Silver Falls (20 page)

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to be absolved, cleansed, forget it ever happened. But she could still feel Caleb's hands on her body, his mouth against hers, the rough tenderness of his touch. How could she have had the best sex of her life with a serial killer? Was she as twisted as he was?

“We'll get you back home where you can take it easy,” he said in that same, soothing monotone. “Maggie will want you to make a statement at
some point, but for now I think you can just rest. It's been a harrowing few days for you. I think you need Sophie with you as well. I'll go pick her up after I get you settled.”

“No!” The objection was instant, irrational, irrefutable. She managed a weak smile. “I don't want her to see me like this. I'd feel much better if she stayed at Maggie's.”

“But there's no need,” he murmured, shooting a glance her way. “They've caught the killer—you and she aren't in any danger.”

It didn't feel that way. Everything seemed upside down, twisted, and the buzzing in her head, David's soft drone, made it impossible to put it all in order.

“I want her with Maggie,” she said stubbornly.

She expected anger, or at least that deep disappointment he sent her way far too often. Instead he nodded. “Of course, my love. Whatever gives you peace of mind. She can come back on the weekend. I don't know how the justice system works, but I don't think they'll be holding Caleb in town. There must be some kind of maximum-security prison where they keep the dangerous ones. As soon as they find enough evidence to charge him with the murders everything should be fine.”

A shiver danced across her backbone, one she couldn't define. “But what if they don't? If he's gotten away with it for this long, why do you think
he'd incriminate himself now?” she said, trying to stay calm when she wanted nothing more than to bury her face in her hands and cry.

It was starting to rain, and David turned on the windshield wipers before he spoke. “He's been losing control, Rachel. He always used to kill sparingly—years would pass between his crimes. He had perfect timing. He'd wait until I came to visit before acting. He was passing through San Francisco on his way to the far east when we met for dinner. That was the night Tessa died.”

“Oh, God.”

“I blame myself,” he said, his voice solemn as he pulled out onto the main road. “There's some deep kind of anger that runs inside him, and I bring it out, no matter how hard I try to show him I love him. There's something wrong with him, something deeply twisted, and there was nothing any of us could do to fix it, to help him.”

“What if they can't find any more proof? What if he gets out on bail? And comes back here, where Sophie is, and—”

“That's not going to happen. Maggie will find the box of souvenirs hidden somewhere up at his house, and that will tie him to every murder. And then, no matter what he says, he'll be convicted of thirty-seven counts of murder, and they'll execute him. Do you know they still hang people in the
state of Washington? I'd have to go, of course, just so he knows that someone who still loves him is there, but the idea horrifies me.” There was an undercurrent in his voice, one she couldn't identify.

“Thirty-seven? He's killed
thirty-seven
people?” Rachel cried.

For a moment David looked confused. “I don't have any real idea how many he's killed. That was simply a guess. When they find the souvenirs they'll find the number.”

“What souvenirs?” She was no longer slumping in her seat. Her critical mind was beginning to take over, and this was feeling just too wrong. “How do you know about souvenirs?”

“It's been in the papers, Rachel,” he said gently, as if explaining to a small child. “His victims all have long, blond hair, and they wear barrettes. Apparently they're always missing when a body is discovered, and it's been surmised that he's been keeping them. That's what serial killers do, you know. They like remembrances of the horrific crimes they commit.”

“I'm afraid I'm not particularly well-versed in what serial killers do,” she said, her voice getting stronger.

“I know you haven't been reading the papers, my love.” He voice was solicitous. “I don't blame you. I can tell you anything you need to know.
They simply have to find the barrettes and they'll have an open and shut case. Means and opportunity. As for motive—a serial killer doesn't need a motive. Though Caleb had one, illogical as it was. He was trying to frame me. He's always been jealous of me, and childhood with him was a living hell. My parents tried to protect me, but they didn't want to throw poor Caleb to the wolves. My mother paid with her life for that.”

They were finally back at the house. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. Rachel looked around her. She could see the deep grooves her tires had made in David's perfect lawn, the split apple tree where her car had ended. All proof that this wasn't a hideous dream.

He hadn't denied it. He'd been right there, waiting for her after he'd tried to kill her. If Maggie and the police hadn't shown up who knows what might have happened? She might be one more murder victim at the Bates Motel.

No, that wasn't right. The strangler raped his victims post-mortem. And what had happened in that hotel was a far cry from rape, no matter what David said.

She got out of the car before David could come around to open the door for her. She thought she'd be unsteady on her feet, but the ground was firm beneath her, and the rain had stopped again. At
least for the moment. The clouds were thick overhead, and it was only a matter of time before the darkness descended again.

“You go in and rest, Rachel. I'll bring you a cup of tea before I go tell my father what's happened. Do you want any lunch?”

She shook her head, every muscle in her body tight with her last effort at self-control. “Don't worry about me. I can get my own tea if I want any. You're right, you'd better go talk to Stephen Henry.”

“He'll be devastated,” David said solemnly. “We've both been expecting this, both hoping we were wrong.”

From somewhere in the depths of her fast-draining reserves she managed to drag forth a smile. “You go see him. Give him my love. I think I'll just go to bed.”

He came around the car and kissed her on the cheek, soft lips, so different from Caleb's hard ones. “We'll get through this,” he murmured. “Just sleep.” He brushed the hair away from her face, and unaccountably, she shuddered.

A moment later he was gone, and suddenly she could breathe again.

She went into the house, kicking off her muddy shoes, double locking the door behind her, moving through the muted darkness to her bedroom, leaving the lights off. She should call Sophie, just to
make sure she was all right. Though in Maggie Bannister's house, how could she not be?

She could also be reasonably sure that Sophie never knew she'd been missing. Maggie would have seen to that.

Besides, she was probably on her way to school right about now. There was no need to alarm her. She'd take a nap—she was bone tired and not up to facing anything. This afternoon would have time enough.

She almost took another shower, just to wash his touch off her skin, but the idea reminded her of what had gone on under the stream of water, and she couldn't stand to think about it. It was going to be baths for a while, until she could stop thinking of him. Of what he'd done. Of what she'd done.

But right now it was bed. She stripped off her clothes and dumped everything in the trash, even her underwear.

She grabbed another pair of panties and a tank top, and all she could think of was Sigourney Weaver in
Alien,
blasting the bad guys. She climbed under the covers, pulling them up around her ears, and closed her eyes. She still wanted to talk to Sophie, to make sure she was all right, but just then she couldn't bring herself to do it. Sophie would be heartbroken—she'd been charmed by David's psychopath brother, as he'd meant her to
be. The thought that she might have been his next victim was so horrifying that she almost bolted from the bed.

Empty your mind,
she told herself.

Sophie's safe, everyone's safe.

Nothing bad will happen. It's all right.

Everything's all right.

And she closed her eyes and slept.

 

Sophie heard the rumors in fifth period. They weren't talking loud enough for her to hear, but the odd looks cast her way, the sudden silences when she got close to classmates tipped her off that something was really wrong.

There were strict rules about using your cell phone in school. You were supposed to turn them off, but Sophie simply put hers on vibrate. Her mother had taught her early on that following rules and doing what was expected of you could lead to disaster, and the moment she could she slipped into the handicapped bathroom, the only private place in the entire building, and dialed her mom.

No answer, and her mother's cheerful voicemail prompt should have reassured her. It didn't. She tried David's house, but the phone kept ringing, the answering machine never picked up. Then she did what she should have done in the first place—called Caleb's phone. But that was turned
off. Something bad had happened, something very bad, and she wasn't going to calculus and pretend everything was cool.

She waited until she heard the bell ring and she knew the halls would be empty, and then she opened the door. To find Kristen waiting for her.

“I saw you go in there,” she said, her voice as flat and no-nonsense as her mother's. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing. But I know something's going on. No one's answering their phone, and everyone's giving me funny looks.”

“They arrested your uncle for murder. They think he's the Northwest Strangler.”

“My…what? You mean Caleb? That's crazy!”

“Not according to my mother. Actually he got busted for trying to kill your mother—he cut the brake line on her car. They haven't been able to tie him to the other killings yet, but that's just a matter of time.”

“That's impossible,” Sophie said flatly. “I don't believe it.”

“For what it's worth, neither does my mother, but she says there's nothing she can do. He came right out and admitted he'd tampered with your mother's car. He hasn't confessed to the killings yet but that comes next.” Kristen hiked up her heavy backpack. “At least it means we're safe.”

“No, it doesn't,” Sophie said. “Caleb didn't kill those women. I don't care what he said about the car, I know he's not a killer. The M.O. is completely different.”

“Then who is?”

“You wouldn't believe me,” she muttered.

“Try me.”

“It's—”

“
What
are you two young ladies doing, standing in the hall and gossiping when you should be in class?” Mrs. Wenberg, the scourge of eleventh grade, loomed up. And then her eyes narrowed as she recognized Sophie.

“Oh, it's you, dear,” she said. “I'm so sorry about your troubles. Perhaps you might like to go to the guidance counselor. Miss Bannister, you may accompany her.” She pulled out her omnipresent pad of pink paper and scribbled on it, tearing a page off with a well-practiced flourish and handing it to Kristen. “This should keep the hall monitors from bothering you. You take care of her, Miss Bannister. Stay with her until someone can come pick her up.”

“But no one's supposed to…” Kristen began, but Miss Wenberg had already strode off, in search of other miscreants.

“Come on,” Sophie said, plucking the pink slip from Kristen's hand. She headed straight for the side door, the one that led through the parking
lot. It was at the back of the old brick building with few windows overlooking it—no one would see her leave.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“I'm going to see what the hell is going on. I know perfectly well that Caleb didn't kill anyone, and if he sabotaged my mother's car he would have had a damned good reason for doing it.”

“Let me go back and get our jackets,” Kristen said.

Sophie shook her head. “You're not coming with me. You know your mother would kill you, and she wouldn't be too pleased with me if she caught us skipping out. Which she would—your mother can find out anything.”

“Let her,” Kristen said. “You need someone with you.”

“No, I don't. I need to find my mother. If you want to help, cover for me if anyone asks.”

“Don't I always?” Kristen said, offended.

Sophie grinned. “I'll see you back at your house. No one will ever know we separated. Just tell them I'm in the bathroom if they ask.”

“Are you sure you should be doing this?”

But Sophie was already gone.

W
hen Rachel woke up the house was dark, like a suffocating tomb. She rolled over in the big bed, restless, achy, and pulled the pillow over her head, then pushed it away. There was no light in the house, no noise. She didn't have to bury her head.

She reached over and turned on the lamp. It made a meager blue pool of light by the side of the bed, and she squinted at the tiny numbers on the clock. It was only a little bit past noon on another miserable day and yet it felt as if she had slept for twenty-four hours.

The rain had returned with a vengeance, and she allowed herself the luxury of a muffled curse. She dragged herself out of bed, shoving her hair away from her face. David was always after her to get it cut, get it straightened, get it dyed a more subdued color. He had no idea that she surreptitiously had the red brightened from the naturally sedate auburn—he would have been horrified. But she'd
changed enough for him and her new life. New clothes, new shoes, new attitude, even if the old one kept popping up every now and then. And she had even more reason to be grateful. She'd betrayed him, distrusted him, broken their marriage vows and he'd forgiven her.

She went into her bathroom and splashed her face with cold water, then looked up at her reflection. She had that haunted look in her eyes, the one that had been there when they'd first found Tessa. Right now she didn't think it would ever go away.

She needed Sophie. To hell with David's wise advice. If the killer was caught…Why was she still thinking in terms of
if?

Because it didn't feel right.

She opened her closet, looking at the rows of gray and beige clothing. Classics, David had told her when he took her shopping. They made her look younger, slimmer, prettier. And how could she argue with that?

She shoved them aside, grabbing her old jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt. Her raggedy, hand-painted sneakers were still there as well. Her oldest, most comfortable clothes had started disappearing a month after they'd arrived in Silver Falls, and she'd actually been fool enough to hide these to keep them away from him.

Why hadn't she realized how slowly, insidi
ously he was controlling her? This whole life had been so foreign to her that she'd taken her cues from him. And she'd been an idiot.

Now that the danger was over she was going to do the thing she should have done in the first place. She was going to take Sophie and get the hell out of this town, find a place with no memories. Maybe she'd call David when she got someplace where she felt safe, maybe not. She didn't want to be around for Caleb's trial, she didn't want to hear the gossip. Didn't want the horrific details. She'd avoided the newspapers for good reason when Tessa died—she didn't want to read them now.

The only way she could miss all of it was to take Sophie overseas. It would be spring in New Zealand this time of year. The sun would shine, and it would be exquisitely beautiful, and she could finally get her head clear, without David's disapproving influence, without the constant rain rotting her brain and growing mold on her soul. And for the first time in the last twenty-four hours her heart lifted.

Finding suitcases was her first task, and she finally discovered them in the back of the garage, in the neat shed where David kept the few tools he used. She could still smell the dead-animal scent back there, and she pried open the window, letting in the damp air and probably more rain. He'd have a fit if his tools were damaged.

So what. There were two huge suitcases underneath the smaller ones, and she dragged them through the house, closing the noxious odor away from her. In the end she hadn't needed that big a suitcase. She wasn't going to take any of the beige and gray, the black and brown and navy blue. She wrapped her cameras in her bright shawls, tossed in the jeans and T-shirts and colorful wraps, and at the last minute she pulled out her hiking shoes. They still had dried mud on them, an anathema in this shoeless house. She pulled them on and laced them up, then headed into Sophie's room.

David hadn't gotten very far in subduing her daughter's natural liveliness, Rachel thought. Thank God. Her clothes were still intact and there'd be no need for school uniforms. Never again.

She scooped up the toiletries, the teen magazines, the Nintendo DS and the handful of games, then headed for the bureau. The brushes, ponytail holders, the barrettes that David had given her…

No, she'd leave them behind. They were solid silver, and valuable, but Sophie didn't like to wear them. In fact, Rachel would be happy if Sophie never wore barrettes again. Too many memories.

She'd been a fool not to listen to Caleb's warnings. He really had been trying to save her. It just turned out that he was trying to save her from himself. So
now, when all danger was past, she decided to listen.

The depths of her idiocy knew no bounds.

When she finished the second suitcase was filled to the brim, while her own was half empty. It didn't matter. As soon as they got to a major city she'd buy more things for herself, bright, comfortable clothes, clothes that made her feel like herself. She'd eat like a pig, gain back the ten pounds David had talked her into losing, and she wouldn't give a flying fuck.

There was no phone book near the phone in the kitchen. David didn't like telephones—the only other one in the house was in his study. He didn't realize the extent that Rachel and Sophie depended on their cell phones, and he probably never would. He was almost as much of a Luddite as his father.

And she could hear Caleb's low, sexy voice, using that word with affectionate mockery. A murderer's voice, beguiling, charming, seductive. And she didn't want to be thinking about that.

She was going to have to rent a car. Not that that should be a problem—she had money and credit on her own. She didn't touch the allowance David gave her to run his perfect household.

She wouldn't have to think about that anymore. She wouldn't have to think about allowances, and lightbulbs, and vegetarian meals and washing three times before David would have sex with her and
then pretending she liked it. She and Sophie were going to be free. And she threw back her head and laughed out loud at the very idea.

The phone book had to be in his office. The door to his office was locked, which was odd in itself, but she knew where he kept his keys, tucked behind the King James version of the Bible. As an English professor, David said only the King James would do, and he assumed his boneheaded wife wouldn't touch it.

That was his mistake. His wife was neither boneheaded nor incurious. Her father had been a proponent of some new translation, which always seemed to be full of dire warnings, and one day she'd pulled out the King James to see if it was as bad. She'd fallen in love with the music of the words, reading it for an afternoon, and when she went to put it back she noticed the keys.

She'd meant to say something to David about them, but she'd forgotten all about it. Until she'd come up against an unexpectedly locked door.

For some reason she felt nervous, edgy, like Bluebeard's wife, as she fumbled with the keys. Would she find seven dead wives inside? No, that was ridiculous. It was David's brother who killed women.

She opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as it always did, neat and orderly.

She moved over to the desk, pulling the leather chair back and sitting in it. The phone book lay on its side beneath the utilitarian telephone, and she took it out, pushing the neat pile of papers out of the way.

And then froze. They were newspaper clippings, all referring to one thing. A string of murders.

Tessa's was the fourth from the top, and she looked into her sweet, cheerful face and wanted to weep. Her hair was pulled back with the tortoise-shell barrettes Sophie had given her for her fifteenth birthday, the barrettes that were missing from her body when they pulled it out of the Bay. No one had thought anything of it—her body had been in the water long enough that even identifying her had been difficult.

But now those missing barrettes seemed far more sinister, according to David. Were they really up at Caleb's dilapidated half-built house, locked away so he could gloat over them, stroke them, remembering choking the life from poor Tessa?

“No.” She jumped, then realized she'd said the word out loud. The house was still and empty. She shook her head, as if to clear it, and shoved the newspaper clippings away from her, unable to bear looking at them. She could understand David's morbid fascination. After all, he was trying to do the unthinkable, to catch his be
loved older brother in a series of crimes so unthinkable that Rachel hadn't even been able to read about them.

She started thumbing through the Yellow Pages. Silver Falls wasn't large enough to have a car-rental agency, but if she could find one within fifty miles then she could talk Maggie into driving her there. She'd have to pick a time when David wasn't around, so he wouldn't try to stop them, or, even worse, go with them.

Maybe she was overestimating her importance. But something told her he wasn't going to let her go easily—his sweet demeanor only went so deep.

He'd left the BMW behind and gone out in his beloved Range Rover. It wouldn't be that awful if she took the BMW and drove to the car-rental place three towns over and left it there. People wouldn't think very highly of her, abandoning her poor husband during such a difficult time, and abandoning his car, but she was tired of caring what the small-minded people of Silver Falls thought of her. They were the same ones who'd condemned Caleb without proof.

But they had been right about him after all, hadn't they? So why was she fighting it?

She closed the phone book without calling anyone. She had a sick, restless feeling in the pit of
her stomach, and she couldn't figure out why. She picked up the clippings again, looking into the sweet face of Jessica Barrowman, moving past to the articles about the missing librarian with the mane of blond hair, the young girl in Portland, almost a clone of Sophie, the dead girl from eighteen years ago, another student from the college, her glittery butterfly barrettes giving her an oddly frivolous look.

She went through the papers, looking at each face, trying to somehow honor them as an act of penance, when she froze. Elizabeth Pennington, from Santa Fe, New Mexico, found raped and strangled in 2003. Her blond hair was pushed back from her sweet face, held in place by a pair of silver barrettes. The same barrettes Rachel had left on Sophie's dresser.

She didn't think, she moved. The drawer beside her was locked, and none of the keys worked. She picked up David's letter opener, one in the shape of Excalibur, and forced it open, breaking the blade, scarring the walnut of the desk. She yanked it open, to see the pile of confidential student papers, just as David had told her.

She looked at them for a moment, a feeling of dread washing over her. David would never forgive her, he'd kill her—

She yanked the folders out and threw them on the floor. There, at the back of the drawer, was a
tiny velvet pouch, like the kind used to hold jewelry. She drew it out, her hands shaking, and emptied it out on the desk.

Thirty-six barrettes. Counting Sophie's, that made thirty-seven, the number David had given her. The supposedly random number. She reached out a hand to pick them up, then pulled it back. She didn't want to touch them.

She pushed away from the desk. Caleb had been right all the time. He wasn't the serial killer or a sociopath. He was Jack the Ripper's brother, trying to put an end to murder. She picked up the telephone, her hands shaking, planning to call Maggie.

There was no dial tone. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a door close, and she froze in place. She wasn't alone in the house after all, and the man she'd been stupid enough to trust, the man she'd been stupid enough to marry, was coming for her.

The window behind her was locked. She looked around her for a weapon, but there was nothing, and at the last minute she grabbed David's chair. It was heavy, but she managed to lift it, using all her strength, and fling it through the window. The glass shattered, the mullions smashed, and the chair ending up on the flagstone patio. And she followed after it, feeling the shards of glass rip at her arms, disappearing into the wet afternoon just
as a shadow appeared in the ruined window, calling after her. Her name was lost in the wind as she ran.

 

Sophie knew how to get around Silver Falls. The light rain gave her the excuse to pull the hood over her hair, and she walked with her head down. She dumped her backpack in the playground on her way—too bad if someone took it. She was bored to tears with the schoolwork anyway—even the college-level courses were too easy.

She was heading straight for the one place she had any chance of getting an honest answer. Straight for the Old Goat.

He was sitting in his wheelchair in the study, reading a techno-thriller, one he immediately put down when he saw her standing in his door. “How'd you get in?” he said, sounding less than welcoming.

“The door was unlocked. I want to know about your sons.”

The Old Goat had recovered himself. “Why don't you come over here and sit beside me and we'll talk…”

“I can hear perfectly well right here,” she said in a stony voice, no longer bothering to do her Miss Charm thing. “I don't trust you.”