Disturbed

by Kevin O'Brien

  “What?” Natalie murmured.

  All at once, Rachel rushed toward her, raising the crowbar in the air.

  Screaming, Natalie backed into the cabinet. The door opened and several small bottles of model paint fell out. They hit her shoulders and then clattered onto the cement floor. Rachel was practically on top of her. Natalie put her arm out, but it was too late. She felt the crowbar slam against her skull — just above her left eye.

  She let out a frail cry and reeled back against the cabinet. More paint bottles fell out and crashed to the floor. She felt her legs giving out under her.

  “This is just more work for me,” Rachel grumbled. “Now I have to make a doll for you.”

  Natalie stared at her — until blood oozed into her eye.

  She thought of that red nail polish.

  She caught a glimpse of Rachel raising the crowbar in the air again. But then everything went out of focus. Natalie tried to hold herself up by leaning against the cabinet. Somehow, she still thought she could make it out of that room if she just kept standing.

  But she heard Rachel grunt — and then a loud pop.

  It was the sound of her skull cracking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  She thanked God the receptionist was a temp. If it was Juliet, the usual receptionist, then she would have to hear her condolences and explain that she was feeling better — and saner — than she’d been yesterday at the funeral. She probably would have gotten emotional and cried. And Juliet would have called this coworker or that coworker of Jeff’s so they could give their condolences, and the whole damn thing would have gone on for an hour.

  All she wanted to do was pick up the package Jeff had bought for his mistress, and then sneak out of there.

  At the reception desk just inside the glass double doors to Kendall Pharmaceuticals, the temp explained that Peter had to run an errand. But yes, indeed, he’d left a package for her. She reached under the desk and then pulled out a large UPS box — about two by two feet. She set it on the desktop. “It’s not too heavy,” she said. “But if you’d like some help carrying it out, I can get someone. . ”

  Molly carefully lifted the box to get a feel for the weight. It was bulky, but weighed only about five pounds. “No, that’s all right,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I heard about your husband, Mrs. Dennehy,” the receptionist said, getting to her feet. She opened one of the glass doors for Molly. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, working up a smile as she peered at her over the top of the box. She made her way to the elevator, and managed to press the Down button. The package felt a bit heavier and more awkward as she waited for the elevator to arrive. She couldn’t help remembering the last time she was here, when Jeff’s mistress had called to taunt her — just hours before his death.

  The elevator finally arrived, and she stepped aboard. It was crowded and stopped five times before she finally made it down to the lobby. As she walked to the garage elevators, Molly was sweating, and she felt a little dizzy. Some woman on a cell phone bumped into her and almost knocked the box out of her hands. Molly wanted to scream at her to watch where she was going, but she said nothing. The woman moved on without even looking at her, not a break in her conversation.

  By the time Molly stepped off at Parking Level D (for Dalmatian, the sign said, with a photo of the spotted dog), she was so upset and sick that she just wanted to drop the box on the floor and kick it all the way to her car. But even though her arms ached, she carried the package to her car. She heard her own footsteps on the concrete, echoing in the dark, winding garage. In the distance — perhaps a level or two levels up — someone’s tires squealed as they turned the corners from one ramp to another.

  Molly set the box down on the hood of her Saturn and caught her breath.

  She couldn’t wait until she got home. She had to see what Jeff had secretly picked up while antique shopping with his mistress in La Conner last month. Molly took her keys out of her purse and ran one across the box’s taped top flaps.

  But she heard something that made her stop. It seemed to come from the elevator alcove, but an SUV parked in the next row blocked her view. She heard a woman snickering. The laugh was kind of husky and scratchy.

  Molly froze and listened to that voice — and the set of footsteps. All she could think about was that crazy woman on the phone, and how she seemed to know everything. Did she somehow know that Molly would be picking up this package today—her package? Had she somehow orchestrated it?

  Molly heard the snickering again.

  “Who’s there?” she called. Her heart was racing. The footsteps came closer.

  “Oh, you have a dirty mind,” she heard the woman whisper. Then Molly saw her come around the corner and down the ramp. It was another woman on a cell phone. She snickered again. “I mean it, stop,” she said into the phone. “Now you’re just being gross. . ”

  Watching the woman climb inside her VW, Molly slouched against her car for a few moments. Her heartbeat finally started to slow down. She felt so stupid — and vulnerable, and angry. Taking a deep breath, she turned and tore open the top of the UPS box. It was full of Styrofoam peanuts. They stuck to the lower sleeve of her pea jacket as she clawed her way to another box within the box. Some Styrofoam peanuts fell out as she pulled out the smaller parcel. It was about half the size of the outside box. She used her key to cut away at the tape sealing it up.

  Molly found an item wrapped in tissue paper. It felt heavy in her hands. As she tore away at the thin paper, she could discern the jade green color.

  Then she saw the tusk.

  She knew the jade piece wasn’t for his mistress. It was an elephant for her collection, and it was beautiful. Molly broke down. Hugging the figurine, she leaned against her car and sobbed.

  For a few minutes, she didn’t feel sick or stupid or angry or scared. For those few minutes, she just missed her husband.

  In only her bra and panties, the woman who called herself Rachel Cross mopped up the trail of blood on the basement floor. The crimson streak went from the corner of her secret workroom through the laundry room and into the bathroom. Natalie’s body was behind the fogged glass door of the shower stall, curled up on the floor. The drain now caught all the blood.

  Jenna had gotten blood on her sweater and her jeans. She’d thrown them in the washing machine. The clothes were churning through the spin cycle now. She’d already rinsed the spattering of blood off her hands, face, and hair.

  She’d changed her mind about making a doll for Natalie. There just wasn’t any time. For the last twenty minutes, she’d contemplated chopping up the body. She’d even gone through the box of tools on the workbench and took out two different saws, wondering if they could cut through bone. She imagined taking sections of the body outside in lawn bags, and then burying them in the forest in back.

  But she decided it was best to leave the body in the house. From what Molly had told her, Natalie wasn’t supposed to be staying at the Nguyens’. According to the driver’s license Jenna had found in the wallet inside her fatigue jacket pocket, Natalie’s most recent address was on Mercer Street on Capitol Hill in Seattle. In that same pocket, Jenna had also found her own engagement ring, the pearl necklace Ray gave her on their tenth anniversary, some cash, and several of her blank checks. So — in addition to trespassing, Natalie was a thief. Jenna had met enough of her daughter’s street friends at Tracy’s shoddy little memorial service to recognize a crystal meth addict when she saw one.

  Natalie’s mysterious presence on the block had actually bought Jenna some time yesterday and today. When after the funeral, her old friend, Laurie Bauer, rode by the church on her bike and called to her, Jenna had thought it was all over. But then Molly assumed Natalie was Jenna Corson. She thought Natalie was responsible for all the recent deaths, accidents, and tragedies on Willow Tree Court. Natalie was the perfect suspect.

  But Jenna knew it was only a matter of time be
fore Molly figured her out. She’d already suspected her. How long before Molly realized the peppermints she’d given her — along with those ginger capsules she’d picked up for her — only made her sicker, more sleepy, and a bit delirious? Molly had already stopped taking them.

  And yesterday, when Molly uttered her name as she was leaving the bedroom, it was all Jenna could do to keep from reacting. She’d stifled the same natural instinct to react an hour before when Laurie had called to her in front of the church. She’d gone to a lot of lengths to become Rachel Cross — with forged driver’s licenses from Florida and Washington, a birth certificate, and other documents. Once she met up with Aldo, the killer-for-hire connected her to all sorts of criminals, who in turn provided her with so many illegal services. She’d had a computer hacker create an exceptional credit history for Rachel Cross. She’d already started getting junk mail for Rachel Cross before even moving into Kay’s old house.

  She’d also sent herself that anonymous note and slipped it in Molly’s mailbox just minutes after the mailman had delivered the mail one day last month. Several pieces of her junk mail had made their way into the Dennehys’ mailbox with no help from her. Mail mixups just happened when people lived next door to each other. It somehow forced neighbors to look out for one another and get closer.

  That had been why Kay was the first to die. Jenna wanted the house.

  But she couldn’t stay. Laurie almost outing her wasn’t the only reason why Jenna had to wrap things up. Someone had murdered Aldo. They’d slit his throat the same day she’d killed Jeff. Of course, getting murdered was probably a professional risk in Aldo’s business. But if the police dug deep enough, they might find evidence linking Aldo to her and her late husband. After all, Ray and she had both employed his services.

  Jenna had to finish everything tonight. After she killed Molly and Chris, she would set fire to all the houses on Willow Tree Court, including this one. She’d already reported a possible arson to the police a little over a week ago. Of course, no one knew she’d set her own toolshed on fire. She’d worked out the delay. She’d left a lit cigarette inside a pack of matches on a stack of old newspapers, half-soaked with gasoline. She’d been talking with Chris Dennehy for over ten minutes before he smelled the smoke.

  So it was in police records that Willow Tree Court had a potential firebug.

  Standing in the doorway to her workroom, she hated the idea of having to torch all her dollhouses. But she couldn’t afford to be sentimental. And it would be appropriate to start the fire in this room with the model of the cul-de-sac.

  They’d expect Jill’s, the Hahns’, and the Nguyens’ houses to be empty.

  Jenna fiddled with her bra strap as she sauntered back to the bathroom. She stared at the corpse behind the fogged glass door of the shower stall.

  They would be expecting to find a body in this house. And they would find one. It might take a day or two before they realized it wasn’t Rachel Cross, and that Rachel Cross didn’t exist. By that time, Jenna, her son, and her new stepdaughter, Erin, would be far, far away.

  Natalie was buying her some more time — again.

  Jenna glanced at her wristwatch. She had to go pick up Erin from school and then buy gasoline.

  * * *

  Chris looked at the lighted numbers above the door.

  He stood alone in the elevator with the bouquet of dried flowers in his hand. This was his third time in the building, and he still didn’t know his way around. But he was pretty sure he was headed to the right place.

  He couldn’t think of anywhere else to go — or anyone else he could talk to.

  Roseann had confirmed for him that Molly was right. His dad had been set up by some woman, and she’d most likely left him dead in that hotel room. Was Molly right about the rest of it, too? Had the same woman, this Natalie person, arranged his mother’s murder — along with Larry’s and Taylor’s? Had she murdered Mrs. Garvey, too — and made it look like an accident? Then that meant the same woman had rigged Courtney’s cell phone to explode. She’d broken into his locker and left him that note about Molly’s brother. She’d set fire to their next-door neighbor’s toolshed. And she’d seen to it that the police and reporters knew where and when to find Mr. Hahn with a teenage prostitute and a stash of drugs and porn.

  Why was she doing all these things? What did she have against his family and his neighbors on Willow Tree Court?

  He couldn’t go to the police without getting Roseann in trouble. So he’d come here. On the way, he’d driven past the Arboretum, where Mr. Corson was murdered. Chris kept thinking how much he could have used Mr. Corson’s guidance right now.

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened on the fourth floor. Chris started down the hospital corridor toward the Intensive Care Unit.

  Courtney was the only one he could think of who might have some answers. She’d survived an attempt on her life. If nothing else, at least they could commiserate with each other over what had happened to their fathers. He hated comparing his dad with Mr. Hahn, who was pretty damn perverted — and pompous. But his dad and Mr. Hahn had both been exposed in similar sleazy situations.

  As he turned the corner for the ICU, he heard someone’s cell phone go off.

  “Mrs. Hahn,” he heard a woman say. “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to use cell phones in here.”

  “Oh, leave me alone. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Mrs. Hahn replied, all huffy-sounding. And then her voice took on a sweet tone. “Hello?”

  Chris almost bumped into a nurse, who was emerging from the ICU visitors’ lounge. She was shaking her head. “Arrogant bitch,” she muttered.

  He saw Mrs. Hahn, sitting alone on one of the two tan, cushioned love seats in the small lounge area. A TV bracketed high on the wall was muted and tuned in to some afternoon talk show. The coffee and end tables all had magazines and boxes of Kleenex on them. The window looked out to the parking lot.

  Mrs. Hahn had her cell phone to her ear. She suddenly stood up. Her purse dropped off the edge of the love seat and fell to the floor. “Goddamn you!” she yelled. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? Goddamn it!” She hurled the cell phone against the wall, and it smashed into several pieces that scattered on the carpet.

  His mouth open, Chris stopped at the edge of the lounge area. Mrs. Hahn turned and flopped down on the love seat. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  “Mrs. Hahn, are you okay?” Chris asked, gently. He put down the dried flowers, picked up a Kleenex box, and offered it to her.

  Without looking at him, she plucked a tissue from the box, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “It’s this awful woman,” Mrs. Hahn said, her voice strained. “She hasn’t called since Jeremy — since before Mr. Hahn was arrested. I couldn’t tell anybody about the calls, because she kept saying Jeremy was. .” She took a deep breath. “Well, she said all these filthy things about him that I didn’t think were true at the time. I still don’t think it’s true — despite what everyone says.”

  His brow furrowed, Chris gazed at her. “You mean, she told you ahead of time that he was involved with—”

  “Yes,” she interrupted impatiently. “ ‘Lynette, did you know your husband likes to fuck teenage girls?’ ” she said in a scratchy, singsong, mocking voice. “I thought the calls started because some nut had seen me on TV when your mother was killed. But this woman kept calling. For a while there, I thought it was Molly. I couldn’t go to the police, because of what she was saying about my husband. He still hasn’t gone to trial. So I still can’t go to the police, and she knows it, goddamn it.”

  “Molly was getting phone calls, too — about my dad,” Chris pointed out. He sat down on the arm of the love seat across from her. “Molly said my mom was getting harassed, too — by the same woman.”

  “I knew about the calls to your mother,” Mrs. Hahn muttered, wiping her eyes. “But I didn’t know Molly was getting
them, too.”

  “You said it stopped for a while?”

  She nodded. “After Mr. Hahn was arrested. This is the first one since then.”

  “Can I ask what she said?”

  “She said, ‘So, Lynette—’ ” Mrs. Hahn took on that crawly, mocking voice again. “ ‘How does it feel to have everything taken away from you?’ ”

  Chris frowned. “That’s it?”

  “No,” Mrs. Hahn whispered. “And then she said, ‘Now you know what you did to me.’ ”

  “What does she mean by that?” Chris asked numbly.

  “I have no idea.”

  Chris got up and started collecting the broken parts to her cell phone. The battery had fallen out, and he put it back inside. The screen was cracked and the casing was in shards. He set everything on the coffee table in front of her. Then he picked up the flowers. “Is it okay if I see Courtney?” he asked.

  Slouched in the love seat, Mrs. Hahn wiped her eyes again and nodded. “She was asleep earlier, but she should be up now.”

  Chris walked down the corridor toward Courtney’s room. He wondered what the woman caller meant when she’d told Mrs. Hahn, “Now you know what you did to me.” Had Mrs. Hahn gotten this woman’s husband arrested in some kind of sex scandal? Did this woman have a daughter who was disfigured, maimed, or almost killed?

  The last time he’d seen Courtney had been the afternoon before his dad had died. She’d been totally out of it, pumped full of drugs and painkillers. Her face had been so red and swollen that it had seemed almost twice its normal size. He’d barely recognized her.

  The drapes in her room were closed now, but the TV was on — a Friends rerun. The light from the television flickered across her bed, which was raised near the headboard. Courtney was sitting halfway up. A bandage covered her right eye, but the other one was open. The swelling had gone down. Past the staples in her face and the shiny red skin, Chris could see a little bit of the old Courtney. But her blond hair had been shorn off, exposing a dark hole and pink scars where her right ear used to be. A tube was stuck in her nose, and she had another one in her arm. A third tube ran out from under the covers. That explained why one of the three bags hanging on a contraption at her bedside was full of urine.