Silent Ridge: A gripping crime thriller and mystery (Detective Megan Carpenter Book 3)

by Gregg Olsen

  I shake my head. Words are piling up and almost spewing out of my mouth. I know to keep it shut. He gets the idea.

  “Tell me what you have. I heard you talking about it out there, but I need to know the rest. All of it.”

  With those last words he raises an eyebrow. He knows I’m going to lie. So I don’t disappoint him.

  “First of all, you already know that I knew Monique way back when. I knew her better than I told you, but not so well that I can’t keep my personal feelings out of the investigation.”

  That’s the first lie, but I temper it with a small truth.

  “You know we had Detective Osborne from Kitsap stay with her daughter until she got away to stay with her son in the Midwest. Indiana. She’ll be okay there and was planning to visit him anyway.”

  That’s a lie. The son is in Maine.

  I hate lying to Sheriff Gray, but it’s for his own good.

  And mine.

  “Monique left her car in Tacoma and drove a rental here. We have the car in the impound lot and Mindy’s going over it. Mindy found Monique’s phone under her mattress and she’s going through that for us, too.”

  “Her burner phone,” Sheriff Gray says.

  I nod. “That’s out of character but I can’t explain it yet.”

  “And why would you have Detective Osborne stand by with her daughter? Did you think she was in danger from this lunatic?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “And this has nothing to do with the, you know, that I gave you?”

  “I don’t see how it could.”

  My final lie.

  Sheriff Gray looks at his watch. “Tell Ronnie to call it a night. You both go home and get some rest. You got Gabrielle safe, so this will keep until morning.”

  “I’ll run her off, but I still have some work to do,” I say. I don’t know what I can do tonight. The autopsy is tomorrow and all I can do is sit and think.

  “Go home,” he says.

  Not a request.

  Maybe he’s right. I can think at home with a drink.

  Twenty-Three

  I dial Dan’s number as I drive.

  “Megan. I was just thinking about you. I must be psychic, huh?”

  “Or a psycho. I mean, you are dating me.”

  “We’re dating?”

  “No. Yes. You know what I mean. We’re going out now and again and—”

  “I’m just pulling your leg. Don’t sweat it.”

  I can hear something in his voice. I’ve said something wrong and I don’t know what. I’m not good at this dating stuff. I called because I’m thinking about how close to home Monique’s murder is.

  That and my stalker’s last email.

  You are a busy girl. But then, you always were sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong. I see you’re on the hunt again. And this time you’re interfering with Clallam and Kitsap County cases. Good for you. I’m sure you’ll find your man. Just hope he doesn’t find you first. You’re not as clever as you think.

  The last two lines now make that email seem pertinent to Monique’s death and the crank calls she and Gabrielle were receiving. I never met Gabrielle before today, but I knew of the threat Michael Rader made to her mother. The last two lines of that email make me wonder if my stalker and Monique’s death are connected.

  I’m in Port Townsend. See you soon. Wallace.

  P.S. Who’s the lumberjack?

  It had been signed “Wallace.” Wallace apparently doesn’t know Dan’s name, if that’s who he’s referring to. I thought the stalker was just after me. Trying to scare me. I even considered Dan could be the stalker. It seemed awfully coincidental that I’d just had a date with Dan before I read the email. Dan knew about the murder cases involving Clallam and Kitsap Counties. But he would hardly have named himself “The Lumberjack.”

  Maybe Dan was leaving a red herring in the email. Make me think the stalker has noticed him. It would be a good way to throw me off his scent. But it doesn’t matter because I have no clue as to who is sending the emails. My suspects for who has been sending them are Dan; Caleb; my brother, Hayden; and Michael Rader. I thought Hayden was in Afghanistan when the email was sent, but then I found out he had been in Port Townsend. For weeks. The email that I thought was from my stalker said, “I’m in Port Townsend. See you soon.” And then Hayden shows up at my door the next day. As far as I know, he’s still living in Port Townsend, but I can’t let myself believe it’s him.

  I don’t know where Michael Rader is. I haven’t kept track of him. I didn’t really have the means to keep tabs back then. But now I wonder why I didn’t when I joined the Sheriff Office.

  Good question, I think.

  “Megan? You still there?”

  It’s Dan.

  “Does anyone ever call you Lumberjack?” I don’t realize I say that out loud, but I’m thinking it.

  He laughs. “Lumberjack? That’s a good one. I guess I did kind of dress like one the other night. And with the short beard, it’s not a bad depiction.”

  “Lumberjacks use chainsaws,” I say, and try to make it sound like a joke.

  “Yeah. And since you mention it, when are you going to come by the shop and pick up the piece I saved for you?”

  Dan has a cabin up at Snow Creek where he makes wood carvings of bears, lighthouses and eagles in flight, among other things. He’s an artist with a paintbrush and chainsaw. He’s recently opened a little shop along the waterfront in Port Townsend. He offered me the bear when I was working on some murder cases over in Snow Creek. I didn’t take it. In fact, he asked me out, sort of, and I stood him up.

  He contacted me again while I was involved in a case a while back and I finally gave in and went out for a drink with him. He said he would bring the bear the next time we went out. Clever way of getting another date. Well, it worked. We went out a couple of times and I grudgingly took the bear. Now it sat beside my desk. I like it, but I don’t like the idea of owning things. I have learned to travel light. My whole life until Port Townsend was picking up and leaving at the first hint of trouble. Now I had “stuff.” Up until the bear the only “stuff” I had were the audiotapes Dr. Karen Albright gave me when I concluded my therapy sessions with her. But they help sometimes. Help me get the past behind me. Help me with hidden clues about cases in the present.

  “How about we meet for drinks and a sandwich tonight?” Dan asks.

  Instead of answering, I ask him, “Have you gotten any funny calls lately?”

  “Besides this one, you mean?”

  He makes me smile. “I mean crank calls. Wrong numbers. Hang-up calls.”

  “I run a business, Megan. What do you think?”

  “Okay. Point taken. But listen, if you start getting anything you think is suspicious, I want you to call me right away.”

  “Okay. Will you make the bad people go away? I mean, you have a reputation for finding your man. Or men.”

  He said: “finding your man.” Just like the email from my stalker. The stalker probably wasn’t Dan, but I wouldn’t be able to unhear what he just said.

  “Funny. You’re a funny man, Lumberjack. Seriously, do you promise to call me if you get any calls like that?”

  “Sounds like you care about me. But, yes, I promise. So how about that date tonight?”

  I have an attraction to Dan, but I’m not going to get serious with anyone. I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I’m not a very trusting person, and I’ve learned the hard way not to get too close to anyone or anything. Like the bear. I’d sell it if I thought he wouldn’t find out. He’s a nice guy. He deserves a normal girl. That’s not me. Anything but.

  “The Tides,” I say. “Seven, unless I get called in. Then I won’t be there.”

  “Understood, Detective. Sometimes I have emergency carvings, so I may not make it, either.”

  It’s good he can joke. He doesn’t take everything I say literally or even seriously. He is easy to talk to. Easy to be around. He doesn’
t pry into my past. I will be there. Unless I get shot again.

  Twenty-Four

  I park and go to my front door. I left a light on in the entryway. It’s off. I look around the street. The other houses have power, so that’s not it. I’ve never replaced a lightbulb since moving in. I draw my .45 anyway.

  The door is locked. Someone could have come in and locked the door behind them. I would. My key finds the slot in the waning light and I push the door open. No one jumps out of the dark interior. I go in and try the light switch. It flicks up and down. I have a fuse blown or the bulb is out.

  Cursing my stalker for making me feel on edge, I go down the hall and flip another switch in the hall. A light comes on. Relief washes over me and I’m holstering my .45 when my phone vibrates and startles me.

  “What?” I say, more angrily than I intend. I don’t realize how shaken I really am. I wish, not for the first time, my stalker would show himself. Come for me. Get this over with.

  “Megan?”

  It’s Clay. “I’m sorry, Clay. I had my hands full and couldn’t find my phone.”

  “Understand completely,” he says, but I don’t think he’s telling the truth. “I just wanted to catch you up on that thing in Port Orchard.”

  Shit. I forgot to call Clay.

  “I called Ronnie and she was on her way to the crime lab to turn over some samples.”

  Go, Ronnie! Yay! She was so competent it was starting to gnaw on my nerves. No doubt she wanted to brag to Marley that she’d found all the stuff herself. I remind myself that I’m the one who threw those two together just so I could get favors from the lab.

  “She said I should call you.”

  “Okay. Did Gabrielle get off okay?”

  “She packed a bag and I took her to the airport. Is she a witness?”

  “Not really,” I say, then feel bad for asking him to babysit. “But she might be in a little danger. I’m just playing it safe.” That should make him feel important.

  “Glad I could help. I’m glad we could work together again.”

  He leaves the sentence just hanging there like he wants to say something. I wait. He’s a grown man. He can spit it out, whatever it is.

  “Speaking of,” he says and pauses. “Now that we’re not actually working a case together, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  Oh, shit. I think I know what’s coming next and I don’t want to know. I feel a tingle of excitement. Clay is a very attractive man. He’s built like a linebacker, but he’s at least ten years older than me. Maybe fifteen. And I have a date tonight with Dan. Please don’t say it.

  “Would you go out for drinks with me?”

  Shit. Shit. “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay. That’s better than a no. Call me when you make up your mind.”

  “Thanks for taking care of Gabrielle.” I hang up. Shit.

  I stand on a chair and check the entryway lightbulb. It’s unscrewed slightly. I screw it back tight and the light comes on.

  I go to my office. Everything appears to be as I left it. I get in the closet and find something decent but not too much to wear to The Tides tonight. I pull out a pair of black jeans that I picked up in a second-hand clothing store. The knees are fashionably shredded. I take out a pair of cork-soled sandals but decide to wear my work boots. A dark blue button-down long-sleeve shirt that came from the same store will work under a cheap Levi’s blazer. My statement accessory is my gun.

  I check the drawer where the tapes are kept. Nothing looks disturbed. I’m getting paranoid. But like they say, you’re not paranoid if someone is really out to get you.

  The tapes call to me. I have enough time to listen before my date-meeting with Dan. I find one at random, slot the tape and play it.

  Dr. A: Tell me about the dream. Tell me about it as though it were happening now.

  Me: I’m staying at the Best Western in Kent, Washington. I have an ice pick I’ve taken from Aunt Ginger’s kitchen. My plan is to find Alex Rader and shove the ice pick into his eyes. I drift into an uneasy slumber and dream about the little girl from the rest stop.

  Dr. A: Do you know her name?

  Me: Her name is Selma. She’s running as fast as she can.

  Dr. A: Is she running away or toward someone or something? What did you feel?

  Me: I don’t know. Her feet are bare and bloody, her dark curls streaming back in the wind. I call out to her to hurry, but no sound comes from my lips. She moves toward me, and as she approaches I recognize the look in her eyes. She’s terrified of something and she needs my help. She screams.

  Dr. A: It must have been terrifying for you.

  Me: The sound is so loud that I close my eyes to try to seal it from my eardrums. When I snap them open a second later, still in my dream, all I see is a white and red nightgown lying in the parking lot next to the well-worn trail to the restroom. I cry out for her as I hurry to the nightgown. I pick it up and hold it to my face. The smell is unpleasant, and I know instantly what it is. I’m taking in the acrid odor of blood.

  When I pull away, I notice that my hands are bloody. The dream—no, the nightmare—propels me out of my restless sleep. I feel sick, scared, angry. I don’t grasp the importance of the dream or why I had it.

  I pause the tape. Monique’s blood was drained from her body. I remember seeing the skin suit in the bottom of the tub, the body with no flesh covering, and imagine the bleeding must have been considerable, but all that was left were a few bloody footprints. I could smell it then. I can smell it now, but I know that’s just a trick of the mind.

  The bottle of Scotch in the desk drawer is tempting, but I’m going to have a drink very soon with Dan.

  Twenty-Five

  Parking at The Tides is not a task to be taken lightly. There’s always some drunk who will block your car in. I park down the street two or three blocks away and walk down some alleys. I’ve got a gun. I’m a good shot now.

  The Tides is a converted warehouse at the end of the dock. It’s authentic, not one of those chains that brings in a couple of buoys that have been professionally banged up to look like they’ve weathered a nor’easter and sun-bleached floats covered in heavy netting, none of which have ever seen sea water.

  The building is painted blue and features a broad white and navy stripe on its awning over the door. “THE TIDES” is spelled out in thin pieces of driftwood on the bright red, newly painted door.

  Very patriotic.

  Looking around at the parking lot, I don’t see Dan’s truck. I’m glad to be here first. I can sit where I can see who’s in the bar. That’s not a cop thing, by the way. It’s more of a being-kidnapped-and-stalked thing.

  I go inside and find a seat next to the massive saltwater tank with a school of clownfish and others I can’t name. Hayden would be able to. He is, or at least was, a walking encyclopedia of fish species. He should have become a marine biologist in a perfect world. Ours, however, was not a perfect life or world. He was placed with foster parents after I left. He did well in high school but joined the army instead of going to a college. My fault. If I had stayed with him and supported him, however I could, he could have gone on to live a normal life. I was only seventeen. And I was supposed to be dead. It was the only way I thought I could protect him. I left him with foster parents who would love him. Not as much as I do, but I had thought he would at least have a chance to be normal. I find myself looking around the room, hoping to spot him there in the bar.

  The waitress quickly goes to another table. I’ve hit the point in my life where I’m almost invisible. Service at a bar or restaurant is slow. Talking with the waiter or anyone is nonexistent unless I’m willing to dress provocatively. If Ronnie or Mindy were here, I’d already have a drink.

  Dan walks in and gives me a little wave and a big smile. I can feel my pulse pick up and remember the last time we were here and he kissed me. We were in the parking lot, intending to go to our respective homes. The kiss was lingering and I kissed him back. It was o
ne of those rom-com moments where the big hunk of manliness kisses the girl and her knees go weak. I don’t like feeling weak. It scares me.

  Dan is wearing a red-and-black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his muscular arms and a red sock hat cocked back on his head. He has on painter’s pants, tight fitting in all the right places, and suede Caterpillar boots. With his short brown beard he looks like Paul Bunyan.

  He’s dressed like this because of our earlier conversation.

  Smartass.

  He poses in front of me. “What do you think?”

  “Where’s your axe and your blue ox?”

  “In the back of the truck,” he says, and merely has to raise two fingers of his hand before a young female waitress smiles and comes our way. We both order Scotch. He orders his neat. I ask for one cube of ice, then change my mind and ask for lots of ice. I don’t want to get drunk.

  The waitress doesn’t even look at me. Her attention is turned on Dan, and as she walks away, she looks back over her shoulder and wags her ass like a happy dog on her way to get our drinks.

  “Friend of yours?” I ask.

  He grins and it would melt an ice shelf. “Jealous?”

  I laugh it off. “In your dreams, Bunyan.” Unless I wanted something.

  “What have you been up to lately, Megan?”

  His voice is mellow and soothing. Sincere. I’m glad I came.

  “Busy,” is all I say. I don’t want to talk about my day. I want to forget it. Just for a while. He seems to read my mood and takes a sip of his drink.

  “How about you?” I ask, remembering to be social.

  “Same here. I sold four pieces this morning.”

  “That’s great!” I realize I say that a little too enthusiastically. It sounds fake. “So business is good?”

  He nods and takes another sip. He seems nervous or uncomfortable. I’m making him uncomfortable. Damn.

  He has opened his store and is there part time and at his cabin at Snow Creek the rest of the time. He does his carving and painting at his cabin. He would have massive complaints if he ran a chainsaw all day in town.