You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (39 page)

Spencer immediately pulled his hands behind his back and feigned sleep. With his eyes half-closed, he watched Garrett peeking into the cabin at them. “How are you doing down here?” he asked, grinning. His face was wet from the rain and spray.

Glaring at him, Andrea didn't reply. Her hands behind her, she rocked from side to side along with the unsteady boat.

“Think you're feeling uncomfortable now?” he asked. “I haven't even gotten started on you yet. Just wait . . .”

Spencer watched him turn and take a step toward the top deck again.

* * *

Bonnie struggled with the wheel, trying to execute a slow, wide U-turn back toward the marina. She prayed Garrett wouldn't notice. But the rain would be coming at him from a different direction. That might be a dead giveaway.

The Catalina bucked as it changed course in the choppy water. She braced herself for each jolt.

Once he'd ducked down into the cabin, Bonnie reached for the keys on the navigation panel. With her hands shaking, she pried the lock key from the four-leaf-clover ring. She needed to get to the box with the flare gun. But even if Garrett stayed down in the cabin for a few minutes, she couldn't leave the wheel. She might lock it in place with the helm brake, but in this weather, the boat could start careening. It might even capsize.

She saw Garrett stepping back up to the deck, and she quickly shoved the key into her jacket pocket.

He looked slightly annoyed.

She wondered if he'd caught her hiding something in her pocket. Or had he figured out she was changing course?

“Why haven't you put up the sails yet?” His eyes narrowed at her.

“It's too dangerous with this wind,” she answered.

She noticed a light in the sky, and it filled her with hope. He couldn't see it, because it loomed on the horizon behind him. And he probably couldn't hear the helicopter, because of the canopy above him, flapping wildly.

“You know what you'd do if you were smart?” she called. “You'd get out the life raft, camouflage it with one of these black sail covers, and get out now. Leave us onboard. We're still close enough to the shore. You can make a clean getaway while the police chase after us. They've already spotted us. It's only a matter of time before they catch up with us. Even in the open water, they have the advantage—police boats with better sailors, the Coast Guard . . .”

“You talk too much,” he growled.

“I'm just saying we're never going to make it to Lopez Island.”

He stared at her and said nothing.

Bonnie watched the helicopter descend a bit. It was zeroing in on them.

Garrett took a step down and checked on Spencer and his aunt again. After a few moments, he came back up. She could see the wind was blowing rain in his face.

“I think you're right, honey,” he yelled. “It's not what I had in mind for tonight, but you've given me a great idea. The police aren't looking for me. They're just after you and your boyfriend. I can slip out of here, and they won't be any the wiser, isn't that right?”

She nodded several times. “Yes . . .”

“Of course, that doesn't work out so well for you, because I'll have to kill the three of you.” He chuckled. “But hell, that's a win-win for me. I'll make it look like Spencer did it—a murder-suicide. Funny, I set something like that up just three weeks ago . . .”

“But—there's no time,” she said. “You have to get the raft and get out of here now . . .”

He smirked. “Come back and kill another day? No, it doesn't work that way.” He nodded at the wheel. “Does that thing have a lock to keep it steady?”

“Yes, but in these conditions, you—”

“Shut up and lock it,” he said, raising the gun.

Bonnie obeyed him, and applied the helm brake.

He motioned at her with his free hand. “Come here,” he whispered.

She could hardly hear him over all the noise. Warily, she moved toward him. She was trembling as she stepped under the canopy.

All at once, he hauled back and hit her in the face.

Bonnie flopped down onto the deck.

Stunned, she lay there and listened to him starting down the cabin steps again.

* * *

“C'mon, c'mon,” he heard his aunt whispering.

Spencer was bent over, frantically working the cutter blade on the thick rope around his ankles. He'd sliced about halfway through. His shoes and white socks were splattered with blood from the cuts on his hands.

The boat pitched, and the blade slipped. He nicked his leg. Spencer let out a little cry, but he kept hacking away at the rope, now soaked crimson.

“Spencer—” his aunt started to say.

He looked up and saw Garrett at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, what the damn hell?” he chuckled, waving the gun. “Aren't you the sneaky bastard?” Then the smile ran away from his face. “I got a question for you, Spence-o. I've always wanted to know. Did you have your eyes closed when we shot your mother? Because I want you to keep them open now, okay? I want you to see this . . .”

He pointed the gun at Andrea.

“No!” Spencer screamed.

A sudden blinding light poured in through the windows. The loud churning of propellers came with it.

The box cutter in his fist, Spencer leapt off the sofa bench and lunged at his old friend. The rope around his ankles tripped him up. He slammed into Garrett. The boat rocked violently, and they banged against the galley cabinets. Andrea's purse—and everything inside it—flew off the counter.

Frantically brandishing the cutter, Spencer kept trying to slash him.

He heard the gun go off—twice.

Each time, he felt a burning jab in his stomach.

In a fury, he kept wielding the cutter—and finally connected, making a deep slice in Garrett's arm. Blood sprayed in Spencer's face.

Garrett howled out in pain. He dropped the gun, and it slid across the cabin floor—under one of the benches.

Spencer heard his aunt screaming. All he could think about was saving her—and Bonnie. Maybe it would make up a little for his parents.

His stomach was on fire, but like a crazy man, he kept jabbing away at Garrett—until the box cutter flew out of his hand. Or maybe he'd just dropped it. He'd lost feeling in his hands and arms.

Everything was shutting down. His legs gave out.

As he collapsed onto the cabin floor, Spencer could feel Garrett over him.

All his fighting hadn't done any good.

His old friend was still standing.

* * *

Andrea screamed. She saw Spencer fall to the floor at Garrett's feet.

She tried to get up from the sofa-bench, but the boat suddenly lurched to one side. She went crashing into the table and then toppled to the floor. Andrea had barely gotten her breath back when she felt Garrett's hand slam down on the top of her head. He dragged her up by the hair.

With her wrists and ankles still tied, she was utterly helpless. She tried to struggle as he pulled her toward the stairs, dragging her over Spencer's body. She couldn't tell if he was still breathing. Under him, blood billowed out on the cabin floor.

The boat careened out of control. Rain came in through the opening at the top of the companionway. The sky was bright white from the helicopter's spotlight. All the while, someone was yelling over a PA system—maybe from the helicopter or a nearby ship. A man shouted out something that sounded like a warning. It was indistinguishable past the wind, waves, and flapping canopy.

“Goddamn you both,” Garrett muttered as he hauled Andrea up the steps.

As they reached the deck, he pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. It was Luke's prop revolver. He jabbed the barrel into the side of Andrea's neck.

Under the canopy, she couldn't see the helicopter hovering directly above, but she knew it was there. A police boat approached the port side, shining a spotlight on them. It was blinding. For a few moments, Andrea didn't see Bonnie, who was steadying the wheel with one hand and holding a flare gun with the other.

“Get out! Get away from here!” Garrett shouted at the police on the watercraft. “Turn off that goddamn light—or I swear I'll kill her!”

Andrea felt the gun barrel scraping against her jaw, taking away a layer of skin.

With the rain and wind whipping at her face, Bonnie kept the flare gun aimed at Garrett. She was shaking.

Garrett turned to her. “Put it down, bitch.”

“Don't listen to him!” Andrea yelled. With all her might, she pushed herself away and fell down in front of the wheel.

She left Garrett with a fistful of her hair—and a fake gun. He tried to fire it several times before he seemed to realize he'd been duped.

Andrea saw him looking at the gun, dumbfounded.

For just that moment, only she and Garrett knew the gun was a prop.

The police and Bonnie had no idea.

Bonnie fired off the flare with a loud pop. Spewing a tail of flames, the cartridge hit the side of Garrett's neck and lodged under the collar of his jacket. Sparks and smoke exploded around his head. He screamed out in agony.

Three shots rang out from the police boat. Garrett's body twitched and convulsed with each bullet that ripped through him.

He staggered blindly to the edge of the boat and teetered against the railing. All the while, he was whimpering and crying. It was a pathetic sound.

Garrett toppled over the handrail.

He was still wailing—until the water swallowed him up.

EPILOGUE

 

B
onnie stood at the graveside in a black trench coat she'd borrowed from her mother. She was dry-eyed. Her face was still slightly bruised from when Garrett had punched her on Sunday morning, but she'd managed to conceal it with some makeup.

Andrea stood at her side, looking somber—and a bit frayed.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon. The sun had just started to set as the minister opened his book for the reading. About twenty others were in attendance, a few of them classmates. The memorial service earlier—at a nondenominational church on Capitol Hill—had drawn about forty people. Bonnie had spotted a few more fellow students there. They must not have felt close enough to the deceased to make the trek here to the cemetery.

Ron's funeral had been yesterday, and he'd drawn a huge turnout—with several teachers, his teammates (all wearing their varsity jackets with ties), and at least half the junior class. Reporters and TV news vans had waited outside the cemetery gate. The grave site was surrounded by flowers, creating a riot of colors. Over Ron's coffin, the minister had read A. E. Housman's poem, “To an Athlete Dying Young,” and everyone had been in tears—including Bonnie. She'd become the reluctant center of attention there. Ron's parents had insisted she sit with them at the church—and stand with them by his grave in Lakeview Cemetery. They'd acted as if she'd never broken up with him. After the burial, a reception had been held at a country club.

In comparison, today's service seemed so shoddy and furtive.

Bonnie kept thinking she should have said something to the minister about the reading. The choice seemed so generic, and his recitation was uninspired. Someone should have read an excerpt from
The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
Bonnie remembered Tanya referring to the novel and “the island of misfit toys” at the memorial for Damon—the
first
memorial for him.

Bonnie remembered it was where she'd had her initial conversation with Spencer. She'd also met Damon's father for the first time there, too.

Neither one of them were here for Damon's second send-off. She'd heard Mr. Shuler's condition was improving, but apparently the doctors thought it was too soon for him to be moved around—even in a wheelchair.

She'd just visited Spencer this morning. He was doing better, too. They were supposed to move him out of intensive care later today—into a room down the hall from Mr. Shuler.

It was just as well neither of them had made it here. Mr. Shuler was still dealing with the fact that his son had taken part in murdering at least nine people. Bonnie figured he wasn't ready to face the public and all the reporters.

Meanwhile, the press ate up the story of the two teenage killers who had faked their deaths. In profiling Garrett Beale, the media had to remind everyone that as minors, both he and Spencer Rowe—aka Spencer Murray—had each spent five years in juvenile detention centers and psychiatric facilities for the murder of Spencer's parents in 2009.

Bonnie felt horrible for Spencer, whose guarded secret was now common knowledge. She was glad he wasn't at school to hear all the talk, the snickers, and the sick jokes.

She'd gotten close to Spencer's aunt in the last few days. A crisis could do that with strangers. She'd helped Andrea get over some of the hurdles in arranging this double funeral. Luke had already scattered what everyone had thought were Damon's ashes—along with Mrs. Shuler's. This proved to be a problem for the mother of Damon's “stand-in,” Kirk Mowery, but there wasn't much the poor woman could do about it.

The real problem was Tanya. Her twice-married mother had expressly wished to be buried beside her first husband in Colorado Springs. She'd made no arrangements for her daughter—from husband number two. Tanya's estranged father refused to take on any responsibility for her interment. The fact that she'd been an accessory to several murders had seemed like a good reason. But Bonnie had a feeling it was just a pretext for staying uninvolved in his daughter's life—and death. No one else wanted to take on the responsibility.

It was Bonnie's idea that Tanya be buried beside her friend, Damon. Mr. Shuler paid for everything. She and Andrea had made the arrangements.

Bonnie hoped maybe all her efforts somehow helped square things with both Tanya and Damon.

A chilly wind stirred up, and she shuddered. She gazed at the pair of dark bronze coffins, side by side—suspended above two holes in the ground. The caskets were held up by two hand-cranked bracketed mechanisms that would later lower Damon and Tanya into their neighboring plots.

Bonnie began to cry. She couldn't help it.

She thought of the two misfits at school, slipping away during lunchtime—someplace where no one would bother them.

 

 

 

“Excuse me,” Luke murmured.

Andrea heard him past the clinking silverware and polite conversation at his dining room table. She'd made Thanksgiving dinner for Luke, Spencer, three people from Luke's new play who had nowhere else to go for the holiday, and a fourth guest. Andrea had also invited Spencer's friend, Bonnie, but she was with her family tonight. Despite everyone's assurance that the cuisine was sublime, Andrea knew she'd overcooked the turkey. Plus the mashed potatoes were kind of lumpy. But the stuffing and other side dishes weren't bad. She'd just served up the ice cream and a pumpkin pie from Metropolitan Market.

She'd been keeping an eye on Luke for any signs of fatigue ever since two-thirty, when the driver from the non-emergency ambulance service had wheeled him up the front walkway. This was Luke's first time back home since the night he'd been mowed down by Troy Slattery in that stolen car. His arm and leg were still in casts. He also wore a back brace—along with one of those ugly, padded neck braces that made even the coolest person appear pathetic. But the bruises and swelling had disappeared—and he almost looked like his old self. He was in an upbeat mood, cracking jokes with his theater friends. But because of his medications, he couldn't have any wine. At dinner, he sat at the head of the table, and fed himself. Andrea had cut up his turkey ahead of time, sparing him that indignity in front of their guests.

On the subject of indignities, Luke had warned her that he would need help going to the bathroom. He'd made it clear he didn't want her or Spencer stuck with that duty. It turned out his driver from Mobilecare Services was qualified to do the job. Andrea had invited the young, East Indian man to join them for dinner, but he said he was required to stay with his vehicle unless the patient needed him. They'd hired the service until seven-thirty. That was when Luke's doctors at the rehab facility wanted him back.

After his quiet “Excuse me,” Andrea figured Luke needed to take a bathroom break. But then she looked across the dinner table at him. On the other side of the flickering candles and the cornucopia centerpiece, she saw him leaning to one side in his wheelchair. He was as pale as chalk. His eyes were half closed. “Andrea?” he said—just a bit louder. “Hon, could you—could you wheel me to the bathroom?
Now?
”

She sprang up from her chair. “Excuse me,” she announced, hurrying around to the other end of the table. As she pulled Luke's wheelchair away, she glanced down at his place setting. He hadn't touched his pie. And she'd noticed earlier that he'd only eaten about half of his meager portion of dinner.

At the same time, Spencer and one of Luke's theater friends both asked if she needed any help. But Andrea chimed back, “We're fine!” Then she pushed Luke in his wheelchair into the kitchen—toward the powder room.

“I'm going to throw up,” he said under his breath.

Stopping, Andrea grabbed an empty bowl off the counter and held it under his chin. “It's okay,” she whispered.

She heard him take a few deep breaths. “Jesus, could I be any more pathetic?” he finally muttered. “I think you can take the bowl away now, hon.”

She set the bowl back down on the counter, and then patted him on his shoulder.

Luke sighed. “Oh, brother, once I'm finally walking again, you won't want to touch me. If our sex life survives this, it'll be a miracle.”

“I think we'll survive,” she said, bending down to kiss the side of his face. “If it's any reassurance to you, so far, I've asked your doctor only six times how long before I can make a conjugal visit.”

It was true. She missed him terribly. She missed having his strong arms around her.

“I guess I just had a little too much excitement today,” he said. “I feel like the kid who stayed too long at the fair. You better have the ambulance guy take me back . . .”

By the time she was ready to wheel Luke out to the ambulance, his three theater friends had made their excuses and their very polite, hasty departures. Andrea planned to ride back to the rehab facility with Luke and make sure he was settled in. That left Spencer alone with their fourth guest—Hugh Badger Lyman's assistant, Dana. Like their other guests, Dana had nowhere else to go on Thanksgiving. He'd been so helpful to Andrea, and she didn't want him to be alone on the holiday. She hadn't been sure how he'd mix with the others. But it turned out one of Luke's theater friends wanted to write a play about Vietnam, and Dana had spent most of the night talking with him.

Andrea called a cab for Dana before she headed out the door with Luke and the ambulance driver. She told Spencer not to bother with the dishes. She'd clean up when she came back in about an hour.

It was damp and chilly out. She could see her breath. She'd covered Luke with a plaid blanket. It kept slipping down from his shoulders while the driver wheeled him up the ramp into the back of the ambulance. Once inside the van, the young man strapped Luke and the wheelchair in place.

Waiting outside the vehicle, Andrea shivered and turned up the collar of her trench coat. She stole a glance at the house.

She'd planted some new bulbs in the front garden a couple of weeks ago. By spring, they'd be blooming. She'd gotten Luke's town house ready for his homecoming by moving in some of her own furniture, art, and knickknacks. She'd been taking photos of each new addition to show him and to get his input and feedback. And they'd shopped on line for other things together. She wanted the town house to be theirs.

In Troy Slattery's apartment, the police had found the silver frame with her mother's photo in it.

It now had a place in the living room—
their
living room.

After all that preparation, Thanksgiving seemed like one big disappointment. Everything had started out so nicely this afternoon. Luke had seemed thrilled to see—in person—the changes in the town house. He kept saying how wonderful the dinner smelled, and how great it was to be back.

And now he looked so miserable.

Once the driver stepped outside, Andrea climbed into the back of the ambulance. She sat down on a bench across from where Luke was anchored in his wheelchair. She readjusted the blanket. He closed his eyes and winced.

“You still feeling nauseous?” she asked.

He nodded, and took a few deep breaths. “I just overdid it today,” he murmured.

Andrea felt the ambulance starting to move down the street. She stroked his good arm. “I'm the one who overdid it,” she said. “Your first day back should have been something more low key. I shouldn't have had all those people over. And the turkey was dry . . .”

He let out a weak chuckle. “Oh, shut up. Everything was great. Thank you for a wonderful Thanksgiving.”

She let out a tiny laugh and touched his cheek. “Well, okay, you're welcome.”

Andrea felt a few bumps in the road as the ambulance picked up speed.

The color was coming back to Luke's face. He gave her a tired smile. She knew it would be a while before he was his old self again. Then they could start over.

Until then, she'd just be patient.

* * *

The last guest to leave—the guy named Dana—helped Spencer clear the dining room table. He'd said he wanted to make himself useful until the taxi arrived.

Spencer tried not to stare at his mangled hand with the missing digits. But he was fascinated by how Dana still managed to pick up and hold on to things with just a thumb and a row of nubs. He didn't let it slow him down much. While they cleaned up, Spencer watched him carry glasses, silverware, and plates into the kitchen. Spencer was careful not to be caught looking. He knew all too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of prying, judgmental stares.

He'd started back to school two weeks ago, and those first few days were rough. Everyone now knew his horrible secret. His teachers and fellow students treated him like a freak or some kind of dangerous character. Or they did their damnedest to ignore him. But it was starting to get easier. He was seeing a new therapist, whom he liked.

Still, he missed Diane.

He was also seeing a lot of Bonnie. In fact, he was in love—at least, he thought it was love. They were taking things slow. Bonnie wanted it that way. Her parents were still a bit wary of him. Plus everyone at school expected her to carry on like she was Ron's widow or something.

Spencer knew her popularity was waning because of her association with him. But Bonnie insisted she didn't give a damn. At lunchtime in the cafeteria, she no longer sat at the cool table. She sat with him.

He was really disappointed she hadn't come over tonight.

This Thanksgiving had been kind of a letdown for him. He'd spent his last five Thanksgivings incarcerated—either in a psychiatric hospital or a juvenile detention facility. He'd had such high hopes for this first holiday someplace that didn't have bars on the windows.