by Jeramy Gates
Chapter 9
Tanja
Before we left the city, I called Kendra Sweet to ask whether her daughter had kept a diary or a journal. Kendra wasn’t sure, but she invited us to stop by and go through Becky’s old things. I was convinced that Becky’s relationship with Randall was what had gotten him killed, but there was some piece of the puzzle that was still missing.
Was it really possible that Becky’s father had been murdered? Had Richard Sweet been involved in some sort of scandal or crime? Did her investigation into his death lead to her own, and Randall’s as well?
I mulled these questions over during our drive back home, but reached no conclusions. Eventually, my thoughts turned back to personal problems and I remembered something I’d been meaning to ask Joe.
“Diekmann said something strange on the phone earlier,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“He wanted to know if you’d made that call yet.”
Joe fixed his gaze straight ahead. He cleared his throat. “What call?”
“He didn’t say. I thought you would know what he meant.”
Joe shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he meant the phone call you just made.”
“I doubt it,” I said firmly. “Diekmann didn’t know we’d be talking to Kendra Sweet.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
I pulled my gaze away from him and pretended to be web surfing on my phone. “Are you keeping something from me, Joe?”
“Yes. I’m actually a millionaire. I just pretend to be poor so I can be sure you really love me.”
“You don’t have to get snarky.”
“Why don’t you just drop it?”
I let out a big, exasperated sigh. “Fine. I won’t bring it up anymore.”
An hour and a half later, we were back at Kendra Sweet’s mountainside cottage. Kendra was just finishing up with one of her clients, a dark-haired woman who smelled like cinnamon-scented massage oil as she brushed by us on the porch.
Kendra appeared in the doorway and invited us in. It was dark inside -save for a dozen burning candles- and soothing music drifted out of the stereo system. Smoke curled up from an incense stick on the mantle. She had pushed the loveseat out of the middle of the room to make room for a massage table.
“Just give me a minute,” Kendra said as she flicked on the lights. She scurried about the room, dousing candles and opening up the shades. Joe helped her fold the massage table back up.
“Betty is one of my regular clients,” Kendra said apologetically. “Otherwise, I would have cancelled because I knew you were coming. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said.
She carried the massage table over to the wall, and Joe helped her put the couch back in place. He had left his cane in the car, and I saw him wince, but he tried to put on a tough façade.
“All right,” Kendra said. “You asked about journals?”
“Yes, or anything that might give us an idea what Becky was investigating about her father’s death.”
She considered that. “There’s an old box I keep in the attic. It has some of her things…” she began wandering towards the bedroom as she spoke. “Becky had a collection of things from her father. She had added some articles about his death to the collection, and I didn’t care for it, because I thought it was morbid, but I figured it would help her get over her obsession. She just needed to move on, you know?”
Joe and I followed Kendra into her bedroom. She opened the closet, pulled out a stepladder, and pushed open a trap door to the attic. “Can you hold the ladder?” she called down as she poked her head through the hole in the ceiling. Joe stabilized the ladder as Kendra reached into the attic and began rummaging through her things. A blanket fell down, grazing Joe’s head on the way to the floor, followed by an empty duffel bag and a stuffed animal.
“Here it is!” she said at last. She struggled to maneuver a cardboard box through the hole as she climbed back down the ladder. I took it from her, and Joe helped her safely back to the floor.
“I don’t know what we’ll find in there,” she said. “After Becky’s death, I sort of shoved everything in that box. At the time, I couldn’t deal with it. It’s hard, you know? Losing someone so close to you. When Richard died, at least I still had Becky…” Her voice cracked, and she trailed off.
“I can’t imagine how difficult all of this must have been for you,” I said.
She dabbed a tissue at her eyes and then straightened up, trying to regain her composure.
“All right, let’s have a look,” she said after a moment.
Kendra took the box from me and led the way back to the kitchen. She placed it on the table and began pulling out the contents. First came a set of pom-poms, and then an old .mp3 player. She pulled out a scrapbook, and handed it to me.
I flipped through the first few pages and saw a number of clippings from the local paper about her father’s death, including an obituary. There was an old photograph of two young men in swimming shorts, bodies tanned and glistening with water, arms draped over each other’s shoulders.
“That’s Richard on the right,” Kendra said. “That photo was taken when we were in high school. That was before digital cameras. Can you remember those days?”
“Just barely,” said Joe.
“Who is Richard’s friend?” I said.
She glanced at the photo. “That’s James Pishard. Those two were thick as thieves in the old days.”
“Pishard?” I said, glancing at Joe. He leaned over for a closer look.
“That’s him all right. What do you make of that?”
“Coincidence?” I said in an unconvincing tone. I noticed Kendra’s perplexed look. I explained. “Joe and I didn’t realize you knew Jimmy Pishard’s father.”
“Oh, all the families are connected around this town,” Kendra said. “I see people from high school every time I go to the grocery store.”
I flipped the page, and found several more pictures of Richard and Pishard. I saw another I didn’t recognize. “Who’s this?” I said.
Kendra leaned closer. “That’s strange… I have no idea. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that young man before.”
I pulled the photo out and flipped it over. A name was scribbled on the back. “Myles Meyer, nineteen eighty-nine. Ring a bell?”
“I don’t think so…”
I flipped the page and found a newspaper article. The title read: “Local boy missing.” Under the title was a black and white photo of Myles. “This article is from nineteen ninety,” I said. I turned the page and another article declared:
“Police call off search for missing teen.”
“I don’t get it,” Joe said. “Who is Myles Meyer? Why is he in this book?”
“I remember now!” Kendra exclaimed. “He was a new boy, from out of town. He only lived here a few weeks. I never even realized that he was missing. I just assumed he moved away. That happens sometimes, usually in military families. How terrible. I never realized what had happened… He was cute, you know. I remember all the girls had a crush on him.”
“I wonder if he was ever found,” I said. I flipped to the next page and found it empty. The article on Myles was the last thing in the scrapbook.
“We can check the sheriff’s records tomorrow,” Joe said.
I picked up Becky’s old .mp3 player and turned it on. The battery was dead. “Do you mind if I borrow this?” I said.
“I suppose. Please be careful with it, though. I don’t have many things of Becky’s left.”
“I promise. I’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”
As soon as we got home, I dug through the kitchen drawers and found some spare batteries for the .mp3 player. It seemed to be working, so I grabbed a pair of headphones and told Joe I was going for a walk. He looked at me as if I was crazy.
“It’s almost dinnertime.”
“Relax, I won’t be gone long. Defrost a salmon while I’m gone.” His face lit up
at the word salmon. I rolled my eyes. “I’m the one who’s pregnant.”
“Sympathy hunger.”
“Uh-huh.”
There was a chill wind blowing up the street as I stepped outside. I saw a wall of fog creeping in from the coast, and dark storm clouds loomed overhead. Our brief respite from the winter storms was just about over, it seemed. I paused to zip up my hoodie. My belly looked like a basketball under the fabric.
I put the headphones on, pressed play, and began to walk.
“Friday the 23rd,” Becky’s voice began. “I spoke with the county coroner’s office about my father’s death. They were no help…”
My heart skipped a beat. I had been hoping the .mp3 player might have some clue on it as to what had been going on in Becky’s life, but I didn’t dare hope she had been using it as a journal. I continued walking, slightly light headed from the rush of excitement.
“I’m looking into the connections between my father’s death and other incidents that may be related…”
Becky’s dictation went on to describe her conversations with a number of people in regards to her father’s death. Among those, she had interviewed one of the deputies who had been at the death scene. She had also spoken to several of her father’s friends and coworkers, and the storeowner from the shop where the gun he used to commit suicide was purchased.
The first few were no help at all, but the last one was curious because the storeowner didn’t recognize the picture of her father. Becky asked to see the storeowner’s records so she could verify who the buyer was, but he declined, citing the need to protect his customer’s rights. Dismissed as a nosey teen, Becky had no recourse.
I made a mental note to ask Diekmann about that. It didn’t surprise me that his deputies hadn’t looked too deeply into the origin of the gun, because at the time, no one suspected foul play. No one except a young impressionable girl, that is. It was strange, listening to that ghostly recording. I couldn’t help shivering as I thought about the fact that Becky was speaking to me from beyond the grave. This young girl, so full of hope and strength, didn’t exist anymore. She was gone, cut down in the prime of her youth, murdered by some maniac who’d beat her over the head and left her to drown in a vat of cream.
I silently promised myself that I was going to find out who had done this to Becky. She deserved that much. She deserved justice for what had happened. I turned right at the end of the street, and followed the sidewalk along the western edge of the park, hoping the trees would help cut the wind.
As I walked, I listened to Becky’s vibrant young voice describing details of her interactions with a dozen different people. I sympathized with her as she came up empty-handed time after time. I could hear the strain in her tone, the frustration of butting her head against a wall that wouldn’t budge. At times, she sounded so despondent that I wanted to cry for her.
Yet she persisted. Becky was thoroughly convinced of her father’s murder. She held that belief with a stubborn conviction that I could only shake my head at and admire. At one point, she recited the details of her conversations with Randall Rosen. According to her voice-diary, Becky had never met the reporter until the day he spoke at her school. Sensing an opportunity, she had cornered him in the stadium and begged him to listen to her tale. He had been reluctant at first, but there must have been something about her beauty or her obstinacy that convinced him to hear her out.
Becky recounted their conversation, and details of a second meeting that they were going to have, but she never finished the recording. At the end of the file, I expected Becky’s voice to return, but instead the sound of heavy breathing filled my ears.
I heard footsteps and the sounds of cracking branches. I stopped in my tracks and a chill ran down my spine. I turned, monitoring the dark woods around me as I listened.
At last, I heard a voice. It was Becky:
“I knew you would come,” she said. Her voice sounded muffled, distant, as if she’d kept the recorder hidden secret in her pocket.
“What made you so sure?” said a man’s voice.
“Because I know what you did.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can’t prove it yet, but I will.”
“Listen to me, kid,” the man’s voice rose to an angry shout. “I know about you and that reporter friend of yours. You’ve been asking questions all around town. I came to tell you to stop, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me, too?”
“Drop it, kid. I’m warning you.”
“I know about that boy. I know you killed him, just like you killed my dad.”
“If you keep talking like that, you’ll end up just like them. I won’t-”
The conversation ended, and after a minute of wind and rustling noises, the recording shut off. I pulled the recorder out of my pocket and saw that I had reached the end of the last file.
Darkness had fallen while I walked, and I stared up through the trembling canopy of trees into the swirling mass of black clouds overhead. Off to my left, deep and impenetrable shadows covered the redwood grove. It was almost pitch black in there, and eerily silent. Being under the redwoods is like being closed off to the rest of the world. The weather doesn’t touch you, the light doesn’t touch you…
Lightning flashed, arcing over the hills with such brilliance that it momentarily blinded me. I stood there, counting the seconds just the way I had learned as a child, until at last, the thunder came rolling across town, shaking windows and setting off car alarms. I don’t know where I stopped counting, because something else was on my mind:
Becky knew the killer. She had actually spoken to him!
But who was it? She had accused the man of slaying her father and someone else. I could only presume she meant the boy from the article, Myles Meyer. If I’d been listening right, it sure seemed like the man had confessed to both. At the very least, he had warned her from that line of inquiry under the threat of physical injury. Whoever it was, the guy was a real psychopath.
What was I thinking? Of course he was! The man was guilty of murdering a young boy! Not just that, but also Becky’s father, and then framing it up like a suicide… and he had committed the double murders of Becky and Randall to cover it all up. My heart skipped a beat.
The voice on the recording was a serial killer!
My head was spinning. I turned back the way I had come, hurrying to beat the rain if I could. I left the trail, taking a shortcut straight through the park. As I walked, a light mist began to fall. I wanted to break into a run, but with my luck I knew I’d trip and fall, and probably hurt myself. It would be just like me to break my water and give birth to Autumn right there in the park. Even if that didn’t happen, I’d be in trouble if I fell and twisted my ankle in my condition.
I made a conscious effort to slow down, fixing my eyes on the ground to avoid any obstacles waiting to trip me up in the darkness. A flash of headlights up ahead caught my attention, and a sedan came around the corner at the end of the street. The tires screeched as they broke traction on the wet pavement. The driver regained control and slowed, moving more cautiously. To my surprise, the vehicle came to a stop in front of our house with the engine running.
I frowned, trying to remember if I knew anyone with a car like that. As I pondered that question, a shadowy figure stepped out of the driver’s door and stood facing the house. I heard the double click of a shotgun shell entering the chamber, followed by the explosive combustion of a gunshot. Our living room window exploded.
“Joe!” I screamed. I broke into a run. The man pumped the action and fired again, and then a third time.
I tripped and fell to my knees, and a searing pain ripped through my abdomen. The sound of my cries was drowned out by the violent bursts of gunfire.
It went on for several seconds. Seven shots. Seven seconds of excruciating pain and blinding terror. I pushed to my feet and stumbled again as the man turned, tossing the shotgun into
the backseat. He crawled into the car, revved the engine up, and squealed the tires as he went racing down the street. Within seconds, it was all over.
I was screaming as I reached the edge of the park, both arms wrapped around my belly as if I could somehow hold the baby inside of me. I fixed my gaze on what remained of the living room window. Shards of glass stuck out like misshapen icicles, and the curtains whipped in the wind. I could clearly see the painting of a sailboat on the far wall, the broken frame and shattered glass hanging by the wire.
I had the sudden horrible sensation that the body of my husband was on the floor inside that room. For all I knew, he might be bleeding to death that very second. The front door flew open, and Joe came racing towards me. I was so relieved that my knees went weak and I nearly fell down a second time.
Joe crossed the street in a flash and caught me up in his arms, pulling me close, nearly lifting me off the ground as the warmth of his embrace washed over me. I heard sirens wailing in the distance. I pressed my face into Joe’s shoulder and wept.
“It’s okay,” he whispered into my ear. “I’m okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“Who was that?” I said, my voice muffled by his shirt. “Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen, and I grunted. “Joe, I have to sit down. Help me.”
He bent over and swooped my legs out from under me. He carried me a few yards down the sidewalk and set me gently on a bench, the pain in his hip completely forgotten in his rush of adrenaline and fear. He laid his hand on my belly, and gave me a look of grave concern.
“The baby?” he said.
“She’s okay… I think so anyway.”
“Just sit still. The police will be here any second. We’ll call for an ambulance.” Joe ran back to the house to fetch a blanket for me, and returned just as the first squad car arrived.
Diekmann showed up while the paramedics were checking me out. He knelt down next to me. “Are you okay?”
“Shook up,” I said. “Thankfully, my water didn’t break.”
