“I mean, well, you look kind of beat up.” Patti stepped toward her. “What’s going on?”
Laura realized that from where Patti stood, she might be able to spot Dane’s car, parked behind the garage. She knew Vic was watching them now, maybe thinking the same thing. “Nothing’s going on, Patti,” she said. “I was napping, that’s all.”
“Well, can’t I come in and clean off? I promise I won’t stick around. I’ll be in and out—”
“No,” Laura interrupted. “I’m sorry.”
Patti’s eyes narrowed, and then she looked past Laura’s shoulder toward the front door. “Something’s wrong, I can tell . . .”
The McDonald’s bag rustled as Laura clutched James even tighter. She cleared her throat. “The only thing wrong is that I don’t appreciate you giving my child junk food in the middle of the afternoon,” Laura said evenly. “And now you want to come in and mess up my clean house. I don’t see why you can’t wait until you get home to clean up.”
She hated seeing the hurt, baffled look on her friend’s face.
“You’re kidding, right?” Patti whispered.
“I’m very serious . . . and very disappointed,” she answered. She stroked the top of James’s blond head.
Patti stared at her for another moment. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. Retreating to her SUV, she shut the back door. “From now on, you can drive your own kid to preschool.” She marched around to the driver’s side of the vehicle, ducked into the front seat, and slammed the door.
Laura listened to the engine start up, and then watched the SUV turn around and head down the driveway toward the road. For James’s sake, she had to keep from breaking down and crying.
She was glad her friend was safe, but couldn’t help feeling that there went her last chance for help.
She got down on her knees and hugged James. She kissed his cheek and then held him at arm’s length. “Honey, we have company,” she said.
* * *
“You have three missed messages,” said the mechanical voice on the line. “First message sent Monday, ten-oh-six a.m. . . .”
Holding the smartphone to her ear, Laura was perched on the edge of the sofa. Vic sat beside her, and this close, she couldn’t help noticing his BO. In front of them, SpongeBob SquarePants was on the muted TV. It had kept James entertained for the last half hour. He and Joe now sat at the kitchen counter with a pad of cheap drawing paper and James’s crayon box.
Laura had told James that the two strangers in their house were friends of his father’s, and they’d be staying a while. “A very short while,” she added—with a scowl at Joe and Vic. James was intuitive enough to avoid Vic. But he instantly warmed up to Joe. It was strange to see them coloring together like a couple of friends. Laura couldn’t help wondering how Joe had gotten along with the Singleton children.
At least James wasn’t scared or traumatized by the two men—not yet. For that, Laura was grateful. Vic kept the knife in his pocket and the gun tucked in his pants under his shirttail. He’d just confirmed something Laura had suspected: She had two missed calls from Sean and another from her daughter.
Laura listened to the first message:
“Hey, babe. What’s going on? You sounded strange on the message. It’s around seven o’clock here. Call me back as soon as you get this. I was going to head out and grab some dinner, but I’ll wait until I hear back from you. So—call me. Love you.”
Laura wondered if this was putting a crimp in dinner plans with his girlfriend. At the same time, he sounded genuinely concerned. And the familiar “Love you” at the end of the message made her heartsick for him.
“Message two,” said the disembodied voice on the other end of the line, “sent Monday, twelve fifty-seven p.m. . . .”
“Hey, it’s me again.” Sean said. “The home phone is going straight to voice mail, and you’re not picking up your cell. So I’m really starting to worry. Call me, okay?”
“Message three, sent Monday, one-fifty-five p.m.”
“Hi, Mom,” Sophie said on the recording—past a lot of chatter in the background. She was probably in a crowded corridor between classes. “Dad texted me during English Lit. He’s worried something happened to you, because you’re not picking up your phone. And obviously you aren’t getting your texts, because I just texted you and didn’t hear back. Anyway, Dad’s freaking out. So call him back, okay? Text me when you get this so I don’t start to freak out, too.”
There were also four text messages: three from Sean, and another from Sophie.
Vic wanted her to text back Sean and assure him everything was fine. Laura carefully composed a message:
Dear Sean,
Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone. Everything ok here. Mr. Clapp came by to work on front yard and must have cut a phone wire. Might see your dad soon, will give him your love . . . miss you!
Laura
She was about to hit the send button when Vic snatched the phone out of her hand. “Wait just a goddamn minute,” he muttered. “‘Dear Sean,’” he read aloud. “You must think you’re clever as hell. I read your last couple of texts to him, and you never pulled this ‘Dear Sean’ shit. No one puts that at the beginning of a text, and no one writes their name at the end. And who’s this Clapp guy? That’s some sort of code, isn’t it?”
“He’s our yardman,” Laura lied. “He sometimes trims back the trees. I thought I’d give an explanation for why the house phone’s not working.”
“You expect me to swallow that crock of crap? Don’t make me slap the shit out of you in front of your kid.” Vic handed the phone back to her. “Rewrite it. Leave out the ‘Dear Sean,’ and the bullshit about his old man and this Clapp dude.”
Laura took the phone and stared at it for a moment.
“Do what I’m telling you,” he said. “Y’know, it’ll take me about two seconds and no effort at all to snap your kid’s neck like an old, dry twig.”
“I’m thinking!” she hissed. It occurred to her that it was a stupid idea to plant all those distress signals in the text to Sean. Even if he called the police, what would happen if they showed up at the house? Vic wasn’t about to give himself up. It could turn into a hostage situation—or even worse.
She typed up a new text to put Sean’s mind at ease:
Hey you,
Crisis averted. Sorry to worry you. Home phone will get repaired tomorrow. It’s a long story. Running around like crazy here. We’ll talk later. Get some sleep. Sending lots of love . . .
XXX
She handed the phone back to Vic. Reading the message, he grunted in what seemed to be a tone of approval and sent the text. He handed the phone back to her. “Okay, now a message for the girl,” he said.
With a sigh, Laura composed a quick text:
Everything fine here. Got a hold of dad. Thanks.
C U soon! XX
“Hey, Mom!” James called from the kitchen. “Come see our pictures! Joe’s drawing a picture of a man . . .”
“In a minute, sweetie,” she called over her shoulder. She surrendered the phone to Vic again. He glanced at her message and sent it. Then there was a beep, signifying an incoming text.
Laura tried to see who it was from, but Vic pulled the phone close to his face so she couldn’t get a look. He smirked. “Your husband’s going to bed. It’s almost midnight there. He’ll call you when he wakes up in seven hours.”
He typed something and sent it.
“What did you just say to him?” she asked.
“I sent him a couple of X’s like you did in your short text yesterday.”
Laura just stared at him. There was something so incredibly creepy about him sending a text that Sean assumed was from her. She imagined Vic continuing to do that—even after killing her and the kids.
He switched off the phone and shoved it in one of the pockets of his cargo pants. “So much for family talk. Now why don’t you go keep your brat quiet for a while?”
He picked up the TV remote
and switched to one of the news stations.
On her way to the kitchen counter-bar to check on James, Laura tidied up some of the mess Vic had made in the family room. She put away the CDs and DVDs he’d taken off the shelf and dropped on the floor. She still had a lot to clean up in the kitchen but ignored that for now.
“Look-it, Mom,” her little boy said, showing her his drawing: a rectangle with four sticks attached to the bottom of the box. He’d colored the inside of the rectangle brown. “Can you guess what it is? Can you guess?”
“Well, does it say ‘bow-wow’?” she asked. “Or do you tell it to ‘giddy-up’?”
“Woof!”
“It’s a wolf,” she said.
“It isn’t a woof!” James declared. “It says, ‘woof’!”
“Oh, it’s a dog, of course,” Laura said. She stole a look at Joe’s crayon drawing. It was a very detailed sketch of a thin-faced, sinister-looking man in his mid-forties, all in one color—purple. Joe was actually a pretty talented artist. “That’s really good,” she commented. “Who’s it supposed to be?”
Joe slid the drawing down the counter so it was in front of her. “This is the third time I’ve tried to draw him. The other two sketches are in Vic’s backpack. They’re from memory. A couple of weeks ago, this man came to the Singletons’ house on Lopez. I’d never seen him before. He was wearing one of those shiny, expensive-looking jogging suits. It was black. And he smoked a cigar. He met with Mr. Singleton outside. No one else was home. I guess they didn’t know I was there. My apartment’s over the garage, right by the driveway, where they were talking. They got into this big argument—”
“Joe, look, I drew a napple tree,” James interrupted. “See the red napples?”
“Cool,” Joe said. “Now your doggie’s in the park. Maybe you can draw some more trees.” He looked up at Laura. “Where was I?”
“In your apartment, watching Scott Singleton and the man argue,” Laura said. “Did you hear what the argument was about?”
He shook his head. “But at one point, this guy . . .” Joe tapped at his drawing with his finger, “he threatened Mr. Singleton. I heard him. He said, ‘You and your whole’”—Joe hesitated, looked at the back of James’s head, and then mouthed the word fucking— “‘family are going down. We’ll destroy you.’ Well, Mr. Singleton got really angry, and he pushed the guy up against his car. I thought he was going to beat him up. But he just held the guy by the front of his jogging suit, then plucked the cigar out of his mouth and flicked it down the driveway. He muttered something to the guy, but I couldn’t hear. Once Mr. Singleton let go of him, the man got into his car and drove away. The weird thing about it was the guy didn’t seem very scared. Me, I would have been petrified.”
“Did you tell the police about this?” Laura asked.
“Not right away. Like I said, it happened two weeks ago. I didn’t think about it until I was stuck alone in that hotel room on San Juan Island. I told the police on Sunday morning, but I’m not sure they believed me. Plus, I guess I wasn’t very helpful. I couldn’t even tell them what kind of car the guy drove. I just remember it was black. Anyway, I’ve been drawing pictures of him ever since, trying to get his face down . . .”
Joe climbed off the stool and tiptoed into the family room. Vic’s backpack was on the opposite end of the sofa from where Vic was now dozing. Joe searched through it and finally took some folded papers from the bag.
Vic stirred. “You watching them?” he grumbled.
Joe nodded. “I think she’ll help us. Listen, Vic, I really don’t think we’ll need to—well . . .” He lowered his voice and bent down close to his friend.
“Look-it, Mom,” James said, showing Laura his drawing again.
“That’s terrific, sweetie,” Laura said. All the while, she kept peeking over at Vic and Joe in quiet conference.
“Hey, Joe, look-it!” James yelled, holding up his drawing.
Vic waved his friend away. “Keep that little bastard quiet,” he grumbled. He stuck a throw pillow behind his neck and tipped his head back.
Laura shushed James and patted him on the shoulder. She glared at Joe as he returned to the counter-bar. She kept thinking he could put a stop to this right now, while his buddy was napping. All he had to do was hit him over the head with something and knock him out. But he wouldn’t.
Joe must have read her mind, because he said nothing. He avoided eye contact with her as he unfolded his other two sketches and set them on the counter.
One drawing, in blue pen, was almost cartoonlike. There was a passing resemblance to the man in the crayon sketch, but the face was broader. Joe had written some statistics next to the drawing:
6 ft. tall
About 180 lbs.
Dark brown hair
Age 40-50
Lined face, dark complexion, tan?
The other drawing was a pencil rendering with a lot of detail and careful shading. Joe must have spent hours working on it. The man’s thin face was wizened in this portrait and had a passing resemblance to a younger Clint Eastwood. He appeared angry in the sketch. Beneath the artwork, Joe had scribbled the word “Zared.”
“What’s Zared?” Laura asked.
“That’s the man’s name,” Joe answered.
“Did you tell the police?”
Joe nodded. “They said Mr. Singleton didn’t have any ‘known associates’ by that name.”
“But you heard Mr. Singleton call him Zared . . .”
“Well, not exactly,” Joe replied, scratching his chin. “At least, I can’t tell you when Mr. Singleton actually said the man’s name. But I know the man’s name is Zared.”
Laura wasn’t sure how reliable Joe’s story was. She looked at the three sketches again. “And you think this Zared person is the one who”—she hesitated and lowered her voice—“K-I-L-L-E-D the Singletons?”
“Well, he threatened Mr. Singleton and the family, and he sure seemed to mean it.”
“But you have no idea why,” Laura said.
“No, but there’s a waitress, Martha, at the Last Sunset Café on Lopez, and last month, she told me that a lot of strange things had been going on at the Singletons’ summerhouse.”
“Like what?”
“She wouldn’t say, but Martha’s one of those people who seem to know a lot about a lot of stuff going on around town. I’ll bet she might have a pretty good idea who Zared is, too. But it’s not like I can go back to Lopez Island and ask her, not now.”
Laura stroked James’s back. She stared at Joe. “So—you want me to go to Lopez and talk to this waitress, is that it?”
He nodded. “Show her the sketches. She might recognize him. Maybe she has an idea of why the Singletons were—you know, K-I-L-L-E-D.”
“And while I run this errand for you, you and Vic will be holding my children hostage,” she whispered. “Is that how it’s supposed to work?”
“I promise,” Joe said. “They won’t be hurt.”
Laura resolutely shook her head. “I’m not leaving my children alone with you—and him.” She shot a look toward Vic, still napping on the sofa. “Besides, if this waitress really knows something, wouldn’t she have gone to the police by now?”
“But maybe not. Anyway, I think it’s worth a try.”
“Joe, there are other ways we can contact her. We could fax one of your sketches to her at the restaurant—or scan it and send it to her in an email. We could do it all from my husband’s office upstairs . . .”
“The police can trace a fax or an email,” Joe argued. “Then they’d figure out we’re here. But if you drove to Lopez Island and went to the café, how is anyone to know who you are? You can say you’re a reporter or something. The island is crawling with them. No one would connect you to Vic and me. You’d just be asking Martha about the Singletons and the man in these drawings.”
Laura kept shaking her head. “I can’t leave my kids here with you. Don’t ask me . . .”
“I told you she wouldn’t c
ooperate,” Vic called to them from the family-room sofa.
Laura flinched. She wondered how long he’d been awake—and listening.
With a grunt, he pulled himself off the couch and lumbered toward the counter-bar. “She doesn’t give a shit about you, buddy,” he muttered, slapping Joe’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “I told you it was a stupid idea.”
“You said a swear!” James declared.
Laura put her hand on her son’s back again.
Vic trudged into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He took out the carton of orange juice and guzzled from it. He left the refrigerator door open. “The thing is, lady, you have no choice.” He set the carton on the counter. “If you don’t cooperate, you and your little tribe are dead. Then we’ll take your car, your money, and your jewelry, and we’ll be in a whole other part of the country by the time someone walks in here and finds your rotting corpses.”
Laura stepped around the counter-bar, brushed past him, and shut the refrigerator door. She took a glass from the cupboard and poured some juice in it. “Say I go on this errand for you, what kind of guarantee do I have that you’re not going to hurt anyone?”
“You have my guarantee,” Joe piped up.
But Laura was looking at Vic, and she didn’t take her eyes off him. “I want to hear it from you.”
He slowly pushed the glass of orange juice toward the edge of the sink, still full of utensils. Then, with a self-satisfied grin, he let the tumbler drop. The glass broke. “I like it from the carton,” he murmured. “It’s fresher that way.”
Her little boy looked up from his drawing. For the first time, James seemed to comprehend what was happening. He looked frightened. His lower lip quivered.
“If you’re not going to give me any guarantee,” Laura said, “once I’m on the road, what’s to keep me from going to the police?”
They Won't Be Hurt Page 9
