on the radio mentioned that several church services this morning included prayers for Kimberly’s safe return.

But Tess knew the girl was dead. Rembrandt had finished with her. He’d discarded her as he had these clothes. The coats, dresses, jeans, tops, shoes and bags—they all belonging to dead women.

Tess suddenly realized this place had been dug out of the earth for a very specific function. She wasn’t standing in someone’s basement or a storm shelter or a crawl space.

She was in a waiting room.

All she wanted to do was sneak down to Brian’s room in the basement, curl up on his bed, and cry.

But Claire had to fix lunch for Tiffany. Unlike her dad, Harlan’s daughter adored Brian. Claire wondered how she would tell Tiffany that her stepbrother was dead.

She wouldn’t. At least, not now.

So she made a grilled cheese sandwich and heated up some chicken and stars soup. While Tiffany ate her lunch, Claire managed to put on a smile and they talked about the art show. She kept busy washing out the soup pot, frying pan, and utensils.

Tiffany didn’t quite finish her lunch. Inspired by the art show, she ran back up to her room to paint. Claire picked at the rest of her grilled cheese sandwich. After a couple of bites, she felt too nervous and upset to eat any more.

She tried to phone Tess back, but there was no answer. The machine didn’t even pick up. She tried twice, without any luck.

Claire sank down in one of the chairs at the breakfast table, and stared out the sliding glass door for a moment. She start to cry—deep, uncontrollable sobs. The tears streamed down her face. For the first time after nearly a month of wondering and worrying, she finally grieved for her dead son. Yet there was no relief, no outlet—just utter hopelessness, and the feeling that some part of her guts had been cut out with a dull knife.

When Julia had died, Claire’s arms had ached. This time she felt the pain in her heart, and in her chest, where she’d been shot.

She cried and cried for her sweet boy. All the while, she knew Harlan would soon come through the front door. She expected him any minute.

No doubt, Linda had already called him. Claire imagined Linda on the phone with Harlan—and perhaps others:
“She threatened me…She was acting absolutely bonkers…She knows…”

Claire wiped her eyes with a napkin. She was kicking herself for losing her composure with Linda. As long as she didn’t remember that night Brian had “run away,” as long as she pretended to believe their cover stories, she was safe. But less than an hour ago, she’d told Linda she knew about the lies, and she knew Brian was dead.

She’d just dug her own grave by saying that. She was forcing them to deal with her.

Well, fine. She didn’t give a damn. Her son was dead. Let them come after her.

Only, who was
them?

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

Amy had said Derek and Brian never left the island. They’d gotten
“about as far as Silverwater Creek.”
It was a campsite in the woods, about a twenty-minute drive away. Harlan and some of the Guardians sponsored camping trips for teenagers at Silverwater Creek. Was that where Derek and Brian were killed? Were their bodies buried there?

Claire wondered how this thirteen-year-old girl could know so much. Or was what happened to Brian and Derek an open secret among the islanders?

In church this morning, Claire had noticed a lot of people looking uncomfortable when she said the Special Intention for her son and his friend. She might as well have been saying a prayer for the Davalos family.

Claire reached over for her purse—on one of the other chairs at the breakfast table. She started fishing through it, and dug out a few items until she found the piece of paper with Steven Griswald’s number on it.

Her hand was shaking as she dialed the number of Steven Griswald in Bremerton. A man answered on the first ring. “Yeah, hello?”

Claire hadn’t thought about what to say to him. She hesitated.

“Hello?” he repeated.

“Hello, is Steven Griswald there?”

“Who’s calling?” he shot back.

“Um, my name is Claire Shaw Are you Steven Griswald?”

“Is this a telemarketer? Because if it is, you can stop now—”

“I’m not a telemarketer,” Claire said. “I live on Deception Island. Did you have a sister named Violet?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Griswald?”

“What the hell do you want?” he whispered.

“I—” Claire hesitated. She heard the front door opening.

“Claire? You home?”
Harlan called.

Panicked, she quickly hung up the phone.

Peeling off his jacket, Harlan stepped into the pantry area. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt. He never dressed up for work on the weekends. “What are you doing here alone?” he asked.

She gave a casual shrug. “Oh, Linda and I sort of had a blow up.” she said. “I got mad and sent her home. I’m surprised she didn’t call you. She—”

Before Claire could finish, the phone rang.

She grabbed the receiver. “Yes, hello?”

“Listen, why did you just call me?” she heard Steven Griswald ask. He must have dialed star-six-nine on her. “I want you to stop bothering my family. Understand?”

The receiver to her ear, Claire glanced at Harlan. He was staring at her. “Um, yes…” Claire said into the phone.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Steven Griswald asked.

“I’m—sorry,” Claire said carefully. “But thank you anyway.”

She hung up, and smiled at Harlan. “Stupid telemarketers,” she muttered. She prayed Steven Griswald wouldn’t call back again.

“Where’s Tiffany?” Harlan asked.

“Upstairs in her room, painting.”

“I don’t like you and Tiffany being here alone,” he said, moving toward the refrigerator. “What did you and Linda fight about anyway?”

Claire shrugged. “Um, my Special Intention at mass this morning. She didn’t think it was appropriate.”

“Oh, that,” Harlan said, rolling his eyes. He pulled a Coke out of the refrigerator. “Sometimes I wish Linda would mind her own goddamn business,” he muttered. He sat down at the breakfast table.

Claire couldn’t help smiling a bit. At the same time, she was so wary of him. “Um, can I fix you a sandwich or something?” she asked.

“That would be great. Thanks, sweetheart.”

Claire stole a glance at the phone, then she headed over to the refrigerator. She pulled out some deli meat, and started making her husband a sandwich.

“Where’s Harlan now?” Tim asked.

“He’s in the shower,” Claire whispered on the other end of the line. “I can’t talk much longer.”

Tim was on the cell phone, leaning against the car in a turnaround area off Evergreen Drive.

He’d been checking some of the other cabins in the forest when Claire had called. Tim missed having Walt Binns for a guide. He hadn’t come across anything. He’d checked around the Logans’ cabin again, and found Troy Landers, parked along a path in back of the dilapidated cedar shaker. The deputy had been sleeping in his patrol car, and wasn’t too happy to see the man responsible for his current situation. “You’re the first two-legged creature I’ve seen out here,” Troy told Tim, with a curled lip.

Tim sort of knew how he felt. Searching through those woods was a lonely, frustrating experience. But after a couple of hours, Tim realized he might not be completely alone. At one point, he’d noticed a dark blue Honda Accord following him at a distance on the narrow, winding roadway. It disappeared for a while. But he’d spotted it again, a half-hour later, when Claire had called.

Now, as he stood outside the car, Tim couldn’t see the Accord. It was as if the blue Honda had just vanished. He figured it must have turned off onto one of the dirt trails. But he kept a lookout through the trees while talking with Claire.

“Amy Herrmann didn’t leave any room for doubt?” Tim asked gently. “She said both Derek and Brian were—”

“Yes, she said they’re dead,” Claire finished for him. “And Linda, Harlan, and I-don’t-know-who-else are all involved in it.”

“Did she tell you anything else?”

“She said Derek and Brian never made it off the island. ‘
They got about as far as Silverwater Creek.’
I’m not sure what she meant. But I want to go out there. If I can get away, will you drive me tomorrow? Maybe I’ll remember something that happened there. Maybe that’s what I’m blocking.”

“Of course,” Tim answered. “In the meantime, do you think you’re okay in the house with Harlan? I wonder how can you stand it.”

“I’ve stood it for the last few days,” she said. “I guess I can hold on for another night. I don’t think he’ll try anything with Tiffany here.”

“Just the same, I’ll park across the street from your house tonight, and sleep in the car. If you need me, I’ll be close by.”

“Oh, Tim, I’d feel so much better if you did that. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I haven’t slept in a car since college,” he said. “It’ll be my first stakeout. Be sure to tell Harlan I’m out there. It might keep him on his best behavior. I think maybe—”

Tim heard a call-waiting beep on the line. “Claire? Hold on a minute. Okay?” He clicked the call-waiting button. “Hello?”

“Tim? Sheriff Klauser calling. Your boss in Seattle just sent another fax.”

“I’m talking on the other line. But I’m in my car. I’ll come pick it up in about ten minutes. Is that okay? Are you at the station?”

“Sure am, buddy. See you in a bit.”

Tim clicked back on the line to Claire. “Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes, but I think Harlan’s done with his shower,” she whispered. “I need to hang up soon.”

“All right. Just, please, be careful. I keep thinking of the other day with the hair dryer. He may try something that will look like an accident—like you slipping in the bathtub, or another electric shock—”

“Huh, you’re scaring me.” She laughed nervously. “Listen, I should go.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be parked outside your place tonight.”