Terrified (7 page)
Megan fastened the chain lock and turned the dead bolt. She wasn’t going to call Bill and Laura about what she’d discovered in the hallway outside her door. They’d eventually find it where she’d left it for them—on the table in the laundry room.
But Megan was wrong. No one would ever claim the pink scrunchie. It didn’t belong to anyone in the building. And it hadn’t landed in front of her door by accident.
It had been left there for her.
Sporting a barista’s maroon apron, the sullen, thirtyish, balding man with a goatee stood behind the counter at Café Z. Megan had gotten her coffee from him last Friday morning, and she’d asked where Jade was.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he’d grumbled. “She pulled a no-show this morning, didn’t call in sick or anything. So—what are you having?”
Here it was, Monday, and again, no Jade. Megan was second in line in front of Café Z. She gazed at the surly goateed guy working behind the counter. Had Jade pulled a no-show again? Perhaps she was convalescing after yet another beating from her boyfriend, Wes.
Megan’s turn came, and she stepped up to the counter. The barista listlessly gazed at her. She tried to smile. “A tall latte, please,” she said. She watched him start to make it. “So—is Jade out sick again?”
Working the espresso machine, he looked at her for a second. “They don’t know what happened to her,” he said. “At least, the cops haven’t figured it out. They think somebody abducted her… .”
“What?” Megan murmured. “You’re joking… .”
“It was in the newspaper on Friday or Saturday,” said the barista, talking loudly over the hiss of the espresso machine. “They’re not sure if it was a kidnapping or what. But I guess someone got into the house and nabbed her. They said there were signs of a fight.”
“What about her boyfriend, Wes?” Megan asked anxiously. With the “signs of a fight,” all she could think was that Wes had finally killed her—then hidden her body, and maybe disappeared himself. “Have they tracked him down? Have they talked to him yet?”
The barista set her latte on the counter. “He’s the one who reported it to the cops. You sound like you’re friends with the two of them.”
She shook her head. “No, I just know Jade from here.”
“That’ll be three-twenty-nine.”
Megan stared at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, of course… .” Flustered, she started digging into her purse. “Did they question him?” she asked.
The barista shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something in today’s paper. You’ll have to check for yourself.” He held out a hand for her money. “Three twenty-nine …”
The man in line behind her cleared his throat.
Megan gave the barista four dollars, and then took her latte. “Keep the change,” she said. Then she retreated toward the elevators.
In the suite of offices for Camper, George and White on the seventeenth floor, she made her way to the small kitchen/lunchroom. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jade, and wished she had a newspaper from over the weekend. The light was on in Mr. Camper’s office, and she heard him talking on the phone. He called out to her. “Megan, you’re just in time. Could I bother you for a cup of coffee? I need fuel!”
“Coming right up!” she called back, picking up the pace.
She ducked into the kitchen/lunchroom and switched on the fluorescent overhead. The small, windowless room had a microwave oven, a mini-fridge, a sink with a rack for dishes to dry, and the Mr. Coffee machine on a green Formica counter. The room seemed slightly cramped because of the cheap, brown, plastic patio table with matching chairs. The bulletin board on the wall had delivery menus from several nearby, open-late restaurants so people working overtime could order dinner. That was Megan’s doing—as was the sign that read:
PLEASE HELP KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN. THANKS
!
PLEASE HELP KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN. THANKS
!
The associates who worked overtime on the weekends didn’t pay much attention to that sign. Megan gazed at the dirty glasses and coffee cups piled up by the sink—and sections of already-read
Seattle Times
and
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
papers left on the chairs and the table.
Seattle Times
and
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
papers left on the chairs and the table.
It was in the newspaper on Friday or Saturday. They’re not sure if it was a kidnapping or what… .
Megan gulped down some of her latte and started making coffee for her coworkers. While the Mr. Coffee machine churned, she hurried over to the table, sat down, and sifted through the newspapers. She found what she was looking for in Saturday’s
Post-Intelligencer
, in the front section. The headline ran across three columns near the top of the fourth page:
Post-Intelligencer
, in the front section. The headline ran across three columns near the top of the fourth page:
Police Baffled By Disappearance
Of North Seattle Woman
Of North Seattle Woman
Signs of Violent Struggle in Home
BLOOD FOUND ON KITCHEN FLOOR
Below this headline was a slightly blurred, close-up photo of Jade. The way she smiled in the snapshot, she looked as if she was about to crack up laughing. Obviously, another person had been in the shot—with his arm around her shoulder, but he’d been cut out of the newspaper photo. Megan wondered if the severed arm belonged to Wes.
The caption said:
Police believe an intruder abducted Jade Honeycutt, 27, (above) on Thursday evening from the Crown Hill rental home she shared with her boyfriend.
Police believe an intruder abducted Jade Honeycutt, 27, (above) on Thursday evening from the Crown Hill rental home she shared with her boyfriend.
Megan heard the Mr. Coffee machine churning. She glanced back and saw the glass pot was nearly full. She turned and anxiously pored over the article. From what she could tell, Wes Coulter had returned home with a friend around seven at night to discover Jade’s car in front of the house with the trunk open—and a bag of groceries in back getting soggy from the rain. He entered the house and stumbled upon the contents of another grocery bag strewn across the kitchen floor. He found some blood there, too.
It didn’t look like Wes had done anything to her—not this time. He said he’d been with his friend all day, and the time on the grocery receipt in one of the bags showed Jade had been in the Safeway shortly before 6
PM.
PM.
The smell of brewed coffee started to fill the lunchroom. It was ready, and the boss needed fuel. Yet, Megan had to keep reading. Jade’s neighbors hadn’t seen anything unusual. No one had heard any screams.
Megan couldn’t help wondering if Jade had faked her own abduction—to avoid all the abuse she got at home. When she’d offered Jade a place to stay, had the barista already devised an escape plan for that very same evening? After all, Mrs. Lisa Swann didn’t hold a patent on creating a deception to explain a disappearance.
She wondered if Jade Honeycutt was already in a different city with a different hair color, reading about her abduction.
“Megan!” she heard Mr. Camper yell. “I could really use some coffee!”
“It’s almost ready!” she called back. But she didn’t move from the table.
Megan had heard—from an associate, one of the partners, and from Jade herself—that the two of them looked alike. Someone had even once asked Jade if they were sisters. Gazing at the newspaper picture of the pretty barista, Megan saw what they were talking about.
In fact, when she squinted at the photo, the resemblance to the long-assumed-dead Lisa Swann was uncanny.
C
HAPTER
S
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HAPTER
S
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T
he picture of Megan Keeslar holding onto her three-year-old son as he sat atop the playground slide could have been on display in a professional photographer’s studio. The happy expressions on both their faces were just perfect. The pink blossoms of a rhododendron bush behind them made the composition even more beautiful. Megan Keeslar didn’t even know the picture existed. She had no idea someone had recorded that moment with Josh in the kiddy park. That certain
someone
had taken the shot from a car across the street, using a camera with a high-powered telephoto lens.
he picture of Megan Keeslar holding onto her three-year-old son as he sat atop the playground slide could have been on display in a professional photographer’s studio. The happy expressions on both their faces were just perfect. The pink blossoms of a rhododendron bush behind them made the composition even more beautiful. Megan Keeslar didn’t even know the picture existed. She had no idea someone had recorded that moment with Josh in the kiddy park. That certain
someone
had taken the shot from a car across the street, using a camera with a high-powered telephoto lens.
He sat at his large, antique mahogany desk in front of the living room’s bay windows. Listening to some Bach from his CD collection, he sipped his merlot and studied the picture. He’d developed the photo himself—in the spacious closet under the stairs of his farmhouse. He’d converted the closet into a darkroom—one of the first changes he’d made after moving into the place.
He’d taken scores of other photographs of Megan and Josh Keeslar, and many of them now littered his desk: photos from back when she’d been pregnant and had rarely stepped outside that tiny apartment by the Monorail; shots of her with baby Josh strapped to her back, or her pushing him in a stroller; and pictures of Megan walking alone downtown. As far as he could tell, Megan had never been aware that someone was watching her and capturing all those moments.
He thought of how in some cultures, people objected to having their pictures taken, because they believed it stole a bit of their souls. If that was truly the case, Megan Keeslar had no idea he’d already stolen a huge chunk of her soul.
And he was just getting started on her.
His favorite picture was this one on the playground slide with Josh. If Megan had known about the photo, she’d probably have had it framed. He could see it on her bookshelf in the living room, where she kept that blue crystal vase and her meager video collection—mostly classics, with an emphasis on the Hepburns, Kate and Audrey. Or maybe she would have had the picture on top of her bedroom dresser, instead of the one of Josh on his first birthday. It was kind of a pitiful picture really—the baby in a high chair with a befuddled gaze at a cake and its solitary candle, no other celebrant in the shot. Obviously, there was no one else present besides his mother.
The last time the man had been in her bedroom, he’d stolen a pair of champagne-color panties from the top drawer of that dresser. He wondered if Megan missed them. Probably no more than she’d missed the handkerchief, the tube of lipstick (
Scarlet Dusk
) and the black bra he’d pinched during his many undetected break-ins over the last eighteen months.
Scarlet Dusk
) and the black bra he’d pinched during his many undetected break-ins over the last eighteen months.
The
Brandenburg Concerto No. 3
ended. He took a sip of his merlot, and then got up to change the CD.
Brandenburg Concerto No. 3
ended. He took a sip of his merlot, and then got up to change the CD.
But he heard a noise—and froze. He looked out toward the darkness on the other side of the bay windows, but he could only see his own stupefied reflection. He heard it again—a faint thumping sound. He hurried toward the front door and switched on the outside floodlights. They illuminated the front and sides of the house.
He’d planned on installing surveillance cameras outside the barn and along the quarter-mile-long driveway leading to the house. He had also thought about setting up some kind of alarm system so he’d know if someone was on the premises. But he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
He heard it again, that same thumping sound.
He gazed out the front window—and then out the bay windows again. He didn’t see anything, not even a raccoon loitering about. He hurried to the kitchen—with its peeling faded green plaid wallpaper and old Harvest Gold appliances. He glanced out the window in the back door, but didn’t see anything except the old, broken swing set and some rusted lawn furniture that had been there when he bought the place.
He heard the noise again—more distinct this time, a banging sound. It came from somewhere behind him. He swiveled around and stared at the basement door.
A tiny smile flickered across his face.
Moving to the door, he opened it and listened to the thumping din—so clear now. He switched on the light. The old, wooden staircase creaked as he walked down to the unfinished cellar. He couldn’t stop grinning. In the dank, gloomy, gray basement, he passed a large bathroom by the stairs. It had a claw-foot tub and a rack above it, which he’d installed. It hung from the ceiling and held several different saws, cleavers, and butcher knives.
But he wasn’t looking at the bathroom now. His gaze was fixed on the cinder-block wall in front of him—with the closed curtains in the middle of it. He could see a chink of light at the point at which the heavy drapes met.
The thumping sound came from the other side of those drapes. He reached behind the edge of one drape and pulled at the cord. With a whoosh, the curtains opened up, and the gloomy basement was suddenly brighter. He stared at the one-way window, which had a mirror on the reverse side of the glass.
In the brightly lit, stark room on the other side of that window, a mattress sat on the floor with a disheveled blanket half-covering it. There were some empty water bottles scattered on the bare cement floor.
And there was Jade, repeatedly banging her fist against the mirrored window. She was crying and screaming something, but he couldn’t hear what she said.
Her light brown hair was a greasy, tangled mess from having not been washed for several days. The barista from the lobby of Megan Keeslar’s office building had tears streaming down her face. She was nearly naked, wearing only a black bra and champagne-colored panties—neither of which belonged to her. The lipstick around her mouth was smudged.
Scarlet Dusk.
It looked good on Megan, but not on her. Did she know how silly she appeared—flailing around, practically naked, with her lipstick smeared like that?
She reminded him of the clown portrait in the laundry room of Megan’s apartment house.
But she no longer reminded him of Megan.
He squinted, hoping to blur his vision enough to see a resemblance. But it just wasn’t there for him anymore. With a sigh, he closed the curtains and started back toward the stairs.
He glanced at the bathroom—and the rack of cutting instruments above the claw-foot tub. Jade would be occupying that room very soon. And she wouldn’t make any more noise.
His mother used to say that as a child, he always grew bored with his Christmas toys and broke them well before New Year’s.
He’d had Jade for less than a week.
She figured Josh would be okay alone for a few minutes. He had
Sesame Street
on TV and several pop-up books to keep him out of trouble while she ran down the hall to put a load of laundry in the wash.
Another exciting Saturday night in the life of swinging single mom Megan Keeslar
, she thought, hurrying through the basement corridor with the basket of dirty clothes and a jug of Tide.
Sesame Street
on TV and several pop-up books to keep him out of trouble while she ran down the hall to put a load of laundry in the wash.
Another exciting Saturday night in the life of swinging single mom Megan Keeslar
, she thought, hurrying through the basement corridor with the basket of dirty clothes and a jug of Tide.
She’d left her door open, and could hear murmuring from the television as she stepped into the laundry room. She switched on the overhead light with her elbow, and then set the basket on top of the washer. While loading it, she glanced back at the lost scrunchie she’d left on the table last week. No one had claimed it yet.
The portrait of the Bozo clown with his maniacal, painted grin stared down at her as she went back to loading the washer. She’d rented
My Fair Lady
this afternoon. If she was lucky, Josh would fall asleep early, and she’d put in the movie, pop some popcorn, and stay awake long enough to enjoy the first half—at least.
My Fair Lady
this afternoon. If she was lucky, Josh would fall asleep early, and she’d put in the movie, pop some popcorn, and stay awake long enough to enjoy the first half—at least.
She’d been a bit disappointed taking Josh to the park today, because Kate hadn’t been there. Kate’s daughter, Caroline, was the same age as Josh. Kate had become her park-bench pal while watching their kids play together. Megan always looked forward to the two hours of adult company during her weekends with just Josh and no one else. Two weeks ago, Kate had invited her and Josh to dinner at her home. She’d admitted it would be a fix-up—with her husband’s older brother, who was also coming to the dinner. Megan politely declined. She wasn’t ready to get close to anyone. Even with Kate, whom she really liked, she needed to keep the friendship in check, restricted to that park bench.
It was the same way with her work friends. None of them had been to her house. She’d taken Josh to the firm picnic last year. Otherwise, she hadn’t socialized with her coworkers outside the office. That included the handsome, divorced, prematurely silver-haired new associate, Tim Curtis. Since he’d joined the firm four months ago, Megan had found herself thinking about him a lot. There were times when she just wanted to be near a man—any man. She wanted to feel a man’s arms around her. Tim had given a face to those fantasies. She’d spend nights and weekends analyzing to death every little conversation they’d had in the office, every smile he’d given her, and every single glance.
Last month, he’d asked her out to dinner. “You mean, like on a date?” she’d asked stupidly.
“Yes, like a date,” Tim had replied, with a crooked smile. “You know, outside the office? I think you’re very nice, and I want to get to know you better. You certainly had to pick up on the fact that I have a little crush on you… .”
In a weird, self-destructive panic, Megan had heard herself responding with a lame excuse about how hard it was to find a sitter, and how she needed to spend her precious free time with her little boy. And all the while, she’d seen the disappointment on Tim’s handsome face. She’d wanted to kick herself. Yet she’d thought about everything that came with what he’d just said:
I want to get to know you better.
I want to get to know you better.
She couldn’t risk that. Would he understand what she’d done to survive her last relationship? How could she take him into her life and not be honest with him? Beyond that, she was scared to get involved with anyone again. Tim seemed incredibly considerate and sweet—on top of all his other attributes. But she didn’t trust her taste in men.
Yesterday, his new girlfriend, Adele, who was cute and nice, had come to the office to meet him for a dinner out. They seemed positively smitten.
Pouring some Tide into the washer’s detergent receptacle, she set three quarters in the slots, pushed them in, and listened to the washer hum. It drowned out the sound of the TV from her living room. She left the basket on the floor, and carried the jug of Tide toward the doorway. With one last look at the lost scrunchie on the folding table, she started down the hall. She didn’t hear Bert and Ernie or Cookie Monster. She didn’t hear the TV at all.
Megan hurried toward the apartment. At her doorway, she saw the flickering TV screen and the channels changing. Josh was playing with the remote control.
Megan rolled her eyes and set down the container of Tide. “Just like a man, you need to have the remote,” she muttered. She went to grab it out of his hand.
But he must have hit the volume button, because suddenly a female newscaster’s voice was blaring:
“… follows yesterday’s discovery of a severed arm and leg in a garbage bag in the Arboretum …”
“… follows yesterday’s discovery of a severed arm and leg in a garbage bag in the Arboretum …”
Josh managed to change the channel just before she swiped the remote out of his little hand. He let out a shriek of protest, but it barely registered with Megan. She was trying to comprehend what that newscaster had just said. Turning toward the TV set, she frantically hunted for the channel Josh had inadvertently switched on. That news story and the few words she’d heard from the anchorwoman had stopped her heart.
She found the station—and the pretty, thirty-something Asian anchor sitting at her news desk. She had bangs and was wearing a silky-looking navy-blue blouse. On a screen behind her was a photo of Jade, the same one the newspaper had used—the one with her looking as if she were about to laugh.
“The victim has been identified as twenty-seven-year-old, Jade Honeycutt, of North Seattle, who has been missing since last Thursday,”
the newscaster said.
“Police believe someone may have followed her home from the supermarket, broken into the house, and abducted her.”
the newscaster said.
“Police believe someone may have followed her home from the supermarket, broken into the house, and abducted her.”
For a moment, Megan couldn’t breathe. She stepped back and blindly reached for the sofa, then plopped down on the cushion. Josh started whining, and she shushed him.
On TV they showed the start of a nature trail—with yellow police tape draped like bunting on the bushes and trees. A few people hovered around the scene, but Seattle’s finest had cordoned them off.
“Two joggers on a path through these woods in Seward Park this morning found the garbage bag containing Honeycutt’s head and a section of her torso,”
the anchorwoman said in a grim voiceover.
“With yesterday’s discovery of severed limbs in a trash bag in the Arboretum, the police are bracing themselves for more… .”
“Two joggers on a path through these woods in Seward Park this morning found the garbage bag containing Honeycutt’s head and a section of her torso,”
the anchorwoman said in a grim voiceover.
“With yesterday’s discovery of severed limbs in a trash bag in the Arboretum, the police are bracing themselves for more… .”
The picture switched to a stocky, ruggedly handsome policeman in his mid-forties. Someone held a mike in front of his face. A caption along the bottom of the screen said:
Seattle Police Sergeant Leroy Kenner.
The cop took off his police hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“In my seventeen years on the force investigating homicides, I’ve never seen anything quite like this. And I hope I never will again.”
Then Sergeant Kenner turned away from the handheld microphone.
Seattle Police Sergeant Leroy Kenner.
The cop took off his police hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“In my seventeen years on the force investigating homicides, I’ve never seen anything quite like this. And I hope I never will again.”
Then Sergeant Kenner turned away from the handheld microphone.
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