No One Needs to Know (56 page)

Another patient at Harborview at the same time was Cheryl Wheeler, held two nights for observation and psychiatric evaluation. Gil Garrett took time out from his grieving to see that his lawyers got her released early Wednesday evening.

Thursday, July 17, 5:40
P.M.

Seattle

Laurie answered the door to find Cheryl on the other side, carrying a big cardboard box. It held a covered casserole dish, a Tupperware container, and a loaf of French bread wrapped in foil. She looked a little sad and frail with her hair chopped off and the bruise over her eye. “I made you an apology dinner—lasagna, garlic bread, and salad,” she said meekly. “But I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you slammed the door in my face.”

Laurie worked up a smile and opened the door wider. “Come on in,” she said.

Joey was in his playpen, quietly talking to himself and the television. He gazed at their guest for a few moments before turning back toward the TV and
Sesame Street
.

Laurie had seen Cheryl’s light go on across the courtyard at around nine o’clock last night. She’d been wondering how long it would take her to come over or call.

What Cheryl had done to her was unforgivable. Yet Laurie couldn’t help looking at the extenuating circumstances. In a way, Cheryl really did have a kind of nervous breakdown. And Laurie had seen the file Maureen had collected on her. She knew what Natalie-Charlene-Cheryl had been through.

She figured it was about time that Cheryl saw the file, too.

After they put the food in the refrigerator, Laurie offered Cheryl a glass of water and sat her down on the sofa. She made a quick phone call, then got out the blue folders and set them on the coffee table. “I have something to show you here,” she announced, sitting down next to her. “But before I do, I need to ask you a question. It was Shawna who had Elaina and Dirk killed, wasn’t it?”

Cheryl just nodded.

“Did you—have anything to do with her
accidental
death the other night?” she asked.

“Let’s put it this way,” Cheryl sighed. “I didn’t do anything to stop it. I couldn’t.”

“Then Gil
handled it,
didn’t he?”

“I’ve agreed not to talk about it. Does that answer your question?”

Laurie nodded pensively. “I’ve agreed not to talk about certain matters, too. A lot of things are just going to remain a secret . . .” She was thinking about the identity of the actual copycat killers and whoever had pushed Dolly Ingersoll down those stairs. At least Laurie could assure Adam tonight on the phone that the person who had ordered the killing of his brother and sister-in-law had been brought to justice.

“I think Gil is taking care of everything for us—and watching our backs,” Cheryl said. “It turns out he really is your godfather after all.”

She took a sip of water and nodded at the two fat blue folders on the coffee table. “Now, what’s all this?”

Laurie started to go through all the documents with her. Cheryl was stunned to learn that her friend Maureen had created a whole file on the Styles-Jordan murders—as well as a file on her.

Laurie had tracked down the Taggarts’ former neighbor, Laura Blankenship, who confirmed for her that she had indeed lied to Cheryl about the death of Thomas V. Taggart. Her friend Maureen was extremely protective of the developmentally challenged man. Mrs. Blankenship had thought it was a bit severe to tell the woman making the inquiries that the boy had drowned a week before his twelfth birthday. Then again, she didn’t know the truth about Baby Patrick, Buddy, and Vincent. And Maureen knew that Vincent’s reasonably happy life would be turned upside down if his true birthright became public knowledge.

Laurie didn’t share any of this with Cheryl, not just yet.

She let Cheryl go through all the paperwork and documents Maureen had saved. She showed her the articles about Gloria Northrop and Earl Johnson. “Maureen was Earl’s sister,” she said. “I think she helped Gloria take care of Elaina and Dirk’s baby.”

Cheryl just shook her head in wonder.

“Did Maureen tell you that her husband was a sheriff in a small town outside Spokane?” Laurie asked.

“She mentioned it,” Cheryl murmured. “Yes.”

“Well, I think that’s how she must have run across this,” Laurie said, handing her the “missing” poster for Charlene and her “brother,” Buddy. “I’m guessing she saw this part under Buddy’s description about the birthmark over his eye—and she saw the age was the same, too.” Laurie nodded at the folders. “She collected a bunch of form letters from adoption agencies. I assumed that was Maureen trying to track you down. But now I think she was trying to track down Buddy. She found him with an older couple named Taggart.”

Cheryl nodded grimly. “I got that far, too. Like I told you, he drowned.”

Laurie took hold of her hand. “No, he didn’t, Cheryl. That was a lie. Maureen was just trying to protect Buddy. She had her friend lie to you. Then I think she made it a point to get to know you. I’m pretty sure she was getting ready to tell you the truth about Buddy, but she was killed . . .”

Cheryl’s eyes narrowed at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Maureen never stopped looking after Buddy.” Laurie squeezed her hand. “Cheryl, he’s been your neighbor all this time. He’s just down at the end of the courtyard. It’s Thomas Vincent Taggart. I phoned him about twenty minutes ago. I told him we’d drop by . . .”

She picked up Joey, and the three of them stepped outside. Cheryl still seemed dazed—as if she couldn’t quite fathom everything she’d just been told. Laurie imagined that like her, Cheryl needed to see the birthmark before she could start to believe it.

“I told him who you are, Cheryl,” Laurie explained as they started down the walkway to Vincent’s apartment. “But I didn’t tell him about Elaina and Dirk. I really don’t think we ought to—if we can help it. He seems pretty happy with his job at the Safeway and his routine here. I wouldn’t want to spoil that. I think Maureen wanted it that way, too.”

Cheryl just nodded.

Laurie knocked on Vincent’s door.

He answered the door in the white shirt, black tie, and black pants he wore for his Safeway job. He had his glasses on. He smiled at Laurie. “Hi, Laurie, hi, Joey . . .” Then he looked at Cheryl. “Hi,” he said tentatively.

“Would you like to come over to dinner tonight?” Laurie asked. “Cheryl made lasagna. It’s not Stouffer’s, but I guarantee it’s good.”

“Why, sure, thanks,” he said, nodding.

“I just explained to Cheryl how you two used to know each other,” Laurie said. “Would you mind taking off your glasses, Vincent?”

He nodded, and then obliged her.

Cheryl gazed at him. Tears filled her eyes, and her hand started to go up to touch his face, but then she pulled it back.

“Is it okay if I put my cheaters back on now?” he asked.

“Of course,” Cheryl whispered.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t recognize you all this time.”

Cheryl let out a sad little laugh. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you either.” She patted his arm. “The last time I saw you, you were barely four years old. You were in the playground of a children’s shelter. You can’t possibly remember . . .”

“No, I don’t. But I sort of remember being Buddy.” Then, with a nervous smile, he took her hand in his and shook it. “And I remember you, Natty . . .”

Saturday, July 19, 1:22
P.M.

The story about the
7/7/70
caterer who went off the deep end and held Gil Garrett hostage for three hours seemed like yet another example of how the film production was cursed. Cheryl didn’t think anyone would want to hire her after what had happened. She imagined it might be a while before customers even felt safe going to her food truck for lunch.

She phoned her contact at Atlantis Film Group to apologize for inconveniencing them.

“I just have one question,” the man told her on the phone. “How soon can you guys come back to work?”

Apparently, no one was happy with the replacement caterers. So she and Laurie would be working again on Monday. That meant she would be prepping food tomorrow night.

Cheryl asked Vincent if he wanted to come along to the farm in Duvall where she bought her vegetables. They were picking up Laurie on the way. She was waiting for them at Evergreen Manor. She and Adam had taken his father out to lunch.

“Wow, look at all those old people,” Vincent said as Cheryl drove into the lot. He was staring at a dozen or so residents on the benches by the front entrance. “Are they waiting for a bus or something?”

“I think they just want to get some air—except for one,” Cheryl said. “One of them is waiting for us.”

“Oh, you mean Laurie,” he said, his forehead against his window. “I see her.”

Adam Holbrook was standing at her side. He was holding Joey. Both Laurie and the baby looked very comfortable with him. They were talking to an old man with a bandage on his nose and his arm in a sling. It was hard for Cheryl to imagine this was the young man named Dino who had saved their lives forty-four years ago.

She and Vincent got out of the car. Laurie spotted them and waved. Mr. Holbrook grabbed hold of his cane and pulled himself up off the bench. He was smiling at them. Cheryl wondered if Laurie had told him who she and Vincent were.

She thought of all the times she’d tried to get into this place to see Dean Holbrook, Sr., all those failed attempts. She’d had so many questions she’d wanted to ask him. She’d wanted names, dates, and explanations.

Now, here he was, waiting outside for her, looking a bit battered and feeble.

And all she wanted to do was thank him.

Cheryl put her hand on Vincent’s shoulder as they approached Mr. Holbrook, Adam, Laurie, and Joey.

“We’ve been trying to get my dad to remember the last time he met you,” Adam said, bouncing Joey in his arms. “But I’m afraid we’re not getting anywhere . . .”

Laurie turned to Adam’s father. “Mr. Holbrook—
Dino,
this is Cheryl and Vincent, they’re the ones we were telling you about . . .”

Cheryl reached out to shake his hand. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” she said.

He looked a bit confused as he shook her hand. Then he shook Vincent’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Vincent said.

Mr. Holbrook nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry he doesn’t remember you,” Adam said. “It’s not one of my dad’s good days, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Holbrook sat back down on the bench.

Cheryl reached into her purse and took out the “missing” bulletin—with her and Vincent’s photos from forty years ago. She showed it to him. “This was us,” she said with a nod toward Vincent at her side. “These pictures are from about three years after you saved our lives. Do you recall? It was at the Biggs Farm when Trent Hooper and the others were . . .” With a look at Vincent, she trailed off. He still didn’t know the whole story. She didn’t want him to know.

Mr. Holbrook gazed at the photo—and then at the two of them.

“We were hiding in the back of an old Vista Cruiser,” Cheryl went on. “And you told me to keep the baby quiet. You didn’t give us away. It’s thanks to you we’re both alive today . . .”

“Thank you,” Vincent said.

With a sigh, Cheryl folded up the piece of paper and slipped it back inside her purse. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter whether or not you remember what happened—or if you remember us. I just want to thank you, Mr. Holbrook. We both thank you.”

She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

When she straightened up again, Cheryl saw the tears in his eyes. He nodded.

Dino Holbrook cleared his throat. “Adam, you were wrong,” he said, his voice hoarse. He smiled up at Cheryl. “This is a good day.”

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2015 Kevin O’Brien

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3162-7

First electronic edition: August 2015

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3163-4

ISBN-10: 0-7860-3163-8