They Won't Be Hurt

by Kevin O'Brien

  Laura nodded. She’d heard it just yesterday. Though he didn’t tap him for money, Scott Singleton had given the same spiel to Joe on the night of the murders.

  “Courtney and Doran said that if I didn’t have the money, I should hit up my parents for it,” Randall went on. “They had tips and guidelines on what to tell them in an email or phone call. And of course, I wasn’t supposed to mention the church. Courtney and Doran had all the inside info on my relationship with my parents—thanks to my heart-to-heart discussion with Eric the night we screwed. They told me how to approach them, and how my parents owed me and my soul this money—which I was supposed to hand over to the church.”

  “What did you do?” Laura asked.

  “I told them I’d think about it. My parents aren’t perfect, but they didn’t kick me out of the house when I told them I was gay, and they’re paying for my school. It seemed dishonest hitting them up for this money. My parents deserved better. I felt like I was being ripped off. I kept thinking this was just the start of regular payments the church would demand from me. It kind of popped my bubble, y’know? I came to the realization that Doran and I were never going to get it on. Plus, I wasn’t sure I even liked him anymore. He and Courtney kept bugging me for the two hundred, saying if I didn’t cough it up, I couldn’t be a church member anymore and all my new friends would turn their backs on me. Then, about a month ago, Ben split, just disappeared. A day later, Courtney left school all of a sudden. A couple of days after that, Eric Vetter died in a fire. All of this happened in the same week. Kind of weird, don’t you think?”

  Laura nodded. “Did you ever find out what happened to Ben or Courtney?”

  “That’s what I asked Doran the night we got drunk together.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a month ago,” Randall said, “a few days after Eric was killed. Doran showed up to my room with a six-pack of beer, a pint of Jack Daniel’s, and a bag of Doritos. He wasn’t even that drunk when he admitted to me that Ben wasn’t a student here. He worked for the church—and for Eric. I never got his last name the three weeks I knew him. The day before he took off, he told Doran that ‘some shit was coming down.’”

  “What did he mean by that?” Laura asked.

  Randall shrugged. “I have no idea. I asked Doran, and he didn’t know either. Anyway, Ben told Doran that he was going to Iowa to work on a farm with a friend of his.”

  “What about Courtney?”

  “Her roommate over at Birnam Wood said Courtney left in a real hurry. She packed a couple of bags, but left a bunch of stuff behind. Her roommate said she thought Courtney would be back to pick up the stuff, but . . .” Randall shook his head.

  “What did you say Courtney’s last name was?”

  “Furst, F-U-R-S-T,” Randall said. “Without her, our pseudo-family just fell apart.”

  Laura scribbled it down: Courtney Furst – Birnam Wood.

  “So—Ben and Courtney took off, while Doran remained here with the rest of you,” she said.

  Randall nodded. “Right, and Doran was pissed about it, too. See, like I told you earlier, Eric plucked Doran fresh out of high school. Doran spent a few weekends at the cabin—always with a group, and he got snagged the same way I did—an overnight with too many beers, and a lot of sexy stories. He ended up having a three-way with a girl and another guy in that special guest room of Eric’s. It was special, because Eric had video cameras set up behind a couple of two-way mirrors in the room. Doran told me that Eric amassed a huge homemade porn collection—starring all these college-age recruits and recruit candidates. It wasn’t enough that we’d written down all our deepest secrets, shames, and fears for them, they also had each one of us on X-rated DVDs. Talk about insurance for your soul. This was their insurance that none of us would ever publicly talk out against the church. That was what I meant earlier about the other ‘secret weapon’ they had to keep us in line. Doran was furious as hell when Eric told him that he’d been recorded messing around with that girl and guy—especially the guy.” Randall sighed. “God, what I would’ve given at one time to be that dude . . .”

  “When did Eric tell him about these videos?”

  “It was after Doran quit working for the Singletons.”

  Laura stole another glance at her watch. “Yes, tell me more about that.”

  “Well, Eric introduced him to Scott back in June. This was a big deal. I think Courtney was the only other one of us who actually met Scott. Anyway, Doran already had the church paying his tuition and room and board here. Scott suggested he come work at the family’s summer home on Lopez Island. That way, Doran would have some spending money at school. Well, at first, Doran loved it. He said it was the best job ever. He had his own furnished apartment above their garage. He said the Singleton girls were pretty to look at—and flirty. The work wasn’t too tough, and there was always something fun going on. But for the first couple of weeks, Scott wasn’t there. He was traveling a lot.

  “It was like early July when Scott finally came to the summerhouse, and his first night there, he called Doran on the intercom and said he wanted to talk to him in his study. So Doran showed up, and Scott poured him a beer and told him what a tip-top job he was doing . . .”

  Laura nodded. It sounded just like Joe’s experience with him late Friday evening.

  “And that was the last thing Doran remembered from that night,” Randall said.

  Laura leaned forward in her chair. “What?”

  Randall let out a little laugh. “Doran woke up in his apartment the next morning, and didn’t have a clue what had happened. And can you believe it? The stupid asshole didn’t catch on until about the third or fourth time that Scott was slipping him roofies. Mr. Divine Light was doing him while he was totally out of it.”

  Laura shook her head. No wonder Joe had slept through the murders and couldn’t remember anything from that night. She’d suspected Joe was holding back on telling her something about that night. Maybe this was it. Maybe, like Doran, he hadn’t caught on that he’d been drugged and raped.

  “By the time Doran put together what had happened,” Randall explained, “he was too humiliated to tell anyone except Eric. He went to Eric and basically said to him, take this caretaking job and shove it. He was kind of soured on the church, too. That’s when Eric showed him the video he’d made of Doran embracing his gay potential—or at least, his bisexual potential. Eric said it could go on the Internet at any time. And wouldn’t Doran be a lot happier working for the church while they foot the bill for his first semester here?”

  Laura kept shaking her head. She told herself that she shouldn’t have been shocked, but she was. Scott Singleton, the great defender of the sanctity of traditional marriage, was screwing around behind his wife’s back—with drugged-up teenage boys, no less. “How did Scott Singleton handle Doran walking out on the job?” she asked.

  “Oh, Eric made sure it was all smoothed over. He told Doran that, no offense, but Scott was getting pretty tired of him anyway. Apparently, old Scott was far more into girls. But he liked to ‘spice it up’ once in a while. At the same time, he was a big homophobe, and I asked Doran about that—during that night we got drunk together. He said Eric explained that Scott was only interested in handsome, super-straight guys. He hated sissies. Anyway, he got Eric to find him guys and he used roofies to do what he wanted with them. None of them ever lasted long. I’ll bet it’s because Scott hated to be reminded of that side of himself. Anyway, Eric was always there to make sure the guys were paid to keep quiet. I hear a few of the girls Scott seduced had to be paid off as well. I’m not sure how long each one of them lasted. Doran said Courtney was one of Scott’s favorites, so I think the two of them had something going on for a while. He said Courtney also starred in a bunch of Eric’s videos.”

  Laura couldn’t fathom it. Then again, until yesterday morning, she never would have guessed her own husband would be spending tomorrow night in a Paris hotel with someone he was passing off a
s Mrs. Gretchell. She still didn’t want to believe it.

  Randall nodded at the TV over on the wall. CNN was showing Scott’s partners in the church, Lawrence and Marilee Cronin, at yet another news conference. Marilee had her flaxen hair in pigtails again, and she wore a dress that looked more like a band uniform. “It’s obvious she has no gay friends,” Randall said, “because no self-respecting homo would let a girlfriend leave the house in that outfit—unless she was a drum majorette.”

  Once again, the Cronins gave off a somber and self-righteous attitude for the press. Laura didn’t bother reading the closed-captioning.

  “I’ll bet they’re secretly breathing a sigh of relief that Scott is dead,” Randall muttered. “Now he’s St. Scott, a martyr for their church—instead of a national embarrassment.”

  Laura stole another glance at her wristwatch. She wanted to talk with Courtney’s roommate, and she was already getting down to the wire if she hoped to catch the next ferry from Anacortes to Lopez Island.

  “Anyway, back to that night in my room with Doran,” Randall continued. “He got hammered, and was really feeling sorry for himself. He thought his friends had deserted him, and he’d just found out the church wasn’t paying his tuition next semester. I guess with Eric dead, they dropped their scholarship program. Doran felt really screwed over. He actually hugged me and cried on my shoulder about it—on my bed.” Randall held up his hand—the thumb and index finger half an inch apart. “I came this close to making a pass. And I probably should have, too. But like an idiot, I kept thinking, well, now we’ll be friends again, so I better not spoil it. And guess what? The next day, when I saw Doran during lunch at the commons, the bastard totally blew me off. He didn’t want anything to do with me. That was nearly a month ago, and he still won’t talk to me. He’s too cool for me. He looks at me like I was a pest. So—go ahead and please publish everything I just told you. I hope Vanity Fair ends up buying the story.” He glanced down at the scratch paper. “You haven’t taken many notes . . .”

  “Ah, I have a really good memory,” Laura said. “And I’ll get back to you for direct quotes. In the meantime . . .” Opening her purse, she took out Joe’s sketches and set them out on the table. “Before we wrap it up here, could you tell me if the man in these sketches looks at all familiar to you?”

  His brow furrowed, Randall studied the drawings. “Are they all the same guy?”

  “Yes.”

  He pointed to the detailed one. “This looks like Clint Eastwood.”

  She nodded. “I thought so, too. But does he look like anyone you might have met through Doran or Eric, maybe somebody with the church? Does he resemble Ben at all?”

  “No, this guy looks about fifty. Ben was only like twenty.” Randall shook his head. “Nope, sorry, I don’t know who this is supposed to be . . .”

  Laura started folding up the drawings. “What about the name, Zared. Does that ring a bell—even a distant bell?”

  “Zared. Is that a first or last name?”

  “Either.”

  He seemed to ponder it for a moment and then shrugged. “Sorry, it doesn’t sound familiar to me. But hey, wait a minute. Maybe that was Ben’s last name . . .”

  “Maybe,” Laura murmured, considering it as a possibility. That gave her even more impetus to track down Courtney Furst and talk with her—if there was time.

  Laura stood up, grabbed her coat off the back of the chair and put it on. “Do you have any idea what happened to the DVDs?”

  Randall shrugged. “I’m guessing they all went up in smoke when Eric’s cabin caught fire.” He got to his feet. “Or maybe someone connected to the church found them and destroyed them. Like I say, it must have been quite a porn collection. Doran said he watched a few with Eric, and the quality was damn good.”

  “And those nights Scott was with Doran, you’re sure he slipped him a roofie?”

  Randall threw on his jacket. “That’s what Doran said.”

  “Well, that would explain why Joe Mulroney slept through the killings and couldn’t remember anything from that night, wouldn’t it?”

  Laura was hoping this revelation might be enough to prove Joe’s innocence.

  “Joe Mulroney, he’s the caretaker, the guy the police are looking for, isn’t he?”

  Laura nodded.

  “Well, to me, it also explains why this Mulroney guy went berserk and killed Scott—along with the whole family. I mean, maybe he figured out what Scott did to him. Look at how Doran went crazy on you when you just broached the subject—and he’s sane. He’s an asshole, but he’s sane. Didn’t that Mulroney guy spend some time in a nuthouse?”

  Laura just gazed at him. She didn’t have an answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tuesday—4:35 P.M.

  Leavenworth

  “Do me a big favor,” Sophie called to Liam in the bedroom. She was on her hands and knees on the bathroom floor, cleaning around the toilet with some wadded-up toilet paper. “Next time James comes in here, would you show him how to aim? He could use a lesson or two. I think he might have missed the floor and accidentally gotten a few drops in the toilet.”

  At least he’d washed his hands afterward.

  She’d been trapped in her bedroom with her two brothers since lunchtime. She and Liam took turns trying to keep James entertained—and quiet. She had a deck of cards, thank God, so they played Slap Jack for a while. Then James colored with her highlighters. Liam sat with him while he took a long bath, and they got him to nap for nearly an hour. But he usually ate a mid-afternoon snack by now, and he was a bit cranky-hungry.

  It was ironic how they’d been trying not to make any noise, but Vic had the TV blaring downstairs: The Jerry Springer Show, some game show, CNN, and then ESPN. All of it competed with her radio, which she kept at a low volume. It was “easy listening shit” as Liam called it, but at least the elevator music was slightly distracting, and the station broke for news every hour. There were no real updates. The news announcer mentioned that the two Singleton murder suspects were still at large. For the last news break, it was the fourth item they’d mentioned. Sophie couldn’t help feeling like it was no longer too important to everyone out there.

  She’d tried to read earlier but couldn’t really concentrate. Every time she heard a noise, she thought it might be the delivery person. She’d figured that would be their last chance to get help. So Sophie had taken a piece of Kleenex and carefully written on it in tiny print:

  Singleton murder suspects have taken over

  house—3 hostages. Tell police be careful.

  Suspects will kill hostages first sign of

  interference.

  It had taken her the better part of a half hour to get the note so it was legible and she didn’t tear the tissue. Several other attempts had failed and needed to be wet and wadded up so Vic wouldn’t discover them later. She practiced with Liam how she would subtly pass the finished product, carefully folded up, to the delivery person as the package was handed off. If she screwed it up and Vic caught on to what she was doing, he’d probably end up pistol-whipping her. And she was pretty certain he’d kill the delivery person. Some poor UPS or FedEx employee’s life was in her hands. She pictured some cute, polite guy in the delivery uniform—and Vic slitting his throat. Did she really want to risk it?

  She finished cleaning up after James and then flushed the toilet paper down the toilet. As she washed her hands, she glanced at the nailed-shut window and realized it was already nighttime.

  Liam suddenly appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Someone’s coming up the driveway,” he whispered.

  “Vic!” she heard Joe yell from downstairs. “I see headlights! It’s time!” Then there was muttering, and after a moment, someone came charging up the stairs.

  Sophie quickly dried her hands. But they were still damp. She didn’t want to try handing off the fragile Kleenex note with damp hands. The tissue would fall apart in her damp fingers.

  Liam hurried back toward the
window seat. “It doesn’t look like a delivery truck,” he said, “at least, not from here . . .”

  The door squeaked and buckled, and then opened. “All right,” Joe said, a little out of breath. He nodded at her. “We need you downstairs. Please, just sign for the package and don’t try anything . . .”

  “Okay,” she said, suddenly out of breath, too. She brushed past him and headed into the hallway. She rubbed her hand on her pants-leg to make sure it was dry. Reaching into her pocket, she delicately pulled out the folded-up tissue. She transferred it to her left hand and made fists of both her hands.

  Coming down the stairs, Sophie saw Vic already in position beside the front door. His back was pressed against the wall, and he brandished a switchblade knife. He almost seemed eager to use it. His eyes narrowed at her. “Don’t try to get cute, princess,” he said.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Sophie could hear the vehicle pulling up outside. Already, she felt her palms sweating. She tried to ignore Vic as she opened the door with her right hand.

  She immediately saw that Liam had been right. It wasn’t a delivery truck, but rather a silver Toyota Camry. It took her a moment to realize it was her grandmother’s car.

  A panic swept through her. She wouldn’t be able to send her grandmother away as she had Mrs. Bellini.

  And Vic wasn’t going to let her go.

  Helpless, Sophie watched her grandmother climb out of the car. Her mother’s mother was a widow in her mid-seventies, with short auburn hair and a fondness for jangly bracelets. She’d survived cancer, and just lately, seemed to be slowing down a little—and filling out a bit. “How’s my darling?” she called to Sophie as she shut the car door. “You want to get your brother out here to help me with my bags?”