Left for Dead (19 page)

“Compared to Derek, your son is St. Francis of Assisi,” Tim muttered. He glanced at a report from August 8, 2001, when both boys—along with a third named Frank Killabrew—were arrested for trespassing, drunk and disorderly, and indecent exposure. The three of them had gotten drunk, and gone skinny-dipping in the pond at Falls Park, a nature area closed to the public after ten-thirty at night.

“That was our first summer here,” Claire explained.

“Who’s Frank Killabrew?” Tim asked.

“I think his family came here on vacation and rented a cabin for a week. The woods are full of rental cabins. They get a lot of business in the summer.”

“That name
Killabrew
is familiar,” Tim muttered, almost to himself. He sipped his coffee.

“Well, I don’t think I ever met him—or his family.” Claire glanced at her wristwatch. “Listen, Harlan thinks I’m seeing this therapist right now. He’s supposed to pick me up outside the doctor’s office in about five minutes. I should go. But I want to tell you something that happened when I was walking here. Please, don’t think I’m paranoid, but I’m pretty certain someone’s following me—and watching me.”

Tim started to reach out to her, but hesitated. “Did you get a good look at him?”

Claire shook her head. “He was too far away, and he ran off the moment I spotted him. He could be a reporter or photographer, like the ones trying to get at me in the hospital. But I can’t help thinking maybe Rembrandt has tracked me down on this island. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting.”

Tim frowned. “No. I’m glad you told me.”

Glancing at her wristwatch, Claire got to her feet. “Damn, I’ve got to go.”

“Promise me, you won’t go anywhere by yourself,” he whispered, standing up with her. “If you’re alone at home, keep the doors and windows locked. You should have someone with you at all times, Claire.”

She nodded distractedly. “I’ll call you at the hotel later,” she said in a low voice. “Thanks for everything, Tim.”

She headed toward the front of the police station, and almost bumped into Deputy Landers in the doorway.

“You okay?” he asked. “Find what you needed?”

“Yes, thanks,” Claire said nervously. She walked around the counter. “Bye, Troy.” As she opened the door, Claire turned back and looked at Tim. “Nice running into you, Officer Sullivan,” she said. Then she stepped outside.

Tim came to the front window, and watched her cross the street.

“She’s a bit of all-right, if you know what I mean,” the deputy said. “I guess she’s got a big hole in her chest now, but what the hell? I still wouldn’t mind trading places with Harlan Shaw for a night or two.”

Tim saw Claire stop under the awning of the flower shop, just off Main Street, about half a block away. She glanced toward him, and gave a little, secretive wave.

Tim waved back. “Do you have any records of off-islander people who have rented cabins here during the summer?” he asked, his eyes still on Claire. Raindrops began to slash against the police station window.

“Yeah, the folks leasing out cabins have to submit a list of occupants if they’re staying over three days.” Deputy Landers slurped down some coffee. “I don’t know if it has to do with taxes or keeping track of local tourism or what the hell it is. Anyway, they have all that stuff at the City Hall office. Second floor.”

Tim watched a Saab pull up near the flower shop. Claire stepped up to the passenger side and opened the car door. She glanced back at him for a fleeting moment, then ducked inside the car.

Rain continued to slash at the police station window. Unblinking, Tim gazed at the car as it drove away. “City Hall, second floor?” he asked.

“That’s right, sport.” Troy Landers replied.

“Thanks, deputy,” he said.

“The name is Killabrew, and they rented one of the cabins around the second week of August 2001,” Tim said.

The large, middle-aged woman behind the counter wore a white pullover sweater that had a photo of a kitten on it. Nodding, she scribbled on a piece of paper. She took off her bifocals, leaving them to dangle from a chain around her neck, then she waddled over to a file cabinet.

Tim noticed three desks in the drab, little office, but she was the only person there. The Platt City Hall of Records was in a stately old building on Main Street. The first floor was a historical museum, open to the public Thursdays through Saturdays.

The woman shuffled back to the counter with a half-sheet of paper. “Let’s see now,
Killabrew,”
she said, adjusting her bifocals and studying the document. “Five occupants. Rented the Miller place from August third through the ninth, oh-one. That’s one of the bigger cabins, a three bedroom. Belongs to Mr. William M. Miller in Seattle. But Chad Schlund manages the place. You want the address?”

“Yes, please,” Tim replied. “And a phone number for Mr. Schlund too—if you have it.”

“Easy-breezy,” she said, scribbling on an index card. “Chad manages about a dozen of the cabins, all owned by off-islanders. He rents them out, hires the maid brigades, makes sure the water and electricity are running, fills out all the paperwork.”

“Do you know if he has the Killabrews’ year-round address?” Tim asked. “And maybe the names of the five people who stayed there?”

“Oh, I have that right here, officer,” she said. “Want me to write it down for you?”

Tim nodded. “Yes, thank you. Thank you very much.”

“‘Mr. and Mrs. Francis G. Killabrew,’”
she said aloud as she wrote.
“‘Twelve-oh-three Laramee Drive, Wenatchee, Washington.’
Hmm, looks like they brought the whole family,” she said lightly.
“‘Nancy Killabrew, Frank Killabrew, and Phoebe Killabrew.’”

“I really appreciate this,” Tim said. He drummed his fingers on the countertop. “Do you know if the public library here has old
Seattle Times
or
Post-Intelligencers
on file?”

The library had microfiche files for
The Seattle Times
since 1995. At the front desk, Tim had filled out a form requesting issues dated: 11/19/02 and 11/20/02. He knew the first date very well. Most everyone on the Rembrandt task force knew it. But Tim couldn’t remember if
The Times
had run the story on November 19, or the next day.

The library was a big, slightly weather-beaten old, white house. The inside had a certain seedy grandeur, with a big chandelier and a fake fireplace in the main room. There were a couple of stuffed sofas and a long, mahogany study table with old, mismatched chairs. Two cubicals with microfiche machines interrupted the row of bookcases against one wall.

Tim started up the microfiche reader. It made a humming noise. He slipped in the file for November 20 and started scanning.

Tim found what he was looking for, an article on page two. He stared at the headline:

Tim knew the rest. Nancy Hart never returned from her morning run. The police were able to keep out of the newspapers the bizarre details regarding the discovery of her corpse. The article didn’t mention that a heavy dose of makeup had been applied to Nancy’s face, and the cosmetic work was protected from the elements by a clear plastic bag that had been pulled over her head and tied around her neck. At the time, the police didn’t know what to make of it.

Nancy had been Rembrandt’s first.

Tim scanned the article until he reached a paragraph near the end:

Hunched over the microfiche machine, Tim slowly shook his head. “My God, she was here,” he whispered to himself. “She was here. This is probably where he first set eyes on her.”

“Don’t you see the significance of this?” Tim asked Al.

He kept his voice down to a whisper. The Fork In The Road was in the middle of their breakfast rush, and the place was crowded. They didn’t get a booth this morning, and there were people within reaching distance at tables on both sides of them.

Al nibbled at his cinnamon toast. “So she took a vacation here with her family,” he said. “Doesn’t mean anything. That was over a
year
before she was killed.”

“Yes, but Nancy Killabrew Hart was the first,” Tim argued. “Rembrandt could have met her here—or at least seen her. He may be a local, or maybe he rented a cabin in the woods near where her family stayed.”

“You’re saying he was obsessed with her for over a year? Give me a break.”

“Al, some obsessions last a lifetime. And it’s just too much of a coincidence that two of Rembrandt’s victims have spent time on this tiny island.”

“That’s just what it is,” Al said, over his coffee cup. “A coincidence.”

The waitress, a forty-something woman with limp black hair and a flat nose, stopped by to refill their coffees. There wasn’t a name tag on her brown uniform. “How are you guys doing?” she asked.

“Great, thanks,” Tim said. “Um, is it Roseann’s day off?” He’d been hoping to ask her some more questions about Brian and Derek.

“Roseann’s out sick today,” the waitress said. “I’m filling in. Something wrong with your pancakes?”

Tim glanced down at the stack of blueberry pancakes in front of him. A pile of blueberries sat on the side of the plate by a big mound of melting butter. “Oh, I’m sure they’re great,” he said. “I just haven’t dug in yet.”

“Well, eat up before they get cold.” Coffeepot in hand, she sauntered away from the table.

Tim picked up his fork, but hesitated. “You know, I remember a theory that went around the office a while back. It was about Rembrandt being two people—or maybe one guy with an accomplice, a disciple.”

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Al grunted. He finished his scrambled eggs.

“Well, I keep thinking about Brian Ferguson and Derek Herrmann, and how they both suddenly vanished when the attempt on Claire Shaw’s life was botched. What if Claire Shaw’s memory lapse is some kind of unconscious way of shielding herself from the truth about her son and his friend?”

“Y’know this cinnamon toast your girlfriend was pushing yesterday is okay, but not exactly filling.” Al pointed to Tim’s plate. “Are you gonna eat those flapjacks or what?”

Tim pushed the plate toward him. “Go ahead, knock yourself out. Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, you’re saying Claire Shaw’s kid tried to knock her off.” Al dug into the blueberry pancakes. “And he’s Rembrandt or working for Rembrandt. I’m sure she’ll love hearing that.”

Tim sighed. “I hope I’m wrong. But Derek and Brian knew Frank Killabrew, that’s a fact. It’s in a police report. Chances are they knew his sister, Nancy. I think we should drive to Wenatchee and talk to Mr. and Mrs. Killabrew. They might remember someone stalking Nancy while they were vacationing here. Or maybe—”

“Now, hold on, hotshot,” Al said. His fork made a clanking sound as he set it down on his plate. “You aren’t talking to anyone else with your cock-a-mamie theories. In fact, I wasn’t going to say anything to you. I wanted to give you another chance. But I got a call last night from Ron Castle. He was out for blood. He said you were rude to his wife the day before yesterday.”

Tim shook his head. “Al, listen—”

“No, you listen,” the older cop said, picking blueberries off his plate and popping them in his mouth. “You were harassing the wife of a VIP around here. This Ron Castle is one of the head honchos in this men’s club, the Guardians, which I guess is a big deal around here. And you pissed him off.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim muttered.

“Well, I smoothed his ruffled feathers, and told him that I’d give you a talking to. But I think I’ll do my talking to Lieutenant Elmore, and recommend you be shipped back to Seattle.” He popped another couple of blueberries in his mouth. “You’re a loose cannon here, and I can’t keep making excuses for your screw ups.”

“Listen, Al, I’ll be honest with you,” Tim said. “The last thing in the world I wanted to do was come to this island. But now, I believe we have a shot at actually catching this killer—or at least, finding out who he is. All we have to do is just keep digging. Don’t you think it’s worth a try? I want to stay, Al. I’m pretty sure Claire Shaw wants me to stay too. All you have to do is ask her. And she’s the reason we’re here, right?”

Al was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t bet on Claire Shaw being in your corner once you tell her that her kid is the Rembrandt killer.”

“That’s just a theory, Al. I’m hoping it’s not true. I want the chance to prove myself wrong. Hell, wouldn’t that give you some satisfaction, proving me wrong? C’mon, Al, don’t say anything to Elmore for another twenty-four hours, and if by then—”

“Sorry,” he cut it. “My mind’s made up. It’s nothing personal. You’re just a liability here.”

Disgusted, Tim sat back and stared at Al, who was wolfing down his pancakes. “Yeah, and you’re a real asset,” he grumbled. “Taking whale watching cruises, while Rembrandt runs around free to kill again.”

Al kept on eating. Tim wondered if he’d even heard him, and for a moment, he hoped he hadn’t.

Al didn’t look up. He simply paused before shovelling another forkful of blueberry pancakes in his mouth. “Checkout time at the hotel is twelve noon,” he said, finally. “I suggest you pack up, hotshot.”

“Anyway, I don’t think our private detective shopping venture will happen,” Claire said into the phone. “I can’t come to Bellingham, Tess. Harlan has laid down the law. I’m not allowed off the island. It’s like Alcatraz.”

Claire refilled her coffee cup, then sat down at the kitchen table. It was a round, stained oak table with four matching chairs that Claire never found very comfortable. The ceramic jack-o-lantern centerpiece was leftover from Halloween, three weeks ago, before she’d disappeared. Claire was still in her bathrobe, and hadn’t yet cleared off the breakfast dishes. She’d seen Harlan off to work, and Tiffany off to school. The stove clock read eight-thirty, but it might as well have been eight-thirty at night. The sky had turned dark gray within the last half hour. It looked like a bad storm was looming. Claire reached over and switched on the light in the pantry.

“In fact, Harlan wouldn’t have left me alone here this morning,” Claire continued. “Only Linda Castle is stopping by within the hour. We’re spending the day together. That apparently makes everything all right, which is pretty ironic when you stop to consider what happened the last time I spent the day with Linda Castle.”

“She’s your best friend on that island,” Tess said on the other end of the line. “Yet you hate her guts, don’t you?”

“I just don’t trust her, that’s all.”

Tess laughed. “Yeah, well, if you can’t mistrust your best friend, then I don’t know what.”

“I haven’t always been like this,” Claire replied, rubbing her forehead. “It’s just, ever since I’ve come back from the hospital, I’ve felt so
estranged
from Linda and Harlan. It’s like they expect me to live in their little world here, and believe everything they tell me. And I’m not supposed to miss my son.”

“Do you think maybe that’s why Brian ran away?” Tess asked gently. “Is it possible he’s always felt the same resentment you feel now, coming to this island, living in Harlan’s house?”

Claire didn’t respond. She remembered all the times she’d told her son to try getting along with Harlan, all the times she took Harlan’s side in their squabbles.

“Claire? Listen, I’m sorry, that was tactless—”

“No, it’s very true,” she murmured. “You’ve got my number. You’re a helluva lot better than the shrink I’m seeing here. You know, he’s another one on this island I don’t really trust.”

“Ha, color me shocked.”

“Okay, enough about boring me,” Claire said. “What’s going on with you, Tess? How are you doing?”

“Well, I’m still a little sore, still a little depressed. But at least I don’t have to go back to work for another week. Hmmm, let’s see, what else? I’ve become totally hooked on bad daytime TV, and I’m thinking about getting a cat. Could I possibly be any more pathetic?”

“What’s wrong with owning a cat?” Claire asked. She heard a break on the other end of the line.

“Oh, just a sec,” Tess said. “I have Caller ID. It’s work, the Seattle office. I should probably grab this, Claire. Want me to call you back?”

“I need to clean up and get ready for Linda. Let’s talk tomorrow. Okay?”

“You bet. Say hi to your
best friend
for me.”

“Smart ass. Take care, Tess.”

After she hung up, Claire tried Tim at the hotel—her third attempt this morning. They rang his room, but again, no answer. She didn’t leave a message.

Claire cleared the table and washed the dishes. She switched on another light. Outside, the wind was kicking up. Through the sliding glass doors in the pantry, Claire watched leaves scatter across the lawn. She saw tree branches swaying in the wooded area that bordered their backyard. She remembered what Tim had told her about locking all the doors and windows while alone in the house.

She finished the dishes, dried off her hands, and started checking the windows and doors.

She hadn’t told Tess about Tim Sullivan. It was a conscious omission in their phone conversation just now. She didn’t want to admit to Tess—or herself—how much she’d come to depend on this good-looking cop. And yes, his good looks had a lot to do with her feelings for him.

While checking the living room windows, Claire gazed out at the half-finished house across the street. Tiffany called it the “face house,” because she thought the upstairs windows looked like eyes, and the front door, a nose. Claire knew what she meant. There were times when she felt that house was staring back at her.

The phone rang, and gave her a start.

She still thought of Brian, every time it rang. She hated getting her hopes up, but couldn’t help thinking it might be him. Claire grabbed the receiver before the answering machine clicked on. “Hello?”

No response. But she could hear someone sigh. It sounded like a man.

“Yes, hello?” she repeated, her hope turning into something else. “Who’s there?”

This was no wrong number. The person was still on the line. She thought of the man who had been watching her in the alley yesterday. Did he like to listening to her as well? Claire swallowed hard. “I can hear you,” she said evenly. “Who’s there?”

There was a click. The line went dead. Frowning, Claire disconnected for a moment, and tried star-six-nine. A disembodied voice told her the number was blocked.

She hung up the receiver. “Relax, it’s nothing,” she muttered to herself.

Still, she took one last cautious glance out the sliding glass doors before retreating upstairs. It was so dark, she needed to turn on the second floor hallway light, then another one in the bedroom. Claire grabbed a black pullover and a pair of jeans from the closet, then laid them out on the bed.

Claire didn’t linger in the shower. She’s seen
Psycho
one too many times, and felt nervous enough being alone in the house right now. Even with the bathroom door locked, she faced the shower curtain and rushed through the ritual.

After drying off, she donned her bathrobe and opened the bathroom door a crack. She switched off the vent, and the sudden quiet was a bit eerie. A steady drip from the showerhead echoed in the tiled bathroom.

She ran a towel over her head, then pulled the hair dryer out from under the sink. Claire plugged it in, and a spark suddenly burst from the outlet. An electric, nerve-wrenching jolt surged up her arm, and she recoiled. Claire screamed. For a moment, she thought she was being electrocuted. The lights flickered. Smoke spewed from the outlet.

All at once, the lights went out.

“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered. She couldn’t stop shaking. “Jesus, calm down, Claire. You’re okay…”

But she wasn’t. Her heart was racing. As much as she tried to steady herself, the tremors wouldn’t go away. She could hardly walk without falling on her face. It felt as if every joint and muscle in her body had been seared.

She managed to open the bathroom door all the way, letting in some light. She kept talking aloud, assuring herself that she was okay. In the bedroom, she fanned her right hand. Little phantom electric jolts still resonated through the nerve ends.

Claire teetered down the dim hallway, then she took the stairs one step at a time. “You blew a fuse,” she said aloud, between deep breaths. “And you scared the ever-lovin’ crap out of yourself. But you’re okay…”

She could have used the phone in the bedroom. But she’d had an inexplicable urgency to be on the first floor. Maybe she didn’t want to be trapped upstairs—by someone, or something, even if it was just the dark.

She was still trembling. She needed to call someone. The first person who came to mind was Tim.

She picked up the phone in the pantry. After three failed attempts to connect with Tim this morning, she still dialed The Whale Watcher Inn one more time.

Claire took a few deep breaths. She didn’t want to sound crazy and shrill on the phone. When the hotel operator came on the line, Claire calmly asked for Tim Sullivan’s room. Counting the ring tones, she turned toward the sliding glass doors.

Outside, the leaves continued to scatter across the lawn. And at the edge of their yard, where the woods started, a man stood alone, watching her.

He was back, the man in the gray stocking cap and army fatigue jacket. Even with the darkened, ominous sky, he still wore his sunglasses.

Claire froze.

“Hello?” she heard someone say on the other end of the line.

“Tim?” she gasped, turning away from the glass doors. “Tim, is that you?”

“Claire? Listen, I—”

“Somebody’s in the backyard!” she whispered. “And I’m alone here. It’s the man I saw yesterday…”

Claire turned around again. She didn’t see him. He’d disappeared.

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” Tim said. “As soon as we hang up, call the police. Make sure the doors are locked. I’m leaving right now. Okay, Claire?”