“Believe me, we’re not trying to beat up on you,” Dusty said. “We’re just trying to get you to face reality. As police officers, we’re trained to deal with people like our stalker. You’re not. And most of the time, I think we’re pretty good at what we do.”
“Then why has this guy been on the loose for so long?”
“It’s true that he’s been elusive,” Dusty conceded. “But we’re gaining on him. We’re getting to know him better. We’re studying his habits. We’re starting to get inside his head. To him, this is a game, a game in which he is perfectly willing to risk everything because he has nothing to lose. Now, if you try to block our efforts, and you’re not willing to risk everything, then I’m very much afraid he could win. But if you help us do our job, then I think we can win.”
Richard sighed deeply. “I have a four-day trip scheduled for a week from Tuesday,” he said.
***
Erin lay awake in her bed, tossing and turning, listening to the sounds of the building around her as it settled down for the night . . . a voice calling, a bar of music playing, a door closing, a window opening. It was late, and she had to be up early in the morning, but there was too much going on in her head to let her sleep.
Most of it had to do with Clare Durant, of course. It was nothing short of a miracle that the woman had survived, and although she knew there really was no way they could have predicted this bizarre turn of events, Erin couldn’t help but feel responsible for what happened on that winding Mercer Island road. She couldn’t blame Richard Durant for being furious with them. She was furious with herself.
And then there was their elusive stalker -- who always seemed to be one step ahead of them, dangling them like helpless fish caught on the end of a line that he could reel in and reel out whenever it suited him. It was nothing short of maddening. She knew they were going to have to get a better handle on him, and pretty damn soon, too, before he caught them flatfooted again. And therein lay the quandary. While it was perfectly all right for them to scheme and maneuver in an effort to nab this sociopath, she now wondered if they would be able to do it without putting Clare Durant’s life at even greater risk. And there was another issue that could have serious ramifications, as well. Because, technically, they were out of their jurisdiction and this was no longer their case.
The Seattle Police Department was made up of five precincts. The West Precinct, where Dusty and Erin were assigned, covered the downtown area, including Pioneer Square, where Thornburgh House was located. Laurelhurst, however, was in the North Precinct. And now that the stalker was calling Clare at home, the North Precinct had jurisdiction. She wondered just how much of a fuss she and Dusty were going to have to make to stay on board.
***
To Erin’s surprise, no fuss was necessary. The West Precinct and the North Precinct captains conferred. And as it turned out, the North Precinct was not all that anxious to take on the Durant matter. It was agreed that Dusty and Erin would remain, not only on the case, but in charge of it, with the support of officers from both precincts.
“They gave up too easy,” Dusty said. “I wonder what they know that we don’t.”
“They probably know how bad we’ve botched it so far,” Erin told him glumly, in words that all too soon would come back to haunt her. “And they don’t want the rap on them. They probably want to see how much deeper we can dig ourselves into the hole, so they can put on their hero hats and come riding to the rescue.”
***
The doctors kept Clare in the hospital until Tuesday. Her concussion alone was serious enough to warrant monitoring. If any complications developed, they wanted to be able to act immediately.
Her head still hurt and her mind was playing tricks on her. She kept blurring the past and the present. She kept confusing the incident on Mercer Island with the incident in the Olympic Mountains. She spoke of clinging to a rock in one breath and hurtling at a tree in the next. And, too, the paralysis caused by the spinal trauma took its time to resolve itself.
Fortunately, she was able to give the police sketch artist an accurate description of the man who had run her off the road. According to Clare, he had dark hair, long sideburns, close-set eyes, and he was unshaven.
Dusty and Erin had posters made and every officer in the precinct took a hand in circulating them. Then began the tedious task of tracking down black trucks with license plates having the first two numbers that one of the witnesses at the scene had provided.
When Richard came to take Clare home, the cervical collar was still in place, she had one nasty cut over her right eye, another just along her right shoulder, and she was sporting a number of angry-looking bruises. But she could walk, under her own steam, from the wheelchair to the car.
“You’re not to think about anything except getting better,” Erin told her.
“I know,” Clare said. “But what if he calls again?”
“Don’t talk to him any more than you want to,” Dusty replied.
“Don’t worry, she won’t,” Richard declared. “I’ll be answering the phone.”
“I doubt he’ll talk to you,” Erin said.
“He doesn’t have to talk to me,” Richard retorted. “But I sure as hell will talk to him.”
“Believe me, I’m not going to argue with you,” Erin assured him. “All I’m going to say is that the more we can learn about this guy, the better the chance we’ll have of catching him. And one of the best ways to learn about him is by listening to him. Personally, I’d be interested in hearing exactly what he has to say about the accident, because it might give us some very valuable clues as to why he’s changed his game plan and what he intends to do next. But I’m certainly not going to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
***
Clare slept most of the day, sinking into her bed and letting her mind drift off to a place where there was no pain and no fear, much the same as it was when she had come home from the hospital in Port Angeles. Richard didn’t go to the office, but instead worked from the house. Doreen checked on her every hour or so, bringing her trays of tea and toast with jelly. Julie began to lurk in doorways again.
The telephone rang at three-thirty.
“I think I should talk to him,” Clare said to Richard. “I think Detective Hall is right. Everything he says can be used to help the police catch him.”
“As long as you’re sure you can handle it,” Richard relented.
Taking a deep breath, Clare picked up the receiver from the nightstand beside the bed.
“Oh, I’ve been so worried,” Nina exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
Richard insisted there be no telephone in Clare’s hospital room, and then called Thornburgh House himself on Monday morning to say simply that his wife would not be back to work for a while.
Clare relaxed. “Yes, I’m all right,” she told her friend. “A little beat up, perhaps, but still kicking.”
“What happened?” Nina wanted to know. “All they would tell us at the office was that you had some sort of an accident.”
“That’s exactly what it was,” Clare confirmed. “I was over on Mercer Island, and some idiot in a big hurry decided to cut in front of me and when I swerved to avoid him, I guess I must have lost control of the car and went off the road.”
It was almost accurate, she decided, and she could tell Nina the real story some other time.
It was the first of several dozen such calls to come in throughout the afternoon and evening. Glenn Thornburgh also called, as did three of Clare’s authors. James Lilly, of course, offered his sympathy and encouragement. Henry Hartstone, Doug Potter, and the entire board of directors of Nicolaidis Industries wished her a speedy recovery.
Clare had no family of her own left, but Richard’s relatives descended on Laurelhurst en masse, demanding to know what they could do to help. Many of the neighbors called, although several, like the Bennetts and the Corcorans, who lived on either side of the Durants, simply came on over when
they heard Clare was home. And through it all, Julie, wide-eyed and white-faced, hovered anxiously by the bedroom door.
“Never mind what I look like, I’m all right,” Clare assured her daughter, over and over again, not wanting the girl to retreat into herself as she had before. “All I’m going to need to do is rest for a while.”
By eight o’clock, she was exhausted. Doreen helped her to the bathroom, and then Richard helped her back into bed.
“I’m going to go downstairs and work a little,” he said. He hadn’t gotten much done, what with the phone calls and the neighbors coming in and out. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course, I will,” she said. “If people will just stop calling, I’ll be asleep in a minute.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when the telephone rang again. With a rueful smile, she picked it up, wondering which friend or family member it was going to be this time.
“Hello, Clare,” the voice said.
As it had so many times before, the smile froze on her face. Seeing it, Richard reached for the receiver, but she held up her hand to stop him. “What do you want?” she managed to ask.
“I want to know how you’re feeling,” the voice said. “And I want to tell you how terribly sorry I am about what happened to you.”
“Are you really?”
“Of course I am,” the voice said, sounding hurt. “I was very upset when I heard you had an accident. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you before we have a chance to meet.”
“I think we’ve already met,” she said clearly. “A few days ago, on a road, around a curve.”
There was a sudden silence at the other end of the line.
“What’s he saying?” Richard whispered. But Clare just shrugged as best she can inside the cervical collar.
“Yes, we really will have to meet,” the voice said finally. “Not now, of course, but when you’re feeling a bit better.”
“Trust me, I’m never going to feel better enough for that,” Clare said defiantly.
“Oh, yes, you will,” the voice assured her. “And it’ll be like no other meeting you’ve ever had before in your life.”
In a van parked just down the street from the Durant home, Dusty and Erin sat and listened. They would spend every night in that van, on their own time, for the next week.
***
On Wednesday, after telling Doreen that he believed his wife to be safe, Richard went back to the office for an important series of meetings. As soon as he was gone, Clare turned off the telephone in her bedroom and went to sleep, actually sleeping through most of the day, and awakening only when Doreen came into the bedroom to insist that she have at least a little something to eat or drink. When Richard came home that evening, on time, she actually felt well enough to get up and have dinner with the family.
They sat around the large mahogany table, saying little. It was the first night since the accident that the four of them were eating a meal together, and they weren’t sure how to act.
“How is school?” Richard asked the children finally.
“Okay,” Julie replied.
“Okay,” Peter replied.
“Okay?” Richard echoed. “It’s almost two months into the new year. You’re not bored yet? School’s not a total waste of time? What you’re learning isn’t useless?”
The children giggled.
“Well, if you really want to know,” Peter said.
“Sure, I do,” his father said.
“All right, then, it’s not what we’re learning that’s useless,” the boy declared. “It’s Julie who’s useless. She already learned what I’m learning, and she won’t even help teach it to me.”
In response, Julie shot a forkful of mashed potatoes across the table at her brother, hitting him just below his left eye.
For a moment, they all sat there with their mouths open, not quite sure what had just happened, or how they should react. And then, without warning, Clare picked up her fork and shot a blob of potato in the direction of her husband.
“What did you do that for?” he demanded, grabbing his fork and returning the favor.
Instantly, the tension of the past several days was broken. The children howled in delight, and the free-for-all was on. Within five minutes, they were all covered in potato and pork gravy and salad dressing and applesauce, and Doreen was standing in the doorway, threatening to quit if they didn’t stop it that instant.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Clare gasped, finally dropping her fork. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“We’re all guilty, Doreen,” Richard apologized.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Clare promised.
“We’ll help, too,” Julie said, glaring across the table at her brother.
But the housekeeper was grinning. It had been a long time since she could remember seeing the family have this much fun together -- a very long time.
When the telephone rang an hour later, and then half an hour after that, and again half an hour after that, Clare was already sound asleep. Richard answered the calls in his office. When there was no one at the other end, he hung up.
***
Clare spent Thursday morning on a chaise in the sunroom, a wonderful tiled space of windows and skylights and paisley-covered wicker furniture that overflowed with all manner of exotic potted plants. It was unseasonably warm and dry for October, with temperatures pushing up into the seventies, and the rains that usually heralded the arrival of autumn seemed a long way off.
Nina came by just before noon, bringing two manuscripts with her, as she had been requested to do.
“I may not be able to go to the office for a while,” Clare told her, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t work.”
“God, you look awful,” Nina observed when Doreen showed her into the sunroom.
“Thanks,” Clare responded with a grin. “That makes me feel better already.”
“All right now,” Nina said, settling down in the wicker chair across from her friend with selections from the lunch tray that the housekeeper, who had insisted on giving up her day off, had brought in. “I want all the gory details.”
“I wish I had some to give you,” Clare said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember very much about what happened.”
“Well, maybe I’ve been reading more than my share of fiction lately,” Nina said, “but if you’ll forgive me, I smell a rather big rat.”
Over the past four years that they had known each other, the two editors had grown to be more than friends. They had become confidantes. Clare sighed. “The police think it may have been deliberate,” she said.
Nina’s eyes widened. “The idiot in a hurry ran you off the road on purpose?” Clare nodded and Nina gasped. “Oh my God, do they think it was him?”
“I think so.”
“Clare, this is serious. He wants to kill you. Once he knows he didn’t succeed, he’ll try again.”
Clare’s glance drifted past her friend’s shoulder. “I think the police know that,” she whispered. “I think they want to use me to draw him out in the open. I think they want him to try again, so they can catch him in the act.”
“Well, that’s all very fine and good for them,” Nina declared, “but do you have any way of protecting yourself in case they don’t happen to make it in time? Do you at least keep a gun in the house?”
Clare frowned. “I think Richard might have one somewhere.”
“Well, if you’re smart, you’ll keep it under your pillow.”
“What good would it do?” Clare responded with a giggle. “I don’t know how to shoot it.”
“If you don’t know how to shoot it, get Richard to show you, for pity’s sake. This isn’t the time to be helpless.”
Clare thought about Nina’s words for the rest of the day. The last thing she intended to be from now on was helpless. “Do you think you could teach me how to shoot your gun?” she asked Richard when he came home that evening.
“What for?” he as
ked, staring at her.
“Just in case I might need to use it,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said after a long moment. “If you think it’ll make you feel safer.”
“Well, at least on the nights when you’re out of town, it might,” she told him.
“Can it wait until the weekend?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she replied, satisfied that he was at least willing to consider it.
***
It was shortly before nine o’clock when the telephone rang. Dinner was over and the children were upstairs finishing their homework. In a few minutes, they would be ready for bed and then Clare would join them for the reading hour. Meanwhile, she and Richard were in the library, going over the pages of business-related numbers that Henry Hartstone had put together for her.
“Hello,” the voice said. “I missed talking to you last night, and I couldn’t go another day without knowing how you were feeling.”
“I’m feeling just fine, thank you for your concern,” she said, her tone neutral.
“That’s good,” the voice crooned. “Because I want to be sure that you’ll be strong and well for when we meet.”
“Yes, well, the thing is, you see, we aren’t going to meet,” she told him. “Ever.”
“Of course we are,” the voice assured her, “and it’s going to happen very soon now. I hope you’re as excited about it as I am.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’ve already called the police?” she asked.
“Of course it has,” he said with a deep chuckle. “That’s what makes this so much fun.”
“Why?” she asked, sure that Dusty and Erin would want to know. “Why is it such fun?”
“Because this isn’t about them, it’s about us,” he told her. “It’s about destiny.”
“Destiny?” she repeated.
“Of course,” he said. “You and I, we’re destined to be together. Don’t you know that? Can’t you feel it? No one can keep us apart. Really, it’s true. No one. Not Detective Grissom or Detective Hall out there listening in their little van, not your husband, not your housekeeper, not even your helpful editor friend.”
In Self Defense Page 8
