Left for Dead (18 page)

She faked her orgasm. She wanted Harlan to feel good about their reunion sex. What was the point of him knowing that she’d been uncomfortable most of the time? She knew he was making his best effort for “normalcy” too.

Claire told him that it was wonderful.

That wasn’t the only lie she’d told last night. She’d also invented this appointment with Dr. Moorehead for 1:00
P.M
. Harlan had said he would drive her into town.

Claire stood at the bottom of the stairwell to Moorehead’s office. She stared out the window in the door.

Ever since last night, she’d been anxious to talk with Tim Sullivan. She was so grateful to have someone helping her. He’d talked to Linda for her, had even ticked her off. The last time she’d made Linda mad, she’d been digging at the truth. Maybe Tim had been doing the same thing. Maybe the truth was within their grasp after all.

She stepped outside, and turned up the collar to her trench coat. A chilly breeze came from the harbor, and the sky was gray. Claire cut across the street, and walked half a block to The Fork In The Road Diner. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure Harlan wasn’t still around.

She headed into a phone booth outside the restaurant. From her purse, she fished out a couple of quarters, along with a piece of paper on which she’d scribbled the number of the hotel. She got The Whale Watcher Inn operator, and asked for Tim Sullivan’s room. The phone rang and rang.

The hotel operator broke in and asked if she wanted to leave a message. Claire hesitated, said, “No thank you,” then hung up.

All at once, someone slammed into the side of the booth.

Claire swiveled around.

“Fucking bitch!” yelled the town drunk, Vernon Gutterman. He seemed to ricochet off the glass. Though in his forties, Vernon looked like an old man. Years of heavy drinking had ravaged his face and cost him his job at the plant. Usually, he just loitered around Main Street, hitting folks up for money. But on rare occasions, the dipsomania turned him bitter, and he’d weave along the sidewalk, screaming obscenities at people.

A hand on her heart, Claire stared at him through the glass.

Vernon Gutterman stared back at her, seemingly just as startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Shaw!” he yelled, his speech slurred. “I didn’t know that was you.” He continued down the street. “Mrs. Shaw isn’t a bitch!” he announced loudly. “She’s a very nice lady…pretty lady…Mrs. Shaw…”

Claire hurried out of the phone booth and headed in the opposite direction. She didn’t need anyone calling attention to her at this moment.

The police station was half a block away. She wanted to go to there, and make sure a Missing Persons report had been filed for Brian. She wondered how much it would gel with the story Harlan and Linda had given her.

She headed toward the police station, about two blocks away. Then Claire saw something that made her stop dead. A man in a stocking cap stepped out of the alley across the street—between the florist and a travel agency that was closed. As soon as Claire spotted him, he ducked back into the alley, and disappeared. Claire didn’t get a good look at him. The only thing she was sure of was the gray stocking cap and an army jacket. Was he wearing sunglasses? She couldn’t tell in the distance.

Had he been watching her?

A chill raced through Claire’s body. He didn’t look like Harlan. He didn’t look like anyone.

She hurried toward the police station.

Ever since her return to Deception two days ago, Claire’s main concern had been her son’s whereabouts and the block of time she’d lost.

Now, she had a new concern. That faceless stranger in the alleyway had brought it on. For first time since coming back to the island, Claire thought about this serial killer on the loose.

She knew he wasn’t through with her.

He’d told Al that he had diarrhea.

It was the only way he could avoid going with him on a Whale Watching cruise. Al had been looking forward to this cruise since they’d arrived on the island the day before yesterday. He’d been insisting Tim come along. Al must have figured he wouldn’t get in so much trouble if they
both
played hookey that afternoon. Tim couldn’t fathom any other reason why the older cop wanted him along. He was pretty sure Al disliked him as much as he loathed Al. In any event, old Al couldn’t argue with a case of diarrhea.

So Tim holed up in his hotel room, and worked on his comic strip. Even with a delivery deadline looming, he had trouble staying focused. He kept thinking about Claire Shaw and her missing son. She was right. It was too much of a coincidence that Brian and his friend had both disappeared within 24 hours of her own disappearance. What were Derek’s parents and Claire Shaw’s friends covering up?

Tim remembered Derek’s younger sister, Amy, looking so panicked when he’d told her that he was a cop. And then she’d broken down and cried with her mother.

He thought about tracking Amy Herrmann at the school, then talking with her. There was a good chance he could get the truth from her. But at what cost? The idea of preying on some eighth grader—and intimidating her with a bunch of questions—made him sick. How much could she know anyway? Amy’s parents probably kept her in the dark about certain things.

Tim had no idea what his next move would be. He almost hoped they would ship him back to the mainland. Then he could advise his replacement about Claire Shaw’s concerns, and let a real detective handle it.

He retreated into his comic strip, where he was safe and
Private Eye Guy
knew how to dig out the evil villains and save the girl. This particular installment wasn’t among his best. But he’d submitted worse.

In the right hand corner of the final comic strip frame, Tim signed his pen name, Tim Timster. He packed his work in a padded Express Mail envelope, then walked to the post office on Main Street, not far from the Fork In The Road Diner.

As he stepped out of the post office, Tim passed by the police station, and spotted Claire through the big, plate-glass window.

She sat at a gray, metal desk, studying some paperwork. Her trenchcoat was thrown over the back of her chair, and she wore a pretty green pullover sweater. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a bun. Claire hadn’t noticed him yet.

But the deputy behind the counter was staring at him. Tim had briefly met him yesterday when Al and he had visited Sheriff Klauser. Tim waved at the deputy, then he stepped inside the police station.

Claire glanced up from the papers. For a second, she looked so happy to see him. Tim gave her a cordial smile. “Hello, Mrs. Shaw.”

Her eyes shifted to the deputy, then back to Tim. She nodded. “Officer Sullivan.”

“Hey, you’re back,” the deputy piped up.

Tim couldn’t remember his name. The deputy was tall, about thirty years old, and good-looking. He had a thin face and brown hair that fell across his forehead.

Moseying out from behind the counter, he shook Tim’s hand. He seemed a bit cocky, and Tim imagined him flirting with just about every woman he pulled over for speeding or running a stop sign. This close, Tim could see his name tag above the badge on his gray shirt: Deputy Troy Landers.

“The sheriff’s not in,” he told Tim. “Anything I can do for you?”

“No, thanks,” Tim said. He turned toward Claire for a moment. “I saw Mrs. Shaw in here, and just wanted to say hello.”

“How about some coffee? I was about to make a new pot.”

“Sounds great, thanks.” Tim was hoping maybe they’d be rid of him for a couple of minutes. He watched Deputy Landers saunter behind the counter again, toward a room in back.

Except for the quaint store-front look, the police station was a stark, charmless big room. Maps of Washington State, the San Juan Islands, and Deception were tacked to the dirty, yellow walls—along with about a dozen “Wanted” fliers. A row of six connected black bucket-style seats, the kind found in airports desperately needing a remodel, was set against the wall. On the opposite wall, between the counter and the stairs, there was also an old, beat-up metal drinking fountain, with a pail beneath it to catch a leak. The jail, Tim had been told yesterday, was downstairs.

Someone as lovely as Claire Shaw seemed so out of place in such an ugly, colorless room. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you,” she whispered. “You met with Linda Castle yesterday?”

“Derek Herrmann’s mother too,” Tim said in a low voice. “I didn’t get much from either one of them. I’m pretty sure Derek’s never coming back. Either the family sent him away for good, or maybe he’s dead. We might find out more from his kid sister, Amy. But I wouldn’t count on it.” Frowning, Tim shook his head. “The people around here are very guarded when it comes to talking about you, and Brian and Derek.”

Tim shot a cautious look toward the back room, behind the counter. “What are you doing here anyway?”

She glanced down at the stack of files on the desk and sighed. “I wanted to look at the Missing Person report on my son.”

Tim squinted at the stack of papers in the file. “How many years worth of Missing Persons do you have there?” he murmured.

She checked a bulletin on the bottom of the stack. “About four years.”

“Must be fifty people here.” Tim came around the desk and glanced over her shoulder. He looked at several of the sheets. “That’s an awful lot of Missing Persons for one little island.”

He kept checking photos of the missing. Most of them were teenagers, like Brian and Derek. He stopped and studied the bulletin on top of the pile.

From the black-and-white photo, Brian Ferguson looked like a handsome, fairly unaffected teenager. No strange haircut, gothic eye makeup, or weird piercings. Tim checked the statistics listed under his name:

“Not much to go on,” Tim murmured. He remembered what Roseann had said about Brian having had a few brushes with the local police. Had it been for stunts like stealing Linda Castle’s gnome, or was Brian a more serious repeat offender?

Deputy Landers came from the back room with a couple of mugs full of coffee. He gave one to Tim. “There you go, sport. Hope you like it black.”

“That’s great, thanks,” Tim said. He showed him Brian’s “missing” bulletin. “Could I get a copy of this?”

Deputy Landers nodded over his coffee cup. “We have a Xerox machine in back. No sweat.”

“Also, I’m wondering if you have any other police records on file for Brian. I understand he had a few brushes with the law.”

Deputy Landers glanced at Claire, who squirmed a little in her chair. She seemed to muster up a smile, then nodded at the deputy.

Troy Landers shrugged. “Sure, I can show you a file on him.”

“I’d also like to see what you have on Brian’s friend, Derek Herrmann. I understand he raised some hell from time to time. Do you have a file on him too?”

The deputy hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, I guess I can show you that too. Anything for our Seattle buddies in blue.”

Troy took them behind the counter to a claustrophobic, windowless back room. Four file cabinets stood against the wall, along with fax and copy machines. Pushed against the other wall was a long table with three folding chairs. A mini-refrigerator, a microwave, and a Mr. Coffee maker were crammed in the corner.

The deputy pulled a couple of files from the cabinet.

“My son has his own police file?” Claire asked, grimacing a bit.

“It’s the sheriff’s own system,” Troy explained, setting the folders on the table. “Any more than three offenses—no matter how minor—and the perpetrator gets a file,”

Tim sat down at the table, and started sorting through the reports. Brian had five “incidents” on record.

In the outer office, the phone rang, and Troy excused himself to answer it. Claire plopped down in the chair beside Tim. “Why do you need to see Brian’s police record?” she whispered.

“I want to find out if he and Derek have ticked off anyone else besides Linda Castle.”

“Oh, her seventh dwarf, or whatever it was.” Claire sighed. “She told you about that?”

Nodding, Tim cracked a smile.

“To make up for it, Brian worked in that garden three days a week all summer long. And Linda still hasn’t forgiven him. I know he’s gotten himself into some trouble, but deep down, he’s really a nice boy.”

“There’s nothing very serious here,” Tim murmured, pouring over Brian’s rap sheets. He noticed the typical pranks of a teenage boy. His worst offense was “borrowing” a small yacht from the harbor, and sailing it to Anacortes.

“That was the last time he ran away,” Claire explained. “The boat belongs to Phil Gannon, who works with Harlan at the plant. Anyway, it’s a long story, but Harlan got Phil to drop the charges, and he covered the cost for Brian mooring the boat in someone else’s spot.”

She put her hand on Tim’s arm. “I know it’s sounds like I’m making excuses for him,” she whispered. “But he and Harlan didn’t always get along. I’m afraid I didn’t—well, I…” Her voice cracked a bit. “I never took Brian’s side. I kept thinking,
‘Why can’t you get along with him? You’re going to blow it for us, kiddo.’
I didn’t want to lose Harlan. He’d really rescued us. I’d been so broke, and miserable and lonely before he’d come onto the scene.”

“It’s okay,” Tim assured her. “You don’t have to explain.” He glanced at the police report again. “Was this Phil Gannon pretty forgiving?”

“I don’t think he’s a huge fan of Brian’s, but he’s very nice to me. He and Harlan are still friends.”

Tim glanced at Derek Herrmann’s file: busted twice for possession of marijuana; caught shoplifting three times; driving under the influence (license suspended); driving without a license; car theft; drunk and disorderly. There were over a dozen reported incidents, and most of the time, it appeared the Herrmanns had managed to get the charges dropped.