One Last Scream (16 page)

Karen was about to reach over and put her hand over his, but she hesitated. She cleared her throat. “Um, I don’t know much about multiple personality disorder. We’d have to get Amelia to a specialist. We also have to prepare ourselves for the awful possibility that Koehler is right about Amelia.”

George frowned. “Do you really think she could have killed her own parents—and my wife? I know my niece, and she could never—”

“Yes, I agree with you,” Karen cut in. “The Amelia
we know
isn’t capable of murder. I’m saying there could be another person inside Amelia we don’t know. Maybe this
other
Amelia was in the rest home earlier today. Maybe she’s the one Collin spotted outside his high school that time. Collin said she was like a stranger. We don’t know this other Amelia either. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”

George slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I mean, Jesus, I’ve had her here alone with the kids this week. Are you sure?”

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility we have to consider. In fact, one reason I wanted to stop by tonight was to borrow a photo of Amelia, any recent photo of her that you might have. I want to post it at the nurses’ station in my dad’s rest home so they’ll keep a lookout for her. You probably think I’m overreacting.”

“No, not at all,” he said. “We have plenty of family pictures. I’ll make sure you get a current one of Amelia before you leave tonight.”

“Thank you, George,” she said, sitting back in the kitchen chair. “About Amelia, I’d like to get her to someone more qualified in multiple personality disorder. I’ve never had a true MPD case. There are theories it can be caused by an early childhood trauma. But that’s just a theory. And Amelia’s early childhood is still a mystery to us. I really—”

“God, I forgot to call and tell you,” he interrupted. “I was up at Mark and Jenna’s house in Bellingham the day before yesterday with Amelia, and I found the adoption papers.” He got to his feet. “They’re in my study. I’m not sure how much help they’ll be.”

Karen eagerly followed him into the study. She remembered some of those fragmented memories Amelia had shared with her about her early childhood: a woman screaming in the woods while young Amelia sat alone in a car; the Native American neighbor she liked; a person or place called Unca-dween; and her mother standing over her in the bathroom, asking, “Did he touch you down there?”

If they could track down more information about Amelia’s biological parents, they might discover what those fragments meant. Maybe they’d find the key to Amelia’s problems.

George put on his glasses and sifted through a stack of papers on his computer desk. “Here’s the file,” he said, handing her a folder. “I’m afraid there isn’t a lot of information here—no mention of the biological parents or even where Amelia was born, just her first name and the birthday, May 21, 1988.”

Karen glanced at the records: sixteen pages of legal documents, most of it boilerplate stuff. But the adoption date was there: April 5, 1993; and so was the name of the agency: Jamison Group Adoption Services, Spokane, Washington.

Karen nodded at his computer screen. “Could I get online for a minute?”

“Sure, I’ll start it up for you.” Sitting down, he switched on the monitor, then worked the keyboards for a minute until he connected to the Internet. He quickly vacated the chair for her. “What are you looking up?”

“This adoption agency. I want to read about the fire. Maybe they’ll say something about where all their records went, besides up in smoke.” She sat down, and did a Google search for Jamison Group Adoption Services, Spokane, WA.

The first four listings were for other adoption agencies in Spokane, and three more, picking up the key words, were for
Jamison
Auto
Services
in
Spokane
. And there was a Jim
Jamison
offering
group
rates for his limousine
services
in
Spokane.

Frowning, Karen went to the next page, and then she found something halfway down the list:

FOUR DIE IN SHOOTING…Gunman Sets Adoption Agency on Fire…
Duane Lee Savitt, 33, walked into the
Jamison Group Adoption Agency
on East Sprague Street at 1:35
P.M
. Within minutes, he had shot and killed office manager Donna…
www.spokesmanreview.com/news/shooting/042993–14k.

“My God,” George murmured, peering over her shoulder. “All this time, I thought the fire was accidental.”

Karen clicked on the link, and pulled up an article in the
Spokesman Review
archives, dated April 28, 1993:

FOUR DIE IN
SHOOTING RAMPAGE

Gunman Sets Adoption Agency on

Fire After Shooting Spree

Karen glanced at the adoption documents again. Both Scott Larabee and Anita Jamison had signed the contracts.

According to the article, Anita Jamison was still alive when the police finally gunned down Duane Lee Savitt. But she’d been badly burned in the fire and died in the ambulance on the way to Sacred Heart Medical Center.

The article also mentioned that the fire had destroyed volumes of records on file at the agency.

“It probably doesn’t have anything to do with my niece,” George said, still standing behind her. “But we should Google this Duane Savitt.”

“Duane,” Karen repeated, staring at the killer’s name in the news article. She could almost hear a four-year-old girl trying to pronounce it. “Dween.”

“What?” George asked. “What is it?”

“My God,” Karen whispered, her eyes still riveted to that name on the screen. “I think we might have just found Amelia’s other uncle.”

“None of the women I met last week through that Internet service were worth a second date. Four women, and not one could hold a candle to you.”

Karen managed a patient, placid smile for the man seated across from her on the sofa in her study. He was a skinny 42-year-old divorcé with receding strawberry-blond hair, fishlike eyes, and a huge Adam’s apple.

“Now, Laird, we’ve been over this before,” she said. “It’s called transference, and it’s perfectly normal to get a little crush on your therapist. But you need to move on from that. Now, tell me about these women, and why they didn’t measure up to your standards.”

“Well, for starters, none of them liked
Star Trek
.”

“That’s not a good reason. Your ex-wife was a huge
Star Trek
fan, and the two of you fought like cats. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Laird started listing the faults of date number one. She just wasn’t pretty enough for him—this from a guy who looked like a blond Don Knotts. Of course, she was in no position to criticize people for their fickle romantic notions, not when she had feelings for a man whose wife had just been murdered a week ago.

She and George McMillan had spent over an hour last night in front of his computer screen, checking search engine listings for Duane Lee Savitt. George had pulled up a chair and sat beside her. They hadn’t found much about the man who might have been Amelia’s Unca Dween. Apparently, the police never determined a motive behind his killing spree. There were no records of him ever working at Jamison Group, and as far as anyone could tell, he hadn’t known any of his victims. One article suggested Savitt might have been the birth father to a child adopted through the agency. But it was difficult to determine that, since he’d destroyed all their files. A thorough search of county and state records yielded nothing for investigators.

Karen was getting frustrated by what looked more and more like a dead end. But she had George at her side, occasionally touching her arm or shoulder as they found each new potential lead, even if it didn’t pan out. She wasn’t alone in her concern about Amelia; she had an ally.

She understood why he was a history professor. He seemed obsessed over getting every single fact about this tragedy from nearly fifteen years ago. He was doing it for Amelia, of course. But Karen liked to think he was doing it partly for her, too.

Before she left his house, he gave her a photo of Amelia, so she could post it at the nurses’ station at the convalescent home. He walked her to her car, and assured her that he’d keep digging for more information about Duane Lee Savitt.

Karen hesitated before climbing into the car. She couldn’t leave there without resolving something, though a sixth sense told her to leave it the hell alone. “Listen, I still feel bad about upsetting you last week. If I was out of line, I’m sorry—”

“What are you talking about?” George asked.

“When I told Amelia about her father and—and your wife,” Karen explained. “I meant well. But you’re right, it wasn’t my place to—”

“Karen, please,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a misunderstanding. You don’t have to apologize for anything. If I got curt with you, I’m sorry. I was half out of my mind that night. If it weren’t for you and Jessie, I don’t think I could have gotten through it.”

She shrugged. “Well, I didn’t do much.”

“Are you kidding? You broke the news to Amelia for me that her parents and Ina were dead. That was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. You drove her over here, and made sure she didn’t get herself in trouble with the police. Even after what happened to you today—at your dad’s rest home, and with Koehler—you’re still in Amelia’s corner. My niece is very lucky to have you for a friend. You’re selling yourself short, Karen. I think you’re terrific.”

“Well, thank you, George,” she said. She felt herself blushing. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

George shook her hand, then lingered as she backed out of the driveway. He threw her a little wave. Karen blinked her headlights, and then started down the street.

She thought about him while driving to Sandpoint View and, for a few minutes, she actually wasn’t scared. It didn’t even occur to her to check the rearview mirror for the old black Cadillac.

All it took to jolt Karen back to scary reality was a long walk down that cold, dark, stale-smelling corridor at the rest home. She posted the snapshot of Amelia on the bulletin board at the nurses’ station, along with a note: “If you see this young woman anywhere in or around here, please call me immediately. Many thanks, Karen Carlisle.” She wrote her home and cell phone numbers at the bottom of the note.

She checked in on her dad, who was asleep. “G’night, Poppy,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead.

She chatted briefly with Rita, thanking her again for helping her earlier in the evening. Then she walked back out toward her car. The lot wasn’t very well lit, and her eyes scanned the bushes bordering the rest home for anyone who might be lurking there. She had her key out, and picked up her pace the last few steps to the car. She made sure to check the backseat before climbing behind the wheel. Then she quickly shut the door and locked it.

All the way home, she kept glancing in the rearview mirror. No one seemed to be following her. Once she stepped inside the house, Karen switched on several lights. She took Rufus on a room-to-room check. While in Sheila’s old room (now the guest room) she went into the closet. Her dad used to keep a gun under his bed, but when he’d started showing signs of depression and early Alzheimer’s, Jessie and Karen had decided to hide the gun and bullets in another part of the house. They were inside a shoebox on the guest room closet shelf. If her dad had noticed the gun was missing, he hadn’t said anything about it.

Karen dug the gun out of its hiding place. As far as she knew, her father had never fired the thing. The same clip had probably been inside the gun since 1987. She didn’t know much about guns, but after so many years without use or maintenance, this one probably didn’t work. Still, Karen felt better having it, especially when she crept down the basement stairs for the last round of her house check. She kept the gun pointed away from her toward the floor. The main part of the cellar had once been a recreation room for Karen’s older brother and sister, but now it was just a storage area. The cheaply paneled walls used to be covered with posters that had come down decades ago. It was impossible to see the top of the Ping-Pong table, now loaded down with her old dollhouse, her brother’s ancient 8-track tape player, and boxes of junk. Jessie kept the laundry room neat. But the latch was broken on the window above the big sink, and everyone at one time or another had used it to climb inside the house when they’d forgotten their keys. The furnace room was like something out of a horror movie. Even with a strong light, there were still dark areas behind the furnace, and a maze of pipes that cast shadows on the paint-chipped walls. Spider-webs stretched across those old pipes. Jessie admitted she never cleaned that room. “You have to be a contortionist to make your way around that furnace. God knows what’s back there; I don’t even want to think about it. That’s the creepiest room in this house.” Karen agreed with her. And once she’d checked it, she hurried back up the stairs, shut the basement door, and locked it.

She let Rufus do his business in the backyard, while she stood, shivering at the back door. Then Karen heated up a Healthy Choice pizza for her late-night dinner in front of the TV and a mediocre
Saturday Night Live
. Of course, it was hard to laugh when she felt the need to keep a handgun tucked under the sofa cushion—
just in case
.

She’d fallen asleep on that sofa, with her dad’s old robe over her and the gun beneath her. Rufus was curled up on the floor beside her. The TV and several lights remained on. The last thing she’d thought about was the gun. Did she really expect to use it, and on whom? Amelia?

Karen spent most of the morning on the phone with old contacts from Group Health, trying to track down psychiatrists who had experience with multiple personality disorder cases.
You can’t be serious
was the most frequent response, and several people just laughed. But Karen did come up with a few names, and left some messages. She figured if Amelia was indeed suffering from MPD, then someone more qualified than herself had to be brought in—and soon. Karen felt out of her league here.

She had two client sessions scheduled that Sunday afternoon, and the second one was with Laird, who always complained about his love life.

“She ordered a Cosmopolitan with some fancy-schmancy-brand vodka, and all I had was a lousy Bud Light,” Laird was saying of his most recent Internet date. “And afterward, she tells me we should split the tab fifty-fifty, and I’m like, the hell with that. She wasn’t even pretty—”

The doorbell rang, and Rufus started barking. Karen got to her feet. “I’m sorry, Laird. I’ll be right back. In the meantime, think about why this woman’s prettiness, or lack of it, comes up as an issue here.”

She stepped out to the foyer and shut the study door behind her. “Quiet, Rufus!” she called. She always kept him locked up in the kitchen when she had clients over. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Amelia still hadn’t called back. But it wouldn’t have been like her to come over unannounced, anyway. Even with her emergency last week, Amelia had tried to call first.

Karen checked the peephole. “Damn it,” she muttered, and then she opened the door.

Detective Russ Koehler stood on her front stoop, wearing a leather aviator jacket, khakis, and a smug expression. He had a tall beverage cup from Starbucks in his hand. “You told me to bring my checkbook next time I came by,” he announced. “But I decided to bring a peace offering instead—a tall latte.”

He tried to hand it to her, but Karen didn’t move a muscle. She just stared at him.

“Listen, I admire the way you stuck up for your client yesterday. But if you really want to help Amelia, you’ll cooperate with me. And you know something? I think you’ll feel better once we’ve talked. We’re going to connect, Karen. I’m feeling lucky about it. In fact, I have my lucky shirt on today.”

Eyes narrowed, Karen glanced down at his shirt for a second: a white button-down oxford with wide stripes of blue that matched his eyes. She might have been attracted to him, if only he weren’t such a snake. He held out the Starbucks cup again.

“C’mon, aren’t you at least going to take my peace offering?”

“I’m in the middle of a session with a client right now,” she said finally. “And you’re interrupting.”

“I can wait,” he said with a crooked grin.

Karen started to shake her head. “Well, I’m afraid you…”

She fell silent at the sight of someone coming up the driveway toward them. She wore jeans, a red blouse, and a black cardigan, and nervously clutched a big leather purse to her side. Her hair was swept back and up from her neck with a barrette. “Amelia?” Karen whispered. She could see she was wearing makeup, a rarity for her. The crimson lipstick and dark mascara looked startling against her creamy complexion.

Koehler turned and glanced at the 19-year-old. Obviously he liked what he saw. Karen noticed the shift in his posture, and even with only a quarter of his face in view she saw a smirk on his face that was almost predatory. “Well, well, Amelia Faraday, at last we meet,” he said.

Stopping a few steps from him, she seemed bewildered.

“This is Detective Russ Koehler, with the Seattle Police,” Karen piped up.

Wide-eyed, she politely nodded at him.

He grabbed her hand and shook it. “Sorry for your loss. Listen, I’d really like to chat with you—”

“Amelia, I need to see you inside for a minute,” Karen said loudly, cutting him off.

“Oh, okay,” she murmured, still looking baffled. She turned away from Koehler and started toward the doorway.

But he took hold of her arm. “Now, wait a minute—”

From the doorway, Karen shot him a look. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He froze for a moment, then let go of the 19-year-old. “Okay, fine,” he grumbled. “Everything’s cool.”

“Wait here, please.” Karen shut the door on Koehler, and ushered her into the house. “Come on, Amelia.” Passing the study, she called out, “Laird? I’ll be with you in a minute!”

They hurried into the kitchen. Rufus backed away, and barked at them. He even growled a little. “Stop that,” Karen hissed. “You know Amelia, for God’s sake.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” Karen said, reaching into the cookie jar. “Too much excitement around here, I guess.” She fished out a dog biscuit, opened the basement door, and tossed it down the stairs. Rufus let out a final bark, then eagerly chased after the treat. Karen shut the basement door after him.

“Amelia, where have you been?” she whispered, taking hold of her arm. “I left you four messages yesterday.”

“Oh, Karen, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I needed to get away. So I rented a car and just started driving. I didn’t check my messages. Please, don’t be mad—”

“I’m not mad. I’m just confused, and worried about you.” Karen patted her shoulder. “Listen, I need you to be honest with me about something. It’s important. What were you doing yesterday around five o’clock?”

She shrugged. “I’m really not sure. I’ve been driving all over. I think I was up near Deception Pass, but that might have been earlier in the day. Why are you asking?”

“You didn’t stop by the Sandpoint View Convalescent Home yesterday?”

She shook her head. “I don’t even know where that is, Karen.”

“Do you recall running down a gray stairwell to a basement area with a boiler room, and another room that was a storage area?”

She shook her head again. “No—”

“Think hard, Amelia. You don’t remember a storage area full of boxes and hospital equipment? There were broken lights on the ceiling, and it was dark. There was a fire door—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She backed into the hallway.

“You don’t have any memory of it at all? Not even fragments?”