Left for Dead (12 page)

Janice should have said “Ciao,” and left nearly two and a half hours ago.

Frowning, he moved toward the green Saturn. As he approached the car, he saw why the interior light was on. The driver’s door had been left open.

The woman in the BMW pulled out of her spot and started up the ramp. The attendant decided she’d just have to wait a couple of minutes.

He pulled open the front door to Janice’s car. “What the hell?”

Opening the door wider, he reached inside the car for what he thought was a white handkerchief draped over the bottom of the steering wheel.

But it wasn’t a handkerchief at all.

He was holding a pair of woman’s panties in his hand.

“Excuse me?” Tess whispered.

The nurse at the front desk to the Intensive Care Unit was on the telephone. She had a pretty face, and a dark, olive complexion. Blond streaks highlighted her long, straight dark brown hair, pulled back with a silver clip. Tess had plenty of time to study that clip, because the nurse kept her head down as she continued to talk on the phone.

“Well, the acoustics in that place suck,” she was saying. “I went to the worst concert there…”

Tess cleared her throat.

The nurse glanced up for a second, her index finger raised as if to indicate that she’d be with Tess in a moment.

Her arms folded, Tess waited by the desk. She was wearing her red kimono and slippers. She’d become accustomed to walking around the hospital in the kimono. She was overdressed—compared to most of the other patients.

She’d already done her share of waiting around today. She’d spent an hour—reading a boring book—in the third floor lounge. And she’d killed another couple of hours in the cafeteria. Those were the two places she’d usually met Neil. She’d thought for certain she would run into him today. She wanted to explain why she hadn’t shown up for their semidate last night. Obviously, she’d gotten his directions wrong. But mostly, she just wanted to see Neil one last time, and wish him well.

A harmless little crush on a married guy was one thing, but meeting him in a remote, secluded spot for a Chinese dinner together—that was plain wrong. And while his wife was in a coma, no less. What was she thinking?

So—she wanted to see Neil and say good-bye.

“Oh, that place makes the best Margaritas,” the nurse was saying into the phone. “Last time I was there, Jake and I got so wasted. He had three Margaritas, and I—”

“Excuse me,” Tess said, loudly. “If you’re on a break here, is there someone else who can help me?”

The nurse glared up at her for a second. “Listen, Heather, I have to put you on hold,” she said into the phone. She pressed the hold button, then put down the receiver and sighed. “Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tess said, forcing a smile. “I’m looking for a man named Neil. I don’t know his last name, but his wife is here in the ICU. She was in a traffic accident five or six days ago. She’s in a coma—”

The nurse was shaking her head. “There’s nobody here like that.” She reached for the phone again.

“Just a minute, please,” Tess said. “Before you go back to getting wasted away in Margaritaville, could you just check and see if there’s a Mrs. Neil Something-or-other listed as one of your patients?”

“I don’t have to check,” the nurse said. “There isn’t anyone like that here.”

“Maybe she moved to another unit yesterday or—”

“I doubt it,” she cut in. “Anyway, she isn’t here. Try checking with the registration desk downstairs. Okay? I’m very busy right now.”

“Oh, I can see that.” Tess frowned at her. “I guess when they talk about the ‘intensive caring’ in this place, it’s not a requirement for the idiot at the front desk, huh?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Tess said. “Thanks for nothing.”

She turned and walked away. She could hear the nurse get back on the phone with her friend again. “Sorry, Heather. I had this crazy patient screaming at me…Oh, I don’t know. She’s probably mad at the world. She had this creepy strawberry mark covering half of her face. Hah, probably here for some plastic surgery. Anyway, about Friday night…”

Tess kept walking. She’d overheard comments like that ever since she was a child. Sometimes she managed to let them roll right off her; other times, she couldn’t. Tess told herself to let it roll.

And she told herself this was a sign regarding her bittersweet-romantic plans to see Neil one last time. They didn’t need closure. There was never anything to close. She really didn’t need to see him again.

As she rang for the elevator, Tess wondered what had happened to Neil’s wife. Maybe they’d moved her to another part of the hospital. Or maybe she’d taken a turn for the better. Whatever the case, Neil was probably with her right now, where he belonged.

The elevator arrived, crowded with people. Tess stepped on board, squeezed between a man in a wheelchair and the wall, then she pressed the button for the third floor.

She didn’t admit it to anyone, but she often prayed—never aloud, never in church. She didn’t want to be associated with her crazy, always-on-her-knees mother. Tess did her praying in her head.

So on the crowded elevator, Tess said a silent prayer for that handsome man she was letting go—and for the woman in his care, fighting for her life.

He thought he heard her screaming.

He knew it was his imagination playing tricks on him—or maybe just the wind. Still, it almost sounded like her voice. She’d been crying out earlier. He’d heard her through the trap door, yelling at the top of her lungs: “OH, GOD, PLEASE, SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

There was no one around to answer her muffled, pathetic cries. She could scream until her throat was raw. It didn’t matter.

Her voice could carry only a few feet from that trap door. He certainly couldn’t have heard her from where he now stood—outside the house, beside his car.

The wind continued to howl. It was dusk. He had a long trip ahead—to Sherita Williams’s place.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, started up the car, then noticed something on the floor of the passenger side. He smiled. Rolling down his window, he picked up the withered yellow rose and threw it outside.

Then he drove off.

“Her name was Janice Dineen, and she worked in the gift shop,” Harlan said, frowning. “I remember her. She was very pretty. I hear she was only twenty-seven.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Shaw,” Sherita interjected. “But the police are emphasizing that Janice is ‘missing.’ She isn’t assumed dead. You might not want to talk about her in the past tense.”

“Well, they’re pretty damn sure Rembrandt has her,” Harlan retorted, turning in his chair to glare at Sherita in the bathroom doorway. “I’d say if she isn’t dead already, she soon will be. Now, are you done in there? Because I’d like to be alone with my wife.”

“Harlan,” Claire said under her breath. She was sitting up in bed. “Sherita’s my friend. Please, don’t talk to her like that.”

“It’s okay.” Sherita sauntered toward the door. “I was about to scram anyway. My shift’s over.”

“You might want to say your good-byes now,” Harlan suggested. He turned toward Claire again and smiled. “I’ve cleared it with the doctors—and the police. You’ll be on your way home first thing in the morning. It’s been two and a half weeks, the sutures are out. And frankly, I don’t think it’s safe for you here anymore. Between the photographers getting at you and this woman in the gift shop who’s missing, the security in this place is a joke. The guy in charge, this Tim Sullivan character, I’d like to string him up.” Harlan sighed, then he seemed to work up a smile, and took hold of her hand. “Anyway, you’re going home, sweetheart.”

Dumbfounded, Claire stared at him.

Sherita paused at Claire’s bed and touched her shoulder. “Well, congrats, hon. You’re bustin’ out of the joint. I can’t miss that. I’ll be here early. See you in the A-M.” She smiled at Harlan. “G’night, Mr. Shaw.”

“Good night,” Harlan replied. He waited until Sherita stepped outside and closed the door after her. “I wish we were getting you out of here tonight,” he muttered. “Some security they have in this place. Right under their noses he was. When the cops told me about that girl in the gift shop, I just about lost it. She helped me pick out flowers for you.”

“Are they sure—this—Rembrandt has her?” Claire asked.

Sighing, Harlan nodded. “They found her panties in the front seat of her car. I guess it’s part of his signature, his calling card, or whatever. They’ve kept that detail out of the newspapers. But when he abducts them, he always leaves behind some undergarment.”

“Did they say where they found my panties?” she murmured.

“I asked them the exact same thing tonight,” he replied. “They never found any of your clothes.” He squeezed her hand. “Anyway, I’m glad we’re getting you out of here, sweetheart. You’ll be home tomorrow. Aren’t you excited?”

Claire gave an uneasy shrug. “I just keep thinking of that poor girl.”

“Think about coming home instead.”

“It won’t seem like home without Brian.”

Harlan kissed her. “He’ll come back to us, Claire. You’ll see…”

Wanting like hell to believe him, she kissed Harlan back.

The window in Sherita’s breakfast nook had a broken latch. He was inside the kitchen of her town house within five minutes. The place smelled a bit like stale coffee. He switched on the stove light, and saw a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies on the kitchen counter. Helping himself to a cookie, he studied the photos and Post-its covering her refrigerator door. Sherita’s boyfriend was in several of the pictures. He was stocky with a goatee and not a single hair on top of his head. He had pale skin for a black guy. They looked very happy together.

He wondered which one of these photos the boyfriend would give the mortician after Sherita’s death tonight. Someone else would get to play Rembrandt with her.

He studied the Post-its, many with names and addresses or phone numbers scribbled on them. But “Claire” wasn’t there. He went through the darkened town house, straining his eyes as he checked the desk and bureau drawers. He found old receipts, business cards, and scraps of paper. But none of those bits of paper had the name, “Claire,” written on it. If he hoped to learn anything about Claire, he’d have to get it out of Sherita herself.

Returning to the kitchen, he switched off the stove light. He knew Sherita’s schedule by now. She’d be home within the next ten minutes.

He stepped into the laundry room, a converted closet just off the kitchen, near the back door. The windowless room was so dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. After groping around for a moment, he found the dial on the dryer, gave it a twist, and a little light went on above the operation panel. It beat waiting in the dark.

He’d heard a story about a murderer hiding in a basement laundry room. Apparently, the guy waited until he knew the woman was alone upstairs, then he set off buzzer on the dryer. When she came down to check it, he was on her in an instant.

He’d use the same method on Sherita Williams. He had the tiny bottle of chloroform in his jacket pocket, a few feet of rope tied around his waist, and a hunting knife in a sheath strapped around his leg—just above the ankle. Sherita wouldn’t give him much trouble.

She would tell him everything he needed to know about “Claire.” Then he would slit her throat with his hunting knife.

A few days ago, he’d planned to carefully hide her body—so no one would find it for weeks, months even. But it didn’t matter any more. They knew he’d been hanging around the hospital. They were probably looking for Janice right now.

He heard a car pull into the driveway. He reached down toward his ankle and took out his hunting knife. Then he twisted the dial on the dryer, so the light switched off. He waited and listened as outside, the car engine gave one last purr, then a door shut. Just a single car door. She was alone.

He heard her come through the front door. “Shit,” she muttered. “Bills, bills, bills.” She plopped something down on a table—or in a chair, probably her coat and purse. The kitchen light went on. He saw the strip of light along the bottom of the laundry room door. He stayed perfectly still.

There were a couple of beep tones, then a mechanical voice announced:
“You have two new messages.”

He heard some rustling. It sounded like the bag of cookies. There was another beep:
“Hi, Sherita. It’s Naomi. I need to tell you about this awful date I had. Call me.”

That impersonal voice dictated the time and date, then another beep followed:
“Hi, Sherita. It’s Claire. You’re probably not home yet. But I wanted to apologize for the surly way Harlan was acting tonight. Anyway, I’m sorry. I meant it when I said you’re my friend. I’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow. Take care.”

He was leaning toward the crack in the door. He knew that voice. Was this the “Claire” they were talking about? It didn’t make any sense.

He listened to Sherita munching on a cookie and moving around the kitchen. It sounded as if she were opening up her mail.

He didn’t have the patience for this right now. He had to know if that was really Claire Shaw from Deception Island. He wanted to listen closely to the message again. Did she make reference to “Harlan?” Had he heard right?

Tightening his grip on the knife handle, he blindly felt around for the dryer’s timer dial. He was about to set off the buzzer, when he hesitated. He heard her walk out of the kitchen, then up the stairs.

He turned on the little light over the dryer’s control panel, and waited. He heard her stomping around upstairs for a few moments. Then the water pipes seemed to moan, and he realized she’d stepped into the shower.

With the knife clutched in his hand, he opened the door and crept out of the laundry room.

Sherita turned off the shower, and the pipes let out a surrendering squeak. She quickly dried off, then reached toward the hook on the back of the bathroom door for her panties. But they weren’t there. She could have sworn she’d taken out a fresh pair and hung them in the bathroom. At least she hadn’t forgotten her bathrobe, thrown across the top of the hamper. Sherita put it on, then wrapped the towel around her head.

Emerging from the bathroom, she heard a noise. Sherita paused, and listened. She figured it must have been the cheap plumbing in her place. The pipes were always making these weird moaning, knocking, and tapping sounds. It was as if the town house was haunted.

In the bedroom, she put on a clean pair of panties, then wiggled into her comfortable jeans. While adjusting her bra, she heard the damn noise again. Only this time, the sound seemed to come from downstairs.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She heard it, a creaking noise, footsteps. Then abruptly, the footsteps stopped—almost mimicking how she’d halted in her own tracks. She realized, this wasn’t bad pipes. This was someone else in her town house.