Unspeakable (38 page)

She called home, and her father answered on the third ring. She raised her window so she could hear him over the droning and churning of the car wash.

“Did you have any luck digging up whatever it was you went there to dig up?” he asked.

“Yes, I got a couple of boxes of junk that may or may not lead to something. We'll see.” She figured he didn't need to hear the details about how she'd gotten the materials. “I'll be diving into this stuff tonight, which includes some old tapes. Didn't we have one of those reel-to-reel tape recorders ages ago?”

“Yeah, I think it's still somewhere in the attic under a mountain of dust.”

Olivia hoped it still worked. She moved up in the car wash line. “Did Ian leave?”

“Yeah. We went out to lunch, and he dropped me off here about twenty minutes ago.”

“You had lunch with him? What did you two talk about?”

“I'll tell you when you get home,” he answered. “What's your estimated arrival time?”

“Oh, I'll probably be there in about an hour and a half. By the way, Pop, did you hear anything from the police about Corinne?”

“Um, yeah, I—I'll tell you about that when you get home.”

“You sound funny,” she said. “What's going on? What did she tell the police?”

“I'll explain when you get here, honey. You just be careful and take your time.”

Olivia heard a click on the other end. Her father almost never hung up first—not without her saying good-bye or take care.

She knew something was wrong.

“I
know I should feel sorry for her, but I don't,”

Olivia's dad said. He sat at the island counter in the kitchen, trying to thread one of Sheri Grinnell's tapes through the ancient reel-to-reel player. He'd dug the machine out of the attic and dusted it off. Olivia couldn't believe the thing had actually started up again after thirty years. Her father had dabbed a bit of Vaseline on the turning mechanisms to keep them from squeaking.

While he fiddled with the tape player, Olivia sat at her mom's writing desk, going through Sheri's old letters and cards. There were also yellowed newspaper clippings of recipes and cartoons that she'd saved, along with the occasional Polaroid or graduation photo of someone. The names scribbled on the back in faded pen didn't mean anything to Olivia.

She'd been relieved to learn that she hadn't been the main topic of conversation between her dad and Ian over lunch at the Attic Ale House in Madison Park this afternoon. According to her dad, Ian was a “terrific guy,” and they'd talked mostly about the Seattle Seahawks and local politics. Then Ian had driven her dad to Broadway Video on Capitol Hill. Walt had decided to rent two Collin Cox movies,
The Night Whisperer
and
Honor Student
. He hadn't seen either one. Both DVDs were now in their cases on the kitchen counter.

The lights in both the front and back yards were on. The police had promised to beef up their patrol on Alder Lane. Neither Olivia nor her dad felt like cooking. So they'd ordered a pizza from Pagliacci. It hadn't arrived yet.

Hovering over the tape recorder, which was the size of a shoebox, her father went on about Corinne. “The cop I talked to said she grabbed the wheel and the car went out of control right in the middle of the University Bridge. That poor guy in the SUV. And on top of everything, just think about all those poor people stranded and rerouted, too—all because of her. I can't understand it. Crazy, selfish . . .” He shook his head.

“I'm not giving you an argument, Pop,” Olivia said, glancing at a birthday card with a cartoon donkey wearing a sombrero on the cover.
I feel like an ass I forgot your birthday!
it said inside. It was signed,
Lots of Love, Bill & Judy.
Olivia tossed the card aside in a pile with the other junk. Maybe Troy had been right. Maybe all this stuff was totally worthless.

“Okay, I think I got this thing figured out,” her father announced. “Cross your fingers. . . .” He pressed a button on the recorder, and nothing but a static-laced humming noise came over the built-in speaker. Olivia could hear some music starting up, but it was muted and scratchy. Her dad fiddled with the volume.

“I keep waiting for that thing to start smoking,” she said.

Then she heard a man's voice:
“Throughout history, there've been many songs written about the eternal triangle. This next one tells the story of a Mr. Grayson, a beautiful woman, and a condemned man named Tom Dooley. . . .”

“Well, this is sure a blast from the past,” her father said. “I loved this tune. . . .”

On the tape, The Kingston Trio broke into “Tom Dooley.” Olivia was glad at least the recorder worked. Her dad glanced inside the liquor store box. “There must be about thirty hours' worth of tapes in here. I'm still not sure what you're hoping to find.”

Olivia sat back in the chair, and sighed. “Neither am I,” she admitted. It was a long shot, but she hoped somewhere along the line Sheri Grinnell might have bared her soul on tape.

Her dad poured himself a beer and wandered toward his study. Olivia continued to dig into the Frederick & Nelson box. She found an old Seattle First National Bank book from June through December 1961. She saw the notation
Rent
by Sheri's first-of-the-month withdrawals. Orin Carney was right. In October 1961, just six months before the fair had started, Sheri's rent jumped from $95 a month to $275. She never had much money in her account.

Olivia remembered what Troy had told her about his mother in her final days. She'd predicted she would be coming into a large amount of cash soon. She'd also talked about someone else knowing the whole story of Wade and the Rockabye Killings. She'd spoken more about her dead brother in those last weeks of her life, too.

The police had kept the grisly killings off the front pages of the newspapers during the run of the World's Fair. What if Wade hadn't been
accidentally
hit by a train while escaping from the police? What if it had just been made to look that way so they could blame him for the El Mar killings and then sweep everything else under the rug?

Olivia wondered if Sheri had been killed because she'd tried to blackmail some old city official. It didn't make sense that she'd wait until 1999 to extort money over something that happened back in 1962. Or had she stumbled onto some information very late in the game?

She heard her father turn on the TV in his study. Then the doorbell rang.

“Pizza guy's here!” her father announced.

Olivia put down Sheri Grinnell's bankbook and got to her feet. “Pop, check before you open the door!” she called. She hurried toward the front of the house and heard the click of the door lock. Nearing the foyer, she saw her father opening the door. She stopped in her tracks.

Her dad merely nodded at the person on the front stoop. Then he looked at her, sighed, and retreated to his study.

Olivia numbly gazed at Clay at their threshold. He wore a wrinkled black suit and a blue shirt stained with blood. There was a bandage on his forehead, and already one of his eyes was blackened. His right hand was wrapped in an ACE bandage. “Hi,” he muttered.

She'd talked with him on the phone earlier. Corinne was at the UW Hospital with a broken arm and multiple lacerations. The doctors were trying to determine the extent of injuries to her spine—and whether or not she'd walk again. The driver of the SUV, a stay-at-home father of two, had been killed instantly. He'd been on his way to pick up his toddler son from a swimming lesson.

Clay had told the police why he'd lost control of the car. He'd also told Olivia on the phone that Corinne had confessed to pouring acid on her VW. But his girlfriend had insisted she hadn't done anything else.

Her arms folded, Olivia stared at him. He looked so pitiful. He nodded at the burnt, blackened exterior of the door. “If she did this, I'm really sorry,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Olivia nodded. “Sure.” Then she called to her father: “Pop, we'll be in the kitchen.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Clay followed her into the kitchen. Olivia didn't have to show him the way. He'd been here countless times. Yet it felt strange to have him in her dad's house again. She wondered if he noticed the photos of him and of them together were no longer on the refrigerator door. “Do you want a beer?” she asked.

“That's okay,” he said. “I won't stay long. I know I'm not very welcome here.”

Olivia turned down the volume of the reel-to-reel player. The Kingston Trio was singing “Greenback Dollar.”

His eyes narrowed at the tape player, the box of tapes, and Sheri Grinnell's pile of keepsakes from the old Frederick & Nelson box. “What's going on?”

“It's just something I'm working on for a client. How are you? How are you feeling?”

He let out a pathetic laugh. “Like somebody worked me over. You know what this black eye is from? The air bag, the damn thing gave me a bloody nose. . . .”

Olivia sat down at the island counter. She figured he was trying to make light of the situation. But she couldn't work up a chuckle or even a smile. Like her dad, she was thinking about that poor guy in the SUV. “How's Corinne?” she asked.

“The same, still in Intensive Care.” He leaned back against the cabinet counter. “They've got her on a ton of medications and painkillers. She's totally out of it, sleeping most of the time. When she's awake, she doesn't even know I'm there.”

“So you came here,” Olivia said. “What for?”

“I need to find out who's responsible for this,” he said resolutely.

“You mean there's someone else responsible—besides your girlfriend in the ICU?”

He nodded. “Some asshole sent Corinne a text—with a highly incriminating photo of you and me yesterday in the lobby of your building. That's what set Corinne off. She saw the photo and went nuts. In the picture, we were about to kiss. . . .”

“If I remember correctly, you were about to kiss me, and I had the good sense to shoot you down,” Olivia said.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. The thing of it is someone was watching us. They took our picture and sent it to Corinne—just to stir up trouble. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't like being set up. The picture—I saw it—it was obviously taken by someone parked across the street from your building. I don't know if they were following me or staked out there or what. I thought it might have been someone Corinne had hired. But she didn't know a thing about it, and I believe her. So—do you have any idea who it was?”

Olivia shook her head. “No, I'm sorry, I don't.”

“What about that kid who had the appointment with you? Who is he? First he was at the memorial, and then he was at your office. It's like he's following us around.”

“I told you, he was a friend of Gail's,” Olivia said. “And he isn't following us around.”

“How do you know for sure? That picture was taken just seconds before he came through the door. That's awfully convenient, isn't it? Who is he? You called him
Collin.
Why does he look so goddamn familiar?”

“He came in when he did because that was his appointment time, Clay.”

“Tell me the truth.” He stepped toward the island counter. “Is that kid working for you?”

“No,” she said. “I'm working for him. He's my client.”

“Olivia, somebody set us up. That kid was right outside the door when they took our picture. If he didn't snap the photo, the little shit must know who did—or at the very least, he must have seen them. That Collin kid has something to do with this, I know he does. So why the fuck won't you tell me his full name?”

Olivia saw her father step into the kitchen. Clay must have followed her gaze, because he turned around toward Walt.

“Clay,” he said quietly. “Nobody talks to my daughter that way in my house. Unless you want another black eye, you'd better leave right now.”

Clay cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Walt.” He glanced back at her. “Sorry, Olivia, I didn't mean to be rude. Chalk it up to a really crappy day.”

“You better go,” she said.

He nodded. “Okay, but I'm not giving up on this.” He turned and took a step toward her father, but then froze. His back was to Olivia, and she watched him—just standing there. He seemed to be looking at something on the counter. Clay finally reached over and picked up the DVDs her father had rented. He turned toward her. He was grinning. “
Collin Cox
,” he said. “Goddamn it, that's why the kid looked so familiar. What's his business with you?”

“That's confidential,” Olivia said.

“So—you have this washed-up kid actor following me around, is that it?”

“He has nothing to do with you, Clay.”

“Bullshit,” he grumbled. He turned toward her father and shook his head. “I apologize, Walt. I'm leaving.” He tossed the videos on the counter and brushed past her dad as he stomped toward the front of the house.

“I'm not letting this go,” he called over his shoulder. “Somebody tried to screw me, and I'm going to find out who it was if it's the last thing I do.”

Olivia heard the front door open and then slam shut.

“You're awfully sweet to help out.” Dee stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a saucepan. She wore a chef 's apron over her lavender pantsuit. “When you head off to college in a couple of years, I'll have to learn all over again how to wash the dishes by myself.”

Collin was at her side, drying a baking dish. He'd come home from school at 3:45, acting like it had been a normal day. But he couldn't stop thinking about his dream. It had seemed so real. He still wondered who Wade had been talking to in the dream. Himself?

For the rest of the day, Collin couldn't shake the feeling someone was watching his every move. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Rick or maybe Ian. Rick had claimed a black Saturn had been tailing him. Collin wasn't sure he believed him. Yet he'd been on the lookout all day for people sitting alone in vehicles parked outside the school.

It had almost been a relief to come home—away from crowds and cars. But his grandfather had been in a restless, grumpy mood. He'd even snapped at Dee during dinner, something about hating lima beans. Usually, he'd make a joke about stuff like that. But tonight he'd been dead serious.

“I'll bet you'll be happy when the doctor lets Grandpa play golf again,” Collin said, working the dish towel over a spatula.

“I'm concerned about him.” Dee frowned. “Your grandfather wants the three of us to take off for a couple of months and travel through Europe—or maybe Australia.”

“When? In the summer?”

“No, soon. He wants to go sometime next week—if the doctor says it's okay for him to travel. He thinks we need a change of scenery after everything that's happened.”

Collin put down the dish towel. “But what about school?”

She shrugged. “He said it wouldn't hurt for you to take a year off. You could start as a junior again next year.”

“I'm not sure I like that idea,” Collin murmured.

“That makes two of us.” Dee shut off the faucet. “The man just had a ministroke, and he's talking about packing up and traveling for two months. It's crazy.”

Collin figured his grandfather was hoping this “scenery change” would make all their problems go away. It was Old Andy in denial again.

Dee took off her apron, and started to fold it up. “I know you're in some kind of trouble, honey,” she said.

Collin stared at her. He was about to shake his head, but he hesitated.

She gave him a sad, shrewd smile. “I'm not sure why you and your grandfather want to keep me in the dark about it. But I'm a lot stronger and smarter than you might think. If there's a problem, I say we stay put and all face it together. Gallivanting through Europe isn't going to solve anything.” She reached up and smoothed down a cowlick in his hair. “That's what I'm going to tell your grandfather. And I hope you'll back me up on it.”

Collin wrapped his arms around her, and he got a waft of her lavender perfume. “I will, Grandma,” he whispered. “Thanks.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “He's probably snoozing in his chair right now. So it'll have to wait until tomorrow.” She gently pulled away and gave his shoulder a pat. “Anytime you want to tell me what's going on, sweetie, I'm ready to listen and help all I can.”

He worked up a smile and nodded. “Thanks,” he said again.

Dee headed toward the family room—and the Food Network channel on TV.

Collin wandered over to the sliding door to the patio. A fog had rolled in off the bay. A mist hovered over the black water, but he could still see a solitary light from one small boat.

 

 

“Damn,” he muttered. He lowered the binoculars and let them dangle from the cord around his neck. He stood on the bow of his sixteen-foot Com-Pac Legacy, which swayed from side to side a bit. He held on to the railing. He didn't mind that the water was a little choppy tonight. What annoyed him was the lousy fog obscuring his view of the Stampler house.

Rick Jessup figured the visibility would only get worse by the time Collin went up to his bedroom. Like it or not, he'd have to turn back toward the dock. He lingered for another few moments at the front of the small vessel. He took one last look at the big house on the hill.

For weeks now, the subject of his near-nightly vigils had kept a pair of binoculars on his bedroom desk. Rick doubted Collin's binoculars were as sophisticated as his. Some evenings, there was enough moonlight for him to make out Collin in his darkened bedroom, staring back out at him.

He knew he'd been spotted long ago—but not yet identified. Collin had confirmed that when they'd met on the ferry yesterday. It was a gold star day. He'd actually spoken at length with Collin Cox—and he'd gotten the last word in, too. Rick knew Collin would come around and eventually realize he only had the young film star's best interests in mind. So what if he'd fibbed a little, pretending he didn't know anything about a boat on Liberty Bay behind Collin's grandparents' house? As for his smiley face emails, those had been sent to comfort Collin, not torment him. How could Collin have misconstrued his intentions there? And Sunday night, he'd merely been checking up on Collin when the boy's grandparents had spotted him outside the house. He'd done it before countless times—once those cops had stopped guarding the house.
Someone
had to look out for Collin.

He knew it would take a while before Collin appreciated everything he was doing for him—and at his own peril, too. He wasn't just thinking about how he'd managed to elude the police on Sunday night. It was a lot more serious than that. Someone else was watching and following Collin—and he
didn't
have the boy's best interests in mind. Rick didn't know if it was that cop, a friend of his, or somebody else entirely. But whoever it was, they'd almost certainly killed Collin's two friends. Rick knew the closer he got to Collin, the more he was putting his own life in jeopardy—maybe the lives of his wife and children, too. But he couldn't help it. Watching over Collin Cox had become his calling.

The fog had gotten so thick that he no longer saw the lights on the first floor of the grandparents' house. The mansion had become a blurry silhouette on the hill above the beach. He heard the water lapping against the side of his boat, but now it sounded like it was in stereo. Was there another boat nearby somewhere in this fog?

Rick gazed around, and could only see the whitish mist rolling over the black water. He was engulfed in it. He reminded himself that fog could play tricks with sound.

He had to turn the boat around and get back to the dock before it got any worse.

All the moisture left the deck surface slick, so he held on to the railing as he made his way starboard to the small cabin. Except for some equipment and an ice chest, he hadn't bothered to decorate the small space—which had two benches and a table with fold-up flaps. He went to retrieve a flashlight from the storage bin.

Suddenly, something slammed into the boat with a clatter. It threw Rick off balance. He fell down and landed on all fours. The flashlight rolled on the cabin floor as the boat rocked from side to side. He heard the floorboards creaking and water splashing. He felt some of the drops on the back of his neck. Stunned, Rick remained crouched on the floor until the boat stopped swaying.

He had a feeling another boat had bumped into his. And it sounded like someone had climbed aboard his Legacy. “Who's up there?” he called in a shaky voice. “Haggerty, is that you? Damn it, who's there?”

Grabbing the flashlight, Rick got to his feet. He usually kept only one light on while watching Collin. But now he reached over and switched on all the lights—including the cabin interior. Stepping out of the cabin, he was swallowed up by the white, moving mist. He tried to see if another boat had come alongside him. But the flashlight was just a bright beam in the haze. He couldn't see if anything was on the water.

The sound of the folded sail flapping in the slight breeze spooked him. He shined the flashlight over the deck.

“Haggerty?” he said.

If it wasn't the cop, it could be the elusive, faceless driver of the black Saturn.

He heard the floorboards squeak again, and the boat rocked. He knew he wasn't alone. The damn fog was throwing everything off. One minute it sounded like someone was at the bow—and the next, they seemed to be starboard. The boat started to pitch from side to side again.

He shined the flashlight toward the bow and the cover to the Tohatsu motor, which he'd left on the floor of the deck seating area. He gave the plastic material a kick. No one was hiding beneath it.

He heard the folded-up sail shifting behind him. “Who's there?” Rick yelled nervously. He started to turn around. “Who—”

Rick didn't finish. He didn't even get a chance to turn around. Someone grabbed him by the scalp. Rick realized they must have been lying alongside the folded-up sail.

The boat lurched again as he started to struggle. The binoculars flopped and thumped against his chest. He thought the guy was going to tear his hair out by the roots. It hurt like hell.

But Rick barely felt the ice pick entering the back of his skull.