by Ruth Parker
“You’ll say it was all your idea?” Melissa asked optimistically.
“Yes, now will you help me so we can get out of here?” Madison urged.
“Promise?” Melissa asked, but she was already pulling herself off of the couch and Madison knew she’d won.
“Yes, come on,” she said.
The girls tiptoed up the stairs and Madison directed Melissa where to grab and when to pull. As predicted, the nails came out of the wall. After the nails were out, the girls rocked the door back and forth, putting wrenching pressure on the top hinge, boring out the screw-holes so that the screws would have no purchase in the splintery, mushy wood. After what seemed like forever, the wiggling started to get easier. It was like trying to uproot a plant from the dirt.
“Okay, now we’re going to hang on it hard,” Madison whispered. “One… two… three!” When she got to three, there was a dry ripping sound as the screws pulled free from the door.
The door was much, much heavier than Madison imagined. When she had helped her father with the door at home, Madison was able to hold it up on her own. Her dad said the doors were hollow on the inside like a chocolate Easter bunny. Madison tried to hold onto this door, but it tipped over fast and hard; there was no way she could hold on. It crashed outward, into the outside room which Madison could now see was the kitchen. There was a spectacular sound as the door crashed to the hard linoleum floor.
“Come on,” she hissed at Melissa, who sat shocked on the floor, rubbing at a small cut on her arm from where the door had scraped her as it fell. Melissa got to her feet and followed Madison. It looked like they were in a regular house, so it shouldn’t be hard to find the front door. The hard part would be what came after they found the front door, if they would face endless miles of white snow or thick uninhabited woods.
“What the hell was that?” It was the man’s voice. He was angry.
It sounded a lot closer than Madison could have ever imagined.
Twenty-Seven
Detective Barbara Bowen was driving as fast as she could, but that still wasn’t fast enough. It was almost four in the afternoon and traffic was thickening, congealing like a stew left to sit on the counter top. The flashers meant nothing. The other cars couldn’t get out of her way if there was no space anywhere to get over.
She tried that asshole Fletcher’s cell phone. Straight to voice mail. He was not supposed to go into that house. Under any circumstances. He knew it, and he didn’t care. He was going to screw everything up. She could tell by the way he looked at Laurel, the way he talked about her, the way his face had clouded into a dark and violent mask when he couldn’t find her—he was in love with her and wasn’t going to be able to think straight.
He was going to get them all killed.
She pulled off the freeway, getting onto a smaller road that paralleled the highway. It would be better on city streets. She could run some red lights.
The radio beeped and she heard Underwood’s voice come through, sounding oddly calm. “Bowen? Bowen? How far out are you?” She picked up the radio.
“GPS says ten minutes,” she said. “You?”
“I just passed SE Jefferson,” he said. “I’m coming through from Lake Crest Highway. Probably ten minutes.”
“SWAT on the way?” Bowen asked.
“We put in a call to Portland, they said half their squad is down in Eugene today at the University doing an active shooter training. We’re on our own.” There were good and bad things about that. Mostly bad things. “You get a hold of that asshole Fletcher yet?” Underwood asked.
“His phone’s off,” Bowen said. Why did everyone keep referring to him as that asshole Fletcher?
“Not surprised,” Underwood said. “There’s going to be a shit storm and our umbrellas are all turned inside out.”
“Did you get anything on the suspect?” Bowen asked. The car in front of her slowed down and she swerved onto the dirt shoulder to pass it, honking constantly.
“The deed to the property is in the name of Sheila Mullins,” Underwood said. “They ran a check on her back at the station, nothing came up. Been collecting social security for the last couple years. Her record’s clean. But she hasn’t worked or paid taxes since the nineties. They’re doing a deeper background check as we speak.”
“What about Johnnie Mullins?” The light ahead turned yellow, but Bowen floored it. A car coming the other direction almost hit her, but she swerved out of the way. Her stomach clenched from the sudden movement. Or maybe it was from nerves—from the sick hope that they would get Laurel and the girls before it was too late.
“Johnnie is another story,” he said.
“What’s his deal?” Bowen asked, annoyed that Underwood didn’t just get to the damned point already.
“Not much,” Underwood said. “No arrests or anything, but on and off since 1998, he’s gotten 1099s from Union River, Baker, and Beaverton South School Districts. We called the HR departments and it turns out that he’s a freelance photographer, does the portraits, team pictures, graduation pictures, that sort of thing. The schools contract with different photographers, but he’s one of the regulars.”
Bowen thought about that. She had a little boy who was in fifth grade. If you thought about all the ways your kid could get hurt on a daily—no, hourly—basis, it would drive you insane. “Wait,” she said. “Union River? That’s down south, that’s where—”
“The Clark twins went to school, yes,” Underwood said. “He must have seen them one day at the school and it reignited his weird twin fantasy. You know, that mumbo-jumbo Fletcher was talking about.”
“No arrests though?” Bowen asked. There was always a history of violence, of escalation. Guys like Johnnie Mullins didn’t wake up one morning with a wild hair up their ass and murder a couple of girls. “No history of violence?”
“Nothing,” Underwood said, his voice distorted through the cell phone. “Except the fact that he’s killed at least three girls.”
“Lie down,” he told her. His voice was not unkind. It had been fifteen years, but the sound of his voice was as familiar as a lover’s embrace. As frightening as a hand around your neck.
Laurel lied down. Her throbbing, splitting skull rested on the pillow. It felt good to lie down, but she fought the urge to sleep, the urge to just sink into the mattress and hope it was quick and painless. She kept a tight rein on sleep, fighting it, keeping her eyes wide and focused, her muscles twitching and squirming.
He’d told her his sad life story. His mother, his sisters, the horrible things that had happened under this roof. Knowing that a monster was created between these very walls, perhaps in this very room, was disturbing. She was in his lair. He lay down next to her, propping himself up on his elbow. He looked at her. His eyes were sad. His eyes were evil. She looked at him and the only thing she saw was a deep longing. Desire.
The heat of his body against hers was repulsive. He put his hand on her arm and stroked her bare skin. These hands had killed Leigh. They had held the shovel that scooped wet dirt and leaves onto her lifeless body.
Something inside her sparked back to life.
“Tell me what happened to Leigh,” she said; her voice steel and ice.
“She didn’t suffer,” he said. “I cared about her. I didn’t want her to suffer. Can you see that?”
“What happened?” she asked. Her voice was a trembling whisper. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t sorrow.
It was rage.
“After you escaped, I saw that Leigh was on the floor, delirious. She had on that lip gloss, remember?” Laurel did remember. It was a shimmery pink. He’d asked Leigh to wipe it off before he took their pictures and she said she would go to the bathroom and wash it off after Laurel was done. “She was on the floor and the two cups were next to her. Both cups had the pink lip-prints. I knew she drank both. I didn’t know how it would affect her. I was heartbroken. How could you leave her like that? Your own sister.”
Laurel felt the rage threaten
ing to bubble over. She ground her teeth, clawed her fingernails inside the palm of her hand. She wasn’t sure where all this anger had come from, but it was long overdue. Yes, she had given Leigh her own cup of milk to drink, knowing it had been drugged, because she had wanted to get away. She was scared and desperate and that was the best plan that she could come up with. She meant to get free and get help for Leigh. But once she’d gotten to school and the questions started, she had been so overwhelmed and scared she’d told a lie on the spur of the moment. That lie was written in stone. She could not go back on it. The teachers were scary, aggressively questioning her, demanding to know what happened and where Leigh was. The cops had been worse. Shutting down, reciting the lie over and over, that had become her coping mechanism. The lie was like a mantra.
“I packed everything up,” he said. “I put all my equipment in the car and scooped Leigh up into my arms. When I picked her up, she threw up a curdled milky mess onto the floor. She groaned and looked around, confusion and fear all over her face. ‘Where’s Laurel?’ she asked me.”
Despite Laurel’s growing rage—or maybe because of it—she felt hot, frustrated, impotent tears begin to burn in her eyes.
“I told her Laurel’s gone and she closed her eyes and smiled. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I saw you put the drugs in our milk. I drank Laurel’s so she could get away.’ And then my heart filled with love, with hope,” he said. He turned on his side to face Laurel. She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, unable to comprehend what he’d just told her. Leigh had known? Leigh saw him put the drugs into the cups and she willingly drank both? All this time, her entire adult life, Laurel had thought that she tricked her sister, betrayed Leigh so she could save herself.
Leigh had actually tricked Laurel, wanting Laurel to get away.
“The love that you had, your bond, was so special. So strong. Someone special like Leigh, they don’t deserve to face the cruelties of the world. So I helped her. I released her. I took her back here and we drank some tea together. The tea had some more of the crushed up pills. She fell asleep on this bed, snoring softly. Then, she exhaled and there was nothing. Her chest didn’t go back up again. She was gone. She looked so peaceful.”
“Where is she,” Laurel asked through gritted teeth. Her jaws ached.
“She’s here,” he said, smiling. His eyes were unfocused, as if he was looking at something only he could see.
There was a loud bang from the other room. His face crumpled and his eyes slowly came back into a shrewd and deranged focus. “I just wanted to have a nice family tea party,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t ever get it right!” he suddenly yelled. Laurel cringed away from him. “Never right, never right!” He grabbed the lamp on the bedside table and threw it at the wall. It made a dent in the wall and clanked to the floor.
There was another crash and crack. “What the hell was that?” he yelled. He stuck his head out the hallway and called out: “I guess you’ll all have to suffer just as I have.”
Fletcher swung his leg up over the window sill and balanced precariously, trying not to crush his balls or scrape his spine across the jagged upper frame of the window. He failed on both accounts. When he shifted his weight to the right to try and get his inside foot on the floor, he slipped just an inch, but that was enough to squash his balls against the window frame. Then, in his haste and panic to hurry up and get inside, he felt a cold slice of pain on his back. The feeling spread and he realized it was blood. He had no choice but to ignore the sickening ache in his groin and the throbbing pain on his back. Inside the house he could still hear yelling, something breaking, thumping.
Whatever was going to happen was happening now.
This should be easy. All he had to do was sneak up on the asshole and then give him a bullet. The only hard part would be if Mullins’s torso was blocked. Head shots with a handgun were hard unless you got up close. And had the suspect lying face-down. And you pulled the trigger four times. Images of that horrible day came unbidden. He’d been too late, failed to save that boy, and he went a little nuts. More than a little. He’d wanted to make sure that monster couldn’t hurt anyone else. Fletcher couldn’t let himself think about if he was too late now. He’d promised to protect Laurel, promised to keep her safe. He’d stupidly left her alone this morning. He should have known that Laurel wouldn’t be able to sit at home. He should have handcuffed himself to her wrist and thrown away the key.
The house was still. Then he heard something. A whimper, soft and pleading. Fletcher made his way across the living room, taking care to step lightly. His shoes made soft taps on the wood floor and his nerves tensed with every step. The voices were louder now, talking. Laurel’s voice. The sound of her voice made his heart stand still in his chest. He felt a wave of relief wash over him. She was still alive—but she was a long way from safe. He had to get her and the girls out of here. He heard Mullins, his voice getting louder with each word. Mullins was agitated. Something was setting him off.
It was time to move.
Fletcher held out his gun, the hours and years of training making his muscles move on their own. He approached the hallway and peeked around the wall. There was a bedroom at the end of the hallway, the door wide open. Mullins was pacing. Fletcher was trying to understand what he was saying, but it didn’t make sense. Something about etiquette school? And vitamins? Every few steps, Mullins would walk across the doorway, coming into Fletcher’s full view. He couldn’t take a shot from here without exposing his position. He had to get Mullins out of the room.
A tall decorative vase stood on a shelf. Fletcher reached out his hand and tipped it over. The sound was magnificent. The talking stopped. The house went still. Footsteps down the hall. Fletcher readjusted his grip on his gun. He was flat against the wall, lining up his sights, ready to shoot.
A little girl in a navy blue dress stepped into the room. Her face was pale, and the sticky, shimmery trails of tears reflected on her cheeks. He lowered the gun instantly, trying to put his finger to his mouth in the universal shhh gesture. But it was too late.
She screamed, paralyzed with fear, wide eyes staring accusingly at Fletcher. He wasn’t in uniform, didn’t have a badge. The girl had no way of knowing he was there to help. More footsteps. Fletcher raised his gun again, aiming it at the doorway. Then in a flash, Johnnie Mullins appeared from the doorway, scooping up the girl and holding her tightly to his chest. There was no way Fletcher could take a shot now.
“Why don’t you just set down that gun and kick it over here,” Mullins said.
Laurel ran down the hallway after Mullins. He’d sent Melissa to see what the noise was. The girl was exhausted and confused, but she knew enough to obey his command. Now she was screaming. Laurel barreled into the living room and was both relived and horrified to see Fletcher standing there with his gun pointed at Mullins. Mullins was holding Melissa—using the girl to shield himself from gunfire. A cowardly move, but Laurel didn’t expect any more from a man whose mind was so broken that he got pleasure from killing little girls.
If anyone could save them, it was Fletcher. She didn’t want to let herself hope. Mullins was sneaky and deranged and she no idea what he was capable of; the only thing that was certain was Mullins enjoyed killing and had no desire to live himself. Laurel was glad that if she did die in this dirty old house, she wouldn’t have to die alone. But that was a selfish thought. She didn’t want Fletcher to die trying to save her. She wasn’t worth it. He didn’t know the whole truth about what she’d done to Leigh. Even if Leigh had known and drank the second cup of drugged milk, it didn’t matter. Laurel had still lied to her own sister, who was now dead and buried in the grounds of this cursed property.
Fletcher set down his gun. He kicked it over to Mullins. Laurel trusted that Fletcher had a plan. Fletcher was brilliant, could see inside this man’s twisted mind—if anyone could manipulate and pacify a delusional serial killer, it was Fletcher.
“Susie,” Mullins sai
d, talking to Melissa. “I’m going to set you down. If you try to run or scream or do anything bad, I’m going to take this gun and shoot your sister in the head.” Melissa started to cry, but nodded her head fervently, showing that she would cause no trouble. Laurel believed it. Madison was the impulsive one. She was behind Laurel, peeking out into the living room, watching this scene unfold. “Samantha,” he yelled. “If you try anything, I’m going to kill your sister. Are we all in agreement?”
“Yes,” Madison said. She was not crying. Laurel felt the girl’s grip on her waist tighten. She was angry.
“Listen to him,” Laurel whispered to the girl, loud enough so Mullins would hear. In a much lower tone, she said, “This guy’s going to save us. I promise.”
“You said that you were going to save us,” Madison said. “And look what happened.”
Fletcher didn’t dare risk a glance at his watch, but at least ten minutes had passed and Detectives Bowen and Underwood and half of the rest of the County Sheriffs would be arriving shortly. If he could just stall a little while longer… Fletcher looked around the room. He saw the tea set was on the kitchen counter, along with orange prescription bottles that were missing their bulky white caps. The girls were wearing the navy blue dresses; their fingernails were painted orange. And he’d called them Susie and Samantha.
In a flash, Fletcher understood. Mullins had twin sisters—and something bad had happened to them. Whatever happened, Fletcher didn’t know, but he was sure that those girls had died when they were twelve years old and Mullins was reenacting their deaths. And Laurel? She was the mother, of course.
“Susie! Samantha!” Fletcher said, mustering all his stern command presence into his voice. “You girls will not ruin this tea party, do you understand?” The girls looked at him, confused. He didn’t think that they would understand what he was trying to do; they were too young and scared and exhausted. Laurel would understand. He found Laurel’s eyes and held her gaze. He saw no fear in her eyes, no panic. Just trust. “All of you,” he said, using his stern voice. He’d had twenty years’ experience telling people what to do and now it was paying off. “Sit down at the table. I want to see your napkins in your laps and no elbows on the table. Johnnie here is going to get the tea ready for us. Aren’t you, Johnnie?”