Authors: Kevin O'Brien
It was a cool, crisp May afternoon. The sun glistened off Lake Whatcom, and across the calm water he could see the mountains in the distance. The wooden dock was slightly neglected, because they didn’t have a boat. But it was still sturdy, with an upper deck that had a railing, and a lower platform that had nothing between it and the water directly below. Ever since they were kids, he and Amelia and their friends often used the dock to sun themselves, and Lake Whatcom was quite swimmable.
Collin glanced over his shoulder. She was following him with the stubby wood beam in her hand. One moment, she had it slung over her shoulder like a baseball bat, the next, she used it like a walking stick as she made her way down the grassy slope. Her black hair fluttered in the wind, and she grinned at him. She seemed to enjoy seeing him inebriated.
Though he might have felt more secure up on the dock’s upper platform—with the railing—Collin ventured down three steps to the lower, open tier. The water lapped up almost to the edge of its wooden planks. He could hear her stepping down behind him. “Boy, the lake is beautiful today,” he murmured, squinting out at its glimmering surface.
“You’re slurring your words,” she said. “You got drunk a lot faster than I expected you would.”
He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant. She’d been
expecting
him to get drunk? But Collin nodded anyway, and kept gazing at the lake and mountains. “Yeah, I am pretty hammered. Do me a favor, okay?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Please make sure I don’t do anything stupid. I hear all these stories about dumb-ass teenagers getting drunk and they somehow end up getting themselves killed. I don’t want that to happen to me.”
“Oh, I’m afraid it’s too late,” she replied.
Collin froze. That wasn’t his sister’s voice.
“You’re not Amelia,” he murmured.
He swiveled around to see her raising the wooden beam over her head. Collin didn’t even have time to react, or ward off the blow. All of a sudden, that thing came crashing down on him, and Collin Faraday heard his own skull crack.
While hosing the blood off the dock, she thought about the funny, garbled cry Collin had made before falling into the lake. He’d sounded like a feeble old woman. And that strange, gurgling noise, it must have been the blood in his throat when he’d tried to scream out. Whatever it had been, she snickered as she remembered it now.
Her brother’s foot had caught on some of the pilings under the dock, and he was floating facedown in the water just below her.
He was their favorite, the child they’d been hoping and trying for until deciding to adopt, and she’d been a mere compromise.
They would mourn him. But they wouldn’t have to grieve for very long. Soon enough, they would be dead, too. Soon enough, she would have no family—or friends. She would be the only one left.
And that was exactly the way she wanted it.
Seattle—six months later
Karen woke up, and suddenly she knew someone else was in her bedroom.
Lying in bed with the covers up to her neck, she’d been lightly dozing for the last three hours. She hadn’t heard a peep from Amelia down the hall, just that machine churning out the sounds of waves and seagulls. Rufus had fallen asleep at the foot of Karen’s bed, but now she heard him sitting up. His dog tags jingled. He started to growl.
She heard a floorboard creak. For a moment, she couldn’t move.
Finally, and very slowly, Karen reached under the extra pillow beside her and found her father’s revolver.
She could almost feel someone hovering over her.
She quickly sat up in bed. “I’ve got a gun!” she said.
Rufus started barking furiously.
“God, Karen, no, wait!”
Blindly reaching for the nightstand lamp, she fanned at the air for a moment before she found the light and switched it on. “Amelia,” she murmured, catching her breath. “Rufus, hush! That’s enough.”
“Oh, Karen, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, a hand clutching at the lapels of her robe. “I got turned around. I thought this was the bathroom….”
Rufus kept growling at her, punctuating it with an occasional bark.
“Rufus, cease and desist,” Karen said. Her heart was still racing. She tried to smile at her. “It’s the next door down, Amelia.”
“Thanks. Sorry I woke you.” She hesitated in the doorway, and frowned at her. “Do you always sleep with a gun? Or do you think I’m dangerous?”
Karen shook her head. “No, I don’t usually sleep with a gun. And no, I don’t think you’re dangerous. This is about something else, Amelia.” She was thinking of the young man who called himself Blade. That was why she had the gun at her side tonight; and why Rufus was sleeping in her bedroom instead of his own little bed in the corner of the kitchen. But part of her still couldn’t trust Amelia—not if she was sick.
“Think you’ll be able to get back to sleep?” Karen asked.
Yawning, she nodded and turned toward the hall. “G’night, Karen. Sorry I scared you.” She gently closed the door behind her.
Rufus let out one last growl, and then settled back down at the foot of her bed. Karen listened for a few moments until she heard the toilet flushing. It was strange. Earlier tonight, Amelia had come down to the kitchen in her T-shirt and pajama bottoms. But she’d put on a robe in the middle of the night, just to go to the bathroom?
Karen checked the digital clock on her nightstand: 4:11
A.M
. She switched off the light, slipped the gun back under the pillow beside her, and lay there for several minutes. She thought she heard murmuring. She peeled back the covers, quietly crept out of bed, and then listened at the door. “She’s got a gun, for chrissake…I can’t…goddamn mutt…”
It was a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like Amelia.
Karen crept back to the bed and retrieved her father’s revolver again. Rufus scurried to his feet and looked at her. “Stay!” Karen whispered to him. Then she opened the door and gazed down the darkened hallway. She held the gun tightly. The guest room door was open, but the light was off. Past the waves and seagulls from the sound machine, she could hear the woman whispering again: “We’ll just have to take care of it tomorrow…”
Karen tiptoed down the corridor, but the floorboards creaked and she froze. Rufus poked his head past her bedroom doorway and let out an abrupt bark. The murmuring down the hallway suddenly stopped. Karen heard a rustling sound. “Amelia?” she said. She had the gun poised.
She skulked toward the guest room. She could hear whispering again, only this time, it sounded more like Amelia: “I want two baskets of flowers. Yes, you can…But I’m taking my dog…”
Karen peeked into the doorway. In the darkness, she saw the silhouette of someone in the far twin bed, nestled beneath the covers. “But I have a ticket…” she said in a sleepy voice—Amelia’s voice. “That train doesn’t leave for a while…”
With a sigh, Karen retreated back to her own room, and crawled back into bed once again. She shouldn’t have been surprised Amelia talked in her sleep, in addition to everything else. Karen tried to go to sleep, but merely tossed and turned. She told herself everything was okay. She’d be taking Amelia to a specialist in just a few hours.
She kept checking the clock on her nightstand. The last time she looked it was 5:17. She could hear birds chirping. An unsettling thought occurred to her:
What if that wasn’t Amelia under the covers? What if it was someone else?
But Karen told herself she was being silly. And she finally drifted off to sleep.
The clock on Shane’s nightstand read: 6:02
A.M
. Barely lifting his head from his pillow, he squinted at it. He wondered what the hell that tapping noise was. He and four other guys shared a dilapidated house on Forty-third Street, just a few blocks from the campus. His bedroom was on the first floor, right off the kitchen. It took him a moment to realize the tapping was on his window. Against the faint light of dawn, he could see the silhouette of someone on the other side of the old venetian blinds.
“What the…” he muttered, crawling out of bed. He staggered across the cluttered room in his underpants. The tapping continued.
Some of the venetian blind slats were bent and broken and, through the gaps, he could see who was out there. He immediately raised the blinds, and then tugged the window open. He had to crouch so that he could talk to her face-to-face. “Amelia, sweetheart, what’s going on?” he asked, in a groggy voice.
She wore a rain slicker and stood on her tiptoes. “Sorry to wake you,” she whispered. “I just had to see you, baby.”
He started to straighten up. “Well, go around to the kitchen door, and I’ll let you in.”
“No, no, I can’t stay. Karen’s practically holding me prisoner at her place. She doesn’t know I’m gone. I need to get back there and sneak in before she wakes up.”
He crouched down again and hovered by the open window. “Shit, you shouldn’t have to stay there if you don’t want to….”
She smiled. “It’s okay. But I need to meet you later, someplace where we can be alone, with no one else around. You know that boat place by Husky Stadium?”
“You mean where they rent canoes?”
She nodded. “I want you to rent one and take it out on Lake Washington to Foster Island, near the Arboretum. It’s over past the Museum of History and Industry—”
“I remember where it is,” he interrupted. “We’ve been there before.” Foster Island was a secluded little patch of land accessible by a long, winding, nature path that included a few footbridges. They’d had a picnic there during the summer.
“Good. I’ll meet you out there at eleven-thirty.”
“Oh, shit,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve got my psychology class at eleven.”
She frowned. “Can’t you skip it for
me
? This is important.”
He hesitated. “Sure, I guess.”
“I knew I could count on you. Don’t tell anyone you’re meeting me or mention where you’re going. And that includes Karen. I don’t trust her anymore.”
“What?” He let out a dazed laugh. “But you
love
Karen. You were just bending my ear last night over pizza about how goddamn wonderful she is.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. If Karen calls you, don’t even pick up.”
“Well, why go back there if you don’t trust her? Why all the secrecy? I don’t get this, Amelia….”
“I’ll explain everything to you on Foster Island at eleven-thirty, and take a canoe out there. It’s very important. Will you just do it for me, please?”
“Of course,” he murmured. He didn’t understand any of this. Most of all, he couldn’t understand her. She wasn’t acting like herself. “Of course, I’ll be there,” he reiterated.
“Thanks, baby,” she said. Reaching up, she ran her fingers through his messy, light brown hair, then pulled his head down to her. She gave him a long kiss, and slipped her tongue into his mouth. He wanted more, but she pulled away.
“Sorry, I’ve got morning breath,” he whispered with a little laugh.
“It’s okay,” she grinned and licked her lips. “Do you have morning wood, too?”
Indeed he did. He’d woken up—as usual—with a morning hard-on, which had been revived by that arousing kiss. Shane blushed.
She giggled. “Stand up straight, so I can see it.”
He was obedient. “Little Shane’s standing up straight, too, babe.”
She reached inside the window, and fondled his erection through his underpants. She made this moaning sound he’d never heard her make before. He was embarrassed, but very turned on at the same time.
“I want more of that later,” she purred, giving him one final, gentle tug.
Then she suddenly turned around and hurried toward the alley off the backyard. In a stupor, Shane watched her duck inside a black Jetta. It looked like her therapist’s car. The engine started up, and the car drove away.
Shane’s erection quickly subsided as he stood there in the window. He remembered something Karen had told him the previous afternoon. “You need to keep an eye on her. If you notice a sudden change in her or a severe mood swing, call me.”
For a few moments, Shane thought about calling Karen, maybe waking her up, and telling her what had just happened.
But he went back to sleep, instead.
The phone woke her up.
Blurry eyed, Karen glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 8:32
A.M
. She hadn’t meant to sleep this late. But after almost shooting her own houseguest in the predawn hours, she’d been so shaken up, she’d just tossed and turned. She must have nodded off at some point, because Rufus had awoken her with some sudden and inexplicable barking at around 5:45. Then, just as suddenly, he’d gone back to sleep. But Karen hadn’t been quite as lucky. The last time she’d looked at the clock, it was 6:41.
At least she’d gotten nearly two uninterrupted hours. Still, she’d overslept—and the damn phone was ringing.
Propping herself up on one elbow, Karen reached for the cell phone on her nightstand. She didn’t recognize the caller number. She cleared her throat, then switched it on. “Hello?”
“Karen Carlisle?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is Jacqueline Peyton with the Seattle Police. I spoke with you yesterday.”
Karen quickly sat up. She felt a pang of dread in her gut. They must have found Koehler’s body. Despite everything that had happened in those woods last night, Karen still clung to some hope that Koehler was still alive. As of 7:00 last night, there had been no body, and only speculation. She wondered if that was all about to change.
“Ms. Carlisle?” the policewoman asked.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve been trying to locate Amelia Faraday ever since we spoke with you yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t been to her dorm. She isn’t answering her phone. We’ve talked with her roommate, her boyfriend, and her uncle, and none of them have any idea where she is. I was wondering if you might have heard from her.”
Karen hesitated. “Um, is this about Detective Koehler? Is he still missing?”
“I’m afraid so, yes. We think Amelia Faraday might have been one of the last people to see him, after you, that is.”
“I see,” was all Karen could think to say.
“Has Amelia contacted you? Do you have any idea where we might be able to reach her?
“Um, you know, I—I might be able to help you,” Karen stammered. “But I just woke up, and I’m a little out of it right now. I was up late last night. Could I get back to you in about twenty minutes, Jacqueline? I have your number here on my cell. Could I phone you back?”
“That would be fine. I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” she replied.
“Talk to you soon,” Karen said, and then she clicked off. “God help me.”
She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Rufus barked once and got to his feet. He scurried after Karen, down the hallway toward the guest room. All the while, Karen thought about how much she hated lying to the police. And yet here she was, doing just that. If she could hold them off for just two hours, she’d get Amelia to Dr. Richards. She’d have an expert opinion on Amelia’s condition. It could help their case. Despite everything, Karen still believed Amelia was innocent on some level.
“Amelia?” she called. “Amelia, are you up?”
No response. The bathroom door was open. No one was in there. She didn’t hear anyone downstairs.
Karen got to the guest room doorway and stopped dead. The bed was unmade and empty. Amelia’s clothes and her knapsack were gone.
But the sleep machine was still churning out the sounds of ocean waves and seagulls in flight.
“Let me double-check on that,” said the thin young man in a swivel chair. Seated across the desk from him, George guessed he was about twenty-four and gay, or metrosexual. He probably hated wearing that cheap-looking blue suit. His blond hair looked painstakingly mussed, and was loaded with product. The young man smiled at George, then turned toward his computer keyboard, and started typing.
He was the only person on duty in the small, modern ranch-style office across the street from Arbor Heights Memorial Park. The hedges bordering the cemetery were neatly trimmed, and the tall wrought-iron gates stood open.
But across the street, George had had to ring the doorbell before being buzzed in by the young man, who introduced himself as Todd. The office had a large picture window, which offered a view of the cemetery. There were three potted palms and two desks, both with computers. One wall was all file drawers, while another had a huge map of the cemetery with color-coded decals over certain areas.
George sat on the edge of his chair while Todd frowned at the computer screen. “No, I’m sorry,” he said at last. “We don’t have any billing records for Savitt, Duane Lee. I show he passed away in 1993, and he’s in plot E-22 on the east hill. But there’s nothing else here.”
“Are you sure?” George asked. “I called yesterday, and someone here told me they might be able to help me if I came by in person.”
Todd sighed. “Well, we don’t have any billing information in the computers for burials prior to 1996. There’s no paperwork, either. Everything over ten years old gets shredded. Who did you talk to?”
George started fuming. He shook his head. “I don’t know. But he told me to come by today. I live in Seattle. I flew down to Portland, rented a car, and drove an hour here to Salem because this guy told me he could help me.” George decided not to mention that he’d also paid for a cab to schlep Jessie over to his house at 5:30 in the morning, and then take him to the airport. She’d phoned an hour ago. She’d gotten Jody off to school and Steffie to the daycare center.
“You must have talked to Murray,” Todd surmised. “He has the day off. He’s been here since the late eighties. But I don’t know how he could possibly remember a transaction from 1993—”
“Could you call him?” George asked.
Reaching for the phone, Todd winced a bit. “Um, he said he was going hunting today. But I can try.”
George said nothing. He knew why Murray remembered that transaction from 1993. It was because the man buried in plot E-22 had murdered three people.
“Hi, Murray, this is Todd,” the young man was saying into his phone. “If you get this message, call me at work. You talked to a man in Seattle yesterday, and told him if he came here, you could give him some billing information on the burial of a—” he glanced at his computer—“Savitt, Duane Lee, from 1993. Well, the gentleman is here, and waiting. So call me as soon as you get this.” He hung up, then rolled his eyes at George. “I don’t know if he’ll call back. Like I said, I think he’s out shooting Bambi’s mother.”
The remark was probably meant to elicit a chuckle, but George just glared at him. “Could you give me directions to this plot E-22?” he growled. “As long as I came all this way, I might as well take a look at the grave.”
Todd nodded, then reached for a preprinted diagram of the cemetery. He circled a tiny square near the lower corner of the map. “Um, just go along the main drive, veer to your right. You’ll see a big oak tree and, down the hill from there, a statue of a soldier from World War I. At least, I think it’s the First World War. He’s wearing one of those weird pith helmets, almost like a hubcap.”
George just nodded.
“Anyway, after the soldier, take a left, and E-22 is there.” He handed George the diagram.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “Listen, I’m sorry to be short with you, because it’s not your fault. But I’m just very frustrated and furious right now.”
“I understand,” Todd whispered meekly.
George stomped out of the office, then crossed the street, almost hoping some driver would honk at him at the pedestrian crosswalk so he’d have an excuse to scream at someone. But there were no cars around. He passed through the cemetery gates, and checked the diagram as he followed the main, two-lane road. It was a cool, overcast morning. The sky was the same light gray color as some of the tombstones. George noticed a few of the markers had photographs of the deceased on them. Printed on laminated oval metal discs, they looked like large, faded campaign buttons. He found the oak tree, then spotted a weathered old statue of the WWI infantryman, which stood out among the other headstones. Walking on the grass, he tried to avoid tramping over the graves. His shoes became wet with the morning dew. He finally found the headstone, a simple, squat slab of dark gray marble: Duane Lee Savitt, 1960–1993.
Beside it was the exact same type of headstone. But this one had a crucifix engraved above the inscription: Joy Savitt Schlessinger, 1963–1993, Beloved Wife & Mother.
“Yes, there are other Schlessingers buried here,” Todd told him, ten minutes later. His fingers poised over the keyboard, he studied his computer screen. “Two more, Lon Rudyard and Annabelle Faye Schlessinger.” He grabbed another diagram of the cemetery and circled two tiny squares right beside each other. “They’re in the same general neighborhood, only you take a right when you get to the soldier statue,” he explained.
“Thank you very much,” George said.
George retraced his steps from before. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to find—perhaps the graves of Joy Savitt’s in-laws, or maybe her husband and a second wife. These Schlessingers might not have been at all related to Duane’s sister. He turned right at the statue of the infantryman, then started checking the headstones lined up in front of a long, neatly manicured shrub.
George found them, two rose-colored headstones.
L
ON
R
UDYARD
S
CHLESSINGER
Husband and Father
22 October 1958–13 July 2004
And beside him:
A
NNABELLE
F
AYE
S
CHLESSINGER
Beloved Daughter, Rest with the Angels
21 May 1988–13 July 2004
“They died the same day,” George murmured to himself. He wondered if they’d been killed together in an accident. The girl was only sixteen years old. Were Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger the husband and child of Joy Savitt?
Biting his lip, George took another look at Annabelle’s date of birth. She was born on the exact same day as Amelia.
“My God,” George whispered. “Amelia and Annabelle, they were twins.”
“She took the car. I had about sixty dollars in my purse. She took that, too.”
With the cell phone to her ear, Karen held Rufus on a leash in the backyard. He hadn’t been out yet this morning and needed to go. She kept the kitchen door open so she could hear the home phone if it rang.
“My dog started barking at around a quarter to six this morning,” Karen explained. “I’m guessing that’s when Amelia snuck out of the house. I called Jessie at your place, and she hasn’t seen her. But she’ll keep a lookout for my car. Amelia’s roommate, Rachel, hasn’t seen or heard from Amelia this morning either. Neither has Shane. I also called the rest home where my dad is, and they didn’t see Amelia over there, either. I’m grateful for that. I didn’t want to bother you, George. I know you’re in Salem. But has Amelia called you?”
“No, she hasn’t.” He let out a long sigh. “This isn’t like Amelia at all. I mean, she’s disappeared for a day or two before, like she did this weekend. But she’s never stolen a car, or money. This is nuts.”
“Do you think she might have driven up to the house in Bellingham?” Karen asked.
“Well, I have the phone number for Mark and Jenna’s neighbors up there,” George said. “Nice couple, Jim and Barb Church. I’ll give them a call, and find out if there’s any activity next door. You drive a black Jetta, right?”
“That’s right.” She heard a beep on the line.
God, please, let it be Amelia
, she thought.
“I’ll ask the Churches to keep their eyes peeled for your car,” he was saying.
“Just a second, George. I have another call.” She checked the caller ID, and then quickly got back on the line with George. “Oh, God, it’s this policewoman phoning, the third time. I’ve been dodging her all morning. They’ve been looking for Amelia since yesterday.”
“Listen, I think you better come clean and tell them what’s happening, Karen. You don’t want to get yourself into any more hot water with the police. Plus, at this stage, you aren’t doing Amelia any favors by not reporting this. I hate to even think it, but she could hurt somebody else.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, feeling a pang in her already knotted-up stomach. Rufus tugged at the leash, and Karen let him drag her toward the edge of the garden. She wondered who would walk her dog if she ended up in jail for aiding and abetting a fugitive.
“I may try Shane one more time,” she said into the phone. “I had to call him three times before he finally picked up. And when I talked to him, I had a feeling he might have been holding back on something. Once you hear back from Amelia’s neighbors up in Bellingham, will you give me a call?”
“Will do,” he said. “By the way, I’ve been to the cemetery, and now I’m parked down the block from the public library in Salem. I need to look up some information. Has Amelia ever mentioned someone named Annabelle to you?”
“
Annabelle?
No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure that’s her twin sister.”
“Amelia has a twin?” Karen murmured.
“
Had
,” he said, correcting her. “Annabelle died three years ago, the same day as her father. That’s why I’m here at the library. Maybe there’s something in the local newspaper archives about it.”
“She never mentioned a twin,” Karen muttered, almost to herself. Amelia had recalled sometimes talking to herself in the mirror as a child. Was that as close as she could come to remembering her twin sister?
While George explained about Joy Savitt and the Schlessinger graves, it suddenly seemed to make sense why Amelia had all these issues—the guilt, the low self-esteem, and the nightmares. At age four, her parents had discarded her, and kept her twin. But why?