Unspeakable (35 page)

Olivia scowled at him. “Okay, what exactly are you getting at?”

“About twelve hours before their house burned down, the Pelhams were burglarized—”

“Yes, I know. . . .”

“They stole Gail's computer. They didn't touch Jerry's laptop or Chris's Xbox. But they stole Gail's computer and rifled through her journal. They were after whatever Gail might have recorded or emailed—to see how much she might know. So—let me ask you again. Do you still think your
husband's girlfriend
stole your hard drive?”

Olivia couldn't answer him. She wasn't sure anymore. “What about Fernando?” she asked. “Was his computer stolen, too?”

“The Ryans have one ancient computer for six kids. Fernando used the computers at school and the library whenever he had a paper due. For everything else, he used his iPhone. He had it with him when he disappeared last week. Since then, the Kitsap Police have recovered Fernando's books, his backpack, and his clothes. They even found part of his lunch that didn't get eaten by four-legged scavengers. But they never found Fernando's phone.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Olivia said. “On the ferry Saturday afternoon, you told me that you weren't at the memorial on any kind of police business.”

“That's right. This is my own independent investigation. Mrs. Ryan was nice enough to answer some questions. And I made a friend or two on the Kitsap force while I was on duty there. I'm doing this all on my own. I'm on a leave of absence from the force right now.”

“What for?” She folded her arms. “Does it have something to do with that business about beating up a third grader?”

Ian's jaw seemed to tense up, and he nodded. “He was a seventeen-year-old. I'd responded to a gay-bashing on Capitol Hill outside the Egyptian movie theater. This guy and his buddies beat the hell out of this poor kid who was walking home from a midnight movie. I was there when they were putting him in the ambulance. I don't know how he could even talk. His face was all swollen and bloody. But he gave me a description of the ringleader. They were in school together. He knew the kid's name, the car they were driving, the plate number—everything. My partner and I tracked them down in about ten minutes. They were cruising around the gay bars, probably looking for more people to beat up. We pulled them over, and I approached the vehicle. The ringleader was at the wheel. He rolled down his window, and I could see his knuckles were still bloody. He was grinning from ear to ear, and his friends were laughing. Then he made some filthy joke about the kid they'd just pummeled—and I lost it. I punched him square in the face, broke the little bastard's nose.”

“Good,” Olivia murmured. She hadn't meant to say anything. It had just slipped out.

He rolled his eyes. “It felt great for about five seconds. But it was really uncool of me. I blew the arrest. The kid and his fellow assailants walked. Plus his dad's a big shot over in Bellevue, and he raised holy hell. Anyway, it was stupid of me. I'm lucky I didn't get sacked.”

“Hey, Haggerty . . .” The uniformed cop who had made the third-grader crack stuck his head out of the waiting room doorway. “I thought maybe you'd kidnapped our witness. You know, this isn't your call. You can't be conducting any police business here. . . .”

“Do you still have some questions for me?” Olivia asked.

“Not right now, but—”

“Well, we're not discussing police business,” Olivia said. “And if you don't have any questions for me right now, would you please leave us alone? We're almost finished here.”

The cop grumbled something under his breath and retreated back into the waiting room.

She turned toward Ian again, and he was looking down at the floor with a smile on his face. “Thanks for that.”

Olivia just nodded. She still didn't completely understand Ian's interest in all this. “When I asked Collin about you, he said you two were friends—until his grandfather put the kibosh on it. If I understand correctly, you guarded the house in Poulsbo until mid-August. Were you still communicating with Collin after that?”

He shook his head. “We emailed back and forth once, but that was it.”

“In his email, did he tell you about his friends Fernando and Gail?”

“No. The emails were back in August. He hadn't started school yet.”

“Then how did you know Collin was friends with them? It wasn't mentioned in any of the newspaper accounts.”

He scratched his beard stubble. “Well, it's hard to explain. I really like Collin. He's a sweet kid. Ever since
The Night Whisperer
, he's reminded me of my kid brother, Joey, who died from leukemia ten years ago. He would have been around Collin's age. Anyway, it was my job to protect Collin for five weeks. So after I got into trouble for being such a stupid hothead, there was a week of limbo when I was waiting to hear if I was in, out, on suspension, or whatever. So I came back to the island and checked on Collin. I guess I felt like I needed to look after somebody—besides myself, I don't know. . . .”

“I think I know what you mean,” Olivia said. “You needed a sense of purpose?”

He nodded. “That's right. Anyway, I drove by his school when classes were letting out. I wanted to see if he was making any friends. Back when I was on guard duty, he'd told me that he hadn't been very lucky in the friends department. Anyway, I saw him hanging out with Fernando and your niece. I followed them and watched them horsing around at Muriel Williams Park. Then they went to the bookstore, and I went home. It felt good to know Collin had friends, and that he was okay.”

Ian let out a long sigh. “Then a few days later, I was online checking out some of the local police bulletins, and I saw a photo of a missing high school student in North Kitsap. I recognized Collin's friend. The next day, I read about a deadly fire that killed an entire family in Poulsbo, and I recognized your niece. I knew something was wrong. Collin
wasn't
okay. The next day, I got a hang-up on my cell. The caller ID showed it was Collin. I knew his grandfather didn't approve of our friendship, so I emailed Collin and asked how he was doing. He never replied. So that's why I went to your in-laws' memorial service. I needed to check up on him. I was worried. Collin said he never got the email. Anyway, I'm still worried. You see, there's still a part of me that needs to protect him. I could be all wet with my theories about why Fernando and your niece were killed. Maybe I'm merely grasping at straws there. But I know something's terribly wrong—and poor Collin is in the middle of it.”

Olivia leaned against the corridor wall. “You may be right,” she said. “I mean the number on my car, that's classic Corinne stuff. But the other strange things that have happened, it's almost like a campaign to discourage me from helping Collin. When I first smelled the smoke from the fire last night, I immediately thought of my in-laws trapped in that burning house.”

Ian gently took hold of her arm. She didn't pull away this time. “You said all these things started happening on Thursday when Corinne and your husband came to town. Did anything else happen that day—any other thing that may explain these occurrences?”

Olivia looked him in the eye and nodded reluctantly. “I—I met Collin for the first time on Thursday afternoon,” she admitted. “I guess it really started then—right after that session.”

“I can't believe you're telling me this now,” Clay said.

Dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt and no tie, he stood in the parking lot of the Hotel Deca, a tall, art-deco throwback from the thirties located in the University District. They were parked in a handicapped spot. Corinne had insisted on it, since they were loading up the car. As far as Corinne was concerned, designated handicapped zones were her personal loading, unloading, and temporary parking spaces. It was another bugaboo of hers that Clay tolerated—just barely.

The sun was out, but an autumn chill crept through the air. Clay looked at their luggage in the open trunk of his Lexus—and then at Corinne. She wore the same slinky black-polka-dot-on-blue dress she'd worn to the memorial—except without the black net sequined hat. Her blond hair was down around her shoulders, and her lipstick was on a bit crooked, which made her look even crazier.

“Did I hear you right?” he asked.

Staring at him from behind a pair of sunglasses, she sighed. “I didn't do any of that other stuff she's accusing me of. I didn't even slash the tires on her stupid car this time. All I did was pour some acidy shit on the hood. She's damn lucky I didn't do more. I wanted to throw it in her face, but lost my nerve. . . .”

Clay ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, so that's why on the phone last night you went on and on about chemical peels. That's why you wanted to know if I thought Olivia had a pretty complexion. You're sick, you really are. . . .”

“I was angry!” she yelled, her hands at her sides—in fists.

“I can't believe you're telling me this now. Two hours ago, you swore you were innocent. I didn't think the police had a case. We were together all of last night. I've told the cops and our attorney you had nothing to do with it. When did you pull off this cute stunt?”

“Around seven o'clock,” she said. “I don't know what happened after that, but I'm sure the bitch had it coming.”

Clay shook his head in exasperation. His lawyer in Portland had arranged for an associate in Seattle to represent them during the police interview. They were headed off to meet him and review their strategy before the session with the police.

“We've packed our bags and checked out of the hotel,” he said, waving a hand in front of their luggage in the trunk. “Do you really think the cops will let us go back to Portland tonight? I can't believe this. What the hell were you thinking when you trashed her car?”

Corinne whipped her cell phone out of her purse. “This!” she screamed, her thumbs rapidly working the phone's keypad. “This is what I was thinking about, you asshole!” She shoved the phone in his face.

Clay stared at the slightly blurred photo of him and Olivia in the lobby of her building. It was from late yesterday afternoon, and appeared to have been taken by someone across the street with a zoom lens. In the picture, he was leaning in close to Olivia, about to kiss her. “Where did you get that?” he asked. “Did you have some private detective following me around?”

“No, goddamn it, but maybe I should have!” she bellowed. “I don't know who sent it, maybe some friend of your skanky wife. . . .”

Clay noticed other people around them in the parking lot stopping to stare. A bellman from the hotel came out the door and squinted at them. Clay shut the car trunk, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door for her. “Okay, okay, just get in the car,” he muttered.

Corinne climbed into the front of the Lexus. She showed him the photo on her phone again. “Look at the date and time,” she said. “It's yesterday—at 4:59. That's when you were supposed to be at REI—or so you said. Where were you two? Was this in the lobby of some crummy hotel or something?”

“Oh, give me a break. It's not how it looks.” He shut the car door. Then he went around to the driver's side, climbed behind the wheel and buckled his seat belt. “I'd still like to know who sent that picture to you,” he grumbled, starting up the engine.

“It came in a text—from an unknown sender,” Corinne said.

“Well, I don't like being set up,” he mumbled. “Nothing happened there, Corinne. In the picture, we're in the lobby of the building where Olivia has her office. We're just talking—”

“Yeah, with your faces about a fucking inch apart!” she retorted. “What exactly were you talking about?”

He pulled out of the hotel parking lot and into traffic. “Are you sure you don't know who sent that to you?”

“Yes, goddamn it! You keep avoiding the subject and turning this around like you're the wounded party here. You're the liar! What were you doing with her yesterday?”

Stopping for a traffic signal, Clay turned to her. “I needed to talk with her, that's all.”

“What did you two discuss? I have a right to know. . . .”

He took a deep breath. “I told her you weren't pregnant, and that I had my doubts you ever really were.”

“What?” she murmured.

“You heard me, Corinne. Were you ever pregnant—or did you just think you were for a while?”

She slowly shook her head at him. “How can you even ask me such a thing?”

He sighed. “You had the exact same reaction when I asked if you'd vandalized Olivia's car, home, or office last night.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means I'm not sure I believe anything you tell me.” The light changed, and someone behind them honked.

Clay turned down Roosevelt Way and headed toward the city. “Lately, I haven't liked myself very much for how I treated my wife,” he admitted, watching the road ahead. “And then there's the shit you pulled on her. I still haven't been able to forgive myself for how I handled that. But I thought you were pregnant—”

“I was!” she cried. “I was carrying
our
baby! Now I'm not anymore, and my heart's broken. So you're dumping me, aren't you? You're going back to her. That's why you snuck off and met with her last night, isn't it? Did you ask her to take you back?”

He kept his eyes forward. They were approaching the University Bridge—the four-lane, double-leaf drawbridge over Portage Bay. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the wheel. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Then it's true?”

“Yes, I'm sorry,” he said. “I've been trying to make it work with you, because of the baby. But I can't anymore.”

“You son of a bitch . . .”

“I'm sorry, Corinne. I'll pay for this lawyer to help you out. If you really did miscarry, maybe it'll elicit some sympathy, and they'll be able to cut you a break. But I can't be a part of your craziness anymore. . . .”

He heard a clink, and realized she was unfastening her safety belt. They'd just passed the bridge tower. The tires made a loud humming sound as the paved road beneath them became grid. Clay shot a look at her. Corinne threw off the safety belt sash. For a second, he thought she was going to open her door and jump out of the car.

Instead, she lunged toward him and grabbed the wheel.

The tires screeched as they swerved into the oncoming lane in the center of the bridge.

Clay hit the brake, and the Lexus spun out of control on the grid road. Screaming, Corinne fell back against her door.

Out the passenger window, he saw the front of a green SUV barreling toward them.

He shut his eyes. But Clay heard the deafening crash at the point of impact.

Then the screaming stopped.

 

 

From a small, semitropical garden, a floodlight shone on the side of the rambler-style building. It illuminated the metal scripted sign mounted on the white brick veneer. The aqua-blue-painted letters spelled out: E
L
M
AR
H
OTEL
.

Among the cars in the parking lot, he noticed a shiny new Impala, a Thunderbird, and a Fury. Somewhere—maybe in one of the rooms—someone was playing Del Shannon's “Runaway” a bit too loud.

He came closer, and peered into a window on the corner of the building. There was a tiny gap where the closed curtains didn't quite come together. He saw two children in their pajamas, sitting on the floor in front of a black-and-white TV, mesmerized by a
Yogi the Bear
cartoon. The father was sitting on top of the double bed in a T-shirt and tan slacks, smoking a cigarette and reading a copy of
Look
magazine. The blond wife, who looked just like a character out of
Mad Men
, was in a silk robe. She stood at a sink—just outside the bathroom. He noticed the hotel ice bucket and the glasses on the counter. She was rinsing out some nylons.

“Wait 'til they're asleep,” he said. It was Wade's voice.

All at once, he was inside the room. There was a frantic whimpering, which seemed to get louder and louder. He stood over the blond wife. Her hands were tied behind her, and a rope was tightly wound around her ankles. The woman rolled back and forth on her bed. Her robe had opened up in front, and he saw her black bra and half-slip. She was trying to scream past the washcloth crammed in her mouth. Next to her on the bed, the husband was similarly bound and gagged. He lay on his side, motionless. His white T-shirt was soaked with blood.

The muffled whining became louder and louder.

“Fucking kill her already!” Wade whispered. “She's making too much noise!”

Collin woke up, startled.

He realized he was in a small lounge area in the corner of the school library. Tucked behind the American history shelf were three stuffed chairs. It was quiet there. He sometimes napped in one of the chairs during his free period or lunch. He hadn't had much of a lunch—just a Rice Krispies Treat. Then he'd come here. He hadn't counted on having a nightmare—or an audience. Sitting across from him in the alcove was a red-haired girl named Jodee from his English lit class. She had a biology textbook in her hands, and stared at him. “Who were you talking to in that weird voice?” she asked.

Rubbing his eyes, Collin realized Wade must have been talking out loud. “What did I say?” he whispered.

“Something about ‘kill her, she's making too much noise,' ” Jodee explained, scowling at him. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don't remember,” Collin lied. But he remembered all of it now. He had been Wade, and he'd been killing that family at the El Mar Hotel fifty years ago.

Collin asked himself the same question the girl had asked.

Who had Wade been talking to?