Hannah fought off the pangs of premature homesickness. She dug the photos of Seth Stroud out of her purse, and studied them. She wondered why he’d changed his name, and what he was hiding.
She glanced up from the Polaroids to see Ben approaching. He wore a denim shirt, jeans, and a tan jacket. His face was flushed.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, catching his breath. “I practically ran up the hill here.” Despite a late-autumn chill in the air, he was perspiring.
“Well, I’m due back at work—two minutes ago,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch. “Want to walk back down the hill with me?”
He nodded again. “Fine. Sorry to hold you up. You had a visitor this morning. And I was following him—up until about ten minutes ago.”
“A visitor? Where, at my apartment?”
“Gulletti,” Ben said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “C’mon. I’ll tell you on the way back to the store.”
They started down a residential street, past piles of fallen leaves along the sidewalk.
“I followed Gulletti from his house, to Seattle’s Best Coffee, to the college,” Ben explained as they strolled. “Then, something must have happened, because he suddenly tore-ass out of his office. He tried to hail a cab in front of the college, but without any luck. So he hoofed it to your apartment building. He buzzed, and I guess Joyce gave him the heave-ho. She wouldn’t let him up. So he went to the video store. He didn’t stay long. I could spot Seth in there through the window. I didn’t know what to make of it, but they both seemed surprised to see each other.”
“Seth didn’t want Paul knowing that he was working there with me,” Hannah explained.
“Maybe that’s it,” Ben said. “Anyway, something weird was going on between them, I could tell. Then Paul went back to the school—and his office. That’s where I left him.”
“I wonder what Paul wanted,” Hannah murmured. “By the way.” She dug into her purse, then took out the two Polaroids and handed them to Ben. “Here are the pictures of Seth. Do you have a photo of Paul?”
Studying the photographs while they walked, Ben nodded. “Yeah, the portrait from his review column in the newspaper. This one is cute of you.”
Hannah plucked it out of his hand. “You know, the picture of Seth alone should be enough—even without the glasses. I don’t want Kenneth seeing any current pictures of me.”
“Well, they claim they have photos of your stalker. They probably have photos of you already, Hannah.”
“Just the same, I’d rather not give them any.”
“I understand,” Ben said, shoving the photo in his jacket pocket. “I can always draw a pair of glasses on this picture of Seth—if they don’t recognize him without the specs.” He looked toward the store, just a block away. “You be careful. I hate the idea of you working alongside of Seth Stroud all afternoon.”
“If that’s his real name,” Hannah said.
“What?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she replied. “Besides, he’s probably gone already. He only works half a day today. Paul’s class is tonight.”
She wrapped her arm around his. “You’re the one who needs to be careful. You’re taking all the risks this afternoon. I don’t trust Kenneth. Just get in and out of there as quickly as possible.”
He nodded. “I know, I know. We already went over this last night. Three things: one, I warn him about the boat explosion; two, I get a description of your stalker; and three, I set up a meeting between you and Kenneth for Saturday night.”
“By which time, Guy and I will be long gone,” Hannah added, staring straight ahead. “At least, I hope.”
A Seahawks game was broadcasting over three strategically located TV sets in Duke’s Chowderhouse. The Happy Hour crowd in the bar seemed rather sedate, and the restaurant area was just starting to fill up. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunset cast an amber haze over the Lake Union marina.
Ben sat down at a small table near the window. Hannah didn’t have any pictures of her estranged husband, so Ben had no way of recognizing Kenneth Woodley. But Kenneth and his detectives had been watching Hannah for several days. They knew him, they had an advantage. Ben imagined they were staring at him this very moment.
He ordered a Lite beer, and sat there, waiting to be recognized. He glanced over at the different men at the bar. One of them was smirking back at him. He had black hair, a goatee, and wore a tight, gray, long-sleeve T-shirt that showed off his brawny physique. Ben wondered if this was Kenneth, or the detective, or maybe just some gay guy who found him attractive.
Ben looked away, toward one of the TVs. His beer arrived and he paid for it. After the waitress left, he glanced again at Mr. Tight T-shirt, who was still staring at him.
Ben turned away again. Gazing out the window, he sipped his beer.
“Mind if I join you?”
Ben glanced up at the Tight T-shirt Man. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”
The man chuckled, then slid into the chair across from Ben. He sipped his martini, then sat back. “Maybe you’re waiting for me, buddy.” He glanced out the window. “You know, for somebody who’s so full of gloom and doom about sailboats, it’s pretty weird you agreed to meet here.”
Ben looked at all the boats docked just outside the restaurant. “It was your suggestion. I’ve never been here before. Are you Kirkabee?”
The man with the goatee smiled. “I might be. Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter,” Ben said.
“That’s true. You don’t matter to me at all.”
Ben gave him an ironic smile. Someone sat down in the chair directly behind him, and Ben inched forward. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I want to explain my warning in that e-mail. There’s someone else following her, and he’s responsible for several murders—including the hit-and-run of your pal Ronald Craig. This killer likes to give my friend videos illustrating how he plans to murder his next victims—and it’s always someone she knows. In the last video, there was an explosion aboard a yacht.”
The man shook his head and chuckled. “Pretty incredible.”
“Before Ronald Craig was killed, my friend received a video showing someone repeatedly mowed down by a car.”
The man stopped smiling. “Yeah?”
Ben nodded. “In your response to my e-mail, you said you’ve seen this stalker. You said you have surveillance photos of him.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, maybe we can identify him. He murdered Ronald Craig. I’d think you’d want to see this killer brought to justice.”
The man stared at Ben, and his smile returned. “Funny. Bringing someone to justice is exactly why I’m here. Speaking for my client, most fathers don’t appreciate having their sons stolen out from under them.”
“We can get to that in a minute,” Ben said. “For now, I’d like to see these photos you have of the stalker.”
“Why?” the man asked. “You already know who this stalker-killer is. And so do I.” He sat back. “You can cut the bullshit. We both know—it’s you.”
Hannah went through the last of the kitchen drawers. She’d managed to fill two tall trash bags with junk. One drawer had been full of finger paintings and art projects Guy had made at Alphabet Soup Day Care. She didn’t want to part with them. At the same time, someone planning to skip town couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
She’d sent Joyce home. Guy was feeling better. He sat in bed, playing with an Etch A Sketch that Ben had brought for him earlier today.
The doctor had told her the recovery time for chicken pox was ten to fourteen days. By Saturday, it would be ten days. She didn’t want to take chances with Guy’s health. But they couldn’t risk staying on any longer. They had to leave Saturday. They’d take a cab out of town, stay in a cheap motel, then catch a bus or train heading south, maybe Phoenix, Tucson, or San Diego.
Hannah worked the bottom drawer back in its opening, then glanced at her wristwa
tch. Nearly six. If all was going smoothly, Ben was wrapping up the meeting with Kenneth right now. But, she knew from experience, things never went smoothly with Kenneth.
She opened the cupboard, and took out a canister of bread crumbs and a packet of elbow macaroni. She was baking a macaroni and cheese souffle tonight, one of Guy’s favorites. She’d let him put on his robe and socks, and eat at the kitchen counter; his first meal out of bed in over a week.
The intercom buzzer went off, startling her. It was too soon for Ben to be here already.
Hannah hesitated before picking up the intercom phone. It buzzed again, then again. Whoever was outside must have started leaning on the button, because the buzzer droned continuously.
“Mom?” Guy called from his bedroom.
“It’s all right, honey,” she called back. “I’ve got it!”
She snatched up the intercom phone. “Yes? Hello?”
“Hannah? It’s Paul,” he said anxiously. “Paul Gulletti. I need to see you. Could you buzz me in? It’s important.”
“Well, I—ah, have people here, friends of mine,” she said. “I’ll meet you out on the balcony. All right? Come up the stairwell to the third floor.”
Hannah pressed the entry button, then hung up the phone. She stepped back into the kitchen. Opening the top kitchen drawer, she pulled out a small steak knife and carefully slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. She untucked her pullover to cover up the knife handle. Then she grabbed the cordless phone, stepped outside, and closed the door.
Paul came from the stairwell with an envelope in his hand. The customarily laid-back, confident professor now seemed rattled. He was out of breath from running up the three flights. As he came toward her, Hannah instinctively backed away.
“Don’t you have class in fifteen minutes?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m double-parked outside. You want a ride there?”
She shook her head. “No, I—as I told you, I have company.” She showed him the phone in her hand. “Plus, I’m expecting an important phone call. So—now really isn’t a good time, Paul.”
“Hannah, listen. I came here because I’m worried about you. I think someone might want to—hurt you.”
“Who?” she asked, stealing a glance toward her neighbor’s window. No one seemed to be home.
“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “Someone broke into my office last night, or maybe early this morning. They left these photos of you on my desk.”
Paul pulled three black-and-white photographs out of the envelope. Hannah tucked the phone under her arm and studied the pictures. They were shots taken without her knowledge. It was unsettling to view her stalker’s handiwork. In two of the photos, she was in front of the store; the third caught her stepping out the lobby door of her apartment building.
“This has happened twice before,” she heard Paul say. “Both times with students of mine, women I—women with whom I’d become involved.”
Hannah gazed up at him. Paul shrugged. “The first girl was an artist I was seeing named Angela Bramford. Not long after we broke up, I found two photos of Angela on my desk at the college. A couple of days later, someone slipped an envelope under my office door. It had a series of snapshots taken off a television….”
Hannah didn’t interrupt him as he described the photos of Marilyn Monroe’s death scene from Niagara.
“The day after I got those pictures, Angela was strangled. Her body was found near one of the entrances to the Convention Center, beneath three big bells….”
Paul then told her about Rae Palmer, and the next group of candid portraits he’d received. If he was the killer, he was giving away an awful lot.
“The day after I found the pictures of Rae in the pocket of my jacket—hell, I still don’t know how they got in there—another envelope was slid under my office door. Seth was with me at the time. I remember having to wait until he left. In the envelope was this horrible murder sequence from Looking for Mr. Goodbar.”
“What happened to Rae Palmer?” Hannah asked, though she already knew the answer.
Paul frowned. “I have no idea. She disappeared without a trace. But I’m pretty convinced she died like Diane Keaton’s character in Goodbar. God knows what happened to the body.”
“Why haven’t you called the police?”
He sighed. “Hannah, I’m a married man. I’m also a professor. I have a newspaper column. I’ve had books published. I’m a respected man….”
That’s not entirely true, Hannah wanted to say. I don’t respect you. But she kept her mouth shut and continued to study him. She wanted to see if he was lying.
“When I found those photos of you this morning, it scared the hell out of me. I’m worried about you, Hannah. I’ve been running around like a crazy man today. I tried to get ahold of you earlier. I stopped by here—and the store. I’m pretty sure someone was following me.”
Hannah said nothing. Apparently, Paul had felt Ben’s presence.
“Listen,” he said. “Do whatever you have to do; buy a gun, or leave town, or get police protection. I’d go to the police myself, but I can’t get involved in this. I have a marriage and a reputation to protect.”
Hannah bit her lip. She couldn’t very well criticize his reluctance to go to the police. “You don’t have any idea who might be behind these murders?” she asked finally. “None at all?”
Paul shrugged.
“Well, what about Seth?” Hannah asked. “He knew both victims. He knows me. And he knows movies. He’d have access to your office, too.”
“But he was in my office when the Goodbar photos were slipped under the door.”
“So? His roommate probably delivered the pictures. They’re probably working together on this.”
“What roommate? Seth doesn’t have a roommate.”
“Yes, he does,” Hannah argued. “I’ve met him.”
Paul frowned. “That’s news to me. I was sure Seth lived alone.”
Hannah glanced at her wristwatch, then tucked the photos in her back pocket. She felt the knife there. “You’ll be late for class,” she said. “Could you do me a favor? Can you get me a copy of that book you helped write, Darkness, Light, and Shadow? I want to read your essay. Seth claims he wrote it.”
Paul put on an indignant look and started to shake his head. “Seth merely contributed a few notes,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. “That’s my essay. I wrote it.”
Hannah studied him. For the first time tonight, she could see he was lying. Did that mean all the rest of it was the truth?
“Could you just get me a copy of that book as soon as possible?” she heard herself say.
“Is there anything else you want?” he asked. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Yes, let me know when you get the next series of photos,” Hannah steadily replied. “I’d like to know how I’m supposed to die.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ben asked.
The man with the goatee took another sip of his martini. “We know it’s you out there, watching her every move—and watching us. And when you’re not doing that, you’re doing her. You’re fucking her, aren’t you? Don’t you ever sleep? She’s got you jumping through hoops, doesn’t she, buddy?”
Ben shook his head. “Listen, you’re way off base.” He glanced around at the other people in the bar, then lowered his voice. “I’m no murderer. Hell, I contacted you and set up this meeting to warn you. I’m trying to prevent another murder from happening.”
“Seems more like a threat than a warning,” the man retorted.
“Have you actually seen this guy?” Ben asked. “You said you have surveillance photos of him. Well, let’s see them. Show me some pictures of me stalking her.”
The man with the goatee just shook his head.
“He still hasn’t denied that he’s fucking her.”
Ben turned in his chair to stare at the man seated behind him. With his thin face, prominent nose, and receding wavy hair, the man�
��s looks were borderline ugly. He wore a sweater that looked expensive and imported. He gave Ben a cocky grin.
“You’re Kenneth Woodley,” Ben murmured.
Kenneth got up and brought his chair to their table. He dropped a few photographs in front of Ben, then took his martini and sat down. “Well, you’re not quite as stupid as you look,” he told Ben. “Though you misspelled rendezvous in your last e-mail, doofus.”
Ben looked at the photos. They were all taken at night. In each one, there was a phantomlike figure that couldn’t be identified. The pictures reminded him of those photos Kennedy assassination experts showed of the grassy knoll, with blurred objects that could be killers lurking in the bushes.
“This isn’t me in these pictures,” Ben muttered. He reached into his pocket, then pulled out the Polaroid of Seth—along with Paul’s photo from his review column. “Here. Do either of these guys look familiar?”
Kenneth glanced at the photos for a moment, then shoved them across the table to his private detective friend.
“The younger guy just started working with her at the video store,” Kirkabee explained. “The other one I don’t know about.”
“So tell me the truth,” Ben said. “Have you ever gotten a good look at this stalker?”
Kenneth smirked. “No, you’ve managed to elude us until now.”
“Goddamn it,” Ben hissed. “I’m not the guy.”
“I don’t scare easily,” Kenneth went on. “The only reason I responded to your threatening e-mails was mere curiosity—”
“That wasn’t a threat,” Ben cut in. “It was a warning that—”
“I wanted to meet you and see just how far that sorry bitch has sunk,” Kenneth continued. “Nice arrangement, huh? She spreads her legs for you, and you do her talking for her. I was going to say you do her killing for her, but now that I’ve met you, I don’t think you have the balls or the smarts to pull off a good hit. She probably hired someone else to mow down Ron Craig, didn’t she?”
Watch Them Die Page 27