Tell Me You're Sorry (34 page)

“Are you sure? I mean, he just ordered a pizza for us.”

“Oh, like cold pizza won't get eaten. Please.” She plopped something in Alison's hand. “Here, go get dolled up.”

Alison looked down at the tube of eyeliner in her hand.

“And here, wear this tonight. It might bring you luck.” She unfastened the scarab bracelet from her wrist and gave it to her. “But if you lose it, I'll kill you. I'm going to talk to your dad now. You get ready . . .”

She patted Alison's shoulder as she headed out of the guest room.

In awe, Alison gazed at the scarab bracelet—and then at her father's friend. She felt like she suddenly had this cool big sister. “Jenny, listen, thank you.”

She turned and smiled back at her. “No sweat. We girls have to stick together.”

 

 

 

He couldn't sleep.

Mark had been lying in bed for the last hour, staring at the ceiling. Even with Dina gone, he still stayed on his side of the bed. Every once in a while, his hand strayed over to where she used to sleep, and he'd feel a sad little pang in his heart. “What's wrong, hon?” he could almost hear her asking. “Can't you sleep?”

If she were beside him right now, he would tell her everything.

He would tell her how he wished he hadn't hung up on Stephanie Coburn Tuesday night. It was yet another terrible moment he couldn't take back.

He would tell Dina that he felt like such a coward. He might have redeemed himself a little by coming clean to the police about Stephanie Coburn's phone call—and what it meant. Instead, all he could think about was protecting his family and his reputation.

After the five o'clock show, he'd asked to see the complete interview with Stephanie Coburn, the one from which they'd shown a brief snippet tonight. In the five-minute piece, she seemed confused and paranoid. She claimed someone had set her up, spiking her coffee with LSD. It was a conspiracy. Her sister had committed suicide, but she knew it wasn't really a suicide. Someone was out to get her.

With only fifteen minutes before they were on the air for the six o'clock show, Mark telephoned the Portland police, and told them Stephanie Coburn had called him on Tuesday night. “I don't know if this has anything to do with the explosion or not,” he said. “But I figure I should let you know . . .”

They put him through to one of the detectives handling the case. When the man asked him what exactly Stephanie had said, Mark repeated phrases she'd used in the taped interview. He didn't say a damned thing about his three dead friends or Lake Ridge Country Club or Selena Jayne.

“Did she mention why she called you in particular?” the detective asked.

“I assumed it was because she might have seen me on TV,” Mark lied. At the same time, he was thinking of the potential threat to his family. “She had a sister who committed suicide. She might have read somewhere that my wife killed herself. She died last month. Some blogger reported it was a suicide.”

“And was it?”

“Yes, carbon monoxide poisoning,” Mark admitted. “She pulled our vintage car into the garage and left the motor running.” It killed him to say that out loud. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Ms. Coburn seemed to think my family and I were in danger. She was calling to warn me. I thought she was a crank or crazy. I hung up on her. Of course, I wish I hadn't, now. After what happened to her this morning, I can't help thinking she might have been on to something. So I'm worried about my kids . . .”

The detective took down his contact information, and recommended that he phone the Seattle Police Department if he was concerned about his children's safety.

Mark wondered if they took him seriously at all. Or maybe they just didn't take Stephanie Coburn very seriously. According to the detective, about a week ago, she'd caused some sort of disturbance on her block, claiming she had an intruder in her home. But police hadn't been able to find any evidence of a break-in.

When Mark asked for an off-the-record update about the explosion, the detective said they still hadn't found a body or any body parts in the wreckage. “Her car isn't in the garage—or what's left of the garage,” he said. “So it's quite possible she might not have been home when the place blew up. But we don't know for sure yet. Anyway, don't quote me on that . . .”

Mark figured the guy couldn't have been a very experienced detective, confiding something about a big story to a newsman and then saying, “Don't quote me.”

He phoned the Seattle police, and asked them to beef up the patrols on his block. They'd obliged him before when there had been threats to him and people at the station. They didn't even ask for an explanation. They just said they'd do it.

He should have felt more secure with another adult in the house. But he kept thinking Jenny might have been better off in some hotel. Still, she seemed so grateful for the company. Mark guessed she'd been more lonely than scared. The kids certainly seemed to like her, especially Alison, who got a reprieve from babysitting tonight thanks to Jenny. He'd let Jenny talk him into allowing Alison to go out. She'd argued that Alison would be safe if she stuck close to her friends and had her cell phone with her. To Alison's credit, she was home before he'd returned from his eleven o'clock news spot. To Jenny's credit, he'd found Danny asleep in his bed and a kitchen that was spotless.

It was a relief to make it home—and lose whoever had followed him practically all the way from the station. He was convinced someone in a white Taurus had been on his tail. They'd stayed one or two cars behind him from the Seattle Center to I-5 to the West Seattle Bridge. At the intersection of Alaska and California, he'd run a yellow light to elude them.

He was starting to feel some of Stephanie Coburn's paranoia.

Several times tonight, he'd peered out the front windows to make sure no one was prowling around the house. He didn't see anybody. In fact, at one point, he spotted a police car drive by. That was reassuring.

Mark heard a noise downstairs, and quickly sat up in bed. It sounded like glasses clinking.

He quietly crawled out of bed and put on some sweatpants. He always slept in just his boxer shorts. He remembered the gun he'd purchased today. He'd smuggled it home tonight. It was in a shoebox on his closet shelf, not even loaded yet. He decided to leave it where it was, and crept out to the hallway. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he thought he heard a door close downstairs. He wondered if Jenny was still up. It was dark on the main level.

He skulked down the steps, and checked the front door—still double locked. The door off the kitchen to the garage was locked, too. He didn't hear anything except a steady drip from the kitchen sink. With a twist, he tightened the cold-water spigot, and the dripping stopped. He moved back to the hallway and the stairs to the lower level.

He heard murmuring. It sounded like Jenny was talking to someone.

He crept down the steps. As he rounded the corner, he saw the guest room door was closed. A sliver of light shone across the threshold. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but she was whispering to somebody. He figured she was on the phone.

“Jenny?” he called in a hushed voice.

The murmuring stopped.

He gently tapped on the door. “Jenny, are you okay?”

After a moment, the door opened. She stood at the threshold in a sleeveless yellow nightgown. The light behind her made the flimsy material almost transparent. He could see every curve of her body. Her long dark hair was down around her face and slightly mussed. She gazed at him. “Hi,” she said. “I'm sorry. Was I making too much noise?”

“I thought I heard you talking to somebody,” he said.

She gave him a shy smile, and then rolled her eyes. “Oh, you're going to think this is so corny, but I was praying.”

“Well, I didn't mean to interrupt,” he said.

“That's okay. Your ears must have been burning. I was thanking God for you.” She touched his bare shoulder. “You really came through for me tonight, Mark. Thank you.”

“No, listen, I should thank you,” he said, moving his shoulder away. He crossed his arms in front of him. “I didn't invite you here to babysit and clean the kitchen. I mean, you're our guest, for Pete's sake.”

“I like feeling useful,” she said.

“Say, were you upstairs a few minutes ago?” he asked. “I thought I heard something . . .”

“Oh, I hope I didn't disturb you. I decided to go up and pour myself a nightcap . . .” She nodded toward a half-filled old-fashioned glass on her nightstand. “I didn't take any of your stuff. It was from the liquor I brought with me tonight. I left a couple of bottles on the cellaret.”

“Please, you can help yourself to anything in the house,” Mark said.

She smiled and flicked back her hair. “Maybe you'd like to join me—for a drink. If we have one in here, we won't wake up anyone.”

Standing in her doorway, he stared at her in the sheer nightgown. She touched his shoulder again.

Mark felt himself starting to get hard. He took a step back. “No, thanks,” he said. “I should get back to bed. See you in the morning. Sleep tight, okay?”

Before she could say anything else, he retreated up the stairs.

Once in his bedroom, Mark slipped back into the bed he used to share with his wife. Lying there alone, his heart was racing.

He knew sleep tonight would be a long time coming.

 

 

 

A loud clank woke her up.

But Jenny didn't move. She just stayed there in her bed, kept still, and listened.

Earlier today, she'd thought she'd heard sounds above—a car, or maybe that Winnebago. She had a feeling he was back. A part of her was relieved. The lights had flickered a few times during the last several days. They were just little power surges, but still a nagging reminder of how vulnerable and helpless she was without him. Every once in a while, she realized the place smelled, too. She kept clean and washed her clothes in the sink. But the used food containers had piled up, and the two twist-tied plastic garbage bags in one corner of the bunker reeked. She was running out of food, too. He was the one person who knew where she was. She needed him.

At the same time, she dreaded his return. Was he going to knock her out and rape her again? Or had he found some other woman to take her place? Jenny kept thinking she'd never see the sky again. He'd kill her down here, and then bury her someplace else.

She could hear muted footsteps. They weren't from directly above, but on the other side of that big door with the wheel crank on it. He was coming down here.

Her eyes had long ago adjusted to the darkness after lights-out. She half-sat-up in the bed and stared at the wheel crank on that door. Her hand slid past her pillow toward the edge of the mattress in search of the lightbulb she'd stored there almost two weeks ago.

Jenny heard a hollow ding, and after a moment, the wheel started to turn.

Her heart was pounding. But she set her head back on the pillow. Her fingers slid across the smooth glass bulb, and then she grasped it in her hand.

There was a clang, which must have been the sound of the door unlocking.

Jenny's eyelids fluttered a bit as she feigned sleep. She could still see the big door at the end of the bunker. A light was behind it. She glimpsed her captor's scrawny silhouette as he crept around the big door. It looked like he had an iPhone in one hand. He appeared to be watching a movie of some kind. Was he picking up what the cameras recorded down here?

He stopped and slipped the phone in his pocket. Then he took out a plastic bag with something in it. He took a step closer, and she saw he had a mask covering his nose and mouth, the kind some people donned in public during an epidemic. He was wearing surgical gloves, too. He'd had them on when he'd first attacked her in the SUV outside the Emeryville Public Market. She realized he had a rag inside that plastic bag, and it was probably soaked with chloroform or whatever he'd used to knock her out the last time.

Had he come to take her out of here? Or did he want to knock her out so he could have his way with her again?

Jenny kept her face pressed to the pillow. Her eyes were practically shut now. She didn't dare open them any wider. He was just a blur, getting closer and closer until he hovered over the bed. She heard the muffled rustling of the plastic bag. Then she detected a slight chemical smell.

“You got a long trip ahead, Scarface,” he whispered, “all the way to Seattle.”

Jenny saw his hand coming up to her face.

She tightened her grip on the threaded base of the lightbulb. Then in one swift motion, she swung it toward his head and smashed the bulb against his jaw. She'd been aiming for his neck. Shards of glass sprayed all over. She heard him howl in pain.

With all her might, Jenny gave him a shove and raced down the aisle toward the open door. Pieces of broken glass cut her bare feet, but she kept running. Past the door, she found herself in a little vestibule with a ladder. She grabbed onto the rungs and started climbing. She heard him groaning and grunting in the bunker.

But she could also smell the fresh night air.

“Goddamn it, you bitch!” he yelled.

Jenny scurried up the ladder to an open trapdoor. She poked her head out and realized the entryway to her corrugated prison was a small, old fiberglass shack full of tools. The door was open, and she got a glimpse of the sky for the first time in two weeks. Dawn was breaking.