Left for Dead (35 page)

Claire took the lipstick, plucked off the tortoise-shell top, and twisted the bottom. A flat, nearly depleted dark-red stick poked out over the edge of its silver tube. She turned the tube over and let Tim read what it said on the bottom:

LADY deMILO
^®

“Scarlet Passion”

She didn’t want to wear out the flashlight battery.

In truth, Tess had worn herself out. She needed to rest—just a few minutes on the cot, under a blanket. She wasn’t going to fall asleep, just a little break.

She was exhausted. She’d burrowed out at least three and a half feet of earth. The tunnel ran at a ninety-degree angle toward what she hoped was the ground’s surface—and freedom. Standing on the cot, she could fit half her body into the crater. The pile of dirt she’d scooped out was almost enough to make a mound she could stand on. Then it would be easier to crawl into the tunnel and keep working.

But she’d already used up all the shoes to chip away at the harder sections of soil. Three of the six bottled waters were gone. She’d used the two bottles dampening the earth to make it more pliable. She’d gone through the third bottle rinsing the soot out of her eyes and mouth.

Tess had no idea how long she’d been digging nonstop—perhaps four or five hours. To keep up her strength, she’d eaten one of the K-rations,
beef stew.
It wasn’t so godawful.

That had been a while ago. And now she was fading. Another K-ration meal wouldn’t help. She needed to lie down.

With a sweater belonging to one of her predecessors, Tess brushed the dirt off the portable bed. Then she dragged the cot away from the dirt wall, and from behind the plastic tarp. She switched off the flashlight, and set it on the little table.

As soon as she fell back on the cot, she started to cry. It wasn’t just fatigue either. Tess lay there in the dark, feeling so doomed.

She’d already gone through all the shoes. The stainless steel pot she’d been using to scoop out the dirt had a rounded edge. It wasn’t any good for chipping away at the hard dirt. Her hands were raw, swollen and bleeding. What was she going to do?

She still had to dig through another four or five feet of earth and rocks. She wasn’t even halfway done yet.

Tess felt a sharp pebble under her shoulder. Sitting up, she brushed the pebble over the edge of her portable bed, where the canvas stretched over a pole. She fell back on the cot again. Her hand lingered on the canvas-covered pole. What was it, stainless steel, or some kind of aluminum?

Tess reached for the flashlight, switched it on, then climbed off the cot. Kneeling on the cold floor, she tugged at the canvas to expose the seams where the rods joined together. If she could take the portable bed apart, she could use the poles to dig out the earth. Hell, she’d even have something with which she could defend herself.

Tess shined the flashlight on one of the bars, where it joined with the metal legs. The pieces were screwed together.

She remembered the nail clippers she’d found in one of the purses. It had a small file.

Tess reached over and felt along the tabletop, where she’d left the clippers. She grabbed them, and pried out the little file. Then she went to work on the screw adjoining pieces of the portable bed’s frame. She held the flashlight between her knees so she could see what she was doing. The screw was actually moving. Her swollen hands trembled as she loosened the screw.

At last, the screw came out, and she pried apart that section of the bed frame. The pole was hollow—with a sharp edge at the end. Tears were streaming down her face, but Tess began to laugh.

Suddenly she heard something overhead. A door rattled, then footsteps. Someone was up there.

She wanted to scream for help. But what if it was him? What if he was coming down to get her?

Tess held her breath, and wondered if the waiting was over.

With a knife, Tim tried to trip the lock on Harlan’s workroom door.

Claire stood behind him in the corridor off the basement utility room. “I really don’t think Harlan’s hiding anything in there,” she said.

“Then why does he keep it locked?” Frustrated, Tim pulled at the doorknob and rattled it.

“I told you,” Claire said patiently. “He has a couple of guns in there—along with his computer and some work files. He locks the door so Tiffany can’t get in.”

Claire was reluctant to admit that with Brian’s bedroom just down the hall, Harlan had become extra vigilant about locking the door. He didn’t trust his stepson near his guns—or his computer.

Tim kept trying to pick the lock with the knife. “I want to check out that computer—and those work files,” he said. “Harlan’s the manager at that chemical plant over on the other side of the island, right? He must know every inch of the place.”

She shrugged. “I suppose he does. Why?”

“I’m hoping he has a map or a blueprint of the plant in here. He must know where there are hidden bunkers, old storage areas, and run-off pits. He could have your friend, Tess, locked in one of those areas right now.”

“Oh, no.” Claire shook her head. “Listen, Tim. I think I’d know if Harlan was committing these murders. I—”

The telephone rang.

Claire raced up the stairs. She grabbed the phone in the pantry before the machine clicked on. “Hello?” she said, a bit out of breath.

“Claire? This is Bill Klauser. Is Harlan home?”

She glanced over at Tim at the top of the basement stairs. He looked back at her inquisitively.

“Um, Sheriff Klauser…” she said. “Hi. I’m sorry Harlan isn’t in right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

Claire heard the sheriff sigh. “No, I was hoping Harlan could run over to Ron Castle’s house for me. I figure Ron should hear it from a friend.”

“Hear what from a friend?” Claire asked.

“The state police just called me. They found Linda Castle in her SUV, parked near the dock in Anacortes. Looks like she had a lot to drink, then she shot herself. They think it happened very early this morning.”

The phone to her ear, Claire stared at Tim. “Linda’s dead.”

“What?” Tim asked.

“Who’s there with you?” she heard the sheriff ask.

“Oh, um, it’s Tim Sullivan,” Claire answered. “He’s been outside, guarding the house. He came in to use the bathroom.”

“Oh, yeah,” the sheriff said. “That’s right. I forgot he was there.”

“Can I talk to him?” Tim asked.

“Sheriff, Officer Sullivan would like to speak with you. Okay?” Claire handed the phone to Tim. Wandering into the kitchen, she stared at Linda’s
“Hang In There!”
magnet on the refrigerator door. She felt numb.

“Hi, Sheriff. It’s Tim Sullivan. Can you tell me what happened?” Tim started to pace in front of the sliding glass door. “Listen, could you do me a favor? Let me drive over to the Castles’ house and talk to Ron. I think this might have some kind of connection to the Rembrandt murders…. Well, I’m not sure exactly…But let me talk to Ron. And in the meantime, could you not say anything to anyone about this?”

“Harlan told you Linda couldn’t come over today because she had an emergency with her mother over on the mainland. Is that right?”

Claire nodded. She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter from him. “That’s what Harlan said Ron told him. She took the boat over late last night.”

“She sailed over by herself? How did she get to her mother’s?”

“Linda’s a good sailor—or was. They keep their SUV in a lot by the Anacortes dock. Her mother lives in a nursing home in Everett.”

“Do you know the name of this nursing home?”

Claire thought for a moment. “Um, Harbor…Harborland Nursing Home.”

“You don’t happen to know Linda’s mother’s name, do you?”

Claire sighed. “Oh, lord. Ron just gave a Special Intention for her at church yesterday…Um, Jenny…no, Josephine…Josephine Bowland.”

“Her name is Josephine Bowland,” Tim said into the telephone five minutes later. On the breakfast table in front of him were the Yellow Pages, open to the section for Nursing Homes.

“I’m her son-in-law’s brother, Ned Castle,” Tim continued. “I heard Josephine took a turn for the worse last night. I think you folks might have called my sister-in-law, Linda Castle. Do you have any record of that call? And could you tell me how Josephine is doing?”

“They never phoned Linda,” Tim said. “There haven’t been any changes in her mother’s condition in the last two weeks. So either Ron was lying to your husband, or Harlan was lying to you. I’m betting on Harlan.”

He turned onto Main Street, and surveyed the traffic near the harbor. Claire sat in the passenger seat. She still couldn’t believe Linda was dead.

She thought about her “memory,” with Linda in the front seat of Ron’s Jeep. A man with a gun was coming at them from outside. And Linda told her to pray. Claire wondered if that really was a memory or some kind of vision into what
would
happen. Had it occurred that way last night?

Was the man with the gun Harlan? She’d already told Tim about waking up alone in bed around one-thirty this morning, and thinking Harlan was in his workroom. It was possible Harlan had snuck out of the house. But wouldn’t Tim have seen him?

Tim admitted that he’d nodded off for a few minutes last night while on the stakeout. Harlan could have slipped out unnoticed, and walked to a car he’d parked some place. Maybe a company car. He always had them at his disposal. And he had access to Chemtech charter boats at the plant dock—and on the mainland at the Anacortes marina.

Still, Claire had a hard time believing Harlan was a serial killer. She tried to account for his whereabouts when so many of those women had been abducted. According to the fax in Tim’s folder, Tess had been taken from her house some time yesterday morning or early afternoon—when Harlan had been at “work.”

What about the others? She didn’t know exactly when Kimberly Cronin was first reported missing. Had Harlan been “working” at the time? Harlan claimed to have met the girl who worked at the hospital gift shop. He said he’d bought flowers from her. Was he also her executioner? Had he made her up to look like his dead wife?

The first victim, Nancy Hart, certainly bore a striking resemblance to Angela. But Claire remembered looking at all the victims’ photos in that tabloid. None of the others—not even that tabloid photo of Nancy—reminded her of Harlan’s first wife. And Tess didn’t look at all like Angela. So why was Rembrandt going after her?

“I think he likes the challenge,” Tim told her. “He’s gotten hooked on the make-over, the transformation process. I think that’s what excites him now. Nancy Hart was unique. Often a serial killer’s first victim provides the spark that sends him in a particular direction. My guess is, since murdering Nancy, it might not matter so much to him what his victim starts out looking like, just as long as he feels he’s transformed her into Angela before he kills her.”

Little droplets of rain started to hit the windshield. Claire stared ahead at Deception’s Main Street.

She wondered if it was true, that her husband was a murderer. Nothing made sense anymore. If Harlan was indeed Rembrandt, why was she the victim of a Rembrandt
copycat?
What had happened to Brian—and to Derek Herrmann? She knew something horrible had occurred at Silverwater Creek. Were they killed there? And so many people on the island seemed involved in a cover-up. She kept thinking about the way no one spoke of the Davalos family and the violent way they’d perished. And now, Linda, another “suicide.” Were all these things somehow connected?

“I didn’t see anyone following us,” Tim announced, pulling into the parking lot of The Whale Watcher Inn.

As they walked to his room, Tim kept glancing around, and looking over his shoulder. “I think you’ll be okay here,” he said, unlocking the door.

They’d decided his hotel room was the safest place for her. The place was decorated in a gaudy royal blue and dark brown.

Tim seemed nervous about leaving her alone. “Just keep the door locked,” he said. “If you get scared, call the front desk, and go sit in the lobby. If you get bored, the TV’s right there—”

“I’ll be okay, Tim. Thanks.” Claire smiled at him.

He moved to the door. “I should be back from the Castles’ in about a half hour. Okay?”

“I’ll be here,” Claire replied, stepping toward the door.

“Lock up after I go,” he said. He took her hand, then pulled her toward him, and kissed her.

Claire slid her arms around him, and kissed him back. She didn’t want to let go. For a few moments, she forgot about everything else. All that mattered was his touch, and his lips parting against hers. Her head was swimming. She held onto him tightly.

Tim finally pulled back. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I set eyes on
you,”
he whispered. He kissed her gently one more time, then reached for the door. “Take care.”

Claire put her hand on his shoulder, and it lingered there until he stepped outside. Then she closed the door, and double-locked it.

“Hello?”

Claire couldn’t believe he was finally answering. She’d tried calling him twice this morning with no luck.

She sat down on the edge of the bed—with the hotel’s ugly blue-and-brown paisley spread. She was using the phone on the nightstand.

“Mr. Griswald,” she said. “This is Claire Shaw calling again. Please, don’t hang up. I’m sorry to bother you. When I called you yesterday, I didn’t have time to explain…”

She paused. There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Griswald?”

“What the hell do you want?” he whispered.

“I—I’m not sure,” Claire admitted. “I thought you might know something about the fire.”

More silence.

“People on this island seem reluctant to talk about it,” Claire continued.

“I’m not surprised,” he grunted.

Restless, Claire stood up and carried the phone over to the desk. “Mr. Griswald, I know your brother-in-law and nephews got into a lot of trouble here. They might have made some enemies—”

“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “I still don’t understand the purpose of this call.”

“I want to find out what happened to my son,” Claire heard herself say. “He and his best friend disappeared over three weeks ago. Together, they got into trouble here too, and made their share of enemies. I can’t get a straight answer from anyone about what really happened to them. I don’t know if there’s a connection to what occurred with your sister’s family. Maybe I’m just grabbing at straws—”