Terrified (45 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: Terrified
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Megan clicked on the link, and the article came up. She stared at the headline again—along with the subheads:
NEWLYWEDS PERISH IN SAILING ACCIDENT
 
TRAGEDY ON LAKE MICHIGAN
 
Young Couple Drowns as
Pleasure Cruise Turns Deadly
There was a photo of Travis with his bride, a mousy-looking blonde, taken at a marina. The caption said it was the Chicago Yacht Club. Megan had forgotten how handsome Travis had been. Even though he was smiling in the photo, he still had that edgy, sulky James Dean look to him. She wondered how he would have aged had he lived. Would he have been as handsome as he was back then? The girl appeared so young and naive. They were just kids. As the headlines said, it was a tragedy.
“He’s dead,” Megan muttered to herself.
All her brilliant lightbulb-over-the-head notions about Travis masterminding some revenge on her and Glenn were just so much drivel. The poor kid had died. “He drowned,” Megan said out loud.
With the mouse, she moved the arrow to the X to close the window. But she hesitated, and stared at the picture of Travis and his wife. She wondered if they had ever found his body.
Leaning close to the monitor, Megan anxiously scanned the article. The young couple had loved sailing. Their Catalina cruiser had been named
Cassidy II
. The capsized boat had been located by the Coast Guard in Lake Michigan—seventeen miles offshore. Rescuers had recovered Selena’s corpse, but after an exhaustive, forty-eight-hour search, they still hadn’t found Travis.
Back when Lisa Swann had disappeared, they’d never found her body, either.
“My God,” Megan whispered to herself. “He drowned, all right—just like you.”
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT
I
n the last fifteen minutes, only two cars had passed Josh on the dark, lonely highway. He’d tried to wave them down with the flashlight, and even tossed the poker to the roadside as soon as he’d spotted their headlights. But apparently, he’d looked crazy enough
unarmed
that both vehicles had swerved into the far lane and sped up to avoid him. They’d probably wondered what the hell this desperate-looking kid was doing in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night in his stocking feet and an ugly sweater about two sizes too big for him.
Trying not to cry was what he was doing. He felt so doomed. Even though he’d managed to break out of that awful basement cell, he was still lost and alone. And for all he knew, the guy who had been holding him prisoner could be driving the next car that came along.
He was surrounded by trees and darkness. The last streetlight he’d seen had been about ten minutes ago. It had been like an oasis, and the last sign of civilization. He prayed for another light—or a road sign telling him where the hell he was.
He’d walked past a few gravel turnoffs that broke through the trees. He knew they probably led to other isolated houses or farms like the one he’d just escaped from. He’d looked for lights at the ends of those tiny roads and hadn’t seen anything. So he’d moved on.
His feet were wet and freezing, and they hurt. Already his socks had holes in the heels. He’d tried to stay on the pavement, but there were still rocks and pebbles in his path he didn’t always see—even with the flashlight. Plus both times when he’d gone hunting to retrieve the forsaken poker, he’d had to walk across the damp ground and gravel. He should have grabbed some backup socks from Mr. Petite Feet’s drawer—even if they were a little too small.
Josh tried not to think about his mom, because that really started him bawling like a baby. He had an awful, nagging feeling she was dead. And if she was still alive, something had still died. Everything he’d thought he knew about his mom had been a lie. Yet, right now, he couldn’t be mad at her. He was too damn worried he’d never see her again.
Every once in a while, he heard a rustling in the trees, and he knew it was some forest creature. They were probably harmless. But he couldn’t help shuddering at the sounds they made, scurrying amid the bushes and trees.
The road must have straightened ahead, because he could see a flat little break between the silhouettes of trees on the horizon. He noticed a muted glow along that flat line in the distance. He wondered if it was a car approaching. Josh kept walking, and he watched the light grow brighter. He set the poker down on the side of the road. This time he wasn’t going to hunt through any bushes retrieving it. And maybe this time, he wouldn’t have to. Maybe this time, he’d actually get a lift.
He saw the twin headlights now, coming toward him. It was still too far away for him to tell what kind of car it was. Was it too much to hope that it was a cop car? Josh started waving the flashlight over his head.
The headlights were getting closer. He made out the SUV approaching him. “Help me!” Josh screamed. He shined the light on himself and waved—so the driver could get a good look at him. “Please, stop! Help me, I’m lost!”
The SUV’s high beams went on, blinding him. Josh kept signaling. “I’m stranded here! Call the police!”
He heard the car’s engine kick into overdrive as it sped up and swerved into the other lane to avoid him.
“Jesus, no, please, stop!” Josh cried. But the SUV raced by. Josh swiveled around and kept trying to flag it down. He saw the car’s brake lights go on. It was a beautiful sight. The silver SUV slowed down to a stop, and Josh ran toward it.
A man stuck his head out the driver’s window. “Hey, kid, are you okay?”
“Thank you!” Josh gasped, out of breath as he staggered toward the man. “Thank you so much. If you could just take me to a phone, I need to get ahold of the police… .”
The man was in his late thirties with wavy dark hair, and a heavy five o’clock shadow. He nodded. “I can do that. C’mon, hop in.”
Josh hurried around the front of the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat. It smelled a little like stale cigarettes, and there was camping equipment and something bundled up under a blanket in the back. “Buckle up,” the man advised him.
Nodding, Josh obeyed. His heart was racing, and he tried to catch his breath. “Where are we anyway? Do you know?”
“We’re just outside Maple Valley,” the man said. The breeze through the open window mussed his hair. He shot Josh a concerned look. “What happened to you? You look pretty shook up… .”
“Yeah, I am,” Josh said. “We need to call the police. They’re probably looking for me. Some crazy guy and his girlfriend were holding me hostage in a farmhouse about two miles up the road from here. I managed to get out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t trying to hunt me down right now… .”
“Did you get an address or their names, something we can tell the police?” the man asked. Driving one-handed, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a cell phone.
“No, but there’s a tall pole at the end of the driveway with one of those weather vane things. It’s of a chicken or a rooster, you’ll see. We’ll be passing the place in about two or three minutes.” He sighed and sat back, exhausted. “I never got a look at the guy, but I saw the girlfriend. I think I’ve met her before—somewhere. She was really familiar… .”
With his thumb, the man pressed some digits on his cell. “What’s your name?”
“Josh Keeslar,” he answered, glancing out the rear window to see if there were any cars pursuing them. That brunette woman had phoned someone at least twenty minutes ago. Josh didn’t see anything in back of them, just blackness. But whatever was beneath the blanket seemed to shift for a second. Or maybe it was just a bump in the road.
“Keeslar,” the man repeated. “Talk about familiar. Where have I heard that name recently? Are you—” he hesitated, and then spoke into the phone. “Yes, hello, I’m in a car here, southbound, just outside Maple Valley, rural route three, milepost seven, and I’ve picked up a young passenger—” he hesitated again. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, my name’s Lyle Cassidy. And the young man who flagged me down on the roadside, he said you might be looking for him. His name is …” He glanced at Josh, his eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry, I know you just told me… .”
“Keeslar, Josh Keeslar,” he said, finally starting to breathe right.
The man repeated it in the phone. Josh glanced down at the console between them. From the dashboard light, he could see some of the CDs the guy had:
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Boston Pops Perform Handel, Best of Bach
, and
Connoisseur’s Concertos: Baroque Favorites
, among others. Obviously, he was a fan of Baroque music.
“Beg your pardon?” the man asked with the phone to his ear. “No, he says someone was holding him hostage in one of the houses just down the road from here. He managed to escape… .”
Josh wondered why the guy didn’t just hand him the phone and let him tell the police himself. He glanced at the CDs again, and frowned. In the cupholder, there was a set of keys.
Talk about familiar.
The key chain had a little pocketknife on it.
It had been a gift to him from their old neighbor, Mr. Preebe.
Suddenly, John couldn’t get his breath again.
They must have emptied his pockets after they’d first taken him. They’d probably done it while he was still lying unconscious in the back of their car. He glanced over his shoulder at the blanket covering something in the back.
“You said it was a man and a woman holding you prisoner?” the guy was asking him.
Josh just nodded. Now he remembered where he’d seen that brunette woman before. About two weeks ago, she’d been in the teacher’s parking lot at school. She’d asked him to help her with something in her SUV. It was a silver SUV.
“Just a second, I’ll ask him,” the man said into the cell. He took his eyes off the road to glance at Josh. “Is your mother Megan Keeslar?”
Josh nodded again.
He listened carefully to the murmuring on the other end of the man’s cell phone, and he could hear a recorded voice repeating:
“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again …”
He wished like hell he still had the poker. He subtly reached for the seat belt buckle release.
The man kept talking on the phone like he was having a conversation with somebody. “Yes, he’s about five-ten, one hundred and fifty pounds, a nice-looking kid… .” He grinned at Josh. “Except my sweater doesn’t look so good on him… .”
With his fist clenched, Josh suddenly swung his arm at the man’s face. The phone flew out of the man’s hand and the car swerved. Josh merely grazed him along the side of his head. He heard the man curse over the sound of squealing tires. Everything in the car seemed to shift around as the SUV careened toward the trees. Rocks and pebbles ricocheted against the underside of the vehicle. Josh thought they might tip over. He groped for the door handle and tugged at it. But the door wouldn’t open.
The SUV screeched to a halt. Josh felt the man grab him by the hair and yank his head back. He struggled, but the man hit him in the face.
Stunned, Josh fell against the door. For a moment, he couldn’t move.
The man reached for something between the driver’s seat and the door. It looked like a small Tupperware container. “I’m not going to kill you, Josh, not yet,” the man said, breathing hard. He took in one last gasp of breath as he pulled a piece of cloth out of the container.
Josh tried to fight him off. But all at once, the man had the cloth over his mouth and nose. Pinned against the car door, Josh tried not to breathe in. He kept struggling. His arms flailed until the life went out of them, and he felt himself passing out.
“Don’t worry, Josh,” he heard the man whisper. “I still need you alive—at least until I have your mother.”
 
 
“I’m really worried now that you didn’t pick up,” Megan said into the phone. She’d just gotten Dan’s voice mail. He’d said he would be back in forty-five minutes—and that had been over an hour ago. Dan would have called her if he was delayed in traffic or anything like that.
“I’m here at your place—obviously,” she continued, gazing out the window at the water and the lights on the Montlake Bridge. “Please call me as soon as you get this. I need to make sure you’re okay. I think I’ve figured out who’s behind all this. Anyway, Dan, call me, okay?”
With a nervous sigh, she clicked off.
She’d lost track of the time talking with Willow’s friend—and then looking up everything she could about the “drowning” of Travis McClaren. They’d never found his body. And according to another article she’d found, though Travis had inherited $4.8 million, only $2.2 million had remained when he’d died. Melissa had said he’d lost a lot on “splurge-spending” and “bad investments.” Or had Travis been stockpiling it all along—so he’d have money to live on after he disappeared?
Lisa Swann had done the same thing on a much smaller scale, taking two to three hundred dollars out of Dr. and Mrs. Swann’s joint account and stashing it away every week.
Megan had a feeling Travis had been watching her long before she’d faked her death. Obviously, he’d followed her out here to Seattle fifteen years ago. How he kept track of her was a total mystery. During those months while she’d been pregnant—and least likely to go anywhere—Travis must have traveled back and forth to Chicago quite a lot—enough to get engaged and married to that poor girl. Had he been planning his bride’s demise and his disappearance all that time? Or had he been making an effort to move on with his life? Whatever his motives, at some point he’d decided to go back to Seattle as someone else.
He’d seen how she’d done it. So after the
Cassidy II
had capsized, he must have copied her every move—permanently severing all old ties and starting a new life with a new identity in the Emerald City.
She’d started out here lonely and scared, and not knowing a soul. But he’d known her. He’d also had a lot more money than her. He’d probably never had to get a job. Megan imagined watching her had become his full-time occupation.
But for fifteen years? It didn’t make sense. Wouldn’t he have gotten tired and frustrated?
Maybe that was why he’d killed those women who looked like her—and then cut them up. He was tired and frustrated. So he found those substitutes. It made sense in a twisted, warped kind of way.
Had he murdered Willow for the same reason? Was she just a substitute, a stand-in? At some point, he must have planned it out so he could frame Glenn for Willow’s death. But Megan couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. And she still wasn’t sure if Glenn or Travis had burned Willow’s torso that way.
She stared out at the boats just across the pier. She’d figured out what
Cassidy II
meant. Cassie McClaren’s formal name had been Cassidy. That was how it was listed in her
Chicago Tribune
obituary, which Megan had looked up just a few minutes ago. Her brother Travis had been the only listed survivor.

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