Tell Me You're Sorry (33 page)

Just an hour ago, Pete Junior, who was almost as dense as his sweet old dad, had sold Mark a Glock 19 handgun for $369.99. Mark had shown him the same badly forged gun permit they'd used in the exposé. He walked out of the store with the Glock and a box of bullets. He had them in his desk drawer now. He'd have to take some lessons on how to shoot the damn thing without blowing a finger off. And of course, that meant even more time away from home and the kids.

“I know you think I'm being overly cautious,” he told his daughter on the phone. “But humor me on this. It's a lousy day out there anyway. Stay inside with the doors locked until I get back at a quarter to seven, okay?”

“All right, but how long are we going to be in lockdown mode here?” she asked.

“Until we're sure these threats aren't a genuine concern. Grin and bear it, honey. Love you. Now, put Danny on.”

“DANNY!” she screamed, almost into the phone. “DAD WANTS TO TALK WITH YOU!”

After a few moments, his son got on the line. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi. Stop bothering your sister. Leave her and Cate alone, okay?”

“Okay . . .”

Mark looked up as Jesse stepped into the office with a sheet of paper in his hand. Mark figured it was a new story or something. Jesse's ensemble today was a Hawaiian shirt that clashed with his camouflage cargo shorts. His uncharacteristically somber expression didn't go with the outfit.

“Okay, I gotta scoot. I'll see you in a couple of hours. Love you.”

“Bye, Dad.” Danny said, and then he clicked off.

He hung up the phone, and squinted at Jesse. “What's going on?”

“This just came in from Portland,” he said, still standing by the office door. He winced as he looked down at the page in his hand. “You know that woman from yesterday, Stephanie Coburn? She's dead.”

Mark numbly stared at him. “What?” he whispered.

“A big explosion went off in her house at around five this morning . . .”

Mark shook his head.

“It blew out neighbors' windows and set off a whole bunch of car alarms. They're picking up debris two blocks away. The Portland police are still looking for her body in the rubble.”

“My God,” Mark murmured.

He remembered how scared Stephanie Coburn had sounded on the phone. “I'm trying to help you,” she'd told him. “Whoever's behind these deaths, they know I'm getting closer to finding the truth. They've been after me. They've tried to kill me . . .”

“Do they—do they know what happened?” he asked. “Is there an explanation?”

Jesse set the piece of paper on Mark's desk. “It's all here. The blast practically leveled the house. A neighbor spotted a Ford pickup speeding down the street right after the explosion. They gave the police a description—including a partial of the plate.”

Mark scanned the news bulletin. It was all there as Jesse described. They mentioned that Stephanie Coburn was in the news recently for piloting a commercial airline jet while under the influence of a hallucinogen. “Coburn claimed someone had drugged her coffee,” the article said. “Her case had been scheduled for the FAA Review Board in July.”

“I'm writing the copy for it right now,” Jesse said. “But I need to ask you, Mark—off the record, if you want—what exactly did she say to you yesterday?

The bulletin was shaking in his hand. Mark set it on his desk, and shrugged. “Nothing that made any sense to me,” he lied. “The way she talked, I thought she was kind of crazy, paranoid.”

Jesse's eyes narrowed at him. “Well, you ought to call the Portland police and let them know. Maybe she told you something important in all her paranoid talk.”

Mark nodded. “You're right. I'll call them right after the five o'clock show.”

“It'll be our lead story,” Jesse said.

“Could we give the spot to Debi?”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Sure. We're on in twenty. Better start putting on the war paint.”

“Thanks,” Mark said. He watched Jesse head back into the newsroom.

It was too much for him to comprehend. Now the threat to his family seemed horribly real. He hated knowing the kids were alone in the house.

Of course, Jesse was right. He had to call the Portland police. But what would he tell them?

He kept wondering what he could have done to help Stephanie Coburn. This was the second time in his life he'd turned his back on a woman who desperately needed help—the second time he'd done nothing and let someone die.

The phone rang, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

Mark grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mark,” said the associate producer, Gayle. She'd put Stephanie's call through to him last night. And he'd told Gayle to hang up on her after that.

“Yeah, Gayle, what is it?” he asked, rubbing his forehead.

“I have a call for you. It's kind of an emergency, she says . . .”

He immediately thought of Alison.

“Her name's Jenny Ballatore,” Gayle continued.

“Oh, um, all right,” Mark said. “Thanks, Gayle. You can put her through . . .”

There was a click, and then she came on the other end of the line: “Mark?”

“Yes, hi. What's going on?”

“I'm so sorry to call you—and you have to be on TV in fifteen minutes. I didn't know who else to turn to. That guy who's been stalking me, he was in my hotel room this afternoon. I came back and caught him in there. He pushed me down and ran out—”

“My God, were you hurt?”

“I'm okay—”

“Did you call the police?” he asked.

“Yes. I've been with them for the last two hours. The hotel moved me to yet another room, but I just can't go back there . . .”

“Listen, Jenny, grab a taxi and come here to the station.”

“I'm here,” she said “I'm in the lobby.”

“Well, come on up. You can wait in my office while I do the broadcasts.”

“No, I can't. I don't want anyone to see me. I'm a mess. I've been crying. Could you—could you come down for just a couple of seconds?”

“Sure,” he said. “Be right down.”

Hanging up the phone, he hurried out of his office, through the newsroom and into the stairwell.

Mark found her down in the lobby. Her long chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was flushed and her eyes looked bloodshot. She wore a blue T-shirt and jeans. Shaking her head at him, she seemed utterly embarrassed. “I'm so sorry to do this to you . . .”

“That's okay.” He was about to put his arms around her, but hesitated.

She had no such hesitation. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his shoulder. “God, I'm going crazy,” she cried. “I've been trying to find another hotel, and either they're booked or the rates are through the roof. I don't know what to do . . .”

He patted her back, and could feel her long, silky hair. “Listen, don't worry . . .”

She pulled back a little and gazed at him with tear-filled eyes. “I don't want to keep you. It's just that I hear there are some cheaper hotels on Aurora Boulevard. I was going to check online. If I find a decent place, would you mind driving me there—I mean, after you finish the six o'clock show? I hate to take up your time. I hate being this needy . . .”

“Don't be ridiculous. Listen, you can stay at my house. We have a guest room on the lower level. It's probably a little dusty, but the sheets are clean.”

She wiped her eyes. “Oh, I couldn't impose on you . . .”

“Listen, you'd be doing me a favor,” he said. “It would be nice to have another adult in the house for a change. In fact, you'd be like an answer to a prayer. Only . . .” He broke away from her and shook his head. “On second thought, it's not fair to you, not in my current situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'd be going from the frying pan into the fire. It's a long story, but I have reason to believe my family could be in danger—maybe not right now, but possibly soon. It might be best if you—”

“Well, who's looking after your kids right now?” she asked.

“Nobody,” he answered, suddenly very ashamed. “And I'm going crazy with worry.”

“In that case, I accept your invitation,” she said. “You go do the news. I'll get my stuff from the hotel and meet you back here at six-thirty.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, I could really use another adult around the house, but not at the risk of endangering you . . .”

She hugged him again. “There's safety in numbers. I'd really love the company, too. As for the bedroom, I don't mind a little dust. I promise I'll only stay a day or two. I don't want to outwear my welcome. You'd be saving my life, Mark . . .”

He wasn't so sure about that.

With that same uncertainty, he finally put his arms around her and returned the embrace.

She squeezed him tightly—as if she might never let go.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

 

T
he hotel he was staying at in West Seattle reminded him of the Bates Motel in
Psycho
—only with two stories. Otherwise, it was the same late-fifties style, squat, rambling layout. All the rooms were accessible from the outside, which meant he had to step out for ice, and other guests passed by the window of his room on the second floor. He had a view of the parking lot.

Ryan had checked online and gotten hotel and bus information for West Seattle. He figured if Alison Metcalf went to summer school there, the Metcalfs' house couldn't be far away. The hotel, the Grove Inn, was practically the only game in that part of town. Actually, his room was nicely furnished and clean. Plus they had cable. And it was walking distance to a McDonald's. He could have done a lot worse.

Still, the place's resemblance to the Bates Motel had him dead-bolting the door and keeping his face toward the curtain while he showered. Ryan quickly dried off, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, he got a shocking reminder of what he'd done earlier that afternoon.

By the time he'd gotten to West Seattle, it had been too late to catch Alison Metcalf at the high school. On the plane, he'd been haunted by something Stephanie had said about looking so much like his father that his family's killers might recognize him. So with some time to spare, he stopped by Shear Perfection, a unisex hair salon. The stylist trimmed Ryan's unruly brown hair to a modified crew cut and then dyed it blond—really blond, platinum. Everyone in the salon thought he looked cool and edgy.

Staring at his reflection in the half-fogged mirror, Ryan thought he looked like a clown. But at least he didn't look like his father.

After getting dressed, he checked his phone. He was hoping Stephanie might have called while he was in the shower. He'd left her three messages today. He'd told her in the last one that he was in Seattle. He'd figured that would get a response out of her. But so far, nothing. And no one had left him a voice mail while he'd been showering.

He was worried about her. He hadn't spoken with her since last night. She'd been alone and hiding out in a Portland hotel—pretty much the same thing he was doing right now. She'd been thinking of coming to Seattle, too. Had she made it here?

Ryan figured he'd try her again after watching the news. He grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV.

He'd seen a billboard for the KIXY News Team while on the bus from the airport to West Seattle. He'd been getting his dorky haircut and dye-job when Mark Metcalf and his “teammates” were on at five o'clock. However, their six o'clock broadcast was just about to start. Ryan wanted to see what the only surviving kid from that old photograph looked like on live TV.

With the remote in his hand, he sat down on the end of the bed and watched as they showed a news teaser—with clips of a fire at a building in Pioneer Square, a drowning in Lake Sammamish, and a defeat for the Mariners. After a jazzy intro with all the graphics, they showed Mark Metcalf and his pretty blond co-anchor behind a desk.

Ryan thought back to the man from the country club's pro shop and the Metcalfs' former neighbor who both had said that Mark was a nice guy. Whether it was real or fake, the good-looking anchorman had that demeanor. He seemed nice, dependable, and reassuring. Ryan couldn't imagine the man on TV ever slapping his kid in front of God and everybody during a football game.

“Our top story tonight,” announced his co-anchor. “An explosion ripped through the quiet Portland neighborhood of Hawthorne early this morning, leveling one home and blowing out windows of neighboring houses for a block. One person is assumed dead . . .”

“Probably some crystal meth lab thing,” Ryan muttered to himself.

“The residence destroyed belonged to Stephanie Coburn, a pilot for Pacific Cascade Skyways. Coburn was in the news recently after allegedly piloting a commercial passenger plane while under the influence of LSD . . .”

“No,” Ryan said, staring at the TV. He got to his feet. “Goddamn it, no . . .”

On the screen, they switched over to a reporter from a Portland affiliate station. The woman stood in front of the smoldering, blown-out remnants of someone's house—
Stephanie's house
. Into her handheld mic, the reporter explained that emergency responders were still searching for a body in the wreckage.

Now he knew why Stephanie hadn't returned any of his calls.

They showed blurry, rickety footage of the post-explosion fire, which someone had captured on their cell phone. The reporter said they were still unsure about the cause of the explosion, but a Ford pickup was spotted speeding away from the scene just moments after the blast.

With tears in his eyes, Ryan stood in front of the TV.

They switched to a clip of Stephanie, looking disoriented as she tried to explain that someone must have drugged her minutes before she'd strapped herself into the cockpit of that commercial jet. Ryan had seen the footage before. It was part of an interview she'd told him about, rerun nearly two weeks ago. “I don't want you seeing me on the news and thinking you're in cahoots with a major loon,” she'd said.

She'd been right about how she'd come across—spacey, unreliable, and paranoid. But Ryan knew the truth.

On TV, they went back to the co-anchors at their news desk. Ryan studied the somber look on Mark Metcalf 's face while his pretty partner wrapped up the news piece: “Portland police are tracking down the owners of that Ford pickup seen driving away from Coburn's home just after the explosion. Tune into KIXY News at eleven for all the latest developments on this story . . .”

Sinking down on the edge of the bed, Ryan told himself there was still a chance Stephanie was alive. They hadn't found her body yet. She'd given them the slip before. She could have done it again.

Still, he started sobbing. If she were alive, she would have called and let him know by now. If she were alive, he wouldn't feel this awful loss and hopelessness.

“A three-alarm fire broke out this afternoon at a Pioneer Square landmark . . .” Mark Metcalf announced.

But Ryan had stopped listening. He stared at the handsome news anchor and wondered how he could just sit there and act as if he had no connection to Stephanie Coburn whatsoever.

The son of a bitch had just spoken to her last night.

 

 

 

“That's pretty.”

“Oh, do you like it?” her dad's friend replied. The pretty brunette held out her hand to show off the scarab bracelet. “This was my mom's. It's always been one of my favorites.” She went back to unpacking her suitcases, which were laid out on the guest room bed. She was only supposed to stay a night or two, but it looked like she was hunkering down to spend the rest of the summer. “How come you aren't wearing any jewelry?” she asked. “I figured you'd have inherited a bunch of stuff from your mother.”

Leaning against the doorway, Alison shrugged. “Most of the really pricey stuff is in a safe-deposit box at the bank. I mean, what am I going to do with a string of pearls or my mom's engagement ring? I probably won't even see any of it until I'm twenty-one or married. I ended up with some less expensive stuff that's nice—not as nice as your bracelet. Anyway, I don't wear any jewelry unless I'm going out.”

She certainly wasn't going out tonight. Her friend, Cate, was supposed to have come over and kept her company during “lockdown mode,” as Alison called it. But now Cate and a bunch of other people were going to Pegasus Pizza. Then they'd be hanging out at Alki Beach. Alison's crush, Shane Camper, and some of his skateboarding friends were supposed to be there. Of course, it would go on past 10:30, maybe even past midnight. Cate said they'd come pick her up. Alison said not to bother. She had to babysit her stupid kid brother.

So she was friendless and homebound. Making matters worse, her dad had called between newscasts, asking her to make sure the house was presentable for company. He was bringing his friend, Jenny, home for dinner. “She's spending the night,” he said. “So would you mind giving the guest room a quick dust? I'm pretty sure the sheets are clean . . .”

“Before I put a mint on her pillow, should I take Danny's geography project and all that other crap off the bed down there?” she asked, deadpan.

Her father was right about the clean sheets. Her Grandpa and Grandma Niebank had slept in the bed when they'd come in for the funeral last month. They'd stayed with them an extra week, and her grandmother had changed the sheets before they'd left. But in the last three weeks the room had become a catch-all storage area for a lot of things—including some winter clothes that needed to go to the cleaners, stacks of old magazines, and Danny's 40 x 20 homemade relief map of the United States. Her father acted like cleaning the room would take five minutes, but it was a major project.

“Who is this Jenny person anyway?” she pressed. “Is this the doughnut lady? What's going on with you guys? Is she your girlfriend or something?”

“No, she's not my girlfriend,” her father replied. “Honey, I'm not going to be in the market for a girlfriend for quite some time. No, Jenny is just a really nice woman who happens to need a place to stay tonight. I'd like to help her out. Just do what you can to clear off the guest room bed. Make the place look a little presentable, and I'll owe you one. Okay?”

It was a major pain to move Danny's relief map to the corner of the room. It was made from flour, paste, and food dye. Crumbs remained on the bedspread, and the Florida panhandle broke off during the transfer. She tossed the bedspread in the washer, vacuumed the carpet, and opened the windows to air out the room. She browbeat Danny into loading up the dishwasher with all the dirty plates, flatware, and glasses that had been left out on the kitchen counter and everywhere else for that matter.

By the time her dad and the doughnut lady arrived, Alison had the house looking reasonably clean. And except for the bedspread in the dryer, the guest room was ready for occupancy.

The doughnut lady was a lot sexier and prettier than Alison had expected. Her black T-shirt and tight jeans showed off a killer body. Alison could tell by the way the woman talked and acted around her dad that she was on the make for him. She kept flicking her hair and touching him oh-so-casually. Maybe her dad thought they were just friends, but this lady had other ideas.

Along with two suitcases, she also had a big brown box of stuff she'd brought with her from the Bay Area and a bagful of groceries. Apparently, within the last hour, she'd rented the red Hyundai now in the driveway, and then followed Alison's father here in it. She'd said she wanted to come and go without asking him to chauffeur her all over the place.

“Your father is an absolute lifesaver to put me up like this,” she said, hanging up a dress in the closet. “You are, too, Alison. I can only imagine how weird it must seem to have this total stranger moving into your guest room—even just for a couple of nights.” She started to unpack another dress, but stopped to look at her. “You know, your father didn't tell me how pretty you are. You're a knockout. If you don't mind my saying, a tiny bit of eyeliner would do wonders. You've got gorgeous eyes. You should accentuate them.”

Alison felt herself blushing. “Well, thanks. I don't wear much makeup.”

“You're lucky,” she said. “For a while I had to wear gobs of makeup to cover this scar on my face. It was really awful. I finally went to this plastic surgeon and you can't see it anymore, thank God.”

“Hey, you guys!” Alison's father called down to them. “What do you want on your pizza? We're getting one large sausage and cheese, and a big salad. The other pizza's up to you . . .”

The woman smiled at her. “It's your call,” she said.

“I usually get just cheese,” Alison said, shrugging.

“Make ours cheese, please!” she called.

Alison's cell phone rang. It was a text from Cate.

“Boyfriend?” Jenny asked.

“No, a friend-friend,” Alison answered, frowning at the text. “She's bugging me to go out with her and some other friends tonight. They're having pizza, too, and then hanging out at the beach.”

“Sounds like fun. What are you moping about?”

“Because I can't go,” Alison said. “I have to babysit Danny while Dad goes back to the station for the eleven o'clock show.”

“Well, I'm here. I can babysit. You're off the hook. Go out with your friends.”

Alison worked up a smile. “Oh, that's nice of you. But Dad wouldn't want me dumping Danny on you. Plus we're in lockdown here, because he's worried about some wacko who's threatening people on the news team.”

“Well, that's just silly. I'll be fine here with Danny, and you'll be with a whole bunch of people, right? Are any guys going to be there? Any guys you're interested in?”

Alison was a little embarrassed. She rolled her eyes. “Actually, there's this one guy I like, and he's supposed to show up . . .”

“Oh, then you're going,” she said, reaching into her suitcase. “That's all there is to it. I insist. Do you have a ride there and back?”

Alison nodded, but she didn't think her dad would let her go.

“Well, text your friend and tell her to come pick you up,” she said. “Let me talk to your father. Don't worry.”