Left for Dead (14 page)

“I wasn’t mugged. That’s just a story they’ve been giving everyone on the island. If you’ve been reading the papers or watching the news on TV, you might know who ‘Jane Doe’ is.”

“You mean that woman who was almost…” He trailed off. “The one Rembrandt—”

“Yes,” Claire said, nodding. “I’m that woman. I’m ‘Jane Doe.’”

Wide-eyed, Walt numbly stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought Harlan would have told you.”

“Tell him what?” Harlan asked, stepping down from the deck. “We’re ready to set sail, folks.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Claire gazed up at him. “Why did you give Walt that stupid cover story? Of all people, why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

Harlan seemed embarrassed. Walt just shook his head at him, then turned to Claire again. “I’m really sorry about what you’ve been through,” he murmured. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m okay now.”

He nodded, then brushed past Harlan on the steps.

Harlan touched his shoulder. “Walt, listen, Linda and I were gonna let you know. We—”

Walt didn’t even look at him. He continued up to the deck.

Harlan frowned at Claire. “Thanks a lot,” he muttered. “I was going to tell him the truth, you know. Eventually.”

“Well, why didn’t you?” she retorted. “He’s your best friend, for God’s sakes.”

Harlan just sighed, then retreated up the steps.

A few moments later, Claire felt the boat tip and sway a little. They were pulling away from the dock.

She curled up on the couch. She couldn’t fathom why Linda and Harlan had kept Walt in the dark about what had really happened to her.

Once again, Claire wondered what horrible thing they were covering up with all their cover stories.

She felt the yacht slow down, and knew they were approaching Deception.

Claire climbed up to the deck, where she saw Walt at the helm. Harlan stood at his side, a hand on his shoulder. He was murmuring something to him. Walt didn’t seem too happy, but he was nodding.

Claire couldn’t hear them past the boat’s motor and the rushing water. It was cold up on deck, and her chestnut brown hair fluttered in the wind. She turned up the collar of her jacket. Sitting near the edge of the boat, Claire gazed out at the island, its hills covered with trees—so many of them vibrant with red, orange, and yellow leaves. Most of the island was forest.

Deception was one of the many San Juan Islands. Looking at the islands on a map, Claire always thought they resembled dozens of stepping-stones across the Strait of Juan de Fuca—from the peninsula off mainland Washington state to Vancouver Island. She remembered her first ferry ride there, and Harlan telling her about his hometown.

He’d grown up in Platt, the commercial and residential area along the south coast of the island. To the north was Alliance, a fifteen-minute drive through forests, or twenty-five minutes by coastal road. That was the location of Chemtech’s large chemical plant and the industrial harbor. Nothing else was there, except for a few trailer homes, a gas station, and the Two Squares Diner, a dive, open only for breakfast and lunch. Harlan had stopped eating there after finding what he suspected was a pubic hair in his fried-egg sandwich.

In contrast, the south end offered a beautiful harbor, quaint shops, a couple of restaurants, parks with breathtaking views, B&Bs, two churches, one minimall, a bowling alley, and a grade school.

There were many retired couples on the island, along with weekend and summer residents, who owned cabins in the woods and on the beach. After the chemical plant, tourism (especially in the summer) and fishing were the other big industries on Deception Island.

“It’s the kind of place where no one locks their doors at night,” Harlan had told her.

Deception had one sheriff and two deputies. Ferry service ran three times a day during the week and twice daily on weekends. Charter boats were also available.

Claire remembered trying to entice Brian with the news that he wouldn’t be catching a bus to school on Deception. He would be catching a charter boat to Anacortes, where the high school students attended classes. After a while, the novelty wore off. On occasion, he’d miss the charter and have to wait for a ferry, then be late for school. Sometimes, he’d miss the last ferry home, and Claire would ask Walter Binns to sail out and pick him up. Walt never seemed to mind, but it irritated the hell out of Harlan.

She watched Walt and Harlan now, as the Chris-Craft approached the south harbor of Deception Island. Harlan took over at the helm.

Walt came and sat down beside her. Claire noticed the occasional strands of gray in his curly brown hair. Still, he looked years younger than Harlan.

“I’m just totally flabbergasted, Claire,” he said. “I can’t believe everything you’ve been through. I feel so bad for you.”

“Well, I feel bad too,” she said. “I hope I didn’t screw up things between you and Harlan. I’m sure he had his reasons for not telling you.”

Walt shrugged, then rolled up the sleeves of his Irish knit sweater. “Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered. “Harlan says you don’t remember anything.”

She nodded glumly. “That’s right. But what bothers me most is that Brian ran away the night before I disappeared, and I have no memory of it. I have no idea where my son is, and it’s killing me.” She shook her head. “I don’t care about these ‘Rembrandt’ murders or what’s happened to me. I just want Brian back.”

Claire sighed. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Listen, Walt. Have you heard anything about what happened to Brian? Anything at all?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Claire. I was in Victoria the night before you disappeared. I stayed there through the weekend. When I got back, Linda told me about what happened.”

Claire frowned. “You mean, she told you that Brian ran away and I was mugged. She was lying about what happened to me. I’m sorry, but I have a feeling she’s lying about Brian too.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. I think something horrible happened to him.” Claire felt her voice crack. “And no one wants me to know about it. Did Harlan explain why they didn’t tell you the truth about me?”

Walt shrugged. “He just said that—for the time being—Linda thought it was best.” He glanced toward the coast. “We’re heading in,” he said, patting Claire’s arm. Then he got to his feet and took over the helm for Harlan.

Claire sat alone. “What is that bitch hiding?” she said aloud, but her voice was drowned out by the wind.

Locked inside the trunk of a car, she couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t scream, because of the duct tape over her mouth. Her hands were tied behind her, but she could kick. So she banged against the trunk’s hood with her feet.

They’d come to a stop light. If she pounded loud enough, maybe somebody would hear it, a pedestrian, a driver with his window down, or—maybe, please God—a cop.

One of her sandals flew off, but she kept kicking anyway.

The car lurched forward again. She felt every bump in the road like a jolt, and the tires made a continual, grinding roar. Perspiration covered her body, but she shivered uncontrollably. All she had on—besides the one remaining sandal—were her bra and panties.

Jenny Ackerman was a sophomore at the University of Washington. She had no idea how long they’d been driving, but it seemed like an eternity. Her only hope was another stop—and possibly making enough noise in the trunk so a passerby might notice. Then maybe they’d call the cops or something.

She sensed the car slowing down. Jenny rocked from side to side as they took a couple of turns. The road became bumpier. Her head was swimming. She felt herself gagging from motion sickness. If she threw up, she truly would choke to death. She told herself to just keep breathing.

They started over a gravel road. She heard the pebbles crunching under the tires, and bouncing against the bottom of the car. She tried to brace her body against the side of the trunk to keep from jostling back and forth, but it was impossible. There must have been a dozen curves in the road, one right after another. They seemed to be speeding up instead of slowing down. The pebbles deflecting off the bottom of the car sounded like a hail storm.

Then the car came to a sudden, screeching halt. For a moment, her heart seemed to stop as well. She didn’t hear any other traffic. Along with the silence, she became aware of the smell, a strong garbage stench that began to fill her nostrils. Again, she had to fight the impulse to gag.

The trunk’s hood popped open. Only for a second did the cold air feel good against her near-naked, sweaty body. Only for a second did she see someone hovering over her. Then all at once, they put a sack over head. Maybe it was a pillow case, she wasn’t sure. At least it let in a little light. They grabbed her arms, and pulled her out of the trunk. “Watch her head,” one of them muttered.

Jenny didn’t struggle. But she stumbled a bit when they set her on her feet again. Somebody slapped her on the butt, not a gentle slap either. It stung. Jenny felt one of them grab her ankle. Her whole body tensed—until she realized they were merely putting her sandal back on for her.

The rancid smell was overpowering—like rotten fruit or sour milk, or both.

One of them had a boom box, and “My Sharona” was blasting over it. They led Jenny down a garbage-laden hill. She was trembling. Goose bumps covered her near-naked body. As they continued down the path, the stench got stronger.

Her head still shrouded in the sack, Jenny kept stumbling, but they held onto her. Then they stopped. The pulsating music abruptly ended.

“Kneel down,” someone whispered.

Trembling, she obeyed. Her bare knees hit the cold dirt.

“You’re a worthless slut,” one of them said.

If the duct tape weren’t plastered across her mouth, Jenny would have told her future “sister” to go to hell. At this point, she didn’t want to join their stupid, tight-ass, white-bread sorority.

She could have choked to death in the trunk of their stinking car. And oh, if she had, it would have been a great big tragedy—for about a week. The school would talk about how they should outlaw these hazings—until next year’s hell night, when a new crop of pledges would get theirs.

“Is that a raccoon over there or a cat?” one of her sisters asked. “I can’t tell.”

Someone shushed her. Somebody else giggled.

One of them tugged at her wrists, untying the rope. Her hands were free.

All at once, she heard them running away. There was more giggling. Someone kicked at a can. The sound of footsteps faded.

Standing, Jenny pulled the sack off her head. It was a pillowcase after all. She tore the tape off her mouth, and it hurt like hell. But at last, she could breathe. Even with the foul stench, it felt good to breathe through her mouth again. For lack of anything else to fight the autumn night’s chill, she wrapped the pillow case around her shoulders.

Nervously glancing around, Jenny saw she was standing in the bowels of some garbage dump. She looked back over her shoulder—at the path her future sorority sisters had taken her down through the mounds of garbage. She couldn’t see them up at the top of the trail, no sign of the car either. But if they’d really driven off, she would have heard the car doors shut and the motor start. She had to keep telling herself that. She wasn’t alone.

And she wasn’t. In the moonlight, she could see parts of the ground were moving. Jenny cringed. She had rats to keep her company.

Clutching the pillowcase around her shoulders, she started up the trail. She couldn’t stop trembling. Because of the full moon, she couldn’t help noticing some of the things people had thrown away: a broken dinette chair, a huge teddy bear loosing its insides, a computer monitor, an old cash register, a bathroom scale. All these things stood out among the piles of garbage.

Then Jenny saw something that made her stop in her tracks.

A rat scurried across her path. “Oh, shit,” she murmured.

Frozen, she followed it with her gaze. The slimy rodent scaled a big trash bag, then moved across the handle of a broken vacuum cleaner. It paused on top of some unidentifiable thing in a plastic bag, poking out amid the other refuse.

“Oh, my God,” Jenny whispered.

That thing in the bag was staring back at her.

Tim Sullivan was in hell.

He and Al Sparling drove together the eighty miles to Anacortes, where they caught the last ferry for Deception Island. Al had driven—and talked—all the way. He’d bragged about some of the more important cases he’d helped solve. To hear him tell it, he was a regular
Dirty Harry.
He’d also recalled his experiences on several different stakeouts, one of them requiring him and his police buddy to hideout and keep surveillance in their parked car for seventy-two straight hours.

And he didn’t kill you?
Tim had wanted to ask.

At fifty-three, Al was almost twenty years older than Tim. Perhaps that was why he spoke to him in a condescending, I’m-the-voice-of-authority manner. Tim was somewhat reluctant to take life lessons from a slightly dumpy guy with a Grecian Formula comb-over and a clip-on tie.

Tim Sullivan didn’t know if he could survive the next few days—maybe even weeks—on this tiny island with Al Sparling.

Boarding the ferry to Deception, Al announced that once they got to the island, “I think I’ll find myself a bar where the beer is warm and the women are cold.”

He’d made the same joke when climbing into the car, back in Seattle. Tim managed to work up a second curtesy chuckle for the recycled quip, and all the time, he kept thinking,
God, just kill me now.

During the ferry ride, Al took it upon himself to tell Tim what was wrong with him. The probably-justified accusation,
not a team player
came up again. Al said he was kind of a snob, really. Why didn’t he ever want to hang out with the guys after work? They were a swell bunch of Joes. Why wasn’t he more sociable? Did he have a second job? It seemed like he had some kind of other secret life.

Al Sparling’s questions hit too close to home for Tim, who explained that he didn’t mean to come off as antisocial. “I’ve just been busy lately,” he said. “In fact, I still have a couple of reports to write up tonight.”

“Well, you can do that after we have a drink or two,” Al replied. “We need to talk over this case.”

We couldn’t have talked it over some time during the last two grueling hours?
Tim wanted to ask.

They checked into The Whale Watcher Inn, an L-shaped row of twenty connected, cabin-style units off Platt’s Main Street. About two dozen wind-wheelies on poles were planted outside the lobby: sailors, whose arms twirled; gulls with flapping wings; flying fish around a whale; and other caricatures. The small lobby had been decorated with a beach-nautical theme in mind: lamps made out of ship equipment, a fishing net on the wall—complete with starfish, seahorses, and shells, and a sofa with an anchor design on it. Off the lobby was a cozy bar called The Landlubber.

The desk clerk was a quiet, very serious twelve-year-old boy. The kid looked like he knew what he was doing as he checked them in. But he didn’t seem to understood when Al mentioned to him that he wanted to check out The Landlubber, for
“some warm beer and cold women.”

Tim had one drink with him. Al explained that they wouldn’t be on an actual stakeout on Deception Island. “It’s more a babysitting job,” he said, nibbling on peanuts and pretzels from a dish on the bar. “We’re letting our presence be known here to make Mr. and Mrs. Shaw feel more secure. Tomorrow morning, we’ll introduce ourself to the local cops, then we’ll drive over the Shaws and introduce ourselves to them.”

Frowning, Tim nodded. “Yeah, well, he and I have already met.”

Once he retreated to his room, Tim closed the drapes and started to work the combination on his briefcase. He’d told Al he had to write up some reports tonight.

But that was a lie.

Al Sparling knocked on his door at two o’clock in the morning. The lights were on in Tim’s room, and he was dressed when he opened the door. Al, who had thrown a jacket over his T-shirt and undershorts, looked surprised. “I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, still standing in the doorway. “Were you out?”

“No, I was just working on my reports,” Tim Sullivan lied.

Al stepped into the room, and glanced at the closed briefcase on top of the powder-blue painted table. All the furniture in the room had been painted the same shade of blue, then lacquered. The carpet was an ugly brown shag. A brown and blue paisley comforter covered the bed, and some bad original art—seascapes and boats—hung on the walls.

“C’mon in,” Tim said. Walking over to the table, he locked his briefcase, then set it upright on the floor. “What’s going on?”

“Rembrandt got another one,” Al announced. “Elmore just called with the news.”

Tim slowly shook his head. He sat down at the table. “Where did he abduct her?”

“No, he’s already finished with this one,” Al said grimly. “Some sorority girl found her in a garbage dump in North Seattle. A bunch of them were there for a hazing. Same MO: the plastic bag over the head, and the makeup job. This one’s throat was slit. She’s a Jane Doe right now, unidentified: Caucasian female, approximately thirty years old. Only one distinguishing mark so far, because the body’s decomposed. The medical examiner is having a look at her. He thinks she’s been dead about two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Tim murmured. “Claire Shaw was left for dead two weeks ago.”

Al nodded, then plopped down in the chair across from him. “Yeah, Rembrandt must have been a very busy boy.” His fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Anyway, here’s the thing Elmore wanted to know. The one distinguishing mark they got on her so far is a retainer with two fake front teeth. Didn’t you file a report on a missing person about a week or ten days ago? It was one of those possibly Rembrandt-related cases you always throw his way. Elmore remembers the fake front teeth. Some broad, who was stepping out on her husband, disappeared after meeting with her boyfriend in a downtown Seattle hotel. Elmore said you might remember.”

He pointed to Tim’s briefcase. “You probably have the report in there. Let’s have a look.”

“No, it’s not in there,” Tim said quickly. “Elmore has the report. It’s already submitted. I remember, it’s from last week. The woman’s name was—um, Terrianne Something…Terrianne Langley, that’s it. She’s from Issaquah. Her husband reported her missing, then a friend of hers confessed that Terrianne had been spending the weekend with a married boyfriend.”

Al Sparling grabbed a pen and hotel stationary from a plastic display holder on the desk. He started jotting down notes.

“The woman-friend only knew the married guy’s first name: Gary or George, I’m not sure, but it’s in the report. The friend said Terrianne and this guy were supposed to check into The Westhill Towers on Saturday. The part about Terrianne’s fake teeth was in the husband’s description. We have a photo of her on file too. If Lieutenant Elmore can’t find the hard copy I gave him, he can get it from my computer. It’s under my Missing Persons header, then her name,
Langley, Terrianne.
Missing Persons might have a follow-up, but I don’t have one. Elmore didn’t request it.”

“Good boy.” Al stood up and glanced at his notes.
“Terrianne Langley.
I’ll pass it on. And don’t worry about not having any follow-up. There’ll be one now.”

He headed for the door. “Get some sleep, hotshot. We’re gonna have a long day tomorrow.”

Claire Shaw walked to the end of the driveway with her stepdaughter, Tiffany. There was a light, morning drizzle, and she held an open umbrella over the six-year-old. Claire wore a trench coat over her black sweater and jeans. She didn’t mind the rain. It felt good to be outside again. She tilted her head back to feel the cool mist against her face. She actually smiled for a moment.

Then she remembered Brian’s empty bedroom, and the smile ran away from her face. His room was in the lower tier of their split level home—just off the TV/recreation area and down the hall from Harlan’s work space and the laundry room. She’d snuck down there late last night, hoping to find something that might indicate where he’d gone. She’d discovered a couple of
Playboy
s in the bottom of his desk drawer, but nothing else. However, she noticed some of his regular “knock-around” clothes—along with the Simpsons T-shirt and plaid Joe Boxer undershorts he religiously wore to bed every night—were missing. So was the duffle bag he’d always packed when spending the night at a friend’s house. She had to wonder if it was true. Had he really run away?

Brian’s bedroom walls were adorned with posters of rock groups, cartoons from
South Park,
a couple of road signs he’d swiped, and some family photos with his father. Harlan wasn’t in any of the pictures. The room still smelled a little like Brian. Curling up on his bed and hugging his pillow, Claire sobbed uncontrollably. She had an awful feeling that her son would never occupy this room again.

It had been the only time she’d allowed herself to break down last night. For the rest of the evening, she acted happy to be back. Tiffany had painted a
“Welcome Home”
sign that she’d taped to the front door with some balloons. And Linda Castle had dropped off one of her casseroles that morning—something with pork and a Frito-crumb crust. There was a note with cooking instructions, and a P.S.:
“A good friend is hard to get rid of. Affectionately, Linda.”
They’d ordered pizza.

Harlan had been in a festive mood. He’d downed four Bud Lites instead of his usual one-beer-a-night, then fell asleep in his chair in front of the TV. Claire had helped him up to bed, and received a sleepy good night kiss.

He’d apologized this morning for not being more “romantic” her first night back. In truth, Claire hadn’t been in a very sexy mood anyway. She was still putting greasy ointment on the ugly wound between her breasts. Besides, Harlan seemed like a stranger to her.

Tiffany had clung to her most of last night. In turn, Claire doted on her. This morning, she’d cooked her pancakes for breakfast, and packed Tiffany’s favorite lunch, Spaghetti-O’s in a thermos.

They waited at the end of the driveway for the school bus. The house was near the end of a winding cul de sac. The backyard stopped at the edge of a forest. Tall bushes and shrubs along both sides of the front yard isolated them from their neighbors. Across the street was a large house that was still under construction after a year. There had been a legal dispute between the architect and the construction company. The unfinished shell of a house was roped off with yellow police tape. Harlan considered it an eyesore.

“Your raincoat isn’t zipped up, honey,” Claire said, hovering over Tiffany with the umbrella.

Harlan’s daughter handed Claire her school book and lunch box, then worked the zipper to her coat. She was a cute little girl, with dimples, beautiful blue eyes, and long, slightly frizzy blond hair. “Will you be home when I get back?” she asked.

“I sure will,” Claire assured her. “I’m not going anywhere today.”

She returned the books and lunch box to Tiffany, then glanced up the cul de sac. “Here’s your bus, honey. Have a good day, okay?” She bent down and kissed Tiffany on the cheek.

The bus came to stop in front of their driveway, and the door whooshed open.

Tiffany paused and stared up at Claire. “Will Brian be home when I get back?” she asked.

Claire tried to smile. “I hope so, sweetheart. I hope so.”

From the first floor window of the unfinished shell of a house, he watched Claire Shaw. She stood across the street, waving to her stepdaughter. After the bus pulled away, she folded up the umbrella, then wiped her eyes. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like she was crying.

He’d always thought it strange how—after finishing with that woman from the hotel gym—he’d stuck her body in a dumpster in Seattle, then they’d found “Jane Doe” in a Bellingham junkyard, ninety miles away.

Until a couple of days ago, he hadn’t known he had a copycat. He’d wasted so many days and nights, sneaking around that hospital, trying to learn the identity of a woman—and all the while, he’d never even touched her. Someone else had left Claire Shaw in that Bellingham junkyard. Someone else had tried to kill her, and botched it.

How much was this copycat getting right? Obviously the garbage-dump “resting spot” of his own second victim, Barbara Tuttle, had inspired his imitator to place Claire Shaw in that Bellingham junkyard. But did she have a beauty mark on her cheek? Was her hair done the right way? Did she look pretty—or overly made-up and grotesque?

What bothered him most about this copycat was his sloppiness. People were attributing the bungled attempt on Claire Shaw’s life to Rembrandt.

He wanted to show this copycat how to get it right.

Last evening, from this very spot in the half-completed house, he’d glimpsed someone else skulking outside the Shaws’ split-level home. Even under the full moon, his copycat managed to remain in the shadows, lurking in the bushes and peeking in the windows. Obviously, his imitator needed to finish the job on Claire, before she remembered him.

He wondered if his copycat was the competitive type. Because now he wanted Claire for himself. The more time he spent watching Claire Shaw, the more it seemed like a courtship.

Across the way at the end of the drive, she pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket, then blew her nose. Then apparently something caught her eye on the construction site. For a moment, she seemed to stare directly back at him.

He didn’t move.

Claire tipped her head back and let the drizzling rain kiss her face.

She looked so pretty.

He watched Claire start back toward the house, and he thought about how he could make her even prettier.

The way Tim understood it, he and Al were on Deception Island as a courtesy to the Shaws. They would provide extra security and conduct any further investigations with locals in the area if deemed necessary. It would have taken Tim twenty seconds to explain this to Sheriff Klauser, a bony, meek-looking, middle-aged man with glasses and thinning gray-brown hair.

Al managed to stretch out their meeting at the police station to two and a half hours. He was oblivious to the fact that—after forty-five minutes—the soft-spoken sheriff appeared utterly annoyed with him. Tim counted three times when the sheriff started to say,
“Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do today…”
And Tim had tried to intervene twice with
“We know you’re busy, so we won’t take up much more of your time.”
Al just kept rambling on about all the stakeouts he’d been on, and he talked more than he probably should have about Terrianne Langley’s murder.