Unseen (16 page)

“Role playing,” Barb said.

“The two of them pass out on the bed, but when he wakes up he’s on the floor with a killer headache and a goose-egg on the side of his head the size of a baseball. She’s lying on the bed naked. Dead. Burned with a cigarette.”

Barb said, “Like Inga Selbourne.”

“A serial killer over several counties. The feds’ll get involved,” Nunce said.

“We’re not just giving up on this,” Will said.

“Hell, no,” Barb said. “Let’s check the pictures.” She hooked a thumb back to the main room. “Probably on Will’s computer by now.”

They all walked together toward Will’s desk and he accessed the photos Clatsop County had e-mailed him. Jamie Markum’s body had been photographed, the lens close to sections of skin. There was a cluster of burn marks just below the belly button.

“Just like Selbourne,” Nunce observed.

“So, it is a serial murderer,” Burl said, sounding oddly pleased.

“And rapist,” Barb said coldly.

“More cigarette burns,” Will said. “Inga had two. This looks like three.”

Nunce frowned. “What’s the significance?”

Will shrugged. “Third kill?”

“If so, that means we’ve missed one,” Barb said.

“Well, he killed in Laurelton. Which is Washington County. Left the body in Winslow.”

“Because he was trying to burn it, and chose the airstrip,” Barb said.

Will nodded. “Now, he’s in Clatsop, Seaside. Maybe there’s another one in another county?”

“Different MO. He didn’t take this body and try to burn it,” Nunce observed.

“He accessed through the window.” Will punched a few buttons and called up pictures of the crime scene. “The front of the building is open to view but the bedroom window is on the side. Maybe it was just too difficult to haul out a dead body.”

“Then why’d he choose her?” Nunce posed.

“Why did he choose either one of them?” Will responded. “There’s gotta be some reason. Maybe the length of their hair. Who knows.”

“Jamie’s hair was cut short. Kinda boyish, actually.” Barb flicked back to the pictures of her body. “See.”

“Maybe he likes boys,” Burl leered.

“Then he’d probably be targeting them instead of girls.” Will’s patience was razor thin.

“Send out this information with Selbourne’s and see if there’s another death that could be related,” Nunce said, turning away.

“You want to take that, Burl?” Will asked. “You can use my desk, computer, phone…have at it.”

But Burl hurriedly followed after Nunce. Real work was anathema.

“Jackass,” Barb said. “Why in God’s name does the sheriff put up with him?”

Will shrugged. Nunce was heading for retirement and Jernstadt, pain in the butt that he was, enjoyed holding a fishing rod. Any one of them in the sheriff’s office could kick up a fuss about Burl’s involvement, but nobody was inclined to do it.

As soon as Charlotte got out of English class she made a beeline for the outside door. She almost ran into Robbie Bereth, who was sporting a big black eye and also trying to leave school early, as he was unlocking his bike and gazing around cautiously to see if anyone was looking.

Charlotte was the only one around. She stared at his black eye and said, “I thought your dad was gone.”

“Nope,” he bit out.

“You get in the way again? I thought he just hit your mom,” she said, which earned her a really mean look from Robbie as he jumped on his bike and tore away. Charlotte was envious. He could up and leave
and
on a bike, while she had to walk.

She stomped down the road, kicking up dirt on the side of the asphalt every couple of steps. She would walk right by the Bereth house and she had a vague idea about heading up toward the door and telling off old man Bereth, though she wasn’t sure exactly what he looked like. There were a bunch of the logging-truck dads around Quarry, and Charlotte hadn’t paid much attention to just who belonged to who. Her own dad was a mystery and her mom always groaned when Charlotte asked about him. “He just drank every dime, hon,” she said as the answer to everything. “He did one good thing in his life. He gave you to me.”

Almost to the Bereth property, Charlotte saw Gemma drive by in her dad’s truck. She raised a hand, her heart leaping as she saw she might get a ride. But Gemma just waved and kept right on going. Charlotte looked back and Gemma did, too, but the truck never turned around.

It was enough to nearly send Charlotte into tears, which shocked her to the soles of her feet. She never cried. Never. That was for babies! But sometimes it seemed like she didn’t have a friend in the world and that’s how it felt when Gemma just drove on by. She could feel her eyeballs burn and with all her strength she set her jaw and headed up the driveway toward the Bereth house. Robbie’s bike was tossed on its side, which pissed Charlotte off. She would never treat her bike that way.

She headed up the rickety front-porch stairs, her steps slowing as she neared the top. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to approach Robbie’s dad all by herself. She was only a girl. One tough, super-bad girl, sure. But…

Robbie suddenly burst through the door, nearly barreling Charlotte over. He stopped short in dismay. “What’re you doin’ here?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. I thought we could maybe play, or something.”

“With a girl?” he sneered.

She felt like popping Robbie one herself. “Afraid your dad’ll see you with a girl?” she sneered right back.

“My dad’s at work. You’d know that, if you had a dad.”

As soon as the words were out, Robbie looked like he knew he’d gone too far. Charlotte turned around and stomped back down the stairs. She didn’t know exactly why she did it. Mainly because he’d really
pissed her off
. But she grabbed up his bike and jumped on it as he screeched and screamed behind her. He lunged for the back of her but she was gone, riding like the wind.

The phone was ringing somewhere far, far away. Gemma swam upward out of sleep, but it was a long way to the surface. It took another few rings before she even recognized that it was her telephone.

She was lying on the living room couch, just where she’d plopped herself after returning from work. But now it was early evening.

And she was completely naked.

Covering herself with her hands, she searched for her clothes. She found her yellow uniform in the hamper in the laundry room. She looked out the back door and saw the truck, parked in its same spot.

Hurriedly Gemma headed up to her bedroom, grabbed some underclothes and slipped into a pair of jeans and a blue denim shirt. She buttoned it up the front and rolled up the sleeves. She grabbed a pair of socks and her sneakers and was sitting on the bottom step, putting them on, when the phone began ringing again.

How many times had it rung before?

Who was calling her?

Dropping her shoes, she lunged for the kitchen phone, hoping to catch it before it went to voice mail. “Hello?” she said a bit breathlessly. “Hello?”

“Is Mizz Gemma LaPorte there?” a gravelly male voice asked.

“Speaking,” she responded cautiously.

“Ma’am, you don’t know me, but your car’s here, on my property?”

Gemma’s eyes opened wide. “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry, who are you?”

There was a strained pause. “My name’s Patrick Johnson. People call me Johnny. I have a farm off Highway 26, past Woodbine, close to Elsie. You ran your car into a ditch near here. You remember?”

Gemma’s hand felt sweaty on the receiver. “Umm…I’m sorry. I don’t remember much. Do you know where my car is now?”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s still here.”

“In the ditch?”

“No, ma’am. We winched it to the truck and dragged it to our barn.”

“Did you drive me to the hospital?”

“Yessum.”

“Thank you,” Gemma said, hardly knowing how to react. “You saw the accident?”

“No, ma’am. We found you and took care of things.”

“Do you mean you and your wife?”

He hesitated. She had the feeling he was holding something back but she scarcely cared what it was. She was elated she’d found her car before Detective Tanninger. “I mean my grandson,” he finally admitted.

“Could you give me directions? I’d like to come see the car and figure out what to do. Doesn’t sound like I could drive it, right?”

“No, ma’am.” He gave her the address, then slowly related how she could find his place, finishing with, “There’s a coupla big rhodies at the end of the gravel drive, and a sign, kinda hidden by ’em, for Johnny’s Farm.”

“I guess you found me by my address.”

“No, ma’am, I used your cell phone directory and called the number you had labeled ‘Home.’ Was hoping you were outta the hospital and I’d get you. Shoulda called earlier, mebbe.” He didn’t say why he hadn’t and Gemma didn’t care.

“You have my cell phone, and my purse, then?”

“Yessum.”

“Hallelujah,” she breathed. She was just overjoyed. “Well, that’s great. Really great. I—um—can I come by now?”

“Surely.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour, or so. Could you give me your phone number, too, in case I have trouble?”

He did and Gemma was thanking him and hanging up while the last digit still hung in the air.

Chapter Thirteen

The dying rays of the sun illuminated the rhododendrons that flanked Johnny’s Farm’s driveway as Gemma sped right on by. Out of the corner of her eye she spied the wooden sign, so she turned around in the next available place, a private road nearly a quarter mile west, then she worked her way back. As she approached, she realized the sign had all but been swallowed by the rhododendrons, which were a good eight-feet high with impressive trunks the size of a lumberjack’s arms. Their thick, evergreen leaves left
JOHNNY’S FARM
looking like
JOHNNY’S FA
and the wood had grayed, the paint faded. Beyond the rhodies was a long, gravel track. As Gemma turned in she could see the roof of a barn over a small rise and a chimney that was probably connected to the farmhouse. A stand of firs stood to the west side of the property, and behind, atop another rise, she could just make out the line of a fence, also out of grayed wood.

She drove up the lane cautiously, her truck rattling through trough-like potholes, making her sway in the driver’s seat. Pulling up in front of the farmhouse, which looked similar in age and style to her own, she yanked on the brake and stepped out. A stack of pumpkins sat on the sagging steps of the front porch, ready for carving, and a sharp breeze grabbed her hair, bringing with it a slap of rain. She moved quickly up the porch steps and pressed the bell. Hearing nothing, she made a fist and rapped her knuckles on the front door panel. Eventually she heard someone making their way to the door.

It opened slowly and Gemma guessed this was Patrick Johnson. He hovered somewhere in his late seventies or early eighties, nodding as he opened the door. “You look good, girl. I was worried about you. C’mon in.”

Gemma smiled faintly as she entered the house. She could smell the remnants of bacon and fried onions.

“Would you like somethin’ to drink?” he asked politely.

“I’d better not. I’m kind of—confused, I guess. You have my cell phone?”

“Yessum.” He gestured limply toward the couch in the front room and headed toward the back of the house. Gemma perched uncomfortably and looked around. The cabbage rose wallpaper appeared to be original. Whereas her own home had faced numerous facelifts of one kind or another—paint, carpeting, reroofing, repaving—the Johnson farmhouse felt as if it were sinking under the weight of deferred maintenance.

She inhaled a breath when he returned with her purse and cell phone, each in one hand. She was so grateful she hardly knew what to do. “Can I pay you, a reward? It sounds like if you hadn’t gotten me to the hospital, that I might have been far worse off.”

“Ah, no.” He rubbed his jaw slowly, then looked over his shoulder. “You want to see the car?”

“Yes. Please.”

He led the way through the kitchen and out the back toward the barn, moving slowly and deliberately. There was just something about it that stirred a memory inside her brain. This was not the man who’d driven her to the hospital. That person had been much younger.

All thoughts were knocked from her head when she spied her mother’s car. If it was her mother’s car. Mostly it looked like silver tin foil crumpled from every angle. Gemma was speechless and humbled that the worst she’d gotten from the wreck was her bruised and battered head.

“Wow.”

“Lot of damage,” Johnson agreed.

“How did you get me out?”

“My grand—” He cut himself off and cleared his throat. “Door just opened up and freed you. Damnedest thing.”

“Your grandson helped you,” Gemma finished for him. “He’s the one who drove me to the hospital.”

The old man eyed her as if she’d abused him, head down, eyes turned up, waiting for another blow.

“Why don’t you want me to know?”

He sighed and rubbed his face with a gnarled hand. “’Cause my grandson had been drinking some when he found you. Didn’t want to deal with the police, so he drove you to the hospital himself. Came back and told me what he’d done. He wasn’t drunk, mind you, but you know how those things go…” His lips pursed and Gemma could see he didn’t agree with his grandson’s choices.

Gemma said, “Is that why you waited so long to get in touch with me?”

“I didn’t know we had your purse until today. It was in the car, but we didn’t see it when we moved it.”

Gemma could see Patrick Johnson had left a lot unsaid about his feelings about his grandson, but she didn’t much care. She was just grateful that they’d contacted her first.

She insisted on paying him for his trouble, however, and wrote him a check, which he reluctantly accepted.

“What do you want to do about the car?” he asked.

“Can I leave it for now? I’ll have it towed later, if that’s okay.”

They were walking back to the main house and he just nodded and waved vaguely in her direction. “There’s no hurry.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully.

“Just glad you’re okay, miss. That was a nasty accident. You were settin’ there awhile. Musta happened sometime in the morning or early afternoon. Car was down on an angle. Couldn’t be seen from the road too well, and my grandson only saw you ’cause he nearly took that corner too fast himself. Overcorrected and almost followed right in after you.”

“Where was this?” Gemma asked after a moment of sober reflection.

“One of the side roads off twenty-six.” He gestured toward the west.

“I don’t remember,” she admitted.

“You said you were chasing a child molester.”

Gemma stared at him. “I did?”

“That’s what my grandson said. You said it over and over again on the way to the hospital.”

“Did I…mention his name?”

He shook his head.

“Or, whether I caught him…?”

“You could ask my grandson, Andy. But I don’t think so. He woulda said so. He’ll be home from the mill later on.”

“Lumber mill?”

“Yessum.”

“I think I’m okay,” she said, turning away. “Thank you for everything.”

He nodded and shifted away and Gemma walked to her truck. Heading back toward the highway, her head was full of new questions. Had she been chasing Letton? It didn’t feel like it. If so, what was she doing so far west from the soccer fields, so far west from Quarry? In the foothills of the Coast Range?

And if she hadn’t been chasing Letton, who was the man she’d blasted out after from LuLu’s? What had happened to him?

“And who was following you?” she asked aloud. The hunched man who’d creeped out Charlotte.

She really wished her on-again/off-again brain would just get to “on” and stay there.

Charlotte sat on the stool near the kitchen and tried to control her rising panic. She’d stolen Robbie Bereth’s bike. Stolen it! Committed a crime. Her heart felt like it was going to gallop right out of her chest. Why had she done that? It was like a bad Charlotte had taken over the good one and there was nothing she could do but pump her legs as fast as she could and race to the diner. As soon as she’d arrived she’d jumped off the bike and pushed it into the shed behind the restaurant. There’d barely been enough room because of all the supplies. Now, she didn’t know what to do.

Chewing at her fingernails she felt slightly light-headed. Robbie knew who’d taken it. It wasn’t like she could lie and pretend it never happened. And now it was the dinner hour and she still had no idea what to do next.

“Shit,” she whispered, then looked over at Milo, who was busy frying burgers and looked to be in his own world.

She could tell her mother, but she cringed from the look she knew she would see in Macie’s eyes. This was way worse than cutting out of school early. This was like…what you went to jail for.

Maybe she should just get back on the bike and ride it back to Robbie’s. Tell him it was a joke. Ha, ha, ha. It kinda was a joke, really. She’d never intended to steal it. She just wanted to…have it for a while. It was gonna be dark real soon, so if she decided to ride back it would be dangerous and her mother would wonder where she went.

And anyway, what would happen if she did take it back? She pictured Robbie’s mother, who always looked kinda worn down and tired. And Robbie’s dad was back, according to Robbie, so what would he be like? He was a bad, bad dude. Maybe he would hit her and knock out a permanent tooth.

Charlotte whimpered, then wanted to slap her own self silly. She’d done this, and she had to take care of it. But how?

Gemma. Gemma would help her.

She eased off the stool and snuck around the corner to the back room and the wall phone. There was a list of numbers written on a notepad affixed above the phone but Charlotte scornfully ignored it. She knew Gemma’s number from memory. Dialing quickly, she listened to it ring and ring on the other end. When the voice mail answered, she cleared her throat and said, “Gemma? It’s Charlotte. Could you call me at LuLu’s? Thanks.”

She sat back down on the stool, feeling slightly better. She hoped Gemma would call soon, though, because her mom might decide to leave early to take her home, and home was over five miles away. There would be no way she could take the bike back.

Tearing off a bit of thumbnail with her teeth, she glowered at the customers in the booth at the end of the row. Teenagers. With cell phones.

How am I going to get one of those?
she wondered, enviously watching them texting their friends like mad.

It was completely dark by the time Gemma returned to the house, heading in the back door, tossing the truck’s keys on the counter. She walked into the living room, remembered she’d woken up naked there, wondered what that was all about, then decided she didn’t want to know. If she’d been having a dream she couldn’t recall it now.

Although she did think it might have been about Detective Tanninger.

Walking into the den, she threw herself into the chair, then stared up at the ceiling. She didn’t know what the hell was happening to her but she felt completely, utterly exhausted.

The voice mail light was blinking on the phone. She almost left it. Probably Davinia Noack or Sally Van Kamp or Allie Bolt. Or Little Tim. She had her cell phone back now, so after she charged it she could pretty much rely on it completely and forget the would-be customers who knew Jean’s phone number.

Still…

She punched in the code and accessed her messages. There was only one. “Gemma? It’s Charlotte. Could you call me at LuLu’s? Thanks.”

Gemma instantly dialed the diner. Charlotte answered on the second ring. “LuLu’s,” she said breathlessly.

“Charlotte, it’s Gemma.”

“Oh, Gemma…” Her voice was heavy with dread. In a whispered tone, she quickly told her of her exploits with Robbie Bereth’s bike.

“You need to tell your mother,” Gemma said.

“Would you take me back there? Please? I just want to get the bike back to him and apologize. Mom’s busy. That Heather never showed up today, so she can’t leave yet.”

“I’ll take you, but you have to tell Macie what we’re doing,” Gemma said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

By the time Gemma pulled the truck to a stop outside the diner Charlotte was standing beside her, the exterior lights a halo behind her head. She pointed in the direction of the shed, then ran to it. Gemma half-followed, losing Charlotte in the darkness. Then she heard the creak of a door and soon Charlotte was pushing the bike toward the truck. Gemma helped her stow it in the back, slamming the tailgate shut.

“Did you tell Macie?” Gemma asked as Charlotte hopped in beside her.

“Ye-e-s-s-s.”

“What did you tell her?” Gemma asked suspiciously.

“I told her I was going to your place for a few minutes, and that I would be right back. She’s real busy. I didn’t have time to explain everything. Please, Gemma. I’ll do it when we get back. Please?”

Gemma shot her a hard look. “We’ll talk to her together,” she warned.

“Fine.” Charlotte sat back in the seat, relieved.

She guided Gemma toward Robbie’s house, which was set off the road behind some bushes about halfway to the school. They pulled into the yard. A yellow light shone from above the porch and through the front window there was a strip of illumination between heavy curtains. A head peeked through the slit. A young boy’s.

“That’s Robbie,” Charlotte murmured as they both climbed out of the truck’s cab.

A brighter light snapped on and the door opened and the boy sprang out. Behind him a woman trudged out, and she stood on the porch smoking a cigarette as he shot toward where Gemma was hauling out the bike.

“I should smack you!” he declared.

“Robbie,” the woman warned wearily.

“I wasn’t stealing it,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry. I just wanted it for a while.”

“You were stealing it!” he insisted. “I was gonna call the cops!”

“I brought it back,” Charlotte said stubbornly, her lack of repentance very clear.

Gemma said sternly, “Charlotte is very glad you didn’t turn her into the authorities. She feels very bad that she caused so much trouble.”

“Are you her mom?” Robbie asked suspiciously.

Charlotte snapped, “She’s my friend.”

“It’s all right,” the woman on the porch said to Gemma. “Thank you for bringing it back.”

Robbie’s brows drew into a scowl and he blasted his mom. “You should have let me call the police. They would have thrown her in the drunk tank! She deserves it!”

“No, they wouldn’t have, Robbie,” the woman said. “Now, get back in here. Thank you for the bike,” she added with more energy. “I was going to call Macie tomorrow and get it straightened out.” She snapped her fingers at Robbie, who grabbed his bike and threw it alongside the porch, then stamped up the stairs and preceded his mom back into the house. As she turned Gemma saw the bruises along her cheekbone.

“I would never treat my bike that way,” Charlotte sniffed as they climbed back in the truck.

“Where is your bike?”

“At my house. Mom won’t let me ride it because…”

“It makes it easy for you to skip school?”

“I treat my bike way better.” A few minutes later, she said in a worried voice, “She knows my mom.”

“This is the woman you told me about whose husband beats her,” Gemma said.

Charlotte didn’t deny it. “I thought he was gone, but he’s back.”