“My God,” George whispered. “Amelia and Annabelle, they were twins.”
“She took the car. I had about sixty dollars in my purse. She took that, too.”
With the cell phone to her ear, Karen held Rufus on a leash in the backyard. He hadn’t been out yet this morning and needed to go. She kept the kitchen door open so she could hear the home phone if it rang.
“My dog started barking at around a quarter to six this morning,” Karen explained. “I’m guessing that’s when Amelia snuck out of the house. I called Jessie at your place, and she hasn’t seen her. But she’ll keep a lookout for my car. Amelia’s roommate, Rachel, hasn’t seen or heard from Amelia this morning either. Neither has Shane. I also called the rest home where my dad is, and they didn’t see Amelia over there, either. I’m grateful for that. I didn’t want to bother you, George. I know you’re in Salem. But has Amelia called you?”
“No, she hasn’t.” He let out a long sigh. “This isn’t like Amelia at all. I mean, she’s disappeared for a day or two before, like she did this weekend. But she’s never stolen a car, or money. This is nuts.”
“Do you think she might have driven up to the house in Bellingham?” Karen asked.
“Well, I have the phone number for Mark and Jenna’s neighbors up there,” George said. “Nice couple, Jim and Barb Church. I’ll give them a call, and find out if there’s any activity next door. You drive a black Jetta, right?”
“That’s right.” She heard a beep on the line. God, please, let it be Amelia, she thought.
“I’ll ask the Churches to keep their eyes peeled for your car,” he was saying.
“Just a second, George. I have another call.” She checked the caller ID, and then quickly got back on the line with George. “Oh, God, it’s this policewoman phoning, the third time. I’ve been dodging her all morning. They’ve been looking for Amelia since yesterday.”
“Listen, I think you better come clean and tell them what’s happening, Karen. You don’t want to get yourself into any more hot water with the police. Plus, at this stage, you aren’t doing Amelia any favors by not reporting this. I hate to even think it, but she could hurt somebody else.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, feeling a pang in her already knotted-up stomach. Rufus tugged at the leash, and Karen let him drag her toward the edge of the garden. She wondered who would walk her dog if she ended up in jail for aiding and abetting a fugitive.
“I may try Shane one more time,” she said into the phone. “I had to call him three times before he finally picked up. And when I talked to him, I had a feeling he might have been holding back on something. Once you hear back from Amelia’s neighbors up in Bellingham, will you give me a call?”
“Will do,” he said. “By the way, I’ve been to the cemetery, and now I’m parked down the block from the public library in Salem. I need to look up some information. Has Amelia ever mentioned someone named Annabelle to you?”
“Annabelle? No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure that’s her twin sister.”
“Amelia has a twin?” Karen murmured.
“Had,” he said, correcting her. “Annabelle died three years ago, the same day as her father. That’s why I’m here at the library. Maybe there’s something in the local newspaper archives about it.”
“She never mentioned a twin,” Karen muttered, almost to herself. Amelia had recalled sometimes talking to herself in the mirror as a child. Was that as close as she could come to remembering her twin sister?
While George explained about Joy Savitt and the Schlessinger graves, it suddenly seemed to make sense why Amelia had all these issues-the guilt, the low self-esteem, and the nightmares. At age four, her parents had discarded her, and kept her twin. But why?
“Listen, George, call me as soon as you find out anything,” she said, pulling Rufus on his leash as she headed toward the house. “I’ll see what I can dig up on the Internet. What was that date the father and daughter died again?”
July 13, 2004…
Lon Schlessinger…
Annabelle Schlessinger…
Joy Savitt Schlessinger
None of those keywords yielded a result on the search engines Karen had tried. There wasn’t anything in the Oregonian either. And nothing came up in the Salem Statesman Journal archives index. She hoped George might have better luck following a paper trail at the Salem library.
Karen glanced at her wristwatch: 11:20. She tried phoning Shane once more. He didn’t answer his cell. She left another message: “Hi, Shane, it’s Karen again. I still haven’t heard from Amelia, and I’m very worried. I’ve just talked with her uncle, and we both agree it’s time to call the police and tell them what’s happened. If you have any idea where Amelia is, please, please, call me back.”
Shane stopped rowing for a minute so he could listen to Karen’s message.
It was cool and overcast, with a breeze that made the lake slightly choppy, not exactly a great day to be out on the water. Nevertheless Shane had forked over his driver’s license and five bucks for the canoe rental. And now his was the only boat in this area of Lake Washington. He’d already crept by the Montlake Bridge, and was edging along the shore near the nature path. He saw two people fishing off one of the footbridges, but no one else.
He couldn’t believe Karen was ready to call the cops just because Amelia had borrowed her car. But it was more than that, he knew. Last night, Amelia had been singing Karen’s praises and, this morning, she’d told him not to trust her. It didn’t make sense.
Shane slipped the cell phone back in his jacket pocket, and recommenced rowing. He saw a little piece of land with grass and trees jutting out from the wild overgrowth along the shore. He started looking for Amelia. She’d told him she would be there, and she would explain what all this was about. But he didn’t see any sign of her, yet.
The water became a bit rough, and his canoe rocked back and forth as he rowed closer to Foster Island. The spot looked deserted. Shane pulled past some reeds and around a bend, where he found a clear spot to maneuver the boat into the shore. He felt the tip of the canoe hit the muddy bottom, then reluctantly he stepped into the water and tied up the boat to a tree trunk.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Even though he’d moved quickly from the muddy bank to the grass, his feet had been totally immersed in the frigid lake. His shoes were soaked, along with his socks and his jeans, from the knees down. “Damn it to hell,” he growled.
He heard her laughing in the distance.
Then he saw her, emerging from behind a tree. She was wearing the same lavender sweater she’d had on yesterday, and the black jeans he’d packed for her. She had her knap-sack slung over her shoulder. She looked very pretty, laughing, with her wavy black hair loose and windblown around her shoulders.
He snarled at her, but couldn’t help chuckling, too. “Well, Amelia, my feet are wet, my fucking toes are frozen, and I hope you’re happy.”
In response, she hoisted up her sweater to flash him her bare breasts. “Does that warm you up a little, baby?”
“Jesus,” he murmured with a startled grin. “What the hell has gotten into you today?”
She kissed him. “Right now, I think we both should be getting into this canoe before it floats away.” She grabbed him by the hand and started to lead him to the shore.
But Shane balked. “Hold on. Don’t you think you ought to tell me what’s happening? I mean, this is pretty bizarre. Karen’s called me four times this morning. She’s freaking out because you took her car, along with some money from her purse.”
“Karen’s a fucking liar.” She scowled at him. “Did you talk to her?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I took one of the calls. She’s really worried. The cops have been calling her about you. And she’s not a liar. You did take her car. I saw you drive away in it this morning from my place.”
“Well, I brought it right back to her house. And if she says I still have
it, she’s lying. I can’t believe you talked to her after I asked you not to. You can’t trust her. I told you that.”
“Well, what the hell happened? Last night, you were all gaga for Karen, and today, she’s a lying skanky bitch. What did she do to you?”
“Can’t you guess?” she asked. “Isn’t it obvious? She couldn’t keep her goddamn hands off me all last night. And then she got really angry with me, because I didn’t want to have sex with her. To think, I trusted her and bared my soul to her and, all the while, she just wanted to get into my pants.”
“My God, you’re kidding,” he muttered.
“I’ll tell you all about it in the boat,” she said, stroking his cheek. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this. C’mon, baby, I just need to be with you right now, nobody else. Could you pick me up and carry me into the canoe? I promise to warm your feet for you later.”
“Sure, sweetheart,” he said, obediently hoisting her in his arms. He kissed her forehead and carried her down the grassy slope toward the canoe.
Once he’d pushed the boat away from the shore and hopped inside, she untied his wet shoes and pried them off. Then she rolled down his soggy white socks and wrung them out over the lake. She rubbed his feet, and took turns tucking each one between her legs. Pressing her pelvis against his cold, wiggly toes, she gyrated and purred. Shane grinned at her. She could see the erection growing inside his jeans. She giggled at how much more feverishly he rowed in response to her foot-warming tactics.
“Thanks for rescuing me from her, baby,” she said. “You can slow down now. We’re not in any hurry. I brought along something else to keep us both warm.” She unzipped her knapsack and pulled out a pint of Wild Turkey.
Shane stopped rowing, and gave her a disapproving look. “Oh, I’m not sure if that’s such a great idea, Amelia. You know you shouldn’t.”
She just smiled at him. She thought it was funny, because her brother had said the exact same thing shortly before she’d bashed his skull in.
She saw the caller ID and quickly answered the cell phone. “George?”
“Yeah, hi,” he said. “I just talked to Barb Church up in Bellingham. There’s nothing going on next door at Mark and Jenna’s house. No sign of your car, either.”
Karen was still seated in front of her computer trying to get information on the Schlessingers, but to no avail. She rubbed her forehead. “Well, Shane didn’t answer when I called. I left another message.”
“I know you don’t want to, Karen, but it’s time to let the police in on this. Amelia took your car and stole some money. That’s not like her. She’s not herself. I don’t want anyone else hurt because we procrastinated on this. I’m being selfish here, too. Amelia knows where I live. And my kids will be home from school in a few hours.”
“I understand,” Karen said. “I’ll call them.” But she hated the idea. All she could think about was how scared, confused, and desperate Amelia must have been to run away like that. She imagined the police hunting her down, maybe even a high-speed chase that would end with Amelia dying in a car crash.
Maybe Karen didn’t know that other Amelia. But the young woman she knew wouldn’t hurt anyone. In fact, Amelia would have wanted to get as far away as possible from her family and friends if she believed herself a danger to them. But where would she go?
“The Lake Wenatchee house,” she murmured. No one else was at the lake house, except ghosts.
“What?” George asked.
“Do you think she could have driven to the Lake Wenatchee house?”
“It’s possible.”
“Didn’t you tell me last week you’d phoned a neighbor, some woman who lived down the lake from them? Do you still have her number?”
“It might be in my study someplace. But I don’t have it on me.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Helene Something…Summers…no, Sumner. Helene Sumner.”
“Helene Sumner in the Lake Wenatchee area,” Karen said, scribbling it down. “I’ll call information. Maybe this Helene has noticed some activity over there today.”
“And if she has seen something over at the house, then what?” George asked.
“Then I’ll warn her to stay away. And I’ll need you to give me directions to the cabin.”
“What, are you nuts? If Amelia’s in that house, I’m not letting you go there. That’s insane. Besides, you don’t even have a car.”
“I could rent one.”
“Karen-”
“Listen, George, let’s not argue about it just yet. For all we know, Amelia might not even be at Lake Wenatchee.” Karen sighed. “Have you come up with anything about the Schlessingers at the Salem Library? I’m not having any luck on the Internet.”
“I had the same problem on the computers here. But I went to the periodicals desk, and they’re digging up some newspaper microfiche files for me right now. I just stepped outside to take the call from Barb in Bellingham. I’m heading back in there now.” He paused. “So-you’ll talk to this policewoman, right? Report your car stolen, and Amelia missing….”
“Yes, George, I will,” she replied. But she knew it wouldn’t be easy. The police would have a lot of questions for her, and maybe a few charges, starting with obstruction of justice.
“Okay. Talk to you soon,” he said.
“Bye, George.”
She quickly clicked off the line, and then dialed directory assistance for Wenatchee, Washington.
At the periodicals desk, George gave the librarian his driver’s license as a deposit for a microfiche file for the Salem Statesman Journal for the week of July 11–18, 2004. The two microfiche-viewing machines were at a desk near a bookcase full of reference books and in front of a window looking into the lobby and the Friends of the Library Bookstore.
He switched on the machine, and it made a soft, hairdryer-like humming noise. George quickly scanned the file until he came to the front page for July 14, 2004, the day after Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger had died. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find-perhaps a story about a car crash or a local boating accident. Maybe the story wasn’t even in the local paper. Like Uncle Duane, they may not have even died in Salem.
He didn’t see anything on page one, but noticed the newspaper’s index in the bottom left corner said the obituaries were on page A 19. George fast-forwarded to it, but didn’t see any Schlessingers among the dead. He went back to the first page. These were A.M. Editions. If Lon and Annabelle had died late in the evening on July 13, it might not have made the morning paper.
He scanned forward to July 15, and searched the front page. His eyes were drawn to a headline near the bottom right of the page, taking up three columns. He anxiously read the article:
LOCAL RANCHER AND
DAUGHTER PERISH IN BLAZE
Widower and Teen were Salem
Residents for 11 years
MARION COUNTY: The two-story house of a secluded ranch outside Salem became the site of a fiery inferno Wednesday night, claiming the lives of widower, Lon Schlessinger, 45, and his daughter, Annabelle Faye Schlessinger, 16. Marion County investigators believe the fire started in the upstairs master bedroom…
“Another fire,” George murmured to himself. He was thinking about Duane Lee Savitt burning down the adoption agency.
The article didn’t exactly say Lon Schlessinger had fallen asleep while smoking in bed, but they sure hinted at it. Annabelle’s charred remains were discovered in the hallway by her bedroom door. The Schlessingers had moved to the area in 1993. Mrs. Schlessinger died that same year, “an apparent suicide,” according to the article. There was no mention of her dead brother, and his murder rampage, at least, not on page one.
George anxiously scanned down to page two, where there were side-by-side photos of Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger. He was a slightly paunchy, balding man who looked like an ex-jock gone to seed. The high school portrait of Annabelle was startling. George might as well have been staring at a three-year-old photo
of his niece.
Biting his lip, George went back to the article, which talked about Lon’s membership in two civic organizations, and his love for hunting and fishing. George was more interested in what they reported about Amelia’s twin:
“Annabelle was an extremely bright student,” said Caroline Cadwell, her sophomore homeroom teacher at East Marion High School. “She was very driven. With her intelligence, beauty, and determination, we were all expecting great things in her future. It’s a tragic loss….”
The article ended with a quote from Annabelle’s friend and classmate, Erin Gottlieb:
“Annabelle was like a force of nature. She was so strong and determined. She never let anyone get in her way when she made her mind up to go after something, and you have to admire that. I guess it took another force of nature, like fire, to stop her.”
It struck George as a slightly cryptic epitaph, almost unflattering.
There was a coin slot at the side of the microfiche viewer and, for two quarters, George made a copy of each page. Then he returned the microfiche file to the reference desk, and asked for a local phone book.
He hoped Caroline Cadwell and Erin Gottlieb still lived in the area. Maybe Annabelle’s teacher and her friend could tell him something about Mrs. Schlessinger’s apparent suicide and Uncle Duane’s killing rampage. Maybe one of them knew about Annabelle’s twin sister.
She got Helene Sumner’s machine.
Karen waited for the beep, then started in: “Hello, Ms. Sumner. I’m Karen Carlisle, a friend of Amelia Faraday. I’m sorry to bother you, but-”
There was a click on the other end of the line. “Yes, hello,” the woman said. “This isn’t a reporter, is it?”
“No,” Karen said, suddenly sitting erect in her desk chair. “I’m a friend of Amelia Faraday. I’m calling from Seattle. She drove off early this morning in my car, a black Volkswagen Jetta. I’ve been trying to locate her. I was wondering-”
“Well, I can tell you where she was as of nine o’clock today,” Helene interrupted. “She was at their house, just down the lake from here. It’s got the police tape on the front door, but that didn’t stop her from going inside, though I suppose she has a right to go in there.”
One Last Scream Page 24