Unspeakable (10 page)

Wide-eyed, Collin stared at him. “Do you—do you think one of them could have been the guy I saw on the boat?”

Ian seemed to mull it over for a moment. “It's doubtful. The last ferry left Bainbridge a few minutes ago. If they were here last night at this time, and again tonight, they wouldn't be traveling by ferry. No, I'm not sure who you saw, but I'll try to find out. Maybe it's our old friend Rick—though I haven't seen him in a while.” He sat back in the driver's seat again and heaved a long sigh. “Anyway, as usual, I've told you way too much. You probably won't sleep a wink tonight, because of me and my big mouth. It's probably for the best we pull the plug on our midnight bull sessions. Okay? In fact, you should head back inside now—before your grandfather wakes up and realizes . . .”

Ian didn't finish. His eyes shifted to the rearview mirror.

A light swept across the car, illuminating the interior for a moment.

Collin turned and squinted out the rear window.

A car had turned into Skog-Strand Lane. Collin couldn't see the make or model, just the headlights piercing through the darkness. “Is that one of your guys?” he asked.

Ian shook his head. “They would have let me know backup was coming.”

Collin watched the vehicle slow down. He still couldn't see what kind of car it was. There weren't any streetlights on the tree-lined private road.

Eyeing the rearview mirror, Ian slowly reached under the driver's seat. “Listen, do me a favor. Crawl back to the seat behind you, where my jacket is. Crouch down on the floor and cover yourself with the jacket.”

“Are you serious?” Collin whispered. His heart was racing.

“Just do what I'm asking you!” he hissed.

Collin managed to squeeze through the space between the two front seats. Twisting himself around, he plopped onto the backseat. The car's headlights illuminated the inside of Ian's Civic for another fleeting moment.

The lights suddenly went out. But Collin could still hear its motor humming—and the faint sound of gravel crunching under tires. Then it stopped. Peeking out the rear window, Collin could see the vehicle was a black SUV. “Maybe he's lost—or he stopped to take a pee,” he murmured.

“Get on the floor and cover yourself up.”

Collin put the coat over the back of his head, but continued to peer out the rear window.

“The tires are riding low,” Ian murmured—apparently to himself. “There are at least two or three people in that SUV.”

Collin didn't say anything. But he remembered the newspapers reporting that two or three people might have carried out the murders of his mother and Chance. He studied the SUV, sitting there motionless. It was too far away to read the license plate. “Do you think they see us?” he asked.

“Well, I don't want them seeing you. So for the third and final time, Collin, stay down until I tell you the coast is clear.”

Collin followed his instructions, crouching on the floor with the jacket over him. He hated the darkness—and the silence. He wanted to ask Ian what was happening, but decided it was best to shut up and just count to himself. He heard him shifting around in the driver's seat.

“Hello, Bainbridge Island Police,” Collin heard him say. “This is Detective Haggerty with the SPD, guarding the Stampler house at 27 Skog-Strand Lane. I have a suspicious vehicle that has come up the street here and stopped, an SUV, black in color. I'm too far away to see the plates. Please stand by, officer may need assistance. . . .”

Collin listened to the front door click open. The car's interior light went on. He dared to peek out from under the jacket. Past the door opening, he could see Ian only from the neck down. He had one hand behind his back, ready to grab his gun. He murmured something into the phone.

In the distance, the SUV's engine started up. Collin listened to the gravel under its tires again. He peeked over the edge of the backseat in time to see the SUV turning around—with its headlights off. Only as it neared the end of Skog-Strand Lane did the vehicle switch on its lights. Ian was saying something into the phone about a false alarm, and then he thanked them for their help.

Collin shrugged off the jacket. “So—that's it?” he asked. “You aren't going to put out an APB on the car or anything?”

“I don't think it's necessary.” Ian opened the back door for him. “For all we know, it could have been a couple parking there so they could neck or something. I probably scared them a hell of a lot more than they scared us.”

Collin wasn't so sure about that. He was still shaking as he climbed out of the backseat.

Ian patted him on the shoulder. “I think we've had enough excitement for one night,” he said. “You better get inside before your granddad wakes up and sees you out here.”

Collin hesitated. “Are you sure you'll be okay all alone?”

He nodded. “I'll be fine. Give the light above the front door a blink so I know you made it inside okay.”

“All right,” he said with uncertainty. Then he turned and started toward the gate. His hand shook as he punched in the code to open the gate. It swung open.

“Collin?” Ian whispered.

He turned around.

His cop friend smiled. “Just so you know, I've enjoyed our bull sessions.”

Collin nodded. “Me, too,” he said. Then he turned and hurried up the driveway.

Quietly opening the front door to his grandparents' house, he listened for a moment. It didn't sound like anyone was awake upstairs. He closed the door, locked it, and then flicked the outside light switch on and off.

He hoped Ian would be okay out there tonight.

Collin crept up the back stairs to his room and closed the door. But he didn't turn on the light. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness. He looked out the window at the bay.

There was no sign of the boat. But like his cop friend outside, he was still on alert, still waiting for something bad to happen again.

W
ith his eyes closed, he tilted his head back and let the warm water from the showerhead spray him in the face. Standing behind him in the tub, Noreen soaped his tattooed back and buttocks. Noreen was crazy for his butt.

Leon Badger found an after-sex shower with her more endurable than the postcoital cuddling Noreen sometimes demanded. Like they were supposed to lay there and
spoon
for thirty minutes while his two burnout buddies in the next room watched
Futurama
. The small, two-bedroom ranch house belonged to a friend of Noreen's who was in Mexico. For the last few days, the four of them had been practically living on top of each other. They couldn't stay in one place too long. The cops had been looking for them for almost a month, ever since the Friday the thirteenth murders. Making matters worse, Leon had just made a lucrative but risky cocaine deal three days before in Vancouver, B.C.

Apparently, he'd treaded on the turf of a crazy Canadian drug lord named Big Sam, who had emigrated from Taiwan. Leon had heard some scary stories about Big Sam—beheadings, torture, and all sorts of medieval shit. So tomorrow, he and his cohorts, Cody and Les, were loading up the SUV and driving to Arizona. They'd lay low there for a while.

Noreen—whose soapy, magic hands were now rubbing his taut stomach—had no idea they were leaving her behind. His buddies weren't shedding any tears about it either. Cody, who was so good with a knife, swore he'd come close to carving up Noreen several times. Cody was always asking Leon what he saw in her.

Noreen was skinny and pale, with short jet-black, maroon-streaked hair and an interesting array of piercings and tattoos. She was crazy in the sack, and practically wore him out. Leon figured he'd miss the sex, but she was getting too clingy.

With her petite breasts pressed against his back, she began to fondle him. But then through the clear shower curtain he saw the bathroom door open. “What the fuck—”

Noreen let out a shriek. “Get out of here!”

Leon yanked open the curtain just enough to glare at Les. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

His bald, goateed friend waved some of the shower steam away. “Hey, don't bite my head off, man. I couldn't find your wallet. We got to pay the pizza guy when he shows up. . . .”

“In the pocket of my jeans,” Leon barked, pulling the shower curtain shut. The hooks squeaked against the curtain rod. “Look over by the bed, on the floor somewhere. If I find more than forty bucks missing, I'll nail your ass to the wall. And close the bathroom door—the bedroom door, too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” his friend grumbled. Leon heard the bathroom door shut.

The interruption had sort of killed the mood. So Noreen gave Leon a shampoo, and he reciprocated.

A few minutes later, while they toweled off, Noreen announced that she was “positively starving.” She donned her yellow kimono and opened the bathroom door. A waft of cool air hit Leon. He wrapped the towel around his waist, and then wiped a clear streak through the fogged medicine chest mirror. Slicking his damp, tangled, long black hair back from his face, he gazed at his pale reflection. He told himself he'd work on his tan in Arizona.

He started after Noreen into their mess of a bedroom. She was a lousy housekeeper. The whole place was a sty. He watched her working a towel on her hair as she stepped over piles of dirty clothes on the floor. “God, I really am famished,” she said. “They better leave some food for us. . . .”

Leon could hear the TV blaring in the living room. It got louder as Noreen opened the door. “Hey, save us some pizza,” she announced, her head down as she continued to towel-dry her hair. “I ordered the pepperoni, so don't—”

She didn't finish.

There was a muffled sound, like someone hitting a hollow pipe.

Leon saw his girlfriend step back from the doorway. Stunned, she gazed down at the blood seeping from a hole in her yellow kimono—just above her right breast. She turned toward him with a bewildered expression. She coughed and blood spilled over her lower lip.

He started toward her, but there was another muffled pop. He realized it was a shot from a silencer. This time, it hit Noreen in the temple. Leon felt the warm blood spray him in the face. Wincing, he shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw Noreen flop down on the floor—amid their dirty clothes. In the bedroom doorway stood the two hit men. They wore lightweight, nylon running suits. One was in blue, the other in black. Their faces were a blur. But the one in black had a gun with a silencer. The one in blue carried a samurai sword. Behind them, Leon glimpsed his friends, Les and Cody, lying dead on the living room floor. The walls were splashed with blood. Two pizza boxes were stacked by the front door.

“Where's the money and your stash, Badger?” the gunman asked, shouting over the TV.

Leon Badger fell to his knees. He stared up at the two men. He knew the crazy drug lord in Vancouver had sent them. Even if he told them where he'd hidden his drug supply and the latest cash haul, he'd still die.

But Leon realized if he told them, at least he might die quickly.

Collin watched the two chefs on
Chopped
each try to make a dessert out of ramen noodles, marzipan, root beer, and figs. Dee was a Food Network junkie. But at the moment, she was on the other end of the family room sofa from him—with her head tipped back, eyes closed, and mouth open. She almost looked dead—if not for her ample bosom heaving up and down beneath the top of her pink jogging suit.

On the other side of him, his grandfather was dressed in a yellow Izod polo shirt, green and blue plaid golf slacks, and brown slippers. He was asleep on his lounge chair.

Collin got to his feet and wandered out the front door. It was a warm, muggy night. He couldn't help wondering what
normal
guys his age were doing on a hot summer evening like this—night baseball, the movies, imbibing an unlawful six-pack of beer in a buddy's backyard, swimming, or maybe even some coed skinny-dipping.

And here he was watching the Food Network with his dozing grandparents. Sometimes, it was hard to believe he had once been a movie star.

Swatting a mosquito on his arm, he plodded down the driveway toward the gate. He glanced at the trees and bushes on either side of the drive—so perfectly still it was almost eerie. Approaching the gate, Collin gazed at the end of the driveway and Skog-Strand Lane—where the on-duty detective's unmarked car always used to be.

As of this morning, no one was guarding the house anymore. The policemen had all gone back to Seattle. He hadn't even gotten a chance to say good-bye to Ian.

It was all over the news. On Monday night, a Tukwila woman returned from a Puerto Vallarta vacation to find her house sitter and two male companions shot to death in her home. A third man had been beheaded. He was identified as Leon Badger, thirty-six, a drug dealer sought by Seattle Police for—among other things—questioning in the Piper Cox/Chance Hall murder case. The other victims were his associates. In the house and inside Badger's SUV, the police found a few items reported missing from Piper Cox's rental home—including a pair of silver candlesticks, some costume jewelry, and a DVD of
The Night Whisperer
. They also found a match for the bloody shoe print from the Friday the thirteenth murder scene—a size-eleven boot belonging to one of Leon's men, Cody Williamson, whose weapon of choice had been a knife. The single gunshot, which had blown off part of Chance Hall's face, had come from a Glock 38. The police discovered the murder weapon in a kitchen drawer of the Tukwila house.

Despite all this evidence, Collin couldn't quite accept that his mother's murder had been solved. It just seemed too convenient. All the killers were dead. There would be no arrests, no confessions, and no trial. He wondered if it was possible whoever executed this Badger guy and his group had planted that evidence in the Tukwila house—and in the SUV.

He was curious about Badger's SUV. Could it have been the SUV he and Ian had seen on Skog-Strand Lane late Saturday night? Collin figured he'd never know for sure. Nor was he likely to find out about the strange man who had been spying on his bedroom from that boat. Ian had tried to follow it up, but couldn't get any leads. Collin hadn't seen the boat—and its creepy helmsman—since Saturday night.

He kept staring at the empty, darkened road at the end of the driveway. Since he'd moved in with his grandparents after the murders, the cops had always been there, guarding the house. He didn't like to see them go—even the a-holes like Al and his buddies. He suddenly felt so vulnerable in that big, secluded house—with just his grandparents.

He retreated up the driveway to the house. Stepping inside, Collin double-locked the front door. He kept telling himself they'd be okay tonight. They really didn't need the extra protection of someone watching the house.

He couldn't hear the TV in the family room anymore. But above him, on the second floor, there was the sound of footsteps and his grandfather clearing his throat. Collin quietly headed up the back stairs and ducked into his room. He was about to close the door when he heard someone coming up the hall. He stuck his head out the doorway.

“Hi, kiddo,” his grandfather said, ambling up the corridor. “We were looking for you.”

“Oh, I just went outside for a few minutes.” Collin stepped aside to let his grandfather into the room. “I locked up.”

His grandfather nodded. Six-foot-three and solidly built, Old Andy still cut a handsome, imposing figure. He had slightly receding silver hair and blue eyes. He looked his age—sixty-seven—but then he'd always seemed old to Collin. As long as he could remember, his mother had referred to his grandfather as “Old Andy.”

His grandfather glanced around the bedroom with an appraising eye. “You know, if you'd like, I can help you slap a coat of paint on these walls, whatever color you want. Maybe you'd like to pick out some new bedspreads and curtains. This is your room now.”

“Well, thanks,” Collin said, shrugging. “It's okay for now, I guess.”

“This weekend, you and I are going to find a car for you. What do you say?”

Shrugging, Collin worked up a smile. “I have a bike. I really don't need a car, Grandpa.”

“You'll be thinking differently when it's cold and rainy out—and you want to get together with your buddies or you have a date.” He put his hand on Collin's shoulder and squeezed it. “Now that it's safe to go out on your own, you should travel in style. You've still got a few weeks of summer left. There's no reason you shouldn't go out and have fun, make some friends—fellas your own age. . . .”

Collin figured this was his grandfather's way of explaining why he didn't want him to be friends with Ian. He worked up a smile.

His grandfather hugged him. “Please, let us spoil you a little. We enjoy it, and God knows you deserve it, kiddo. You haven't had it so easy. So let us do this for you. Okay?”

All Collin could do was nod and hug him back. “Okay, thanks, Grandpa,” he whispered.

The old man pulled away, and patted him on the shoulder. “Good,” he said. His eyes were a little misty as he shuffled out of the room.

Collin closed his door, then plodded over to his desk and sat down. He clicked on the computer, and saw he had new mail.

His email address was private, but occasionally a resourceful fan's email reached him. Opening his mailbox, he looked at the new listing:

Collin frowned. He was pretty sure the person who had signed with a smiley face hadn't meant to come off as creepy, but he or she had.

He got most of his fan correspondence over Facebook. He'd found the best way to deal with the weird messages and postings was to ignore them. Occasionally, he gave a quick, brief response—just to acknowledge it and move on. That was what he decided to try now with this smiley face weirdo:

He hit SEND, and just moments later, he heard a click, signifying a new email. Collin went back to his mailbox and saw the new message:

“What the hell?” he murmured. Smiley Face's email address had been temporary or suspended.

“You've gotten creepier fan letters,” Collin mumbled to himself. He went back to the email and deleted it.

He was still staring at his computer monitor when something outside his window caught his eye. It was a speck of light out on the dark water. He sat at his desk and watched it. That man on the boat was back.

Collin realized he'd been wrong earlier.

Someone was watching the house tonight after all.