Emerging from the lake in her bra and panties, Erin ran along the sand to meet up with Greg. Rory realized the water was up to his waist now, and he couldn’t come in any farther without exposing himself. “Goddamn it, you guys!” he bellowed, out of breath. “This isn’t funny!”
But the two of them were howling with laughter as they quickly threw on their clothes.
Helpless, Rory covered his shrunken privates and started out of the water. But then he saw Erin brushing the sand off her phone. He took a few steps back until the water came up to his waist again. “Okay, you guys, ha-ha, big joke, let’s humiliate Rory!”
All he could think about was that half the school would see this on Instagram.
He was cold and shivering and filled with an awful sense of dread. If he wasn’t so pissed off at Greg, he’d start to cry. This was so typical. His friend was trying to show off for this stupid girl. During the drive down from Granite Falls, Greg had sped most of the way—just to impress her. And now he was acting like an asshole because she’d think he was cool.
He watched Greg collect his work pants, shirt, socks, and shoes. Erin grabbed the cricket bats.
Waist-deep in the water, Rory stood there, freezing. He didn’t say anything because it looked like Erin was recording his reaction, and he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Still, he couldn’t breathe right. If this was what a panic attack felt like, he was having one.
Greg took hold of Erin’s arm and pulled her toward the woods. Rory saw them scurrying into the bushes and trees. Then they were gone—along with his clothes.
Rory’s throat tightened up, and tears stung in his eyes. But he couldn’t cry—and he couldn’t move. Erin was probably hiding beyond the first cluster of trees, zooming in on him with her phone camera.
“You guys?” he called in a shaky voice. “Greg? Greg, please be careful with my pants, okay? My wallet’s in there. It might fall out of the pocket. I don’t want to lose it.” He couldn’t talk anymore, not without sobbing.
Rory imagined them making their way through the woods to where Greg had parked his mom’s car and then taking off without him. It was over four miles back to Granite Falls. He shuddered and rubbed his wet, cold arms. “Hey, you guys?” he called. “Could you please, please, please give me a break here? I’m cold!”
He didn’t hear a response—not even Erin’s giggling.
“Are you even there?” he cried.
Rory swallowed hard. He figured, if he ran out of the water, he could keep his hands in front of his private parts until he reached the trees. Then, once in the woods, he could snap off a tree branch and use that to cover himself.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he charged toward the shore with his hands clasped in front of himself. He ran naked across the sand and rocks until he reached the trees. Catching his breath, he tried to listen for Greg and Erin. He’d figured his nude sprint would have elicited a round of hoots and laughter. But he didn’t hear anything.
Grabbing a leafy branch from a shrub, he snapped it off and used it to cover himself.
Suddenly, the woods turned dark. A cloud must have moved in front of the sun. Rory shivered, and his teeth started to chatter. Beneath his bare feet, the ground was cold, damp, and rough with twigs and rocks. He had an awful feeling that he was all alone in these woods. He couldn’t even find a trail.
But then he saw a small patch of white—not too far away. It looked like a rag or something, draped over a shrub. As Rory got closer to it, he realized Greg had left his underpants there for him. Maybe his friend wasn’t such an asshole after all.
Grabbing the briefs, Rory shook them out and then stepped into them. His muddy feet got the underpants dirty, but he didn’t care.
“All right!” he yelled, straightening up. “I’m no longer naked! The joke’s over! I’m cold, and I could really use the rest of my clothes, guys!”
No answer. But then he heard a twig snap somewhere nearby.
“Guys?” he called tentatively.
Rory continued deeper into the woods. He followed a rough path, winding around the bushes and trees. He stumbled across a small bald spot, where some black material caught his eye. It was bunched up by a mound of earth. Were those his work pants? It looked like Greg must have dragged them through the dirt and left them in a pile by that mound.
As Rory stepped closer, it looked to him like his pants were half-buried in the dirt. “Son of a bitch!” he grumbled. He reached for the material to give it a good tug.
He didn’t realize until he’d already yanked at the black material that it was plastic. It felt like an old trash bag. It ripped apart in his grasp, and Rory fell back on his butt.
It knocked the wind out of him. He couldn’t focus for a minute. When his vision righted itself, he saw that he’d pulled up something from that mound of dirt—something wrapped in a black plastic trash bag.
He stared at a woman’s arm—sticking out from the crude grave. Her hand was gray, swollen, and decomposing. Ants were feasting on it. They crawled back and forth from her bloated fingertips—up into the purple sleeve of her garment.
Rory screamed and screamed.
And he prayed to God his friends would hear him and know the joke was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Wednesday, July 22—9:38 P.M.
Seattle
Anna stood in the shower, washing off the abysmal day. She’d had such high hopes for her second hypnotherapy session with Gloria Tolman this afternoon. She’d thought she would finally have some clarity about that night nearly two weeks ago. Instead, today’s meeting with the doctor had been a bust, a huge disappointment. And it had been followed by that nasty confrontation with Sally. Since then, all Anna could think about were the things she should have said, potent zingers that would have left Sally speechless and full of self-loathing regret. Anything would have been better than: “You’ll have a tough time explaining a black eye to your viewers.” Did she really say that? Did she really threaten her with physical violence? How stupid was that?
Anna had gotten a small break on today’s Sally Justice Show. She’d tuned in at six-thirty, expecting the worst. She’d figured Bud would phone in again, describing in his raspy voice how he’d seen her murder Courtney. She imagined him talking in that same menacing, singsong tone he’d used with her.
Sally had expected to hear from Bud, too. She’d devoted most of the show analyzing his call from yesterday’s show, playing it over and over. Of course, she’d mentioned how Anna’s “convenient memory loss” had made it impossible to confirm or deny Bud’s statements. “What’s she hiding?” Sally had asked her TV audience. “Maybe this man calling himself Bud will tell us if he calls in later.”
But Sally had obviously counted on a phone call that never came. And she hadn’t looked too happy about it. She’d ended up having her viewers vote on whether or not Bud was merely a crank caller or someone they should take seriously—as a witness or even a potential suspect.
Anna felt as if she’d gotten a stay of execution. She was all right for now, but there was always a chance that Bud would phone the show tomorrow with a detailed account of how she’d murdered Courtney Knoll.
For now, the shower seemed to wash away all the dirt and anxiety of her day. Eyes closed, she tilted her head back so that the warm water sprayed into her face and cascaded down her body. She remembered some of the showers she’d taken with Russ in this stall: soaping each other with expensive lavender body wash, or just standing there under the warm spray, holding each other.
But thinking about those shower sessions right now was too painful. Anna shut off the water, and the pipes let out a squeak. She grabbed a towel and started to dry herself off.
Her cell phone rang. She’d been keeping it within reach for the last two weeks. It was on the sink counter now.
Wrapping the towel around her, Anna grabbed the phone and checked the caller ID: Det. K. Baumann.
She felt a little jolt in her gut. Her first thought
was: They’ve found his body.
Lowering the toilet lid, she sat down and tapped her phone screen. “Hello?”
“Hi, Anna. Detective Baumann here.”
Anna nodded, but said nothing.
“Are you there?” the detective asked. “I have some news.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Go ahead.” She was still slightly wet and had started to shiver.
“Courtney’s body was found this afternoon.”
Stunned, Anna was speechless. Some small part of her had still clung to the idea that Courtney had orchestrated the whole disappearing act. But now, she knew. Courtney’s really dead.
“They’re flying her mother up from Florida to identify the body,” Baumann explained. “But that’s just a formality. They’re certain it’s her.”
“Where?” Anna heard herself ask. “Where did they find her?”
“Lake Bosworth, it’s near Granite Falls.”
“I know it,” she murmured. She’d done a story at Lake Bosworth last year—about an elderly couple who had gotten engaged by the lake and celebrated their sixty-fifth anniversary there. Lake Bosworth was about forty-five miles northeast of Seattle.
“Some kids found her, half-buried in the woods by the lake,” Baumann said. “The cause of death seems to be blunt-force trauma to the head.”
“Was she—wearing a purple robe?”
“Yeah, that Bud creep from The Sally Justice Show was right about that. We wanted to keep it from the press and the general public. But the three kids who found the body are teenagers, and we figured keeping that detail under wraps was a lost cause.”
“So the police are going to take this Bud person seriously now,” Anna said glumly.
“At this point, we’d be fools to ignore him. We’d hoped to trace the call if Bud phoned Sally Justice tonight, at least try to pinpoint his location if he was using a burner phone again. But he didn’t call. He’s a major suspect, but he’s also giving us details that are helpful to the investigation. Anyway, Anna, yesterday you mentioned you were going to a hypnotist to help you recall things about the night Courtney disappeared. Did you have any luck?”
“No,” she hated to admit. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, listen, I was hoping you could describe for me again the writing award Courtney had on display in her living room, the one that’s missing. I haven’t had much luck looking it up on Google. I’ve been searching for glass quill award and coming up with nothing. I thought you might remember.”
Anna pushed her wet hair out of her face. “It’s the—the Northwest Literary Society’s Best Fiction Debut Award,” she said. It was mentioned in Courtney’s biography on her website. Anna wondered why the detective hadn’t bothered to look there. “It’s this bulky glass or Lucite thing that looked heavy,” she explained. “The point of the quill is a metal piece that attaches it to the base. You said Courtney died from a ‘blunt-force trauma to the head.’ Do you think the award might be the murder weapon?”
“We’re considering the possibility.”
“Well, if you can’t find a picture of it on Google, I know my videographer caught a shot of the award when we interviewed Courtney at her home the Wednesday before she disappeared. We never used the shot, but I’m sure George still has it along with the other outtakes. I can ask him to find the clip for me, make a copy, and send it to me. Then I can text it to you.”
“That would be great. Thanks, Anna. Could you do that?”
“Certainly, I’ll get right on it.” Anna stood up and leaned against the sink counter. “Detective, how does all this look to you? I mean, with these new developments, do the police still think Dr. Knoll killed his wife?”
“It’s too soon to say, Anna. If you could get that video clip to me as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
After Anna hung up, she finished drying herself off.
She couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that Courtney’s body had ended up at this somewhat remote lake, where Anna had just happened to have shot a news story last year. It was also a bit odd that Baumann had asked her again about the award, when she could have easily consulted her notes and looked up the award online. It was almost as if Baumann had been trying to put her on the spot about the object possibly used to murder Courtney.
Anna figured she’d call George just as soon as she got dressed. Then she’d ask him to try to get the video clip to her tonight—if that was possible.
She needed to show Detective Baumann and the rest of the police that she was helpful and cooperative. Still, she wasn’t sure how much good it would do her. But she didn’t have much choice.
She couldn’t help thinking about Russ. He’d been cooperative with investigators, too—right up until the time he ran away and threw himself off the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thursday, July 23—3:03 P.M.
“I hope you didn’t spend too much money on the L-theanine, because I realized I have samples of something that’s more effective.” Dr. Tolman pulled an envelope from her purse.
That morning at Bartell Drugs Anna had purchased a supplement called Stress Saver, which contained L-theanine. “I got something, but it wasn’t very expensive,” she said, taking the envelope.
They were in their usual spots in Taylor’s living room, and their host had once again made herself scarce. Taylor had set out two glasses of water—on coasters—on the coffee table for them. Anna tore open the envelope and shook out a white capsule. “What is it?” she asked. “Will I be safe driving home?”
“It’s just a very mild sedative to make you more receptive to hypnosis,” Dr. Tolman assured her. “It shouldn’t impair your judgment. When I wake you up, you’ll be alert.”
Anna figured she needed all the help she could get to relax. She didn’t want another session like yesterday. And she had a lot on her mind since talking to Detective Baumann last night.
George had come through with a close-up shot of Courtney’s Northwest Literary Society’s Best Fiction Debut Award on the bookcase in her living room. Anna had texted the clip to Baumann later in the evening. She kept thinking that she should tell the detective—or somebody—about those unsettling calls Bud had made to her starting the night after Courtney had vanished. But then she’d have to mention the most disturbing of the calls: the one claiming she’d murdered Courtney.
Anna was afraid to bring it up until she knew for certain that Bud was lying. That was why this session was so important. She needed to remember everything she could about the night Courtney had disappeared.
Anna put the pill in her mouth and drank some water to wash it down.
Dr. Tolman set up the digital recorder. “So, did you have a lot of reporters waiting by your dock again today?” she asked.
Anna knew the drill by now. It was small talk to relax her. “Just two,” she said, leaning back and getting more comfortable on the sofa. “They wanted my reaction to Courtney’s death. I gave them a statement. I think the rest of my fellow members of the press were more interested in getting statements from the coroner or Courtney’s mother.”
As far as Anna could tell, neither one of the reporters had tried to follow her. She’d come to the back door of Taylor’s building. She’d texted Taylor, who had met her and taken her up the gloomy back stairwell. Dr. Tolman had been waiting in the apartment.
Now, as she had for the last two afternoons, Gloria asked Anna to relax and look out at Lake Washington. The skies were overcast today, making the lake look choppy and gray. But the water still had a certain windswept, melancholy beauty. Gloria gave her instructions about her breathing. She spoke in that calm, comforting tone of hers. The drug must have worked fast, because Anna already felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.
She wasn’t sure if Gloria was telling her to go back to that night two weeks ago—or if she was going there on her own. But Anna could clearly see herself on the dock to Russ and Courtney’s floating home. I
t was a clear, balmy night. She remembered trying to walk straight and not stumble while Russ hovered at her side. He kept saying he could drive her home. But Courtney had mentioned something about making coffee, and that sounded like a good idea. Anna needed to sober up a little before she went home. She used to worry about her mom, alone and drinking too much. What if she tripped, hit her head, and bled to death before someone found her? Anna imagined that happening to her after all those Lemon Drops. She needed to sober up before she went home.
But once the three of them stepped inside the gorgeous floating home, Courtney threw her purse on a chair and headed into their sleek, modern kitchen. She pulled a bottle of chardonnay from the refrigerator and poured a glass.
“I thought we were going to have coffee,” Russ said.
Courtney put down her wineglass long enough to sign and reply to him: “You want coffee? You make it.” Then she took her glass and herself into the living room.
Anna had a glass of water and used the bathroom while Russ made the coffee. She drank a cup and a half, but it didn’t help any. In fact, she only felt worse. Maybe coffee didn’t mix well with Lemon Drops. She was queasy and nauseous.
It didn’t help her miseries that Courtney was still in a bitchy, snippy mood. Whenever she spoke to Russ, Courtney signed and angrily mouthed the words. Anna was grateful to be left out of the conversation, because Courtney really didn’t have anything nice to say to either one of them. All she did was criticize them and pick fights over practically nothing.
At one point early on, Russ had put a Dinah Washington album on the stereo—just for some background music. Courtney must not have been paying attention, because the record had been playing for a while when she suddenly seemed to notice the light on the sound system control panel. Setting down her second glass of wine, she shot out of her chair and made a beeline over to the stereo. Her face pinched in anger, she dragged the needle over the vinyl record. Anna winced at the earsplitting screech as the stylus scratched the LP.
The Night She Disappeared Page 28
