Tell Me You're Sorry (45 page)

Glancing over at the Winnebago, Stephanie thought she saw it swaying slightly. Someone was in there. Was it Jenny?

The phone vibrated in her hand. Stephanie clicked it on.

“This is the 9-1-1 operator calling back for Stephanie Coburn . . .”

The operator's voice was too loud, too clear.

She heard his footsteps on the porch again. He seemed to be coming toward the side of the cabin. His shadow swept across the ground.

“Bonny Trail, off Rural Route 37,” Stephanie whispered. “Hurry!”

Plastered against the side of the house, she clutched the tire iron. She let the phone and her bag fall out of her grasp.

The boards on the porch's side steps creaked. He poked his head around the corner. His face was in the shadows—except for that white bandage on his jaw. He had the gun in his hand. “Well, well, well,” he said, coming toward her. “If it isn't the bitch who won't die . . .”

Stephanie held the tire iron to her side. She was pretty sure he hadn't spotted it yet. She stole a glance over toward the rural road, hoping to see headlight beams over the treetops. But there was nothing.

“So—this was a setup, huh?” he said, pointing the gun at her face. “Are the cops on their way? Is that it? You think—”

The Winnebago shifted and squeaked.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Stephanie hauled back the tire iron and slammed it down on his arm. He let out a yowl, and the gun fell to the ground. She lunged at him, attacking him again, this time with a blow to his shoulder. She was like a crazy woman unleashed. She kept swinging the tire iron. With every blow, she thought of Rebecca and the kids—and all the others. She struck him again and again. But he was still standing, fending her off and cursing.

All of a sudden, he grabbed hold of the tire iron. Yanking it out of her hand, he hurled it into the bushes. She started to hit him with her fists, but he reeled back and belted her across the face. The blow sent her through the air. Stephanie slammed into a tree and crumpled to the ground. The whole left side of her face was throbbing. Spots swam in front of her eyes and everything was out of focus. A constant ringing filled her ear. He was muttering something, but she couldn't make out what he said.

Clinging to the tree, she struggled to her feet. She blinked until he came into focus. He was staggering toward her with the gun. His face was bleeding. The white bandage on his jaw was now crimson.

In this moment, when Stephanie was so certain she was going to die, she was glad to see what she'd done to him.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” he said, raising the gun.

He started to say something else. But the roar of the Winnebago's engine drowned him out. The headlights went on. With the screech of its tires, the huge vehicle lurched forward. Dirt and gravel sprayed through the air.

Stephanie stumbled back toward the woods.

She watched as the man raised his gun again—this time aiming at the person driving the RV. A shot rang out just as the Winnebago plowed into him. Over the grinding engine noise, Stephanie heard his screams. The vehicle careened forward, carrying him across its front grating—right into a tall pine tree.

After that, the screaming stopped.

Clouds of dirt plumed around the base of the pine. They cleared as the Winnebago backed up. Stephanie watched the broken, lifeless body slide down the tree trunk and flop over onto the ground.

The dust was still settling when she noticed in the distance a red and white swirling light over the treetops. Someone was coming down Rural Route 37. Stephanie still had some ringing in her ear, but she could hear a police siren—not too far away.

Teetering, she took a few steps toward the clearing and the Winnebago. She saw the blood on the front of the vehicle, and a bullet hole in the windshield on the passenger side. Catching her breath, she stared at the woman in the driver's seat. She was a pretty brunette with a scar on her cheek.

It was her first look at the real Jenny Ballatore.

They'd never met before. They didn't know each other. Yet they smiled at each other like old friends.

Stephanie gave her a frail wave, and then hobbled over to the side of the cabin, near the shrubs where she'd been hiding. She found her cell phone.

With a shaky hand, she punched in Ryan's phone number.

 

 

Ryan wondered if any of the pieces of his broken phone were sharp enough to cut at the ropes around their wrists.

“Dad, is it loosening at all?” Alison asked. Her voice was hoarse from crying. She blindly picked and tugged at the restraints around her father's wrists.

“A little bit,” he said. “Keep trying, sweetie . . .”

Alison started sobbing again. She shook her head. “That woman's not going to leave here and kill anyone else,” she whispered. “I mean it.”

“You guys,” Ryan whispered. “Over by the wall, where she threw my phone . . .”

He fell quiet at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He could hear another sound—glass clinking.

Mr. Metcalf bumped against Alison, and they both tried to scoot away from each other. She put two or three feet between them before she fell to her side. Her father was still sitting up.

“I just can't keep you two away from each other, can I?” she said, appearing in the doorway. She held the bottle of Frangelico and two crystal old-fashioned glasses. She set them down by her folding chair. Then she pulled out the Glock 19, and briskly moved toward Mr. Metcalf. She slapped him in the face with the back of her hand. As he recoiled, she grabbed his arm and yanked at it.

Ryan could tell she was testing to see if the rope was loose. She moved over to Alison and tugged at the restraints. She seemed satisfied. “My father taught me how to tie a knot good and tight,” she said.

Tucking the gun in the back of her slacks, she wandered over to the folding chair. “Tell you what, if you guys really like being close together, I'll make sure to arrange your bodies so each one is right beside the next—you two and little Rip Van Winkle over there.” She opened the liqueur that came in the bottle that looked so much like Mrs. Butterworth's syrup. Ryan's sister had told him that she drank the stuff every night.

Sitting down in the chair, she glanced at Ryan. “But you, Joe Quarterback, you'll have to go someplace else to die. The police might start digging into things if the dead son of Brent Farrell turned up at a murder-robbery scene in West Seattle.” She seemed focused on pouring the liqueur into the two crystal glasses. “No, it's better if you just disappeared. My friend will be driving back through Nevada. There are plenty of unmarked graves out in that desert. You'll end up being just another one of them.”

“Nicole, think about it,” Mr. Metcalf said, his voice calm and compassionate. “Your sister was a very sweet girl. What happened to her was a tragedy, but I'm guessing that had a lot more to do with the way she was brought up and how your father treated you both. I never thought she was happy. I felt sorry for her. I don't think she was spiteful. So be honest with yourself. How do you imagine Selena would feel about what you're doing—and what you've done?”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “You felt sorry for my sister? Well, before the end of this night, you'll be the one who's sorry.” Suddenly, she changed expressions. Putting on a phony smile, she set down the bottle and hoisted one of the glasses. “Meanwhile, let's drink to Selena, shall we?”

Leaving one glass on the floor by the Frangelico bottle, Nicole stood up and moved toward Alison's father. “Maybe a little libation will get you to cooperate, and you'll give me more of your access codes and PIN numbers. If not, I may just have to fall back on some other means of persuasion. And I guarantee you,
Daddy,
the kiddies aren't going to enjoy it . . .”

Leaning over Mark Metcalf, she was about to put the glass of liqueur to his lips. But suddenly, Alison kicked upward with her feet and knocked the glass out of Nicole's hand. The Frangelico spilled across her father's lap, and the glass shattered on the floor.

Alison glared at her father. “I won't let you drink with the woman who killed my mother.”

Nicole laughed.

Mr. Metcalf shook his head at her. “My daughter's right. I don't want any.”

Ryan thought he saw a smile flicker across Alison's face.

“Fine, more for me then,” Nicole said, retreating to the chair. She sat down and reached for the other glass. She drank it in one, smooth gulp. “You talk about my father and the way I was brought up?” she said. “Well, want to know what your little whore of a daughter was doing yesterday afternoon—with this one here?” She nodded toward Ryan and poured another glass. “She was skipping school so they could fuck on your living room sofa. I caught them . . .”

“Go ahead and drink up, bitch,” Alison whispered.

“I know my limit, Alison,” Nicole said, clearing her throat. “Don't for one minute think I'm going to be too drunk to take care of you.” She took a sip and smirked at Mr. Metcalf. “Skipping school to screw boys, that's the kind of daughter you've raised.” Nicole cleared her throat again and winced slightly. She quickly finished the rest of the glass in one gulp.

Ryan noticed her face was turning red.

“I didn't skip school,” Alison said, glaring at her. “I told you I was going back for a class, remember?”

“Oh yes, I'm sure you did,” Nicole said. “You probably went chasing after Joe Quarterback here . . .”

She nodded at Ryan. But then the smug look on her face disappeared. She started coughing. She slapped her chest with her hand. But the coughing fit continued. Ryan wondered if Nicole's favorite dessert drink had gone down the wrong way. Her eyes watered up.

“No, it's like I told you,” Alison said—over Nicole's hacking. “I went back for chemistry lab. In fact, I brought home a sample . . .”

Coughing uncontrollably, Nicole stood up. She staggered back and tipped over the liquor bottle. She suddenly seemed to realize what Alison was telling her.

She reached back and pulled out the gun. Her hand wavered as she tried to point it at Alison.

Ryan automatically lurched forward, but his restraints held him back. The sudden movement drove a thunderbolt of pain up his broken leg. The big, dark room started spinning.

He caught only a glimpse of Alison's father—his hands still tied behind him—bolting up and hurling himself toward Nicole.

He heard Alison scream as the gun went off.

Alison's father fell on top of Nicole, pinning her to the floor. The gun flew out of her hand.

Ryan felt himself slipping away. Everything started to go black. He caught another glimpse of Mr. Metcalf, facedown on the floor, very still.

Nicole tried to reach across him for the gun. Her whole body writhed and shook as she choked to death from the poison in her system. Now Ryan knew what Alison had been thinking when she'd said, “That woman's not going to leave here and kill anyone else.”

The last thing he saw was Nicole Jayne in convulsions, still struggling to reach for the gun.

He knew she'd never get ahold of it.

She couldn't even get a breath.

E
PILOGUE

 

“I
need to make a confession,” Barton Jayne told the priest.

He was standing outside the rectory door. The old man wore an old, ill-fitting blue suit and a slightly threadbare maroon tie.

Father Stutesman had been getting dressed for seven o'clock services when the doorbell rang. He knew he didn't look very dignified in his T-shirt, black slacks, and stocking feet. He was a spry seventy-six, with receding gray hair and a goatee.

He opened the door wider. “Okay, come in, Barton.”

“Not here,” he said. “In the church confessional.”

Father Stutesman glanced at his watch and sighed. “All right, I'll meet you over there. Let me grab a sweater and put my shoes on . . .”

Nodding, the caretaker headed toward the church.

The pastor finished dressing. He was the one who had hired Barton Jayne years back. He thought the old man was an odd duck. But Barton worked cheaply and he was dependable. He described himself as a Christian, but as far as Father Stutesman knew, he didn't belong to any particular church. Barton Jayne certainly didn't attend St. Paul's. Otherwise he'd have known they'd stopped hearing formal confessions ages ago. In fact, for years now, Father Stutesman had been using one of the two confessional booths to store prayer books.

Father Stutesman was pretty mellow about different rules and regulations. That was why he let Mr. Jayne put up a tombstone—with no actual grave—in their little cemetery. And that was why he was now walking over to the church to hear Barton's confession when the old man wasn't even Episcopalian.

Barton had unlocked the church door for him, but the only light he'd switched on was the one over the confessional boxes. Father Stutesman knocked on the cubicle they weren't using for storage. “You in there, Barton?” he asked. His voice echoed a bit in the quiet, empty church.

Mr. Jayne grunted an affirmative.

Father Stutesman stepped inside the cubicle and sat down. He put a purple stole over his shoulders, made a sign of the cross, and then slid open the little door between him and Mr. Jayne. Through the intricate latticework in the screen he could just make out the old man sitting there in the dark.

“Barton?”

He'd expected him to start with the formal confession recital. The door sliding open was his cue to pray, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

Mr. Jayne didn't bother with that. “Someone called me fifteen minutes ago, asking if I was Barton Jayne,” he explained. “They asked if I was home at 1947 Harms. I said yes, and they hung up. I know it was the police. They're coming for me. In fact, I'm sure they'll be here any minute. So I want to confess . . .”

Puzzled, Father Stutesman leaned closer to the screen. He took a deep breath and tried to sound calm. “Um, what sins do you want to confess?”

“I helped my daughter kill ten people,” he said—without a hint of emotion in his voice. “Some of them were children. She killed a few others, too, before I became part of what she was doing.”

“What?” the priest asked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“I'm not sure if this confession will work,” the old man said, “because I'm not a bit sorry.”

“Wait a minute, Barton. What—”

Father Stutesman heard a click.

The shot echoed throughout the empty church.

Horror-struck, the priest felt blood spray through the screen's latticework and onto his face. He heard the gun drop, and the body in the next cubicle crumpling to the floor.

And then, in the distance, he heard police sirens.

 

 

 

“Every Father's Day for the last few years, my dad got an unsigned card in the mail,” Ryan said. “Did you get them, too?”

Mr. Metcalf nodded. Sitting up in the hospital bed, he had a tube in his nose. He was also hooked up to an IV drip. He wore a pale green hospital gown that made his complexion look sallow. The TV on the wall had a Mariners game on mute. The table across the room was full of flowers and cards. A shimmery orange, purple, and yellow Get Well balloon was tied to one corner of his headboard.

The bullet from the Glock 19 had punctured Mr. Metcalf's right lung. But he'd come through five-hour surgery the day before with flying colors. They planned to take him out of intensive care tomorrow—if his condition remained stable.

In his wheel chair, Ryan sat at Mr. Metcalf 's bedside. He wore cargo shorts and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His leg was in a blue fiberglass cast. Alison—and Danny especially—were disappointed they couldn't sign it. Danny had spent last night here at Swedish Hospital, mostly in observation to make sure there were no aftereffects from the two hours he'd been in shock. His older sister had spent half the night with him. He'd been discharged this morning.

Alison's father suddenly looked like he was in pain. “What did you tell the police?”

“About the Father's Day cards?” Ryan shook his head. “I didn't tell them anything.”

He shifted in the bed. “Because of those cards, for a while there, I thought Selena might have disappeared on her own accord and had a child. But if she killed herself the next day, I don't understand what those Father's Day cards were about . . .”

Ryan shrugged. “It made you think of Selena, didn't it?” he asked. “Maybe that was the point. I know those cards really unnerved my father.”

“I don't see what good it'll do to tell the police about them. But if you feel it's necessary, go ahead. I'll back you up. I kept this thing a secret for so many years, I'm tired of it. I'd just as soon have it all out in the open.”

“I wouldn't mind burying it,” Ryan admitted. “I told Stephanie, and she didn't see any point in having people wonder about her brother-in-law possibly fathering a kid when it really didn't happen. It just gives folks the wrong idea. Plus my grandmother doesn't need to know. Right now, I think a part of her is just grateful to know my dad didn't embezzle all that money and then kill his family.” Ryan shrugged. “I mean, he was kind of a—jerk. But he really wasn't that bad.”

“I wish I could say I liked your dad, but—” Mr. Metcalf seemed to work up a smile. “Well, I think his son's pretty terrific. I know Alison has already developed a little crush on you, and I approve.”

Two of Mr. Metcalf 's coworkers from the TV station were waiting to visit him. There were limits on the number of visitors for patients in the ICU. Ryan awkwardly shook hands with Alison's father before he wheeled himself out of the room.

Dressed in a pink sleeveless shirt and khakis, Alison was waiting in the hallway. She had her curly brown hair in a ponytail. Her wrists still had burn marks on them from the rope. “Danny wants to push you around the block in your wheelchair,” she announced. “Are you up for it?”

Ryan smiled and nodded. “Sure.”

“He's waiting down in the lobby,” she said. “He's really hyper today. I almost liked him better when he was catatonic. I'll take you down to him.” She started pushing him in the wheelchair down the hospital corridor. “How was your talk with my dad?”

“Enlightening,” Ryan said. “He said you have a crush on me.”

“Oh, he's so pumped full of drugs and painkillers. He's close to delirious.”

Ryan laughed. He reached back and put his hand over hers.

“You know, you're going back to Chicago, and I'm staying here in Seattle,” she said.

“You don't think we could handle a long-distance thing?” he asked. “I mean, I started thinking maybe I should apply to the University of Washington for next year.”

“I'll still be in high school,” Alison reminded him. She stopped in front of the elevator and pushed the Down button. “So that means I'll be one of those cool seniors who's dating a guy in college.”

“And I'll be one of those d-bags in college who's dating a high-school girl,” Ryan said.

She laughed, then bent down and kissed the top of his head.

“I'm cool with that if you are,” he said.

“Well, let's just see what happens.”

Ryan squeezed her hand. “I didn't ask your dad what he thinks will happen with his job. I mean, all this stuff coming out about what went on when he was a teenager, it could get kind of weird for him, being in the public eye and all.”

The elevator doors opened, and she wheeled him aboard. “Well, so far, the station's pretty supportive, and they have most of the facts. I guess we'll just have to see how the public reacts. Who knows?”

“It'll get weird for you, too,” Ryan said, over the quiet hum of the elevator. They were alone in there. “You'll probably have to put up with a lot of shit from people at school. Will you be okay?”

“I was just thinking about that,” she said. “I mean, I killed someone. I poisoned her. Like people aren't going to talk? But I don't have any regrets. I still remember how grateful I was to see her walk into the room with that liqueur in the Mrs. Butterworth's bottle. I just kept thinking and praying,
‘Drink it, drink it.'
I don't think anyone at school would understand that, not the way you and I do. You know, I remember the day my Mom was killed. She came by the school, because she was worried about me. And I was so friggin' embarrassed. All I could think about was what people thought of me. I was such a brat to her. Now, when I wonder what they'll say about me or my dad, it doesn't really matter. I mean, the hell with them, you know?”

The elevator doors opened. Ryan squeezed her hand again. “I think my new girlfriend is pretty cool,” he whispered.

 

 

 

Several of Jenny Ballatore's neighbors threw her and Simon a welcome home party when she returned to the Bay Vista Apartments. She was their local celebrity. She'd been in the news and on TV. She was even getting offers from film people and publishers for the rights to her story. One agent kept hounding her, “I can see Reese Witherspoon playing you in the film version!” Jenny took it in her stride. She had a feeling the media frenzy would die down soon enough.

All the attention took her mind off the fact that she had a broken ankle—from kicking at that drawer panel in the Winnebago for so long. It had taken her another hour to tear away at her restraints with a sharp hinge on the broken drawer. Jenny had hoped to signal a passing car on the Interstate. But then she'd discovered the bedroom window had been sealed shut and painted gray.

When her captor had parked the vehicle and left, Jenny hobbled from the bedroom to the front of the Winnebago. She'd thought there would be little chance of escape—until she discovered he'd left his key in the ignition.

Somehow, it hadn't hurt her foot too much to push down on the accelerator.

She'd made a new friend that night—in Stephanie Coburn. Stephanie kept saying that Jenny had saved her life. But Jenny thought it was the other way around.

Her landlord, along with a few neighbors, had cleaned up the mess left behind by her abductors. For Jenny, it felt good to be back, and know the sheer delight in another boring night at home with her cat.

Best of all, everything she'd written down on her wish list came back to her.

 

 

 

Stephanie had only a few minutes before she needed to leave for the airport. She wasn't looking forward to this six-day stint coming up. The long, lonely stretches away from home were becoming tougher to handle now that things had changed.

It had been over a month since the FAA had cleared her of any misconduct charges. Pacific Cascade Skyways paid her the back wages lost while she'd been on the enforced leave of absence. Good thing, too, because she'd had to start all over with a new place to live, new furniture, and new everything.

She found a spacious two-bedroom apartment in Portland's trendy Pearl District. It had a fireplace and a panoramic view of the city. She was now surrounded by several pieces of furniture that had been in storage in Croton since last January. They were pieces from Rebecca and Scott's house—and before that, they'd been in her parents' home. Having these things around her every day, it was easy to forget they'd once been police-tagged or dusted for fingerprints. She held onto the good memories. The figurine of the old lady selling balloons had a spot in the bookcase by the mantel. Stephanie had even figured out where she'd put her Christmas tree in December. This year, it would be real.

She could have left early for PDX, then had her coffee and checked her e-mails there. But—for obvious reasons—she'd given up her guilty-pleasure ritual of coffee and a croissant at the airport's Beaverton Bakery Café.

She savored these last few minutes at home. She sat in front of her desktop computer in the guest room. The dark cherry antique desk, which used to be her dad's, was beside a window with a view of the river. Stephanie checked her e-mails, a task she'd faced with some trepidation back in June. Funny thing, with all the hate email she'd received, only a handful of those people had bothered to write back with an apology after the FAA had publicly exonerated her. Stephanie figured they must have been busy writing nasty e-mails to new people.