Unspeakable (44 page)

Monitoring Collin's computer activity, Andy watched his grandson get closer and closer to the truth. That was when he hired the hit man to eliminate the potential witnesses.

Once again, Andy became part of a killing team. He was riding in the passenger seat of the black Saturn when they picked up Fernando. He remembered the boy's angelic face lighting up with a smile as he recognized him:
“Well, hey, I was just heading for school. . . .”

After they found out Fernando hadn't told anyone else about Wade Grinnell, the killer-for-hire slit the boy's throat. Andy waited in the car while it happened.

The same contract killer had done a thorough job breaking into the Pelham house that afternoon. Though Collin's girlfriend hadn't recorded anything about Wade Grinnell on her computer or in her journal, she'd still become a liability. Together, they set the Pelham house ablaze in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Andy hated to admit it to himself, but the experience still thrilled him.

He had near-complete damage control. The two witnesses were dead. All tracks had been covered. And Collin—unhinged that he might be responsible for the deaths of his friend and her family—had promised not to mention Wade Grinnell to another living soul. It tore up Andy to see his grandson so tormented. But he was fighting for his own survival.

Irene Pollack seemed like the only loose end, and it might have ended with her, too, if Collin had kept his word. But the very same night he learned of Fernando's death, Collin was online, looking up hypnotists.

Andy sent his killer-for-hire to tail him, and gave specific instructions:

Olivia Barker wasn't easily discouraged. Andy's watchdog program on Collin's phone had picked up the video of his session in Olivia office last Thursday.

He'd seen Collin reconnecting with Ian Haggerty—even after Andy deleted an email Haggerty had sent to his grandson.

Then his hired helper had even more bad news: he'd been spotted by someone named Rick Jessup who was stalking Collin.

Suddenly three more people had to be eliminated. And only one of those three was dead now. It was a pretty damn shoddy success rate.

Andy saw the lights of the Bainbridge ferry terminal on the dark horizon. He'd already purchased three one-way open tickets (first class) to London on British Air. Even his doctor wasn't going to stop him. It was the only way to contain this Wade situation, no more police investigating, no more hypnotists, no more witnesses. He remembered how going away to military school had helped him forget. The change of scenery would do his grandson good. Hell, it would be good for all of them.

By this time tomorrow Collin would agree that a long trip abroad was their best option.

And by this time tomorrow, it would be three out of three.

A
white minivan with D
AN
D
INSMORE
C
ONSTRUCTION
printed in red letters on both sides pulled up in front of Walt Barker's house on Alder Lane. Along with his scraper knife and a tape measure, Dan had his iPhone with him so he could take photos and record dimensions.

Tall and lean with short brown hair and a goatee, the thirty-seven-year-old contractor wore a beige zip-up jacket. His name was on a decal sewn on the left side—above his heart. Starting up the walkway to the classic colonial home, Dan studied the charred front door and the smoke damage to the frame around it. The door still looked functional, but it definitely had to be replaced. There was no way he could refurbish it.

He was taking measurements when someone came around from the backyard. Dan hadn't rung the bell yet. He smiled. “Hi, are you Mr. Barker?”

“That's me.” The man gave him a wary look.

“I'm Dan Dinsmore,” he explained. “I'm here to give you an estimate on the door. We talked yesterday. I'm about twenty minutes early. I hope that doesn't screw you up.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” the man said, grabbing his hand and shaking it. “Thanks for coming. Is that your truck there?” He pointed to the minivan.

Dan nodded.

“I don't see your picture on it. I can't remember. Do you have your picture on your website?”

With a mystified smile, Dan shook his head. “No, but if you'd like to see some ID . . .”

“Oh, no, no, no, that's not necessary. We're all just a little nervous here. We're still trying to figure out who's responsible for this. Anyway, I can see on your jacket who you are. How are we doing?”

Dan sighed. “Well, Mr. Barker, I think you were right. We need to replace the door.”

“I was afraid of that,” he said, frowning. “Well, listen, before you get too caught up in this mess, I have something around back I'd like you to take a look at. Would you mind?”

Dan shook his head. “No problem.”

He followed him around the side of the house. Trees and tall bushes provided privacy in the backyard. He noticed a patio directly in back of the house—and off to the side beyond that, a black plastic tarp held down by bricks covered some plants in a small garden.

“It's the bottom of the kitchen door here,” the man said. “I banged it up the other day.”

Dan glanced at the base of the door. He crouched down for a closer inspection. A shadow passed behind him. He didn't see anything wrong with the door.

He didn't see the ice pick in the other man's hand.

His cell phone rang. Dan reached into the pocket of his jacket. “Excuse me,” he said. He looked at the phone, and then let out a little laugh. “Well, this is the damnedest thing:
Barker, Walt
. I'm getting a call from
you
right now!”

Before he could click on the phone, the ice pick was already rammed inside his ear.

The cell phone dropped to the ground. The contractor fell down beside it. His thin body convulsed with spasms, and blood gushed onto the patio pavement.

The man grabbed the phone on the fourth ring. “Dinsmore Construction,” he said.

“Yes, hi, this is Walt Barker speaking. You have an appointment at our house in about fifteen minutes, and it totally escaped my mind this morning. Would it foul things up to push it back a couple of hours? We're trying to spring a friend out of the hospital, and I think it'll take at least another hour.”

The contractor's body stopped twitching. He was perfectly still. A pool of blood haloed around his head.

“That's no problem at all, Mr. Barker,” the man said. “I'll see you at noon.”

Collin woke up to the sound of his grandfather clearing his throat in the hallway. He rolled over on his other side and tugged up the sheets. The throat-clearing ritual would go on periodically until midmorning. It was how he knew his grandfather was awake, home, and not clearing his throat on the golf course.

After a long, nervous evening alone with his grandmother, Collin had been so relieved to hear the BMW pull into the driveway around 10
PM
. Dee had been dozing in front of
House Hunters
. Letting her sleep, Collin had hurried out to the garage to meet his grandfather. Old Andy had looked tired and a bit shaky as he climbed out of the car. Still, Collin had just been glad to have him home and safe.

About an hour later, after his grandparents had gone to bed, Collin had been startled by a knock on his bedroom door. His grandfather poked his head in. “Kiddo, could you do me a favor?” he asked. He was wearing his plaid robe and slippers. In his hand he had a pill. “Would you mind hitting the sack a little early tonight—maybe even taking this sleeping pill? It's Dee's prescription. It's perfectly safe.”

Standing in front of him, Collin looked at the blue pill and then at his grandfather. “I don't understand.”

“Well, for the last few nights—ever since your friend died in the fire—I haven't been able to fall asleep if I know you're still up. I'll go to bed, and just toss and turn. Then I get up and check for the strip of light under your door. I can't really relax until I see your light's off. I need to know you're okay before I can knock off for the night.”

Collin bit his lip. He knew he was causing his grandfather some stress, but he hadn't realized until now how much of a burden he'd become. It was clear that Old Andy was worried he was going to sneak out and kill someone again. He felt horrible.

His grandfather extended his hand, palm up, with the pill in it. “Anyway, I'm awfully tired. If you take this now, we'll
both
be asleep within the hour.”

Collin plucked the pill out of his hand, and studied it.
Ambien
. He hadn't taken Ambien since the night his mother and Chance had been murdered. He looked into his grandfather's weary eyes and nodded. He'd take the stupid pill if the old man wanted him to.

His grandfather retreated into the bathroom. Collin listened to the faucet. A few moments later, Old Andy returned with a tumbler of water and handed it to him. “Dee talked to you about this trip to Europe. It'll do all of us a world of good. We'll work out something with your school. Anyway, I want you to think about it.”

Collin swallowed the pill and chased it down with a gulp of water. “I'll think about it, Grandpa,” he said listlessly. “I better go brush my teeth and wash up. If this is anything like the pills Mom used to give me, it'll kick in fast.”

His grandfather hugged him. “G'night, kiddo.”

“Grandpa, I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you,” he whispered.

“Stop it,” he murmured, kissing him on the cheek. “You've always been a good kid.” He patted his back a few times, then broke away and shuffled out the door.

By the time he'd crawled into bed a few minutes later, Collin had barely been able to keep his eyes open. For a few moments, he'd panicked, remembering what had happened the last time he'd taken one of these pills. But he'd given in to sleep, because that had been what his grandfather had wanted.

Collin heard him clear his throat again.

Rolling over, he squinted at daylight coming through the curtain crack. His desk lamp was still on. The digital clock on his nightstand read 10:01
AM
.

He bolted up in bed. “Christ,” he muttered. He couldn't believe it. He'd slept almost eleven hours. They were supposed to meet Olivia this morning—right now, in fact. Throwing off the sheets, he staggered out of bed and hurried toward the bathroom. He switched on the light, and stopped dead in the doorway.

Collin stared down at his jeans bunched up on the tiled floor. Smeared with brownish stains, his gray T-shirt was draped over the side of the tub. Collin took a closer look. The stains were dried blood.

Around the sink and the bathroom counter were crimson fingerprints. They were all over a key card for the Commodore Inn—and dollar bills sticking out of a wallet. In shock, Collin stared at the Oregon driver's license in the wallet window. He recognized the man in the DMV photo from Gail's funeral—and from the lobby of Olivia's office. It was her estranged husband:
Bischoff, Clayton Lawrence
.

Suddenly, Collin couldn't breathe. He felt as if his legs were ready to give out. He staggered over to the toilet. With a shaky hand, he lowered the lid and sat down. He couldn't believe this had happened again. As soon as he got a breath, he started to cry.

There was a knock on his bedroom door. “Kiddo, are you awake yet?” his grandfather called, his voice muffled. “I let you sleep in. I called Olivia and pushed our appointment back.”

There was a click of the doorknob turning, and his grandfather called to him again. His voice was clear this time. “Collin?”

He listened to the floorboards creak as his grandfather walked across the room. “Collin, what's going on? Did you sneak out last night? I thought I heard. . . .”

His grandfather fell silent as he reached the bathroom threshold. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and khakis, and had a folded-up newspaper in his hand. “Good Lord, what happened in here?” he whispered.

Hunched forward with his arms crossed in front of him, Collin looked up at him and shook his head. He started to tremble.

Stepping over to the sink, his grandfather put down the newspaper and picked up the hotel key card. “What is this? Collin, what's going on?” He examined the wallet. “I saw this man at your friend Gail's funeral. He was talking to—your hypnotist, Olivia. Who is he?”

His mouth open, Collin just stared at him. He couldn't answer.

His grandfather glanced down at the bloody clothes. He quickly picked up the jeans. Collin watched him empty his change and his wallet from the pockets. Then he pulled out a set of keys. “These are mine. You took my car. . . .” With a sigh of exasperation, he shoved the keys in his own pocket. He tossed the jeans in the tub—along with the sweatshirt. Turning on the cold water, he grabbed a shampoo bottle and poured some over the clothes. Then he hurried out of the bathroom.

Collin couldn't stop shaking. Past the shower, he heard the bedroom door click—and his grandfather's footsteps again. It sounded like he was looking for something in the closet. After a few moments, he came back into the bathroom with a robe that Collin rarely wore. “C'mon, get up,” his grandfather urged him. He held out the robe.

Collin couldn't move.

“Get up,” he growled. He threw the robe over his shoulders, then grabbed him by the arms and pulled him to his feet. “Collin, try to remember what happened. . . .”

Suddenly, he slapped him across the face. It startled more than stung him. Wide eyed, Collin stared at him. In all the times he'd stayed with his grandparents, Old Andy hadn't laid a finger on him. “Who is this Clayton Bischoff person?” his grandfather demanded to know.

“He—he's Olivia's husband,” Collin heard himself say. “They're separated. I've only met him once. I hardly know him. . . .”

“You don't remember getting in the car and driving someplace late last night?” His grandfather swiped the key card from the counter. “Commodore Inn, Seattle,” he said. “You don't have any memory of taking the last ferry to Seattle? Think, Collin, you must have caught the last ferry, then driven back
two hours
—across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. That's just crazy, you have to remember. . . .”

“I don't, I swear,” he cried.

He suddenly thought of the webcam attachment to his computer. At least he could see himself climbing out of bed—and get a record of the time and how long he'd been gone. But the pill last night had knocked him out so quickly that he hadn't set the timer to record his activity.

His grandfather picked up Clay Bischoff's wallet again, and riffled through it. He took out a piece of paper. “A room service stub,” he said, almost to himself. “He was in room one-seventeen. Does that sound familiar?”

Collin shook his head.

“Then I suppose it's pointless to ask if you remember leaving anything behind in the room,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry,” Collin whispered, clutching the robe around him. He stared down at the tiled floor. “I'm really sorry, Grandpa. I don't know how this happened. I don't remember anything about last night. I don't even remember
dreaming
last night.”

His grandfather grabbed a washcloth and started to wipe off the counter. “Let's face up to this. There's every indication here that you—well, that you killed this Bischoff person. You said he's the estranged husband of your hypnotist. They're divorcing, is that right?”

Collin nodded.

“Well, something tells me she must have made some sort of posthypnotic suggestion or whatever it's called and gotten you to bump off her husband for her. . . .”

“No, Grandpa, Olivia would never do that. . . .” Still, Collin was thinking of Wade Grinnell, who had no problem killing—especially in hotel rooms.

“Get dressed,” he heard his grandfather say. “You and I are going to Seattle. We're driving to the Commodore Inn, and we'll check out room one-seventeen. Maybe we're jumping to the wrong conclusion here. Maybe it's not as bad as we think. Say a prayer that's the case. . . .”

 

 

His grandfather was on one knee, crouched in front of the cabinet under the sink. He loaded up his duffel bag with two sets of rubber gloves from the supply Dee kept to wash dishes. He also grabbed a roll of paper towels and a plastic trash bag and shoved them into the duffel. From the drawer, he took a washcloth and two dish towels, then stashed them in the bag as well. He zipped up the duffel.

Dressed in jeans and a denim shirt and his red jacket, Collin moved over toward the kitchen table. His grandfather had left Dee a note:

“You know, eventually, we'll have to tell Dee what's going on,” Collin said. “She knows something's the matter. She's just waiting for one of us to explain it to her.”

“We can worry about that later,” his grandfather grumbled, handing him the duffel. Old Andy wouldn't even look at him, he seemed so upset. “First, we need to figure out exactly what it is you did last night—and if there's any way to fix it.”

With the bag in tow and his head down, Collin followed him through the vestibule to the garage door. A beep echoed inside the large garage and the car lights flashed as his grandfather hit the device on the key-chain to unlock the BMW. Then his grandfather opened up the driver's door to the BMW. “Oh, Lord,” he muttered, glancing inside the car.

Collin opened the passenger side door. On the floor in front of his seat were a switchblade knife and a policeman's nightstick. Both had blood on them.

“Christ, where did you get those?” he heard his grandfather ask.

He shook his head. “I've never seen them before, I swear.”

With a grunt, his grandfather climbed into the driver's seat and started up the car. Collin slipped into the passenger side. Grimacing, he moved the knife and the nightstick aside with his foot. He set the bag in his lap and shut the car door.

“Ah, goddamn it!” his grandfather barked, jerking his hands away from the wheel.

Collin gaped at him. He saw the blood smeared on his grandfather's hands.

“In the glove compartment,” he growled, nodding at the dashboard. “Get me the—the—the Handi Wipes. And for God's sakes, you can't just leave that shit down there! Take one of those dish towels from the bag and wrap up that club and the knife. Use your head, Collin, what if a cop stopped us?”

His lip quivering, Collin was obedient.

He watched his grandfather wipe the blood off the steering wheel. He had blood on his hands now, too—from handling the nightstick and knife.

“Give those to me,” his grandfather said impatiently.

Collin passed the weapons to him, wrapped in the dish towel. His grandfather shoved them under his seat. He thrust the bloodied towelette into his hand. Collin didn't know what to do with it.

“Get the trash bag out and throw it in there. That's why I packed it. And wipe the blood off your hands. Jesus, Collin!”

Collin swallowed hard, nodded, and followed his instructions.

His grandfather pressed the remote, and the garage door opened with a mechanical hum. They backed out to the driveway and stopped. The garage door automatically began its descent. Collin stuffed the black plastic trash bag back into the duffel, and then zipped it up.

His grandfather stretched out his arm and patted the back of his head. “I'm sorry to snap at you, kiddo. It's just that I can't do this alone. I need you to stay sharp here.”

“Sure, Grandpa,” he murmured.

Collin didn't say anything more. His grandfather's hand was still wet from the towelette. It felt cold and clammy against the back of his neck.