Unspeakable (7 page)

“Layne was fine until you started in on him with all your analyzing and headshrinking. You caused it. You're going to pay for what you did to my son. . . .”

“What's going on?” Clay asked. “Honey, are you okay? Who is it?”

Olivia listened to the line go dead.

Clay grabbed the phone from her. “Hello? Who's there? Goddamn it, who is this?”

Olivia turned her head away from him and started to cry.

She didn't think the pain in her shoulder would ever go away.

“H
oney, are you going out?”

Collin hesitated by the door leading out to the garage. He glanced back at his grandmother at the breakfast table in their gourmet kitchen. At sixty-seven, she still had a buxom figure and a pale, creamy complexion—though, close-up, her face looked slightly careworn. Her wavy blond hair was cut short. She always smelled like lavender, which was also her favorite color. At the moment, she wore a lavender blouse and khakis. She was on the phone with a friend, and held her hand over the mouthpiece. Her engagement ring—given to her by Collin's grandfather twenty-three years ago—had a big diamond that sparkled in the light.

Dee wasn't his actual grandmother. Collin's real grandmother had died after a long bout with cancer back when his mom was just a kid. His grandfather married Dee eight years later. Collin's mom never really warmed up to Dee. She used to say Dee looked like a floozy ex-stripper. Collin thought that was pretty harsh, especially since his mom wasn't exactly a saint or anything. Dee had always been sweet to him. Besides, she was the only grandmother he had.

She'd been fretting and fussing over him for the last ten days. Now she was looking at him with concern. “Where are you headed?” she asked.

Collin shrugged. “I thought I'd ride my bike to town and grab a late breakfast.”

Dee frowned, and then put the phone to her ear. “Hold on just another second, Mary Lou. Sorry.” She covered the mouthpiece again. “I'm sorry, sweetie. If your grandfather was here to give the okay, that's one thing. But I really don't think you should go out alone just yet.”

He cracked a tiny smile. “Well, it's not like I'll be alone, Dee. You can be sure they'll give me a police escort.”

Ever since the murders, an unmarked police car had been parked on Skog-Strand Lane by the front gate of his grandparents' beachfront home. Four Seattle police detectives worked in shifts, watching the house—and watching him.

“Why go out for breakfast when I can make you perfectly delicious pancakes?” Dee asked. “Plus the fridge is crammed. Those cold cuts from the deli are in there.” Dee was always telling him what was in the refrigerator. “And we have those toaster waffles you like. . . .”

He shrugged. “Thanks anyway, Dee. I just want to go out.”

That much was true. But he planned to go to Hot Shots Java, where the pretty blond barista, Melissa, worked. She was a year or two older than him. On his last visit to his grandparents, when he'd stopped by the coffee shop, Melissa had complimented him on his shirt and given him a free iced latte. She'd had the sweetest smile. He'd gotten kind of tongue-tied around her. Collin hoped she still worked there. But he didn't want to tell his grandmother that. She might think something was wrong with him for having some girl on his mind so soon after his mother's death. The truth was, he'd been thinking about Melissa for the past few days.

“I really need the exercise,” he explained. “I'm feeling kind of cooped up here lately.”

With a sigh, she talked into the phone again. “Sorry, Mary Lou, can I call you back in a couple of minutes?”

Slump-shouldered, Collin turned and wandered toward the breakfast table while his grandmother made another call. His grandparents' kitchen was like something in one of those Home & Garden TV shows: hardwood floors, stainless-steel appliances, and all the new gadgets. Behind Dee was a sliding glass door to a patio—with stone stairs that led down to the beach. The late morning sun reflected across the rippled water of Liberty Bay. At least a dozen boats were out there. Collin could see he was missing a gorgeous day. He'd dressed for it, too—in cargo shorts, a blue polo shirt, and his black Converse All Stars.

“Hi, hon,” his grandmother said into the phone. “Sorry to interrupt your game. You weren't late teeing off, were you? Good. Say, listen, Collin wants to ride his bike into town, and I have to admit, I'm a little nervous in the service about it. . . .”

His mouth twisted over to one side, Collin watched her on the phone.
Nervous in the service
was one of his grandparents' expressions that he never quite understood. After staying with them for a while, he heard himself using the same bizarre phrases and words they used—like
cockamamie, all catawampus,
and
for crying out loud
.

“Uh-huh. Well, if you're copacetic with it, so am I,” Dee was saying. “I just wanted to check with you first. Uh-huh. Okay, here he is.” She held the cordless phone out to Collin. “Your grandfather wants to bend your ear for a sec.”

Bend your ear,
that was another one. And what did
copacetic
mean? Sounded like a laxative. Collin took the phone from her. “Hi, Grandpa,” he said.

“Hi, kiddo,” his grandfather replied on the other end. “It's fine if you want to go out. My guess is you'll have the cops on your tail wherever you go anyway. . . .”

“That's what I was trying to tell Dee.” He threw his grandmother an exasperated look.

“Well, they're a pain in the neck, but those detectives are there for a good reason,” his grandfather reminded him. “Anyway, bring your cell phone with you. Be careful. And call us if you think you'll be gone for more than two hours. Okay, kiddo?”

“Okay,” he answered. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

Minutes later, Collin was in the three-car garage, donning his bike helmet. His grandmother had shoved a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, “just in case.” He'd kissed her good-bye, twice assured her that he'd be careful. He hit the automatic garage door opener, and with a hum, the big door started to ascend. Collin wheeled his bike out to the driveway, and stopped to gaze at his grandparents' beautiful, sprawling cobblestone home. Through the arched window above the big double doors in front, he could see the elaborate, Chihuly-inspired glass chandelier. He'd stayed with his grandparents dozens of times, but never really noticed how impressive the place was. Now that he'd be living here permanently, he was in awe of their home.

Behind him, there was a click, and the garage door began its descent. His grandparents were already clearing a spot for a third car—for him. They just hadn't bought it yet.

He couldn't help thinking that he'd gotten just what he'd wanted. He was living with his grandparents now, and they were spoiling him—as they always had. Since he'd moved in, they'd bought him a new desktop computer for his bedroom, and a new iPhone. He felt horrible even thinking it, but this was a far cry from living in a dumpy rental where his award got stolen and he'd have been lucky to find milk in the refrigerator.

Collin hopped on his bike and peddled down the driveway, which wound through the tall trees and manicured shrubs. The gate opened automatically, and he spotted the silver Dodge Charger parked near the end of the driveway. Someone was in the car, behind the wheel. It looked like Al, the stocky one.

Collin slowed down and glanced over his shoulder as the gate shut behind him. There was a code box and a speaker on this side of the entry. From the inside intercom by the kitchen door, Collin could listen in on the cops' conversations. He'd hear when they were talking in the car with the windows rolled down—or if one of the guys stepped out of the Charger to make a personal phone call. His grandmother caught him listening once, and chided him: “Eavesdroppers never hear anything nice about themselves!” That was true. Still, some of the things he overheard were pretty interesting.

The one cop he liked was a good-looking guy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He usually used his own car, a black Honda Civic. He was about thirty years old, and the youngest among them. His name was Ian, and from the cell phone calls he made some nights, it sounded like he had a girlfriend in Seattle, Janice, who was giving him grief for accepting this surveillance assignment. Collin had heard Ian talking to her about him:
“Considering his mother and what he's been through, you'd think he'd be really screwed up, but he seems like a nice, normal kid. I feel really bad for him. . . .”
After that, Collin thought about bringing a Coke out to Ian while he was on duty. But then he'd be expected to do the same thing for the rest of them. And the rest of them were jerks.

Al, sort of the ringleader of the three, had a nasal, whiny voice. To his cohorts, he always referred to Collin as “the little faggot movie star.” Collin's grandfather was “the old fart,” and Dee was “Old Biddy Big Tits.” Al was one to talk—with his man-boobs jiggling in those tight Izod knockoff shirts he always wore. Collin heard Al tell one of his buddies:
“If you ask me, I think we've got the murderer right here. I say the kid offed that worthless mother of his and the guy she shacked up with.”
It was hard for Collin to ignore that comment.

Al—along with the other two cops—loathed Ian. When not bad-mouthing Ian behind his back, all they did was nap in the car. From the intercom, Collin could hear them snoring.

His grandfather didn't like any of them, and unjustifiably lumped Ian in with the others. “Seattle's Finest,” he'd grumble from time to time. “They must have scraped the bottom of the barrel to come up with the guys for this detail.” At the same time, he always grudgingly acknowledged that the cops were there to protect them.

The police still hadn't figured out who had murdered Collin's mother and Chance. They believed the double homicide was drug-related. All the open closets indicated the killers were looking for drugs. Chance was a dealer. It was a logical conclusion. Another, less popular theory was that it had been a Manson murder type of situation. Collin had a feeling he was a suspect in the killings—and the detectives outside were watching him as much as they were protecting him. He'd already told the police everything he'd heard in his “dream.” The “no witnesses” remark he'd overheard had the police worried about his safety.

Two days after the murders, still in shock, Collin had spent several hours listening to recordings of suspects the police had rounded up. The anonymous voices recited what Collin had heard that night:

Collin didn't recognize any of the voices. But hearing those words again and again only made him relive the nightmare, and he'd imagine what had been going on while he lay there in his sleeping bag one flight up. According to
The Seattle Times
, his mother had been stabbed eleven times, including two deep knife wounds in her neck. Chance had been stabbed seventeen times, mostly in the stomach and chest. The one bullet in his face had finally killed him.

It dawned on Collin that while all this was happening, he hadn't done anything. At no time had he ever sat up in his sleeping bag and realized, “The killings are about to start.”

He frowned at Al, on his iPhone, sitting alone in the Dodge with the window down. He seemed to glance back at him from behind his sunglasses. His forehead was all shiny with sweat, and he looked annoyed.

Collin pedaled past him on his bike. Then he heard the Dodge's engine start up. Skog-Strand Lane was a dead end weaving through the woods, with only three other houses—all secluded beachfront mansions like his grandparents' place. Collin could see the bay through the trees. The warm sun and fresh air felt good against his face. He wished he was alone. He didn't like hearing the car hovering behind him. He pedaled faster and turned onto one of the main drags, Viking Way.

So far, the four detectives hadn't protected him from anyone dangerous—just a few reporters. The double murder of Collin Cox's mother and her lover had been the lead story on
Entertainment Tonight
for three nights in a row. It had made the front pages of national newspapers. The tabloids had a field day going on about the
Night Whisperer
curse and how the murders had happened on Friday the thirteenth. Collin saw his mom exposed as a screwed-up, drug-addicted, negligent stage mother. Maybe her problems had been an open secret in the movie industry, but now everyone knew. Collin was stupid enough to read the articles online—along with the reader comments. He couldn't believe how many awful people were out there in cyberspace, posting their opinions and making judgments about someone they'd never met. The consensus among them was that his mother had deserved exactly what she'd gotten.

He'd been photographed and filmed ad nauseam, mostly outside the police station in South Seattle. It had been almost as crazy as some of the movie premieres he'd attended. The photographers had also swarmed in on him again four days ago outside Lake View Cemetery on Capitol Hill for his mother's burial. The funeral had been delayed, because her autopsy had taken nearly a week to complete. When Collin saw the recent photos of himself online, the captions often referred to him as
handsome former child star Collin Cox.
Praise, at last. His mother had said he'd outgrow his “awkward phase” by age sixteen. Or maybe people just felt sorry for him. It didn't matter, and didn't make up for the horrible things they said about his mom.

Collin received a barrage of emails from talent agents—including two who had previously abandoned him. But the movie deals they proposed were cheapie exploitation stuff. The TV offers were all reality shows. Someone even talked about possibly getting him on
Dancing With the Stars,
and asked how long a mourning period he'd need before he could step into a ballroom-dancing getup and compete on the show.

Last week, his Facebook fan page, which he hadn't updated in over a year, jumped from around 8,400 to 177,489 fans—at last count.