I had been wrong. But if it wasn’t drugs, what was it? Why would two strangers kill a woman they didn’t know—and then her friend as well? I circled the village park, deserted and bleak in the November chill. Frigid water collected in troughs and depressions around the field.
People kill for many reasons, but one of the biggest is fear. Fear that they’ll be killed first. But Mary Jo and Rhonda weren’t threatening.
Fear of being caught is another. Rhonda thought the men were just fishing, but were they? Or were they doing something else? Something they didn’t want revealed. Something with such high stakes—at least for them—that killing two young women was their only option.
A lone figure struck out across the park. His jacket was pulled close and shoulders hunched against the cold.
What was it? What were they hiding? Something on the boat? The boat was carrying some cargo. Rhonda had said something about it. But what? “A lot of shit” were her words, I recalled.
I turned the corner and headed back to Willow Road. As I passed the drycleaners and hardware store, the sun made a brief appearance, glinting off the Volvo’s hood.
Glinting. Something glinting in the moonlight. That was it.
Metal. Logs. Metal fireplace logs.
I frowned. Something that looked like metal fireplace logs. What was Rhonda trying to describe? I squinted through the windshield.
A metal container of some kind.
Sure.
One of those metal trash containers with a foot pedal to open it up. Maybe they held a stash of drugs.
Or maybe something else.
A fire extinguisher? No. Most fire extinguishers are red; they wouldn’t necessarily glint in the moonlight. And someone would have to be pretty hard up to kill over a fire extinguisher.
Think, Ellie.
The men were coming in off the lake. Late at night. With metal containers. What if those containers had something to do with the water? Maybe they held water. Or you used them in water.
An image of divers filming hammerhead sharks sprang into my mind.
A tank. An oxygen tank.
Scuba diving equipment.
Is that what Rhonda saw? A boat filled with diving equipment?
Why would someone be diving in the middle of the night in Lake Michigan? And why wouldn’t they want anyone to know about it?
I tried to piece it together. A man named Sammy was at Cal Park a year ago. The night Mary Jo Bosanick died. Possibly ferrying scuba diving equipment.
Dale Reedy got a call from a man named Mr. Sam. She had a wire taped to her window. She’d been quizzing me about a tape I’d shot at the intake crib. And she had a line of sight to the crib.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud.
***
Rachel’s door was locked, and when I knocked, there was no answer. I went into my office and went online. The computer chimed I had mail. The return path read Greatlakesoil.com. I clicked on the message.
I’m frightfully sorry, Ellie, but we’re going to have to cancel the project. The economy has been bumpier than we anticipated, and we simply can not justify further discretionary expenses at this time. I know how much work you put into the proposal, and I would be happy to compensate you for your time to date. I hope there will be an opportunity for us to do business together in the future.
Short. Concise. Definitive. And obviously code. Something had happened.
It could have been her boss, Tribble. When he’d come into her office during our first meeting, I was sure he knew who I was. He would never have forbidden her to hire me; the corporate world doesn’t work that way. But, drunk or not, he might have asked pointed questions about my credibility, reliability, perhaps even my talent. Dale might have started out defending me, but faced with his volley of questions, she would have realized something was off, and, over time, she might have concluded it wasn’t a battle worth fighting.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t Tribble. Maybe it had something to do with the wire, the tape, and a man named Sammy.
I stood up and started to pace. There was no way I could find out, and I could only think of one person who could. Where was LeJeune?
Chapter Thirty-seven
Rachel spent Saturday camped in her room with the door locked. An occasional exclamation through the door was the only proof she was alive. I made her favorite pasta and tomato sauce for dinner as a peace offering. I wasn’t convinced it was up to me to make peace, but Jewish American guilt goes a long way toward accepting responsibility for sins you haven’t committed. But she waited until the sauce had turned cold and the noodles rubbery before sneaking down for a plate.
Around nine, I made a run to the video store. I’d get something we could watch together. Maybe we’d even start talking. I grabbed an Adam Sandler tape and a comedy with Cameron Diaz and was back on my block in less than thirty minutes. I was passing my neighbors’ house when I slammed on the brakes.
A dark-colored SUV was pulling away from the house. Two figures were in the front. I tried to make out the license plates as it sped away, but it was too dark. I swerved into the driveway and raced into the house.
“Rachel?” I yelled. “Rach, where are you?”
Silence.
I ran upstairs and checked all the rooms. No Rachel. I checked the closets. No one. My pulse throbbed in my ears. I ran downstairs. The basement was empty. I raced back up and opened the front door. It was a frigid night, and an icy wind stung my skin.
Where was she? Maybe she’d left a note. If she did, it would be in the kitchen. I ran in. Nothing. I checked the clock. Almost nine-thirty. She knew her curfew was eleven. Had she gone out deliberately? Maybe I was wrong not to give her a cell phone or a pager. Lots of parents did these days, but I’d considered it excessive. A badge of conspicuous consumption.
I picked up the phone and called Barry. The phone rang four times, after which his machine kicked on. Another weekend in Door County with Marlene, no doubt. But no Rachel. I called Katie’s house. No answer there, either. I thought about calling Susan, but I knew her machine would pick up; she and Doug are always out on Saturday night.
I huddled on the couch struggling to keep panic at bay. A plane flew low overhead, triggering an instant of fear. But it passed safely, its thunder shaking the walls.
A nightmarish conspiracy unspooled in my mind. What if the men in the SUV knew the exact moment I’d be alone and vulnerable and deliberately chose that moment to strip me of the only thing in my life that held any meaning?
I flashed back to the New River in West Virginia, when I failed to rescue my daughter. Was it happening all over again? They had taken Rachel, and they were going to do something unspeakably horrible to her if I didn’t—but what? What was I supposed to do? Give them the tape? Tell them what I knew? What did they want?
I gazed around the room. The walls, the bookshelves, the furniture all looked solid, almost comforting in their ordinariness. Still, an overwhelming sense of futility washed over me. I sank back on the couch. If she wasn’t home by eleven fifteen, I’d call the police.
At midnight I was about to pick up the phone when a sweep of light tore through the window. I raced to the hall, my heart pumping, and before I could really think about it, grabbed my father’s Colt .45. Checking to see that it was loaded, I released the safety. I hoped I still knew how to chamber a round.
I flattened myself against the door. My mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. I waited—for a window to shatter, a knob to turn, a door to fly open. When the bell rang, I sidestepped to the glass panel inset on the door. Under the porch light, looking hollow-eyed and slightly green, was a cop.
I sagged against the wall. I should have realized anyone ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night wasn’t out for a nefarious purpose. I slipped the Colt back in the cabinet.
“Good evening, Ms. Foreman.” The officer was one of the cops who’d questioned me after the fire at Mac’s studio. “I came by to tell you your daughter’s okay.”
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My breath caught. “What do you mean, okay? Where is she?”
“She’s—she’s at the station.”
“At the police station? Why?”
“Ma’am—er, we brought her in on an unlawful possession charge.”
Over on the expressway, a truck rumbled by. Its echo reverberated through the trees. I stared at his badge, uncomprehending. He could have been speaking Chinese.
“What?”
“I was there when they brought her in. Detective O’Malley sent me over as a courtesy.”
“Rachel’s been arrested? What for?”
“For unlawful possession of a weapon, ma’am.”
My jaw dropped. “A weapon?”
“A firearm.”
I gasped for breath. “A gun?”
He nodded. “She’s in custody now.”
“In custody?” When he didn’t answer, I added, “What’s going to happen to her?”
“Well, ma’am, that kind of depends on her. And you. She’s with the youth officer now.”
“Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth.
“Don’t worry. She’s fine—a little shaken up is all. But you need to get down there.”
***
The village police station, a modern brick building, sits in the middle of an upscale residential neighborhood. Set back from the road, it could pass for a school or a community center, except for the phalanx of cruisers in the parking lot. After parking the car, I ran past a flagpole to the front entrance. White boulders, bloodless in the weak moonlight, lined the walkway.
The lobby resembled a modest office complex with tiled floor, white walls, and fake plants. Doors led off both sides. Near one of the doors was a pass-through window, behind which lay several desks and an array of communications equipment. The combination of fluorescent lights and crackles from the radio was unworldly.
I announced myself to the dispatcher, an older, heavyset man with thin bands of white hair stretched across a pink scalp. Then I sat in a black molded plastic chair. I felt like I’d stepped through the looking glass.
“Ms. Foreman?”
I looked up. An attractive blonde stood in front of me. Her name tag read Officer Georgia Davis, but she was dressed in a pair of tailored black slacks, black boots, and ivory sweater. Her shoulder-length blond hair was curled in a perfect flip, and her eyes were large pools of brown.
She flashed me a hesitant smile. “I’m the youth officer. I’m handling your daughter’s case.”
A wave of embarrassment washed over me.
“Why don’t you come with me?” Again, a tentative smile.
She waited for me to gather my bag, and we pushed through one of the doors.
“Is she okay?”
We went down a long hall and rounded a corner. She pointed to a door. “She’s been waiting for you.”
As I opened the door, I clamped down on my tongue. I was in a small, windowless room, about eight by ten. The walls were cinderblock, and a built-in bench stretched along one wall. Two vertical steel bars, the kind you see in wheelchair-accessible bathrooms, were attached to the walls. A pair of handcuffs—handcuffs—dangled from one of them. Rachel was curled in a ball at one end of the bench.
At the sound of the door opening, she looked up. Her skin was waxy white, her expression one of abject fear. When she realized it was me, her eyes widened like they used to when I’d come home from an out-of-town trip. She propelled herself into my arms.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.” Tears streamed down her face. “I’m so sorry.”
I hugged her tight. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.”
There was a knock on the door, and Officer Davis came in. Rachel pressed herself more tightly against me. Spying a box of tissues at the other end of the bench, I gently disengaged from Rachel and handed her the box. She cringed, but I brushed a hand across her hair, trying to telegraph that it was okay. Davis leaned against the back of the door, and read from a clipboard with papers attached.
“At about eleven o’clock Officers Randall and Brewster stopped a black SUV Lexus speeding south on Waukegan Road near Dundee. At first the driver attempted to outrun the officers, but eventually he pulled over. They apprehended Derek Harrington, Carla Sager, and Rachel Goldman. When they began questioning the youths, they observed a thirty-eight caliber handgun on the floor of the passenger side of the vehicle. A revolver.” Davis looked up. “It was loaded.”
“A loaded revolver?”
Davis held up a hand. “Your daughter was in the backseat at the time we apprehended them. We have no reason to believe she handled the gun at any time. Is that right, Rachel?”
Rachel sniffled into her tissue.
Davis went on. “The officers who took them into custody ran a check on the car and found it was registered to Robert and Alexa Harrington of Glencoe. No one in the vehicle had a Firearms Identification—”
“Where are the other kids?” I cut in.
“In our other interview rooms. The Harringtons are on their way down, but we haven’t been able to reach Mrs. Sager or Mr. Goldman.”
“That’s because they’re—”
“I understand. Rachel told me they’re—away. We were able to contact an aunt. She’s coming down.”
I felt oddly relieved I wouldn’t have to explain how Rachel’s father happened to be with Carla’s mother. “So, what happens now?”
Officer Davis looked at Rachel, then at me. “Well, Ms. Foreman, Rachel and I have talked. Why don’t you tell your mother what happened?” Davis gave her a slight nod.
Rachel ran her tongue around her lips. “Well, Derek and Carla rented Natural Born Killers—you know with Woody Harrelson and Juliette—”
I nodded. Oliver Stone’s New Age Bonnie and Clyde. Two young serial killers shooting their way across the country and loving it.
“They picked me up and we went back to Carla’s to watch it. I thought it was creepy, but they thought it was awesome.” She looked down. “Then we went back to Derek’s, and he found the gun.”
“Where?”
She shrugged. “It was his father’s, I think.”
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
Rachel fell silent.
“Rachel?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Were you high?”
“No. No one was doing anything.”
I cut my eyes to Davis. Had they been stoned, maybe I might have understood. But they were cold sober. Davis raised her eyebrows back at me as if to say, This is the way it is these days.
“Derek found some ammo in his garage, so we started to ride around. Derek started saying all these things, like first we’d shoot out some windows, and then—” She shuddered. “We’d get you, and—”
“Me?”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I looked at Davis, who gave me a brief shake of her head. A fresh torrent of tears started down Rachel’s face.
“I didn’t mean it, Mom. I was just really mad. I would never have—” She hunched over again, bowing her head in her hands.
I put my arms around her. “It’s okay, Rachel.” I whispered. “I know.”
Davis cleared her throat. “It’s clear to me that Rachel feels very remorseful. We’ve been talking about choices, and she realizes she’s made some unwise ones. Particularly in the area of friends. We’ve also talked about things she can do the next time she feels angry and upset. And she’s promised me that we’ll talk again after Thanksgiving—if that’s okay with you.”
“That’s fine.”
When Rachel looked up, I flashed her a smile. So did Davis. The anguish on her face started to recede.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“She can go home.”
Rachel’s face brightened. “I can?”
Davis nodded. “Get some rest. You’ve had a rough night.”
Rachel stood up and moved to the door. Then she turned around and came back to Davis. Standing on her toes, she kissed her on the cheek. Dav
is colored.
“Thank you,” I said.
“She’s a good kid.” She put an arm around Rachel’s shoulder. “I’ve explained this to Rachel, so I should tell you.” She extracted some papers from her clipboard. “Your court date is in five weeks. She doesn’t have to appear; her lawyer can be there for her. I’ll be there, but I’ll recommend that the charges be dropped.”
Officer Davis and I shook hands.
As we left the station, I noticed a couple, about my age, in the black plastic chairs. The woman was sobbing into a handkerchief, and the man’s arm was around her shoulders. Derek’s parents, probably. I pushed through the door without stopping.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Rachel and I slept late the next morning. Then we did a huge Thanksgiving shopping at the supermarket. She was subdued; we chatted about inconsequential things. I wanted to fully process last night before we talked. For now, I was grateful that she wasn’t hurt. And that the SUV turned out to be Derek’s.
When we got back, Fouad was on the front lawn removing the last of my annuals. It was hard to believe the wiry twigs and stems he was pulling out were once petunias and impatiens. He helped us unload the groceries. Rachel put them away.
Back outside, he started in on the prairie grass flanking my driveway. The weak November sun made the dry stems seem luminous. Against an empty, lavender sky, the effect was pure Georgia O’Keefe.
Fouad’s red and black lumber jacket was open at the neck. Wiry black chest hairs spilled out above his T-shirt as he slashed through the grass.
“They’re saying it might snow tonight,” he said.
I drew in a breath. Sometimes there’s a tangy, metallic scent that precedes snow, but I didn’t smell it.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“My son had some problems. We went to Duke to work them out.”
Ahmed was a stellar premed student. I couldn’t imagine what kind of problems he’d have. I asked.
“Someone set fire to his dorm room.”
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