She frowned at him and sighed. “Yeah, we’ve been texting. But if you’re worried about him coming over or me seeing him again, you can relax. In fact, thanks to you and your wife making him feel so unwelcome, I think we’re splitting up. He’s headed back to Portland tonight. He might have even left already. So you and Sheila can have a high-five session about that. You happy now?”
Dylan squirmed in the driver’s seat. He nodded at the Old Navy sign near the mall entrance. “Well, nothing like a new wardrobe to help you get over an old flame.”
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Dylan regretted it. But if he’d said he was sorry, she’d have known it was a lie.
She put her earbuds back in and glanced out the window.
“Words of wisdom from my ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ dad,” he heard her mutter.
Dylan turned into the mall entrance and pretended not to hear her.
*
Artie listened to pebbles crunching and ricocheting under his pickup as he turned into the parking area for Rattlesnake Lake near North Bend. He noticed about twenty other cars in the lot, but several were already pulling out—probably because of the rain.
He’d been driving with this dirtbag for over an hour. He felt sick. Under his light jacket, he’d sweated through his shirt. Artie thought he might have a panic attack or pass out. Despite the rain, he kept his window cracked open because he couldn’t get a normal breath. It didn’t help that the scumbag in the passenger seat had smoked six cigarettes since they’d left Seattle.
For someone who looked like a dimwitted street punk, he was awfully sharp. All through the car ride—from I-90 to Cedar Falls Road—the guy hadn’t taken his eyes off him or the road. The gun remained in his grasp, always pointed at Artie’s gut.
Artie had only a vague idea what this was all about. It was obvious the creep was out to get Mrs. O’Rourke for one reason or another. Last week he’d sabotaged her car, and today he’d tried to break into her house. God only knew what else he was up to—and why.
Earlier, while driving past Mercer Island, Artie had asked the guy: “What do you have against Mrs. O’Rourke anyway? She’s a nice enough lady. Is there some special reason you’re picking on her?”
The punk had snickered. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Isn’t that the plan anyway?” Artie had asked.
In response, the punk had chuckled again and said nothing more.
During the last hour, they’d passed only one cop car, parked along the side of I-90 in Issaquah. Artie had been tempted to speed up, maybe even swerve off the road—anything to attract the cop’s attention. But the punk, almost as if reading his mind, had muttered, “Don’t even think about it, asshole.”
Artie had thought they might pass another police car somewhere along the way. But that one patrol car in Issaquah had been his only chance for help, and he’d blown it.
Now they were at a recreation area by Rattlesnake Lake. Sitting in the idling pickup, Artie listened to the rain on the truck’s roof. He watched hikers and families hurrying toward their cars.
“C’mon, let’s stretch our legs,” the punk announced. “And if you try to talk to anybody or signal anybody, I’ll shoot you in the head—and I’ll shoot any other asshole who tries to get in my way. Got that?”
Artie nodded. He switched off the wipers and then turned off the engine.
“I’ll take the keys,” the guy said, holding his hand out.
Artie surrendered the keys to him. The guy climbed out of the car just as Artie did, never taking his eyes off him. They headed down a trail toward the rocky beach. The lake was beautiful. Even with the rain, it seemed placid and serene. On the other side of the water was Rattlesnake Mountain. It was covered with trees, the leaves changing to an array of fiery autumnal colors. It was a majestic and beautiful site. And Artie realized if he didn’t do something, he would die there.
He remembered how, when they’d first gotten into the pickup, the creep had asked if he had a shovel or a pick. Obviously, the guy had intended to take him out to the woods somewhere, shoot him, and then bury him. But Artie didn’t have a shovel. So what did the guy plan to do now?
He thought he saw a couple of people up on the mountaintop ridge, just specks in the distance. He’d read that the view from up there on the cliff was incredible. He’d also read that the place had the occasional suicide. Jumpers. Was that what this guy had in mind? Was he going to take him up there and force him to jump?
Artie zipped his jacket to the neck and turned up his collar. But he could feel the rain soaking through the nylon material, wetting his shoulders. He was cold, and he started to shiver. The creep walked alongside and slightly behind him. They seemed headed for the mountain’s hiking trail, which led up to the ledge.
Along the pebbly shoreline, they passed fewer and fewer people. Artie imagined that during the summer the area would be swarming with tourists and hikers. But the place was clearing out, and now it was quiet. He listened to the rain on the lake—and the beating of his heart.
At the start of the hiking path, there was a sign:
RATTLESNAKE MOUNTAIN
TRAIL–2 MILES
BICYCLES AND HORSEBACK RIDERS
PROHIBITED.
Artie abruptly stopped and turned toward the guy. “Listen, why are we doing this? Whatever your beef is with Mrs. O’Rourke, I don’t care. Your secret’s safe with me. It’s not worth dying for. Is it really worth killing me for? You have the keys to my pickup. Just take it and go.”
“Shut the fuck up and get moving, Lazy Eye,” the punk growled at him. He took the gun out of his army jacket and aimed it at him.
Artie didn’t know why he thought this creep would have an ounce of compassion. Artie hadn’t had anyone mock him about his eyes since some d-bag bully back during his sophomore year in high school.
Artie started up the well-worn, snaky trail. The trees shielded them from the rain, but it became darker and darker the deeper they ventured into the woods. The trail was muddy in spots because of the precipitation. Artie could hear the raindrops hitting the leaves above them. It seemed to be coming down harder now. Mosquitoes and gnats swarmed around him. Artie kept swatting them away.
“Hey, buddy, can’t you cut me a break here?” he said, treading along the path. He was still trying to reason with him. “You don’t have to do this. I’ve got a wife and a three-month-old daughter at home. Please . . .”
He heard the guy cackle.
There was no way for the asshole to know he was totally lying about the wife and child. But Artie figured this guy wasn’t about to feel any sympathy for him if he said he was gay. Artie had a boyfriend of eighteen months, Richie, and they’d recently moved in together. He’d finally found “the one.” He and Richie were supposed to go to Crate & Barrel tonight to pick out a sofa. That was the plan. This coming Saturday, they had tickets to the Seahawks game. And now, none of that was going to happen, because he would be dead.
Stopping in his tracks, Artie leaned forward and braced his hand against a tree. He gagged, but managed to keep from throwing up.
“C’mon, move it.” the creep grunted.
Though his legs felt wobbly, Artie pressed on, weaving around trees and shrubs, stepping over rocks and tangled roots. At times, one edge of the trail dropped off several feet. It was cold, but still muggy. After just a few minutes, Artie couldn’t get his breath again and he was sweating even more than before. He hadn’t realized the trail would be as steep as it was.
“Okay, hold up,” the punk said, obviously winded, too.
Artie turned to look at him. He noticed the guy’s old sneakers were covered with mud. Artie wore construction boots, so at least his feet were dry and warm. If it was two miles to the top, he wondered which one of them would give out first.
He heard people talking in the distance. Artie turned forward again and spotted a couple of hikers up the trail, headed down toward them. There couldn’t have been many other
people along the way because one of the guys just stopped where he was, unzipped his fly, and peed. Then they started moving again, coming closer. Artie saw their faces. The two guys looked like they were in their late twenties. They wore hiking gear and backpacks.
Artie figured this was his last chance to ask somebody for help.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the creep said, between gasps for air. He jabbed Artie with the gun. “Here’s your big opportunity. Help is on the way, right? Well, it isn’t, stupid. Those two aren’t going to help you. Because if they try, then that’s merely two more bullets I’ll have to use. So you just nod and smile when they pass us, understand? Now, get going.”
Artie reluctantly continued up the trail, stepping aside for the two other hikers to pass.
“You guys aren’t letting the rain stop you, huh?” said the one who had been peeing.
Artie tried to give him a pleading look, but the hiker didn’t seem to notice. Artie felt his last chance slipping past him.
“Are there still a lot of hikers on the trail?” the punk asked them in a friendly tone Artie hadn’t heard from him until just now.
“You got the place practically all to yourselves,” the second backpacker said over his shoulder. The two men continued down the path.
Artie turned around, hoping for one more opportunity to signal to them. But the blond creep shoved him and took out the gun. “I fucking warned you,” he growled.
Catching his breath, Artie silently watched the two hikers as they trod down the hill through the thicket. They followed the trail around a huge tree and disappeared.
Tears in his eyes, Artie turned forward again and kept walking. He looked down at the pathway, desperately searching for a rock or something he could use to hit the guy. He figured he could stumble, grab a rock, spring up, and bash the asshole’s brains in. He just had to catch the guy off guard.
Here he was, trying not to cry. But if he started bawling like a baby and then faked a fall, he could surprise the punk with a sudden attack.
They passed a sign posted to a tree with an illustration of a stick figure falling off a ledge and the warning:
CAUTION
STEEP CLIFFS AHEAD
Artie wondered if, once they got up there, the guy intended to put a bullet through his head or make him jump. He kept checking the muddy trail, looking for a rock, something about the size of a baseball. He couldn’t believe this—a well-worn mountain trail, and not one single rock he could use.
He started crying, and the tears weren’t phony. “Please, hear me out. I—I’ve got close to thirty thousand bucks in the bank. It’s yours if you just—just—just give me a break.” He took a labored breath. “Is whatever you’re doing to Mrs. O’Rourke so important that you’d pass up a chance for thirty thousand bucks? We could go to the bank right now. It’s still open. I’ll get them to write a money order to cash. You can stand somewhere nearby and watch me the whole time.”
He could hear the creep trailing behind him. There was no response. Was he actually considering the proposition?
To his right, Artie gave a wide berth to the low, crude log railing along a precipice on the trail’s edge. It was about a thirty-foot drop into a gully below. He wondered if maybe he could just swing around and push the son of a bitch. With a little luck, the guy wouldn’t have time to fire a shot before falling and breaking his neck.
“Jesus Christ, please,” Artie whispered. “I don’t want to die . . .”
He heard the punk cackling again. He imagined the smirk on his face.
That was it. Artie couldn’t take any more. With his fist clenched, he swiveled around to coldcock him. But Artie’s feet suddenly went out from under him as he slipped in the mud. He started to stumble—toward the cliff’s edge.
“Goddamn it!” he heard the guy grunt.
Then Artie heard the shot.
Artie felt it in his upper chest, a hard punch that pushed him further toward the steep cliff. He tripped over the log railing and plunged toward the bottom of the gulch.
He blacked out before his body smashed through several tree branches and hit the ground.
Artie didn’t see the shower of leaves and branches that followed and nearly buried him.
No shovel was needed after all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wednesday—4:26 P.M.
Sheila had completely forgotten about her driving gloves.
She didn’t think to check the mailbox when she returned home from work because she’d picked up the mail earlier.
Dylan and Eden had returned from their shopping excursion just after four. Their last stop had been Whole Foods, where Eden had purchased some vegan staples so she could prepare her own dinner tonight. Sheila told her she could cook whatever she wanted as long as she cleaned up afterward. The rest of the family would have chicken casserole—except for Hannah, who had called to say she was having dinner at a friend’s house. Sheila figured it would be a while before Hannah willingly shared another dinner with their newly extended family. She was still furious at everyone. She acted like the existence of this new half sister was a travesty inflicted upon her and her alone.
While Eden was in her bedroom unloading the several shopping bags’ worth of junk her guilt-ridden, absent father had bought for her, Sheila spoke with Dylan in the kitchen. He told her that Eden’s slimy boyfriend was headed back to Portland today—for good. Dylan also assured her that Eden didn’t seem to know much about her past at all. “Eden said she googled me,” he whispered. “But if she googled you, hon, I don’t think she would have found anything. I tried to google you when we were in Old Navy, and in order for anything to come up about Portland, I had to include your maiden name and ‘Portland’ in the keywords. So unless Antonia said something to her, I sincerely doubt Eden knows anything.”
Sheila wasn’t completely convinced. If the girl had any compromising information on her, she wasn’t about to admit it now. No, she’d wait and come out with it when she felt it could do the most damage. She was probably lying about the boyfriend, too.
But Sheila didn’t say anything to Dylan about her doubts. He already knew she didn’t trust his daughter or her creepy boyfriend.
She started cutting up the cold leftover chicken for the casserole. She made a mental note that once she got the guest book from the funeral home and started questioning Antonia’s friends, among other things, she’d find out what they knew about this Brodie character.
“Would you mind if I went to the gym tonight?” Dylan asked. “I haven’t been since last Friday.”
Standing over the cutting board, Sheila gave a shrug and inflicted another apathetic “fine” on him.
But instead of leaving for the Pro Club right away, he hung around, keeping busy at his desk in the den. Then he left at his usual time.
Gabe just missed him when he came home from football practice around five-fifteen. Then Steve walked in the door from gymnastics a few minutes later. Each departure and arrival was announced with a string of frenzied barking from the new neighbor’s dog.
Sheila decided, if she didn’t want another sleepless night, she had to nip this in the bud with the neighbor right now. But she’d do it diplomatically. She’d cut some flowers from the garden and take them over with a bottle of red wine. She’d welcome her to the neighborhood and, in as tactful a way possible, explain that she’d gotten about three hours of sleep last night—thanks mostly to the woman’s stupid dog.
Slipping on her raincoat, Sheila stepped out to the backyard. While cutting an assortment of flowers, she was serenaded with more barking. She was on her way back inside the house when she spotted her driving gloves on the lawn, halfway between the kitchen door and the walkway on the far side of the garage.
That was when Sheila remembered Artie from Hilltop Auto, calling to say he’d drop off the gloves at her house. It sure was a strange place for him to leave them. It didn’t make any sense. All she could think was that he’d left them in the mailbox as pro
mised, and then later, someone must have taken them and tossed them back here. That didn’t make much sense, either. It also meant someone had rifled through their mailbox and been in their backyard. Eden had been gone all day. Was this something her boyfriend had done—and if so, why?
Returning to the kitchen, Sheila set the gloves on the counter. For the flowers, she found a simple vase in the cupboard, one she wouldn’t miss if the neighbor failed to return it. While she arranged the flowers, she kept wondering about the gloves. It was creepy and unsettling. She knew if she asked Eden whether or not her boyfriend had been around here today, she’d just deny it and say he was on his way to Portland.
Sheila told herself not to think about it now. She grabbed a decent bottle of red wine from their stash in the liquor cabinet, buttoned up her raincoat, and headed out the front door. On her way up the Curtises’ driveway, she heard the dog yelping again.
As she rang the bell, the barking and yowling went into overdrive. She stood on the front stoop for a minute. “Shut up!” she heard a woman scream inside the house. “Shut up!”
But the dog kept up its frantic barking.
Sheila stood there in the rain on the front stoop, holding onto the bottle of wine and the flower arrangement. She wondered if the woman had heard the bell. Even if she hadn’t heard it, she would have known someone was at the front door from the way the dog carried on.
Sheila was about to ring again when the door finally opened.
The woman on the other side of the threshold was bent over holding a fully grown German shepherd by the back of its collar. She was in her late forties, thin with reddish hair pulled back into a ponytail. Sheila guessed she might have been beautiful at one time, but now she had a hard-edged, slightly burnt-out look—or maybe it seemed that way because she was scowling.
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