Unspeakable (46 page)

Collin looked down at the shattered pieces of his phone. Then he gazed at his grandfather. Tears streamed down the old man's face.

“God, why is this happening?” he cried. “When that train ran him down, I thought it was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. How could he come back?”

Stunned, Collin kept staring at him. He couldn't move.

His grandfather covered his face with hands. “He's dead, goddamn it. Why did he have to come back through you?”

Collin felt as if someone had just sucker-punched him. He didn't want to think it was true. “You—you helped him kill all those people, didn't you?” he heard himself ask. “You were his partner. Fifty years ago . . .”

His grandfather said nothing. Slump shouldered, he dropped his hands to his side. He took a few steps back.

Collin closed his eyes and clutched his stomach. Suddenly, last night and today made sense to him—horrible, clear sense. All morning long, he'd thought someone must have set him up for the murder of Olivia's husband. He didn't want to think the
someone
was his own grandfather. But it was the only explanation. He didn't know when Old Andy had stolen his clothes and the belt from his closet. But he knew his grandfather hadn't attended a city council dinner last night.

“I should have seen it,” Collin said, trying to get his breath. “You—you didn't have any problem finding his room this morning—and in a big hotel like that. But you even knew to park by the closest entrance, because you were there last night. You didn't even knock on his door. You used the key card and let yourself in. You already knew no one alive was in there. . . .”

Collin felt as if he were choking with every word he spoke. He couldn't breathe right. He kept thinking last night had been yet another hotel slaying for Wade's partner.

“How could you put me through that?” he asked. “And Gail and her family, you set me up for that, too. Didn't you? How could you? You're my grandfather, for God's sake. . . .”

“I needed your cooperation,” he muttered.

Collin numbly shook his head at him. “All these murders now,” he said. “My friends and my mom . . .”

“Not your mother,” his grandfather whispered. “I didn't have anything to do with that. . . .”

“But you killed the others, didn't you? Or you hired someone to kill them. Why?”

“I had to,” he muttered. “You'd introduced them to Wade. They all knew too much. I didn't have a choice. . . .”

His head down, Collin wiped the tears from his eyes.

“You're not giving me a choice now, son,” he heard his grandfather say.

When Collin looked at him again, his grandfather was holding the nightstick up in the air.

Before he could do anything, Collin heard the stick crack against his skull. His legs gave out beneath him, and he toppled to the pavement.

As he started to black out, Collin heard his grandfather sobbing.

“T
hecellular phone customer you're trying to reach is unavailable now,”
the automatic recording said.
“Please try your call again later.”

Olivia paced the second-floor hallway outside her brother's bedroom door. This was her second attempt to call Collin back. He'd phoned a few minutes ago. “Olivia, something happened . . .” had been all he'd gotten out before the line had gone dead.

She impatiently clicked off and tried his number once more. The recording came on again. As it played, she peeked in on Ian, asleep in Rex's bed.

This morning, while she and her father had gotten Ian released from the hospital, Hank had run to Ian's apartment for some of his clothes. Ian had been groggy from his medication and was sleeping in the twin single. Rex's vintage illuminated Pabst Blue Ribbon sign was on the wall above the headboard. Baseball and other beer memorabilia filled the small bedroom.

She heard the beep at the end of the automatic greeting on Collin's line. “Hi, Collin,” she said, stepping away from the bedroom door. “We got cut off. Are you okay? You didn't sound good. Your grandfather left a message pushing back our session to noon. So I'm hoping to see you in a few minutes. But I'm really worried. Call me as soon as you can, okay?”

Clicking off, she checked in on Ian again, and then headed downstairs.

“How soon do you want us out of here?” her father called as she passed by the study.

Olivia stopped and poked her head in the doorway. On their way back from the hospital, they'd stopped by the Essential Baking Company for carry-out. Her dad and Hank were finishing up their lunch in front of ESPN—her dad in his recliner, and Hank on the sofa. They both had TV tables with the sandwiches and wrappers in front of them. They'd promised to move their ESPN fest down to the basement rec room once Collin and his grandfather arrived.

“I wouldn't worry about relocating until they get here, Pop,” she sighed. “I have a feeling they'll be late. They might even cancel on me. I'm not sure what's going on.”

She retreated to the kitchen, where Sheri Grinnell's Drifters tape was on the reel-to-reel player. Turning down the volume to “Up on the Roof,” Olivia checked her phone for the Stamplers' number and dialed it. A woman picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, my name's Olivia Barker. Is this the Stampler residence?”

“Yes, this is Mrs. Stampler.”

“Hi, I'm trying to get ahold of Collin, Mrs. Stampler. He has an appointment with me at noon. He called me and we got cut off. I've tried phoning back, but he's not picking up.”

“Well, I don't know anything about an appointment for
Collin
,” Mrs. Stampler said. “My husband had an appointment with a neurologist in Seattle this morning, and Collin went with him. I'm expecting them back any minute. What was Collin supposed to see you about?”

Olivia realized Collin and his grandfather were keeping her in the dark about the hypnotherapy sessions. “I'm Gail's aunt, Mrs. Stampler. And actually, they were just going to swing by and say hello while they were in town.”

“Oh, yes, I'm sorry, Olivia. You called here the other night. I didn't make the connection. So you're trying to get ahold of Collin?”

“Yes, I think his phone battery must have died or something. Could you give me Mr. Stampler's cell number?”

Five minutes later, she was nervously pacing around the island counter, listening to Andy Stampler's voice mail greeting. The beep sounded. “Hello, Mr. Stampler. This is Olivia, and I'm trying to get ahold of Collin. . . .”

Someone beeped in, and she checked the caller ID. It was Collin's grandfather. She clicked on the incoming call. “Mr. Stampler?”

“Yes, I see you were trying to reach me. . . .”

“That's right. Collin called, and then we were cut off—”

“How long ago was this?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“No, like I told you, we were cut off. I've tried calling him back—”

“He's run away,” Stampler interrupted. “We were on the ferry coming over, and Collin got a call from your husband. It really upset him. He said he had to go to the bathroom, and then he just—
disappeared
. I had half the ferry crew looking for him. They were paging him on the PA system, too. I'm at my wit's end. He must have snuck off as soon as we docked. He left a note on my windshield. ‘I'm okay. I need to be alone,' it said. I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself. I'm here driving around the Seattle ferry terminal, searching for him. I have a couple of policemen on it.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I—I'll have Collin call you as soon as we find him. Listen, I need to go. I don't want to tie up the line here.”

“Of course,” she said. “Good-bye, Mr. Stampler.”

Olivia clicked off. She tried Clay's number. It went to the same automatic voice mail as Collin's line. So either his phone was dead or he was out of call range. She didn't leave a message.

If Collin had truly run away, she had a pretty good idea where he'd gone.

On her laptop, she brought up the video of her last session with him. She sent it to her iPhone. Then she threw on her sweater, and grabbed her purse. Heading for the front door, she stopped at the doorway to the study.

Her dad grabbed the remote and muted ESPN. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Can I borrow your car, Pop? I need to go to Ballard.”

“Sure. What's in Ballard?”

“I'll let you know when I get there,” she said. “Meanwhile, if you hear from Collin or his grandfather, give me a shout, okay?” She turned toward the door.

“All right, well, be careful!” she heard her dad call to her.

Olivia had left the reel-to-reel player going in the kitchen—with the volume on low. No one in the house heard a break in The Drifters' rendition of “Under the Boardwalk.” No one heard a voice come on the tape:
“Testing, one, two, three, testing . . . Hey, Sis. So—ah, here's the thing. By the time you get this, I'll be long gone. And sorry, but I'm probably leaving all sorts of shit for you to clean up. Anyway, I guess I owe you an explanation. . . .”

 

 

Olivia turned out of the driveway and headed down the narrow street. She pulled over for a minivan in the oncoming lane. To her annoyance, the vehicle took its sweet time passing by. She saw D
AN
D
INSMORE
C
ONSTRUCTION
on the side of it. Checking her rearview mirror, she watched the minivan turning into her father's driveway.

Olivia shifted into park and turned off the engine. She jumped out of the car and hurried back toward the house to find out what was going on. She heard the minivan's door shut. As she came up the walkway, she saw the man heading toward the front door. He was tall and lean, with black hair and an olive complexion. “Excuse me!” she called to him.

Stopping, he turned and gave her a pleasant smile. His beige jacket had D
AN
D
INSMORE
C
ONSTRUCTION
on a label on the left breast. “Hi, how are you?” he said.

“Hi, I live here,” she said, a little out of breath. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The front door opened, and her father stepped out on the stoop. “Honey, it's okay. He's here to give us an estimate on the door. I meant to tell you.”

The man gave her a little salute.

Olivia smiled back at him. “Hi. Sorry.”

“Say, what happened there?” her father asked, pointing to the man's shoulder.

Olivia noticed the brownish-red blotch, too. It was about the size of an epaulet.

The man curled up his nose as he glanced down at it. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckled. “My little girl spilled some tomato juice on me.” He nodded at the burnt, blister-cracked door. “So this must be it, huh?”

“Excuse me, I'm headed out,” Olivia said, backing away. “But could you do me a favor? We have a friend staying with us, and he just got out of the hospital today. He's sleeping upstairs. Could you try not to make too much noise?”

Nodding, the man smiled at her. “I'll make sure to be very quiet, ma'am.”

“Thanks,” Olivia said. She blew a kiss at her dad, and then hurried back toward the car.

 

 

White-knuckled, Andy Stampler clutched the steering wheel and watched the road ahead. Tears streamed down his face. His grandson was lying unconscious in the backseat with a coat covering him. Andy had been barking orders and growling at the poor kid all morning. Maybe finding fault with everything he did made it easier to put his grandson through the wringer like this. The boy hadn't done anything to deserve it.

Andy wondered if it was possible Collin could actually remember back to when he'd been three and a half years old.

Of course, Andy remembered that October day, thirteen years ago, when Wade's sister had tricked him into meeting her. She'd pretended to be a reporter and asked to interview him. His retirement and a slew of awards he'd received in the fall of 1999 had earned him a lot of press. He'd been babysitting three-year-old Collin the day Sheri had wanted to conduct the interview, so he'd suggested they meet at Nelson Park's playground. He'd liked the idea of being portrayed as a proud grandpa—and indeed he had been. Maybe not a proud father, but a proud grandpa.

That sunny autumn day in the park, Andy didn't recognize Sheri at first, not even when they sat down on the bench together. She had shoulder-length white hair and wore too much makeup—which still didn't hide the lines and blotches on her careworn face. The black raincoat she wore looked a bit frayed. She'd brought along a portable tape recorder, which Andy thought was for the interview.

“You don't know who I am, do you?” she said, half-smiling. “But we met each other once—a long time ago. We have someone in common who was close to both of us.”

Andy smiled politely and shrugged. He was a bit distracted by Collin, playing on the jungle gym nearby.

“The last time I tried to track you down,” she said, “I heard you were in the military, stationed in Europe. . . .”

“That was the mid-seventies,” Andy said, his eyes narrowed at her.

“Well, since then I've lived down in Centralia and then in Oregon for a while. I wasn't following the Seattle scene. But then I moved to Tacoma last year, and a few days ago—well, what do you know?—I saw Andy Stampler's name in the newspapers. I read about all your good deeds, and how generous you are. I hope I've caught you in a generous mood now.”

She pressed a button on the tape recorder between them.

Andy was still thinking she'd brought the thing for their interview. Instead, what came out of that little machine was Wade Grinnell's voice—from almost four decades before.

On the jungle gym, little Collin stopped and stared at them.

Stunned, Andy sat there, listening to Wade. His old friend was telling his sister that if the police caught up with him and Andy, he wanted something for the record about exactly how they'd killed those tourist families. There was no regret in his tone. In fact, he was bragging and joking:
“They came to Seattle for the ultimate thrill, and they got it. . . .”

Collin had abandoned the jungle gym, and he stood in front of them, seemingly fascinated by the tape.

“Go play on the swings,” Andy finally told him, a tremor in his voice.

His grandson went to sit on one of the swings, but continued to stare at them—and that box with the voice coming out of it.

Andy remembered when his daughter, Piper, had started getting Collin modeling and commercial roles at age five—just a year and a half later. She'd bragged about how smart he was and how well he remembered his lines. He simply amazed his directors with his memory and imagination.

Had that taped confession planted a malignant seed in the mind of his grandson?

The recording had gone on for fifteen minutes. From the way he'd talked, Wade must not have figured out that his partner in crime had already disavowed him. He'd spoken like they were still a team, a couple of outlaws.

Sheri told him there were copies of the tape, of course. “You know, thirty-seven years ago when I approached your grandfather for money, I was young, stupid, and scared.” She let out an abrupt laugh. “I settled for very little—considering how much your family could afford, and how much you stood to lose.”