Among his many duties for the ministry, Eric Vetter was dedicated to providing scholarships and assistance to young men and women who help spread the word of the church on college campuses and surrounding communities.
The article explained that these college students were called the Messengers. Vetter often took different Messengers and Messenger candidates on weekend excursions in the woods, often four at a time. Sometimes they stayed at his cabin in La Conner, which had an attached guest quarters with bunk beds. That particular weekend, Vetter had been alone in the cabin. Investigators believed the blaze started because the fireplace was in use without a screen.
Fellow Divine Light minister Marilee Cronin was quoted: “My husband Lawrence and I have lost a good friend, and our church has lost one of its founders and guiding lights. I know Eric will continue his amazing work for us in heaven.”
The article pointed out that the Church of the True Divine Light had been in the news lately, due to allegations from some ex-members that the church used brainwashing techniques, blackmail, and extortion.
There wasn’t much in the piece about Eric Vetter’s personal life. He was survived by a younger brother, an ex-wife (now married to someone else), and a married daughter. He’d been close friends with Scott and Sherry Singleton for twenty years.
Laura wondered why she hadn’t heard more about Eric Vetter in the wake of the Singleton murders. After all, here was another prominent figure from the same controversial church who had died just a month before Scott Singleton. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. Then again, why would the police or the press see a connection between the deaths? One man had died in a fire that was easily explained. And a month later, the other died with his family in a mass murder that had two suspects now on the run from the police. Maybe it was a coincidence after all, and maybe she was just trying too hard to find something to help Joe.
She reread the part about the Messengers. The whole thing seemed kind of cultish: recruiting college-age kids in need of scholarships and taking them to some remote cabin in the woods for orientation or indoctrination or whatever. Was that where the alleged brainwashing took place?
Laura wondered if Doran Wiley was a Messenger or a wannabe Messenger. She tried a Google search for Doran, and found only one article—from The Spokane Spokesman-Review—which mentioned his name in connection with his participation in a high school football game. Laura couldn’t even find a Facebook profile on him. She imagined he was one of those kids who went by another name on Facebook, so potential employers couldn’t check their profiles and see how much partying they did.
Laura was starting to get frustrated. Instead of finding some answers, she was just coming up with more questions. And nothing she read seemed connected to Joe.
She tried a search for Zared on Google. She figured it might be someone’s last name. But the only results she got were for websites on baby names and name-meanings. Zared was a boy’s name with Hebrew origins, and it meant “trap” or “ambush.”
To Laura, it still sounded like the name of a comic book super-villain—something Joe might have invented. She tried linking Zared with the Singletons, Eric Vetter, and Doran Wiley, but didn’t come up with anything.
Feeling defeated, she gave up on the Google searches, and instead, checked the latest updates on the Singleton family murders. The top story was still the manhunt for the two fugitive suspects. The police had interviewed Alan Halstead, a psychiatrist who had treated Joe at Western Washington Psychiatric Institute in Marysville. According to a Huffington Post article:
Halstead maintained that, in his opinion, Joseph Mulroney was incapable of doing harm to anyone—except possibly himself. “At the time of his release, we were confident Joseph would have great success with his medication and outpatient therapy.”
But Laura remembered Joe admitting to her that Vic had persuaded him to stop taking his medication.
She scribbled down Halstead’s name. She wondered how the psychiatrist could say that Joe was incapable of harming anyone when he’d put that coworker in the hospital. Then again, she’d seen how little Joey had taken abuse from Donald Clapp for weeks and weeks without complaint. Maybe it was the same scenario with this bully of a coworker. Maybe the guy had it coming.
According to the same Huffington Post article, even though Vic had been identified as the man in the North Seattle 7-Eleven video at the time of the Singleton murders, he was still considered a “person of interest” in the case. And he was still wanted by the police for escaping from the institute and the attempted murder of a guard. Before his incarceration there, Vic had already accrued a long rap sheet that included robbery, destruction of private property, forgery, reckless endangerment, assault, and assault and battery. The last charge, which had landed him in the Western Washington Psychiatric Institute, was in connection with his “attack” on a seventeen-year-old girl two years ago.
Laura couldn’t help wondering if this “attack” might have been a rape that his lawyer had negotiated to a lesser charge. It was certainly a possibility.
And here she’d left her daughter with him.
The police and the press didn’t even know what she knew about Vic—that, on top of everything else, he was a murderer.
Laura kept thinking her children might be better off if she went to the police right now. But she remembered Vic’s warning. He’d promised that James would be the first to die. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do it either.
Right now, her only hope was that Joe would realize that she was on his side, and he would somehow intercede. But so far, she’d come up with nothing to help his case, nothing to explain why that whole family was slaughtered and he was spared, nothing to explain how he could have slept through all of it.
The student at the computer next to hers shoved his notebook and Good & Plenty in his backpack and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. Then he passed behind her.
A moment later, Laura heard him talking to someone. He sounded a bit curt: “You can use that computer now if you want. You know, the other computers are working as well. Or is there some other reason why you have been standing there staring for the last twenty minutes?”
Laura swiveled around. He was talking to the same young man who had been staring at her in the cafeteria, the Aryan-looking blond with the pouty lips.
He sneered at the East Indian student, and then locked eyes with Laura’s for a moment—that same icy stare as before.
Laura felt herself shrink back.
He turned and walked away. The student who had been using the computer headed off in the other direction.
Laura sat there, afraid to move. The blond man looked too young to be a cop. She wondered if he was a student. Maybe he was one of the church’s Messengers.
She glanced around and didn’t see him anywhere.
But she knew, whoever he was, he hadn’t really gone away.
Tuesday—4:10 P.M.
Lopez Island
“‘Mama said there’d be days like this,’” Martha muttered to herself as she stepped out of the café. It was one of those old song quotes she sometimes used as a mantra. Martha had thought she’d be finishing work on time at three, but things got crazy with the late-lunch crowd.
Usually she drove to the restaurant, but her car was in the shop. A neighbor had given her a lift this morning, but she’d have to hoof it home. She told herself it was only a little over a mile and at least it wasn’t raining. Buttoning up her jacket, she thought about soaking her feet when she got home. That reporter woman was supposed to come by for her big scoop around five-thirty. Martha figured the money she collected from the woman ought to cover the car-repair bill.
At the far end of the restaurant’s parking lot, near the recycling station, she spotted a man leaning against a black BMW. He wore a black V-neck sweater and stared at something on his smartphone. As Martha got closer to him, she recognized his face. It was Mr. Pecan Waffle. He’d left the café at least three hours ago. Had he b
een out here this whole time?
He smiled at her. “Hey, need a ride?”
Martha warily shook her head. “No, thanks.” She kept moving.
He started to follow her. “What did you tell that woman reporter earlier?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I caught her trying to shortchange me.” Martha didn’t break her stride. There was no sidewalk on this stretch of road, so she started walking on the dirt path near the shoulder. There were some woods on her right.
He was still tailing her. “Did you get the woman’s name?” he pressed.
“No, I didn’t, and if you don’t stop following me, I’ll call a cop. And it won’t take long to get one here. This island is crawling with them right now.” Holding her purse close, she kept walking. She figured she didn’t owe this guy anything. He didn’t even leave her a very good tip.
She must have scared him off, because he stopped following her.
Martha pressed on. She was relieved. It was starting to get dark out, and the street lights hadn’t come on yet. She wasn’t too worried about being followed along this roadway, because cars zoomed by pretty frequently. If he’d tried to attack her, someone would have noticed him dragging her into the woods. The side roads were what worried her. They were kind of iffy—with less traffic and just as many dark wooded areas. Of course, Lopez Island had always been pretty safe. It was one of those places where people never locked their doors at night—at least it had been until this past weekend.
She turned down the first side street on her usual route home. There still wasn’t a sidewalk, and the dirt path along the roadside was more gravelly. It wasn’t easy on her sore feet.
Martha had trudged along for only about a half-block when she heard a car coming up in back of her. She moved a step closer to the trees to clear the way, and then looked over her shoulder.
It was the black BMW, crawling along behind her.
“Crap,” she muttered under her breath.
This was the “iffy” area she’d been thinking about earlier. She had the woods on her right, and on the left were a couple of ramshackle houses and the back of a rundown strip mall. Not too many people used this street. It might be a long time before another car came along. Martha told herself to just ignore the guy. Don’t slow down, don’t hurry up. Just keep walking.
Behind her, Martha could hear the engine humming and gravel snapping under the tires. She could see the headlights on the street pavement.
She tried not to panic. What the hell did he want? She wondered if he was another reporter, possibly a competitor of the woman she’d made the deal with. Or maybe he was one of the church followers, maybe even a big shot, since he was at the wheel of a BMW.
Just this morning she’d been thinking, there are too many strangers on this island right now.
She kept her purse close to her and reached inside for her phone. Should she threaten to call a cop again—or just call them? If she didn’t, she had a feeling this guy was going to follow her all the way home.
Then, just near the end of the block, when Martha was about to turn down another street, she heard the tires screech and the car roared past her. With a squeal, the BMW turned in front of her and sped down the next block.
“Asshole!” she muttered.
But she was thankful he’d moved on. With a shaky hand, she closed her purse again.
Martha walked another two blocks before her heartbeat seemed to slow down to normal and she could breathe right again. She would be home in about five minutes. This was a residential neighborhood. She was safe now. The guy was just being a jerk.
As she turned down her own block, Martha saw the BMW again. It was parked across the street from her townhouse.
She stopped dead.
How did the son of a bitch know where she lived?
It was too late to turn and run. Martha was sure the man could see her from where he was parked. She’d be better off making a mad dash to the front door. If he tried to attack her, she’d scream. The neighbors would hear.
She started walking again, this time at a brisk clip. As she got closer to the townhouse, she spotted the man in the driver’s seat of the BMW.
Martha picked up the pace a little. She opened her purse and reached inside for the house keys so she’d have them ready. She glanced over at the black car again. He still hadn’t gotten out.
Approaching the walkway to her front door, Martha had the key in her hand, and she began to run. Was this a mistake? Was it smart to let him know where she lived? But obviously, he already knew, damn it. She would phone 9-1-1 as soon as she got in the front door—if she ever got in the front door. Her hands shook so much she couldn’t fit the key in the lock.
Martha kept thinking he was coming up behind her again. But when she glanced over her shoulder, she didn’t see anyone.
Finally, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. Hurrying inside, she locked and bolted the door behind her. She grabbed her cell phone and her purse dropped to the floor. A few items spilled out, but she barely noticed. She looked out the window to see if he was coming up the sidewalk to the house. There was no sign of him. The best view of where he’d parked his car was from her kitchen window. Martha headed that way. Maybe she could take down his license plate for the police when she reported him.
She stepped into the kitchen and saw someone in there.
Martha let out a shriek. The phone slipped out of her hand and landed on the floor with a hollow thump.
It wasn’t the same man as before.
But he looked sort of like the other one—about forty-five, tall, dark hair and a dark complexion. He wore a black tracksuit with silver piping. He stood by her kitchen table with a gun in his gloved hand. It was pointed at her.
Martha didn’t move.
“Your shift was supposed to end an hour ago,” he said. “I’ve been waiting here a while.”
“What—” She couldn’t talk. She could hardly breathe. She had her hands half raised in front of her. “What do you want?”
“Let’s take it to the bedroom, Martha.” He gave her a tiny smile. “What do you say?”
She let out a whimper and shook her head.
“Relax,” he said. “I just want to talk a little, and there are too many windows in this room. I don’t want the neighbors to know you have company.”
Her legs felt wobbly as she turned and headed through the front hallway toward the bedroom. She thought about making a run for the front door, but she’d already locked and bolted it. She reluctantly stepped into the bedroom. It was a bit messy. She hadn’t had time to make her bed this morning. The shades were drawn and it was dark in there. But her bathroom light was on. Martha didn’t know if she’d left it on this morning or if he’d turned it on.
“Go ahead and sit down on the bed,” he told her. “You’ve been on your feet all day. And take off the jacket.”
Martha obeyed him. She stared up at the man with trepidation. Something about his face was familiar. He must have been a customer at the café. “Is that—is that your friend in the car outside?” she asked.
He nodded. “He told me you weren’t very forthcoming about the woman reporter who was in the café today. You sure you didn’t get her name?”
Martha shook her head. “I didn’t, I swear.”
“Apparently, she thinks you know some things about the Singletons that no one else knows.”
Martha shook her head again. “I really don’t know much—just rumors I’ve heard, that’s all. It—it’s only gossip. I’m not even sure if any of it’s true.”
“My friend was watching you very carefully. He thought you might have made a deal with this woman.”
Martha’s fingers dug into the edge of the mattress. “Well, I—I might have let her believe that I knew something,” she admitted.
“Like what?”
“Like Mrs. Singleton was fooling around with the groundskeepers, and someone was paying off the different guys to keep them quiet.”
“No—no, I haven’t.” Martha glanced over at her nightstand clock. “She’s supposed to come here . . .” Martha realized she might be able to use this to her advantage if she only lied a little. “In fact, she—she’s due here any minute now, and she said she’d be bringing a work associate, a man . . .”
“In that case, we better not waste any more time,” he said. “C’mon, let’s move this into the bathroom.”
Martha didn’t move. “What for?”
“I just said,” he whispered, “don’t waste any more of my time, bitch.”
She still couldn’t move.
“Get up!”
Martha stood up and unsteadily made her way into the bathroom. “Please, whatever you and your friend want, I’ll—”
“Take off your clothes,” he interrupted.
She stared at him. He stood in the bathroom doorway, blocking her escape.
“You heard me,” he said.
Martha glanced around her messy bathroom—with its cluttered sink-counter and towels hanging askew on the racks. She braced herself against the sink and kicked off her shoes. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. She could feel her throat starting to close up. Tears came to her eyes.
“Hurry up,” he murmured.
With her hands shaking, she unzipped her brown and beige waitress uniform and took it off.
He stared at her, but didn’t seem the least bit sexually interested in her.
Martha suddenly realized where she’d seen him before. “You—you’re the man in the sketches she showed me.”
He nodded. “She showed them to my friend, too. C’mon, take off the slip—and the rest of what you’ve got on under there.”
“Why?” she asked, crying. “Why are you making me do this?”
“Because,” said the man, “when they find you in the tub, you should be naked.”
They Won't Be Hurt Page 22
