Left for Dead (36 page)

“So you’re on the level?” he asked. “You’re not calling to make sure I won’t raise a stink again?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Claire murmured.

“Jesus. You don’t know a thing about it, do you?”

Claire sat down at the desk. “What are you talking about?”

“A few days before the shootings and the fire on July Fourth, I talked with my sister. Violet told me someone had tried to set fire to their back porch in the wee hours of the morning. It wasn’t Hugh either. At the time, he was passed out next to her in bed, and the boys were asleep. Violet said when they called the police and fire department, it took them fifteen minutes to get there.
Fifteen minutes.
By then Hugh, Rodney and Dean had put out the fire themselves—with the garden hose.”

“Did they ever find out who started the fire?” Claire asked.

“No, but Violet told me this local civic group was putting a lot of pressure on them to sell their house and move off the island.”

“Was this group the Guardians?”

“That’s right. I guess they offered to buy the house—on the condition that they left Deception. Hugh tried to milk them for more money. But he never had any intention of budging. I guess they figured that out.”

“So—you think someone from the Guardians started the fire?”

“Both fires. I think they shot my sister and her family too. Hugh was a lot of things. But he wouldn’t have killed Violet and the boys.”

“Did you tell anyone about this?” Claire asked.

“Yeah, I talked with the cops on the island. This deputy told me there was no record of the first fire. As for what happened on that July Fourth, well, with his reputation, Hugh was the obvious scapegoat. All the bullets were from Hugh’s gun, which they found in his hand. But I don’t believe it. I think the cops, the fire department, and half the people on that goddamn island are lying.”

“Couldn’t you have gone to someone outside the island?” Claire asked. “Maybe get an outside investigation going—”

“I threatened to do that,” he cut in. “I told this deputy I’d talk to the state police, and
The Seattle Times,
maybe even the FBI.”

“Was this deputy’s name Landers?”

“No. Something Parker. A real asshole too.”

“What did he say?”

“He said it was an open and shut case, and I was wasting my time.”

“And so you just gave up?” Claire pressed.

“No, I gave up after the tool shed in my backyard mysteriously caught on fire that night. I have a little boy, and I don’t want him to end up dead. For the next few days, they sent things to the house.”

“What kind of things?”

She heard a brief, cynical laugh on the other end of the line. “The kind of things neighbors send to people who have lost loved ones, flowers and home-cooked dinners. We’d find them on the doorstep, but there were never any cards. Of course, we threw out the food, though something tells me none of it was poisoned. I think it was just their way of reminding me how close they could get to us. They called the house too. The number was always blocked. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes a woman.”

“Did they threaten you?”

“No. They were too clever for that. They’d say things like,
‘We’re sorry about your loss,’
or
‘What a terrible tragedy. Don’t you agree?’
Then they’d hang up. They didn’t have to say anything else. I got the message, loud and clear. They were telling me to leave it alone.

“In fact, when you phoned me yesterday and said that you live on Deception, my stomach did a ninety-degree turn.” He let out a sigh. “You see, Mrs. Shaw, I thought you were one of them.”

“Well, hello again, handsome.” Yolanda, the Castles’ cleaning woman, opened the front door wider for Tim. She wore a pale blue smock over her clothes. “His Nibbs is expecting you,” she said in a low voice.

“Thanks, Yolanda.” Tim said, checking out the Castles’ front hallway, a colorless, yet pristine foyer with an imitation white marble floor and a sparkling chandelier hanging overhead.

He’d phoned Ron Castle ten minutes ago to make sure he was home. Tim knew he was semiretired. He’d asked if he could swing by and “discuss a few things about the Rembrandt case.” Castle had said he was busy, but could spare five minutes.

Yolanda knocked on the study door, then opened it. “Mr. Castle? The policeman is here.” She threw Tim a furtive smile, then sauntered toward the back of the house.

“Come on in,” Ron Castle said. He sat at his big, mahogany desk, typing on a computer keyboard. Ron’s beady eyes were glued to the computer screen while Tim stepped into the study. Ron just kept typing.

Tim glanced around the room, decorated a bit too heavily in early Americana. There was an American Eagle emblem in the middle of the rug, and busts of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln that had been converted to lamps. A wastebasket by Ron’s desk had little pictures of the presidents on it. On the walls were framed photos of the Castles with family and friends.

“What can I do for you, Officer?” Ron asked, still typing. He wore a red cardigan, with a white shirt and dark blue slacks. Tim wondered if he’d dressed that way to match the room. He also wondered if any of Ron’s loved ones had ever sat him down and told him how bad his toupee looked.

“I was hoping to talk with both you and Mrs. Castle,” Tim said, standing in front of Ron’s desk. “Is she home?”

“No. She’s visiting her mother on the mainland.”

“Really?”

Ron finally took his eyes off the computer screen and looked at Tim. “Yes, Mrs. Castle’s mother is in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. We had a little emergency last night. I’m expecting Mrs. Castle back soon.” He sat back in his big, black leather chair. “In the meantime, what can I do for you?”

“Um, do you mind if I sit down?” Tim asked, taking one of the twin cane-backed chairs in front of Ron’s desk.

Ron made a little face. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy with some important e-mails here.”

“This won’t take long, Mr. Castle,” Tim said. “And I really appreciate your hospitality,” he added with a straight face. “I thought you and Mrs. Castle might help fill in some blanks. You see, Mrs. Shaw is starting to remember things. She remembers going to Silverwater Creek with your wife. I believe they went there together on the night Mrs. Shaw’s son ran away.”

His mouth slightly open, Ron stared at him.

“Can you tell me anything about that?” Tim asked.

Ron shook his head. “No, I think Mrs. Shaw must be mistaken,” he said. “The last time either Mrs. Castle or myself were at the Silverwater Creek campsite was late August. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“So—you don’t know anything about a meeting or an event at the campsite three Fridays ago? This would have been at night.”

Ron shook his head again.

The telephone rang, and he quickly answered it. “Yes, hello?” He frowned a bit at Tim as he spoke into the phone. “Well, yes, but it’s not a good time for me to talk right now…”

Tim got to his feet, then ambled over toward the array of framed photographs on the wall. There was Ron and Linda posed in front of the Lincoln Memorial; a photo at a party with Angela and Harlan Shaw; a shot of Linda with Harlan and Walt; and another one with Linda, Ron, and a woman Tim didn’t recognize—at least he didn’t recognize her at first. The three of them stood at a lookout point in Seattle. The Space Needle was behind the woman’s shoulder. She was a brunette with a slightly flat nose.

Ronnie.
The waitress’s name choice made sense now. Ron had probably put her up to the little charade. Roseann had said Ron had been sitting at the counter when she’d gotten sick that morning. Then
Ronnie
had come in to take over for her.

“…just don’t do anything until I call you back,” Ron was saying into the phone. “Okay…Bye.”

Tim heard him hang up the phone. He pointed to the photo, and glanced back over his shoulder at Ron. “Who’s this in the picture with you and Mrs. Castle?” he asked.

Ron looked annoyed at him and let out a wheezing sound as he pulled his large body out of the chair. “I really am busy here, Officer,” he said, frowning. He waddled over to Tim’s side and stared at the photo. “That’s Zoya Wiseman, the widow of a very good friend of mine.”

“Does she live in Seattle?” Tim asked.

“Yes, that’s the Space Needle in back of us,” he said, condescendingly.

“Is Zoya—by any chance—involved in the food service industry?” Tim asked.

“No, as I said, she’s a widow, and a very old friend of Mrs. Castle’s and mine.” He sighed impatiently.

Studying the photo, Tim wondered if Zoya knew the severity of what she’d done. Had Ron and Linda told her she was poisoning someone with those berries? Or did she think she was merely playing a joke on a friend of theirs? Whatever the case, it was clear that Ron and Linda had recruited this woman to do their dirty work.

“Officer, I’m afraid I don’t have any more time for you just now,” Ron said. “Let me show you to the door…”

Tim felt Ron’s hand creep up between his shoulder blades, and together they walked to the front entryway. Ron opened the door for him. “Sorry to rush you out,” he said. “But give me a call, and I’m sure I can make some time for you. Then you’ll have a chance to talk with Mrs. Castle too.”

Tim paused in the doorway and nodded. “Oh, yes, we’ll talk when Mrs. Castle comes home.”

Claire paced around the ugly little hotel room.

She wondered if all the Guardians were involved in the Davalos murders, or had it been the job of only a select few? Had they killed Brian and Derek too? Certainly, Linda, Ron, and Harlan were all part of the cover-up. She wondered if that cover-up campaign included the various attempts on Tim Sullivan’s life.

Claire went to the window and opened the drapes a bit. She looked out beyond the rain-beaded glass.

He was there.

She gasped.

The man in the stocking cap quickly ducked behind a camper parked in the lot. His army fatigue jacket almost blended with the bushes in back of him. He moved so fast, he was just a blur.

Trembling, Claire stared out the window. She watched him thread around several others cars—until he disappeared in back of the hotel.

She shut the drapes, then raced to the door, and made certain it was double-locked.

The telephone rang.

It gave her a start. For a moment, she couldn’t move. She was afraid to pick it up. What if the caller was the man she’d just seen?

The phone kept ringing. Claire thought it might be Tim—with an emergency. She hesitated, then reached for the receiver. But the ringing stopped. She let out a sigh.

Suddenly, someone pounded on the door.

“Oh God,” she whispered, backing toward the bed.

“Maintenance man!” the person called from the other side of the door. The doorknob rattled. It sounded as if he was inserting a key in the lock. But she had the door dead-bolted. He continued to struggle with it.

“Hotel Maintenance!” he called again.

“Come back later, please!” Claire nervously called back.

She waited. No response. She didn’t hear a thing, just the rain outside. Frozen, Claire stared at the door for a few more moments.

Finally, she reached for the phone and dialed the front desk.

“Operator. Can I help you?”

“Yes, hello,” Claire said, trying to keep calm. “Um, I’m in room 19. Did you send maintenance person to this room?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. “We’re checking out the heating systems in all the units. I hope he didn’t disturb you.”

“Oh, no, no. It’s okay,” Claire managed to say. “Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, then laughed. But she started to cry at the same time.

Someone knocked on the door again.

“Yes? Who’s there?” she called, her voice cracking.

“Claire?” He paused. “It’s Tim. Can you let me in?”

She hurried to the door, unlocked it, then flung it open. Claire threw herself into his arms, kissed his face, and started weeping.

Tim pulled her back inside, then closed the door. He held onto her, and stroked her hair. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Claire shook her head. For now, she didn’t say anything. For now, she just took comfort in his arms.

Tim gave Harlan’s workroom door another forceful kick. There was a splintering sound. The door seemed to give a little.

“I think you almost have it,” Claire said. She stood behind him.

Tim wanted to get at Harlan’s computer. He wondered if all the Guardians were involved in these multiple murders.

Last night, Walt Binns seemed truly concerned about Fred Maybon’s behavior. Was Harlan’s friend on the level? How many people on this island were Guardians or connected to them? Harlan and Walt; their friend, Ron; Fred Maybon; the judge, Ward Fanning. Linda Castle was supposed to be the
Guardians’ Angel.
And Judge Fanning had recommended all those “runaway” juvenile delinquents to his Guardian pal, Dr. Linus Moorehead.

Tim remembered Ron typing away on his computer.
A lot of important e-mails,
said the semiretired homebody and full-time Guardian.

Tim hoped Harlan had more than just work files on his computer in that private little room.

Leading with his shoulder, Tim slammed into the door again. It hurt like hell, but the door flew open, then banged against a cabinet. A chunk of wood broke off the door frame—along with part of the lock. Several items sailed off the cabinet shelf, including a bottle of Jim Beam that shattered on the floor. Tim’s shoes were dowsed with bourbon.

“Oh my God,” Claire murmured. She switched on the light.

Stepping over the shards of glass, Tim turned on Harlan’s computer. “Him and his one-beer-for-the-night,” Claire said, almost to herself. “I had a hunch he might be drinking down here.”

“Let’s see what else he’s been lying about,” Tim muttered, hunched over the computer. “Do you know his password?”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I don’t,” she whispered.

Tim typed
CLAIRE
in the password boxes, and six asterisk symbols came up. So did the response:
“Password Invalid.”

Glass crunching under her shoes, Claire stepped behind Tim and looked over his shoulder. “Try Tiffany,” she suggested.

Tim typed it in, then pressed enter. The menu popped up. “Bingo,” he said. He started typing furiously. “Okay, let’s check out what we got here…”

Claire picked up a big piece of glass, and threw it in the wastebasket.

“What we got here is Harlan’s alibi for Linda’s death,” Tim announced. He pulled the most recently viewed Web site addresses off the internet access box. “Your husband was down here looking at porn from one-forty until four this morning.
Siamese Sluts, Naughty Nymphs, Lesbian Action, Tahitian She-Devils.
Huh, and you were giving me shit for looking at one little
Playboy.”

Claire slapped him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. She sighed. “Well, at least we know he didn’t murder Linda.”

Tim kept bringing up the porn sites Harlan had been checking out recently.

“You can stop doing that now,” Claire said

“I’m checking for bondage, S and M stuff, or anything else that might run along Rembrandt’s taste,” he said, eyes on the screen. “Hmmm, I don’t see anything here, but it still doesn’t vindicate him as far as I’m concerned.”

Tim went back to the main menu. He clicked on the mail icon. “Spam, spam, spam,” he muttered, scrolling down the current mail list. “Who’s this?”

He opened up a letter from
[email protected]
with the subject matter,

“So much for doctor-client confidentiality,” Tim murmured.

Claire was reading over his shoulder. “God, he’s probably been giving Harlan updates on me all along.”

Tim clicked in the “previous mail” box, but it was empty. “I think Harlan’s been deleting his mail as he reads it. I’ll double check the recycle bin before I finish.” He scrolled over the other current mail. More ads, and then another message from
[email protected].
There was no subject heading.

The e-mail had gone out to seven other addresses:

“Do you know anyone named
Gutterman?”
Tim asked.

Sighing, Claire nodded. “Oh, he’s sort of the town drunk. Vernon Gutterman. It’s sad really. He’s probably my age, and looks sixty. You might have seen him hitting people up for change on Main Street. He has a lot of problems. He was fired from the plant, and he’s been arrested a few times.”

“And Judge Fanning has probably recommended professional counseling,” Tim concluded.

Staring at Moorehead’s letter on the computer screen, Tim shook his head. “My God, they have it down to a system. Fanning recommends the criminals to his ‘Guardian’ buddy, Dr. Moorehead. Then Linus makes a decision that he shares with a select group of ‘Fellow Guardians.’”

“What do you mean?” Claire asked. “What kind of decision would he pass along to the Guardians about a patient?”

“Whether or not the patient should be killed,” Tim said. He glanced up at Claire. “All of those runaways and missing persons spent time on Moorehead’s couch. Apparently, this Vernon Gutterman is seeing him now. How soon before he’s missing or dead? See what’s going on? Dr. Moorehead decides which ‘problem cases’ should die. Then the Guardians carry out his orders. It’s for
‘the good of the community.’”

“Is that what happened to my son?” Claire whispered.

“There’s a way to confirm it,” he said soberly. “Moorehead doesn’t throw away his old files. If we could track down his records on your son, and Derek, and these others, then we can check what he’s written down about them—notes and recommendations.”

“And death sentences,” Claire said. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Tim, I—I have an appointment with Moorehead in twenty minutes. We need to see what’s in those files.”

“Things are better between Harlan and myself lately,” Claire said. She sat in the club chair opposite Linus Moorehead.

He looked very relaxed and dapper in a black V-neck sweater. Nodding, he scratched his goatee, then scribbled on the notepad in his lap.

Rain tapped on his office windows, and the wind was howling outside. Claire’s hair was still a bit damp from the downpour.

Tim had driven her to the office. Harlan had called as they’d been leaving the house. He’d said he wouldn’t be home from work until seven-thirty. Claire wondered what he was up to.

“I trust him now,” she lied to Dr. Moorehead. “Before, I didn’t want to believe Harlan about Brian running away. But now I accept it. I’m also accepting the fact that I’ll probably never see my son again.”

“What brought this on?” Moorehead asked.

“I don’t know.” Claire shrugged. “I should have given up on him a long time ago. You saw Brian for a while. You must have come to some decision about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you think he was beyond help?”

Moorehead shifted in his chair. “I can’t really answer that, Claire. I—”

A loud wailing from outside interrupted him.

“What’s that?” Claire asked.

Moorehead got to his feet. “I think it’s my car alarm,” he said. He went to the window and peered down at the alley. Snatching his jacket off the coat hook, he hurried toward the door. “Sorry, Claire. I’ll be right back.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Take your time.”

As soon as Moorehead stepped out the door, Claire jumped up from the chair and ran over to the file cabinet. She tugged at the top drawer. Locked. “Damn,” she muttered.

Claire checked his desk, and found some keys in the side drawer. All the while, Moorehead’s car alarm continued to blare.

Back at the file cabinet, she tried two keys before the third one worked. Her hands were shaking. The top drawer was full of office supplies. Claire tried the next drawer down. She was in luck. The files were labeled with the patient’s name—and in alphabetical order. There were even plastic yellow tags sectioning off each letter-group. She dug into the F’s, but didn’t find any record for
Ferguson, Brian.
Was the file somewhere else?

She sifted through the D’s, and found the file for
Davalos, Hugh.

The car alarm shut off. For a second, Claire froze.

Then she quickly closed the file drawer, and raced back to Moorehead’s desk. Grabbing the phone, she dialed Tim’s cell phone. He answered after half a ring-tone. “Yeah?”

“I need more time,” she whispered. “Set it off again in five minutes.”

From behind a Dumpster in the alley where Moorehead parked his BMW, Tim watched him shut off the car alarm for the second time.

The rain was coming down heavily now, and Tim was soaked.

Moorehead had brought his umbrella along for this trip. He stood by his car for a moment, glancing around.

Tim didn’t move—even when Moorehead seemed to look right at him. He didn’t see any change in the psychiatrist’s expression. He just looked annoyed. Finally, he turned and wandered back toward the door to his building.

Tim had the phone on pulse. He felt it vibrate in his pocket, and quickly pulled it out. “Yes?” He stepped in a doorway to get out of the rain.

“I’ve seen the Davalos files,” Claire whispered. “There’s an attachment for the police, an evaluation. In each one he says ‘
This patient is a threat to the welfare of our community.’
Derek’s file didn’t have an attachment. But Moorehead’s own personal evaluation was there.
‘Belligerent and hopeless,’
he said. The thing that sets these files apart from all the others is a red dot by their name on the folder. I think that’s how he marks the ones who are killed. I still haven’t found Brian’s file. Maybe it’s under ‘Shaw.’ If you could set off the alarm again—”

“No,” Tim interrupted. “I can tell, he’s getting suspicious. Let’s not take any more chances. He’s on his way up. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. I’ll be at Fork In The Road until then.”

“Okay, bye.” Claire said.

Tim heard a click on the other end. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, then ran half a block in the rain to the Fork In The Road Diner.

The restaurant wasn’t very crowded, probably because of the storm. He took a table by the window, so he could sit and watch Moorehead’s building down the block on the other side of the street.

Tim was hanging his wet jacket on the chair, and hoping they had chicken noodle soup, when the cell phone went off again. With the ringer off, it made a low, humming sound.

He dug the phone out of his jacket pocket, and switched it on. “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s Troy Landers. I’m calling from my patrol car. Sorry about the reception. It’s all this stinking rain. I’ve been checking the Logan cabin every couple of hours. I just saw a guy go in there. But I didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“Did he see you?” Tim asked.

“I don’t think so. As far as I know, he’s still there. He isn’t wearing a stocking cap, but he has on the army fatigue jacket. I called the sheriff. He’s over on the west side of the island, where they’ve lost some power. Do you want to come out here? I’m down the road from the cabin at the Evergreen Drive turnoff.”

Tim hesitated. He glanced out at Moorehead’s office window. Then he checked his watch. Claire still had forty minutes of her session left.

“You there?” Deputy Landers asked.

“Yes. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

For the last ten minutes, while Claire talked with Dr. Moorehead, her eyes kept wandering over to the file cabinet behind him. She desperately wanted to look up Brian’s records in there. She needed to see if Brian had a red dot by his name.

Moorehead got to his feet. “Claire, I talked with Dr. Beal at the hospital in Bellingham,” he said, moving behind his desk. “We both agreed, considering what you’ve been through, we should get you on a mild antidepressant.”

“Really?” Claire was surprised to see him pull the bottle of pills from his desk drawer.

“Yes. I’m very encouraged by some of the things you’ve told me in this session. You seem to be accepting the loss of your son, but that’s not easy. You may have some difficult times ahead.” He went to his little refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of Evian water. “One pill twice a day,” he said. “And I’d like to get you started right now.”

He handed her the Evian bottle, then opened the bottle of pills. He shook one into her palm.

Claire stared at it. Something was very wrong. This medication wasn’t coming from a pharmacist. It was something he’d hidden in his desk drawer.

“What’s the matter?” Moorehead asked, standing over her.

“Um, I’m just wondering about side effects,” she murmured.

“You might feel a little drowsiness at first. That’s normal. Some people experience dry mouth, but there are no severe side effects. This is a very mild antidepressant.”

She hesitated. He was still standing over her.

Claire put the pill in her mouth, then pushed it to one side with her tongue. She pretended to wash it down with Evian water.

As Moorehead walked back to his chair, Claire plucked the wet, filmy tablet from her mouth. She stuffed it under the cushion of the club chair.

“Good girl,” Moorehead said. Then he sat down and smiled at her.

The wipers slashed back and forth on the windshield, and rain beat heavily on the car roof. Tim was at the wheel, headed up Evergreen Drive. He had Al’s gun in the glove compartment, and the cell phone in his pocket.

He wasn’t sure he could completely trust Troy Landers. Another deputy, probably Troy’s predecessor, had spoken to Steven Griswald three years ago, and obviously he’d been with the Guardians. Was Troy with them?

Tim pulled out the cell phone and speed dialed Sheriff Klauser. There was a lot of static on the line.