Terrified (48 page)
Lyle unplugged the vacuum cleaner. As he got Lisa’s room ready for her, he couldn’t help feeling like that keyed-up teenager from all those years ago. He and Lisa were about to start on a new path together. At last, she would belong to him. There would be no one else, just him.
Lyle was finally getting his wish.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
T
he first beep was so muted he barely noticed it. He just heard it in the background somewhere. But the beep tones were getting closer together now, like a Geiger counter homing in on an object. Dan guessed the beeps were about ten seconds apart.
he first beep was so muted he barely noticed it. He just heard it in the background somewhere. But the beep tones were getting closer together now, like a Geiger counter homing in on an object. Dan guessed the beeps were about ten seconds apart.
It was just incessant enough to pull him out of his thick, paralyzing slumber. He couldn’t move—or breathe right. Dan opened his eyes, but there was just blackness. He couldn’t feel his arms. It took him a moment to realize his hands were behind him, taped together at the wrists. His ankles were bound as well. He couldn’t get a decent breath, because someone had slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth. An itchy, heavy wool blanket covered him, and the floor beneath him was hard.
The beeps came at shorter intervals now. Dan wondered what he was getting closer to—or what was coming closer to him. The sound didn’t exactly soothe his throbbing head. The pain just above his right temple was so bad, it made him nauseous. He was afraid he might throw up and choke to death.
Squirming and shifting around, Dan managed to shake off the blanket. He was wedged between a collapsed tent and big tackle box in the back of an SUV. Was it the same silver SUV he’d been chasing earlier?
Now he remembered the guy attacking him at the side of the road. He wondered how far away he was from that spot—and how much time had passed.
He tried to sit up, and it only made his head feel worse. The beeping noise came from something on the dashboard or in the front seat. Out one window, Dan saw a big elm tree, and beyond that, a slightly decrepit barn. Out the other window, he had a view into the kitchen of an old, ramshackle house. A frilly curtain framed the window, and he saw the top part of a tan refrigerator against a wall with faded plaid wallpaper. He didn’t notice anyone in there, no shadows moving, no sign of life.
He’d told Megan that Josh might be holed up in one of the farmhouses in the rural area near Maple Valley. Was Megan’s son here?
Dan looked at the back of the tackle box, and wondered if there was something inside it he might use to cut the tape around his wrists. He scooted up and hovered over the box so he could see the latch in front. But there was a padlock on it.
He didn’t see any sharp corners or protruding screws in the poles for the collapsed tent. Nor was there a glass bottle he could break to tear at the tape. If only he could find something jagged or pointed, he might be able to free himself.
Writhing toward the front seat, Dan scraped his hand against the rough carpet lining of the car. That was all it took to reopen the knife wound from earlier. He was bleeding again.
He listened to that strange constant beeping sound. The intervals were even shorter—only four or five seconds apart.
It seemed like a signal that his time was running out.
PRIVATE ROAD
NO
TRESPASSING
NO
TRESPASSING
Megan noticed the sign by the mailbox as she turned into the long, unlit driveway. She could make out some lights in the modest farmhouse way down at the other end. Barely pressing the accelerator, she steered the car over the pothole-ridden gravel lane. A dog started barking.
The last farm she’d tried—also her first—had had a dog, too. She hadn’t even stepped out of the car when she’d heard someone screaming at her over the dog’s incessant yelping: “You just turn around right now! This ain’t no meth farm!”
Megan had glanced over toward the house and spotted the man’s tall silhouette on the other side of the screen door. She’d rolled down her window. “I’m sorry to bother you!” she’d called to him. “A friend of mine, his car broke down—”
“Get off my property, goddamn it!” he’d bellowed. “I’ve got you in my crosshairs, and I swear to God, I’m going to shoot you dead if you don’t leave right now!” Megan had been so rattled that she hadn’t even thought to use the turnaround. Instead, she’d hastily shifted into reverse and backed up the driveway as fast as she could. The car engine had squealed the whole time.
So the sound of a dog barking again filled her with trepidation. She was still unnerved by that last episode. As she got closer to the house, at least two or three more canines joined in the chorus of angry growls and yelps. The outside light went on over the front door of the rambler-style farmhouse. Megan saw three restless dogs corralled behind a wire fence bordering the yard. But a German shepherd and a black Labrador retriever were loose. With their teeth bared, both animals sprinted toward the car and lunged at her window, scraping at the glass with their claws.
Megan recoiled. She tapped the horn, hoping it might scare them away. Beyond their loud, savage barking, she heard someone call out:
“Doris … Daisy … take it easy, girls! Everybody settle down… .”
“Doris … Daisy … take it easy, girls! Everybody settle down… .”
Both dogs let out a final bark and then withdrew, but their spittle still slithered down the car window. The agitated canines behind the fence were still growling and snapping in her general direction. Megan caught her breath and watched the Lab and German shepherd head toward the door. A lean, thirty-something man with a modified mullet stood in the doorway with a rifle. His shirt was open and his jeans were unfastened in the front. He shielded his eyes from her headlights. “State your business!” he called with his rifle ready.
Megan switched to the parking lights, and rolled down the window. “I’m sorry to bother you so late!” she called in a shaky voice. “A friend of mine phoned me and said his car broke down not far from here. I’ve tried calling back, and he doesn’t answer. I’m worried about him. His car’s still on the side of the road, but he’s gone. Did anyone stop by here?”
The man shook his head. The two dogs impatiently paced around him. The Lab let out a bark. “Settle down, Doris,” he said, strolling up to the car. He had a thin, handsome face and some whisker stubble. Resting the rifle on his shoulder, he leaned against the car’s hood and gave her a sleepy grin. “The girls are a little nervous,” he explained, buttoning up the front of his jeans. “There were some gunshots around here earlier tonight.”
Megan just nodded. She told herself not to panic. Dan had said the man in the SUV had shot at him.
“Anyway, nobody stopped by here,” the farmer told her. “But then, I was out until about eight. I might have missed your friend. Did you try next door?”
Megan nodded again. “Your neighbor chased me away with a gun. I think he mistook me for a meth user or something.”
The farmer laughed. “That’s Ned, he’s crazy. No, I’m talking about the next farm down on the other side, about a half mile from here. A guy named Lyle Cassidy owns the place.”
Megan’s heart stopped. She stared at him. “Does he—does he drive a silver SUV?”
The farmer nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. Did you swing by there already?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Listen, can I turn around here?”
“Yeah, I’ll keep the dogs out of your way.” He whistled, and the Lab and German shepherd came to hover around his feet.
Megan turned the car around, and poked her head out the window. “You said the farm is just a half mile down the road?”
Nodding, he approached the car again. “Yeah, take a right out of my driveway, then look for a tall pole with a rooster weather vane at the start of a gravel road. That’s him.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
“Say, if you didn’t go by his place earlier, how do you know he tools around in that silver gas-guzzler? Are you a friend of his?”
Megan shook her head. “No, but he has something that belongs to me. Thanks again.”
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and headed up the driveway.
He gazed at the grainy, green-tinted image on the TV. All was quiet outside, where the SUV was parked. He’d gone upstairs and gotten some fresh sheets and a new pillow for the bed about fifteen minutes ago. Monica had almost finished packing all her crap. It would save him a lot of time, cleaning up after her.
He’d changed into an expensive gray sweater with white and blue fleurs-de-lis on it. That way, she’d think they were really going out later.
Now he was back in the basement, getting Lisa’s bed ready for her. The spread was in the dryer. It was just too bad he didn’t have a mint for her pillow.
It might have been a nice reminder of the last time she’d really travelled—fifteen years ago. But then, the places she’d stayed at weren’t exactly mint-on-the-pillow type of hotels.
He remembered waiting for her in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express outside Clinton, Iowa. It had taken her twenty minutes to walk from the bridge, where she’d created her suicide scene. As he ate his Boston Market macaroni and cheese in the Corolla, he watched the raven-wigged Lisa trudge across the parking lot. She used a side entrance into the hotel.
Still wearing the wig, she emerged from the hotel’s front door after a half hour. He guessed she’d either taken a shower or a very quick nap. She climbed into her new used Celebrity, and they were on the road again. That night, they drove two hours north to Waterloo, where Lisa checked into a dive called the Three Bears Inn—with a slogan under the tacky illuminated sign in front:
This One’s Just Right—Sleep Tight!
Travis dozed off and on in his car, parked across from the hotel.
This One’s Just Right—Sleep Tight!
Travis dozed off and on in his car, parked across from the hotel.
Thursday, she put in nearly twelve hours of driving time to Rapid City. After she checked into a Best Western, Travis went to a used car dealer and traded in his Corolla for a white Ford Taurus. The dealer kind of ripped him off, but Travis wanted a less conspicuous car for trailing Lisa.
It ran fine the following day, thirteen hours to Missoula, Montana.
Lisa arrived in Seattle on Friday night. She stayed at the Best Western Loyal Inn, near the Space Needle. By Saturday, she’d ditched the wig and dyed her hair blond. He followed her to Pike Place Market that afternoon. She bought a
Chicago Tribune
and a
Seattle Times
at the magazine stand. He imagined she was looking for news on Lisa Swann’s suicide in the
Tribune
—and in the Seattle paper, cheap apartments for rent.
Chicago Tribune
and a
Seattle Times
at the magazine stand. He imagined she was looking for news on Lisa Swann’s suicide in the
Tribune
—and in the Seattle paper, cheap apartments for rent.
She didn’t waste any time. By Monday, she’d moved into an apartment in a rather nondescript building near the Monorail. Travis snuck into the lobby on Tuesday morning and saw the new name on the mailboxes: M. Keeslar—4-C. He recognized her handwriting.
It had taken him 2,068 miles and six near-sleepless nights, but Travis had loved every mile and every minute of it, because he’d shared it with her. Moreover, he was the only one who knew Lisa’s new name and address.
By the time he flew back to Chicago on Tuesday night, the local newspapers were reporting a new wrinkle in the case of Lisa’s disappearance. One police detective in Iowa had commented that the suicide scene seemed “staged.” That was when Travis got the idea to kill Willow. He’d often asked her about her relationship with Glenn. She mentioned that Glenn joked about her and his wife’s Type O-Positive personalities. Travis had no idea what the hell that meant, but the comment had always stuck with him. Willow and Lisa had the same coloring, size, blood type—and the exact same burn marks. If there was no head and no fingerprints, would anyone be able to tell the difference between them?
He showed up unexpectedly at Willow’s apartment door early that Thursday night. He’d brought with him a bottle of champagne and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s strawberry. He’d left the saws and knifes in a bag inside his rented van.
After strangling her, he chopped the body up in the tub and let it drain.
None of her neighbors saw him taking the garbage bags down the stairwell from her apartment on the third floor. He did it in four trips—between 2 and 3
AM
. By dawn, he’d distributed the bags at various locations in the North Shore suburbs—some better hidden than others. He kept the head for a couple of days—until he found a good spot, where it might not be discovered for years and years.
AM
. By dawn, he’d distributed the bags at various locations in the North Shore suburbs—some better hidden than others. He kept the head for a couple of days—until he found a good spot, where it might not be discovered for years and years.
On Monday morning, he planted some bloodied garbage bag scraps in the trunk of Swann’s BMW, parked in the hospital’s underground garage. He didn’t even have to open the trunk. All it took was some damp scraps from the tainted garbage bag and a dust blaster, the kind people used on computer keyboards. Lined up correctly, a few of the pieces stuck to the rubber lip inside the trunk’s hood. The cops would think he’d carefully cleaned the trunk—only he’d missed those spots.
It was Travis’s final
screw you
to the man who had killed his sister.
screw you
to the man who had killed his sister.
He was quite proud of himself. As they found the garbage bags of severed body parts over the next two weeks, one of the cops said the cuts showed the skill of a surgeon.
Travis made three trips back and forth to Seattle during that time. He always stayed at the same hotel—just across the Monorail from Lisa’s apartment building.
When the trial started, a few of Glenn’s old girlfriends testified about his abusive behavior. Willow Dwyer was never mentioned. There hadn’t been anything about her in the newspapers except a brief blurb when she was reported missing a week after Travis had killed her. It made Travis sad that Cassie didn’t rate a mention in all the proceedings. And his sister had suffered from Glenn’s cruelty far more than any of those bimbos at the trial. Still, it was just as well, the prosecution didn’t shed any light on Cassie’s situation. They might have asked her kid brother to testify. And the less involved he was in Glenn’s trial, the better for him.
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