Unspeakable (40 page)

He stepped into the store, and got the familiar smells of coffee, stale popcorn, and jumbo hot dogs that had been on a rotating spit since six o'clock this morning. Sanjay, the thin, twenty-something East Indian, worked the counter tonight. He was a good-looking guy, but the ugly blue vest he was forced to wear made him look like a nerd. “Oh, it's the cop coming to shake us down!” he announced in his clipped, precise accent. “How are you doing, Serpico?”

“I'm great, Sanjay,” he said. “In fact, in just a week or two, I may not be coming in here so often anymore.”

“Well, then it can only be a woman—or one of those inflatable sex dolls.”

Ian chuckled. “ 'Tis the former, my good man,” he replied, heading down the aisle to the frozen foods. He'd gotten to be a regular at the Madison Val-U Mart shortly after the breakup with Janice. He'd worked a lot of late shifts, and always swung by the store to get a snack or last-minute item before returning to his empty apartment. It had gotten so he couldn't pass the place without dropping in. They were always nice to him.

Tonight, he needed half-and-half and paper towels, and he wanted to treat himself to an ice cream sandwich. Near the end of the aisle, Ian noticed something in one of the store's security mirrors. Someone else was coming into the store.

“Oh, shit,” he heard Sanjay mutter.

He swiveled around, and saw two men rushing toward the counter. They had ski masks pulled over their faces and guns in their hands. One of them suddenly turned and hurried down the next aisle—while his partner held Sanjay at gunpoint. “Okay, asshole,” he growled from behind the mask. “Slowly reach into the register and take out the money. . . .”

Ian didn't have his gun on him. But before he could even move, the second gunman was already down the next aisle and coming around behind him. Ian turned and started to raise his hands in surrender. The man pointed his gun at him. “What—are you trying to be a hero? You're off duty. . . .”

Ian didn't understand. How did the guy know he was a cop?

Baffled, he glanced up at the security mirror, and noticed the first gunman at the counter had turned away from Sanjay at the register. He aimed his gun at him as well. In a split second, Ian realized these two guys weren't here to rob the store. They were here to kill him.

All at once, Ian grabbed a can of peaches off the shelf and hurled it at the gunman directly in front of him. He lunged at the guy. At the same time, he heard four loud shots go off.

Ian felt a burning sting in his lower back. His legs suddenly gave out and he collapsed to the linoleum floor.

The gunman closest to him turned and ran toward the door. He repeatedly fired at Sanjay. With a gun clasped in both hands, the clerk fired back. The loud shots reverberated through the store. In the cross fire, glass jars exploded and cans ricocheted off the shelves. Sanjay ducked as the holdup man paused at the doorway and fired at him one last time. Then the gunman fled.

His partner was sprawled on the floor by the display of candy and magazines at the checkout counter. He was totally still. The only thing moving was the expanding pool of blood on the dirty floor.

Ian could hear the car engine start up and the screeching tires as the holdup man made his getaway. But everything was getting dark. His back was wet, and he realized he was lying in his own blood. It felt cold.

The last thing he heard was Sanjay, in his precise English, calling to him: “Hey, Ian? Buddy, are you okay? Ian. . . .”

“L
isten, I don't know if you're the one behind this or if it's your has-been child-star grandson,” Clay said hotly. “But somebody set me up. It's beyond me why they wanted to piss off my girlfriend, but they sure as hell did. They set off this whole chain of events. That's why I'm here at the hospital with my girlfriend, who's now fighting for her life. It's why a third motorist is dead. I swear to God, I'm going to get to the bottom of this. . . .”

He stood by the garden near the drop-off loop in front of the hospital. Behind him a big blue sign with white letters spelled out: U
NIVERSITY OF
W
ASHINGTON
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER.
Some bitch of a nurse had told him he couldn't talk on his cell phone in the lobby. So now he was freezing his ass off outside, talking over car engines, and holding a tall Starbucks latte in his good hand. His bandaged wrist hurt like hell as he clutched the phone to his ear, but he had no choice.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Andrew Stampler grumbled on the other end of the line.

“Well, I'll bet your grandson knows,” Clay argued. “He was right there when someone took that picture and texted it to my girlfriend.”

“I thought I made it very clear to your wife that I don't want you calling me.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn't tell me what to do anymore,” Clay shot back.

Olivia had phoned him late last night, swearing up and down Collin Cox had nothing to do with that incriminating photo. But Clay didn't believe her. She was hiding something.

“Listen to me,” he continued. “At the very least, your grandson must have seen who took my photo the other day. I want to talk to that kid. If not, I'll go to the newspapers and TV. I'll raise all sorts of hell if I have to. No one sets me up and gets away with it.”

“All right,” Stampler said with resignation. “Let me talk to Collin about this. He's been under a lot of strain lately, and I don't anyone harassing him. I—I'll get to the bottom of it. If he has any information about this picture-taking incident, I'll let you know. And if—if you're seeking any kind of compensation, then we'll work something out. Where are you? Is there somewhere I can meet you tonight?”

“I'm staying at the Commodore Inn,” Clay said. “There's a small bar off the lobby. I'll meet you there at seven-thirty.”

“All right,” the old man said. “In the meantime, could you please not tell anyone about this? You'll understand why when I talk with you tonight. And if you need to call me, please, don't phone me here at my house anymore. My cell phone number is 206-555-1450.”

Clay repeated the number. “All right,” he said. “I'll see you tonight. And you better have some answers for me.”

As he clicked off his cell phone, Clay had a triumphant smile on his bruised face.

 

 

Collin could hear his grandfather murmuring to someone on the phone in his study. He sat at the breakfast table with Dee. The
Today
show was on the wall TV in the breakfast nook. His grandmother was unusually quiet this morning. Collin figured she saw through their lie about where he and his grandfather were headed today. He felt bad about it, especially after their talk last night.

Supposedly, he was missing school to accompany his grandfather to Seattle, where Old Andy had an appointment with a neurologist. “He's reputed to be the best on the West Coast,” his grandfather had claimed. Of course, Dee had wanted to go, too. “I'm sorry, but I don't want you there, honey,” his grandfather had told her. “Every time you come with me for some medical thing, you get all nervous and weepy. It sends my blood pressure right through the roof.”

Collin figured telling her the truth would have been easier and, in many ways, more respectful. It was kind of ironic that his grandfather had been so disappointed in him last night when he'd found out about the hypnotherapy sessions with Olivia. And yet, here he was lying to his wife about what they were doing today. Even if it was supposed to be for her own good, it still didn't seem right.

His grandfather hadn't made it very clear to him exactly why he wanted to come along for this session with Olivia. Obviously, he had every intention of putting an end to it. In Old Andy's mind, a long trek through Europe or Australia was a better solution.

He'd been on the phone for about ten minutes now. He'd taken the call in the kitchen. Dee had asked who it was, but he'd waved the question away and retreated into his study with the cordless.

His grandmother sipped her coffee—her third cup this morning—and stared at the TV. Collin hoped she'd be all right in the house alone all morning. Even with the extra police patrols in the area, he couldn't help worrying about her. Nothing seemed certain anymore.

His grandfather finally emerged from the study. He looked tired. “You two will have to eat your dinner without me tonight,” he announced, rubbing his forehead. He set the cordless back in its cradle on the kitchen counter. “They need me to help pitch this new proposal to the city council. It's a big dinner meeting. I'll be gone from six until at least nine.”

Dee frowned. “Well, I don't like it. When you're talking with this specialist today, you ask him if it's smart for you to be going out to business meetings where there's lots of drinking, cigar smoking, and fatty food.”

He patted her shoulder. “Oh, now, calm down. . . .”

Staring at the tabletop, Collin didn't say anything. But he had a feeling his grandfather was lying about where he'd be tonight.

He waited until they were in the BMW together, on their way to the ferry. Then he'd asked, “Do you really have a dinner meeting with the city council tonight? Or is something going on that you don't want Dee to know about?”

With his hands on the wheel, Old Andy gazed at the road ahead. “It's just what I said it was.”

Collin turned his head away and stared out the window.

He couldn't get past the feeling that he'd just been lied to.

“Collin, I want you to think about your safe place,” she said.

Olivia glanced over at Andrew Stampler. With his plaid pants, and a blue cardigan over a polo shirt, he looked like he bought his clothes at the pro shop. His arms folded, he sat on the edge of the desk in her father's study. He rolled his eyes a little. She definitely saw Collin in him—and in his expressions. Obviously, he thought
safe place
was a new-age term deserving of a good eye-roll. But at least he remained quiet for the session with his grandson.

Collin sat in her dad's recliner. Olivia was in front of him in a straight-back chair from the dining room. He'd been concerned about her safety—in case Wade became violent again. But she'd wanted his hands free, and explained that between her and his grandfather, they could restrain Wade
.
In RECORD mode, Collin's cell phone was propped up on a nearby TV table.

The room was the coziest in the house—with a fireplace in one corner, the TV in another, and built-in shelves full of books, DVDs, and family photos. A big picture window looked out at the front yard. Olivia figured it would be easy for Collin to relax in here. She didn't want anything distracting him. So when he and his grandfather had noticed the burnt front door earlier, Olivia had shrugged it off as an “accident.”

Making himself scarce, her dad had taken the car to run some errands. He'd tried to get ahold of his new best friend, Ian, to go out for brunch. But Ian hadn't returned his call.

As she'd prepped Collin for hypnosis, she'd told him to pretend his grandfather wasn't in the room. She'd told herself the same thing.

But she could tell Collin was still nervous. Olivia moved her hand toward his face and back again—more slowly each time. “Think about your safe place, Collin. It's a shack in the woods—somewhere near Shilshole Bay. Focus on it. Describe it to me. Take me there.”

Collin's eyes started to glaze over as he stared at her hand. “I end up on the number sixty-one bus in Ballard,” he murmured. “I get off on Fifty-eighth, a few blocks before Ray's Boathouse. You know—the restaurant? There's a big white stucco house at the top of the hill, overlooking the beach. Right by the chain-link fence at the side of the house, I head down a path. The fence ends about a quarter of the way down, and I follow the trail to the right. By now, I can smell the beach and hear water lapping on the shore. It's fall, so I can see the bay through the trees. I look around the big pine, and just off the path, there's the little shack. It's safe. No one can find us there, Dave and me . . .”

Olivia glanced over at Collin's grandfather, who seemed to hang on his every word.

“Collin, I want you to stay focused on my hand,” Olivia said. “You're very sleepy. I'm going to count backwards, and when I get to ‘one,' you can close your eyes. Then you can go to sleep in your safe place. Five . . . four . . . three . . .”

She watched his eyelids flutter as he sank back in the recliner. His breathing became deeper. “Collin, can you hear my voice?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely audible. His eyes were closed.

“I'm talking to the person inside you now. If you hear me, you too are hypnotized. You will remain seated and answer my questions truthfully. Do you understand me?”

A low growl seemed to come from deep within him.

Olivia stole a glance at Mr. Stampler, who was staring at his grandson.

When Olivia turned to Collin again, his eyes were open—with that same cold, dull, cruel look Wade had. He grinned at her. “Hey, it's you again,” he said in Wade's voice. He raised his hands off his lap. “And lookee here, no handcuffs. You still got them? Maybe you'll let me put them on you this time.”

“My God,” Mr. Stampler whispered.

Collin glanced over at him. “Who's this, your old man?”

“He's just here observing,” Olivia said. “Could you tell him your name?”

“My name José Jiménez,”
he said in his bad Spanish accent. Then he cackled.

“Seriously, okay?”

“I'm Wade Grinnell.”

“What year is it?”

“1962,” he answered impatiently. “Shit, we've been through this before.”

“I thought we'd talk about the hotel murders and the fires,” Olivia said.

She glanced over at Mr. Stampler, who kept shaking his head. Collin had told her that his grandfather had viewed the videos Fernando had shot. But obviously it was a shock for him to see it happening right in front of him. His face was ashen. “Sir, are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, daddy-o, you don't look so hot,” Collin said. “Call Ben Casey, call Dr. Kildare!”

“Excuse me,” Mr. Stampler murmured, heading out of the TV room. “Keep going. I—I'll be okay. . . .”

Olivia got to her feet. She wanted to make sure he was all right. But she remembered Layne Tipton—and what had happened when she'd left him alone for a minute while he'd been in a hypnotic state.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Collin growled.

She stopped in the doorway and turned toward him.

He sat up in the chair; his hands gripped the armrests. “Don't you want to hear a confession? That's what you've been bucking for, isn't it, bitch?”

She glanced back at Mr. Stampler, who hurried into the kitchen. “Are you sure you're all right, sir?” she called.

“Thanks, I'm fine!” she heard him reply—a bit feebly. “I'm just getting some water.”

She turned to Collin again. He shifted in the chair. “That old fart, he's a cop, isn't he?”

“No,” she said, stepping toward him. “I told you—he's just here observing.”

Slouching back, he slung a leg over the chair's armrest. “You probably want to ask me the same things the police did. Do you want to know how I managed to tie them up?”

Olivia looked him in the eye. “I'm assuming you held them at gunpoint, and made them tie each other up.”

Smiling, he gave a little shrug. “Maybe.”

Olivia heard the refrigerator dispenser going, and knew Collin's grandfather was filling a glass with ice water. She took him at his word that he was all right. She moved over to the desk, where she had a pen and notepad ready—along with a piece of rope. “On the subject of tying people up,” she said, lowering the rope into Collin's lap. “I understand your dad was a sailor. Can you show me how to tie a sailor's knot?”

He seemed amused. He took the rope and started to manipulate it.

Olivia stepped back. It occurred to her that she'd just given him something with which he could strangle her—or at the very least, tie her wrists together. She remembered Orin Carney's files, and the close-up photo she'd seen of Betty Freitag, facedown on a hotel bed—with her bloodstained nightgown torn and her bound wrists in back of her. S
AILOR
K
NOT,
said the handwritten caption. B
ETTY
F
REITAG,
31 – E
L
M
AR
H
OTEL,
7/9/62.

He tied a knot in the rope, and then tossed it back at her.

Olivia caught the rope and inspected it. As far as she could tell, it was an ordinary knot. “Nice,” she said. “Can you do something else for me?” She returned to the desk and retrieved the notepad and pen. Then she handed them to him. “Could you write this down for me? ‘Happy Birthday, Sis—Love, Wade.' ”

“It's not Sheri's birthday,” he muttered.

“I know. Just humor me.”

He scribbled on the notepad and handed it back to her. Olivia glanced at the message. His handwriting didn't match Wade's messy scrawl on the birthday cards. Collin had finally put to rest any far-fetched notions about the dead Wade Grinnell invading his body and psyche. There was nothing supernatural about this. There was a rational explanation.

Olivia set the notepad and pen back on the desk. When she turned around again, she caught him checking out the desk and the bookcase. From the recliner, he seemed to be assessing if there was anything in the room worth stealing. She sat down across from him once more. “You were saying earlier that you were ready to give me a confession.”

He shook his head. “I didn't say that. I asked, ‘Don't you want to hear a confession?' There's a big difference.”

“Well, in answer to your question, yes. I'd like to hear your confession. I know you didn't admit anything to the police, but you did inadvertently give yourself away a few times. I listened to part of the police interview. They had you on tape.”

He glared at her. “Well, those sons of bitches don't know shit. Only two people know the whole story—and one of them is me.”

“Is the other person Sheri?”

He shook his head again. “Sheri doesn't know—not yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘not yet'? Are you planning to tell her?”

He slid his foot across the floor so it touched hers. “I've already told her. But Sis just doesn't know yet.”

Olivia moved her foot away. “What do you mean?”

“I know the cops are coming after me soon,” he sighed, looking down at the carpet. He seemed disappointed she wouldn't play footsie with him. “It's only a matter of time before they arrest me. But I won't let that happen. I'm getting out of town tomorrow. I'll die before I let them throw me in jail. Either way, after I'm gone, Sheri's gonna know the whole story.”

“Did you send her a confession in the mail?” Olivia asked.

He nodded. “Go to the head of the class. It's on tape.”

Olivia stared at him. All this was new. Where did he get this? She hadn't told him about her talk with Sheri's son. She hadn't mentioned anything to Collin about the keepsakes and the tapes she'd been going over. She'd stashed the boxes and the reel-to-reel player before they'd come over—to make sure it didn't influence him during this session.

“So you have a tape-recorded confession?” she asked.

“I sent it out this morning,” he said. “By the time Sheri gets it, I'll be long gone.” He glanced over at her father's desk again.

Olivia followed his gaze. She realized what he was looking at. Her dad had a perpetual calendar facing out—a set of faux gold blocks with black lettering that snugly fit into a holder. Changed daily, it gave the date and day of the week: 10 – O
CTOBER
- W
ED
.

But it didn't give the year. Wade still thought it was 1962. And fifty years ago, on Thursday, October eleventh, Wade Grinnell was killed running from the police. In his mind, this was the day before.

Olivia leaned forward in the chair. “You said someone else knew the whole story behind the murders. Who is it?”

He looked her up and down. “Well, now, pretty lady, I might just tell you—if you made it worth my while. What are you willing to do for the information?”

“I'm not willing to do what you have in mind. However, I'm a therapist with some expertise in psychology. I might be able to help when the time comes for you to plead your case—”

“It won't get that far. I told you, the cops aren't going to catch me.” He chuckled. “And I've got news for you, sweetie. If you aren't willing to give it up, that won't stop me. I just take what I want.” He grabbed the recliner's armrests and started to pull himself toward her.

“All right, Collin,” Olivia said, trying not to shrink back. “Collin?”

He stood up. “I've got nothing to lose, you know. Hell, the cops want me for a lot worse than rape. I don't give a shit about chalking up another crime. I'm disappearing tomorrow. . . .”

“Collin, I want you to wake up!” she said. “Collin . . .”

“Don't scream,” he whispered, standing directly in front of her now. “I'll bash that old man's head in if he tries to stop me. You better not try to stop me either. . . .”

He grabbed hold of her hair.

“Collin, wake up!” she screamed, wrenching away from him. Her chair fell out from under her, and Olivia felt a clump of her hair torn out by the roots. She toppled to the floor. He stood over her. “No, Collin, stop it!” she cried.

“Collin, what are you doing?”
It was his grandfather's voice.

Collin stopped. He was still for a moment. Olivia watched him stagger back and flop down in the recliner. She swiveled around to see Mr. Stampler in the study doorway.

Horrified, he gaped at his grandson.

Getting to her feet, Olivia grabbed the dining room chair and set it upright again. She warily looked at Collin, slumped in the recliner. His mouth was open and his eyes rolled back.

“Collin?” she said, trying to catch her breath.

He moaned and shifted in the chair. Then at last, he seemed to focus on her. “What happened?” A worried look came to his gawky-handsome face. He glanced down at his fist and opened it up. Several strands of hair fell out of his grasp. “What did I do?” he asked.

She knew Collin was back.

 

 

“I need to apologize to you,” Mr. Stampler whispered.

He and Olivia stood in the doorway of her father's study. Collin was in the kitchen, watching the recorded session on his iPhone. She'd already told him about some of what had transpired—like his handwriting not matching Wade's scribbling on the birthday card, and how he hadn't been able to tie a sailor's knot.

His grandfather still seemed shaken by the whole experience. “I saw the recordings his friends made with him talking like that,” Mr. Stampler continued. “I thought it was something they'd coached him to do while he was in a trance—you know, like in those hypnotists' nightclub acts? I didn't realize until I saw it myself how serious this is. Please, I want you to keep seeing him. I think you're helping him. Collin likes you, too. He told me that you've refused to take his money. Well, I want to pay you.”