“I guess,” Rebecca said, a mischievous look returning to her eyes. “Do I have to clean my room tonight, Mom? I have really bad cramps.”
Here we go again, Carolyn thought. “You had cramps last week. You’re not having your period again, Rebecca! Please, just clean your room. That’s all I’m asking of you.”
When Carolyn walked out into the hallway, she heard the girl say something. “What did you say?”
“Chicken,” Rebecca said, sitting on the floor in the midst of her clutter, looking overwhelmed.
Carolyn placed one hand on her hip. “Are you calling me names now?”
“El Pollo Loco,” her daughter said, hurling her clothes into the open closet. “If you pick up Pollo Loco, I’ll eat it, but only white meat. White meat has less fat.”
“Try doing your laundry instead of hiding it.”
“The people aren’t going to look in my closet, Mom, so don’t have another fit.” When her mother didn’t respond, Rebecca spun around. “Oh my God, they are, aren’t they? You’re going to let strangers come in here and sniff my underwear. I’m going to move in with Hillary. Her mother said I could. Her room is almost as big as our entire house. She even has her own bathroom.”
Carolyn closed her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. She didn’t know which was more difficult, dealing with criminals or having to put up with a fifteen-year-old.
She gazed at her daughter’s face, so reminiscent of the girl’s father’s. Frank was Italian, and Rebecca had inherited his looks as well as his temperament. Carolyn suspected that volatile temperament was why she had trouble getting along with her daughter. Rebecca’s hair was so dark it bordered on black, and she wore it long, several inches below her shoulders. She had Frank’s eyes and mouth. She was a beautiful girl, with large brown eyes fringed with thick lashes, perfectly straight teeth, and a winning smile. “I’m pleased that you’re interested in art, honey. I just think it would be wise if you got a good education, so you’ll have something to fall back on.”
“Like what?”
“You could be a lawyer, something along those lines. Maybe you could major in journalism. You’re a wonderful writer.”
“I’m only fifteen, Mother,” her daughter said. “Can’t I just be a kid right now and worry about all that stuff later?”
“Of course you can, darling. But you could start thinking about it. You know, just in case fashion design or something in the art field doesn’t work out for you.”
“Fine,” Rebecca said. “I’ll think about it.”
Carolyn knew she had sounded just like her mother, but apparently she couldn’t help it. She changed the subject. “Where’s John?”
“Where do you think? In his room.”
She closed the bedroom door on the way out and headed toward the converted garage at the back of the house. After knocking, she said, “Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Her son was sitting at his desk, slouched over, writing.
“What’s going on, guy?”
“Paperwork,” he said. “I talked to Grandma today, and she told me about a scholarship that I could apply for. Fifty thousand. Also, I found at least thirty other ones on the Internet today. I’m going to apply to them all.”
Carolyn’s mother was a retired chemistry professor. She lived in an upscale retirement complex in Camarillo, a town about fifteen minutes from Ventura. Walking over to her son, Carolyn placed a hand on his shoulder. “Did I ever tell you you’re a perfect son?”
“As a matter of fact, you did,” John said, smiling, then falling serious again. “If I can just get a few of the big scholarships, you might not have to sell the house.”
“We don’t need the house,” his mother insisted. “Rebecca and I will be fine. The apartment complex I’m considering is really nice. Lots of trees, streams running through it, as well as three swimming pools. I’m staring down some major repairs on this place, honey. With the taxes and insurance, it just makes sense to cash out now while it’s a seller’s market. Don’t pay any attention to your sister. Once we get settled, she’ll meet lots of new friends and everything will be fine.” She took a deep breath, and then slowly let it out. “I’m going out for food. What are you hungry for?”
“Whatever the demon child wants.”
“After we eat,” she said, “I’ll see if I can help you with some of that paperwork.”
Carolyn ordered their food at El Pollo Loco, then took a seat at one of the tables while she waited. A man and woman walked up to the counter. She didn’t pay much attention to them, outside of noting that the heavyset woman was dressed like a streetwalker and the shirtless man had the type of tattoos on his upper and lower back that were common with men who’d spent time in prison. The woman erupted in profanities as she stomped over to the soda machine with a paper cup in her hand, shoving it under the dispenser and filling it. “I ain’t gonna pay you, bitch,” she yelled at the young Hispanic girl behind the counter.
“Yeah,” the man said, filling his cup as well. “Fuck off, you lousy spick.”
Carolyn reached into her purse for her gun, certain the restaurant was about to be robbed. The other customers froze in their seats. The man and woman brushed past her though, exiting the restaurant and jumping into a late-model green Sebring in the parking lot. She memorized the license plate and stood, planning to go after them, but a second later she lowered herself back into her seat. It wasn’t worth risking her life for the price of a couple of soft drinks. From the looks of the car they were driving, lack of money wasn’t their motive. She suspected they got their kicks by terrorizing people like the young girl behind the counter. The punks who’d talked to her like dirt, unlike the clerk, probably survived by criminal activity rather than holding down a job.
When Carolyn went to pick up her food, she handed the girl a few extra bills, leaning toward her and whispering, “So your drawer won’t be light tonight.” Then she added, “If those two come back again, call the police. Don’t argue with them—they’re more than likely dangerous. Understand?”
The girl nodded, her eyes glistening with tears. “Thank you,” she said with a heavy Spanish accent, depositing the money in the cash register. “I just started here last week.”
Once she and the children finished eating, Carolyn spent some time working with John on his scholarship applications. She tried to review some of the cases she’d brought home but was too frazzled to concentrate. After dressing for bed, she tried to sleep but finally got up and put on her bathrobe, knowing she couldn’t. The empty flower beds, seen through the living room window, resembled fresh plots in a cemetery.
As a child, Carolyn had experienced a repetitive nightmare in which she was playing catch with Neil in the backyard when her ball ended up in a flower bed. There weren’t any flowers, just dirt, and when she went to retrieve the ball, a hand reached out and pulled her under. She was certain it was the devil, and delayed going to bed at night for fear she would have the dream again. After months of the same nightmare, her mother had taken her to a child psychiatrist, a stern-looking fat man who asked her stupid questions and spent the rest of the time staring at her. If anyone was the devil, she decided, it was this guy. She became even more frightened than before. One night she dreamed that she surfaced from underneath the ground over by the tree stump in the neighbor’s yard. After that, she never had the dream again.
It sure seemed as if the devil had been out and about the past few days, Carolyn thought, staring at the dirt-filled flower beds and wondering if a hand would reach out and pull her under like it had in the dream. Maybe the devil was celebrating the fact that Carl Holden was back on the street and Lester McAllen could be on the verge of getting away with butchering a child.
Returning to the house, Carolyn impulsively grabbed the large artificial floral arrangement from the vase on the dining room table that her mother had given her years ago. She then found her hand shovel in the shed in back of the house and carried it to the front yar
d.
John’s window overlooked the front of the house. Seeing his mother outside, he went to check on her. “What are you doing, Mom?” he asked. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I’m planting,” Carolyn told him, digging a hole and shoving in one of the artificial flowers, then propping it up with dirt. “There aren’t any weeds left to pull.”
John stretched his arms over his head and yawned. Spotting the bunch of flowers in a pile next to his mother, he picked one up and sniffed it before he realized it wasn’t real. “Is this a joke or something?”
Carolyn rocked back on her haunches. “I’m afraid something will happen and I won’t make it to the nursery tomorrow. I want the house to look nice.”
“I never heard of anyone planting artificial flowers,” John said, laughing. “Jeez, this one even has drops of dew on it.” When he saw his mother was crying, he walked over and squatted down beside her. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said, stroking the curly wisps of hair away from her forehead. “Everyone has a bad day now and then. Tomorrow will be better. Besides, I think what you’re doing is cool. At least we don’t have to worry about the flowers dying if we forget to water them.”
Carolyn smiled, wiping the tears away and leaving a muddy streak across her cheek. “How bad is my hair?” she asked, touching it with her fingers. “Be honest. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“You look great,” John said. “If your hair was blond, you’d look exactly like Meg Ryan. I bet she plants artificial flowers in her garden, too.” He helped his mother to her feet, draping his arm around her shoulders. “The good news about your hair is that unlike these flowers, it’ll grow. Let’s go inside, melt down some candy bars in the microwave and drink them. Then we’ll come back out and finish planting. Does that sound like a deal or what?”
“Deal,” Carolyn said, following him into the house.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday, September 16—8:47 A.M.
Carolyn was in a deep sleep when the phone rang. “Carolyn, it’s Margaret, Margaret Overton, with Harbor Realty.”
“What time is it?” Carolyn asked, thinking it was still the night before. She must have been even more exhausted than she’d thought. She’d gone to sleep without taking her sleeping pill. After fighting insomnia for most of her life, a night of natural sleep was rare. She’d slept so long, her eyelids felt as if they were stuck together.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the Realtor continued. “I spoke to your daughter yesterday and asked her to tell you to call me, but I guess she forgot to give you the message. I’m holding an open house today. That is, if it’s okay.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Carolyn said, going over and looking out the backyard window through a crack in the blinds. To her surprise, the yard had been freshly mowed. John must have gotten up at dawn. She knew he had to be at work by noon, and the restaurant where he worked was in the San Fernando Valley, almost an hour’s drive away.
“I have several people that want to see the house today. Holding it open may create a bidding war. Would eleven be too early?”
“I thought you were going to hold off showing it until I made some repairs.”
“I must not have made myself clear,” Margaret said in a placating voice. “The listing became active last week. I’m fairly certain the house will sell without your making any improvements. The new owners will probably remodel. The land is far more valuable than the structure.”
Carolyn got up and began making the bed with one hand. “Okay, but please try not to come before eleven. I need to get the house in order.”
“Thanks so much for your cooperation. Just remember, the most important thing is that we sell your house quickly, and for the highest possible price. That way, you’ll have the least inconvenience.”
“Sounds good,” Carolyn said, not feeling good at all. Things were moving too fast. But the sooner she got it over with, the better. Although she wouldn’t admit it to Rebecca, she also hated the thought of people traipsing through her home and being privy to her personal belongings.
“Oh,” Margaret added, “it’s always better that the owners aren’t in the house when we hold it open. People like to wander around at their own leisure, discuss it with their spouses, take measurements…. Well, you know.”
“Yeah, sure,” Carolyn told her. “I have some work to do at the office, anyway.”
As soon as she hung up, she threw on her robe and rushed out of the bedroom, yelling for the children. “John! Rebecca!”
“What’s up?” John shouted from the kitchen. “I made some coffee for you.”
“The Realtor is coming at eleven to show the house.” Carolyn skidded into the kitchen, grabbed John’s face and kissed him. “Thanks for doing the yard, sweetie. Is your room clean?”
“Yeah,” he said without hesitation, walking over and pouring her a cup of coffee, then handing it to her. “Drink your coffee, Mom. Calm down. Everyone knows this isn’t a model home. Rebecca left about thirty minutes ago. I didn’t check out her room. She said you gave her permission to go to Knott’s Berry Farm with Hillary today. She didn’t just skip out, did she?”
“No, no,” Carolyn said, having forgotten. She sloshed coffee onto the wood floor in the hallway en route to her daughter’s bedroom. John trailed along behind her. When she opened the door, she gasped. Except for the clothes Rebecca had thrown in her closet, the room looked exactly the same as it had the night before. “I’m going to strangle her.”
“Now that’s a chore I’d love to handle,” John said, taking the coffee from his mother before she spilled it on the carpet. “Don’t ask me to clean up after her. I’ve got to shower and get to work. Saturdays are big tip days. I’ve been working in the yard since six, and I’m pulling a double shift today.”
“What’s that smell?”
John sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”
Carolyn followed her nose to her daughter’s unmade bed, then knelt down and felt around underneath, pulling out an ashtray with what looked like a partially smoked marijuana cigarette in it. “She’s smoking dope now! What else don’t I know about your sister?”
“Hey,” John said, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t look at me. I don’t touch the stuff. I’m not saying I haven’t tried it a few times. Rebecca’s fifteen, Mom. She’s experimenting. Don’t go psycho on her, or she’ll do something even worse.” He reached over and took the ashtray from her. “I’ll get rid of it. Spray some room deodorizer. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late for work.”
Carolyn stood in the shower, the warm water soothing her tense muscles. She wasn’t in the mood to go into the office, not after cleaning up Rebecca’s filthy room. Maybe she’d take a walk on the beach. It was only a few miles away, and she was appalled at how little time she spent there. After yesterday’s encounter with Holden, she decided, it would do her good to take in some fresh air.
After she towel-dried her hair, she wiggled into her peach-colored bathing suit and covered it up with a floral print sundress that extended a few inches below her knees. She pulled out her gym bag, and packed it with sunscreen and bottled water. Spending an afternoon by herself was something she hadn’t done in years. What was she going to do about Rebecca?
She remembered when Rebecca was a rambunctious ten-year-old. Carolyn had left her and John with a babysitter so she could take care of some shopping. It had always been hard to take Rebecca to the store, as the child wanted everything she saw and would shriek until her mother either bought it or dragged her out. On this particular day, after the babysitter had arrived, the girl had chased her out of the house and halfway down the sidewalk, yelling, “Child abuser!” Carolyn had been humiliated, as well as fearful that the neighbors might take her seriously and call the police.
Avoiding the freeway, she decided to drive on Foothill Road, going toward the old section of Ventura, then cutting over to the beach. Her thoughts drifted to Holden. She had to find a way to get him back in prison before
he raped and murdered another woman. Not an easy task, however, to stop a crime before it was committed.
Carolyn was jolted back to the present by the loud sound of a horn. Looking to her right, she flinched as a car crashed into the passenger-side door of her Infiniti. Glass shot across the car seat, and she instinctively threw her hands up to protect her face. She slammed on the brakes. The car skidded and came to a stop.
“Are you all right?” a male voice rang out a few moments later.
“Yes, I think so,” Carolyn said, still dazed.
“Don’t move,” the man said, opening the driver’s-side door and reaching over to unbuckle her seat belt.
Carolyn looked up, coming face to face with a stranger. Brushing the remaining glass off her sundress, she asked, “What happened?”
“You ran the stop sign,” he said. “Don’t worry, my car didn’t suffer much damage. It’s you I’m worried about. Try to move your head slowly from left to right.”
She did as he asked. “I feel like an idiot, but I’m okay,” she said, climbing out of the car. “I’m so sorry.” She shielded her eyes from the sun. The man was driving a cream-colored Jaguar convertible. “What about you? Are you injured?”
Sullivan’s Evidence Page 6
