The Last Thing She Ever Did

by Gregg Olsen

  The pervert wouldn’t be able to call for help.

  David staggered toward the door, still coming to grips with what he’d done, and knowing that there would be consequences.

  I shouldn’t have let Carole get to me.

  I should have been a better father.

  I shouldn’t have screwed the waitstaff at Sweetwater.

  I shouldn’t have killed Brad Collins.

  Brad stirred and David turned around. Doing the right thing after doing something so wrong was the only right choice. “Can you get up?” he asked. He held out his hand.

  The bloody man tried to move on his own, terrified by his assailant, but he was too weak.

  David knelt down and pulled Brad to his feet. He helped the man into a pair of jeans and flip-flops, then swung his arm over his shoulder and staggered with him out of the cabin to the car. A woman and a man fifty yards away, heading to their own cabin, barely glanced at them. David’s mind was racing. He wondered if they thought Brad was drunk.

  Lots of drunks in Bend this time of year, he reasoned.

  “You didn’t take my boy?” he asked as the gravel spun under the black car’s tires.

  “No,” Brad said. “No.”

  David looked over at him, the bottle rolling on the floorboard beneath Brad’s feet.

  “I’m sorry for what I did to you,” he said.

  Brad’s eyelids had started to swell, but he returned the gaze. “Hospital,” he coughed out through bloody teeth.

  “Right.”

  “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

  David returned his eyes to the road. Though it was a thought. Killing the man in the seat next to him would ensure that what he’d done might never be found out. It would silence the one person who could ruin his life. It passed through his mind over and over as he drove down the highway and to the hospital. By the time he exited the off-ramp, his passenger was unconscious.

  Maybe he would die.

  Maybe he’d never tell anyone what David had done to him.

  David stopped the car under the wide portico in front of the emergency room entrance. It was deserted. He looked over at the parking lot. All quiet there too. He honked his horn a few times. He expected a swarm of attendants to besiege him with gurneys, stretchers, and wheelchairs.

  No one was there.

  He opened the passenger door and hooked his arms under Brad Collins’s and pulled him from the car.

  Still no one.

  What should I do?

  David dragged the unconscious and bloody Brad Collins to the big double doors. The glass-and-steel jaws opened wide.

  A moment later he was back in his car, heading home to the house on the river.

  The big house was empty, and David thanked God for that. He tore off his bloody clothes and put them in a yard waste bag in the garage. Dried blood colored his hands like a bad spray tan. He ran the shower and jumped in before it had even warmed. The blast of cold water numbed him. Hell, he was already numb. Numb from the alcohol. Numb from the beating he’d given a complete stranger. The water turned pink and swirled down the drain. As the temperature rose to near scalding, David stood there and let the hot water flow over him. He didn’t try to step to one side and move out of the way. It burned, but he still stood there, immobile. Letting it happen. He didn’t care if the water cooked him alive.

  He turned off the water and stood in front of the mirror. What had he just done? As the condensation on the mirror began to fade, the eyes of a stranger stared back from its smeared surface. Who was this man? He took a step back—so far back that he nearly hit the opposite wall. His paunch sagged over the white skin of his beltline. His pecs had become pancake breasts. Bags hung under his eyes. David Franklin was no longer anything but middle-aged. He was never going to be anything as great as he had been before his son went missing. The tug-of-war inside of him—whether he’d be better off if Brad Collins died, as it was his only chance to weasel out of what he’d done, or if it would be better if his victim lived so he wouldn’t be guilty of causing the man’s death—was over. He hoped that Brad Collins survived.

  He hoped that his son was not dead. Tears came to his eyes.

  There was nothing else to do but dress and wait for the doorbell to ring. He put on a pair of black jeans and a white linen shirt. He combed his hair without the assistance of any product and looked in the mirror. Whoever that man was, he would never, ever be what he’d once been.

  Most certainly, he’d never be what he’d wanted to be.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  MISSING: EIGHTEEN DAYS

  Amanda Jenkins opened her apartment door a crack. It was late, and she wore a pale blue terry cloth robe; her luxurious red hair was pulled back, and she was half-asleep. She didn’t even speak. She looked at him and sighed. Considering all that had been going on with the investigation and the staff problems at Sweetwater, Owen Jarrett on her doorstep was the last thing she’d wanted to see.

  “Can I come in?” Owen asked, edging forward.

  “No. What do you want?” she said, opening the door a little wider but not letting him inside.

  Owen was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Sweat bloomed under his arms and across his brow. He’d been out running.

  “Seeing you at the restaurant . . .” He started again: “I’m under a lot of pressure, Amanda,” he said. “I need to talk. My wife’s falling apart. Damon is screwing me over.”

  Amanda started to close the door, but he stuck his foot in the gap.

  “You never want to just talk, Owen,” she said.

  “Not when there are other things we can do.”

  Amanda had made a big mistake in sleeping with Owen and had kicked herself a thousand times since their affair ended. He’d played her. He’d used her for sexual release. As a quasi confidante. He’d told her time and again how Liz was so wrapped up in her “loser dreams” of pursuing a law degree. “She should be focusing on me,” he’d said. “I’m her ticket.”

  Encounters with Owen had been one massive dose of self-importance after another that, looking back, were laughable. Sure, he was handsome. He was confident. He seemed so smart. But he was a liar. A narcissist who saw the world as a place that existed solely for his pleasure. Amanda, with her beautiful red hair, ivory skin, and green eyes, was nothing but an attractive accessory.

  It was true that their sex had been dangerous and exciting. Owen liked to take risks. He complained that Liz was too white bread, too tightly wound. “Amanda, you know how to let go. I like that,” he’d said.

  Being adventurous was one thing. Being stupid was another.

  They’d had sex in his office at Lumatyx. At the restaurant after hours. Owen’s favorite place to have sex was on the Franklins’ property when they weren’t home. One time, Owen held her from behind when they were on the Franklins’ deck overlooking the river as a group of paddleboarders passed by. She’d braced her hands on the deck rail and tried to contain her ecstasy.

  “I think that old man knows what we’re doing,” she whispered, indicating a silhouetted figure across the river.

  Owen looked over at Dr. Miller.

  “Doubt it,” he said. “The old coot’s blind as a bat.”

  Amanda started to shove the door closed, but Owen’s foot stayed firmly wedged between it and the jamb.

  “We’re done, Owen,” she said. “I’ve told you that over and over. I’m not doing this anymore.”

  “But I need you,” he said. “I’m going through a lot.”

  “You need help, Owen,” Amanda told him, flatly. “You’re selfish. Being with you was destructive. The biggest mistake I’ve made in my life. Every time I see your face, I get sick inside. You’re like whiskey to me. I got drunk on it so bad that whenever I smell it now, it all comes back to me. You’re human whiskey.”

  “You’re so dramatic, Amanda.”

  “Go away,” she said, raising her voice only a little. She didn’t want the neighbors to hear.

  “Ca
n’t we have one last time?” he said, pleading now, a little desperate. It was hard to say with Owen: Was he pretending or was it real?

  Amanda was never going there again.

  “I’ll tell your wife,” she said.

  He stared at her, letting her wonder what he was thinking. Finally, he spoke. “I wish you would,” he said. “She’s suicidal.”

  Was he really hoping she’d tell? Did he actually want her to push the woman over the edge?

  “Did you just say what I think you did?” she asked.

  Owen just grinned. It was a smile that she used to think was sexy. At the moment it seemed dark, evil. It was the kind of look that he’d flash at her, and she’d come running.

  “I feel sorry for Liz,” Amanda said. “But I don’t feel sorry for myself anymore. I’m better than this. Now get the hell out before I call the police.”

  Owen stepped back, and Amanda slammed the door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  MISSING: NINETEEN DAYS

  The man in the hospital bed was unrecognizable. His face had been rearranged by a brutal attack the likes of which was seldom seen in mostly quiet Bend. The city had its share of brewpub and barroom brawls, but this beating went far beyond that. It was all but certain that whoever had done this to the man in the hospital bed had meant to kill him. The victim’s eyes had puffed up to the size of clamshells and his lower lip was torn so badly that it took a surgeon more than an hour to stitch it—and his left ear—into place.

  The man lay motionless while tubes crisscrossed the space behind him before plunging into his arms and his mouth. A respirator forced air into his lungs with the sick sound of machine against man. Up and down the device pulsed.

  “He had your card in his pocket, Detective,” said Della Cortez, the attending physician. “That’s why I called you. I was hoping you could identify him. No wallet. No ID.”

  If Esther Nguyen had to go by the man’s face alone, her answer would have been an emphatic no. As she stood there, she could see things that indicated familiarity. Yes, she knew him by the Ohio State Buckeye tattoo visible on his exposed shoulder.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Brad Collins,” she said. “He’s a tourist from the Midwest.”

  “How come he has your card?” the doctor asked.

  Esther’s mind raced back to the interview she’d conducted. She’d asked him to let her know if he left Bend. She didn’t tell him that she thought he was a guilty party in the abduction of Charlie Franklin. At the same time, she hadn’t told him she thought he was innocent, either.

  “I talked to him about a case we’re working,” she said somewhat stiffly. “Asked him to stay close.”

  “He’s not going anywhere now,” the doctor said.

  The detective moved a little closer, looking at the man’s injuries as she tried to determine what had caused his face to become twice its size, his fingers swollen and colored like grilled hot dogs.

  “What happened to him?” she asked Dr. Cortez. “Did he say anything when he was admitted?”

  Dr. Cortez was a tall, slender woman who wore her black hair in an impossibly tight bun that she fastened with a silver clip. She wore no makeup. Esther liked her right away. No-nonsense and compassionate. Dr. Cortez stuck a pencil behind her ear. Her eyes were dark brown and kind. Some doctors exude warmth, others confidence.

  Dr. Cortez did both.

  “No,” she said, picking up her iPad and scrolling through it. “Says that someone dropped him off. Didn’t even call for an ambulance. Didn’t wait, either. Just dumped him out front and took off. An orderly just coming on shift saw him. Cameras would have caught whoever dumped him here. If the cameras were in service, that is. But they aren’t.”

  Esther swallowed her frustration about the cameras. “How bad are his injuries?” she asked next as she watched the respirator pulse. “He’s going to survive?”

  Dr. Cortez held the tablet at her side and focused on Esther. “We’re watching the swelling in his brain right now,” she said, measuring her words carefully. She looked at her patient. “Somebody showed no mercy. Someone fixed it so that he’ll need a urine drainage bag.”

  Esther blinked at that. “They didn’t castrate him, did they?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “They might as well have.” She took hold of the edge of the sheet but thought better of it. “I’m not going to show it to you. Someone pounded this man’s penis with a hammer or some other heavy object.”

  Esther couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The doctor was just getting started. “I know it’s not my job to insert myself into your investigation,” she went on, “but this is a hate crime if I’ve ever seen it. And I’ve seen plenty. My own brother’s gay, and he got ambushed by a couple of drunken teenagers a few years ago. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, just went out to meet a friend. They beat him with a metal pipe. Knocked out his front teeth. Never caught the guys.”

  Esther said she was sorry. “I hope your brother recovered.”

  “It was a while ago,” she said. “He’s fine now. He says so. As fine as anyone could be if you live in a world in which some random person can just come and beat the crap out of you for fun.”

  “Did he make a report?”

  “No,” Dr. Cortez said. “Cal just wanted the whole thing to blow over. My brother’s that kind of a guy. I begged him to tell the sheriff, but he just wouldn’t. Didn’t think it would matter to anyone.”

  “It matters to me,” Esther said. “It matters to the other officers I work with every day.”

  The doctor nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate that. Times have changed. Or rather, they are changing. Don’t let that happen to this guy. Okay? Find out who did this and put the bastard away.”

  Esther didn’t tell the doctor that she was pretty sure this flavor of hate crime was directed at Mr. Collins because of his past record as a pedophile.

  “I better notify his family,” she finally said.

  A nurse came in, and the doctor gave her some instructions while Esther waited.

  “Good idea about the notification,” she said. “I hate making those calls, but someone has to. Just between you and me—and them, I guess—I suggest they get out here as soon as they can. No telling how long he’s going to last or what he’ll be like if he survives.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’s very likely brain damage here, Detective. He may not be able to tell us who did this. If he survives, he might not even be able to tell you his name.”

  Esther went downstairs to check with hospital security. A young man in a dark blue security uniform with shoes that had been shined to a mirror finish greeted her with the kind of earnestness that indicated an interest in putting on a real uniform one day. Dr. Cortez had been right: there were no working cameras in the hospital. There hadn’t been any for months.

  “We’re switching over to a new system in the first quarter of next year,” the officer said. “Hospital administration didn’t want to upgrade a system they were about to shut down.”

  She thanked him for his help.

  “Hey, don’t tell anyone about the cameras, okay? Administration doesn’t want the word to get out. Thinks that we’d be a target for break-ins. I told them no one wants to come to a hospital unless they have to. But they remind me every day that we’re a target for addicts who’ll stop at nothing to feed a habit.”

  Esther sat in her car in the hospital parking lot as an elderly man helped his unsteady wife into their car. It was a touching moment, and she was glad for it. The world was turning upside down. She dialed Jake, feeling sick about what had happened to Brad Collins. She told him she was going to take a look at cabin 22 at the Pines to see if there was anything there.

  “I need you to do something for me, Jake,” Esther said. “I know this will be hard, but there are a lot of moving parts going on right now and we need to act quickly. I need you to call Brad’s mother and let her know that her son’s in very bad shape. She’ll need
to talk with Dr. Cortez to get the particulars. You let her know that we’re going to do our best to find out who hurt him.”

  Jake took it all in. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call her.”

  “Thanks. Be sure to get the hospital’s main number and give her Dr. Della Cortez’s name.”

  “Esther?” he asked before hanging up. “What if this is related to what happened to Charlie Franklin?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Like maybe he got caught messing with some other kid. What if someone saw him do something really, really bad and just worked him over in some kind of vigilante move?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess, though again, his record doesn’t suggest he’d do anything of the kind. Even if it did play out like your scenario, would that justify this beating? We still need to work this assault just as hard as any other case, Jake. Even the bottom of the barrel deserves that. Our job, thank God, isn’t to judge. That’s for the courts. We’re in this to round up the people who have no regard for the law, no matter how distasteful we may find their victims.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “I knew that. Sorry.”

  Esther started to drive toward the Pines.

  “Call his mom,” she said. “Meet me at the office later.” She hung up.

  Jake looked up the hospital’s phone number so he’d have it ready as Esther had instructed. Then he started to dial. The phone rang about ten times before Mrs. Collins picked up. He’d hardly gotten a word out beyond the fact that Brad was in the hospital when Mrs. Collins let out a wail that he was certain could be heard from Ohio to Oregon. It was so loud that he pulled the phone from his ear until she stopped.

  “I’m really sorry to bring you this news,” he said.

  She cried a little more.

  “Really, I am,” he said. “I have the hospital’s number right here. Let me give it to you so you can call. Okay?”

  “Thank you,” the woman said. “I appreciate it. What happened to him? Was he in a car accident? He’s not a very good driver.”