“Nobody at Fork In The Road knows who she is,” Tim explained, picking at his fries. “She punched in on Roseann’s time card and lied about being her cousin. Roseann never laid eyes on her, never talked to her. Yet this woman knew Roseann was sick. Who told her? Who sent her?
“I think we need to question the other employees at Fork In The Road while this ‘Ronnie’ was there. Maybe we can track down some of the other customers she waited on. Someone might know her.”
Sheriff Klauser nodded grimly. “I’ll start asking around over there.”
Tim sighed. “Before ‘Ronnie’ came on the scene, somebody must have dosed Roseann’s coffee with something. I made a list of the customers Roseann remembers being there when she opened this morning—before she got sick.” Tim pulled a folded-up napkin from his shirt pocket, and handed it to Sheriff Klauser. “One of those guys might be in cahoots with this ‘Ronnie’ woman—if that’s really her name, and I doubt it.”
The old sheriff squinted the names scribbled on the napkin. He shook his head.
“‘Bill Comstock, Tom McFrarland, Ron Castle, Richard Boswell…’
I know all these fellas. None of them could be involved in anything shady.”
Tim shoved his half-eaten dinner aside. “There have been three ‘accidents’ today. Accounting for two of them, someone poisoned my breakfast, and the brakes in my car were sabotaged. It’s pretty obvious, someone wants me dead.”
“Why?” the sheriff asked, giving Tim back the list.
“Because I’m asking a lot of questions that are making people uncomfortable, questions about the disappearance of Brian Ferguson and Derek Herrmann, questions about Rembrandt and what happened to Claire Shaw. That’s where the third
accident
comes in. There’s something fishy about Claire Shaw’s hair dryer going haywire this morning. I think somebody wants Claire Shaw dead too—before she starts to remember certain things.”
“So you think Rembrandt broke into the house and rigged up the hair dryer?”
“Maybe,” Tim allowed. “Maybe someone else.”
“Well, who, buddy?”
Sighing, Tim reached for his cheeseburger again. “I don’t know. But it’s more than one ‘someone,’ I can tell you that. No way could just one person be responsible for setting up all those
accidents.
Obviously, it’s someone who doesn’t want it to look like murder. My guess is they want to avoid having this island crawling with investigators and cops. So—they’ve tried setting up a death by electric shock, a food poisoning, or an auto accident. Freak mishaps, minor investigations, case closed.”
Tim was about to take another bite out of his cheeseburger, but frowned at the sandwich, and set it back down.
His head cocked to one side, the old sheriff stared at him. “So you think someone on the island is working with Rembrandt? Somebody who’s afraid you’re getting too close?”
Nodding, Tim pointed to the napkin with the list of names. “Maybe it’s one of these guys.”
“Well, buddy, you won’t find your stalker in the stocking cap there.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because,” the sheriff said. “An islander wouldn’t need a disguise to walk around on Main Street in the middle of the day. Why do that? He’d only be calling attention to himself. It would be just as easy to stalk her without wearing some getup.” He took his last fork-f of apple pie, then sipped his coffee. “Trust me, buddy. This stalker, this guy whose shoe print you photographed this morning, he’s an outsider. In a place like Deception, where everybody knows everybody else, this character has to remain anonymous—and unseen.”
“Do you think he might have slipped away on one of the outgoing ferries this afternoon or earlier tonight?” Tim asked.
The sheriff winked at him. “Great minds thinking alike. I had Ramon check both outgoing ferries today for any strangers.” He sighed and shook his head. “No one suspicious.”
“So chances are, this outsider’s still on the island,” Tim said. “You think maybe he’s stowed away on one of the bigger boats in the harbor? Or maybe in one of those cabins in the woods?”
The sheriff nodded. “A definite possibility. I—”
The phone rang again, and he rolled his tired, old eyes, and grabbed the receiver. “Island Police, Sheriff Klauser speaking…”
Tim tossed what was left of his cheeseburger and fries in the bag. He wasn’t paying much attention to the sheriff’s phone conversation. He only caught the end of the discussion. “Well, Estelle, I’m sure Rolo is barking at a squirrel or a raccoon,” Sheriff Klauser said. “Give him a dog biscuit, and maybe he’ll shut up…I wouldn’t worry about Rembrandt, Estelle. He goes after younger gals…Oh, all right…I’ll swing by. Give me a few minutes…Yeah, hmmm, bye.”
He hung up the phone and sighed. “Crazy old biddy,” he grunted. “She’s sixty if she’s a day, and as ugly as a muddy picket fence, and she thinks Rembrandt’s peeping in her windows. Hell.” He got to his feet and stretched his bony body. “Poor old Estelle doesn’t seem to realize she’s no college girl anymore, and never was anywhere near as pretty as Claire Shaw. I need to head over there.”
Tim stood up too. “I’d like to take a drive in the woods, and start checking some of those cabins, sheriff. Maybe after you drop by this Estelle’s house—”
Giving him a dubious gaze, the sheriff shook his head. “There are almost a hundred little cabins in those woods. And getting to some of those places is a major pain in the ass. We couldn’t hope to tackle the job tonight. Hell, not even in three nights.”
Sheriff Klauser sauntered behind the counter, then pulled his jacket from out of the back room. “Besides, I got the phone ringing off the hook, and I can’t be stuck out where God lost his shoes. I need to be close by when people like Estelle want me on a house call. And I’m not taking Ramon off patrol-duty by Claire Shaw’s house. Damn it, I wish Troy was around.”
Tim followed him to the station’s front door. “Do you mind if I drive out to some of the cabins by myself?”
“Tonight?” Sheriff Klauser paused in the doorway. “What are you, nuts? You can’t go in any of them. They’re locked up. We need to get the keys from the managers or the owners, and we’ll need permission—or search warrants. It’s a major project, buddy. Wait until tomorrow. I’ll get the Guardians in on it, and we can organize a regular search party—instead of some half-assed one-man or two-man job.”
“Well, would you mind if I just drove around the woods and had a look?” Tim asked.
With a sigh, the sheriff lumbered back inside the station, and opened a bottom drawer to one of the two metal desks. He pulled out a flashlight, and handed it to Tim. “Here, buddy, have yourself a good time. Just remember, some of those cabins are occupied, and people are scared. They have guns. Don’t get your head blown off.”
“Thanks,” Tim said, testing the flashlight. He followed Sheriff Klauser out the door.
“I still think you’re better off waiting until tomorrow,” the old cop said. He locked the station door, then headed to his police car. “But you do what you gotta do. Thanks for the pie, buddy.”
He ducked into the patrol car, then shut the door. He started up the emergency flashers on the car roof.
Tim watched him drive away in the night.
He didn’t know where the hell he was.
It was so dark in this part of the forest, Tim felt as if he were driving in a tunnel. The headlights in front of him were the only thing that pierced the blackness. All he could see was about forty feet of narrow road ahead. The trees were merely ink-colored shapes and shadows looming over him. They played havoc with his radio reception. So Tim drove in silence.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 10:50
P.M
. He’d already spent an hour at the Platt Harbor. He’d gone from boat to boat, shining the sheriff’s flashlight into galley windows, looking for a stowaway, and finding no one.
Tim had a feeling this trip into the woods would be just as fruitless. The headlights played tricks with shadows racing along the tree trunks. Tim half-expected to catch sight of a man in stocking cap lurking amid those trees.
He’d brought along Al’s gun, but he’d never fired one at a human being before.
The farther he drove from civilization, the more he worried about the loaner car. Earlier he’d parked it in the hotel lot while he’d been at the restaurant and the police station. The brakes seemed to be working all right for now, but Tim couldn’t help feeling wary.
He still wasn’t certain about the cheeseburger he’d eaten either. He remembered Al’s diarrhea kicking in about an hour after breakfast. If that cheeseburger was laced with something, he didn’t want to be lost in these woods when the first pang of nausea hit.
Tim had a map, but still didn’t know where the cabins were. He kept trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him:
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
Up ahead, he saw a turnoff on his right. He steered onto an unmarked dirt and gravel road, and he felt the car vibrate over the bumps and divots. Pebbles crunched under the tires as Tim followed the coarse, winding path. After a few moments, he realized he was driving like an old man, leaning close to the windshield, hands clutching the wheel.
He went over a big stone in the road, and felt the car suddenly drop. “Jesus!” he cried. The sheriff’s flashlight rolled off the passenger seat and onto the floor.
His stomach in knots, Tim kept driving. He didn’t know where he was, but in the distance, he saw a break in the trees, and the silhouettes of a couple of squat cabins against the dark horizon. As Tim drove closer, he didn’t see a single light on in either of the cabins. He didn’t notice any cars parked in the area either. Then again, he was only about three or four miles from the Shaws’ house. It was a long hike for Claire’s stalker, but not so terribly far.
Tim pulled up in front of the first cottage, a typical one-story log cabin with a front porch. He started to circle around the bungalow, directing the flashlight into the windows. Except for some old furniture, the place looked empty and dusty inside, uninhabited.
Moving around to the back, he tore his trouser leg on a nail sticking out the side of the cabin. Looking down to inspect the tear, he noticed his shoes were covered in mud.
He was in back of the cabin when he heard something in the bushes behind him. Swivelling around, Tim directed the flashlight toward the trees and shrubbery. “Who’s there?” he called.
For a moment, he felt paralyzed. He didn’t see anyone. Slowly, he took Al’s gun from his jacket pocket.
Tim kept shining the light toward the woods. He heard twigs snapping underfoot, leaves rustling. They seemed to be getting closer. “Who’s out there?” he called again. “I have a gun. Who—”
A raccoon crawled out from behind a bush and lazily looked up at him. Its eyes were momentarily illuminated by the flashlight. Tim sighed, then let out a little laugh. “Okay, paws in the air,” he muttered.
He watched the animal moved on.
Tim put the gun back in his jacket. He glanced over his shoulder at the deserted cabin, and started to move onto the one next door.
“One down, about ninety-nine left to go,” he muttered. “Shit.”
It took Claire a moment to realize she was alone in the queen-size bed. The digital clock on the night stand read 1:23
A.M
. She’d been sleeping for about an hour.
Pulling back the covers, she got up and padded to the bathroom. The door was closed, and a strip of light showed at the threshold. Harlan was awfully quiet in there. She was about to knock and ask if he was all right, but Claire hesitated. She tiptoed away from the door, and retreated to the darkened hallway. Feeling a chill, she rubbed her arms as she looked in on Tiffany. Her stepdaughter was asleep.
Claire ducked into the bathroom across the hall, then closed the door after her. The color scheme in there always reminded her of Good & Plenty candy. The tub, sink, and toilet were white, but the rest of the bathroom was painted pink. Harlan’s first wife, Angela, had done the decorating. Claire wasn’t crazy about it. The towels were white with a pink rose pattern. The same rose pattern was on the shower curtain, tissue dispenser, toothbrush holder, and tumbler.
At the sink, Claire started to reach for the tumbler with the pink rose pattern on it. She remembered the last time she’d drunk from that tumbler, she’d been crying. In the mirror in front of her, she’d seen her reflection, the blotchy skin, and the tears in her eyes. She’d looked at Harlan’s reflection too. He’d stood in back of her, asking over and over what had happened.
“He’s run away again,”
she’d told him.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do…”
Claire gazed at the pink rose-patterned tissue dispenser. On that night, she’d gone through several Kleenex. She’d been crying, practically hysterical. What word had Linda used to describe her behavior?
Bonkers?
Claire drank some water, then stared at her reflection. She looked pale. She wondered if Harlan and Linda had been telling the truth about that night.
She went back into the master bedroom, and saw the bed was still empty. She withdrew to the hallway again, then down the stairs. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and in a way, she almost felt safe without any lights on. At least, no one outside could look in and see her.
She passed by the sliding glass doors in the pantry. Harlan had left the back lights on, and the yard was illuminated—right up to the woods at the edge of the lawn.
Claire didn’t need to turn on any lights to dial the phone. She didn’t have to look up the number either. At this point, she knew it by heart. But a machine answered at The Whale Watcher Inn. A recorded voice told her that the switchboard was closed after eleven
P.M
. The recording provided an emergency contact number, but Claire hung up before this disembodied voice read it to her.
She stared out at the backyard. Her nightgown was a bit flimsy, and she crossed her arms in front of her, partly to keep warm, but mostly for modesty.
She didn’t see a soul in the backyard. Yet Claire still felt someone’s eyes taking in every inch of her.
It was a beautiful, chilly fall night. The rain clouds had moved on, and he could see stars in the sky. Huddled in his jacket, he sat in a lawn chair and sipped brandy.