Vicious (4 page)

She half expected to see her wannabe Good Samaritan among the patrons, sitting at another table—perhaps trying to hit on another woman, some young mother.

But Susan didn’t see him at all. There was no sign of him in the parking lot either.

She strapped Mattie in his booster seat on the back passenger side of her old-as-the-hills but reliable red Toyota. It had a bent antenna, and the indicator handle easily screwed off the steering column—a discovery she’d made while nervously twisting it during a traffic jam. But the old car got her around just fine. Besides, she couldn’t afford a new one.

She gave Mattie his Woody doll, and he started to calm down. He let her wipe away his tears with a Kleenex from her purse.

“Is he coming with us?” Mattie asked.

“Is
who
coming with us?” Susan was crouched down by the open back door of her car.

“The man we ate lunch with,” Mattie said. “Is he coming, too?”

She shook her head. “No, he’s not coming with us, sweetheart,” she said. “I don’t even know him. We won’t be seeing him again…. God willing.” The last part, she muttered underher breath. “Fingers and toes!” she announced, straightening up. Then she closed the car door.

As she walked around to the driver’s side, Susan took one last look around the parking lot. There was still no sign of the man anywhere. She ducked inside the car, started up the engine, and pulled out of the lot.

She didn’t look back.

“I have to go potty.”

Hands on the steering wheel, Susan glanced in the rearview mirror at Mattie. He’d set aside his book and now squirmed in his booster seat. The breeze through the partially open window made a mess of his hair. He impatiently tapped his feet against the back of the passenger seat.

“Do you have to go number one or number two?” Susan asked.

“Both,” he whined urgently. “I have to go bad!”

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered under her breath. Susan gazed beyond the dirty, bug-splattered windshield at the road ahead. The narrow highway weaved through a dark forest and beside a creek. At times, the road took her along the edge of a cliff with only a short guardrail to prevent her from careening into the gulch. Every once in a while, the late-afternoon sun would peek through the tall trees and momentarily blind her.

After his hissy fit in Arby’s, Mattie had turned quiet. By the time they’d reached Cullen—with its picturesque harbor, quaint shops, and galleries—he’d been mesmerized by the scenery. Checking a MapQuest printout on the passenger seat, Susan had followed the directions here to Carroll Creek Road, north of the town center. That had been a mere fifteen minutes ago, and she’d asked Mattie if he needed to go to the bathroom.

“Naw,” he’d muttered, distracted by the boats in Skagit Bay.

Now he acted as if he were about to explode.

Along the road, there were several signs with symbols that warned of
FALLING ROCKS
,
CROSSING DEER
,
STEEP IN-CLINES
, and
HAIRPIN TURNS
. Watching for all these hazards, Susan kept glancing back at Mattie. She wondered what the symbol might look like warning drivers of a toddler passenger about to poop in his pants. “Honey, try to hold on,” she urged him, tightening her grip on the wheel. “Allen said there’s a mini-mart on the way to the house. I’m sure it’s coming up soon. I’ll bet they have a bathroom. Have you—have you been looking for deer, sweetheart? The signs say a lot of Bambi’s relatives and friends live here in these woods.”

And here’s hoping your frazzled mother doesn’t plow into one of them
, Susan thought.

She’d never gotten ahold of Allen. Her fiancé had driven up earlier that morning to open the lakeside rental house and make arrangements for a special “surprise.” So far, the only real surprise was the lack of cell phone reception, probably because of all the mountains and trees. Susan hoped he was waiting for her at the house right now, because she didn’t have the key.

Biting her lip, she glanced at the MapQuest directions again. They claimed it was 5.1 miles on Carroll Creek Road before the turnoff for the rental house on Birch Way. Susan was beginning to wonder if she’d missed it. She’d passed several turnoffs—mostly dirt roads or one-lane paved arteries. Maybe one of them had been Birch Way. For all she knew, she could be headed deeper into these godforsaken woods.

Susan had had some initial misgivings about this trip, but kept them to herself. Allen had seemed so bent on going—and quite suddenly, too. He’d only started talking about the trip a few days ago, saying they needed a break from the city and Cullen was the perfect spot. The strange part was he didn’t seem very eager about it, just determined.

Susan went on the Internet to learn more about where they were spending their weekend. The first few search results were from the City of Cullen, the Washington State Tourist Bureau, and
The Seattle Times
’s “Best Places to Visit in the Pacific Northwest.” According to the articles, Cullen was a terrific destination for sailing, fishing, camping, and hiking. Charming shops, art galleries, and restaurants made the town center a must for visitors, who could also view the eighteen-foot bronze sea lion statue in historic Harbor Park. And Cullen was a haven for antique collectors. The town’s lovely inns and B&B’s were the perfect romantic getaway for travelers visiting the nearby casino and vineyard.

Susan found another link on the Google listing for
Cullen, Washington.
The article was a year old:

Missing Bellingham Woman Assumed Dead – Bellingham Herald
October 7, 2008…Local police discovered Matusik’s abandoned car on Timberlake Drive in
Cullen
…
www.bellinghamherald/news/100408
–22k

It wasn’t what Susan had hoped to find in her search for information about Cullen; nevertheless, she clicked on the link to the article.

Beneath the headline, there was a photo of the missing woman, a twenty-seven-year-old bank clerk named Wendy Matusik. The snapshot must have been taken at a party, because someone—cropped out of the picture—had their arm around the chubby, pretty-faced, curly-haired blonde. From her bright smile, she looked like she was having a great time.

MISSING EIGHT WEEKS,
the caption said.
Wendy Matusik of Bellingham, shown here at an engagement party for
a friend. Matusik disappeared on Friday, August 8, while driving to Arlington for a bridal shower.

Susan read the long, detailed article with interviews that profiled the missing woman and examined her last known hours. The author of the piece obviously wanted to bolster the public interest in Wendy—and keep the search for her going. The first reference to Cullen caught Susan’s eye in the second paragraph:
Local police discovered Matusik’s abandoned car on Timberlake Drive in Cullen. One of the rear tires was flat. Wendy Matusik was last seen that Friday afternoon around 2:30 at Rosie’s Roadside Sundries in Cullen. She was alone….

The journalist had interviewed the store clerk, who said that Wendy had bought a Diet Coke, an eight-ounce bag of Lay’s barbecue-flavored potato chips, and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum.

Wendy’s best friend, a Seattle resident, Margarita Donavan, had also been interviewed for the article. She mentioned that Wendy had a tabby named Chowder. She was a crossword puzzle fiend and had recently joined Weight Watchers. She wanted to lose fifteen pounds in time for her friend’s wedding. Margarita was getting married in October, and Wendy was to have been her maid of honor.

That Friday afternoon she’d planned to meet Margarita at Angel of the Winds Casino in Arlington. Wendy was throwing an early, unofficial bachelorette party for her pal. The other two bridesmaids had agreed to join them at the casino hotel the following day.

She’d left a voice mail for Margarita that afternoon, and her friend had saved it:
Hey, Margarita, it’s moi, and I-5 is insane. So I’m taking the scenic backwoods route down. I’m going around Cullen, and I’ll be at least an hour late. Have a wine spritzer, and start the nickel slots without me. I’ll give you another update as I get closer to Arlington. I don’t think
you’ll be able to call me because the cell phone reception here is awful. Talk to you soon!

That was the last Margarita Donavan ever heard from her friend.

At ten o’clock that night, during a routine patrol, Cullen’s sheriff, Stuart Fischer, noticed the abandoned car on the shoulder by Timberlake Drive. The sheriff said his headlights caught sight of a raccoon lazily stepping out of the vehicle’s driver’s side. The door had been left open—and the interior light was still on, but dimming, due to the drain on the car’s battery.

Sheriff Fischer found a Diet Coke in the dashboard’s cup holder—along with a map and an open bag of potato chips on the front passenger seat. The raccoon had eaten all but a few chips, still scattered on the seat and the car floor.

The sheriff said he didn’t find a purse or any car keys. But in the trunk, authorities later found a small suitcase. The article pointed out that among the clothes in the overnight bag was a black cardigan with a colorful spade, heart, club, and diamond design. According to Margarita Donavan, Wendy always wore the cardigan when she gambled. It was her lucky sweater.

Susan had gotten a memory jolt reading the last three paragraphs of the story. And those memories were from a very scary time:

Hands tight on the steering wheel, Susan watched the winding road ahead. She remembered Mama’s Boy, too, and shuddered. He’d killed most of his victims that first year, 1998, when Susan had been a new mom. In fact, her son, Michael, was the same age as the baby boy left behind when the fourth victim was abducted in Volunteer Park. That literally hit too close to home for Susan, Walt, and Michael. They lived five blocks away from the park.

Susan had read
The Seattle Times
’s accounts of each new murder, the endless speculation from police and forensic psychologists, and the warnings. She remembered the widely released police-artist’s sketch of the suspect—based on vague descriptions from the surviving sons and other witnesses. The result was a creepy half-photo, half-cartoon of a man with dark hair, thin lips, and a dead-eyed stare. It gave Susan chills to look at it. The image burned in her head. Some nights, she imagined a stranger with that stark, caricature-like face quietly sneaking into their home while she was looking in on the baby. She could almost see him, with those cold, lifeless eyes, glaring at her from the doorway of Michael’s nursery.

By the end of 1998, he’d killed eight women. He’d broken into the homes of two of them. Walt installed a home security system and fit dead-bolt locks on both the front and back doors of their duplex. He insisted she buy a cell phone and got her a small canister of industrial-strength pepper spray. Susan wasn’t the only one taking precautions. Seattle mothers armed themselves with handguns, switchblades, or knitting needles. Police encouraged women to have whistles or alarms on their key chains whenever they stepped out with their sons. Playground dates became group excursions. Police beefed up security at playgrounds throughout the area—ironically, more for the safety of the mothers than their children. Whenever Susan needed to go somewhere with little Michael, she called her neighbor, who was also a new mom, and they went out as a team.

It should have been an idyllic time for Susan, with her first baby. In so many ways, it was. She felt lucky to work at home with the part-time consulting-nurse job. Walt was a great dad, very doting. He was an engineer for Boeing, and every afternoon, when he returned home from work, he’d look after Michael so she could have a run, go to the store, or just steal some alone time. Susan remembered many an afternoon, handing the screaming baby to Walt before he even made it through the front door.

Walt.
If someone had ever told her she’d end up marrying a man who was
follicularly challenged
, she would have told them they were crazy. She usually liked a guy with a nice, full head of hair. But Walt was practically bald on top. He had a handsome, chiseled face—with intense blue eyes and thick, dark brows. Both of his sons had inherited his long eyelashes. Walt was a fitness nut, and he had the lean, wiry body to prove it. As soon as Michael could sit up, Walt regularly took him out in the special jogger’s stroller—or he set him in the little canopied attachment that trailed after his bike. Susan couldn’t do that. She couldn’t risk going out alone with her son.

She remembered one case in particular in November 1999, because she’d planned to take Michael to his first movie, a matinee of
The Borrowers
. But then she read about Dianne Rickards, thirty-nine-year-old Bellevue stay-at-home mom, who took her seven-year-old son to see the same movie at Factoria Cinema. During the film, she left her coat on the seat and went to use the restroom. Dianne’s son never saw her again. In the pocket of his mother’s coat, police found two slightly banged-up Matchbox trucks. Dianne’s son remembered a man sitting behind them, but he’d never gotten a look at his face in the darkened theater. An engineer with the Burlington Northern Railroad spotted Dianne’s bruised and battered body in a marsh beside the railroad tracks in Kent two days later.