Unspeakable (47 page)

Andy wanted to tell Wade's sister that after thirty-seven years, she was still just as stupid.

But he sheepishly agreed to pay her two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in exchange for the tape and all the copies. Sheri said she would meet him in the park at 2
PM
the following day. “And bring your grandson. . . .”

That night, he set her apartment on fire. There was minor damage to the surrounding units in the building. Wade's sister was the only casualty. Before lighting the first match, Andy had thoroughly searched the place for tapes. There had been a bunch of cassettes in her bedroom. He'd figured all of Wade's recordings had gone up in smoke along with Wade's sister.

He didn't think he'd ever have to hear Wade's voice again.

Then ten days ago, he'd checked a video sent to Collin's iPhone. He'd shuddered at the sound of that voice once more—this time, coming from his grandson.

Collin was still unconscious in the backseat.

As much as his grandfather loathed doing it, he was determined to make certain that voice was silenced forever.

 

 

“So—is there anyone else at home I need to be quiet for?” the construction man asked, looking down at him with a lopsided smile.

Crouched by the front stoop, Walt held the other end of the measuring tape at the base of the door. He chuckled. “No, there's just our patient upstairs and my new buddy, Hank, glued to the TV there in my study.”

“One-oh-seven-point-five inches,” the contractor said, holding the tape up to the top of the door. “So this Hank is a
new
friend, huh?”

“Actually, he's kind of a private-detective/bodyguard.” Olivia's dad straightened up, then let go of his end of the thin steel tape. It made a hissing sound as it automatically rewound into the receptacle. “It's just a precaution. A friend of my daughter is worried whoever pulled this stunt with the door might come back to try something even more serious.”

“Wow, a
bodyguard
?” the contractor said. “Is he carrying a gun or anything like that? I mean, I don't want to say the wrong thing to him and piss him off.”

Walt grinned. “Relax. He seems pretty mellow. Say, listen, I'm headed in—if you don't need me for anything else. Would you like a Coke or a glass of water or anything?”

“No, thanks,” the man said. He scribbled down something in a notebook. “Just leave the door open a little so I can measure the width.”

Walt stepped in and left the door ajar. He poked his head into the study. “Need anything?”

“Nope, I'm doing great,” Hank replied, sitting at one end of the sofa. He wore his shoulder holster over his white Izod shirt.

Walt thought he heard murmuring in the kitchen. He headed in there, and saw the reel-to-reel player was still on. But it wasn't playing music or people singing at a party. Instead, someone was talking on the tape:
“Yeah, leave it to Andy. He torched two hotels—the Aurora Vista and the Pioneer Motor Inn. Snap, crackle, pop! I think he ended up frying eight people—nine, if you count this bum he set on fire down on the waterfront. That was kind of an accident. That was before we decided to send a message to those fucking tourists who came here for this fair. Too bad we couldn't have killed more of them. Anyway, like I was saying, most of the time, I held the gun on them and Andy tied them up. . . .”

A chill raced through Walt. For the last two nights, Olivia had been playing tape after tape—waiting for something. Was this what she'd wanted to hear?

Shutting off the tape player, Walt hurried over to the cordless on the kitchen counter and dialed Olivia's number. It went to voice mail.

 

 

“If you're looking for Walt, I think he's in the kitchen,” Hank said to the contractor.

The man nodded. “Yeah, I know. He's on the phone right now. I'm just waiting for him to hang up.” With his hand in his jacket pocket, he stepped into the room, between the detective and the TV. “What are you watching?”

“
SportsCenter
, and you're a better door than a window.” He waved at him to step aside.

“Sorry,” he laughed. He backed up until he stood right beside the Barkers' armed bodyguard. He looked down at the top of his head—and his receding gray hair. He slowly pulled his hand from the pocket of the contractor's jacket. “Hey, I think you got something on the back of your shirt. . . .”

Hank half turned toward him. “What is it?”

“Here, let me get it,” he said. “I think it's a dead leaf or something. . . .”

Hank leaned forward with his head tilted down. “You got it?”

The man grabbed him by the scalp and plunged the ice pick into the base of his skull. “Got it,” he whispered.

Hank barely uttered a sound.

 

 

“Anyway, I think this might be what you were waiting to hear—with all those tapes you've been playing,” Walt said on his daughter's voice mail. “It sounds like a confession, only this guy's pretty damn proud of himself. He's bragging about killing tourists at the World's Fair, he and a fellow named Andy. I don't know if it's true or not, but it's pretty disturbing stuff. And now I'm suddenly worried about you. So call me as soon as you get this. Okay, honey? Take care.”

He put the cordless back in its cradle, and then turned around to see the contractor standing by the refrigerator. Startled, Walt let out a little laugh. “Well, hey, did you change your mind about a Coke? Or are you finished already?”

“I've barely gotten started yet,” the man replied, with a flicker of a smile.

 

 

“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 . . .”

From the last session with Collin, Olivia had directions to his “safe place.” Her iPhone was in the cup holder on the console beside her. It was almost like having a GPS navigation system. But his directions were way ahead of her actual location right now—driving down Market Street in downtown Ballard. She had at least another ten minutes until Ray's Boathouse.

The sky had suddenly turned dark and ominous—as if a thunderstorm was ready to sneak up on the city. It looked more like dusk than noon. She wished she'd bought a raincoat—and a flashlight for her trek through the forest. A part of her wondered if all this wasn't just a waste of time. But she knew if Collin had run away, he would have retreated to his secret shack in the woods.

At a stoplight, Olivia paused the recording. She noticed someone had called and left a message. She anxiously checked the caller ID. It wasn't Collin or his grandfather. It was home—probably her dad, wanting to know where she was in Ballard.

She saw the light change, and put the phone back in the cup holder. She would check the message and call him back when she got to Fifty-eighth Street.

Olivia pressed on toward Collin's safe place.

 

 

“So—what does your daughter do?”

“She's kind of a counselor-therapist. . . .”

Upstairs, in Olivia's brother's bedroom, Ian was awake. For a few moments, he didn't move. He still felt clammy, feverish, and weak. He heard a football game on the TV downstairs, and two people talking in another part of the house. One of them was Olivia's dad. The other voice was familiar, too.

Terribly familiar.

“So where was she headed in such a hurry?”

Olivia's dad's response was a bit muffled by cheers from the football game on TV.

Ian pulled himself out of bed. His T-shirt was soaked with perspiration, and his sweatpants were all twisted around. He staggered over to the bedroom window and glanced down at the minivan in the driveway. The name of the construction company was on it. Bracing a hand against the wall, he made his way down the hall to the top of the stairs, but he couldn't see anything on the first floor. Still, Ian heard that guy's voice—the same voice he'd heard in the convenience store and in his hospital room last night. He was sure of it now.

Ian's heart was beating wildly. He remembered Mr. Barker mentioning during their lunch on Tuesday that he kept a gun stashed in his bedroom. Ian crept into the master bedroom, convinced with every step he took, they could hear him downstairs. He pulled open the drawer to the nightstand, and almost tipped over the tall lamp on top of it. He steadied the lamp, and caught his breath. He felt light-headed. Bent over the drawer, he sifted through pens, old coins, a rosary, a couple of watches, and several handkerchiefs. But he couldn't find a gun. For a few seconds, it felt as if the room was spinning.

He heard a rustling, flapping noise outside, and headed toward the window. Grasping the window frame to balance himself, Ian stared down at the backyard. It looked like a storm was rolling in. His vision started to right itself again. He noticed a tarp, weighted down with bricks, covering a portion of the garden. But a gust of wind loosened one corner, and it fluttered back—allowing Ian a glimpse of something under the tarp.

It was a dead man, facedown in the mud.

 

 

As he bent over in front of the open refrigerator in search for a soda, Walt could feel the contractor hovering behind him. “I know we have a regular Coke in here for you,” he told the man. “All my daughter drinks is the diet stuff. . . .”

Walt was starting to wonder about this guy. He seemed too preoccupied with making small talk, and had spent a total of two minutes assessing the damage to the front of the house. Now the guy wanted a Coke. Talk about a slacker.

The telephone rang. Walt turned around, “Let me get that. It might be my daughter. Here, have a look-see in the fridge. I know we have a regular Coke in there for you.”

A resounding cheer came from the fans in a clip of a football game on TV. “Hey, Hank, what game are they showing?” he called.

There was no response.

Walt snatched up the cordless phone. “Hello?” He stepped toward the dining room. In the large mirror above the side buffet, he could see into his study across the hall. Hank was sitting in his chair with his eyes open. The light from the TV flickered on his dull, expressionless face.

“Mr. Barker, don't say anything,” he heard Ian whisper on the other end of the line. “Pretend it's someone else calling.”

“Hi, um,
George
,” Walt said, baffled.

“I'm upstairs on my cell phone,” Ian whispered. “That guy you're talking with down there, he's the one who tried to kill me yesterday. . . .”

Walt turned toward the kitchen again. The contractor sat down at the island counter with a Coke. Walt couldn't help thinking Ian might be a bit paranoid. One of the nurses at the hospital had said his medications might make him that way. “Are you—ah, sure what you're talking about?” he asked.

“I know the son of a bitch's voice,” Ian whispered. Walt could hear him breathing hard on the other end. “Listen, there's a dead body in your backyard—half-covered with the tarp over the garden. I—I think he's the real construction guy. The one you're talking with, he's a fake. He's here to kill me—and Olivia. Did I hear you say she isn't home?”

“That's right,” he said, wandering toward the big window. But he couldn't see the garden from there. He'd put the tarp down himself, so he knew Ian wasn't totally hallucinating. He caught the man looking at him. Walt worked up a smile.

“Where's Hank?” Ian asked.

“Uh-huh,” Walt said, taking a step into the dining room. He stared at Hank's reflection in the mirror again. Some sportscaster on TV was hollering excitedly. The detective didn't move a muscle. His open eyes looked dead. A crimson stain bloomed on the shoulder of his white sports shirt.

“Mr. Barker?” Ian asked.

Walt swallowed hard, and stepped back into the kitchen again. The man was watching him carefully. “Um, George, I—I think the car died. I wouldn't count on it. You'll—ah, have to think of some other way.”

“Oh, Jesus. You—you told me you had a gun up here in your bedroom—”

“Not anymore, I'm afraid,” Walt said, his jaw tensing up. He'd moved the relic of a gun from his bedroom closet to his desk drawer in the study this morning. He'd figured it wouldn't do him any good up there if he was downstairs all day. He nodded at the contractor and held up his finger to indicate he'd be off the phone in a minute. “Listen, George,” he said. “If you're up for it, I could certainly use a nice distraction.”

“You want me to make some noise up here?”

“Yeah, but I'd wait a minute or two if I were you,” Walt replied. He wandered over to the sink, and furtively checked the drying rack. The closest thing to a knife among the few pots and utensils was a potato peeler.

“I'll hang up now and call 9-1-1,” Ian told him. “I'll break something in about sixty seconds. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” Walt said with a slight tremor in his voice. “And hey, if you see my daughter before I do, give her my love.”

Walt clicked off the cordless, and set it on the counter. He smiled at the man. “That was my daughter's friend, George. Sorry, when he starts talking, I can't shut him up.” He grabbed a spatula, a ladle, and the potato peeler from the dry rack. Then he moved over to the drawer where he kept the knives and opened it up.

“Hold it right there,” the man said. He pulled Hank's gun out of his jacket pocket. “Put that shit down, and close the drawer.”

Walt froze and gazed at him. “What is this? What's going on?” He dropped the spatula and ladle. They made a loud clank as they hit the hardwood floor. He stepped back and bumped against the counter, furtively setting down the potato peeler. “Is this some kind of a joke?”