Tell Me You're Sorry (38 page)

“Just a sec,” Ryan said. “Repeat that last part for Stephanie.”

He held out the phone.

“I said that if we can't work this out ourselves by six thirty tomorrow night, we should dump this on the police and hope for the best.”

“Does that sound like a plan?” Ryan asked.

Stephanie nodded. “I guess so. It ensures all of us will be safe.” But then she frowned and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I just hate to think about the real Jenny Ballatore, and where that leaves her.”

Ryan got back on the phone. He knew Alison hadn't heard the last part.

As they finished up on the phone, he noticed Stephanie at the desk, pushing her food away. He said good night to Alison, hung up the phone, and then turned to her. “What's wrong?” he asked. “Are you thinking about the real Jenny?”

Stephanie nodded. “I wish to God we could do something to help her.”

 

 

 

“I was going to try to make it all the way to Billings, but the last Red Bull is wearing off,” he said into his Bluetooth. He sat at the wheel of the Winnebago. The yellow tabby clawed at the back of his cushioned driver's seat. Churning along the dark Interstate, he could see the twinkling city lights ahead.

He'd packed some of his things. But more important, in the back he had a plastic bag full of
her
things: the hairbrush and comb she'd been using, her soap, her underwear, used Kleenexes—anything from the bunker with her DNA on it. They'd be planted in the house, where the bodies would be found.

And he was on his way there now.

“Driving through those Black Hills at night was a bitch,” he continued. “I think I'll pull over someplace, give her a sedative, and then go look for a trailer park in Sheridan, get some sleep. I may even have a drink or two. The side of my face is killing me—her with that fucking lightbulb. I swear, there must be a few pieces of glass still in there.” He touched the big, white bandage along his jaw. “So—what are you doing?”

“I'm down in the guest room,” his cohort whispered. “He just left about five minutes ago for his eleven o'clock newscast. I told him I'd wait up. The brats are in their respective rooms. The little one's asleep. The prom queen's been giving me the cold shoulder all night long. I'm not sure what's going on with her. What's your ETA?”

“If I put the pedal to the metal and we have traffic on our side, I should be there at two or three in the morning on Saturday.”

“Perfect,” she said. “There's a small parking lot by the beach just down the hill from the house here. I'll leave the rental there for you. Park the Winnebago down there, and transfer our friend to the rental. It's a red Hyundai. The keys will be on a magnet under the left passenger door. I don't want the neighbors seeing the Winnebago in front of their house.”

“Have I ever parked the Winnebago in front of the house? Ever? I know the drill by now. Just text me the approximate address of the parking lot, okay?” He rubbed his tired eyes and focused on the road again. “Speaking of our package, I'm afraid there's some bruising. She has quite the shiner from our little scuffle early this morning.”

“That's all right,” his partner said. “There won't be much left of her face anyway.”

 

 

Jenny heard murmuring.

She'd been awake for a while now, maybe an hour or so. She wasn't sure. She still wasn't used to opening her eyes and seeing just blackness. Tied up inside the compartment under the Winnebago's full-size bed, Jenny tried to wrestle her hands free. She was sweating so much that the piece of tape over her mouth was starting to loosen a bit.

Over the hum of the wheels on the road, she heard a police siren. It seemed to be behind them, getting closer and louder.

“Oh, fuck me!” she heard her captor yell.

She could feel the Winnebago start to slow down. Loose gravel started to hit the underside of the vehicle. They were pulling over to the side of the road.

Jenny tried to move her mouth and jaw to put some slack in the tape. Her arms struggled to wriggle out of the rope binding her wrists together. She'd never have another chance like this. The next time he took her out of this drawer, he'd probably kill her.

She listened to her captor swearing as the Winnebago finally ground to a stop. The siren's wail ceased. She knew the cop would be coming up to his window or knocking on the trailer's door within the next minute or two. She kept moving her jaw like she was chewing a big wad of gum. The tape was tearing at the skin around her mouth. Her eyes watered up.

Outside, she heard a car door slam, and then footsteps on the gravel along the roadside. If she could hear the cop out there, he could hear her.

 

 

“I'm writing you up for speeding,” the Wyoming State Trooper explained. He looked like a rookie, one of those stocky, baby-faced guys. He had to reach up to the open window to take the driver's license from him.

He smiled down at the cop from his driver's seat. “Well, officer, guilty as charged, I'm sure.”

“I don't catch too many Winnebagos speeding around here. Usually, you're the guys everyone's trying to pass. Anyway, the speed limit went down to fifty-five when you passed the sign for Sheridan back there. You were doing sixty-six.”

“Well, I believe it. I must have missed the sign. I'm getting pretty sleepy. Tell me, are there any trailer parks around here you'd recommend?”

“You're not too far from Peter D's RV Park on Joe Street,” the cop replied. “Keep your eyes open, and you'll see a sign for it coming up.” With the driver's license and his ticket pad, the trooper ambled toward the front of the Winnebago. He started jotting something down.

With his hand slung over the steering wheel, he watched the cop at work. He heard a muffled cry from back in the sleeping area. The cat must have heard it, too. Suddenly, the tabby turned and arched its back.

The cat recognized his owner's voice.

“Help!” It was clearer this time, but still muted.

He straightened in the driver's seat and stared at the rookie, who was still in front of the Winnebago, writing the ticket.

The cat scurried back toward the bedroom and scratched at the closed door.

“Help me, please!” she yelled, her voice faint. She started kicking against the side of the little compartment.

The state trooper suddenly glanced up. Then he looked from side to side.

“Shit,” the man muttered. He reached over and switched on the radio. They were playing Johnny Cash's “Ring of Fire.” He cranked it up.

The cop walked back toward his window. “Could you turn down your radio, please?” He had to yell to be heard over the noise.

The man obliged him, turning it down a few decibels. He started drumming his fingers on the half open window. The radio and the drumming competed with the muffled sounds from the bedroom.

“What happened to your face, by the way?” the cop asked. He handed him his license and the ticket.

“Oh, I was mowing a friend's lawn and ran over a bottle. Lucky I didn't get any glass in my eye . . .” As he took the ticket and his license, he heard her faint screaming.

But at that very moment, a plane passed overhead.

Explaining the different payment options for the ticket, the cop had to talk loudly over the jet noise.

All the while, the man just smiled and nodded.

Jenny kept screaming for help and frantically kicking at the drawer. But she was barefoot, and it hurt like hell to keep banging at that pressed wood material. The only noise she could produce was a dull, muted thud. With her throat so dry, her screams were more like whimpering. She knew the cop couldn't hear her past the radio and the jet noise.

“Okay, so long!” her captor was saying. Then the radio started blaring again.

Jenny made a last-ditch effort to be heard, banging away at the side of the drawer, and screaming until her throat was raw.

But she heard a car door slam, and the engine start up. She knew it was useless.

Past the radio, she detected footsteps. The bedroom door opened. He let out a grunt, and then all at once, the compartment she was in started moving. The big drawer squeaked.

Jenny blinked at the sudden light. She hardly had any time to focus on him. She saw the white bandage on his jaw. She saw him haul back his fist.

“I don't have to worry about the way you look,” he said.

Then he slugged her in the face.

The pain was staggering, but it didn't knock her out. She was still conscious enough to feel the throbbing ache along one side of her head. Her ears were ringing.

As she lay there dazed, he must have cut off another piece of tape. He slapped it over her mouth. He tightened the rope around her wrists.

Letting out another grunt, he shoved the drawer shut with his foot.

Then everything was black again.

Jenny felt herself passing out from the pain and exhaustion.

The last thing she heard was her cat yowling.

 

 

 

Mark heard a glass clinking downstairs. It was the second time tonight he'd heard the sound. He figured Jenny was going for another nightcap. Maybe she couldn't sleep, either.

He thought about going down there and joining her in a drink, but not that godawful Frangelico stuff. He'd have a shot of bourbon—in the living room, not in Jenny's bedroom. Maybe then, he'd relax a little and be able to get some sleep. Last night had been a toss-and-turn marathon.

At the studio, the makeup woman hardly ever touched his face. But when they'd taped their promos yesterday, she had kept working on his eyes. “Honey, these aren't bags, they're steamer trunks. Were you partying last night or what?”

When they weren't taping, he was online, reading about the deaths of his former friends. If the pattern was continuing, Dina's “suicide” meant his family had already been targeted. The other widowers had remarried. But he had no intention of remarrying. He thought about Jenny downstairs, and wondered if their accidental meeting had been prearranged by someone else. Had someone set her up? Or was she a willing participant? It made no sense that she'd get involved in some scheme, knowing she'd end up dead.

He thought of his kids, asleep in their beds right now. Dick Ingalls's kids and Brent Farrell's had died in their beds.

The Portland police had called him back at the station yesterday. They'd merely asked if he'd heard from Stephanie Coburn again. Apparently, they were pretty certain she hadn't been home at the time of the explosion. At least he could answer them honestly this time and say no, she hadn't gotten in touch with him again, not since her call on Wednesday night.

He could have told the police the truth about Stephanie's call. He could have told them that he had every reason to believe her warnings were valid. He could have told them what had happened on that private beach on a Wednesday night twenty-seven summers ago.

But he didn't say a damn thing.

He didn't have to wonder why this was happening. But why was it happening now, after all these years?

He remembered Selena's discarded blue dress on the pier, fluttering slightly in the breeze. An hour later, it was gone—and so were her sandals, her bra, and her panties.

Mark heard glass clinking downstairs once more. He climbed out of bed and threw on some sweatpants. This time, he put on a T-shirt, too. He crept down the stairs and headed into the dining room. The chandelier above the table was on, but at its dimmest setting. He found Alison, in her mother's oversized REM T-shirt. She used it as a nightshirt. She was standing by the cellaret.

“Are you sneaking some booze?” he whispered.

“No, Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don't worry. This isn't going to be an ‘After School Special' moment. I don't have a drinking problem. I was just curious. In two nights, she's put away almost half a bottle of this Frangelico junk. Or are you drinking it, too?”

He shook his head. “No, that stuff's too sweet for me. So she has a nightcap or two. Cut her some slack, honey. She's had a rough time—moving up here, and this stalker situation. And you know, she's been a lot of help to us around here.”

“I don't trust her, Dad,” Alison whispered. “And I don't think you should, either.”

His hands clutched the back of a dining room chair. “Why do you say that?”

Alison shrugged. “It's just a feeling I get. Is she going to stay here much longer?”

Mark thought about it for a moment. “I'll find her a hotel for tomorrow night,” he said.

“Good.” Alison wandered over and kissed him on the cheek. “Anyway, g'night.”

“Sleep tight, sweetie,” he said.

At the dining room entrance, she turned to look at him. “Dad, when you were around my age, did you ever do something that you—you really regretted?”

His eyes narrowed at her. “Alison, what are you talking about? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She shook her head. “No, Dad. I'm asking if you ever were.”

Mark felt his stomach clench. He shrugged and let out a puzzled little laugh. “No more than any normal kid. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she murmured. “Good night.”

She turned and headed toward the front hallway. Mark trailed after her. He watched her retreat up the stairs. He wondered if someone had been talking to her—and what exactly she knew. He wanted to call to her, but he didn't.