[Jason Wade 02.0] Every Fear

by Rick Mofina

  Sinclair’s face went red. He was speechless.

  In fact, he said little as he rode in the back of a Ford Taurus across Detroit to the FBI’s field office in the Patrick V. McNamara Building downtown on Michigan Avenue.

  The federal office complex takes up an entire city block and is under twenty-four-hour security. The two agents who located Sinclair escorted him into the elevator and pressed the button for the twenty-sixth floor. He feared his ex-wife had discovered his account in Aruba and had her lawyer contact the FBI. It took several attempts for the agents to convey to Sinclair that the urgency to talk to him arose from the Colson case.

  “What’s the Colson case?”

  As they explained the connection to Krofton and how the agency was cooperating, Sinclair began to believe it might be all true. They were treating him with the utmost respect—but he was wary. He knew federal lawmen could be crafty, to lull you into a false sense of security before hitting you between the eyes with a surprise.

  His Aruba account could put him away.

  Sinclair kept his guard up.

  They led him into a meeting room and immediately pulled up a screen showing detailed maps of the route he had taken through Seattle at the time of his accident. Then they put him on a conference call to Seattle with Homicide Detective Grace Garner, Agent Kirk Dupree, and Ted Parsons, a detective in traffic collision. They walked him through enlarged zone maps showing buildings.

  As he recounted the events he realized a problem.

  “I don’t want my name in the papers. Can you guys arrange that?”

  The agents said they would see what they could do. Their chief concern was finding Dylan Colson and the people behind the crimes—the homicide, the abduction, and the hit-and-run.

  “So the van that clipped my Mercedes is the one involved in the kidnapping?”

  “That’s our belief,” Grace Garner said.

  “Is there a reward?”

  “We don’t know all the details, sir, only that we have a homicide linked to the abduction of a baby and the assault of his mother when she tried to rescue him.”

  “So there could be a reward?”

  “Tell us again what happened, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Sinclair repeated the details and they pinpointed his route with times and commercial buildings. He had no idea why one agent kept ticking off certain buildings along the route, not understanding that those buildings had surveillance cameras.

  “Again, can you remember anything distinctive about the van, other than how your car got damaged and your suit got ruined?”

  Sinclair thought long and hard before it came back to him.

  “A palm tree.”

  “Sir?”

  “The van had a small palm tree painted on the lower rear section.” He sketched the van’s rear, showing a palm tree in the sunset.

  34

  The Seattle Metro bus driver didn’t look at the woman boarding with the baby stroller and dropping her money in the fare box.

  His eyes were on his side mirror and the lunatic in a Corvette eating off of his bumper. He didn’t need this. Not after yesterday’s double shift. First the punks smoking dope on his coach, then a sleeper missed his stop and started screaming hellfire and damnation at him. After waving the ’Vette around him, the driver cursed to himself and they moved on.

  The woman sat on a bench seat, where she gave her baby a bottle, then smiled at the two people near her, the first a sweaty, pasty-faced man with hairy arms resting on his tin lunch bucket. His stomach strained his T-shirt, which bore a flowered circle with the words “St. Jude’s School—Helping the Challenged.”

  “Cute baby.” The man pushed back his thick, black-framed glasses. “Say Betty, that baby’s awfully cute,” he said to the woman beside him.

  A worn library copy of Gone With the Wind lowered, revealing the acne-ravaged face of a middle-aged woman. Her life had been a series of tragedies, tended to daily with vodka-laced coffee.

  The woman eyed the baby. It was sucking hard on its bottle but only getting air. The young mother was in a pink top, jeans, and open-toe shoes. Oblivious to the need to adjust the bottle. Maybe she should enroll at St. Jude’s and learn something, Betty thought.

  “She’s a cute baby, Warren.” The book went back over her face.

  “It’s a he. He’s my boy.” Nadine beamed.

  The baby began fussing but Nadine’s attention was on the scenery and her dreams as the bus lumbered along its route. The baby’s fussing continued for several more stops. Eventually the child began whimpering until Betty could no longer let things go.

  “Adjust the bottle, he’s getting nothing but air.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Adjust his bottle, he’s not getting any milk.”

  Nadine glared at her as the baby started to cry.

  “Are you saying I don’t know how to care for my baby?”

  “No, just look at him.”

  “He’s awfully cute,” Warren said.

  “You’re calling me an unfit mother. Admit it.”

  “What?” The baby’s crying intensified, exasperating the woman. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Betty leaned forward and adjusted the baby’s bottle.

  Nadine thrust her finger a half-inch from Betty’s face.

  “Keep your fucking filthy hands off of my baby, or I’ll kill you.”

  The bus driver’s head raised to his rearview mirror.

  “There a problem back there?”

  Nadine rang the bell and stared hard at the woman.

  “Want me to tell him you’ve been drinking, Betty?”

  Betty shook her head and pulled her bag closer.

  Nadine grinned. “No problem,” she called to the driver.

  “None at all.” Then she pushed the stroller to the rear door and got off with her baby.

  At the mall, Nadine bought new sneakers from a discount bin. Then she shopped a bit, picking up a few things for the baby and herself. Although she wanted to show off her son, no one really paid any attention to her.

  That was fine.

  Things would soon be different.

  On the bus home, Nadine took pains to sit alone. There were so many creeps and sickos in the city. She didn’t want any of them near her baby—didn’t want to repeat the earlier episode with the fat ugly woman and the sweaty tard boy. It was a quiet ride.

  She watched the storefronts flow by. The pizza shops, the hair salons, the appliance stores, funeral homes, the parks, and the neat houses with their beautiful trees and pretty flower gardens. The well-kept homes radiated love; looking at them, Nadine couldn’t help but think that soon her life was going to be perfect.

  Just perfect.

  She revisited her dream plan. It was almost complete.

  Once Axel sorted out all the arrangements for his new job—which should be any day now—they would leave Seattle. They’d settle into a pretty little house, one with a big wraparound porch with hand-carved spindles in the railing. They’d have a big swing where she and Axel would sit on summer nights, sip lemonade, and look up at the stars.

  They’d have a pretty yard with a big old shade tree in the back where their son could play. They’d buy him a baseball and a glove and a football and Axel would play catch with him. And on weekends they’d all go for drives into the country for picnics and ice cream, then pick wildflowers and wade in a stream. Birthday parties in their house would be special. Christmas and all the holidays would be perfect, like in the magazines she read at the supermarket checkout.

  They were going to be the kind of family Nadine had always dreamed of having. Ever since she was a little girl. And they were going to live in the kind of house she’d seen a million billion times in her mind.

  It would have a big fireplace where they would sit and listen to the rain on stormy days, or keep cozy on winter nights. Their house would have a big kitchen where she would make the best home-cooked meals ever, and it would have big bright rooms filled with light.

  F
illed with love.

  Nadine blinked as she looked upon the baby.

  It was all so close. Just days away.

  When Nadine got home, she was relieved that Axel had not yet returned. Taking the baby into her arms, she called for him as they checked out every room. Just to be sure.

  “Looks like Daddy’s still not home.”

  Good. Because before Axel had left, he’d ordered Nadine not to leave the house until he got back.

  “Mommy doesn’t always do what Daddy says, does she? Mommy needed new shoes, some clothes, and some things for you too. Oh, what is it, angel?” The baby began to fuss. Nadine touched her nose to his bottom and frowned. “You got a stinky diaper.”

  After changing him, she fed him some strained fruit then put him down for a nap.

  As he slept, she kept the TVs and radios turned on low, listening for any new developments on that horrible baby abduction. And she resumed cleaning, packing, and humming as she wondered how much longer Axel was going to be. He’d left for a few hours of work early that morning on his friend’s motorcycle, telling Nadine not to touch the van. Apparently, something was shot with the carburetor or ignition thingy and he needed to get a new part. He also had some surprise things to take care of.

  In bed that morning, she rolled over and watched him pull his jeans up over his muscular frame. One thing Nadine loved about her ex-con was his body. Hard from pumping iron in the yard. It drove her wild.

  “How much longer, Axel?”

  “A few more days, then we can leave, babe.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Axel.” She grabbed the waist of his jeans. “Got time to give me a little more?”

  “Always got time for that, babe.”

  Smiling at the memory, Nadine thought she heard him approach. She left her packing and stepped to the window. It was just a truck passing by. She looked to the garage; the way the sunlight hit the side window, she could see a patch of the tarp covering the van. Axel said they’d likely sell it to one of his friends and get a car for their trip, but to load some things into it for the big move.

  She closed another cardboard box, taped it, then carried it into the spare room. She got down on her knees and scrawled on it with a felt-tip marker. Sitting back on her legs, she noticed Axel’s desk and his laptop computer.

  He’d been worrying so hard on his big business deal. Always keeping the problems to himself so she wouldn’t have to worry. She blinked. Hey, she thought, he’s left his computer on. Funny. He always shut it off. He’d been working so late into the night, he must’ve just forgot. She got up and approached the desk with a wicked little thought dancing in her mind. It lifted the corners of her mouth.

  Why not snoop through Axel’s secret business deal?

  He’d been promising to tell her all about it when the time was right. She tapped a nail to her teeth and considered searching his system. She could do it and he’d never know.

  Did she want to ruin her own surprise?

  She was not sure. Her ears pricked up at the TV and a burst of dramatic music that signaled a news bulletin.

  “This is Stephanie London at the Live Eye Satellite News Desk with a breaking story. We go now live by satellite to North Seattle, where WKKR’s David Troy is at the scene of a homicide. David, what can you tell us?”

  Nadine stood before the set to watch the bright smile and tanned, handsome face of the reporter.

  “Stephanie... there’s been a homicide in that bungalow behind me. We know there is one victim inside. Don’t know who. Or how they were killed. Or who made the discovery. Crime scene detectives are working on that as we speak. Stephanie, many of the homes in this area are rented here with multiple tenants and roommates. That sort of thing. A lot of people coming and going. People keep to themselves.”

  “David, we understand there is something a little intriguing about this murder. What can you tell us?”

  “That’s right, Stephanie. My sources are telling me that Seattle police and the FBI are present here. It’s not common to have the feds present at a city murder. The reason for that, according to my sources, is that there are strong indications that this murder is linked to the abduction of Dylan Colson and the assault of his mother Maria in Ballard. Maria Colson is still fighting for her life in the hospital. That’s it for now, Stephanie.”

  “David, thank you. David Troy from North Seattle, at the scene of a homicide police suspect is linked to the Dylan Colson case. We’ll have a full report later. Now back to our regular programming.”

  Nadine’s hand covered her mouth at the terrible news. It had to be just horrible for the Colson family.

  “Oh well.” She shrugged. “It just goes to show you how lying can bring your whole world tumbling down.”

  Nadine resumed packing, humming softly to herself.

  35

  Several hours had passed since Jason Wade had discovered the woman’s corpse in north Seattle.

  The sun had sunk below the horizon and from the newsroom he could see the red and white lights of traffic streaming along Elliott Avenue, the ferries on the Bay, and the Olympic Mountains.

  It was a different scene at his desk and the heap of newspapers, old press releases, empty paper cups. He plucked his notebook out of the mess and flipped to the page with his large scrawl.

  Who is she? Who did it? Why? What’s the link to Colson?

  He tried Seattle PD again.

  “Homicide, Beckwith.”

  “It’s Wade at the Mirror. You guys confirm the ID on Brimerley yet?”

  “We’re hoping you and your psychic could tell us, Ace.”

  “There’s plenty I’d like to tell your sergeant.”

  “I’ll put him on.”

  “Come on, Beckwith. Seriously, anything on Brimerley?”

  “Cool your jets, Wade. I’ll check if we heard from the M.E.”

  The sound of Beckwith’s hand clamping the phone was followed by his muffled exchange. Seconds later he came back on.

  “Nada, pal. Zip. But when you find out, be sure to give us a ringy-dingy, okay?”

  Jason hung up and ran his hands through his hair.

  He’d calmed down since coming upon the murder scene, and the blood rush in his ears had stopped. But he couldn’t push the images of the eviscerated corpse from his mind as he reflected on life, death, and what it all meant to the story he was writing.

  Who was the dead woman and how is her murder tied to the case? Did she abduct Dylan Colson? Is there a link to the family?

  His attempts to find out had failed.

  After leaving Brimerley Lane, he’d gone to the hospital and managed to get a nurse to pass a request to Lee Colson. He came downstairs with his uncle to the cafeteria. Lee shook his head after he’d told him what had happened.

  “I already told police, I don’t know that neighborhood, or anyone at 444 Brimerley. I’m sorry for the family, but if it has anything to do with my son, I hope it leads to his safe return. That’s all I have to say.”

  Now, as he wrote the last half of his story, Jason looked across the newsroom and saw Fritz Spangler—loosening his tie, stepping from his office, studying a yellow legal notepad—striding toward him.

  “Wade, I’ve read your story. It’s not strong enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got to hit it harder. Switch to first person. Take the reader into the murder house with you. Be graphic. Visceral even. I like what you told me about the rats. Use it. Make readers feel and smell the scene in all of its grisly horror.”

  “Isn’t that crossing a line? I mean, think of her family. Think of kids who might read this at the breakfast table.”

  “Too bad. The woman’s dead. And we’re not the city’s baby-sitter. This is our line drive out of the ballpark. No one can touch us. It eclipses our little hiccup with the psychic. If we’re controversial, all the better.”

  “I think we’re overreacting.”

  “We�
�re in a circulation war. If we lose, it’s the death of the Mirror. We’re getting publicity you can’t buy. Do you realize that all afternoon TV’s been reporting how you made the discovery and calling for interview requests? They want you to describe what you saw for their viewers. They want to know if it was the psychic that led you to the house—isn’t this great?”

  “I haven’t heard anything on this.”

  “That’s because we’ve been screening the calls and refusing all interviews until tomorrow. We’re going to make sure that people read about it first in the Mirror. We’re going to maximize our news value here. We’re going to clobber the Times and the Post-Intelligencer. The Mirror’s clearly out front on this story. I talked to the circulation people. We’re doing up a poster card with your face flagging our scoop for every street box. We’re going to boost our pressrun by fifty thousand, possibly seventy-five. Write the hell out of this story, Wade. There’s a lot at stake. Do you understand?”

  He understood all right. The place had gone insane. Shaking his head, Jason reworked his article, as per Spangler’s orders. He stopped short of turning it into a lurid, tabloidy account of “The House That Dripped Blood,” or “Rats Ripped Her Flesh.”

  Scrolling through his work, he was reminded of the fact his old man was the reason the Mirror had this story. And that Boulder had threatened to take away his private investigator’s license.

  Hell, Boulder had even sniffed around at the old police mystery his dad kept locked away from the world. On the drive back to the paper, Jason took a chance and had pressed Henry on it and was shocked when he actually started to answer him.

  “As a cop you get to know a lot of secrets about people. Some you wish you never knew but have to live with for the rest of your life.”

  “Like what, Dad?”

  His old man just stared ahead.

  “Just don’t ask. Christ, Jay, don’t ever ask me.”

  It ended right there with Jason wondering if Boulder knew, what with his talk to take away his old man’s license. Because for an ugly moment at the scene, the stakes got pretty high for his old man.