“Isn’t this tasty, Vic?” Joe asked.
Liam dropped his fork on the plate. It made a clang. He grimaced, “It’s crunchy. There’s something crunchy in this . . .”
Vic started to snicker.
Liam coughed and put a hand up to his throat.
Sophie suddenly realized what was happening. She gaped at Vic. “Did you put something in his food?” she asked in a shrill voice. “Did you put nuts in there?”
Vic covered his mouth as he giggled.
Liam started choking. He pushed himself away from the table. His eyes rolled back.
Sophie jumped up from her chair, raced around the counter into the kitchen, and pulled open the junk drawer. She found an EpiPen, snatched it up, and hurried back to the table. “Hold on, Liam! Hold on!”
Liam was going into convulsions. His whole body shook and he made a horrible raspy, choking sound.
James started to scream. Joe got to his feet.
Her grandmother ran to Liam and held him down in the chair.
Sophie snapped off the EpiPen cover and plunged the needle into Liam’s thigh. She kept it there for a moment. Her brother gasped and then started coughing. The violent tremors that racked his body seemed to subside, but he was still shuddering with little aftershocks. His eyes seemed unable to focus.
Crouched at his side, Sophie watched him and waited to make sure the dose was working.
“Can I do anything?” Joe asked. “What can I do?”
Sophie glanced over at Vic. He took a swig of wine. “I had some nuts in my backpack,” he sniggered. “I thought they might spice up his meal.”
Sophie suddenly became unhinged. She still had the EpiPen in her hand. With a yell, she swung the needle device toward Vic and plunged it into the side of his neck.
Stunned, Vic dropped his glass and shot up from his chair. It tipped over behind him. The pen dropped from his neck onto the floor. A thin trail of blood rolled down to his shoulder. He slapped a hand over the wound. Wide-eyed, he helplessly staggered back—until he hit the curtains at the edge of the sliding glass door. It seemed to jar him out of his stupor.
He took his hand away for a moment and looked at the blood on his fingers.
“Goddamn it!” he bellowed. He blinked several times, and then his rage-filled eyes locked onto her. “You little bitch . . .” He charged toward her.
Sophie reached for a fork from the table to defend herself.
But it was too late. Vic grabbed the front of her T-shirt and yanked her up. With his fist, he punched her in the face. The force of the blow sent her crashing against the fallen chair. The pain was excruciating. She didn’t know what was happening. Past a loud ringing in her ear, she could hear her grandmother and James screaming.
“God, Vic, no!” Joe yelled. “Stop it!”
Sophie couldn’t see anything—just little white explosions.
But she knew it wasn’t over.
She listened to Vic grunting. There was the sound of plates being knocked over, and more shouting. Joe was still pleading with him to stop.
Then there was another bone-crunching smack as Vic hit her in the face again.
It was the last thing Sophie heard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday—8:53 P.M.
Marysville, Washington
“I’m here to see Dr. Alan Halstead,” Laura said. “I Icalled earlier.”
She gazed up through the car’s open window at the middle-aged uniformed guard. He had silver hair and a ruddy complexion. He leaned out of the window of his little booth by the front gate. The badge on his blue jacket caught the bright security lights from overhead.
“Can I see some identification, please?” he said. His breath was visible in the cold night.
Laura handed him her driver’s license. She was glad she hadn’t given him a fake name when she’d first rolled down the window.
“One minute, please,” he said. Then he turned and picked up a phone. There was a row of small TV monitors just above the window in front of him, security cameras obviously. But one of them was showing an old Happy Days rerun. Laura recognized Fonzie.
One of the cameras was in evidence by the chain-link front gate. The tall fence was also chain-link, with a section of barbed wire along the top. It encircled the parking lot and the long, rambling three-story brick building. All but a few of the windows had been covered with chain-link screens—just like the fence. Laura guessed the place was built in the thirties. But the entrance in front appeared to have been added on in the eighties or nineties. The sign by the entrance had shiny white lettering with a blue background, and seemed kind of cheap. It had either been hastily set up or was temporary. It said WESTERN WASHINGTON PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE.
Joe and Vic’s former home was in Marysville, not far from the center of town. It was fifty minutes south of Anacortes, a brief stop for Laura on the way to Highway 2 and home. She hadn’t lied to the guard. She’d called earlier. She’d gotten the phone number and directions from the ferry passenger, who had taken her forty bucks for five minutes of research. Laura had talked with an operator at the institute. She’d asked if there was any way to get ahold of Dr. Halstead. She’d said it was an urgent, personal matter concerning a former patient. The woman had told her that Dr. Halstead was with a patient at the moment, but she could leave a message. Laura hadn’t expected him to still be at the institute when she’d called at 7:30 at night. But the woman had told her that he was working the late shift until eleven tonight. Laura had thanked her and hung up without leaving a message. She’d figured the chances of him calling her back were about as good as the chances of Courtney Furst calling her back—infinitesimal.
The guard had slid his window shut—probably to keep out the cold and also keep her in the dark about what he was saying on the phone. Now he slid open the window again. “What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asked, sounding officious.
“It’s in regards to a former patient of Dr. Halstead’s,” she replied.
He half-turned away and muttered her response into the phone. Then the guard turned to her again. “Are you a reporter? Dr. Halstead isn’t seeing any reporters.”
“No, I’m—or I was a teacher. Tell him that I was Joseph Mulroney’s third-grade teacher, back when he was Joey Spiers.”
That did the trick. The guard gave her a guest-pass badge and something for the dashboard of her car. He pointed out the guest parking area of the well-lit, near-empty lot. Then he hit a button, and with a loud rattle and hum, the gate slid open.
After she parked the car, Laura hurried toward the entrance. She hoped Halstead could tell her how to deal with Joe—and get him out from under Vic’s influence. Maybe he could even talk to Joe himself. She was running out of options.
At the entrance was a glass door. Laura saw another guard in a Plexiglas booth in the vestibule. She was buzzed in. The woman guard, who looked bored, nodded at her to proceed through another glass door, which buzzed and clicked when she pushed it open.
On the other side of the door, in a drab hallway, was a large man with receding hair, a gray-black beard, and thick glasses. He wore a doctor’s white lab coat over an ugly yellow-and-green striped shirt. Laura put on a cordial smile, and approached him.
But he was frowning at her. “You’re not Joe’s teacher. She . . .”
Then he bit his lip as Laura stepped closer.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, working up a smile. He looked embarrassed. “What did you want to see me about, Ms. Gretchell?”
Laura realized he hadn’t noticed the scars on her face until she was nearly right in front of him. For a moment there, he must have thought she was a phony. It confirmed what she’d surmised. Joe must have told him what had happened back in third grade.
“I won’t take up much of your time, Dr. Halstead. Is there someplace where we could talk?”
“Well, I’m on a break right now. Let’s see if the staff break room is empty.”
“Grab a seat,” Dr. Halstead said as he headed for the refrigerator and opened it. “There’s some yogurt in here with my name on it—if one of my thieving coworkers didn’t abscond with it. Good God, look at all this. There’s food in here from before the Fourth of July. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks,” Laura said. She sat down at one of the tables.
During the drive down from Anacortes, she’d thought about how much she should tell him and how much she should lie. “Joe called me today,” she said.
He turned to stare at her. “Really? Out of the blue?”
She nodded. “Out of the blue.”
“Did he say where he was?”
She shook her head. “The Caller ID said Caller Unknown.”
“Did you tell the police about it?”
“Joe made me promise not to. I thought if I talked to you, you might advise me on how to persuade him to give himself up. He mentioned you, Dr. Halstead. He spoke very highly of you. I want to help him. We—we have some history, as you must know. I asked him to call me back, and he said he would.”
“All the more reason to let the police in on this,” Dr. Halstead said, still standing in front of the open refrigerator.
“No,” Laura said. “He trusts me, and I don’t want to betray that trust by going to the police just yet. I think he’s innocent. No one else believes that, because he ran away—with this Victor person. Unfortunately, Joe’s still with him. This Vic seems to have a lot of influence over him.”
“A lot of bad influence,” Dr. Halstead said.
The open refrigerator behind him started to hum more loudly. With a perturbed look on his face, he turned and shut the refrigerator door. Then he came and sat down with her at the table. “At the risk of repeating myself, I still think you need to contact the police.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. But maybe you could tell me what to say to him when he calls back. I think Joe would like to turn himself in, but this Vic person won’t let him. I know they became friends here. Is there something you can tell me about their relationship, something that might help?”
“Do you know why Joe ended up in this place?” Dr. Halstead asked.
Laura nodded. “He mentioned that he’d beaten up a coworker who had been bothering him at work.”
“I still remember the guy’s name, Larry Rumble,” Dr. Halstead said. “From everything I’ve read about the incident, the guy had it coming. He was a bully. All of Joe’s coworkers said so. No one liked him. But it was the way Joe kind of went crazy on him—and then Joe’s PTSD reaction. That’s what landed him in this place.”
“Yes, he told me that he put his hand through a window,” Laura murmured.
“He had a breakdown. You know, he didn’t have to come here. He settled out of court and agreed to it. His grandmother had just died. And I think he figured he really needed some help. You obviously know something about the way Joe has always been so passive, sort of a natural target, bully bait . . .”
“He was always so defenseless back when he was a child,” Laura added. “Like a little deer.”
“Well, he was that way when he was an adult, too. I could talk about all the damage his mother did, but we’d be here half the night. Besides, you already know about it. You rescued him from that. I can understand why he turned to you now. And I know why he’s so dependent on Vic.” Dr. Halstead leaned back in the chair and sighed. “I shouldn’t be discussing a patient with you, but desperate times and all. Joe was very much alone when his grandmother died, alone and defenseless. So he sort of invented another personality for himself, someone who basically wasn’t going to take anybody’s shit. It was a part of him that he’d been afraid to let out, sort of a dark avenger. Joe invented him to survive.” Dr. Halstead chuckled. “Believe me, it’s not quite as schizophrenic as it sounds . . .”
Laura just nodded attentively. But she kept thinking it sounded pretty schizophrenic to her.
“Anyway, it was this avenging side of Joe’s personality that went berserk and put Larry Rumble in the hospital. When Joe came here, he started getting picked on again. But he didn’t want to dredge up this avenger alter-ego that had gotten him into trouble. Besides, he didn’t need to, because he found him in Victor Moles. He had someone defending him and watching his back. Unfortunately, that someone was a manipulative sociopath . . .”
“And Joe’s convinced he can’t survive without him,” Laura said. “You know, from what Joe told me, this running away—this escape from the police—it was all Vic’s idea, something he made Joe do.”
Dr. Halstead sighed. “I suspected as much. Joe never would have done that on his own.”
“I think it’s made the police automatically assume he’s guilty,” Laura pointed out. “They aren’t even looking at other possible suspects in the Singleton murder case. I’ve done some research since Joe’s call this afternoon. There are all sorts of corrupt, criminal goings-on with that church. Joe told me that a few weeks ago, he saw Scott Singleton in his driveway at the summer house having an argument with a man who threatened to destroy him—and his family. Joe told this to the police, but they didn’t seem to believe him. But I do. Joe’s convinced this is the man who killed the Singletons. But nobody’s looking for him. I told Joe I’d do what I could . . .”
Laura thought about pulling out the sketches to show Dr. Halstead. Maybe they resembled someone else in Joe’s life, someone threatening. But she thought better of it. If she showed Joe’s sketches to the doctor, he might recognize Joe’s drawing style from an occupational therapy class or something. He’d know that she’d met with Joe in person.
“Did Joe say when he’d call you back?” Dr. Halstead asked.
“I think within an hour or two,” Laura said.
“Well, listen, why don’t you stick around here? I could talk to him for you, and I’d like to get the police in on this.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No, as I said, I promised Joe, no police. I want to talk to him one more time before going to the police. And I can’t stay. I’m sorry. I really need to get back to my family in—in Seattle.” If she could make it a little more difficult for the doctor and the police to track down where she lived, then all the better—at least for now. “I’ve left my kids alone in the house, and they’re pretty nervous about it—what with the murders and everything. If I could get your phone number, maybe I can have Joe call you.”
“I think you’re making a big mistake not getting the police involved,” Dr. Halstead said. But he took a business card out of his lab-coat pocket, along with a pen. He scribbled his phone number on the back of the card. “Can I ask you something?” he said, holding back the card.
“Of course,” Laura replied, a bit apprehensive.
“Are you being completely honest with me about Joe calling you out of the blue? Somehow, I feel I’m not getting the whole story here. I think there’s something more you’re not telling me.”
Laura quickly shook her head. “No, I—I’ve told you everything.”
It was killing her not to tell him the truth. And maybe it was a huge mistake not to.
Dr. Halstead slid the card across the table to her.
“Thank you,” Laura said, slipping it in the pocket of her pea jacket. “I’ll call you with an update as soon as I hear from Joe—and I’ll ask him to call you. I hope you understand about the police. I promised Joe I wouldn’t contact them and that I’d do my best to track down this Zared person he says killed the Singletons.”
Dr. Halstead’s eyes narrowed. “Joe told you the Singleton murderer is someone named Zared?”
She nodded. “Yes, Joe pract
ically insisted . . .”
Dr. Halstead frowned. “Mrs. Gretchell, Zared is Joe. That’s the name he gave to his avenging alter-ego.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday—9:53 P.M.
Monroe, Washington
Laura stepped out of Mort’s Munitions, Guns and Ammo Emporium on Highway 2. She’d just purchased a Cobra Arms Freedom .380 semi-automatic pistol.
She knew the waiting period for a background check in Washington State was five to ten days. But she’d recently read an article by a Seattle reporter who, one week after yet another mass shooting, walked into three local gun stores and, each time, walked out with a gun—without any background check.
While the short, dumpy forty-something clerk had copied down her driver’s license information, Laura had told him, “I need the gun tonight. Is that possible?”
From the other side of the glass counter, he’d looked up from his paperwork.
She’d pointed to the bruise on her chin. The makeup had worn off. “I didn’t get this running into a door,” Laura had said. “I have a problem at home, and I could really use something so I can defend myself—if you know what I mean.”
He’d nodded. “If you have an extra fifty in cash, I can—uh, expedite things for you.”
“You’re very gallant,” Laura had said, reaching into her purse for some cash. The irony in her tone seemed to have eluded him.
He’d shown her how the gun worked and even loaded the clip for her. She’d also bought a small canister of pepper spray.
There were only two other cars in the small parking lot of Mort’s Emporium at this hour. One of them was a black BMW. It was parked under a streetlight, which glared off the windshield and the driver’s window, so Laura couldn’t quite see if anyone was sitting inside. She remembered the black BMW parked across from Martha’s townhouse, but that was nearly three hours ago—on Lopez Island. She told herself it was probably just a coincidence. After all, it wasn’t as if black BMWs were a rarity on the highways.
But that BMW didn’t seem to belong on the slightly run-down block on Lopez any more than this BMW seemed to belong in the parking lot of a guns and ammo shop in Monroe.
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