by Gregg Olsen
I wonder why I suggested Hops Ahoy in the first place. It’s a place I go when I’m down. Not for a date. Maybe that’s telling.
This isn’t a real date, I remind myself.
Funny how I can lie to myself too.
Outside, the yellow cast of the streetlight makes the replacement white top look dingy. I go back inside, change into a new white sleeveless one. It looks good with a blazer, so I can take my gun. I strap on my shoulder holster. Put the blazer on to hide the gun. There’s a serial killer on the loose. He targets women in bars.
Who knows? I might get lucky.
I call Dan from the car. I suddenly don’t want to go back to Hops Ahoy. I met Dan there last time and stood him up later. Something new is better.
He answers. “Hi. I was just leaving to meet you.”
“How would you like to meet at the Pourhouse instead? I know you like live music—and they have Scotch.” I remember he drinks Scotch.
“Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Are you on your way?”
“I’ll beat you there.” I hang up and within a minute I pull into the parking lot by the Pourhouse. It’s more local and not as touristy. I’ve never been there, but Ronnie was talking about it sometime during one of the long, long drives accompanied by her stream-of-consciousness chatter.
The back patio of the Pourhouse faces Port Townsend Bay and is the venue of the beer garden and live events. It is located between a marine battery shop and a wellness center. One town I traveled through on my way here from Ohio had a little strip like this. Only the bar was located between a gun shop and the city police department.
One-stop shopping, I think. Get a gun, get drunk, get arrested.
I park on the side of the building where I can see the white and blue of the back patio’s quartet of umbrellas. I scan for familiar faces. I recognize a couple of city policemen and deputies. Not a problem. This will allay the rumors that I’m a lesbian because I never date.
I don’t see Mindy’s flower van. I’m a little disappointed that she won’t be flying this mission with me. I’m nervous. I find a covered table at the back of the deck, keeping my back to the bay but a view of the bar and the parking lot. There are a few people playing bocce on a court between me and the bay, but I’m not worried about them. A waitress comes to my table with a big howdy smile and takes my order. I want a triple Scotch with a side of water to show the Scotch who’s boss. Instead, I order a white wine. I don’t want to get drunk until I get home. Alone. Maybe. I don’t know what I want. I feel the gun digging into my back and scoot the chair a little forward.
The gun comforts me. It’s familiar.
A pair of headlights pulls into a parking space beside my Taurus. The lights go off and Dan gets out of his pickup truck. He starts across the lot, sees me, and waves. I catch the waitress’s attention and call her to the table.
I think I will have that Scotch after all.
“Couldn’t you find a corner to sit in?” he asks, pulling out a chair and sitting. “I know you like to keep your back to the wall.”
“I don’t feel threatened by a bocce game.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. Should I ask about your day?”
“I should ask why you’re in town. Did you bring some carvings?”
“That’s part of the reason.”
Neither of us knows what to say next. I find myself wishing Mindy were here. Even Ronnie. Strike that. Not Ronnie. The waitress brings my Scotch and a shot glass of water.
Dan grins. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
The waitress leaves and Dan turns to me.
“What is that?” he asks. “Scotch with a side of water?”
“I’m introducing the Scotch to the water,” I tell him. “I thought they should get to know each other.”
We both laugh. I am slightly embarrassed. I normally don’t let loose like that with someone who’s not a close friend.
Of course, he tops my remark: “When she brings mine, we can let the waters sit by each other, so they don’t feel left out. It’ll be like a watered-down blind date.”
The laughter dies, the drinks come, we sip, stay quiet, sip some more, and I pray the live music will start. The band is tuning up on the platform twenty feet away. The sign is wrong. It isn’t live music. It’s barely alive music. The vocalist must be in his late eighties. To give him credit, he can still play a guitar, but he should stop singing.
Please God.
Dan seems to be in a pleasant mood. He’s tapping his foot to the music and doesn’t seem to notice how off-key the singing is. But that’s Dan, I think. Nonjudgmental. Just a nice guy. Unshakable.
“I remember hearing this performer. Do you ever listen to the older groups?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never developed a taste for a particular type of music. I can say yes, but then he’ll ask me who I like to listen to. I can say no, but then he’ll wonder if I hate music. I decide to change the subject.
“So how long are you going to be in town?”
That doesn’t come out sounding right, so I quickly rephrase it.
“I mean, when are you going home?”
Crap. Even worse. I’m nervous. Babbling. I sound like Ronnie right now.
“I have to go home in the morning,” Dan says. “I have several pieces to finish painting that I’ve promised to buyers.”
I want to ask if he is coming back. I want to see him again. I like being in his company, but I’m sure I’m anything but a good date. I remind myself this isn’t a date. So far, I haven’t let it become one. I can blame most of my messed-up life on my mother. She never let us stay in one place long enough to make friends, fit in. We were always on the run. Changing identities like some people change shirts. Lying to people. I was always lying to myself to hold on to some sanity.
And now, here is this gorgeous, talented man who likes me enough to reach out and try to keep in touch. Even though I’ve stood him up more than once. I can say it had happened because of my job, but the truth is I’m afraid of liking anyone that much. If only I could start over from here. But who am I kidding? I am still that girl.
Maybe it’s the Scotch, but the singer is starting to sound pretty good. We order food. Wings for Dan. Pizza for me. I must be hungry. There is nothing left to take home. We chat some. Mostly Dan talking about his business and how he plans to expand it.
“One of the reasons I’m in Port Townsend is to scout out some real estate for my business.”
“You’re going to open a studio?”
He laughs like he’s embarrassed, but the man is an artist with a chain saw and paintbrush. No joke. He doesn’t answer.
“Would you move here?”
His eyes are asking if I’d like that. I turn my head.
“Not necessarily,” he says. “I like working at my place out in Snow Creek. I’m thinking more of a place to sell what I make. Somewhere along the waterfront would be perfect. Of course, it would be seasonal, so I’m taking all that into consideration. And I’d need to hire someone to work the business while I’m busy making things. They’d have to be trustworthy, charming, willing to work long hours.”
“Sounds like you’ve put some thought into this, Dan.”
He laughs.
I love his laugh. It lights up his eyes.
“Mindy told me you have another big case.” He’s learning from me: changing the subject. “Can you talk about it? I won’t tell a soul.”
I need to confide in someone, if only to organize my thoughts. I feel like I can trust Dan, at least about this. I order another round and we talk. He’s easy to talk to and I tell him more than I intend, but he is a good listener. He doesn’t tell me how to do my job. I find that surprising in someone, especially in a man. It’s their nature to point things out.
When I’m talked out, he sits and thinks and looks out over the blackened waters of the bay.
“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate. I understand why you’ve been busy. Thank you for agreein
g to see me tonight.”
“Did you say you have some things for sale in town?”
He gives me the name of a little shop where a few of his carvings are on display.
“A bear, an eagle in flight, and a lighthouse,” he says. “The lighthouses go like hotcakes. I’m thinking of doing some diving bell helmets in wood.”
He offered me the bear when I was working on the last case in Snow Creek. I didn’t take it.
“Where is the bear?” I ask.
“Megan, I’m still holding the one I wanted to give you. I can bring it next time we get together.”
Slick. He’s setting me up for another date. He’s probably succeeded.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “The bear, I mean. It looked so real.”
Lots of things in my life look real. I look real. I can be anything anyone wants me to be. That level of deception is in my DNA. A curse put on me by my biological father. He was a cop. Like me. But a bad cop. I would never be a cop like him. But, like him, I took this job so I can get close to my targets. He did it to kill innocent victims. Me, to kill scumbags like him.
The elderly singer begins again, but my Scotch has melted my dislike. I know I’m getting drunk. I switch to coffee.
“Thanks, Dan.”
“For what?”
“For being such a good listener.”
“You mean for not telling you how to run your case? Not a problem. I’m a wood carver, not a detective. You don’t tell me how to make my carvings.”
I look at the time on my phone and he notices.
“I guess we’d better call it a night,” he says.
I nod. “I need to get to work early.”
I wish I could sit here all night. Not talk. Just look at the stars and the water.
I get up and he walks me to my car, opens the door, and holds it for me. “Good night, Megan.”
“Good night, Dan,” I say. “I had a nice time.”
He leans in and I don’t stop him. The kiss is soft and gentle. I’ve never been kissed like that. He smiles and I kiss him back. Harder this time. Then I pull away and get in my car. He shuts the door.
The kiss has sobered me completely. As I drive home, I can’t help but notice my jaw hurts. I just can’t stop smiling.
Thirty-Four
It’s almost midnight. I drop my purse and keys on the table by the door. I lean back against the door for a beat, close my eyes, replaying the night, the kiss, his smile and laughter. I can’t remember having such a relaxed evening.
It was almost normal.
Or what I imagine normal to be.
Even with three cups of coffee, the alcohol is still holding its own. I’m tired but I know I won’t sleep for a while. I lock my gun in the gun safe, change into a sweatshirt and shorts, and open my computer to check my email. I’m not expecting one from Hayden, although I’ve written quite a few to him. Again no answer.
I log out of my personal email and into my Sheriff’s account. There are more than a dozen messages. Several are from personnel and training. I’ve missed diversity training and cultural awareness twice. I don’t go because it’s four hours of my life I won’t get back while I’m stuck in a chair listening to instructions on how to do things that I already know how to do. It’s like getting a class on how to tie your shoelaces. I also don’t need to qualify with my gun each year. I’m an expert shot with a pistol, rifle, and shotgun. I don’t win a prize, just a certificate in my file showing that I complied.
Too wired to go to sleep. That’s me at the moment. I decide to listen to the rest of the tape I started last night. I take the box from the top shelf of the closet and put it on the floor by my desk. The player is still loaded with the cassette. I think about getting some wine, a habit I’ve developed when playing the tapes of my sessions with Dr. Albright. Instead, I go to the kitchen and get a glass of tap water. I need a clear head for the morning. I settle in the chair and hit the “play” button.
The tape picks up in the middle of a sentence.
Me: —spent my whole life thinking I was alone. I had no relatives but Mom and Dad and Hayden. I told my aunt I need to know everything so I can find my mom. And my stepfather’s killer.
Dr. A: Go on.
Me: I can tell Aunt Ginger is holding something back. Something big. But I also feel that she cares about me. That’s when she tells me that right after my mom had me, a policeman came into the room with flowers. He told Ginger, “Special delivery.” Aunt Ginger told him that the other woman in the room, a Ms. Morales, was sleeping. She said the guy was handsome and wearing a uniform. He told her the flowers were for Courtney. My mom. Aunt Ginger thought they might be from their mom and dad, so she took them from the man. He nodded and turned to leave. She said my mom had the rails up on the bed and didn’t make a move to take the flowers, so Aunt Ginger took them. He nodded at my mom and left the room.
My mom wouldn’t take the flowers, and Aunt Ginger took the card and handed it to her. She said mom started crying and her hand moved to the incubator unit I was in. She told Aunt Ginger, “We need to get the hell out of here.” She sounded afraid. Aunt Ginger said she argued with her. She’d just had a baby. They couldn’t just leave. But my mom swung her legs over the side of the bed, tore out the tubes in her arms, and let out a whimper. My mom knew that she could do nothing to draw attention to herself. She got dressed and repeated that they had to go. Now. My mom was saying, “He can’t have her.” Aunt Ginger thought she’d gone a little insane and was going to press the button for the nurse, but Mom stopped her and handed her the card. It said, “Congratulation to Us. Bound forever. She’s mine. Always will be. In time, I’ll come for her.”
I press “stop.”
“I’ll come for her. She’s mine.” I say the words in a whisper. “Bound forever.”
It brings me back to the case I’m working at the moment. Bound forever. Is that why these women were chained and collared like a dog? Was some kind of sick ownership at play here? All three victims were or had been pregnant; two had had babies and given them up. Yet the first victim, Margie, had the baby excised from her womb. Pregnancies were an undeniable connection to the killer.
I drink my water and consider a glass of wine, but only for a second. I need to keep my focus.
Jim Truitt might have been the father of Leann’s child. Could he also be the father of Margie’s and Dina’s children? Dina gave her baby away. Leann gave her child away. But Margie was still pregnant. Was that something important to the killer? Did he want to get rid of the baby? Did he want her to keep it? Maybe he is keeping the fetus as a trophy. Maybe he has a whole shelf full of jars with fetuses floating in them…
The thought turns my stomach. I start the tape again.
Me: My aunt tells me everything. She tells me how my mom and she were certain the man who had brought the flowers was connected with my mom’s rapist. Her tormenter. My father. They decided that he’d been connected to law enforcement and that he’d abducted other girls. And that my mom’s cleverness had saved her. But then my mom had me. And he’d found her.
I can hear the guilt barely hidden in my voice. I was the reason my mother was on the run. I listen as Dr. Albright’s soothing voice plays.
Dr. A: Do you feel to blame for any of that, Rylee?
I don’t answer for a few seconds. I remember thinking that I knew what Dr. Albright wanted me to say.
She wanted to hear that I wasn’t responsible.
Me: I know I’m not.
Dr. A: Exactly. You were a newborn. You made no choices.
Me: But Aunt Ginger said that Mom had considered giving me away. If she had, maybe…
Dr. A: You can’t go back and change any of that. You were a newborn.
Me: She almost gave me away. But my aunt said that once I was born and my mom held me, she wasn’t going to give me away. She had never even filled out the paperwork. And she wasn’t going to let him have me.
I turn off the tape player.
Pap
erwork. There had to be paperwork filled out for the pregnancies, delivery, adoption, everything. Maybe the paperwork will tell me who the fathers are. The hospitals are a good place to start tomorrow. If I’m lucky, maybe there’s even surveillance footage.
As much as I dread playing the tapes of my sessions, Dr. Albright was right in their having a purpose. Clues. I leave the tape in the player, put it in the box, and put the box back in the closet. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I have to be up at 6:00 and get an early start.
I brush my teeth and coax the tangles out of my hair and on my way to bed stop at the computer. I have to check my email. Compulsive, I know. Personal and work. I’ve been out of touch for several hours and something might have happened. Not likely, because someone would have called me or found me.
I pull up my personal email account. I scan quickly down the list of emails but all I want to do is lie down and go to sleep thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m going to track down Boyd myself. I’m going to trade Ronnie to Marley for the DNA results.
A fair trade, I think.
There’s nothing in my email that needs to be answered immediately. I go to my work account. One message is from an email address that looks like a marketing scam, but it feels familiar. I hesitate to open it. A chill runs up my spine and I get my gun from the gun safe. My heart pounds in my throat and I check every room, the shower, the closets, the doors, the windows. All secure. I still don’t put the gun away. I sit at my desk, gun in hand, and open the email.
The subject line reads: Hi Rylee!
The air leaves my lungs just then. I let out a quiet gasp, something that I’d never allow myself in front of another. I see the exclamation point after my name as a kind of dagger. No, a kitchen knife -- dipped in blood.
It’s him again.
Wallace.