That was when a man stepped out of the shadows near the Dumpster at the side of the restaurant. “Hey, excuse me,” he said.
Startled, Jason halted in his tracks. He couldn’t quite see the man’s face. The stranger wore a dark rain slicker and a knit hat. He looked like a fisherman.
“I’m totally lost,” the man said. “Is the ferry terminal somewhere around here?”
Jason smiled and nodded. “You’re only a couple of blocks away. The terminal is on Front Street. This is First Street right here, and all you have to do is—”
“How about if you drive us there?” the man interrupted, his tone suddenly changing. He pulled a gun out of his pocket. “Okay, asshole?”
With the car key in his hand, Jason gaped at him. He couldn’t move—or say anything. He saw the man’s face now. He was about thirty-five, with a heavy blond beard stubble and cold, pitiless eyes. “Don’t even think about pressing the car alarm,” he growled.
Jason quickly shook his head. “I won’t, I promise.” He swallowed hard. Then with a shaky hand, he pressed the button on the key fob device to unlock the car doors. The headlights flashed on his Hyundai Sonata.
“Hey, c’mon, kiddo,” the man called.
It took Jason a moment to realize the guy was talking to someone else. A second man emerged from behind the Dumpster. He wore a dark Windbreaker that must not have been too warm, because he was rubbing his arms and shivering as he trotted toward the car.
“We’ve got our ride,” the first man said, shoving the gun back inside his coat pocket. He glared at Jason again. It was obvious he still had the gun pointed at him from inside his jacket pocket. “Get behind the wheel. Try anything, and I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”
Jason just nodded. But he still couldn’t move. He glanced at the other man, now stepping into the light.
Seeing him this close, Jason gasped.
The guy was in his mid-twenties—with dark hair and a thin build. He looked a little frightened. The woman correspondent from NBC News was right.
He had the face of an angel.
* * *
“Your attention please. We are now arriving at our destination. All passengers must disembark. Please take a few moments to make sure you have all your personal belongings . . .”
With his window open a crack, Jason listened to the announcement over the public-address system. He watched the other Anacortes-bound passengers returning to their vehicles on the ferry’s car deck. Cold, sweaty, and scared, he’d been sitting at the wheel of his car, strapped in his seat belt for the last ninety minutes.
The gunman in the front passenger seat had long ago confiscated Jason’s phone and wallet and tucked them into his coat pocket. The man had removed his knit cap and used it to conceal the gun in his hand. He’d taken his eyes off Jason for only a few fleeting moments at a time.
To Jason, it seemed like they’d been in the car forever. When the boat had pulled away from the dock at Friday Harbor, most passengers had climbed out of their vehicles and gone up to the main cabin. But Jason and his two passengers had remained inside the Sonata on the car deck.
He’d found out the gunman’s name. Joseph Mulroney had let it slip early on. “I’m scared, Vic,” he’d said. He was in the backseat, wearing Jason’s Mariners baseball hat, which he must have found on the floor.
“Oh, fine,” Vic muttered. “Stupid. Why don’t you give him my Social Security number while you’re at it? Would you chill? I’m sure the cops haven’t caught on. They probably think you’re still in your room at the Orca Inn, flogging your dolphin to the adult channel . . .”
But Joseph Mulroney couldn’t calm down. He kept whimpering and anxiously peering out the windows. It was like having a scared puppy in the backseat. At one point, about ten minutes after the ferry had left San Juan Island, he had a meltdown.
“I want to go back,” Mulroney cried. “Please, let’s go back to the hotel, Vic. Please . . .” He started screaming. “I can’t stand this!” He repeatedly hit the armrest with his fist. Vic finally dug into his pocket and gave him a couple of pills. He coaxed him into swallowing them without water.
With Vic so distracted, Jason probably could have jumped out of the car and made a run for it, but he was too frightened, too caught up in Mulroney’s frenzied panic attack. Jason hadn’t realized until it was over that he’d just missed an opportunity to escape. By then, Mulroney had calmed down. Halfway across the channel, he was curled up on the backseat, dozing.
“Look at him,” Vic whispered, glancing over his shoulder at his friend. “Just like a little kid, a regular Boy Scout. You’d never guess he was capable of chopping that nice, God-fearing family into so many bloody pieces.”
Shuddering, Jason wondered about the relationship between the two men. Mulroney came across as a tortured soul, vulnerable and volatile, a scared boy. Vic seemed like the smarter of the two, more ruthless. At the same time, he was terribly immature. Using an expression like “flog your dolphin” for masturbating was just what Jason might have expected from a crude, stunted adolescent who enjoyed pulling the wings off flies.
At the Rumor Mill dinner, someone had mentioned that the police were trying to locate a friend of Mulroney’s, a fellow former resident of Western Washington Psychiatric Institute. Apparently, he’d escaped.
Jason was pretty certain he’d found him.
He remembered Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, and the two killers of the Clutter family, Perry Smith and Richard Hickock. Hickock was the cold, calculating one who had planned the robbery. Smith was the sensitive hard-luck case who fascinated Capote, the one who went berserk and started the killing.
The Singletons had also been burglarized: Purses and wallets had been emptied, and laptops and smartphones were missing. A maid who had served the Singletons their Thanksgiving dinner said they owned a silver tea service, candlesticks, and silverware. The killer—or killers—must have made off with those as well. Jason imagined Vic planning the burglary, only to have his “Boy Scout” friend go crazy in the middle of it and kill everyone in the house.
He didn’t dare ask Vic what had actually happened, and it made him ashamed. Some reporter he turned out to be. He was supposed to be curious and ask questions. But Jason figured his chances of surviving the night were better if he didn’t know anything.
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” Vic had asked about fifteen minutes ago. The ferry had just passed Lopez Island, the scene of the crime.
“Why do you ask that?” Jason replied. For some reason, he imagined answering “yes” might increase his chances of getting killed.
“Because it’s off-season on the islands, and every stinking hotel is full—and what they’re full of is reporters. Besides, I heard you talking to your pals in the parking lot.” He leaned against the armrest on the door and laughed. “Boy, if they could see you now, huh? You’re out-scooping them all. I’ll bet you’re already thinking about what a great story this will make, an exclusive. The rest of them will be begging to interview you . . .”
Jason stared past the ferry deck railing—at the black horizon and the choppy gray water. He shook his head. “Right now, I just want to get out of this alive.”
“Were they talking about me in the restaurant?” Vic asked. “Were you guys jawing about the caretaker’s friend, seen around town on Lopez for the last couple of weeks? Do they have a description of me?” He ran a hand over his blondish marine-recruit buzz cut. “Are they on the lookout for a handsome dude with shaggy blond hair?”
Jason figured Vic must have cut his hair himself within the last day or two.
“How much do the cops know about me?” Vic pressed.
“I honestly have no idea,” Jason murmured. “We’d heard something about the police searching for an acquaintance of his.” He nodded toward the backseat. “‘A person of interest,’ they said. None of us had a name or any details.”
“But now you have a name, don’t you, smart guy?” he whispered.
&
nbsp; Jason said nothing. He couldn’t look at him. He felt sick to his stomach.
Vic chuckled again.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Jason told him. “I mean it, I really need to pee.”
“Sorry.” Vic shook his head. “But go ahead and piss in your pants if you want.”
“Please,” Jason said under his breath.
“Nope, no bathroom breaks for the driver. Too much can happen during a short trip to the toilet. At the Orca Inn, there’s a cop standing guard in the hallway, and he’ll back me on that statement—especially after the county sheriff reams him a new butthole for losing their number one suspect.” He slapped Jason’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “I sat in that lobby for two hours. I figured no one would notice me with all you reporters coming and going. If the cops were on the lookout, they didn’t have their eyes peeled for a guy with a buzz cut and glasses. I just sat and waited for that stupid guard to take a bathroom break. Sure enough, around nine o’clock, I saw him duck into the privy off the lobby. I had Joe out a side door of the hotel within two minutes. I left the TV on in his room. If we’re lucky, they won’t figure out until tomorrow morning that our boy is gone. By then, we’ll be far, far away.”
And I’ll be dead, Jason thought. He clutched the steering wheel tighter to keep his hands from shaking too much. An awful dread was eating away at his gut. The car was cold, but he couldn’t stop sweating.
As the ferry approached the Anacortes dock Jason half-expected to see the terminal area aglow with police lights. He hoped for it and dreaded it at the same time. He had a feeling Vic wouldn’t give up easily. They’d probably take him hostage or something.
Beyond the deck railing, he didn’t see any swirling red and white police lights at the terminal. It looked quiet. The next ferry run wouldn’t be until morning, so no cars were waiting.
Jason suddenly realized that as far as the two of them were concerned, he was excess baggage now. They’d needed him to get them here to Anacortes, and after that, he was expendable. The smart thing for them to do was to kill him and hide his body. It might be a couple of days before anyone would find him. Vic and Joe could be halfway across the country by then. If they let him live, no matter what he promised, all three of them knew that, by dawn, the police and the press would have Vic’s name and an updated description of him; they’d have a description of the getaway car, too—and even the license plate number.
Jason listened to the chatter and laughing as people headed back to their vehicles. Someone sang a slightly sour rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock.” Headlights flashed as passengers pressed their key fobs to unlock their cars. All the doors opening and shutting made a clamor that echoed throughout the deck.
Once they were off this ferry, Jason knew he was as good as dead.
Someone in the lane on their right climbed into his SUV and slammed the door shut.
Joseph Mulroney woke up with a start. “What? What’s going on?” he asked.
Jason watched him in the rearview mirror. He looked disoriented and unnerved. The baseball cap was askew on his head.
“Relax, kiddo,” Vic said. “We’re pulling into Anacortes. A few minutes from now, we’ll be on the open road . . .”
In the next lane, between them and the ferry railing, a forty-something brunette climbed into the passenger side of a VW Bug. She accidentally tapped her door against Jason’s door. Jason turned and gaped at her.
“Sorry,” she said distractedly, shutting her door. Then a man ducked into the VW’s driver’s seat. The woman glanced across at Jason. They were so close—if their windows had been open they could have reached out and shook hands.
Vic was distracted, still trying to calm his anxious friend in the backseat: “For Christ’s sake, just go back to sleep. Everything’s fine . . .”
His hands still taut on the wheel, Jason locked eyes with the woman. He silently mouthed the words Help me.
She half-smiled and squinted at him.
He moved his lips again: Help me. He wanted to scream it.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Vic hissed. “Look at me.”
Obedient, Jason turned to face him.
“Don’t look back at her,” he whispered. Then he seemed to force a smile. “Don’t even think about it, smart guy.”
Jason noticed the tip of the gun barrel protruding beneath the knit cap draped over Vic’s hand. It was pointed at him. He flinched at the sound of several car engines starting.
“Vic, she’s still looking at us,” Mulroney said under his breath. “What are we going to do? What if she recognizes me?”
“Smart guy here better pray she doesn’t.” He frowned at Jason. “We won’t need you or your car very much longer, pal. We’re so close to a clean getaway. And by tomorrow morning, you’ll have quite a story to tell your newspaper. Do you really want to fuck things up for all three of us—at this point?”
Jason wondered if they actually planned to let him go. He wanted to believe it but couldn’t.
“Start the car,” Vic said.
Keeping his head down, Jason turned the key in the ignition. He didn’t look up until he heard the rumble of the cars rolling over the ferry ramp. His car was near the front of the boat. The lane started moving. Jason shifted into drive. The ferry worker waved him forward. For a fleeting moment, he thought about pushing hard on the accelerator and slamming into the car in front of him. Maybe the gun would fly out of Vic’s hand—and onto the floor. Then he could leap from the driver’s seat and run like hell.
But he was too scared.
Besides, how many people around here—in addition to himself—would get shot if he tried something like that?
Vic smiled and nodded at the ferry worker as they cruised past him onto the ramp.
Traffic moved at a slow crawl through the terminal area. No one in the car said anything. But Jason could hear Mulroney whimpering in the backseat. The procession of vehicles started to dissipate as they drove through town on Highway 20.
Jason realized his last chance of possibly getting help from someone had been on the ferry—and he’d blown it. They’d probably get rid of him once there weren’t so many other cars around. Up ahead, Jason knew, was a long, sparsely lit road that led to the Swinomish Reservation. Jason wondered if his passenger in the front seat knew about it. They could dump his body in a ditch somewhere along that road, and it might be days before someone found him.
Jason thought of his wife—and his parents, and home. Tears stung his eyes.
“I was supposed to call my wife tonight,” he said in a shaky voice. He quickly wiped the tears away and fixed his gaze on the long, straight two-lane highway ahead. There were still two cars in front of them and several more behind. “You switched off my phone when you took it away. Debra’s probably been trying to get ahold of me for the last couple of hours. If you’d let me talk to her, I promise I won’t give you away . . .”
Vic leaned back and said nothing. Mulroney had stopped whining. Maybe he’d fallen asleep again. Jason couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror anymore.
“Please, let me call my wife,” he whispered.
He wanted to hear her voice one last time.
“So—your old lady’s home alone,” Vic said. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”
Jason glanced at him. “Um, Belcher—Stan and Elaina Belcher. Why?”
“Debra’s probably too busy fucking Stan Belcher to give a crap where you are right now.” He let out a loud cackle.
You slime, Jason thought. He shifted restlessly in the driver’s seat and tried to swallow his anger. “The way I figure,” he said steadily, “if my wife isn’t worried about me, there’s no reason I can’t keep driving you guys for the next day or two. I can take you wherever you want to go. The cops won’t be looking for three men. I can get gas and groceries and food for you—no questions asked. I could even check into a hotel for you. There wouldn’t be any trail, because no one’s looking for me. You’d be safe . . .
”
“It makes sense, Vic,” Mulroney said.
Jason realized the young man was awake. Biting his lip, he waited for Vic’s response. If they kept him on, it would buy him more time.
Just ahead, he saw a sign for the turnoff to the Swinomish Reservation.
“Gee, that’s a terrific idea,” Vic finally said, deadpan. “As if you wouldn’t squeal to the first gas station attendant or hotel clerk you met. Give me a break. It would be just like with that bitch in the VW next to us on the ferry. Nice try, smart guy. No. In a very short time, your services will no longer be needed.”
Biting his lip, Jason passed the access road to the reservation. He drove in silence for a few more minutes.
“There’s a Shell station coming up on the right,” Vic announced. “We’re gonna make a little stop.”
Jason checked the dashboard. He had nearly a full tank. Then he looked up. In the distance ahead, he spotted the lighted yellow Shell sign at an intersection.
“What’s your PIN code?” Vic asked.
Jason hesitated, and then sighed, “Seventeen, twenty-two, oh-nine.” Now that they knew how to get his money, there was no reason to keep him alive.
His stomach in knots, Jason signaled and then pulled into the gas station. They seemed to be the only customers there at this hour of the night. He saw the ATM sign in the window of the small convenience store.
Tossing Jason’s wallet in the back, Vic repeated the PIN code for Mulroney. “Got that, kiddo? You need to get us some traveling money.”
“I can’t go in there,” Mulroney said. “What if he recognizes me?”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Keep the baseball cap on. Get as much cash as they allow, and then do it again. Whatever you get, we need to make it last. And button up. It’s cold out there. C’mon, get cracking . . .”
With a nervous sigh, Mulroney climbed out of the car. Adjusting the Mariners cap on his head, he ducked into the store.
Jason watched the chubby, olive-skinned clerk behind the counter glance up from his magazine as Mulroney made a beeline to the ATM. While he waited for the money, Mulroney snuck a look at the clerk and then checked over his shoulder at the security camera in the store.
They Won't Be Hurt Page 3
