Terrified (39 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: Terrified
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Megan took a deep breath, and approached the counter. “Hey, hi,” she said. “Is Rebecca around?”
He glanced up from the newspaper. “She’s on her break. Can I help you?”
Megan tried to keep from looking at her own face on the newspaper page. “Well, Rebecca was supposed to give me the address for one of your instructors, Cornel Dean.” She pulled the envelope from her purse. “I really need to make sure Mr. Dean gets this in tomorrow’s mail… .”
The young man stared at her. Megan hoped he didn’t recognize her from the photo in the newspaper he’d been reading. “Rebecca didn’t say anything to me,” he replied.
“Damn,” she murmured. “I was told she’d have his address for me. Could you look it up, please? It’s for Mr. Dean,
Cornel Dean
. He’s got a class right now, but I need to send this registered mail and get a signature… .”
He squinted at her. “I know your face,” he said. “Are you a student here?”
“Ah, yes, well, I was—back in the spring,” Megan lied. “Anyway, I think the last pickup at the post office is four-something. Could you help me out?”
He gave a nod, then turned to his keyboard and started typing.
 
J. Knoll’s phone had Internet capabilities, but the battery was running low. Megan was able to pull up
Mapquest.com
for a few minutes before the thing shut down on her. She figured Cornel Dean’s Hamlin Street address put him on Portage Bay at the far north edge of Capitol Hill. On her way there, Megan kept checking her rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
She remembered on her very first date with Dan—or whatever his real name was—he’d mentioned he lived on the water. At least he hadn’t lied about that. The signs along his section of Hamlin Street read: PARKING FOR HOUSEBOAT RESIDENTS ONLY.
“And their guests,” Megan murmured as she pulled into a vacant spot.
Climbing out of the car, she started down some stairs to a wooden pier—with moored boats on one side and floating homes on the other. Straight ahead, the bay opened up, and she could see the Montlake Bridge between the autumn-hued trees bordering the water. The houseboats along the pier weren’t anything like the $3.5 million home Tom Hanks had owned in
Sleepless in Seattle
. But she noticed among the charming, well-kept shacks, a few sleek, modern floating houses that probably went for a million-plus.
Cornel Dean’s houseboat was one of the well-kept shacks. Megan knocked on the front door of the gray, white-trimmed bungalow. Glancing around, she didn’t see anyone else on the pier or aboard the boats. No neighbors were peeking out their windows.
By the front door, above a blooming azalea plant in an old milk drum, there was a mailbox. Megan opened it and pulled out his mail: bills from Visa and OnStar, and some junk mail—all of it addressed to Daniel Lahart. She opened the mailbox lid again—and saw a label taped inside the box:
D. Lahart—C. Dean
.
Megan hesitated for only a moment, and then tore open the Visa bill. She wondered if there would be anything in his spending activity that showed his true colors. He must have had a few other
Matefinder.com
dinner dates at the beginning of the month, because she noticed some pricey restaurant fees. He’d also spent some money at different local bookstores, Trader Joe’s, and fifty bucks went to the American Red Cross.
Maybe those were his true colors. Maybe he was a nice guy after all.
That meant breaking into his house wasn’t exactly ethical. Still, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. She felt around for a key above the door. Nothing. She tilted the azalea plant in the milk drum, but didn’t find anything hidden beneath it. He had a small garden along the deck—with a slightly tacky pelican figurine among some potted plants. The key was beneath the fifth pot she looked under.
Megan tried it on the front door and let herself in. She slipped the key in the pocket of her jeans, and then stood by the door for a minute, waiting to see if an alarm would go off. It was so quiet she could hear water lapping against the boats and the pilings outside.
His place was clean, snug, and nicely furnished. It smelled a bit like cinnamon toast. There was a potbellied stove in the corner of the living room—and a big picture window looking out at the bay. The sun was just beginning to set, and everything looked golden outside. He had a galley-style kitchen on the other side of an eating bar. Along one wall in the living room was shelf after shelf of books—with some framed photos worked in. A ladder led to a loft space overhead where he must have slept. She could see a porthole-style window up there—by a tall dresser.
Megan decided if the alarm had been activated, she’d have known by now. She checked some of the photos on his bookshelves. On their date, he’d said he had an older brother and sister. Judging from the family pictures he hadn’t lied to her about that. He’d been a cute little boy, too.
She set his mail on the computer desk, and noticed a light blinking in his cordless phone cradle. Beside it was a caller ID box, displaying the most recent calls. There were five listed: all from her cell phone—the one Josh’s abductor had confiscated.
Three calls from her phone had come in last night, and two more today. Was he communicating with Josh’s abductor? Then again, those calls could have been hang-ups—or texts trying to lure him someplace. After all, Teresa had gotten a text today from the same phone number.
Maybe she was just making excuses for him, because his family looked nice and he gave to the American Red Cross. She still couldn’t trust him. Why the hell did he have two names?
Standing in front of his computer desk, she clicked on the mouse. His monitor lit up—with a desktop photo of the Three Stooges. Staring at it, Megan shook her head and let out a perplexed little laugh. She started to reach for the mouse again, but suddenly froze.
She heard footsteps on the planked pier outside.
She hurried over to a small window by the door. Through the slits in the mini-blinds, she saw Dan—or Cornel—walking at a brisk clip. Glancing at his wristwatch, he headed for the front door.
Panic-stricken, Megan swiveled around and looked at the four different doors off the living room and kitchen areas. The only open one was to the bathroom. The other doors were all shut. She picked the one closest to the kitchen. As soon as she tried to duck inside, Megan realized it was the wrong choice. The closet held a stacked washer and dryer—with room for little else. But she had no time to make a switch. She heard the front door opening.
With her back pressed against the washer and dryer, she pulled the louver door shut against her chest. But she couldn’t close the door all the way. Through the chink, she watched Dan come through the front door.
Megan kept a tight grip on the door handle so it appeared shut. But she was trembling, and wondered if the door shook, too.
He stood in the entryway for a few moments, cautiously looking over at the living room and then the kitchen area. He kept one hand on the doorknob. Obviously, he knew something was wrong. His eyes kept searching—until he looked her way.
She tried not to move. She didn’t even breathe.
He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He quickly pressed three digits.
Megan wondered if he was calling 911. She pushed the door open. “Wait …”
“Jesus!” He reeled back. “You scared the crap out of me… .”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
He was distracted for a moment, and put the phone to his ear. “Oh, hello … hi … yes, I’m sorry, I had a false alarm… . Yes, I’m sure… . Everything is fine. I’m sorry to bother you. Thanks very much.” He clicked off the phone, and gaped at her. “First, I get a message from you warning me to watch my back. Then I come home to find my front door isn’t locked, and someone is hiding in my laundry closet. You almost gave me a heart attack… .”
“I’m sorry,” Megan said again. She could hardly look at him.
He closed the door behind him. “Was my mind playing tricks on me, or did I see you outside my classroom at the community college about an hour ago?”
Her eyes finally met his, and she nodded. “Yes, that was me. Who is Cornel Dean?”
He sighed. “Cornel Dean is the twenty-nine-year-old author of a really bad book.” Moving over to the bookcase, he plucked a hardcover tome from the shelf and handed it to her.
Megan looked at the cover—with a photo of a slightly blurred barley stem against a cloudy sky.
Before the Harvest by Cornel Dean
, it said in small print at the bottom left side of the book jacket. She glanced at the back flap, which had a photo of a callow-looking Dan. The author photo caption said:
Cornel Dean’s short story “The Chain Smoker” won the coveted J and B Church Fellowship Award, and was published in
The Atlantic
. He holds a master’s degree in fine arts from Cornell University.
Before the Harvest
is his first novel.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a published author?” she asked.
“Because I was afraid you’d track down the book, read it, and never want to see me again.” He sat down on a bar stool by the eating counter. “Except for a few scenes, it’s a pretty lousy book.”
She inspected the cover again. “Why Cornel Dean?”
“Well, there’s lots of sex in it, and rather than humiliate my parents, I came up with Cornel Dean—after my college and my pet turtle when I was ten. Anyway, the whole experience discouraged me from trying my hand at a novel ever again.”
Megan shook her head. “I don’t understand. If you’re so embarrassed about this book, why do you teach classes as Cornel Dean?”
“Well, the book was kind of a prestigious failure. It’s given me some status in the academic world. So that’s the name I use as a teacher.” He shrugged. “Plus, believe it or not, I still get an occasional foreign royalty check for Cornel Dean. The last one was for a hundred and six bucks—from France.”
He reached over and took the book out of her hand and set it on the counter. “Anyway, that’s me, the failed writer. Now you know my secret, shameful tragic past.”
Megan gave out a sad, little laugh. “I’ll trade you.”
“No, thank you,” he murmured. His eyes were full of compassion as he smiled at her. “I had a half hour before class to read about Lisa Swann and Megan Keeslar. I have only a vague idea of what you’ve been through. So—no, I wouldn’t want to trade places with you. From what you told me, and what I’ve read online, I’m guessing your husband came to Seattle and joined forces with someone. They beat you up and stole your son on Saturday night. And it’s not a custody battle. It’s something much worse. Am I right?”
Megan nodded. “They’ve threatened to kill him if I go to the police.”
“They took your cell phone, didn’t they?” he asked.
She gazed at him and blinked. “How did you know?”
“Since last night, I’ve gotten about a dozen hang-ups—all your cell number. I tried calling back, but no answer. The voice mail isn’t picking up. This morning, I got a text from that same cell—and I knew it couldn’t be from you.”
“Was it someone pretending to be me, asking you to meet me someplace?”
Frowning, he shook his head. “No, it was someone pretending to be you, inviting me to—well, it was pretty obscene. It wasn’t just dirty talk, but some real sick stuff.”
Megan couldn’t look at him. “I’m glad you realized it wasn’t me,” she muttered.
“When you invited me over for dinner on Sunday, was that something they told you to do?”
She nodded. “That’s why I was acting so crazy. They’d just taken Josh twelve hours before, and I didn’t know whether or not you were working with them. I was told that if you wanted to have sex with me, that I should let you. But I had to do it with you in the living room—with the drapes open, so they could watch us from across the street.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “You mean, all I had to do was ask, and …”
She nodded again. “Yes, and please, do me a favor. Don’t make a joke about it.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Why do you suppose they picked me of all people?”
“I think they were trying to humiliate me,” Megan admitted. “They picked you because somehow they knew I really liked you. They probably went onto my computer and found the email I wrote to you.”
He sighed. “Megan, you look so exhausted. Why don’t you sit down, for God’s sake?”
“If I sat down, I’m afraid I’d fall asleep within two seconds,” she replied, swaying a little.
“So? I’ve seen you asleep before.”
She squinted at him. “God, how could you want anything to do with me after everything I’ve put you through?”
“Because I think you’re pretty great,” he replied, climbing off the bar stool. “And I’d like to help you if I can. You’re way overdue for a decent break.”
Dan took her hand in his and held on to it while he spoke to her. She remembered how Glenn used to do that, back when she was falling for him.
“I need to ask you something else,” he said. “You mentioned earlier that you weren’t sure whether or not I was working with them. Are you still unsure?”

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