Terrified (27 page)
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “He’s totally innocent. He hasn’t done anything to you… .”
“Take off your sweater,” the man insisted.
Defeated, Megan set the cordless phone on her desk by the computer monitor. Then she pulled her dark blue fisherman knit sweater over her head. The heavily layered bandage got caught in the sleeve. She impatiently yanked her hand through it, and then let the sweater drop to the floor. Her whole hand throbbed with pain from the sudden, almost-violent motion. But she would be damned if she’d let it show on her face. She stood there at the window in her bra and jeans for a moment. Then she reached for the cordless phone again. Megan was so angry and upset she had to remind herself to breathe.
She kept staring out at the windows of the condominiums and the tall apartment complex across the way. He wasn’t in one of the lighted windows. He was standing there, hidden in darkness.
“Now, take off your bra,” she heard him whisper.
Any one of her neighbors could see her, and she was utterly mortified. Yet Megan put the phone down again, then reached back with one hand and unclasped her brassiere. She took it off and tossed it on the floor. Humiliated, she stood in her window, with the light on her, and her breasts exposed. She reached for the phone again.
“Make them bounce,” he whispered. “I want to see them bounce, you fucking whore.”
She realized he’d dropped the gravelly affectation to his voice. It wasn’t Glenn. But it didn’t quite sound like Dan, either. Would Glenn have instructed his cohort to degrade her this way? She doubted he’d farm out such an assignment to someone else. He wouldn’t have passed up the chance to mortify her.
Megan suddenly covered herself.
“Wait—” she heard him say, but she set the phone down again.
Turning away from the window, she grabbed her bra and struggled to put it back on. Getting her bandaged hand through the sweater sleeve was difficult, too. All the while, she could hear him cursing at her, but he was just a tiny voice on the phone.
She picked up the cordless. “Does Glenn know you’re doing this?” she asked edgily.
He turned silent.
“I don’t think he knows,” she said. “I don’t think this striptease on demand was part of his plan.”
“When your date arrives tonight,” the man said in his raspy voice, “tell him you want to watch TV and order a pizza. Leave the curtains open. And if he wants to fuck you, you’ll let him fuck you there in the living room so I can see it. If he wants to spend the night, you’ll let him spend the night. Is that understood?”
Megan didn’t answer. She stared out at the condos across the street and the apartment building behind them, wondering which window he was in.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he finally said. “And Lisa, in answer to your question earlier, maybe Glenn knows what I just made you do, and maybe he doesn’t. Could be I’m getting all this on video for him right now. See, you really don’t know, Lisa. Meanwhile, you just have to do what I say. That’s the beauty of it.”
He hung up.
Clicking off the phone, Megan walked away from the window, turning her back to him. She still felt his eyes on her. And she knew he was right.
For now, she would have to do everything he said.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
F
or a few moments, while she was standing in her tub with the warm shower cascading over her, Megan actually felt halfway human. She’d wrapped her bandaged hand in a plastic bag from the cleaners—and kept it outside the shower curtain.
or a few moments, while she was standing in her tub with the warm shower cascading over her, Megan actually felt halfway human. She’d wrapped her bandaged hand in a plastic bag from the cleaners—and kept it outside the shower curtain.
But it was only a few moments. Once she was out of the shower, in her bathrobe, with her hair still in wet tangles, she sat down in the reading chair in her bedroom. There for at least a half hour, she hugged Josh’s orange Sunset Bowl jacket and cried. She could still smell him on it. She’d already gone through the pockets early this morning, but she went through them again, finding nothing, of course.
She kept thinking about how cold and scared he was right now.
Megan finally forced herself to get up from the chair. She took the jacket into his room and carefully hung it in the closet.
Megan figured if the police were involved, they wouldn’t have let anyone touch the jacket. The perpetrator’s DNA could be all over it. In fact, they would have dusted her entire first floor for fingerprints. She didn’t remember whether or not their intruder had worn gloves. She’d been so sure at the time it was Glenn. He’d hit like Glenn, and even smelled like Glenn. Now, she wasn’t so sure. If she’d let the police handle this, she would have known by now if Glenn had truly been here last night. The police were looking for him—and had his prints on file. She could have helped narrow down their search. She also might have given them some useful information about the Garbage Bag Killings in the Seattle area.
She was almost certain now the death of Becky Mae Palin, the teenager killed and dismembered in 1995, had nothing to do with the other Garbage Bag Murders in the Seattle area. The first victim in the local slayings had probably been Megan’s barista friend, Jade, in 2001. And before Jade there had been Willow Dwyer, in Chicago. Megan now believed the Garbage Bag Killer had migrated here from the Midwest. Maybe he’d even followed her here.
Yet the whole idea seemed so insane. Had someone been watching her all this time? In the last fifteen years, he’d murdered and cut up six women who had looked like her. Had those women been mere substitutes?
The thought had crossed her mind several times in the past. But Megan had told herself she was being paranoid.
Then last night, she’d seen that black garbage bag spread across her kitchen floor. He’d left his calling card. He’d pointed to the same garbage bag when threatening to kill Josh:
If you don’t do exactly as I say, the next time you see him, he’ll be in one of these—in pieces.
If you don’t do exactly as I say, the next time you see him, he’ll be in one of these—in pieces.
The Garbage Bag Killer couldn’t have made it any clearer to her. He was the one taking custody of her son.
Still, she wondered how he was connected to Glenn.
Remember 1996?
It was the year she’d disappeared, when Willow was murdered, and Glenn was arrested. She kept coming back to JJ. He and Glenn had split up shortly after her disappearance, just before Glenn had become a suspect in her murder. Had JJ somehow followed her to Seattle? Had he been secretly reporting her whereabouts and activities to Glenn in prison all these years? And perhaps he’d sublimated his frustration, boredom, and rage on these poor innocent women who looked like her.
Remember 1996?
It was the year she’d disappeared, when Willow was murdered, and Glenn was arrested. She kept coming back to JJ. He and Glenn had split up shortly after her disappearance, just before Glenn had become a suspect in her murder. Had JJ somehow followed her to Seattle? Had he been secretly reporting her whereabouts and activities to Glenn in prison all these years? And perhaps he’d sublimated his frustration, boredom, and rage on these poor innocent women who looked like her.
Now that JJ’s pal was out of prison, it was time for them to team up again and get even with her. Why else would it be happening right now? Glenn was involved in this, no doubt about it.
The irony of it didn’t escape her. Things had totally turned around. Now he was the one who had disappeared—with their child.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if Josh’s abductor wasn’t lying to her. Was he really the Garbage Bag Killer? The KOMO-TV newscast in which they’d interviewed Candy had used the local murders as a coincidence to segue into their story about the 1996 murder case. Had this given Glenn and his cohort an idea? Was that calling card on her kitchen floor last night a way to throw her off course? Obviously, Josh’s abductor relished screwing with her mind. Why believe anything he said?
As Megan wandered back into her bedroom, she thought about tonight’s enforced date with Dan Lahart. Was it some trick to throw her off, too? Maybe the poor guy had nothing to do with any of this. Maybe Glenn or his cohort had hacked into her computer and read Dan’s email—and they were just putting her through the paces. Glenn’s partner had made her take off her bra an hour ago, and tonight he wanted to humiliate her even more—with a guy she’d thought she liked.
She took another Vicodin, then dried her hair and ran a brush through it. Her eyes were puffy with dark circles from lack of sleep and all her crying. She made a pathetic attempt to touch up her face, and got dressed. Two weeks ago, she might have gone through several outfit changes before finding just the right one for this guy. Tonight, it didn’t matter at all. She donned a pair of jeans and a white peasant blouse, because it had loose sleeves.
Dan Lahart was at her door at 7:05 with a bottle of cabernet. He was just as good-looking as she remembered: slightly receding sandy blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a lean, tapered build. He looked like a surfer who was aging very well. He wore a white shirt, jeans and a navy blue blazer—a handsome, classic combo. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a J. Crew catalogue.
It was all lost on her tonight. Megan couldn’t even work up a smile for him.
“My God, what happened to you?” he asked, still standing at her threshold.
“You don’t know?” she asked.
He shook his head. He looked genuinely bewildered.
“Let’s just say I was mugged, okay?”
He didn’t move from the doorway. “Did you report it to the police?”
“I haven’t said
anything
to the police,” she replied.
anything
to the police,” she replied.
“Why not? Look at you. What did they do to your hand?”
With a sigh, she opened the door wider. “I guess you should come in.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure you want company tonight? I mean, considering what you’ve been through …”
She stared at him. “You’re the one calling the shots here.”
“I am?” Dan gave her a puzzled look, and then stepped inside. “Okay, well, in that case, I don’t think you should cook dinner. Let’s order pizza or Chinese. And I hope you’ll be honest with me and let me know whenever you get too tired or anything.”
“Yes, let’s be honest with each other,” she murmured, closing the door after him.
“I really like your place,” he said, moving into the living room. He turned and showed her the bottle of wine. “Would you like me to open this?”
“Sure, I guess,” she replied. She looked toward the big window, and wondered if Glenn or his spy was watching them right now. Did Dan know about that? Maybe he’d been the one who had made her strip this afternoon. If that was the case, he certainly had his innocent act down pat.
“I still can’t believe somebody mugged you, and you didn’t call the police,” she heard him say.
Megan stared out her living room window.
“Megan?” Dan said.
Barely looking at him, she turned and led the way to the kitchen. “There’s a corkscrew in here.” She fished it out of the drawer and set it on the counter for him.
He didn’t say anything for a few moments. “So—how did it happen?” he asked, working the corkscrew into the wine bottle’s cork. “Did they steal anything?”
“Yes, they took something very valuable to me,” she answered quietly.
He uncorked the bottle, and then stopped to look at her. “I get the impression you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Let’s just say I’m not supposed to, and leave it at that.” She retrieved only one glass from the cupboard—for him. She didn’t want any alcohol after the Vicodin. She set the glass on the counter. Her hand was trembling.
Dan didn’t fill the glass. He put the bottle down on the counter. “Was your son with you when it happened?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Was he hurt?”
Megan felt tears stinging her eyes. She couldn’t look at him.
“Wait a minute. You said on the phone earlier that Josh was spending the night someplace else. You didn’t say ‘a friend’s house.’ Is he in the hospital or something?”
Megan turned away from him, and started sobbing. Was he really concerned? Or was it an act? Maybe this was some twisted, underhanded way to put her through the ringer.
“My God, that’s it, isn’t it?” he said, finally. “Your son was hurt, too. I was trying to figure out why you’d want to get together tonight—after what you’ve been through. Now it makes sense. Your son’s in the hospital and you don’t want to be here all alone. I don’t blame you. Is he badly hurt?”
Megan felt his hand on her shoulder, and she recoiled. “Quit pretending you care,” she cried. “Quit being so nice, okay?”
“No wonder you’ve been acting this way,” she heard him whisper. “Megan, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” He touched her shoulder again, and she didn’t jerk away this time. “Listen, I don’t mean to harp on you about this, but you should really report this to the police. Didn’t they tell you that at the hospital? I mean—”
She swiveled around. “Would you please just stop?” With her good hand, she shoved him. “What do you want from me? Why—why are you even here anyway?”
His eyes searched hers. “Because you asked me to come over, and—well, I like you.”
She wanted to cry on his shoulder, but she couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t let down her guard.
Dan finally poured the glass of wine, and offered it to her. Megan knew it probably wouldn’t go well with Vicodin, three hours of sleep, and all her stress, but she drank it anyway.
He ordered a pizza. She let him go on thinking—or pretending he thought—Josh was hurt and in the hospital. She let him pick out some music from her CD collection, and he seemed to read her mood selecting Joni Mitchell’s
Hits
. She let him start a fire in the fireplace. And she let him pour her a second glass of wine.
Hits
. She let him start a fire in the fireplace. And she let him pour her a second glass of wine.
Before the glass was empty, she was sitting on the living room sofa with him, crying on his shoulder. But she couldn’t stay in his arms for more than a few moments. She pushed herself away again and looked toward the window. She knew they had an audience. And part of her kept waiting for Dan to turn on her suddenly.
It never happened. After a third glass of wine, the rest of the night was a fog.
Megan remembered the Pagliacci Pizza guy showing up at the door, and Dan paying him. He’d insisted she eat at least two pieces. Then she’d nodded off on the sofa. The last thing she recalled was him covering her with his blazer.
She got up in the middle of the night to use the powder room. She found Dan with his arms crossed in front of him, sleeping in her easy chair by the fireplace. Only a couple of embers were still red. The drapes were shut. He must have closed them.
Megan’s head and her left hand were throbbing. She downed two aspirin and a glass of water, then curled up on the sofa again, and nestled under his jacket. She fell asleep thinking about how she needed to thank him in the morning, and maybe apologize, too. Perhaps, she would even tell him the truth—about everything.
The phone woke her up. But she couldn’t move. She could only squint across the room at the empty easy chair. The curtains were open again—and a harsh light filled the living room. Megan saw the digital clock on the TV cable box: 10:27
AM.
AM.
The phone stopped ringing. It had probably switched to voice mail. She was late for work. Maybe it had been the office calling. Or maybe it was the people who had Josh.
She suddenly sat up.
She remembered Dan had covered her with his jacket last night. She could see he was gone. A jacket was still half-draped over her. But it wasn’t Dan’s.
It was Josh’s orange Sunset Bowl jacket.
She’d hung it in Josh’s closet yesterday. Dan must have switched jackets early this morning. She imagined him combing through their bedrooms and closets upstairs until he found it, the son of a bitch. Maybe he’d been the one who had left it on her pillow yesterday morning. She couldn’t believe she’d been ready to trust him.
Megan felt something in one of Josh’s pockets. She anxiously fished it out and gaped at it. The image made her sick.
It was a stark, color photo of Josh—shirtless. His eyes were half-closed. He looked exhausted, scared, and utterly miserable. Someone’s arm was in the photo, and they had a knife poised at Josh’s throat. Josh held up a copy of the
Seattle Times
.
Seattle Times
.
Megan hadn’t seen a newspaper yet this morning, but she had a feeling the headline would be the same as the one in this photo. They were letting her know that as of early this morning her son was still alive.
They wanted her to know something else. Megan noticed some writing on the back of the photograph.
His head won’t be the first thing to get cut off,
it said.
His head won’t be the first thing to get cut off,
it said.
She recognized the sloppy scrawled penmanship.
The note was from Glenn.
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