Authors: Kevin O'Brien
As traffic started up again, George made a left through the intersection, and then took a right to the airport on Aviation Loop. He had a bad feeling in his gut. He could see the two patrol cars, parked in front of the terminal’s main entrance, their flashers still swirling.
He wondered if Tyler had caved and told the sheriff where he was headed.
George pulled into the lot and parked. Overhead, a plane was landing. George’s ears got a blast of the engine’s roar as he climbed out of the car. The night air had a chill to it. He clutched the lapels of his sports jacket up under his chin, and spied the two police vehicles in the distance.
A maroon minivan with
RESIDENCE INN
written on the side door had pulled up behind the squad cars. The driver, wearing a blazer the same color as the minivan, had gotten out of the car to talk to one of the cops. After a few moments, he stepped away from the cop car, waved, then ducked back into his minivan. He drove through the parking lot toward the main road.
George waved him down. “Are you with the Residence Inn?” he called. It was a stupid question, but still, the guy stopped.
The driver rolled down his window. He was in his early twenties with wavy black hair and a touch of acne. He nodded at George. “Yes, sir, are you headed there?”
“No, I’m meeting someone who needs a room for the night,” George lied. “Do you know if they have any vacancies?”
The driver reached into his maroon blazer and pulled out a card for the Residence Inn. “Call that number, and they’ll take care of you.”
“Much obliged,” George said. Then he nodded toward the police cars. “What’s the hubbub about, do you know?”
The young man nodded. “They got a tip from some guy about a bunch of dead bodies buried at a farm outside of town.”
“A bunch of dead bodies?” George repeated.
He nodded. “Yeah, they’ve dug up three so far, and they think there are a lot more.” With his thumb, he pointed to the patrol cars. “One of those cops is a buddy of mine. He said this is going to be big. So, better book your pal’s room with us pretty quick. Once all the news people get here—and that’ll be soon—all the hotels will fill up.”
“Thanks, I’ll get on that.” George nodded toward the cop cars again. “So what are they doing here? Are they the welcoming committee for the news people?”
The driver shook his head. “No, they’re looking for the dude who tipped off the county police about the stiffs, some Seattle guy. They want to hold him for questioning. They think he’s trying to blow town.”
“Imagine that,” George murmured. He tucked the Residence Inn business card in his pocket. “Well, thanks for the help. Have a nice night.”
The minivan drove off, and George ducked back into his car. He thought he was going to be sick. What the hell was he going to do now? He had to get home to his kids. He didn’t even want to think about how scared Jody and Steffie probably were right now, and what was being done to them.
He couldn’t afford to stick around the airport any longer. No doubt, those cops had a description of his car, maybe even the license plate number.
George backed out of the parking space. He watched the two squad cars in his rearview mirror as he merged onto the airport drive. They didn’t move, thank God.
He started driving, not even sure where he was headed. He just needed to get away from this airport and the police. It would take him an hour to make it to Portland by freeway. But he’d probably be detained at the Portland airport if he tried to book a flight or a charter. He couldn’t
drive
all the way back to Seattle. That would take at least four hours, and he ran the risk of some cop spotting his car. They’d be looking for him all along I-5.
“Do you even know where the hell you’re going?” he cried out loud. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the wheel.
He took a few deep, calming breaths. George caught a glimpse of the street name as he went through an intersection: Waverly Drive. He realized he was close to Willamette University. The traffic became heavier as he headed into a commercial area full of bars, restaurants, and coffee shops.
George saw a sign:
ATOMIC CYBER CAFÉ
. He also noticed a parking space, and immediately pulled into it.
The Internet café was dimly lit and about half full of college kids slouched in front of the computer screens. “Can I get Internet access here?” George asked the barista behind the counter.
The young man had a small square of beard hair under his lower lip, and glasses. He wore a red apron. “You bet,” he nodded. “The first half hour is free with a beverage. All I need is a driver’s license for a deposit.”
“Thanks.” George slapped a five-dollar bill and his license on the counter. “Just a regular coffee, please, or whatever you’ve got that’s quick.”
A few moments later, George tried not to spill his coffee as he hurried over toward the free terminals. There were a few by a nicely dressed, uptight-looking man in his fifties, who gave George a narrow glance. Sitting down near him, George realized the guy was looking at porn. George ignored him. He switched on the terminal, and connected to the Internet. He brought up Google, and then typed in Salem, Oregon, Charter Helicopter.
He got two results: both businesses in Jefferson, Oregon. He pulled out his cell and called the first place, Coupland Aeronautic, Inc. He wasn’t sure if anyone would be answering at 7:20 on a Monday night. His chances of actually chartering a helicopter at the last minute like this were probably nil.
A woman picked up: “Coupland, this is Kate.”
“Hi. I’m in Salem, and I need to get to Seattle as soon as possible. Could I charter a helicopter for tonight?” he asked.
“You’re in Salem, that’s about a half hour away,” the woman said. George could hear her fingers clicking on a keyboard. “If you can get here by eight o’clock, we’ll have you in Seattle at eight-fifty tonight. Does that sound good to you?”
“That sounds great to me,” George replied.
“Hello, Naomi, this is Karen Carlisle calling again….”
Karen sat in her rental, parked across from the Wenatchee library. Though she got clearer phone reception outside, Karen had ducked inside the car to avoid the cold. It had also started drizzling. From the driver’s seat, she had an ideal view of everyone coming and going at the library. She was still waiting for Amelia. It had been well over two hours since they’d last talked, and still no answer on her cell.
Naomi Rankin wasn’t picking up either. This was Karen’s third message in ninety minutes for Clay Spalding’s friend. She now understood how telemarketers felt pestering a total stranger. In the last two messages Karen had tried to sound friendly and professional. She hadn’t mentioned Clay or the Schlessingers. She’d just left her name and phone number, and said it was extremely urgent that Naomi call her back.
Though she didn’t want to say too much on the answering machine, Karen decided to start explaining herself for message number three. “I’m sorry to keep calling,” she said. “But I’m a friend of Amelia Schlessinger’s. I’m hoping that name is familiar to you. I understand, years ago, you and Amelia had a mutual friend. If I could talk with you for just a few minutes, I—”
There was an abrupt click on the line. “Listen, if you call here one more time, I’ll get the cops on your ass.”
“Naomi?” Karen asked meekly.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” the woman growled. “Shit, I thought I’d heard the last from you assholes fifteen years ago. Get a life, okay?”
“Please, don’t hang up,” Karen said. “I’m not calling to harass you—”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you aren’t,” she muttered. “I’ve heard it all. There’s nothing new you can tell me. So piss off.”
“Naomi, wait! You want to hear something
new
?” Karen had a hunch this would get her to listen. “Right now, the police are digging up corpses at the old Schlessinger ranch outside Salem. Young women started disappearing in the Salem area back in 1993, when Lon Schlessinger moved there from Moses Lake. Isn’t that about the same time women
stopped
disappearing around Moses Lake?”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“Naomi?”
“Who are you?” she murmured.
“I’m a friend of Amelia’s, and she doesn’t recall much about her childhood in Moses Lake. But she does remember a Native American man—a neighbor who was very kind to her. You and Amelia seem to be the only ones from around there who don’t think Clay was a monster.”
“So, I’m not totally alone. Amelia, of all people….”
“I read about what happened. Naomi. And from the way you reacted to my call, I get the impression people must have harassed you for defending Clay in the newspapers.”
“And on local TV, too,” Naomi said. “For a while there, I averaged about eight threatening calls a night. I also got my share of hateful stares at work and around town. If you really want people to hate you, just speak up for someone who’s been labeled a serial killer and a child molester. For years, I still received those creepy calls, even after I changed my number. I didn’t let them list me in the phone book until about three years ago.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t sure who you were when you left those first two messages. I thought it was some sort of scam or a telemarketer. But then you mentioned the name Schlessinger, and I just got sick to my stomach. It was a real blast from the past.” She paused. “So, they found bodies on the Schlessingers’ property.”
“That’s right,” Karen said. “Lon’s been dead for three years. His ranch house burned down with him in it.”
“You know, I always knew Clay was framed for that woman’s disappearance,” Naomi said. “Now it all starts to make sense. Lon killed those women. You’ve read the newspaper account of it, so you know the story. He was in Clay’s house earlier that day, hours before he shot Clay. He could have planted that waitress’s wallet and necklace while he was there looking for his runaway kid. God, all this time I thought the cops had planted that stuff. I knew for a fact Clay couldn’t have abducted that waitress. He and I were together the night Kristen Marquart went missing.”
“Did you tell that to the police?”
“Of course. I practically screamed it from the rooftops. But no one believed me. I was in love with Clay for several months. So no one really took me seriously and, after a while, I just made them angry. A lot of people in that neighborhood already had a negative opinion of Clay, anyway. He didn’t quite fit in on Gardenia Drive.”
“Because he wasn’t white?” Karen asked.
“Oh, I guess that might have had a little something to do with it,” she admitted. “But Clay carried around a chip on his shoulder after inheriting that house. He felt everyone still regarded him as Izzy’s yardman. I think he did things to piss people off. He stopped mowing the lawn, and let the place go just to prove he wasn’t a yardman any more.”
“I heard from his neighbor that he used to display some of his art on the front lawn, too,” Karen said.
“Who did you talk to?” Naomi asked. “The old lady?”
“Miriam Getz.”
“Yeah, she had it out for him. She and two of Lon’s cop friends were the main
witnesses
who said Clay was trying to molest Amelia that day.”
“Well, I don’t think she was lying to me, Naomi,” Karen said delicately. “Outside of the art displays and letting his lawn ‘going to pot,’ as she put it, Miriam didn’t seem to have any problem with Clay as a neighbor. But her mind changed when she saw what happened that day.”
“She might not have been
lying
about what she saw,” Naomi pointed out. “But she sure jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“Well, she saw a little girl in her underwear, crawling out of Clay’s window, screaming for help,” Karen said. “I’ve tried to figure out how
not
to jump to the same conclusion Miriam did. I’m thinking along the same lines as you, Naomi. Lon Schlessinger was pure evil. He must have set Clay up. I think you’re right about him planting the wallet and the locket. But this incident with Amelia…”
“Lon used to beat her and her twin,” Naomi said. “Did you know that?”
“No, but I’m not very surprised.”
“He hated Clay from the word go. I don’t know if it was because Clay was Native American, or because of his long hair, or the artwork on the front lawn. But Lon despised Clay. Maybe that’s why the little girls turned to Clay when their dad started abusing them. They knew they had an ally with Clay. God knows, they couldn’t go to their mother. She was totally clueless. Amelia ran away to Clay’s house several times, more than her twin. I remember Clay saying Lon had Annabelle on a tighter leash, and she was afraid of him. She was a lot more obedient and likely to give in to her father’s demands. Clay used to teach art to the kids on the reservation, and he knew about children. He said Amelia was a little rebel. That’s why she and Clay got along so well. They both had that defiant streak.”
“And as the more rebellious of the twins, Amelia probably got more severe and frequent beatings,” Karen said.
“Right,” Naomi said. “I saw some of the bruises on that little girl. It was revolting.”
“Why didn’t you report it to the police?”
“Clay tried. One time, when Amelia was over there, he touched her back and noticed her cringing. He asked her if anything was wrong, and she said, ‘I think I was a bad girl again.’ Then she showed him her back, and it was all black and blue and purple. Clay could hardly keep from going over to the Schlessingers’ and kicking the shit out of that son of a bitch. I talked to him on the phone, and got him to calm down. I told him to take a few Polaroids of the bruises and then we could go to the police. Well, he did that, only he reported it to some cop who was a fishing buddy of Lon’s. Clay didn’t know. This cop didn’t do a damn thing except ask Clay how he’d gotten the little girl to take off her blouse. They twisted it around. After Clay was shot, these stories circulated that he had photos of the little Schlessinger girl naked. But those were pictures of her bruised back, which he’d tried to give to the cops.”