Left for Dead (26 page)

For such a sensational headline, the article was surprisingly brief. Claire had already gotten the gist of it from Molly. The story pointed out that Hugh Davalos had been arrested three times for assault, twice during domestic disputes, and once for attacking a police officer, who had stopped him for driving while intoxicated. He’d also served jail time for auto theft. The sons, Dean, 19, and Rodney, 17, were barely mentioned. There was a quote from a neighbor about Violet:

At the end of the article, they mentioned:
“Violet Davalos is survived by her brother, Steven Griswald of Bremerton, Washington.”

Claire turned the page, and saw a photo of Ron Castle in a chef’s hat and apron. He was smiling and brandishing a spatula. The article was about the forthcoming Platt Guardian-sponsored “Summerfest Scramble” pancake-and-eggs breakfast. It received more coverage than the Davalos murders, suicide, and fire.

Claire pulled a pen and piece of paper from her purse and scribbled a note to herself:
Steven Griswald—Bremerton, Washington.

“Mom?”

With a start, she looked up at Tiffany. “Yes, sweetheart?”

Tiffany handed her a book, called
The Christmas Crocodile.
“Can you check this out for me?” she asked. “I didn’t bring my library card. Then can we go home? Because I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You mean—like—number two?” Claire whispered.

Tiffany nodded.

“Well, we have to walk home. It’ll be eight blocks. Can you last that long? I can guard the door for you here.”

“I’ll last, I promise.”

Claire returned
The Islander
to the front desk, and checked out Tiffany’s book.

“Sure you’re not rushing the season a bit?” Claire handed Tiffany the Christmas book as they stepped out of the library together. A gust of cool air hit them. “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”

Tiffany pointed across the street—at the Santa Claus display in the hardware store window. “It’s Christmas there,” she said. She turned to the building next door to the library. “And it’s Christmas there too…”

Claire looked at the bunted string of Christmas lights—not yet illuminated—along the top of the squat, one-story locksmith shop. Her gaze followed the lights along the side of the little building, toward the back.

Claire suddenly gasped. She saw someone dart behind the locksmith shop. He seemed to have come from the back of the library. Claire only caught a fleeting glimpse of him, but she saw the army fatigue jacket.

“Honey, get back inside,” she whispered urgently. She gave Tiffany a gentle push toward the library’s front entrance. “Hurry, I’ll be right there.”

Claire waited until her stepdaughter ran inside the building. Then she crept toward the back of the locksmith shop. At the same time, she stayed a safe distance from the building. She didn’t see anyone in back of the shop. Nobody was hiding behind the garbage cans or the old, abandoned, rusty shell of pickup truck parked back there. A high wooden fence sliced through some overgrown shrubs, and the gate was half-open, still swaying a bit. Beyond the fence was an alley.

Claire stood there, trying to get her breath. She decided to back away. She didn’t want to leave Tiffany alone while chasing after some phantom stalker. And what did she think would happen once she caught up with him?

A wind blew in off the water, and the chill cut through her. As she retreated toward the library, Claire smoothed back her hair. Beads of cold sweat covered her forehead.

Near the back of the library, she noticed an outside stairwell leading to the cellar. Her heart was still racing. Claire stopped and glanced down the cement steps. The door—one of the old kind with peeling gray paint and a fogged window that had chicken-wire in it—was open.

She looked around to make sure the man with the army fatigue jacket had moved on. Had he just come from down there?

Biting her lip, Claire took a couple of steps down the cement stairwell. She hesitated a moment, then moved on to the door. Peeking past the entry, she saw a dark, little alcove. The cellar door was below ground-level, yet she still felt the chilly wind kissing the back of her neck.

There were lights past the shadowy area. Taking another step forward, Claire saw the shelves full of bound periodicals and old newspapers. Some of the papers ruffled slightly from the draft—and the open door behind her.

Swallowed up in darkness, Claire saw the mini-stepladder, where she’d been sitting just minutes before. Claire shuddered, because she knew.

She knew he’d been watching her just a few minutes ago—from this very spot.

Tim came in from the ferry deck to take the call on Al’s cellular. It had been blustery out there, and his dark hair was in a disarray. He sat at one of the tables in the passenger area, near a heater duct.

From the window, he had a view of the choppy gray water, and the other islands in the distance. The ferry wasn’t crowded, but someone had let their two kids run up and down the aisle. They were squealing and laughing.

“I got a fax from your boss in Seattle,” Sheriff Klauser was saying over the phone.

Tim had to put a finger in his free ear. “Yes, I asked him to send it,” he said. “Is there a picture?”

“Uh-huh, very pretty gal too. Kimberly Cronin. According to this fax, Rembrandt abducted her around six o’clock last night—in Bellingham. I hate to say it, but everyone here is taking a big sigh of relief.”

“What do you mean?” Tim asked, hunched over the table.

“Well, it means he’s not on the island any more. He isn’t stalking Claire Shaw. He’s moved on. We can call off that cabin search.”

“I wouldn’t do that just yet,” Tim advised.

The kids moved to another part of the ferry, and Tim took his finger out of his ear. “I’m on my way back from Wenacthee,” he said. “I talked with the parents of Rembrandt’s first victim, Nancy Hart. Nancy and her family spent a week vacationing on Deception a year before she was killed. Her mother told me Nancy used to go for long walks in the woods by herself.”

“What does this have to do with—”

“Just listen, please,” Tim said. “One night, Nancy came home from a walk, and her mother found her in her room. She said Nancy’s face was all made-up, and she had a beauty mark. Rembrandt always gives his victims a beauty mark.”

“I’m not reading you,” the sheriff said. “What are you getting at?”

“I think Nancy might have been meeting someone during these walks in the woods,” Tim said. “And on this particular night, he must have tried to put makeup on her.”

“What do you mean?” the sheriff asked. “How?”

“Maybe he talked her into a make-over,” Tim said. “Maybe he tied her up and started painting her face, I don’t know for sure. But he did
something
to scare her, because she ran away. And she was crying when her mother found her.”

“So you’re saying this guy—if there really was a guy—was Rembrandt?” the sheriff asked. “But you don’t know for certain, do you? I mean, so far, all this is just a theory, right?”

“Yes. But don’t you think it’s worth pursuing?”

“How do you want to pursue it, buddy?”

“Well, for starters, by searching those cabins in the woods—especially the ones near where the Killabrews stayed. Maybe we can find out who was renting the neighboring cabins at the time.”

He heard the sheriff sigh on the other end of the line. “Listen, buddy…Tim. I called your boss after I got that fax. I wanted to thank him. I mentioned this cabin-to-cabin search you wanted to launch, and he shot it down—but pronto. The idea went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. He said all it would do is cause a lot more panic. And I’m sorry, I have to agree with him. He said you should just sit—”

“Sit tight, I know,” Tim cut in. “But don’t you see? Between Nancy Killabrew Hart and Claire Shaw, there’s a chance Rembrandt’s a permanent—or at least, a part-time—resident on Deception. He may own one of those cabins, or he’s renting it, or maybe just stowed away there. Think about it, Sheriff. Wouldn’t one of those remote cabins out there in the woods be an ideal place to hold someone captive? Kimberly Cronin could be somewhere on Deception Island right now.”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” the sheriff replied. “But yesterday evening—while Rembrandt was abducting that gal in Bellingham—you had me convinced he was here on the island. Well, if he ever was here in the first place—and I’m beginning to have my doubts—I think he’s long gone by now.”

“So—I’m on my own if I want to search cabins,” Tim said grimly.

“Well, you can always call Walt Binns, and see if he’ll still help out. I won’t stop you, buddy. But aren’t you going against your boss’s orders?”

“Yes,” Tim admitted.

“Then I don’t want to know about it,” the sheriff said on the other end of the line. “And for chrissakes, don’t scare any of the weekend residents while you’re out there in those woods tonight.”

The man standing on the front porch of the three-bedroom cabin looked a bit scared. He was about thirty, and lanky with red hair. He’d obviously dressed in a hurry. His flannel shirt was half-unbuttoned, he’d forgotten to zip the fly to his jeans, and he stood in his stocking feet. The front door was open behind him. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

He must have been alarmed to see two men driving up to the cabin, where he and his family were staying for the weekend.

It was the same cabin the Killabrews had rented two summers ago. The current occupants probably had no idea that in one of those bedrooms there had slept a woman who was murdered by a serial killer.

“Hi. We didn’t mean to bother you,” Tim said.

He and Walt Binns stopped in front of Walt’s Range Rover, parked on the dirt road. They’d already checked three other cabins in the vicinity, all unoccupied. Walt had procured the keys from Chad Schlund, who managed about a dozen of the cabins. Walt had volunteered to be Tim’s driver and guide through the island’s woods.

“I’m your neighbor,” Walt called to the man, giving him a friendly wave. He stepped up to the front porch, and Tim followed. The red-haired man still looked a bit apprehensive.

Walt shook his hand. “Walt Binns. I have a cabin a couple of miles from here, closer to the coast. My buddy here is a cop.”

Tim shook his hand. “Tim Sullivan, hi.”

“Rob Schilling,” the man said, still visibly wary. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“We were wondering if you’ve noticed anyone—hanging around here,” Walt said.

“He was last seen wearing an army fatigue jacket and a stocking cap,” Tim piped up. “Um, his family’s looking for him. He’s—harmless, just not all there, if you know what I mean. He wandered off. His folks are worried.”

Rob Schilling shook his head. “No, we haven’t seen anyone.” He frowned at Tim. “I’m here with my wife and two kids. You say this guy’s harmless?”

Tim hesitated. He was thinking of Rembrandt. At the same time, he didn’t want to start a panic. “Yes, but if you see him, you should phone the police or you can call me. Give him a wide berth. He—he scares easily. And just so he doesn’t scare you, I suggest you lock your doors tonight.”

Tim gave the man Al’s cell phone number, and Walt gave him the number at his cabin. As they were leaving, Walt shook Rob Schilling’s hand again. “Don’t forget, I’m just down the road a piece. If you folks need anything, give me a holler.”

They climbed back into Walt’s Range Rover. Tim whispered to him, “Give you a
holler?”

“I was trying to sound folksy,” Walt replied, scooting behind the wheel. “You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to check out my own place. I haven’t been there in a few days. I bet you’d like to see it too, wouldn’t you?”

Sitting on the passenger side, Tim shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

Walt started up the car. “Oh, don’t try to act so casual about it,” he chuckled. “You want to take a look at my place. I’m a suspect, aren’t I?”

Tim tried to laugh. In fact, he didn’t want to consider Walt Binns a potential suspect. Harlan’s best friend was an easygoing guy, who looked years younger than his buddy and had a better sense of humor. Tim had been driving around with Walt for nearly an hour now, and he liked him.

Tim had already shown him the photo of Nancy Killabrew Hart. Without hesitation or a false note, Walt had said he didn’t recognize her. Tim had believed him. Or maybe he’d just wanted to believe him.

“If I’m not a suspect, I ought to be,” Walt went on, driving up the dirt road. “If this serial killer is on Deception, he’d have to own or lease one of these cabins. He couldn’t keep his victims anywhere in town.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Tim admitted, rocking a bit as they drove over some bumps on the dirt road.

“Well, I have a cabin, very isolated,” Walt volunteered. “And this guy would need a boat too. He has to be free to come and go to the mainland to do his abducting…”

“And his dumping—once he’s finished with them,” Tim said soberly. “That means smuggling dead bodies back to the mainland at all sorts of weird hours. Even with his car, he couldn’t do that on the ferry running only three times a day.”

His eyes on the road, Walt nodded. “So our guy would need his own boat. I have a boat.”

“Should I read you your rights now or later?” Tim asked.

Walt chuckled. “Oh, later, please. You have to hear my alibi first.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening,” Tim said.

“Seriously, that weekend Claire was abducted down in Seattle, I was on Victoria Island. If you want, I can dig up a receipt from the hotel. In fact, they dated and stamped these one-third-off-your-next-stay coupons. They’re yours if you want. I get a corporate rate at this place. Take your girlfriend up there for the weekend on me.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Consider it a bribe, officer,” he said. “I’m going thirty miles an hour, and the speed limit here is twenty. I’m hoping you’ll look the other way.”

“Were you all by yourself on Victoria?” Tim asked.

“I was afraid you’d ask that,” Walt muttered. “I was seeing someone. But I’d appreciate it you didn’t contact her—unless it becomes absolutely necessary. This someone happens to be married. We occupy a very small part of each other’s lives. I only see her one weekend every few months. That was Suzanna’s and my weekend.”

“So—you don’t know anything about Harlan’s stepson running away.”

Frowning, Walt shook his head. “Just what everyone has told me. It’s a shame too. Claire’s been through enough. She doesn’t need to be tearing her hair out, wondering where Brian’s gone off to. He’s a good kid, but kind of a screw up.”

“Do you think it’s possible Brian got himself into some real serious trouble, and maybe that’s why he ran away?”

“Like what kind of trouble?”

“Rembrandt trouble,” Tim said. “Brian and his friend, Derek Herrmann, both disappeared at the same time the attempt on Claire’s life was botched. They also knew Nancy Killabrew Hart’s brother. Mr. Killabrew told me that Nancy once caught Derek peeping into her bedroom window.”

“Why does that put them in ‘Rembrandt trouble’?” Walt asked.

“There was a theory circulating around the task force for a while that Rembrandt wasn’t working alone, that he could have a partner, or maybe a young disciple or two.”

“And you think Derek Herrmann and Brian fit the bill?” Walt said. He frowned. “Maybe Derek, which is a real stretch. But not Brian. He’d never intentionally do anything to hurt his mother. He and Claire have something special. Harlan recognizes that. It’s why he tolerates Brian. Hell, it’s why I kind of have a soft spot for the kid.”

Walt turned onto a gravel path. Up ahead, Tim noticed a clearing in the woods, and a chalet-style cabin. Through the open window, he heard gulls in the distance, and water lapping against the shore.

Walt pulled over beside the house, and shut off the engine. “I like Claire Shaw a helluva lot,” he said. “Harlan hit the jackpot his second time around. I don’t mean to badmouth my late wife’s best friend, but Angela could be pretty cold.” He seemed to work up a smile. “You’ve spent some time with Claire, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Tim answered a bit cautiously.

“Then you know what I mean. Claire’s an amazing woman. That’s why I’m here, helping you out. We need to make sure this maniac doesn’t get near her again. Harlan’s looking after her, but I can’t help worrying. Maybe it’s because of what happened to his first wife—and my wife. I’ve become a fatalist.”

He let out a sad laugh, then glanced at Tim. “Hell, I’m worried about her now. Isn’t that nuts? What do you think she’s doing right now?”

“I’m sorry, there’s no answer in Mr. Sullivan’s room,” said the operator at The Whale Watcher Inn. “Would you care to leave a message?”

Claire was using the phone at the librarian’s desk. By now, she was pretty certain the hotel operator knew her voice and was sick of hearing it. “No message,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

She asked the librarian if she could make another call, then dialed home. She got the machine. “Harlan, are you there screening?” she asked, after the beep tone. “It’s me. Pick up. I just had another little scare. Are you around? Okay, it’s a little after four, and I’m at the library with Tiffany. We need a ride home, honey. I—I’ll try you at work. Bye.”

She hung up, then asked the librarian for one more call. She called Harlan at work, and his machine picked up.

“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Harlan Shaw, Plant Manager, Chemtech Industries. I’m away from my desk at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep. If this is a plant emergency…”

Claire knew the message, and there were about five emergency contact numbers Harlan would rattle off before the beep.

She smiled across the room at Tiffany, who sat stiffly in an oversize chair with her library book in her lap. Claire didn’t feel safe walking home. They needed a ride, and they needed it quickly. Tiffany still had to go to the bathroom.

Claire had tried to persuade her to use the library restroom. She’d guarded the door for her. But after five minutes, Tiffany had emerged, tearfully announcing that she couldn’t go—but still had to go. “I need to poop at home!” she’d whimpered.

“…the Chemtech 24-hour-emergency hot-line,”
Harlan’s recording went on.
“Or press zero for the operator. Thank you.”

Just as Claire heard the beep, she saw Dr. Linus Moorehead step into the library. A book under his arm, he headed for the front desk. But he didn’t seem to recognize Claire until she waved at him. She hung up the phone.

“Well, hi, Claire,” Dr. Moorehead said, setting the book in the return slot. “We meet twice in one day. This is a nice surprise.”

She let out a sigh. “Divine intervention is more like it,” she whispered. “Do you have your car with you?”