Watch Them Die

“Not tonight, sweetie.” She nodded at Ben. “Yes. I think he got into that apartment after you.”

“But if he was so hot on covering his tracks and moving on, why did he give himself away to you with the Vertigo tape? He must have known you’d figure it out.”

“I think he wanted me to figure it out,” Hannah said, frowning. “He wants me to know he’s still around. My guess is—he’s not finished with me.”

“All the more reason I should stay with you today,” Ben said, straightening up.

Hannah shook her head. “No, Ben. It would just prolong everything. You said so yourself. There are too many unanswered questions. I can’t afford to stick around and find those answers. But you can.”

Frowning, Ben pulled the piece of scrap paper out of his pocket and glanced at it. “1313 East Republican,” he said. “That’s only a few blocks from here, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Why don’t you two guys step outside so I can set the alarm again? C’mon, Guy.”

As they walked to the door, Ben whispered to her. “I’ll stick around and watch you go. If someone starts following the cab, I’ll call from a pay phone and leave a message for you at home. Check your answering machine when you swing by to pick up your bags.”

Hannah nodded. “Thanks, Ben.”

He and Guy ducked outside. Hannah locked the door, ran back and set the alarm, then quickly retraced her steps to the door again. Once outside, she locked the door behind her.

Ben had already taken his duffel bag out of the taxi, and Guy sat in the back, waiting. Ben stood in the light, drizzling rain, holding the taxi door open for her. She stopped for a moment and stared at his handsome, chiseled face, still bruised, shiny with raindrops. He smiled sadly at her. “When you get where you’re going, don’t forget to call me at the Best Western. Okay?”

She nodded and took hold of his arm. “Thanks, Ben,” she whispered. “Thanks for everything.”

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?” he asked.

Her heart ached. Hannah threw her arms around him.

Ben kissed her on the lips. She clung to him fiercely, but then forced herself to break away. “Take care,” she said, her voice cracking. She jumped into the backseat of the cab.

Ben closed the door.

Hannah pulled Guy closer to her. She glanced through the rain-beaded window to see Ben’s face again, but the taxi pulled away. She didn’t get a last look at him.

“Why are you crying, Mom?” Guy asked.

Hannah had hoped he wouldn’t notice. They’d been driving for five blocks, and he hadn’t uttered a word. She didn’t want to tell him that they wouldn’t be seeing Ben again. If Guy knew, he’d be crying too.

“I’m just feeling sad, honey,” Hannah said, wiping her eyes. “Some people cry when they’re about to go on a trip. I’m one of them. I’ll be okay in a little while.”

As the taxi approached her street, Hannah glanced out the rear window. She didn’t notice anyone following them. Then again, she didn’t know what type of car to look for.

The cab turned down her block. Hannah let out a gasp. “Um, keep going, please,” she said to the driver.

A police car was parked in front of her apartment building.

“Isn’t this your address?” the cabby asked.

“Yes, but keep driving, please,” Hannah said.

As they passed her building, Hannah saw one cop step out of the squad car while his partner remained behind the wheel. Hannah glanced over her shoulder to watch the policeman step toward the front door.

“Turn left up ahead, please,” she told the driver. Hannah had him take another left, then pull into the parking lot of a condominium behind her building. Fishing her keys and some money from her purse, she gave the driver twenty dollars. “Keep the meter running, please,” she said. “We’ll be back down. I promise it won’t take as long as the last time.”

“Fine with me,” he replied. “It’s your money, lady.”

Hannah took Guy’s hand, and they walked up some steps to a little walkway at the side of the condominium. “Now, honey, for the next few minutes, I need you to be quiet and do exactly what I say, all right?”

“’Kay,” he said, holding out his free hand to catch the light raindrops.

Hannah opened a swinging gate in the fence that divided the properties; then she and Guy stepped up to the back door of her building.

Inside the dark stairwell, they climbed up the cement stairs. Guy was stomping. “You have to be very quiet, honey,” Hannah whispered, squeezing his hand. “We don’t want anyone to hear us.”

“’Kay,” he said, slowly taking each step on his tiptoes.

“All right,” Hannah whispered. She hoisted him up in her arms. He was close to forty pounds, and the stairs were hard and steep. But Hannah was so scared she didn’t realize how much of a struggle it was carrying him until she stopped at the door to the third-floor balcony. She put Guy down, then leaned against the door frame. She tried to get a breath.

“Mom?” Guy said, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

“Shhhh.” Hannah shook her head at him.

“Why are we stopping here?” he whispered.

“Just a second, okay?” Hannah opened the door a crack, and peeked out to a small alcove. No one. Taking Guy’s hand, she stepped outside, then peered around the corner down the long balcony walkway. Again, she didn’t see anyone.

At a brisk clip, Hannah headed toward her door, dragging Guy the whole way. He had to run to keep up with her. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said under her breath. “I need you to stick by me.”

With her hand shaking, it took Hannah a moment to unlock her door. She pulled Guy inside, then closed the door behind him. “Good boy,” she muttered.

The intercom buzzed—twice. Hannah knew it was the police. She stared at the four suitcases and shook her head. She could maybe manage three, tops.

“Honey, pick two toys you can carry back to the taxi,” she told Guy. “They’ll have to last you a couple of days.”

She could hear the intercom next door. They were going for her neighbors now.

Guy started rummaging through the box of toys. Hannah checked her answering machine. The message light was blinking. She played back her messages, cutting short each old one until she came to Tish’s call this morning. She skipped that one too, and listened to the next.

“Hi, it’s me,” Ben said hurriedly. “Keep your eye out for a burgundy-colored Volvo. It pulled out of the lot across the way after your cab drove off. I couldn’t tell if it was following you or not. Call and leave me a message as soon as you get where you’re going. I’m on my way to Richard Kidd’s place. I love you, Hannah.”

Then he hung up.

She felt a little pang in her gut as she erased the message. She didn’t want the police to hear it.

“C’mon, Guy,” she announced. He’d picked out his new Etch A Sketch and a toy fire engine. Hannah slipped them in a bag. “Now, hold on to these and don’t drop them. You have to keep up with me, and I can’t hold your hand. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he muttered, looking a bit scared.

Hannah smiled bravely and touched his cheek.

She decided to leave behind a suitcase full of clothes. There was enough for them to wear in the other three suitcases. One of the bags had a shoulder strap, and the other two had wheels and pull handles.

Hannah opened the door an inch, glanced up and down the balcony, then nudged Guy outside. “The back stairs, honey,” she whispered. “Same way we came up.”

Taking giant steps on his tiptoes, Guy swayed back and forth as he moved toward the rear stairwell. Tussling with her purse and three bags, Hannah followed him. The wheels on her suitcases made a loud, scraping noise on the cement walkway.

Hannah heard a siren in the distance, and she wondered if it had something to do with her. She wasn’t really certain the squad car parked outside was for her, either. Still, she hurried toward the back stairs. At the end of the balcony, she headed into the stairwell. She heard voices—behind her, outside. She put her finger to her lips and stared at Guy.

He nodded, and put his finger to his lips.

Hannah took a step back and peeked around the corner. One of the cops and a man in a raincoat were coming from the other stairwell—with the building manager. Hannah was too far away to hear what they were saying. But the three of them headed toward her door. The manager was brandishing a large key ring. The three men stopped at her door. The one wearing the trench coat knocked.

Hannah ducked back into the stairwell. Lugging the three heavy suitcases, she straggled half a flight behind Guy as they fled down the stairs. The suitcases weighed her down, throwing off her balance. After the first flight, the bag handles pinched and tore at her palms. Her arms ached. The valise with the strap seemed to be dislocating her shoulder. She teetered down another flight, certain at any minute she’d hear the stairwell door up on the third floor open. For all she knew, someone could now be posted outside the back exit, and she’d bump right into him.

“Guy, please,” she gasped. “Hold the…door open…”

She watched him push at the door, and a dim patch of light filled the dark alcove at the bottom of the stairs. Her lungs burning, Hannah made it down the last few steps. Guy was braced against the open door. She didn’t see anyone outside, and she wondered if they were hiding.

The cold air felt invigorating. The rain had stopped—for the time being. Hannah set down her luggage and readjusted the shoulder strap on the one bag. “Thanks, sweetie,” she said to Guy, between breaths. “You’re—you’re being so good. Just a short—little walk to the cab. Come on….”

She couldn’t pull the suitcases. The wheels made too much noise on the pavement. Her arms felt numb. The palms of her hands were raw. But Hannah hauled the suitcases along the narrow walk and down the steps. Guy ran ahead of her.

The cab driver popped open his trunk, then stepped out of the taxi to help her with the bags. Hannah kept thanking him between gasps for air. She prodded Guy into the backseat, then practically collapsed in after him.

The cab driver climbed behind the wheel. Hannah straightened up, and thought to glance around for a burgundy Volvo that could be idling nearby.

“Just to let you know,” the driver said. “We’ve driven one-point-eight miles, and so far, this ride has cost you fifty-one bucks. Minus the twenty you gave me, of course. Where to now?”

Hannah didn’t see a burgundy Volvo in the vicinity.

“Pacific Place downtown, please,” she said. There was a hotel practically across the street from the chic shopping center. She could catch another cab there. She couldn’t let this driver take them to their destination for the night. The police could track him down too easily.

He started to pull out of the lot. “I think someone might be trying to follow me,” Hannah said. “I want to lose this guy. Can you help me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a glance at her in the rearview mirror.

“Thank you.” She sat back, then gave Guy’s shoulder a squeeze.

Twenty-three

Ben found 1313 East Republican Street just a few blocks uphill from the video store. The little two-story cedar cottage was at the end of four houses in a row just like it. They were squeezed close together on one lot. Ben figured it took some big bucks to live in one of those cozy, individual homes. He remembered what Hannah had said about Richard Kidd possibly being independently wealthy.

From across the street, Ben studied the house. He stepped back into a narrow alley beside a tall, brick apartment building. The weather had taken another turn, and it was drizzling again. He took cover under a carport canopy, and hid behind some recycling bins.

Ben wasn’t sure if anyone was home across the way. He wasn’t even sure if Richard Kidd still lived there.

After several minutes, he noticed a mail carrier on his route, working his way up the block. Ben glanced at the front door to 1313 East Republican Street. The mailbox was outside.

Ben stashed his duffel bag in the cement stairwell leading to a basement door of the apartment building. The stairs and threshold area were covered with leaves. He piled a few on top of his bag until it was completely hidden.

Emerging from the stairwell, he checked his wristwatch: 11:10. Hannah and Guy were probably well on their way by now.

On the other side of the road, the mail carrier made his deliveries to the four cedar cottages. Ben waited for a few more minutes until the mailman moved further up the street. Then Ben darted across the way to the front stoop of number 1313.

He dug the envelopes out of the mailbox: junk mail and a bill from a place called VideoTronics. All of the letters were addressed to Richard Kidd and E. Richard Kidd.

Ben put the mail back in the box. He didn’t think anyone was home, but he rang the bell anyway just to be certain. A minute passed, and he rang again. No answer.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ben tried the door. Locked. He pulled out his credit card and slid it in the doorjamb. He tried again and again, but he couldn’t trip the lock.

He heard a car coming, and he quickly backed away from the door. He crept around to the side of the house, looking for a way in. Continuing on to the backyard, he peeked in the living room window, then gave it a tug. Locked. He tried the back door; also locked. Ben skulked around to the other side of the house, then stopped. The neighbor’s identical cedar cottage was only about twenty feet away. Ben didn’t see anyone in the other residence. There were no lights on, despite the dreary overcast sky.

He glanced back at Richard Kidd’s house and spotted an open window on the first floor, but it was out of reach.

Ben grabbed an empty garbage can from around back and hauled it to the side of the house. Turning it over, he set the tall, heavy-duty aluminum bin under the open window. He stole a glimpse toward the sidewalk and street. He didn’t see anyone, so he climbed on top of the garbage can. It was wobbly, and slippery from the rain. He grabbed ahold of the windowsill.

Checking over his shoulder, Ben suddenly froze.

A middle-aged man stood at the window of the house next door. He was facing Ben. He didn’t move.

For a moment, it seemed like a standoff. Ben wasn’t sure if he should make a run for it or not. Once the neighbor called the police, it would take less than five minutes for a patrol car to arrive. There was no time to search the house. There was barely enough time to get away now.

The man remained in the window, his face expressionless. Ben stared back at him, totally perplexed. Finally, he gave the man a tentative wave. No response. After a minute, the man wandered away from the window.

Ben watched him inside the dim house. With the overcast skies, he should have had at least one light on. The man moved to a clock on the wall and put his hand on the dial, touching the hour and minute hands.

“He’s blind, stupid,” Ben muttered to himself.

Sighing, he turned and raised the window higher. His hands were shaking. He glanced around one more time. With the coast clear, he hoisted himself up, then climbed through the opening.

Catching his breath, Ben realized he was in the pantry of Richard Kidd’s small, modern kitchen. On the counter, he saw something that looked like a small transistor radio. A tiny green light was blinking on it face.

He heard a strange series of clicks in the next room. He figured he must have set off some kind of motion detector or alarm device.

Ben hurried into the living room for the source of the mechanical noise. On the floor, tilted against the wall by the front door, he saw another little device with a flickering green light. But the clicking sound wasn’t coming from there.

It came from the VCR beneath the television set. Lights were blinking on and off. It was on some kind of timer.

Ben wasn’t sure whether or not he should cut his losses and get out before the police arrived. If an alarm had gone off, it was a silent one. But wouldn’t the police or security company phone before responding in person?

Still undecided, he stood in the middle of the living room, which was decorated with black leather furniture and chrome-and-glass tables. Very cold and sleek. Ben noticed two big boxes by the foot of the stairs. He knelt down and looked through them. He recognized several books that had been at Seth’s place last night. He also discovered the same envelope with photos of Seth and Richard together—on their group hike, and on the beach with that girl. Richard had removed these things from the garage apartment last night.

In one box, Ben found a wad of paycheck stubs from the community college. Hannah was right. Richard had been giving his paychecks to Seth Stroud.

Ben opened one of the books, a high school yearbook from Missoula, Montana. He looked up Stroud, Seth, and on page 37, he saw a graduation photo of the young man he’d met only once. His hair was longer, and he had one of those teenage-boy wispy mustaches, but it was the same man Ben had seen at the garage apartment.

E. Richard Kidd was on page 33. The glasses were different, and he had some baby fat on his face, but it was Paul Gulletti’s assistant, all right.

Ben found a photo of them together on page 59. Posed behind a table with a movie projector on it, they looked slightly nerdy with their six cohorts in the Film and Video Club.

At the beginning of the yearbook, Ben unearthed an old, yellowed clipping from a Missoula newspaper. The small headline read: “LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT PREMIERES SHORT FILM AT GRAND CITIPLEX THEATERS.” The article had a photo of the young Richard Kidd without his glasses. He looked a bit pompous. The caption said: “Richard Kidd, 18, wrote and directed Sticks and Bones, a twenty-minute experimental short subject, which was a finalist in the National Film Scholarship contest.”

Ben stared at the picture and wondered when Richard Kidd had started borrowing Seth Stroud’s name. He didn’t understand why Richard lived and received mail at this address, but took his friend’s identity to work. With his background in film, it didn’t make sense that he claimed to be someone else at the community college.

Ben kept looking through the two boxes, uncovering more books, two shirts, a bag of marijuana, a camera, and junk mail from the college. Ben also unearthed an address book. Richard Kidd’s name was in it, along with his address, phone number, and cell phone. Ben copied down both phone numbers.

He wondered how they worked out the phones. He checked Richard’s answering machine on the glass-top end table by the leather sofa. Ben played back the recorded greeting: “Can’t come to the phone. You know what to do after the beep.” Short and sweet. He didn’t mention his name.

Ben imagined Seth’s greeting was just as anonymous. He couldn’t call to find out. The garage apartment was probably still packed with policemen.

Looking out the front window, he didn’t see anything unusual; no cops creeping up to the house. Perhaps those small transistor devices weren’t part of an alarm system after all.

He glanced over at the VCR again. It was counting down from twenty-two minutes. He’d never seen a VCR with a timer like that. It was strange how the machine had clicked on a moment after he’d climbed inside that window. Was it a coincidence? Or did those little transistors have something to do with it?

The telephone rang. Ben felt himself jump a bit. He waited until the answering machine came on with that anonymous greeting. The caller hung up.

Ben went back to work, quickly rummaging through a cabinet in the living room. Finding nothing of interest, he decided to try upstairs.

As he started up toward the second floor, the VCR counter read nineteen minutes.

Hannah peeked at the meter on the dashboard: sixty-one bucks so far. They were on Interstate 5, about thirty miles south of Seattle. Most of the way, Guy had been quiet, mesmerized by the taxi ride. Since she didn’t have a car, he rarely rode in one. This was a real adventure for him. Hannah had pointed out landmarks they passed: Safeco Field with its retractable roof, Boeing Field, and Sea-Tac Airport. She’d felt Guy’s forehead a couple of times, and checked his complexion. He seemed fine.

The cab driver was an East Indian man who said very little. He had the radio on, easy-listening stuff. He’d picked up her and Guy at the hotel across from Pacific Place. She’d told the driver to take them to Tacoma.

They were almost there. Hannah could already see the Tacoma Dome up ahead. Looking for hotel signs, she barely noticed the easy-listening station had switched over to the local news. But then she heard the announcer say something about a boat explosion on Lake Union.

Hannah leaned forward and listened intently.

“The victims of that blast have now been identified as a thirty-six-year-old Wisconsin businessman, Kenneth Woodley, and a private detective, also from Wisconsin, forty-year-old Walter Kirkabee. Both men were in Seattle searching for Woodley’s estranged wife, who abducted their son two years ago. Police are seeking the woman for questioning. In other news, a fraternity prank at the University of Washington went awry late last night when two seniors…”

Hannah sat back and gazed out the window. It was strange. Guy had just heard his father’s name on the radio, but he didn’t know it. If this morning’s visit from the police had left any room for doubt, now it was official. They were looking for her. They were announcing it on the radio, for God’s sake.

She saw a roadside sign for Amtrak at an upcoming exit. There were also signs for restaurants and motels: a Best Western, a Travelodge, and two more places.

Hannah leaned forward again. “Could you get off at the next exit, please?” she asked.

She decided that the Sleepy Bear Motel looked clean—and cheap enough. The sign out front showed a yawning bear wearing a nightcap and sitting in bed. “It Feels ‘Just Right!’” was the slogan above the blinking Vacancy sign. The motel was a sprawling two-story stucco with outside access to each room. Hannah noticed several fast-food places within walking distance.

There was also a train yard nearby. She could see the tracks on the other side of the parking lot’s chain-link fence. One advantage; they could probably walk to the Amtrak station.

The taxi driver unloaded their bags from the trunk. He even helped Hannah carry them into the lobby. The place smelled of coffee and had floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. There were also a lot of teddy bears. There was teddy bear-patterned wallpaper, a teddy bear calendar, a bookcase full of teddy bears behind the registration desk, teddy bear crochet pillows on the sofa and easy chairs, and porcelain teddy bear lamps.

Guy was fascinated with the place. Hannah paid the driver. She noticed the same easy-listening type of music playing on a radio behind the registration desk. She wondered if the motel clerk had just heard the same news report.

A middle-aged woman emerged from a back room on the other side of the counter. She had short brown frizzy hair and a kelly-green polyester skirt with a polka-dot blouse. She had a slightly desperate smile on her face. “Hi, there!” she chirped. “Do you need a room?”

Hannah stepped up to the desk. “Yes, please.”

“If you could fill out our little form, it would be wonderful.” The woman handed Hannah a pen, and put a card in front of her.

She borrowed Ben’s alias for the registration form: Ann Sturges & son, 129 Joyce Avenue, Yakima, WA 98409. She’d improvised the address, and purposely made the phone number undecipherable.

“I’m a little concerned about the noise from the railroad yard,” Hannah said, while filling out the form. “If you can give us a room that’s kind of quiet, I’d appreciate it.”

“Two beds?” she asked, typing on her computer keyboard. “One for Mamma Bear and one for Baby Bear?”

Hannah glanced up at her, a smile frozen on her face. “Um, yes. I—I’ll be paying in cash, and we’re staying two nights—maybe three.”

“Well, it’s lovely to have you,” the woman replied.

“Thank you,” Hannah said, handing her back the pen. She glanced out past the rain-beaded window at the parking area. She noticed an old burgundy-colored Volvo in the lot. Had it been there before? Was it the same car Ben had warned her about?

She couldn’t tell if anyone was in the front seat. The windshield was too dark. Hannah kept staring at the car. Then she saw the wipers sweep across the windshield for a beat.

A chill rushed through her. She grabbed Guy’s hand and pulled him closer. She turned her back on the car. The desk clerk was saying something, but Hannah didn’t really hear her. She remembered one of Rae’s e-mails. In it, she’d said her stalker drove a “wine-colored” Volvo.

Hannah didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t grab a taxi and go to some other motel. He’d simply follow her. She couldn’t call the police, either. She thought of Ben. But he probably hadn’t even checked into his hotel yet.

She stole a glance over her shoulder at the old Volvo again. He wouldn’t be just watching her tonight. His Psycho scenario was all set: the roadside motel, the rain, a woman fugitive, a cleansing shower. He’d have to use force to get her in the shower. Hannah imagined being stripped and dragged into a tub. What would he do to Guy?

“Ma’am?” the desk clerk said. She was holding out a room key. “I have you and the little one in Room 220. It’s very quiet.”

“Do you have two rooms that are adjoining?” Hannah asked.

The woman frowned at her. “Well, yes, on the first floor,” she said. “I can’t promise they’re as quiet as—”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Hannah said, stealing another look over her shoulder. “I—I want two rooms, with the inside door between.”

“Alrighty,” the woman murmured. She started typing on her computer keyboard again.

When the desk clerk gave her the keys to Rooms 111 and 112, Hannah quickly stashed one in her purse. She slung the tote strap over her shoulder and pulled the other two suitcases on their wheels. Guy insisted on helping. With one hand beside hers on the strap, he grunted and huffed and puffed.

As they moved across the shiny wet parking lot, Hannah spied the burgundy Volvo out of the corner of her eye. She could see someone in the front seat now. He sat behind the steering wheel. But his face was in the shadows.

They reached Room 112, and stepped inside. Hannah switched on the lights, then closed the door behind them. Guy caught his breath, then fell down on the brown shag-carpeted floor as if passing out.

“Honey, that floor’s probably filthy,” Hannah said, gazing at the room. There was a TV, and two full-size beds with comforters of a brown, gold, and beige paisley design. They matched the drapes. The headboards and other furnishings were of dark-stained wood in a Mediterranean design. Sixties chic. Framed pictures of pussy willows and birds were screwed to the wall above the beds.

Hannah unlocked the door between the rooms, then opened it. There was a second door, which could only be opened from the other side. Neither of the doors had knobs on the inside.

“Guy, please, get off the floor,” Hannah said. “C’mon. We have to take another trip back to the lobby.”

Hannah and Guy reemerged from the hotel room. She switched off the lights and shut the door. They started back to the lobby, lugging the suitcases again.

“Why couldn’t we stay?” Guy asked.

“That room isn’t very clean,” Hannah announced loudly. She was shaking her head. “We need to switch to another room.”

When they returned to the lobby with all their luggage, the desk clerk gazed at Hannah with concern. “Is there something wrong, ma’am?”

Hannah shook her head again, and set her room key on the counter. “No, not at all,” she said. “I just wanted to know if you can recommend a nearby restaurant.”

“Oh,” the woman smiled. “Well, from the way you came in here, I got the impression there might be something wrong with the room.”

That was the exact impression Hannah wanted to create—for Richard Kidd.

“No, the room’s fine,” Hannah said. “It’s terrific.”

“But Mom, you said—”

Hannah shot Guy a look that shut him up.

The desk clerk praised the fare at the Yankee Diner down the block. Hannah thanked her, and made a show of taking the room key from the countertop. Then she grabbed her bags again.

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking,” the woman said. “Why did you—um, bring your luggage back here with you?”

Hannah waved the room key at her. “Oh, no reason. Thanks again.”

She ignored the woman’s baffled look, then stashed the key in her purse. She eyed the man in the burgundy car again. He seemed to be watching her every move.

With a semblance of help from Guy, Hannah hauled the suitcases to Room 111, right beside the room she’d just “rejected.” She pulled the key out of her purse, and unlocked the door.

Once inside, she switched on the lights, then closed the door behind her. Guy ran to the bed and began bouncing on it. The room was identical to 112—right down to the paisley brown bedspread and curtains.

Hannah hoisted one of the suitcases up on the bed and opened it. She found the first-aid kit she’d packed. She pulled out a roll of white adhesive tape.

She went to the door to the neighboring unit, unlocked and opened it. The room next door was dark, just as she’d left it.

“Cool!” Guy said. “A secret passage!” He started to run into the other room, but Hannah stopped him.

“Guy, honey, you can’t go in there,” she said. “Not until I say so, okay? I’m playing a game with someone, and I don’t want him to know we have a connecting room. We may have to hide in here—but not until I say so. All right? Do you understand?”

With a sigh of resignation, he nodded.

Hannah taped up the lock catch to the door.

“What game are we playing?” Guy asked. “Hide-and-seek?”

“Sort of,” Hannah replied, flattening out the tape.

“Who are we playing with?”

“You don’t know him, honey,” she said nervously. “I hope you never do. Listen, I want you to lie down for a while. You need to take it easy. I’ll get you a glass of water in a minute.”

She ducked into the dark room next door. Through a crack in the closed curtains, she saw the figure alone in the car, still parked in the lot. The rain had started up again.

Without moving the curtain, she made sure the window was locked. There was an aluminum bar that kept the window from sliding open. It reminded her of the broom handle she’d sawed down for the front window in their Seattle apartment.

“Mom?” Guy cried from the next room.

“I’ll be right there, honey,” Hannah called softly to him.

“When do we start playing the game?” she heard him ask.

“Very soon,” Hannah replied.

She dead-bolted the outside door, then started back to her son in the connecting room.

Richard Kidd must have been in a sentimental mood last night—or early this morning. On the floor near his unmade bed was a scrapbook with a sleek steel cover. Some drug paraphernalia and a glass that smelled of scotch were on the nightstand. The room had all black-lacquer furniture, with a silver-gray bedspread. Above the headboard was a huge, framed poster from the movie Peeping Tom.

Sitting on the bed, Ben opened the album. He glanced at photos of Richard Kidd as a little boy, with bangs and Coke-bottle glasses. In one snapshot, he posed with his Polaroid camera. A laser-printed caption beneath the photo read: “The beginning of a great career.”

There were several Polaroids of a German shepherd, captioned: “Misty—1988.” Ben turned the page, and cringed at three photos of the same dog, lying on the ground with its head chopped off.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Ben forced himself to go on. He grimaced at a series of grisly photos showing the bloody, butchered corpses of teenage boys. It took Ben a moment to realize that many of the victims were the same boy. He looked like Seth Stroud, and he was smiling in a couple of shots. They were faked death scenes. Some of the corpses were even played by the young Richard Kidd.

Richard’s habit of stalking women must have developed in high school. He’d taken several shots of a pretty young blonde apparently unaware of someone photographing her. The style of these candids was consistent with his later photos of Angela Bramford, Rae, and Hannah.

Richard had saved the same Missoula newspaper article about his short film premiering as an added feature at a chain of local theaters. There were snapshots of him at the opening, along with an old ticket stub.

Ben paged through pictures of Richard at Berkeley. He’d collected letters from movie companies and amateur film contests, all rejections. Seth got in the last word with his captions beside these letters, everything from “They Can’t See Genius” to “I Will Persevere.”

While Ben browsed through the album, he listened to make sure no one was outside. The clock ticking on Richard Kidd’s nightstand seemed especially loud, like a metronome.

He noticed—for the first time—above the bed’s headboard and below the Peeping Tom poster, there were a few speckles. At first, Ben thought they were shadows of raindrops on the big picture window across the room. But Ben leaned closer. It looked like traces of red wine had splashed on the white wall. Someone must have tried to wipe off the stains, but the little dark red spots had sunk in; a permanent remembrance of some wild night.

Wild indeed. On the dresser across from the bed, Ben noticed several cameras. He wondered if Richard Kidd had taken pictures in here for another kind of scrapbook.

Ben went back to the album on his lap. He glanced at a letter from the West Coast Film Institute, informing Richard Kidd that his thirty-minute short, Sue Aside, had won first prize in their student film contest. Richard’s caption read: “A Genius Is Discovered.”

“You don’t mind yourself at all, do you, Dickie,” Ben muttered.

There were articles about Sue Aside, scheduled to show at a number of film festivals. Richard had saved preliminary reviews, praising the short movie as kinky, disturbing, and a masterpiece in black comedy.

From what Ben read, the movie was about a young woman who, after several comic, failed attempts at suicide, finally gets it right by hanging herself from a cord of blinking Christmas lights. Some stills from the movie had made their way into the scrapbook. The film’s star was an attractive, edgy-looking, dark-eyed brunette.

Richard had kept solicitous letters from film companies, agents, and independent producers. Apparently, he was very hot stuff.

Ben wondered why Richard wasn’t now a famous film director. What had happened to the young movie maverick? The answer came a few pages later, in a Los Angeles Times news clipping with the headline:

FILM SHORT, SUE ASIDE, PULLED FROM RELEASE

Amateur Director Filmed Actress’s Death on Movie Set

Heather Stuart, the twenty-two-year-old star of Richard Kidd’s breakthrough masterpiece, had, in fact, slowly strangled to death on those cords of blinking Christmas lights. Her panic and struggle, recorded on film, were real. Her strange facial contortions, which brought titters from some viewers, weren’t an act.

Richard Kidd gave conflicting accounts of the incident. In one article, he said Heather must have hung herself for real after they’d finished the film that night. In another version, he claimed Heather had wanted to commit suicide, and asked him to film it.

The West Coast Film Institute denounced Sue Aside, and revoked Richard Kidd’s award. And in a printed response to one editorial suggesting he be charged with manslaughter, Richard Kidd said he should be entitled to artistic immunity.

Another editorial predicted Hollywood agents and production companies would be falling all over themselves to snare the notorious Richard Kidd for their projects. But still another editorial maintained that selling popcorn in a movie theater would be the closest Richard Kidd would ever come to working again in the film industry.

Ben couldn’t find any evidence in the scrapbook indicating an investigation or trial. But the next few pages held letters of rejection from agents, film companies, and studios. Richard Kidd captioned these with phrases like “Believe in yourself” and “You Have a Vision; They are Blind.”

Richard’s address on the letters changed from San Francisco to Seattle. But his luck remained the same. Numerous rejections to applications for film contests, grants, and college teaching-assistant programs seemed to attest to Richard Kidd’s undesirability.

But there was a letter to a Seth Stroud on Aloha Street, dated January 27, 2001, complimenting him on the experimental videos he’d sent, Sticks and Bones and Dead Center. The gentleman writing back to Seth Stroud was interested in meeting him. He planned on making his own independent film, and wanted Seth’s participation. The note was signed by Paul Gulletti.

Under the letter, Richard had the caption “A New Beginning.”

Ben sighed. Ironically, that was the last page of Richard Kidd’s scrapbook. It was also the last of Richard Kidd, film-maker. He’d borrowed his friend’s name in order to work in the movies. Too bad he’d hung his hopes on Paul Gulletti, whose big talk about making an independent film would probably never amount to anything.

But Richard certainly got his revenge on Paul; torturing his mentor by stealing his women, then letting him know when and how he was going to kill them.

Ben figured there had to be another scrapbook somewhere, one with Angela Bramford, Rae, and all the others. Hannah too, of course. Perhaps the second volume was in Seth Stroud’s garage apartment, now tagged as police evidence against suicide victim Seth Stroud.

Ben glanced at the ticking clock on the nightstand: almost a quarter to twelve. He wondered where Hannah and Guy were right now.

Downstairs, on the VCR in Seth’s living room, the digital counter switched from eleven to ten minutes.

Through the rain-beaded windshield and across the parking lot, Richard Kidd watched her open the curtains. He reached for his video camera.

But Hannah wouldn’t quite come into focus. The light wasn’t strong enough in the hotel room, and he kept getting a reflection of the parking lot in her window. There wasn’t much to photograph anyway. She was unpacking a few things while the kid sat up in bed, watching TV.

He wasn’t sure how far Hannah intended to run. But this hotel was as far as she would ever get.

Like his prey, Richard had also packed this morning. In addition to clothes, he’d brought along some essentials: spare cameras and film, skeleton keys from Seth’s job, and a gun, among other things.

He knew the police might be looking for him soon. His friend, Seth, was a loose end with dozens of loose ends connected to him. He’d had to go. But even after planting all that evidence in Seth’s apartment and removing everything of his own, Richard figured in his haste something might have gotten past him.

He was prepared for the possibility of never returning to Seattle. He had also prepared for the possibility of the police invading his home. They would find a lot of evidence there, certainly enough to put him away for life.

He’d fixed it so none of that evidence would ever leave his house. It wouldn’t happen right away. He had a timer set for twenty-eight minutes after motion detectors picked up activity. By that time, his house would be full of cops.

Dead men and women, all of them.

Too bad he wouldn’t be there to film it.

But he had a far more important scene to realize today, here at this crummy hotel. He’d been preparing for this for some time now. The wait would soon be over.

Richard Kidd gazed at Hannah in the window, and he smiled.

The timer on the VCR in Richard Kidd’s living room was counting down from nine minutes.

Upstairs, Ben discovered Richard’s large walk-in closet, which had been converted into an office with a built-in desk, state-of-the-art video equipment, a TV-VCR, and a library of homemade tapes. There must have been a hundred of them, all labeled. Ben noticed about a dozen tagged Video Store, with various dates. He also saw one called On the Yacht, from earlier in the week. He wondered if it showed Richard and Seth planting the bomb on Kenneth Woodley’s boat. Which one of them was the explosives expert?

Ben popped the tape into the VCR and switched on the TV. He recognized Kenneth Woodley. He was with a cheap-looking blonde below the deck of that doomed yacht. They were doing lines of cocaine together. He started undressing her. Then, suddenly, he hit her—again and again. Her screams came over the soundtrack. Ben winced at each brutal blow. He saw what Hannah had endured while married to the son of a bitch.

He couldn’t fathom how Richard Kidd just sat back and videotaped Kenneth beating the hell out of that poor woman. Then again, this was a killer, a voyeur who had kept the cameras rolling while his star strangled to death in Sue Aside.

What was going on in the galley of that yacht bordered on rape. Ben couldn’t watch anymore. He stopped the VCR and ejected the video.

Among the cassette boxes on the shelf, one labeled Goodbar, Raw Footage caught his eye. Ben glanced at his watch. Almost ten to twelve. He didn’t want to linger there much longer. But he needed to make certain he had enough evidence for the police. Then they could come in and turn the place upside down.

Ben inserted the Goodbar, Raw Footage tape into the VCR. He found himself staring at a shot of the bed in the very next room. But the Peeping Tom poster was gone. His old girlfriend, Rae, and Richard Kidd wandered into the picture, then sat down on the bed. It broke Ben’s heart to see her again, looking so pretty and vulnerable.

What she and Richard Kidd were saying to one another was garbled. Ben experimented with the volume, but with no luck. Apparently, the mike wasn’t within range. Another thing was apparent: Rae didn’t know she was being videotaped. She laughed at a joke Richard made, then kissed him.

They fell back on the bed, and their faces were no longer in the picture. The two entwined bodies could have belonged to any horny couple. Ben impatiently hit the fast-forward button. After a moment, Richard shifted her around in the bed. He obviously knew where the camera was, and wanted Rae’s face in the frame. He climbed on top of her and started to unbutton her blouse. Then he reached for something beside the bed.

Ben slowed the tape to normal speed, and watched as Richard recreated the Goodbar scene with a strobe light. Rae looked uncomfortable. She was saying something, but the words were indecipherable. Amid the staccato, flickering image of those two people on that bed in the next room, Ben noticed Richard pull a knife from under the mattress.

All at once, he started stabbing Rae in the chest.

Ben felt sick as he watched his old girlfriend struggle with this maniac. Then she stopped struggling.

Richard climbed off the bed, leaving her to lie there, lifeless. Her dead eyes gazed at the ceiling. Bloodstains bloomed on the white bedsheets tangled around her.

Ben could see some of the blood splattered on the headboard and wall. He realized those weren’t wine stains he’d noticed earlier. He’d been looking at Rae’s blood.

Ben swallowed hard, then wiped the tears from his eyes. He was about to eject the tape, but accidentally hit the fast-forward button again.

In rapid, sputtering motion, Richard switched off his strobe light. Then his friend Seth Stroud wandered into the bedroom. The two of them started to strip the bed, leaving Rae’s semi-nude corpse in the middle.

Ben slowed the tape to normal speed again. He could see a shiny plastic lining beneath those bloody bedsheets. Seth said something that he alone thought was funny. He was laughing as they peeled the plastic sheet off the mattress. They bundled Rae and the blood-soaked linens inside the tarp-like sheet.

Seth started moving toward the camera. “Lighten up,” he muttered as he came into range of the microphone. “I’m the one who should be in a shitty mood. I spent the better part of my night digging a fucking hole for her in that ravine near the cemetery. You owe me big-time. I’m gonna—”

Seth switched off the camera. Ben stared at the snowy static for a moment.

He remembered a ravine near the cemetery where Bruce and Brandon Lee were buried. Hannah had pointed it out.

He quickly ejected the video.

He wouldn’t let this particular cassette out of his sight until he handed it over to the police. It answered all questions as to what had happened to his friend, Rae Palmer. The content of the tape sickened him. But it ended a month-long search.

Ben could hear the clock ticking in Richard’s bedroom. He glanced at a wastebasket near the desk, and spotted a plastic bag. He loaded the video inside. He figured he should go. He now had what he’d come a long way to find. Getting to his feet, he took one last look at the video library. He wondered about a video labeled Hannah and another, Vertigo Revisited.

He inserted Vertigo Revisited into the VCR.

“COULD YOU PUT DOWN THE FUCKING CAMERA FOR A MINUTE, MAN?” Seth said.

It was startlingly loud. Ben had forgotten he’d tinkered with the sound in the Goodbar video. He grabbed the remote and lowered the volume.

On the screen, the picture was so dark and murky, Seth could barely be seen walking up a continual flight of stairs. He seemed to be inside a tower. He was addressing the camera, apparently held by Richard Kidd.

“You’re getting on my nerves with that thing,” Seth went on, sneering at the camera. “I mean it. Why are you taping now anyway?”

“It’s a test shoot, dum-dum,” Richard responded, a disembodied voice behind the camera. “We have to get it right for tomorrow night when we take Hannah up here. We’ll need a higher-exposure film, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, the lighting here sucks.” Seth sighed, forging up the staircase. “Plus we’ll have to drag her ass up here. This is gonna take a helluva lot of work tomorrow.”

The handheld camera was a little unsteady keeping up with him. “You know the one we should have filmed dying?” Seth continued, a bit out of breath. “That bitch we threw out of the apartment-building window. Perfect light, and lots of room to move around.”

“I told you already,” Richard replied. “I only videotaped her for surveillance. The death scenes are exclusively for my leading ladies. The others don’t matter.”

“You and your goddamn leading ladies,” Seth groaned, shaking his head at the camera. “You hold onto those tapes of them like an old miser. I helped make them too, you know. Hell, who’s the one who went in that video store time after time wearing a wire so you could hear what was going on with your precious Hannah? If it weren’t for me and that wire, you never would’ve heard those two customers bitching at her. And those were two of our best kills. I put a lot of hours on each one of your mini-masterpieces. Least you could do is loan them out to me once in a while. I’m sentimental too, you know.”

“I’d will them to you, Seth,” Richard said. “Only, we both know you’ll die first.”

“Always cheers me up whenever you say that,” Seth muttered.

“Anyway, the tapes will probably go up in smoke. No one else is getting them. In fact, I’ve had the place rigged in case the cops ever start gathering evidence.”

Seth laughed. “Shit, no. You mean like in the boat? With a timer and a delay?”

Ben wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. He stopped the tape, then backed it up again. For a moment, while the tape rewound, he could hear the clock ticking in the bedroom.

He was about to stop the tape again. But all of a sudden, he heard someone downstairs. “She had me show her how to rig it to a door—with a little delay….”

Ben froze for a moment. He realized the voice downstairs was someone on TV.

He ran through the bedroom and stopped at the top of the stairs. He could see the living-room television. It had come on by itself. Mickey Rourke was talking to William Hurt.

“Does any of this mean anything to you?” Rourke was asking.

Ben knew the movie: Body Heat. They were talking about Kathleen Turner’s character, plotting to kill Hurt in a boathouse with a delayed explosive device.

For a second, Ben couldn’t move.

…the tapes will go up in smoke…

…I already have the place rigged…

Does any of this mean anything to you?

Suddenly, Ben bolted back toward the bedroom closet. The video was still rewinding in the VCR. On the television screen, Richard was moving backward down the church-tower steps at an impossibly rapid pace.

Ben ejected the tape, then swiped up a couple of the videos on the desk and stashed them in the plastic bag. He raced past the bed where Rae had been slain, grabbed one of the small cameras from the dresser top, and headed for the large picture window.

There was no time to think about what he was doing. Ben had to get out of the house. He hurled the camera at the window, punching a hole through the center and splintering the glass. Ben covered his face and neck the best he could, then dove through the opening.

For a second, he didn’t feel anything. He was aware of falling, and he heard the window breaking and popping. Everything else was a blur. He was working on pure adrenaline. Survival instincts.

At that same moment, an explosion tore through the tiny house.

The force of it shattered windows in a couple of neighboring homes. The people who saw the blast would describe the flames, and the black, billowing smoke. They said the ground shook. Sparks and debris shot hundreds of feet through the air.

They said no one could have survived it.

Twenty-four

“Has Ben Podowski checked in yet?” she asked, glancing at her wristwatch. It was five-twenty.

“No, ma’am, not yet,” the Best Western operator told her on the other end of the line. “But we’re expecting him.”

“Do you know if he called in for his messages? He said he might.”

“Is this Ann Sturges?” the operator asked.

“Um, yes,” Hannah said. She looked over at Guy under the covers. He stirred a little in his sleep. He’d been napping since four-fifteen.

“We still have you on the message board, Ms. Sturges. So he hasn’t called in yet, no. Can he still reach you at the Sleepy Bear Motel in Tacoma at 360-555-0916?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“We’ll make sure he gets the message when he checks in or calls.”

“Thank you. Good-bye.” Hannah hung up the phone. Something had happened to Ben; otherwise he would have called her. She prayed he was all right, but Hannah had a horrible feeling her prayers were too late. She’d left the first message for him over four hours ago.

In that time, she and Guy had had Chinese food delivered for lunch; they’d watched cartoons on the TV; Hannah had called Ben’s hotel two more times; the rain had let up; and that lone, shadowy figure hadn’t moved from the front seat of the burgundy Volvo.

Hannah wandered to the window. She could see her reflection in the darkened glass. She knew he could see her, too. He was still out there in the parking lot. He was probably waiting for her to take a shower.

Hannah wanted him to know she was settling in for the night, so she’d kept the curtains open. What he didn’t know was that they had a connecting room, an escape route, their own panic room—with a phone.

She glanced down at the aluminum bar in the window groove, a security device meant to keep the window from sliding open too far. She furtively lifted the bar from between the grooves along the windowsill. Then she let it drop on the floor, near her feet.

Hannah walked away from the window and sat down on the bed across from Guy. Peeking up at her from his pillow, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Hi, Mom,” he muttered.

She felt his forehead. He didn’t seem to be running a fever at all. “Honey, remember how I said earlier that we were going to play a game?”

He nodded. “We were gonna play after lunch, but you said no.”

Hannah stroked his hair. “That’s right. But we’re starting the game now. It’s a very serious game, Guy. I need you to do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?”

The brat climbed out of bed. He was in his T-shirt and underpants. He said something to his mother, then retreated into the bathroom.

With his camera, Richard Kidd zoomed in on Hannah Doyle as she unbuttoned her blouse. The light was better now, no reflection on the window. She was in focus. She had her shirt open, with a bra underneath. She pulled a robe out of the closet.

Richard didn’t expect it, but he felt himself getting hard.

He watched Hannah tie back her blond hair in a ponytail.

The brat emerged from the bathroom and scurried back into the bed.

Hannah said something to him; then she stepped into the bathroom. Richard put down the camera for a moment. He reached into the bag on the floor of the passenger side.

He found the butcher’s knife he’d brought along specifically for tonight. He’d wrapped it up in a towel. The blade was eight inches long. He kept the knife hidden in the towel as he stepped out of his car. He glanced again at the window to Room 111.

Hannah came out of the bathroom, still wearing her robe. She had a shampoo bottle in her hand.

Richard stood by the car with the door open. He watched her say something to the brat. The kid yanked up the comforter, covering his face. She pulled it down to speak to him, but he only tugged the comforter back up again, huddling beneath it.

Hannah turned down the lights. It was so dim in there, Richard didn’t think the place would photograph well. But he’d have good, strong light in the bathroom, and that was where it really mattered.

He’d have to cheat a little, of course. Holding a camera and wielding the knife would be difficult. Later, he’d videotape a few shadowy shots of himself raising the knife and plunging it downward. Then he’d splice those shots into footage of the actual murder.

He watched his leading lady saunter over to the window and close the curtains.

He tucked the swaddled knife under his arm. After retrieving his video camera from the front seat, he shut the car door.

He headed for Room 111, where Hannah Doyle would give her final performance.

“Oh, Guy, you’re being so good,” Hannah whispered, quickly leading him into the connecting room. She was carrying his clothes, shoes, and jacket. She sat him on the floor, between the two beds. “Now, I want you to get dressed. Then stay down here, and be very quiet. Stay there until I say it’s okay. Understand, sweetheart?”

Wide-eyed, he nodded.

Hannah kissed the top of his head. She threw off her robe. She was still dressed underneath it. Buttoning up her blouse, she went to the window and peeked through the slit between the curtains. She could see Richard Kidd skulking toward Room 111. She’d been right about him and the Vertigo murder. The teacher’s assistant she’d known as Seth Stroud was indeed someone else, and he wasn’t really dead.

Richard Kidd neared the row of rooms. Hannah could see he had a video camera in his hand and a towel tucked under one arm.

Grabbing a pillow from the bed, Hannah hurried back to the other room. She shoved the pillow under the sheets of the bed Guy had just vacated, then pulled the comforter back up. It looked like there was a small body in the bed. Hannah rolled her eyes and hoped he’d fall for it.

She swiped the aluminum bar off the floor by the window. Breathlessly, she ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower, full blast. She closed the curtain, then darted out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

On her way to the connecting room, Hannah paused. She noticed a shadow on the window curtains, the silhouette of someone creeping up to the door. Past the muffled roar of the shower, she could hear him rattling the doorknob and fiddling with the lock.

Hannah ducked into the connecting room. She checked the adhesive tape over the lock. Still secure. There was no knob on the inside, so she gave the door a quick tug. It shut, but not quite all the way.

“All right now, honey,” she whispered. “Be very quiet.”

“’Kay, Mom,” Guy answered in a loud whisper.

Clutching the aluminum bar in her hand, Hannah leaned close to the door. She heard some clicking. He was still working on the lock next door.

Richard Kidd managed to unlock the motel room door with his dead friend’s skeleton key. Seth had always been the expert at breaking and entering. But Richard had picked up a few of his tricks.

Quietly, he opened the door. He didn’t want her brat interfering. He’d planned on slitting the kid’s throat very quickly, then moving on to Mommy in the shower.

But the kid appeared to be asleep again already. The covers were still pulled over his head from their game of peekaboo earlier. He didn’t stir.

Richard closed the door behind him. He decided to leave the little shit alone until afterward. He liked the idea of killing Hannah with a clean knife. And he needed to catch her while she was still in the shower. Stopping to do away with the son might screw that up.

As he crept toward the bathroom, Richard could hear the shower water churning. He glanced back toward the beds. The kid hadn’t moved at all, just a lump under the covers.

Clutching the knife handle, Richard shook off the small towel, and tucked the blade back under his arm. He switched on the video camera and put it up to his face. He reached for the bathroom door with his free hand.

For a fleeting moment, he missed his friend. How much easier it might have been with one man filming, and another stabbing. But he only needed one hand to work the knife. And he’d become accustomed to operating a camera while running, driving, and conducting all sorts of activities. He was up for the challenge.

Richard filmed the door opening. A bright light swept across the dim bedroom, and steam fogged up the lens for a moment.

The bathroom came into focus: white tiles, beige wallpaper. The shower curtain was white plastic, not the semi-transparent kind. He couldn’t see her on the other side. But he could imagine.

She was naked, of course. She probably had her eyes closed. She couldn’t hear him. And she certainly couldn’t hear the quiet, mechanical humming noise from his video camera.

Gazing at that closed shower curtain, he felt a little giddy and nervous. It wasn’t just the steam that was making him sweat. Richard filmed his hand slowly reaching for the curtain.

Suddenly, his movements became accelerated. His adrenaline was pumping. He yanked the curtain open, then quickly pulled the knife from under his other arm. Richard was looking through his camera as he raised the butcher’s knife. He wanted to capture her screams on videotape.

But the shower was empty.

Another heavy wave of vapor clouded his camera lens.

“What the hell?” Richard Kidd muttered angrily. He lowered the camera and the knife, then turned toward the open door.

He didn’t expect to see Hannah. He barely had time to realize she was there. All at once, she slammed the aluminum bar over his head.

Richard Kidd howled in pain. The video camera fell out of his hands and broke on the tiled floor. The butcher’s knife flew into the tub. Though stunned, Richard remained on his feet. Blood oozed from the gash on his forehead.

Hannah hit him again, knocking his glasses off. He stumbled back, almost falling into the tub. He accidentally knocked the shower head askew. The hot water doused both of them.

“Fucking bitch!” Richard growled, enraged. He managed to regain his footing.

The steam from the shower set off the smoke detector in the next room. The beeping noise echoed in the brightly lit white bathroom.

Hannah tried to strike him again with the aluminum rod. But Richard Kidd reeled back and hit her across the face.

Hannah’s feet slipped from under her. She fell back on the slick, tiled floor, bumping her head on the side of the tub.

Catching his breath, Richard Kidd stared at her. Without his glasses, it took a moment for him to focus. She’d been knocked unconscious. The shower spray was pelting her. Hannah’s blond hair was matted down. The blood coming from her mouth looked like pink drool that the pulsating water waved away. It stained the front of her blouse.

The knife was still in the tub.

Richard glanced at the mirror above the sink, then wiped the fogged glass. He had two gashes on his forehead, seeping blood.

“Goddamn you,” he muttered. He gave Hannah’s leg a fierce kick. Then he kicked his broken video camera. It slid across the wet floor. He picked up his designer glasses. Both lenses were cracked.

The smoke alarm continued to beep at an obnoxious, high pitch.

Grabbing a washcloth from the sink, Richard held it to his bleeding forehead. Again, he stared at the butcher’s knife in the tub.

She’d ruined his death scene. All those weeks of planning and preparing, and she’d fucked it all up. Killing her now was too easy. She was semiconscious at best. She’d barely even feel it. That wouldn’t do. He wanted her to suffer.

He wanted Hannah to regain consciousness. And then she would wake up to a nightmare.

Hannah tasted blood in her mouth. Soaked and shivering, she lay in a puddle of cold water on the bathroom floor. When she sat up, her head started to throb.

She’d lost some time. But she didn’t know how much. A few moments? An hour? The shower wasn’t running anymore. The smoke detector was no longer beeping. Hannah squinted up at the ceiling in the next room. The alarm device had been smashed. She noticed blood smears on the bathroom door, and a bloodstained washcloth on the floor just beyond the bathroom threshold. She glanced around for the butcher’s knife, but didn’t see it.

Suddenly, she heard a door slam in the next unit.

“Guy,” she whispered, panic-stricken. She got to her feet, and nearly collapsed again. The floor was so slippery. Her leg ached something awful. Had he kicked her?

Hannah hobbled out of the bathroom. Tracking water on the brown shag carpet, she hurried to the door connecting to Room 112. It was locked.

“Guy?” she called, pounding on the door. Tears stung her eyes. “Guy, are you in there?”

No response.

Hannah ran out the other door. It was cold outside, and she was soaked to the bone. But she hardly noticed.

She banged on Room 112. The door creaked open. “Guy, are you in here?” she cried, stepping inside the dark room. She checked between the beds, then under them.

The lamp on the nightstand table had been knocked over. There was blood on the white shade.

Hannah bolted back outside. She spotted the old burgundy Volvo in the lot. Richard hadn’t driven away with him.

She had hoped to use that car to get away. After knocking Richard Kidd unconscious, she would have phoned the police and reported a man attacking a woman in Room 111 of the Sleepy Bear Motel. Then she would have taken his car and driven off with her son.

But now Richard Kidd had her little boy.

Hannah gazed around the parking lot. She was shaking. Tears streamed down her face. She had to remind herself to breathe.

She heard Guy scream, but for only a couple of seconds. He was drowned out by the sound of a train whistle. Still, she knew it was Guy. She knew his voice.

Hannah ran to the side of the motel. Beyond some shrubbery and a barbed-wire fence was the railroad switching yard. She stared at the rows of freight cars lined up on the tracks. The yard was well lit. Rain puddles had formed in the shallow, rocky gullies between the tracks. The place smelled of oil and freshly cut wood. A couple of the trains were moving.

Hannah saw an opening in the fence, then wove through the bushes. She passed a couple of old empty boxcars on the first track line. Her leg began to hurt more as she forged over the coarse rocks and gravel around the tracks. A cold wind cut through her, and she shuddered.

She heard another scream, much closer this time. Hannah found an opening between a tanker and a flatcar stacked with lumber. Down the next line of tracks, she saw them.

Richard was hauling Guy toward a moving train on the next track. He paused for a moment, then glanced back at Hannah and smiled. Blood from the cuts on his forehead streaked down his face.

Guy was shrieking and struggling in his arms.

“Let him go!” Hannah screamed. She hurried toward them. Up ahead, a train rounded a curve in the tracks. For a moment, the locomotive’s front light blinded her. The loud horn muted the sound of Guy’s screams.

Past the glaring light, Hannah caught sight of them again. Richard was loading Guy into an empty boxcar of an idle train. He climbed aboard after Guy.

Hannah started running after them, sidestepping around wooden ties and rails. She tripped on a lockbox, and toppled forward onto the rocky gravel. It hurt like hell. She knew she’d scraped her hands and knees. She knew she was bleeding. But there was no time to stop and look.

Pulling herself up, Hannah felt a loose spike on the ground. She hid it in the waistband along the back of her jeans. Once again, she staggered toward the train. She heard its air brakes hissing, and the engine starting up.

Out of breath, Hannah hobbled toward the open boxcar.

Then she stopped dead.

Richard Kidd was standing inside the freight car, holding a butcher’s knife to Guy’s throat. Silent, with tears running down his cheeks, Guy looked utterly terrified. His little body was shaking. The front of his jacket had been smeared with blood. It took Hannah a moment to realize that the blood was Richard Kidd’s.

He was grinning at her. She’d never seen him without his trademark glasses. She didn’t realize how cold his eyes could be. With his face covered in blood, he appeared almost demonic.

“Let him go,” Hannah gasped. “I’ll do anything you say.”

Richard Kidd merely snickered. “Come and get him.”

Hannah hesitated, then boosted herself up into the car. Putting weight on her bad leg, she nearly fell backward onto the rock piling and the next set of rails. She grabbed hold of the boxcar’s sliding door. “Please,” she said, catching her breath. “Please, it’s me you want—”

Another blast from a locomotive drowned her out. As much as Hannah pleaded, she knew he couldn’t hear her. And she knew it didn’t matter what she said. He was still going to kill her little boy.

With the knife tip, Richard Kidd traced a thin line of blood along Guy’s neck. Guy didn’t register any sign of pain. But he was still trembling.

“What do you want from me?” Hannah screamed.

“I wanted you to be my leading lady, Hannah,” he yelled over the churning, noisy din of the train yard. He took the knife away from Guy’s throat for a moment, only to wipe the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was pulling all the strings for you,” he went on, the blade against Guy’s neck once again. “I was watching over you, Hannah, protecting you. I have hours and hours of screen-test footage I shot of you. What a fucking waste. You could have been my leading lady. But you’re just as bad as those other bitches who came before you.” He shook his head at her. “At least when it didn’t work out with them, I got to film their death scenes. They were sacrificed for my art. At least I had something to show for my efforts with them. But you, Hannah, you’ve left me with nothing.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Seth,” she said. “I mean Richard. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry.”

He glared at her. “You think you’re very clever,” he retorted. “You don’t know what sorry is yet.”

He dragged Guy over to the other side of the huge, open door. He glanced back at a train approaching in the distance. Holding Guy under the chin, Richard pushed him toward the opening. “Ever see anyone thrown in front of a moving train before?” he asked.

Guy shrieked.

“Please, no…” Hannah begged. Poised on the other side of the door, she reached back for the railroad spike tucked in the waistband of her jeans. The train was coming closer, picking up speed. The sound of its grinding engine grew louder.

Richard laughed. Again, he took the knife away from Guy’s throat so he could wipe the blood out of his eyes.

Just then, the car gave a jolt that shook all three of them. Suddenly, they were moving.

Guy broke away from him. At the same moment, Hannah lunged at Richard, stabbing him in the shoulder with the rail spike. He dropped his knife and howled in pain.

The deafening noise from the train wheels and engines drowned out his cries. The boxcar rocked and quaked as it picked up speed.

Grabbed hold of the sliding door, Richard managed to stay on his feet. He pulled the spike from his shoulder. Blood leaked down his jacket.

Crouched near the floor on the other side of the opening, Hannah pulled Guy behind her. Richard was breathing hard as he came at them. He shook his head and said something. But she couldn’t hear what it was.

The car took another jolt. Richard lost his balance. Reeling toward the edge of the open door, he clawed at Hannah and managed to grab hold of her sleeve.

But she clung to a latch on the door.

His arms flailing, Richard fell out of the boxcar—into the path of the oncoming train.

There was a loud blast from the engine. The brakes screeched. Hannah pulled Guy toward her, shielding his face. She turned away as well. She didn’t want to see Richard Kidd mangled and crushed under the locomotive.

Watching people die had been something he liked. But not her, and not her little boy.

Curling up against the wall of the boxcar, Hannah held onto Guy. Wind swept through the open door. They were both shivering. “It’s okay, honey,” she assured him. “We’re both all right.”

“’Kay,” he said in a small voice.

She felt him nodding against her shoulder.

Hannah patted him on the back. “It was just like a nightmare, sweetie,” she said, over the churning locomotive. “But we’re safe now. Everything’s all right.”

He stopped crying. Hannah rocked him in her arms. “Listen to the choo-choo train, Guy,” she whispered. “Listen to the train….”

Epilogue

The nightmare wasn’t over for Hannah.

Guy was taken from her. She spent the night at a women’s holding center at the King County jail. At least they gave her a private cell.

Another small solace, Guy got to stay with Joyce—and not in some children’s shelter.

Hannah had called her from the emergency room of Tacoma General, near the rail yard. Joyce had made it to the hospital by cab five minutes before the Seattle detectives showed up. Guy had been released into her care.

Hannah, who had severe bruises on her leg and face, had been taken back to Seattle—in handcuffs.

On Saturday afternoon, Jennifer Dorn Podowski was making arrangements for her husband. She handled everything on-line and on the phone. She’d instructed the Seattle Medical Examiner’s office to have the remains flown to New York after the autopsy. The body would be buried in a cemetery not far from their home in Croton-on-Hudson.

Ben said it was the least they could do for Rae. She had no family.

That Saturday morning, police had searched a ravine in north Capital Hill, and they’d found her remains, wrapped in a plastic sheet buried in a shallow grave. They knew where to look, thanks to Ben.

He’d spent Friday night in Harbor View Hospital, where doctors reset his broken left arm, then put it in a cast. They also sewed seventeen stitches in that same shoulder. There were dozens of other cuts and abrasions from the broken glass, and some second-degree burns from the explosion.

The police detectives who questioned Ben in his hospital bed said he was lucky to be alive.

Another bit of luck; they’d found two videotapes in a plastic bag hidden under his torn, seared shirt. He’d given the tapes to the cop who had discovered him. Bloody, charred, covered with dirt and debris, he’d been wandering near the recycling bins of the apartment building across the street from Richard Kidd’s residence—or what was left of it. The cop had written on his report that Ben Podowski had appeared dazed and incoherent.

But Ben had known exactly what he was doing at the time.

The first tape had Seth Stroud ascending the church tower, talking to his friend with the camera. Between the two of them, they made references to the boat explosion, a plot to kill Hannah Doyle, and Richard Kidd’s booby-trapped house.

If that wasn’t enough to shed light on their culpability in this killing spree, the second video showed Richard stabbing Rae Palmer, and Seth Stroud helping dispose of the body.

While detectives in the East Precinct were viewing the tapes and becoming more interested in the whereabouts of Hannah Doyle, their colleagues were interviewing Ben Podowski in Harbor View Hospital’s emergency ward. The doctor on duty didn’t appreciate the constant police presence while sewing up his patient.

Ben kept asking to use the phone. He wanted to call the Best Western Executive Inn. He had to find out if Hannah had left a message, and make sure she was all right. But the police kept telling him that if he needed to phone anyone, they’d make the call for him. The doctor finally had to knock Ben out with a sedative, because he wouldn’t sit still.

He woke up at seven o’clock that night, in a hospital bed. He was covered with bandages and salve for his burns. A nurse was there. And a couple of detectives were waiting to talk with him. Ben’s first words were: “Is Hannah okay? Hannah Doyle?”

“Yes, we have her in custody,” one of the detectives answered.

They questioned him for the next two and a half hours. At Ben’s suggestion, the police interviewed Paul Gulletti about the man calling himself Seth Stroud, and about Paul’s relationships with a couple of the murder victims.

Detectives also spoke with several students in Paul’s class. Most of them misidentified photos of the real Seth Stroud, claiming he was the teacher’s assistant. Tish at the video store also had trouble differentiating photos of the two men.

The pair of killers had indeed looked very much alike. If not for Ben and Hannah, perhaps Richard Kidd might have gotten away with murdering his friend—as well as so many others.

On Saturday morning, Ben’s wife faxed the police hard copies of Rae Palmer’s e-mails. The documents linked the rooftop “suicide” of Joe Blankenship and Lily Abrams’s death with the others. They would finally put the Floating Flower case to rest.

Richard Kidd had been living quite well off a monthly allowance from his late father’s trust fund. His mother in Missoula, Montana, refused to believe the awful stories the police were telling about her son.

The murders made national news by Saturday morning. The media couldn’t help comparing Richard Kidd and Seth Stroud to their kill-for-kicks predecessors, Leopold and Loeb.

By Saturday afternoon, CNN was showing a clip from Richard Kidd’s film short Sue Aside. A video and DVD company was already trying to acquire distribution rights to Sue Aside as well as Richard’s other student films, Dead Center and Sticks and Bones.

According to news reports, Hannah Doyle, the killers’ most recent prey, was unavailable for comment. She was being held by Seattle police as a “person of interest” in several investigations unrelated to the murders.

Ben desperately wanted to talk with her, but the police weren’t allowing Hannah any incoming calls.

When he was released from the hospital at three-thirty Saturday afternoon, Ben took a taxi to Emerald City Video. He’d had one of the nurses buy him some new clothes at the Gap: black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a fall jacket. But with his arm in a cast and three small bandages on his face, Ben still looked pretty beat-up as he hobbled into the video store.

The place was a mob scene.

“We had a TV news crew in here a couple of hours ago,” Scott told him. “Plus we have all these morbid nutcases coming in. They’re not even renting. They’re just poking around, being major pains in the ass. I’m not supposed to be working today. I just got out of the hospital. You too, I guess, huh?”

Threading through the crowd, Ben and Scott ducked into the employee break room. “I’m only putting in a couple of hours to help Tish out, because I’m such a saint—or such a sap,” Scott explained, shutting the door behind him. “You look like you need to sit down more than I do,” he said, pulling out the chair. “Take a load off.”

“Thanks,” Ben said, sitting down. His painkillers were wearing off.

“So have you heard anything about Hannah?” Scott asked anxiously.

“No, I was hoping you could tell me something. I tried phoning Guy’s baby-sitter, Joyce, but I wasn’t getting an answer.”

“She came by earlier,” Scott said. “I guess Hannah’s in-laws flew in this morning. They’re staying at the Four Seasons. They were smart enough to have Joyce bring Guy over there. Joyce said they sent a limo for them. Then the limo drove her back. Anyway, Guy’s with his grandparents now. Joyce said he started crying when she left.”

“Oh, God,” Ben whispered. “The poor kid.”

“Hannah’s in-laws sent someone over here, too,” Scott said, folding his arms and leaning against the door. “I think he was a detective working for their attorneys. I don’t know. He talked with Tish mostly. He was asking about Hannah’s tax records, and any forms she might have signed.”

“What for?” Ben murmured.

“I think Hannah’s in-laws are going after her with both barrels. This guy mentioned something about Hannah committing fraud against the government—in addition to kidnapping, theft, and forgery charges.” Scott shook his head, and his eyes teared up. “Looks like they’re really sticking it to our girl.”

Ben frowned. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You’d think they’d want to sweep it all under the rug, and pay her to keep quiet. Don’t they know why she took Guy and left? Do they have any clue that their son was an abusive asshole?”

“Apparently not,” Scott replied, shrugging.

Ben glanced up at the tiny TV-VCR on the shelf above the desk. “Hey, Scott?”

“Yeah?”

He nodded at the little television. “Do you think I could borrow that for the afternoon?”

The small TV had a carrying handle on the top, and didn’t weigh much at all. Still, Ben took a taxi from the video store to 1313 East Republican Street, only a few blocks away.

Richard Kidd’s bungalow was now a burnt-out shell, cordoned off with yellow police tape. The front yard was littered with rubble and debris. A patrol car was parked in front, and a couple of curiosity-seekers stood on the sidewalk, trying to get a better look at the place.

Ben had the cab drop him off, then wait up the block. He headed for the apartment building across the street from the blast site. He walked under the canopy, past the recycling bins, then down the basement stairwell. He found his duffel bag, still buried under a pile of leaves at the bottom of those cement steps.

The cop who had found him wandering around there yesterday had said Ben appeared disoriented. But Ben had known what he was doing.

Taking the duffel bag, he hobbled back to the waiting cab. Ben thanked the driver for waiting. He put his bag on the seat, beside the portable TV.

“Can you take me to the Four Seasons Hotel, please?” he asked.

Answering the door to Suite 619 was a well-groomed, thirty-year-old man in a three-piece suit. He could have been a lawyer, a bodyguard, or someone who worked for a funeral parlor. He didn’t introduce himself to Ben. He just looked him up and down, and asked, “Are you Ben Podowski?”

Standing at the threshold with a portable TV-VCR tucked under his one good arm and holding onto his duffel bag, Ben nodded.

“Mrs. Woodley will give you five minutes, that’s all,” the man said stiffly.

Ben followed him into the living room, where Mrs. Woodley sat on a sofa. The elegantly appointed room offered a sweeping view of Puget Sound. She had the television on mute, and in front of her was a fancy tea set and a plate of fruit and cookies that she’d been picking at.

With her frosty gaze, stiff mink-colored hair, and the pink suit, Mrs. Woodley looked like a First Lady—minus the people skills. She sipped her tea, and nodded at Ben.

Though he had a cast on one arm and was struggling with the little TV and his bag, Mrs. Woodley didn’t ask her lackey in the three-piece suit to lend him a hand.

“I was hoping to talk Mr. Woodley,” Ben said, setting down his bag.

“Mr. Woodley is terribly busy,” she said. “And so am I. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?”

“How’s Guy doing?” Ben asked. “Is he okay?”

“Little Ken is napping right now,” Mrs. Woodley replied. “And he can’t be disturbed.”

Ben glanced down around the baseboards for an outlet. “Well, tell him that Ben said ‘hi.’ We got to be good friends in the last few days.” He propped the TV on a desk by the window, then plugged it in.

“You have about three and a half more minutes,” the man in the business suit announced. His arms folded, he stood behind the couch where the woman sat.

Ben glanced at Mrs. Woodley, then rolled his eyes toward the man. “Does he have to be here?”

“Yes,” she said. “And he’s quite right. I have other appointments.”

“Then I’ll get to the point,” Ben said, standing between Mrs. Woodley and the TV. “I was hoping to persuade you and Mr. Woodley to drop any charges you were planning to file against your daughter-in-law.”

Mrs. Woodley sipped her tea and said nothing.

“In fact, I thought you might want to help her out,” Ben continued. “Maybe even get some of your high-powered attorneys to clear her of any other charges like fraud or forgery or whatever. And with all your money, I thought you’d want to help her out financially, too.”

Hannah’s mother-in-law glanced over her shoulder at the man.

“I think you’ve taken up enough of Mrs. Woodley’s time,” he said with a stony gaze at Ben.

“If she’s put on trial, it’s going to come out why she took the baby and left,” Ben said. “You’re aware that your son beat her, aren’t you?”

Putting down her cup of tea, she squirmed a little on the sofa.

“Even if you drop the kidnapping charges, and she went on trial for fraud or something else, she’ll still have to explain why she did what she did. It’ll still come out that your late son was an abuser—in every sense of the word.”

Ben unzipped the duffel bag, and within a moment, the man was right behind him. “It’s just a video,” Ben explained, showing him the cassette.

“Hannah doesn’t know I’m here, Mrs. Woodley. In fact, she doesn’t even know this video exists.” He switched on to the little TV-VCR. “No one knows this exists except the three of us. The man who made it is dead. He was one of the young men who killed your son.”

Her brow wrinkled, Mrs. Woodley frowned at him.

“I really don’t want to show this to you,” Ben said. “But I’ll show it to the world if you insist on prosecuting Hannah. Anyone who sees it would have a good idea of what Hannah had to put up with. It explains why she took her baby and left.”

Ben inserted the video and pressed “Play.”

The image on the screen was dark and grainy. The footage had been filmed at night, through the window of a yacht. There were a man and a woman seated in the galley below deck. They were snorting lines of cocaine.

“It’ll get pretty awful in a few minutes,” Ben warned.

Hannah’s mother-in-law leaned forward and numbly gazed at the image on the little TV.

“Do you recognize your son, Mrs. Woodley?” Ben asked.

At the memorial service for Kenneth Woodley II, Guy stood between his mother and grandmother. Each one held onto his hand, and occasionally Guy swung their arms back and forth.

The service was held in a park overlooking Lake Michigan. It was a gloomy day, and everyone was bundled up in coats and jackets. Hannah noticed several of Mrs. Woodley’s country-club friends in their fur coats.

A minister read some prayers, and one of Mr. Woodley’s golf buddies reminisced about his godson, Kenneth Junior.

Guy was understandably confused. He’d been told his father had died in a car accident a long time ago. And now everyone was saying he’d been killed in a boat explosion just two weeks before.

“I thought he was dead,” Hannah ended up telling her son. “But I was wrong. Your father was alive, and he was in Seattle looking for us when he died.”

The explanation seemed the best temporary answer to all his questions. She couldn’t very well tell him that his father wasn’t a good man, when everyone at this memorial service was extolling Kenneth’s virtues. She would tell him the truth in a few years when he was old enough to understand.

If Guy was a bit baffled, so was she. The Woodleys gave no reason for suddenly wanting to help her in Seattle. They posted bond for her, and their attorneys worked overtime, smoothing things over and making deals so Hannah wouldn’t face any criminal charges.

The Woodleys made some deals, too. They wanted to see their grandson at least twice a year, and they wanted Hannah to attend the memorial service for Kenneth. “I realize you had your reasons for taking Little Ken and running away,” Mrs. Woodley had told her. “But I don’t think it’s necessary you share those reasons with anyone else. I see no point in treading on anyone’s grave, do you?”

Hannah had agreed to cooperate. In a strange way, she felt it was important that Guy remember this memorial service for his father.

She had told her in-laws that she and Guy would be leaving after the service. That morning, they’d presented her with a car. It was Hannah’s third automobile from the Woodleys. This one was a Saturn that Kenneth had never used. They’d already had the papers transferred to her name.

The memorial service was mercifully brief. A brunch at the country club followed. Hannah used Guy being tired as an excuse to leave early.

A valet brought her new, secondhand car around to the front entrance while the two Mrs. Woodleys and Guy waited. Hannah loaded Guy into the backseat. He was already asleep by the time she got behind the wheel and buckled her seat belt.

“Do you have any idea where you’ll be going?” Mrs. Woodley asked, leaning toward the car window.

Hannah shrugged. “Maybe Chicago. I’d like to look up some old friends. Then we’ll probably end up back in Seattle.”

“What about your friend, the Polish gentleman?”

Hannah squinted at her for a moment. “You mean Ben Podowski?”

Mrs. Woodley nodded. “Will you be visiting him?”

Hannah turned away. She felt herself tearing up a bit, and she didn’t want to cry in front of her mother-in-law.

She’d never gotten a chance to see Ben. He’d left Seattle soon after her release. What with the police, the Woodleys, all the lawyers, and reporters, there had been no time to say good-bye.

Since then, they’d had a couple of brief, awkward phone conversations. Hannah couldn’t get over the feeling that his wife was always within earshot. She figured she’d have to settle for e-mailing him on occasion, as his friend Rae had.

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing Mr. Podowski,” Hannah told her mother-in-law.

“Well, if you talk to him,” Mrs. Woodley said, “be sure to tell him how we’ve treated you. Make sure he knows we’ve held up our end of the bargain.”

Hannah squinted at her. “What bargain? What are you talking about?”

Mrs. Woodley stared back at her through the window. “He didn’t tell you about meeting with me at the hotel in Seattle?”

“Ben visited you?” Hannah murmured.

Mrs. Woodley shot a look at Guy sleeping in the back. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You mean, you don’t know anything about that horrible video?”

Hannah sighed. “Mrs. Woodley—Mom,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of horrible videos in the last few weeks. Which video are you talking about?”

His directions made finding the place easy.

The house was a modest two-story tan brick with green shutters and a chimney. Mr. and Mrs. Podowski lived on a quiet street in the quaint town of Croton, an hour away from New York City on the Metro North line.

Ben came to the door with his wife, Jennifer, right behind him.

Guy was thrilled to see Ben again. As he ran up and hugged him, Hannah kept having to remind Guy to be careful of Ben’s cast.

“What happened to your face?” Guy asked him.

“I was trying to be like Indiana Jones,” Ben explained. “I jumped through a window and a house blew up. Good thing you didn’t see me a couple of weeks ago. I look a lot better now.”

He smiled at Hannah, and she felt a little flutter in her heart. Even with his face slightly bruised, Ben’s smile still did something to her.

It was awkward with his wife there. Ben introduced them. Jennifer was pretty, with auburn hair and pale green eyes. She wore khakis and a white tailored shirt. She smelled nice, too.

By comparison, Hannah thought she looked like a slob in her jeans and pullover. She’d been driving most of the morning. She felt a bit better after freshening up in their bathroom.

Jennifer served lunch: homemade split-pea soup and a spread of deli meats, cheeses, and bread. Sitting around the table, they chatted politely over their lunch. Hannah did most of the talking, sticking to the neutral topic of her and Guy’s travel plans. She hoped to be back in Seattle in time for Thanksgiving. She and Guy had put a lot of miles on that secondhand Saturn. “And Guy, what’s your favorite new expression?” she asked.

He put down his glass of milk and looked at her inquisitively.

“Are…we…” Hannah prompted him.

“ARE WE THERE YET?” Guy cried out, delighted to get a laugh.

After lunch, Guy napped in the guest room. Jennifer started washing the dishes.

Ben said something about a family of deer that often came up to the house from the forest beyond their backyard. “I want to show Hannah around outside, honey,” he said. “Maybe Bambi will pay us a visit.”

Outside, it was cold and they could see their breath. Ben apologized for all the leaves on the lawn. The cast put a crimp in his yard work.

Huddled in her jacket, Hannah knew this was probably their only chance to talk by themselves. She figured Ben knew it too, as did his wife.

“So—how are things with you and Jennifer?” she asked, picking up a leaf from the ground. “She seems really nice, Ben.”

He glanced at the forest and nodded. “Things are good, Hannah. I think we’ll be okay. We’re even talking about having a baby.”

“Oh, well, that’s great,” she said. “It really is.”

He smiled at her, and she wanted so much to hold him.

But Ben merely patted her arm. “I’m really glad you and Guy came here. Means a lot to me.”

“Ben, I—I know about your visit to my mother-in-law back in Seattle. She told me about the tape with Kenneth beating up that girl.”

“I hope I did all right,” he said.

“All right?” She let out a sad laugh. “If you hadn’t done that I—I don’t know what would have happened to Guy and me. I’d probably still be in jail right now. You gave me my freedom again. I don’t have to hide anymore. Guy and I can go anyplace we want. I’m no longer scared. And I owe that to you, Ben. Thank you.”

He shrugged. “Oh, it was nothing.”

“It was everything,” she whispered. “I’ll never forget what you did for me—and Guy.”

His eyes teared up. “Well, I’ll never forget you, Hannah.”

She hugged him. Hannah knew his wife was probably watching from the kitchen window, but she hugged him anyway, holding him once last time.

An hour later, as they said good-bye in front of the house, it was Guy’s turn to hug Ben. He threw his arms around Jennifer, too, and kissed her cheek. Hannah thanked them both, then helped Guy into the car.

Before climbing behind the wheel, she glanced back over the roof of the car and waved at Ben and his wife.

Jennifer was huddled behind him in the doorway, shivering and rubbing her arms from the cold. Ben waved back at Hannah. He smiled wistfully at her.

She felt her heart flutter again. Hannah had tears in her eyes as she ducked inside the car. “Seat belt fastened, honey?” she asked Guy, while buckling herself up.

“Yeah,” he said. “Where are we going now, Mom?”

She wiped her eyes dry, then started up the engine. “We can go wherever we want, honey,” she said, with a triumphant smile. “Anywhere we want.”

“Let’s go home, Mom,” Guy said.

Hannah nodded. “I think that’s a swell idea.”

Filmography

The following is a guide to a few of the movies mentioned in this book. These films helped inspire this novel, and I pay homage to the following movies and their creators. If you want to see what my characters were talking about, check out these titles at your local video store. And be nice to the clerk.

ALL FALL DOWN (1962) Director: John Frankenheimer; Screenplay: William Inge, from the novel by James Leo Herlihy. Cast: Eva Marie Saint, Warren Beatty, Karl Malden. Available in VHS from M-G-M home video.

THE BIRDS (1963) Director: Alfred Hitchcock; Screenplay: Evan Hunter, from the short story by Daphne du Maurier. Cast: Tippi Hedren, Rod Taylor, Jessica Tandy, Suzanne Pleshette. Available in DVD and VHS from Universal Home Video.

BODY HEAT (1981) Director: Lawrence Kasdan; Screenplay: Lawrence Kasdan. Cast: William Hurt, Kathleen Turner, Richard Crenna, Mickey Rourke. Available on DVD and VHS from Warner Brothers Home Video.

BONJOUR TRISTESSE (1958) Director: Otto Preminger; Screenplay: Arthur Laurents, from the novel by Francoise Sagan. Cast: Deborah Kerr, David Niven, Jean Seberg. Currently not available for purchase on home video.

BUGSY (1991) Director: Barry Levinson; Screenplay: James Toback, from the book by Dean Jennings, “We Only Kill Each Other: The Life and Bad Times of Bugsy Siegel.” Cast: Warren Beatty and Annette Benning. Available on DVD and VHS from Paramount Home Video.

CASINO (1995) Director: Martin Scorsese; Screenplay: Nicholas Pileggi and Martin Scorsese, from the book by Nicholas Pileggi. Cast: Robert de Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci. Available on DVD and VHS from Universal Home Video.

THE GODFATHER (1972) Director: Francis Ford Coppola; Screenplay: Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo, from the novel by Mario Puzo. Cast: Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, Diane Keaton, Alex Rocco (as the victim, Moe Greene). Available on DVD and VHS from Paramount Home Video.

LOOKING FOR MR. GOODBAR (1977) Director: Richard Brooks; Screenplay: Richard Brooks, from the novel by Judith Rossner. Cast: Diane Keaton, Tuesday Weld, Richard Gere, Tom Berenger. Available on VHS from Paramount Home Video.

NIAGARA (1953) Director: Henry Hathaway; Screenplay: Charles Brackett and Richard L. Breen, from a story by Walter Reisch. Cast: Marilyn Monroe, Joseph Cotton, Jean Peters. Available on DVD and VHS from 20th Century Fox Home Video.

ON THE WATERFRONT (1954) Director: Elia Kazan; Screenplay: Budd Schulberg, from a series of articles by Malcolm Johnson. Cast: Marlon Brando, Eva Marie Saint, Karl Malden, Available on DVD and VHS from Columbia Home Video.

THE PARALLAX VIEW (1974) Director: Alan Pakula; Screenplay by David Giler, Lorenzo Semple, Jr., and Robert Towne (uncredited), from the novel by Loren Singer. Cast: Warren Beatty, Paula Prentiss, William Daniels. Available on DVD and VHS from Paramount Home Video.

PSYCHO (1960) Director: Alfred Hitchcock; Screenplay: Joseph Stefano, from the novel by Robert Bloch. Cast: Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, Vera Miles, John Gavin. Available on DVD and VHS from Universal Home Video.

ROSEMARY’S BABY (1968) Director: Roman Polanski; Screenplay: Roman Polanski, from the novel by Ira Levin. Cast: Mia Farrow, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, Angela Dorian (also known as Victoria Vetri, as the victim, Terry Gionoffrio). Available on DVD and VHS from Paramount Home Video.

SHADOW OF A DOUBT (1943) Director: Alfred Hitchcock; Screenplay: Thornton Wilder, Alma Reville, and Sally Benson, from a story by Gordon McDonnell. Cast: Teresa Wright and Joseph Cotton. Available in DVD and VHS from Universal Home Video.

STRANGERS ON A TRAIN (1951) Director: Alfred Hitchcock; Screenplay: Raymond Chandler and Czenzi Ormende, from the novel by Patricia Highsmith. Cast: Farley Granger, Robert Walker, Laura Elliot (as the victim, Mariam Haines). Available on DVD and VHS from Warner Brothers Home Video.

VERTIGO (1958) Director: Alfred Hitchcock; Screenplay: Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor, from the novel by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac. Cast: James Stewart, Kim Novak. Available on DVD and VHS from Universal Home Video.

WAIT UNTIL DARK (1967) Director: Terence Young; Screenplay: Robert and Jane-Howard Carrington, from the play by Frederick Knott. Cast: Audrey Hepburn, Alan Arkin, Richard Crenna, Jack Westen (as the victim, Carlino). Available on VHS from Warner Brothers Home Video.