Unspeakable (33 page)

He frowned at the man. “I know someone's watching me. You are.”

Rick suddenly seemed nervous. “I wanted to keep the warning anonymous,” he said. “I don't know for sure who killed your friends. And I really don't want the police grilling me about how I know you're being followed. I'm simply watching out for your well-being, and will not have that be misconstrued. Don't you see what would happen to me if it came out I might know something? I can't get involved. I have a wife and family to worry about. I don't want my house burned down in the middle of the night, too.”

Collin looked at the note again and shook his head. “What are you getting at? Who's following me besides you?”

“I saw your cop friend, Ian, parked outside your school two weeks ago,” Rick said. “Classes were getting out, and you were outside with your two friends. He'd parked across the street and watched you from his car. I thought he might be back on surveillance duty, but I did a little research. Turns out he was on temporary leave from the force. They were deciding how to reprimand him for beating up a teenage suspect during an arrest. So—when you say he's accused me of stalking you, I can't help being amused.”

“Is that all?” Collin asked.

“There's someone else. I don't know if he's working with your cop friend or not—”

“Stop calling him my
cop friend
,” Collin interrupted. “Who is this other guy? What does he look like?”

“I've never seen his face. For all I know he could be your cop—” Rick stopped himself and smiled condescendingly. “He could be
Detective Haggerty
in disguise. He's very skilled in his elusiveness. Mostly, he stays in his car, a black Saturn. I don't think he's paparazzi or police. He started showing up last week. At least, that's when I first noticed him—on the ferry Wednesday. I wasn't sure if he was watching me or you. Since then, I've seen him outside your school, on Skog-Strand Lane and here on the ferry again. Just an hour ago, he was in front of that woman's office building, sitting in his car.” Rick gave Collin a sidelong glance. “Who is she, by the way? I looked at the directory in the lobby. Is she one of the psychologists in that building? If you're seeing a psychologist, Collin, I think it's a mistake, because—”

“That's private,” he said, cutting him off.

Rick raised his eyebrows, and then seemed to work up a contrite smile. “Of course it is.”

“Did you ever get a license number off the black Saturn?”

Rick sighed. “I tried to. I only caught the first three letters—WJO. Then, the next time I saw him, I tried to get a better look at the plate. It started out with the letters DJK. He's switching license plates. And for all I know, he's switching cars, too.” He leaned in close to Collin, and glanced over toward the rows of parked vehicles. “For all I know, he could be watching us right now. . . .”

He touched Collin's shoulder. “I'm probably putting myself at risk, standing here talking to you.” He stroked his upper arm.

Collin stepped back. “Well, then you better stay away from me,” he said. “And stay away from my grandparents' house. If you don't leave me alone, I'll call the police. I really will.”

He turned away, and threaded his way through the cars toward his Taurus.

“I'm trying to help you!” Rick called, his voice echoing. “Ask yourself what might have happened if I wasn't around looking out for you! You need me, Collin!”

Collin ducked inside his car and shut the door.

He hated to think that what Rick said might be true.

“I
tried phoning you at the hotel around five o'clock, but there was no answer.”

“I decided to go shopping at REI,” Clay said. “Why didn't you call me on my cell?”

“I tried,” Corinne lied. “But I kept getting some recording saying the party I was calling was unavailable. What did you buy at REI?”

“Nothing. So when do you think you might be back from this hen session? Should I order dinner for myself or what?”

“I'll be there in an hour,” Corinne said. “I need to make a stop on the way.”

She was sitting at the wheel of their Lexus, parked at the end of Alder Lane. She and Clay had both been lying to each other. The difference was Clay really believed she'd been with her girlfriends this afternoon. And she knew where he'd been, the son of a bitch.

At the reception desk at Gene Juarez, she'd canceled her salon appointment and borrowed a phone book. She'd looked up the address of Olivia's father, Walt Barker. She didn't have the GPS take her directly there. She'd made a side trip to Lowe's. With a little assistance, she'd found what she was looking for in the vast home improvement warehouse.

The recent purchases were now in a bag beside her on the passenger seat.

“One of the girls this afternoon was talking about having a chemical peel,” Corinne said into the phone.

“Really?” Clay didn't sound too interested.

“Yes. She was trying to talk me into getting one. Your ex, she doesn't have much going for her, but she does have very pretty skin. I'll grant her that much. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Jesus, Corinne, I don't want to get into anything with you right now.”

“I'm just saying, she has a smooth complexion. I won't bite your head off if you agree with me.”

She heard him sigh. “All right, I agree with you.”

“Did she ever have a chemical peel?”

“I don't think so,” he replied. “And listen. If you're thinking of getting a chemical peel, you don't need it.”

“You're probably right,” she said. “Listen, I should scoot. See you soon, honey.”

Clicking off the line, she reached over and fished the pair of thick work gloves and safety goggles from the bag. Then she took out the quart container of concentrated muriatic acid. The label had a long list of warnings. The acid-based corrosive usually came diluted in gallon jugs. It was for big jobs, like cleaning scum off swimming pools or dirt from bricks and cement.

Corinne just needed it for a small job tonight.

 

 

At the stove, she gave the spaghetti sauce a quick stir. Then Olivia hurried back to the laptop at the writing nook. She wore jeans, a white long-sleeved tee, thick gray socks, and no shoes. The kitchen smelled of Italian chicken sausage, garlic, and French bread baking.

She plopped down on the chair in front of the laptop screen—and page seven of the Google search results for Sheri Grinnell Morrow. None of the links seemed to be about Wade's sister.

Olivia heard a knock. It sounded like someone at the front door. Her dad was upstairs taking a shower.

She headed to the front of the house, and switched on the outside light. Smoothing the hair back from her face, she glanced through the peephole in the door. She didn't see anyone on the front stoop. She unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and peered outside.

No one was out there.

Olivia opened the door wider and glanced around. She didn't see anybody—or any movement, except for the tree branches and bushes rustling in the wind.

She felt a chill. Stepping back inside, she closed the door and locked it again.

Upstairs, the shower water turned off with a squeak. “Dinner's on in fifteen minutes, Pop!” she called, rubbing her arms.

“Okey-doke!” he replied from upstairs, his voice muffled.

Olivia headed back to the stove, where she tossed some pasta into the boiling water. Then she checked page eight of the search results on Wade's sister. She found something:

“Another fire,” Olivia murmured, clicking on the link to the story.

The short article was dated October 29, 1999. A divorcee, Sheri Albertson was the same age as Wade's sister. Sheri had been twenty in 1962, according to the note on the back of that snapshot of her and Wade in front of The Twin Teepees. Orin's notes had her married around 1965, which meant Troy could have been born just a year later. This had to be her:
Sheri Grinnell Morrow Albertson.

According to the article, she'd burned to death in her small one-bedroom apartment. It appeared the fire had started in the bedroom. A neighboring apartment had some minor smoke damage. In the final paragraph of the article, it said:
The cause of the fire is still under investigation.

“Of course it is,” Olivia muttered, frustrated.

She clicked back to the Google home page, and typed in:
Troy Morrow.

The first page of results focused on a champion fisherman. Olivia looked up his age—just to be sure he wasn't Sheri's son. He wasn't. She was moving on to page two when she heard a loud thump outside. Startled, she gaped out the big picture window at the back patio.

The wind must have knocked over one of the plastic recycling bins. Empty, it rolled around the leaf-littered patio. Getting up, Olivia headed to the back door and stepped outside. The concrete stoop was cold against her stocking feet. She padded toward the fallen bin, but she heard leaves rustling and stopped. She stared over toward the tall, shadowy bushes alongside the house.

“What's going on?”

Olivia swiveled around toward the door, where her father stood.

All at once, something behind the bushes scurried away. Olivia saw the shrubs moving, and she heard twigs snapping.

Her father switched on the patio lights. “I think we just scared away Rocky Raccoon.”

Olivia caught her breath, worked up a smile, and nodded. She tiptoed over to the bin. “I got this, Pop. Can you check on the pasta?” She picked up the plastic bin, and then the lid. “Don't we usually weigh these down when they're empty?” she called.

Her dad answered back from inside the kitchen. “Yeah, looks like we had a very determined critter tonight. The pasta's sticking to the wall!”

Olivia returned the bin to its spot alongside the house, between two other bins. She noticed two bricks strategically placed on either side of the lid handles of both receptacles. For some reason, the
very determined critter
had picked this middle bin to knock over. But the two bricks that had weighed it down were on the ground, side by side.

It was as if someone had carefully taken them off the container lid and set them down. No unthinking animal could have done that.

Olivia nervously glanced at the shrubbery and lush garden alongside the house. She didn't see anything. Whoever had been there had disappeared. She decided not to say anything to her father. He'd want to know why someone would throw a recycling bin across their patio, and she wouldn't have any explanation for him. She just knew something was wrong.

Her feet were cold again, and she hurried toward the kitchen door.

“Goddamn it,” Corinne hissed, out of breath. Inside her car once again, she set the plastic container of muriatic acid concentrate on the passenger floor. Tugging off the gloves, she tossed them on the passenger seat. Then she took off the safety goggles.

Sitting at the wheel, she waited to see if the police showed up. She didn't think Olivia or her father had spotted her, but she needed to make sure. She was so mad at herself for not dousing her at the front door when she'd had the chance. She'd had such a clear shot, too. But she'd lost her nerve. The second opportunity had been blown when the father had come to the back door.

Corinne glanced at her wristwatch. She'd decided to give it another ten minutes. If a police car didn't come down Alder Lane in that time, she'd give it another try. She was determined to get Olivia tonight—one way or another.

The garage door opened with a mechanical hum, and Collin carefully steered the Taurus into its spot. He shut off the engine, grabbed his backpack, and opened the car door.

“Hey, kiddo . . .”

He turned and glanced over at the door into the house. His grandfather was standing at the threshold. He wore a button-down yellow shirt and khakis. He looked a bit pale.

Collin slung his backpack over his shoulder and looped around in front of the other two cars—toward his grandfather. “Did the doctor come by?” he asked anxiously.

“He left about fifteen minutes ago,” Old Andy sighed. “He was barely here a half an hour, and I'm sure he'll charge me four hundred bucks for this little house call.”

“What did he say?”

His grandfather didn't move from the doorway. He patted Collin's shoulder and frowned. “He thinks it was a ministroke. He's scheduling me for some tests on Friday. It sounds like an all-day ordeal. If I don't die before that, the tests will probably kill me. In the meantime, he's putting me on some blood-thinner stuff. I'm supposed to take it easy, not get riled, and not play golf—for crying out loud.”

“I'm sorry about the golf part, Grandpa,” he murmured. “I know that's killing you.”

“Well, as for the
not-getting-riled
part, I don't know what you were thinking—lending your car to a friend. That was really careless. You know we're not insured for that. You're lucky I don't take the car away or suspend your driving privileges. I should be really upset with you, Collin, but I'm not supposed to get riled, so that's all I'm going to say.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

His grandfather sighed and leaned against the doorway frame. “I didn't want to mention anything in front of your grandmother, because I don't want her to think I'm worried. But for the rest of the week, I'd like you to come home right after school. If I need to write a note to get you out of these after-school projects, so be it. With everything that's happened lately—including this little scare today—I'll feel better with you around.”

Collin stared up at him. He was thinking about his appointment with Olivia tomorrow.

“Is that going to be a problem? This isn't a punishment, kiddo. I'm asking for your help. It's just for the rest of the week.”

Collin shook his head. “No, it's not a problem at all,” he lied.

His grandfather patted his shoulder again. “Good. Let's go. Dinner's ready.”

Following his grandfather inside, Collin noticed he'd lost a little spring in his step. He suddenly seemed slow and feeble. Collin's heart ached. He felt horrible. It was because of him that Old Andy was under so much extra stress lately. But he didn't say anything.

He didn't want his grandfather to know he was worried.

 

 

“Anyway, I can't make it tomorrow at five,” Collin said on the other end of the line.

With the cell phone to her ear, Olivia stood outside the front door. She'd put on some slippers and an old cardigan. She was having a Virginia Slims break, her second cigarette of the day. She could hear a football game on the TV in her father's study.

Since that weird incident with the recycle bin, she'd been a bit on edge. There hadn't been any more strange occurrences, thank God. Still, she warily eyed the bushes and trees in the front yard. The branches stirred in the night's gentle breeze, occasionally shedding a leaf.

“I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather,” Olivia said, puffing on her cigarette.

“I might be able to cut school tomorrow at lunchtime and then catch the ferry—”

“No, I won't have you ditching school to meet with me,” she said. “Besides, it's just as well you're canceling tomorrow. I still have some research to do before we meet again. Maybe I can take the ferry over on Wednesday and meet you at school around lunchtime. We'll figure something out. Why don't you call me tomorrow night?”

“What kind of research, stuff about Wade?”

“That's part of it. By the way, how's your wrist?”

“Kind of sore—bruised,” he said.

“Well, keep icing it, and get some sleep tonight. We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he said. “And thanks, Olivia. Thanks for everything.”

“Take care,” she said. Then she clicked off and took a long drag from her cigarette.

Olivia figured it was just as well she wasn't meeting Collin tomorrow. She still needed to figure out how to restrain him while he was under so he wouldn't hurt himself again. She also needed the extra time to track down Troy Morrow and see if he could tell her something about his uncle. Or had Sheri kept Wade a secret from her son?

After washing the dinner dishes, she'd gone back to her online search for Troy Morrow. A call to the only
Morrow, Troy
in the Seattle phone directory had been a bust. She'd gotten an old man who had yelled at her for waking him up “in the middle of the night
.
” She'd made the call at eight-fifteen, for God's sakes.

The online White Pages had shown two more Troy Morrows in Washington state. She'd tried the first Troy on the list—a number in Spokane—and talked to a college student at Gonzaga, who had kept calling her “dude.”

Olivia finished her cigarette, stepped on the butt, then carefully peeled it off the front stoop and took it inside. She wet the butt under the kitchen faucet and tossed it in the garbage. Sitting at her mother's desk, she grabbed her cell and tried the second and last
Troy Morrow
listed in the White Pages for Washington State. This one was in Centralia. If this wasn't him she'd try the Oregon White Pages.

It rang twice before a woman answered, sounding lethargic. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Olivia said. “Is Troy there, please?”

“Who's this?”

“My name's Olivia. I'm trying to track down a Troy Morrow whose mother's name was Sheri. This Troy Morrow would be around forty-five or forty-six years old.”

“Troy's not here. What do you want with him?”

“Well, I—I'm an old friend of his mother's—”

“Troy's mother is dead,” the woman grumbled.

“Yes, I know. She died in a fire several years ago. Do I have the right Troy Morrow?”

“No.”

There was a click.

“Hello?” Olivia said, hunched over the desk. “Are you there?”

The woman had hung up on her.

With a sigh, Olivia clicked off the phone.

“The Seahawks are getting creamed,” her father announced, shuffling into the kitchen. He had his slippers on—along with a pair of ill-fitting jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He was carrying an empty glass, a crumpled napkin, and a bag of Chips Ahoy. “It's hopeless. I'm hitting the sheets.”

She leaned back in her mother's chair and watched him put the cookies away. “G'night, Pop,” she said, working up a smile.

He glanced toward her as he refilled his glass at the water dispenser in the refrigerator door. “Are you still researching stuff for that reincarnated, secret client of yours?”

Olivia nodded wearily. “Though I'm pretty sure he's not reincarnated.”

He moved over to the butcher-block counter with his glass of water. “I'd rather you were on that computer checking out one of those dating sites. You ought to be cooking spaghetti dinner for a boyfriend, not your dad.”

“The divorce isn't even final yet,” she said. “I'm just not ready to start dating anybody. Why do you ask? Tell me the truth, Pop. Am I in your way here? Am I cramping your style?”

“Lord, no,” he said. He stepped up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I love having you here. You can stay as long as your heart desires. I only want you to be happy.”

“Well, would you settle for
not miserable
?” she asked.

“Nope, and you shouldn't either.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Don't stay up too late, honey.”

“G'night, Pop.”

With his water glass in hand, her father headed out of the kitchen. A moment later, Olivia heard his footsteps on the stairs.

She told herself she was doing all right—at least, a hell of a lot better than she had been two months ago. Though lonely, she was finally getting over Clay. She certainly didn't want him back. And now she was trying to help someone. She had a sense of purpose.

Taking a cigarette and some matches, she got up and wandered to the front of the house. She stepped out the door, left it open a crack, and then lit up another Virginia Slim. From the front stoop, Olivia cautiously surveyed the grounds. She couldn't help remembering some of those grisly photos she'd seen in Orin Carney's basement. For a moment, she imagined someone pointing a gun to her father's head and making him tie her up on her bed. Would he cooperate—as Wade Grinnell's victims had? Would she?

In those situations, she always used to think she'd be brave and resourceful. She couldn't see herself kowtowing to some gunman and going down without a real fight. But when it had happened to her with Layne, she'd just stood there, paralyzed.

Her father had a gun hidden in his bedroom closet. If someone broke in, could he get to it in time?

Olivia thought of the Rockabye murder victims again. She made a mental note to bring a piece of rope next time she met with Collin. She'd ask Wade to tie a sailor knot, and then see if Collin knew how to tie one. She'd already confirmed today that Collin's situation wasn't anything supernatural. He wasn't possessed. The real Wade Grinnell wasn't dwelling inside him. At best, Collin was acting out or channeling his impression of the dead serial killer—though only God knew why. Collin had the voice down, but his facts were slightly muddled. Whether he remembered it or not, somewhere along the line, he'd heard about Wade Grinnell, and he knew his voice. Collin Cox was a good actor. He was able to mimic the way Wade spoke, the intonations, everything.

Olivia figured if the
Wade
part of him was able to tie a sailor knot and Collin couldn't—then she might have to rethink her theory. But she had a feeling neither Collin nor his other personality would know how to make the knot Wade Grinnell had tied around his victims' wrists fifty years ago.

Past the wind stirring the tree branches and bushes, she heard her cell phone ringing. Olivia dropped her cigarette, stepped on it, and hurried back inside the house. In the kitchen, she snatched up the phone before it went to voice mail. She didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. “Hello?” she said, a bit out of breath.

“Yeah, hi, um, is Olivia there?”

“Speaking.”

“My name's Troy Morrow. I think you tried to call me earlier. . . .”

“Yes, I did,” she said, sitting down in the desk chair and grabbing a pen. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Dawn said you're a friend of my mother's?”

“Ah, well, if your mom was Sheri Grinnell, then she was friends with my mom back in the sixties.”

“Well, Grinnell was her maiden name, yeah. But if you're trying to get ahold of her, she's been dead for several years.”

“I know,” Olivia said. “I heard about the fire. I'm sorry. Do you—do you happen to have some time tomorrow afternoon? I'd really like to talk with you.”

“What about?”

Olivia was stumped for a moment. She couldn't come out and ask about his serial killer uncle—or about what had started the fire that had killed his mother.

“You still there?” he asked.

“Yes. My mom died recently, and she wanted me to make sure I tracked you down and paid you back some money your mom loaned her decades ago.”

“Yeah?” he said, sounding interested. “How much?”

“Well, it was originally a hundred and fifty dollars, but my mom wanted to make sure you got three hundred.”

“Huh, I didn't think my mom had a hundred and fifty bucks she could spare back in the early sixties.”

“I believe she scraped it together as a favor to my mother, who was—ah—in trouble, if you get my drift. Anyway, I have a check for three hundred dollars I'd like to give you.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said. “Listen, could you give it to me in cash?”

 

 

With her hair swept back in a ponytail, Olivia brushed her teeth over the bathroom sink. She wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt with Chris Isaak on the front. It was almost midnight.

Troy Morrow had given her directions to his farm near Centralia. She'd said she would come by around noon tomorrow. She hoped this wouldn't be a total waste of three hundred bucks—and her time. She also hoped her dear, Catholic mother wasn't rolling over in her grave after that lie about her getting into “trouble” back in the early sixties.

Olivia had spent the last two hours following her father's suggestion and browsing an online dating site, Meet-a-Mate.net. She'd gone through two glasses of merlot and come up with absolutely no prospects. Nearly every guy around her age whom she'd found attractive was seeking a girl in the twenty-one-to-twenty-six age bracket. Even if a man had seemed pretty decent, all Olivia saw were red flags.

She still had a lot of Clay damage. It would be a while before she could trust a guy again. Hell, she'd probably be here cooking spaghetti dinners and Rice-A-Roni for her father until she was fifty.

Olivia put her toothbrush away. She was reaching for the Neutrogena bar to wash her face when she heard footsteps in the hallway. She shut off the water.