One Last Scream

Chapter Twenty

The Schlessinger ranch-July 2004

She sat on her bed, painting her toenails-Sassy Scarlet. Her tabby, Neely, was curled up beside her. It was still pretty hot out, so she had the box fan in the window. A U2 song played softly on her boom box. Annabelle wore cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

She had a friend from school staying over tonight.

Annabelle hoped to chat a bit with Sandra. But she had to wait first, until her father finished with Sandra down in the basement. He’d been at her now for about a half hour.

At last, Annabelle heard him clearing the phlegm from his throat and lumbering up the stairs to the second floor. He passed her room without looking in, and continued on to his bedroom.

Annabelle shoved Neely off her bed, then got to her feet. From her bedroom, she peered into her parents’ room. Her father couldn’t see her, but in a darkened window across from her parents’ double bed, she caught his reflection. He was wearing a T-shirt and work pants. He plopped down on the bed, then lit a cigarette. In a few minutes, he’d go take a shower and wash Sandra off.

Slipping on a pair of flip-flops, she snuck out of her room, and down the stairs. As she passed through the kitchen, she got a waft of her father’s body odor, still lingering from when he’d passed through just minutes ago. He must have really worked up a sweat down in the basement. Annabelle paused for a moment, as she heard the pipes squeaking and the shower starting in the upstairs bathroom.

She got another dose of that musky stench as she started down the basement stairs. But at least it was cooler down in the cellar. In the laundry room, she grabbed a bath towel from on top of the dryer. Carrying it into the furnace room, she pulled on the string for the overhead light.

Annabelle listened to Sandra crying in the fallout shelter, but the sound was muffled. She laid the towel by the big, heavy door, then sat down on it. “Sandra? Can you hear me okay?”

There was a gasp, and then she cried out, “Who’s there? Is somebody there?”

“It’s me, Annabelle,” she called to her. “Listen, I can’t talk long-”

“Get me out of here! Please, please, you have to help me….”

Why do they always say the same thing? she wondered, fanning at her toes and blowing on them so her nail polish dried faster. Just like Gina, and all the others. She let Sandra scream and beg for another minute, and then finally interrupted her. “Listen, I can’t spring you out of there right now. It’s just too dangerous. But I’ll help you. I promise, you won’t have to stay in there long-”

“No! You have to get me out of here now! Please, Annabelle, I want to go home, please!”

It was nice, the way Sandra called her by name. Annabelle leaned against the door. “Hey, Sandra? Please don’t be mad at me for this, okay? He forced me to do it. But I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“I’m not mad at you,” she said, her voice still full of panic. “In fact, my parents will give you money if you help me. I’m sure of it. They’re rich….”

Annabelle frowned. The offer of money was nice, sure. But an offer of friendship would have been better. She had this notion about killing her father and helping Sandra escape. Of course, then she’d have to go on the run. But she’d already planned for that. For several months now, she’d drawn money out of her father’s account with forged checks and the occasional trip with one of his credit cards to the ATM at Sherry’s Corner. So far, she’d stashed away over three thousand dollars. There was also her mother’s jewelry, and a silver service that belonged to her grandparents. Annabelle figured she had about six or seven grand worth of crap around the house that she could hock.

She imagined, after several days in captivity, Sandra would bond with her. And if she helped Sandra escape, Sandra would do the same for her. Like in Thelma and Louise, life on the lam with her new best friend would be an adventure. She and Sandra already looked alike. People would probably mistake them for sisters, or even twins. That would be nice.

“Sandra, I left you something in there,” she said. “That stuff he used to knock you out, it’s chloroform, and sometimes it burns your face. I knew he’d be using it tonight, so I left you a little jar of Noxzema under that old rag in the corner. It’ll help soothe the irritation. I left some chewing gum there, too.”

He always starved them for the first twenty-four hours. The promise of food and water always made them more cooperative, especially after an initial bout with true hunger. Some of them were probably even grateful to get the cat food.

“Annabelle, I really, really want to go home. He hurt me. I’m in pain….” She started crying again. “I miss my momand dad. Please, please, help me….”

Annabelle let her cry for a few moments. “I’ll help you escape, Sandra,” she said, finally. “But it’s impossible tonight. Just hang in there, okay? And listen, if I get you out, I can’t possibly stay here. You’ll have to help me get away. Can you do that? Do you promise to help me make a clean break and go start somewhere else?”

“Yes, of course!” Sandra answered, almost too quickly. “I promise. I’ll do anything you want. Just get me out of here! Please…”

“Sandra?” she said, her face pressed against the crack in the big door.

“Yes?”

“Earlier tonight, you asked me to go to the movie with you,” Annabelle said. “Were you just inviting me out of politeness, because I was giving you a ride? Or did you really want to hang out with me? Because I’m not sure if I fit in with your friends-”

“Oh, no, I–I wanted you to come with us,” Sandra replied. “I wasn’t just being polite. I like you, Annabelle. You seem very nice.” But the tone of her voice smacked of desperation, as if her life depended on giving the right answer.

And, of course, it did.

With a sigh, Annabelle got to her feet and gathered up the bath towel. “I need to go now,” she said. “I don’t want him to know we’re in cahoots-”

“No, God, please, don’t go. Annabelle, don’t leave me here…please….” Sandra started pounding on the other side of the door.

Annabelle turned away. She reached up and pulled the string to the overhead light in the furnace room. Standing in the darkness, she listened to Sandra Hartman begging her to stay and talk just a little longer.

It felt kind of nice.

Wenatchee, Washington-three years later

SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING MOSES LAKE WOMAN said the headline near the bottom of page 3 of the Columbia Basin Herald for October 21, 1992.

Karen had found it almost by accident. She’d been at the Wenatchee library for forty-five minutes now, scanning microfiche files, moving backward from February 1993. She was searching for a news story, but didn’t quite know what kind of headline to expect, maybe something like Child Snatcher Shot Dead or Dramatic Rescue Reveals Waitress-Killer.

So far, she hadn’t come up with anything, except a slight crick in her neck from all the tension. She tried not to rush through the files, but after scanning the headlines on the first five pages of every edition for two months, she started skipping days. Karen kept reminding herself that she wasn’t in any hurry. Amelia was supposed to meet her here in an hour.

She hadn’t heard back from Jessie, yet. Nor had George phoned with an update. Most surprising of all, Detective Peyton hadn’t returned her call. And so far, she hadn’t found a damn thing in the Moses Lake newspaper files, until now.

There was a photograph of the missing woman: a thin, pale-looking blonde with big eyes and short, curly hair. Karen read the caption: “Kristen Marquart, 22, was last seen leaving work at The Friendly Fajita on Broadway in Moses Lake last Wednesday night.”

According to the article, Kristen’s car was still in the restaurant parking lot the following day. Investigators determined the car had been tampered with, but they didn’t say exactly how. Kristen, a graduate of Eastern Washington University, had been missing for a week when the article was written.

Karen saw the second-to-last paragraph, and grimaced. “Oh, God, here it is,” she murmured to herself.

Kristen Marquart’s disappearance is the most recent in a rash of missing person cases in the Columbia Basin area, all young women. In August, Juliet Iverson, 20, vanished while picnicking with friends at Soap Lake. In March, Othello resident Lizbeth Strouss, 24, disappeared after finishing her night shift at a convenience store. Earlier in March, Eileen Sessions, 27, of Moses Lake vanished after dropping off her two children at day care. After 17 days, her remains were discovered near a hiking trail in Potholes State Park forest near the Potholes Reservation.

Four women had vanished in eight months, and the authorities didn’t have any suspects. Karen had been hoping to find a story like this, and now that she’d found it, she felt horrible. These women weren’t just part of some puzzle. They were real.

And it seemed even more likely now that Amelia’s birth father was a monster.

Karen wondered if he’d abducted and killed any more young women before moving to Salem. Or had Kristen Marquart been the last?

Staring at the screen in front of her, Karen realized she must have scanned past the news story about Lon Schlessinger shooting the neighbor who had allegedly molested Amelia. That neighbor was also blamed for the murder of a waitress. Was the murdered waitress Kristen?

With a heavy sigh, Karen started to scan over the newspaper records again. This time, she wouldn’t skip over any days. Her eyes were getting blurry from too much reading, too much driving, and too little sleep. But she kept searching for the story she’d missed.

Hunched in front of the warm, wheezing microfiche-viewing machine, she read every headline on the first few pages of every edition of the Columbia Basin Herald until she found a front-page headline on Monday, November 16:

CHILD ABDUCTION SPARKS

SHOOTING DEATH

Dead Man Linked to

Disappearance of Moses Lake

Woman, Possibly Others

MOSES LAKE: The apparent abduction of a 4-year-old girl on Sunday led to a police standoff and the shooting death of a man, now linked to the disappearance of a Moses Lake woman in October.

Six hours after Lon Schlessinger, 34, reported his young daughter as missing, he led police to the house of a Gardenia Drive neighbor, Clay Spalding, 26. Police arrived at the scene at 5:45 P.M. to see the child escaping from a bedroom window in Spalding’s ranch house. The girl was dressed in only her underwear. When Spalding began to chase after the terrified child, Schlessinger shot him with a Winchester hunting rifle. Spalding, an unemployed artist, was pronounced dead on arrival at Samaritan Hospital at 6:20.

Police found the child’s clothes inside Spalding’s home. They also made another startling discovery in the unkempt residence: a wallet full of identification and a locket, both belonging to Kristen Marquart, 22, a waitress and Moses Lake resident who has been missing since October 14.

Marquart was last seen leaving her place of employment, The Friendly Fajita, on Broadway in Moses Lake. Authorities are now reexamining the disappearance of three other young women in the Columbia Basin area for a possible connection to Spalding.

According to Miriam Getz, 70, who lived next door to Spalding for two years, her neighbor was “quiet and considerate, but very strange, something of a loner.” She added: “He made people uncomfortable, and I think he enjoyed doing that.”

Getz reported that the Schlessingers had asked if she’d seen their missing daughter at 11 A.M. on Sunday. She later spotted the child in Spalding’s backyard, and immediately telephoned the Schlessinger house. In a 911 call to Moses Lake Police, Lon Schlessenger said he intended to confront his Gardenia Drive neighbor.

Lon Schlessinger shot Clay Spalding in front of four Moses Lake policemen, and apparently, seconds later, the panic-stricken little girl ran into her father’s arms. If Lon was in any kind of trouble for taking the law into his own hands, there was no indication of it in the article. They tactfully avoided calling Amelia by name, but did mention: “Lon Schlessinger is a ranch foreman at G. L. Durlock, Inc. in Grant Country. The Schlessingers have been Moses Lake residents for five years. They have two children.”

There was a photograph of Clay Spalding on page two. Karen remembered Amelia’s description of her neighbor, the nice Native American man with beautiful, long black hair. He’d converted a backyard toolshed into a playhouse for her. She’d eaten cookies in there at a little red plastic table.

The driver’s license photo of Clay Spalding showed a swarthy, handsome man with straight, near-shoulder-length black hair and a slightly defiant look in his dark eyes. According to the article, two years before, Spalding had inherited the ranch house on Gardenia Drive, along with a large sum of money, from the home’s previous owner. Prior to moving to the Schlessingers’ neighborhood, Spalding had lived on the Potholes reservation.

Two paragraphs later, the article pointed out that of the four recently reported missing women from the area, Eileen Sessions was the only one confirmed dead. Her remains had been discovered in a forest at Potholes State Park, not far from the reservation.

Still, perhaps not to show too much bias against the alleged child snatcher, the article quoted Naomi Rankin, a friend of Clay Spalding’s, as well as a longtime Moses Lake resident: “I’ve been very close to Clay for several years. He was a brilliant artist and a lovely person. I don’t think he was capable of hurting another human being, especially a child.”

Karen wondered how Amelia could have only a vague, pleasant memory of this neighbor man, and not recall any of those nightmarish events from that October afternoon. “I liked him,” Amelia had said, “but I don’t think I was supposed to be around him.”

“I don’t get why we’re supposed to stay in a hotel tonight,” Jody said.

He sat in the front passenger seat with one foot up on the dashboard. Stephanie was in back, sorting through an old Bon Marche bag of kids’ books, puzzles, and toys that had been on the Ping-Pong table in Karen’s basement. The junk had originally belonged to Karen when she was a child. Jessie used to break out the bag of toys whenever Frank Junior or Sheila came to town and brought their kids to visit old Frank-anything to keep the children entertained for a while. She figured Stephanie would need something to while away the next few hours at the hotel.

There was a sci-fi convention in town, as well as an endodontists’ convention, just her luck. All the hotels were full. But the clerk at the Edgewater Hotel had taken pity on her and found her a room at the Doubletree over by Southcenter Mall. Her timing was doubly awful, because of rush hour. They sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on southbound I-5.

“I’d rather be in hell with my back broken,” Jessie muttered, one hand on the steering wheel of George’s car. She glanced in the rearview mirror again: no sign of Karen’s Jetta or a black Cadillac. That was one consolation. If Karen was worried about them, they weren’t in any danger right now. Nothing was going to happen to them in the middle of this traffic jam. Nobody was moving.

“Jessie, why do we gotta stay at a hotel?” Jody asked again.

“Oh, um, your dad thought it would be a good idea,” she lied. “They-they’re doing some work on the power on your block for the next few hours. We won’t have any electricity, and rather than rough it, we’re gonna live high on the hog at a nice hotel for the next few hours.”

“They’re waiting until night to screw around with the electricity?” Jody said. “That’s kind of dumb. You’d think they’d do it during the day-when we don’t need the electricity so much.”

“So write to your city councilman,” Jessie said. “There’s stationery at the hotel, and there’s also pay-per-view TV with new movies, and room service. You’ll love it, Jody, I promise. With the room-service dinner, they give you these little bottles of ketchup and mustard. It’s really neat. The best part of all is you don’t have to do your homework while you’re there.”

She figured he wouldn’t argue or ask questions about that.

“I hate mustard!” Stephanie announced from the backseat.

“Well, you can just keep it for a souvenir, sweetie,” Jessie replied. “They also have little bars of soap and little bottles of shampoo. And here’s hoping they have an honor bar for dear old Jessie.”

Once the kids were settled, she would treat herself to a glass of wine, or rather, Karen would treat her. That bizarre episode with Amelia had really shaken her up. She’d never seen Amelia act that way before, so creepy and smug, like a totally different person. And it was pretty darn unnerving to hear she was supposed to have been on the lookout for a black Cadillac today. That big, old beat-up car had been parked down the block from George’s house since before Jody even got back from school. She wondered if anyone was sitting inside it, and if they were still there, waiting for her and the kids to come back.

“Are we gonna be at the hotel soon?” Stephanie asked.

“Well, unless I can shift this car into leap, we aren’t going anywhere,” Jessie muttered, eyeing the gridlock ahead. They weren’t even past Safeco Field yet. “Hang in there, Steffie. We should be checking in to the hotel in about a half hour, tops.”

“Y’know, we gotta go home first before we go anywhere else,” Jody said quietly. “Steffie needs her inhaler.”

“Oh, shhhh-” Jessie stifled herself. “Do you know the brand, honey? Can we pick another one up for her at a drugstore?”

“Can’t,” Jody said. “It’s a subscription.”

“Prescription, honey.” She sighed. “Oh, Lord….”

“She really needs it, too,” Jody pointed out. “Mom used to say it was like asking for trouble if Steffie went anywhere without her inhaler. That’s kind of a weird expression. Do you know what that means exactly? Asking for trouble?”

Jessie saw the sign for the West Seattle Bridge ahead, the exit for George’s house. “Yes, I know exactly what it means,” she said.

Biting her lip, she put on her turn signal, and started merging toward the West Seattle turnoff.

Sitting in the crummy little office across the street from Sherry’s Corner Food amp; Deli, the sheriff had I Don’t Have Time for This Shit written across her face.

She stared at George from behind a computer and a pile of paperwork on her big metal desk. Decked out in her brown sheriff’s uniform, she was about forty-five, with short, dishwater-blond hair and a long, narrow, horselike face. Her lipstick was on crooked. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You want me to go over to the old Schlessinger ranch and start digging up their backyard? And this is based on the fact that you were snooping down in their basement and found a name tag with ‘Nancy Rae’ printed on it?”

“Yes,” George said, showing her the waitress badge again. “Nancy Rae Keller; she worked at a restaurant in Corvallis.”

The cut on his leg from the fallout shelter door scraping him wasn’t too serious. But it still stung like hell, and he’d torn his pants leg. He’d cleaned it up in the restroom in the sheriff’s office.

George now sat in a metal chair with a green Naugahyde-covered cushioned seat and sturdy armrests. He imagined those armrests were used to keep a felon cuffed to the chair. But he couldn’t see that happening around here much. One look at the place seemed to confirm that it wasn’t exactly a hub of activity. A map of Marion County decorated the off-white wall, along with scores of police bulletins, many sun-faded, dusty, and starting to curl at the edges.

Yet, the sheriff acted as if she was in the middle of a major crime bust, and he was taking up her time.

“Nancy Rae has been missing for five years now,” George pointed out. “She’s one of several missing-person cases in the area, all young women.”

“I’m well acquainted with those old missing-person cases,” the sheriff said. She waved at the four ugly metal file cabinets behind her. “I have all of the files there…somewhere. I also have all this here,” she said, slapping at a pile of papers on her desk. “And it needs to be processed and filed. Now, I can’t just drop everything and go on an archaeological dig with you in the Schlessingers’ backyard. First of all, you’re lucky I don’t charge you with trespassing, Mr. McMillan. That ranch is private property.”

“Well, I don’t think I’d be the first one to trespass there,” George replied, at the risk of incurring her wrath. “The place is pretty trashed. I saw a lot of beer cans and garbage.”

“Yes,” the sheriff nodded. “For a while there, certain morbid teenagers hung out there to get drunk, but we put a stop to it. That waitress tag probably belonged to one of them.”

“I doubt it. If you knew where I found it-”

“All right, so you want to go out there now and start digging?” she cut in. “Based on what-a hunch? And some tidbit you read in a book of amazing facts about wildflowers indicating grave sites? We can’t do that, Mr. McMillan. First, we’d have to call a judge for a search warrant, which we’d be damn lucky to get by noon tomorrow. We’d also have to notify the current property owner. The ranch was bought by some chemical company in Boise eighteen months ago. A fence was supposed to go up around the place last year, but it didn’t happen…”

She stopped to look at her deputy, who ambled through the doorway. The skinny, dark-haired young man wore a brown uniform and had a goofy-looking buzz cut. Walking around the counter, he carried a small bag and a can of Diet Coke.

“Twenty minutes for a lousy roast beef sandwich?” the sheriff asked him. “What did Sherry have to do? Kill the cow?”

The beleaguered deputy set the bag and soda on her desktop. “They were out of potato salad, so I got you chips,” he muttered.

“Fine, fine, thanks, Tyler,” she grumbled. The sheriff tapped a pile of folders on the corner of her desk. “File these, and then clock out. I don’t want the county paying you overtime tonight. That’s just more paperwork for me. I get more done without you here, anyway.”

Sighing, he collected the files and stepped toward the metal cabinets behind her.

The sheriff opened up the can of Diet Coke. “If you’re serious about this, Mr. McMillan, we can’t just start digging over at the Schlessinger ranch. We need to go through the proper procedures. That’ll take time. Now, I see you there, tapping your foot, and if you’re anxious to get going on this, you have a long wait ahead.”

George squirmed in the chair. What had made him think he could get back to his kids tonight? If the cops actually followed his tip and found some bodies at the Schlessinger ranch, they’d want him to stick around. Hell, it might take days before they even uncovered anything.

“I’ll tell you what,” the sheriff said, reaching into the carryout bag. “You leave Nancy Rae’s name tag with me, along with a number where I can get ahold of you. I won’t charge you with trespassing. And I’ll pass your tip onto the state police in the morning.”

George sighed. At least that freed him up to go home. But it meant waiting for confirmation that Lon Schlessinger was responsible for the disappearance of all those women. George also wondered if the sheriff even took him seriously enough to bother contacting the state police.

“Listen,” she said, obviously reading his hesitation. “The last of those missing-person cases was over three years ago….”

Behind her, the deputy stopped filing and glanced over his shoulder. “I went to school with Sandra Hartman,” he said. “She was the last one-”

“Yes, Tyler, I know,” the sheriff said, dismissing him. She unwrapped her sandwich. “You’ve already told me all about it. I’m not talking to you right now.”

The deputy sneered at her back. Shaking his head, he resumed his menial task.

The sheriff rolled her eyes, then turned to George. “Anyway, my point is, it’s an old case. If the late Lon Schlessinger is somehow involved, and there are indeed bodies buried on his property, nothing about that will change between now and tomorrow morning. I can assure you, Lon will still be dead. And on the off-off-off chance some bodies are buried on his ranch, they won’t be going anywhere, either.”

Frowning, she peeled the wheat bread back and inspected her sandwich. “It can wait until morning, Mr. McMillan,” she said distractedly. “So please, quit tapping your foot. Leave the name tag and your phone number. And let me eat my lousy dinner in peace.”

Ten minutes later, George was parked across the street at Sherry’s Corner Food amp; Deli. He’d left his rental on the far side of the lot, behind a Winnebago so the car couldn’t be seen from the precinct office. He was surprised the Food amp; Deli had shovels for sale, but then it made sense, considering the neighborhood. George bought some Neosporin for his leg, as well as a shovel and pick. He felt like a smuggler carrying them out of the store in full view of the sheriff’s office across the street. He quickly loaded the tools into the trunk of his car.

Shutting the trunk, he peeked around the back of the Winnebago. George saw the deputy come out of the police station. He headed across the road again for another trip into Sherry’s Corner.

“Tyler?” George said, moving toward the store entrance. “Deputy?”

The young man stopped to stare at him. “Hey, you’re still around,” he said, half smiling. “So the bitch didn’t scare you away?”

“No, she didn’t,” George said. “Listen, deputy, how would you like to help solve Sandra Hartman’s disappearance, and maybe make your boss look like an idiot in the process?”

“Well, last I heard, dear,” the old woman said. “They sent Amelia to live with Joy’s relatives up in Canada someplace.”

Miriam Getz was petite with thick, cat’s-eye glasses and short curled hair that was light brown with a pinkish hue, obviously from a bad dye job. She wore a string of pearls and pearl earrings with her lavender sweat suit.

After making a few calls, Karen had found out Clay Spalding’s former next-door neighbor was still alive. But the 84-year-old Miriam was no longer living in Moses Lake. She now resided in New Horizons, a rest home in East Wenatchee, just a fifteen-minute drive from the library.

New Horizons wasn’t on a par with Sandpoint View, but it was pleasant and certainly clean enough. Karen had caught Miriam in the corner of the TV lounge, working on her crossword puzzle. There were about a dozen other residents in the room, watching The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming with the volume a bit too loud. Over where Miriam sat, it was a bit quieter, but her cronies still burst into laughter every few moments.

Sitting down beside her, Karen had explained that she was Amelia Schlessinger’s therapist, and she needed to find out more about Amelia’s childhood. Miriam had heard about Joy Schlessinger’s suicide shortly after the family had moved to Salem. But she hadn’t known Lon had died, too, more recently.

“What about Annabelle?” Miriam asked, putting aside her crossword puzzle.

“I’m pretty sure she’s still alive,” Karen told her. “But I don’t know her like I know Amelia. I’m trying to help Amelia remember certain things from her childhood, especially that incident with Clay Spalding fourteen years ago.”

Miriam shook her head. “Gracious, I’d think she’d be better off not recalling any of it.”

Karen gave her a sad look. “Well, she isn’t, Mrs. Getz-Miriam,” she said quietly. “I think she might need to know. I’ve read some of the newspaper accounts of what happened. It sounds like you know more about it than anyone.”

The old woman nodded. “I suppose I do.”

“I was counting on that, Miriam,” she said. “So, can you tell me about Clay?”

She frowned a bit, then shrugged. “Well, he was this Indian who, excuse me, Native American, who used to work for my neighbor, Isadora Ferris. She was elderly….” Miriamlet out a sad laugh. “Listen to me, I’m probably older now than she was then. But she was a frail thing with Parkinson’s. Anyway when Izzy passed away, she left the house to Clay, along with several thousand dollars. And believe you me, that didn’t go over well with the neighborhood. It didn’t help matters either that Clay let the place go to pot, and after he’d kept it so beautiful while he was working for Izzy, too. It was a sweet, little one-level ranch house. I never could figure out why he didn’t take better care of it. Sometimes, he even put these odd art pieces of his on the front lawn, usually some weird concoction made out of tin cans and wire hangers and Lord knows what else. It could look really junky out there.”

She sighed. “But to be fair, he was a nice, quiet neighbor. He even shoveled my walk for me one winter. And he was very sweet to those twins, too, especially Amelia. He didn’t get along with Lon or Joy. But for some reason, that one little girl liked him.”

Karen nodded. “That’s the impression I got, too. Amelia told me about a little playhouse he had in his backyard. It’s one of the only things she remembers about him.”

Miriam sighed, and fidgeted with her pearl necklace. “Yes, well, he seemed harmless enough, at least I thought so, until that day.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Karen asked. “Do you remember?”

“As if it was yesterday,” Miriam said. “Around eleven o’clock that Sunday morning, Joy phoned me, asking if I’d seen Amelia. Well, Amelia or Annabelle, I couldn’t tell the difference, but I hadn’t seen either one. I guess Lon had gone searching for her over at Clay’s house earlier, and Clay even let him look through the place. Apparently, Amelia wasn’t there. But wouldn’t you know? Around five o’clock, I looked out my kitchen window and spotted that little girl in Clay’s backyard. She was all by herself, bundled up in a jacket. I saw her come out of that playhouse and duck in Clay’s kitchen door. So I immediately called Joy. Then Lon got on the line. He asked me to come over and tell him exactly what I saw. Well, once I told him, Lon announced he was driving to the police station. He said he’d bring an armed police officer back to Clay’s house. Then off he went, and he took Annabelle with him.”

Miriam removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Well, about twenty minutes later, Lon was back, with Annabelle. The child was hysterical, squirming and shrieking to raise the dead. Lon had his hand over her mouth most of the time. He said he didn’t even make it to the police station, because Annabelle starting pitching such a fit. None of us could figure out what was wrong with her.” Miriam put her glasses back on. “But do you know what I think it was?”

Karen just shook her head.

“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I think Annabelle must have somehow known her twin sister was in distress. You know how some twins have a certain-thing between them?”

“Twin telepathy,” Karen said, nodding.

Miriam nodded, and patted Karen’s knee. “That’s what I think it was. Anyway, poor Annabelle was carrying on so badly, they locked her in her room.”

Karen squinted at her. “The child was upset, and their way of handling it was to lock her in her room?”

“My sentiments exactly,” Miriam whispered. “But Lon ruled the roost in that household, and he’s the one who locked Annabelle in the twins’ bedroom. Then he fetched his hunting rifle and called up the police. He told them he was headed over to Clay’s house to confront him and get his little girl back. All the while, Annabelle was screaming and crying behind that locked door. My heart just broke for her.”

Miriam clicked her tongue, and shook her head. “I told Lon I didn’t think the gun was necessary. I kept saying, ‘Let the police handle it, for goodness sake!’ I was so worried Amelia would get hurt. But Lon couldn’t be stopped, and out the door he went. I followed him down the block. Joy stayed behind. Lon was almost at Clay’s house when I heard the sirens. Two police cars came speeding up the block. Then, over all that noise, I heard screams.

“I turned toward Clay’s house and saw that pitiful little girl climbing out a side window and crying for help.” Miriam closed her eyes and put a liver-spotted hand over her mouth. “All she had on was her underwear. I just get sick when I think about it. After that, everything happened so fast: the sirens, tires screeching, all the policemen shouting, and that poor, sweet child running across the yard, practically naked. And this was November, mind you. Clay came out the front door, and he started to run after Amelia. That’s when Lon shot him. I remember how in midstride, Clay suddenly flopped back and fell on the ground.”

Miriam let out a long sigh. “Then Lon threw his rifle down, and Amelia ran into his arms. She was hysterical, crying, but Lon kept rocking her and telling her, ‘You’re safe now, baby.’”

“And Clay Spalding was dead,” Karen murmured.

Miriam nodded. “I think he died in the ambulance on the way to Samaritan Hospital.”

“What about Amelia?” Karen asked. “I understand she was never really the same after that day. I hear her parents had a very hard time with her.”

“Well, it might have been more gradual than that,” Miriam said. “I know she was giving Lon and Joy some problems even before that Sunday. So Lord knows how long Clay had been-pawing at that poor little girl. I heard stories later that he had Polaroid snapshots of Amelia, undressed.” She shook her head. “Anyway, if she had problems before that day, well, you’re right, they just got worse and worse after that. She tried to run away several times. I remember once, talking in the front yard to Joy and the twins, and a pickup truck came speeding up the block, like a bat out of you-know-where. I said to Joy something about how they could kill somebody, driving that fast. And before we knew it, Amelia broke away and ran into the street smack dab in front of that pickup-on purpose. The driver almost had an accident, swerving to avoid her. Four years old, and she was trying to kill herself. Can you imagine? Lon and Joy kept her home most of the time after that, and they didn’t take visitors. I hardly saw her. Then I heard they sent her to stay with Joy’s relatives, a cousin, I think.”

Karen imagined Lon’s solution to Amelia’s problems was to lock the tormented girl in her room most of the time.

“What about the sister?” she asked.

“Annabelle? Oh, she was very well behaved. I don’t think they had any problem with her.” Miriam rubbed her chin. “No, the only time I ever saw her kick up a fuss was that afternoon before the shooting. And then later, I remember noticing her in her bedroom window, looking out and crying. I guess she’d seen the whole awful thing. But she didn’t act up or anything after that, not like her sister.”

Karen reached over and put her hand on Miriam’s bony arm. “Did Lon run into any legal trouble for the shooting?” She winced a little. “I mean, even if it seemed justified, some people might say he took the law into his own hands.”

Miriam frowned. “Well, I know there were some concerns. But Lon cooperated with the police a hundred percent.”

“Did a doctor ever examine Amelia to determine whether or not she’d actually been molested?”

With a pained look on her careworn face, Miriam shrugged. “I really don’t know. But they found her clothes in Clay’s bedroom. And in the kitchen drawer, they found a wallet and a necklace belonging to a woman who had been missing for nearly a month, a waitress.”

“Kristen Marquart,” Karen interjected. “I read about her.”

Miriam nodded, then shuddered a bit. “You can just imagine what it was like for me to realize I’d been living next door to a serial killer for two years.”

“Did they ever find Kristen’s body?”

Miriam fiddled with her necklace again. “No, I don’t think so.”

“And did they ever really connect Clay with any of the other disappearances?”

“Well, they found whatever was left of one poor woman near the reservation where he used to live. That was enough for me. Oh, this girlfriend of Clay’s raised a big fuss….”

Karen nodded. She’d already left a voice mail for Clay’s friend, Naomi Rankin, who still lived in Moses Lake. But Naomi hadn’t phoned back yet.

“She insisted he was totally innocent, and incapable of hurting anyone. But she didn’t see what I saw that day. No, she certainly did not.”

“Then you believe Clay murdered those young women,” Karen murmured.

Miriam glanced at Karen over the rims of her cat’s-eye glasses. “Well, dear, the girls stopped disappearing after Clay was shot dead. So what do you think?”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Stephanie announced. “Real bad.”

“Well, hold on a little longer, honey,” Jessie said, with a glance in the rearview mirror. “We’re almost there. The last few blocks are always the worst.”

Driving up the cul-de-sac toward George’s house, Jessie kept looking for that beat-up black Cadillac with the broken antenna. She didn’t see it. She didn’t spot Karen’s Jetta either. Nothing looked unusual or out of place as she pulled into the driveway: no strange cars, no smashed windows, no one lurking around the house.

Approaching the front door with the children, Jessie didn’t notice anything wrong with the door handle. To be on the safe side, she would have left the kids in the car while she ducked into the house for the damn inhaler. But Steffie had to go to the bathroom. She was all fidgety and squirming as Jessie unlocked the door. At least the door was still locked. That was a good sign.

“Now, let me go in first,” Jessie announced, reaching for the light switch.

But Stephanie darted past her through the doorway, and made a beeline for the bathroom off the kitchen. Jessie had left the light on in there.

“I gotta go, too,” Jody said, heading toward the facilities by his bedroom.

Rolling her eyes, Jessie turned and saw the door open to the front closet, with the light on. Had she left it like that?

She remembered setting the alarm code before hurrying out of the house earlier. It should have started beeping when they came through the front door. Something was wrong. “Steffie? Jody?” she called.

Starting toward the kitchen, Jessie glanced around the living room, and stopped dead. “Oh, no,” she murmured. She felt this awful sensation in the pit of her stomach. For a few seconds, she couldn’t move.

The drawers to the antique cabinet were left open. One drawer was taken out completely and dumped on the floor.

She heard a toilet flush. Continuing toward the kitchen, Jessie saw that someone had been through the dining room breakfront, too. More open drawers, a few of them dumped out and scattered on the floor. The silver candlesticks on the dining room table were missing. All Jessie could think about was getting the children out of there, and then calling the police from a neighbor’s house.

“Kids, we need to leave!” she called nervously.

“What?” Jody called back. “What’s going on?”

Jessie turned and saw him coming from the bedroom hallway. But Jody suddenly stopped in his tracks. His mouth open, he gaped at Jessie and shook his head.

She realized he was looking at something behind her. She heard a whimpering sound, and recognized Steffie’s cry. Jessie swiveled around, and for a moment, her heart stopped.

Stephanie stood trembling in the kitchen doorway. Tears streamed down her face. She’d wet herself.

Standing behind her was a young man with black hair and sunglasses. He wore a shiny black suit, and held a gun to Stephanie’s head.