Cast in Stone (33 page)

"Oh,
God. Cannibalism. Demon worship. Kiddie Porn. You name it, they were
supposed to be involved in it. You listen to these folks, you believe
half the valley was linked up in a half-mile daisy-chain cluster
fuck." He pointed an upturned palm back the way we'd come. "You
saw those people back there. That's how they are. They don't have
enough to do. They spend their time making up things about people."
"Okay. So?"

"So
about my junior year in high school, Terra started showing up once in
a while at school things. Everybody noticed her right away. You know,
it's a small town. All those weird rumors. Besides that, her clothes
and everything were so weird."

"Weird
how?"

"Like
old and out of date. Hand-me-downs. The kind of things kids notice
right away." "And are none too kind about." "You
know it." "What year was that?"

"Seventy-eight,
seventy-nine. Right in there some-

place." *

"So
she started showing up at school functions."

"Yeah,
and . . . you know . . . word started to get around."

"About
the girl?"

"Yeah."
He walked around scratching and stretching like a hitter about
to enter the batter's box. "What word?" "You know."

"What?"
I pressed. "She was easy? What?" "Not exactly."
"What then?"

"That
she was one of them. That she was wild. I guess that's the word."
"Wild how?"

He
looked at me hard. I gave him my best man-of-the-world look. "Listen,
Mr.—"

"Waterman,"
I said, sticking out a hand. "Leo Waterman."

He
reluctantly shook it. Surveying the street again,

he
released my hand and pushed his deep into his pockets.

"You
know, it doesn't look like my prospects in the next election are
going to be any too damn good. I can live with that. What I do have
going for me, though, is my family. I've got a hell of a wife and
three nice kids. If I do talk to you, this is the end of it. When you
walk away from here, as far as I'm concerned, this conversation
never happened. No depositions. No nothing. You understand me?"

"I
understand," I assured him.

"Easy
wasn't the right word." he said. "Easy says you could like
. . . you know . . . come on to her and she'd . . . come across."

I
waited him out. Nearly a minute passed before he spoke again.

"It
wasn't anything like that. She did the choosing. She just sort of
decided who it was she wanted, and that was it."

"Uhhuh."

"I'm
not the only one here in town either. There were others. It's just
not something . . . you know . . . anybody's gonna talk about."

Out
on the highway, an eighteen-wheeler splattered the air with his jake
brake. We listened as the roar rolled up over the hills.

"She
wasn't like the other girls," he said.

"How
so?"

Another
long pause.

"Terra
knew what you really wanted. It was like she could read way down in
your mind, down into those things that you feel bad for even thinking
about. With her it was more like"—he searched for a word—
"theater. And she knew exactly what part you really wanted to
play."

There
didn't seem to be anything to say, so I didn't.

"Then
the shit hit the fan." He took a deep breath.

"You've
got to understand that from here on it's just small-town rumor.
Nobody knows anything for sure." "Okay."

"One
of the first things I did when Marvin hired me was to try to poke my
nose into the case, but it was all sealed up by order of the Skagit
District Court. They do that when there's juveniles involved."

"It's
a good policy."

He
collected his thoughts.

"She
killed him."

"She
who killed him who?"

"Her
mother, Claire. That part is on record. She killed her husband,
Wayne. Some say she mutilated, him too, but that's just rumor again.
What's for sure is that the wife killed him. The poor woman had a
long history of mental problems. She's been in and out of Northern
State all of her life. I guess she just snapped."

"Did
she go to jail?"

"Oh,
no," he said. "She went all the way over the edge. Sat
right there in court and told the judge her old man needed killing.
Calm as could be. Not the slightest hint of remorse. They sent her
down to Western State. Social Services took the little kids."

"Terra?"

"That's
the part everybody remembers." "What's that?"

"The
competency hearing over in Sedro Woolley." "What about it?"

"Terra
went bonkers. The bailiffs had to carry her out both days. Took three
of them." "You were there?"

"Yeah.
I was there. Hell, half of the valley was there. It was during
Christmas break. She just went nuts. Screaming about how they hadn't
done anything wrong. About how she'd get her momma out no matter how
long it took. Big old picture of her being

carried
out of court was on the front page both days. It was big-time news
for around here."

"What
happened to her after that?"

He
shrugged. "I don't know. I thought maybe they'd thrown her in
the can for contempt or something, but she was just gone."
He folded his arms over his vest. "What with Wayne Hasu dead and
the mom off to the bin, the whole thing just sort of blew over. There
was a lot of talk. A bunch of folks moved out of the area. It wasn't
the kind of thing folks wanted to hear about anyway. Once they had
somebody to blame, they just swept it under the rug."

He
kept his gaze high on the scarred slopes to the south. I had a
feeling. "And you never saw her again?"

He
plucked a small purple flower from the ground and twirled it in his
big fingers.

"I
didn't see her again until nineteen eighty-nine," he said. "The
year I came back here with Judy. She walked right into the station
during my shift, big as life. Fine clothes, jewelry. New car. Had her
nose fixed and everything."

I
cocked an eyebrow. He shrugged.

"Just
like that, huh?" I said.

"Just
like that."

"Did
she say anything about where she'd been all that time?" "Nope."

I
sensed that I'd somehow touched a nerve. "You still see her?"

He
scraped a handful of pebbles from the street, shaking them in his
hand as he walked backward. He began throwing the stones, one at a
time, at the side of the building.

"When
was the last time you saw her?"

He
gave a walleyed look, like a dog caught messing the carpet.

"She
was here a couple of weeks ago. Looking real fine. Blond this time,"
he said, suddenly refusing to meet my eyes. "I told Judy I had
to take a prisoner to Seattle. We—" He stopped. "I'm not
proud of this. Maybe I'm just weak, but once she sets the hook in
you, she doesn't let go. She's showed up every year or so, ever since
eighty-nine. Every time, I tell myself it's the last time." He
shrugged again. "It's a strong drive."

"I
understand," I said. "It's been a major player in most of
the real shitty decisions I've made in my life."

We
moseyed back up the slope, turning onto Main Street, which, except
for an old man sliding along behind a walker, was now deserted. For
the first time, he noticed the still-open door of the cruiser.

"My
boy's waiting," he said. "We were gonna—"

"Thanks
for the help."

He
cast me a sideways glance. "You know, even after all this, if
she was to walk through the door tomorrow night, or next month, I'll
probably do it again," he said quietly.

"I
know."

You
look terrible"

"Thanks,
I needed that."

"You
know better than to drink with those guys," Duvall said.

"I
guess I needed a refresher course."

The
bell on the microwave startled me as it announced my coffee.
Rebecca retrieved the cup and slid it over the breakfast bar at me.

"I've
been thinking about what you told me. About that girl and her
background and all."

"And?"

"I
was struck by how the whole story is the perfect recipe for creating
a sociopath. It's like her whole history was cast in stone from the
very beginning. You take a regular kid, you isolate her from normal
human beings, you subject her to years of mental and sexual abuse,
and what you get is somebody who's prepared to do whatever it takes
to survive."

"You
think she's just a poor waif trying to survive?"

"A
poor waif, no. Just trying to survive, yes."

"Come
on. She's killed at least two people. She's been directly responsible
for the death of at least one other. She's ripped off in excess of a
couple of million dollars that I know of, and you say the poor thing
is just trying to survive."

"Some
people need more than others. Look at her life, for gosh sakes, Leo.
This is a very needy person."

"Thank
you, Dr. Brothers. The bad news is that none of this gets me any
closer to finding her."

Rebecca
checked her face in the small mirror, loaded her briefcase with
paperwork, and picked up her keys.

"I
thought this was your day off," I said. "So many meetings,
so little time. Lock up for me, will you?" "No problema,"
I said.

She
pulled her black raincoat from the hook behind the door.

"What's
on your plate this afternoon?" "I've got a five o'clock
with my client." "You better take a nap before you go."
"That's the plan." "See you later."

The
door closed behind her and then suddenly opened again. She stuck her
head back in. "Where's the mother?"

"If
she's still alive, she's probably still in Western State. They tend
to get retentive about folks who cut other folks into pieces."

"If
her mother's still alive, that's where to look."

"How
do you figure?"

"Trust
me, Leo. She won't be far from her mother. People who suffer together
have strong connections."

Five
minutes into my report, Marge walked out onto her private terrace,
seeking cover amid the jungle of potted plants. The breeze off Elliot
Bay fanned my note cards onto my shoes. I kept talking as I picked
them up. She stood on the concrete, just outside the sliding door,
her arms now folded tight over an ivory silk blouse.

"You're
sure?" she said when I finished.

"I'm
sure."

"What
if this person was lying?"

"He
wasn't. He had no reason to lie. He saw her a little over two weeks
ago. At least three weeks after she was supposed to be dead."

"We
should call the police."

"There's
a bunch of problems with that."

"Such
as?"

"First
off, Nicky's death is officially an accident, and the cops are never
real anxious to be wrong." Marge started to object. I raised my
voice. "Also, she's probably not wanted for anything."

Marge
Sundstrom came charging back into the room, waving her arms.

"How
can that—that pig not be wanted for anything? She murdered my
son."

"I
know," I said. "Listen to me, Marge—" She stopped
pacing. "This woman is good at this. Early on, she got lucky.
The old lady was an easy mark. She was a quick study, though. She
learned from the experience. You've gotta give her that. What better
place to find the vulnerable than at support groups? There's a kind
of twisted brilliance there. There's no telling how many times she's
run that little number, either. I'm bettin' a bunch. Over the past
fifteen years, she's turned herself into a sophisticated woman of the
world who doesn't have any trouble fooling other professionals. She's
gotten this far by being smart, by being ruthless, and by being
careful."