“No, thanks! Hey, you don’t happen to have Hawaiian Punch, do you?”
Vic laughed. He started rummaging through the bread box on the counter.
Laura couldn’t believe he was serious. She sighed. “The closest thing I have to fruit punch is grape juice.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have a grape juice, please.”
“Hey, think fast!” Vic said, tossing a muffin toward his friend in the family room. Joe missed it, and the muffin hit a heavy lamp on the end table—almost knocking it over. Crumbs exploded and rained down onto the rug.
Joe scooped what was left of the muffin off the floor. “I got it!” he announced. “It’s okay, five-second rule . . .” He started to eat the half-muffin.
It was all Laura could do to keep from taking the hot frying pan and slamming Vic in the face with it. Instead, she poured a glass of grape juice and took it to Joe. He thanked her. She got down on her knees and started collecting the muffin crumbs.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Joe said. “Let me help you—”
“Never mind,” she muttered, frowning. “I’ve got it.”
With his mouth full, the glass of juice in one hand and the muffin in the other, Joe gazed at her sheepishly.
Laura went back to fixing their breakfast. She set out a Starbucks mug for Vic’s coffee, because she’d be damned if she let him drink out of the World’s Best Mom mug Liam had given her—or any of the other mugs that had sentimental value for her or her family.
Coffee in hand, Vic wandered back toward the family room. Apparently, there was nothing on the national news about them at the moment. So Vic kept busy looking through the bookcases and cabinets. He was probably searching for more sharp objects—or maybe something of value. Every time he took a DVD or a CD from the bookshelf to look at it, he’d just let it drop on the floor and move on to the next one.
While Vic was distracted in the family room, Laura slipped the EpiPens back inside a drawer. She figured: out of sight, out of mind. Each pen had a needle beneath the orange cap, and she didn’t want Vic confiscating them. If Liam had an attack, he could die without an EpiPen handy.
The pens couldn’t really be used as a weapon. The needle might stun Vic—and the medication might make him sick. But she couldn’t hope to disable or cripple him with an EpiPen. She was better off bashing him in the face with the frying pan.
She wondered, if she were somehow able to put Vic out of commission, could Joe be persuaded to give up? She couldn’t be sure. Vic appeared to be calling all the shots, and Joe seemed so gentle and harmless. But obviously, he had some issues. He kept apologizing to her, but at the same time, he kept letting his friend terrorize and torment her. It was as if he thought by saying “I’m sorry” it would make everything all right—no matter how horrible. She imagined Joe apologizing to Mrs. Singleton just moments before his friend stabbed her to death.
While she cooked their bacon and eggs, Laura wished she had something she could slip into their food or drinks to knock them out. Sean had a prescription for sleeping pills, but he’d taken the pills with him to Europe.
She didn’t want to think about Sean in Europe right now. Why did he need sleeping pills when he had his girlfriend with him? How was he going to feel when he got the call in Paris that she was dead?
She glanced over at the digital clock on the microwave: 10:46. Would these two still be here when Patti brought James back from preschool at 2:30?
The volume went up on the TV. “Investigators have obtained this surveillance video from a North Seattle 7-Eleven,” the news anchor was saying. “It shows a man police believe is the Singleton murder suspect, Victor Moles, confronting a clerk as he walks out of the store without paying for a twelve-pack of beer . . .”
Laura stepped back from the stove to look at the TV—and the grainy footage of two men just inside the doorway to the 7-Eleven. The scruffy, blond-haired man with a case of beer under his arm certainly looked like Vic. The skinny, young clerk with a dark complexion came around the counter to stop him, and Vic shoved him. The clerk backed off, and Vic kicked over a display sign before stomping out of the store.
Laura glanced over at Vic, who had the remote in his hand. He was grinning at the TV.
Joe had fallen asleep on the sofa.
“The clerk contacted the Seattle Police immediately after the altercation,” the newscaster explained in voice-over while they once again showed Vic shoving the man, this time in slow motion. “The incident occurred at one-forty-two on Saturday morning. Investigators are concerned because, if the man in this video is indeed Victor Moles, that puts one of the two fugitives nearly a hundred miles away from Lopez Island when the Singleton family was slain.”
On TV, they showed a mug shot of Vic—and another one of Joe. “Moles—along with Joseph Mulroney, the caretaker at the Singletons’ vacation home—has been positively identified by Seattle Times reporter Jason Eichhorn, who was abducted late last night—”
“So where’s my breakfast?” Vic asked her. He turned down the volume.
Laura returned to the stove and fixed his plate.
“Keep Sleeping Beauty’s grub warm,” he said, moseying up to the counter-bar and sitting on one of the bar stools. “And get me some more coffee.”
While she poured the coffee with a slightly shaky hand, Laura considered throwing it in his face—then maybe bashing him over the head with the glass pot. The coffee was hot, but not exactly scalding.
She knew she’d only end up getting herself killed. Then again, wasn’t that going to happen anyway? She couldn’t be sure.
Vic took a pill out of his shirt pocket. He popped it in his mouth and then slurped some coffee to wash it down. Laura figured it was an upper, which would explain his twitchy, edgy manner. When she set the plate of food in front of him, he ate like a pig. He spilled some runny egg yolk on the counter, then mopped it up with his toast and inhaled it.
She turned away and busied herself at the counter, covering Joe’s plate with some aluminum foil. On the news, they were rehashing the details about the fugitives’ escape from Lopez Island. She wondered if the man in the 7-Eleven surveillance video had really been Vic.
Moving over to the sink, Laura started washing the utensils that had been on the floor. Steam rose up and started to fog the window in front of her.
While she washed a soup ladle, Laura saw something outside and gasped.
Immediately, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Vic hadn’t heard her—or noticed what she’d just seen. He was still stuffing his face and looking at the TV. With the water running in the sink and the TV on, he obviously hadn’t heard her—or the pickup truck that had just pulled up to the garage.
True to his word, Dane was back.
She could see him through the window, just above where the steam fogged the glass. He’d climbed out of his pickup. Still wearing the army camouflage fatigue jacket, he poked around the side entrance to the garage. She and Sean had transformed the studio apartment over the garage into a break room for the workers in the vineyard. It had a bathroom, kitchenette, a big closet, a table and chairs, and even a cot if someone wasn’t feeling well. Dane had claimed earlier this morning that he’d left his jacket in there. Was that really what he was after?
Laura peered over her shoulder at Vic again. From where he sat, he probably couldn’t see out the window—or at least, he couldn’t see they had a visitor.
Outside, Dane looked in the general direction of the house, but he didn’t seem to notice her. He ducked inside the garage. The doorway into the garage was just to the right of the stairs up to the break room. She wondered if Dane was right now noticing the red Hyundai Sonata they’d been talking about on the news all morning. Or maybe he’d gone directly upstairs to look for his jacket. She couldn’t remember whether or not they’d locked the break room door at the top of the steps. She imagined Dane coming back down and knocking on the kitchen door to demand the key.
Laura peeked back at Vic again, and then
she started to write in the steam on the window. With her finger, she spelled out the words deliberately and carefully, because she was writing backwards: DANE – CALL 911.
“Hey,” Vic grunted.
She swiveled around and tried to block his view of the window.
“You should’ve cooked more bacon,” he said. He nodded toward the other plate on the counter. “Give me some of his.”
Laura fetched Joe’s plate, pulled back the foil, and set it in front of Vic. “Help yourself,” she muttered. Then she moved back toward the window. Her message had faded a bit as more steam rose up from the sink. She prayed Dane would see it.
He came out the garage’s side door with a jacket over his arm—and a boom box in his grasp. Sean had left it in the break room so the employees could listen to the radio in there. It wasn’t worth much, but Dane was stealing it anyway, the son of a bitch.
He looked toward the house as he closed the garage’s side door. He seemed to catch sight of her in the window.
He suddenly froze.
Laura stared back at him and gave a little nod. Could he read the message on the window? She wondered if he’d do anything. He was trespassing and stealing from them, and here she was—hoping he’d call the police for her. Of all the people who might have been able to help her, it had to be this creep who showed up.
“Shit!” Vic bellowed.
With one stroke, Laura quickly wiped the message off the window. Then she turned around.
Vic was standing now. He must have caught sight of Dane outside. Enraged, he grabbed his plate and hurled it at her. The plate missed her and smashed against the cupboard. Food and shards of pottery ricocheted off the cupboard door and scattered all over the floor.
Laura recoiled against the counter.
On the sofa, Joe woke up with a start.
“Who the fuck is that?” Vic snapped, pointing toward the window.
“It—it’s just one of the workers from the vineyard,” Laura explained. “He said he might come by to get his coat. I forgot—”
“He’s seen the car,” Vic said. “And you, you just stood there at the window, watching him, not a peep out of you. I’ll bet you thought you had a good thing going.” He took the switchblade out of his pocket again. “Well, watch this . . .”
He headed out the kitchen door.
“No!” Laura screamed. She turned to Joe, who sat up on the sofa and scratched his head. “Please,” she gasped, “you have to stop him . . .”
But Joe seemed too out of it to do anything. He just squinted at her.
Laura ran to the kitchen door in time to see Vic approaching Dane.
He had the unopened switchblade hidden behind his back. “Hey, you, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Take it easy, pal,” Dane said, waving him away. He didn’t seem at all intimidated. “I’m just picking up some things that belong to me. So back off . . .”
Vic kept coming at him.
Dane sneered at him and shook his head. “Oh, we got a tough guy, huh? Listen, douche bag, I don’t—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish.
Vic sucker-punched him, a sudden powerful, straight-on slam to his nose.
At the kitchen door, Laura winced.
Blood streamed from Dane’s nostrils, dripping down his chin and onto the front of his jacket. He looked stunned. The coat and the boom box fell to the ground.
Vic hit him again, another forceful blow against the side of his head. It knocked Dane off balance.
“Stop it!” Laura shrieked. She turned and yelled into the house, “Joe, for God’s sake, do something! He’s going to kill him . . .”
By the time Joe came up behind her to see what was happening, his friend had gone berserk. He started pummeling Dane. He held him up by the front of his fatigue jacket and repeatedly punched him in the face. When Vic finally released him, Dane crumpled to the ground. Just moments before, he’d been so tough, so arrogant. But now he was curled up on the driveway crying and whimpering. Gravel and dirt flew into the air as Vic kicked him again and again.
Laura kept screaming for him to stop. Joe hurried past her and ran outside.
But Vic pushed him away. Joe stumbled back and fell down on his backside. “C’mon, Vic, please . . .”
With a flick of the wrist, Vic opened the switchblade. Then he grabbed Dane by his hair and snapped his head back.
His face covered with blood and tears, Dane looked dazed, utterly helpless.
“No, wait! Don’t!” Laura yelled.
Horrified, she watched Vic slit Dane’s throat.
From Dane’s neck, a geyser of blood spurted across the driveway.
A hand over her mouth, Laura turned back into the house. She didn’t know where she was going. She just needed to get away. She stumbled in the family room—over something Vic had dropped on the floor. All at once, she toppled over. She landed on the floor and tried to get a breath.
She must have been in shock, because the next thing she knew, Joe was hovering over her.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” he whispered. “It’s just—with Vic, you can’t get him mad. He’s like a crazy man. I couldn’t have stopped him. No one could have. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I really am . . .”
Laura numbly stared at him.
Once again, Joe was apologizing to her—as if it were just one more little thing that couldn’t be helped.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday—11:20 A.M.
“Forty-two bucks and some change,” Vic grunted, pocketing some bills. Then he slapped Dane’s wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. His face and clothes were splattered with blood. “It was hardly worth getting my knife wet.”
He lumbered over to the kitchen sink, turned on the water, and slurped from the faucet.
Laura was still sitting on the floor—with Joe standing over her. She was trembling. On the window just above Vic’s head, she could see the faint remnants of her message: DANE – CALL 911. But Vic hadn’t noticed it yet.
He rinsed off his switchblade and dried it with a paper towel. “Well, maybe we can use the son of a bitch’s credit cards for a day or two. That piece-of-shit pickup of his doesn’t look like it would even get us as far as Spokane. I noticed a spot behind the garage. I’ll park it there.” Vic nodded at her. “Do you know if he told anyone he was coming here?”
Laura shook her head. She felt sick to her stomach.
“You better pray he didn’t,” Vic said. “Meanwhile, get off your ass. You’re gonna help me bury him in the vineyard.”
Her eyes widening, she shook her head at him again.
“No, Vic, please,” Joe interceded. “Don’t make her. If you—if you could cover him up and drag his body out to the vineyard, I’ll bury him tonight. Okay? Just get him out of sight for now. Can’t you see she’s sick? Don’t make her do it. We’ve put her through enough already. And we’re going to need her help, Vic. That’s why we’re here, remember? Please . . .”
Vic sighed and then frowned at her. “You got some tarp—and rope?”
Laura nodded. “In the shed on the other side of the garage.”
“What size is your husband?”
She stared back at him. She didn’t understand the question.
“His jacket size,” Vic said. “Small, medium, large, or what?”
“Large,” she answered.
He turned and headed down the hallway toward the front of the house. After a few moments, Laura heard hangers rattling. Then Vic returned to pass through the kitchen. He was wearing Sean’s fall-weight, tan bomber jacket. Vic had taken it from the front hall closet. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there,” he muttered, heading out the door.
Laura cringed at the sight of him in her husband’s jacket. Though still shaky, she managed to get to her feet and make her way toward the kitchen. On the green marble counter, she saw Dane’s empty wallet and his keys—with a rabbit’s foot on the key ring. Blood smeared the countertop—and part of the rabbit�
��s foot.
Unsteadily, Laura moved to the sink. “My head,” she murmured. “I need an aspirin. I thought I noticed the bottle on the floor. Do you see it, Joe?”
“Um, no, at least not yet,” he replied, standing behind her.
Laura figured he was looking down. She took the sponge and wiped away what was left of her 911 message on the window.
But then she saw Vic dragging Dane’s limp corpse toward the vineyard, leaving behind a large puddle of blood. Steam drifted from the slash across Dane’s throat. Laura felt her stomach turn.
Suddenly, she lurched forward and threw up in the sink.
She braced a hand on the countertop and turned on the cold water to rinse the wretched mess down the disposal. Her throat burned. She thought she was going to vomit again, but it passed. She kept her eyes closed so she wouldn’t catch another glimpse of what Vic was doing outside. After a moment, she sipped from the faucet, turned off the water, and stepped away from the sink. She shuddered.
Joe grimaced at her. “Maybe you should get yourself cleaned up and lay down a while, huh?”
Laura realized some vomit had caught in her hair and spilled down the front of her sweater.
He reached out to her. “C’mon, Mrs. Gretchell, let me help you upstairs . . .”
Laura didn’t pull away this time. Joe walked her up the stairs and into her bedroom. Amid all the clothes Vic had dumped from her dresser drawers, she found a clean dark blue pullover on the floor.
“I’m really sorry for the mess in here,” Joe said, standing in the bedroom doorway. “Vic gets kind of carried away . . .”
She let out a sad, dazed laugh. “That’s the understatement of the year. And there you go, apologizing for him again.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, we just watched him kill an unarmed, defenseless, beaten man,” Laura said. She had a hand on her throat. “And to you, well, that’s just your old pal Vic getting carried away again. How many people have you seen him kill?”
“That man’s the first,” Joe said. “Was he a friend of yours? I’m sorry—”
They Won't Be Hurt Page 7
