Web of Lies (32 page)

Three weeks ago I attended Amy Flyte’s funeral. According to autopsy and forensics reports, she’d been strangled soon after she disappeared. Such a horrible truth to realize — that she lay dead before anyone even knew she was missing, and all during those days we searched for the spider room, hoping to rescue her. A second body of the “possible missing young man” was never found. To this day we could only hope he was merely a lie in Orwin Neese’s raging threats. But sometimes I woke in the night, wondering . . .

The doorbell rang again and I answered it. “Chelsea!” She stood on our porch, brightly wrapped present in hand, flanked by her handsome husband and sons. “Come in, come in.”

They flocked into the great room, Chelsea first. She shoved the present into her husband’s arms and hugged me tightly. “How are you and Kelly?” she whispered in my ear.

I pulled back, studying her face. As much as I’d thanked her, it would never be enough. I owed this woman more than I could
ever repay. What she did for us, allowing herself to be taken into that nightmarish room . . . Not until days later, when I began to sort the puzzle pieces out, did it hit me — when Ryan Burns insisted she come get Kelly instead of me, she’d
known
.

“I’m doing fine,” I told her. “Kelly still has her moments. A couple times a week she crawls into my bed in the middle of the night. I just hold her and we pray. What more can I do?”

Chelsea’s eyes glistened. She nodded.

“And how are
you
?”

She tilted her head. “Okay. As long as I don’t see a spider in the house.”

We exchanged wan smiles.

She introduced me to her husband, Paul, and her sons, Michael and Scott. The girls took one look at her boys, and their expressions outshone our hardwood floor. Soon the four of them were headed for the TV room.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” Chelsea asked.

“I think she’s down in the basement with some folks, finishing up a tour of the house. Want to go say hi? Dave’s down there too.”

“Oh no.” Chelsea waved a hand with a little shiver. “I’ll just wait for them up here.”

More friends arrived, some from church, others who’d become Jenna’s local clients. Gerri Carson and her husband, Ted, showed up. Gerri hugged me even more tightly than Chelsea did. “How great to see your face, Annie Kingston.”

“Yeah, well, next time you decide to go to Hawaii, check with me first, okay? You sure picked a week to be gone.”

She leaned close to me, looking conspiratorial. “Is he here yet?”

“Who, Milt? No.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I can’t wait to meet him in person. He’s absolutely gorgeous on TV.”

“More so in real life,” Jenna said, sidling up to hug Gerri.

“Oh yeah, he’s terrific.” I wagged my head. “Just ask Chelsea how much she adores him.”

Jenna rolled her eyes.

Five minutes later Milt made his grand entrance, planting a kiss on Jenna’s cheek and glad-handing everyone like a smooth politician. I watched him and sighed. The man was so annoyingly, arrogantly . . . heaven-sent.

He greeted Stephen and Dave like it was old home week, pumping handshakes. Stephen pulled him aside with a dramatic whisper. “Did you bring it?”

“Yeah, it’s in the car. Didn’t want to give it to you in front of everybody.”

I suppressed a shudder. I knew what
it
was — Bill’s footage of our break-in at Ryan Burns’s house. The smashed windows, drawn guns, Chelsea and Kelly released. As if Stephen needed a copy, after all the times the story had run on national TV. Still, I supposed my son couldn’t see it enough. He’d show it to his friends and they’d crow. He’d earned that much.

As long as he played the thing at someone else’s house, not mine.

By eight the great room was filled with people and laughter. Jenna opened her presents. Chelsea and I, helped by the girls, served hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Every now and then I saw Milt and Jenna exchange lingering glances across the room.

Oh boy.

I was in the kitchen putting stray dishes in the sink when I sensed Chetterling beside me. I turned to him with a smile. “Rowena’s great. I like her.”

He gave me a long look, then nodded. “Thanks. I do too.”

I searched his face. He had something to tell me. “What?”

“Just some talk. I’ve been hearing interesting things about Ryan Burns. Warden at the jail says he whispers to himself about those bodies he buried. How they’re coming to take their revenge. And he rubs his legs and feet real hard all the time. Yelling at dirt ants.”

I creased my forehead. “Dirt ants?”

Chetterling shrugged. “You got me.”

We were silent for a moment. I thought of Ryan and his chameleon-like personas. Pretending innocence in public, yet feigning the kidnapping of Amy Flyte in the privacy of his own home.
If
all the scenes from Chelsea’s visions were to be believed. And I thought they were.

I picked up a plate, rinsed it. “I talked to Irene Kreger again this week. Every time, she’s so sweet and grateful. I mean, she’s heartbroken over what happened to her niece and nephew, but at least she doesn’t have that black hole of not knowing after all these years.”

“Yeah.” Chetterling drew up his chin, gave me a meaningful look. “That’s because of your work, Annie. You should be proud of that.”

“I am proud — of
all
my forensic artwork. I just . . . need a break. You can understand why.”

He drew a long breath, let it out. “Yeah. I can understand.”

I watched him amble back into the great room, the projector in my head replaying Irene Kreger’s first phone call.

“For six years I prayed that I’d find out what happened to those kids. Now God has answered my prayer. He was such a good boy, my nephew Eddie. Took care of Emily, his sister. Most of the beatings from their no-good father went on his back. When his sister got pregnant, he knew their father would kill her. Who’d have guessed they’d run all the way from Kansas to California . . .”

Eddie, eighteen, and Emily, fifteen, were apparently broke by the time they reached Redding. Eddie splurged and bought a lotto ticket at a convenience store. His wildest dreams came true — it turned out to be worth $56 million. Irene got a call from Eddie. He was ecstatic, saying he’d come into a lot of money, and he would phone her back when it was all settled. Tell her where he and Emily were. He’d pay Irene’s way to come to them, and they’d all live together in a big fine house . . .

She never heard from him again.

Ryan Burns’s broken-spirited confession gave the rest of the story. Thinking he was protecting himself, Eddie made a fatal mistake. He walked into a copy store and ran a duplicate of the ticket — just in case the lottery folks tried to cheat him out of his winnings. He need not have worried about the State of California employees as much as the helpful clerk named Ryan Burns who saw what he’d copied and struck up a detail-seeking conversation. Pretending to watch out for them, Ryan lured Eddie and Emily to his apartment and killed them both. He buried their bodies in the middle of the night — one at our airstrip and one clear across town — and went on to be one of the biggest winners of the California State lottery. Redding knew him as generous with his money, always ready to help fight crime.

Good deeds from a guilty conscience.

Since the day of Ryan’s arrest, Tim Blanche and I hadn’t spoken. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I knew I should apologize for my mistakes. Yes, he was right that Chelsea’s vision had nothing to do with Orwin Neese. But he wasn’t exactly perfect. I had to admit I felt a certain vengeance in seeing his takedown of Neese overshadowed by the national fascination with Kelly’s and Chelsea’s rescue. Served him right.

Sorry, God. Guess I need to work on that.

I’d turned it over and over in my mind — all that God allowed to happen. I didn’t understand everything. But I did see that He sent Chelsea her visions so justice could be won for young Eddie and Emily. Without those visions, Milt wouldn’t have aired my drawing of John Doe on FOX News. And without national coverage, Irene Kreger in Kansas wouldn’t have seen the face of her missing nephew. Ryan Burns later led Chetterling to Emily’s grave on the other side of town. He’d certainly gone to great lengths to cover his deeds. Both Emily’s and Eddie’s remains were shipped back to Kansas for burial.

Closure for another grieving family.

As for myself, I saw how the terrifying events led Chelsea to pray for me — a prayer that changed my life. That deep, constant sense of unworthiness had faded, almost disappeared. When it threatened to raise its ugly head, I’d learned how to claim victory against it. Amazing to me, how a focused healing prayer, even in the midst of chaos, released me from its grip.

Chelsea and I talked about it on the phone a couple weeks ago. “Annie,” she said, “Satan fights Christians daily. Don’t forget he’s a liar, the father of lies. He wants more than anything to keep us from being all we can be in Christ.” She gave a little huff. “Don’t
let
him.”

I won’t, God. Thank You for answering her prayer. Thank You for everything, especially my family’s safety.

And for Dave.

As if I’d spoken his name, Dave wandered in to stand behind me, circling my waist with his arms. I squirmed around, looked up into the eyes I’d grown to love.

“Know what?” He gave me an almost weary smile. “You and I have waited
far
too long for a party.”

“We sure have.”

I tilted up my face and kissed him.

Read an excerpt from
Dark Pursuit

1

Untitled ms.

“Ever hear the dead knocking?”

Leland Hugh watches the psychiatrist peruse his question, no reaction on the man’s lined, learned face. The doctor lists to one side in his chair, a fist under his sagging jowl. The picture of unshakable confidence.

“No, can’t say I have.”

Hugh nods and gazes at the floor. “I do. At night, always at night.”

“Why do they knock?”

His eyes raise to look straight into the doctor’s. “They want my soul.”

No response but a mere inclining of the head. The intentional silence pulses, waiting for an explanation. Psychiatrists are good at that.

“I took theirs, you see. Put them in their graves early.” Deep inside Hugh, the anger and fear begin to swirl. He swallows, voice tightening. “They’re supposed to stay in the grave. Who’d ever think the dead would demand their revenge?”

From outside the door, at the windows, in the closet, in the walls — they used to knock. Now, in his jail cell the noises come from beneath the floor. Harassing, insistent, hate-filled and bitter sounds that pound his ears and drill his brain until sleep will not, cannot come.

“Do you ever answer?”

Shock twists Hugh’s lips. “Answer?”

The psychiatrist’s face remains placid. The slight, knowing curve to his mouth makes Hugh want to slug him.

“You think they’re not real, don’t you?” Hugh steeples his fingers with mocking erudition. “Yes, esteemed colleagues.” He affects an arrogant highbrow voice. “I have determined the subject suffers from EGS — Extreme Guilt Syndrome, the roots of which run so deep as never to be extirpated, with symptoms aggrandizing into myriad areas of the subject’s life and resulting in perceived paranormal phenomena.”

He drops both hands in his lap, lowering his chin to look derisively at the good doctor.

The man inhales slowly. “Do you feel guilt for the murders?”

“Why should I? They deserved it.”

He pushes to his feet.

He pushes to his feet. He slumps back in his chair.

He slumps back in his chair. He aims a hard look