Unspeakable (13 page)

With a hand over her mouth, Olivia stood paralyzed in front of the auto body repair shop. She couldn't believe that just a moment ago, Mrs. Tipton had been screaming at her.

Now she stared at the dead, mangled body pressed against the LeSabre's cracked windshield. Streaks of blood covered the silver car's hood.

“I'm not going to let you forget,”
Mrs. Tipton had told her in that first phone call.

Now Olivia knew she never would.

 

 

“I guess I'm here because I'm in a pretty screwed-up relationship,” she said, perched on the love seat in Olivia's office. “I'll bet you get that a lot.”

Sitting in the chair across from her, Olivia worked up a smile. “Often enough,” she said. “But each story is different.”

Corinne Beal was a pretty twenty-six-year-old with big green eyes and long, straight blond hair. She worked at a cosmetics counter and had the classic features that went with the job. At the same time, she also had sort of an elongated horse face. Still, with her fashion model's body, she looked stylish in her rust sweater and black Capri pants. She was a new patient who had specifically asked for Olivia.

It had been five days since Olivia had seen Layne's mother die right in front of her. She kept replaying it in her head, and each time, she flinched when she remembered how that old Buick had slammed into Mrs. Tipton, silencing her angry tirade.

She'd missed work that Wednesday, of course, and stayed home the following day. But Clay had insisted she try for at least a half-day at work on Friday. He'd said her best therapy was helping other people, and the sooner she got back into her work routine, the better. She'd understood it was more tough love from Clay, but he'd been right. She'd gotten through that Friday—and the weekend—okay. She'd even bought some more clothes. With Clay's help, she'd moved the refrigerator and finally cleaned up the last stinky remnants of dried milk on the floor. The smell had been a constant reminder of Mrs. Tipton.

Olivia focused on her job. Right now, that meant Corinne Beal and her screwed-up relationship.

“Well, I'm pregnant,” her new patient announced. She let out a long sigh. “And the father—my lover—he's married.”

“Does he know you're pregnant?” Olivia asked.

Corinne nodded silently.

“Do you intend to have the baby?”

“Yes. And he wants this child as much as I do. He's told me so.”

Olivia tried not to frown. Part of her job was not to show judgment of any kind. “What about the wife? Does she have any idea what's going on?”

Corinne let out a sad little laugh and shrugged. “She's clueless. Sometimes I think he's never going to tell her, and he's just stringing me along. Yet I know in my heart and in my head, he loves me. He just doesn't have the guts to leave her right now.”

Olivia scribbled in her notebook. “Let's backtrack for a moment,” she said. “Did you know he was married when you first started seeing him?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but he was miserable. He told me that he hasn't been happy with her for a long time. I'm not the type of person who would set out to break up a happy home.”

“I understand,” Olivia said. Again, she was trying to sound nonjudgmental. “Just to get an idea of everyone involved here, do he and his wife have any children?”

“No children.” Smiling proudly, Corinne rubbed her stomach. “This is his first. I think the wife is barren or something.”

“Has he told you that he plans to leave his wife?”

“Yes. I know he's working out a strategy, and that takes time. But I'm getting impatient. Plus my hormones are all out of whack. I've really had some crazy days. The morning sickness isn't so bad, but oh, the mood swings! Is that normal?”

“I think every pregnancy is different,” Olivia said.

“I've done some things I'm not too proud of. But I figure, you can't really blame me when my body's going through all these changes.”

“What kind of things have you done?” Olivia asked, jotting in her notebook.

“My lover's wife was in a—an accident a few weeks ago and spent a few nights in the hospital,” Corinne explained. “And while she was there, I stayed in their house and slept with him in their bed. . . .”

Olivia looked up from her notes. “How did that make you feel?”

Corinne gave a flicker of a smile. “It made me feel like I belonged there instead of her.”

Olivia's eyes wrestled with hers. “While you were staying in their house, and his wife was in the hospital, did you—did you have a copy of the house key made?”

Corinne nodded.

Olivia suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “And did you memorize the security code?”

Corinne nodded again.

“And I suppose you've followed his wife around,” Olivia said in a shaky voice. “So—you know where she works, and—and where she parks her car. . . .”

“I even drove it a few times while you were in the hospital,” Corinne said, her head cocked to one side. “Believe it or not, I'm really sorry for all the damage. In fact, I'm kind of embarrassed it even happened. But like I say, I can't really be held accountable when my hormones are all screwed up. . . .”

She didn't look the least bit sorry.

“Does—does Clay know what you did?”

Corinne licked her lips and nodded. “The thing is, Clay doesn't love you anymore,” she said. “He's in love with me. He said he's going to pay you back for all the clothes I ruined. When he gets around to it—and he will soon—Clay's going to ask you not to press charges. And he's going to ask you for a divorce.”

Dumbstruck, Olivia stared at her. If she'd felt violated before when she'd discovered someone had invaded and trashed her home, it was nothing compared to this. She thought of Clay telling her the police thought she was crazy. She remembered Mrs. Tipton, screaming at her that she hadn't touched anything of hers. And once again, Olivia could see that big car barreling into Layne's mother.

She felt so sick, she started trembling. “You need to leave,” she said quietly. “You need to leave right now. . . .”

Corinne got to her feet. “Listen, I didn't come here to gloat. I happen to be—”

“GET OUT!” Olivia screamed.

Gaping at her, Corinne froze.

“GODDAMN IT, GET OUT OF HERE!”

Corinne let out a scared little cry. She ran to the door, flung it open, and ran out to the hallway.

Olivia listened to her footsteps retreating down the corridor.

For a moment, she felt better—but only for a moment.

“H
ey, how about if I hypnotize one of you guys?” Gail asked. She stood in front of the big-screen TV, which she'd finally turned off. “I know how to do it. My aunt taught me. I'll hypnotize one of you and we'll record the session. It'll be a kick. What do you say?”

“I say it sounds kind of lame,” Collin sighed.

He tried to act like he wasn't interested. But in truth, he was scared of what might happen—and not about the stupid stuff Gail might make him do, like kissing her, or taking off his pants or something. He was worried he might tell the truth about who he was.

He and his friend, Fernando, sat on the mauve sectional sofa in the Pelhams' basement recreation room. An empty pizza box and some cans of soda sat on the coffee table in front of them. Gail Pelham was into performing arts, and Collin figured she'd chosen the theater posters on the basement walls:
Wicked, Phantom of the Opera
, and
Mamma Mia
. She'd just forced him and Fernando to watch
Bye Bye Birdie
on TV. It wasn't bad, and Ann-Margret was sexy. But he and Fernando could have done without Gail singing along with every musical number.

Gail Pelham and Fernando Ryan were Collin's only friends at North Kitsap High. They knew him as
Collin Stampler
, who had moved from Seattle after his mother had died in a car accident. Collin figured he'd tell them the truth eventually. He just wasn't ready for everyone in school to know yet. He didn't want people treating him like a freak. For now, he just wanted to blend in.

Tonight everyone who was
anyone
in their class had been invited to Rachel Porter's beach party. It was supposed to have a bonfire, a band—and, since Rachel's folks were out of town, a lot of beer. It was also invitation only. Collin, Gail, and Fernando weren't invited.

So Gail had insisted the three of them hang out tonight. “We'll celebrate our lack of coolness together,” she'd told Collin. It was Gail's way of saying,
The hell with them
.

Despite some lingering baby fat, for which the other girls teased her, Gail was pretty with a bright, dimpled smile and curly red hair. Apparently, her hair had been “shit-brown” the year before—so said the tweets by some of the popular mean girls. Though she could be annoying at times, Collin had a little crush on Gail, maybe because she was the only girl in school paying attention to him. She'd been desperately upbeat most of the evening. Before announcing she wanted to hypnotize somebody, she'd replayed and sung along with the
Ed Sullivan
number from
Bye Bye Birdie—
twice.

“C'mon, don't be a spoilsport,” she said, standing between them and the TV. “I know hypnosis, and I swear, I won't make you do anything you'll be embarrassed about later.”

“Well, then what fun is that?” Fernando asked.

Half-Mexican and half-Irish, Fernando looked like he was about fourteen. He was also a dead ringer for Sal Mineo in
Rebel without a Cause
. Though born on the Kitsap Peninsula, he'd still picked up a trace of accent from his Mexican mother.

He patted Collin on the shoulder. “Oh, what the hell, we might as well let her hypnotize us—or she'll play that stupid
Ed Sullivan
number again.” He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out his iPhone. “You go first. I'll record it for posterior. . . .”

“
Posterity
,” Gail said. She didn't get it when Fernando was kidding. “Okay, Collin . . .”

He shook his head. “I'm not a good subject. Someone once tried to hypnotize me for one of those after-dinner shows, and it didn't work at all.” He was lying. He just didn't want to be hypnotized. He couldn't afford to let down his guard. What if he opened up about his mother's murder—and started bawling?

“C'mon,” Gail pleaded. “Let me at least give it a try. . . .”

“He's afraid you'll make him show us his wiener,” Fernando said.

Gail clicked her tongue against her teeth. “My aunt told me that you can't make a subject do anything under hypnosis they wouldn't normally do while conscious. So there's nothing to be afraid of. C'mon, Collin, don't be a party pooper.”

He grabbed the iPhone from Fernando. “Okay, but
you
go first, and I'll record it.”

“Fine,” Fernando declared, sitting back and folding his arms. “I'm ready. Bring it!”

Collin was hoping Fernando would resist, and then they could drop the whole thing. But now they were going through with it. He felt a nervous twinge in the pit of his stomach.

Gail made him move over to the ottoman, so he'd have a better angle for recording the session. She took his spot on the sectional and leaned in close to Fernando. Collin thought she might go fetch a charm or a pocket watch on a chain—something to dangle in front of Fernando's eyes. But Gail just used her hand, slowly moving it toward his face and then back again, over and over. “Okay, Fernando, I want you to focus on me. Now, think about a place where you like to relax and be at peace. . . .”

With the iPhone, Collin started to record the session. He was surprised at how cooperative Fernando was as a subject. He didn't resist or make any sarcastic comments. He took it all in.

That was because—unlike him, obviously—Fernando wasn't afraid.

A lot of things scared Collin lately. Ever since the detectives had stopped guarding his grandparents' house, he'd had a tough time falling asleep at night. He couldn't help feeling something awful would happen. The house was so big. Someone could break in, and he'd never hear them. Plus there were so many places for an intruder to hide. It was so isolated there, too. No one else lived close enough to hear if he screamed for help. Collin didn't tell anyone, but he slept with one of his grandfather's old golf clubs under his bed. As much as he'd loathed most of them, he missed having the police guards outside.

About a week after they'd left, Collin had received an email from Ian Haggerty:

Collin hadn't expected him to respond or visit the Peninsula again, and he didn't.

Though the police were gone, someone else was still watching the house from time to time. That man on the boat kept coming back to that same spot just beyond the sandbar off the beach behind his grandparents' house. Collin never saw the boat in the daytime, only late in the evening. He told his grandfather about it, and Old Andy didn't seem too concerned: “Oh, during the summers, they'll have a patrol boat out there occasionally. They watch the beaches at night. That's probably what you're seeing.”

Collin wasn't so sure about that. If he'd truly believed his grandfather, then on those nights when he was so lonely and scared, he might have taken some comfort seeing the boat out there. Instead, it just made him more edgy, and he'd pull down his bedroom shade.

He was tense all the time lately.

And right now, he didn't feel like opening himself up to hypnotic suggestion—not even in front of his only two friends.

But Fernando had no such qualms. With the iPhone in his hand, Collin watched him. His friend sat with his eyes closed, answering Gail's questions. Yes, he could hear her. Yes, he was comfortable. Yes, he knew where he was. He was in his safe place.

“That's very good,” Gail said. “Now, I'd like you to open your eyes so you don't trip or anything. I want you to get up and pretend you're Ann-Margret in the movie we just watched. I want you to sing the
Bye Bye Birdie
song.”

With a slightly dazed expression, he opened his eyes. “Ann-Margret,” he murmured. Then he slowly got to his feet.

Collin kept the iPhone trained on Fernando as he shuffled toward the TV.

Fernando turned toward them with that same blank look. “Are . . . you . . .” He hesitated. “Are you . . . sure you wouldn't rather see my wiener?”

Gail shrieked, and Collin burst out laughing.

“You totally had me fooled!” Collin admitted, switching off the iPhone camera.

“You guys are such suckers.” Fernando smirked.

“I hate you!” Gail said, grinning at him. “I'm not even talking to you!” She turned to Collin. “Okay, it's your turn, and I want you to take it seriously.”

Collin shook his head. “There's no way I can top that.”

“Oh, better let her try her voodoo on you, or she'll sulk all night.” Fernando reached for his iPhone. “Here, gimme. I'll record it. You get in the hot seat. . . .”

Collin told himself to just pretend, the way Fernando had. With a sigh, he moved back over to the sectional. Gail said Fernando had killed the “receptive mood,” and so now the three of them had to take a few minutes to calm down again. “Laugh if you need to get it out of your system,” she said. “And then we're going to be quiet, and concentrate on our breathing. . . .”

“Oh, yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Fernando replied. “I almost forgot to breathe.”

She shushed him. They were silent for a minute. She told Collin to focus on her hand as she slowly moved it toward his face, then back again. “Think of a place where you feel safe and everything is peaceful. No one can bother you there. . . .”

Collin thought of the little shed in the woods by Shilshole Bay. If he was actually going along with this nonsense, he would imagine himself there. He listened to Gail's supposedly soothing voice and figured he'd string her along for a while. But he wasn't going to do any musical numbers from
Bye Bye Birdie
.

“Are you in your safe place?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and nodded. He remembered when he was a kid, playing in that shack in the woods. For a while, when he was five or six, he had an imaginary friend named Dave. He'd pretend he and Dave were cowboy-outlaws, and the shed was their hideout.
Dastardly Dave & the Shilshole Kid
. That little shack was where it had started—before he'd turned the idea into his own comic strip adventure series.

His mother had been worried about him for a while. “You know that Dave isn't real, don't you?” she'd asked.

“Yeah, I made him up,” he'd told her, matter-of-factly.

Eventually she'd gone along with it.
“Why don't you and Dave go outside and play while I visit with my friend?”
she'd tell him. Or:
“I need to go out for a while. Dave will keep you company. Go to bed when the little hand is on the nine. . . .”

Whenever he was afraid, he used to tell himself that Dave was there—and Dave wasn't a scaredy cat.
Brave Dave
wasn't afraid of the dark, and he wasn't afraid to walk down that side of the street where the neighbor's dog barked at him. He knew Dave was make-believe, but it still helped to have him around sometimes.

“Collin?”
It was Gail's voice.

He heard someone snap their fingers. “Okay, c'mon now, Collin, cut it out. . . .”

Opening his eyes, he gaped at her and blinked. “What?”

“Bullshit artist!” Fernando declared, chuckling.

“Very funny,” said Gail, shaking her head. “I have to admit, that was kind of creepy. I almost believed you.”

Collin glanced at both of them. “What are you talking about? Aren't you going to hypnotize me?”

“Oh, give me a break,” Fernando moaned. “It was a pretty good act. You almost had me, too. But when you started talking about seeing Elvis, that's when you pushed it too far.”

“And where did you get that voice?” Gail asked, her eyes narrowed at him. “That didn't sound like you at all.”

Baffled, Collin shook his head. “You guys, I swear to God, I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't go into a trance, did I? I couldn't have. I closed my eyes for—like, three seconds. . . .”

“Yeah, about ten minutes ago,” Fernando said. “Listen to him. Give it up.” He started working his thumb over the pad of his iPhone. “Tell you what, I'll email your performance to you. Personally, I thought mine was better.”

Collin stood up. He rubbed his forehead. “I don't understand. Did something really happen? How could it?”

“Collin, we know you're faking.” Gail sighed impatiently. “Only in rare cases do hypnotized subjects not remember what happened while they were under. So quit pretending—”

“You guys, I'm not pretending!” He reached for Fernando's iPhone. “Let's see that.”

Fernando shoved the phone in his pocket. “Please, don't make me sit through that act again. It was funny the first time. But let's not run it into the ground. I'd rather watch that
Ed Sullivan
number again. I sent you the video. You can look at yourself later.” He stood up and stretched. “In fact, you can look at yourself sooner than later, dude. I'm tired. I think we should wrap it up here. . . .”