Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  He ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “To be fair, the cop pointed out that they have hundreds of new missing persons on file every week.” Ben squinted across the street at the entrance to Lakeview Cemetery. “I didn’t know there’s a cemetery here.”

  Hannah nodded. “Bruce Lee is buried there. His son Brandon’s grave is right beside his.”

  They reached a curve in the road, and a small, scenic overlook park with a view of Lake Washington, the University’s Husky Stadium, the floating bridge, and the Cascade Mountains. They sat down on a wooden bench built around a tree at the edge of a huge ravine. With dusk creeping over the horizon, many of the cars on the bridge had their headlights on. The little sailboats glided on darkening silver-blue water.

  As Ben gazed out at the view, Hannah allowed herself to study his handsome profile and the sadness in his beautiful eyes. She still felt a bit cautious around him, and had to fight her attraction for this lonely man who was away from home.

  And she had to tell him that his onetime girlfriend was dead.

  He turned to her, and Hannah quickly looked away—toward the lights across the lake. “So,” she said, “what kind of job do you have that allows you to pick up and go to Seattle for a month?”

  “A former job, I think,” he said. “I’m not sure I still have it. I’m in advertising. Do you know Gustov bottled water?”

  “‘The champagne of seltzer waters’?”

  He nodded. “I came up with that—and the advertisements about it being easier to open than champagne. If you hate those commercials, blame me.”

  “Actually, I think those ads are very funny.”

  “Thanks.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I took a leave of absence without pay. They hadn’t really approved it yet when I left. So I’m not sure the job will be waiting for me when I get back.”

  “Your wife doesn’t mind that you went to Seattle for a month? And you’re chasing after an ex-girlfriend, no less. Jennifer—isn’t that her name? She must be very understanding.”

  Frowning, Ben gazed out toward the bridge. “I’m not sure if she’ll be waiting for me when I get back, either.” He sighed. “It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll bend your ear about it sometime, but not now.”

  Hannah nodded. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Hannah thought about his former girlfriend, Rae Palmer. Every concern Rae expressed in those e-mails was familiar to Hannah. In the last e-mail, when Rae mentioned wanting to run away, it scared Hannah that she’d had exactly the same reaction. Rae had admitted that she slept with a baseball bat at her bedside. Hannah had kept a hammer by her nightstand ever since the break-in. She remembered the Goodbar video, with the bloodied bed sheets and Rae’s dead gaze.

  “What happened to Rae is happening to me now,” Hannah whispered.

  “I know,” he said. “It took a while to figure out. I hadn’t planned on staying here in Seattle this long. But once I realized Rae might be lost to me, I couldn’t go back to New York. So I rented this cheap, dumpy studio apartment and signed up for Paul Gulletti’s film class. I registered under the name Ben Sturges in case Rae had ever told him about me. Sturgis, Michigan is where I’m from originally. I just changed the spelling a little. Anyway, I asked around in class, very casually of course, but nobody had heard of Rae Palmer. Apparently, no one in this current class has been taking Paul’s course for more than three semesters.”

  “You didn’t ask me,” Hannah said.

  “Well, I figured out pretty quickly you were Paul’s favorite. People said you two were an item. I kept thinking you must be Rae’s successor. When I heard you worked at a video store, I thought you might know something. But I couldn’t approach you about it; at least, not directly.”

  “So you started following me around?” Hannah said, not smiling.

  “Yeah,” he whispered, nodding. “I know that gives you a major case of the heebie-jeebies, and I don’t blame you. But I’m glad I did start following you, because I noticed someone else was watching you, too. That’s when I realized that this…this video stalker must have moved on from Rae to you.”

  “Do you think it could be Paul?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I’ve never really gotten a good look at the man following you. I thought Ronald Craig might have. That’s why I went to his hotel the other night. I was hoping Craig had left behind some information about this man. I thought Craig might be tailing you for the same reason I was. He was a private detective out of Milwaukee. I don’t think Rae knew anyone from Milwaukee. She had no family left. So I don’t know who hired him, or why. I can’t figure that out.”

  Hannah said nothing.

  “Gulletti’s married. Maybe his wife is from Milwaukee. Maybe she hired Craig to investigate you.”

  Hannah gave an awkward shrug. “You know, I spotted a man videotaping me last night,” she said steadily. “It was around the time film class started. You said Paul was there, so he couldn’t be the man following me.”

  “Well, maybe it’s someone working for Paul. He’s involved in this somehow. I feel it in my gut. Maybe it’s his assistant.”

  “Seth? Why? Wasn’t he in class last night?”

  Ben rolled his eyes and nodded. “Of course, yeah. He was there. I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “He might be a good one to talk with about Rae,” Hannah suggested.

  “Well, I didn’t approach him because I thought he was pretty tight with Paul. But Seth talked with me last night, and I guess he’s not Paul Gulletti’s biggest fan. If he’s been working with Paul since last December, he’ll remember Rae. I’m sure he can tell us something.”

  Hannah gently took the folder from his lap, then opened it up. She studied Rae Palmer’s photo again.

  “If only I had one definite lead about her,” she heard Ben say. “Someone doesn’t just disappear.”

  “Did Rae ever mention to you getting a homemade video?” Hannah asked carefully.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The same way she was getting those other videos, only this one would have been homemade—with someone being murdered on it.”

  Squinting at her, Ben shook his head. “I’m sure Rae would have mentioned it.”

  “Such a video was dropped off at the store about a month ago. I think it was meant for me. It was a homemade, copycat version of the ending to Looking for Mr. Goodbar. It was the scene Rae described in her e-mail. A woman was being stabbed in bed. I couldn’t see the man who was stabbing her. But I saw the woman.” Hannah reached over and took hold of his hand. “Ben, I think the woman was Rae. I—I’m so sorry.”

  His eyes searched hers for a moment, as if he didn’t believe her. Then he got to his feet. Hannah stared at his back. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice raspy.

  “I’m not absolutely positive,” Hannah admitted. “But I’m pretty sure. I don’t have the video anymore. It was stolen.”

  Hannah noticed his head bobbing a little along with the tremors in his slightly hunched shoulders. She realized he was crying. She wanted to reach out to him, console him. But she held back and stayed seated on the little wooden bench.

  Ben finally turned to face her. His blue eyes were bloodshot and a bit puffy. He took a deep breath. “Do you know Seth’s last name?” he asked.

  “Um, Stroud,” she said. “Seth Stroud.”

  “Well, let’s go find him and talk to him,” Ben said.

  There was a “1/2” behind the number address on Aloha Street for Stroud, Seth. Hannah and Ben had returned to the coffeeshop and borrowed the phone book to look him up. Hannah thought it might be a basement apartment, and Ben guessed he lived over someone’s garage.

  It was within walking distance. They didn’t say much on their way to the Aloha Street address. Hannah could tell Ben was still numb over the news of his friend’s death. She slid her arm around his. At the end of a couple of blocks, Hannah gently pulled away.

  “That was nice,” he murmured. Then he didn’t say another word until they reached Set
h’s block.

  Ben had been right. It was a garage apartment at the end of the driveway to a large, slightly neglected Tudor estate. Though the lawn was mowed and the leaves were raked, the place still had a seedy grandeur. Water stains marred the yellowing wall to the Tudor-style garage. The stairs to the second-floor apartment were on the side.

  Hannah and Ben climbed up the rickety steps and knocked on the door. Through the window in the door, Hannah could see someone coming. She saw his tall, lean build and the wild, wavy dark hair. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t Seth.

  A stranger opened the door. He was about Seth’s age, with olive-colored eyes, a large nose, and a goatee. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. Those eyes shifted back and forth from Ben to Hannah. “Yeah? Can I help you?”

  “Does Seth Stroud live here?” Ben asked.

  “Seth?” the young man said. “What did you want to see him about?”

  “We’re in his film class,” Ben replied. “I’m Ben Sturges.”

  “Hi.” Hannah reached out her hand to the young man. “I’m Hannah.”

  “Oh, well, hi.” He smiled and shook her hand. “I’m Richard Kidd, Seth’s roommate. Um, he’s not around right now. You want to leave a message?”

  Hannah nodded. “Yeah, we really need to talk with him.”

  “Wow, sounds urgent. PDQ. Is it an emergency?”

  “Let’s just say it’s important,” Ben chimed in.

  “Then, hell, man, we’d better write it down. Hold on.”

  While Richard Kidd retreated to another part of the apartment, Hannah and Ben remained on the outside landing at the top of the stairs. She caught a glimpse of their living room: brick-and-wood bookshelves, furniture from garage sales and Pier 1 Imports, a big poster for La Dolce Vita on the wall, and clothes and newspapers strewn about. The two of them could have used a maid.

  Richard returned to the doorway with a notepad and a pen. He handed them to Hannah. “Why don’t you write down the message yourself? I might be stepping out. I’ll leave it where he’ll be sure to see it.”

  Hannah scribbled on the pad:

  Seth:Could you call me tonight (Friday) at 555-1007, or stop by the video store some time before 7 P.M. tomorrow? It’s important I speak with you.Thanks, Hannah Doyle

  As they left Seth’s place together, Ben stopped at the end of the driveway. “Well, that was kind of a bust,” he said.

  Hannah patted Ben’s arm. “We’ll just have to wait,” she said. “I think he’ll call. Seth likes me. If he knows something, he’ll tell us.”

  Ben nodded glumly. “Listen, can I walk you home?”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  Aloha was a dark, winding, tree-shaded street. Fallen leaves blanketed patches of sidewalk. A few houses already had Halloween decorations out. Hannah was glad for Ben’s company. She thought about taking hold of his arm again, but decided against it.

  “Did you recognize him?” Ben asked. “Did he look familiar to you?”

  “Who? The roommate?”

  “Yeah, Richard Kidd.”

  “No, I didn’t recognize him. Did you?”

  He shrugged. “Not really.”

  She brushed her arm against his. “You’re like I was when this whole thing started. I suspected everyone.”

  “Including me?” he asked lightly.

  “Especially you,” she admitted.

  “And now?”

  “Now, I know you better,” she carefully replied. “And I like you, Ben.”

  “I like you, too. But you didn’t really answer my question.”

  “You noticed that, huh?”

  Patting her shoulder, he nodded. “It’s all right if you still suspect me a little. You’d be crazy not to.”

  When they reached her apartment building, Ben asked if he could come up. “I’d like to be there if Seth calls tonight,” he said. “I could also use a drink. If you could spare a glass of wine, I’ll buy you a pizza dinner—or Chinese.”

  Hannah hesitated.

  “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be offended.”

  She worked up a smile. “Quit giving me permission to not trust you. It makes me—not trust you.”

  He chuckled. “All right. To tell you the truth, I’ll be hurt if you turn me away.”

  Hannah sighed. “My little boy’s sick, and I want to spend some time with him. I also need to track down a coworker friend who could be in trouble. If Seth calls me, I’ll get in touch with you right away, Ben. I’m filling in for a coworker tomorrow. Why don’t you stop by the video store? I take my break at two.”

  “Okay,” he muttered, looking crestfallen. “See you tomorrow, Hannah.” He seemed ready to hug her for a second, then drew back and awkwardly shook her hand. “Well, um, good night.”

  Hannah opened the lobby door.

  She wanted so much to let down her guard and invite him in. But she turned and started up the cold, cinder-block stairwell by herself.

  “What a miserable fuckhead,” Britt muttered, as she stormed out of a dance club called The Urinal. The loud, pulsating, pounding music still echoed in her ears.

  Everything had been terrific when she and Webb first went into the place. They’d both been a little high. He had a couple of deals he needed to make there, so she’d expected to be ditched for a few minutes. She could handle that. She looked pretty damn good tonight in her favorite black jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt with a blue thunderbolt on the front. The blue matched exactly with the streaks in her hair and the stone in her eyebrow ring. She caught several guys checking her out as she stood alone at the bar. She didn’t mind waiting for Webb.

  But he was gone forty-five minutes, for God’s sake. She finally discovered him by the rest rooms. He had his tongue halfway down the throat of this skanky bitch with orange hair and a black bra for a top.

  That was when Britt ran out of The Urinal.

  Halfway down the block, she started crying. She began to think of all the awful things Webb had done. The most recent was earlier in the week, when she’d gotten a phone bill for three hundred bucks and change because he’d made a bunch of 1-900 sex-line calls on her phone. They’d fought. He punched her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her. By the time she could breathe normally again, Webb was crying. So she forgave him.

  Now she was the one crying. She was through forgiving him. The miserable prick wasn’t worth all this aggravation.

  Britt was freezing as she hobbled down the sidewalk. Mascara streaked down her face. She didn’t see any cabs. She was wondering how the hell she’d get home when, just ahead, a burgundy Volvo pulled over to the curb.

  Britt stopped. She watched a man step out of the car. He leaned on the roof of his car, his chin in his hand. It took a moment for Britt to recognize him from The Urinal. He’d been one of the guys checking her out.

  “Do you need a ride, sad lady?” he called softly.

  She took a few steps toward the car. “I know you,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m a friend of Hannah’s,” he said. His face was almost completely swallowed up by shadow.

  “Hannah?” she repeated. Britt was about to tell him that she’d seen him in The Urinal. “You know Hannah?”

  “Yeah, get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

  “Thanks,” Britt said, reaching for the door.

  “You look real, real sad,” he remarked as she climbed into the car. “I have something that will make you feel a lot better.”

  Britt leaned back in the passenger seat. “Sounds good,” she muttered, wiping her eyes.

  He got behind the wheel, then shut his door.

  The burgundy Volvo drove off.

  Hannah had to wait through one verse and the chorus of The Beatles’ Good Day, Sunshine before Britt’s recorded voice finally came on: “Hey, this is Britt. Guess what? I can’t come to the phone. You know what to do!”

  Beep.

  “Hi again, Britt. It’s Hannah. I was hoping the third time tonight would b
e the charm. Call me. And you’ve got to change that message. If I never hear Good Day Sunshine again, it’ll be too soon. Anyway, call me at home. It doesn’t matter how late. I have Guy’s door closed. Talk to you soon—I hope. Bye.”

  Sara Middleton threw back the covers, switched on the nightstand lamp, then squinted at the digital clock: 2:43 A.M.

  If she nodded off within ten minutes, she would still catch about four and a half hours of sleep. She would still be able to function and look halfway decent for her big presentation in the morning.

  She’d been trying to fall asleep for the past ninety minutes. What she needed was a shot or two of bourbon to take the edge off. She’d packed a pint of Jack Daniel’s in her luggage for that very purpose. Lately, she’d been under a lot of pressure with her job. At thirty-one, she was the youngest executive manager at her company—and one of only three women in upper administration. With all her responsibilities came insomnia. She was becoming a slave to the bourbon-at-bedtime habit. Tonight she’d been determined to go without.

  Well, screw that. Right now she was desperate for sleep—however she could get it.

  Sara liked her bourbon on the rocks.

  If she were staying at the Westin with the upper-upper management boys, she could have just picked up the phone and had room service bring her a bucket of ice. But the Best Western Maritime Inn was all her expense account could afford. She had to get her own ice.

  Sara slept in panties and a white tank top. She’d be damned if she got completely dressed again for a trip down the hall in the middle of the night. She stepped into a pair of sweatpants, grabbed her room key and the ice bucket, then started down the dimly lit corridor.