After She's Gone (35 page)

Cassie’s heart had skipped a beat. “Did she work at Mercy? In the psych ward?” Was it possible? Had Carter and Sparks located someone who purported to know that Allie was alive?

“Unknown. They’re working on it. This isn’t really a job for the state police. It’s Portland’s case, but Sparks is intrigued and is doing this on his own time.”

“Belva Nelson,” she’d repeated, but the name still meant nothing to her. “How . . . I mean how did she get into the hospital?”

“
If
she did. Nothing’s certain. Carter’s gonna call back once they’ve visited the place.”

“Hopefully he’ll come up with some answers,” she’d said, trying to figure out how a retired nurse from a town thirty-odd miles from Portland had anything to do with Allie seeming to vanish. Could this woman be the key to unlocking the entire mystery? Cassie had felt her pulse jump a little, then had refused to allow herself to feel the tiniest ray of hope. Belva Nelson could be just another dead end.

Now, in the interrogation room Cassie watched as Detective Nash gave a nod to the mirror and within seconds a phone was delivered by a uniformed officer who hooked it to a jack in the wall. The cord stretched to the table. Nash dialed. Less than a minute later she was connected to Detective Hayes in LA and the interview continued for another forty-five minutes, directed by Nash, with Hayes asking a few questions for clarification.

The whole experience was surreal. And unnerving.

The questions became pointed and went over the same information Nash had asked earlier: Did she see the victim, Brandi Potts, last night? Did she know Brandi? Was there a connection between Brandi and Holly Dennison or Lucinda Rinaldi? Did Allie ever talk about either woman? Did Cassie own a gun? Could she provide an alibi for the hours surrounding Brandi Potts’s death? Did Cassie have any idea why the mask was left at her apartment in LA? Did she know about the other masks? Did she know of any reason either woman would have been killed? Any known enemies? Did she know if the two women were close? And just how close was she to either?

How many times did she have to explain that she knew nothing? She answered each question as best as she could, but her knowledge of either victim was limited. Yes, she’d had drinks with Holly, but that was it. She’d driven her friend home the night before her death and hadn’t seen her again. She wasn’t even sure if she’d ever had a conversation with Brandi Potts.

The detectives’ questions were getting them nowhere.

And still Nash kept firing them.

Why would someone place the masks on the victims or leave one at her apartment? Why scribble the words
Mother
or
Sister
on the back of each?

Cassie was losing her patience. “I don’t know,” she said for the dozenth time. “Look, if I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

Nash’s smile was icy. “Well, that’s certainly reassuring.”

“I mean it, I don’t know.” She’d almost pounded her fist on the table she was so frustrated, tired, and angry. But that wouldn’t solve anything. She forced a calmness she didn’t feel. “So I’m going to go now. I’ve told you everything I know, which is nothing, so there’s no reason for us to waste any more of your time or mine, or his,” she said, rolling a palm toward the phone from which the disembodied voice of Jonas Hayes had boomed. Standing, she headed to the door.

“I wouldn’t advise you leaving just yet,” Nash said, and Cassie whirled on her.

“Tough. I’m going.” She only hesitated long enough to see if the detective would try to stop her. She didn’t.

“I’m sure I’m going to have more questions for you,” Nash stated, and was unable to hide her annoyance.

“I’m sure,” Cassie said. “You have my number. Oh, wait. You also have my damned phone.” Then she opened the door and nearly bolted from the room.

 

Sonja Watkins wasn’t happy to find an officer of the law on her sagging front porch. Pushing forty and skinny as a rail, she stood behind a broken screen door and smoked a cigarette while a television blared from somewhere in the depths of the house. Two dogs of indeterminate breed lay on mats on the porch and chickens picked at bugs and grain or whatever in the sparse grass of the yard. The house, vintage 1940, sat on a plot that had to be five acres of fenced scrub brush. A boat and four older-model vehicles, two of which didn’t appear to run, were parked in a wide gravel area in front of a weathered barn. No Hyundai SUV.

The surrounding small farms, visible from the front porch, were neatly kept, the yards trimmed, the houses and outbuildings painted and clean. Not so the Watkins property.

“What do the cops want with my aunt?” Sonja Watkins asked, eyeing Sparks’s badge suspiciously through the screen.

Carter guessed this wasn’t the first time the police had shown up at her door.

Sparks offered a thin smile. A tall man with curly black hair showing its first signs of gray, he was about six feet, his skin always appearing tanned, his eyes sharp and focused. Today, as usual, he appeared unruffled, as if he’d been through the drill a million times.

“Is Belva Nelson here? On the premises?” he asked, flipping his badge holder closed and stuffing it into his pocket.

“Why? She in some kind of trouble?” Sonja was little more than five feet, thin to the point of being skinny, her hair a dark auburn color, red streaks visible. A pair of readers were propped onto her head, and the cigarette burned between the manicured fingers of her right hand. She turned her head to yell over her shoulder, “Christ, Mick, could you turn the damned TV down?”

One of the dogs lifted his head and gave a soft
woof.
The volume from within didn’t change. Pursing her lips in aggravation, she swung her head around again. “Wedded bliss.”

Sparks was firm. “We just need to talk to Ms. Nelson.”

“Well,
Ms. Nelson
ain’t here.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.” A lift of the bony shoulders. A rounding of her eyes. “She don’t tell me where she’s goin’ half the time. And I don’t care. None of my business.” She took a long drag, shot a stream of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“But she does own a 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe?”

“Yeah.” Her look said,
What’s it to ya?

“Does she live here?”

“Why?” She drew hard on her cigarette and in the ensuing cloud said, “Don’t you get it, she’s not here. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days.”

“When do you expect her back?” Sparks asked pleasantly, though there was an edge of steel to his voice.

“Don’t know. As I already told ya, she don’t answer to me! Shit, half the time she just picks up and leaves, don’t say a word about what she’s doin’ and shows up a few days later.” She turned her lips down at the corners. “It’s a real conundrum, now, ain’t it? But once again, it’s not my business. She pays her rent, I don’t go pryin’.”

“So this is where she resides?” Carter cut in.

She frowned. Shot him a look. Took a puff. Realized she’d given out more information than she’d intended. “You a cop, too?”

“Was.”

“I thought I’d seen you before. You were that sheriff that was caught up in that mess with the damned serial killer a few years back. The . . .” She snapped her fingers as she thought. “I don’t know his damned name, but he was the ice man guy.”

“That’s right.”

“Sheeeit, that was one fuckin’ mess! It was all over the news.” She let down her guard for a minute and swung her gaze back to Sparks. “You were involved, too. I read all about it. Was kinda fascinated with the whole weird thing. So what the hell are you two doin’ askin’ about my damned aunt?” A dawning realization hit her. “This have somethin’ to do with Jenna Hughes or her damned missing daughter? Yeah, yeah, I read all about it and you—” She pointed at Carter through the mesh, smoke from her filter tip curling from her hand. “You married Jenna Hughes. Now I remember! Holy shit, what the hell do you want with my aunt?”

Sparks asked, “Do you have a cell phone number for her, or some other number where she can be reached?”

Sonja hesitated; she obviously wasn’t eager to help the cops. “She don’t use it like regular people. I mean, she uses it when she wants to talk to someone but doesn’t have it on all the time to take calls. She’s a little old school, if ya know what I mean.” She eyed them both and had another drag. “What’s this all about?”

“She was a nurse,” Carter said.

She gave a sharp nod. “A long time ago. Belva’s been retired for years.”

“Did she ever work at Mercy Hospital?”

She thought a second. “Don’t know. But there were several different ones, I think.”

“In Portland?” Sparks asked.

“Yeah.” She was nodding. “Look, I don’t remember the names. Mercy? Shit, could be.”

Carter said again, “We’d like to talk to her.”

“So you said.”

“A phone number for her or the name and number of a good friend, someone who might know where she is.”

“That would be me. We don’t have much kin and Belva, she’s not the kind to make good friends, if you know what I mean. I’ll see if I can get you the cell number, but it won’t do ya much good. Just a sec.” She disappeared into the house and less than a minute later returned, the cigarette gone, replaced by a cell phone. After scrolling through a menu, she came up with a number and relayed it through the screen. “That’s it, but I tell ya, she ain’t answerin’. I’ve tried her for two days.”

Sparks asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Two days ago. She drove off around ten in the mornin’, I think.”

“Wednesday?” Sparks clarified.

Sonja stared at him as if he were an idiot. “Jeeezus Keerist! Didn’t I just say so?”

Calm as ever, Sparks fished in his pocket for a card and withdrew it, offering it to Sonja. “Would you have her give us a call?”

“Sure,” she said, opening the door a crack to snatch the card from his fingers. Not that he figured it would do any good. As they left, Carter had the distinct impression Sonja Watkins would toss the number into the trash and hope she never saw hide nor hair of them again.

 

E
verything was coming together.

She could feel it.

She slid on the long negligee worn in the boudoir scene of
Dead Heat.
How well it fit. Like the proverbial glove.

No surprise there, she thought as she surveyed her reflection in the long mirror she’d placed in the corner between the posters that still covered the walls of her dressing area. She frowned as her gaze moved from one of the elaborate pictures promoting various movies to the next.

Of course they were marred. Sliced by her own hand when she was in a rage which, it seemed, was happening more often these days. Was it because of the movie’s premiere, or was it just a natural progression? She didn’t know but felt more out of control than ever, the insecurities and fury more impossible to ignore. She wasn’t always so volatile and now, gazing at the posters that had been taped painstakingly back together, she told herself she was sane; she’d always been sane, the doctors were wrong. As long as she kept herself in control and only gave way to the violent impulses according to her plan, she would be all right. In fact, everything would be as it should be. Once her nemesis was dealt with forever, then there would be calm and recognition and . . . a new life, a life, she deserved.

Again, she viewed the posters and in many, the heroine’s face was a little off, distorted because of the jagged tears. Those, the disfigured images were what she used for the masks she created, the false images that always hid the real person beneath the cool facade.

Soon though, it would all be over.

But there was a new problem to deal with. All very irritating. Just when she’d thought she was home free. No worries, she told herself. She would handle it. Just as she’d handled everything all of her life.

Walking closer to the mirror, she examined herself with a trained eye, then scowled, noticing a tiny wrinkle between her eyes when she frowned. Though she’d told herself differently, age had started to show itself a bit. Her breasts, though full, weren’t as perky as they once had been and, though she was loath to admit it, she was a tad thicker in the middle than nubile Annie Melrose had been in the movie. But still . . . not bad. That film had been shot nearly five years earlier, so a little extra flesh was to be expected. And there was always plastic surgery. Tummy tucks. Breast lifts. Whatever. When the time came.

She felt a new energy when she thought to the night ahead. The premiere party for
Dead Heat
. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to make her entrance.

She walked to the tiny window and looked outside to the Hollywood Hills and the sign visible through her window. This should have been her time. Her star should have risen, but, because of Jenna Hughes, it hadn’t soared as high as she’d expected. “Thanks,” she snarled under her breath at the woman in the poster. “You miserable self-serving bitch.”

 

“I
’ll be damned,” Nash said under her breath as she stared at her computer screen on her desk. Lieutenant Sparks had called earlier and given her a short rundown on his trip to Molalla where he’d interviewed a woman by the name of Sonja Watkins. He and ex-sheriff Carter had been trying to locate Belva Nelson, Watkins’s aunt and a retired nurse who had supposedly “visited” Cassie Kramer in the hospital, where, dressed in a costume straight out of the fifties, good old Aunt Belva had assured Cassie that her sister was just fine and dandy. Their tip had come from a mental patient who’d seen an SUV that didn’t belong in the hospital lot. Nash had thought the story beyond far-fetched, but Sparks was a good cop, as Carter had been a good sheriff. Reluctantly Nash had done a little follow-up.

She’d asked Natalie Jenkins, a junior detective, to research the name Belva Nelson on the off-chance that not only was there such a person, but that she was a nurse and had some connection to Mercy Hospital, or Cassie Kramer, or both. Nash wanted anything Jenkins could find. And she wanted it now.

So far, lo and behold, Sparks’s and Carter’s information held up. Belva Mae Watkins Nelson, a widow, was indeed a retired nurse who lived in the small community of Molalla. Her work history included several clinics and hospitals in the Portland area, including a very short stint at Mercy Hospital over thirty years earlier. Nash had already called the hospital, talked to the records department, and requested a full history of Belva Nelson’s employment. She’d been given some double-talk about the hospital being sold several times over the past years, its records archived, if said documents still existed at all. Nash accepted no excuses and told the records clerk to put her manager on the line, or if that didn’t work, Nash wanted to talk to hospital administration. Upon realizing Detective Nash wasn’t about to be sidetracked, the clerk had quickly lost her snippy it’s-too-much-trouble attitude and promised to look into the request. Nash had told her she’d be by to pick up the information, if it weren’t faxed over to the police department by eight the next morning. Just to keep the clerk on task.

Since Belva Nelson, in her seventies, was no longer working, what was she doing at the hospital in the middle of the night in Cassie Kramer’s room? Initially Nash had thought Cassie Kramer was a liar, somehow trying to save her own skin, or else was certifiable, suffering from some mental health problem that caused her to be delusional and hallucinate. Now, Nash wasn’t convinced. Could it be that Cassie Kramer was telling the truth? Then who was behind the bizarre murders? Who, Nash wondered, would have it in for Cassie Kramer so deeply that he or she would go to such lengths to make Cassie either go crazy or appear guilty?

The name that kept nagging at Nash’s mind was Allie Kramer. Was it possible she was still alive, as the retired nurse had suggested? Was she sending random texts out just to mess with Cassie’s head? Did she hate her sister so much as to set her up for murder? How off the rails was Allie and, above all else, was she capable of homicide? Nash hadn’t yet talked to Brandon McNary. He’d been a ghost and hadn’t returned her calls, but she was determined to track him down and find out about the text message he’d received, purportedly from the same number as Cassie.

First things first, though.

With a dozen questions running through her mind, she scooted her desk chair back and walked to Double T’s cubicle. He was staring at his own computer monitor while talking on his desk phone. Though he never so much as glanced her way, he must’ve seen her in his peripheral vision as he held up a finger to silently tell her to “hold on.”

“. . . yeah, that’s right. Tyronne with two
n
s. Thompson with a
p
. . . uh-huh. Okay . . . yeah, I’ll be there.”

He hung up and twirled his desk chair to face her. “Mix-up at the doctor’s office. Seems there’s actually two Tyronne Thompsons, but the other guy?” he said, flashing a wicked grin. “He spells his name wrong.”

“He probably doesn’t think so. Besides, I thought they used birth dates.”

He shrugged. “Somehow this other dude got called for my appointment with the ENT. Guess we all have sinus issues. The climate.”

“Right.” She hitched her head toward the door. “Got time for a quick trip?”

“To?”

“Molalla. Thirty or forty miles southeast. Be there in less than an hour.”

“Been there before. As a kid. Got themselves a hella rodeo.”

“I’ve heard,” she said dryly. “They also might have a witness.” She filled in the blanks as Double T had already heard part of the information. “I know that Carter and Sparks already went out there, but I’d like to talk to Nelson, if she’s there, and Sonja Watkins if she’s not. Nelson lives with Watkins’s family. Sonja’s a hairdresser, her husband currently unemployed.”

“Why go out there if Sparks already covered it?” He looked at the clock. It was long after five. “It’s Friday. Traffic will be a bitch.”

“I know, but it could be worth it. I just want to meet Sonja Watkins face-to-face since it seems that Belva Nelson is MIA. She’s the one I really want to talk to.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Since when?” She snorted a laugh. “Sparks thinks the woman’s in hiding. He and Carter both are sure that Watkins was lying, probably about knowing where her missing aunt is holed up. Anyway, I’m already working on a warrant for the place and the phone records, but I need a little more reason for the judge to issue one; maybe Sonja or her ex-con husband Mick will give us what we need if we rattle their cage a bit.”

“Okay. I’m in.” He was already reaching for his jacket and his service weapon. “After all, who doesn’t like a little drive in the country?”

 

“Trust in God, my child. He will help you make the right decision,” the priest had said, his words comforting. For a few moments in the safety of the confessional, the dark cloud of guilt that she’d borne for over thirty years had been lifted from Belva Nelson’s shoulders. And the priest on the other side of the partition had appeared young, but it didn’t matter. His words had been a balm. For a few minutes she’d managed to convince herself that her faith was her strength. As she’d walked out of the hundred-year-old building with its stained-glass windows and spire that seemed to pierce the heavens, she’d held onto her faith, felt that God would guide her.

Save her.

Oh, that it were so.

But now, as she drove through the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, returning to the small cabin her father had built nearly a century earlier, her doubts assailed her again. The warmth and safety of the church in Mount Angel was far behind, and she was all alone in the world, driving on a narrow winding road far from civilization. Away from the danger into which she’d placed herself.

Her Hyundai was lugging down, the road getting steeper, the forest darker and more dense. She switched on her wipers, setting them to the slowest speed as the air was thick and damp, heavy with fog, moisture collecting on the glass.

She’d only seen one other car on the road, a vehicle that had sped from behind, its headlights nearly blinding before it had passed her on a straight stretch. For a second she’d thought the idiot behind the wheel was going to crash into her, but at the last minute he’d swerved into the oncoming lane and blown by until she saw only the red taillights of the car disappearing.

That was it.

No other car or truck behind her, none ahead and none going the opposite direction. Which was just as well. For now.

Her hands tightened over the wheel. She didn’t really know that the recent murders had anything to do with this other matter, that seemed far-fetched. Yet the timing was too much of a coincidence to be ignored.

And she was scared.

So she’d gone to the church, seeking solace, searching for answers.

The forest seemed to close in on her, her headlights thin illumination against an obsidian darkness that surrounded the car and cut her off from civilization. Belva had never felt so alone. So isolated.

It will be short-lived. A temporary necessity.
She swallowed hard, heard her own lie. She was only bolstering herself.

“Help me, Father,” she whispered and sketched the sign of the cross over her chest with one hand while holding tight to the wheel with her other. She noticed the crucifix dangling on a rosary she’d hung over her rearview mirror. The tiny silver cross swung backward, to and fro, as she negotiated the sharp S curves.

Should she go to the police?

She bit her lip.

Had she broken any laws?

It could be dangerous.
No, Belva, it
will
be dangerous. Already people are paying the ultimate price. Deep in your soul, you know you’re involved. Even if you don’t acknowledge it, God knows. He sees.

Oh, Lord, what to do? She had asked herself the same question over and over.

It had all started so long ago.

She’d been young and foolish at the time when she’d promised to keep her mouth shut and take the money she and her husband had so desperately needed. The economy had been lousy at the time and Jim had always had trouble holding down a job, even in good years. His affinity for whiskey had cost him a career and eventually his life.

But never should she have listened to him and accepted payment for her silence. It was as if the devil himself had been whispering into her all-too-willing ears. She’d been a licensed RN at the time, but because of Jim moving from job to job, she’d never settled into one clinic or hospital for more than a year or so.

And so she’d ended up at Mercy.

As a temporary employee, a nurse that “floated” from one area or floor to the next, to help out wherever she was needed most. Her job wasn’t secure in the least, and her hours had been cut over and over again.

So she’d done the unthinkable.

She’d not only sold out; she’d sold her soul in the process.

For a second she thought God was speaking to her, that the little crucifix seemed to glow in the darkness, almost as if it were reflecting light, but that, of course, was impossible in this Stygian night where the rain mixed with fog, and she felt more isolated than she ever had in her life.

She turned off at the lane that was barely visible, just twin ruts choked with weeds that cut through the ferns, berry vines, and fir trees. Branches scraped the sides of the SUV and mud splattered up from potholes as she veered into a clearing wherein her father’s old fishing cabin still sat. The wood walls had grayed, the roof was covered in moss, and the lean-to carport had collapsed years before. The porch sagged and a few stones had fallen off the chimney, but the rest of the cabin was sturdy enough, just dirty and in the middle of no-damned-where.

This was definitely no way to live, she thought as the beams of her headlights washed against the windows.

For just a second, she thought she saw a shadow behind the glass, a movement of the tattered curtains her mother had sewn decades before. But as she stared more closely, she saw nothing and decided her nerves were just stretched tight.

Her cell phone beeped and she jumped, her heart nearly collapsing. The screen lit up and she saw the message was from Sonja.

Belva stared at the screen for a few minutes as she tried to calm down. The phone was a disposable that she’d bought a while back, supposedly untraceable, as was Sonja’s, but who really knew? She should never have stepped into this mess, should have gone directly to the police. Maybe the fact that they were tracking her down was a good sign. She wrote back:
I will take care of it.

K. Sonja had responded. Short for okay.

That was it. Sonja was making as little contact as possible, as they’d agreed. “Message received,” Belva said and climbed out of the car. Once more she considered going to the police. Maybe they could protect her because once she broke her silence, she knew there would be hell to pay. In so many ways. She wasn’t the only one involved. Innocent people would be hurt.

Again she made the sign of the cross and sent up a prayer as she made her way up the creaky stairs. Dear Lord, the night was cold. Damp. Fog drifting in smoke-like tendrils through the trees. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Immediately she sensed something was different. Off. Not quite right. Or was it just her case of nerves? Shivering, she reached for the light switch and flipped it.

Nothing happened.

The room remained dark aside from a weak red glow emanating from beneath the ashes of the banked fire. “What in heaven’s name?” she whispered, wondering if there was even an extra bulb or if she’d have to find a way to light the damned lantern on the mantel above the blackened firebox. Did it even have any oil in it or would she have to forget the lantern and use only the light from the nearly dead fire?

The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. She squinted, her muscles tense. Slowly, eyes searching, telling herself nothing was amiss, she started toward the stone fireplace.

Ssssssss
!

Sweet Jesus!

A sibilant sound, so like the hiss of a snake swept through the room.