Sophie quickly shoved the Kleenex note back in her pocket. Leaving the door open, she ran to her grandmother. She instinctively put herself between her grandmother and Vic. She hugged her fiercely. The bracelets jangling and the familiar smell of her grandmother’s Chanel No. 5 should have been a comfort, but Sophie found she couldn’t hold back the tears. “Oh, Nana . . .” she cried. “Something’s happened . . .”
“What in the world . . .” her grandmother murmured.
Sophie turned and looked back at Vic, standing in the door. He still had the knife in his hand. Clinging to her grandmother, Sophie shook her head at Vic. “Don’t . . . please . . .”
He stepped onto the front porch, but stopped there.
“This is my grandmother,” Sophie explained, wiping a tear away as she stared down Vic. Her voice shook. “If you hurt her, I swear . . .”
She glanced up at her bedroom window and saw Joe leaning over the window seat, holding onto Liam’s arm. Her brother seemed to be squirming and struggling a bit. “Joe!” she called. “We need you down here!”
Someone had to run interference with Vic. He probably didn’t want another hostage around. In his sick mind, it would probably be simpler just to kill this old woman.
“Where’s your mom?” her grandmother asked urgently. “What’s going on here? Who are these men?”
Sophie shook her head. She couldn’t get the words out. She was terrified that Vic might shoot her—right here, right now.
Her grandmother took a deep breath, and held her close. She stared at Vic. She didn’t seem the least bit scared of him.
“What have you done to my daughter?”
Tuesday—5:02 P.M.
Bellingham
Laura was trying to make sense of the directory near the entrance to a maze of tan and brown apartment buildings. They were set on a beautiful wooded property with bridged walkways between the two-story structures. Birnam Wood was the housing complex for upperclassmen. It was also the former residence of Courtney Furst, the “queen bee” among the True Divine Light church’s campus converts.
Laura anxiously glanced at her watch. If she hoped to catch the six o’clock ferry in Anacortes, she had about three minutes to find this young woman’s apartment and talk to her former roommate—if the roommate was even home.
Randall still had in his smartphone Courtney’s apartment number from a potluck she’d hosted back during his brief bliss period. He had Courtney’s phone number, too, but said every time he called, he’d gotten a recording saying the customer’s voice-mailbox was full. He’d also given Laura directions to Birnam Wood.
While still at the Union, she’d also spotted an ATM. It took two transactions and an added six-dollar fee, but Laura had taken out four hundred dollars. Between that and what she had in her purse, it was enough to pay Martha for the information she was selling.
But Laura was pretty certain Courtney Furst knew a lot more about the Singletons than Martha ever hoped to know.
She flagged the first student to pass by, and asked for help finding Courtney’s apartment number. “I can’t figure out this directory for the life of me,” Laura said.
The young redhead in the blue ski jacket looked at her as if she were a bit crazy. But she politely pointed out the building for her.
Laura practically ran to the building. When she reached the apartment door, she noticed the names over the unit’s doorbell:
C. Furst
L. Kim
She rang the bell. Catching her breath, she tried to listen for some activity on the other side of the solid door. It didn’t sound like anyone was home. All this for nothing, she thought hopelessly. Still, she rang the bell again.
She heard a lock click, and the door opened a couple of inches—as far as the chain lock allowed. “Yes?” the young woman asked, peering out at her through the opening. From what Laura could see, L. Kim was a petite, pretty young Asian woman with long black hair parted down the middle.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you,” Laura said. “My name’s Laura, and I was hoping you might be able to tell me how to get in touch with Courtney.”
The girl shook her head. “I’m sorry, she’s moved away.”
“I know,” Laura said. She was still trying to get her breath. “But it’s urgent I get in touch with her.”
The girl looked hesitant. “Are you one of her friends through the church?”
“No. But—well, my son, Randall was, and it’s kind of an emergency. I think Courtney’s the only one who might be able to help us. I’ve tried her phone number, and I keep getting a recording saying the voice-mailbox is full . . .” The last part of her story was more or less true. Just to double-check what Randall had told her, she’d tried the number on her way to Birnam Wood, and got the automated recording telling her to hang up.
The girl shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen or heard from Courtney in nearly a month. I don’t know how I could help you.”
“Well, I understand she left some of her things behind. Maybe there’s a letter or a bill with some other contact information on it. Do you know where she’s from?”
“Lake Chelan,” the girl said. She seemed a bit reluctant as she unfastened the chain and opened the door wider. “Her mother lives there. But I just talked with Mrs. Furst two weeks ago, and she doesn’t know where Courtney is either.”
“Well, has anyone called the police?” Laura asked. “Her mother doesn’t know where she is. You’re Courtney’s good friend, and you don’t know where she is . . .”
The girl shrugged. “Courtney and I were roommates, but we weren’t very close.”
“You aren’t with the church?” Laura asked.
The girl shook her head, but she smiled wryly. “I don’t think they’d want me for a member. I’m a little too ethnic for them. But you’re the first person to ask . . .”
Laura blinked at her. “Beg your pardon?”
“Since she disappeared, three other people have come here looking for Courtney, saying it was an emergency. They claimed not to be with the church, but they never asked if I was a church member. That’s how I knew they were lying. Only someone from the church would know not to bother asking, because their church is just about as white as Ivory Snow.”
Laura opened her purse and pulled out Joe’s sketches. She showed the girl the drawings. “This is all supposed to be the same man. Did any of the people who came looking for Courtney resemble the man in these sketches?”
The girl sighed. “Come on in while I get my glasses.”
“Thanks.” Laura glanced at her wristwatch as she stepped over the threshold. She looked around the living room—with some rather drab tan wood furniture that appeared to have come with the unit. Colorful posters of chimpanzees and apes decorated one wall. A monkey stuffed animal sat in one corner of the brown sofa in lieu of a throw pillow. “Somebody likes monkeys,” she said.
The girl put on her glasses. “That’s Courtney. You should see her room. It’s a veritable simian museum—everything from a Curious George cuddly to a poster for King Kong. She’s ape for apes. I still can’t believe she left it all behind.” She studied the sketches, and nodded at the detailed rendering that resembled Clint Eastwood. “That guy looks kind of familiar.”
“Did he give his name?” Laura asked.
“I’m sure he did, but I can’t remember.”
“Was it Zared, by any chance?”
She made a face and then shook her head. “No, that wasn’t it.”
Biting her lip, Laura put the sketches back in her purse. “You don’t still happen to have Mrs. Furst’s phone number, do you?”
The girl walked over to a desk on the other side of the room from the ape posters. She looked something up on her phone, and then picked up a pen. “I’m writing it down for you,” she said. “So—do you mind my asking what kind of trouble your son is in?”
Laura sighed. “To tell you the truth, Miss . . .”
“Kim,” the girl said. She came over
and handed her a Post-it with a phone number on it. “Lisa Kim.” She opened the door for her.
“Thank you.” Laura slipped the Post-it inside her purse and turned to her in the doorway. “To tell you the truth, Lisa,” she said, “it’s not just my son who’s in trouble. It’s my whole family.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tuesday—5:11 P.M.
Bellingham
“Hello, Mrs. Furst, you don’t know me, but my name’s Laura, and I’m a senior here at Western. . .”
Holding the cell phone to her ear, Laura glanced at the speedometer: eighty miles an hour. She’d never been one to talk on her phone while driving. It always made her nervous, and besides, it was against the law. She prayed there were no cops patrolling this winding stretch of Interstate 5. And she prayed she didn’t end up having an accident. The section of highway wove through trees and hills, so the reception on the cheap little phone was awful.
“Yes?” Courtney’s mother sounded wary.
“I’m looking for a place to live,” she explained. “And I understand your daughter, Courtney, moved out of her apartment at Birnam Wood. It’s perfect for me. But Courtney left a lot of things behind, a whole collection of monkey and ape memorabilia. Her roommate, Lisa, said she can’t get ahold of her. Now Lisa’s out of town and I have the key. Anyway, I don’t want to throw this stuff out, not without talking to Courtney first.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Laura . . .” She passed a sign for a highway exit. “Fairhaven, Laura Fairhaven.”
“You aren’t with the church, are you?”
“What church?” Laura figured it was better to play dumb.
“I thought you might be one of Courtney’s church friends calling again,” Mrs. Furst said.
“No, Courtney doesn’t know me.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have no idea where she is. I haven’t spoken to her in quite a while.”
Laura had a feeling she was covering for her daughter. “Well, I’m already half-moved in,” she said. “And I’d really like to pack up this stuff of Courtney’s and move it out. A lot of it looks kind of personal. If by any chance you hear from Courtney, could you please have her call me at this number—just as soon as she can? Do you have a pencil and a piece of paper handy, Mrs. Furst?”
“Well, I really don’t think I’ll hear from Courtney anytime soon, but if you’ll hold for a minute, I’ll take your number down . . .”
When Mrs. Furst got back on the line, Laura gave her the number of the pay-as-you-go phone. “Please, if you figure out any way to get in touch with your daughter, could you have her call me?” Laura pressed. “I’d really hate to throw all her things away and find out later that she was coming back for them.”
“I have your number, Laura,” Mrs. Furst said. “If I hear from Courtney, I’ll pass along the message. Good-bye.”
Through the cheap phone’s static-laced reception, Laura clearly heard the click on the other end.
* * *
“Oh, my God, really? Are you really slowing down for a green light? What is your problem? Are you trying to torture me?”
It was all Laura could do to keep from honking her horn at the painfully slow driver in the SUV in front of her. This was the last stoplight on Commercial Street before the Anacortes ferry terminal. She’d been stuck behind the SUV for at least two miles, and she’d tried not to tailgate. But that didn’t stop Laura from talking to, pleading with, and now yelling at the stupid driver who was going to make her miss her ferry.
The dashboard clock read 6:01. Laura was convinced that by the time she pulled into the terminal, she’d see the ferry leaving the dock. And the next ferry wasn’t until 8:25.
She made it through the intersection just as the light turned yellow. She saw the tollbooth about a block ahead. She’d had her money out and ready since pulling off the Interstate twenty minutes ago. And now she had her window down.
The idiot in the SUV finally decided to turn right—without a signal, of course. Laura sped up, pulled into the terminal area and stopped at the booth. “Am I too late for the six o’clock?” she asked the woman.
“Lane two,” the woman said, handing Laura her ticket and change.
Laura realized the woman had probably been instructed not to tell people to hurry, because it could lead to accidents. As she drove down lane two, she didn’t see any cars waiting in front of her. She spotted the ferry worker grabbing the chain to block access as they got ready to raise the ramp.
Laura tapped the horn and frantically waved out the window. “Oh, please, please, please . . .” she whispered.
The ferry worker saw her and waved her on.
She slowed down a bit as she approached. “Thank you so much!” she cried out to him. “I’m sorry to honk! Thank you!”
On the vessel, a crewmember waved her into a parking lane on the deck. Laura parked, raised her window again, and turned off the engine. She just wanted to break down and cry. But she still felt on edge. Her stomach was still clenched. She knew she wouldn’t feel any relief at all until she called home and talked with Sophie.
She thought it might help if she got out of the car and stretched her legs. She took her purse with her as she weaved through the cars to the railing on the parking deck. The fresh, chilly sea air felt good. She looked out at the dark sky and the silvery ripples on the black water.
The ferry started to pull out of the dock, and she waited a few moments for the din to die down while people climbed out of their cars to go to the upper decks. Once all the door slamming, car alarm-check beeping, and passengers’ chatter finally subsided, Laura dialed her smartphone number. It rang three times, and then Vic picked up: “Yeah?”
“Could you turn down the TV and put Joe on, please?” she asked.
She heard Vic muttering, and the TV went mute. Then Joe’s voice came on the line: “Mrs. Gretchell? Have you met with Martha yet?”
“No, but I’m on the ferry for Lopez to go see her right now,” she said. “First, I wanted to tell you that I talked to a student up at Western who knows Doran Wiley. It’s made me realize that your escape with Vic was a terrible mistake. It’s made investigators focus more on you than anything or anyone else. To them, your disappearance is like an admission of guilt . . .”
“Are you going to tell us something besides your stupid theories?” Vic cut in.
“The point I’m trying to make is—as far as I know, the police haven’t really explored any other possible explanations for the Singleton killings. You’re it, Joe. But after talking to some people this afternoon, I think the Singletons might have been murdered by a disgruntled ex-member of that church. Joe, remember I asked if you knew Eric Vetter?”
“Yes?” Joe said, sounding uncertain.
“Well, he was a good friend of Scott Singleton’s, and he died in a mysterious fire about a month ago. Around that same time, a few of his church associates on the campus just disappeared or scattered. It turns out the church had some pretty unscrupulous, secret ways of recruiting new members and keeping them in line. Right now, I’m trying to track down a young woman who was close to Eric and Scott. Her name’s Courtney Furst. Does that name sound familiar to you?”
“No,” Joe replied.
“Well, I believe she might know a lot more about Scott Singleton than Martha knows. She might be able to help clear your name. But the trouble is, she seems to be in hiding. I tracked down her mother and left a message with her. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. I don’t think Courtney will call me back.”
“So—in other words, you don’t have a goddamn thing,” Vic said.
“No, I have a possible explanation for why Joe slept through all the murders—and why he doesn’t remember anything. According to a former friend of Doran Wiley’s, when Doran was caretaker at the Singletons’ summerhouse, on Scott’s first night there, he asked Doran to come to his study, where he poured him a beer and told him what a good job he was doing. Does any of t
his sound familiar, Joe?”
“Yes, that’s just how it happened with me.”
“And that was as much as Doran could remember from that night. The rest was a blank. It took a few more nights just like it before he realized Mr. Singleton had been slipping roofies into his beer.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe murmured. “Roofies, that’s the date-rape drug, isn’t it?”
Laura could hear Vic cackling on the other end of the line.
“It’s not funny!” Joe said angrily.
“It isn’t,” Laura agreed. “Joe, do you think it’s possible he . . .”
Vic was still laughing. “Jesus, that whole time at the country club, you were so worried about someone trying to rape you, and here you finally get out of there, land this great job with this holier-than-thou, self-ordained linebacker, and . . . wham . . .”
“Shut up!” Joe said. “I—I really don’t think anything happened, Mrs. Gretchell. I’m pretty sure I’d know.”
“Well, on one hand,” Laura said, “it explains to the police why you slept through everything that night and can’t remember much. It proves you weren’t lying. On the other hand, it also gives the police a motive for you killing Scott and his family. They might say you figured out what he’d done to you and went a little crazy . . .”
“But I don’t think he did anything to me, I really don’t!” Joe sounded so torn up. “And I didn’t kill anybody! It was Zared, I’m sure of it. Show my drawings to Martha, I’ll bet she recognizes him. I’ll bet she—”
“Joe, I already showed your sketches to Martha, and she didn’t recognize the man. I told you that already.”
“Well, show her the pictures again!”
“Okay, I will. Please, Joe, calm down. Listen, there’s some positive news. This Courtney, her roommate said the man in one of your sketches looked very familiar. She thought he was someone associated with the church.”
“Then you have to find this Courtney person!” Joe insisted.
“I’ve tried,” Laura said. “I’m hoping she calls me back. But like I told you, I doubt I’ll hear from her.”
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