[Jason Wade 02.0] Every Fear

by Rick Mofina

  “CSI got a print in the house,” Tanaka said, “and we got a hit: Axel Tackett, white male age forty-one. Tackett was on parole after serving time in Coyote Ridge for drug offenses. We’ve got his file.

  “Axel Tackett’s identification as the deceased adult was confirmed through his DOC dental chart. And”—the sound of a page being turned crackled over the line—”three of his ribs were chipped, consistent with stabbing. A ten-inch serrated knife was located by CSI among the debris in the fire. That blade is consistent with the injuries inflicted on Beth Bannon.”

  Kay Cataldo joined the call.

  “A shoe recovered from the fire debris also is consistent with the shoe in the surveillance video taken of Dylan Colson’s abduction and the impressions found at the Bannon homicide.”

  “Tanaka here. We believe Axel Tackett was stabbed several times but alive during the fire and died from smoke inhalation.”

  “What about Dylan Colson?” Grace asked.

  “No evidence of his remains in the aftermath.”

  “Nothing?” Grace said.

  “Not a trace of him. We’ve scoured the scene. Went through it with the cadaver dog. Tackett’s blood is B positive, a rare type, and it is evident everywhere. Dylan is O positive, a common type, and not a trace. We can put Dylan Colson in the house, and I would testify to that. But there is absolutely no single indication of the child’s remains in the fire. Nothing.”

  “Then there’s a chance he’s alive?” Grace said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And if he’s alive he’s likely with Nadine.”

  “Things are already in motion to issue an alert and hold a news conference,” McCusker said.

  Through the small office window, Grace glimpsed Lee comforting Maria in the hall and whispered her own small prayer.

  Help us find Dylan.

  Before it’s too late.

  60

  After the conference call, Grace Garner stood over the humming hospital fax machine willing it to go faster.

  She was keyed up from the break in the case; adrenaline and caffeine surged through her as the machine discharged pages.

  A media storm had befallen the Seattle Police. While it was still early morning, newswire reports prompted increased demand for information on the fatal fire in the Colson case. Questions were coming in from the national press, CNN, FOX, the Associated Press, USA Today, CBS News, and the Washington Post.

  They’d put all this attention to use soon, Grace thought, collecting the last pages her sergeant had faxed her.

  She joined Perelli, Maria, and Lee in the tranquillity of an empty meeting room permeated with the lemony scent of furniture polish.

  “What’s happened?” Lee asked when Grace entered. “Has there been a break?”

  “Please tell us,” Maria said.

  “Dylan was not a victim of the fire. He was not found at the scene, according to our best and most recent information.”

  Maria covered her mouth with her hands.

  “He’s alive!” Lee said.

  “That’s a strong possibility because we have no evidence to confirm that he was hurt at the scene.”

  “Where is he?” Maria asked. “God, where is he?”

  “We’re working on locating him and we’re going to need your help.”

  Grace opened her folder and placed a recent photo of Axel Tackett on the table. His square jaw was raised slightly in defiance, while his eyes burned with bitterness from his prison-hardened face.

  “That’s who was driving the van!” Maria said.

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Tackett’s been confirmed as the person killed in the fire.”

  “Who else?”

  “No one.”

  “What about Nadine Getch?” Maria asked.

  “No evidence of her remains was found in the fire.”

  Lee looked hard into Grace’s face, then to Perelli, then back to Grace.

  “Then where’s our son?”

  “We think Nadine has fled with Dylan.”

  “Oh!” Maria groaned. “You’ve got to find her!”

  “In a few minutes, we’ll be holding a news conference to put out a new nationwide alert. We’re only hours behind her now. But we need you to help us.”

  “What can we do?”

  Because the evidence pointed to Nadine as the person who’d murdered Beth Bannon and Axel Tackett, the Seattle Homicide Unit had completely ruled out Lee as a possible suspect.

  “But it’s your connection to Beth Bannon, your fingerprints on her car and the envelope, and Nadine’s connection to her, that may help us, Lee. If we knew more about it, it could help locate Nadine. Can you tell us anything more, any details?”

  Grace slid photos of Bannon and Nadine closer to Lee, along with the envelope with the Colson’s home address.

  “Think, Lee. We know Beth Bannon helped place babies with couples who couldn’t have them. We know that Beth came in contact with you and that Nadine came in contact with Beth. In fact”—Grace flipped a page—”CSI just confirmed that a fingerprint taken from the residence where the fire was, which we believe belongs to Nadine, matched a latent found in the Toyota.”

  Lee stared at the photographs. He followed Grace Garner’s attention to the photocopy of the envelope addressed to him and studied the postmark. Buried deep in his mind, in a distant corner that had been blocked, a memory appeared, twinkling like a star, light-years away. As he focused on it, it pulled closer until more detail was revealed.

  Hissing.

  Rain.

  A train and truck had collided in the rain.

  An emergency call had come after Dylan was born.

  But when had it come?

  Think.

  “The day after Dylan was born, I went back to the hospital to see him and Maria, and I stayed late. I remember it was a cold night and there was a pretty wild storm going by the time I headed to my truck. Then I got an emergency call. A truck had hit a train at a crossing.”

  Remembering more, Lee stopped.

  “Wait. There were two women who couldn’t start their car. Before I got the call. That’s it. In the parking lot by the hospital. One of them was her, had to be her.” Lee tapped Beth Bannon’s photo. “It was dark, it was a Toyota. She had the hood up. I tried to help her, but couldn’t get it to turn over. I even reached under, ready to hook her, but then I tried her battery post. And we got it going.”

  “But there was no invoice?” Perelli said.

  “That’s right. I had Bannon and the other woman in the cab to warm up and keep dry, and I told her no charge. She wanted to pay me. I said no. We kinda joked and that’s when she must’ve taken the envelope from my dash. It’s a mess. My trucker’s newsletter. Look, that’s what she wrote on it, ‘Follow up with payment.’ But I told her it was on the house because I was a proud new daddy and all, on cloud nine, you know. She said she was happy for me because that night was a sad night for her friend.”

  “Her friend?”

  “Yeah, the other woman. She didn’t speak?”

  “Was it Nadine?”

  “I don’t know. It was night, it was raining, and I never really saw her face.”

  “Lee.” Perelli looked hard at him. “How come you never remembered any of this before?”

  “I help a lot of people. Through random roadsides. Or people flag me over. A lot of times, I don’t charge, you know, if it’s a loose battery cable or something. I don’t remember every face. And we’d just had Dylan and that night coming out of the hospital, my radio goes off and my dispatcher is asking me to help with the truck-train thing. Nobody hurt but it kept me busy.”

  Lee added he never really associated anything bad with that time. He was so happy, he had a million things on his mind, being a new dad. He was ecstatic because against all the odds, he and Maria had a new baby.

  Grace flipped through the pages of her case notes and told Lee and Maria that Beth Banno
n went to a lot of confidential support classes and groups; one of them for women who’d lost babies, which met at a small community hall in Ballard.

  “Lee, when you helped Beth Bannon, the night she had her sad friend in the car? It was likely Nadine.”

  A few seconds of silence passed as everyone absorbed the facts.

  “She thinks Dylan is her baby,” Maria said.

  All eyes went to her.

  “This Nadine, who stole Dylan—she thinks he belongs to her, that’s what’s happened.”

  Maria drew Nadine’s picture closer, searching her eyes. Then she gently placed it on the table.

  “He’s not yours,” she whispered, “you give him back.”

  Lee tried to put his arm around Maria, but she shrugged him off. The flats of her hands slapped hard on the table as she remained locked on Nadine’s face.

  “Where are you? You give me back my son!”

  61

  A fly walked along the forehead of Hollywood’s hottest eligible hunk until Shirley Brewer mashed it with her flyswatter.

  With an expert flick, she sent the dead insect to the trash, then resumed studying her tabloid on the counter while finishing her breakfast: a glazed apple Danish and black coffee.

  Another lazy morning at the Sweet Dreams & Goodnight Motel. Located on the wooded fringe of one of those neighborhoods few people gave much thought. The motel, with its warped window frames, peeling paint, and leaky plumbing, was owned by Shirley, her good-for-nothing, shiftless husband, and the bank.

  She had to laugh at her pitiful self, or else she’d cry. One day, you’re a shapely eighteen-year-old from Tacoma with dreams of being a singer. Then you blink, forty years vanish, and you’re three hundred pounds of regret. At least today’s Danish was fresh.

  She halted chewing long enough to squint through the streaked office window. A car had rolled up. A guest? Already? Couldn’t be. Likely someone lost looking for directions.

  The transom bells jingled.

  A woman, in her late twenties, say. Good figure. Hair short and hidden under her big hat, large dark glasses that did not hide the shiner on her left cheek.

  If Shirley had learned anything in all her years as an innkeeper, it was how to read people instantly and she had this girl’s story down in a heartbeat.

  “I’m going to need a room.”

  Shirley’s eyes went to the car for another person.

  “How many people?”

  “Just me.”

  “How many nights, hon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s forty-five per night, but”—Shirley tried not to make much of the woman’s bruise—”we’re running a special today. How does thirty sound?”

  “Good, thank you.”

  “Just fill out this registration card.”

  The woman’s fingers were scraped and her hands trembled a little. Lord of Moses, what she must’ve been through, Shirley thought, before noticing the tattoo on the back of her hand.

  That’s an interesting one.

  The woman signed in as Jane Smith from Spokane.

  Smith. Right.

  “You drive all night?”

  “What?”

  “From Spokane?”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  Shirley turned and plucked a key for Room 19 off a peg.

  “It’s got a nice comfy new mattress and bathroom. Nice and quiet. To the far end of the courtyard. You can park around back. And if you walk down the path through the woods at the edge of the property, it’ll take you through the forest to the creek. It’s pretty and shaded down there. A good place to think in private.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And, hon? You’re doing the right thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, it’s none of my affair, but it’s obvious.” Shirley indicated the bruised cheek. “He hit you, so you left. It might have been a hard decision, but, sweetheart, it’s the right one, for damn sure. Am I wrong?”

  Jane Smith stood in silence for a moment.

  Thinking.

  “Please, don’t let anyone know we’re here. He’s got a lot of friends, even police friends. If he finds me I don’t know what he’ll do. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re safe here.” Shirley dropped her voice. “My poor excuse for a man took a swing at me long time ago when he was drunk. I brained him with a skillet and that ended that.”

  She winked. “Remember, park around back. No one will see your car.”

  After Jane Smith left, Shirley resumed eating breakfast and studying her tabloid.

  There. That’s one good thing done today.

  She sighed, then switched on the small color TV she kept on the counter by the maps. Might as well see what was happening in the news today.

  62

  Room 19 reeked of cigarettes, stale beer, and despair.

  The rear courtyard was compact and lined with thick shrubbery and a stand of trees, making the unit and her car invisible from the street. Nadine thought it was perfect. And it was pure luck that the nosy cow at the counter considered her an abused woman from Spokane.

  After the fire, she just drove.

  Aimlessly.

  She was exhausted and knew she should get some sleep to clear her mind but she couldn’t rest until she figured out what to do.

  She was afraid.

  Everything had gone wrong. Everyone had lied to her. She trusted no one. She had to find the truth. When she finished unpacking all that she needed from the car, she drew the curtains. Removed her hat and glasses, went to the bathroom and looked at her hands.

  She was still shaking.

  They weren’t stained with paint.

  That’s blood.

  She washed them. Gritting her teeth as she scrubbed. Then, standing before the mirror, she stared at herself, touching the bruise on her cheek. Axel had managed one punch. One last punch. Who would’ve figured his final act after deceiving her would help her.

  Why did you lie to me, Axel? I trusted you. I loved you. I shared dreams of building a new life with you. But you were just like the others. When will I learn that the only person I can trust is me?

  It had happened so fast with Axel. She’d had no choice. In the days before they were to depart, after she’d discovered he’d left his computer on, she’d read his cryptic files. And last night, as they were packing the car to leave, she’d learned of his plan.

  It had to be a joke, she thought.

  Was he really planning to murder her? Kill her? Stage a suicide, then sell Dylan to a black-market group in Vancouver, British Columbia, for $25,000 and make it all look like she and Dylan had died in a fire?

  She was stunned but had no time to risk letting her guard down.

  That was why she’d carried the knife in her waistband, under her shirt.

  When Axel called her into the garage, to show her “a surprise” at the front of the van, she was ready to surprise him. The instant she smelled the gasoline, walked among the dizzying fumes, saw Axel’s shadow flash as he raised his hands to slide a plastic bag over her head, she was ready.

  But he wasn’t.

  The blade flashed as she drove it hard and deep into his abdomen, pulling it out and thrusting it into him again and again. Shocked, he managed to hit her before he fell over, his voice all liquidy with blood. He pleaded in vain as she heaved him into the van and finished what he’d set out to do.

  Liar!

  She screamed at him as the garage ignited.

  Axel was like Beth Bannon. What Beth did was also unforgivable.

  It was evil.

  Even when Nadine had given her the chance to redeem herself, Beth continued lying. Why do so many people lie to me? Why do they always pretend to be my friend, then lie to me? She couldn’t understand it.

  She’d arrived in Seattle alone and in trouble. She began seeking help in hospitals and clinics. That was how she met Beth, at a class for mothers who’d lost their babies.


  “I’ll help you, Nadine, I promise.”

  But Beth lied.

  Nadine had discovered that Beth actually gave babies to couples; couples who God did not think were fit to have babies of their own. Nadine felt betrayed.

  Enraged.

  She was left with no choice but to follow Beth to where she lived in North Seattle and confront her. Beth was shocked when she appeared at her door that night. Beth tried to play it cool, all nonchalant and whatnot. Pretending like she was still going to help, refusing to acknowledge the truth even after Nadine confronted her with it. She tried, heaven knew how she tried, to give Beth every chance to help her set things right.

  Still, Beth refused, leaving Nadine with no other choice.

  Some people simply responded better to a threat.

  Unfortunately, not Beth.

  Even when Nadine held out the knife, she acted all calm and understanding, as though Nadine had failed to grasp the truth.

  It was Beth who was lying.

  Nadine replayed that night over again. Had she missed anything?

  Beth had just made herself popcorn and was settling in to watch Sleepless in Seattle. How sappy.

  “We need to talk now, Beth. I told you, I came to Seattle pregnant and alone.”

  “Yes, you told me that.”

  “The hospital took my baby and gave it to another couple.”

  “Yes, that’s what you told me, but I’m not sure—”

  “Liar! You know the truth. The hospital took my baby right after it was born and gave him to you.”

  “To me? No, that’s not true.”

  “Then you gave my baby away.”

  “Nadine, that never happened, now please put the knife down and listen.”

  “No! You listen! You tell me who has my baby!”

  “No one has your baby. Please put the knife down.”

  “Where’s my baby, Beth?”

  “I swear, I don’t know.”

  “You are a lying bitch! A stupid, lying bitch!”

  “Nadine, you need more help than I can give you.”

  “Where’s my baby? You took him and you gave him away!”