Terrified (34 page)
Megan smiled a bit at this news. She felt silly for thinking Travis had been so devastated by her rejection that he might have gone crazy or something. “Well, I’m glad,” she said. “Good for him.”
“Not really,” Melissa said. “He and his young bride drowned in a boating accident. They were both just teenagers. It was all over the newspapers here, very sad. They’d only been married about half a year, maybe less.”
“I’m—I’m sorry to hear that,” was all Megan could say.
“I’ll be right there. Ask Susan, I’ve got her at the desk filling in for me… .” Melissa was talking to someone else in the office. “Lisa?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Where was I?”
Frowning, Megan scratched a line through her notation:
Travis McClaren … Cassie McClaren (RIP).
She sighed. “You were saying that Travis and his wife died.”
Travis McClaren … Cassie McClaren (RIP).
She sighed. “You were saying that Travis and his wife died.”
“Yes, I hear her parents got most of the money—at least, what was left over from Travis’s splurge-spending, bad investments, and what-have-you… .”
Megan heard some murmuring on the other end.
“Check with Susan, okay?” Melissa was saying to someone there. “It should be on the patient’s chart… .”
Megan gazed down at her notes again:
•WILLOW MURDERED—If Glenn didn’t kill her, someone else set him up. Did Willow have family or another boyfriend (besides Glenn)?
According to Melissa, the police now thought
she
might have murdered Willow. Megan couldn’t fathom it. Yet perhaps that had been the event from 1996 this person wanted her to remember most.
she
might have murdered Willow. Megan couldn’t fathom it. Yet perhaps that had been the event from 1996 this person wanted her to remember most.
“… just give me three more minutes, okay?” Melissa was saying. Then she whispered again: “Jesus-please-us, suddenly, it’s Grand Central Station in here. Listen, Lisa, I’m sorry, but we should wrap this up. It’s just not smart for me to be talking to you with all these people walking in and out. Let me give you my cell phone number so you can get in touch with me later… .”
Megan jotted down Melissa’s phone number. “Can I ask you just a couple of more things?” she pleaded.
“Go ahead, shoot.”
“About Willow,” she said. “Do you know if she had another boyfriend, someone she was seeing besides Glenn? Did you ever hear anything along those lines?”
“Well, there was a lot of gossip after Willow disappeared. I heard she was seeing someone else in secret for a while. At the same time, I guess she was hoping to snag Glenn. According to one of the nurses, right after your—your suicide, Willow told a coworker that it opened the field for her. I don’t know how reliable—”
Suddenly, someone pounded on Megan’s door.
“Open up!”
a man bellowed.
“We know you’re in there!”
“Open up!”
a man bellowed.
“We know you’re in there!”
Megan shot to her feet so fast she almost knocked over the table. Her coffee cup tipped over and spilled across her notes. “What’s going on?” she heard Melissa murmuring on the cell.
“Open this door immediately!” the man yelled, still banging against it. The doorknob rattled. “It’s no use hiding in there! Open up!”
Panic-stricken, Megan clicked off the phone and grabbed her purse. She glanced around the room for anything she’d be leaving behind. She figured on escaping through the sliding glass door out to the parking lot.
She heard the door open to the next room. “God, Larry,” a woman said. “What the hell are you doing? You’re not funny! You’ve got the wrong room!”
“Oh, shit. I was just clowning around—”
“You idiot, want to get us kicked out of this hotel?”
Megan heard the door shutting in the next room. She could hear them murmuring, and then the woman’s muffled laughter.
She was still trembling as she cleaned up the spilt coffee and then called the number Melissa had given her. Melissa answered on the third ring. “Yes, hello?”
“It’s me again,” Megan said, nervously pacing around the room. “I’m sorry I cut you off. I had a—a false alarm here… .”
“Hey, how’s it going?” Melissa said brightly. “I’ve been thinking about you. You know, I wanted to tell you—that information we were talking about last time we talked, I don’t know how reliable it is.”
“Is someone else there?” Megan asked.
“Oh, you bet, plenty.”
“The information you said might not be reliable, you mean about Willow?”
“That’s right. You can’t be too sure. Listen, I’m kind of busy right now, Stephanie. But if you need me, why don’t you give me a call later—when I get off work?”
“You’ve helped me enough,” Megan said. “I don’t want to get you into any trouble, Melissa. Thank you so much.”
“It was really nice chatting with you again, too,” Melissa said. “We’ll talk later. You take care, okay?”
Megan listened to her hang up.
She clicked off the line, and glanced down at her notes, slightly smeared and runny from the coffee mishap. But one name was still clear.
James “JJ” Jordan.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE
U
sing one of the computers at the Cyber Café on Capitol Hill required leaving a driver’s license with the barista. So behind the counter, in a receipt box under the register, there were about a dozen driver’s licenses. One of them was for Rachel Porter of Fort Wayne, Indiana.
sing one of the computers at the Cyber Café on Capitol Hill required leaving a driver’s license with the barista. So behind the counter, in a receipt box under the register, there were about a dozen driver’s licenses. One of them was for Rachel Porter of Fort Wayne, Indiana.
Megan wore jeans and a beige fisherman’s knit sweater. The sleeves came down to her knuckles, so her bandaged left hand was half concealed. Inside her big purse she carried the revolver from the shop where Candy worked. Megan also had three different cell phones in there: the work cell phone and the one she’d “borrowed” from J. Knoll of Las Vegas, and the “Every Breath You Take” phone—her “lifeline to Josh,” as his abductor had put it.
She’d only had one call this morning—from Teresa, on her work cell. She had phoned at 9:20, just when Megan had gotten out of the cab in front of the café. Megan had let it go to voice mail:
“What in God’s name is going on, Meg? I can’t believe what they’re saying about you on the news. I tried you last night and this morning on your regular cell, but you’re not picking up. The police are here at work, and I’m calling from the restroom. Listen, I’m worried about you and Josh. Don’t call me on anything but this line. But call me if you get this, okay?”
“What in God’s name is going on, Meg? I can’t believe what they’re saying about you on the news. I tried you last night and this morning on your regular cell, but you’re not picking up. The police are here at work, and I’m calling from the restroom. Listen, I’m worried about you and Josh. Don’t call me on anything but this line. But call me if you get this, okay?”
Megan could have used Teresa’s help, but she kept thinking about what had happened to the last person who had tried to help her.
She had a computer station at a desk in the corner of the café where she was surfing the Web one-handed. The furnishings were eclectic, garage-sale chic. Megan seemed to blend in with the other customers in the store, hunched over their computers and sipping lattes. Across the café, through the storefront window, she had a view of the busy street and foot traffic near Broadway, the main drag of Capitol Hill, just two blocks up. She kept a lookout for police cars.
They were already homing in on her. The police presence at Destination Rent-a-Car killed any notion she had about visiting that apartment building in her neighborhood today. At least, she couldn’t go there in person. They probably had the entire block under surveillance.
The building was on Yale Avenue, one block up from the duplex. Sipping her coffee, she brought Google up on the computer. She typed in her address number, but made the street
Yale Avenue East, Seattle, WA 98102.
She just had to fudge with the numbers a bit, until she got an actual address—with a street view. It was a house right next door to the eighties-style building. Moving her mouse, Megan navigated along the street view image until she got a good shot of the front of the apartment building. She made out just enough letters of the sign by the lobby’s glass double doors, and let her memory take care of the rest. The place was called Vista-Eastlake Apartments.
Yale Avenue East, Seattle, WA 98102.
She just had to fudge with the numbers a bit, until she got an actual address—with a street view. It was a house right next door to the eighties-style building. Moving her mouse, Megan navigated along the street view image until she got a good shot of the front of the apartment building. She made out just enough letters of the sign by the lobby’s glass double doors, and let her memory take care of the rest. The place was called Vista-Eastlake Apartments.
Back on Google, she typed in
Vista-Eastlake Apartments, Seattle, Manager Contact
, and the second result was an ad for an available apartment back in June. There was a phone number for the manager. Megan dug her work cell out of her purse, and called the number.
Vista-Eastlake Apartments, Seattle, Manager Contact
, and the second result was an ad for an available apartment back in June. There was a phone number for the manager. Megan dug her work cell out of her purse, and called the number.
“Hi, this is Roberta,” the woman answered on the second ring.
“Hi,” she said into the phone, turning toward a Lautrec print on the café wall. “I’m trying to reach the manager for the Vista-Eastlake Apartments.”
“You’ve got her. But we don’t have any vacancies right now.”
“Well, I was told a—a gentleman on one of the top floors might be moving soon.”
“Really?” the woman said. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“I don’t think he’s been living there too long. Have you had any new tenants in the last few months? This would be a man.”
“We had a married couple move in back in July—on the second floor. But that’s it. I’m sorry I can’t help you—”
“Wait, just a second, please,” Megan said. It occurred to her this man who had been watching her must have been at it for a long time—especially if he was the same one who had killed and cut up all those women. He wouldn’t have been a new tenant. In fact, he may have even first rented a unit in the Vista-Eastlake Apartments back when she and Josh had moved into the duplex. “Could you tell me if there are any single male tenants on the top two floors?”
“Honey, are you looking for an apartment or a boyfriend?”
Megan hesitated for a moment. “To be honest, I’m looking for a guy who I was there with one night when I’d had a little too much to drink,” she lied. She glanced back toward the café window for a moment. “Now I really need to track him down. I—I think he told me his name was Lyle. But my friend said he sometimes goes by another name. Could you please help me out?”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a tenant named Lyle.”
“What about JJ?” Megan asked. “He could go by James Jordan or any variation of those two names… .”
“No, we don’t have a James Jordan here, either. I’m really sorry. I sympathize with your situation, but I need to respect the privacy of our tenants. Good-bye.”
Megan heard the woman hang up.
She pressed the
End Call
button, and set down the phone. She turned toward the computer and logged on to Google again. Under the subject, she typed:
James Jordan, JJ.
End Call
button, and set down the phone. She turned toward the computer and logged on to Google again. Under the subject, she typed:
James Jordan, JJ.
For the first two pages, Megan found several listings for people with the same name on Facebook, and some articles about a race car driver. But there was nothing about Glenn’s old buddy, JJ. With his dangerous edge and the way he used to handle Glenn’s dirty work, he seemed quite capable of murder. Glenn’s sister, Audrey, had said JJ always made sure Glenn’s cast-off girlfriends no longer bothered him again.
JJ gets the job done
.
JJ gets the job done
.
She kept thinking that Willow had been one of those girls. And Willow had ended up dead and dismembered.
According to Glenn’s lawyer, Glenn and JJ had a falling-out back in 1996. But that didn’t mean they weren’t secretly working together. Maybe JJ was calling the shots now. Perhaps he’d finally realized his good buddy, Glenn, had just used him as he might a pit bull he’d had little affection for. Megan remembered the way JJ used to leer at her. She wondered if it was Glenn’s old pal who had muttered obscenities on the phone while forcing her show to him her breasts. Maybe JJ had the upper hand now, and Glenn hadn’t been able to stop him from slitting Candy’s throat.
On page four of the Google results listing, there was still nothing about JJ. Megan almost spilled her coffee when the cell phone went off. It played a few chords of “Every Breath You Take” before she was able to dig it out of her purse. A couple of people in the café stopped to stare at her.
She pressed the
Talk
button, and then turned once again toward the Toulouse-Lautrec print on the wall. “Yes?” she whispered anxiously.
Talk
button, and then turned once again toward the Toulouse-Lautrec print on the wall. “Yes?” she whispered anxiously.
“Where are you, Lisa?”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even breathe. It wasn’t the man with the raspy voice on the other end of the phone. And it wasn’t a tape recording. It was Glenn.
For the last fifteen years she’d dreaded hearing that voice again—and hearing that question from him. Right now, she was too stunned to talk. She knew Glenn was somehow behind everything that had happened in the last few days, but she’d thought he’d keep her in the dark—at least, until it was almost over.
“Where are you?” he asked again. “You can hide from the police. But you can’t hide from me—not when I’m calling the shots here.”
“Right now, I’m at a café—near Broadway on Capitol Hill,” she finally replied.
“What’s the name of the place? What’s the address?”
“It’s the—the Cyber Café on East John.”
“What about last night? Where did you stay?”
“A place called the Lamplighter Inn, near the Space Needle.” Megan was still trying to get a normal breath. She couldn’t believe she was actually talking to Glenn—and answering all his questions like a scared, submissive wife. “Where are
you
?” she asked, getting angry now. “Where do you have my son? What have you done to him?”
you
?” she asked, getting angry now. “Where do you have my son? What have you done to him?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Glenn, I wasn’t lying when I told you he’s yours. Just look at him. If you want to get even with somebody, get even with me. But for God’s sake, don’t hurt him. As much as you hate me, don’t take it out on him. He’s a good kid. He’s the only decent thing that came from our miserable marriage. Glenn, if you knew him you—you’d actually be proud of him… .”
She couldn’t help it. She started crying. With her back to the other customers in the café, she quickly wiped her tears away. “Who are you working with?” she asked. “Is it JJ? I know it’s him. How could you let him kill your own niece? He’s in on this with you, isn’t he? Only he’s taken charge… .”
She kept waiting for Glenn to say something.
“Are you still there?” she asked, raising her voice. “Glenn, listen to me. Josh is your son, he’s your family. You’ve got to protect him. Do you hear me?”
Megan suddenly realized she was talking way too loudly. She glanced over her shoulder and noticed a few café patrons staring at her. “Damn it, Glenn,” she whispered into the phone. “Talk to me. Tell me Josh is still alive. Tell me you’re not going to hurt him.”
On the other end of the line, she heard him clear his throat. “Are you still registered at the Lamplighter Inn?” he asked.
She sighed. “Yes. But listen, until I have some sort of assurance from you that Josh is alive—”
“What room number?” he interrupted.
“I need to talk to Josh—”
“What’s the fucking room number?” he bellowed.
“One twenty-seven,” she answered, wincing. Her hand holding the phone was shaking.
“Be back in your hotel room by eight o’clock tonight,” he said. “I want to meet with you.”
“Let me talk to Josh,” she insisted. “If I don’t get to talk to him directly, then all bets are off. I’m going to the police. I don’t care… .”
Megan heard the click on the other end. He’d hung up. She realized Glenn was finished with her—for now.
“Good job, Glenn,” he whispered, taking Megan’s cell phone away from Dr. Glenn Swann’s face.
Glenn couldn’t hold the phone himself, because his hands were tied behind him. The rope around his wrists dug in so tightly it cut off the circulation. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. His arms ached from having them pulled back in that same position for the past two or three hours.
Clad only in his underpants, he was strapped to a hardback chair. Sweat beaded on his forehead, marred by a painful bump and a scab on the upper left side. At the same time, he couldn’t help shivering. The basement was dark and drafty, and gooseflesh crept on his bare skin.
Over his right shoulder, Glenn could see a grimy old bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a rack suspended from the ceiling above it. It reminded him of a rack for pots, pans, and utensils that had hung over the kitchen island in his and Lisa’s old house in Winnetka. Only this rack held cutting instruments—cleavers, butcher knives, and saws of various sizes.
Also to his right, but more in front of him stood a console with four small TV monitors and other audiovisual equipment. Glenn figured three of the TVs were hooked up to security cameras around the premises. One television showed the start of a driveway off some rural road. From the vantage point, the camera must have been up in a tree or on top of a high pole. The second monitor displayed another area outside. Glenn could see part of an old farmhouse with shrubs alongside it and what looked like a barn in the background. The third TV had some local news broadcast on mute.
Glenn was quite familiar with the stark, nearly empty room displayed on the fourth monitor. He’d spent the last few torturous days in that place. From the tin corrugated walls, the lack of windows, and the size of it, he was pretty certain he’d been locked inside the back of a small moving van. Someone had wired two lights and a camera along the top of one wall—just out of his reach. He’d known for the last few days someone had been watching his every move inside that stuffy tin sweatbox.
And now, tied to this chair, he was forced to play the voyeur.
Directly in front of him was a large window looking into a bedroom, where a shirtless wiry teenage boy restlessly paced around. Looking tired and hungry, he had a blanket over his shoulders. Occasionally, he’d plop down on the bed and just scowl toward the window, which Glenn figured was a one-way mirror on the boy’s side.
He was a handsome kid. He looked a lot like his mother.
The man known to him as Danny—until just hours ago—had told him the boy was his son. But Glenn hadn’t believed him until he’d heard Lisa confirm it on the telephone just now. She’d also said Candy had been murdered by this man he was “working with.” Now he realized it was his niece in the photo they showed along with the driver’s license picture of a blond Lisa on the muted TV news broadcast.
Glenn had cooperated and said everything he was supposed to say to Lisa on the telephone. He hadn’t had any choice. The man hovering over him had held the cell phone by Glenn’s face and a knife at his throat. He’d been the guy’s prisoner since Wednesday night. Glenn wasn’t sure how many days had passed since then. It had seemed like an eternity.
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