One Last Scream (34 page)

At the top step, she noticed the kitchen door directly ahead. It had a window in it. She could see outside. It was night.

Annabelle started to run past the door. Sandra stopped abruptly. “Wait!” she whispered. “I thought we were getting out of here.”

“I told you,” Annabelle said, tugging at her arm. “I need to get some stuff in my room first.”

“But he might come back. Please, for God’s sake….”

“He might come back?” Annabelle repeated, laughing. “He’s upstairs, out cold. He had too much to drink, as usual. He passed out on the bed.”

Sandra tried to pull away, but Annabelle wouldn’t let her go. “What if he wakes up?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “Please, Annabelle, I just want to get the hell out of here!”

“Would you relax?” Annabelle said, dragging her into the kitchen. “I know what I’m doing. I gave him the same stuff he used on you the other night, chloroform. Believe me, he won’t wake up. I told you I’d do this right, Sandra. We’re
walking
out of here in ten minutes.”

As Annabelle led her through the kitchen, Sandra noticed the telephone on the wall. “Why don’t we just call the police? Everyone must be looking for me.”

Annabelle swiveled around. “We can’t involve the police, stupid!” she hissed. “Goddammit, don’t you remember? I’m the one who set you up, the same way I set up Gina and all the others. I’m as guilty as he is.” She grabbed a lock of her recently dyed blond hair. “Why do you think I went to all this trouble to look different? I need to get away and start new someplace else. You promised you’d help me….”

“I will,” Sandra said, flustered.

“I stole a car yesterday, and stashed it behind some bushes near the end of the driveway,” Annabelle said, leading her to the front hallway. “The thing’s an ugly piece of crap, an old Tempo. I just moved it a few minutes ago—our
getaway car
. It’s parked outside the front door right now.”

They started up the stairs to the second floor. “I’ve secretly been taking money out of my father’s account for months,” Annabelle explained. “Plus I’ve got some of my mother’s jewelry. I can hock that.” She paused at the top of the stairs. “Oh, speaking of jewelry…” She took off her bracelet.

Catching her breath, Sandra gazed at the ugly mark it had covered on the back of Annabelle’s wrist.

“I want you to have this,” Annabelle said, slipping the wide, silver bracelet onto Sandra’s wrist. She did it in an almost ceremonial way. “It means we’re one and the same.”

Baffled, Sandra stared down at the bracelet.

Annabelle was pulling her down the hallway. “C’mon, take a look at him,” she said. “He’s totally unconscious.”

“Can’t we just
go
?” Sandra pleaded. “Please, I want to get out of here.”

“No, I need to say good-bye to him,” Annabelle insisted. She dragged her into the master bedroom.

Her father lay on the bed, his jeans unfastened in front and a T-shirt riding high on his exposed, hairy beer gut. It rose up and down as he breathed heavily in his sleep. Sandra could see the red marks on his face from the chloroform.

Annabelle stared at him, and her grip on Sandra’s arm tightened. “I hope you wake up in time to feel the flames,” she whispered to her unconscious father. She shook with rage. “I hope you’ll be in terrible, terrible pain, you fucking scumbag.”

Then she spit in his face.

Sandra winced. “Annabelle, please, you’re hurting me….”

The talon-like grip on her arm loosened, and then Annabelle released her. She wiped the tears from her eyes and took a few deep breaths. “I better give him one more dose of this stuff,” she said, reaching for a bottle and rag on the bureau.

“What did you just say about
flames
?” Sandra asked numbly.

But Annabelle didn’t answer. Her face pinched up and turned away from her work, she soaked the rag with chloroform.

Sandra rubbed her arm and, once again, frowned at the silver bracelet on her wrist.

When she looked up, she saw Annabelle coming at her. Before Sandra knew what was happening, Annabelle shoved her against the wall and stuffed the rag in her face.

Sandra’s head slammed back against the wall. Dazed, she fought and struggled to push Annabelle away, but the other girl was stronger. The fumes were too much. She tried not to breathe in, but it was no good. She couldn’t move. She felt paralyzed.

“You promised,” she heard Annabelle say. “You’re going to help me get away and start new someplace else.”

After that, Sandra didn’t hear anything.

Sandra Hartman didn’t feel anything either, not even later when the flames burned her body beyond recognition. She never regained consciousness during the fire. She never felt the horrible, excruciating pain.

But Lon did.

Amelia still hadn’t shown up yet. And she wasn’t answering her cell phone.

Standing on the steps outside the Wenatchee Public Library, Karen felt the cold night wind cut through her. She glanced at her wristwatch: 7:00.

She couldn’t have missed Amelia. She’d been at the rest home for no more than a half hour. The trip had been worthwhile, too. Miriam Getz had given her a better idea about the incident that had traumatized Amelia as a child. Still, it didn’t make sense that Amelia clung to such sweet memories of this neighbor man who had obviously been trying to molest her. The only people who didn’t believe that Clay Spalding was pure evil were Amelia and Clay’s friend Naomi Rankin.

Karen had left Naomi a second voice mail, but still no response.

However, the person she was most concerned about right now was Jessie. It had been at least ninety minutes since she’d spoken with her. How long did it take to find a stupid hotel room, anyway? Jessie certainly should have called her by now to say that she and George’s kids were all right. Something must have happened. And Karen had no way of getting in touch with her, because Jessie didn’t own a cell phone.

She took out her phone and punched in George’s number. Maybe Jessie had gotten in touch with him instead.

She caught George in his car on his way to the Salem airport. He told her about the graves at the Schlessinger ranch.

The wind kicked up, and Karen shuddered on the library steps. “Well, there were four missing-person cases in Moses Lake in 1992,” she said into the phone. “The last one was a few months before the Schlessingers moved to Salem. I’m still trying to dig up more information about that incident with the neighbor molesting Amelia. So far, it seems pretty much the way Annabelle’s teacher described it to you. In the meantime, I’m standing in front of the library here, freezing my butt off, waiting for Amelia.”

“Are you
sure
it’s Amelia?” George asked.

“Almost positive,” Karen said. “She borrowed Shane’s car and drove out to Grand Coulee Dam early this morning. God knows why Grand Coulee Dam. But she’s on her way here now. If all goes well, we should be back in Seattle before ten.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m worried about Jessie and the kids. Have you heard from her?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to get home. Jessie called a little while ago. I think something’s wrong at the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Steffie had an asthma attack. She’s supposed to be okay now. But I’m not sure Jessie’s telling me the whole story.”

“She called from your house?” Karen asked.

“Yeah—”

“And Jessie didn’t say anything to you about running into Amelia at my place this afternoon?”

“But I thought you said Amelia’s been at Grand Coulee Dam all day.”

“She has been.” Karen told him about Jessie’s brush with
Annabelle
that afternoon, and how Jessie had noticed Blade’s Cadillac parked outside George’s house earlier in the day. “Jessie didn’t tell you any of this?” Karen asked.

“No, she didn’t say anything—”

“Did she mention that Shane is dead?”

“Oh, no,” George murmured. “God, no, she didn’t….”

“The police think he shot himself,” she said sadly.

“Jesus, Karen, what’s going on?”

“I told Jessie to take the kids and check in at a hotel,” she explained. “It doesn’t make any sense that she’d go back to your house. George, something’s wrong.”

“Well, maybe she just got a little mixed up with everything that’s happening,” he said. “Plus, Jessie has a family emergency of her own, too. She has to take off for Denver tonight. Her sister’s very sick. It sounds serious.”

For a moment, Karen couldn’t say anything.

“George,” she whispered, at last, “I’m sorry, but Jessie doesn’t have a sister.”

“I’ve called ahead and chartered a plane,” George said. “I should be at the Salem airport in about five minutes. I’ll call you when I land in Seattle. That should be at around eight-thirty. Can you stick around until then, Jessie?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” she said into the phone the young man held to her ear. He listened in on George’s cordless. Jessie was still strapped to the chair, with her hands taped behind her. She’d lost some of the feeling in her arms.

“Any updates on your sister?” George asked.

“No. I was just about to call them,” she replied.

“Is it your sister Estelle, the one with Alzheimer’s?”

Jessie hesitated. He somehow knew this was a setup. “Yes, it’s Estelle,” she said, going along with the fake name George had picked. “I’m really worried the old girl won’t last the night,” she said carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Jessie,” he replied. “Well, I’ll be there soon, unless you want me to send someone else over there to take over.”

His Majesty shook his head at her.

“No, I—I can hold down the fort until you get here.”

“Could I talk to Steffie? Or is she still asleep?”

“Sorry, George, she’s still napping.” Jessie glanced up at the young man. Behind him, through the living room window’s sheer drapes, she could see someone walking up the McMillans’ driveway. Jessie couldn’t tell who it was. The person was too far away. With his back to the living room, the man in the dark glasses hadn’t noticed yet.

“What about Jody?” George was saying on the other end of the line. “Could you put him on the phone for a second?”

Jessie’s throat went dry. “Um, I—I’m sorry, George, he’s in the bathroom. He just stepped in the shower.” She watched the woman approaching the front door now. It was George’s neighbor from across the street, a sixty-something divorcée named Sally Bidwell. She was thin with short silver hair and wore a black pantsuit. She’d been out of town at the time of George’s wife’s death, but had been over twice this week to see if they needed anything. George had told Jessie that Mrs. Bidwell had an extra key to the house in case Jessie ever got locked out.

As she came closer to the house, Mrs. Bidwell stopped and stood on her tiptoes so she could peek into the living room window.

Jessie tried not to stare at her. She didn’t want His Majesty to see they had a visitor.

“Well, it looks like I struck out again,” George said. “But they’re both doing okay, Jess?”

“Yes, George,” she said. “For now, they’re okay.”

“Thank you, Jessie. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

The man started pushing the phone harder against her face. “Hurry up,” he mouthed.

“Okay, George,” she said. “Good-bye.”

The man in the sunglasses quickly hung up the phone, then clicked off the cordless. “‘For now, they’re okay?’ What’s that shit? Was that your way of telling him something’s wrong?”

Jessie just helplessly shook her head at him. She glanced toward the living room window again, but didn’t see Mrs. Bidwell.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

The young man quickly snatched his revolver from the kitchen counter and crept over toward the front door. The doorbell rang again.

Jessie heard a muffled cry coming from Jody’s room.

His back pressed against the wall, the man waited. He had the gun drawn. He seemed very calm and cool, or maybe it was just because Jessie couldn’t read his expression behind those sunglasses.

Outside, Mrs. Bidwell backed away from the door. Craning her neck, she stood on her tiptoes again and tried to get another look into the living room window. Squirming in the chair, Jessie wondered if Mrs. Bidwell could see her though the sheer drapes. She held her breath and watched the young man reach over for the door handle.

Mrs. Bidwell lingered on the front stoop, trying to peek inside the house.

Because the Lake Wenatchee shootings had been such big news, the McMillans had endured their share of snoops this week. Jessie had seen a few driving down the cul-de-sac to catch a glimpse of the house, and others actually came right up to the house and tried to peek into the windows. In contrast, there were also several nice neighbors who had stopped by with flowers, casseroles, and condolences, Mrs. Bidwell among them. But she’d always struck Jessie as a bit over-solicitous and meddling.

At this point, Jessie wasn’t sure if she wanted Mrs. Bidwell to see anything or not. She figured George would know how to handle this. But she didn’t trust Mrs. Bidwell.

Finally, the woman shrugged her shoulders and turned around.

Jessie let out a sigh.

The man in the sunglasses moved over to the edge of the living room window, and he peered outside.

Through the sheer curtains, Jessie watched Mrs. Bidwell walk back up the driveway. But then she stopped and glanced inside the car for a moment. She turned toward the house again.

The man ducked back, and the sheer curtain fluttered.

Mrs. Bidwell stared at the window for a few moments. Then she took another few steps toward the house again. Pausing for a moment, she reached into her purse. Then she continued down the driveway past the front walkway, toward the back door. Jessie couldn’t see her through the living room window anymore.

The man darted back into the kitchen. Swiping a dishtowel off the counter, he turned toward Jessie and grabbed her by the hair. Jessie struggled as he stuffed the dishtowel in her mouth. Helplessly, she watched him scurry over to the back door.

The neighbor knocked a few times. And then Jessie heard the door lock being manipulated. Mrs. Bidwell was using the spare key. Jessie wanted to scream out a warning, but she couldn’t.

The kitchen door opened. “Hello?” Mrs. Bidwell called, stepping into the kitchen. “George? Anyone home?”

The young man waited on the other side of the door with his gun ready. Mrs. Bidwell couldn’t see him, but she spotted Jessie, bound and gagged in the chair. All Jessie could do was shake her head at the woman.

For a moment, Mrs. Bidwell stood there, paralyzed, gaping at Jessie.

The man with sunglasses tucked his gun in the waist of his pants. Mrs. Bidwell swiveled around. She let out a gasp, then bolted toward the door. But he slammed it shut in front of her. He grabbed her and slapped his hand over her mouth. Arms flailing, the thin woman tried to fight him off, but he was too big for her. She struggled and kicked, but he didn’t let go. All the while he held onto her, he hardly changed his expression. There was just the hint of a smirk on his face as he carried out his task—like a robot, not a trace of emotion.

He took his hand away from Mrs. Bidwell’s mouth for only a few seconds as he reached for his revolver again. She screamed, until he clubbed her over the head with his gun.

The woman let out a feeble cry. She was stunned, but still conscious. She started to squirm as the man with the dark glasses dragged her into the living room. He threw her on the couch. Mrs. Bidwell let out another gasp, as if she’d gotten the wind knocked out of her.

The young man grabbed a sofa pillow and put it over her face.

Then he fired his gun into the pillow.

Jessie watched in horror as the woman’s body twitched and convulsed with spasms. Then she slumped across the couch, suddenly still. Feathers from the pillow floated in the air around her. Jessie caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bidwell’s face—her open eyes and the huge, gaping hole in her left cheek. Then the young man gave the corpse a forceful shove. The woman rolled over on her face. A bloodstain started to bloom beneath her on the beige sofa.

The young man seemed annoyed as he moved away from the body. Frowning, he brushed the pillow feathers off his shiny black suit. He straightened his tie, readjusted his sunglasses, and then headed for the kitchen sink. Turning on the cold water, he ran his hand under the stream.

“Fucking bitch bit me,” he grumbled.

Tears in her eyes, Jessie stared at Mrs. Bidwell’s corpse. For the last forty minutes, Jessie had been hoping against hope the young man would just take whatever else he wanted and then leave. But now she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Now she knew he wasn’t going to leave this house until he’d killed her and the children.

“Oh God, George, you’re walking into a trap.”

“I know,” he said.

It was one of the only things George was sure about.

At this point, he figured either Annabelle or Blade, or both of them, were holding Jessie and his children hostage at his home. And they wanted him there, too.

“Karen, I really have no choice,” he said into the phone. He kept his eyes on the road. He’d just passed a sign indicating McNary Field was straight ahead. He knew he was close to the airport because he saw a Best Western and a Holiday Inn Express just up the road. “I have a feeling they’re keeping the kids alive so Jessie will cooperate with them,” he said. “And obviously they’re using Jessie to talk me into coming home. I’m hoping no one will get hurt as long as they’re still trying to lure me there. I have about ninety minutes to figure out a strategy. I’m not calling the police, at least not yet. Maybe when I get to Seattle. We’ll see.”

He let out a nervous sigh. “Karen, if you could keep digging into Annabelle’s past, maybe you can figure out what the hell she wants, why she’s doing this. You know psychology. Why is she killing everyone close to Amelia? If I could figure out what Annabelle’s after, that would help me when I walk into the house ninety minutes from now.”

Tears stung his eyes, and George felt his throat closing up. “I might be able to bargain with her, give her what she wants, or at least figure out where she’s most vulnerable. Maybe I can get my kids and Jessie out of there alive.”

“I’ll do what I can, George,” she said. “Amelia should be here any minute now. Maybe we can get her to intervene and talk to her sister. Maybe that’s all we’ll need. Whatever this is, it’s between the sisters.”

“I think you’re right,” George murmured.

He suddenly realized he’d just passed a turn sign for the airport. “Karen, listen, thank you. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay, call me when you get to Seattle. Take care, George.”

He clicked off the cell phone, and turned the car around in an Arby’s parking lot. He backtracked and found another sign for the airport. In the distance, he heard police sirens, which seemed to become louder as he got closer to the airport. George saw an intersection ahead, where traffic was at a standstill. Two cop cars with their flashers on sailed through the junction and turned onto the airport drive.