Left for Dead (42 page)

Brian hurried toward the back of the house. “Please, God…”

He started crying. He was thinking about his mom. They’d already murdered a cop. God only knew what they were doing to his mother right now.

“Excuse me a moment,” Walt said. He turned and switched off the spotlight.

Claire raised her head from the table, and watched him walk over to the window.

He didn’t say anything about the scraping noise along the side of the cabin just seconds ago. But obviously, he’d heard it. She’d heard it as well, and her heart leapt a bit.

Was it too much to hope that someone was out there? Maybe Tim, or Brian, or the police?

Walt pulled up the shade, opened the window, and then the shutter. Meanwhile, Claire tried to loosen her hand from the rope. It burned against her wrists. She stole a glance at the scissors on the side table.

“Claire, someone has come here to rescue you,” Walt said. Grinning, he stepped back from the window.

She could see a raccoon scurrying up the trunk of an evergreen tree. The light from inside the cabin reflected in the creature’s eyes.

Walt secured the shutter back in place, then he closed the window and lowered the shade. He turned toward her again. “Now, where was I?”

From behind a tree in the backyard, Brain watched Walt close the window shutter. Why the hell was he wearing a surgeon’s gown?

He turned and glanced at the tool shed by the patio and barbecue. Maybe he could use something in there to break inside the cabin, something that could double as a weapon.

He stopped in front of the tool shed’s door. The lock had been broken off the hinge. He hesitated before stepping inside.

Suddenly, something brushed against his ankle.

Brian reeled back. Stunned, he gazed down at the ground. It was moving.

Something poked out of the earth. It scratched and clawed at the soil.

“Oh, my God,” Brian whispered. He was staring down at a human hand. It seemed reach out to him.

The lights flickered.

Leaning over her with an eyebrow pencil in his hand, Walt hesitated. “They must still be having problems with the power,” he remarked. “I hope I won’t have to work in the dark.”

But Claire had a feeling he was almost finished with her. He’d already fixed her hair and eyes, and liberally applied the Scarlet Passion lipstick. Now, with the pencil he drew a beauty mark on her cheek. It was probably his finishing touch. Tim had said the beauty mark was like Rembrandt’s second signature.

She kept twisting at the rope around her wrists—to no avail. “You know, Tim told me something about the ‘Rembrandt profile,’” she said. “He said Rembrandt likes to terrorize his victims and watch them suffer. It turns him on.” She sighed, then suddenly continued in a calm, soothing tone. “But you know, Walt, you don’t have to resort to that. You’re better than you think. There’s such a thin line between giving pain and pleasure. Why don’t you untie me? Cross the line, Walt. You have me looking like Angela now. So why not make love to me? I’ve always imagined you’d be better than Harlan. Angela was a fool to let you go.”

Walt hesitated. With a curious smile, he stared down at her. Then he let out a little laugh, and turned away.

Claire watched him retrieve something from the dresser against the wall. She frantically struggled to free her hands from the rope. But Walt turned around again, and she stopped.

He stepped up to the table with a see-through plastic bag and a roll of duct tape. He took the scissors from the side table and snipped off a long piece of tape. He stuck it to the edge of the side table, leaving the strip of tape to dangle there like fly paper.

“Touch me, Walt,” Claire urged him. “Don’t put the bag over my head. Make me squirm with your touch—not by putting some silly bag over my head. That’s cheating. C’mon, Walt. I want you to pleasure me—the way Harlan never could. Please, Walt…”

He cocked his head to one side, then looked her up and down. He seemed tempted. But then a cold smile came to his face. “You’d say anything at this point, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Don’t you know, at least half of the others before you have tried the same thing, Claire?”

He started to pull the plastic bag over her hair.

Claire jerked her head from side to side until she thought her neck might snap.

“You’re not the first to try that trick either,” he grunted. Suddenly his hand was on her throat, choking her. With the other hand, he tugged the plastic bag farther down over her face.

Claire tried to move her head, but she couldn’t. She could barely breathe.

He let go, but just long enough to grab the strip of duct tape. He quickly sealed the rim of the bag around her neck. The tape pinched at her soft flesh there. She gasped, and the clear bag began to steam up.

Through the fog, she saw Walt hovered over her. He was smiling. “I won’t let you suffocate, Claire,” he said. “This is just round one.”

As she twitched and shook on the table, Walt started to run his hand over the white sheet covering her body.

The lights flickered again. He stopped for a moment.

Suddenly, Claire heard a gunshot outside. She flinched.

Walt stepped away from her, then moved toward the door. While his back was to her, Claire inhaled deeply, sucking part of the plastic bag in her mouth. She chomped down on it with her teeth, then ground them together. It was tough plastic, but she managed to puncture it. She poked her tongue at the perforation to make the hole bigger. At last, she could breathe a little.

Another gunshot went off, startling her.

“What the hell?” Walt muttered.

Through the fogged plastic, Claire watched him reach for something in the dresser. It was Harlan’s gun. Walt glanced over his shoulder at her, then he stepped out of the room.

He unlocked the front door and walked out on his porch. Walt had the gun readied as he looked out at the forest. It had stopped raining, but the drops were still falling from trees. Branches swayed in the light breeze.

“Who’s out there?” Walt called.

“Drop the gun!” he heard someone say.

But Walt only raised the gun higher. He tried to figure out where that man’s voice was coming from.

Suddenly, something banged against the back of his cabin. Startled, Walt began to retreat inside.

“Walt!” the man called.

He swiveled around. A man came out from behind a tree, yet he was still slumped against it.

Walt recognized Tim Sullivan—and the woman in back of him, covered with mud, Tess Campbell. Tim Sullivan had a semiautomatic in his hand. “Put it down, Walt!” he yelled.

Defiantly, Walt Binns pointed Harlan’s gun at him.

A shot rang out.

The banging and pounding wouldn’t stop.

Through the hot, steamy, suffocating bag, Claire heard wood splintering. Then glass shattered. Someone was breaking the window in Walt’s little operating room.

She lifted her head up and watched a hoe smash through what was left of that window.

A moment later, Brian boosted himself up on the sill, and crawled inside. He was wearing the army fatigue jacket. But he didn’t have the stocking cap hiding his wavy brown hair.

“Oh, Jesus!” he said, gaping at his mother. He rushed to her side. “Hold on, Mom. Hold on…” His hands shaking, he pried apart the plastic bag.

Claire gasped for air.

He reached for the scissors on the side table, then carefully cut the bag away. He kissed her forehead.

“You came back,” Claire whispered. “My sweet boy, I can’t believe you came back…”

He started to cut at the rope around her wrist. Suddenly, Claire panicked. “Oh, Brian. He’s still here. He’s got a gun. You—”

The gunshot silenced her.

Brian touched her hand, then moved away from the table. With the scissors poised, Brian crept toward the door. He stepped out of the room. She listened to his footsteps. A moment later, he came back.

Wide-eyed, Claire stared at him.

Brian went back to cutting the rope binding her wrists. “He doesn’t have the gun anymore, Mom.”

She didn’t quite know what he meant. Claire shook her head. She was still trying to get her breath. “My friend, Tess…she’s in trouble. She’s trapped here someplace…”

“Everything’s cool, Mom,” Brian whispered. “Your friends are outside. They’re okay.”

At last, he cut through the taut rope.

Claire pulled the sheet up to her neck. She sat up and threw her other arm around Brian. She held onto him, and began to cry. She thought back to that moment on the dock, when she’d sent him away. How her arms had ached from not holding him.

She’d been waiting over three weeks for this. She held onto her son, and felt the pain wash away.

From the only working telephone among the cabins in the northwest forest of Deception Island, Brian Ferguson called the local and state police. Claire overheard her son talking to Sheriff Klauser:
“Yes, I know, Sheriff, I don’t think I’ve ever called you before. Usually it’s somebody calling about me…”

Within hours, the tiny island was swarmed with hoards of police, Coast Guard, FBI agents, and reporters. The capture of “Rembrandt” was big news. But that bombshell of a story almost became eclipsed by the startling revelation involving Deception Island’s men’s club, the Guardians.

Fred Maybon was one of the first islanders questioned by the police. Hoping to strike a deal with authorities, Fred immediately blew the whistle on his Guardian buddies. He said the Guardians had orchestrated nineteen disappearances and seventeen accidental deaths of undesirable locals over the past eight years. Most of the accidents were forced drownings. In a few cases, certain individuals found the brakes had gone out on their cars. And in another situation, a family of four was killed in a fire. The majority of those subjects who disappeared or ran away were troublesome teenagers. They’d been executed at Silverwater Creek. Some were buried out there. Other bodies were taken by boat to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, weighed down, and dumped overboard. The boat engaged in these secret sea burials was the
Lovely Linda,
with Ron Castle at the helm.

Ron didn’t wait for the state police and FBI to question him. News of Linda’s apparent suicide reached him only hours before the island came under siege by police and federal authorities. They found him in his study, lying in front of his desk—on a woven rug with an American Eagle emblem on it. A gun was in his hand. Ron Castle had put a bullet through his brain.

Dr. Linus Moorehead managed to elude the police for two days—until they found him hiding out in one of the weekend cabins. His unshaven face was still cut, swollen, and bruised from running his BMW into a tree. With her shoe, Claire Shaw had also done some serious damage to his right eye, which was puffy and blood-red. Discovered cowering under a bed in his pajamas, Dr. Moorehead didn’t go quietly. The police had to drag him out of the cabin. He shrieked and wept shamelessly.
“You can’t do this to me!”
he kept insisting.
“I’m a doctor! You can’t fucking do this to me!”

Moorehead was the last of the group rounded up. Nine of Deception’s more prominent citizens had already been arrested. Another eight were under investigation.

The day after Moorehead’s arrest, Claire Shaw returned to Deception to attend a memorial service for Harlan at St. Mark’s Church. Not even a week had passed since she’d made the congregation ill at ease by offering Special Intentions for her missing son and for Derek Herrmann. Many of those same people attended the service for their friend, Harlan Shaw. Several of them had husbands or fathers who had recently been arrested. Several others were currently under investigation themselves. Despite their loyalty to Harlan Shaw, they only had contempt for his widow.

Sitting in the front pew, Claire defiantly ignored their scornful stares. She dressed in a simple black dress and the string of pearls Charlie had given her so many years ago. She held onto Tiffany’s hand. She’d come for her stepdaughter—and for Harlan too. Claire couldn’t condone the heinous acts he’d committed with the Guardians. But Harlan had been her husband, and he’d saved her life.

Brian, however, didn’t feel any such obligation to his stepfather. He didn’t attend the memorial. They had temporary lodgings on the mainland, and he’d already cleaned out his room in the house on Holm Drive. He’d told his mother he was never going back to the island.

After the service, in the vestibule at the front of church, Claire stopped to speak with the handful of islanders who were still talking to her—including Kira Sherman and Molly Cartwright. Others just passed her by with icy looks and disapproving frowns.

One of the coldest scowls came from a lanky, tall, somewhat homely man who stood in the corner of the vestibule. He was in his forties and dressed in a dark blue suit. Claire didn’t recognize him. She hadn’t seen him inside the church. But as she talked with her friends, she kept glancing over at him. He wouldn’t stop glaring at her.

Claire finally asked Kira Sherman if she recognized the gaunt man.

“No, I’ve never seen him before,” Kira whispered. “He sure is creepy looking.”

Claire began to worry about Tiffany, who was talking to some of her classmates. She’d been out of school for the last three days. That Monday when she’d said good-bye to Claire and boarded the school bus, Tiffany had been worried that she would come back from her sleepover the next day and find her stepmother gone again. Instead, Tiffany lost her father.

She had no other family—aside from Angela’s father, a sixty-seven-year-old widower. Harlan’s estate was divided evenly between his wife and daughter. The will specified that Claire would take on guardianship of Tiffany. Claire had instructed the lawyers to accelerate the adoption process.

Tiffany said good-bye to her friends. Claire took her by the hand, and started for the church door. That was when the tall, homely man stepped toward her. “Mrs. Shaw?” he whispered.

Claire’s grip on Tiffany’s hand automatically tightened. She pulled Tiffany behind her—so she was standing between the gaunt stranger and her stepdaughter. “Yes?” she said.

A little smile came to his homely face. “I’m Steve Griswald,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in there. I didn’t come for him. I came for you. I wanted to thank you for helping bring my sister’s killers to justice.” He shook her hand. “I can lay it to rest now. Thank you for Violet and her family, Mrs. Shaw.”

When Claire and Tiffany stepped out of the church, Brian was standing by the car, waiting for them. He wore khaki pants and an Irish knit sweater that used to be his father’s. Brian smiled at them. In the sunlight, with his golden brown hair blowing in the wind, he looked so much like Charlie.

Tiffany ran up to him and hugged him. “Hey, pumpkin-head,” he said, picking up his stepsister and giving her cheek a kiss.

“I thought you weren’t ever coming back to this island,” Claire said, managing a smile. But she had tears in her eyes.

Brain shrugged. “Well, I figured the natives weren’t very friendly. I didn’t want you to go it all alone, Mom.”

Claire embraced him. “Coming to my rescue again,” she said, patting his back. “How did you get here anyway?”

“I stole a car.”

Claire pulled back and stared at him.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Relax, Mom. I’m kidding.” He opened the back door for Tiffany. “Tess let me borrow her car. I parked it at the Anacortes terminal and came across on the ferry. Then I walked here. It’s a good day for it.”

Touching his cheek, Claire smiled at her son. “Yes, it’s a good day,” she said.

No one blamed Tess. She’d tried to clean the bullet wound in Tim’s shoulder as best as she could. But she’d been working in the darkness of Rembrandt’s make-shift “waiting room” with a bottle of water and an unsterilized towel. Tim had carried around that bullet in his shoulder for over four hours until the doctors removed it. The infection had already started.

There was only so much the doctors could do.

The day after Tim had been admitted to the hospital, the infection from the bullet wound had spread, and his fever had climbed to 104 degrees.

Claire had stayed at his bedside that evening. It reminded her of all those nights she’d spent, curled up in a chair in Charlie’s hospital room, listening to her husband’s rattled breathing. As the patient’s wife, she’d been given some latitude with visiting hours.

But this time around, since Claire wasn’t even related to Tim, she had to use her limited connections at the hospital to get past visiting-hour regulations. It helped that she’d become friends with Tim’s nurse.

It also gave her some peace of mind knowing she hadn’t left her son or stepdaughter all alone that night. Tess was with them. Her place was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hospital. In fact, Tess’s house had become their temporary lodgings.

Claire and Tiffany stayed in her guest room, while Brian set up a cozy, make-shift bedroom—with a rented bed—in the basement. Tess said they weren’t an imposition. “I got the place for a family, and now I have one,” she told Claire.

Everywhere they went, the press followed them around. Dozens of reporters kept a vigil outside the hospital, and Claire always had to sneak in a side door to visit Tim.

Both she and Tess had become reluctant media darlings. They’d been approached by a score of agents, hoping to acquire the film and literary rights to their stories. But neither of them were interested in cashing in on what had happened. When reporters asked her how it felt to be the woman who helped apprehend Rembrandt, Tess always replied, “Well, I missed out on a free make-over, but otherwise I feel pretty good about it.”

Tim was in no condition to speak to the press. But his boss, Lt. Roger Elmore, wasn’t at a loss for words. “Everyone on the task force is saying a prayer for our friend, Tim Sullivan,” he was quoted in the newspapers. “Tim has always been one of our best and most respected officers, a real team player and a friend to all.”

A few hours after Harlan’s memorial service, Claire went to the hospital to visit Tim again.

The door to his room was closed, and his nurse stopped her from going inside. “I’m sorry, Claire,” she said. “You can’t go in there.”

Claire numbly stared at her. “Why? What happened? Is he all right?”

“Oh, he’s more than all right, honey,” Sherita said, patting her shoulder. “He is one fine-looking man. He’s just getting a sponge bath right now—his second today.”

Claire squinted at her. “Wait a minute. When I was staying here, I got a sponge bath—something like, once every three days.”

Sherita wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say anything to him about that. You’ll ruin things for half the nurses on this floor. They all want a turn. He’s an absolute doll.”

The door opened, and a heavy-set, baby-faced Latino man in a pale blue uniform stepped out of the room. He carried a folded up towel.

“Thanks again, Raul,” Tim called.

The nurse peeked back into the room and nodded. Then he gave Sherita a sheepish smile and moved down the hallway.

Sherita nudged her. “I always knew you’d find your dream man eventually, honey.”

Claire stepped into the room, which smelled of jasmine and eucalyptus. Raul must have used some fancy soap for Tim’s bath. And he’d combed his hair too. Tim was dressed in the burgundy pajamas Claire had bought for him yesterday.

He looked very handsome, but still a bit tired and frail. Sitting up in his hospital bed, he smiled at her. “Well, hey, how are you?” he asked in a sleepy voice.

“I’m good,” Claire said. “How was your sponge bath?”

“Oh, really nice. He even gave me a foot massage.”

“Yeah, they used to do that for me too,” Claire lied. She pulled the chair over to his bedside.

“They’re springing me out of here the day after tomorrow,” he announced.

“That’s wonderful,” Claire said.

He would be staying with his brother’s family in Seattle while convalescing. Claire felt a little pang in her heart, knowing she wouldn’t see him for a few days.

She clutched the railing on the side of his bed. “Are you still coming to Tess’s house for Thanksgiving?” she asked. “I’m cooking—turkey, stuffing, the works. We’re eating around eight, because Tess promised to serve dinner at a homeless shelter until seven. I know Brian is anxious for you to be there. He’s thrilled that his mom is friends with
Tim Timster,
the creator of
The Adventures of Private Eye Guy.”

Tim brought his hand up to bed railing and rested it top of hers. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a strained smile. “But is that all we are, Claire? Friends?”

She shrugged. “For the time being, I think that’s all we can be.”

“It’s all right. I’m a patient guy.” Tim glanced over at their hands joined together. He gave hers a little squeeze. “Is this okay?” he asked.

Claire smiled, and her fingers interlaced with his. “This is more than okay,” she whispered. “This is a very good start.”

Two floors above them, a room in the north wing was under heavy police guard. The scores of reporters outside the hospital waited there mostly for any updates on the patient in room 416.

Tim Sullivan had shot Walter Binns in the knee. And like the officer who had struck him down, “Rembrandt” had developed an infection from his bullet wound. Before his condition developed to pneumonia, an impassive Walter Binns confessed to the murders of Harlan Shaw, Linda Castle, Deputy Troy Landers, eight women from Western Washington, and another two from Vancouver, British Columbia.

With his leg suspended in a traction harness, Walter Binns was strapped in his hospital bed. His fever ranging from 100 to 103, he drifted in and out of consciousness for two days.

A police guard was in the hospital room at all times, and two more armed guards were posted outside the door. Still, several nurses on the fourth floor specifically asked not to be assigned to the patient in room 416.

But there were some women who wanted to meet him. The photo of Walter Binns that ran in most newspapers captured his deceptively youthful guy next-door good looks. Maybe it was the wavy dark hair or his crooked smile, or perhaps some people just wanted to know someone infamous. Whatever the reasons, over two dozen women had already written to Rembrandt, care of the hospital. They sent notes and Get Well cards to the ailing serial killer, saying they wanted to meet him.

But Staci didn’t want to meet him. She wasn’t crazy. She just wanted a look at him. She worked the desk at the Intensive Care Unit, and it had been a dull day. She was going out for margaritas later with her friend, Heather, and she wanted to tell her what Rembrandt looked like in person.

During her break at six o’clock, she walked over to the north wing. There was a window in the door to Room 416. She flirted with the guard a little, and he said it was okay if she wanted to peek inside.