The square of notebook paper twists my insides, too. It’s damp, tattered, and spotted with blood. But I instinctively know what it is even before I open it.
It’s a handwritten note from Miss P.
I’m not surprised to see a strip torn out of the middle.
I dig around in my evidence box to find the Ziploc bag containing the scrap of paper I found lodged in Journey’s seat belt. It’s an exact match, which completes the words: “I even lifted your DNA from a coffee cup you left in my office—just to see if I could. And it worked. Pretty cool, huh?”
Coffee cup.
CC.
Miss P’s fatal move must have been testing Principal Roberts’s DNA just to prove that she could.
There’s only one thing left.
With cold precision I retrieve the bottle of luminol and a swab from Victor’s briefcase. I repeat the test that he just demonstrated for me by rubbing the swab on one of the rust-colored spots on Principal Roberts’s shoe, then squirting a few drops of luminol onto the tip of the swab.
The swab turns bright blue.
This evidence throws me back to two years old. Vulnerable and alone. I shrink in on myself. What if he comes back? What will I do?
The betrayal is overwhelming, followed by extreme sadness. Somehow I have to grasp that a man I have known and trusted my entire life is responsible for ruining it.
Not once … but twice.
I don’t know why, but I do now know, without any doubt, that Principal Roberts not only killed Miss Peters and tried to kill me—he also is the one who killed my mother and left my two-year-old self locked up alone with her body.
Why? Why would he do this to me?
I can’t reach Victor, but I’m certain Principal Roberts has Journey, no idea why, and I need to get to him before … well, I’m not going to think about that. I just need to get to him.
I don’t know what happened to Mr. Roberts. But he’s reasonable and I’m persuasive. I’m sure I can talk this through with him.
I race up to my room and change clothes: dark jeans, dark turtleneck, tennies, heavy jacket, and knit cap. Ready for anything. Before I leave, I pause in front of my laptop. I quickly send an e-mail to Lysa that just says, “Something’s going down. Call me if you can.” I race downstairs and stuff the shoes, the armband, the note, and the luminol into my bag. I pick up the extra set of keys to Rachel’s car, lock up the house, and hurry into the garage.
Information is power, and I’m armed with a buttload of it.
It’s nine-thirty and the streets of Iron Rain are quiet as a tomb. The only places still open are clubs and bars. I drive past a few, looking for Victor’s bright red rental car. Then I remember he said he was going to check on something at the police station.
I make a U-turn in the middle of the street.
At the station, I park in front and hurry inside. I recognize the sergeant at the desk, but don’t remember his name.
He gives me a smile. “What can I do for you, little lady?” I shoot him a smile, too. It’s forced, but I don’t think he can tell. Then he blinks and gets that look. “Oh. Hey. You’re Rachel’s daughter, aren’t you?” he says.
And there it is, the “I-remember-what-happened-to-you look-away” look.
I sigh. He can’t help it.
I offer my hand. “Yes. Hi. I’m Erin.”
“Mike,” he says, giving my hand a shake.
“Thanks, Mike. Listen, I’m in kind of a hurry. Is my uncle Victor here?”
“The FBI guy?”
“Yeah. He said he was coming over to check on something.” I shift from one foot to the other, trying not to panic over how much time this is wasting.
Mike shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him, but I just came on half an hour ago.”
“Could he be using the computer in a back room or something?”
“I doubt it. It’s pretty quiet here tonight, but I’ll check.” He picks up the phone and dials an extension, says a few words, then looks at me and shakes his head no.
“Okay. Thanks.” I whirl and race down the hallway to the door.
Mike calls after me, “Hey. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say, twisting my hand over my head in an effort at a crazy backward wave. There’s no time to explain. I shoot out through the door, allowing it to bang behind me.
I’m really not fine, though. Not fine at all.
The only place I can think to go is to Spam’s house. Was it just this afternoon that she said those words to me? When Journey and Victor bail on you, you’ll come crawling back to us.
With a sigh, I start the car. She won’t refuse to help me. Not straight to my face.
* * *
I race up Spam’s stairs to her back door and tap lightly. Mr. Ramos peeks out from behind the curtain. When he sees that it’s me, he opens the door. He’s in the kitchen in his bathrobe eating ice cream.
“Hi, Mr. Ramos, sorry to come by so late.”
“No problem, Erin. She’s in the computer room. Pow-pow, pow-pow.” He pretends like he’s firing a gun with his finger. “She drives me crazy with those games.”
“Thanks.” I enter Spam’s computer room, which looks a lot like command central in the Batcave. Her desk is a wide semicircle with a spot carved in the middle for her to snug up in her desk chair. She has an array of three flat-screen monitors on the desk, two keyboards, and a laptop. And they’re all running views of some colorful, altered universe.
“Die!” Spam mutters as her fingers tap her keyboard.
“Spam?”
“Ahh-hahahaha,” she crows softly. “Got you. And you.”
“Spam?”
She ignores me.
I cross the darkened room and place my hand on her shoulder. She explodes out of the chair and rips off the headphones.
“Erin. You scared the crap out of me.”
I press my hands against my chest because I swear it’s the only thing keeping my heart inside. “Sorry.” I gulp air, trying to catch my breath. “I called your name, but…”
She tosses her headphones on the desk. “What’s up? You look freaked.”
I lean against her chair because my knees are shaking so hard I can hardly stand. “I need your help.”
“Okay,” she says, patting the chair. “Sit down. We’ll talk.”
“No time. We have to go.”
She stands up. “Where are we going?”
I flail my arms. “I’m not sure. I just know we have to go.”
She grabs my hand, pulling me toward a chair. “Explain. Start from the beginning.”
I pull her up. “I’ll tell you in the car.”
She stumbles out the door behind me. The house is dark as we slip through the kitchen. We pause at the back door while she pulls on her red Wellington boots, tucking in the bottom of her red flannel pajama pants with the giant moose heads. She also puts on a heavy coat. Her hand hovers over a garish, hot pink Hello Kitty knitted cap with earflaps and pom-pom kitty ears. I shake my head and she leaves it behind.
I twitch, watching her dig through her purse for her wallet, which she drops into the pocket of her jacket. Then, she drops one cell phone into her pocket and the other one into her boot.
“Let’s go.”
Once we’re in the car, I squeal away from the curb and let the words tumble out. “Principal Roberts killed Miss Peters. I don’t know why, but I have proof.”
“That’s crazy.” She frowns. “So, we’re going to the police?”
“First, we have to rescue Journey. Then we can bring in the police.” I turn the car toward the school.
“What do you mean, rescue Journey?” Spam asks.
“We have to get him away from Principal Roberts before he kills him.”
“Wait, what?” Spam’s voice quivers. “How are we going to do that?”
“How do you think? I’ll distract him and you help Journey escape.”
“Wait. Whoa, whoa. I’m a better distracter,” she says. “You said
you had proof. Why can’t we just go to the police?”
“You don’t get it. There isn’t time to explain this whole mess to someone else. Plus, we don’t have a motive. Without that they’ll never believe us.”
“But how do you know—” she asks.
“Principal Roberts came to my house. He was all bloody, like he’d been in a fight. He’s driving Journey’s van and using Journey’s cell phone. Does that not tell you Journey’s in danger?” I swerve around a corner, deciding at the last minute it’s the way to go. Then I realize I’m driving in circles. “Do me a favor, look up Roberts’s home address on your phone.”
Spam glances at my speedometer. “Dude, you’re doing sixty in a residential zone. Slow down.”
“Address. Now.” I stop at a light and look up just as a tow truck zooms through the intersection, towing Victor’s rental car.
“Wait, never mind. There goes Victor’s car.”
“What are you doing?”
I hang a hard left and run the light. “Following it.”
39
Sometimes evidence comes in the form of strange suspect behavior. It’s important to follow your instincts.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
“Why are we following a tow truck?” Spam asks.
“To see where they’re taking Victor’s car and ask them where Victor is.”
“But Journey’s van just went the other way,” Spam says.
My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”
She points.
I pull an immediate U-turn in the middle of the street and shoot back in the direction we came from.
“You should call Rachel,” Spam suggests, gripping the car door.
“Can’t. She’s at the opera in Portland and her phone is turned off.”
“What about Chief Culson? You could ask to talk to him.”
“He’s with Rachel at the opera.”
Spam laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”
I take a dip a little too fast and the car bounds up in the air. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“No.” Spam cinches her seat belt a little tighter.
I’m just about to catch the van when it speeds through a light on a late yellow. I know if I go through, too, he’ll see me. I stop and slam my hand on the dash. But after a couple of seconds, there are no other cars, so I gun it and go straight through on the red.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spam give me a look of respect. “High-five.” She offers up her palm. “We’re Thelma and Louise now.”
I follow my gut and muscle Rachel’s car through a couple of sharp turns, hoping I’m taking a shortcut. “I never saw that movie.”
Spam reaches over and swipes a chunk of hair off my face in a comforting gesture. “I’m actually really glad to know that,” she says softly.
I skid into a last-minute turn down an alley, scattering gravel. It’s reckless, but my hunch pays off. I’m just in time to catch a glimpse of the van shooting past the alley and turning off the main street onto the deserted road that leads to Journey’s house.
“He’s going to the cannery. This isn’t good.”
Spam whistles. “Can we call the police now? That place is creepy … not to mention haunted.”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” If we set one foot in the police station, the first thing they’ll do is set Spam and I aside while they get into a whole debate over what action they should take. Right now, Journey’s life depends on me being bold and taking chances. I kill my headlights and decide to hang out in the alley until we figure out our next move.
Spam’s phone be-boops, shattering the silence. We both scream. Spam drops it between the seat and the console.
“Answer it.” The tension is about to explode the car.
“I’m trying,” she shrieks, contorting in her seat. First her hand and then her arm disappear into the narrow space. The phone continues be-booping.
Spam manages to retrieve it with two fingers. “It’s Lysa,” she says. “She’s FaceTiming.” Spam pushes the button, revealing Lysa’s face on the screen.
Without even a hello, Lysa launches into a stern diatribe. “It’s after eight, so I’m doing this from my iPad. You know if I get caught I’ll lose my phone and my car for a month, so shut up and listen.”
Spam starts to speak, “I know—”
“I got an urgent e-mail from Erin. I know you’re upset with her—”
“Hey—” Spam tries to interject a second time.
“Shut up and let me finish, this is important,” scolds Lysa. “I called her but she didn’t pick up. Go to her house right now and make sure she’s okay.”
I pull my phone from my pocket. The ringer was turned off.
“But—” Spam says.
“No buts,” Lysa orders. “Just do it. That’s the deal with friends. We’ll patch this up later. And send me an e-mail once you know she’s okay, I’ll check back with my iPad.” With that, Lysa signs off and the screen goes blank.
“Lysa!” Both Spam and I scream her name at the same time. But we’re too late. She’s already gone. Spam tries to call back. No answer.
Spam half smiles. “You’ve got to give her credit, she tried.”
I chuckle. “Yep. She did.”
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“That I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
“Of course you are, you idiot.” Spam gives me a light smack. “That’s the deal with friends. But I’m talking about this. Did Principal Roberts fry some circuits or what? What’s going on here?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I think he did some bad things and now he’s looking for a scapegoat. He tried to pin this on Journey once at Miss P’s house and it didn’t work. I think he’s in there right now figuring out how to make it look like Journey is responsible for her murder.”
I slip the car into gear but leave the headlights off and turn onto the road. Within a few minutes, the creepy abandoned building looms ahead in the dark.
“Do you have a plan?” Spam asks. “Because we’re going to need one.”
“We’ll leave the car out here on the road so we can get away fast. We’ll find a break in the fence. Sneak in and see what’s up. Maybe take a photo or two, then sneak out and call the cops.”
“Works for me.” She shudders and uses her phone to shoot a random photo of the dark, hulking cannery, barely outlined in moonlight.
I crawl down the pitch-dark road at a superslow speed, looking for a good place to park the car. Just as I pull over, my phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket and stare at the name.
Spam looks at the screen. “It’s Journey. Answer it.”
“It’s not Journey.” I click the button but I don’t know what to say.
“Erin? This is Mr. Roberts.” The calm has returned to his voice. I flick the button to put it on speaker so Spam can hear. She and I share an ominous look. I put my finger to my lips.
“What’s up, Mr. Roberts?” I purposely try to sound light and bright.
“I know you followed us, dear.”
“What are you talking about?” Playing dumb wasn’t my plan but it’s all I’ve got.
“Cut the crap. I left the gate open. Bring the car and join us at the cannery loading dock. You have five minutes before I start piling up the bodies.”
Bodies, plural? Now I know he has Victor, too.
“See you in three.” I flip my phone into Spam’s lap and mash the accelerator.
Rachel’s car skids sideways as we rocket through the gate and thunder over the wooden boards. I glance at Spam. Her extreme-roller-coaster-fear face is in place. Her left hand is braced against the roof of the car and her right has a death grip on the door handle. The bad news is I’m pretty sure we’re not getting off this ride anytime soon.
“Hang on,” I say.
She flashes devil’s horns with both hands, shouting, “Go big or go home.” Then she grabs the door handle and braces against the roof again. God, I love her, because I
know she’s just as terrified as I am but she’d rather spit than admit it.
I slow down as we round the corner of the building. At first I don’t see anything.
“Over there.” Spam points to the farthest cannery building, next to the water. I can just barely make out the shape of a dark figure standing near the gaping maw of the decrepit old building.
I roll slowly up to the building. When I’m no more than ten feet away, Principal Roberts steps into the beam of our headlights.
He’s holding a gun.
Journey’s van is parked just inside the loading-bay door.
“Turn off the engine. Leave the lights on and the keys in the ignition,” he orders.
40
When processing a crime scene you’ll pick up a lot of things. The trick is determining what is crime … and what is scene.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
Spam and I get out of the car. I step quickly toward the front, hoping to get a look inside the van. The back doors are closed and I don’t see anyone, inside or out.
“Erin and Samantha. The two of you showing up together makes my job much easier.” He points the gun at us. “Keep your hands where I can see them and hand over those cell phones.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold it up high. Spam scampers over to my side, clutching my jacket with one hand and holding her cell phone up high with the other. One glance at her screen tells me two things: One, she’s calling Lysa on FaceTime, but she’s reversed the camera so that it’s pointing at Mr. Roberts and his gun. And two: She set the speaker to mute.
I need to stall for time and hope Lysa picks up.
“Where are they, Carl?” I stick out my hip and give him a hard glare. This is not a brave-girl act. I’ve imagined this moment my whole life. He can’t hurt me any more than he already has.
“Oh, listen to the bravado on you,” he says. “If you’d rather call me Carl than Principal Roberts … or Dad … then be my guest.”
“What?” My voice cracks. So I was wrong. He found the one word that could destroy me. I glance at Spam.
Her face crumbles. “Mr. Roberts is your dad?”
To Catch a Killer Page 24