Unspeakable (9 page)

“Is that why they got sent here to Poulsbo?” Collin asked. “I mean, no offense, but really, are you guys here to do anything besides chase away Rick Jessup and the occasional paparazzi?”

“I probably shouldn't answer that,” Ian said, frowning. “I've already shot off my mouth too much. I don't know why. Maybe it's because you're the first person I've really talked to over here—besides Al and company. Plus ever since
The Night Whisperer
, you've always reminded me of my kid brother. Anyway, I'll tell you this much, Collin. . . .” He glanced at him. “We think the danger is real. Our presence here is serving a purpose. Until they catch your mother's killers, you shouldn't go off on your own.”

Collin squirmed in the passenger seat, and looked out the window. “I overheard Al telling one of the other guys he thinks I killed my mother—and her boyfriend.”

“Al's an idiot.”

Collin kept staring out the window. The wind whipped through his black hair. “Maybe I did kill them—only I don't remember, because of the Ambien I took. I've heard all sorts of stories about people doing strange things while they're taking these sleep drugs.” He turned to look at Ian. “I'm the only one who survived. The cops must think that's weird. Tell me the truth, you guys are watching me to make sure I don't try to run away or kill somebody else.”

Ian shook his head. “If that was the case, we'd be pretty reckless with your grandparents' lives, letting them spend night after night with a murder suspect. You shouldn't pay attention to anything Al says. He's a board-certified moron.”

Collin turned toward the window again. Ian hadn't really answered his question. Collin had read online that in the rental house, all the bloody footprints on the rugs and floors had been indistinguishable partials. Investigators weren't sure how many killers were there. His vague account of an intruder talking to a cohort—and then a shot from downstairs—seemed to indicate at least three suspects were involved. But did the police believe him?

The cops probably had their theories about how he'd murdered his mom and Chance, how he'd gotten the gun, and where he'd hidden it—along with the knife. Collin imagined they had some explanation for how he alone could have tied up the two of them.

Collin had heard only one stranger's voice that night. He'd also heard his mother and Chance.

She used to call Chance “baby” sometimes.

Collin still wondered if he'd killed them in his sleep. Had his mother been begging him to spare her boyfriend? He remembered her screaming:
“Oh, sweet Jesus, my baby! Don't hurt him! Collin, get out of here! Oh, no . . .”

He continued to stare out the window, and for the rest of the car ride, he didn't utter a word.

T
he skinny-dippers weren't out there tonight.

It was sheer luck he'd spotted them from his bedroom window four nights ago. Collin had heard the girl's high-pitched laughter—an alert that someone had snuck onto his grandparents' private beach. Sometimes, watching whoever showed up on that strip of shore was more entertaining than TV or the Internet. After all, it was happening in his own backyard. That was why the binoculars from his grandfather's study had found a new home on his bedroom windowsill. They weren't exactly high-powered state-of-the-art, but they were better than nothing. Since he'd been living in a perpetual state of boredom and horniness lately, he was always hoping for some skinny-dipping trespassers.

On Monday night, he got his wish. As soon as he heard that girl giggling, Collin switched off his bedroom light and reached for the binoculars. From what he could see, she was brunette, pretty, and college age, with a rocking body beneath her T-shirt and shorts. The guy looked like a dopey jock, and he was already taking off his clothes when Collin got the binoculars out. She squealed as he plunged naked into the water. He called to her and cajoled her into joining him.

“Thank you, God,” Collin whispered, watching her shuck the T-shirt over her head. Then the bra came off—and the shorts, and finally the panties.

He felt like such a pervert, spying on them, but the vision of that brunette frolicking naked in the moonlight took his breath away. The two of them were in shallow water some of the time, and Collin couldn't believe the guy didn't have a woody. Meanwhile, he was ready to pass out. They were splashing each other when a boat pulled up close to the sandbar. A light glowed in the small craft's cabin. The girl seemed to notice. The couple scurried to the shore and put on their clothes. Collin couldn't tell if it was a police boat or what. But the damn thing sure put a crimp in his night.

For the last three evenings, he'd kept checking for the skinny-dippers again. They hadn't returned. But the boat had.

It was out there again tonight.

Collin sat at his desk, playing
Castle Attack
on his computer. The rest of the house was quiet. His grandparents were asleep—way down at the other end of the hall, in their own little wing practically.

During his previous visits, he'd thought of this as
his
bedroom. Framed prints of sailboats adorned the walls. The curtains and bedspreads were a blue and white print with anchors, life preservers, flags, and crossed paddles. The desk lamp had a base that was a replica of a ship's helm. “It's a wonder our guests don't get seasick sleeping in there,” his grandfather joked.

Now that Collin had actually moved in, the quarters did indeed feel like a guest room—or a hotel room. Dee even stocked the attached bathroom with travel-size soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and all the rest. No one was supposed to stay there permanently.

Collin's stuff from the rental house clashed with Dee's maritime motif. His collection of bobblehead baseball figures looked out of place, lined up along the windowsill. He still hadn't hung up the illuminated Coca-Cola clock he'd had since he was eleven. It was plugged in and set against the wall with stacks of his books, games, and DVDs. His grandfather had offered to help hang his framed poster of
The Night Whisperer
—along with several plaques, film awards, and citations. There were also pictures of him with some big-name celebrities—photo ops from different events he'd attended. His grandfather couldn't understand why he didn't want to decorate the bedroom with his awards and memorabilia. But Collin hadn't had them on display since he and his mother had left Los Angeles. He didn't see any point in reminding himself of who he used to be.

Staring out the window, he wondered if the boat out there on the bay belonged to some persistent paparazzo or reporter. Most of them had already lost interest—even though his mother's murder remained unsolved. The only people still paying attention to him were the police. Was it a police boat?

Collin turned off the computer monitor in the middle of
Castle Attack
and switched off the helm lamp on his desk. He grabbed the binoculars, and focused in on the small craft. He guessed it was about as close to the beach as it could get. A light was on in the front—along with one dim cabin light. If it was a police boat, it wasn't marked like one.

He wondered if the person on the boat had come back with hopes of seeing the skinny-dippers, too. He could see someone standing on the deck. The lone shadowy figure looked like a man, and he seemed to be holding something in front of his face. Collin couldn't tell what it was—maybe a camera. Or maybe the guy had a pair of binoculars of his own. He didn't seem to be scoping out the beach. In fact, he seemed to be looking directly into Collin's window.

“What the hell?” he murmured. He stood in the dark for a few minutes—until he saw the man retreat inside the boat's cabin. Then the vessel's lights went off. Collin kept a lookout, but he didn't see the man again. After a few minutes, a cloud must have moved in front of the moon, because everything got darker. He could hardly see the boat anymore.

Blindly groping around on the floor, Collin found his sandals and slipped them on. He couldn't help wondering if someone was watching and waiting for him to go to bed. Were they making sure everyone in the house had gone to sleep before coming over to kill them?

Setting the binoculars on his desk, Collin told himself he was being paranoid. He headed down the back stairs to the kitchen, where he pulled a Coke from the refrigerator. Slipping out the front door, he started up the driveway. The night air felt balmy. On both sides of him, outdoor lights illuminated the bushes and the big trees. It was quiet, and the sound of gravel crunching under his sandals seemed oddly exaggerated. Even with his cop friend on duty at the end of the long driveway, Collin still felt a bit nervous taking this lonely walk at night.

Whenever Ian worked the late shift, Collin brought food out to him—usually some snack and a Coke. Often he'd grab a Coke for himself, too, and they'd lean against the car, munching chips and “shooting the breeze” (another one of his grandparents' sayings). Usually, they talked about baseball or the movies, keeping the conversation quiet, so as not to wake his grandparents.

Old Andy had heard them talking one night last week, and told Collin, “I don't think it's such a good idea for you to pal around with that cop, kiddo. You ought to be making friends your own age. It's best you leave him alone to do his job.”

His grandfather didn't seem to understand that Ian was his only friend right now. In fact, the young cop was the closest thing to a friend Collin had had in a long time. While making movies, Collin had gotten close to costars and crewmembers of all ages. They'd been like family to him. It always broke his heart when the filming ended, because those ties were severed and everyone moved on. It was never the same. Collin knew his cop friend would be moving on eventually. But right now Ian was like the big brother he never had. Collin didn't want to lose that. So when he promised his grandfather that he'd leave the young detective alone to do his work, it was a total lie.

He wondered why, after three weeks, the police were still parked outside his grandparents' house. Was his life really still in danger? Or was it because they suspected he'd killed his mother and her boyfriend? He kept coming back to that question. Ian scoffed at it. Did he really think he'd murdered two people in his sleep? How had he tied them up by himself? Where did he get the gun? Where were the shoes he'd used to create the bloody footprints? He couldn't have done it by himself—and certainly not while asleep. He was being ridiculous. The double homicide had all the earmarks of a drug-related hit, and until they found the killers, the police would be protecting their only witness.

Collin had decided to believe him. But it meant the police had every reason to think someone wanted him dead.

Maybe it wasn't so crazy to imagine some killer on that boat watching the house. Had the guy really been waiting for the last bedroom light to go off? With everyone asleep, it would be easier to break in undetected and then start the killing.

No witnesses
, he'd heard the man say on that awful night.

Near the gate at the end of the driveway, Collin stopped dead. From where he stood, he could see the front of Ian's Honda Civic. He pictured himself going up to it, only to find Ian at the wheel with his eyes wide open and his throat slit.

Wouldn't the cop guarding the house be the first to go?

He pressed the button for the gate, and with a hum, it slowly swung open. Collin took a few more steps to the end of the driveway, all the while staring at the car. There was no one in the front seat, and the passenger window appeared to be cracked. Or was it a reflection on the dark glass? He couldn't tell.

Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped.

He swiveled around and accidentally dropped the can of Coke.

Ian gaped back at him. He stood a few yards in front of the car—near the side of the road. He wore a gray T-shirt and jeans, and held a gun. Collin hadn't seen him with a gun in his hand before.

“God, you scared the crap out of me!” Collin whispered. “What's going on?”

Ian tucked the gun in the back waist of his jeans. “I thought I heard something,” he said. “I was checking it out. I'm a little jumpy tonight. They put us on alert.”

“What do you mean? What kind of alert?”

He picked up the can of Coke from the pavement. “Was this for me?”

Collin nodded.

Ian tapped the top of the Coke can several times. “Every once in a while, they try to scare us with something—some tidbit—so we don't get too comfortable in the job. Today happens to be one of those times.” He held the Coke away from him as he opened it. A bit of spray came out. Then he raised the can at Collin. “Thanks,” he said, taking a swig.

“So what happened?” Collin asked.

Ian warily glanced toward the house. “We need to talk.” He nodded at the car. “Hop in—and don't slam the door. You might wake up your grandparents.”

Collin climbed into the passenger side of the Civic and carefully closed the door. He noticed the window wasn't cracked at all. It was just the shadows of tree branches. Ian ducked behind the wheel and stashed the gun under his seat. With the key, he turned on the car's electric system for a moment to raise the windows. Then he turned it off again.

“This alert you're on,” Collin said. “Did they put an extra guy on a boat to watch the house from the beach side?”

Frowning, Ian shook his head. “No. Why?”

“There was a guy out on this small boat, pretty close to the shore. It looked like he was scoping the place out.”

“When did you see this?”

“About ten minutes ago. But the boat sailed away shortly after I switched off the light in my bedroom. I have a weird feeling this guy is watching my room in particular. The boat was there last night, too.”

“Was it there at the same time last night?”

Collin nodded. “Yeah, I didn't give it much thought. But then I saw it again tonight. . . .”

Sitting back, Ian drummed his fingers along the side of the steering wheel. “I don't think it's connected to this other matter. Maybe it's one of those damn paparazzi. Still, I'll make sure someone follows it up.”

“What's this ‘other matter'?” Collin asked. “Is it the reason you're on alert?”

Ian said nothing and sipped his Coke.

“C'mon, I won't blab that you told me. We're friends.”

“That's just the thing, Collin,” he sighed. “We aren't friends. I'm here to protect you and your grandparents. You shouldn't be coming out here and talking to me until one or two in the morning. You don't do that with any of the other detectives—”

“That's because they're jerks.”

“Well, you lied to me,” Ian frowned. “You said your grandfather was fine with these midnight bull sessions. Last night, he pulled your little trick with the intercom and heard us talking. This morning, your grandfather got on the phone with my boss in Seattle. Then my boss got on the horn with me, and he gave me an earful—”

“Ian, I'm sorry. . . .”

“Making matters worse,” he continued, gazing past the windshield, “the other detectives on this watch know about it now, and I'm getting all sorts of flak for fraternizing with a surveillance subject. I won't even go into all the crap they're insinuating. Anyway, you're a great kid. But I think from now on, you ought to leave me alone to do my job.”

Collin stared at him. “So—I'm a ‘surveillance subject
.
' You just admitted it. You guys aren't here to protect me. You're here to
watch
me—to make sure I don't kill anybody else.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Ian growled. He turned toward him. “You are not a suspect, Collin. How many times do I have to tell you? We're about ninety-nine percent sure the killings were drug-related. Okay?”

Collin didn't say anything.

“You wanted to know about the alert?” Ian asked. “Fine, I'll tell you. I'm already up to my neck in trouble anyway, what the hell. The main suspect in the murders is this scumbag drug dealer named Leon Badger. He has a regular posse working with him. We think they killed Chance over some stupid drug-turf issue. That's what we're getting from our sources. We've been trying to locate Badger and his gang for the last three weeks, but they've been one step ahead of us all the way. Obviously they know the heat's on, and they've been in hiding. Only this morning, a couple of Badger's guys were spotted in the Seattle ferry terminal—minutes before the Bainbridge Island ferry loaded up. Unfortunately, we lost the guys at the terminal. We're not sure if they boarded or not. So that was the alert, Collin.”