Wincing, he shifted around a bit on the sofa. “I was there only a couple of months when Ruth got word to me that Frank was shot and killed in what looked like a random mugging. I didn’t buy that it was random. I still think it had something to do with whatever Gil started. Fortunately, Ruth’s okay. We still check in with each other every few weeks.”
“Then you moved here in April,” Ellie said.
Nodding, he let out a surprised little laugh. “How did you figure that out?”
“A lucky guess,” Ellie explained. “Your massage reviews online, the earliest one is in April.”
“By then, I figured things had blown over, and maybe I was safe enough to move closer to where the Bonners live,” he said. “I couldn’t let go of what happened. I made it my mission to find out all I could about Rachel Bonner, her family, and her father’s business associates. I hung around here at the school and got to know Rachel’s roommate, Kayla Kennedy. The two of them had started out as friends, but it soured after a couple of months. Still, while they were chums, Rachel confided in Kayla quite a lot. And Kayla confided in me. I found out that Rachel has a bodyguard-chauffeur named Perry, living close by in town. Rachel’s parents have her on a short leash. They’re worried about her getting kidnapped. But they’re also worried about her getting into trouble. According to Kayla, this Perry is also a babysitter-watchdog of sorts. I guess the Bonners had good reason to be concerned. Rachel admitted to Kayla that, when she was sixteen, she had a two-month affair with a married business associate of her father’s.”
“My God,” Ellie murmured. Still, she told herself she shouldn’t be too surprised. From everything she knew about Rachel Bonner, the girl had always seemed too sophisticated for her own good. Or maybe she was just terribly naive.
“I wondered if this was the piece of information Gil had picked up,” Nate explained, “the tidbit he’d used to try to extort money from someone. Kayla didn’t have the name of Rachel’s onetime lover. Kayla was trying to get back in Rachel’s good graces so she could find out for me. She did some digging. We were supposed to get together near her home in Sheboygan when she was killed in a bike accident.”
“Yes, I read about that,” Ellie murmured.
“I think she was murdered because she knew something—or because she was poking around asking too many questions, the same reason Frank was killed. I’m sure someone intentionally ran her off that road. I can’t help feeling responsible. I mean, if she hadn’t agreed to help me, she’d probably be alive today.”
“You didn’t kill her,” Ellie whispered. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Just the same,” he muttered. He didn’t seem to be listening to her. “I’m pretty sure Rachel had nothing to do with it. She was in Paris when it happened. She flew home in time to attend the funeral. I figured the guilty party was someone hired by Richard Bonner’s business associate: a professional hit man, someone like that. But with Kayla dead, I was kind of at a dead end. I mean, Richard Bonner has a hell of a lot of businesses—and business associates. The guy responsible for all of these murders could be one among hundreds . . .”
Ellie heard footsteps on the walkway outside. It sounded like someone approaching his door. She could feel the floor vibrate. Alarmed, she looked at Nate and started to stand up.
But he smiled and shook his head. “Relax, it’s just my neighbor. Bigfoot, I call him. There’s a lot of coming and going around here this time of night.”
Ellie settled back down on the sofa. She couldn’t help feeling anxious and on edge. She felt overwhelmed, too. She didn’t doubt Nate Bergquist’s story. But it didn’t have anything to do with the Immaculate Conception murders or what had happened to Diana or Eden—at least, on the surface, it didn’t.
“So where was I?” he asked.
“At a dead end.”
“Yeah, well, I’d been following Rachel on social media, and about two months ago, her name came up on that tweet from Hannah O’Rourke. They were going to be roommates . . .”
“And suddenly, you had a link between Rachel and your brother’s investigation of the O’Rourkes for this Cassandra woman.”
“Exactly.” He nodded. “Then, like I told you, when I read a tweet from Hannah saying she and Eden had enrolled in your journalism class, I signed up, too.” He cracked a smile. “I also signed up because I heard you were a brilliant teacher.”
Ellie let out a little laugh. “Yeah, right, thanks.”
He glanced down. “Actually, I shouldn’t make light of it. I’ve botched things up something fierce. I don’t have my brother’s detective skills. In fact, I suck at it. I mean, you had my number the first day in class. You could tell right away that I had an ulterior motive for being there.”
“I had a theory about who you were and what you were up to,” Ellie admitted. “I’ll share it with you later. Anyhow, I was way off base.”
“You also caught me eavesdropping on you and Hannah at the pool . . .”
“And she mentioned a private investigator who had been working for the woman who had raised Eden. So of course you were listening . . .”
Nate nodded. “She was talking about Gil. That night, I followed Eden to the Sunnyside Up Café. I was hoping she could tell me more. But I truly must lack my brother’s charm or his knack for getting information out of people. As soon as I started asking her questions, Eden clammed up. Shortly after that, she left.”
With a look of regret on his handsome face, he leaned back. “And no one has seen her since. The thing of it is—I told myself I’d take a different tack with Hannah and Eden. After Kayla, I wanted to make sure nothing happened to either one of them. Jesus, I hope I didn’t screw things up for Eden. I hope she’s okay.”
“I may as well tell you now,” Ellie said. She took her last swig of beer and set the empty can down on the floor. “You were such a mystery man that we thought you might have abducted her. That’s why we set this whole thing up tonight—”
“Wait, who’s we?”
“Hannah, Rachel, and her friend, Alden. He’s the one who scheduled the massage appointment with you tonight. It was all so I could break in here and search the place while you were gone.”
“Alden Murphy,” he murmured. “Shit, I’m so stupid, I didn’t make the connection. Kayla told me about him. She said he was like Rachel’s pet puppy dog. She didn’t like him much, but I’m afraid a lot of that had to do with the fact that he’s gay and Kayla was a pretty rigid, conservative small-town girl—not exactly open-minded. Between Rachel’s affair with a married man and Alden’s sexuality, Kayla was convinced the two of them were going to hell.”
Ellie gave him a wary sidelong glance. “How reliable a source do you think she was?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. But she was the only source I had.” He got to his feet and started to pace in front of her. “So, Rachel, Alden, and Hannah all suspect I’m up to no good . . .”
“Thanks mostly to me, I’m afraid,” Ellie admitted.
“So much for me keeping a low profile,” he muttered. “And I had plenty to do with blowing my own cover. I thought Alden was some kid pulling a prank. So I told him I was watching him.”
Ellie nodded. “Yeah, and it worked. You had them all pretty concerned.”
“We have to figure out something you can tell them that will put their minds to rest about me. Otherwise, I better buy myself a one-way ticket back to Taos, New Mexico. Listen, you can’t tell Hannah or anyone else who I really am.” He quickly shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t put that right. I’m asking you to please not say anything to anyone about my real identity.”
Ellie’s phone rang. Jumping up from the sofa, she hurried to the kitchen counter, where she’d left her purse. “Oh God, I’m sure that’s Hannah. I was supposed to call her.”
She dug the phone out of her purse and glanced at the screen: O’Rourke, Hannah.
“Wait a minute,” Nate whispered urgently. “What are you going to tell her?”
“I
don’t know yet,” she said. Then she touched the phone screen. “Hannah, I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of the time . . .”
“Are you okay?” Hannah asked anxiously. “We were convinced he’d walked in on you and killed you or something.”
“No, he—he returned only a couple of minutes after I got out of the apartment, not long after you and I talked. I saw him from my car. So—I don’t think he was watching you guys after all. I think he was just trying to scare Alden.”
“Where are you? Why didn’t you call me? It’s been like a half hour . . .”
“I—I saw a neighbor of his in the parking lot,” Ellie lied. “She was taking her dog out for a walk. I caught up with her and got the lowdown on him. I think we were totally wrong about Nick Jensen. This neighbor knows him pretty well. She says he’s a real nice guy. He’s divorced and dating a widow from Highwood with two kids.”
Nate gave her an incredulous look. Ellie just shrugged.
“Well, earlier, you said you found something in his apartment,” Hannah pointed out.
“Yeah, he had a—a gun hidden in his closet. I think I made it out to be a lot more menacing than it really is. Where are you right now?”
“Rachel, Alden, and I are at the bungalow—with her bodyguard, Perry.”
“Well, you can call off the bodyguard,” Ellie said. “Nick has been in his apartment for the last half hour. And we really don’t have to worry about him. I don’t think he had anything to do with Eden’s disappearance.”
“So, you no longer think he was following me around or anything like that?”
“Nope, no hidden agenda,” Ellie replied. “He seems to be just who he says he is. Anyway, I’m sorry to put you guys through all this for nothing. Listen, I’m starving. I’m going to head home and get something to eat. You can call me later tonight if you want. Otherwise, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“Well, okay,” Hannah said, still sounding a bit uncertain. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Be sure to thank everyone there for me, okay?” Ellie said. “Take care.”
“Bye,” Hannah said.
Ellie touched the phone screen and hung up. She looked at Nate and sighed.
“So you don’t think I’m this major creep anymore?” he asked. “You believe me about everything?”
Ellie gave him a dazed smile. “I guess I do. Because I’ve just lied for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
All the other entries in this stupid journal have the date and time at the beginning. That’s the way I always do it. But I haven’t a fucking clue about the time or what day it is.
So there.
He gave me my journal yesterday—along with some of my clothes, & a copy of Rebecca that he must have ripped off from someone named Diana Mackie (her name’s written at the top of the inside cover). He also gave me some more bottles of water, juice boxes (yeah, real delicious lukewarm), granola & power bars, & some fruit. And he dumped out my portable toilet (a tall stew pot with a lid), which is quickly stinking up the place again.
Or maybe it’s me that stinks. I think I’ve been here for about a week. I haven’t had a shower or a bath this whole time. He gave me a supply of moist towelettes (sp?) & I’ve been using them every once in a while to keep from feeling totally disgusting.
Though I got the journal yesterday, I didn’t start writing in here until now. I’m sure he’ll want to read this after he’s killed me & I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. In fact, I was tempted to use the pen he gave me to scratch out all my other entries in here up until now. But damn, I liked reading everything I wrote in here over the summer. The big joke is that all I did was bitch & moan while I wrote in the comfort of my bedroom at home back in Seattle & then I compare it to where I am right now. Anyway, I figured it’d be a waste using up this Bic just to scratch out a bunch of shit the guy has probably already read.
Besides, it feels good writing in here now—like I’m actually doing something, like I’m talking with somebody, even if it’s just myself. I don’t feel so damn bored & lonely & scared. Plus it sure beats staring at these four windowless walls (so, so, SO SICK OF THEM!).
I’m also glad he left me a good book. All I had to read before Rebecca was THE good book. Yeah, the asshole stuck a Bible in here. I guess that was supposed to keep me enthralled. If I never have to read the word BEGAT again, I’ll be happy. So—if I’m dead & you’re reading this now, asshole, thanks a lot.
I’m still not completely sure what the hell this is all about. I kept thinking the guy who jumped me in the woods was that Nick guy from class & the café. But now, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him. I have no idea who those two guys at the storage unit were. But obviously, they were working for somebody & they thought I knew something about the detective Cassandra hired. The whole episode is cloudy. I was drugged up half the time.
Then I thought someone had come to save me. I have to admit, it scared the shit out of me when he got all Rambo on them & cut that one guy’s throat. But I was excited too & grateful as hell. Because I thought I was being rescued—right up until the son of a bitch knocked me out.
Then I woke up on the cot in this little shack. At first, I thought it was a big closet, but then I heard the outside sounds too clearly—the rain or the birds chirping or the insects buzzing. It’s happening just on the other side of all four walls. I feel it get colder, and I know night is falling. I feel it on the fake wood floor (some sort of cheap laminate) especially. I think I’m in a tool shed in someone’s backyard. The walls—these awful walls—they look like they’ve been reinforced & maybe even soundproofed. The door & the lock are strong as hell, too. I’ve kicked & pounded on it & it doesn’t seem to do any good.
The light is on here 24/7, but he’s got it on some kind of timer so it gets pretty dim for several hours. This is when I’m supposed to sleep, I guess. But fuck him. I stay up. Not that there’s anything to do here in the dark. But I refuse to be his lab rat & sleep when he wants me to. So I exercise or eat or go to the bathroom or sing in the dark—just to defy him.
I’m guessing it’s never so dark in here that the camera can’t see me. I’ve come to hate it, knowing his prying eyes are watching me all the time. But in a weird way, it’s company, too. I don’t feel so completely alone. Still, I also have no privacy at all.
So far, he’s come in here 3 times—to restock my supplies & empty the toilet. I know the drill now. He announces over the speaker (up near the ceiling) that he’s coming. I have to place all the garbage & the pot by the door. I must lay (or is it lie?) face-down on the cot with my hands behind me & a black pillowcase over my head. Inside of a minute, he collects the trash, dumps the pot, drops off a new bag of supplies & food & then he gives the place a spray of Lysol or something that smells like fresh laundry—correction, FAKE fresh laundry.
Those few moments when he has the door open are the only time I can feel & smell the outdoors. I yearn to see what it’s like out there, just a glimpse. I wouldn’t mind a mirror either. I must look like shit. I’d also like to see myself to know I haven’t really disappeared—because I know that’s what everyone thinks has happened. I haven’t really vanished. I’m here . . . someplace.
I think about the black pillowcase & I tell myself that he makes me put it over my head so I can’t identify him after he lets me out of here. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Because I’m 90% sure he’s doing this to be like the Immaculate Conception Killer 50 years ago. It all matches up with Rosie’s description of what the killer did to that one girl. She told me about it my first night at the Sunnyside Up. The psycho abducted a girl & kept her locked in a shed in his backyard for 2 weeks while he went on his killing spree. He also tortured her.
This guy hasn’t hurt me (so far). He hasn’t even touched me except for when he knocked me out that first day.
It’s more psychological harassment than physical. He’ll talk to me over the speaker system, most of the time, praying or throwing Bible quotes at me.
I want to tell him to shove it up his ass. But I don’t say anything, because I figure that’s why he’s doing it—just to get a reaction from me. He calls me a “holy slut.” I remember Rosie saying that was what the Immaculate Conception Killer called his victims. I also remember Rosie saying that—after he strangled & stabbed all those girls—he came back home & killed the girl in the backyard shed. He cut her throat—just like St. Agnes.
The other day, he told me he was going to kill his first victim. I think he meant it, too. I’m pretty sure he’s already murdered her by now.
And he’s going to murder me if I don’t figure out how to escape from here.
A part of me thinks his heart isn’t completely in this whole thing. I feel like someone else has forced him to do this. The first Immaculate Conception Killer had his mother telling him what to do. Is this the same thing? Maybe that means I have a chance of surviving this if I can just talk to him & get him to like me, if I can get him to see me as something other than some “holy slut” he has to kill. Or maybe he feels like he has something to prove & no matter what I do, he’ll cut my throat.
Last night, I couldn’t stop crying. I’m better today. I realize that crying isn’t going to get me out of here. I keep thinking that he might’ve made a real mistake giving me this pen. I could use it to poke a hole in the black pillowcase. Then I could hide the pen on the cot & lay on top of it when he comes to collect the trash. I’ll be able to see him & I can use the pen to stab the son of a bitch in the throat . . .
Eden stopped writing.
Then, with the pen she contemplated using to kill her captor, she thoroughly scratched out the last paragraph. There was always the chance he’d take the journal away and read it.
The Bad Sister Page 27