One Last Scream

Chapter Twenty-two

Amelia still hadn’t shown up yet. And she wasn’t answering her cell phone.

Standing on the steps outside the Wenatchee Public Library, Karen felt the cold night wind cut through her. She glanced at her wristwatch: 7:00.

She couldn’t have missed Amelia. She’d been at the rest home for no more than a half hour. The trip had been worthwhile, too. Miriam Getz had given her a better idea about the incident that had traumatized Amelia as a child. Still, it didn’t make sense that Amelia clung to such sweet memories of this neighbor man who had obviously been trying to molest her. The only people who didn’t believe that Clay Spalding was pure evil were Amelia and Clay’s friend Naomi Rankin.

Karen had left Naomi a second voice mail, but still no response.

However, the person she was most concerned about right now was Jessie. It had been at least ninety minutes since she’d spoken with her. How long did it take to find a stupid hotel room, anyway? Jessie certainly should have called her by now to say that she and George’s kids were all right. Something must have happened. And Karen had no way of getting in touch with her, because Jessie didn’t own a cell phone.

She took out her phone and punched in George’s number. Maybe Jessie had gotten in touch with him instead.

She caught George in his car on his way to the Salem airport. He told her about the graves at the Schlessinger ranch.

The wind kicked up, and Karen shuddered on the library steps. “Well, there were four missing-person cases in Moses Lake in 1992,” she said into the phone. “The last one was a few months before the Schlessingers moved to Salem. I’m still trying to dig up more information about that incident with the neighbor molesting Amelia. So far, it seems pretty much the way Annabelle’s teacher described it to you. In the meantime, I’m standing in front of the library here, freezing my butt off, waiting for Amelia.”

“Are you sure it’s Amelia?” George asked.

“Almost positive,” Karen said. “She borrowed Shane’s car and drove out to Grand Coulee Dam early this morning. God knows why Grand Coulee Dam. But she’s on her way here now. If all goes well, we should be back in Seattle before ten.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m worried about Jessie and the kids. Have you heard from her?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to get home. Jessie called a little while ago. I think something’s wrong at the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Steffie had an asthma attack. She’s supposed to be okay now. But I’m not sure Jessie’s telling me the whole story.”

“She called from your house?” Karen asked.

“Yeah-”

“And Jessie didn’t say anything to you about running into Amelia at my place this afternoon?”

“But I thought you said Amelia’s been at Grand Coulee Dam all day.”

“She has been.” Karen told him about Jessie’s brush with Annabelle that afternoon, and how Jessie had noticed Blade’s Cadillac parked outside George’s house earlier in the day. “Jessie didn’t tell you any of this?” Karen asked.

“No, she didn’t say anything-”

“Did she mention that Shane is dead?”

“Oh, no,” George murmured. “God, no, she didn’t….”

“The police think he shot himself,” she said sadly.

“Jesus, Karen, what’s going on?”

“I told Jessie to take the kids and check in at a hotel,” she explained. “It doesn’t make any sense that she’d go back to your house. George, something’s wrong.”

“Well, maybe she just got a little mixed up with everything that’s happening,” he said. “Plus, Jessie has a family emergency of her own, too. She has to take off for Denver tonight. Her sister’s very sick. It sounds serious.”

For a moment, Karen couldn’t say anything.

“George,” she whispered, at last, “I’m sorry, but Jessie doesn’t have a sister.”

“I’ve called ahead and chartered a plane,” George said. “I should be at the Salem airport in about five minutes. I’ll call you when I land in Seattle. That should be at around eight-thirty. Can you stick around until then, Jessie?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” she said into the phone the young man held to her ear. He listened in on George’s cordless. Jessie was still strapped to the chair, with her hands taped behind her. She’d lost some of the feeling in her arms.

“Any updates on your sister?” George asked.

“No. I was just about to call them,” she replied.

“Is it your sister Estelle, the one with Alzheimer’s?”

Jessie hesitated. He somehow knew this was a setup. “Yes, it’s Estelle,” she said, going along with the fake name George had picked. “I’m really worried the old girl won’t last the night,” she said carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Jessie,” he replied. “Well, I’ll be there soon, unless you want me to send someone else over there to take over.”

His Majesty shook his head at her.

“No, I–I can hold down the fort until you get here.”

“Could I talk to Steffie? Or is she still asleep?”

“Sorry, George, she’s still napping.” Jessie glanced up at the young man. Behind him, through the living room window’s sheer drapes, she could see someone walking up the McMillans’ driveway. Jessie couldn’t tell who it was. The person was too far away. With his back to the living room, the man in the dark glasses hadn’t noticed yet.

“What about Jody?” George was saying on the other end of the line. “Could you put him on the phone for a second?”

Jessie’s throat went dry. “Um, I–I’m sorry, George, he’s in the bathroom. He just stepped in the shower.” She watched the woman approaching the front door now. It was George’s neighbor from across the street, a sixty-something divorcee named Sally Bidwell. She was thin with short silver hair and wore a black pantsuit. She’d been out of town at the time of George’s wife’s death, but had been over twice this week to see if they needed anything. George had told Jessie that Mrs. Bidwell had an extra key to the house in case Jessie ever got locked out.

As she came closer to the house, Mrs. Bidwell stopped and stood on her tiptoes so she could peek into the living room window.

Jessie tried not to stare at her. She didn’t want His Majesty to see they had a visitor.

“Well, it looks like I struck out again,” George said. “But they’re both doing okay, Jess?”

“Yes, George,” she said. “For now, they’re okay.”

“Thank you, Jessie. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

The man started pushing the phone harder against her face. “Hurry up,” he mouthed.

“Okay, George,” she said. “Good-bye.”

The man in the sunglasses quickly hung up the phone, then clicked off the cordless. “‘For now, they’re okay?’ What’s that shit? Was that your way of telling him something’s wrong?”

Jessie just helplessly shook her head at him. She glanced toward the living room window again, but didn’t see Mrs. Bidwell.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

The young man quickly snatched his revolver from the kitchen counter and crept over toward the front door. The doorbell rang again.

Jessie heard a muffled cry coming from Jody’s room.

His back pressed against the wall, the man waited. He had the gun drawn. He seemed very calm and cool, or maybe it was just because Jessie couldn’t read his expression behind those sunglasses.

Outside, Mrs. Bidwell backed away from the door. Craning her neck, she stood on her tiptoes again and tried to get another look into the living room window. Squirming in the chair, Jessie wondered if Mrs. Bidwell could see her though the sheer drapes. She held her breath and watched the young man reach over for the door handle.

Mrs. Bidwell lingered on the front stoop, trying to peek inside the house.

Because the Lake Wenatchee shootings had been such big news, the McMillans had endured their share of snoops this week. Jessie had seen a few driving down the cul-de-sac to catch a glimpse of the house, and others actually came right up to the house and tried to peek into the windows. In contrast, there were also several nice neighbors who had stopped by with flowers, casseroles, and condolences, Mrs. Bidwell among them. But she’d always struck Jessie as a bit over-solicitous and meddling.

At this point, Jessie wasn’t sure if she wanted Mrs. Bidwell to see anything or not. She figured George would know how to handle this. But she didn’t trust Mrs. Bidwell.

Finally, the woman shrugged her shoulders and turned around.

Jessie let out a sigh.

The man in the sunglasses moved over to the edge of the living room window, and he peered outside.

Through the sheer curtains, Jessie watched Mrs. Bidwell walk back up the driveway. But then she stopped and glanced inside the car for a moment. She turned toward the house again.

The man ducked back, and the sheer curtain fluttered.

Mrs. Bidwell stared at the window for a few moments. Then she took another few steps toward the house again. Pausing for a moment, she reached into her purse. Then she continued down the driveway past the front walkway, toward the back door. Jessie couldn’t see her through the living room window anymore.

The man darted back into the kitchen. Swiping a dishtowel off the counter, he turned toward Jessie and grabbed her by the hair. Jessie struggled as he stuffed the dishtowel in her mouth. Helplessly, she watched him scurry over to the back door.

The neighbor knocked a few times. And then Jessie heard the door lock being manipulated. Mrs. Bidwell was using the spare key. Jessie wanted to scream out a warning, but she couldn’t.

The kitchen door opened. “Hello?” Mrs. Bidwell called, stepping into the kitchen. “George? Anyone home?”

The young man waited on the other side of the door with his gun ready. Mrs. Bidwell couldn’t see him, but she spotted Jessie, bound and gagged in the chair. All Jessie could do was shake her head at the woman.

For a moment, Mrs. Bidwell stood there, paralyzed, gaping at Jessie.

The man with sunglasses tucked his gun in the waist of his pants. Mrs. Bidwell swiveled around. She let out a gasp, then bolted toward the door. But he slammed it shut in front of her. He grabbed her and slapped his hand over her mouth. Arms flailing, the thin woman tried to fight him off, but he was too big for her. She struggled and kicked, but he didn’t let go. All the while he held onto her, he hardly changed his expression. There was just the hint of a smirk on his face as he carried out his task-like a robot, not a trace of emotion.

He took his hand away from Mrs. Bidwell’s mouth for only a few seconds as he reached for his revolver again. She screamed, until he clubbed her over the head with his gun.

The woman let out a feeble cry. She was stunned, but still conscious. She started to squirm as the man with the dark glasses dragged her into the living room. He threw her on the couch. Mrs. Bidwell let out another gasp, as if she’d gotten the wind knocked out of her.

The young man grabbed a sofa pillow and put it over her face.

Then he fired his gun into the pillow.

Jessie watched in horror as the woman’s body twitched and convulsed with spasms. Then she slumped across the couch, suddenly still. Feathers from the pillow floated in the air around her. Jessie caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bidwell’s face-her open eyes and the huge, gaping hole in her left cheek. Then the young man gave the corpse a forceful shove. The woman rolled over on her face. A bloodstain started to bloom beneath her on the beige sofa.

The young man seemed annoyed as he moved away from the body. Frowning, he brushed the pillow feathers off his shiny black suit. He straightened his tie, readjusted his sunglasses, and then headed for the kitchen sink. Turning on the cold water, he ran his hand under the stream.

“Fucking bitch bit me,” he grumbled.

Tears in her eyes, Jessie stared at Mrs. Bidwell’s corpse. For the last forty minutes, Jessie had been hoping against hope the young man would just take whatever else he wanted and then leave. But now she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Now she knew he wasn’t going to leave this house until he’d killed her and the children.

“Oh God, George, you’re walking into a trap.”

“I know,” he said.

It was one of the only things George was sure about.

At this point, he figured either Annabelle or Blade, or both of them, were holding Jessie and his children hostage at his home. And they wanted him there, too.

“Karen, I really have no choice,” he said into the phone. He kept his eyes on the road. He’d just passed a sign indicating McNary Field was straight ahead. He knew he was close to the airport because he saw a Best Western and a Holiday Inn Express just up the road. “I have a feeling they’re keeping the kids alive so Jessie will cooperate with them,” he said. “And obviously they’re using Jessie to talk me into coming home. I’m hoping no one will get hurt as long as they’re still trying to lure me there. I have about ninety minutes to figure out a strategy. I’m not calling the police, at least not yet. Maybe when I get to Seattle. We’ll see.”

He let out a nervous sigh. “Karen, if you could keep digging into Annabelle’s past, maybe you can figure out what the hell she wants, why she’s doing this. You know psychology. Why is she killing everyone close to Amelia? If I could figure out what Annabelle’s after, that would help me when I walk into the house ninety minutes from now.”

Tears stung his eyes, and George felt his throat closing up. “I might be able to bargain with her, give her what she wants, or at least figure out where she’s most vulnerable. Maybe I can get my kids and Jessie out of there alive.”

“I’ll do what I can, George,” she said. “Amelia should be here any minute now. Maybe we can get her to intervene and talk to her sister. Maybe that’s all we’ll need. Whatever this is, it’s between the sisters.”

“I think you’re right,” George murmured.

He suddenly realized he’d just passed a turn sign for the airport. “Karen, listen, thank you. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay, call me when you get to Seattle. Take care, George.”

He clicked off the cell phone, and turned the car around in an Arby’s parking lot. He backtracked and found another sign for the airport. In the distance, he heard police sirens, which seemed to become louder as he got closer to the airport. George saw an intersection ahead, where traffic was at a standstill. Two cop cars with their flashers on sailed through the junction and turned onto the airport drive.

As traffic started up again, George made a left through the intersection, and then took a right to the airport on Aviation Loop. He had a bad feeling in his gut. He could see the two patrol cars, parked in front of the terminal’s main entrance, their flashers still swirling.

He wondered if Tyler had caved and told the sheriff where he was headed.

George pulled into the lot and parked. Overhead, a plane was landing. George’s ears got a blast of the engine’s roar as he climbed out of the car. The night air had a chill to it. He clutched the lapels of his sports jacket up under his chin, and spied the two police vehicles in the distance.

A maroon minivan with RESIDENCE INN written on the side door had pulled up behind the squad cars. The driver, wearing a blazer the same color as the minivan, had gotten out of the car to talk to one of the cops. After a few moments, he stepped away from the cop car, waved, then ducked back into his minivan. He drove through the parking lot toward the main road.

George waved him down. “Are you with the Residence Inn?” he called. It was a stupid question, but still, the guy stopped.

The driver rolled down his window. He was in his early twenties with wavy black hair and a touch of acne. He nodded at George. “Yes, sir, are you headed there?”

“No, I’m meeting someone who needs a room for the night,” George lied. “Do you know if they have any vacancies?”

The driver reached into his maroon blazer and pulled out a card for the Residence Inn. “Call that number, and they’ll take care of you.”

“Much obliged,” George said. Then he nodded toward the police cars. “What’s the hubbub about, do you know?”

The young man nodded. “They got a tip from some guy about a bunch of dead bodies buried at a farm outside of town.”

“A bunch of dead bodies?” George repeated.

He nodded. “Yeah, they’ve dug up three so far, and they think there are a lot more.” With his thumb, he pointed to the patrol cars. “One of those cops is a buddy of mine. He said this is going to be big. So, better book your pal’s room with us pretty quick. Once all the news people get here-and that’ll be soon-all the hotels will fill up.”

“Thanks, I’ll get on that.” George nodded toward the cop cars again. “So what are they doing here? Are they the welcoming committee for the news people?”

The driver shook his head. “No, they’re looking for the dude who tipped off the county police about the stiffs, some Seattle guy. They want to hold him for questioning. They think he’s trying to blow town.”

“Imagine that,” George murmured. He tucked the Residence Inn business card in his pocket. “Well, thanks for the help. Have a nice night.”

The minivan drove off, and George ducked back into his car. He thought he was going to be sick. What the hell was he going to do now? He had to get home to his kids. He didn’t even want to think about how scared Jody and Steffie probably were right now, and what was being done to them.

He couldn’t afford to stick around the airport any longer. No doubt, those cops had a description of his car, maybe even the license plate number.

George backed out of the parking space. He watched the two squad cars in his rearview mirror as he merged onto the airport drive. They didn’t move, thank God.

He started driving, not even sure where he was headed. He just needed to get away from this airport and the police. It would take him an hour to make it to Portland by freeway. But he’d probably be detained at the Portland airport if he tried to book a flight or a charter. He couldn’t drive all the way back to Seattle. That would take at least four hours, and he ran the risk of some cop spotting his car. They’d be looking for him all along I-5.

“Do you even know where the hell you’re going?” he cried out loud. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the wheel.

He took a few deep, calming breaths. George caught a glimpse of the street name as he went through an intersection: Waverly Drive. He realized he was close to Willamette University. The traffic became heavier as he headed into a commercial area full of bars, restaurants, and coffee shops.

George saw a sign: ATOMIC CYBER CAFE. He also noticed a parking space, and immediately pulled into it.

The Internet cafe was dimly lit and about half full of college kids slouched in front of the computer screens. “Can I get Internet access here?” George asked the barista behind the counter.

The young man had a small square of beard hair under his lower lip, and glasses. He wore a red apron. “You bet,” he nodded. “The first half hour is free with a beverage. All I need is a driver’s license for a deposit.”

“Thanks.” George slapped a five-dollar bill and his license on the counter. “Just a regular coffee, please, or whatever you’ve got that’s quick.”

A few moments later, George tried not to spill his coffee as he hurried over toward the free terminals. There were a few by a nicely dressed, uptight-looking man in his fifties, who gave George a narrow glance. Sitting down near him, George realized the guy was looking at porn. George ignored him. He switched on the terminal, and connected to the Internet. He brought up Google, and then typed in Salem, Oregon, Charter Helicopter.

He got two results: both businesses in Jefferson, Oregon. He pulled out his cell and called the first place, Coupland Aeronautic, Inc. He wasn’t sure if anyone would be answering at 7:20 on a Monday night. His chances of actually chartering a helicopter at the last minute like this were probably nil.

A woman picked up: “Coupland, this is Kate.”

“Hi. I’m in Salem, and I need to get to Seattle as soon as possible. Could I charter a helicopter for tonight?” he asked.

“You’re in Salem, that’s about a half hour away,” the woman said. George could hear her fingers clicking on a keyboard. “If you can get here by eight o’clock, we’ll have you in Seattle at eight-fifty tonight. Does that sound good to you?”

“That sounds great to me,” George replied.

“Hello, Naomi, this is Karen Carlisle calling again….”

Karen sat in her rental, parked across from the Wenatchee library. Though she got clearer phone reception outside, Karen had ducked inside the car to avoid the cold. It had also started drizzling. From the driver’s seat, she had an ideal view of everyone coming and going at the library. She was still waiting for Amelia. It had been well over two hours since they’d last talked, and still no answer on her cell.

Naomi Rankin wasn’t picking up either. This was Karen’s third message in ninety minutes for Clay Spalding’s friend. She now understood how telemarketers felt pestering a total stranger. In the last two messages Karen had tried to sound friendly and professional. She hadn’t mentioned Clay or the Schlessingers. She’d just left her name and phone number, and said it was extremely urgent that Naomi call her back.

Though she didn’t want to say too much on the answering machine, Karen decided to start explaining herself for message number three. “I’m sorry to keep calling,” she said. “But I’m a friend of Amelia Schlessinger’s. I’m hoping that name is familiar to you. I understand, years ago, you and Amelia had a mutual friend. If I could talk with you for just a few minutes, I-”

There was an abrupt click on the line. “Listen, if you call here one more time, I’ll get the cops on your ass.”

“Naomi?” Karen asked meekly.

“I don’t have to talk to you,” the woman growled. “Shit, I thought I’d heard the last from you assholes fifteen years ago. Get a life, okay?”

“Please, don’t hang up,” Karen said. “I’m not calling to harass you-”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you aren’t,” she muttered. “I’ve heard it all. There’s nothing new you can tell me. So piss off.”

“Naomi, wait! You want to hear something new?” Karen had a hunch this would get her to listen. “Right now, the police are digging up corpses at the old Schlessinger ranch outside Salem. Young women started disappearing in the Salem area back in 1993, when Lon Schlessinger moved there from Moses Lake. Isn’t that about the same time women stopped disappearing around Moses Lake?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“Naomi?”

“Who are you?” she murmured.

“I’m a friend of Amelia’s, and she doesn’t recall much about her childhood in Moses Lake. But she does remember a Native American man-a neighbor who was very kind to her. You and Amelia seem to be the only ones from around there who don’t think Clay was a monster.”

“So, I’m not totally alone. Amelia, of all people….”

“I read about what happened. Naomi. And from the way you reacted to my call, I get the impression people must have harassed you for defending Clay in the newspapers.”

“And on local TV, too,” Naomi said. “For a while there, I averaged about eight threatening calls a night. I also got my share of hateful stares at work and around town. If you really want people to hate you, just speak up for someone who’s been labeled a serial killer and a child molester. For years, I still received those creepy calls, even after I changed my number. I didn’t let them list me in the phone book until about three years ago.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t sure who you were when you left those first two messages. I thought it was some sort of scam or a telemarketer. But then you mentioned the name Schlessinger, and I just got sick to my stomach. It was a real blast from the past.” She paused. “So, they found bodies on the Schlessingers’ property.”

“That’s right,” Karen said. “Lon’s been dead for three years. His ranch house burned down with him in it.”

“You know, I always knew Clay was framed for that woman’s disappearance,” Naomi said. “Now it all starts to make sense. Lon killed those women. You’ve read the newspaper account of it, so you know the story. He was in Clay’s house earlier that day, hours before he shot Clay. He could have planted that waitress’s wallet and necklace while he was there looking for his runaway kid. God, all this time I thought the cops had planted that stuff. I knew for a fact Clay couldn’t have abducted that waitress. He and I were together the night Kristen Marquart went missing.”

“Did you tell that to the police?”

“Of course. I practically screamed it from the rooftops. But no one believed me. I was in love with Clay for several months. So no one really took me seriously and, after a while, I just made them angry. A lot of people in that neighborhood already had a negative opinion of Clay, anyway. He didn’t quite fit in on Gardenia Drive.”

“Because he wasn’t white?” Karen asked.

“Oh, I guess that might have had a little something to do with it,” she admitted. “But Clay carried around a chip on his shoulder after inheriting that house. He felt everyone still regarded him as Izzy’s yardman. I think he did things to piss people off. He stopped mowing the lawn, and let the place go just to prove he wasn’t a yardman any more.”

“I heard from his neighbor that he used to display some of his art on the front lawn, too,” Karen said.

“Who did you talk to?” Naomi asked. “The old lady?”

“Miriam Getz.”

“Yeah, she had it out for him. She and two of Lon’s cop friends were the main witnesses who said Clay was trying to molest Amelia that day.”

“Well, I don’t think she was lying to me, Naomi,” Karen said delicately. “Outside of the art displays and letting his lawn ‘going to pot,’ as she put it, Miriam didn’t seem to have any problem with Clay as a neighbor. But her mind changed when she saw what happened that day.”

“She might not have been lying about what she saw,” Naomi pointed out. “But she sure jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“Well, she saw a little girl in her underwear, crawling out of Clay’s window, screaming for help,” Karen said. “I’ve tried to figure out how not to jump to the same conclusion Miriam did. I’m thinking along the same lines as you, Naomi. Lon Schlessinger was pure evil. He must have set Clay up. I think you’re right about him planting the wallet and the locket. But this incident with Amelia…”

“Lon used to beat her and her twin,” Naomi said. “Did you know that?”

“No, but I’m not very surprised.”

“He hated Clay from the word go. I don’t know if it was because Clay was Native American, or because of his long hair, or the artwork on the front lawn. But Lon despised Clay. Maybe that’s why the little girls turned to Clay when their dad started abusing them. They knew they had an ally with Clay. God knows, they couldn’t go to their mother. She was totally clueless. Amelia ran away to Clay’s house several times, more than her twin. I remember Clay saying Lon had Annabelle on a tighter leash, and she was afraid of him. She was a lot more obedient and likely to give in to her father’s demands. Clay used to teach art to the kids on the reservation, and he knew about children. He said Amelia was a little rebel. That’s why she and Clay got along so well. They both had that defiant streak.”

“And as the more rebellious of the twins, Amelia probably got more severe and frequent beatings,” Karen said.

“Right,” Naomi said. “I saw some of the bruises on that little girl. It was revolting.”

“Why didn’t you report it to the police?”

“Clay tried. One time, when Amelia was over there, he touched her back and noticed her cringing. He asked her if anything was wrong, and she said, ‘I think I was a bad girl again.’ Then she showed him her back, and it was all black and blue and purple. Clay could hardly keep from going over to the Schlessingers’ and kicking the shit out of that son of a bitch. I talked to him on the phone, and got him to calm down. I told him to take a few Polaroids of the bruises and then we could go to the police. Well, he did that, only he reported it to some cop who was a fishing buddy of Lon’s. Clay didn’t know. This cop didn’t do a damn thing except ask Clay how he’d gotten the little girl to take off her blouse. They twisted it around. After Clay was shot, these stories circulated that he had photos of the little Schlessinger girl naked. But those were pictures of her bruised back, which he’d tried to give to the cops.”

“Oh, my God,” Karen murmured.

“So, weeks later, that Sunday morning Amelia went missing, Lon came over to Clay’s looking for her. Clay let him come in and look around. But he also took that opportunity to tell Lon that if he found one more mark on Amelia, he’d kill him. Anyway, after Lon left, Clay called me. He said it was obvious Amelia had run away again, and he thought she might show up at his house eventually. He wanted me to come over. He also figured if Amelia had any new bruises, I should take the Polaroids, and then we’d call the state police, a lawyer, or child protective services.”

Naomi let out a long sigh. “I was at work when he called me that Sunday. They needed me there to work the register at the goddamn Safeway. I remember Clay asking me, ‘You mean, you can’t take a few hours off to help a child who might be in trouble?’ Then he hung up. That was the last thing he ever said to me.”

Naomi started to cry. “I was still at work when someone at the store told me Clay had been shot because they’d caught him trying to molest a neighbor’s little girl. I couldn’t believe it, and I still don’t. Clay never would have hurt Amelia. I might not have been there to see how it happened. But I know they have it wrong. There’s a difference between what people saw that day and what’s true. I’m certain of that.”

“I agree with you,” Karen said. “Do you think it’s possible Amelia was in her underwear because she wanted to show Clay some new bruises?”

“I wondered that, too,” Naomi said. “But they’d have said in the newspaper that she’d recently been beaten and then, no doubt, used it as more evidence against Clay. Besides, I don’t think Clay would have let her take off a stitch of clothing after that cop made those innuendos about the Polaroids.”

“Well, maybe Amelia was napping-” Karen started to say. But a click on the line interrupted her.

“I’m sorry. Just a sec,” Naomi said. “Let me see who this is.”

She clicked off, and while Karen waited, she figured even if they came up with a reason why Amelia had been in her underwear, they still couldn’t explain why she’d run screaming from Clay’s house and into her abusive, sadistic father’s arms.

Naomi clicked back on the line. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, there’s a crisis at work, and I need to go over there, to the same Safeway. I’m a manager there now. How’s that for progress?”

“Well, congratulations,” Karen said, with a weak laugh. “Thank you for talking to me, Naomi.”

“If you’re ever able to figure out what really happened that day, let me know, okay? You have my number. Sorry I wasn’t more help.”

“But you have been, believe me,” Karen said. “Amelia’s still in trouble. And you have helped her, Naomi. You have.”

“Well, thanks. Take care.”

Karen clicked off the line. She sat in the front seat of the car and watched the raindrops sliding down her windshield. Across the street, a woman stepped out of the library, put up her umbrella, then headed down the sidewalk. She disappeared around a corner.

Karen glanced at the library doors again and then at her watch: 7:50.

“Damn it,” Karen murmured. “She should have been here at least an hour ago.”

Amelia was once again missing.

The car window was open. Amelia felt the cold wind whipping through her hair and an occasional raindrop on her face. She was driving Karen’s Jetta, on her way to Wenatchee. She felt tense, but excited, too. She thought about how she’d finally get to use her father’s hunting knife slitting that bitch, Karen Carlisle’s, throat.

Amelia woke up with start, and in total blackness. She’d been having these horrible dreams all night. This was the latest, her gleefully planning Karen’s murder.

Earlier, she’d had a nightmare in which she’d put a gun in Shane’s mouth and pulled the trigger. They’d been in rowboat on a lake somewhere. She’d washed Shane’s blood off her face and hands with lake water. It had seemed so real. But Amelia kept telling herself these were just nightmares. She was still asleep in the spare bedroom at Karen’s house.

But why was it so dark? And what had happened to the sound machine? She didn’t hear the waves and those seagulls. In fact, she couldn’t hear anything.

A panic swept through her. She didn’t remember the bed feeling this hard, or the scratchy blanket. It smelled musty, like a basement.

Something had happened in the middle of the night.

Amelia had thought she’d dreamt that, too. She’d seen herself at night in Karen’s backyard with a strange-looking, pale man with jet-black hair. They’d lifted a decorative stone from the garden, uncovering where Karen hid the house key. Then they’d snuck into the house. The next part, Amelia figured must have been a dream, because she and the man had been in Karen’s spare bedroom, standing over herself in the bed. She’d watched herself sleeping. Bending over the bed, the man had put a damp cloth over her face. It had burned. For a moment, she’d felt as if she were suffocating.

Had it all really happened? It must have, because she was no longer in Karen’s guest room. This dark, dank room was in a totally different place far away from all sounds and light.

Amelia sat up and blindly groped around for a light. Her hand brushed against a lamp beside her, and she switched it on. Someone had taken away the lampshade, and the bare lightbulb was blinding. It took Amelia a moment to recognize the secondhand lamp from the guest room in the lake house. Sitting up on a cot with an army blanket over her, she glanced around the gray little room. There were a few boxes shoved against the wall, a stack of old records and board games, some old paint cans, and a broken hardback chair.

Amelia ran a hand through her hair, and realized most of it had been chopped off. They must have cut her hair, very short, while she’d been asleep, but why? She touched her nose and lips. They still burned from whatever was on that cloth the man put over her mouth. She had no idea how long ago that was. She looked around for a clock or a mirror. But there wasn’t one on the makeshift nightstand beside her. Someone had turned over a box to hold the lamp without a shade.

But they’d left her an opened can of Del Monte sliced peaches, a pack of chewing gum, and a small jar of Noxzema.

Amelia stared across the room at the big, bulky door. It was closed.

She knew where she was. This place had always given her the creeps. For years, she’d been afraid of somehow getting trapped here.

She was in the family cabin by Lake Wenatchee in the basement fallout shelter.

And yet, somehow, at this very moment, she could still feel the motion of Karen’s car, and a cold breeze through the open window kissing her face.

And she knew Karen was going to die.