“I’m really very happy, Ma,” she said.
The thought of lingering in the bar for another night wasn’t appealing. Nadine walked from the parking lot of the Traveler’s Lodge in a northwesterly direction, weaving down residential streets until she found the river. As she walked south, she saw the houses become older, the properties larger and less well-kept. She passed churches and antique barns, meadows staked with FUTURE SITE OF development signs.
When her personal life became vexing, there was always the work. Nadine was thankful for that. She recalled the timetable she and Jen had put together. It was loose, most points hard to verify, and at least one person was lying. Sometime in the night, the Gordon family had settled down together. In the hours after that, someone had deliberately, ingeniously, sought to kill them.
Had the killer targeted a single member of the Gordon family? Had they known the others were present? Was this done out of spite, rage, greed, or compulsion? Or something else entirely?
Her reverie was broken as she spied a figure moving swiftly along the edge of the opposite bank. It was the man Peter Quayle had pointed out to her on their drive a few hours ago. Tall, white haired, attired in beige, he slunk away as he saw Nadine approach.
The one that got away, Quayle called him. The Cover Model Killer, living in their midst. What was Andrew Gordon’s connection with him?
She continued along the bank, moving parallel with the man, though idly, not wanting to startle him. The water gurgled pleasantly. Above her the fir trees swayed, lit by a pale three-quarter moon. The man eventually broke from the bank and headed down a path into the woods. Nadine watched him disappear.
The river turned and Nadine chose a spot a few paces ahead from which to pause for breath and turn back. Before she reached it something caught her eye. She stopped and gazed at the weathered plank jammed into the dirt a few inches to the side of the path. It had been deliberately set up there, though from the path it seemed only a curious bit of improvised sculpture.
To see its other side, Nadine had to descend down a short rocky embankment, and turn with her back to the river, staring up at the sign. As she thought, it read, TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH. The same words that Andrew Gordon had written down.
Scrambling back up to the path, Nadine dialed the non-emergency line for the police and asked for Peter Quayle. She was told Quayle was indisposed, but would respond within a few minutes. Nadine stared at the back of the sign, then at the water beyond it. Something moved on the other side of the bank.
The man in beige had returned. He stood at the edge of the water, staring at Nadine, pointing a hand towards the sign.
“I see it,” Nadine called across the water.
They stood there for a moment. The man seemed to be trying to communicate something. Or perhaps taunting her. Nadine didn’t know how to interpret the gesture.
Eventually the man shrugged, turned his back and stepped into the brushes and out of sight. Nadine wanted to call him back. She felt like she’d failed a test of some sort.
Before she could decide whether to try and find the man, she heard Quayle’s voice on the other end of the phone. “Ms. Kelso, what can I do for you?”
“Right now I’m looking at your sign.”
Quayle didn’t answer right away. He finally said, “Wait there a minute and I’ll come to you.”
“I was going to start back to the hotel.”
“Indulge me. Please.”
She stamped her feet and massaged her shoulders through the jacket. The clouds above had the fine gray look of carrying snow, but so far nothing had fallen. She hoped the weather would continue to cooperate.
Quayle showed up seven minutes later according to the clock on Nadine’s phone. He pulled his prowler to the side of the path and climbed out.
“Did you see the bastard?” he asked.
Nadine nodded. “He was pointing at the sign, as if there was something I should notice about it. Other than the writing, I mean.”
“He likes toying with people,” Quayle said. “It’s what he enjoys.”
Nadine wondered how the officer knew that.
“About the note,” Quayle said. “I put it up for a reason.”
“So he’d see it every day from his favorite fishing spot.” She looked at the wood, silver in the moonlight. “You wanted to taunt him.”
“Not so much taunt as remind,” Quayle said. “In case he ever lets himself forget what he’s done. That’s been my purpose for a while now.”
Quayle stared at the empty spot on the opposite bank of the river and said, very softly and sounding very tired, “Karl Roach and I go back a long ways.”
Chapter 24
In the world according to Peter Quayle, right and wrong weren’t terribly complex ideas. Good people walked the streets every day, doing nothing to invite harm to themselves or others. They helped each other. They were polite. This was proper, as it should be. Wrong was imposing yourself on other people in the hopes of gain, or worse, amusement. Doing wrong required punishment. Otherwise it would fester and encourage more of the same. And then soon, the whole society would begin to rot.
Quayle learned of the Cover Model Killings while working on the Seattle PD. They’d found a suspect who practically screamed “I did it” every time they spoke to him. The evidence had fit him, but the killer was crafty. He’d worn gloves, and he’d been careful not to leave witnesses or trace evidence.
His one mistake had been unavoidable. In Spokane, a doorbell had rung, distracting him as he was in the process of snuffing out the second victim. He attended to the visitor, a parcel delivery person, while his second victim escaped. She later picked him out of a photo array.
Thus there was a guilty man, and a case built up to prove and punish his guilt. But witnesses are sometimes frail, and between the anguish of what she witnessed and a medical condition she’d had since childhood, her memory and focus became more and more questionable. Her credibility waned.
And the case against Karl Anders Roach collapsed.
“I started seeing Roach around town seven, eight years ago,” Quayle said. “Immediately I knew there was something about this fellow that wasn’t right. The more I looked into him, the more squirrelly he seemed. He’s still the prime suspect in the Cover Model Killings.”
“That doesn’t explain the sign,” Nadine said.
Quayle had driven her back to the Lodge. They were sitting in the parlor of the hotel, drinking very cold tea. Nero had inspected the officer’s legs and was curled on the couch next to Nadine, sleeping soundly.
“It’s a reminder to him, but also to us,” Quayle said. “Some crimes have no end to jurisdiction, no statute of limitations. His crimes are known and his punishment is a matter of time.”
“Divine retribution,” Nadine said. “A person who didn’t know any better could take it as harassment.”
Quayle nodded vigorously, not quite taking her point. “That’s the kind of world it’s turning into. Where the bad guys are treated as victims, and the victims don’t matter. And us, the ones that care? We’re the bad people.”
The ones that care. How much of this was about justice, and how much about maintaining that self-image?
“There’s maybe some truth to what you’re saying,” Nadine said. “But it’s a lot more complex than that, isn’t it?”
“Tell that to the families of the people Roach killed. Tell them how complex it is. Tell them about his sad childhood.”
Nadine had met with victims who shared Quayle’s outrage, even surpassed it. She’d also met victims who had looked the killer of their child in the eyes and forgiven them. Some even spoke on the killer’s behalf at sentencing appeals. Humans were complex machines. Predictable, most of the time, but always capable of the odd irrational jolt. Anyone claiming to have human nature completely figured out left themselves open to the kind of logical fallacy afflicting Peter Quayle. What I do to a bad person is justified by his badness, and in no way makes me like him.
Why had Roach pointed at that sign? Had he wanted Nadine to see it? “Look at what they’re doing to me, the persecution I face.” Or was it something else?
The heat in her bedroom was roaring, stuffy. She woke up at three and knew instinctively that she wouldn’t get back to sleep.
Dressing, she went down to the lobby of the silent hotel and sat on the couch in the parlor. The light was on at the registration desk but no one was there. Nadine eventually sat down at the piano, picked out the melody to whatever drifted through her head. ‘Everything In Its Right Place.’ ‘Nobody’s Fault But Mine.’ She stumbled on the changes to ‘All Apologies.’
At three in the morning, everywhere felt like the ends of the earth.
The morning brought a chaos she hadn’t expected.
COUPLE LIKELY MURDERED, POLICE SOURCES SAY ran the headline of the Columbian. The source wasn’t named, but Chief Eng was quoted as saying, “We’re examining every possibility, including foul play.” After reiterating the details, there was a helpline number for tips.
The station’s sole receptionist gave Nadine a harried look as she passed him on the way to the offices. There was already a lineup for an audience with the chief. Nadine knocked on Jen’s door. The chief held the phone to her shoulder and looked up.
“Your idea?” Nadine asked.
Jen shrugged. “No, but it’s not like I can deny it. Close the door, please.”
Nadine was mildly irritated, but glad she didn’t have to do that job. She helped herself to coffee and took a seat at an empty desk near Bill Coker. The young officer was filling out the overnight reports. He looked as tired as she felt.
“How’s Gary doing?” Nadine asked.
“I’ve seen him better, but he’s snapping out of the funk he was in. Weird as it sounds, I think knowing that what happened to Andrew and Susan was done on purpose actually made Gary feel better. He carried guilt, and now that’s turning to anger. He wants us to find the person.”
“Him and me both,” Nadine said.
Bill had the autopsy reports on his desk. She flipped through them again, pausing as she came to the tattoo on Susan’s ankle.
“Did Gary ever mention a friend of Susan’s whose name starts with the letter T?”
“He never talked about her at all,” Bill said. “Guess now I know why.”
“A friend of Andrew’s, then?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Was Susan active at Bobby’s school? PTA and all that?”
“Don’t know off the top of my head, but we could find out.”
The town’s elementary school was south of Main Street, a few blocks from the river. It was a small building, old but freshly painted, and the halls were busy. Despite the youthful energy of the students, there was a downcast quality to the place. On an easel near the door was an enormous greeting card, colored pens set out so students could sign. The pens had string taped to them so they hung off the easel, looking like tears about to fall. Get well soon, Bobby, sorry for your loss.
You could learn a lot about people by how they grieved, and by how they were grieved for. The uproar at the police station, the sense of desolation at the school—the Gordons meant something to Castle Rock. Their absence hurt.
She thought of Frank, who’d missed their father’s funeral, only showing up after the wake to borrow money from their mother. Maybe her brother felt the loss but didn’t think he was worthy of sharing with them. In any case he was soon gone, with a check in his pocket and a car trunk full of their father’s tools. Operation complete.
Nadine turned her attention to the wisp of a man who came out of the offices to greet them. Principal Lewis looked to be about 70, with spun cotton hair and arms so thin they looked in danger of snapping. He escorted them through the front desk area to his office. A pair of kids waited in chairs outside, one picking her nose. “You don’t want to do that, Cassie,” the principal said, with gentle disapproval. The child unplugged her nostril.
When they were seated across from his desk, Principal Lewis said, “We’re all heartbroken for Bobby, of course. Mrs. Tomita is preparing some take home exercises for when he feels ready. If there’s anything else we can do.”
Nadine nodded her thanks. Odd to be an outsider and thrust into the role of representing the community. “I want to ask about Susan and Andrew,” she said. “Were they involved much with the school?”
“Oh, very involved,” Lewis said. “Andrew was our referee on Sports Day. And Susan, well.” His eyes became glassy. “I remember her from my teaching days. Ingrid and Walter Moody used to drop her off. Before she had her son and moved away, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.” He chuckled.
“Her son?” Nadine said. “You mean Bobby?”
“Timothy.” The principal smiled. “She was married before Andrew to a feisty young man. A Texan. She was only about nineteen or twenty at the time.”
Nadine heard Bill shift in his seat next to her.
“Just so I have the chronology straight,” she said. “Susan was married here, had a child, divorced, moved away, met Andrew, had Bobby, and eventually moved back to Castle Rock.”
“I believe that’s correct,” said the principal. “Though if I’m being honest, I don’t know if she and the Texan were ever legally married. They were together a while, though.”
As they left the school, Bill Coker asked her if she thought it was significant. Nadine was asking the same question herself. An ex-husband and son, possibly living in Texas. How much about them had Andrew Gordon known?
Chapter 25
The principal had mentioned that Elsa Torres was Bobby Gordon’s closest friend. Her mother Veronica and father Fred lived in a two-story house a few blocks from the Gordons. The driveway of the house held a snowmobile and an SUV, and a smaller, sportier car under a tarp in the carport.
Bill Coker knocked, and the door was answered by a pretty woman of about fifty. She was dressed in athletic wear, sweat stains down the front of her apple-green top.
“Veronica Torres?” Nadine said. “We’d like to speak with you about the Gordons.”
“I just heard,” she said, still slightly out of breath. “I can’t imagine who’d want to hurt them.”
“You might be able to help us just by telling us about them.”
“Sure, I can spare a few minutes. Apologies for the mess.”
She led them to a living room, where the white leather couches had been moved back to the wall to make space for an exercise mat. If this was the woman’s idea of a mess, Nadine thought, she’d hate to show Veronica Torres the inside of Andrew and Gary’s garage. Veronica quickly restored the furniture to its proper position, then belted a robe around herself and offered them coffee or tea.
“Nothing, thanks,” Nadine said. “Did you meet the Gordons through the school?”
“Thats right. Andrew and I both played chaperone when the class went to Portland. That was quite a trip—imagine two parents, one teacher, and 25 screaming six-year-olds all packed onto a bus.” She stared at her tea for a moment, warmed by the memory. “I remember Susan from high school, but we weren’t close back then. We only became friends later, doing fundraising together. We both wanted to move beyond the same silly old things they always do—bake sales and the like. The can and bottle drive and the casino night were our ideas.”
“Did you notice any strain between Andrew and Susan in the last little while?”
Veronica Torres nodded. “The Christmas Crunch really hit them hard this year. Andrew harder than Sue. She had a steady job, good benefits, but he’d never really worked like that. He threw himself into the family business, and when that sold, all he did was move money around and watch it dwindle. It’s expensive, raising a family.”
“That’s for true,” Bill said. “Ever see them fight?”
“Bicker, sure. Andrew did most of the bickering. Susan would take it, but only up t
o a point.”
“Forgive me for asking this,” Nadine said, “but did he ever flirt with you?”
“He’s not what I’d call the flirty type.”
“But was he ever interested?”
Veronica Torres secured her hair with an elastic. “I think so,” she said. “It never went anywhere, but sometimes I sensed from him a desire for company.” She looked at Bill. “You’re married, I can tell.” Looking at Nadine, she said, “You I’m not so sure.”
“I was, until recently.”
She nodded. “When you’ve been with someone for a long time, sometimes there’s a feeling of not being understood. Of—I don’t even know the word.”
“Fraudulence?” Nadine offered.
Veronica shook her head, smiling. “Interesting you’d say that, but not my word. I’d say disconnect. On the surface everything is fine. The choices you’re making are optimal, but there’s a longing for other choices, just because they’re something other. Not boredom so much as an inability to ignore what might have been.”
“And Andrew suffered from this.”
“I know I did,” Veronica said. “My husband Fred has, too. We’ve reconciled, but there was a period where I confided in Andrew. I felt he was having those same feelings, rethinking the choices and sacrifices he’d made.”
“What about Susan?” Nadine said. “Any hint of discord from her?”
“Not that I saw, no.”
“Did she ever talk about her first marriage? The father of her oldest child?”
Veronica lowered her head and closed her eyes, as if summoning the memories to mind.
“I remember him vaguely,” she said. “Lee Miller. A very handsome man, but he had a cruel streak a mile long.”
“How so?”
“It was a long time ago. I’m blanking on the specifics.”
The Long Dark January: A Nadine Kelso Mystery Page 11