“That fast, huh?”
“Amazing isn’t it?” As Dougal turned to head for his office, he almost bumped into Marnie.
She was still in minimalist mode—hair in ponytail, no make-up—but her face had a glow that suggested she’d at least grabbed some sleep recently. She was carrying two to-go cups from the Buttermilk Café.
“What have you got there?” Dougal asked.
She frowned, but answered, “One no-fat vanilla latte and a double shot mocha.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Dougal teased, reaching for one.
“Believe me, I didn’t.” She marched past him, handing the larger cup to the sheriff, and saying something in a voice too low for Dougal to hear.
Dougal had to smile. Something was cooking there, for sure, and he was glad for Wade.
* * *
Dougal hesitated before clicking the last button that would open the connection between himself with his father. A double shot of single malt Scotch would sure go down well now. But he was going to need all his wits about him.
He clicked the green button.
As with every other time he’d reached out to his father, he was answered right away.
Ed’s voice came in first. “You there boy? I can’t see anything.”
Dougal clicked the button for video and his father’s face came into slow resolution.
At one time his father had been almost classically handsome. But time and character had made their imprint, subtly distorting his eyes and his smile, giving them a sinister aspect.
In the hours since he’d seen him last, Ed’s beard had filled in just a little bit more. He was wearing the same shirt as yesterday, though. When he picked up his mug of coffee, Dougal noticed his hand was shaking.
Dougal had no idea if it was stress, withdrawal, or a medical condition. Hopefully it was all three. Given the hell Ed was putting them through, it was only fair he experienced some of it, too.
“We’re getting to the last chapter here, son.”
As always, Dougal inwardly winced at the word ‘son.’ “I figured as much.”
Ed laughed. “Guess you already know how this one ends, in broad strokes. But it’s the details that make a story.”
A creepy sense of déjà vu chilled Dougal’s spine. He’d said something along those lines during an interview on NPR about a year ago.
“Yah, I heard your interview with that snooty New York book reviewer. He tried to put you down, but you showed him up real good.”
It had been a tough interview, and normally Dougal would have been pleased to hear he’d come off well. But praise from Ed meant less than nothing.
And it only made him wonder how many other interviews, articles and news clips Ed had found about him. The Internet was awesome in so many ways. But it sure stripped a man of his privacy.
“How’s Chester?” he asked.
“The kid is fine. Tiresome. But fine.”
“Why not let him go right now? Drop him off somewhere and let us know where to find him. I’ll still finish the book. I’m sure we can have it published online within a few days.”
“Don’t piss me off boy. We’re doing this the way I planned it. Now do you remember where I left off yesterday?”
chapter twenty-two
Wednesday April 7, 1976, Basement of Twisted Cedars Library, Oregon
Shirley watched as her captor pulled out the stepladder normally used to reach the very top of the bookshelves. Ed placed it very deliberately in the unfinished section of the basement. Next he removed her red scarf, tied it to a second one he’d stashed in his jacket pocket, and then draped the red silk rope over the top of the ladder.
She’d thought he was going to strangle her, like the others. Apparently not.
Oddly, Shirley didn’t feel fear. What she did feel was intensively alive, as if all her life had been a shadowy dream and this was the only real thing that had ever happened to her.
This...and the other. The act that had created this monster.
Monster. Yes. That’s what he was. Not a man, but an aberration. A part of her had always known he would turn out wrong. How could he not?
“Be right back.” Ed disappeared upstairs, and she’d felt a brief flicker of hope. Maybe his plan had been to scare her and he was going to leave her here all night.
But no, within five minutes Ed was back, holding a book.
He sat down a few feet away from her and leafed through the pages. When he smiled she supposed he’d found what he was looking for.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
She merely stood there. She’d accepted that this was his moment. He was the director and the star, both. He would place her where he wanted her. Feed her lines, when and if required.
“You’re thinking,” he continued after a brief pause, “that this is all your fault.”
He tilted his head slightly. She guessed he wanted her acquiescence. She nodded and he looked satisfied.
“All the cruelty I suffered as a kid—that’s on you, Mother. Every night I went to bed hungry. Every welt on my body. Every cruel word they hurled at me. Those were all because of you.”
He began pacing, exuding the nervous energy that was building inside of him. In the dim basement lighting, his eyes seemed to be blazing brighter and brighter, as if a red hot fire was burning at his core.
“And the women. Those librarians. They died because of you. Those murders are all on your conscience, as well.”
She bowed her head as he recited their names.
Elva Mae Ayer.
Mary Louise Beamish.
Bernice Gilbert.
Isabel Fraser.
He told her about their last minutes on earth. How it had felt to squeeze away their lives, their hopes, their futures.
Tears streamed down her face as she thought of those women and their families.
And that made him angry.
“You cry for them. Women you hardly know. But when did you ever cry for me—your own son? When did you ever feel pity for what I suffered?”
She blinked rapidly trying to clear her vision.
He was right. She’d never viewed him as an innocent little boy. To her he’d always been a freak. An abomination.
Could she possibly have been wrong?
She stared into his eyes. If there’d been a shred of goodness in him at the beginning, wouldn’t a tiny bit of it still remain? But if it was there, she couldn’t see it.
Still, she would continue to play her role and give him the words he wanted. “I’m sorry.”
Crossing his arms over his chest he said, “It’s too late for that. The suffering started with you. And today it ends with you.”
He held up the book so she could see the title: Forensic Pathology.
“Interesting book this. Did you know it’s surprisingly difficult to kill a person by hanging?”
She couldn’t help but gasp, even though the evidence was all laid out, so neatly, before her. Only now did she notice that he’d placed the ladder directly under one of the exposed rafters.
“Did you know you need to have a drop that’s long enough to produce sufficient torque to break the neck? Otherwise, if the drop is too short, the subject dies of strangulation.”
He stopped reading and glanced at her. “I just asked you a question.”
She’d thought she was ready to accept whatever fate he had in mind for her. So why was she suddenly trembling? This outward sign of her own weakness made her angry.
“No,” she said, her voice defiant. “Of course I didn’t know that. Why would I know how to hang someone?”
“I didn’t say you would. I think most people would have a difficult time believing any librarian would know something like that. Which means if she wanted to kill herself by hanging, she would probably check a book to make sure she did it correctly. Am I right?”
Again he seemed to expect an answer.
“I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “Yes.”
“Good. So we’ll put the book right...here.” He positioned it on the ground, a few feet away from the ladder. Then he stared up at the rafters.
“Fortunately this basement has a nice high ceiling. With a bit of luck the drop will be long enough.”
With a bit of luck...
At one point Shirley had hoped Amos could come by to work on the basement and rescue her. But now she hoped for the opposite. Ed Lachlan was too crazy, too violent, too lacking in conscience in any degree. If Amos got in his way, she had no doubt Ed would kill him. And too many people had already died over this.
“Obviously you’ve been thinking about taking your revenge on me for a long time.”
“Oh, Mother. You have no idea.” He took the silk rope from the ladder and approached her. His expression was almost tender as he tied the deceptively soft fabric tightly around her neck.
“I’m so glad you have good taste. Silk is so much stronger than cotton or cheap synthetics.”
She tried to swallow, but the knot was so tight it hurt. Ed was still close enough she could smell his breath, his hair, his skin.
Again, she was reminded of the rapes, this time of the terrible odors, the unique scent that in her mind would only ever mean suffering, guilt and shame.
Next Ed untied her arms, then bent to remove the rope from her ankles. When her feet were free, she considered kicking him, but the anger and defiance which had sustained her for so many years was suddenly gone.
She knew she ought to fight. Even if she wasn’t able to get free, she’d read enough mystery novels to appreciate the existence of bruises and cuts on her body might make the medical examiner question a verdict of suicide.
Instead, she meekly followed Ed as he pushed her toward to the ladder. Up the rungs she climbed, with him behind her. When she reached the rung second from the top, she had to cling to the rafter to keep her balance, while Ed reached over her head to secure the scarf to the same beam of wood.
He tested the knot, then apparently satisfied, scrambled down, leaving her perched on the ladder, unable to move her head more than a few inches to either side.
“I considered forging a nice farewell note for you, but decided to forgo that theatrical touch. Better to leave everyone wondering, don’t you think?”
Shirley thought of her brother and his wife. A friend she’d had in college. A few of her favorite patrons at the library. There were not many people in this world who would truly miss her. And none of them would be tormented by the thought of her suicide.
In fact her brother, snob that he was, would probably do his best to cover it up.
After all, when you were a Hammond, you kept your dirty laundry hidden, whether it was a teenaged pregnancy, suicide... Or incest.
chapter twenty-three
Charlotte was in her element, back at her desk at the Twisted Cedars Library. It was still closed to the public, as it had been since Chester’s disappearance, but she’d decided to work from here today so she could have access to the many resources. Within a few hours she hoped to be well versed in the requirements for self-publishing a book.
She started by reading a step-by-step guide for self-publishing in the reference section, making notes as she went along.
One of the first things she had to do was get a book cover. She tried searching for “Mystery Book Cover Designers” on the net and soon had a list of five possible designers. She emailed them all explaining that she was working on an emergency rush project. Could any of them promise her a book cover within a few hours?
She was amazed when one designer came back with a yes.
Charlotte filled out information about the book title (she made an executive decision and chose a title herself) and the author. She scoured pages and pages of photo stock before choosing cover art that seemed appropriate.
Next she had to write a few paragraphs for the back cover. With her years of experience in the industry, that wasn’t too hard.
By lunch time she had opened accounts with the major on-line book retailers.
Reading further in her guide book, she learned that once the book was ready it would need to be formatted for the book retailers—and they didn’t all accept the same format. There were people you could hire to perform not only this step, but the actual process of uploading the book and the cover to the platforms.
Charlotte decided yes, she would hire someone.
The next two hours were spent approaching random formatters and trying to find one who would be willing to be not just fast, but also flexible, as she couldn’t predict exactly when Dougal would send her his final chapter.
After ten queries, she finally got one positive response, provided she was willing to pay double the normal fee.
She was.
At two-thirty that afternoon four JPEGs of book covers popped into her email. The covers looked far more professional and intriguing than she had hoped given how quickly they’d been produced. She wrote the designer back, thanking her for her work. A moment later she received the invoice, which she paid via PayPal.
It was a whole new world, she marveled. She had a book cover and all it had taken was a few hundred dollars and about five hours.
Now all she needed was the actual manuscript.
At three in the afternoon, she finally received a brief message from Dougal with a Word document attached.
“Last chapter attached,” he’d typed.
“Thanks,” she responded, feeling there was so much more to be said. But now was not the time.
She opened the document and gave it a quick scan for formatting errors, then ran a spell-check. As she made the required corrections she resisted the lure of getting pulled into this crucial last chapter of the story. There simply wasn’t time.
One day she would read the conclusion. Hopefully when Chester was safely home, and all of this was behind them.
Charlotte cut and pasted the last chapter into the book document, then saved three copies. One on her laptop, the other in her Dropbox account, and a third she sent to both Dougal and herself via e-mail.
The book was done.
She started a new message to the book formatter she’d lined up, attaching the finished manuscript as well as the high resolution version of the book cover. She hesitated before hitting send. This was the point of no return.
But it was also her best chance of bringing Chester home.
She hit send and crossed her fingers. It was just after three in the afternoon.
Everything was out of her hands now.
Hopefully the person she’d hired knew what she was doing. If so, within twenty-four hours copies of The Librarian Killer: My Father’s True Life Confessions by Dougal Lachlan would be available for sale all around the world.
* * *
Rain was falling hard as Charlotte locked up the library. She zipped up her light jacket, wishing she’d brought an umbrella, or at least a coat with a hood.
Her last message from Dougal had asked her to meet him at the Linger Longer. A drink sounded like an excellent idea, but she didn’t fancy walking across the highway, then up the long block to the pub.
Besides, she felt uneasy being away from the house for so long. Jamie and Cory had left an hour ago for their movie in Port Orford, and while Charlotte had forwarded her home phone number to her cell, she still didn’t like the idea of the house being vacant.
Yes it was a long shot, but what if Chester somehow managed to get free and was able to return home? She couldn’t bear the thought of him walking into an empty house.
It wasn’t that nice for her either. After a mad dash through the rain, she let herself in the back door, where she hung up her sodden jacket and left her soggy trainers on the mat to dry. She wandered through the kitchen, the family room, the study, feeling a deep melancholy for all who were gone.
She paused at the cabinet where family photos were displayed. Slowly she studied each photograph in turn, starting with her great-grandparents, and ending with last year’s school photos of Ches
ter and Cory.
So few of the people in these photos were still alive. Just herself and the twins.
Dying before their time seemed to be a curse for the Hammonds. Charlotte knew from family records that both her great-grandparents and her grandparents had died in their sixties.
The next generation had been even worse. Shirley had died in her mid-forties, while Daisy hadn’t even reached thirty.
Charlotte’s parents had been well into middle age before they died in the car crash, but even that was at least ten years before their time.
Why so much pain and tragedy for one family?
On the surface, the Hammonds had historically had so much. For generations they’d been the leading family of Twisted Cedars, living in this beautiful ocean front home, and managing the local bank.
Charlotte had always been proud of her family’s tradition of giving back to the community. For decades her father had served as the Twisted Cedar mayor—forgoing any salary—and her Hammond great-great-grandmother was responsible for raising the funds and later operating, the town’s library.
Now all that was left of almost a century of tradition was one adopted daughter—herself—and Daisy’s two children.
Charlotte took the stairs slowly, taking the time to examine the framed photos her mother had hung above the railing. Every Christmas they’d had a photographer come to the house and take a family photograph and they were all here, starting from the first when Daisy was a newborn.
She’d been such a cute baby, an adorable toddler, and an exceptionally pretty little girl. In all the photographs she was held by her father, who was sitting in a chair, while her mother stood behind, with a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
Then Charlotte entered the scene and suddenly it was her mother holding the baby and sitting, while Daisy stood beside her dad, holding his hand.
Up the stairs Charlotte progressed, to the year she’d turned four when she and Daisy had both been deemed old enough to both stand. She in front of their mother, Daisy in front of their father.
This formation continued until the final photograph, taken the year before Daisy was married.
Charlotte was so familiar with these photographs that she rarely stopped to really look at them. But today, in her sad, lonely mood, she noticed the way Daisy had changed as the years progressed. Oh, her beauty had only intensified as she became a young woman. But the inner glow that had made her practically radiate vitality as a child seemed to turn into something hard and angry as the years went on.
exposed (Twisted Cedar Mysteries Book 3) Page 16
