Left for Dead (22 page)

As the air bag deflated, a burning, gassy smell filled the car. Past a crack in the windshield, and the crumpled hood, Tim looked for smoke, but didn’t see any. Then he realized the smell was coming from whatever had filled up the air bag.

The pickup in front of him inched forward. Its back bumper was bent in one place, and a taillight was broken. He didn’t see any other damage to the pickup.

Yet Tim could tell without even stepping outside to look, Al’s car was totaled.

But at least it wasn’t moving anymore.

Beep.

“Hello, Lieutenant Elmore. This is Tim Sullivan calling at around seven-fifty. I’m waiting for the last ferry to Deception Island. I’m driving a loaner car, because Al’s Taurus got totaled. Or at least the mechanic at the auto place thinks it is. He also thinks the brakes were sabotaged. I agree with him, but then, I’m paranoid. Right? And by the way, I don’t know if you’ve heard from the hospital yet. But they called me an hour ago. Al’s in a coma. I’ve got his cell phone if you need me. Or you can reach me at the hotel. Bye.”

Tim stopped by the front desk of The Whale Watcher Inn to ask for his messages. The innkeeper’s wife, a petite, sweet-looking redhead named Beven, was on duty. She said a woman had called, but left no message. “She asked if you were still checked in, and I told her, yes. I hope that’s okay.”

Tim nodded. “That’s fine, thanks.” He figured it was Claire, wondering if he’d left yet.

“Officer Sullivan?” Beven’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They’re saying that he’s on the island. Claire Shaw saw him. Rembrandt’s here on Deception. Is it true?”

“I can’t say for sure,” he replied.

Behind the counter, the door to the innkeeper’s quarters was open. Tim could see her husband, sitting in a recliner, watching TV. But the man was also looking at his wife.

“This is the kind of place where you feel your kids are safe,” Beven said, her eyes tearing up. “No one locks their doors here at night. Now, I’m hearing that this maniac is out there somewhere. What are we supposed to do? My husband’s going crazy with worry. And I’m pretty scared myself.”

Tim didn’t know what to tell her. “Well, you should lock your doors, and be extra cautious. But you need to keep living your life. You can’t let something like this—paralyze you.”

She nodded. “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling my husband,” Beven whispered. She gave Tim a pale smile. “You look pretty tired—and hungry. Did you have dinner yet? The Fork In The Road is still open.” She winced a bit. “Then again, after what happened to your friend, I guess you might not want to go back.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said soberly. “I need to stop by there anyway. Thanks.” Tim started toward the lobby door. “Take care.”

“G’night, officer,” she called to him.

The only waitperson on duty at the Fork In The Road was a haggard-looking woman with short brown hair, too much makeup, and bad skin. She briefly glanced at Tim as he stepped inside the restaurant. “Sit anywhere you want,” she called. “I’ll be right with you.”

The place wasn’t very crowded. Tim took a booth. He didn’t have to wait long before she shuffled over to the table. He saw the name tag on her brown uniform: Darla.

“We’re out of the special, so don’t bother asking,” Darla announced, handing him a menu. She set down a too-full glass of water, which immediately made a puddle on the Formica tabletop. Then she slapped down the paper place mat in front of him—along with a paper napkin and the silverware.

“Anything besides water to drink?” she asked.

“A Coke, please,” Tim said. “And I have a question. I promise, it’s not about the special. Do you have a minute?”

Nodding, she leaned on the table. “Shoot.”

“There was another waitress working here this morning. She had dark hair and—”

Darla let out a disgusted laugh. “Huh, you mean that bitch who left right before the lunch rush? Don’t get me started on her. I had to come in early, because of her. Talk about a screw up.”

“So—she doesn’t ordinarily work here?” Tim asked.

“No, thank God.”

“And you don’t know her?”

The waitress shook her head. “Never laid eyes on her, and I hope I never do. Otherwise, she’ll have a hard time removing my boot from her ass.” Darla sighed. “One of the cooks said her name was Ronnie. She came in to work for Roseann.”

“Yeah, I heard Roseann was sick,” Tim said,

“Real sick. Like Mount Saint Helen’s, if you get my drift.”

“Must have come on pretty suddenly. Do you know what happened?”

Darla shrugged. “To hear the cook tell it, she was in shipshape when she came in first thing this morning. She had a couple of cups of coffee, waited on a few customers, and suddenly went down for the count. About an hour later, this Ronnie yo-yo showed up. I guess she’s supposed to be Roseann’s cousin or something. Anyway, she lasted about three hours, then poof, she disappeared. So—I’ve been here on my feet since ten-thirty this morning. Any other questions?”

“Then this Ronnie isn’t a local?” Tim asked.

“Like I say, no one here knows her. I’m guessing she’s from out of town. Roseann’s the one you should be talking to.”

“You don’t happen to have Roseann’s phone number, do you?”

Darla planted a hand on her hip and squinted at him. “Are you kidding? I may have a big mouth, but I don’t give out coworkers’ phone numbers to complete strangers.”

“My name’s Tim Sullivan,” he said. “Now we’re not strangers. Roseann will probably remember me. Does that help?”

Darla shook her head. “Not really.”

Tim pulled out his police badge. “Would this?”

She nodded. “That would do it. I’ll get your Coke—and Roseann’s phone number.” She shuffled away from his table.

Tim sat in a stupor. Everything he’d been through today suddenly hit him: the morning with Claire, then Al becoming so violently ill, and finally, surviving that car wreck. He was so overwhelmingly tired.

As much as he wanted to go back to the hotel, take a shower, then go to bed, he knew the night was far from over. If Rembrandt was on this small island, then Tim would have to do his best to track him down.

Most of the Deception residents knew each other. He wondered where an outsider would hide if he wanted to stay close to someone and not be seen.

Tim pulled Al’s cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He remembered Al making a big deal in front of Sheriff Klauser about adding the sheriff’s phone number to his speed dial. Tim pulled up the menu function, and pressed Klauser’s number.

“Sheriff speaking,” he answered on the third ring.

“Hi. This is Tim Sullivan. How are you doing?”

“I’m about to go out of my goddamn mind, that’s how I’m doing,” the sheriff replied. “I don’t know how the hell Linda Castle and her big mouth did it, but since that incident at the Shaws’ house this morning, it’s gotten all over the island that Rembrandt is
here among us.
My phone’s been ringing off the hook. I’ve got worried housewives and husbands calling me, and false alarms up the wazoo. The whole community is in an uproar. And today of all days, when I’m short a man—”

There was a break in the connection. “Oh, crap, some other nut is calling. Hold on.”

While Tim held, Darla returned to his booth with a Coke and Roseann’s address scribbled on a napkin. “There you go, officer. Did you decide on dinner?”

“Um, thank you. Could I have another minute?”

“Take two, they’re free, ha.” She sauntered toward another table.

Tim heard a click on the line. “Yep, another concerned citizen wanting to know if Rembrandt is really here on the island,” the sheriff said. “Par for the course today. You still there? Where was I?”

“You were short a man,” Tim said.

“That’s right. Troy had the day off. Couldn’t get a hold of him either, because he went out of town.”

“You mean Deputy Landers?”

“Yeah. He won’t be back until tomorrow night. Until then, it’s just you, me, and my other deputy, Ramon. So what can I do for you?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you’d tracked down that mystery man in the army fatigue jacket and stocking cap, but you already answered my question. Is everything okay with Mrs. Shaw? Any more scares?”

“Nope. I gather Harlan has the place locked down tight for the evening. Ramon will be patrolling the area on and off until dawn tomorrow.”

“I’m here at Fork In The Road about to order dinner,” Tim said. “After I eat, I’d like to sit down and talk with you for a few minutes. Is that okay?”

“Hell, get your food to-go, and come down the block to the station,” the sheriff replied. “That’s where I am, filling out my umpteenth response report for the night. Do me a favor, will ya? Bring me a large coffee and a piece of blueberry pie.”

“I’d skip the blueberries if I were you,” Tim said. “How about apple?”

After hanging up with the sheriff, Tim waved down Darla, who was behind the counter.

She shuffled over to the table. “F-Y-I. I don’t wait on people while they’re on their stinking cell phones.”

“Good rule,” Tim said. “Sorry. It was kind of a police emergency.”

“So what are you gonna have, officer?”

Tim ordered a cheeseburger deluxe, an apple pie, and a coffee, all to-go. Darla wrote it on the guest check as she wandered back behind the counter.

Tim glanced at the napkin with Roseann’s phone number scribbled on it. He reached for the phone again, and dialed. Her machine picked up:
“Hi, this is Roseann, and this is Einstein.”
A dog barked twice.
“Neither one of us can come to the phone right now. So leave us a message after the telltale beep.”

“Hi, Roseann…Einstein,” Tim said, shifting a bit in the booth. “You might remember me from yesterday morning. I’m Tim Sullivan, one of the cops. The cinnamon toast guy? Anyway—”

There was a click on the other end of the line. “Hi, I’m sorry, I’m screening,” she said, sounding groggy. “I’ve been sick all day.”

“I know,” Tim said. “That’s why I’m calling. The other cop I was with yesterday, Al, he got sick this morning too—after eating here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Fork In The Road. He had the blueberry pancakes, with a bunch of blueberries on the side. He ate up the whole damn thing. An hour later, he was brutally ill. And now, he’s in a Bellingham hospital in a coma.”

“My God,” she murmured. “The poor guy. And I thought I had it bad.”

“I hear you were fine when you came to work this morning. Did you eat any blueberries?”

“No, all I had was coffee. But it tasted funny, so I threw out the pot after my first cup.”

“Was there someone you didn’t know working in the kitchen this morning?” he asked.

“Nope. Same old, same old.”

Tim glanced over toward the unmanned register. “What about that man from yesterday?” Tim asked. “The balding guy with the mustache, the one who yelled at you for talking to us. I think you said he was the manager—”

“That’s Wayne, the owner,” she said.

“The owner?” Tim chuckled. “I heard you talking to him. You told the restaurant
owner
to pound sand up his ass?”

“Yeah, well, Wayne owns the restaurant. But he doesn’t own me.”

“Was Wayne here this morning?”

“Nope. He doesn’t come in on Fridays. Why? Do you think someone tried to poison me or something?”

“Well, it’s possible,” Tim said. “Look what happened to my friend. Did you leave your coffee cup anywhere someone could have gotten at it?”

“Sure, I left it on the counter.”

Tim looked over at the lunch counter—and the eight empty stools lined up in front of it.

“Were any strangers sitting at the counter?” he asked.

“Nope. Like I say, same old, same old. There was Bill Comstock. He’s always the first one in. Then Rachel Porter and Tom McFarland, Ron Castle, and old Richard Boswell with the bad breath. He’s there practically every—”

“Did you say Ron Castle?” Tim interrupted. “Linda Castle’s husband?”

“That’s right,” Roseann said on the other end of the line. “He’s a regular. Only he usually sits at the two-top in the corner by the window. But this morning, he took a counter seat.”

Tim glanced across the restaurant at the empty table for two in the corner by the window. “Was someone in his usual spot?” he asked.

“No. But I have a question for you.”

Tim pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled down on the place mat:
“Ron Castle—switched tables—no reason.”

“Are you still there?” Roseann asked.

“Yes. You have a question. Go ahead.”

“You mentioned earlier that your partner had a big pile of blueberries by his pancakes. Did I hear you right?”

“Yes, he had the blueberry pancakes. I ordered them, but he ended up eating them.”

“That’s funny, because I’ve worked in that dump for seven years. I must have served up few thousand plates of blueberry pancakes, and never—not once—have any of the cooks dished them out with berries on the side. Who was waiting on your table?”

“Your cousin,” Tim said.

“My cousin? Honey, I have two cousins, and they both live in Evanston, Illinois. What are you talking about?”

“Well, Darla said she thought this woman was your cousin or something,” Tim explained. “Her name’s Ronnie. She’s in her late forties with black hair, and sort of a flat nose. You must know her. You got her to fill in for you.”

“I don’t know anyone named Ronnie,” Roseann said. “I couldn’t find anyone to take my place. I called the other girls, including Darla, and none of them could take my shift. Who’s this Ronnie character?”

“I don’t know,” Tim replied. “I was really hoping you could tell me.”

Tim didn’t realize how hungry he was until he sat down in the police station and unwrapped the cheeseburger. Except for a Nestle’s Crunch bar from a vending machine in the hospital, he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He’d skipped lunch, and Al had gobbled up his breakfast, which of course, had come from the same kitchen as this cheeseburger now making him salivate.

He watched the gaunt, wizen-faced sheriff at the desk across from him, gorging on the apple pie. Tim decided to take a chance on the burger. While they ate, and between phone calls from concerned, terrified islanders, Tim told the sheriff about “Ronnie.”