“I’m all alone, too,” Jennifer whispered.
He said nothing.
“Is she pretty?” she asked.
Ben heard another call-waiting beep. At the same time, he noticed the car, a beat-up, red Subaru station wagon, had stopped in front of his building. He sighed. “Yeah, Jennifer, she’s very pretty,” he grumbled. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Ben? I’m really sorry about Rae. I’m sorry about everything. Okay?”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Take care.”
He hung up, and the phone immediately started ringing. “Oh, fuck off,” he muttered. “Goddamn telemarketers won’t give up.”
Ben decided to let the machine answer it. While his recorded greeting clicked on, he remained at the window, gazing out at that car. Someone on the passenger side slowly rolled down the window.
“Ben? Are you there?” Hannah asked urgently. “Ben? It rang more than once. You must be off the phone. Please, pick up!”
He reached for the phone on the edge of his desk.
“Ben, listen—”
“I’m listening,” he said into the phone. “What’s going on?”
“Are you by the front window? Are the drapes open?”
“Yeah. Why?” He moved toward the window. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”
“Ben, don’t—”
He couldn’t see who was in the passenger seat of that old Subaru. But he noticed something pointing at him from the car window.
Hannah heard him on the other end of the line: “Oh, God, no!”
“Ben, what’s happening?” she cried. “Ben?”
The sound of the first shot made her jump. Hannah heard glass shattering, then another loud pop. There was a sudden thud on his end of the line, and she realized Ben must have dropped the phone. Helplessly, she listened to him cry out. His voice was muffled.
The gunshots came one after another, so close together. Each discharge made Hannah recoil. She clutched the phone to her ear. “Ben?” she cried.
There was another round of gunfire, and glass splintering. A hollow ping resonated, perhaps a bullet hitting one of the bars across his window.
Then silence.
Hannah thought she heard gasping. He sounded like he was dying. “Ben? Are you there?”
In the distance, she could make out some screeching wheels, maybe a car peeling down the street. A woman screamed. It seemed far off, maybe on the sidewalk outside Ben’s apartment.
The receiver on the other end of the line knocked against something. Hannah winced. Someone was moving the phone. “Ben? Is that you?”
“Hannah?” he said, his voice raspy. “I guess”—he took a breath—“you were trying to warn me, huh? You saw it coming?”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’ll survive,” he said, still breathing heavily. “I just got a little cut-up from flying glass. But I’m okay. So th—this was on a video?”
“Yes, Bugsy. Warren Beatty’s character gets shot several times, standing in front of a picture window in his home.”
“Huh, I think saw that movie,” Ben muttered. “Yeah.”
“I just got the tape less than an hour ago. I was by your place once, looking for you. I—I remembered the front window.”
She could only hear his labored breathing on the other end, and far away, the sound of a police siren.
“Ben, are you still there?”
“Yeah, until the cops arrive,” he replied. “They’ll probably take me to the hospital first, then maybe the station house. I don’t know where I’ll end up tonight. This place is a wreck.”
“You can come over here, Ben,” she heard herself say. “Doesn’t matter how late. I’ll fix up the couch for you.”
“Thanks. That would be nice.”
Hannah listened to the siren, louder than before. It sounded like the ambulance or police car was right outside his place.
“Ben?” She hesitated. “I—I’m in trouble with the police. It’s pretty bad.”
“I figured as much,” he replied. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Listen, they’re coming. You take care. I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’ll wait up,” Hannah said.
Ben called from the lobby at 11:35, and Hannah buzzed him in. She quickly checked on Guy to make sure he hadn’t woken up, then stepped out to the walkway balcony. She waited by the front door.
Ben emerged from the stairwell. Despite a few tiny cuts on his face, and clothes that were soiled and stained with blood, he still looked handsome. Tall and lean, Ben ambled up the walkway, carrying a duffel bag.
Hannah was so grateful to see him alive, she hugged him. “Thank God you’re okay,” she whispered.
He returned the hug, patting her on the back almost paternally.
Hannah gently pulled away. “Listen, I almost forgot to tell you. My little boy is sick. Did you have the chicken pox when you were a kid?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I had them. I’m immune.”
“Well, come on in,” she said. “Would you like some wine?”
“More than anything else right now, I need a shower and a change of clothes.” He hoisted his duffel bag. “Would that be okay?”
While Ben took his shower, Hannah pulled some sheets and a blanket out of the linen closet. She had a strange, schoolgirl thought: He’s just on the other side of the bathroom door, naked, standing in my shower. She had to remind herself that he was married, and that she was no schoolgirl.
She made him a grilled-cheese sandwich, which he ate at the kitchen counter.
Ben reassured her that he hadn’t told the police anything. They’d questioned him in the emergency room at the hospital. He’d given them a description of the car, but couldn’t offer them much else. The police said the previous tenant in his apartment had been a prominent gang member. As far as the local authorities were concerned, Ben had been the innocent victim of a gang-related drive-by shooting.
“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about the police connecting you with what happened tonight,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do that got you in trouble with the law? You indicated it was kind of serious.”
Hannah was at that sink, washing the griddle. She hesitated before responding. “My husband used to beat me up,” she said. “He even put me in the hospital once, for an extended stay. He was from a very rich and powerful family in Wisconsin. There was no way I could have left him and kept my son. So—I withdrew some money from our joint account. I took my son, left Wisconsin, changed my name, and moved here. That detective, Ronald Craig, must have been hired by my husband or his family. Remember, he was from Milwaukee? Anyway, I’m wanted for kidnapping, grand larceny, and I don’t know how many other charges. Since—Mr. Craig’s demise, I’ve been living on borrowed time.”
Ben didn’t say anything for a moment. He moved his plate aside. “It’s kind of weird,” he finally remarked. “Even though he was probably covering his own tracks, this killer did you a big favor when he absconded with all the paperwork from Craig’s investigation.”
“Yes. But it’s only a matter of days—or hours—before they send in another investigator, maybe even the police.” She took his empty plate. “See what I mean, ‘borrowed time’?”
“Maybe all you need is a good lawyer,” Ben offered.
“My husband and in-laws would buy a better one,” Hannah replied. She rinsed off his plate.
“So—what are you going to do? Just keep running?”
“I can’t right now, not with Guy sick.” She shut off the water, then dried her hands “But as soon as he’s well, we’re out of here—that is, if this maniac, the police, or my husband’s family don’t get to me first.”
Hannah put the plate away, then took another sip of wine. “By the way, I spoke with Seth Stroud tonight. He remembered Rae. Apparently, Paul Gulletti was seeing another student before Rae
. Her name was Angela Bramford, and she was found strangled on the second-floor deck of the Convention Center.”
“What do you suppose that’s patterned after?”
Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know. But according to Seth, our esteemed professor wasn’t even questioned about the murder, which has remained unsolved—big surprise.”
“I’d say the case against Paul is piling up,” Ben remarked. “You know, when I first got out here, I spent several days following him around—his home, his office at the newspaper, the college. I didn’t notice anything unusual.” He sat back on the barstool. “Maybe I’ll start tailing him again tomorrow. Did Seth have anything else to say?”
Hannah recounted her conversation with Paul’s assistant. She and Ben moved to the sofa, each with their glass of wine. It was well past midnight when Ben glanced past her and announced, “We’re not alone.”
Hannah peered over her shoulder at Guy, standing behind her in his pajamas. “Honey, what are you doing up?” she asked, getting to her feet. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I’m thirsty,” he replied.
Ben handed her the folded blanket she’d set out for him.
“Thanks,” Hannah said, wrapping it around Guy. She felt his forehead, then smiled. “Guy, this is Mr. Podowski….” She shot Ben a look and started to laugh. “But you can call him Ben.”
“Hi, Guy,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”
Hannah retreated to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Guy squinted at him. “Do you have chicken pox too?”
Ben touched one of the little cuts he’d gotten from the flying glass. “No, I was near a window that broke and some glass cut me.”
Guy sat down next to him. “Does it hurt? Did you cry?”
“A little. But don’t tell anybody. Okay?”
Hannah returned with the glass of water, then handed it to him. “All right, let’s get you to the bathroom, then back in bed. It’s awfully late.”
Guy gulped down some of the water. “Can I sit up with you guys?”
“Well, just a couple of minutes,” she said, sinking back on the sofa.
Ben asked Guy what he planned to be for Halloween. Guy wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a ghost or a pirate. He started rattling off what each of his friends at Alphabet Soup Day Care planned to be for trick or treat. Hannah sat back and watched the two of them. It felt good to have a man in the apartment. She could almost fool herself into thinking they were a family. She’d never had anything like this—certainly not with Kenneth. She wondered if this kind of quiet intimacy was routine for some families, the type of thing they took for granted.
Hannah had to remind herself once again that Ben was married.
“I hate to be a party pooper,” she announced, rubbing Guy’s shoulder. “But you belong back in bed, honey. C’mon, we’ll make a pit stop at the bathroom first; then I’ll tuck you in.” Hannah adjusted the blanket around him, then lifted him up. “Say good night to Ben.”
“Can he come tuck me in, too?” he asked, yawning.
Hannah threw Ben a smile. “Looks like someone’s taken a shine to you.”
He stood in the doorway while she put Guy to bed. She made the choo-choo sound to lull him to sleep.
They stepped out of his bedroom together. “I’ll get you another blanket,” she whispered.
“It’s okay,” he said, stopping. They were standing so close to each other in the dim hallway. For a moment, neither of them said anything. They could hear Guy’s steady breathing in the next room. Ben touched the side of her face “Thanks for all this,” he said. Then he hesitated, and stepped back. “I better turn in. I’ll make up the couch. You don’t have to bother.”
Hannah nodded. “All right. See you in the morning. I’ll make you breakfast.”
Hannah went to bed, but she was too wound up to sleep. The one night in three weeks that she had someone in the apartment to protect her, and she couldn’t drift off. She had another little cry about Britt. Reaching for some tissues on her nightstand, she glanced at the alarm clock: 1:20. Only a half hour had passed since she’d said good night to Ben. It seemed longer.
Hannah climbed out of bed, wiped her eyes, and put on a robe. She padded down the hall to the living room, then peeked around the corner at Ben. He was lying on his side, the sheets wrapped around him. He turned toward her. “Hannah?”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
He sat up, and the sheets fell down past his hairy chest, and bunched around his waist. He scratched his head. His blond hair was tousled. “I wasn’t really asleep,” he said softly. “You okay?”
Clutching the folds of her robe, Hannah stepped to the edge of the sofa. “Remember you asked me earlier tonight what I planned to do?” she asked, in a hushed tone. “I haven’t really had an actual plan since all of this started. Even if we find this killer, I’ll still have my problems with the police. Ben, I need to ask you a favor, a big favor.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“When we find out who’s behind all these killings and we’re ready to go to the police, can you go alone? I’ll need a head start to move on with Guy. We’ll need to begin someplace else—with new identities.”
“But don’t you think if we went to a lawyer and explained—”
“I can’t risk losing my son,” she cut in. “When the time comes, can I count on you to help me get away?”
“That’s the only option?” he asked.
“Can you think of another?”
He sighed. “If we can’t come up with a better plan, I’ll help you get away, Hannah. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “Good night again, Ben.”
Hannah started back down the hall. Just this morning, she’d been wary of him. She still didn’t know Ben Podowski very well. But now, she had to trust him. She trusted him with her life, and the life of her son.
Fifteen
“Who the hell is this supposed to be?”
Kenneth Woodley studied the photo. He sat at a small table by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Shillshell Bay. At this time of night, the water was black with silver-white ripples. Twinkling lights across the bay marked the start of land again.
Kenneth had heard Ray’s Boathouse was one of Seattle’s finer restaurants, so he’d arranged to meet his private detective in the bar upstairs. He had a late supper date in the formal dining area downstairs immediately following the meeting. The Sunday-night dinner rush had already peaked, but some muted chatter among lingering customers still competed with the Ella Fitzgerald recording piped through the elegant bar.
Kenneth tossed the photograph on the table. “This damn thing is so blurry and far away, it could be a picture of my wife or the goddamn Prince of Wales for all I can tell. Is this the best you could do?”
“I took it last night with a telephoto lens,” explained the private detective, a man named Walt Kirkabee. He was thirty-six, with straight, close-cropped black hair, a goatee, and the solid, husky build of a baseball player.
He offered Kenneth Woodley another photograph. “This guy stayed with her last night,” he said. “I took that shot earlier today.”
Setting down his martini glass, Kenneth snatched up the picture. “Looks like a doofus,” he muttered. “Have you ID’d him yet?”
“Not yet. He left her place—on foot—around ten this morning, and didn’t come back until a couple of hours ago. He was gone all day. But she stayed inside; never stepped outside the apartment.”
Kenneth tossed the photograph across the table at him, then sipped his martini. “So—you wasted the whole day waiting outside her place?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You could have followed this joker around. Maybe he’s the guy who wasted your predecessor. Ever think about that?”
“I can’t be two places at once,” Walt argued. “And Hannah Doyle is the person you hired me to stake out.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his club soda. “You might
consider hiring another man to work with me, Mr. Woodley. It’s really a two-man job. We could work in shifts, or split up when we had to.”
Kenneth was shaking his head. “Christ, you guys are milking me dry as it is. I’ve already spent enough on this investigation. You guys aren’t even positive this Hannah Doyle bitch is my estranged wife. All I have to go on is Ron Craig’s last report. She fits the description, and has a kid the right age. She calls him Guy. My wife used to call our son ‘Guy-Guy.’ Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Well, I’ve forked over a lot of money, hoping it’s not a fucking coincidence. You won’t squeeze me for any more. You tell that to your bosses at Great Lakes Investigations, okay, Sherlock?”
Sighing, Walt set another photo down on the table between them. “Take a look at this,” he said.
“What is it?” Kenneth asked, squinting at the picture. The shot was slightly out of focus, and appeared to have been blown up several times.
It was a photo of some bushes by a dumpster, but the detective traced an area of the bushes with his finger. “That’s a man,” he said.
Kenneth realized it was indeed a figure, lurking in the shadows between an alleyway dumpster and some shrubbery.
Walt slapped a similar shot on top of it. In this photo, a dark, phantom shape was skulking behind a tree.
“Someone else is watching her, Mr. Woodley,” the detective said. “I haven’t gotten a good look at him yet. These pictures are the best I could do. He seems to catch on whenever I’ve spotted him. It’s weird. It’s like he knows the camera and how to elude it. I’ve tried to take his picture several times the last couple of days, but those shots are the best I could do.” He set another photo in front of Kenneth. “Check this one out.”
Kenneth stared at a grainy, nighttime photograph of a parking lot. He didn’t notice anything unusual until the detective pointed to a ghostly image hovering behind a minivan. “That’s outside my hotel, Mr. Woodley,” Kirkabee said. “He’s following me too.”
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