Left for Dead (34 page)

Tim glanced at her for a moment. She was trembling slightly.

“I remember driving back,” she said. “Another car was coming at me, but I made them use the turnout. I didn’t even slow down.”

The narrow gravel road led to an unpaved parking area and a clearing in the forest. At the edge of the lot was a slightly neglected brick barbecue, an outhouse, and a water pump.

Tim stopped the car, and turned off the ignition. “You said there were other cars,” he prompted her. “How many?”

“Five, maybe six…”

“Were you with anyone?”

Claire looked so pale. Tears welled in her eyes. “Something horrible happened here,” she whispered.

“Was someone with you?” Tim repeated.

“Linda. She and Harlan argued. She—she didn’t think I was ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Claire squirmed, and shook her head.

“Would it help if we got out of the car?”

“I’m scared.”

“I’m here with you, Claire,” Tim said. “Come on.”

He climbed out of the car, and walked around to open her door. As he helped her out of the car, Claire clung to his arm. He could feel her shaking.

A look of utter panic swept across her face. “Tim, I can’t do this…”

“What do you remember?” he asked, his arm on her shoulder.

Claire nervously glanced around. Above them, the skies grew darker. They could hear the wind through the trees.

“It’s okay, Claire,” he whispered.

He felt her whole body stiffen. “Tim, I can’t breathe,” she said, gasping. “Please, my chest hurts. I have to get out of here…”

She broke away from him and ducked back into the car.

Tim hurried around to the driver’s side. He started up the ignition.

Claire was shaking her head back and forth. “I can’t breathe…”

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re leaving. You’ll be all right.” Tim turned the car around, and sped down the narrow, gravel road.

Claire rolled down the window. Eyes closed, she kept a hand clenched over her mouth.

“What did you remember?” Tim asked.

“Nothing,” Claire said. She seemed to breathing a bit easier. “It—it just
felt
horrible. I’m sorry to be such a baby. I just had to get out of there. I think I had a panic attack.”

Watching the road, Tim eased up on the accelerator. “I have chewing gum in a bag back there—if you want some.”

Claire nodded. “Thanks. I think that might help.” She reached in back for the bag, and found the Wrigley’s Double-mint gum. She unwrapped a stick. “You want some?”

“No, thanks.” Tim checked the rearview mirror. He wanted to make sure no one was following them. So far, he didn’t see anyone.

Claire put the bag on the backseat. “There’s a
Playboy
here,” she said. “Were you sitting in the car last night—outside my house—reading
Playboy?”

“I wasn’t reading it,” Tim said. “I was looking at the pictures.”

She let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Sorry. It just strikes me as a little creepy that you brought an ‘adult’ magazine with you last night.”

“Hey, I didn’t bring it. Walt gave it to me—along with the gum and a couple of other magazines. Does that exonerate me a bit?”

Claire didn’t respond.

Tim turned to smile at her. “Claire?”

She was gazing at his Rembrandt file in the green folder. She began to tremble again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Claire stared at the fax, with the photo and description of the Bellingham woman Rembrandt had abducted yesterday.

Tears filled her eyes. “Oh my God, he’s got my friend,” she whispered. “He’s got Tess…”

“I don’t mean to be a pain,” Tim said into Al’s cell phone. “But I’d appreciate it if you took me seriously for just five minutes.”

Tim had driven Claire back home. She now sat in a stupor at the breakfast table. She had Tim’s file folder open in front of her—along with several used, wadded-up Kleenexes she’d gone through.

Tim was making her some tea while he spoke with Lieutenant Elmore. “You never followed up on the footprint photos I sent—along with Mrs. Shaw’s hair dryer. You’re ignoring the fact that Al was deliberately poisoned—”

“Now, hold on,” Elmore said. “First, the state police are handling the investigation into Al’s death. They’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“Our boys analyzed the hair dryer, and the results were inconclusive. They couldn’t determine if the wire damage occurred before or after the thing short circuited. And—it’s right here in front of me—your stalker’s footprints are a size ten Doc Marten shoe. They estimate the shoe’s owner is a male, approximately six feet tall, one hundred and sixty pounds.” Elmore sighed. “This stuff landed on my desk only this morning, Tim. I followed it up. Okay? I’m taking you as seriously as I can.”

“‘As seriously as you can?’”
Tim repeated. “What does that mean?”

“It means the way it sounds,” Elmore answered. “Now, anything else? Any more theories? Any more attempts on your life?”

“No,” Tim coolly replied. “Just what I told you at the beginning of our conversation. Claire knows Tess Campbell. She became friends with Tess while they were staying in the hospital in Bellingham.”

Tim glanced over at Claire. She gave him a pale smile, then got to her feet and collected the used Kleenexes. She tossed them in the trash can under the sink, then washed her hands. The tea kettle was boiling. She took the kettle off the stove, and started making the tea.

“I think I could use some reinforcements, some back up,” Tim said, moving into the pantry. “There’s a lot going on here, and I’m worried about Mrs. Shaw’s safety.”

“We can’t spare anyone right now,” Elmore replied. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Mrs. Shaw. It’s her friend were concerned about. That’s the priority.”

“I know, but—”

“Tim, Rembrandt has moved on,” Elmore said, cutting him off. “He might have been curious about Mrs. Shaw when she was ‘Jane Doe.’ Obviously, he hung around the hospital in Bellingham for a while. It’s probably where he first got to know both Tess Campbell and Janice Dineen. But we’re ninety-nine percent sure he’s lost interest in Mrs. Shaw.”

“Why? What do you mean, he’s
‘lost interest?’
Claire’s the only person who could identify him.”

“Tim, didn’t Al tell you? Claire Shaw can’t identify Rembrandt—”

“Well, maybe not right now, but once she gets her memory back—”

“She’ll
never
be able to identify him,” Elmore said. “The closest Rembrandt ever got to Claire Shaw was in that hospital. He’s never touched a hair on her head.”

“What do you mean?”

“The person who shot Mrs. Shaw and left her for dead wasn’t Rembrandt. It was a copycat.”

“What?”

“We suspected as much while she was still recuperating,” Elmore said. “The evidence was mounting up back then. I called Al—I think it was the day before he got sick, and I confirmed it with him on the phone. Mrs. Shaw was the victim of a Rembrandt-copycat. Al didn’t mention it to you?”

“No,” Tim numbly replied. “I don’t think he said anything to Mr. and Mrs. Shaw either.”

“Who didn’t say anything to me?” Claire whispered. She set two cups of tea on the table.

Tim glanced at her and pantomimed scribbling something down. Claire retreated to the kitchen, then got him a pen and a memo pad.

“What kind of evidence do they have?” Tim asked. “Why is this the first I’ve heard about it?”

“We’ve kept quiet, because we don’t want this copycat to know we’re on to him,” Elmore explained. “As for evidence, the makeup job on Claire Shaw was different from the others. Rembrandt’s very meticulous. But with Mrs. Shaw, it was laid on pretty thick, not quite in Tammy Faye’s league, but pretty close.”

Tim sat down at the breakfast table. He had the pen in his hand.

“The brands and colors of makeup on Rembrandt’s victims has always been consistent. The lipstick he uses is a brand that was discontinued fifteen months ago, something called Lady deMilo Scarlet Passion.”

Tim scribbled the name down. He’d heard it before. They’d figured out Rembrandt’s cosmetics of choice a few weeks ago.

“They analyzed the makeup on Mrs. Shaw’s face, and none of it matched with the other victims.”

“But she had a birthmark penciled on, didn’t she?” Tim said.

“That, she had. But it wasn’t on her left cheek, like the other victims. It was a little lower—by her mouth. And then there’s Mrs. Shaw’s panties. They never turned up. Rembrandt always leaves them where they can be found. About a dozen other little details set Claire Shaw apart from the other victims. No question about it, a copycat did the work on her. He was a good copycat, but a little sloppy.”

“If Rembrandt didn’t attack Claire,” Tim whispered into the phone. “Then why was he hanging around the hospital?”

“Like I said, we think Rembrandt was curious about ‘Jane Doe’ for a while. After all, his name was linked to hers. When Mrs. Shaw was released from the hospital, we sent you and Al to Deception Island as an extra precaution in case Rembrandt got curious again. But we’re pretty certain he’s moved on. Kimberly Cronin and Tess Campbell substantiate that.”

“In the meantime, what about this copycat?” Tim asked. “He’s probably on this island. I’m still concerned for Claire Shaw’s safety.”

“And that’s your job, Tim,” he replied, a bit patronizing. “You’re there to look out for Mrs. Shaw’s well-being. But keep in mind, this copycat abducted her in Seattle, and dumped her in Bellingham. We think he’s somewhere here on the mainland, between those two cities. That’s why I’ve been telling you all this time to stay put on the island, sit tight and report anything unusual.”

Tim sighed, and put down the pen. He’d only jotted down one note—about the lipstick.

“Okay, Tim?” Elmore said. “Have I answered all your questions? Because I’d like to get back to work. I’d like to think there’s a chance we might track down Mrs. Shaw’s friend before she becomes Rembrandt’s Victim Number Eight.”

Tim’s tea was cold by the time he got off the phone with Lieutenant Elmore. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker anyway. The Earl Grey just grew colder for the next several minutes as he explained to Claire that she’d been the victim of a Rembrandt
copycat.

“You know, I remember my first day here,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. “I thought Al Sparling was almost downplaying it too much. He told me this was a
‘babysitting job,’
and something about
‘making our presence known’
on the island so you and Harlan could feel secure.”

He sipped the cold tea. “My boss said he’d confirmed this copycat business with Al a few days ago. I can’t figure out why Al didn’t say anything to me—or to you and Harlan, or the sheriff, for that matter.”

Claire frowned. “I only spent one afternoon with him, but my guess is old Al wanted to keep acting important for as long as he could around here.”

Tim just nodded. It made sense. And it made sense now why Elmore had chosen Al and him for the job on Deception. They weren’t very important. The task force wouldn’t miss them.

Claire opened the green folder on the table. “You know, this doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned. Rembrandt still has my friend in his—
custody
or whatever you want to call it. And something horrible did happen at Silverwater Creek. I don’t know if it’s connected to Rembrandt or this copycat. But I’m dead certain something terrible occurred there.”

“Something so bad your memory blocked it out,” Tim said.

Browsing through Tim’s folder, Claire took out the graduation photo of Nancy Killabrew Hart “Why do you—” she trailed off.

Tim put down his tea cup. “Why do I—what?”

She shrugged. “Nothing, for a second, I thought this was a picture of Harlan’s first wife, Angela. It looks a lot like her.”

Tim got to his feet, then came up to peer over Claire’s shoulder. “That’s Nancy Hart, Rembrandt’s first victim. She’s the one who vacationed with her family here on the island—about a year before she was murdered.”

“Well, the resemblance to Angela is pretty uncanny,” Claire said. She put her finger on the photo—on Nancy Hart’s cheek. “All that’s missing is a birthmark—right there.”

“That’s how he does their hair,” Tim said, studying the photo of Angela Shaw in a family album. He and Claire stood together at the kitchen counter with the album in front of them.

He’d seen police photos of Connie Shafer and Janice Dineen after Rembrandt was through with them. The way he’d cut and styled their hair practically matched Angela Shaw’s hairstyle in these family snap shots. Their bangs were swept over to one side, and the modified shag flipped up on the ends—a couple of inches above their shoulders. All the victims had been given false eyelashes—possibly in an effort to duplicate Angela’s dark, exotic eyes. And there was the beauty mark on Angela’s left cheek, which had become Rembrandt’s second signature.

“I’ve always thought Angela looked very striking in these pictures,” Claire said. “But you know, for a blonde, and with her coloring, that dark eye makeup and deep red lipstick makes her look a bit harsh too.”

“Lady deMilo Scarlet Passion,”
Tim muttered—almost to himself.

“What?”

“It’s the lipstick Rembrandt uses on his victims.” Tim reached for the pad of paper he’d left by the ceramic jack-o’-lantern on the breakfast table. “Here, I wrote it down. Did I spell deMilo right?” He showed her the notation.

Claire just stared at it for a moment.

“The brand—or that particular color—has been off the market for fifteen months now,” Tim explained.

“So—you can’t get it anywhere now,” Claire murmured. She gave the little memo pad back to him. “Come upstairs with me, okay? I need to show you something.”

Claire led the way up to Tiffany’s room. She went into her stepdaughter’s closet, and pulled a woman’s purse off the shelf. “This was Angela’s. Tiffany takes it out from time to time when she plays dress-up.”

Claire emptied the purse on the bed. Costume jewelry, a compact, mascara wand, lipstick, and bubble gum Tiffany must have been hording spilled across the pink bedspread.