Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again

by Lutz, Lisa

  Back in a suit, Stone exited his home and got into his police-issued sedan. I could have followed him, but judging from his attire, he was working a case.

  Instead, I circled his house, looking for an open window or an unlocked door. There was no easy access, so I picked the deadbolt and barrel lock on the back entrance. I was out of practice, so it took about a half hour. It should have occurred to me that breaking into the home of a police inspector was probably a bad idea, but sleep deprivation trumps common sense.

  I justified my lapse into the habits of my past by convincing myself that, inside this unbearably tidy bachelor pad, I was going to discover that the inspector was merely a pawn in my father’s master plan. The truth had to be in here, didn’t it? It had to be somewhere. This place was as good as any.

  Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I deciphered the layout of the apartment—your average San Francisco two-bedroom flat. Two entrances. Front. Back. Back door leads from pantry to kitchen. Front door from foyer to living room. The bedrooms and bathroom off to one side. Usually you can guess how long a place has been inhabited based on the accrued clutter. But Stone’s space was all clean lines and empty countertops, a place for everything and not a single nonutilitarian item in sight. It was sad, in its way.

  I roamed the apartment, searching for the unknown, something that could prove what I knew had to be true. What would this evidence look like? And if I found it, what would I do? Would I go to the police? Would I silently enact further revenge? Would I continue the war?

  Stone’s bedroom had the warmth and lived-in quality of a high-end hotel. The quilt on his bed was perfectly tucked in and symmetrically aligned.

  “You better have one hell of an explanation,” Inspector Stone said upon entering the room.

  I was too angry to be surprised. “Oh, I do,” I responded smugly.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I didn’t at first, but then he shot me a look that I translated into “If you don’t sit down immediately, I will arrest you for breaking and entering.” So I sat down. Stone paced back and forth, presumably while he formed his reprimand. But I struck first.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Isabel, you just broke into the home of a police inspector.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “I had to prove you were in on it.”

  “In on what?”

  “You know.”

  “In fact, I don’t.”

  “On Rae’s disappearance.”

  I could almost see Stone’s indignation deflate. “You think I was involved?” he said.

  “You and my parents.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No. But that’s a good idea.”

  “What’s going on, Isabel?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I saw the picture of you and my dad.”

  “What picture?”

  “I don’t know. Rae took it. Maybe a month or two ago.”

  Stone appeared unfazed by my discovery. “I don’t know why there would be a picture, but I met with your father a few months back to consult on another case. It was unrelated. We can go to the police department and I can show you the file, but you need to listen to me now. I had nothing to do with your sister’s disappearance and neither did your parents.”

  Even in the miasma of sleep deprivation I knew I had been mistaken. It slowly sank in that I had no more answers today than yesterday and the day before that. My sister was missing and there was no logical explanation for it.

  I stared down at the floor for what seemed like forever. Stone must have thought I had fallen asleep. He tapped my knee to wake me.

  “Isabel, you don’t really believe we could do something like that?” Stone spoke calmly and almost sympathetically.

  “It’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? Anything is better than believing she is dead.”

  “I suppose so,” he said. The fact that he didn’t say any more, the fact that he didn’t tell me it was going to be all right, that he accepted my statement as a valid point, made me know for certain that he was not my enemy. It would have been so much easier if he was.

  “Are you going to arrest me?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And sorry for, you know, breaking into your home.”

  “Apology accepted. But could you promise me you won’t do this sort of thing again?”

  “I promise I won’t break into your home again.”

  “Not just my home. Any home.”

  “At the moment, I can’t make that promise.”

  Stone and I sat in silence. I think he expected me to make a run for it, but I had nowhere to go. This place was as good as any.

  “Can I get you anything?” Stone asked.

  “Got any whiskey?”

  Stone silently left the room. He returned some minutes later and handed me a mug. I took a sip of the beverage and spat it out.

  “That’s the worst whiskey I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s herbal tea.”

  “That’s why.”

  “Isabel, why don’t you take a nap?”

  I’m still not sure why the nap was suggested. Like a child, I was led into the guest room, the covers were pulled back, and Stone shut the door behind him as he left. I removed my shoes and socks, jacket, and watch, and slid under the covers, thinking I’d pretend to sleep since I couldn’t think of anything better to do. But the stress of the day exhausted me and sleep took over.

  I was jarred awake shortly after midnight by the ringing of a telephone. I slipped out of bed and walked over to the doorway. If I had ever possessed physical grace, it had evolved into stealth. I quietly opened the bedroom door and my bare feet silently passed through the hallway and followed the sound of Stone’s voice into the kitchen.

  “…I understand, Mrs. Spellman. But she is fine and she is here. Yes, I’ll keep an eye on her…no. I don’t need to. I don’t need to ask her. I assure you, Mrs. Spellman, she had nothing to do with Rae’s disappearance…”

  I returned to the bedroom, slipped on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and watch, and ran out the front door. I could hear Stone chasing after me but couldn’t make out the words. His words didn’t matter. The fact that my mother thought I was capable of doing something so outrageously cruel stung beyond anything I could measure in my past. It didn’t matter that I had mentally accused her of the same.

  I got into my car and managed a getaway before Stone had a chance to catch me. I still had the internal map of Uncle Ray’s galaxy of motels. Calculating proximity and general cleanliness, I opted for the Flamingo Inn on Seventh Street.

  I checked in and got a room on the second level with a view of nothing and a king-size bed. There’s something comforting about those cheap, spare rooms with the enormous gold-leaf comforters as the centerpiece. The unfamiliar walls allow you to breathe, to feel like you have escaped. I imagined moving in permanently, wondered what the weekly, monthly, or perhaps yearly rates were. I imagined living in an alternative motel universe, where the past was erased.

  But you need money to live in a motel, and it had been three weeks since I had earned a paycheck. The cash in my account was slowly draining and I had never been one for saving. I paid for the room in cash, but I knew that I probably had only two motel nights left in my account.

  Once I settled in the room (i.e., threw my bag on the bed and took off my jacket), I ransacked my wallet, pulling credit cards and calling customer service to check my available balances. I would sustain this anonymous lifestyle as long as I could. Between my checking account and two credit cards, I had fifteen hundred dollars to my name, not to mention the emergency card I had stashed in the lining of the wallet. I reached into the wo
rn leather wallet, slipped my finger into a two-inch-wide hole in the lining behind the billfold section. It was empty.

  I searched the wallet a half dozen more times, the entire contents of which were eventually splayed across the bed. But the card, the emergency card, was not there. I couldn’t call for a replacement, because I didn’t have the card number. I had those written down on a slip of paper that I hid on the underside of my desk at the office—the office where I no longer worked. I would have to break into my parents’ house the next morning.

  I set the alarm for 5:00 A.M. and tried to sleep. I tried to count sheep but discovered that counting the holes in the stucco ceiling was far more satisfying. But neither induced sleep. I was out of bed, showered, and dressed long before the alarm buzzed. Within twenty minutes I had parked around the corner from my parents’ house, entered the backyard through the alleyway, climbed the fire escape up to my old bedroom window (which has a pulley on the latch so that I can open it from the outside), and entered my old apartment. In my best imitation of a cat burglar, I worked my way downstairs to the office. The door was locked, but I still had my key and apparently they had not gotten around to changing the locks. I found the sheet of paper with all my identification numbers on it and quickly slid out the office window and made the phone call from my car.

  My sister had been missing for five days.

  THE FINAL BATTLE

  Isabel Spellman” checked into the Motel 6 by the San Francisco airport five nights ago. It was approximately a half-hour drive from the house, but it seemed like only seconds had passed in transit. When I arrived, I couldn’t move from my car. I sat frozen, trying to calculate my next move. What I knew in my heart to be true, I had to see for a fact. And I had to document everything that would follow.

  I pulled my digital recorder out of my purse, turned it on, and stuck it in my jacket pocket. I got out of the car and walked across the street toward the motel.

  And that is when I saw her. Rae. Crossing the street right in front of me. In her arms was an unruly bundle of snacks (of the sugared variety), which she presumably bought from the convenience store across the street. Within a moment, she saw me approach and the look on her face was like a thousand-word essay of the truth. A package of Ding Dongs fell to the ground, and she didn’t try to collect it. Instead, she stared at me, paralyzed, scared, her eyes a slide show of guilt. And I knew then for a fact that my sister’s disappearance was not hinged on foul play or any other sinister option. And I knew that she wasn’t a runaway. And I knew her memory was fully intact. And I knew that for the last five days she had been safe and sound, consuming vast amounts of sugar.

  And what I knew above all else was that she had kidnapped herself. And I knew why. Her intentions were to unite the family. Her intentions were to bring me home. Her intentions were to force the concept of a tragedy so horrific that our family would suddenly become the kind that didn’t follow one another, bug one another’s rooms, listen in on phone calls, interrogate relentlessly. Our family should only do that to others.

  Rae used my credit card so that I would find her. Her disappearance was to leave a mark on everyone. But it was a message to me. I was responsible for everything that happened. It was my fault.

  Rae sustained her frozen stare from across the parking lot, her arms still cradling the forbidden stash. The moment I knew that my sister was alive, I said to her, “You’re dead.” I doubt she heard my words through the hum of traffic, but she got the picture when I sliced my index finger across my throat.

  Rae’s emergency provisions scattered around her as she made a run for it. With six inches on my sister and the adrenaline of sheer rage on my side, I managed to make up the fifteen yards and caught her just as she reached the front door to room 11.

  Her hand grasped the doorknob as I swung my right arm around her waist. I lifted her off her feet and disengaged her grasp. I threw her down on a small grassy section in front of the building, a ten-by-fifteen-foot concrete-enclosed area with a bench and seesaw, impersonating a playground.

  The transcripts read as follows:

  ISABEL: You are dead.

  [I pinned Rae’s arms and legs to the ground as she thrashed about.]

  RAE: You gave me no choice.

  ISABEL: You are so dead.

  RAE: I did it for you.

  ISABEL: Did you hear me? Dead.

  RAE: I love you!

  ISABEL: Don’t you dare say that!

  RAE: I had a very good reason.

  ISABEL: I have a very good reason to kill you.

  RAE: Let go of me.

  ISABEL: Never.

  RAE: Please.

  ISABEL: You’re going back to camp.

  RAE: Let’s negotiate.

  ISABEL: And private school.

  RAE: That hurts!

  ISABEL: Say good-bye to the Froot Loops—

  RAE: Ouch!

  ISABEL: Lucky Charms—

  RAE: Help!

  ISABEL: Cocoa Puffs—

  RAE: No!

  ISABEL: You’re going on a macrobiotic diet. [Rae’s body went slack.]

  RAE: Okay, I give up.

  I released my grip and rolled off to the side. Rae took that opportunity to attempt another escape. I caught her foot and launched her back to the grass and once again climbed on top of her, trying to pin her like before. But her arms flailed wildly, occasionally making contact with my face, charging my anger.

  I rolled her over on her stomach and pulled her arms behind her back.

  ISABEL: Don’t try to escape.

  [Just as I got control of Rae, two police officers came up behind me and wrenched me off her.]

  OFFICER #1: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down.

  ISABEL: Accept your fate.

  RAE: You would have done the same thing if you were me.

  ISABEL: Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you put us through? You’re dead.

  [I strain against the tight grip of the first officer.]

  OFFICER #2: Ma’am, if you can’t control yourself, we’re going to have to cuff you and take you in.

  ISABEL: Cuff her. Cuff the kid. She should be arrested.

  OFFICER #1: Ma’am, this is the last time I’m going to ask you to calm down.

  RAE: I’m sorry.

  ISABEL: You will be. Just wait until Mom and Dad hear about this.

  OFFICER #1: Are you two related?

  ISABEL: Not much longer.

  RAE: That’s my sister. I think you better let her go.

  OFFICER #2: Not until she learns to control herself.

  ISABEL: I’m not just going to kill you. I’m going to torture you.

  OFFICER #2: Ma’am, we can’t release you if you keep talking like that.

  ISABEL: You better grow eyes on the back of your head, Rae.

  OFFICER #1: Ma’am, that was your final warning.

  [For the second time in two days, I felt the cold metal of handcuffs on my skin and not even an ounce of marijuana to show for it. One of the officers threw me against the trunk of the car. But I couldn’t stop.]

  ISABEL: The rest of your life will be pure hell.

  [Rae knew she was in trouble. She knew that whatever happened to me would result in further punishment for her. It was in her best interest to save us both.]

  RAE: Please let her go. It was my fault.

  ISABEL: Of course it was your fault, you lunatic.

  OFFICER #1: Ma’am, stop squirming.

  RAE: Let her go. She didn’t do anything.

  OFFICER #2: Young lady, can you explain to us what is going on here?

  ISABEL: I’ll explain.

  OFFICER #2: No, let the girl explain.

  RAE: She’s my sister and she’s mad at me.

  OFFICER #1: Did she hurt you, miss?

  RAE: Only a little.

  OFFICER #1: Are you afraid of her?

  RAE: No. I’m fine.

 
ISABEL: You better be afraid of me.

  RAE: If you don’t stop saying that, Izzy, they won’t let you go.

  OFFICER #1: Young lady, has your sister hurt you?

  RAE: If you don’t let her go, she will hurt me.

  ISABEL: You got that right.

  OFFICER #2: We can protect you.

  ISABEL: They can’t protect you.

  OFFICER #2: That’s enough, ma’am.

  ISABEL: Stop calling me ma’am!

  [Officer #2 pulled me off the car by the chain on the cuffs, nearly dislocating my arms from their sockets. The back door of the black-and-white was opened, and Officer #1 put his hand over my head and pushed me onto the seat.]

  ISABEL: You won’t go to just any old camp, Rae.

  [The second officer shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.]

  ISABEL: How does music camp sound to you?

  RAE: No!

  [The first officer kneeled down and spoke sympathetically to Rae.]

  OFFICER #1: What’s your name, sweetheart?

  RAE: Rae Spellman.

  OFFICER #1: Is that your sister?

  RAE: Yes.

  OFFICER #1: What is her name?

  RAE: Isabel Spellman.

  OFFICER #1: Okay, Rae, this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to stay here with you and call your parents and another squad car will come and take you home.

  RAE: I have to go with Izzy.

  OFFICER #1: We have to book your sister.

  RAE: Book me, too. I have to go, too.

  OFFICER #1: No. That’s not how it works.

  RAE: You need to put handcuffs on me, too.

  OFFICER #1: But sweetheart, you didn’t do anything wrong.

  RAE: I will.

  OFFICER #1: Let’s just relax here. Take a deep breath.

  [Rae kicked the police officer in the shin, an act she figured would not require lethal retaliation, but would sting enough to force a harsh response. Perhaps one that involved handcuffs and, if she were lucky, an assault charge.]