Thinking he might have better luck searching for the garage on foot, he pulled over and parked at the intersection of Valley and Birch. As he walked along Valley feeling thwarted all over again, he saw what might once have been a dirt driveway’s entrance—but it was hard to say because blackberries, alders, and madronas grew in the middle of it now. He stopped and pushed back branches for a better look. There had been some kind of road here. And through the underbrush, someone had worn a path, carefully hidden. Unless Tom had been looking for it, he’d have walked right by and never known it was there.
He stepped onto the path and let go of the branches behind him. In some places he had to stoop or turn sideways to get through the brush and branches, which scratched his hands. When it started to drizzle, he wished he’d not left his hat in the car.
Just as he was imagining how fools felt about their errands, up ahead he saw a brick fireplace and chimney, all that remained of a house that must have burned to the ground. Just beyond it was a structure that looked as if one strong gust of wind could provide it with a merciful death. Weather had stripped off the paint, if there had ever been any, and the roof ’s splintered cedar shingles were a breeding ground for moss. Boards were missing from the walls, and in the two upstairs windows cardboard covered broken panes. Someone had nailed signs to what might once have been a garage door: NO TRESPASSING! DANGER! BEWARE OF DOG!
Tom walked around to the back and found a door hanging on hinges that squawked when he forced it open. Beyond it was a flight of stairs daring anyone over sixty pounds to climb. But footsteps in the dust told Tom that not long ago someone had climbed them. The steps could lead to something promising. What to do?
This could be the break Tom had been hoping for. He’d come too far to turn around just because the steps were rickety and he was a large man. Unwilling to wait for the fire department to bring ladders to reach a window, Tom took the flashlight off his utility belt and shone it ahead of him.
He thumped his knuckles on treads he could reach from where he stood. A few looked more rotten than others, but the stringer seemed sturdy enough. He could pick and choose what treads might hold his weight; to get around those that he might fall through, he could step over to the stringer. Though the disintegrating banister would never support him if he fell, it might help him keep his balance—slow going, but doable. And dangerous.
Tom stepped on the first tread. Wobbly, but no problem. He tried the next—a creak. Another and another. Not bad. To bypass the next two disintegrating steps, he put his weight on the stringer. Now he’d come high enough that falling through a stair could land him in the hospital.
Anxious step by anxious step, Tom made it to the top. He met another door, whose hinges squawked worse than the one below had. He stepped into a room and shone his flashlight on the opposite wall. Wonder of wonders. The oddly colored eyes of David Bowie, who’d loomed over Christopher’s bed at home, looked straight at Tom from a poster nailed to the wood.
A watery light fought its way through the windows’ few remaining panes. In a quest for tidiness, Christopher had swept the room and hauled away whatever had been stored here. All that was left were wooden apple crates turned upside down for tables, a transistor radio that had seen better days, candles crammed down bottles’ necks, a Mason jar of pencils, and two faded lawn-chair pillows that someone must have put out on Valley for garbage pickup.
Tom squatted down and rummaged through a plastic trash bag. He found empty Coke cans and apple juice cartons, potato chip bags, Snickers and Butterfinger wrappers, and ancient copies of Outside and Popular Science. No cell or laptop anywhere. One more dead end. Damn.
Tom was about to leave, disappointed and no more enlightened than before he’d come, when his flashlight beam skimmed a warped floorboard that rose half an inch higher than the others. Something about the board compelled him to figure out why. To lift it, he worked his nails along the edges, but a splinter pierced under his thumbnail and nearly sent him through the roof. He shook his hand, but that didn’t shake away the pain. Still, pain or not, he could never leave without being sure that Christopher hadn’t hidden anything here.
Tom jiggled the board loose and pried it up with his pocketknife. There, wedged between two floor joists, were the very laptop and mobile phone he’d been searching for all this time. Hallelujah! Gotcha! Despite his throbbing thumb, he smiled.
Since he’d already tracked down Christopher’s friends, the cell’s contact list might not help much, but photos could shed light. And if Kimberly had been correct, the laptop contained Christopher’s journal, into which he might have poured his heart and soul. It would be as close as Tom could get to interviewing him. It might be the key to unlock his motive.
An apple was emblazoned on the green plastic case, which was smudged with fingerprints. Tom raised the lid and pressed the power button. Damn. But no surprise. The laptop’s battery was as dead as the phone’s.
Tom put it in his pocket, gripped the laptop like a lifeline, and carefully navigated the stairs again. He rushed to his patrol car to get back to his office.
CHAPTER 41
ANDREA
The Barkery was a doggy bakery, where customers could buy Red Velvet Pupcakes, Carob Delights, or Cinnamon Honey Heart biscuits for their dogs, then enjoy tea and scones at French café tables themselves. An ever-changing exhibit of local artists’ work brightened the room. The morning sun streamed through the plate-glass windows, along the bottom of which were posted flyers for such events as San Julian Playhouse productions or the Nisqually County Fair. Delicious smells drifted from the kitchen, which was located toward the back behind a half wall.
For Andie, working at the Barkery meant a fresh professional start. Her new job allowed her to use her baking skills, and, psychologically, it was as far as she could get from the San Julian Police Department. Instead of patrolling streets and issuing traffic tickets, she could sift flour and cut out cookies. She could replace a hard-edged masculine world with a softer, feminine one and, most important, avoid anything that would remind her of Christopher. But of course, he and his parents were never far from her thoughts. On her new annual salary of twenty-five thousand dollars, she figured she’d have to work 240 years to pay the damages that Jane and Franz were after.
No longer cooped up in the back of a patrol car, Justice could wander around the Barkery and greet dogs who came by with their people, or he could lounge on his round blue bed, which looked like a giant morning glory blossom. Perhaps his greatest bonus was sampling the merchandise. The kitchen became his personal smorgasbord, and the sound of Andie’s spatula lifting something off a cookie sheet brought him running to vacuum up whatever might fall to the floor.
This Friday morning he was playing possum on his bed, and Andie was kneading dough for Woof Supremes, which were dog-bone-shaped cookies iced with peanut butter. His premier sniffer informed him that ecstasy was in the making. He raised his head to check on Andie’s progress and to remind her of his debilitating hunger: Please remember I am here. I am fond of Woof Supremes, and I am ravenous. I have not eaten in two hours!
Onto a marble pastry slab, Andie sprinkled flour and spread it around with her palm. As she set down her lump of dough and reached for her rolling pin, the cowbell hanging from the front door’s knob clanged and the Laser Lady came in. Wearing purple slacks, a fake leopard fur jacket, and sunglasses with rhinestones, she walked over to the glass case of baked goods next to the cash register and stooped down for a closer look at the dog and human treats. Andie pushed errant curls off her forehead with the back of her floury hand and waved from the kitchen. She left her dough and stepped behind the counter.
“Why, my goodness. What are you doing here?” the Laser Lady asked.
“I’m working.”
“I hardly recognized you out of uniform.” The Laser Lady removed her sunglasses for a better look at Andie. “You don’t look the same.”
“It’s still me.” To dodge the Laser Lady’s inevitable
question—why Andie had changed jobs—she asked, “How’s Alistair?”
“Oh, he’s fine.”
“Any more breaking and entering?”
“No. He seems happy living in the shed with the other feral cats.”
“Good.” Andie wiped her hands on her white apron as outside the Barkery window a commuter in a suit and wingtip shoes made a dash for the ferry. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“I need some people crackers for a dog’s third birthday party,” the Laser Lady said.
“Good choice.What size? Small? Medium? Large?”
“Medium. The dog’s a beagle. I’ll take a pound.”
Andie dug a red plastic scooper into a cracker vat and poured a crowd of firemen, mailmen, and policemen into a brown paper bag. She weighed them and added a few more. “There you go. A pound.” She handed the bag to the Laser Lady. “Whose dog has the birthday?”
“The man north of me at the end of the block. He’s the only neighbor I trust.”
Andie remembered him, a kindly senior citizen who’d called her when a skunk had sprayed the birthday beagle. “Um-hum,” she said.
“He’s not like that communist across the street,” the Laser Lady said. “That man is planning to kill me. He put a for-sale sign in his yard and aimed it straight at my house. A hostile act if I’ve ever seen one.”
“I doubt he means any harm,” Andie said.
“My front window is directly across from that sign. He could attack me when I’m watching TV.” The Laser Lady dug into her purse and handed Andie a ten-dollar bill.
As she dropped change into the Laser Lady’s hand, a middle-aged man, his hair swept up into a pompadour, walked in.
“I was going to call you this afternoon about getting a restraining order,” the Laser Lady told Andie.
“Sorry, I can’t help you,” Andie told her, and smiled at the man.
He stepped back, looking startled.
“I’m sorry, sir. I meant I can’t help her, not you,” Andie told him. To the Laser Lady, she said, “In the old days I’d have been glad to talk with your neighbor, but I’m not a cop anymore.”
“You were a cop!” Clearly recognizing Andie, he pointed at her.
Her pulse racing with the urge to run, Andie hesitated. “Yes.”
“I’ve heard all about you.”
“Okay.” Don’t let him be an Islander for Collaborative Policing.
“I work with Jane Vanderwaal. She’s a close friend.”
“Oh.”
“She said you’d left the police department. I guess you had to when people were blaming you for murdering an innocent kid.”
The Laser Lady blanched. “Where’s a murderer?!” Her eyes wild, she looked around the Barkery for enemies who might have sneaked in.
“A lot of people at the hospital are worried Jane’s never going to be all right.” The man looked worried too. “She’s broken. The poor woman. But it’s no surprise after what you did.”
Andie raised her fist to her mouth to stifle a cry. She tried to speak to defend herself, but her vocal cords wouldn’t work.
* * *
Her legs stretched out across cold ceramic tile, Andie leaned against the Barkery’s locked bathroom door. She felt like a catapult had flung her heart into the street and a Sherman tank had run over it. At the sink, Christopher, in his black hoodie, pressed the soap dispenser and lathered, then rinsed his hands. He shook off excess water and turned on the automatic dryer. It roared in Andie’s ears.
More than ever, she now knew that wherever she went or how hard she tried to escape, Christopher would come along. He was as much a part of her as the breath she was trying to catch.And accompanying him would be his parents, who would persecute her, and the judges and haters, who viewed her as a murderer with blood dripping from her fangs. Changing jobs had done nothing to stop the anguish. It would always be the same.
Andie heard sobs that sounded like the wrenching sounds of a tortured animal, then realized they were coming from her. In the months through Tom’s investigation, her return to the force, and the Vanderwaals’ filing their suit, Justice had not seen her cry a single tear, and now she was wailing into her hands. He sat in his ready-willing-and-able position as close to her as he could get, his presence there to comfort her. But even he didn’t help. As the cowbell clanged and puzzled customers entered and left the empty Barkery, Andie cried uncontrollably behind the locked door.
Her emotions gravely distressed Justice.
But they gravely frightened her.
The wall she’d carefully constructed of stone and reinforced with her own steel had cracked on the day she quit the force. Now the wall crumbled around her, its rubble pulverized to dust, impossible to rebuild. As hard as she’d tried to keep going, she knew that she had no more fight left. Chief Malone had been right; she was in trouble. She closed her eyes and thought, I need help.
CHAPTER 42
ANDREA
Justice tugged Andie from Dr. Capoletti’s waiting room into his inner sanctum and personally delivered her into the doctor’s kind hands. He stooped down and gave Justice a dog biscuit as Andie sank into the sofa; she looked like a monsoon had taken up residence inside her. Sensitive to her turmoil, Justice lay on guard at her feet, but he seemed relieved to let Dr. Capoletti take charge. The room filled with Justice’s biscuit crunches.
Outside the windows was the chilly darkness of a late January afternoon, but Dr. Capoletti’s brass bowls and table lamps made the room feel warm and bright. A Buddha looked down serenely from the bookcase. The spiders who’d spun webs along the crown molding last fall had closed up shop and headed for the hills.
Andie glanced at the poster above Dr. Capoletti’s desk and read again: “A storm is as good a friend as sunshine.” Pure sap and drivel, she thought. The storm she was weathering now was no good friend. It was a cannibal.
“I’m glad you called.” When Dr. Capoletti settled into his chair, the arm’s loose batting bulged from the rip. “So how are you doing?”
“Not very well.” With his encouragement, Andie poured out her run-in with Jane, her New Year’s flashback, the Vanderwaals’ lawsuit, her resignation from the force, and her emotional crash in the Barkery’s bathroom. “I manage to get to work every day, but I keep crying. I can’t sleep or think straight. I’m falling apart.” With her fingertips she swiped at tears.
“You mean you’re vulnerable?”
“Yes. In every way. I admit it. You were right.”
“I knew this was coming, Andrea.” Dr. Capoletti nodded toward the tissue box near her elbow. “You can’t sweep a strong feeling like that under a rug. It’ll chase you till you look it squarely in the eye and deal with it. It’s been waiting for you to acknowledge it for a long time.”
“I feel so sad and scared.”
“Nothing wrong with that. It’s good for you to feel those things. It’s the first step back to health.” As Dr. Capoletti tapped his pipe’s ashes into a bowl beside his chair, the brass rang like a meditation bell. “Did you ever decide if you were right to shoot Christopher?”
“No. I still ask myself that question dozens of times every day.”
“Then let’s keep talking about it. It’s important,” Dr. Capoletti said. “What if you hadn’t shot him? What would have happened?”
“He’d probably have stabbed me.”
“Could you have stopped him without shooting him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if you’d gotten into a fight over the knife?”
“I’d have grabbed it or knocked it out of his hand and kicked it away.”
“So that would have been the ideal outcome. Maybe it would have worked out, maybe not.” With a small steel tool, Dr. Capoletti scraped out his pipe’s remaining ashes. “What if you couldn’t get the knife away from him? What if he had a black belt in karate, flipped you to the ground, and stabbed you in the heart?”
“Most likely it would have been the end of me.�
��
“Yes. Hardly ideal. You could have died.”
A sobering shiver zigzagged through Andie as she considered that her obituary could have been in the paper. She wrapped her arms around herself. For months she’d focused on Christopher’s death, not on her own.
“You look distressed,” Dr. Capoletti said.
“I am.”
“What are you thinking that’s upsetting you?”
“About my death. It scares me.”
Dr. Capoletti put a pinch of tobacco into his pipe and tamped it down with his index finger, then added another pinch and tamped. “Do you realize that all we’ve just been talking about are things that might have happened? You might have fought over the knife. Christopher might have killed you. Those were only possibilities. It’s important to recognize that they were not facts. You sitting here alive is a fact. See the difference?”
“Yes.”
“The possibilities of what could have happened are not real, but they can affect you as if they are. They can depress you or make you anxious,” Dr. Capoletti said. “Have these unknowns—these possibilities—been on your mind lately?”
“They’ve been on my mind for the last few months,” Andie admitted. “All the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’ and ‘mights’ about Christopher and the Vanderwaals. They plague me. I see what you mean.”
Dr. Capoletti nodded, struck a match, and lit his pipe. “You know, you have every right to be angry about that attack and lawsuit.”
Andie shrugged.
“Why aren’t you mad, Andrea? You could hate Christopher and his parents if you wanted to.”
“I don’t. Mostly I just feel bad.”
Dr. Capoletti puffed his burning-cherry smoke. “I know from your file that you’ve been known to have a temper. Where is it now?”
Andie shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Do you feel that anger isn’t justified in your case?”
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