Tell Me You're Sorry (41 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: Tell Me You're Sorry
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The baby started crying. Carroll shifted the tray, undid a strap, and lifted her out of the high chair. Rocking her daughter, she gazed at Stephanie with tears in her eyes. “I had a feeling it wasn't her, but I didn't want to believe it. If Jenny's really in trouble and you're serious about helping her, why haven't you called the police?”
“Because I'm worried she'd be in even more trouble if I did.”
“I want an explanation about all of this,” Carroll said.
“I won't leave here without giving you one, I swear. But right now, I need your help.”
“Help you help Jenny, is that it?”
“Yes.”
Carroll nodded toward the kitchen counter. “The cat tracking device is there in the middle drawer. It's our junk drawer, so it's kind of a mess. I think the instructions are in there, too.”
Amid the candles, cereal box toys, extension cords, and other items, Stephanie found the pet tracking device, along with the instructions. She knew her plan was half-baked: hoping to track Jenny's abductor a couple of miles before he arrived at the Metcalfs' house—on the off chance Jenny's cat was still wearing the tracking collar. It was too much of a long shot.
Stephanie was thinking once again about how these killers stole their victims' money and walked away with all their valuables. She wanted to set a trap for them, something that seemed too good to resist.
She shut the drawer and turned to Jenny's friend. “If I wrote down what to say, could I ask you to send ‘Jenny' a couple of e-mails—from you?”
“But will Jenny even see these e-mails?” Carroll asked.
“No, but the woman pretending to be Jenny will see them.”
Carroll gazed at her and shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Just tell me what to write . . .”
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT
Friday, June 21—12:32
P.M.
Seattle
 
“M
ark?” She sounded upset.
“Jenny, is that you?” he said into his cell phone. He stood in his office doorway. They were about to break from their meeting for lunch. “What is it?”
“Oh, God, Mark I have something—something to tell you. I'm outside your building right now. Could you come down?”
“What's going on?” Mark thought it must be her stalker again.
“Could you just come down, please?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I'm parked right outside.”
Grabbing his jacket out of his office, he headed through the newsroom toward the stairs. “I don't understand,” he said into his phone. “Why can't you just tell me what this is about?”
She started crying. “It's Danny. His friend's mother took them to the park, and there was some sort of— shooting incident. Mark, he's in the hospital. They called the house. They won't tell me his condition . . .”
Horrified, Mark rushed down the stairs, almost tripping. “God, no, is he alive? Tell me if he's still alive . . .” His voice echoed in the stairwell.
“I don't know, I swear. I'll take you to the hospital. He's at Harborview. That's all I know . . .”
Mark bolted out the lobby door. He spotted Jenny, across the street, pacing in front of her red Hyundai rental. Her arms were folded in front of her, and she held a sweater in one hand.
He ran toward her. A car horn blared, and tires screeched. But Mark didn't stop. He barely heard the irate driver screaming at him.
As he got closer to the Hyundai, Jenny opened up the driver's door and moved around to the passenger side. The motor was running. “You better drive,” she said.
He climbed behind the wheel and shut the door. He was shaking, and his stomach was in knots. “Did you say they have him at Harborview?” he asked, out of breath.
She closed her door. “Yes, but we need to go home first.”
“Home?” He turned toward her. “What are you talking about?”
Just moments ago, on the phone, she'd sounded like she was crying. But her eyes were dry now, and she gave him an icy stare. The sweater she was holding fell into her lap. In her hand was the Glock 19 he'd bought two days ago.
“Danny isn't in the hospital,” she said. Suddenly her voice sounded different, too. “He's at the house with a friend of mine. Poor Danny, he keeps asking for you. I'm afraid he won't stop crying. You see, right now my friend has a gun just like this one, and he's holding it against your little boy's head.”
Mark stared at her. He couldn't believe this was happening.
“So—let's go home and see Danny,” she said. “And mind the speed limit.”
 
 
Friday—12:40
P.M
.
San Francisco
 
“Are you sure no one's going to be using the cabin tonight, Erica?” she asked.
With the cell phone to her ear, Stephanie stood by the window in Carroll Jordan's kitchen. Carroll sat at her breakfast table, hunched over her notebook computer. She'd put the baby down for a nap twenty minutes ago, but the monitor intercom still picked up some static-laced cranky crying.
“Steffi, the place is all yours,” her friend said on the other end of the line. “Enjoy. Sleep in our bedroom. The sheets are clean, and the air conditioner is in there. I have no idea what's in the fridge, but so long as it's not moldy, you're welcome to help yourself. You remember where the key is—under the old butter churn on the front porch.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “Thanks so much, Erica.”
After hanging up with her friend, Stephanie moved over to the kitchen table. She'd written everything down for Carroll, who was composing it as an e-mail. Stephanie looked over her shoulder. She hoped they'd get a quick response from “Jenny.”
Hi, Jen,
 
I know you want some space, but I'm hoping you can do a favor for Jim & Barb.
 
Does your boyfriend there in Seattle know someone in Spokane, someone he trusts? Here's the thing. Jim & Barb have taken off for Paris, and once again, they've left the cabin unlocked. You'd think with all the valuables they have in there (Jim's rare coin collection, for starters!), they'd be more careful. The nearest neighbor is at least ten miles away. They're hoping you or your friend has a Good Samaritan pal in Spokane who can make sure the cabin is locked up. If so, I'll give you directions to the cabin (right off I-90) and I'll let you know where they hide the extra key. They'll bring you back a bottle or two of wine for your troubles. Let me know! No pressure if you can't. They have a friend in Sandpoint who might be able to get there tomorrow morning.
 
Thanks, Jen. I miss you! Call me!
XXXXX—Carroll
The Spokane cabin, belonging to Stephanie's friends, Erica and Ben, was nothing luxurious—certainly not full of valuables. But it was isolated, and an easy mark for anyone wanting to break into a house undetected.
Stephanie figured if the real Jenny was being transported from somewhere in the Midwest tonight, they were most likely taking her in a truck or a camper via Interstate 90. If they planned on arriving in Seattle by two or three in the morning, they'd be passing through Spokane between ten and eleven. She just prayed that these killers grabbed the bait.
She and the Spokane police would be waiting for them there. They may even have a few minutes' warning when the camper would be starting down the private gravel road. According to the directions on the cat tracking device, it was good for up to 2.5 miles.
It was still a long shot. If every piece didn't fall exactly into place, the whole plan could fail. Still, it was all she could come up with for now. And Stephanie couldn't even count on that until they heard back from “Jenny.”
“There you go,” Carroll said, typing in her name at the bottom of the e-mail. “Should I send it?”
Stephanie patted her on the shoulder. “Yes, please. Send it.”
 
 
Friday—12:49
P.M
.
Seattle
 
White-knuckled, Mark clutched the steering wheel as they took a curve in the road at the end of the West Seattle Bridge. He could feel the sweat against the back of his shirt. He was terrified for his family—and confused. Yet a part of him knew why this was happening.
He'd known as soon as he saw the gun in her hand and heard her real voice. Suddenly, he'd detected a slight Midwestern twang. She was from the Chicago area. He would have thought after his terrible crush on her older sister that he might have recognized Nicole Jayne. Of course, she'd been eleven when he'd last seen her, hanging around the club—helping out at the snack shack and running errands for people. Still, he should have seen the resemblance to Selena past the dark hair and the makeup.
He took his eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at her. “Listen, I could stop by the bank,” he said. “I have about twenty thousand in savings, and I can get more. It's yours—if you just promise not to hurt my kids. Do whatever you want to me. But leave my kids alone, okay?”
“Your wife pretty much said the same thing to us after we surprised her in the garage.” Nicole brandished the gun in her hand. “So—I'm supposed to show you mercy? Back in the summer of 1986, you and your buddies from the country club didn't show my sister any mercy when you took turns raping her.”
“I knew you were Nicole,” he murmured. He shot a look at her. “Your sister wasn't raped. Did Selena tell you she was?”
Nicole glared at him and said nothing.
“So she survived that night . . .”
A car horn wailed, and Mark suddenly realized he was drifting into another lane. He shifted in the driver's seat and leaned closer to the wheel. “Dick was right,” he said, almost to himself. “That night at the beach, he thought Selena might have been hiding in the bushes, just waiting for us to leave. I went back there an hour later, and all her stuff was gone . . .”
“She walked home that night—seven miles,” Nicole said. “I heard her come in at four in the morning. She was a wreck. She told me everything you rich, privileged pigs did to her . . .”
Mark shook his head. “You forget, I worked at the club, too. I wasn't rich, or privileged. And I don't know what your sister told you, but she wasn't raped. I think her judgment was impaired, because she'd had a lot to drink. But she was a willing participant that night. She went skinny-dipping with us. She made out with Dick Ingalls, and I'm pretty sure she enjoyed it. He started passing her around to the other guys . . .”
“ ‘The other guys?' ” she echoed. “And you didn't touch her, right?”
Mark slowed down the car and came to a stop at a traffic light. “No, I participated. I was disappointed in myself. I was disappointed in your sister, too. I liked her a lot. But she liked Dick Ingalls, and I think she really wanted to impress him. The two of them swam off by themselves—and ended up on the pier. The other two, Brent and Scott, took turns with her. I'm sure Dick Ingalls must have talked her into it—”
Someone beeped their horn, and Mark saw the light had changed. He moved his foot to the accelerator and the car started moving again. “I was down the beach from where they were,” he explained. “Your sister didn't scream or fight anyone. When it was my turn, I brought Selena her clothes, and she started kissing me. Then she pulled me on top of her . . .”
“You're a lying sack of shit,” Nicole muttered.
“It's the truth,” he said. “In the middle of it, she went kind of crazy. She hit me and lashed out at the other guys. There was a struggle. She slipped and fell into the water. I thought she might have banged her head against part of the pier. I dove into the water and looked for her, but for the life of me, I couldn't find her . . .”
“Funny,” Nicole said. “Each one of your friends said he was the only one who dove in after her. Each one said he wanted to call the police or an ambulance.”
Mark turned onto his block. “Well, then each one of them was lying. Dick Ingalls and I swam around and searched for her. The other two stayed up on the pier and didn't do a damn thing. I was furious with them. I was the only one who wanted to call the police, but I got outvoted. I can't believe they all switched it around like that. When did they tell you this?”
“I heard it from them individually. And each one of your buddies insisted it was true—right up until the moment I killed him.”
Mark's cell phone rang.
“Let it go to voice mail,” she said.
He kept driving, and didn't say another word until after he pulled into the driveway. Then he turned to her. “I'm going to ask you again. Please, leave my children alone. They have nothing to do with this.”
Opening her door, she climbed out of the car and once again draped her sweater over the gun in her hand. “Just leave the keys on the car floor,” she said.
He shifted into park, cut off the engine, and did what he was told.
“Come on, you lead the way. Danny's waiting for you . . .”
Mark got out of the car. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, he hurried toward the front door. He felt his heart pounding. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Danny?” he called anxiously. “Danny, it's Dad!”
He didn't hear anything except her footsteps behind him.
Mark turned around—in time to see Nicole Jayne raising the gun up in the air. She slammed it down onto his head.
Stunned, Mark collapsed to the hardwood floor. The blow didn't knock him out. He tried to call to Danny again, but it just came out as gibberish.
When he looked toward Nicole, she seemed slightly out of focus. She hovered over something on the table in the front hallway. He heard a rustling noise. He tried to get to his feet, but he couldn't.
All at once, she was on top of him. She had a rag in her hand. She slapped it over his nose and mouth. It was wet.
The last thing Mark remembered was an awful chemical taste in his mouth.
 
 
Friday—1:17
P.M
.
 
“He's still not answering,” Alison said, listening to her father's voice mail greeting. She clicked off, and wrote him a text:
Hi, Dad. Trying 2 get hold of U. I'm comin 2 the TV station 2 tlk 2 U bout something. Its important. W8 4 me there! C U round 2. Pls don't tell Jenny. Thx—XXX—A
Ryan stood by her at the bus stop three blocks from his hotel. “You sure I can't come with you?” he asked.
Alison sent the text, and put her phone back in her purse. “You better not,” she sighed. “I need to be alone with my dad for this talk. Besides, you and I really shouldn't be seen together . . .”
That reminded her. Alison looked over toward the busy intersection near the bus stop. She'd been keeping her eyes peeled for the red Hyundai—as well as the bus. Ryan's friend, Stephanie, had been adamant about him laying low while he was here. They were taking a chance just standing on the sidewalk together.
“So what am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Just sit in the hotel and wait?”
She nodded. “I'll feel better if one of us sticks close to the house. If you're worried about me, I'll be fine. This bus lets me off right in front of my dad's work.”

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