Left for Dead (27 page)

He nodded. “It’s parked over by my office. Why? Can I give you a lift someplace?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, thanks…”

The following is a transcript of a recorded emergency call to a 9-1-1 operator in Skagit County, Washington, on Saturday, November 15 at 4:12
P.M
.:

“Why do you think he does it?” Walt Binns asked. He was feeling along the top of the door frame for a hidden key to the seemingly deserted cabin.

“Rembrandt?” Tim shrugged. “There are all sorts of theories.”

“Nothing here, try under that flower pot, will you?” Walt pointed to a dead plant in a clay pot at the front stoop. He checked along the window sill and flower boxes.

This was the fifteenth cabin they’d visited—not counting Walt’s. Tim had been impressed by Walter Binn’s little chalet, a very cozy two bedroom. According to Walt, it was the only cabin that had a phone hooked up. With all the other modern conveniences, stylishly “rustic” furniture, and shelf after shelf of books, it was the perfect weekend retreat. Tim had also noticed one of Claire’s paintings—a rainy, Seattle street scene—hanging over the fireplace in the living room. Walt had taken him outside, where he’d cleared away some trees for a backyard with a tool shed, barbecue pit, and patio. Tim could see the water through the trees.

He envied Walt—for about a minute. Sure, Harlan’s friend had youthful good looks, money to burn, and all the freedom and independence a guy could want. But he was also in his midforties, widowed, childless, and living on a small island. The best life had to offer was weekly dinners with Ron and Linda Castle, a crush on his best friend’s wife, and every couple of months a weekend with yet another man’s wife. Walt had mentioned having his own boat, and the freedom to come and go. But in reality, he seemed trapped on that little island. Hell, here it was, Saturday night, and he’d volunteered to show Tim around the woods.

Tim didn’t want to be like Walt Binns in ten years. Yet he wondered if he was on his way to the same life—only without the money and the boat.

“I found the key, never mind,” Walt announced, plucking the key from the window flower box. He unlocked the door.

With his flashlight, Tim followed Walt inside. Decorated in Early Fire Sale, the place was dusty. The electricity had been shut off. Tim opened the refrigerator, and he got a waft of rancid, rotten fruit on the shelf.

Obviously, no one had been in this cabin for at least a couple of weeks.

They were out of there and driving down the dirt road within five minutes. Dusk had set in, and Walt switched on the headlights. “So I bet you guys on the force have a lot of theories about Rembrandt,” Walt said, his eyes on the road. “I’ve heard he puts the clear plastic bags over their heads, and semisuffocates them in order to get-off. Y’know, reach a sexual climax? Do you think that’s true?”

“It’s possible,” Tim allowed. “But none of the women actually died from suffocation.” He was uncomfortable talking motives and modus operandi with civilians—especially in casual conversation. The police had withheld certain details about Rembrandt from the press and public. They weren’t supposed to talk about Rembrandt’s penchant for leaving behind his victim’s panties, or the beauty mark he drew on each woman’s cheek. There were several other details they kept secret.

“So—what theory do you subscribe to?” Walt asked.

“I think he’s making them up to look like someone,” Tim answered.

“You mean—like his mother, or an ex-girlfriend?”

Tim nodded. “Or a high school crush or Marilyn Monroe or someone who has become his obsession. I think he uses the plastic bag to preserve his work, and keep the victims looking like this woman for as long as possible. I agree with what they say in the newspapers. He wants his victims found before they start to deteriorate.” Tim shrugged. “There are details to back up this theory, but I really can’t talk about them, Walt.”

They pulled up to another cabin, one for which Chad had given them the key.

“You know, if it’s some kind of personal obsession for Rembrandt,” Walt said, unlocking the cottage’s front door. “Why would he have disciples working with him? Why share it? And what’s in it for the accomplice?”

Walt continued to talk and speculate while they checked out the cabin. The bungalow was small enough that they could hear each other from different rooms without having to shout.

Tim went down to the cellar, a potentially perfect spot for Rembrandt to imprison his victims. One of the other cabins had had an old bomb shelter. But with all the cobwebs and dust, Tim had figured no one had been down there in months. This place only had a laundry and storage room in the basement, no potential dungeons.

Upstairs, Walt was still talking. He really didn’t think Brian Ferguson’s running away had anything to do with Rembrandt. It probably had more to do with Deception Island, and restlessness. Walt admitted that as a teenager, he’d run away a couple of times himself.

Tim came up the basement stairs.

“You know, Harlan ran away too,” Walt told him. “Harlan must not remember. Otherwise, he’d be a little more patient with Brian.”

As they started back toward the car together, Tim thought about all the runaways and missing persons he’d noticed in the police files. Most were young men. Walt and Harlan had both come back to the island. Brian had returned on two previous occasions. So—why, after three weeks, was he still gone? And where was Derek Herrmann?

If they weren’t tied in with Rembrandt, what part did Brian and his bad-seed friend play in the attack on Claire? Their nearly synchronized disappearances were just too much of a coincidence.

Walt suggested taking a dinner break. Heading down Evergreen Drive, Tim noticed a nearly hidden dirt road on the right side of the street.

“Are there any cabins down there?” he asked, pointing ahead.

“Yeah, just one.” Walt eased up on the accelerator. “I don’t have a key. Did you want to check it out?”

“Yes, please,” Tim said.

Walt turned onto the narrow, muddy road. He slowed down and used his high beams to navigate the winding, bumpy trial. A couple of low-hanging tree branches scraped against the car roof.

They approached a clearing in the woods, and Tim could see the cabin, a small, slightly decrepid, cedar shaker. All the windows were dark. “Do you know whose place this is?” he asked.

“A middle-aged couple from Lynnwood named Logan,” Walt answered, navigating toward the house. “They’re kind of nuts. You know Roseann at Fork In The Road? She said they brought in their own silverware when they ate there once. Then they walked out with the restaurant’s salt and pepper shakers. Huh, you go figure.”

Walt pulled up to the side of the bungalow. “The Logans come and use the place a few times during the summer, and that’s it. They don’t rent out to anyone.”

They couldn’t find a key hidden anywhere near the front of the house. Tim went around to the back, and discovered the kitchen door unlocked. He called to Walt, who met him at the back door. Tim tried the light switch and the kitchen overhead went on.

“Wait a minute,” Walt whispered. “This isn’t right. The last time the Logans were here was early September. They wouldn’t have left that door open. They’re totally paranoid. It’s part of their craziness. And they’re cheap too, tight as a bull’s ass in a snowstorm. They wouldn’t have left the electricity on.”

The chairs at the kitchen table were mismatched, and there was a framed sampler on the wall with a little crack in the glass:
“God Bless This Kitchen.”
Tim recognized a pair of salt and pepper shakers from the Fork In The Road.

Walt moved to the refrigerator and opened it. “Look at this,” he whispered.

Tim saw a bag of fresh grapes on the shelf, along with some Cokes, cheese, packaged cold-cuts, and milk. He sniffed from the container of milk. Still good. The expiration dates on the cheese and meat weren’t for another month.

Walt started sifting thought the trash pail under the sink. “I found something,” he announced. He showed Tim a receipt, dated five days ago. “It’s from the Handi-Hut Food Mart,” he said.

“Where’s that?” Tim asked in a hushed voice.

“About halfway between here and Alliance,” Walt explained. “It’s a grossly overpriced, mom-and-pop store, one of the only places on Deception Island where you can go shopping without someone recognizing you. It caters mostly to summer-cabin-renters and people coming to and from the plant. In high school, I used to pedal my bike out there to buy
Playboy.
If I needed groceries, and I didn’t want to be seen, I’d go to the Handi-Hut.”

Tim peeked in the bedroom, off the kitchen. The bed was rumpled, like someone had been sleeping on top of it.

He and Walt crept into the living room. The furnishings were cheap and sparse, seedy secondhand stuff—right down to the water-stained, early American oval rug. Tim noticed some papers on the old, battered wood desk. On top of the stack was a flier.
“MISSING,”
it said, over the slightly-blurred photo of a smiling Claire Shaw. Below the picture was an explanation:
“Last Seen 10/25/03—Nordstrom Downtown Seattle—Wearing Blue Suede Shirt-Jacket, Black Pullover, and Jeans.”
This was followed by a description of Claire and a contact number for the Deception Police.

“What is this?” Tim murmured.

“Two days after she disappeared, Harlan had those made,” Walt said. “He posted them all over the Island—and in parts of Seattle too. I helped him. So did Linda and Ron Castle.”

Tim heard something outside, and he put down the newspaper. “What was that?” he whispered, moving to the front window. He hid behind the old, dusty curtain and peered outside. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, just outlines of the trees and bushes.

Walt crept to the side window. “Something’s out there,” he whispered. “It’s a guy. I can see him. He just ducked behind a tree.”

Tim felt his heart racing. He moved over to the side window with Walt. He stared out at the woods, but didn’t see anyone. “Did you get a look at his face?”

“No, but it’s a big guy,” Walt whispered. “I couldn’t tell if he was armed. Listen, I have a gun in my car. I’ll go out the front, and you sneak out the back. We might throw him off if we come from two different directions. We’ll meet up at the Range Rover, and I’ll get the gun.”

Tim nodded. “Okay. See you by the car.”

He ducked below the window, and scurried into the kitchen. At the door, he glanced back at Walt, by the front entrance. Slowly, he opened the door, then stepped outside. He kept his eyes on the forest, the same dark, dense area where they’d been looking earlier. Tim didn’t see anyone, but he heard twigs snapping underfoot.

He crept around the side of the house. He could see Walt at the other end of the decrepid cedar shaker. He was looking out at the woods as well. Suddenly, he turned toward Tim:
“Jesus, Tim, get down!”

Tim heard the gunshot, and at the same time, he felt something dart past him. Within a second, he was on the ground. The shot was still echoing in the woods when another loud blast went off. It seemed to come from that thick, shadowy area in the woods. Tim could actually hear the bullet cutting through the air, coming at him. A mound of dirt exploded just inches from his leg.

On his belly, he scuttled toward the car. Walt already had the door open. He was reaching into the glove compartment.

“Who’s out there?” Walt called, grabbing a semiautomatic. “I have a gun! I’ve got you in range. C’mon, out, goddamn it! I see you!”

Tim ducked behind the car, and tried to catch his breath. He could hear twigs breaking again.

“I said come on out!” Walt shouted.

There was a silence. Then someone cleared his throat. “Walt? Is that you?”

Fred Maybon swore up and down that he’d mistaken Tim for a deer. Fred was a tall, overweight, tow-head in his late thirties. With his bulky frame, he could hardly be the man in the fatigue jacket whom Claire had seen darting in and out of alleys and woods.

“What the hell were you doing?”
Walt asked him, his voice raised.
“You’re not allowed to hunt in this area. And what idiot shoots at something directly outside a house, a house with lights on, no less?”

Fred apologized to Tim. Tim asked if he’d stored any food or reading materials in the Logans’ cabin. Fred said he hadn’t set foot in the Logans’ cabin—ever.

Although Tim had almost been shot, he seemed quicker to forgive Fred his transgressions than Walt was. Tim sat on the front stoop of the Logans’ bungalow, and dialed the sheriff. Walt and Fred stood in the forest clearing—just far enough away so Tim only heard an occasional word or phrase from the still irate Walt:
“…be so stupid?…careless…could have killed both of us…you’re just lucky…”
Through it all, Fred kept rolling his eyes and shrugging.

Once he got Sheriff Klauser on the line, Tim told him about the stash of recently bought food and reading materials in the Logans’ cottage. He asked the sheriff to assign one of his deputies to stake out the place.

“Well, I’ll talk to Troy Landers,” the sheriff said glumly. “He’s back from the mainland. He won’t be a happy camper spending his first night back on a stake out. But that’s his tough luck. Anything else?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Tim said. “If you can get him here ASAP, I’d sure appreciate it. We can’t stick around. The way I figure, since this stalker isn’t here, where he’s set up camp, then he must be at Claire Shaw’s house.”