Left for Dead (32 page)

“Thanks, Tim,” she whispered. Then she hung up.

He climbed back into the car, and started up the engine. Pulling out of the turnaround, he veered onto Evergreen Drive. In a strange way, he almost looked forward to spending tonight in his car, parked outside Claire’s house. At least, he’d be close to her.

He hadn’t meant to frighten her about “slipping in the bathtub” or some other “accident” that could transpire tonight in her home. But he didn’t know what Harlan Shaw had in mind for his wife. She could break her neck, falling down a flight of stairs. Didn’t Harlan work in a chemical plant? Did he know about poisons that couldn’t be detected? Or maybe in the middle of the night, Harlan would just happen to mistake her for a prowler, and shoot her.

Clutching the steering wheel, Tim glanced in the rearview mirror. He spotted the blue Honda Accord in the distance behind him. It was about ten car lengths back. Tim squinted in the mirror. It was the same car, he was almost positive. “What the hell?” he murmured.

He wanted to get a closer look at the driver. Easing off the accelerator, he slowed down to thirty-five miles per hour—ten below the speed limit. Tim checked the mirror again to see if the blue car was gaining on him.

But the other vehicle lingered a safe distance behind.

Tim noticed another turnaround on his right, Quickly, he pulled over. Gravel crunched under his tires as he came to a stop in the bay area. He glanced back for the other car.

Tim didn’t see it. He stuck his head out the window and gazed back at the two-lane thoroughfare. It was as if the blue Honda had just vanished.

The other driver must have ducked down a side street. Tim continued to stare out his window, scrutinizing the trees and dense foliage along both sides of the road. He still didn’t see anything.

An SUV came up Evergreen Drive, then passed him.

Tim waited another minute before pulling back onto the road. He kept checking his rearview mirror for the blue Accord, but it wasn’t behind him.

As he drove closer to town, Tim began to wonder about the fax from Lieutenant Elmore. It was too soon for Rembrandt to have abducted another victim. They’d just gotten the news on Kimberly Cronin’s death this morning. Tim tried to think optimistically. Maybe they’d finally analyzed those photos of the footprints he’d sent, or they’d inspected what was left of Claire’s hair dryer.

Tim turned down Main Street, and headed toward the heart of town. Dusk was looming over the harbor. Most of the weekend visitors had already caught the afternoon ferry back to the mainland.

Tim switched on his headlights for the last few blocks. He glanced in the rearview mirror again.

“Jesus, what’s going on?” he whispered.

There it was again, about two blocks behind him on the nearly deserted street. The blue Honda Accord had reappeared as quickly and inexplicably as it had vanished just a few minutes ago. Its headlights weren’t on. But Tim could tell it was the same car.

Scowling at the rearview mirror, he didn’t notice the old man on the bicycle until he was almost on top of him. The headlights came so close to the man that he was just a glaring white shape in front of the car.

Tim slammed on the brakes. The car tires let out a screech. The cell phone and a flashlight flew off the passenger seat.

His heart racing, Tim clutched the wheel and stared at the old man, who merely glanced over his shoulder and peddled on down the road.

Tim caught his breath, then looked in the rearview mirror again. No sign of the Honda Accord. “What the hell?” he said to no one.

The speedometer never went over fifteen as he drove the remaining few blocks to the police station. He kept checking the rearview and side mirrors for that elusive car.

It was like a specter, darting in and out of Tim’s view. The driver had to know these roads, the shortcuts and escape routes. He seemed to be making a game of it. Tim couldn’t help thinking about Claire’s stalker—and Rembrandt.

“Do you know someone in town who drives a blue Honda Accord?” he asked the sheriff. He was still a bit shaken as he lumbered into the station.

Sheriff Klauser shrugged. “Hell, these new cars all look alike to me.” He retreated behind the counter. “Guess I’m getting to be an old fart. Half the time, I need to read the name off the back of a car before I can write out a traffic ticket. I have your fax back here. He got another one.”

Tim frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“Rembrandt,” the sheriff said, handing Tim the fax sheets. “He’s going into overdrive, I guess. Nabbed up another woman in Bellingham. They think it happened this morning. This one’s a little older than the last.”

Tim glanced at the grainy photo of Rembrandt’s most recent prey. She was thirty-five, according to her stats. She looked pretty in the photograph. At first, Tim thought the shadowy patch on one side of her face was a flaw in the fax. But in the description, it said she had a large birthmark on her left cheek and neck.

Her name was Tess Campbell.

She’d finished crying.

She’d drunk a little water, then used some more to clean the cut on her head.

She’d pulled the cot beneath the trap door in the ceiling, then stood on it. But she still hadn’t been able to reach the damn trap door.

She’d screamed for help until her throat felt raw. It hadn’t done any good.

Now she tried to figure out a way to defend herself.

Tess had no idea how long she’d been trapped in this make-shift dungeon. But any minute now, her abductor could open that trap door in the ceiling and come down to get her. She wouldn’t let him.

Crouching down behind the plastic tarp, she started going through the purses and coat pockets of the women who had been there before her. Dead women. Perhaps he’d missed something. Maybe one of them hadn’t had time to reach for her pepper spray or a nail file.

Using the flashlight, Tess continued her search. She found some Fruit Stripe gum in one of the coat pockets. She didn’t know which victim it had belonged to, but she was grateful. The gum took away the sour, gritlike taste in her mouth.

For a crazy moment, she hoped against hope to find a cell phone. That was a laugh. Like she’d get through to anyone. And what could she tell them?
I’m underground somewhere.
She didn’t know if she was in Canada or Portland. She could be at a farm or under someone’s suburban garage. Still, she would have welcomed the sound of another person’s voice.

Sifting amid the pile of clothes, Tess tried to remember how many women Rembrandt had killed so far. Eight? Certainly the police had enough clues from all those murders. Maybe they were close to identifying this monster.

She felt a strange affinity with these women as she searched through their pockets and bags. Her predecessors were no longer photos of victims that she’d seen in the newspaper and on TV. Barbara Tuttle had a Blockbuster card, a Seattle’s Best Coffee punch card, and a photo of someone’s baby in her wallet. In Kimberly Cronin’s purse, she found a postcard of Barcelona that a friend had written her, and a picture of Matt Damon. A tiny Bart Simpson figurine was attached to her key chain.

Tess went though the whole pile. All she’d come up with were some nail clippers—with a tiny, sharp file, and a box of Altoids.

Sighing, she stood up and shined the flashlight on the wooden slats against the dirt wall. She yanked at one, then another, and another. They didn’t budge. She needed to knock him over the head with something. She wondered if any of the others had tried to defend themselves—or escape. Or had they just gone willingly?

She aimed the light on the wall of dirt and noticed a large crater at eye level. One of the women had tried to dig her way out. Tess placed her hand in the cavity, about a half-foot deep and a foot wide. The earth felt solid. But she managed to claw out a handful of dirt.

How long had that poor woman been digging with her bare hands to get this far? And to what end?

She could dig and dig, only to find herself beneath a cement foundation. At the same time, Tess had to admire her predecessor. At least she’d made an effort. She hadn’t just sat and waited for Rembrandt to take her.

Tess shined the light once again on the pile of clothes at her feet. She found two pairs of high heels. One pair looked new and expensive. They were sturdy too.
Amalfi’s.
The owner had been a woman of good taste.

Tess took a deep breath. With the heel of Connie Shafer’s shoe, she began to tap away and loosen the dirt in the crater.

She wasn’t going to sit and wait.

It was ten o’clock, and the lights were still on inside the Shaws’ house.

Tim had been sitting in the parked car for less than an hour, yet it seemed like an eternity. He’d liked the idea of being close to Claire. But the idea and the reality of it were two different things. He was bored out of his mind.

He’d told the sheriff what he was doing. Then he’d stopped by Lyle’s Stop and Sip Gas Station for some bottled water, magazines, and candy bars. His last stop had been The Whale Watcher for his toothbrush, toothpaste, and the paperback he’d been reading. He’d also gotten Al’s gun. There had been two messages waiting for him at the hotel, both from Walt Binns. Gabe and Beven’s twelve-year-old son read them off to Tim:
“First, at eleven-fifty this morning, he said ‘no sweat’ about missing lunch. The second message at three-twenty, he was ‘sorry he missed you again,’ and he’ll ‘call back later.’”

On his way to the cul de sac where the Shaws lived, Tim had kept a lookout for the blue Honda Accord again. But he hadn’t seen anything.

Watching the house, and the surrounding area, he sat in the car and ate a KitKat bar for dinner. As bored as he was, Tim felt nervous too. He had the window cracked open, but the doors were locked.

He hoped Claire might come to one of the windows and wave at him. But he didn’t see anyone yet. He knew if he saw her, he’d feel better, and the night would go by more quickly.

Instead, what he saw was a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror. Someone was coming up the cul de sac. Tim wondered if it was the blue Honda Accord again. He reached under the car seat for Al’s gun.

The car was advancing—until the lights in the mirror were blinding and the interior of Tim’s car became illuminated. He turned and squinted at the car pulling up behind him. He clutched the gun, and felt his heart racing. Then the headlights went off, and Tim recognized Walt Binns’s Range Rover.

Walt climbed out of the car and waved to him. He was wearing an Irish knit sweater, and carried a small shopping bag.

Tim slipped the gun back under the seat, and climbed out of the car.

“Hey,” Walt said, grinning. “I bought you some stuff to help pass the time.
Sports Illustrated, GQ, Playboy,
and chewing gum.” He handed the bag to Tim. “I also put those coupons in there for that hotel in Victoria.”

“Wow, thanks,” Tim said. “How did you know I was here?”

“I called Harlan about a half hour ago, and he told me you were parked outside the house for the night.” Walt leaned against the car. “I don’t know why the hell my buddy won’t invite you in.”

“I’m all right out here,” Tim said.

“I guess you got my messages,” Walt said. “In lieu of lunch today, I had another talk with my trigger-happy, dimwitted pal, Fred Maybon. He had a whole new story for me. Y’see, he thought you were Rembrandt.”

“Oh, really?” Tim said, deadpan. “Amazing.”

“Isn’t it though?” Walt replied, continuing his mocking tone. “See, Fred heard the rumors, and that’s why he was tramping through the woods with his assault rifle.” Walt shook his head. “Have you ever heard such a crock of shit? Anyway, I don’t know what he’s up to. But I’ll ask around, and find out what’s really going on.”

“Thanks, Walt. I appreciate it.” Tim glanced back at Walt’s car. “Listen, you don’t happen to know someone who drives a dark blue Honda Accord, do you?”

Walt let out a surprised laugh. “Well, yeah. Fred Maybon. Why? Did you see him today?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah, off and on. He’s been following me. And I don’t think he was trying to catch up with me and apologize for yesterday.”

“That’s just crazy. We really ought to talk to the sheriff.”

Tim frowned. “Well, I don’t want to jump the gun.”

“Why not? Fred did.” Walt sighed. “You know, I always thought Fred was a moron. I’ve never taken him too seriously. Even after yesterday, I figured, hell, it was just Fred being an idiot again. But this is really disturbing. He was following you?”

Tim nodded pensively. He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s after ten. I’ll talk to the sheriff tomorrow.”

“Listen, do you want some company tonight?” Walt asked. “Fred’s not about to try anything while I’m here.”

Tim nodded toward the Shaws’ house. “I don’t think he’ll try anything in front of them either. You don’t have to stick around, Walt. I’ll be all right.” He hoisted the bag. “I’ll catch up on my reading.”

A few minutes after Walt left, Tim saw something out of the corner of his eye.

Someone darted up the Shaws’ front walk toward his car. He realized it was Claire. She wore a gray sweatshirt and jeans, and she was carrying a folded-up blanket. Tim rolled down the window. As she came closer, she looked so pretty. Her brown hair was swept back, and slightly wind blown.

He started to open the door. But she shook her head. “I can’t stay,” she whispered. “Harlan’s getting ready for bed, and I only have a minute.” She handed him a Tupperware container. “I brought you some apple cobbler. It’s not bad if I say so myself.” Then she passed the blanket to him through the window. “And here, take this. By midnight, it’ll be freezing out here.”

“Thanks.” Tim set the blanket and Tupperware container on the passenger seat. “Listen, I wanted to tell you. If you need me and can’t get to a phone, just blink the lights on and off. Is everything okay in there?”

She nodded. “I’m all right.” Hovering near the window, she smiled apologetically at him. “I’m sorry you’re stuck out here.”

“I don’t really mind so much,” he replied shyly. “At least I got a chance to see you today.”

She placed her hand on his cheek. “Thank you, Tim,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

It took Tim by surprise. He just started to kiss her back when she pulled away. Yet he could still feel her soft lips against his. Tim stared at her.

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I first set eyes on you,” she whispered. Then Claire turned and ran toward the house.

Dazed, he watched her. She let herself inside, and a moment later, she came to the living room window. She gave him a furtive, little wave.

Tim blinked his headlights on and off.

She nodded, then moved away from the window, out of sight.

His cell phone rang, and it gave him a start. He clicked it on before the second ring. “Yes?”

“Tim, it’s Walt.”

“Oh, hi.” He’d been hoping for Claire.

“I just wanted to let you know,” Walt said. “I drove by Fred Maybon’s house a few minutes ago. His blue Honda Accord is parked in the front driveway. And guess what? I don’t know how in the world it happened, but the two back tires are flatter than pancakes. Imagine that.”

“What?” Tim laughed. “You mean, you…”

“Fred ain’t going anywhere tonight, pal. You can rest easy. Call me if you need anything.”

Tim thanked Walt Binns. After hanging up with him, he sampled Claire’s apple cobbler. On top of everything else, she could cook. He took only three bites. He’d save the rest for later.

Tim figured he could make it though the night now.

He searched for a magazine to read. Among the things he’d brought along was his green folder, full of Rembrandt-related data. He found the fax from Lieutenant Elmore.

Tim glanced at the photo of Tess Campbell, the Bellingham woman Rembrandt had abducted today. “Poor thing,” he whispered.

Tess stood on the cot, scooping earth, rocks, and dirt out of the crater. Her hands were raw, and her fingers were bleeding.

The first high heel had lasted about a half-hour before it broke. Then she’d turned it around and started chipping away at the dirt with the toe.

When the ground got too hard, she dowsed it with water, then kept digging. With the stainless steel pot he expected her to use as a toilet, she scooped out the soil. A large mound of earth had collected at the bottom of the plastic tarp.

Tess could stick her entire arm into the hole she’d burrowed. It was over two feet deep. She was exhausted, and had worked up a sweat. On the bright side, at least she wasn’t cold anymore.

Tess caught her breath. “At this rate, you ought to hit that concrete foundation by Christmas,” she muttered to herself.

But she couldn’t quit. She knew who Rembrandt was. She could identify him. She was the only one who could put a stop to the murders. If she didn’t escape, he’d go on killing.

With her muddy, swollen fingers, Tess touched her pale green pullover and jeans. She didn’t want them to end up in the pile of discarded clothes near her feet.

Tess grabbed the pot and started digging again.

Please, Brian, be home. Please, be home.

She remembered speeding in her car up Evergreen Drive, and praying that he would be home. White-knuckled, her hands clutched the steering wheel. The tires screeched as she pulled into the driveway. She was out of breath and crying by the time she opened the front door.
Brian? Brian, are you home?

Claire sat up in bed.

It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, just as clear as the others.

Claire glanced at the digital clock on her night stand: 1:18
A.M
. She was alone in the bed. Frowning, she felt Harlan’s side of the mattress. Cold. He’d been gone a while.

She crept out of bed, put on her robe, then checked the bathroom. “Harlan?” she whispered, knocking gently on the door.

It was the same set up as the other night—with the door closed, the light on, and no Harlan.

She tiptoed into the dim hallway, then down the stairs. Harlan wasn’t in the pantry or family room. She peeked down the basement stairs. The light was on in the rec room.

Claire crept down the basement steps, then she flicked off the light switch near the bottom of the stairs.

She could see a line of light under the door to Harlan’s workroom. He was probably on his computer again. Claire thought of knocking on the door, but decided against it.

Instead, she turned the light back on, and tiptoed up the stairs again. She went into the living room and peered out the window. She had a good view of Tim’s car, but couldn’t see anyone inside it. Claire gave a little wave.

Nothing happened.

She waved again.

The headlights blinked on and off.

Claire nodded and smiled.

She went back to bed. Funny, how just the sight of those headlights blinking filled her with a warmth and comfort.

She felt herself drifting off. Then it occurred to her. What if Harlan was pulling the same trick down in his workroom that he used in the master bathroom? He could have just put on the light and closed door so she’d think he was in there. He could have snuck off some place, and left her alone in the house with Tiffany. But why would he do that?