Shocking True Story

by Gregg Olsen

  A floor lamp was switched on, bouncing light off the mostly empty room. My heart rate increased when I saw two bulging pillowcases on the floor. One was a mint green case with purple irises on it; the other was a faded scene from one of the Shrek movies. The last time I had seen them was at home, on my daughter's beds, with their sleeping faces pressed against them.

  I bent over and looked inside each one.

  Halloween candy.

  “Hayley? Taylor?” I called as I walked to the apartment's only bedroom. I had never been more awake in my life. I didn't need any more light. I was a cat. I could see everything in the hall, everything in the room.

  “It's Dad. Girls? Are you here?”

  There was no sound, just the buzz of a radio not tuned in adequately. I saw a row of my books on the bed stand. A young woman's clothes were scattered from the bathroom to the bed; newspaper accounts of the Parker murder had been clipped and arranged on the pillow. It was a display. A vignette, I knew, meant for my eyes. The pace of my heartbeat quickened again as I moved around the small room, but I saw nothing more of my children. I held one of the pillow cases to my face and nose and breathed in the smell of my babies. I knew the smell of their hair, their breath, the sweet scent of my children.

  Where were they?

  My eyes frantically scanned the front room. There was no television, no table. The sole piece of furniture was a futon, its fabric a black and white Holstein cow print. Against the white and black were bright orange and fuchsia rectangles. The light played off the pieces and drew my eyes closer. Like a crow straining for a shiny bit of foil, I bent down. It was the Fantastic Plastic. I remembered how Jett had brought it over in her “kid's kit” to entertain the girls before dinner. They had made barrettes out of the shiny, malleable material. I had even been coaxed into playing with the stuff myself.

  The fingerprints that had turned up in reverse on the Shantung Rag paper sample had been pulled off the Fantastic Plastic.

  The reception on my cell too faint to make a call, I went to the kitchen telephone and punched in the numbers for our home. I had to talk to Valerie. I had not been to church since I was confirmed in high school, but I prayed to God right then like a television evangelist. Out loud I called for God to help me put my family back together.

  The kitchen counter was immaculate in its neatness. It was the kitchen of a fastidious person; or a person who seldom cooked at home. A badly chipped almond-colored sink was devoid of all, but a few dirty dishes. Each dish was a black plastic divided dish. I had recognized them as microwavable TV dinner trays. Jett had never learned to cook. She had her meals at Maplewood for half of her young life. A pair of scissors, some butchered magazines, and a sheaf of familiar gray envelopes caught my eye.

  And raised my pulse another notch.

  A 1980s Laurel Burch cat purse on the floor also resonated in some strange way. I'd seen it before, but not with Jett.

  Valerie answered my call on the third ring.

  “They were here, Val. I found their candy bags.”

  My wife didn't say anything. I heard her cry, “I know. I know.”

  “I know, honey. I know,” I answered back.

  “Kevin, they're here. All—”

  She was cut off. I called Val's name over and over. In a moment I heard a familiar voice on the line. It was Jett Carter soundly oddly robotic, cold. “Yes, we're here. We're all here. You should have left well enough alone. No police. Don't talk to Martin Raines.”

  The line went silent for a few seconds.

  “Jett? Why?”

  “I'll tell you. Meet us on the Narrows Bridge at midnight. Mid-span. Park TRUCRYM on the east side and walk across.”

  I wondered why the bridge, but I didn't ask her about it. Now, I knew fear. I knew it in a way that had been completely foreign to me. It was my fear. Not someone else's.

  “Jett, I'll come now. I'll come right now. Please, are my girls... is Val all right?”

  There was a deliberate pause.

  “No, don't come here,” she said. “We won't be here. So don't bother. Listen carefully, Kevin. I'm in charge now. Everyone is fine. You should worry about yourself. Think about yourself. You're good at that, Kevin. You've always been good at that.”

  Amidst the muffled cries of my family, the phone went dead. I held my arms around my chest and squeezed. What was happening? Why in the world was she doing this?

  As I debated whether I'd call the police or handle it on my own, a flash of steel caught my eye. It came from the sink. I moved closer and stretched my neck as if I were a kid looking into a box of snakes.

  Among the plastic, divided plates was a Ginsu knife.

  It was Hop Sing.

  It had not been Valerie who killed anyone. God, I had been so dimwitted to even think it. It had not been Wanda-Lou; nor Anna Cameron. And God knew it had not been me. It had been Jett. She had been the one who poisoned Mrs. Parker and slashed her with the knife. Things were falling into place. Jett could have taken the knife anytime during one of the first visits to our home. She had found our house through Wanda-Lou. I dismissed the thought that Wanda-Lou had anything to do with it. She was ambitious, but she was not a killer.

  Neither was Valerie.

  Jett also had access to the Weasel-Die. She might have been the caller who pointed out to that police that I had thrown out the stuff. I had told her I did that. What of the piece of paper, the Shantung Rag, found in Mrs. Parker's hand? I couldn't make sense of that. It was true that she could have taken it from the house, but I never saw the paper. I was still certain that Val had in fact really ordered it. How could the fingerprints be in reverse and the signature “suggest” that it had been written by me?

  I pulled myself together and called Martin from Val's commandeered cell phone.

  “Any word about the kids?” he asked. His voice was deep, full of concern.

  I told him that we had heard nothing. Though I knew what Jett was capable of, I felt that I knew her well enough to believe that she wouldn't harm the girls and Val. I had seen how she played with Hedda. How she had teased the girls like an older sister. How she had talked with Val about going back to school so she could get a better job than the one at Ho! We had been friends. We had taken her into our family. We consoled her after every visit to the prison when she saw her sister and mother. She wouldn't hurt us.

  Finally, he answered. “They'll be fine, I know it. We're working on it.”

  “I know you are,” I said.

  I didn't tell him that I had been inside Jett Carter's apartment and I knew more than he did. “Martin, I've got to see that slip of paper. That Shantung Rag. Can you meet me at the Justice Center in five?”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I'm here in Timberlake, but I have to leave right away. I've got to get home to be with Val by midnight. I promised.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Even Later, Thursday, October 31

  THE JUSTICE CENTER WAS NOT AS UGLY IN THE LIGHT of the moon and street lamps as it was during the day. I had not been there since my arrest and the place did not hold fond memories for me. I waited in my truck until I saw Raines walk toward the front door. I called to him to wait and the two of us went inside together. He flashed his ID to the officer in the property room and introduced me as a “fiber expert” from out of town. He signed in his name and the night property clerk unlocked the evidence vault and returned with an envelope.

  “We'll need to see it on the table.”

  The night cop nodded and pushed a release mechanism for the bottom half of the Dutch door that separated the outside world from the exhibits and evidence that would be used in court. It was a poor, insecure system, but I did not take the opportunity to criticize it. I looked at my watch; twenty minutes had passed since Jett had given her instructions. Part of me wanted to tell Marty, but I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk my family.

  We walked over to an ancient light table.

  “Was used at the local newspape
r during its cold type days,” Raines said of the glass-topped oak relic.

  The manila envelope marked with the case number assigned to Mrs. Parker's murder was opened. A pair of tweezers was used to pull the paper from its holder. It appeared blank. It was in the shape of a goose egg, about the same size.

  Raines flipped it over. I saw the writing as clear as could be. It was Kevin Ryan. On top was the word Ishes.

  The night cop lingered for a moment, so Raines spoke.

  “The name is clear, an exact spelling and a modified approximation of Mr. Ryan's signature. We're not sure about the meaning of the source of the word on top.”

  “The man wrote that, too,” I said. Without moving his head, Martin Raines turned his eyes to mine. “Ishes is part of Best Wishes,” I added.

  The Shantung Rag had been a piece of scrap paper on which Wanda-Lou and I had practiced signing our names on during the weeks she stayed with us. She had told me that my scrawl was not authorly enough. I needed to work on it. So, we played around on paper that Valerie had in a pile next to her graphic arts supplies.

  “Can we call Wanda-Lou Webster from your office?” I asked. “I know it's late, but I think we'd better talk to her.”

  “Wanda-Lou Webster, the famous author?”

  I cringed at his quick observation. “That's the one.”

  “April loved her book,” he added.

  ♦

  THE PHONE RANG SIX TIMES when Wanda-Lou's machine finally kicked in.

  “Hi, I'm either writing another blockbuster book or giving a seminar. Be sure to watch Maury on the fifteenth. I'll be on the panel. Leave a message and be sure to leave your address to get on my newsletter mailing list....”

  “Wanda-Lou, it's Kevin Ryan. Are you there? Pick up, dammit.”

  A groggy Wanda-Lou got on the phone. “Kevin, it's late...got a seminar to give in Las Vegas tomorrow evening...what is it?”

  “Wanda-Lou, you know Jett Carter? The gal you sent out to my house? The big fan?”

  Wanda-Lou hacked into the phone. She needed to quit smoking while she still had lung function.

  “Are you still mad at me for that?” she asked.

  I told her I wasn't, though she was another in the long line I would like to kill.

  “Did you give her anything other than my address?”

  “Don't think so.”

  “Think! Think again!”

  Wanda-Lou took her time. So many seconds passed I was afraid she had fallen back to sleep.

  “Well?”

  “I gave her the address....”

  “How did you give it to her?”

  “I wrote it on that card we were messing with when we did our signatures. God, Kevin, who would have thought that my signature would be more important than yours?”

  I hated that woman.

  “Bye, Wanda-Lou.”

  I hung up. Jett Carter had planned it all from the beginning. She had gone after me and my family. She had done so for a reason. I just didn't know what it was.

  “Martin, this whole thing with Mrs. Parker's murder was a total setup, everything from Hop Sing to Shantung Rag.”

  Raines stared at me as I turned to leave. His look of confusion was overwhelming.

  “Who in the hell is Hop Sing?” he called out.

  I disappeared into the hallway. My heart pounded harder with each step. Each beat was a terrible and unnecessary reminder: I had a date on a bridge.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Early Morning, Friday, November 1

  THE TACOMA NARROWS BRIDGE knew no time of day when cars ceased crossing its mile-long span. But at midnight, that Friday night after Halloween, it was quiet. A bread truck lumbered across and a spotty stream of moviegoers drove home to the peninsula. The bar crowd would drive across at two. And during the week, the commuter traffic would pick up as early as four a.m. for the men and women who worked at Boeing plants in south King County.

  I saw Val's tuna-can car and my heart sank lower as I pulled into the little park that commemorated the day when high winds rocked and rolled the first bridge into Puget Sound's treacherous Tacoma Narrows. A used condom stuck to my shoe and I scraped it off on the curb. For a second, my mind was diverted from the troubles that I was about to face.

  I was terrified of heights. I could barely stand on a ladder without breaking out in a sweat. When Cecile and Gina invited Taylor and Hayley to walk across the bridge that summer, I had been horrified. I couldn't stand driving across it. I could not imagine walking across it.

  Each vehicle gave the bridge a little bounce, an unnerving vibration that reminded me that I was one thousand feet above the chasm between the mainland and the peninsula. Water rushed below faster than anywhere in the world. Pity the boater without enough power to get out of its tremendous pull. Nobody went near the Narrows without an understanding of currents and the tides. At least, as far as I knew, nobody with half a brain ever did. The wind howled and flashing yellow lights warned motorists of excessive winds. An orange wind sock, full and erect, pointed to the north. I held onto the handrail. I looked only in front of me; never at my feet.

  I saw them at mid-span. Four figures huddled against the rail. I knew who they were, of course, but if I had been a driver passing by I would have thought they were tourists with a bad sense of timing. The view from the bridge was more beautiful during the day, though nighttime lights off the bay and along the shore were charming. Tonight it only seemed sinister. No one called to me, though I was certain Valerie had turned her head to watch me approach. No one said a word. When I moved closer, I could see why.

  Jett had taped my wife and daughters' mouths with wide patches of silvery duct tape. The glossy tape wrapped the circumference of their heads, like permanent hair bands hidden in the back of the hair. I could see the terror in their eyes. All had been crying. The salty residue of tears had dried in telling streaks on their faces. I could also see a knife in Jett's right hand.

  She stood in front, the three members of my family in a row behind her. “You're right on time,” she said.

  I was nearly out of breath from the walk. I stood a few feet from her and I told myself to remain calm. Being calm will make this turn out all right. Steady. Calm. Steady. “What's going on? Jett, why are you doing this?”

  She didn't respond at first. And she didn't speak to me. Instead, she turned away, and told Taylor and Hayley to stand next to their mother and hold onto the rail facing off the bridge.

  “Don't move until I say so.” Her words were sharp. Cold. Like a piece of steel stored in a freezer. “You too, Valerie!”

  Jett stepped closer. She had a kind of bitter look that I would never have thought her capable. I had always believed, I had always told everyone, that Jett Carter was the rare success story. She had been through hell because of her upbringing, yet she had turned out normal. As I stood there, I revised the assessment.

  “You don't care who your books hurt, do you? All you care about is your next advance, your next movie deal.”

  “I always care about the people I write about.”

  “Yeah, right. What you care about is that your next book is bigger than anyone else's. That's the bottom line.”

  I tried to remain calm. I reminded her that I hadn't even written Love You to Death yet.

  “How can you judge it when it hasn't been written? Jett, you were a victim of the crimes of your sister and mother. You didn't have a hand in them. I would never hurt you.”

  She pulled the knife out in the open and flashed it down by her thigh. She wanted me to see it again. Not anyone else. Not the passing cars.

  “I'm not talking about my mom's story. I'm talking about Austin's story.”

  I looked at her blankly. I didn't know who she was talking about. I hoped for a second that this had been some bad misunderstanding. She had the wrong true crime author. Maybe she wanted Ross or the other Ryan?

  “Who's Austin?” I asked.

  Jett looked to the sky and shook her head in exasper
ation. “It figures that you don't know. Some great researcher you are. What did you tell me? You might write like a hack but you research like a fiend? Something like that, right, Kevin? For your pathetic information, Austin was Melinda Moser's son. He's my boyfriend. At least he was my boyfriend.”

  Melinda Moser was the woman whose murder I had written about in Murder Cruise. I vaguely knew she had a son. He'd gone to the luau with his father and his murderous paramour that night they killed Melinda. But he was an infant, then, or so I recalled. Surely he wouldn't be more than twelve by now? I barely mentioned him in Murder Cruise.

  Jett spat her words at me. “You made her sound like some kind of slut.”

  “I hadn't meant to do that,” I said, inching slightly closer. I could see my wife and daughters shivering in the bitter combination of cold air and fear. I wanted to run to them and hug them, hold them against the wind and the terror from our supposed friend. I wanted to scoop them up to safety.

  Jett was shuddering, too. She told me that she had met Austin at Maplewood when she lent him some of her books.

  “He loved me. He loved me for me. When you wrote that book and said those nasty things about his mother....” Jett started to cry, though she didn't give up her tears easily. I knew she had fought those same tears all her life. She had told me she was strong. Stronger than her mother and sister. Strong as anyone could be. I knew then that it was a lie. She was still a little girl. She held the knife up higher.

  “I didn't mean to hurt him,” I said in my most soothing voice. “Jett, I'm so sorry.”

  She stared at me, then down at the water for a moment. She looked as young as ever. She was thin, pale and forlorn. She was a wasted life. She had come to the end of her rope and it had been my fault. Jett Carter was going to take no prisoners that night.

  “Austin and I planned on teaching you a lesson, until it happened.” She was fighting. She was trying to hold it in, but her tears came down in a torrent. She waved the knife around, her hand wavering like the wind sock atop the bridge.