Left for Dead (25 page)

Claire wanted to steal some time alone, so she could see Tim. Someone had poisoned his partner. She had a feeling Tim was in trouble, maybe in even more trouble than her.

She pretended to listen as Harlan talked about dropping her off at Dr. Moorehead’s, then taking Tiffany to her party. All the while Claire stared at him and thought he’d taken the news of Al Sparling’s death pretty easily. The two of them had been talking like old friends in the living room just a couple of mornings ago. And now the man was dead, poisoned. She wanted to ask Harlan how he could be so nonchalant.

But she didn’t say a single word about it.

Not far from the ferry terminal on the mainland, Tim found an auto repair shop. He had them inspect his loaner car to make sure nothing had been tampered with. While he sat in the waiting room, Tim checked a Washington state map for the best route to Wenatchee.

Lieutenant Elmore had told him to sit tight. But he couldn’t. And he couldn’t understand how they’d just dismissed it as a coincidence that two of Rembrandt’s victims had spent time on this tiny island in the San Juans.

He’d telephoned Nancy Killabrew Hart’s parents from the hotel, and asked if he could come see them regarding the ongoing investigation. Mr. Killabrew had seemed reluctant at first, but finally agreed to meet him. He’d given Tim directions to their house in Wenatchee.

Tim hadn’t noticed anyone tailing him from the hotel to the ferry terminal. He hadn’t seen anyone suspicious on the ferry either. Still, he’d decided not to take any chances with the car.

The auto mechanic stepped into the waiting area and gave Tim’s loaner car a clean bill of health.

From the map, Tim figured he had a three-hour trip to Wenatchee ahead of him, some of it over a mountain pass. And most of the way, he would be checking his rearview mirror.

“Do you remember anything before—or after—that moment you were in Tiffany’s bathroom talking to Harlan?” Linus Moorehead asked.

He was looking rather dapper today, with a tweed coat over his black knit shirt. He and Claire sat across from each other in his matching club chairs.

Harlan had dropped her off at Moorehead’s office. Linda was supposed to pick her up later and take her to the Garden Plaza. The Whale Watcher Inn was only about four blocks away. But Claire couldn’t hope to break away and see Tim.

She shifted a bit in the chair, and gave Dr. Moorehead an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I just remember standing in the bathroom and telling Harlan that Brian had run away again. And I was crying.”

“How did Harlan seem to take this news?” Dr. Moorehead asked.

“He was surprised, and concerned for me. I—” Claire hesitated.

“Go on.”

She sighed. “I was going to say, I feel bad for not trusting him more, for not—believing what he and Linda told me about that night. I thought they were lying, but all this time, I’ve been lying to myself.” Frowning, Claire slowly shook her head. “I didn’t want to think that Brian really ran away, and chose to
stay
away. I was hoping—and sort of dreading—there was some other explanation. But I guess it boils down to the fact that I must be a lousy mother. I’m not a very good wife to Harlan either.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?” he asked.

“No,” Claire replied. “Because I still don’t completely trust Harlan. Nor Linda for that matter.”

“Quit beating yourself up, Claire,” Moorehead replied, with a warm smile. “You’ve been through a hell of a lot, and you can only remember little bits of it. What other people are telling you doesn’t make sense. It will take a while before anything makes sense. It’s only natural for you to be wary of everyone and everything around you. Finally, most importantly, you miss your son.”

Claire just nodded. Everything he said made sense.

“I don’t blame you for being a little suspicious,” he went on. “And I’d be a bit angry too—if I was in your place. You’ve lost a couple of weeks of your life. You should be allowed some emotional baggage from that. If your husband and your friends don’t understand that, then the hell with them. Tell them to come see me.”

Claire smiled and let out a surprised little laugh.

In a couple of sessions, her opinion of Dr. Moorehead, the “dork” with the collages, had turned around. A part of her wanted to tell Linus Moorehead about Tim.

But she did what most of the therapists she’d seen over the last two weeks told her not to do.

She held back.

Arlette Killabrew showed Tim a framed photo of the family in front of their vacation cabin on Deception Island. “Nancy was engaged at th-th-the time, and we figured this was our last vacation as a family,” she explained. “And it-it-it was, but not in the way we th-thought.”

Tim studied the picture. Rembrandt’s first victim was a beautiful young blonde. They were a good-looking family.

He hadn’t expect Nancy Killabrew Hart’s parents to be so young. With his curly blond hair, chiseled good looks, and sporty long-sleeve T-shirt, Mr. Killabrew could have passed for one of those rugged great outdoors–men, paddling down the rapids in a beer commercial. His wife was a pale, natural beauty with shoulder-length red hair. She wore a yellow pullover and jeans that hugged her trim hips. Their daughter, Nancy, would have been twenty-four if she were alive today. Tim guessed Mr. and Mrs. Killabrew were in the late-forties, but they looked much younger.

At the door, Frank Killabrew had given Tim a bone-crunching handshake, and invited him into the family room. When Arlette Killabrew had offered Tim a cup of coffee, he’d noticed her slight stutter.

The Killabrews’ family room had a big, stone fireplace, a TV and stereo, and a couple of dozen framed family photos on the wall. There was a blank spot from the picture Arlette Killabrew had taken off the wall to show Tim.

He’d admitted to them he was the only person on the investigation task force who thought their weeklong vacation on Deception Island might have been a factor in Nancy’s murder fourteen months later. He explained about Claire, a Deception Island resident who had survived Rembrandt’s attack.

“It’s such a small island,” Tim concluded. “And two of his victims have spent time on it—Nancy on your family vacation, and Claire Shaw as a full-time resident. He waited until both women were off the island, before he went after them.”

The Killabrews agreed that it was an awfully strange coincidence.

“We never got to meet Mrs. Shaw,” Frank Killabrew explained. He sat upright in a recliner across from Tim. “But we met her son, Brian. He got into some trouble with Frank Junior and another boy, Derek Somebody.”

“Derek Herrmann,” Tim said. He was sitting beside Arlette Killabrew on the blackwatch-plaid sofa. “I’m wondering if you remember anything else about that vacation, specifically anything that happened to Nancy. Did she go out with anyone while she was on the island?”

Frank Killabrew shook his head. “No, Nancy didn’t have any dates,” he said. “As Arlette told you, she and Jim were engaged at the time.”

“Yes, of course,” Tim said. “But I think Nancy’s first encounter with this man was on Deception Island. I’m looking for some sort of early warning sign—if you know what I mean. Was there anything unusual that happened? Anything Nancy might have shared with you?”

Frank Killabrew sighed. “Well, she caught that Derek Herrmann kid outside the cabin looking at her through her bedroom window one afternoon. Nancy told me, and I gave the little pervert a talking-to. That’s about it.”

“There was something witha-witha-witha policeman,” Arlette Killabrew said over her coffee cup. “He st-stopped Nancy for not using her indicator, or something s-s-silly like that, and-and-and then he flirted with her. I remember Nancy telling me, and we laughed about it.”

“Did she mention this policeman’s name or what he looked like?” Tim asked.

Mrs. Killabrew thought for a moment. Frowning, she patted back her red hair. “Sh-she said he was good-looking. His name was—um…”

“Troy?” Tim interjected. “Troy Landers?”

She nodded emphatically. “Th-that’s right. I remember Nancy saying, he was—he was cute, but-but he gave her the creeps.”

“Did she mention anything else about him?” Tim asked. “Did she have any other kind of contact with him?”

Arlette Killabrew shook her head. “No, that was it.”

Tim once again picked up the framed photo of the Killabrews in front of their cabin on Deception Island. He focused on Nancy’s image. She was laughing, and had her arm around her kid brother’s shoulder.

He wondered if—when this photograph was taken—she’d already met the man who would kill her.

Kimberly was naked, strapped down on a massage table. She couldn’t speak or scream, because of the tape over her mouth.

He quickly covered her from the neck down with a white sheet. On either side of the massage table, he’d set up bright lamps on tripods—like lights for a movie set. They were blinding. Kimberly didn’t see anything on the white-painted walls. A sheet hanging from a clothesline sectioned off the rest of the room from this little windowless area.

At her right was a tall, narrow cabinet on wheels, one of those portable chest-of-drawers hair-cutters and beauticians have near their workstations.

Squinting in the lights, she tried to focus on him. She couldn’t see his face. He wore a surgeon’s mask, hair-bonnet, and apron. He had on the thin rubber gloves too.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Kimberly,” he explained behind the mask—in a calm, oddly personable tone. “I’ll be letting you go soon. That’s why I made you wear the hood when I took you out of your room. It’s why I’m wearing this mask. After I let you go, I don’t want you telling the police what I look like—or where you were. Would I take these precautions if I was going to kill you? Now, don’t squirm, okay? This isn’t surgery, Kimberly.”

He reached into the narrow cabinet and pulled out a bottle of astringent and some cotton balls. “You’re a very pretty girl, Kimberly,” he said. “I just think you could be prettier.”

“She’s very pretty. Is she your girlfriend?”

The young female clerk at the Foto Finish in Wenatchee’s Valley River Mall handed the photos to Tim. One was an original, and two were copies she’d made for him in three minutes.

The photo was a college graduation portrait on loan from Mr. and Mrs. Killabrew’s family room. Tim had promised to return it after making the copies. He wanted to show the picture of Nancy Hart around Deception Island. Maybe Roseann or the sheriff would remember seeing her with one of the locals—or with a stranger.

He would add the photo to his own Rembrandt file, a green folder with sleeves holding data he’d gathered so far. It had everything: copies of Derek Herrmann’s and Brian Ferguson’s police records; paperwork from the auto wreck place; copies off the library microfiche of
The Seattle Times
article on Nancy Killabrew Hart; and notes jotted on napkins. So far, none of it came together to make any sense.

The girl behind the counter smiled at Tim as she handed him his change. “Well? Is the girl in the picture your sweetheart?”

Tim just shook his head.

He’d left the Killabrews about a half hour ago. They’d given him a couple of leads: Derek and his window-peeping and Troy Landers on the make. Was it just a coincidence Rembrandt had abducted another woman on Troy’s day off?

Tim pulled into the Killabrews’ driveway. As he came up to the house, the door opened. Arlette Killabrew stepped outside and gently closed the door behind her. She met Tim on front stoop. She had a handkerchief in her hand, and her eyes were bloodshot. “Glad I—I caught you before you rang,” she said in a quiet voice. “Frank’s taking a nap.”

Tim handed the photo of Nancy to her. “Thank you. I hope my visit didn’t upset you.”

She gave him a sad smile and shook her head. “It-it-it’s all right. After you left, Frank and I started talking about that vacation. Like I—I said, it was our last trip together as a-a-a family. It was a very happy time. We both had a good cry.”

“Well, thank you again for you help, Mrs. Killabrew.”

“Arlette,” she said. She held out her hand.

When Tim shook it, she didn’t let go.

Tim stared at her. Mrs. Killabrew looked as if she wanted to say something, but couldn’t form the words.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Something d-d-did happen,” she whispered. “I remembered it after you left. I never t-t-told Frank, never told anybody. I think Nancy did—see someone on the island. She didn’t say anything to me. She was engaged to Jim.” Mrs. Killabrew let out a tiny laugh. “Th-they were high school sweethearts. Nancy never—never even went out w-w-with another boy. I know that was on her mind during the vacation.”

Mrs. Killabrew glanced down at the ground. She rubbed her arms from the chill.

“Go on,” Tim said.

“Nancy used to t-t-take long walks alone in the woods on Deception. She always came back before dark. But one night she-she-she almost missed dinner. We—were barbecuing outside, and I—I saw her slip into the house. I found her in her—room, and she was crying. I asked what was wrong, and she shook her head and answered th-that she was fine. She said,
‘I—I almost did something really stupid, Mom, but I’m okay.’
I could, I could see she was—upset, clearly. Then she went into th-the bathroom, and washed up. Nancy didn’t say anything about it again.”

“Do you think she’d been attacked?”

Mrs. Killabrew’s mouth twisted into a frown, then she shook her head. “Nancy’s clothes looked clean. But wh-what I remember is her face was—all made up. I remember the mascara running when she was crying. I’d never seen her all-all-all made up like that before. Sh-she even had a beauty mark painted on…”

Linda wore her sailor hat with the brim turned down, her orange
HOE-HOE-HOE
sweatshirt (she had it in three different colors), and her gardening gloves that matched her knee-pads.

Since picking up Claire at Dr. Moorehead’s office, Linda had mentioned twice—perhaps as a conversation filler:
“I can’t believe you didn’t bring gloves or anything, Claire. What you’ve got on I’d wear to go
shopping,
not
gardening.”

What Claire had on were jeans, an olive-colored pullover, and a windbreaker, and she didn’t see what was wrong with the outfit. They’d found some gloves and a knee pad in the greenhouse. Even with a hole still healing in her chest and the
wrong outfit,
she seemed to keep up with Linda in the number of tulip bulbs they were planting.

Molly Cartwright, the third member of their horticultural party, was a bit slower. Though dressed appropriately in a baseball cap, gardening gloves, and knee pads, Molly still wasn’t planting the bulbs correctly, according to Linda. A plump, fortyish blonde with bangs and a sweet smile, Molly took Linda’s criticism in an obliviously good-natured way. Then she went back to talking about what a hunk Dr. Moorehead was.

“Oh, there’s something so sexy about him,” Molly said, digging into the soil with a spade. “I’d act crazy just for a chance to sit and talk with him for an hour. Don’t you think he’s sexy, Claire?”

She paused over her work. “Kind of intellectual-sexy. I didn’t think much of him at first, but I’m getting to like him. I think the visits are doing me some good.”

“Molly, dear, could you get some more mulch from the greenhouse?” Linda asked. “I’ll be your slave for life.”

Linda waited until Molly Cartwright got to her feet and started toward the greenhouse. She stared at Claire. “You’re starting to remember things?” she asked in a hushed voice.

Claire shrugged. “Not much, just fragments.”

“Like what?” Linda pressed.

“I remember being tied-up, and I was in a car.” Claire started digging at the soil again. “And there was a conversation with Harlan. I told him that Brian had run away again. I was crying.”

“So—you remember that now? See? I wasn’t lying, Claire. At the hospital, you accused me—”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry, Linda.”

“Do you remember anything else? Or is that all?”

“That’s it, except for that episode with you and me in the front seat of Ron’s Jeep. I told you about it already. There was a man outside the car, and he had a gun. You told me to pray.”

Linda shook her head and went back to gardening. “That just plain didn’t happen, Claire. Like I told you, I think you dreamt that one up.”

Molly returned, lugging a five-pound bag of mulch. “You know what we should be planting?” she said, plopping the bag on the ground. “Violets.”

“They’re not outdoor plants, dear,” Linda sighed, busily digging away.

“Too bad,” Molly said, getting down on her knees at the edge of the garden. “I thought it might be sweet. You know, because of Violet Davalos?”

Linda stopped digging. Her eyes narrowed at Molly. “Are you joking?” she asked. “Because what you’re saying is hardly appropriate.”

Wide-eyed, Molly gazed back at her and shrugged. “I wasn’t joking,” she said innocently. “I just thought it might be a nice tribute to Violet. We could plant some violets in her honor. Maybe in the greenhouse—”

“Well, I think it’s in bad taste.” Linda sighed, then went back to work.

“Who’s Violet Davalos?” Claire asked.

“Oh, that’s right, it happened before you moved here,” Molly said. “The Davalos family used to live here. Their house was on this very spot at one time—along with a vacant lot. And oh, it was just a mess, a regular eye-sore. I don’t really blame Violet for letting the place go—”

“Molly, you’re not digging deep enough again,” Linda interrupted. “I told you how to do it. You’re almost as bad as my poor mother, and she has Alzheimer’s. That reminds me. Do you know what she did the other day?”

Linda told a story about her mother in the rest home in Everett. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about Violet Davalos.

A half hour and a dozen tulip bulbs later, Molly got a call on her cell phone. Her daughter needed to be picked up from a friend’s house.

“Could I hitch a ride to the Shermans?” Claire asked. “Tiffany’s at a birthday party there. If you’d drop me, Tiffany and I will get a ride home from one of the other mothers. Harlan ought to be back from work by then.”

She turned to Linda. “Do you mind? I don’t mean to poop out on you, but I’m feeling a little tired. This is the first real exercise I’ve had since…” She shrugged. “Plus I’m a bit clammy. Y’know, Linda, I think you were right. I didn’t dress appropriately. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

Linda looked a bit confused. But she nodded. “Well, I suppose so.”

“So—who is Violet Davalos?” Claire asked.

She sat on the passenger side of Molly Cartwright’s station wagon. Molly was at the wheel, watching the road.

“Gosh, did you see how Linda got all bent out of shape when I suggested we plant something in Violet’s honor?” Molly asked.

“Yes, I wondered what that was about,” Claire said. “You were saying earlier that Violet Davalos’s house used to be where the Garden Plaza is.”

Eyes on the road, Molly nodded. “That’s right. Well, it all happened before you came here, Claire. Hugh and Violet Davalos had a house on the property. And there was a vacant lot beside it. No one in their right mind would want to live next door to the Davalos family. They just let the place go to pot, which by the way, the two teenage sons were growing in their backyard. Not that you could see it—past all the overgrown grass and trash they tossed out on that lawn. And don’t get me started on those two boys.”

“They were bad news, huh?” Claire asked.

“Well, let’s put it this way,” Molly said. “They were just like their father, and he’d been in jail. He was alcoholic, and violent. We always knew something awful would happen to that family. Poor Violet.”

“What happened to them?”

“Hugh got drunk and crazy one night,” Molly said, eyes on the road. “It’s really sad. He—well, he shot Violet and the two boys, set fire to the place, then turned the gun on himself.”

“My God,” Claire murmured. “When did all this happen?”

“About three years ago. It was the Fourth of July. I remember, because at first, they thought some fireworks had gone off. The place burned to the ground. The bank owned the property. Hugh and Violet were in debt up to their elbows. Anyway, the Guardians got together, and bought up the land—along with the lot next door, and they turned it into the Garden Plaza.”

Claire just shook her head.

“I can’t believe you’ve lived here two years, and never heard about it,” Molly said. “Huh, then again, I guess people would like to put it behind them. Still, you’d think there would be a plaque or a memorial birdbath or something in the Garden Plaza. I mean, Violet wasn’t a bad sort. Was I crazy to want to plant a violet or two in her honor? I don’t know why Linda got so snippy.”

“Me neither,” Claire murmured, staring at the road ahead.

“Wouldn’t that be a sweet idea though? A couple of violet plants, maybe in the greenhouse?”

“Claire, the phone’s for you.” Kira Sherman brought the cordless receiver to her.

When Claire had arrived at Courtney Sherman’s birthday party she’d volunteered to help. Courtney’s mother, Kira, had put her to work in the kitchen.

Claire set down the dish towel, and took the phone from her. “Thanks, Kira,” she said, a bit mystified that someone was calling her there. “Hello?”

“Hi, Claire. I’m just calling to make sure you’re all right. You left so suddenly, I was concerned.”

“Oh, Linda, hi. I’m fine, just a little tired. Sorry we deserted you.”

“Do you want me to come get you and Tiffany at the Shermans?” Linda asked on the other end of the line. “I can take you home. You really shouldn’t be alone, Claire. Harlan wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, I’ll get a lift from one of the mothers here. Harlan should be back by the time we get home.” Claire had already told Linda all this at the gardens. Was Linda really that concerned? Or was she checking up on her for some other reason?

“So what did you and Molly talk about in the car?” Linda asked.

“Um, the gardens, mostly,” Claire answered. “Molly thought it could use another birdbath, and maybe a violet plant or two in the greenhouse.” She paused. “Listen, Linda, one of the kids here needs to phone her mom, I should hang up. Let’s talk later tonight, okay?”

There was no one waiting to use the phone. Once Claire clicked off with Linda, she asked Kira if she could make a call.

Courtney’s mother opened the basement door. They were assaulted by ear-piercing squeals and screams from the party-goers down in the recreation room. Kira waved and nodded tiredly. “While you’re at it, call a paddy wagon to take me away in a straight jacket!” She headed down the stairs.

The remark milked a laugh from a couple of the other mothers who were helping out. Claire stepped away from them as she dialed The Whale Watcher Inn. She got the operator, and asked for Tim Sullivan’s room. There was no answer. The operator broke in, and asked if she’d like to leave a message.

“Um, yes, please. I don’t have a phone number for you. But please tell him—a fellow artist tried to get a hold of him. And she’ll try again. No emergency. Got that?”

“Fellow artist…she’ll try again…no emergency. I got it.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.

One of the other mothers gave Claire and Tiffany a ride. But Claire had her drop them off at the library.

She left Tiffany to browse in the Children’s Section, then Claire repaired down to the basement, where the old periodicals and newspapers were stacked. The place smelled musty, and for a library, it was poorly lit. The overhead fluorescents were staggered so pockets of darkness broke up the big, gray room. The floor was unpainted cement. Rows of tall metal shelves were loaded with bound periodicals, stacks of yellowing newspapers, and dusty magazines. Claire didn’t see any place to sit, except for a metal mini-stepladder with a grooved rubber antislip surface. They probably didn’t want people lingering unobserved down in the basement for too long. If that was the ploy, it worked. At the moment, Claire was alone.

She wandered up and down a couple of aisles until she found where old copies of
The Islander
had been shelved.
The Islander
was a thin weekly that came out every Thursday, covering news and events for the San Juan Islands.

Claire pulled up the little stepladder, then sat and started thumbing through the old newspapers. She was looking for an issue dated around July 4, 2000, when the Davalos house had burned to the ground.

She wouldn’t have been all that interested if Linda hadn’t bristled at Molly’s mentioning the name, Davalos.

Claire’s hands became dirty as she shuffled through the pile of weeklies from three years ago. All of a sudden, she heard a noise in another part of the basement. It sounded like a door closing—or perhaps the furnace starting up. At the same time, she felt a chill. Claire turned toward the maintenance area door, with a chain in front of it and “No Entry” stenciled on a frayed, faded placard. The door was closed.

She waited a moment, listening for another noise. She heard footsteps, but that was upstairs. With a sigh, she went back to the newspapers. She found an issue of
The Islander
dated July 6, 2000, and paged through it. According to Molly, the Davalos fire was an arson, triple-homicide, and suicide. It should have made the headlines.

But Claire couldn’t even find anything in the “Police Beat,” a report of police emergencies, incidents, and what passed for crime on the quiet little islands. Brian’s gnome-stealing incident had been reported in a “Police Beat” last summer. Fortunately, they didn’t mention any names in their bulletins.

Unfortunately, they didn’t mention any names—or any fire—in the July 6 installment of “Police Beat.” Claire even tried the obituary page, but found nothing about the Davalos family.

She pulled out the July 13 issue, and thumbed through it. Then she heard another noise, and suddenly froze. It sounded like a magazine had fallen off one of the shelves in the next aisle. For a few seconds, Claire didn’t move. If someone had come down from the main floor, she would have heard them on the old, rod-iron spiral staircase.

Slowly, Claire got to her feet. Clutching the newspaper, she crept to the end of the aisle, and peeked past the row of shelves, Nothing in the next aisle, not even a magazine on the floor.

Biting her lip, she warily glanced down one more aisle. Again nothing. But the overhead light on the other side of the room was out, and she couldn’t tell for sure whether or not someone was there in the shadows. There was a dark alcove in the corner too. “Hello?” she said.

No response. She wondered if the library basement had rats.

Rats or Rembrandt, either way, she wasn’t staying down there.

As she started to move toward the spiral staircase, Claire heard a rustling noise. She stopped to listen for only a second, then bolted for the stairs. Claire raced up the old rod-iron stairway so fast, she was out of breath when she reached the top. She’d made some noise too. The librarian—and two people in the main room were staring at her.

Her head down, Claire quickly walked to the long study table, and sat in one of the mismatched chairs. Catching her breath, she once again started to page through
The Islander
for July 13, 2000. Claire kept looking over at the railing at the top of the spiral staircase to the basement. No one had come up from the cellar yet. Maybe they did have rats down there. After all, it was an old building, and near the water.

She glanced toward the Children’s Section, where Tiffany was parked on a sofa, reading a Christmas book with a cartoon crocodile on the cover.

Claire kept paging through
The Islander.
She finally found something on page seven:
“JULY 4TH TRAGEDY ON DECEPTION ISLAND: FOUR DEAD AS FAMILY VIOLENCE ERUPTS IN GUNFIRE, ARSON AND SUICIDE.”