Terrified (12 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: Terrified
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Teresa let out a shriek and started jumping up and down. “Oh, my God! That’s fantastic! I can’t believe it… .”
His mother didn’t say anything. She stood there by her office door with a strange, stunned smile on her face.
“They want you there, too, Mom, of course,” Josh continued excitedly. “They’re going to interview both of us for the evening news. Dr. and Mrs. Hewitt will be there. I guess they want to thank us in person—and on TV. Isn’t that awesome?”
“That’s wonderful, Josh,” his mother said. But there was something strained in the way she said it—and in her smile. It was like she was
trying
to be happy for him.
But Teresa couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. She did a little dance, let out another joyful cry, and hugged him. “You’re a superstar!” she declared, kissing him on the cheek. Then she turned toward his mom and grabbed her hand. “Oh, Meg, you’ll have to buy a new dress for this thing. I’ll bet anything—after you’re on TV, you’ll have all these guys wanting to ask you out. I’m
so
TiVoing this!” She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “Josh, I can’t begin to say how proud I am of you… .”
Teresa carried on the way he’d expected his mom to react. But his mother just stood there with that fake smile on her face, clutching her purse to her side.
“Isn’t that cool?” he asked her. “Aren’t you excited?”
She nodded, and touched his arm. “Of course, I am! It—it—it’s just so terrific.” She kissed him. “You know, we’re going to have to buy you a new blazer this weekend, because you’ve outgrown the one you’ve got. You need to look your best for those TV cameras… .” She glanced toward the front of the store. “Oh, there’s another customer. Teresa, could you help John? We’re going to slip out the back… .”
Josh still felt as if his mother was more bothered than happy about his news. Teresa hugged him again and congratulated him, then retreated toward the front of the store. He and his mother ducked out the back door. It led to a small lot and the rental car garage.
In the car, Josh sat next to her in front and said nothing. Staring out his open window with the wind blowing at his brown hair, he started to get mad. His mother kept filling in the silence by going on about how they needed to buy him a new blazer for the event, and maybe they’d get him a suit at Macy’s or the Men’s Wearhouse. Oh, but if they got a suit, they’d have to have it tailored, and maybe it wouldn’t be ready by Tuesday, and blah, blah, blah.
At the second stoplight, Josh turned to her and frowned. “You’re
so
not excited about this,” he growled.
“What do you mean?” she asked, all innocent.
“The mayor’s giving me an award and it’s going to be on TV and in the newspapers—and the only thing you can talk about is how I need a new blazer.”
“Josh, honey, I’m very excited.” As she waited for the light to change, she nervously drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She smiled at him and let out a tiny laugh, but she still seemed tense. “I just think it’s important that you look nice for your TV debut. You don’t want to go there looking like Jethro Bodine.”
“I have no idea who that is,” he muttered.
“He was a character on an old show,
The Beverly Hillbillies
. He was a big, strapping guy, and all his clothes were too small.”
“The light’s green,” he sighed.
His mother turned forward. The car started moving again. “I’m very proud of you,” she said, eyes on the road. “I just—I’m not totally sure I can get the afternoon off. And I don’t want to—”
“What?” he cut her off. “What are you talking about? Teresa told me herself that she’d work for you!”
“Well, Teresa spoke too soon,” his mother said.
“There’s a good chance we’re getting a visit from a couple of big shots from our headquarters in San Francisco. If that’s the case, then I can’t very well take the afternoon off. I’m the manager there. I mean, how would it look?”
“I’ll tell you how it looks,” Josh shot back angrily. “It looks like your son is getting an award from the mayor of Seattle, and you’re just too damn busy at
Defecation
Rent-a-Car to attend the ceremony! God, I can’t believe you’d miss something like this.”
“Do you think I
want
to miss it?” his mother argued. “I feel horrible, Josh—”
“So I’m going to this thing alone, that’s great, that’s just great.” He shook his head. “These two clowns from San Francisco are more important to you than me.”
“You know that’s not true,” she whispered. “Honey, I feel sick about this.”
“Yeah, well, I feel disgusted,” he mumbled, folding his arms.
She didn’t say anything for a few moments. As they headed down their block, she let out a long sigh. “Most of the time lately you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. And now it’s so important that I attend this thing with you… .”
“This
thing
is a big honor, Mom. And it really sucks you don’t seem to get that.”
“I get it. I understand it,” she replied quietly. Her voice cracked a little.
She pulled into the driveway. Josh unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door before she even put the car in park. “Do me a favor,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any more about how you need to buy me a new blazer for this
thing.
If I’m going alone, I’ll dress myself. In fact, at this point, I don’t even want you to go.”
“Josh, please—”
He climbed out of the car. “I wouldn’t have you along if you begged me,” he muttered, slamming the car door.
He headed up the driveway—toward the street. He was so angry, he didn’t want to be around his mother right now. He needed to walk it off, and he wasn’t sure when he was coming back.
As he reached the street, Josh glanced back toward the townhouse for a second.
His mother still hadn’t gotten out of the car. He saw her silhouette, slumped over the steering wheel, clutching it. He thought he heard muffled crying.
Josh felt an awful twinge in his gut. But he turned away and headed down the street.
 
 
His mother planned to Tivo the news that Tuesday evening. She had all her employees agree to record the news on different stations—so they got all the coverage possible.
She’d offered to hire a limo to pick him up and take him to the Municipal Building, where the ceremony was being held. She suggested Josh invite Darren to accompany him. She wanted to throw a party for him after the ceremony. She’d be done with work by then. If he didn’t want to have the party at home, she could reserve a big table for him and all his friends at one of his favorite pizza joints.
Josh thought it was a dumb idea, inviting people to a party in his own honor:
Hey, look at me, I’m a hero. And I have a plaque from the mayor to prove it.
He went to the ceremony alone—in khaki pants, a white shirt, and a blue and black striped tie. No blazer. He walked to the SLUT, and then transferred downtown to a bus that dropped him off in front of the Municipal Building.
Despite everything he’d said, part of him kept hoping that his mother still might surprise him and show up. But she didn’t.
He would take the same route in reverse home—with a framed, fancy certificate tucked under his arm, surrounded by strangers.
And he’d look for his father among them.
 
 
“Fourteen-year-old Josh Keeslar came to the aid of a stroke victim lying on the sidewalk in Seattle’s Eastlake neighborhood,”
the handsome, blond-haired anchorman announced with a smile. “
If you asked Josh, he’d say he’s no hero. But this afternoon, in a ceremony downtown, Seattle Mayor Mike McGinn and Chief of Police John Diaz begged to differ with the young man, who said saving someone’s life doesn’t make him anyone special. Emily Cantrell has the story… .”
The twenty-six-inch television set was on the floor of his stark, one-bedroom apartment off Eastlake. The place had clean, beige, wall-to-wall carpeting throughout—except for the kitchen and bathroom. It was ideal for sitting on the floor, which is what he did most of the time. Besides the TV, the only other pieces of furniture in the living room were a telescope on a tripod, some of his camera equipment, a standing lamp, a card table, and one folding chair. He sometimes ate at that table, wrote in his journal, or worked on his laptop there. In the bedroom, a futon—with the sheets all askew—took up most of the floor space. An alarm clock and a cheap lamp were on the floor beside it. There were no other furnishings in the place, no pictures on the walls, only the tan curtains that came with the apartment. He wasn’t interested in how the place looked. He was only interested in what the place looked out at.
The building was early eighties architecture with a secure lobby entrance and access to each unit from the outside balconies. His fourth-floor apartment had a picture window in the living room. It offered a view of Lake Union—and between small condo buildings, a glimpse of the white stucco townhouse belonging to Megan Keeslar and the young man they were now talking about on TV.
The telescope on the tripod was situated behind the half-closed tan curtain. But when moved into the right locale, he had a perfect porthole into Megan’s living room. Some nights, he felt as if he was almost right there with her, watching a movie or surfing the Web—until she closed her drapes. Too bad he didn’t have a peek into her bedroom. But he’d had plenty of peeks back when she’d been living in that basement unit years ago—and some good photos, too. He’d also pulled off many undetected break-ins there.
He’d managed to do the same thing in this townhouse. He’d been through every inch of the place. He’d snacked in her kitchen, and used her computer. He even managed to find a Nordstrom box full of photos, clippings, and mementos from her Chicago days. Megan kept it hidden in the back of her closet. He’d also stolen a few more pieces from her wardrobe, waiting months between each theft so she was more likely to think the items had been misplaced rather than pilfered.
A pink oxford shirt, a pair of jeans, a blue-striped tee, and some different undergarments—all hung in the guest room closet at his farmhouse now. He often entered the apartment with several empty plastic bottles, and took samples of her shower gel, body lotions, shampoo, and conditioner. She’d been buying a lot of Kiehl’s products for the last few years, and he probably could have purchased the exact same items at Nordstrom. But it was important that they were
her
bath and body things. He took a big sample of her perfume, too.
Just two nights ago, he’d smelled that perfume on Paula Conlon, a thirty-seven-year-old divorcée, who had been a receptionist at an ad agency downtown. She used to work out at the same gym as Megan—at around the same time, too, though he doubted they knew each other. That was where he’d first spotted Paula. She had the same pretty features as Megan, only she was a brunette—like the
late
Lisa Swann.
No one at the gym had seen Paula for the last four months, not since that Wednesday night she’d stopped by a 7-Eleven in her Magnolia neighborhood. She’d ducked inside the store, and then rented a movie from the Redbox outside. She hadn’t thought to lock her car door. Those few moments while she’d been inside the store—with no one else around—were all he’d needed.
He’d held on to Paula longer than any of the others—five women in ten years, a very exclusive club, starting with that barista, Jade. Like the others, Paula had submitted to him dozens of times, knowing that if she didn’t, she’d be back on a diet of water and cat food. He’d taken countless photos of her, too—including several nudes.
Then about two weeks ago, Paula’s resemblance to Megan or Lisa had simply dissipated for him. The scented lotions and perfumes, the blue-striped tee, the pink shirt, Megan’s panties—none of them helped. There had been no bringing back the illusion of Megan, and he’d grown tired of her.
He’d shredded all the photographs he’d taken of her, and told Paula that he was letting her go. He still had the clothes she’d been wearing when he’d abducted her outside the 7-Eleven months before. He’d had them laundered for her. She’d lost a few pounds while in his care, but Paula had been excited to be wearing her own clothes again. He’d made a show of putting a thousand dollars in cash inside her purse. “Cab fare from where I’ll be dropping you off,” he’d told her. “I’ve got a pill to knock you out, and the next thing you’ll know, you’ll be waking up alone in a nice hotel room.”
But before the drug and the long drive, he insisted they have some Ben & Jerry’s strawberry ice cream and champagne together.
As usual, it didn’t quite work out the way he’d promised.
He studied the bite mark on the lower palm of his hand, still fresh.
He’d switched on the TV to see if there was anything in the news about three different garbage bags left in the woods in Discovery Park. Each one contained severed body parts. But Paula Conlon’s head and her left arm from the elbow down were in a fourth garbage bag behind an old teriyaki restaurant in a defunct strip mall in Lynnwood.
Apparently, all four bags were just where he’d left them late last night.

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