Web of Lies (23 page)
Red and blue lights flashed through the tall front windows. I peered outside, seeing police cars skid to a stop in front of the house. At least their sirens were off. Still, the rotating beams alone were enough to pull half-wakened neighbors from bed.
Dave.
What if he spotted the all-too-familiar sight outside my house? He’d be petrified.
I trotted down the steps and toward the kitchen phone. Chelsea passed me, grim-faced. “I’m going to get dressed.” I barely registered her words. Jenna was not in sight, probably throwing on some clothes as well. In the kitchen I dialed Dave’s number with trembling fingers. He answered on the third ring, voice groggy. “Annie?”
A third relating of the story — Neese’s phone call, spiders in the night. Police searching the forest. If I hadn’t been so terrified, I’d have laughed. What had we done, fallen into some warped nightmare?
Within ten minutes Dave materialized at my door, a shaking Erin at his side. Kelly let loose a sob and pulled to her like a magnet. Together they sank down on a couch, hugging, murmuring soothing phrases neither of them believed.
Dave wrapped his arms around me. “You all right?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
More cars in the street, these from the Sheriff ’s Department. Chetterling was not among the deputies. I was glad he was off duty. At least somebody I knew was sleeping through the night. Teams quickly coordinated, heavy-beamed flashlights turned on. The search through the forest was launched.
“Kelly.” From behind the couch, I leaned over to nudge her shoulder. “Why don’t you and Erin go crawl in your bed? You’ll be safe up there.”
They looked at each other, then made their way up the stairs without a word.
The rest of us fell onto the furniture around the fireplace to wait, Jenna and Chelsea on one couch, Dave and I on the other. Stephen perched in the middle chair, fingers gripping its arms. His cell phone lay beside him. One leg rocked back and forth, as if his fizzling energy could not be contained. He shot me a look. “Whatever happens, Mom, I want to know about it. I’ll tell you right now — I see this guy, I’m killing him. We are
not
going through this again.”
Dave opened his mouth, then shut it. I could only nod feebly, as if my son had informed me he intended to go out for a stroll on a sunny afternoon. My brain was already on overload, sorting puzzle pieces.
Jenna paid him no attention. “Annie, tell us what you meant about things not fitting.”
“It’s my drawing of John Doe.” I pulled my arms across my chest, the words tumbling. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s the face Chelsea saw after the scene in her vision — the man we thought was captured by Orwin Neese. It’s the
same drawing
we just gave Milt Waking!”
Shocked silence. Dave pressed my hand and Jenna stared at me. Chelsea’s eyes pulled toward the fireplace as if seeking explanation upon its stones. “Then . . . what?” she whispered. “My vision was of the past, when John Doe was killed? And Orwin Neese is just playing with us?”
“It can’t be.” My head wagged. “Did you look closely at the jar Neese left? It’s full of hobo spiders. He told me on the phone. He couldn’t know that, Chelsea, no way. Not unless he was the one in that room, in your vision.”
Chelsea brought a hand to her forehead. “I need to . . . I have to think about it. Maybe you’re . . . Because remember, I saw that room, then it disappeared, and I saw that young man’s face afterward. Like it was two separate entities.” She bit her lip. “You think the vision’s about two completely different crimes?”
“It must be.” Dave frowned. “Think about it. We have two murder cases going on. God sent you one vision — about both of them.”
“Oh, I can’t believe — ! This is why I told you I can’t assume anything.” Chelsea’s tone pulsed. “I should only have relied on what I saw for sure.”
“It’s not your fault.” I leaned toward her. “If anything,
I
led us all to assume. And the more that happened, the more our assumption seemed to fit.”
“But what now?” Jenna raised a hand and let it drop. “Milt’s going on the air this morning with the wrong information. He has to know both drawings tie to the skeleton at the runway. They have nothing to do with Neese.”
“Call him,” Stephen declared. “Right now. He should know about what just happened, anyway.”
“But don’t you see?” I slumped against the couch. “The whole point of giving him that drawing was in hopes that identifying the man would lead police to that horrible room. Now it doesn’t even apply. Meanwhile Amy Flyte’s still missing, plus maybe some
other
man. And we know the spider room exists, but we’ve got no leads for finding it.”
Dave squeezed my shoulder. “We’ve got the oval window.”
“Yeah, we got that.” Stephen picked up his cell phone, beeped through its menu. “It has to be right. If she knew about the exact kind of spiders — ” he jerked his head toward Chelsea — “then she’s gotta be right about the window. I’m calling the reporter.”
“Wait!” I started to rise. “I should do it.”
Dave caught my arm. “It’s okay, Annie; let him.”
If Milt was asleep when his phone rang, he apparently woke in a hurry. Stephen introduced himself and launched into his story. Then held the phone out to me. “He wants to talk to you.”
I ended up pressing the speaker phone button so we all could hear. Questions and worries batted back and forth, but Milt remained adamant. He wasn’t canceling his story. In fact, he had even more of one now, with information on two murders instead of one. “We’ll film as a breaking news story, with updates during the day. Your drawing will get lots of national exposure, which could help solve John Doe’s ID. Meanwhile I’ll be investigating the recent murder. Neese’s threats have grown more serious, and we still have at least one missing person. We need to find her.”
I clicked off the line, feeling battered and sleep deprived. Questions and worries sludged through my brain. Two new realizations hit. One, Blanche had been right about my drawing after all. It had nothing to do with his case. Therefore, two: In giving the composite to Milt, I’d ended up meddling in
Chetterling’s
murder investigation, not Blanche’s. Now John Doe’s face would be released on national news — before Chetterling had even seen it.
I sat on the couch, Dave’s arm around me. Jenna and Stephen batted questions and conjectures back and forth. Chelsea stared at the floor, deep in thought. Then, as if hearing the same inner voice, our eyes pulled to each other. I took a deep breath. “We need to pray.”
Chelsea nodded. Rose to go to her bedroom and returned with a Bible in hand. Neither Jenna nor Stephen protested. “I’m
going to pray some psalms for us.” Chelsea opened her Bible. “Psalm 56 is a good place to start.”
I lay back against Dave’s shoulder, closed my eyes.
“ ‘When I am afraid,’ ” Chelsea read, “ ‘I will trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can mortal man do to me? All day long they — ’ ” She paused. “I’ll substitute
he
. ‘All day long he twists my words . . . he conspires, he lurks, he watches my steps, eager to take my life. On no account let him escape; in your anger, O God — ’ ” her voice rose — “ ‘bring
him
down . . . For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before God in the light of life.’ ”
Psalm 91 followed, and other passages Chelsea had marked. I was too tired to read, but every fiber of my being prayed silently with her.
The sun rose.
The officers and deputies called off their forest search for Neese, declaring the area clear. Extra surveillance was placed on our house. Orwin remained out there, somewhere, “eager to take my life.”
Please, God, let this end today.
S
ix thirty a.m.
Earlier Dave had awakened Erin and the two returned home. Erin needed to get ready for school. Jenna clattered about the kitchen, making coffee and breakfast. As if I wanted to eat. Chelsea was taking a shower and Stephen was getting dressed.
A vise slid around my chest. So much at stake, so many variables, none of which I could control. As if fear of Neese and concern for his captives wasn’t enough, I paced the great room, worrying about Milt’s report. No doubt he’d sensationalize to the max. Not that he needed to. Chelsea’s visions, a room full of spiders, missing people, threats on my life, and two different murder investigations — the convoluted tale had all the makings of the country’s next macabre fascination. In no time we could have the media masses camped out on my doorstep.
God, why did You want Milt Waking here?
I dialed the reporter’s cell phone, heart thumping. “You were supposed to call. When’s your story running?”
“Around seven fifteen.” He sounded distracted. “Prime time while people are getting ready for work.”
Seven fifteen.
Only forty minutes away. “Milt, you’d better keep your promises.”
“I’ll keep them. Look, gotta go.” He clicked off.
I stared daggers at the phone, then threw it on the couch. A new worry lasered through my head, and I snatched the receiver up again, punched in Chetterling’s home number. No way he was going to hear everything on the news. It had to come from me.
He answered on the first ring. “Annie! I just heard what happened last night. You okay over there?”
“We’re fine, Ralph, but you need to know . . . I have to tell you something important.”
Explanations poured in a torrent, my feet slapping against the hardwood floor as I paced. “I’d
never
have released the drawing, Ralph, if I knew it was about your case. Blanche wasn’t listening to us, and I was so worried about the two missing people . . .”
“Okay.” Chetterling sighed. “We’ll talk about your decision making later. Right now we’ve got other things to worry about. At least John Doe will get more exposure — and more quickly — than I expected. Meanwhile you need to keep yourself safe. The manhunt for Neese is huge now, Annie. I just got off a conference call that included the sheriff and the chief of police. With Neese’s picture on national news, we’ll find him.”
Gratitude welled in my chest. Chetterling could have come at me with both barrels, and he’d have been entitled. “Thank you so much, Ralph, for not strangling me.”
At seven a.m. we turned on FOX News. Chelsea had called her husband to tell him what was happening. Jenna had made eggs and bacon, and we took our plates into the TV room, gathering nervously on the leather couch and chairs. I called Stephen up from his bedroom, mindful of his need to know. Fortunately, Kelly had not yet appeared.
The “breaking news” story catapulted onto the screen at seven twenty, the anchor setting the stage for “two bizarre murders in Redding, California.”
Milt stood at the end of the Grove Landing runway, churned ground behind him and yellow crime-scene tape shuddering in a breeze. The moment seemed so surreal. While we watched on national television, he filmed not half a mile away.
“This story is indeed strange and is growing more so by the hour.” Milt gestured toward the construction site. “This is a private runway at Grove Landing, a sky park outside Redding. Here on Saturday a skeleton was discovered by the crew who’d been hired to lengthen the airstrip. Two days previously, in a seemingly unrelated incident, thirty-two-year-old Orwin Neese allegedly chased Mike Winger, twenty-two, into a convenience store and fatally shot him, also wounding a clerk.” The scene switched to the exterior of the 7-Eleven. “What is the connection between these crimes? Much is yet unknown, but they begin with two women who’ve gained notoriety through other highly watched cases — Annie Kingston, a local forensic artist, and Chelsea Adams, a woman whose ‘visions from God’ were proved true through the so-called Trent Park and Salad King murder trials in the California Bay Area a few years ago.”
Oh boy, here goes.
With a balance of professional detachment and personal dismay, Milt laid out details. He began with reminders of the famous cases I’d worked on and that I was considered a “local hero.” Jenna nodded with satisfaction. The way she leaned toward the screen in rapt attention — there was more to her body language than concern about the story. Was she really attracted to that jerk?
Milt turned to current information: Mike Winger’s death and my composite of suspect Orwin Neese. Chelsea’s vision of the spider room and an unknown man’s face, which I had also drawn — the same face that my forensic work had now proven to belong to the discovered skeleton. Missing Amy Flyte, and perhaps a second person — another young man. Neese’s alleged threats on my life, including a jar of spiders with a serious bite — a lesser-known species that Chelsea Adams had seen in her vision. And most important, long close-ups of two drawings. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Orwin Neese should call the Redding Police Department at the number on the screen. Anyone recognizing John Doe should contact the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department, number also displayed.
“Meanwhile Annie Kingston remains in an undisclosed location, protected by authorities. Redding Police and the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department are working together on the manhunt for Orwin Neese . . .”
When the report ended, I sighed my relief. No promises broken, and my whereabouts kept private.
Thank You, God.
Grimly the news anchor promised to keep watchers advised of new developments in the story.
Jenna muted the TV. “Whew. He did great!”
Chelsea’s eyes closed. “I can breathe now. Thank You, Lord.”
Stephen stared at the television, jaw working. “You did the right thing, Mom, talking to him. I’ll bet he knows more than the policemen. I mean, what have
they
done? This guy shows up and things start to happen.”
I made no comment. Likely, Stephen’s opinion lay as much in his lingering contempt of police as in his trust of Milt Waking. In my son’s drug days — which weren’t that long ago — the police had been his enemies.
Kelly appeared in the doorway, fully dressed. “What are you all watching? Stephen, aren’t you going to school?”
School.
The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Dave had already said he’d take Erin, assuming that Kelly and Stephen wouldn’t be going. “No,
he’s not,” I announced, “and you’re not going either.”
