Laura hurried to the car and checked the backseat before she climbed in. She tossed the bag with the gun in it on the passenger floor, set the pay-as-you-go phone in the cup holder, and then started up the car. After pulling onto the highway, she kept checking her rearview mirror. At the third glance, a pair of headlights came into view. But then the trailing car passed under a streetlight, and she noticed it was a Volkswagen bug.
A car horn blared, and Laura realized she’d been drifting into the oncoming lane. She quickly jerked the wheel to one side. The car made a little screech as she veered back into her lane. “C’mon, wake up,” she muttered to herself, straightening in the seat. “You still have an hour and forty minutes until you’re home.”
Getting home, that was all she’d been thinking about for the last forty-five minutes.
When Dr. Halstead had told her that Zared was Joe, he’d broadsided her. Laura couldn’t quite hide her astonishment and panic. “Well, I—I’m sure I must have heard Joe wrong then,” she’d stammered. “Or maybe Joe got confused when he—when he told me about the altercation in the driveway between Scott Singleton and this other man.”
Perhaps Joe had assumed the man’s name was Zared, because of his threatening nature. There were a number of possible explanations. It didn’t necessarily mean that Joe had gone berserk and let his dark avenger alter-ego take over and murder the Singleton family.
She’d made her excuses to Dr. Halstead and bolted out of the employee break room. She’d been convinced that Halstead would call the guard at the door and instruct the woman not to let her leave. But both doors had opened in the vestibule. Then as she’d hurried to her car, she’d been certain the guard at the gate would be the one to stop her. But he’d collected her guest passes and opened the gate for her with a friendly nod.
During the drive along Interstate 5 to Monroe, she’d wanted to call home and check on everyone. But she’d had nothing to report—except that she’d seen Joe’s doctor at the institute. And as far as Vic was concerned, that was practically the same thing as going to the police.
There was a very real possibility Dr. Halstead had already phoned the police about her. But Laura had tried to put it out of her mind. All she could think about was getting back to her children and her mom—and saving them.
That was why she’d bought the gun and the pepper spray. She was her own version of Zared, the great avenging super-mom, armed and ready, rushing home to defend her family.
Then again, Vic would probably search her the minute she came through the door. Or maybe Joe and Vic wouldn’t even be there at all, and she’d come through the door to find her mother and children slaughtered.
Laura pressed harder on the accelerator. In the rearview mirror, she watched the gap grow between her and the VW behind her. Some other cars were in back of the Volkswagen, unable to pass it on the two-lane highway. She wondered if one of them was the black BMW.
A few raindrops hit her windshield, and she thought about the mountain pass ahead. She’d just see how bad the snow was when she got there.
Her phone rang, startling her. Obviously, something had happened at the house. Was one of the kids hurt?
Without taking her eyes off the road, she reached for the phone in her cup holder. She had to hold it up to her face so she could see where to switch it to talk mode. “Yes?” she said anxiously.
“So—which are you?” a woman asked.
“Pardon?” Laura didn’t recognize the voice. “Who is this?”
“Which are you?” the woman asked again. “Are you Randall Meacham’s mother—like you told my roommate? Or are you Laura, the girl who’s moving into my room at Birnam Wood—like you told my mother? Funny, you both seem to have the same phone number. So which one are you?”
Laura tightened her grip on the wheel. “Courtney?”
There was silence—and a little static—on the other end.
“Listen, I’m sorry I had to resort to lying,” Laura said. “It’s just that I’ve been desperate to talk to you.”
“Well, you’re not a very good liar,” Courtney said, her tone still icy. “You told my mother that my roommate was going out of town. All it took was one call to Lisa to find out that it wasn’t true—and that she’d had a visitor this afternoon.”
“I’m not with the church,” Laura said.
“That’s what Lisa told me. So—who are you and what do you want?”
“Well, Laura is my real name,” she said, watching the road ahead. Raindrops accrued on the windshield, but not enough to switch on the wipers yet. “I’m trying to find out who killed Scott Singleton and his family. I don’t think it’s this Joe Mulroney the police are after. I believe it might have been someone connected to the church. Maybe it’s somebody with an ax to grind or a cover-up of some kind. People associated with that church have been dying or disappearing for a month now. And I think you might know something.”
“If you’re not with the church, who are you? Are you with the police?”
“No, I—”
“Then why does it concern you so much?”
“I was Joe Mulroney’s teacher back when he was a child,” she said. “I helped him once. He got in touch with me, hoping I’ll help him again. He says he’s innocent, and I believe him. At least, I want to believe him.”
“Where are you right now?” Courtney asked. Her voice came through a bit choppy.
Laura hesitated. For all she knew, this Courtney person could still be in cahoots with the church. She could have had a direct connection to the deaths of Eric Vetter, the Singleton family, and maybe even Martha. Laura squirmed in the driver’s seat. “Why do you need to know where I am?” she asked warily. “Can’t we just talk over the phone?”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one, the reception’s shitty,” Courtney said. “I can hardly hear you. And second, I’m not telling you a thing over the phone. I’ll meet you someplace. It sounds like you’re in your car . . .”
“Yes,” Laura admitted. She checked the rearview mirror again. She realized she must have slowed down, because the vehicles behind her were catching up. “I’m on my way to central Washington.”
“So where? Moses Lake? Wenatchee?”
“I’m about two hours away from Wenatchee,” Laura said. “I couldn’t get there until eleven-thirty at the earliest.”
“Well, that’s fine with me. I’m not sleeping much lately anyway. There’s a bar called Irv’s Lounge on Wenatchee Avenue, and it’s open late. I’ll meet you there at eleven forty-five.”
Laura thought about how this meeting would delay her return home. At the same time, if Courtney could tell her something that would prove Joe’s innocence, then it might save her family. “All right,” Laura said. “I don’t know what you look like, but I have on a navy blue pea jacket and—”
“Lisa told me what you look like,” Courtney interrupted. “I’ll find you.”
“Before you hang up, could you tell me something?” Laura asked.
“What is it?”
“Do you think Joe Mulroney is innocent?”
“Put it this way,” Courtney replied. “If I thought the Singletons were randomly murdered by some nutcase who was their caretaker, I certainly wouldn’t be in hiding now—and I’d be sleeping a lot better. See you in a couple of hours.”
She hung up.
Tuesday—10:17 P.M.
Leavenworth
On the other side of the door, Joe could hear the little boy still crying.
He stood in the hallway, outside Sophie’s bedroom. The crowbar was wedged in the doorway frame. The three kids and the grandmother had been in there for the last two and a half hours.
“Please, we have to get Liam to a hospital!” he heard the grandmother plead. “For God’s sake, he needs a doctor. He keeps having these convulsions—and his breathing . . .” She started to cry. “I’m worried he might slip into a coma. Both of these children need a doctor. Sophie’s eye
is practically swollen shut. Are you even listening to me?”
“I—I hear you, ma’am,” he replied, leaning close to the door. “I need to check with Vic.”
“He’s the one who did this to them! Can’t you think for yourself? My daughter helped you once, and it cost her dearly. How can you sit still and let this happen to her children?”
Joe closed his eyes and winced. “I’ll see what I can do!” he called. Then he turned and hurried down the hallway toward the stairs.
He knew the boy wasn’t well. Joe had carried him up the stairs earlier. And it was true what the grandmother said about his breathing. It sounded like a death rattle. Both the grandmother and Sophie had told him that the EpiPen was just a temporary fix for someone going into shock. Joe had given Sophie a Baggie full of ice for her eye, and helped her up the stairs. Her walking had been a little wobbly. Over little James’s terrified screams she’d kept saying that Liam needed to go to the hospital.
But Vic had refused to let anyone leave the house.
Joe found him downstairs in the dining room, crouched over the lower cabinet of the built-in hutch. He was loading items into a Safeway grocery bag. “Look at this thing,” Vic said, holding up a small silver tray. “‘Sterling,’ it says on the back. You know what that means? Big bucks, that’s what. We’re sitting on a gold mine, here—or a silver one. Some of this crystal shit is worth a lot of money, too.”
Joe was a little out of breath. “Vic, we need to let the grandmother drive Liam to the hospital. He could die.”
Vic shoved the tray in the grocery bag, which clanked when he moved it. “You know, I don’t feel so hot right now either. When that little bitch stuck me with that pen, some leftover shit might’ve still been in there. I read the warning label on the other pens in the kitchen drawer, and they said if a normal person gets stuck with one of those needles, they need to go to the hospital, too. I feel woozy, but I’m riding it out here. The kid can ride it out here, too. I mean, he wasn’t even bleeding. And I was bleeding like a stuck pig for a while there . . .”
“You weren’t bleeding that much,” Joe murmured. He figured if his friend was really feeling woozy, it was because he’d had four or five glasses of wine. “Vic, we’ve got to let the grandmother and Liam go. They won’t say anything to the police—not if Sophie and the little boy are still here.”
“God, listen to yourself, worried about some stupid brat,” Vic said, inspecting a fancy, cut-glass bowl. “Hell, what difference does it make? He’s going to die anyway . . .”
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“Oh, come on, kiddo. It’s over.” Vic tossed aside the glass bowl and examined a pair of silver salt and pepper shakers. “Your old teacher played her last card. She didn’t talk to the waitress. Hell, for all we know, Martha’s just fine, and your precious Mrs. Gretchell is lying through her teeth. Either way, she didn’t live up to her end of the bargain. It’s just a matter of time before she realizes she’s lost all her bargaining power, and she’ll call the cops. Once we get the old bag’s car loaded, I’ll go upstairs and shoot them. You don’t have to be a part of it. You can wait in the car—”
Joe shook his head. “No, I won’t let you. Why are you so bent on killing them? It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We came here for help. Mrs. Gretchell practically saved my life when I was a kid—”
“How many times do I have to hear about that?” Vic groaned. “I saved your ass plenty of times at the country club. I sprung you from that hotel, where the cops were putting the screws to you. I’m in a lot of deep shit because of you . . .”
“No, I’m in deep shit because of you!” Joe argued. “Mrs. Gretchell was right about that. Why didn’t you take her up on her offer? It was a sweet deal, Vic. You could make a clean getaway with a huge head start over the cops. And no one would get hurt . . .”
Joe heard someone pounding again on the bedroom door upstairs. The grandmother cried out to him.
“Shut the fuck up!” Vic shouted at the top of his voice.
It turned quiet.
Vic turned to him again. “If you let me handle everything, we can be out of here within fifteen minutes. Three hours from now, we’ll be in Montana or Idaho, a couple of amigos on the run . . .”
The phone inside Vic’s pocket rang.
With a sigh, he pulled out Mrs. Gretchell’s smartphone and answered it: “Yeah, what?”
Joe leaned in close to Vic so he could hear her, too.
“I’m approaching Stevens Pass, and it’s snowing,” she said—through some choppy static. “Can you hear me?”
Joe spoke up: “I can hear you, Mrs. Gretchell.”
He wondered what he would tell her when she asked to talk to her mother or one of the kids.
“I got a call from Courtney Furst,” she said. Her voice kept going in and out. “She’s agreed to talk with me. We’re meeting in Wenatchee in about ninety minutes. Joe, she thinks you’re innocent. Did you hear me? I’ll try to persuade her to go to the police. And even if . . .” They lost the connection for a moment.
“Mrs. Gretchell?” Joe said.
“. . . I can still talk to the police on your behalf. They’ll have to listen. It’s good news, Joe.”
“Show her my sketches,” Joe said.
“What did you say—sketches?” Mrs. Gretchell said. “We have a terrible connection. Yes, I’m going to see if she recognizes the man in your sketches—if that’s what you just said.”
“Good,” Joe said. “Thank you . . .”
“Joe, about the man in your drawings, are you sure his name was Zared? I mean, did you actually hear Scott Singleton call him by that name?”
Joe hesitated. He wasn’t sure what she was getting at.
“Joe, you seemed so sure someone named Zared killed the Singletons. And I have a feeling that’s not the man’s name—or the killer’s name. Is it possible you were confused?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “I—I guess I’m not so sure anymore.”
“If he told you that was the guy’s name,” Vic jumped in, “then that was his name. What is this bullshit?”
“It’s good news for Joe, that’s what it is,” she replied through the static. “Can I talk to Sophie, please?”
Joe cringed and turned to his friend. “Well, Mrs. Gretchell, before you talk to her, I need to tell you that something happened . . .”
Glaring at him, Vic shook his head.
“Joe?” Mrs. Gretchell said. “You’re . . . in and out. I can’t hear . . . this stupid phone . . . Joe, are you . . .”
Then the line went dead.
Tuesday—10:22 P.M.
Stevens Pass
Laura held the cheap little phone near the steering wheel so she could press redial without taking her eyes off the road. Maybe it was her frayed nerves or the awful reception, but she’d had a feeling something had happened at home. She needed to call back and hear Sophie’s voice. She wanted her daughter to tell her that she was tired.
But in the little window on the phone was the message: No Service.
A horn blared as a car sped past on the left and then cut in front of her.
Laura didn’t realize until now how much she’d slowed down.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered anxiously. She set the phone back in the cup holder, and then she pressed harder on the accelerator.
The winding, narrow road was covered by a light blanket of snow with little land mines of black ice. Her headlights didn’t catch the icy patches. They just sort of snuck up on her, and then she’d suddenly feel the car sliding out of control for a few seconds. The snow came down thick—not quite blizzard conditions, but close. The wipers and the defroster kept most of the windshield clear, but flakes had accumulated to create blind corners on both sides. At her right were tall snowdrifts and the mountain wall. At the left, the oncoming traffic seemed to speed by, the headlights momentarily blinding her. The cars were few and far between, thank God. There weren’t too many p
eople stupid enough to attempt the pass under these conditions right now. On the other side of the westbound lane was a low, snow-capped guardrail along a precipice—and beyond that, Laura could see the white-trimmed treetops of tall evergreens.
Both hands clutching the wheel, she checked the rearview mirror. There were only a couple of cars behind her in the distance. The second vehicle looked like a black BMW, but she couldn’t be certain.
She sped up a little, and heard the slush spraying under her tires. The engine hummed louder as she climbed up toward the summit. She glanced at the speedometer: fifty-three miles per hour. She felt like she was pushing the envelope. Any minute now, she could hit another patch of ice and spin out.
Laura felt sick to her stomach and her head throbbed. Most of it was tension. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that the last thing she’d eaten was the bowl of scalding chicken noodle soup Martha had served to her over ten hours ago.
She remembered the man at the nearby table, the one with the pecan waffle. What had made her think of him now?
Up ahead, she saw a car on the narrow shoulder, spun out and half in the ditch. Its hazard lights were blinking. Laura slowed down to pass it.
In the rearview mirror, she noticed the first car behind her closing the gap between them. She tried to get a better look at the vehicle in back of it. “Shit,” she murmured.
It was definitely a black BMW. She couldn’t see any other cars behind it.
She sped past a sign by the snowdrifts: Passing Lane – 1000 Feet.
As the lane opened up, she noticed two more vehicles had either spun out or pulled over. Laura signaled, and then steered over into the slow lane. The car trailing her pulled forward and zoomed past on her left. Biting her lip, Laura checked the mirror again. The black BMW seemed to be gaining speed.
“Pass me,” she whispered, slowing down. “Please, just pass me.”
The BMW’s headlights loomed closer and larger in her side mirror. But then—just as it pulled up two car-lengths behind her, the BMW seemed to lock in position. It hovered there in the passing lane.
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