She picked up her glass and shook it. The ice cubes rattled. She slurped down what was left at the bottom of the glass. Upstairs, several people were singing a slightly off-key rendition of “Piano Man.”
“Lawrence and Marilee played it really smart,” Courtney said. “Scott died a martyr—with an unstained reputation. His children were sacrificial lambs. The church was saved any potential embarrassment. I’m sure donations have gone up since the weekend. The church will continue to be profitable with the Cronins in charge—evoking the memory of St. Scott. And your friend—this caretaker with an unstable mental history—he was a bonus they didn’t expect, a little gift from heaven.”
Laura took Joe’s drawings from her purse and unfolded them. “Does this look like either one of the Teds?”
Courtney nodded. “That’s him, especially in this one . . .” She pointed to the most detailed sketch. “Those are his eyes, kind of dead and cold. I can’t say which Ted it is. I couldn’t really tell them apart any more than Eric could. He pointed them out to me at some conference last year. The next time I saw them was when I came home from classes last month, and they were in my living room at Birnam Wood, waiting for me. Like I say, that was the last time, and I hope to never see them again.”
Laura folded up the sketches. “Do you know if either of them drives a black BMW?”
“I remember looking out my window at Birnam Wood after they left,” Courtney said, staring at her, wide-eyed. “They both got into a shiny BMW and it was black. Why do you ask? Did you recently see a car like that?”
“Yes, earlier today—”
Courtney flinched and gaped at something toward the front of the bar.
Laura glanced over her shoulder and saw that two men had just walked in. They were both around thirty with solid builds. The duo looked like a couple of working-class guys getting off a swing shift someplace. Neither one resembled the man in Joe’s sketches. The men headed toward the alcove, but slowed down at the booth to check the two of them out. One smiled at Courtney. But they kept moving and headed into the alcove.
“I’m starting not to feel very safe here,” Courtney whispered. She picked up her plastic monkey trinket and slipped it inside the pocket of her eiderdown vest.
Laura nodded and took some money out of her purse for the bill. “If it’s any help, I was about to explain that earlier today I saw a black BMW on Lopez Island. I had an appointment with a waitress who said she had information about the murders. The BMW was outside of the waitress’s townhouse—and inside, in the bathroom, she was dead. It was made to look like an accident, like she’d slipped in the tub . . .”
Courtney let out a dazed laugh. “How is this helping?”
“I’m pretty sure the same BMW followed me all the way to Stevens Pass,” Laura explained. She left ten dollars on the table. “A few minutes after I talked to you, the car tried to run me off the road. But it ended up smashing head-on into a semi. The BMW was totaled. If anyone inside that car managed to walk away after what happened, it would be a miracle.”
“I’m still a very religious person,” Courtney said. “I believe in miracles.”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t be willing to come forward and tell your story to the police or the press?” Laura asked. “People’s lives depend on it, Courtney.”
“My life depends on it, too,” she replied in a hushed voice. She leaned forward. “I can’t pretend that I’m not a little relieved to hear that one or both of the Teds are now facing their final judgment. But they’re mere errand boys, following orders from Lawrence and Marilee. If they killed a waitress today, it was because the Cronins wanted her dead. If they tried to run you off the road tonight, it’s because Lawrence and Marilee want you out of the way. If the Teds are really gone, they’ll just get replaced by another couple of ‘security’ men. So—as long as Marilee and Lawrence are free and drawing breath, I won’t feel safe.”
Courtney leaned back and zipped up her eiderdown vest. “And neither should you . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, November 29—12:16 A.M.
Leavenworth
“What is that? What are you giving him?” In her bedroom, Sophie hovered behind Joe, who had a glass of grape juice in one hand and a prescription bottle in the other. He crept toward little James, still asleep in one of the twin beds.
“It’s just to make sure he stays asleep for the next hour or so—until your mom gets home,” Joe whispered. He set the glass down on Sophie’s nightstand and unfastened the top of the bottle. He seemed to have a bit of trouble getting it open. “It’s perfectly safe, over-the-counter medication. Vic gives it to me whenever I get too stressed. Don’t worry. I’m only giving James a half-dose.”
“Well, if it’s over-the-counter, why is it in a prescription bottle?” She started to reach for the little container.
“Sit down and be quiet,” Vic said with a calm authority that was very out of character for him. His hands behind his back, he leaned against her bedroom door frame. “Joe is James’s buddy. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. This is just to make sure James doesn’t wake up and get scared when he sees that you’re—incapacitated.”
Incapacitated. That was a nice way of saying bound and gagged.
When Joe had first come in and told her a few minutes ago that Vic was leaving, she’d been elated. Vic had agreed to go along with her mother’s proposition: he’d hit the road and get a few hours’ head start before Joe called the police to turn himself in. The only stipulation was that Sophie had to stay tied up in her room with the door barred for the next forty-five minutes—until her mother came home. “I don’t want you pulling any fast ones with Joe once I’m gone,” Vic had explained while lurking in her doorway. “With you tied up in the bedroom here and him downstairs, you won’t be able to take advantage of his good nature. We all know he’s a soft touch. Even Joe knows it, don’t you, Joe?”
Sophie loathed the idea of being tied up and helpless. But she’d been so relieved to learn Vic was leaving that she probably would have agreed to be hung upside down from a meat hook for forty-five minutes just to watch him go out the door. Plus, she’d realized, as Joe had nervously laid out the plan, they weren’t really asking her permission to do any of this. They just wanted her cooperation. If she didn’t go along willingly, Vic probably wouldn’t hesitate to knock her unconscious so they could tie her up. With that in mind, Sophie decided to cooperate. Her head had been battered around enough for one night.
That had been only a couple of minutes ago—a couple of minutes to get used to the idea. Joe had left just long enough to run down the corridor, where he must have had the juice and the pills on the table at the end of the hall. Vic had remained in the doorway. He hadn’t actually stepped inside her bedroom since punching her in the eye at dinner. Maybe this was so she wouldn’t feel threatened. But it had just the opposite effect on Sophie. Seeing him so calm and restrained was truly frightening, because, by now, she knew him. She knew he might be up to something.
Sophie did what she was told and reluctantly sat down. Biting her lip, she watched Joe gently wake up James. Her baby brother was in a stupor and didn’t resist as Joe fed him the half pill and had him wash it down with some grape juice. A part of her wondered if it was poison. Were they showing mercy on the young one—and making his death as peaceful as possible?
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” she heard Vic say. Sophie’s back was to him.
She watched little James set his head back down on the pillow and go to sleep again. Joe gently stroked his hair.
Sophie wondered if her little brother would ever wake up.
“Now he’ll stay asleep, and there’s no risk of him getting up and accidentally hurting himself,” Vic said.
Sophie nervously rubbed her arms. Vic’s words weren’t reassuring at all, not coming from him.
Joe slipped the prescription bottle into his pocket and then turned to her. “I think it’s best if you lay down on the bed,”
he said quietly.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Vic with his hands still behind his back. “Facedown,” he added. Then he brought his hands out in the open. He had a small bundle of strips fashioned from her mother’s dish towels. Some were tied together to create a long, makeshift rope.
In a panic, she turned to Joe and shook her head at him. “No . . . please . . .”
Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down on the bed. “Once I finish tying you up, I’ll turn you on your side so it’s more comfortable and easier for you to breathe.”
Sophie resisted. She kept imagining him saying the same thing to one of the Singleton girls before tying her up and stabbing her to death.
“Don’t fight it, Sophie,” Vic whispered. “Joe doesn’t want to make this unpleasant for you, do you, Joe?” He stepped into the room to hand Joe a few of the long, thin rags they’d tied together.
Joe dropped the first batch of rags, and Vic gave him another handful.
“It’s only going to be forty-five minutes,” Joe said, taking hold of her wrist.
“Please, wait,” she begged, squirming away from him. She was half-sitting up. “I promise, I’ll just sit here and not say a word. You don’t have to tie me up . . . please . . . don’t . . .”
“Now, now, c’mon,” Joe said, sitting down beside her. His voice sounded a bit listless. His grip on her wrist slackened, and he seemed to fumble with the makeshift rope. “Don’t struggle . . .”
“Look at you, Joe,” Vic said. “You’re all thumbs. You don’t know what you’re doing. Let me . . .”
Panic-stricken, Sophie tried to recoil. But Vic grabbed her by the arm and yanked her over on her stomach. All at once, she was facedown on the bed, helpless. As he pulled her hands together behind her, Sophie thought he might break one of her arms or pull it out of its socket. His knee pressed against her back.
“God, Vic, don’t hurt her,” Joe whined.
Sophie had once seen a YouTube clip of cowboys roping a calf, tying its hooves together with speedy efficiency. It had made her squeamish. Sophie thought of that video clip now as Vic held her down and quickly wrapped the rag-strips around her wrists and ankles. He was so expedient about it, and so powerful. She couldn’t move or struggle.
It was over within a couple of minutes.
“Well, that’s that,” she heard him grunt. He gave a tug at the restraints around her ankles, and then another pull at the rags around her wrists, tied behind her back. It hurt as he suddenly yanked her hands up behind her to test his work one more time. Sophie let out a sharp cry.
The restraints were so tight that they pinched her skin. It felt as if he’d cut off the circulation in her hands and feet.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“She’s fine,” Vic answered for her. “C’mon, let’s go . . .”
He switched off the overhead light in her bedroom.
Arching her back, Sophie turned her head to see Joe and Vic stepping out into the hallway together. Joe seemed a bit out of it, almost like he was dizzy or drunk. Vic shut the door, and suddenly, Sophie was swallowed up in darkness.
Her heart was racing, and she tried to get a breath. She listened to their footsteps as they headed down the hallway.
“Hey, watch your step there, buddy,” she heard Vic say. “You better come in here and sit for a minute. Are you a little light-headed?”
It sounded like they were in her parents’ bedroom. Past James’s breathing, she thought she heard her parents’ mattress squeaking.
“There, take a load off,” Vic said. “How do you feel?”
“I’m so tired all of a sudden . . .”
“Why don’t you just lie down there for a while?”
“Did you—did you give me something?” Joe asked. Sophie could barely hear him. “Did you slip me—slip me one of those pills we just gave the boy?”
“No, those just chill you out and make you drowsy,” Vic answered. “But I have a confession, kiddo. I did put something in your beer earlier. You know how many times I’ve been in that house on Lopez Island? Well, I knew in swanky digs like that I’d come across some good pharmaceuticals if I only looked hard enough. Well, I found Scott Singleton’s private stash in his study. I took down the name on the bottle and collected a few pills for future use. Man, was I surprised when I discovered they were roofies. Shit, until your old teacher said something today, I had no idea he’d slipped you one. Anyway, I held on to them. I figured they’d come in handy someday. So—why don’t you just lie down for a few minutes while I take care of some unfinished business down the hall?”
“Wait a minute,” Joe muttered. “You gave me a roofie? You said you weren’t going to hurt her. No . . .” Then he raised his voice. “No, Vic!”
Vic shushed him.
Horrified, Sophie started squirming on the bed. She tried to jerk her hands free from the cloth restraints.
“Just chill,” she heard Vic whisper to his friend. “This way, you won’t remember a thing. By the time that stuff completely kicks in, you might even want to join me . . .”
“No, Vic, you promised . . .” His voice sounded weak.
“I know what you’re thinking. But I don’t care if her face is a mess. I’ve been itching to get at her ever since I first set eyes on her yesterday . . .”
Sophie kept tugging at the rags around her wrists. She started to cry. The skin under the restraints felt raw from all the friction. Struggling only seemed to tighten the knots Vic had tied. She couldn’t feel her fingers.
The pillow under her head became wet with her tears and snot. She kept squirming, and all the while, she could hear him down the hall.
“I’ll be doing the little bitch a favor,” he said. “I’m sure she doesn’t want to die a virgin. And by the time I’m done with her, Mama will be home. I’ll kill them both. You won’t have to do a thing—just help me load up the car. You won’t remember any of it tomorrow. We’ll be on the road, Joey, just a couple of outlaws . . .”
* * *
Laura kept checking her rearview mirror. Talking to Courtney had made her even more worried that someone might still be following her. But in the rearview mirror, she didn’t see any cars. Highway 2 between Wenatchee and Leavenworth was nearly deserted. Her headlights caught the gentle snowfall and the dark, winding road. Very few people were crazy enough to be out this late at night in this weather.
The drive was lonely and creepy—and she felt as if it might take forever for her to get home. Every few miles, she hit a little patch of ice, jolting her out of the monotony—as if her nerves weren’t already frayed enough. She’d had a brief reprieve from the awful loneliness and dread when she’d called the hospital and talked to her mom.
Liam was fine and sleeping in a private room. Her mother had sweet-talked the doctor into letting her sit up with him. They’d offered to get her a cot, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. There was a comfortable chair in the room. And from the lounge, she’d found a magazine with a challenging crossword puzzle to keep her mind off things.
Her mom had asked if she was going to call the police.
“After talking to this girl, I think I have enough information to steer the investigation away from Joe,” Laura had told her—through the choppy phone reception. “This girl is ninety-nine percent sure the Singletons were killed by a couple of hit men named Ted. She says Joe had nothing to do with the murders. I think I might be able to persuade him to split with Vic and turn himself in. But I don’t know about Vic. I should be home in about a half hour. So—if you don’t hear from me in forty-five minutes, call the police and tell them everything.”
Before they’d hung up, her mother had kept saying she had a “bad feeling” about what Laura was about to do.
Laura didn’t feel too good about it either. But she knew Vic would be true to his word about executing everyone at the first sign of a cop on the property. Her children had a much better chance of surviving if Vic
was given a car and a few hours’ head start before Joe called the police to turn himself in.
At the same time, she hated the notion that Vic would be out there somewhere, possibly hurting someone else.
Laura hit another ice patch on the road. Her stomach lurched as she felt the car skid for a second. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 12:27 P.M. She would be home in about fifteen minutes.
She passed a temporary sign near the turnoff to Highway 97 and Blewett Pass:
ROAD
CLOSED
AHEAD
Use Alternate Routes
The orange DETOUR sign alongside it had an arrow directing drivers to Highway 97. Laura figured the police were probably still investigating the head-on collision about forty miles ahead on Stevens Pass.
After that point, she was the only one on the road for a few minutes. She felt a tiny bit better as she passed her regular Safeway. After the long, bleak, dark highway, here was civilization—and something familiar, close to home. She reached over for the phone and punched in her number.
Laura counted the ringtones on the other end. Then her greeting came on. She felt her stomach lurch again—harder this time. All the icy patches along the highway were nothing compared to the helpless feeling she had now. What had happened? Why wasn’t anyone picking up?
The beep sounded.
“Joe? Is anyone there?” she said, though she knew her message was going straight to voicemail. “Joe, I had a meeting with this Courtney, who knew Scott Singleton. She’s convinced you’re innocent, and the murders were committed by a couple of hit men working for Marilee and Lawrence Cronin. Once the police know about this, you’ll be off the hook . . .”
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