Every Fear (11 page)

J
ason had to check out his tip fast.

Some ten blocks after pulling out of Sunset Hill Park, he wheeled his Falcon into a secluded corner of a Burger King parking lot and began pressing numbers into his cell phone.

“Newsroom library, Nancy Poden.”

“It’s Jason. I need your help on something. It’s urgent.”

“Let me close up what I’m doing. Okay, what is it?”

“I need you to mine every databank we subscribe to, local and beyond, for everything you can get on a Diane M. Fielderson.”

“Spell her name.”

He did. Twice.

“Got a date of birth?”

“Approximate date of birth is early 1980s,” he said, judging from the sketch.

“That’s general. Specific would be better.”

“I know. It’s all I’ve got. To be safe broaden the date of birth from the late 1970s through the 1980s and narrow it to Michigan and New York, and Ontario, Canada.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Anything and everything that matches the name. From news stories to property and divorce records, relatives, obits.
Everything.
From birth to now.”

“This will be expensive. Is this related to the Colson story?”

“Yes, but Nancy, swear that you won’t tell anyone about this search. It’s a wild hunch.”

“You’re such a cloak-and-dagger guy.”

“Humor me, Nancy, please.”

“Sure, but you’re going to owe me, buddy.”

He had to be careful with this lead, given the circumstances by which it had come to him. Unsubstantiated allegations came with risks: moral, ethical, legal, you name it. And while he was wary and skeptical, his instincts urged him to chase this down fast.

Studying the notes and sketch, he sipped coffee in a booth at the Burger King, and decided on how best to pursue his tip. He wouldn’t tell anyone about it. Not Spangler, not anyone. First, he would try to confirm any part of the information. If he could verify it, he could then develop it, then go to Seattle PD and the FBI and try to parlay it into a major exclusive.

But time was working against him.

He pulled out his wallet, fished out a worn, creased slip of paper bearing several penned phone numbers. His most dependable law enforcement sources. He started making delicate enquiries on the name without giving up a single detail of the context. He sniffed peripherally, politely asking if Diane M. Fielderson rang any bells with anyone in any way.
“Whaddya mean,
Wade?” “Well, as in traffic tickets, charges, noisy party complaints. Anything. Does her name come up?”
His sources promised to check and ask around and get back to him later.

Back in his Falcon, Jason turned the ignition to start for Ballard, then shut it off to follow an idea. He’d make one more call.
Be careful, you’re playing with fire,
he warned himself as the line rang.

“Garner.”

“Jason Wade.”

“Jason, can this wait? I’m kinda tied up at the moment.”

“A few seconds is all I need. I understand there was a case status meeting this morning. Anything new come out of it?”

“Things are still being assessed.”

“What does that mean?”

Grace considered matters, then said, “The FBI’s leading the abduction, you should be talking to Dupree.”

“Is that a yes, as in, there is a development?”

“Look, ask Dupree. There might be something later.”

“Like what? Do you have any breaks, like a suspect, or a name?”

“There may be an update later. Other than that, I have no information and don’t you dare quote me. Ask Dupree, or the press office. Now, do you have anything critical you want to discuss? Did you dig up something, hotshot? Because I’ve really got to go.”

The name Diane M. Fielderson burned from the tipster’s pages on the seat next to him. Staring at them, he contemplated telling Grace about his lead.

“Jason, is that it?”

Don’t tell her everything yet.
He’d wait until he nailed it down.

“I’ve got a thing but it needs checking.”

“You want to tell me about this ‘thing’?”

“Ah, it’s likely bogus, you know, somebody claiming to know something. I’ll let you know if there’s anything to it.”

She waited for a beat.

“All right, well, like I said, there might be something later.”

Jason spent much of the day in Ballard knocking on doors, talking to the Colsons’ neighbors, trying to flesh out a profile. At times he would float Diane Fielderson’s name with people in the community, which succeeded only in prompting shrugs and head shaking.

He went to the hospital to try to interview Lee Colson. The press pack keeping vigil there was told that Lee was not making any statements today. He’d refused to leave Maria’s side. Jason secretly managed to get one of Lee’s friends to ferry Diane Fielderson’s name, scrawled on a page from his notebook, to Lee inside the hospital.

“Doesn’t mean a damned thing to him,” the friend confided later after coming outside for a smoke.

By the end of the afternoon, Jason was back in the
Mirror
newsroom. He was putting the final touches on his profile of the Colsons when, one by one, his cop sources got back to him on Diane M. Fielderson. And one by one, they told him that her name didn’t register
with anyone and didn’t surface in any of their checks, not even as an alias.

He pondered his tip while he waited for a BLT in the paper’s cafeteria. At least he was checking it out. Before he dismissed it, he’d check with Nancy Poden on her search. News librarians often put detectives to shame with what they could unearth, he thought, clearing the mess at his desk for a spot to eat.

He was curious as to why he hadn’t heard back from her yet. Moreover, he was concerned that the secret documents from his tipster seemed to have vanished from the controlled chaos of his desk. What the heck? Where were they? He had just begun rummaging when his phone rang.

“Jason, it’s Grace. A heads-up, there may be something later.”

“Like what? Give me a hint.”

“There may be an update, that’s all I can say. It may come real late.”

“Fine.”

His stomach was growling as he searched used notebooks, ancient press releases, and news pages for the small yellow papers. He’d left them in a blue file folder on his desk and the damn thing was—he glanced toward Spangler’s glass-walled office, where he saw him holding a blue folder and talking to Sonja Atley, the chief news librarian.

His newsroom line rang.

“Wade.”

“Jason, it’s Nancy in the library. Sonja found out about the search because of the—”

“Wade!” Spangler summoned him to his office.

“Got to go, Nancy.”

After Atley left, Spangler closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit down.” He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I could fire you right now for what you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You neglected to inform me of what you were doing. Of certain information you were pursuing. The search you requested just cost one thousand, six hundred, and forty-one dollars and seven cents and didn’t yield a damned thing.”

Jason followed Spangler’s forefinger to the stack of database searches and the automated billing rates and said nothing.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the money. I just approved it out of my Metro budget to keep Sonja happy.”

Jason swallowed.

“You failed to tell me about this, Wade. In my book, I have grounds to fire your ass.”

“I wanted to confirm—”

“Shut up and listen. I called Rosemary at home, she said you’d received a tip this morning from a caller she’d patched to your home. I talked to Nancy Poden and found this on your desk.” He held up the blue folder, opened it to the small pages and the sketch. “This is it, the tip and data you were secretly pursuing without my knowledge and at great expense to the company?”

Jason nodded.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me everything.”

Jason updated Spangler; he played his tape of the caller, told him about the park and how he’d acted on her information. Spangler let several tense moments pass in silence.

“We’re going to run this story and sketch on the front page.”

“What? I don’t think we should do that.”

“That’s right, you don’t think. Period. What you have here”—Spangler studied the file—“is a person who thinks they’re a psychic. It’s clear from the tone and syntax. We used to get a lot of this when I worked at the
Daily News.
”

Spangler plucked a card from his Rolodex.

“Call this number. Ask for John Gordon Chenoweth. He’s with a foundation that police go to when they quietly want to call in a psychic. He’ll give you some on-the-record comments about the use of psychics in policework. Very respected guy with a highly regarded group.”

“But the library search found nothing. The tip is unsubstantiated. I object to us running the story as it is,” Jason protested.

“We’ll hold the story until you talk to Chenoweth.”

Relieved, Jason exhaled.

“Good; that will give me time to ask the FBI and Seattle homicide to respond to the name.”

“No.”

“No? Why?”

“Because they will not respond. They will urge you to sit on this, or kill it, and by then we will be overtaken.”

“If you run that name and sketch, aren’t we opening the door to all kinds of problems—maybe a lawsuit?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“But it’s likely a bogus tip.”

“We don’t know that. Besides, your tipster could’ve gone to the
Post-Intelligencer
or the
Seattle Times.
Right now, it’s our exclusive. You call the foundation in New York. Chenoweth will give you balanced comments on valid and invalid psychic work.”

“But with the time difference the New York office is likely closed,” Jason protested.

“Quit stalling. Try reaching him now and Wade, be thankful you’re still employed. Now move your ass!” Spangler ordered.

Jason could not reach Chenoweth in Manhattan. He tried well into the night, until they were pushing firstedition deadline; he notified the night desk.

“Vic, I couldn’t reach a key source.”

“You’re losing your magic, kid,” Beale joked.

“Just my mind. Look, hold my psychic exclusive until tomorrow.”

“Fine, but I’ve got orders to let Fritz know.”

“Sure.”

Jason drove home, exhausted.

So exhausted he forgot to call Grace in Homicide.

Forgot all about the update she’d told him was coming.

F
lames lashed from the big steel drum in the backyard where Axel prepared to burn trash. He pulled a brown paper bag from the items heaped near the drum and studied its contents:

Nadine’s white sneakers.

There they were. Wrapped in the morning newspapers with headlines and pictures telling every damned person in Seattle what the hell she was wearing on her feet when she grabbed the kid.

Stupid bitch.

Axel glared back at the house; he could hear the shower hissing and Nadine humming.

Humming.

All of his careful plans gone to hell and she was humming. Lost in her own fairy-tale world. Made him want to grab that two-by-four over there, march into the house, kick down that bathroom door, and—

Hold on. There’s a way out of this.

He stared at the shoes and the flames.
Don’t burn them. Not yet.
And the goddamned van. Common sense screamed at him to get rid of it. He would, but not just yet. He had to think. Consider the circumstances. This
was not supposed to happen. He hadn’t expected this at all. She’d destroyed everything.

So leave her.

No.

Their trail was too messy. Too many loose ends he had to take care of. But how? There was no time and there was too much heat.
Think it through.
But he’d never seen this coming. No hint of it. Certainly not when she’d started sending him letters. That was how they’d met. She was his pen pal during his last months inside.

“I ache for the chance to start over with a new man who needs salvation, redemption, and love, like me,” she wrote.

She told him how she was alone in this world. No family. No friends. Just a single mom raising a new baby by herself after she’d fled her ex who would beat her after a few drinks. That was what she wrote.

Sure, whatever, he thought, after she’d sent him her picture.

She was a knockout. And that was no lie. Not like the desperate pigs who wrote to inmates. Nadine was the real thing. Actually, better-looking than her picture. And she had a fantastic body, which she put to good use as soon as he got out. Nonstop for three rainy days in a motel off of I-5.

At the start, when Axel first hooked up with her, things went according to his plan. Nadine Getch was what he needed on the outside. It was good that she’d had a kid because it was exactly what he needed her for. Not for that shit about salvation and redemption.
Give
me a break.
He’d lied about that to string her along. And not for that happy family in a little house dream she was chasing.

That was actually kinda funny.

No, Nadine was perfect for his secret, longer-term setup.

He needed a woman he could manipulate. A woman who was vulnerable and somewhat simpleminded. The fact she had a kid made his plan even better. But there was no sign of her baby when they’d first met. Come to think of it, not even a picture. He should’ve pegged that as the first clue of trouble. Because back then, whenever he’d asked Nadine about her kid, she began to cry.

“It’s a long story and it hurts so much,” she told him, explaining how she’d gotten sick from her medication, from pills she took for the injuries she’d suffered from her ex beating on her. So sick that she couldn’t take care of her baby.

She said she got a lot of good counseling and some money through a church group. The group had put her in touch with some people from a community shelter who were taking care of her baby until she got better.

“And I am getting better now that I have you,” she told him late one night a couple of weeks ago. “I still see my counselors whenever I want to, and they let me visit my baby. They tell me I’ll be able to bring him home soon. Then we’ll all be together like a family. In our new lives, like we talked about.”

The thing was, she always drove off alone to her appointments, which were at all hours. And she never
wanted Axel to go with her. A few weeks back, he’d pressed her on it but she never really answered because that was when she’d returned from a session with some file folders.

And news.

“We can pick him up in a few days! Oh God, I’m so happy!”

This time she invited him to drive her to Ballard, where she directed him to park on a quiet tree-lined street. They waited as Nadine bit her nails, fidgeted, and scanned the neighborhood while eyeing a neat little two-story house several doors away.

“That’s where my baby’s been staying. I’ve been coming here almost every day to see him.”

They sat there waiting for almost an hour with Axel growing impatient.

“We’re early. Sorry, I’m anxious,” Nadine kept repeating until a woman emerged, pushing a stroller down the street. “There! We have to follow her.”

“Follow her? Why?”

“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing. I’m so excited. I messed up on the details. Keep a good distance but follow her. I forgot, we’re going to do this wherever she’s going. I thought it was at the house, sorry. Oh God, don’t lose her! Oh God, this is really going to happen!”

Axel kept the van back half a block, puzzled and growing pissed. This whole thing was nuts, he thought, turning onto a street with several small stores. This didn’t feel right.

“
There! At Kim’s Corner Store! Go there! Now!
”

Then it all whirled before his eyes like a movie. The baby unattended in front of the store. Nadine jumped from the van and took the kid from his stroller. The woman they’d followed shot from the store and leapt onto the hood, clawing at the wipers, screaming, “My baby!” Nadine was clutching the bawling kid and screaming back at her.

“Get off! Liar! Drive! Get her off! She’s a goddamned liar! He’s my baby and you know it! Liar! Drive! Drive!”

Axel lurched the van and they roared away, clipping people in traffic, feeling as if the world must be watching them; thinking sure to Jesus he was now implicated in some bad shit that was going to put him back in prison.

He didn’t know how, but they made it safely back to their house. He pulled the van into the garage out of sight and started working on finding an escape from the nightmare.

Before a police SWAT team showed up.

In the aftermath, the news reported that the woman, Maria Colson, was going to die. There were alerts going everywhere, the FBI was involved with every police force you could think of, there was video showing a fragment of the van, a psychic, a sketch of a woman, and evidence of Nadine’s white shoes.

It had all gone to hell.

Sooner or later they were coming for them.

Axel had to find a way out. A way to turn it around because he had big plans and he was not going back to Coyote Ridge. No way in hell would he let that happen.
But he couldn’t turn Nadine in to the FBI. Not with his record. No one would believe he was innocent of anything.

He was in too deep.

He looked to the house, listening to the shower. He looked at the flames licking from the barrel. He looked at her shoes in the bag, then the other items heaped by the barrel. He glanced toward the garage, knowing he had to get rid of the van. He just needed a bit more time.

He collected everything and headed into the house.

There was one way out.

Only one.