Left for Dead (29 page)

“Tim, I’ve lived here for two years, and today is the first I’ve heard of the Davalos family. This is more than some little skeleton in the town hall closet. It’s a cover-up. There’s more here than we know.” She sighed, then her voice cracked a little. “I keep thinking about the Davalos’s two teenage boys—always getting into trouble—and I wonder what really happened to my son—and Derek.”

“Okay, Claire,” Tim whispered on the other end of the line. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll see if I can find something in the police records. Will you be home tomorrow?”

“No. There’s an after-church art show and breakfast at Tiffany’s school. It’s a mother-daughter thing. Linda’s going with us. Harlan has to work again. It’s all planned out so I won’t be alone for a minute. I don’t think I’ll have a chance to break away and see you.”

“Well, you can call me on the cell phone—anytime you feel like it.”

“Thanks, Tim,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

“Try to get some sleep,” he said. “Good night, Claire.”

That night, before going to bed, Tim double-locked the hotel room door, and checked the windows. He put Al’s gun under the extra pillow beside him in bed.

He hoped to get through the night without needing it.

Claire stood between Tiffany and Harlan in a pew near the front of St. Mark’s Church. Claire wore a navy blue print, wrap-around dress, and Harlan had on a suit and tie. People still dressed for Sunday morning services on Deception Island.

St. Mark’s was a small church with chalky-white walls, polished wood trim, and a red carpet. The square, little stain-glass windows depicted the Stations of the Cross. The altar was white marble with red-and-gold trim.

Ron Castle, looking a bit pinched inside his blue suit, stood at the pulpit and gave the Reading. He fluffed a couple of lines, but at least his toupee was on straight. The reverend, seated on the other side of the altar, didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he looked as if he was sleeping.

Claire sympathized. She’d felt herself almost nodding off a few times during the service. She hadn’t slept well last night. She kept waking up and checking to see if Harlan was in bed with her. He was.

If he’d slipped away during the night again, she hadn’t noticed.

Before church this morning, while Harlan was in the bathroom, Claire snuck downstairs and tried Steven Griswald’s number again. She’d just finished dialing when Harlan stepped into the pantry—half dressed. Claire hung up, and muttered something about trying to call her friend, Tess, in Bellingham.

“Why don’t you do that later?” he’d said, frowning. “We’ll be late for church.”

They weren’t late. In fact, they’d arrived the same time as Ron and Linda Castle. Linda now sat in the pew in front of them.

Ron read off the Special Intentions, which he always had a hand in writing. Every time Ron was a reader, Claire could count on hearing some sort of semipolitical prayer.
“For the continued guidance and inspiration of our country’s great leaders in the war against terrorism. Let us pray to the Lord.”

The congregation responded,
“Lord hear our prayer.”

“For the sick and recently departed of our community, especially my mother-in-law, Josephine Bowland, who is struggling with Alzheimer’s. Let us pray to the Lord.”

“Lord hear our prayer,”
everyone replied.

“And now, if anyone has a special intention they would like to share…”
Ron said solemnly.

There was a silence among the congregation.

After a few moments, Ron once again leaned toward the microphone on the pulpit. He took a deep breath.

“For my son,”
Claire heard herself say.

Ron stared at her from the pulpit.

“For Brian Ferguson, who has been missing for over three weeks,”
Claire continued, speaking loudly—so everyone in church heard her.
“For his safe return home.”

Frowning, Linda glanced back at her.

Claire defiantly met her gaze.
“And for Brian’s friend, Derek Herrmann, that God keep him safe during his travels through Europe. Let us pray to the Lord.”

That was Ron’s cue to step up to the microphone and lead the congregation in the response. But he didn’t move. His mouth slightly open, he stared at Claire.

There was a strange silence for a moment. Some people cleared their throats or shuffled their feet. It seemed only half of the churchgoers replied with,
“Lord hear our prayer.”

Claire noticed that Harlan, Ron, and Linda weren’t among them.

“Not a creature was stirring last night around the Logan cabin, according to Troy,” Sheriff Klauser reported. “I don’t think he likes being stuck out there, but hey, tough titty said the cat to the kitty.”

Between bites of his bacon and egg sandwich, Klauser fetched all the police records for Hugh, Dean, and Rodney Davalos—along with the report on their deaths. The account of the shootings and fire didn’t waver from what Claire had told Tim. In addition to his jail time on the mainland, Hugh Davalos had kept the island authorities busy with arrests for assault, driving while intoxicated, shoplifting, and drunk and disorderly, among other minor infractions. The sons followed in their dad’s crooked footsteps. Both Dean and Rodney had chalked up a number of arrests, and seemed well on their way to becoming career criminals—until July 4, 2000.

“Everyone saw that one coming, buddy,” the sheriff said, sitting at his desk, finishing up his sandwich. “Hugh Davalos was a real hothead, darn-right combustible, if you know what I mean. And talk about the fruit not falling far from the tree, those boys were a pair of junior-league assholes.”

“Something tells me that you didn’t give the eulogy at their funeral,” Tim said.

“Well, Violet wasn’t a bad sort,” Klauser allowed. “But I’d be hard pressed coming up with anything nice to say about the rest of them.” The sheriff sipped his coffee. “Say, what do they have to do with your investigation anyway?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Tim said, studying the arrests records for Dean and Rodney.

“Something your boss has cooked up for you?” the sheriff asked.

“He doesn’t know about this,” Tim replied.

Lieutenant Elmore didn’t know a lot. He didn’t know about the intruder in the Logans’ cabin, or about Tim almost getting shot outside the place. Nor had Tim told his boss about Nancy Killabrew Hart returning home from a stroll in the woods, crying, with her face made-up.

Tim had come upon these discoveries by flagrantly disobeying Elmore’s orders. He didn’t see any point in talking to Elmore again—not until he had something absolutely concrete linking Rembrandt to Deception Island.

Sifting through the records on Dean and Rodney Davalos, Tim noticed a section at the bottom of each form that showed police or court action in connection with the violation:

“Who’s the professional counselor around here?” Tim asked.

The sheriff had his nose in the newspaper. “There’s only one, Linus Moorehead,” he replied. He slurped down some more of his coffee.

“Did they enforce these recommendations for counseling? Did the Davalos boys actually go see Moorehead?”

Eyes still on the newspaper, Klauser nodded. “Not that it did any good.”

Tim remembered Claire mentioning that Brian and Derek had both seen Moorehead at one time.

“The runaways and missing persons you have on file,” Tim said. “Do any of them have police records?”

“Some do,” Sheriff Klauser replied. “A lot of those runaways had problems. I mean, it just shows to go ya.”

“Could I take a look at some of those records?” Tim asked.

The Mother-Daughter Art Show and Breakfast was held in the school gymnasium. The mothers had their choice of coffee or tea, and there was milk for the girls. With only fruit, stale scones, or coffee cake on hand, it wasn’t much of a breakfast. Then again, it wasn’t much of an art show either; all of the artists were under fourteen years of age.

But Tiffany obviously relished having a venue for showing off her watercolors. She even had one painting of a boat at sunset framed and displayed on an easel. She was oblivious to the fact that some of the other moms weren’t talking to her stepmother.

Claire kept busy in the small kitchen off the gym, helping clean up after the meager breakfast. Kira Sherman stacked coffee cups by the sink, while Claire washed them out. Kira grabbed a tray, and went back out to collect more cups, saucers, and spoons. Claire was momentarily alone. Then Linda stepped into the kitchen.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Tiffany,” she whispered. “But what exactly did you think you were accomplishing with that little show you put on at church?”

“You mean when I said a Special Intention for Brian and Derek?” Claire asked, still standing over the sink.

“Yes. Ye Gods, talk about embarrassing. To make an announcement like that about your runaway son—and—and—and bringing up Derek Herrmann…” She shook her head, then clicked her tongue. “Honestly, Claire, you didn’t succeed in anything, except maybe making some people feel uncomfortable.”

Claire turned to stare at her. “So—what are you saying, Linda?” she whispered. “Do you know something I don’t? Are you telling me that it won’t do any good to pray for my son—and Derek?”

Police records showed twelve runaways and five persons “missing” from Deception Island in the last two years. Brian was one of them. Among the total of seventeen, none had been found yet. Fourteen of them had police records.

Tim pored over the documents for two hours. As it got closer to noon, he phoned Walt Binns and left a message on his machine, canceling their lunch appointment. He had a lot of profiles to read. Most of them were of teenagers. Their infractions ran the gamut from typical drunk and disorderly teenage fare to grand theft auto, drug dealing, and attempted rape. The more serious offenders served time at juvenile correctional facilities on the mainland, but a few got by with warnings, or community service time
“on the condition that the above party agrees to psychological counseling.”

“A lot of these kids went to Dr. Moorehead,” Tim said, hunched over the ugly metal desk with the files in front of him.

“Uh-huh,” the sheriff nodded. Sitting across from Tim on the edge of the other desk, he was momentarily distracted by the fax machine phone.

“Who determined all these—recommendations for counseling?” Tim asked.

“Judge Ward Fanning. He does the whole judicial kitten caboodle around here—handles marriage licenses, hears arguments for traffic tickets, trial judge. You name it, Judge Fanning resides over it.”

“He must be pretty tight with Linus Moorehead,” Tim said. “He sure sends a lot of business his way.”

The sheriff ambled over to the fax machine behind the counter. “I’m not sure exactly how buddy-buddy they are. They’re both with the Guardians, I can tell you that. But Moorehead doesn’t charge for most of the juvenile offender cases, especially the hard-luck ones.”

“You mean he consuls these JDs out of the goodness of his heart?” Tim asked.

“That’s what the Guardians are all about,” Sheriff Klauser explained. He paused in the doorway to the back room. “Working for the good of the community. Sure makes my job easier.”

He stepped into the back room.

“Do you know how I can get a hold of Judge Fanning?” Tim called.

“You can’t,” Klauser answered from the back room. “He always goes on vacation with the wife the week before Thanksgiving. Palm Springs. It’s a smart move, considering how shitty the weather gets here this time of year. In fact, we’re expecting a mother-of-a-storm here tomorrow. Did you—”

Tim glanced up from the police records.
“‘Did I’
—what?” he called. “Sheriff?”

Klauser emerged from the back room, staring at a piece of paper in his shaky hand. He stopped behind the counter, and after a moment, he finally looked up from the fax. His old, weary eyes met Tim’s. “It’s from your boss,” he said in a flat, toneless voice. “That gal who got abducted yesterday, Kimberly Cronin, she’s dead. Someone found her by a riverbank near Sedro Woolley yesterday afternoon. Lord, twenty years old. Poor kid.”

Sighing, he walked around the counter. “She had the plastic bag over her head and the makeup job, same MO as the other Rembrandt victims.” He placed the fax on the desk, in front of Tim. “Son of a bitch shot her in the chest—twice.”

“My God,” Tim muttered, staring at the fax. He felt responsible. If Rembrandt was on the island, then he should have been able to stop it.

“He’s out of control,” Tim whispered. “He’s killing them practically one after another. He—he isn’t holding onto them as long as he was before. It’s like his appetite for killing has become insatiable.”

Tim gazed at the police reports on the missing and runaway teens. What was he doing? What did any of this have to do with Rembrandt?

On one of the forms, that phrase caught his eye again:
“…recommend psychological counseling.”

“How long has Linus Moorehead had his practice on the island?” Tim heard himself ask.

“Oh, about nine years now, I think,” the sheriff answered.

“Are a lot of adults sent his way too? I mean, for weird little infractions—like indecent exposure, lewd behavior, stalking, or Peeping Tom type of stuff?”

Sheriff Klauser nodded. “The perverts. Yeah, Judge Fanning refers those types to him from time to time.”

“So—a high percentage of people who have gotten into trouble on this island have ended up seeing Dr. Linus Moorehead?” Tim said.

“I guess you could say that. Why?”

Tim didn’t want to say it out loud. But if Rembrandt had spent any significant time on the island—and gotten into any trouble—chances were he’d been required somewhere along the line to unburden himself on Dr. Linus Moorehead.

Tim knew the psychological profile on Rembrandt. And maybe—just maybe—Dr. Linus Moorehead knew the man.

The answering machine clicked on at the Shaws’ house, but no one was home to hear it.

“This is Tess calling for Claire. Hi, Claire. I’m in the car. Can you tell? I’m now one of those people I used to hate, a cell-phone driver. I’m probably screwing up traffic right and left, but I’m oblivious. How are you? I’ve been thinking of you a lot. I’m actually in a pretty good mood this morning. I head back to work tomorrow. Anyway, listen, I was thinking of setting Tuesday aside so I could come see you on the island. How do you like me inviting myself over? So—call me, and let me know what your schedule’s like. Okay? Take care!”

Tess turned down the driveway, and parked by the back door. The three-bedroom brick Tudor she’d gotten for herself and the baby was in a family neighborhood. She’d liked the size of the backyard too: small enough so mowing the lawn wasn’t a problem, and big enough for a swing set and slide. Now, without a baby, the yard looked too damn big.

And suddenly the house seemed too big as well, even if she turned Collin’s nursery into an office.

But she’d made up her mind to spend the winter there. Come spring, she’d move somewhere more practical, a place for a single woman, instead of a single mom. Maybe a condominium, she’d figure it out later.