Unspeakable

Read Unspeakable Online

Authors: Kevin O'Brien

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Unspeakable
5.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
WAITING FOR OLIVIA
“Damn it!” Corinne hissed, out of breath.
Inside her car once again, she set the plastic container of acid on the passenger floor. Tugging off her gloves, she tossed them on the passenger seat. Then she took off the safety goggles.
Sitting at the wheel, she waited to see if the police showed up. She didn't think Olivia or her father had spotted her, but she needed to make sure. She was so mad at herself for not dousing her at the front door when she'd had the chance. She'd had such a clear shot, too. But she'd lost her nerve. The second opportunity had been blown when the father had come to the back door.
Corinne glanced at her watch and decided to give it another ten minutes. If a police car didn't come down Alder Lane in that time, she'd give it another try.
She was determined to get Olivia tonight—one way or another....
Books by Kevin O'Brien
ONLY SON
 
THE NEXT TO DIE
 
MAKE THEM CRY
 
WATCH THEM DIE
 
LEFT FOR DEAD
 
THE LAST VICTIM
 
KILLING SPREE
 
ONE LAST SCREAM
 
FINAL BREATH
 
VICIOUS
 
DISTURBED
 
TERRIFIED
 
UNSPEAKABLE
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
UNSPEAKABLE
KEVIN O'BRIEN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
This book is for Cathy, Gene, David, Steve, Tyler,
Kate, Beth, Matt, Megan, Kerry, Brendan,
Bill, Annie, Tim, Beven, Margaret, and Bernie . . .
With love from Uncle Kevin.
You guys are the coolest!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I couldn't have written this book (or any of them!) without the help, patience, and guidance of my wonderful editor and friend John Scognamiglio. Thank you, John. I'm grateful to everyone at Kensington Books. What a fantastic group of people! Thanks to all of you—with a special shout-out to my generous friend Doug Mendini.
Many thanks to my dear agents, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe, and the gang at Jane Rotrosen Agency. You guys are the best!
A huge thank-you to my Writers Group for their help, encouragement, and friendship. John Flick, Cate Goethals, Soyon Im, David Massengill, and Garth Stein—I love you guys.
Another big thank-you goes to my Seattle 7 Writers pals, especially my fellow core members: Garth (again), Jennie Shortridge, Kit Bakke, Erica Bauermeister, Dave Boling, Carol Cassella, Randy Sue Coburn, Laurie Frankel, Stephanie Kallos, and Tara Austen Weaver. Check us out at
www.seattle7writers.org
.
My thanks also to the terrific people at Levy Home Entertainment.
I'd also like to thank the following friends who encouraged and inspired me—and pushed my books to their friends: Nancy Abbe, Dan Annear and Chuck Rank, Pam Binder and the gang at PNWA, Marlys Bourm, Amanda Brooks, Terry and Judine Brooks, Kyle Bryan and Dan Monda, George Camper and Shane White, Barbara and John Cegielski, Barbara and Jim Church, Penny Clark Ianniciello, Anna Cottle and Mary Alice Kier, Tommy Dreiling, Paul Dwoskin and the crew at Broadway Video (Tony, Sheila, Chad, and Dan), Tom Goodwin, Dennis and Debbie Gottlieb, Cathy Johnson, Elizabeth Kinsella, David Korabik, Erik Larson, Cara Lockwood, Stafford Lombard, Roberta Miner, Jim Munchel, Meghan O'Neill, my pals at Open Road Media (especially Jane Friedman, Jeff Sharp, Luke Parker Bowles, and Danny Monico), Midge Ortiz, Eva Marie Saint, John Saul, and Mike Sack, the gang at Seattle Mystery Bookshop, John Simmons, Roseann Stella, Dan, Doug and Ann Stutes-man, George and Sheila Stydahar, Marc Von Borstel, and Michael Wells.
Finally, thanks to my wonderful family.
C
HAPTER
O
NE
Seattle—Thursday, October 4, 5 :21 p.m.
“I
'm sorry! Please, don't do this . . . please. . . .”
Olivia Barker locked her office door and backed away until she bumped into her desk. She couldn't stop shaking. She just wanted him to go—so she could breathe right again.
The young man in the waiting room pounded on the other side of her door. “For God's sake, don't turn me away!” he cried. The doorknob rattled as he tugged at it.
Olivia's office was designed to have a calming effect on her clients. The color scheme was a soothing sea foam and beige. Along with her modern oak desk, there was a sofa from Dania. But during the sessions, Olivia and her clients usually sat facing each other in the two comfy, pale green chairs. The lighting remained dim, and a little waterfall trickled down a rock sculpture in one corner. It was supposed to be a tranquil, relaxing environment. But for the last fifteen minutes, Olivia had felt as if the office walls were closing in on her.
Behind her was a window—with a view of dusk looming over Lake Washington. She'd watched the room grow darker and darker while the young man had talked to her in a voice that made her skin crawl. When he'd finally emerged from his trance, she'd promptly switched on a light. She'd practically shoved him out of her office, and then shut the door on him.
He was still on the other side of it. His relentless knocking got louder and louder.
“Go away!” she called, her voice quivering. “I mean it!”
“You're the only one who can help me!” He rattled the doorknob again. “Please, I'm sorry about what happened! You can't turn me away. You're the only one. . . .”
Olivia shot a look over her shoulder at the window. Would anyone outside hear her screaming for help? She turned toward the door again. “You need to leave!” she announced over all the pounding. “There are other businesses on this floor, and you're disturbing them.”
Her office was on the top floor of a three-story building in Seattle's Madison Valley neighborhood. Specialty shops and trendy restaurants had sprouted up in the past few years. A pricey antique store was on the ground level of Olivia's building. Down the hall from her were offices for a chiropractor, a masseur, and two lawyers.
But what she'd just said about disturbing the other businesses had been a lie. Everyone on her floor—except for the masseur—had closed up at five. And the masseur was on vacation. No one else was there. No one else could hear the young man beating on her office door. No one could help her if he broke down that door and attacked her.
She never should have agreed to see him in the first place.
He'd told her on the phone yesterday that he'd spotted her ad online:
HEAL YOURSELF THROUGH HYPNOSIS !
Let Olivia Be Your Guide to a Better You!
Lose Weight, Quit Smoking, Conquer Fears and Phobias,
Increase Self-Esteem, Break Bad Habits
& Build a Happy Tomorrow!
Olivia thought the ad was simply awful. But some so-called marketing analyst had come up with the cheesy copy. He'd also wanted her to include her photo, saying that with her pretty face and shoulder-length auburn hair, she might attract even more clients. Olivia was worried she might attract the wrong type of client. So the ad ran without a photo. But the cheesy copy must have worked, because business was pretty good. At the same time, Olivia felt like a big phony.
What was the phrase?
Those who can't do, teach.
That was her. She was trying to lose weight and quit smoking—all without much success. She'd recently looked up one of those “your ideal weight” charts online—probably sponsored by some fat-burning pill or weight-loss program. She didn't scroll down far enough to find out the name of the company determining just how fat or skinny she was. All she saw on her computer screen was that for her age, thirty-four, and her height, five-feet, five-inches, at a hundred and twenty-eight pounds, she was nine pounds over her “ideal weight” for a white woman. She had no idea what her race had to do with it. There was nothing on the form asking if she had any children or if she was single or widowed or divorced. That was more important than race, wasn't it?
There were no children, and the divorce wasn't final yet. She told herself that half a pack of Virginia Slims a day and nine excess pounds weren't so terrible under her current circumstances.
She did her best to help her clients conquer what she couldn't. She'd been eking out a living at it for a month now—sort of. It wasn't quite a
living
, but she was making some money. Olivia used a combination of hypnosis and therapy in her work. But she didn't call herself a
therapist—
no, not anymore.
Just three months ago, she'd been a counselor/therapist at the Portland Wellness Cooperative, working with some genuinely troubled patients. She'd thought she was doing some good. That had been before everything went to hell, and suddenly, there was nothing left for her in Portland anymore. She'd moved—
retreated
had been more like it—to Seattle. Olivia had made up her mind back then that she didn't want to deal with people whose problems were any more serious than a bad habit or a curable addiction.
She had a success rate of about 75 percent with her clients—or so the marketing analyst had recently told her. Many of those clients came back because they felt better after their sessions with her—or maybe because she'd become their new addiction. The majority of them were women. She'd taken on a few alcoholics, but most of the serious problem drinkers she steered toward AA, promising to waive her fee if they joined.
The young man had said he needed her help to quit drinking. He didn't want to go to AA. “I drink to fall asleep most of the time,” he'd told her over the phone yesterday. “It started out as kind of an insomnia cure, and I've been drinking pretty heavily for almost two years now. I'm a student and it's really starting to affect my grades. I want to quit, but I can't seem to. Anyway, I'm hoping you can help me. Maybe we can discuss it when I see you tomorrow. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out. No harm done, y'know?”
He'd said his name was Russ Leander. But according to Olivia's caller ID, the call had come from
Stampler, C.
She should have known right then something was wrong.
She'd assumed the young man on the other end of the line had been in college, and he'd borrowed his roommate's cell phone.
But thirty-five minutes ago, she'd opened her office door to find this kid in her waiting room—and clearly he wasn't yet college age. Sitting on the sofa in the small anteroom, he looked about fifteen years old. He was reading a magazine from the stack of periodicals on her end table. Gangly and pale, he had a mop of uncombed black hair and hauntingly beautiful blue eyes. His face seemed to be in transition from gawky adolescence to handsome young adulthood. He wore jeans, a faded red hooded sweatshirt, and black Converse All Star high-tops. Something about him was familiar. When he glanced up at her and set aside the
People
magazine, he appeared so vulnerable—and nervous. He quickly got to his feet.
Clutching the doorknob, Olivia stared at him. “Russ?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, and nodded. “Yeah, hi, are you Olivia?”
“I thought you'd be older,” she said. “Listen, I'm sorry, but I don't take on clients under the age of eighteen, not unless they're accompanied by an adult guardian. How old are you exactly?”
“Well, I'm eighteen,” he answered. “I—I just look young.”
“You don't happen to have your driver's license with you, do you?”
He glanced down at the carpet and said nothing.
She started to feel sorry for him. “Are you even old enough to drive?” she asked quietly.
“Of course I am. In fact, I drove here, okay? I'm sixteen, I swear.” His face turned red, and he avoided her gaze. “I'm sorry I lied. I just really need your help. The truth is I—I actually don't have a drinking problem. I only said that so you'd agree to see me. . . .”
Folding her arms, Olivia leaned against the doorway frame.
“I'm telling you this now, because—well, I have a good feeling about you,” he said. “I know it sounds weird, because we've just met. But I can kind of tell about some people, and you seem like a nice person. Maybe you can help me. . . .”
“Help you with what?” she asked, frowning.
“Well, I—I got hypnotized recently, and something really strange happened while I was under. I can't explain it, because I don't remember. But this—this
occurrence
was so bizarre. I'm scared something might be wrong with me. I need you to hypnotize me again, so I can find out why this
thing
happened.”
Olivia's eyes narrowed. “Who hypnotized you?”
“A friend,” he answered, swallowing hard. “I was at her house with another friend last weekend, just goofing off, and she said she knew how to hypnotize people.”
“And you don't remember this
thing
that happened while you were under? Were you guys drinking or messing around with drugs at the time?”
He shook his head. “No, I swear.”
“Well, Russ, contrary to those hypnotist routines in nightclub acts, it's very rare that a subject can't remember what's occurred while under hypnosis.”
“I think my case must be very rare, too,” he replied.
“So—what exactly happened? If you can't remember, certainly your friends must have told you what went on.”
“I—I'd rather not say.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Look, I have money. I just need you to put me under, and ask me some general questions about who I am—”
“I'm sorry, Russ.” She shook her head. “You need to find yourself another hypnotist.”
“I've tried other hypnotists!” he said, waving a handful of twenties under her face. “I've been to a bunch of different hypnotists in the last couple of days. None of them can even get me into a trance. Please, you're my last hope.”
“What about your friend? Why don't you go back to her?”
He let out a defeated sigh. “I can't. I just can't.”
Olivia studied him. He didn't look like the violent type at all. Still, she wondered if he'd attacked this girl who had originally hypnotized him. Was that why he couldn't go back to her? Whatever he'd done while under hypnosis, he must have done to that girl.
“Please, ma'am,” he said, still holding out his money. “I came all the way over on the ferry from Poulsbo and drove here just to see you. Don't turn me away. All I'm asking for is a few minutes of your time. If you can't get me into a trance, I'll go away. You can keep the money. . . .”
“I can't believe you just
ma'am
ed me,” Olivia said with a roll of her eyes. She opened the door wider. “Put the wad of cash away, for God's sake. I'm not taking money from a sixteen-year-old.”
“Thank you,” he said, heading into her office. He tucked the bills back inside his wallet. “Really, thank you. Like I said, I had a good feeling about you the moment I saw you. Practically all the other hypnotists I've been to—they were rip-off artists. They just wanted my money, I could tell.” He glanced around the office. “Plus I really like your place here. This is very nice, very professional, too.”
Shutting her office door, Olivia stared at him and wondered again why he seemed so familiar—his looks, the sound of his voice, everything. He came across as such a sweet kid, and she felt sorry for him. But she couldn't get past the notion that this could turn around and bite her on the ass. It still wasn't too late to kick him out.
“Where do you want me?” he asked, looking at the sofa—and then at the chairs facing each other. He nodded at the one where her patients usually sat. “Is it okay if I sit here? I think the light's good here. Would you mind recording me on my cell phone?”
Olivia hesitated. “I'd rather not. I use my hands a lot when I'm putting a subject under.”
He set the phone on the edge of her desk. “Well, is it okay if I put it here?” he asked. “It won't be in your way. It's really important I get this recorded. I need to see what's happening to me when I'm under. I've set it up. It's in record mode now. You don't have to do anything. . . .”
“Fine,” she muttered. She watched him check the phone to see if he had the chair in focus. His hands were a bit shaky.
Olivia usually spoke with her clients for at least a half hour and got to know them a little before putting them under. But this young man wasn't opening up to her, and he wanted to be hypnotized right away.
“Thank you for letting me do this,” he said, heading back to the chair and sitting down. “I really appreciate it.” He shifted restlessly in the chair. “God, all of a sudden, I'm really nervous. . . .”
“Well, just relax,” Olivia said. She pulled an ottoman in front of him and sat down. She patted his arm. “Think about a place where you feel safe, Russ. Visualize it—a place where you're happy and safe and away from it all. Think of yourself in this protected place. . . .”
“This is how my friend got me into a trance,” he said. “None of the other hypnotists used this method.”
She kept patting his arm. “It works even better if you stay quiet and just go with it, Russ.”
“Yeah, of course, I'm sorry.” He shrugged uneasily. “But I guess I should tell you my name isn't really Russ. It's Collin. I'm sorry. No more lies. That—that's the last one. . . .”

Other books

The Rock by Chris Ryan
Springwar by Tom Deitz
How I Found You by Gabriella Lepore
Hospital by Julie Salamon
The Arsonist by Mary Burton