Face of Betrayal (29 page)

It would have been a clever twist—had the autopsy not put the lie to Fairview’s claim.

“Punish you?” Allison echoed. “Why would she want to punish you?”

“Because earlier that day she had seen Nancy and me Christmas shopping. We were—we were holding hands. Katie called me, screaming that I was cheating on her.” His voice rose indignantly. “Cheating on her? With my wife?”

And suddenly Allison knew that there had been something more. The blog entries, Katie’s anger and sadness—it all added up.

“You got her pregnant, didn’t you?”

A couple of the grand jurors gasped.

“And then you forced her to have an abortion.”

“No! It wasn’t like that at all.” Fairview held his hands out, pleading with Allison and the jurors. “I tried to talk her out of having the abortion, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

“So you paid for the abortion? Drove her to the clinic?”

“Katie was desperate. She said she would kill herself rather than have the baby.”

“But, Senator Fairview, haven’t you staked your professional reputation on being anti-abortion?”

He straightened up. “I’ve always favored an exemption when the life of the mother is at risk. And Katie was adamant that she would kill her-self. She was so afraid of what her stepmother might do if she came home pregnant. She had two bottles of Tylenol, and she told me she was planning on taking both of them rather than go through with having the baby. I couldn’t let that happen, so I took her to a clinic I knew about. At that point, my only thought was to keep her from killing herself. She was a bright, articulate young woman who was clearly going places.” His voice wobbled. “I guess she was more emotionally unstable than I thought.”

“Senator, the autopsy results show that Katie Converse was murdered. She didn’t hang herself. Someone tried to make it look like a suicide.” Allison took a deep breath. “And we believe that someone was you.”

“No,” he protested, his eyes widening. “I did not kill her! I did not kill Katie Converse!”

CHANNEL FOUR

January 12

L
ooking directly into the camera, Cassidy said, “Late-breaking news tonight. Senator James Fairview has been indicted by a grand jury for the murder of Senate page Katie Converse.”

As she was speaking, out of the corner of her eye Cassidy saw an intern with a tape come running into the room. By the time he realized he was running into a live shot, he was going too fast to stop. He tripped over a chair and landed just behind Cassidy. She hesitated for only a second, and in that second, if viewers had listened very carefully, they could have heard a whispered curse from the floor.

Cassidy smoothly resumed talking as if nothing had happened.

“The grand jury acted after seeing this exclusive footage, which you will see only on Channel Four. It was taken the same day that Katie Converse disappeared.”

T
hat night, Cassidy flipped from channel to channel. But Fairview’s arrest didn’t lead the news on a single station. Instead, each was extensively covering the same story, the story the intern had been rushing in. In Chicago, the roof of an ice-skating rink had collapsed under the weight of heavy snow. Three kids were missing and eight were confirmed dead. Many of them had been attending a birthday party for a five-year-old.

With a sinking feeling, Cassidy realized the media’s great eye had just turned away from Katie to focus on another story.

MARK O. HATFIELD UNITED STATES COURTHOUSE

January 13

T
he judge set Fairview’s bail at a million dollars, so he was out within twenty-four hours. A million dollars might sound like a lot to the average person, but Allison knew that a defendant only had to come up with 10 percent. And for a man like Senator Fairview, she thought sourly, a hundred thousand was close to pocket change.

Under the conditions of his bail release, Fairview was not allowed to travel out of state. Release was determined by two considerations: risk of flight and danger to the community. But Fairview was so recognizable—he was currently on the cover of
Time
,
Newsweek
, and the
National Enquirer
—that he was not considered a flight risk, especially since the judge had confiscated his passport. And since it was allegedly a crime of passion, and not the act of a serial killer, Fairview was considered a minimal danger to the community.

As soon as Fairview made bail, he went back to the rehab center, which offered at least the illusion of privacy.

Chambers was out of jail, too, an idea Allison had a lot less trouble with. There was no way to tie the pot plants to him, and Starshine’s story backed him up. After Cassidy’s piece had run, offers to help had poured in from Channel Four viewers. One had offered Chambers a job and a place for him and his daughter to live on a horse farm in rural Washington County. Now they were staying in a mobile home and getting used to having heat, electricity, and running water—all things they had survived without for the past three years.

Allison had just sat down in front of her overflowing inbox when the phone rang.

“Allison Pierce.”

“Ally—it’s Lindsay.”

The first emotion Allison felt was annoyance. The second was guilt.

Lindsay was her sister. She had to be there for her. Even when every-one else had given up on her.

“What’s up, Lindsay?” What she meant was
What’s wrong, Lindsay?
Because something had to be. For one thing, her sister had never come home for Christmas.

“I’ve been arrested.”

“Are you still in Tennessee?” Or had it been Alabama?

“No, I’m here in Portland. Chris took me back.”

Allison couldn’t believe it. Was there a note of joy in her sister’s voice?

“So what were you arrested for?”

“Selling meth. But I—”

“Don’t say any more, Linds.” Phone calls from jail were routinely recorded. Allison would rather not have to argue about whether a conversation with her sister fell under attorney-client privilege. “I’ll come down and talk to you. I can be there in less than an hour.”

She was resting her head in her hands when the phone rang again. She said hello and braced for some new revelation from Lindsay. Instead, she heard a man’s rough voice.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“What?” Electricity shot down her spine.

His voice rode inexorably over hers. “Don’t think you can ever be safe. No matter where you try to hide, I will find you. I don’t care how long it takes. No matter where you run, I will hunt you down. And then I will cut your head off. Or do you want me to tear your heart out? I’ll do it while your heart is still beating.” He laughed. “How’s your husband going to feel when he finds you dead, with no heart?”

He was still laughing when Allison hung up. Her hand was trembling so hard she had trouble replacing the phone in its cradle.

FOREST PARK

January 15

K
ira Dowd was walking up the Wildwood Trail, enjoying the pull in the back of her legs and the sounds of Wilco in her headphones. The sky had cleared overnight and was now a bright blue. The curling ferns were a beautiful emerald green, the air crisp. The ground had frozen enough that the mud was nearly solid underneath her Timberland boots.

Suddenly someone grabbed her from behind. Powerful hands squeezed her neck.

Two years ago, when she was a freshman at Portland State, Kira had taken a women’s self-defense class. But then the attacker had been some guy lumbering around in a face mask and six inches of white padding, and she had had a cheering section.

Now she knew she was probably going to die all alone, with no one to hear, no one to help.

She kicked back and connected with the guy’s shin, but it had hardly any force. The hands tightened. One of her headphones popped loose. What was she supposed to do? Kira couldn’t remember. All she could think of was air and how badly she needed some.

She grabbed her attacker’s wrists and pulled, but they were strong and wiry. Kira clawed at her own neck, ignoring the pain, until she was finally able to grab a gloved index finger. Her lungs were on fire, and the edges of her vision went black. Still she yanked and twisted until finally the hands fell away.

Her first breath was so sweet, even squeezing through her bruised throat.

And with her second breath, Kira began to scream and scream, not even stopping when she saw her attacker, dressed in dark clothes and a black ski mask, crashing away from her through the brush.

TOMMY’S BAR-B-Q

January 17

A
llison parked a block away from Tommy’s Bar-B-Q. As she got ready to leave her car, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Her blood chilled. A block behind her, a man in a blue parka was getting out of a nondescript older model car. She looked closer. It wasn’t just any man in a blue parka. He had a square, blocky build, and his jacket hood was cinched tight so that she couldn’t see his face.

Frantic, Allison looked up and down the empty street. No pedestrians and no other open businesses. Tommy’s Bar-B-Q was in a part of North Portland that gentrification hadn’t reached yet, between a burnt-out lot and a storefront that advertised appliance repair in one window and a no-kill cat shelter in the other.

Slow nausea rose in her throat. What was he planning to do to her? Would he really rape her and kill her? Or would he just beat her up? Even if he only left another note on her car while she was inside eating, she couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take not feeling safe. Couldn’t take not knowing what was going to happen next.

And this wasn’t just about her. This was about the baby. She had to do what she needed to do to keep the baby safe.

Pretending to look for something in her purse, Allison pulled out her cell phone and called Nicole. She pressed the button for speakerphone and left the phone on her lap where her pursuer wouldn’t see it.

Nicole’s voice floated up to her. “You running late?”

“No,” Allison said. “I’m right outside. But you know that guy who’s been threatening me? Well, he’s out here right now. He just parked on the corner about a block behind me. I don’t think he knows I’ve spotted him.”

Nicole’s voice was sharp with urgency. “Where are you?”

“In my car on the corner of Vancouver.”

“Turn on your dome light and pretend like you’re putting on lipstick. Keep an eye on him, though, and if it looks like he’s coming for you, start the car and drive off. I don’t want you getting hurt. I’ll call for backup and then go around the corner and come up behind him.”

A minute later, Allison watched the whole thing unfold in her rearview mirror. The guy shifting from foot to foot, his eyes on her car. Nicole popping around the corner, running up behind him with her gun drawn, and then her yell worthy of a warrior.

“FBI. Put your hands up!”

The man’s body jerked in surprise. But his hands didn’t move. Allison had her fingers on the ignition key, ready to turn it if he made a single step toward her. In the distance she heard sirens.

Nicole screamed, “Get your hands up right now or I will light you up!”

Instead of obeying her, he started running—right toward Allison’s car.

With a shaking hand, Allison quickly turned the key. But she turned it too far. The engine made a grinding shriek, shuddered, and fell silent. Her eyes flashed up to the rearview mirror. He was only ten feet from her car.

She turned the key again. Now there wasn’t even a noise.

Nicole made a flying tackle and slammed the guy against Allison’s trunk. Even inside the car, Allison could hear his grunt of pain.

With a cough and a whine, the car finally started. Her foot hovered over the accelerator. Should she still drive off? In her rearview mirror, she saw Nicole handcuff her would-be assailant, none too gently, and begin patting him down. In a second, one, two, three cop cars screamed around the corner.

Allison turned off the car. She had to see his face. She had to know who had been doing this to her. She opened the door.

Three curious diners had come out of Tommy’s and were gathered on the sidewalk. Cassidy was snapping photos with her cell phone.

As Nicole leaned Allison’s pursuer over the trunk of her car, his hood fell back, allowing Allison to finally see the man she had been running from.

Only it wasn’t a man.

It was a woman.

“That’s a surprise,” Cassidy said, touching Allison’s arm. “Do you know her?”

She had difficulty finding her voice. “It’s . . . it’s Vanessa Logue. I prosecuted her date rapist. But the jury found him not guilty.”

Allison walked around the car until she could look into the woman’s eyes, snapping with anger.

“Vanessa—
you’re
the one who’s been following me? Leaving me threats? But why?”

The woman’s face was creased into a snarl. “If you had done your job the way you should have, the guy who raped me would be in jail. Instead, he’s walking around free, and I’m the one living in fear. Because of your incompetence.” Vanessa took a ragged breath. “I just wanted you to see what it was like to have to watch your back all the time. To never feel safe.”

“But who placed all those phone calls?”

It had been a man’s voice on the phone. Allison was sure of it.

“My brother,” Vanessa said as sirens began to fill the air. “He hates you as much as I do.”

Allison hoped the brother could be found soon enough.

TOMMY’S BAR-B-Q

January 17

T
hat was an exciting way to begin the evening,” Cassidy said dryly, when the three women were finally settled in at Tommy’s an hour later.

She seemed different somehow, but in ways Allison was having trouble putting a finger on. It was more than just her high-necked blouse or her uncharacteristically subdued manner. Normally she would have been unable to sit still after all the excitement, would have flirted with the cops before they left. Instead, she somehow just seemed . . . flat.

Tommy’s Bar-B-Q wasn’t long on looks. Once it had been a dry cleaners, but Tommy had remodeled it by adding a tiny open kitchen on the other side of the front counter. Three wooden picnic tables had been squeezed into the former waiting area—and that was the extent of the seating.