Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  Beth was at the door to her room clutching a rose-patterned robe. “What?”

  “I don’t know. Stay here.” Grabbing Beth’s car keys, I allowed Winston to haul me through the game room, across the softly lit parlor, and to the back door. I hoped his barking didn’t rouse the other guests.

  No one appeared to challenge us as we scurried through the sleeping house. Winston came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, head raised, ears alert, and tail stiffly curled over his back.

  I pulled out my Glock.

  He remained motionless for a moment, then tugged me to Beth’s car. Returning the pistol to my pocket, I checked the ground around the car. Everything appeared undisturbed.

  Reaching for the car door with the keys, I noticed I’d left the car unlocked. Great. How about another stolen car?

  The overhead light came on as I opened the driver’s-side door.

  Sitting propped on the passenger seat was a white Shari Lewis Lamb Chop puppet.

  My heart raced. I yanked out the Glock and spun around. Still no one in sight, but clouds hid the light of the moon.

  I didn’t want to touch the toy in case it held fingerprints. A quick check of the car showed nothing out of place and no bag to put the puppet in. I ran back into the house, and Beth was waiting in the parlor holding two steaming white mugs. “Chamomile tea? What’s wrong?”

  “I need a bag. Quickly.”

  Beth put the tea on the table, yanked the trash bag from the garbage container in the corner, then pulled out an unused bag underneath.

  I snatched it from her, handed her Winston’s lead, and returned to the car. After bagging the puppet, I locked the car and returned to the house.

  Beth sat at the table, a cooling mug of tea in front of her, arms wrapped around her shoulders.

  Winston had thumped to the floor, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Around us the old house sighed and creaked. A moth softly beat against the window.

  After carefully placing the bag on the table, I walked to my room and returned with the puppet from the Sinopas’ home. “Someone got into your car and left a matching Lamb Chop puppet on the seat.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That’s the problem. It could mean several things. I seem to have made an enemy of LoneBear, and I think she’s the one who took my car. She’d relish making me look like a fool. And another officer, Attao, isn’t so crazy about my outsider status. He knows I have the puppet from the Sinopas’ crime scene.”

  Beth glanced at the lamb. “I can tell that you don’t really believe either of those things is the reason for this.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. With the placing of the child’s body in plain sight today, I think the killer is no longer trying to cover up. He’s providing a direct connection between himself, the Sinopas’ murder, the bloody scene when I was fourteen, and me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Taking a deep breath, I looked at her. “Make my case to Chief Kus that I have a reason to search out my past.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ONCE AGAIN I DIDN’T THINK I COULD SLEEP, BUT AFTER what seemed like a minute, I awoke. I was freezing. Winston had sneaked up onto the bed and was hogging all the covers and two pillows. I was about to have a tug-of-war to retrieve a blanket when I spotted the clock.

  Unless I hurried, I would be late for the task force meeting.

  Overcast daylight glowed behind the curtains. I tore out of my room and tapped on Beth’s door. “I’m late. Help me.”

  Beth appeared, grabbed a leash, and lured Winston off the bed and out for a walk.

  I showered and swiftly dressed in a pair of black wool slacks and matching blazer with a beige shell underneath. My wardrobe came from a secondhand shop in Missoula where someone my size had dumped a boatload of designer clothes.

  When I came out of my room, an attractive, auburn-haired woman was waiting in the hall holding a paper sack and a travel mug of coffee. “Beth said you were late. Here’s something to tide you over. I’m Lila. I work with Eric.”

  “Thank you so much!” I gratefully took the sack and mug.

  Beth already held my kit in one hand and the bag with the puppet in the other.

  “Put that other puppet in the kit and follow me out.” On the way to the car, I said, “Up for more research?”

  “You know I am.”

  “See if you can locate Jacob Greene. Ask Eric or Lila if they have earlier records on who stayed at this house. See if you can find out about the plane that crashed—like who owned it, who the pilot was, what they were doing.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll call if I have anything new to report. And I hope to stop by and talk to Holly.”

  Driving as fast as I dared to Lapwai, I bolted down the muffin Lila had so thoughtfully provided. I walked into the task force meeting seven minutes late.

  Chief Kus was speaking. He stopped when I entered. Everyone else stared at me with varying degrees of hostility. “Nice of you to join us.”

  That stung. “I was up part of the night. Someone broke into Beth’s car and left this.” I upended the bag and dumped the puppet on the table.

  Silence for a moment, then the room erupted in laughter.

  My face burned. I reached down and pulled the other puppet from my kit. “This was found in Beatrice Sinopa’s room.” I put it on the table.

  Officer Attao grabbed Bea’s puppet and stuck it on his hand. “Hello.” He worked the puppet’s mouth. “I’m a lamb clue. I’m here for ewe, and ewe, and ewe.” He poked the puppet at different officers. “That’s spelled e-w-e.”

  “Knock it off.” Chief Kus glared at the man, then looked at me. “Please remain after the meeting.”

  I focused on the chief, avoiding the gaze of the members of the force. The map that the officers had been looking at the last time I was here had been mounted to one wall. Two enlarged driver’s license photos of men of interest joined my composite sketch.

  “We’ve received tips from the Amber Alert from as far away as Tucson and Colorado Springs. Lewiston police have almost finished contacting the last of their registered sex offenders. I’ve passed out the printout of suspects to check out today. The last search party organized by the tribe goes out today and will cover this area.” He strolled to the map and pointed. “You all have your assignments. Let’s find Bea today.”

  I remained while the room emptied, using the time to remove the crime-scene diagrams from my kit and place them on the table.

  Chief Kus sat across the table from me. “Your interviews produced no leads. Nothing in the tapes I sent you. So far, just a composite of an average man who may or may not be connected. And this.” He picked up the puppet.

  I explained my strange childhood and the similarities between the cases. The more I spoke, the weaker my evidence seemed that anything was related. I could see the doubt in the chief’s eyes.

  When I finished, he leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. He took a breath. “I’ll have the crime lab dust the puppet you found in the car for prints and any hairs or fibers, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. I’m inclined to think someone is pulling a bad joke on you.”

  “But—”

  “Continue with the interviews I’ve given you. We have a ticking clock on finding Beatrice.”

  “Could you do one thing for me?” I folded my hands to keep from making a pleading motion. “When you had your analyst look for similar cases, you looked in Idaho, right?”

  He gave a half nod.

  “Three years ago there was a case in The Dalles, Oregon, where the parents were killed and the child went missing.”

  Kus reached for a yellow pad and jotted some notes. “How do you know this?”

  I wanted to say my researcher was better. “I’m supposed to be gathering information. That came up in the course of making the composite with Andi Tubbs. Anyway, could you have them send over their crime-scene photos?”

  He wrote somethi
ng else, then nodded. “I’ll look into it, but I mean it about you staying on task.”

  “Thank you.” I got up to leave.

  “And I’ll also look into whether someone on my staff is playing games with you.”

  I tried not to think about the officers’ reaction to the puppet. I focused on the next project. I called my next witness, Randy Wait, and set up a composite session. He’d seen a man following Beatrice around the park on Easter Sunday.

  The day was overcast and sultry as I drove toward Kamiah on Highway 12. The road hugged the winding Clearwater River, with blooming dogwood and wild cherry trees parading their glory. The hills rose above me in undulating waves of emerald green.

  I slowed when I saw the sign for Orofino and the state mental hospital. If Beth was right and my parents died in a plane crash, today I could find out the truth of why I’d been whisked from town to town evading a fictional murderer. Resisting the urge to stop now rather than wait until I’d done the composite sketch, I continued the remaining miles, but my thoughts wouldn’t let me take them captive.

  From the day I fled the bloody house in Kamiah, I’d crushed the memories of living with Holly, not wanting to feel the pain of her death. Now, in such a short span of time, I’d learned that her murder, like my parents’, was a work of fiction.

  Neither Holly nor Jacob died in Kamiah, according to the records, and my parents perished in an accident, not at the hand of some crazy, vengeful killer.

  My jaw ached, and I made an effort to relax. Think about Beatrice.

  A devastating forest fire in 2015 had burned more than forty homes and destroyed over seventy thousand acres surrounding the small town of Kamiah. The evidence of this devastation clearly showed in the large strips of blackened earth and rust-colored trees. Patches of white smoke on the hillsides indicated where someone was burning slash piles of downed trees.

  I turned off the highway to the main street of town. I’d scheduled the interview with Randy to take place at the library. For the composite artist, the easiest and best location of the drawing is the police department, but some witnesses aren’t comfortable in a law-enforcement setting. Unless I had an officer with me and had no other choice, I seldom went to someone’s home. Between curious children, ringing phones, snoopy neighbors, and almost always a dog with an overactive bladder, there were simply too many interruptions. Not to mention the safety issue.

  The directions were simple and direct: Look for city hall, which would be on the left. The library was next to it. Both buildings had western-type facades that resembled stores, with an overhanging roof shading the sidewalk.

  A young man waited by the checkout desk. “Mrs. Marcey?”

  “Call me Gwen. You must be Randy Wait.” Randy was a twenty-something, oval-faced native wearing a red baseball hat, a green jacket, and jeans. His skin bore the memory of teenage acne, and a sparse mustache sprouted from his upper lip. His hand was sweaty as I shook it. Before I could ask about the meeting room, Randy moved into the library, around a corner, and through an open door. The space was big enough for a large table and several folding chairs.

  I selected the area with the most light and indicated the chair to my left for Randy. In no time I’d covered the table with my art supplies. Randy selected a round face with a double chin, a large, bulbous nose, squinting eyes, and a pockmarked face. Clearly the man he’d seen following Beatrice in the park wasn’t the same man Andi saw on the front steps of the Sinopa home. Finishing the drawing, I held it up for his final evaluation. “On a one-to-ten scale, with one being not at all similar and ten being perfect, how close does this come to your memory?”

  “A ten. Will this be in the news?”

  Slowly lowering the sketch, I leaned back in my chair. How stupid could I be? The signs were there: no changes to the drawing, a perfect score, asking about attention in the media, and making the suspect ugly—called the Quasimodo Effect. Randy was lying. Where were my warning bells? “Randy, you didn’t see anyone following Beatrice in the park, did you?”

  Randy took a deep breath, scratched his nose, and blinked rapidly at me. “Why are you asking? I mean, don’t you believe me?”

  “You gave me three signs—no, make that four signs you were lying to me just now.”

  Before I could continue, Randy bolted from the room.

  I rubbed my forehead and sighed. I’d just wasted almost two hours drawing plus the drive. It would be up to Chief Kus to charge Randy for obstructing justice. Gathering my materials, I quickly left the library.

  Deciding to eat lunch before leaving town, I found a small mom-and-pop café. Comfort food filled the menu—chicken-fried steak, meat loaf, spaghetti. I ordered a club sandwich, but when the waitress served it, I found I wasn’t hungry. I stared at the dill pickle spear leaking juice over the handful of potato chips. Can you think of any more delays? Time to face Holly.

  The closer I got to Orofino, the faster my heart beat. Different memories of the years I spent with her, the many moves we’d made, and the prevailing sense of fear that my parents’ killer would catch up with me crowded my mind.

  The state mental hospital, state prison, and high school all were located in the same area and offered breathtaking views of the Clearwater River and surrounding mountains. The grounds were beautifully landscaped with picnic benches under the flowering trees. I neared the edge of the lot, turned off the engine, and stared sightlessly ahead. Today I’d have the answers to questions I’d long since forgotten.

  Rain thumped on the roof of the car and the windows soon steamed up, but I couldn’t move, not yet. For years I’d stuffed the memories of my time with Holly into the dark recesses of my mind, but now I’d opened the door to those years and it wouldn’t close.

  I needed to document all that I remembered, capture the moments while they were fresh so I could study them later. Maybe get Beth to help me. Somewhere would be the clues to what happened to my parents, to me, those many years ago.

  Picking up a pencil and sketchpad, I leaned my head back on the headrest. I’d assumed Jacob, Holly’s son, was murdered at the same time Holly was. What had happened to him? I began sketching the young child. Soon I had a rough drawing of his four-year-old face.

  I finally stepped from the car and pulled up the hood on the borrowed rain jacket. After locking my pistol in the glove box, I scurried through the rain, holding the hood of the jacket so I could see.

  The building was made of reddish decorative blocks with a brown metal roof. Visitors could unload under the porte cochere leading to the main entrance. A slender woman with spiky, strawberry-blonde hair was reading behind the reception desk. She looked up as I approached. “May I help you?”

  I licked my suddenly dry mouth. “I’m here to see Holly Greene.”

  “We don’t have . . . Wait, did you mean Lucinda Greene?”

  “Oh, right, sorry.”

  She stood. She wore pressed khaki scrubs and matching soft-soled shoes. “Follow me. Lucinda seldom gets visitors.”

  My legs felt weak and I wiped my damp hands on my pants. “Um . . . does her son come to visit?”

  The woman glanced at me but continued to walk down a short hallway. “I don’t think so.”

  We entered a spacious room painted buttercup yellow and smelling faintly of cleaning solution and floral air freshener. On my right, a man and woman chatted on a sofa. Two men in gray sweatpants played cards at a table while a third watched. A woman in a jade-green oversized sweater and black leggings looked up from the book she was reading. Slipping off my wet jacket, I followed the nurse across the room to a gray-haired woman, her back to us, slumped in a wheelchair.

  “She has paranoid schizophrenia. Believes someone is trying to kill her. Hears voices. Classic.”

  I fought a sudden urge to bolt from the room.

  The nurse walked around the chair until she was facing Holly. “Good day, Lucinda. Someone is here to see you. Isn’t that nice?”

  Sidling next to the nurse, I took a deep
breath and held out my hand. “Hello, Holly. It’s me. Gwen.”

  The woman didn’t acknowledge me, didn’t even look up. Her gray-white hair was pulled into a loose ponytail at her neck. Her sallow skin was deeply wrinkled and creased. Pale venetian-red pouches underscored her eyes.

  I did quick calculations. If Holly had been in her mid-to-late twenties when she took me, she would only be in her late fifties. This woman looked to be in her eighties. I turned to the woman still standing beside me. “Are you sure—”

  “Must save the child,” the old woman muttered.

  A chill raced up my spine. I swayed a moment and grabbed for a chair. I knew that voice, those words. Sitting before I collapsed, I tried to get Holly to look at me. “Holly? What happened when you took me from my parents? Where is Jacob? What happened in Kamiah when I came home and found all that blood? Was there anyone after me?” After each question I’d wait for an answer.

  Holly looked down at her arthritic, gnarled hands and whispered something.

  Leaning forward, I asked, “What did you just say?”

  “Water . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I straightened. “You’d like a glass of water?” I hoped the nurse would get some but then noticed she’d moved to the card-playing table. I spotted a watercooler with Styrofoam cups on top. I hurried over and poured a cup, then brought it back to the woman.

  Holly continued to stare at her hands.

  I gently touched her shoulder. “Here’s your water.”

  A male nurse sauntered through the door, spotted me, and walked over. “Can I help you?”

  “Jacob,” Holly said.

  I jerked, then focused on his face, looking for anything familiar. He was native, or part native, with thick black hair, overhanging eyelids with epicanthic eye folds, a full lower lip, and an oval face. “Are you her son?”

  His brows drew together. “Who are you?”

  “Gwen.” I waited to see if he reacted. “Gwen Marcey.”

  His face remained blank. “Okay then, Gwen Marcey, why are you bothering Ms. Greene?”

  “She asked me for water and I just brought it to her. You didn’t answer my question. Are you Holly’s son, Jacob?”