Left for Dead (24 page)

It was two o’clock in the morning. It had been a long day. But he felt good. He smiled. Someone—unlike himself—might have felt lonely and insignificant sitting alone under the dark, celestial skies.

But he wasn’t alone. She was close by. In the stillness of the night, he could hear her muffled cries. She was screaming the same things as all the others before her. She begged for help, for someone to come to her rescue. Her parents had money and would pay him to let her go. Could anyone hear her? Was anyone there?

Her name was Kimberly Cronin. He’d looked at the driver’s license in her purse. It wasn’t a flattering picture.

He would make Kimberly prettier.

He gazed up at the night sky, and smiled. No, he wasn’t alone. And he was far from insignificant.

It sounded like the maid was trying to unlock his door.

Tim had double-locked it when he’d gone to bed a few hours ago. He’d been dead tired, but still alert enough to take the extra precaution. After all, there had been two attempts on his life within the previous twenty-four hours. What would stop them from trying again while he was asleep?

He’d checked several different cabins in those woods, and didn’t come across anything except more raccoons. He almost got stuck in the mud outside the eleventh bungalow. He took that as an omen to call it quits for the night.

On the way back to the hotel, Tim turned down Holm Drive and parked near the end of the cul de sac for a few minutes. The Shaw house was dark. He didn’t see anyone lurking about the grounds. When a patrol car came by, and Sheriff Klauser’s other deputy, Ramon, shined the side-door high-beam in his face, Tim introduced himself. He was glad to see the young cop vigilant in his patrol duty. Tim went back to The Whale Watcher Inn feeling Claire was safe.

There weren’t any messages from the hospital, so he assumed Al’s condition was unchanged. As he got ready for bed, he switched on the TV. Tim didn’t pay much attention to the infomercial for some miracle, fat-reducing, easy-clean cooker. It was just background noise to keep him from feeling too lonely on a Friday night, alone in a strange town—in a slightly cheesy motel. And yes, he was a little scared too. Hearing the has-been, still-pretty actress from an eighties hit TV show ramble on about weight-loss and heathy cooking practices was just what he needed to take his mind off his worries. He almost hated turning off the television.

Tim had fallen asleep moments after his head hit the pillow.

Now, he heard what sounded like a key in the door, and a strange grinding. He had no idea of the time. The thick blue and brown paisley drapes were closed, and the room was dark. He didn’t bother rolling over to look at the clock. He kept his eyes shut and called out: “Could you come back later, please? I’m still sleeping, okay? Thank you!”

She didn’t respond, but at least she stopped fiddling with the door.

Tim shifted under the covers, and went back to sleep.

He didn’t know how long he was out. But he was awakened again by someone knocking on the door. The room didn’t seem quite as dark as before. Tim sat up in the bed, then squinted at the clock-radio on his nightstand: 6:20
A.M
.

“Officer Sullivan?” he heard, during a pause in the knocking. “It’s Gabe Messing, the innkeeper. Are you okay?”

Rubbing his eyes, Tim crawled out of bed. He staggered to the door in his boxer shorts. Unlocking the door, Tim opened it a crack and looked at the yuppie innkeeper. “Morning,” he muttered.

“Didn’t you hear?” Gabe asked. “We had an attempted break-in.”

“You did? Oh, I’m sorry. I was out late last night, and just woke up. No one told me about it—”

The innkeeper was shaking his head. “No, they tried to break into
your
room. You didn’t hear any noise?” He pushed the door open wider.

Tim gazed down at the doorknob, so dislodged it was nearly hanging out of the door. Someone had scraped away at the woodwork around the lock area.

“The maid hasn’t started her rounds yet, has she?” Tim said numbly.

“No, she doesn’t even clock in until seven. Why do you ask?”

Frowning, Tim shook his head. “No reason,” he replied.

“Island Police, Sheriff Klauser speaking.”

Tim was sitting on the bed with the receiver to his ear. He’d shaved, showered, and dressed, and would have paid fifty bucks to crawl back into bed right now. “Hi, Sheriff. It’s Tim Sullivan calling. Have you been up all night? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine as frog’s hair,” he answered. “I actually caught a couple of hours’ sleep on one of the beds in the jail downstairs. If I never hear the name Rembrandt again, I’ll be a happy man. I asked around at Fork In The Road this morning. And nobody knew this ‘Ronnie’ character, never saw her before. Did you find anything in the woods last night?”

“A few raccoons,” Tim admitted. “I don’t know if Gabe here at The Whale Watcher told you or not, but someone tried to break into my room last night—while I was here, sleeping.”

The sheriff didn’t say anything.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“I wish to God I weren’t,” Sheriff Klauser said on the other end. “That’s another report I have to fill out.”

“I can come over and help,” Tim said. “Also I want to follow up on that idea about searching through some of the weekend and summer cabins.”

“Sure, come on by,” the sheriff said. “Could you do me an enormous favor and stop by Fork In The Road? That bowl of fiber cereal I had this morning didn’t do the trick. Pick me up a large coffee and a bacon and egg sandwich. And get something for yourself. My treat.”

“We won’t be able to get this search party together until later this afternoon.” the sheriff admitted, between bites of his breakfast sandwich.

They were sitting and eating again at the same ugly metal desks where they’d sat and ate last night. Roseann had handled Tim’s carry-out order at the Fork In The Road, so he figured the sheriff’s bacon and egg sandwich and his own order of cinnamon toast were safe.

The station phone kept ringing, interrupting them. While the sheriff took calls, Tim typed up the police report on the attempted break-in. There wasn’t much to investigate, but the hotel needed a report for insurance purposes. Tim was more concerned about starting the cabin-to-cabin search in the woods.

“I got Walt Binns to organize this thing,” the sheriff continued. “He’s a good buddy of Harlan Shaw’s, and knows those woods as good as anybody. He should be able to enlist some of his pals with the Guardians to help out. This needs to be a tight little group. We have too many nutcases with guns who see this as an excuse to go hunting off-season. A lot of those cabins will be occupied today by weekend residents. I don’t want anybody getting shot.”

“Is there something I can do?” Tim asked.

“You can help Walter Binns in the woods,” the sheriff answered. “But that won’t be until this afternoon. If you have something going on this morning, go do it, buddy. No use in hanging around here.”

Tim nodded. “Okay, I’ll get out of your way.”

The sheriff grinned. “You aren’t in the way. In fact, you’re a big help, buddy. I don’t mean to speak ill of the ill, but I’m glad it’s you I’m dealing with here instead of your windbag partner. How’s he doing anyway?”

“I was wondering if you’ve heard from the hospital about Al,” Tim said. He was on the cell phone, unpacking his suitcase. They’d decided to change his room at The Whale Watcher.

“Nobody called you?” Lieutenant Elmore asked on the other end of the line.

Tim stopped unpacking for a moment. “No, why?”

“Al died last night around eleven o’clock.”

Tim sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You did everything you could,” Elmore said. “The state police will be handling the investigation,” Elmore said. “Health code violations and salmonella cases are their bailiwick. I’m sure they’ll have some questions for you.”

Tim swallowed hard. “Lieutenant, this isn’t a health code violation, it’s a homicide. Al was poisoned.”

“Well, the state police will have to determine that. In the meantime, sit tight. You’ll be on your own for a while. We’re all working overtime here. Rembrandt has another one, a student up at Western Washington.”

“What?” Tim whispered.

“He nabbed her early last night. Her roommates say she took off to buy some last-minute stuff for a party, and never came back.”

“Are they sure it’s Rembrandt?” Tim asked.

“Positive. He left his calling card. Two of the roommates went looking for the girl, and found her panties hanging on a No Parking sign by an alley near their apartment. That was twelve hours ago, and the clock is ticking.”

“She was a student at Western Washington in Bellingham?”

“That’s right. The girl’s name is Kimberly Cronin.”

“Al was in Bellingham,” Tim said. “It’s where someone sabotaged my car brakes. Maybe he’s following me—”

“Oh, please, Sullivan,” Elmore groaned.

“Could you at least fax me her photo and stats?” Tim asked.

“Fine, fine,” Elmore grumbled. “I’ll shoot something off to your local police there.”

“And with your permission, I’d like to go to Wenatchee today,” Tim said. “I want to talk with Nancy Hart’s parents about their vacation here. Maybe they’ll remember something we can—”

“No, no, and one more time, no,” Elmore interrupted. “Leave them alone. Stay put, and sit tight. Okay?”

Tim hesitated.

“Listen,” Elmore said. “For every minute I’m on the phone placating you, that’s time you’re taking me away from Kimberly Cronin’s case. And that girl doesn’t have a lot of time. Get my drift, Sullivan?”

“Yessir.” He barely got the words out before he heard a click on the other end. Then the line went dead.

“I’m just calling to make sure that you and Mrs. Shaw are doing okay,” Tim said. He’d hoped against hope that Claire would answer the phone. And of course, he’d gotten Harlan—interrupting his breakfast, no less.

“Well, we’re fine, thanks,” Harlan answered tersely.

“Also just to let you know, I’ll be your contact here. I have some bad news. My partner, Al, died last night—from food poisoning.”

“Oh, no. That—” Harlan paused. “I heard he’d gotten sick. That’s too bad. He seemed like good people.”

“Yes, well, anyway,” Tim said awkwardly. “If you need to reach me, you can call Al’s cell. The number is—”

“I have it right here by the phone,” Harlan said. “I appreciate the call, officer. And speaking for my wife, we both appreciate your quick response to the emergency here yesterday morning.”

“No problem,” Tim said. He figured this was the closest Harlan Shaw would come to apologizing for kicking him out of his house three days ago.

“Sorry about your friend,” Harlan said. Then he hung up.

“Oh, my God, that’s horrible,” Claire said.

She’d started to clear Tiffany’s plate from the breakfast table, but now she set it down, and sank back into her chair. Numbly, she stared at Harlan.

He hadn’t been on the phone with Tim very long. Claire had tried not to seem overanxious about the call. But she hadn’t had a chance to talk with Tim since yesterday morning.

Harlan put his napkin back in his lap, then sipped his coffee. “Yes, it’s too bad,” he muttered. “Food poisoning of some kind. Ron mentioned on the phone last night that he’d gotten sick.”

“I can’t believe it,” she continued. “He was just here Wednesday morning, and now…” Claire glanced over at Tiffany within earshot in the family room. She was lying on her stomach in front of the TV, and her favorite Saturday morning cartoon line up.

“How was Tim handling it?” she whispered. “Did he sound okay?”

“Tim?”
Harlan scowled at her. “You call him
Tim?”

“Oh, for God’s sakes.” Rolling her eyes, Claire stood up, grabbed Tiffany’s plate, and moved around to the other side of the kitchen counter. “I can’t call him by his first name?” she asked. “I heard you calling his partner,
‘Al’
ten minutes after he walked into this house.”

“That’s different,” Harlan argued. “I don’t understand all your concern for this guy. It’s his partner who died.”

Claire took Harlan’s plate from the table. She glanced over at her stepdaughter. “Tiffany, if you want me to help you wrap Courtney’s present for the birthday party, I need you to get it for me during next commercial. And start thinking about what you want to wear.”

“Okay,” Tiffany called back, her eyes still glued to the TV screen.

Claire started to wash the dishes. She looked over at Harlan, seated at the breakfast table. He went back to reading the newspaper he’d set aside for Tim’s call.

“Did Tim—I mean, did
Officer Sullivan
say whether or not Al had any family?” she asked.

“No, he didn’t,” Harlan replied, not looking up from his paper.

Claire stood over the sink, and started washing the dishes. The truth was, she called Tim by his first name because she liked him—and trusted him.

Now the lack of trust she had for her husband seemed mutual.

She was tempted to ask him about last night—or rather, early this morning, when she’d woken up in bed alone at one-thirty.

Claire had come back to the bedroom around two. The bed was still empty, and the bathroom light still on. She knocked on the door, but Harlan didn’t answer. She opened the door.

No one was in there. Claire figured he was on the computer in his workroom down in the basement. He did that in the middle of the night sometimes. But why the charade with the bathroom door?

She crawled back into bed. While listening for him, Claire drifted in and out of sleep. She was also thinking about her recollection, the memory flash from that night, when she’d told Harlan about Brian running away. Had she been wrong not to trust Harlan?

When she finally heard him creep up the stairs, Claire stole a look a look at the clock: 4:20
A.M
.

Then something occurred to her. What if it wasn’t Harlan coming up the stairs? She feigned sleep and held her breath as she listened to the footsteps in the hallway. They were drawing closer. Through the slits in her eyes, she recognized her husband’s silhouette in the bedroom doorway. Harlan was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

She wanted to sit up in bed, switch on the light, and ask him where the hell he’d been for the last two-plus hours. Instead, she kept pretending to be asleep. He turned off the bathroom light, stepped out of his jeans, and crawled into bed next to her.

To her relief, he didn’t touch her. Within a few minutes, she heard him snoring.

She might have asked him about it before breakfast. But Claire hadn’t said anything.

And she didn’t say a single word about it now.

Instead, Claire washed the breakfast dishes, and talked about coordinating their schedules for the day. Harlan needed to put in a few hours at the plant. Tiffany had a birthday party. Claire had to see Dr. Moorehead—for real, this time. Then she was supposed to spend the afternoon doing volunteer work at the Garden Plaza with Linda.