by Gregg Olsen
“How’s the new hire?”
“A high school kid. I think she’ll work out, but she has a hard time making change without a calculator. I got a register that tells the change on the slip so she can count it out of the drawer. All in all, I’m happy with her.”
“Her”? I hope she’s not as nipply as the waitress. “That’s great,” I say. “I like the business cards you had made. I put one up in the office.”
“I’m having my girl build a website for me,” he says.
“My girl”? What the hell?
“These younger people have a knack for that kind of stuff. It should be up and running in a few days.”
I decide to change the subject slightly. I have questions that pertain to my case and I need to ask them without being too obvious. This gives me the perfect opportunity.
“I guess you put in a business telephone?” I ask.
“Had to since I’m not at the store all the time. Jess takes the orders. Makes out the invoices. Other things.”
I’ll bet she does.
“Back to the crank calls, please?”
“It’s a business, Megan. Some people get cranky if they don’t get exactly what they want. I think they’re just trying to get a better price.”
That’s not what I meant. “I’ve had a complaint of kids crank-calling people from here to Hadlock,” I say.
“That’s kids for you,” he says, and I’m getting frustrated.
“Are you getting them at the store or at home?” I ask point-blank.
“Are you?” he asks. His face has gone serious.
“Dan, just tell me if you’ve been getting crank calls. Hang-up calls. Anything suspicious.”
He’s never been this evasive before. I wonder if that’s what’s making him seem uncomfortable. I say, “You just seem uncomfortable. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Twenty-Six
Dan orders another round of drinks. We sit and don’t talk until they arrive. He takes a long sip, puts it down, and takes my hand in his. His hand is rough, calloused and warm. I don’t pull away even though I don’t like to be touched. The bar is full and conversations tend to be loud depending on how much alcohol the speaker has consumed.
Dan scoots his chair over closer so we can hear each other without being loud. His smile is gone and he looks serious. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and my heart leaps into my throat. I’m not ready for this. If it’s a ring, I’ll never be ready for this. I’m thrilled but I’m scared to death. I can’t take my eyes from the hand stuffed in his pocket.
He pulls something out and my eyes follow his hand as he lays it on the table in front of me. It’s a photo. The one the sheriff showed me yesterday. The one of me coming from the Sheriff’s Office. The one found at the crime scene.
“How did you get that?” My heart goes from being in my throat to being on the floor. I’m not exactly disappointed but I’m completely caught off guard.
I know Dan is friends with Mindy but I doubt she would give him a piece of evidence. “Did Mindy give you this?”
He doesn’t answer. He still has that serious expression. He reaches into his pocket and takes out another photo. This one is laminated. This one of a younger me, blond, half a smile. I know Dan couldn’t have that one because it’s still in my pocket. The only one who has seen it is Sheriff Gray.
He’s looking at me questioningly, as if he deserves an explanation. I’m the detective. I’ll ask the questions.
“Where did you get these, Dan?” I ask this in my detective’s voice. He still doesn’t answer. I’m not used to being at a loss for words.
“This one”—I put my finger on the one where I’m leaving the Sheriff’s Office—“was left at a crime scene yesterday morning. A murder crime scene. How did you get it?”
Instead of answering, he pushes the laminated picture of a teenage Megan—when I was Rylee—toward me. I’ve never seen this side of him. He’s always so easy to talk to. Non-judgmental. Never digging. That’s the reason I like him. I don’t like this guy.
“What do you want me to say, Dan?”
He breaks his silence. “I want you to explain why these were left in the mailbox at my cabin.”
I down my Scotch in one swallow and look around for the waitress. Naturally, she’s nowhere around. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know or won’t say?”
“Honestly, Dan, I don’t know.”
“I saw on the news this morning that a woman was found murdered. The newscaster said you were working the case.”
“I am,” I say. “Can we just have our drinks? I don’t want to talk about work.”
“And now you’re asking me about strange phone calls.” Dan pushes his drink away. He looks angry and concerned and it’s not a good look for him.
“I told you why I asked about the phone calls.”
“I never thought you’d lie to me, Megan.”
“I’m not lying. Yes, I’m working the murder. Yes, I have a case where crank calls play into it.”
I don’t tell him the calls are probably made by the murderer. I feel guilty for not telling him that he might possibly be in danger because of me. I don’t tell him any of that because someone, maybe the killer, has left the photos at Dan’s place in Snow Creek. I don’t know what connection he’s made that is making him act this way.
“Are you in danger, Megan?” he asks.
I want so badly to tell him what’s going on, but I don’t dare. If I tell him, it will make him more of a target, make him paranoid like me, make him hate me for what I’ve done to bring this down on myself.
“I can take care of myself, Dan.”
I smile. The smile is a mask.
“I don’t know why someone would leave these for you.”
Before I can pick them up from the table, he puts a hand on them. “I called Mindy.”
Uh-oh.
“She said a picture just like this was left at the crime scene.” He puts his finger on the office picture. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t discuss it with you, Dan. The investigation is just beginning and Mindy shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“Who is the girl in the other picture?” he asks.
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen that picture before.”
He looks at me for several seconds. “It’s a picture of you when you were a girl. Don’t tell me it’s not.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t, either.
He puts the pictures back in his shirt pocket. “Then you don’t need these.” He downs his drink and gets up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Dan, wait,” I say, but he is halfway to the door. I watch him leave. I wonder how a simple evening drink can turn into an interrogation. Welcome to my world.
Twenty-Seven
Across the street she can see inside The Tides. Rylee and her man are having what can only be a lover’s quarrel. Rylee only shows concern when the man leaves in a huff. He’s someone she cares about deeply. She watches him go to his truck and follows, thinking about the similarities between herself and Rylee. Rylee is strong willed. But so is she.
She only made it out of Ecuador because of her extremely strong will, not just to live, but to survive. Those two things were different. One was to barely hang on. The other was to do whatever it took to gain some ground. Because of her cunning, she was able to stow away on an oil freighter. Because of her survival skills, she traded whatever favors she had with the crew and so was brought ashore in America. A little the worse for wear, but alive, her stomach full, hope in her heart.
All she had were the clothes on her back. Little more than rags, except for a T-shirt and a too-big pair of work boots she’d stolen from the crew’s quarters. She ended up being sold as a laborer to an abattoir, a slaughterhouse for animals. Her station on the floor was at the end of the line. Cows’ heads hung from meat hooks and she would trim off the flesh.
The knives she has now, six of them, blades five to nine inches, each as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, are irreplaceable. A gift from Alex Rader when he saved her. He said it was to keep her senses sharp and remind her where she came from.
If she closes her eyes, even after all these years, she can smell the stench of blood, hear the impacts and grunts of the cattle as they were put down. She hated the sights of slaughter but it was a job that didn’t require identification. She was an illegal. She had none. They didn’t care where she came from or where she went at the end of her fourteen-hour shift. They paid in cash at the end of each day.
Her boss at the slaughterhouse took half of her pay for finding her. He allowed her to live in his basement with other girls but charged them rent. His friends paid him to have at her. She was sleepwalking through life. Horror became the norm.
Then her boss decided she could make more money working the streets in Seattle. He dressed her up and put her in his stable of girls. He told her she wasn’t attractive. She knew that. But what she lacked in looks she made up for in skills. During that time he got her strung out on heroin. Her life on the streets was tough, but she was tougher. Or so she thought.
Then the craving for drugs became more important than surviving. She lost weight. Her nails and hair became brittle. Then came the arrest and the beginning of a new life.
Now when she looks in a full-length mirror she can smile at what she sees. She has filled out over the years. Breast implants and time at a gym have transformed her once emaciated body into Alex’s idea of a beautiful woman. She still didn’t see it herself, but if he said it, that was enough.
Then the girl took him from her. When he was gone—murdered by the girl named Rylee—she discovered through an attorney that he had left everything to her. After his death, everything would have gone to his legal wife, with a small amount going to her. It would have been enough to buy a small place of her own. Enough to buy a decent vehicle. But the girl murdered Marie, his legal wife, too. The Raders’ wills left everything to her on the wife’s death.
Marie knew about her. They even met. Were somewhat friends. She is doing this for Marie as well as for herself, but mostly for him. For Alex. Rylee took everything from them. From her. She cares nothing for what she now owns. She’d give it all up tomorrow if she could have Rylee’s head on a meat hook, coming down the line, where she waits to flay that face down to the bone. It is her right. It is her duty. It is fitting that all of his enemies are killed with a knife. That was how Marie died. That is the way they will all die.
She will save Rylee for last.
Twenty-Eight
I walk to my car. I’m caught. Whoever is doing this is using my personal life to get to me. Taunting me. Exposing me. Distracting me from chasing them down. They don’t realize they’re just fanning the flames. I can always move. Take on a new persona, a new job, a new life. They’ll be dead.
When I get home, I go right back to the tape player.
Dr. A: Did the dream have meaning for you?
Me: Caleb told me one time that dreams were messages from your subconscious. I’m more practical than that, but I let him believe that I agreed. I hated lying to him, but I saw the lie as a way to get just a little bit closer to him. So if he was right and I was wrong—and I don’t like admitting it—what was that dream, that horrific dream, telling me? Was Selma me? Was Selma my mother? We’re both blond, not dark-haired like Selma. Our hair is straight, not the mass of curls of the girl running away from the van.
Then it begins to hit me. I roll out of the bed and go to the bathroom, where I sit on the toilet and cry. I am crying so loudly that I turn on the shower so people in the motel room next door can’t hear. In the mirror I see my mother again. Not a ghost or a spirit or whatever, but the essence of her in my face. I don’t say the words, but they move from my mind to wherever my mom is being held.
Hold on.
I’m coming.
I will make him pay with his life.
We will be free.
Dr. A: Did you have doubts? Weren’t you afraid?
Me: I was only fifteen—sixteen at the most. I’m a girl. I’ve never shot a gun or hurt anyone in my life. All the odds are against me except the one thing that my bio-dad could never count on. I am determined to be as ruthless as he is.
I put the tape player away. I’m done in. I need to sleep. I need to decide if I can be as ruthless as this killer. The answer comes right away.
Yes, I can.
Twenty-Nine
The next morning, on my way to the office, I think about calling Clay. I was caught off guard by his interest in me the other day. Actually, that’s not totally correct. I could sense something there before. And Ronnie said that she thought Clay was “sweet on me.” I don’t want to encourage that.
I didn’t do so well with Dan last night. He walked out of the bar on me and was in a foul mood. No, he was hurt. I don’t blame him for thinking I’m lying about the pictures, because I am, and Dan is pretty attuned to my thoughts.
Maybe going out with another detective would be easier. Out with the old, in with the new. Clay might understand when I don’t want to answer questions about a case. Or not. Maybe it would be worse. Considering his police background, Clay would be more of a problem to lie to.
I decide to call him. Make it clear that I’m dating someone. Not that Dan will ever ask me out again. But I definitely don’t want to date a cop.
I look up the call he made to me yesterday and punch the number. “Detective Osborne, this is Detective Carpenter.”
“Hi, Megan. You can still call me Clay, even though I am somewhat of a hero. Thanks, by the way, for cleaning up that mess for me.”
He is referring to the case last month where I unveiled two serial killers and helped him and another county clear several homicides. I felt he owed me one. That was why I called and asked him to guard Gabrielle until she arranged to stay with someone.
He asks, “Am I supposed to call you Detective Carpenter now?”
I could hear the humor in his voice. Shut up, I’m trying to be serious, I think. “No. Megan’s fine.”
He’s laughing now. It’s not really funny. I ask, “So what’s going on with Gabrielle? She didn’t call to tell me she’d arrived. Did she call you?”
“She didn’t call me, but I told her to avoid using that phone and get another one. She’ll call you and give you her number. She probably hasn’t had time to get one.”
He is right, of course.
“I’ll have someone go by her house randomly and check it for a couple of days,” he adds. “She’ll do fine. I told her to contact you or me before she comes back to get the all clear.”
“Thanks for doing all this, Clay.”
“Hey, I owed you one. Right?”
Yes, you did. You still owe me. “You don’t owe me anything. We’re a team, right?”
He laughs. “Speaking of which, I wonder if you and Ronnie would like to come have drinks with me tonight. Not as a date. Just coworkers that kick ass and chew bubblegum. I’m buying.”
I almost say I already have a date, but Dan may be a thing of the past. And I may have to set up a protection team to keep an eye on Dan now. But I can’t afford to piss Clay off because I might need another favor. I say, “Maybe some other time, Clay. We’re going to be busy for a while on this.”
“Gotcha. If I can do anything on this end to help out, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Clay. I will.” And I mean it as I disconnect. I wonder how I’ve gotten so popular all of a sudden. It can’t be because of the pile of dead bodies I seem to attract. Maybe it’s not being emotionally available? Men seem to like that. And big breasts. I don’t have those. But Clay also invited Ronnie, and she can give Dolly Parton a run for her money.
I pull up in the Sheriff’s Office lot and can’t help looking up into the woods where my stalker was. I think about putting a bear trap out, and an image of Nan with a trap attached to her bare a
ss makes me smile.
Thirty
Back in the office, Nan approaches me and whispers, “Dr. Andrade’s office called.”
I whisper back, “What about?”
She gets a hurt look on her face. “Well. You should call them.”
“I was just about to. Thanks, Nan.”
She doesn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased. She leaves. That’s good. I’m not in the mood to feed her need for gossip today. Ronnie comes to my desk.
“Dr. Andrade called.”
“I know. Nan just whispered in my ear,” I say. I hear papers being stacked hard against Nan’s desk. She has heard me with her super-hearing. I really don’t care.
“I’ve called all the people in Mrs. Delmont’s address book. The ones who were answering. I got nothing more than what we have already.”
“Clay told me you took the samples to Marley at the crime lab,” I say.
“I did. He’s got the mug with the lipstick and the things you found outside here, but he doesn’t have a DNA sample from the victim yet. He’s waiting on the autopsy. He says he can get us pretty quick results. I think he was excited to be working on something like this with me.”
“Can you call Dr. Andrade’s office and see if they have a time for the autopsy yet?” I don’t want to go. I remember what happened last time. The sight of all that cutting triggered some memories best forgotten. Ronnie had weathered it like a veteran. But she’s not seen, or done, the things I have.
“I think he already did the post. He’s sending samples to Marley at the lab. His secretary said he wants to talk to you.”
Me. What have I done now? “Okay, I’ll call him. Can you start writing up what we did yesterday?”