Terrified (10 page)
The cops tried to ask Josh in a roundabout way if he’d been molested at this point. But their questions just confused him.
“Josh, honey, they want to know if he took off your underpants or touched your penis or anything like that,” she finally said.
He considered the question for a moment, and then shook his head.
As far as she could tell from Josh’s sketchy account, the culprit had led him across the street to the Bon-Macy’s, where they’d taken the sky bridge to the parking garage. But before they’d gotten into the man’s car, someone else had shown up in the garage. That was where it got confusing. Megan wasn’t sure if this other person was the child-snatcher’s partner—or if he was someone who had followed them to this point. Apparently, he knew Josh’s name. But he could have heard it from one of the many lost-boy announcements in the Westlake Center.
The police asked Josh to describe the stranger who had shown up—seemingly from nowhere. “He was like the other man, only taller,” Josh said. “But he didn’t have a funny beard or glasses… .” His description didn’t give the cops much to go on.
The new man had told Josh to wait by the stairwell while he and the goateed man had climbed inside the car together. Josh couldn’t identify the car type, but remembered it had been “gween-colored
.
” Apparently, after a while, the second man had emerged from the vehicle alone. Taking Josh’s hand, he’d walked him down “lots of stairs,” to the street level. He’d told Josh that it had all been a game, his mother was okay and she was looking for him. “We looked both ways and crossed the street to this building here,” Josh said, “and he told me to go inside and ride up the excavators and wait for Mommy… .”
.
” Apparently, after a while, the second man had emerged from the vehicle alone. Taking Josh’s hand, he’d walked him down “lots of stairs,” to the street level. He’d told Josh that it had all been a game, his mother was okay and she was looking for him. “We looked both ways and crossed the street to this building here,” Josh said, “and he told me to go inside and ride up the excavators and wait for Mommy… .”
Officer Williams filled in the rest. One of the jugglers had made another announcement that they were looking for a missing boy—and this time Josh had been there to raise his hand and come forward. Then they’d flagged down Officer Williams.
Megan figured the second man must have been at least partially culpable for what had happened—otherwise, he would have come back with Josh. Whatever, the two men were probably long gone already, having driven off in their “gween-colored” car. Megan wanted to track them down even more than the police did. But after an hour of them asking Josh the same questions over and over, she became weary—and protective of her son. He started to squirm and whine with every repeated answer. Megan just wanted to get him home.
But it would be another four grueling hours before that would happen, most of them spent in an interrogation room at the East Precinct. They went over the same questions again and again. Though they’d bought Josh a soft drink and some vending machine snacks, the detectives still wore him out with their incessant grilling. The novelty of being in a police station surrounded by all these policemen—with guns—died away by the second hour. They showed him three fat volumes with picture after picture of convicted sex offenders and pedophiles—to no avail. Josh couldn’t find a solid match to either one of the men. Several times, he almost started crying. The police had pushed Megan to her limit, too. She’d gotten so sick of that fake promise, “Just a couple of more questions, then we’ll let you go.”
For the last hour of the interrogation, she became even more frayed, because news of the Westlake Center incident had hit the press. Apparently, several reporters and two TV news crews were camped outside the precinct station door, waiting to talk with her and Josh. She couldn’t subject Josh to that. And she couldn’t subject herself to it, either. Her photo in the newspapers, footage of her on the TV news—this was the stuff of her nightmares.
She’d almost lost Josh today. A single photo of her in the newspapers could be the start of her losing him forever. All it took was one person recognizing her.
The silver-haired policeman tried to persuade her to talk with the press. Maybe he figured it was good PR for the Seattle Police, since they’d helped reunite an abducted child with his mother.
“I’m really sorry,” Megan told him. “I’m not going to make a statement. You can say, ‘The mother was grateful for the help of the Seattle Police,’ but that’s all. Please, respect our privacy.”
In the end, they loaded her and Josh in the back of a police car and exited from the garage, avoiding the press completely. With Josh slouched against her, Megan glanced over her shoulder out the rear window. She watched the cluster of reporters and two TV news vans outside the police station grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Then she turned, pulled Josh closer to her, and kissed the top of his head.
She gave Josh a bath, and cooked up comfort food for their dinner: grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and potato chips on the side. She’d parked Josh in front of the TV. He was watching their video of Disney’s
Tarzan
for the umpteenth time. Standing over the stove, Megan smelled the bread grilling, and she just wanted to cry. She felt as if she’d lived a lifetime in one day. She was so grateful to be here right now. For the last six hours, she’d longed for this moment at home with Josh—safe and content. It was like a miracle. Megan cherished the dull Saturday night at home.
Tarzan
for the umpteenth time. Standing over the stove, Megan smelled the bread grilling, and she just wanted to cry. She felt as if she’d lived a lifetime in one day. She was so grateful to be here right now. For the last six hours, she’d longed for this moment at home with Josh—safe and content. It was like a miracle. Megan cherished the dull Saturday night at home.
She couldn’t help wondering about that other man who had mysteriously shown up in the garage and then walked Josh back to the mall. Had he been working with Josh’s abductor? Or was he someone else, some Good Samaritan who couldn’t afford to get involved. Maybe he was someone with a past and a fear of the police—someone like her.
Days later, on July fifth, Megan saw something in the newspaper—a small story near the bottom of page seven:
CONVICTED SEX OFFENDER MURDERED
CENTRALIA, WASH.—
The body of a Cle Elum man, Lionel A. Schreiber, 34, was discovered in the trunk of his car Wednesday afternoon by a set of railroad tracks in Centralia. His throat had been cut.
The body of a Cle Elum man, Lionel A. Schreiber, 34, was discovered in the trunk of his car Wednesday afternoon by a set of railroad tracks in Centralia. His throat had been cut.
Three teenagers lighting off firecrackers by the Burlington Northern tracks said they thought the green 1998 LeSabre was abandoned. They noticed the trunk was unlocked and discovered Schreiber’s remains inside. Lewis County Medical Examiner David Renner indicated Schreiber had been dead for at least three days.
A convicted sex offender, Schreiber was first arrested at age 19 for indecent exposure and molesting an 8-year-old neighbor in Pasco, Wash. He served an eight-month prison sentence. He was arrested again in 1994 for trying to abduct a 6-year-old at River Park Square in Spokane, Wash. He spent two years at the state prison. Spokane police have tried to link him to the disappearance of several children in Eastern Washington, but have lacked substantial evidence. Since 1997, Schreiber has been employed as a carpenter and living in Cle Elum, Wash… .
There was no mention of a suspect in the murder. And there wasn’t a photo of the deceased with the article. Megan wondered if Schreiber had glasses and a goatee. Had his killer argued with him earlier that day over the abduction of a four-year-old boy at Westlake Center in Seattle? Had they driven ninety miles south to Centralia, before the other man slit his friend’s throat and stuffed him in the trunk of that “gween-colored” car?
Megan Google-Imaged the name,
Lionel A. Schreiber
and found a mug shot of a dim-looking, dark-haired individual who didn’t have glasses or facial hair. The same image might have been among the hundreds of mug shots the police had shown Josh and her five nights ago, but Megan didn’t remember it.
Lionel A. Schreiber
and found a mug shot of a dim-looking, dark-haired individual who didn’t have glasses or facial hair. The same image might have been among the hundreds of mug shots the police had shown Josh and her five nights ago, but Megan didn’t remember it.
After reading the article, she kept waiting for the police to call or pay her a visit. She figured they’d make a connection to the Centralia murder of a sex offender and what had happened to Josh in Seattle. After all, he’d tried to abduct a little girl from a shopping mall in Spokane a few years ago.
Megan was a wreck that whole day—and most of the next. Was the murder of this sex offender going to put her and Josh in the spotlight with the police and the press? Josh was safe now, and if his would-be abductor was dead, then fine, good riddance to bad rubbish. She just wanted to go back to being anonymous and maintaining a low profile.
To her surprise, the police didn’t contact her. Megan told herself the police knew better. Maybe they knew Schreiber only went after little girls—and not little boys. Or perhaps they didn’t pay much attention to what went on in a different county, and in a city ninety miles away.
Still, Megan couldn’t let it go. While at work, she downloaded the photo of Schreiber on her computer and printed it. She drew glasses and a goatee on the man’s mug shot, and showed it to Josh that night. She asked him if it was the man who had tried to get him into his green car last Saturday at Westlake Center.
But Josh didn’t remember the man, and he giggled at her rendition of the glasses and the goatee. In fact, even with her nudging, he barely remembered the actual incident. He remembered the policemen and the jugglers. But he couldn’t recall much about the man who had almost taken him away from her.
He didn’t recollect the other man, either, the one who knew Josh’s name, the one who had saved him, the one who had quite possibly killed for him.
A week was a long time for a little boy to remember.
But Megan knew she would never forget.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
HAPTER
E
IGHT
August 19, 2011
H
e got off the SLUT—the South Lake Union Trolley, which served the hip, fast-growing, lakeside area where
Amazon.com
had opened its new offices. Josh had a summer job bussing tables for the lunch crowd at the Flying Fish, one of several restaurants in the vicinity.
e got off the SLUT—the South Lake Union Trolley, which served the hip, fast-growing, lakeside area where
Amazon.com
had opened its new offices. Josh had a summer job bussing tables for the lunch crowd at the Flying Fish, one of several restaurants in the vicinity.
He felt very grown-up and cool working his first job. Except for one snide, stuck-up waiter and an occasional a-hole customer, he liked everyone at the restaurant. He’d saved up over five hundred bucks this summer. And working 10:30 to 2:30 was a sweet deal, because he still had time to go to the beach or hang out with friends in the late afternoons. Plus the commute was a breeze—a ten-minute bike ride from their duplex townhouse off Eastlake. When it rained, he grabbed an umbrella, walked a few blocks, and caught the SLUT to work. Josh liked the SLUT—for the people-watching and the sheer novelty of saying he was on the SLUT. “I rode the slut today,” he’d tell his friends. “And I rode it hard.”
Josh was fourteen years old.
Tall and thin, he had wavy brown hair, green eyes—and thanks to those afternoons in the sun, a clear, tan complexion. He thought he looked slick in his work clothes: black slacks, white shirt, and a black tie. He considered himself lucky. He could have been one of those poor saps who worked at Orange Julius, forced to wear that ugly uniform and the dorky hat.
He was still feeling a bit cocky from yesterday when some woman customer—one of the waiters referred to her as a “cougar”—smiled at him and said, “Well, aren’t you the handsome young man? You must be beating them off with a stick.” Josh wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded like a compliment and kind of dirty, too.
One thing that bothered him about his looks was he didn’t resemble his father. He was nothing like the blond-haired guy with his mother in the photographs—at least, not appearance-wise. And he knew so little about him otherwise. Those few photos were Josh’s only connection to his father. His mom hadn’t hung on to anything of his dad’s, no old clothes, no souvenirs, nothing. And there was no grave, either. Apparently, after dying in that ski accident, his dad had been cremated.
Whenever he asked about his dad, his mom would get really uncomfortable. She’d answer his question and then change the subject. He hated making her sad or blue, but he was curious. Who wouldn’t be, in his shoes? He wished there was someone else who could tell him something about his father. But he had no one—no aunts, uncles, cousins, or grandparents. It was just his mom and him for as long as he could remember.
His mom didn’t have any friends who had known his dad. She still got an occasional call or email from coworkers at her old job in the law office, but they’d never met his father. She’d grown up in Portland, and had met his dad there. But no one from those old Portland days had ever surfaced, at least no one Josh knew of.
One night recently, he’d tried to Google Paul Keeslar, thinking there might be an old article about how he’d died on that ski slope. But all Josh had gotten for search results were different businesspeople listed on LinkedIn, Facebook, and MySpace. And his dad had been long dead before any of those Internet groups ever got started.
Sometimes it seemed like Paul Keeslar had never even existed. Josh had to remind himself that just because his father wasn’t acknowledged on the Internet, it didn’t mean anything. He’d searched through six pages of Megan Keeslars before he found a Google listing for his mother. She was in the Personnel Profiles section for Destination Rent-a-Car’s downtown Seattle location. Last year, she’d been promoted to manager. The strange thing was that the six other employees all had portraits by their
Meet Our Staff
mini-biographies—each one wearing a green Destination Rent-a-Car blazer and a friendly smile. But by Megan Keeslar’s brief bio, there was a shadowy silhouette illustration with
No Image Available
printed on it.
Meet Our Staff
mini-biographies—each one wearing a green Destination Rent-a-Car blazer and a friendly smile. But by Megan Keeslar’s brief bio, there was a shadowy silhouette illustration with
No Image Available
printed on it.
Josh never told anyone this, but sometimes he’d fantasize that Paul Keeslar was some made-up person— and his real dad was still out there someplace. He’d see fathers and sons tossing around a baseball in Volunteer Park—near the old apartment house where he and his mom had lived in the basement unit. He’d envy those kids with their dads. There were a lot of dad things his mother just couldn’t do. For example, he was probably the only guy on the freshman basketball team whose mother went with him to buy his jockstrap. Talk about degrading. At least she agreed to wait in another department while he bought the damn thing. During games, his teammates’ fathers cheered them on from the first or second row of the stands. Meanwhile, his mom always quietly sat in the back someplace. He wasn’t really complaining. It beat having her jump up and down in the front row, yelling stuff at him and making an ass out of herself. Maybe he was sexist or something, but if he’d had a dad doing that for him, it would have been really nice.
Whenever he walked downtown, Josh would study the men in business suits, guys around his mom’s age, and he’d wonder,
Is he anything like my dad? Could he be him?
He knew it was screwed up. But he wanted his father to be something more than a dead guy in a handful of photographs from fifteen years ago. Often, when a sporty, forty-something customer at the Flying Fish talked to him in a friendly way or just thanked him for refilling his water glass, Josh imagined the guy as his long-lost father. That was one of the perks to riding the SLUT. He couldn’t help playing the game. Which passenger might be his dad?
Is he anything like my dad? Could he be him?
He knew it was screwed up. But he wanted his father to be something more than a dead guy in a handful of photographs from fifteen years ago. Often, when a sporty, forty-something customer at the Flying Fish talked to him in a friendly way or just thanked him for refilling his water glass, Josh imagined the guy as his long-lost father. That was one of the perks to riding the SLUT. He couldn’t help playing the game. Which passenger might be his dad?
It wasn’t all just a fantasy, either. Josh often had the feeling someone was watching over him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was something he’d felt ever since he was a little kid.
He had that very sensation on the SLUT this afternoon, but didn’t come up with any desirable candidates for a fantasy father among his fellow passengers.
It had been a crappy, rainy morning, but the sun was shining as Josh stepped off the trolley. He loosened his tie, and then reached inside his pants pocket for his cell phone. The number for the downtown Destination Rent-a-Car was on his speed dial. With the phone to his ear, he headed down Eastlake Avenue.
He figured on hanging out with his best friend, Darren Willingham, this afternoon. Maybe they’d bicycle around Gas Works Park—a huge, hilly patch of land north of Lake Union with walking trials, incredible views of the city, and in one section, a cluster of rusted-over machinery, pipes, and towers that had once been part of the old Seattle Gas Works. There were always plenty of pretty girls on hand—sunning themselves, jogging, or just hanging out like him and Darren. Of course, he never had the balls to approach any of them. Neither did Darren, who was gawky-skinny with unruly blond hair and a perpetually nervous look on his pale face. Still, the two of them always had a blast whenever they went there. Maybe they’d go to Northlake Pizza afterward, and he could spend the night at Darren’s. He didn’t have work in the morning.
“Aren’t you forgetting that we had plans?” his mother asked on the other end of the line.
“We did?” Josh said into his cell phone. He put a finger in his other ear to block out the traffic noise.
“Yes,” she replied with a little edge in her voice. “We were going to Northgate to shop for a new living room rug, and then we were going out for pizza.”
“Well, God, Mom, can’t you do that by yourself?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Mom?”
“I seem to recall you live there, too. Whatever rug I pick, you’ll be stuck with it. Don’t you care?”
“Not really,” he admitted. Ever since he was a kid, she’d told him that he was the man of the house. But this took it too far. “Besides,” he continued, “going out for pizza on a Friday night with my
mother
? Why don’t I just wear a sign that says, ‘Loser’?”
mother
? Why don’t I just wear a sign that says, ‘Loser’?”
“I thought you were your own person, Josh,” she countered. “I didn’t figure you’d be influenced by what some people say is
cool
or
uncool
.”
cool
or
uncool
.”
“Jeez, Mom, where’d you get a weird idea like that?”
She let out a long sigh, “All right, fine …”
Before hanging up, she gave him the usual mom stipulations: check in with her later, be careful, double-check with Darren’s mother that it was okay he spend the night there, and yada, yada, yada. From her tone, Josh could tell she was disappointed he had no desire to go shopping with her. He wanted to tell her that picking out a new rug for the living room was the kind of boring stuff women did with their husbands—not their sons. But that would have hurt her feelings even more.
Once he got off the line with his mom, he left a message for Darren, asking to get together. He shoved the phone in his pocket, and continued down the sidewalk along Eastlake Avenue. Up ahead, he saw his neighborhood Starbucks, some restaurants, and the Eastlake Market convenience store.
He thought about how his mom needed to get a life. The only things she seemed to have going on were work and him. And really, how much of a thrill could she get managing the downtown branch of
Devastation
Rent-a-Car? That was one of his nicknames for the place. His mom didn’t have many friends beyond her coworkers. She never had any dates—which was pretty confusing, because he knew she was lonely. And she didn’t have to be. She worked out during her lunch hour to stay in shape, and yet she wasn’t meeting anybody worth dating there. One of the guys on the basketball team described her as the ultimate MILF, which Josh didn’t really need to hear. Still, he recognized that she was pretty. Plus compared to some of the other mothers out there, his mom came in way ahead.
Devastation
Rent-a-Car? That was one of his nicknames for the place. His mom didn’t have many friends beyond her coworkers. She never had any dates—which was pretty confusing, because he knew she was lonely. And she didn’t have to be. She worked out during her lunch hour to stay in shape, and yet she wasn’t meeting anybody worth dating there. One of the guys on the basketball team described her as the ultimate MILF, which Josh didn’t really need to hear. Still, he recognized that she was pretty. Plus compared to some of the other mothers out there, his mom came in way ahead.
He thought about going behind her back and putting all her stats on some matchmaker site, and maybe then she’d have some dates. She’d probably throw a major hissy fit about it. But he was really doing her a favor. And he felt bad she was so alone. Then again, what if she actually met someone and it got serious? What if he ended up with some douche bag for a stepdad?
His phone rang. Josh figured it was Darren calling him back. Checking his cell, he saw the number was blocked—probably some telemarketer. But Josh answered it anyway. “Yes, hello?” he said, crossing the street.
“Hello,” the man said. “Have I reached the Keeslars?”
“You’ve reached one of them,” Josh replied.
Yeah, it was a telemarketer, all right.
Yeah, it was a telemarketer, all right.
“May I speak with your father, please?”
“No, I’m sorry you can’t,” Josh answered briskly. “He’s dead.” He was about to click off the phone—but then he heard the guy respond.
“No, he isn’t, Josh,” the man said.
He stopped dead. “What? What did you just say?”
Then there was a click on the other end.
Josh stood there on the sidewalk. The guy knew his name. What the hell was this? Again, he had that sensation someone was watching him.
He glanced around—at the other pedestrians in the vicinity and at the cars parked along Eastlake. Had someone made the call from inside one of those cars? Traffic was heavy at the intersection nearby. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, not at first.
He told himself one of the guys on the basketball team was playing a prank on him.
Josh was still looking around for somebody who might have made that call when he spotted a man on the sidewalk about half a block down. The stranger was lying at the edge of a small parking lot by a three-story office building. Dumbfounded, Josh watched two people pass by, and they barely glanced at him.
He started toward the fallen man, and the closer Josh got, the more the man didn’t look like a bum. Josh started running toward him. Facedown on the pavement, the dark-haired man wore a blue, long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and black loafers—with tassels. One of the shoes had slipped off his foot. The man looked dead at first, but then Josh could see he was breathing—and his shoeless foot twitched.
With a shaky hand Josh pushed 911 on his cell phone keypad. But nothing happened. “Stupid, cheap-ass cell!” he cried. He dialed it again.
Dropping to his knees, he nervously poked the man’s shoulder, hoping to rouse him. “Hey, mister? Mister, are you okay?”
The unconscious man didn’t stir. Past the traffic noise, Josh heard a dial tone, and then a tiny voice on his cell phone: “Nine-one-one operator. Hello? Do you have an emergency situation to report?”
“Yes, hello,” he said, out of breath. His heart was racing. “I’m here on the corner of Eastlake—and, and, and—Lynn, um, near the Eastlake Market. This man looks like he passed out or something. He’s lying here on the sidewalk. He’s not a—a—street person or anything like that. I don’t know what’s happened to him, but I think he needs to go to the hospital. Can you send an ambulance or something? I think he’s in serious—”
“May I have your name, please?” the 911 operator cut in.
He swallowed hard. “Josh—Josh Keeslar …”
The operator kept calling him by name after that: “Josh, stay on the line… .” and “Can you give me your location again, Josh?” and “Josh, have you tried talking to the man? Is he responsive?”
She told him that a squad car would be there within five minutes. To Josh, it seemed a hell of a lot longer than that. He stayed by the man. At first, he was afraid to move him, but he finally rolled him over on his back. The guy was certainly not a street person. He was clean shaven, probably in his late fifties, and he had a bloody gash on his forehead. Either someone had mugged him or he’d hit his head on the pavement when he’d fallen.
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