One Last Scream

Chapter Ten

“Hi, this is Amelia. Sorry I can’t take your call. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Bye.”

Beep.

“Amelia, it’s Karen again at about 6:15,” she said into her cell. She’d just pulled into her driveway and switched off the ignition. The rain had subsided to a light drizzle. “Listen, I’m home now. So call me, either at home or on my cell. It’s important. Talk to you soon, I hope.” She clicked off the line, shoved her cell phone in her purse, and reached for the car door handle. But she noticed something in her rearview mirror, and suddenly froze. She saw the silhouette of a man as he came up her driveway, toward the car. He was tall and slender with short hair so blond it was almost white. The streetlight was at his back, so she still couldn’t see his face. He wore gray slacks and a dark suit jacket with the lapels turned up to protect him from the drizzle. As he reached the back of the car, Karen quickly locked her door.

He knocked on her window. “Karen?” he called. “Karen Carlisle?”

She stared at him through the rain-beaded glass. He was very handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and pale-blue eyes. She guessed he was in his early thirties. “Yes? What do you want?” she called back.

He grinned, and made a little whirling motion with his hand like he wanted her to roll down the window.

Karen started up the car engine again. She pressed the control switch, and with a hum, the window lowered only an inch before she stopped it. “I said, ‘What do you want?’” she repeated loudly.

As he reached into his suit jacket, Karen tensed up, until she realized he was pulling out his wallet. He opened it, and showed her a Seattle Police Department identification card. Det. Russell Koehler it said, under a very macho-somber photo of him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Amelia Faraday,” he said, almost too loudly, as if he wanted to get across to her that he was becoming annoyed by the window between them. “You’re her therapist, aren’t you?”

Karen flicked the switch, lowering the window some more. “Yes, I’m her therapist,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“I’m investigating the deaths of her parents and her aunt.”

“I thought the police had already determined that Mr. Faraday shot his wife and sister-in-law and then himself,” Karen replied warily. “Besides, the shootings happened in Wenatchee. Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”

“Let’s just say I have a special interest in the case.”

Despite what had happened in the rest home basement and all her new uncertainty about Amelia, Karen still felt very protective of her. She shrugged. “Well, I can’t tell you much, at least nothing Amelia has shared with me during our sessions. That’s strictly confidential; I’m sure you understand.”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of treading on your doctor-patient confidentiality. But the fact of the matter is, Karen, I’ve read the police reports. Amelia came to your house on Saturday afternoon, saying she had a premonition about something bad happening at the family getaway at Lake Wenatchee. That doesn’t quite count as a doctor-patient session, does it?”

She stared back at him. “I treat any client emergency as a professional session.”

“Really? So are you going to charge her for Saturday?” he asked pointedly.

“That’s none of your business,” Karen replied.

He smirked-that same cocky grin again. “You know, Karen, it looks like I’ve started off on the wrong foot with you. The thing is, I don’t believe Mark Faraday shot anyone. I think someone else killed Mark, along with his wife and sister-in-law. Maybe you’d be more willing to cooperate if we sat down together over a cup of coffee and you let me explain where I’m coming from.” He glanced over her shoulder at the house as if it were her cue to invite him in, and then he smirked at her. “‘Where I’m coming from,’ that’s one of those therapy terms, isn’t it?”

Karen eyed him warily. She wasn’t about to invite this guy into her home. She still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was really a cop. “There’s a coffee place on Fifteenth called Victrola. It’s about a five-minute walk from here. I’ll meet you there in ten. I just need to make a call.”

“Who are you calling? Amelia? Or your lawyer?”

Karen flicked the switch and started to raise the window up on him. “Neither.”

He grabbed the top of the window to delay its ascent. “You aren’t hiding Amelia, are you?”

She released the switch for a moment. “No. Why do you ask that?”

“Because I’ve been trying to get in touch with her since one o’clock this afternoon, and she’s MIA. No one knows where she is-not her uncle, her roommate, or her boyfriend.” He glanced back at the house again. “Are you sure Amelia’s not in there? That’s an awfully big place for just one person. Do you live there alone?”

“It’s my father’s house. He’s in a rest home with Alzheimer’s. So, yes, I’m living here alone. And yes, I’m sure Amelia’s not in there.”

“And you don’t have any idea where she might be?”

Karen shook her head. “No, I don’t.” She flicked the switch, raising the window again. “I’ll see you at Victrola in ten minutes,” she said over the humming noise. She watched him in the rearview mirror as he turned and strutted down the driveway toward the street. Then she looked at her house, and couldn’t help wondering, Are you sure Amelia’s not in there?

Climbing out of the car, Karen kept her eyes riveted on the house, watching for any movement within the dark windows. She should have turned on a light before running out the front door this afternoon. At least she’d remembered to set the alarm. She glanced at her wristwatch: 6:25. It was strange to feel so nervous about walking into a dark house by herself at this early hour. But then, it had been a very strange day.

Karen approached the front stoop, then tested the doorknob. Still locked; that was a good sign. She unlocked the door and opened it. Flicking on the light, she headed for the alarm box and quickly punched in the code.

She paused for a moment, and felt a pang of dread in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong. Why wasn’t Rufus barking? She anxiously glanced around, then ventured down the hallway to the kitchen. Switching on the light, she hurried to the backdoor. Still locked. Good. She noticed the basement door was ajar. She turned on the light at the top of the stairs and peered down at the steps. “Rufus?” she said. “Here, boy!”

Nothing. Karen shut and locked the basement door in practically one swift motion. She headed toward the front of the house again. “Rufus?” she called out. “Where are you?”

Poking her head in the living room, she stopped dead. The dog was trying to sneak down from the lounge chair her father had had recovered to the tune of $850 only ten months ago. Naturally, it had become Rufus’s favorite spot to nap, when no one was around. “You stinker!” she yelled. “No wonder you didn’t bark when I came in. You know you’re not supposed to be on that chair. Some watchdog. I could have been strangled, and you wouldn’t care, as long as it didn’t interrupt your nap.”

His head down, the dog slinked toward the kitchen.

“Don’t even think you’re getting a cookie,” Karen growled, retreating into her office. She checked her address book. Her contact with the Seattle Police from her days at Group Health was Cal Hinshaw, a smart, dependable, good old boy. She found his number, then grabbed the phone, and dialed. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was sneaking up behind her. She could hear Rufus’s paws clicking on the kitchen floor, but nothing else.

“Lieutenant Hinshaw,” he answered after three rings.

“Cal? It’s Karen Carlisle calling, you know, from Group-”

“Karen? How the hell are you? It’s been an age. Listen, I’m running late for something and just about to head out. Can I call you back?”

“Actually, I just wanted to hit you up for some quick information.”

“Lay it on me. What can I do you for?”

“I’m wondering if you know anything about a Detective Russell Koehler. He just came by asking a lot of questions about one of my clients, and I’m stalling him. Is he on the level?”

“Koehler? Yeah, I know the guy. He thinks his shit is cake. He’s been on paternity leave the last two weeks. He found something in the employee regs that allowed him to take a month off with pay while his wife pops out a kid, not that I’d think for one minute he’d be any help to her. He’s kind of a sleaze. But I hear he knows somebody in the mayor’s office, and gets away with a lot of crap at work. You say he’s flashing his police credentials and asking questions?”

“Yes, about those shootings in Wenatchee last week, the Faraday murder-suicide case. My client is their daughter. I’m wondering why this cop-on leave-is investigating a practically closed case out of his jurisdiction.”

“You got me, Karen. He’s always working some angle.”

She shot a cautious glance toward the front hallway. “Maybe this man isn’t really Koehler. Is he in his midthirties with pale blond hair and blue eyes? Good looking?”

“Not half as good looking as he thinks he is. That’s Koehler, all right. Watch your back with him, Karen.” Cal let out a sigh. “Listen, I need to scram. Let’s get together for coffee sometime and catch up. And keep me posted if you find out why Koehler’s sniffing around this Wenatchee case. You’ve got me curious now.”

“Will do. Thanks, Cal,” Karen replied, and then she hung up the phone.

Grabbing her umbrella, she set the alarm again, and ran out of the house.

“Do you know how much Ina and Jenna were worth?” Russell Koehler asked in a hushed voice. “The Basner sisters had a little over three mil between them.”

Karen leaned over the small table, so she could hear him better in the crowded coffeehouse. They sat by the window. An eclectic art collection hung on the walls with price tags next to each work. About two thirds of the customers sat with their laptops in front of them. Chet Baker’s horn and velvet vocals purred over the sound system.

“Guess who now stands to inherit those millions?” Koehler continued. “Nineteen-year-old Amelia Faraday and her favorite uncle, George McMillan.”

Karen leaned back and shrugged. “So?”

“According to the Faradays’ neighbors up in Bellingham, Amelia was a real hell-raiser. And from Uncle George’s own testimony, we know his wife was banging his brother-in-law. A close friend of Ina McMillan’s confirmed it. So you’ve got a rebel daughter pissed off at her parents, and this cuckolded history professor, both due to inherit a shitload of money. You do the math. One, or both, of them could have done the job on Ina, Mark, and Jenna last Friday night-or they hired someone to do it.”

Karen frowned over her latte. “Well, you’re wrong. Without breaching any therapist-client confidentiality, I can tell you this. Amelia never once complained to me about her parents. If anything, it was the other way around. Amelia said she’d caused her folks some heartache over the years, and wanted to make it up to them.”

“She told you that. She probably figured you’d be repeating it to some cop, like you are right now. How do you know Amelia wasn’t just setting you up?”

“Amelia genuinely loved her parents, Lieutenant. Also, I was with George McMillan hours after he learned of his wife’s death, and he was devastated. It wasn’t an act. If you’re trying to pin the Wenatchee shootings on either one of them simply because they’re in line for some money, then you don’t have a leg to stand on. Besides, three million split between two people isn’t a huge fortune nowadays.”

“Maybe not to you,” Koehler replied, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Not everybody lives in a castle, like you do. The police based their conclusion that Mark Faraday was unstable mostly on the testimony of Amelia and her Uncle George, the beneficiaries of this little windfall. I mean, isn’t that pretty damn convenient? Maybe three mil isn’t such a gold mine nowadays, but it’s still a damn fine nest egg. Two people could live very comfortably on that. Not everyone is as lucky as you, inheriting a mansion. Some people have to make their own luck.”

Amelia glared at him. “I don’t think it’s lucky that my father lost his mind. And I’m sure Amelia Faraday and George McMillan don’t feel lucky about what happened to their loved ones.”

“All right, all right, take it easy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’d be thinking along the same lines as me if you’d seen the house by Lake Wenatchee. I walked through it the day after. I didn’t go in there suspecting your client and her uncle. But that’s how I felt when I walked out of the place. For starters, there are footprints all around the outside of the house. But there were other partial footprints in the mud they weren’t so sure about. The cops figured that most of the prints belonged to Mark, after examining his slippers. And I’m wondering, what the hell was Mark doing out there in his slippers? He must have gone to check on something, maybe a noise, or maybe one of the women saw someone lurking outside the house.”

Karen shrugged. “He could have been chasing away a raccoon for all we know.” She shook her head. “You’re jumping to conclusions-”

“I saw the bloodstains, Karen. I saw them in the upstairs hallway where Jenna got shot in the face. There was a big stain on the living room floor, where Ina got it…”

Karen remembered Amelia’s description of the scene. It was so dead on.

“But the bloodstain on the living room wall, behind the rocking chair where they found Mark Faraday with his hunting rifle still in his hands, that’s what really stopped me. The bullet entered above his left eye and shot out the back of his head about two inches above the hairline on the back of his neck. The stain on the wall was almost parallel to the top of the rocking chair. He couldn’t have held a hunting rifle to his face that way, not parallel. He’d need arms like an orangutan to manage that. If Mark Faraday really killed himself with that rifle, the barrel would have been at a diagonal slant, blowing off the top-back of his head. The only way the exit wound and the bloodstain on the wall could be like that was if someone else held the rifle parallel to his face.”

Karen automatically shook her head. “But he was in a rocking chair. It might have tipped back-”

“Yeah, yeah, one of the Wenatchee cops gave me the same song and dance about the rocking chair. That might account for Faraday’s blood and brains being where they were on the wall. But there’s still the exit wound. You can’t explain that away. And I’ll tell you something else there’s no explanation for: the whereabouts of both Amelia and her Uncle George on the night of the shootings. Their alibis aren’t worth shit. Uncle George says he was home with the kiddies at the time of the murders. But he could have easily driven to Lake Wenatchee, pulled off the killings, and driven back while the kids were in bed. It’s about 150 miles from Seattle to Lake Wenatchee and, driving at night, he could have cinched the round-trip in less than five hours. The guy had the motive and the opportunity.

“As for your client, she ditched her boyfriend at a party around eleven, and then went for a ‘drive.’ No one saw her or talked to her for the next twelve hours. The coroner estimates her parents expired sometime between two and three in the morning. The aunt died a little later, closer to dawn. They think she must have lingered for a while, after being shot. Either way, that’s three or four hours after Amelia left the party, plenty of time for her to get to Lake Wenatchee. She told the police she’d driven as far as Snoqualmie Falls, then fell asleep in a parking lot. Hell, you’d think she’d try to be a little more creative with her alibi.”

“She couldn’t have driven to Lake Wenatchee,” Karen argued. “There wasn’t enough gas in her boyfriend’s car to get her there and back. And Amelia didn’t have the money or credit cards to buy gas.”

“So, she could have siphoned some gas. Or maybe she just drove to some designated spot and met her uncle. Then he could have driven the rest of the way so they could pull off the job together.”

“That’s crazy,” Karen whispered. “I saw Amelia on Saturday afternoon, and I got a good look at the clothes she had on, the same clothes she’d worn to the party the night before. Everyone was shot at close range. There would have been bloodstains.”

“Yeah, so? She could have easily changed into something else before she started shooting, and then discarded the bloody clothes later. Or maybe she let Uncle George do the shooting.”

Karen just shook her head at him.

“Obviously, you’ve considered the possibility that Amelia killed them,” he pointed out. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so fast with your counterarguments about her clothes and the gas in her boyfriend’s car. You must have discussed this with her. What did she say to convince you she was innocent? I’d like to hear it, Karen. You convince me.”

“I didn’t need convincing,” Karen replied. “I know Amelia. I know she couldn’t kill anyone.”

He cracked a tiny smile. “I’m pretty good at reading people, Karen. And I could tell just now you really weren’t sure you believed what you were saying. I’m certainly not buying it.”

It was all she could do to keep from squirming in her chair. “You grossly overestimate your powers of perception, Lieutenant,” Karen managed to say. “And it’s got you jumping to a lot of wrong conclusions. You’ve already made up your mind about Amelia and her uncle, haven’t you? Anything I tell you that doesn’t fit into your preconceived scenario, you simply disregard. Why bother even talking to me? Have you talked to Amelia yet, or her uncle?”

Koehler nodded. “The uncle, yes. But he clammed up pretty tight after a few questions. As for your client, she keeps giving me the slip.”

“Then your investigation isn’t official police business, is it?” Karen said.

Grinning, he shrugged, “Well, I…”

“Before coming here, I called a friend of mine on the police force,” she went on. “He said you’re on paternity leave right now. What’s your angle, lieutenant? Why is this so important to you that you’d take time away from your wife and newborn baby to investigate a case that isn’t even in your jurisdiction?”

“Because I care about the truth,” he said, with a straight face.

“I’m pretty good at reading people, too, Lieutenant. And you’re full of shit.” Karen got to her feet. “I’ve talked to you all I want to right now. If you come around my place again asking me a lot of questions, you better bring your checkbook, because I’m charging you for my time.”

She started for the exit, and he called to her, his voice rising above the noise inside the cafe. “I’ll just have to chase down your client and talk to her,” he said ominously.

Karen headed out the door, and pretended not to hear him.

“You have-no-messages,” said the prerecorded voice on her answering machine.

“Damn,” Karen muttered, hanging up the cordless phone in the study.

Amelia still hadn’t called her back. Karen felt so torn. She’d just returned from the coffeehouse, where she’d argued Amelia’s innocence to that cocky cop. Yet, while walking home in the light drizzle, she’d repeatedly looked over her shoulder for that broken-down black Cadillac.

How could Amelia be so innocent, and at the same time be a potential threat to her? Could she really have multiple personality disorder?

This other Amelia had never emerged during any of their sessions. Sandpoint View was the only place Karen had seen her. Why there of all places?

Biting her lip, Karen picked up the cordless phone again and dialed the rest home. One of the night nurses answered: “Good evening, Sandpoint View Convalescent Home.”

Karen recognized her voice. “Hi, this is Karen Carlisle. Is this Rita?”

“Sure is. What’s going on, Karen? I heard someone was stalking you this afternoon down in the laundry room or something. What’s up with that?”

“Beats the hell out of me, Rita. But it’s got me a little nervous about my dad. Would you mind checking on him for me?”

“Don’t have to. I just saw him five minutes ago in the lounge, watching TV with a bunch of them. Frank’s just fine.”

“Could you check on something else for me, Rita? Could you take a look out at the parking lot and tell me if you see a…an old black Cadillac with a broken antenna?”

“Sure, no sweat. I’ll just go look out the side door. Hold on a minute.”

With the cordless phone to her ear, Karen wandered to the front hallway. She glanced up the stairs to the darkened second floor. She hadn’t been up there since leaving the house early this afternoon. She kept staring up at the second floor hallway. Suddenly a shadow swept across the wall.

She gasped and started backing away from the stairs. Then she saw the shadow race across the wall again and realized it was just a car passing outside, the headlights shining through the upstairs windows. She let out a sigh. “You idiot, Karen,” she muttered to herself.

“Karen, are you still there?” Rita asked, getting back on the line.

“Yes, Rita?”

“I didn’t see a Cadillac in the lot, or parked on the street, either. Does this have anything to do with the whacko who was stalking you?”

“It might. Listen, how late are you working tonight?”

“Until midnight, lucky me.”

“Could you give my dad an extra check now and then for me, Rita?”

“Of course I will, Karen. Don’t you worry about Frank. I’ll make sure he’s okay. You look after yourself, girl. Do you have pepper spray? I don’t leave home without mine. If you don’t have pepper spray or mace, you should keep a knitting needle in your purse.”

“Well, I’ve had a minicanister of mace in the bottom of my purse for years, but I’ve never had a reason to use it.”

“Better make sure it still works. Test it, girl.”

“I will. Thanks, Rita. Thanks a million. And if you happen to notice a black Cadillac in the parking lot, would you call me?”

“No sweat. Your cell number’s right here at the nurse’s station.”

After she hung up, Karen was still worried about her father, so feeble and helpless. Visitors wandered in and out of that rest home all day. And there were plenty of temps on the nursing staff. Amelia could have easily passed as one of them.

If there was a photo of Amelia by the nurses’ station, the staff could keep a lookout for her, and Karen would feel a lot better. But she didn’t have a picture of Amelia. They’d done a pretty good job of keeping her photo out of the newspapers last week.

George McMillan certainly had a picture of his niece among the family snapshots. Karen needed to call him anyway. Even if he didn’t like her, she had a good reason to phone him right now. Maybe he had an idea where Amelia was.

Jessie had left the McMillans’ number by the phone in the kitchen. Karen went in there, and called him.

George picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Jessie.”

Karen balked. “Um, this isn’t Jessie. It’s Karen Carlisle.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your name came up on the caller ID, but I just figured it was Jessie.”

“No, it’s-it’s me, Karen,” she said, feeling awkward. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”

“No, we just finished. It was spaghetti, the only thing I know how to cook that my kids like. What can I do for you, Karen?”

“I’m wondering if you know where Amelia is. I’ve been trying to get ahold of her.”

“She’s incommunicado right now,” George replied. “Shane phoned earlier today, all worried about her. He just called back an hour ago. Amelia’s roommate said she mentioned something this morning about needing to get away. It looks like she just took off someplace for the weekend. She used to pull this on her parents every once in a while, and it drove them crazy. I hope she’s not drinking again. She was doing so well this week, considering everything she’s been through.”

“Listen, would you mind if I came by tonight? I need to talk with you, and I don’t want to discuss this over the phone.”

“No problem, Karen,” he said. “When can I expect you?”

“I’m leaving the house right now.”

“I had a bellyful of Koehler myself,” George said. He stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a saucepan. Karen stood beside him with a dishtowel in her hand. Despite George’s protests, she’d insisted on helping him clean up. His daughter, Stephanie, was in bed, playing with her stuffed animals. Jody and a neighbor friend were watching TV downstairs.

“When he came by yesterday, I thought it was official police business,” George continued. “So I let him in, and talked to him for a while. But then Koehler started in about Amelia, saying she could have killed her parents and my wife. He even insinuated that Amelia and I could have been having an affair. He pointed out that, after all, she isn’t a blood relative, and niece or no niece, a hot-looking 19-year-old is hard to pass up. That’s when I threw him out on his ass.”

He handed Karen the saucepan. “Then I called Dennis,” he said. “Dennis Goodwin, he was that detective who was here last Saturday. We drove to Wenatchee together. He turned out to be a pretty nice guy. I could tell he liked me, or at least felt sorry for me. He told me Koehler’s on leave-”

“Paternity leave,” Karen interjected. “His wife just had a baby.”

“Mazel tov,” George grunted. “Anyway, apparently Koehler thinks he’ll make a big name for himself if he cracks this case wide open. He was talking to another cop about the potential for a book deal and movie rights. Anyway, he’s not afraid of treading on anyone’s toes on the force, because he’s very well connected with the powers that be. I guess I didn’t do myself any good by pissing him off, but I really don’t care.”

“Do you mean that?” Karen asked, studying him.

He let out a little laugh. “Well, actually I am a bit worried about what he might do. I’m thinking about Amelia, mostly.”

Karen nodded. “So am I. Remember what we talked about last week? It took a lot of persuading on my part to assure Amelia she didn’t kill her parents, and your wife. I’m not sure exactly how much I succeeded in convincing her. She’s probably still pretty confused. If Koehler goes to work on her, God knows what she’ll end up telling him.”

“Then he’ll go to the media, and make Amelia out to be a deranged killer.” George reached over and turned off the water. “God, I don’t want my kids to read that.”

Karen said nothing for a moment. Gnawing away at her was the idea that it could be true about Amelia. She dried off her hands, then folded up the dishtowel. “Listen, something happened to me when I went to visit my father in the rest home today. It involves Amelia…”

They sat down at the kitchen table, and she told George about her bizarre, scary experience in the basement storage room. She explained her reluctance to diagnose Amelia as having a split personality, and asked if he’d ever noticed any abrupt behavioral changes in his niece. “Not just mood swings,” Karen clarified. “But a total shift in her persona, when she might have sounded or even looked different to you.”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember ever seeing Amelia act like anybody except Amelia. Ina never said anything to me about personality shifts, and she and Amelia were pretty close this last year. Mark and Jenna never mentioned anything either. I…” He hesitated. “Wait a sec. You know, Collin said something to me about a month before he died. He and some friends were eating lunch on the bleachers at his school in Bellingham, when he spotted Amelia watching them from across the street. He called to her, and she started to walk away. It struck him as weird, because Amelia was supposed to be in Seattle, and he usually knew when she was coming home to visit. Anyway, when he caught up with her, Amelia acted like a total stranger, he said.”

“You mean she didn’t recognize him?” Karen asked.

“No, she knew who he was, all right. They talked for a minute or two, then Amelia said she had to go and asked Collin not to tell their parents that she’d been there. I remember Collin saying to me, ‘I felt like Amelia was a different person.’ He said she didn’t seem drunk or anything. She just didn’t seem like his sister. Collin was spending the weekend here when he told me this story.” George let out a sad sigh. “Huh. You know, that weekend was the last time I saw him.”

Karen was about to reach over and put her hand over his, but she hesitated. She cleared her throat. “Um, I don’t know much about multiple personality disorder. We’d have to get Amelia to a specialist. We also have to prepare ourselves for the awful possibility that Koehler is right about Amelia.”

George frowned. “Do you really think she could have killed her own parents-and my wife? I know my niece, and she could never-”

“Yes, I agree with you,” Karen cut in. “The Amelia we know isn’t capable of murder. I’m saying there could be another person inside Amelia we don’t know. Maybe this other Amelia was in the rest home earlier today. Maybe she’s the one Collin spotted outside his high school that time. Collin said she was like a stranger. We don’t know this other Amelia either. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”

George slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I mean, Jesus, I’ve had her here alone with the kids this week. Are you sure?”

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility we have to consider. In fact, one reason I wanted to stop by tonight was to borrow a photo of Amelia, any recent photo of her that you might have. I want to post it at the nurses’ station in my dad’s rest home so they’ll keep a lookout for her. You probably think I’m overreacting.”

“No, not at all,” he said. “We have plenty of family pictures. I’ll make sure you get a current one of Amelia before you leave tonight.”

“Thank you, George,” she said, sitting back in the kitchen chair. “About Amelia, I’d like to get her to someone more qualified in multiple personality disorder. I’ve never had a true MPD case. There are theories it can be caused by an early childhood trauma. But that’s just a theory. And Amelia’s early childhood is still a mystery to us. I really-”

“God, I forgot to call and tell you,” he interrupted. “I was up at Mark and Jenna’s house in Bellingham the day before yesterday with Amelia, and I found the adoption papers.” He got to his feet. “They’re in my study. I’m not sure how much help they’ll be.”

Karen eagerly followed him into the study. She remembered some of those fragmented memories Amelia had shared with her about her early childhood: a woman screaming in the woods while young Amelia sat alone in a car; the Native American neighbor she liked; a person or place called Unca-dween; and her mother standing over her in the bathroom, asking, “Did he touch you down there?”

If they could track down more information about Amelia’s biological parents, they might discover what those fragments meant. Maybe they’d find the key to Amelia’s problems.

George put on his glasses and sifted through a stack of papers on his computer desk. “Here’s the file,” he said, handing her a folder. “I’m afraid there isn’t a lot of information here-no mention of the biological parents or even where Amelia was born, just her first name and the birthday, May 21, 1988.”

Karen glanced at the records: sixteen pages of legal documents, most of it boilerplate stuff. But the adoption date was there: April 5, 1993; and so was the name of the agency: Jamison Group Adoption Services, Spokane, Washington.

Karen nodded at his computer screen. “Could I get online for a minute?”

“Sure, I’ll start it up for you.” Sitting down, he switched on the monitor, then worked the keyboards for a minute until he connected to the Internet. He quickly vacated the chair for her. “What are you looking up?”

“This adoption agency. I want to read about the fire. Maybe they’ll say something about where all their records went, besides up in smoke.” She sat down, and did a Google search for Jamison Group Adoption Services, Spokane, WA.

The first four listings were for other adoption agencies in Spokane, and three more, picking up the key words, were for Jamison Auto Services in Spokane. And there was a Jim Jamison offering group rates for his limousine services in Spokane.

Frowning, Karen went to the next page, and then she found something halfway down the list:

FOUR DIE IN SHOOTING…Gunman Sets Adoption Agency on Fire… Duane Lee Savitt, 33, walked into the Jamison Group Adoption Agency on East Sprague Street at 1:35 P.M. Within minutes, he had shot and killed office manager Donna…

www.spokesmanreview.com/news/shooting/042993-14k.

“My God,” George murmured, peering over her shoulder. “All this time, I thought the fire was accidental.”

Karen clicked on the link, and pulled up an article in the Spokesman Review archives, dated April 28, 1993:

FOUR DIE INSHOOTING RAMPAGE

Gunman Sets Adoption Agency on

Fire After Shooting Spree

SPOKANE: Police investigators are still trying to determine the motive for a Pasco man’s shooting spree at an adoption agency, which left three employees dead on Monday afternoon. Before it was over, the gunman set ablaze the small, two-story Tudor house which served as the adoption agency’s office. He was shot and killed as he opened fire on police and firefighters arriving at the scene.

Armed with two handguns, several clips of ammunition, and an incendiary device, Duane Lee Savitt, 33, walked into the Jamison Group Adoption Agency on East Sprague Street at 1:35 P.M. Within minutes, he had shot and killed office manager Donna Houston, 51, and Scott Larabee, 40, an attorney for the agency. Anita Jamison, 44, vice president and part owner, was also shot.

“I heard screams, and several loud pops next door,” said Margarita Brady, a receptionist at a neighboring architecture firm, D. Renner amp; Company. Brady immediately called 911. “There were still screams coming from inside the house when I saw the smoke start to pour out the windows…”

Karen glanced at the adoption documents again. Both Scott Larabee and Anita Jamison had signed the contracts.

According to the article, Anita Jamison was still alive when the police finally gunned down Duane Lee Savitt. But she’d been badly burned in the fire and died in the ambulance on the way to Sacred Heart Medical Center.

The article also mentioned that the fire had destroyed volumes of records on file at the agency.

“It probably doesn’t have anything to do with my niece,” George said, still standing behind her. “But we should Google this Duane Savitt.”

“Duane,” Karen repeated, staring at the killer’s name in the news article. She could almost hear a four-year-old girl trying to pronounce it. “Dween.”

“What?” George asked. “What is it?”

“My God,” Karen whispered, her eyes still riveted to that name on the screen. “I think we might have just found Amelia’s other uncle.”