Harlan gave Tim Sullivan a final shove, tearing at his shirt. “Worthless piece of shit,” he muttered. “Call yourself a cop? You’re supposed to protect people…”
Dazed, Tim Sullivan stared at them. Elmore and the other detective led Harlan back to his office.
The black cop turned to Tim. “Since when have you been in charge of security at the hospital?”
“Since I don’t know,” Tim Sullivan replied. “That guy’s half-out of his mind.” Straightening his tie, he watched Lieutenant Elmore step back into his office with the man who had just attacked him. “Who the hell was that anyway?”
“I think he’s Harlan Shaw.”
“Who?” Tim asked, still catching his breath.
“Harlan Shaw. His wife’s the amnesia case in the hospital. You know, the one Rembrandt left for dead.”
Tim glanced back toward Lieutenant Elmore’s office again. “Huh,” he murmured. “No wonder the poor son of a bitch is half-out of his mind.”
“You won’t hear a peep about it from Harlan, but I guess he really gave that moron-detective a piece of his mind this morning,” Linda said.
She was pushing the empty wheelchair, and walking beside Claire in the corridor. Claire kept a hand on the support rail along the wall. She’d been in the hospital nine days now, and still felt a bit wobbly on her feet.
Linda had brought her a couple of nightgowns, Claire’s favorite robe, her slippers, and some other things from home. Claire was wearing the robe right now, a near floor-length blue terry-cloth number with white piping.
“Ron was in the hallway at police quarters, and caught the whole thing,” Linda continued. They passed a couple of rooms with the doors open. “Ye gods, what a depressing place,” Linda whispered. She fanned her hand in front of her face. “And the smell. PU. How do you stand it? Anyway, Claire, I don’t think you have to worry about any more visitors in the night. They’re screening everyone who tries to come on this floor. You know, I’ve noticed some people gawking at us. Do you suppose they have any idea who you are?”
Shuffling along, Claire tried to keep her balance. “A handful of doctors and nurses know me by name,” she explained. “To everyone else, I’m still Jane Doe.” She sighed. “Whew, and right now Jane Doe would like sit down.”
Linda helped her into the wheelchair. “Let me push myself, okay?” Claire asked. “It’s the only kind of cardio I get here.”
Claire maneuvered the wheels while her friend walked beside her. “Could you do me a favor, Linda?” she asked. “Next time you come by, could you bring my address book? It’s on the kitchen counter, near the phone. And underneath it is a stack of papers. The car pool list is there with the numbers for Brian’s high school friends. It’s on yellow paper. Could you bring that too?”
“Claire, honey,” Linda groaned. “Really, I’m sure the police have already contacted Brian’s chums. If you start calling up his entire class, you’ll just be wasting your time—”
“Well, I have plenty of time on my hands here,” Claire replied, an edge in her voice. “So let me go ahead and waste it. Will you bring me those things, Linda?”
She cleared her throat, and gave Claire a pinched smile. “Certainly, Claire. Whatever you want.”
“Thanks.” She glanced up at her friend, who looked so uncomfortable for a moment. Claire stopped moving the wheelchair.
“I remembered something last night,” she said.
Linda frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know when it happened,” Claire explained. “But you and I were in Ron’s Jeep. It was nighttime, Linda. I remember being very scared. Someone stood just outside the car—by the window on the driver’s side. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see his face, but he had a gun. And you—you told me to pray. Do you remember anything like this happening? Does it sound familiar?”
Linda squinted at her, then let out a little laugh. “Ye gods, no.” She moved behind Claire and started pushing the wheelchair. “A man with a gun coming at us—in the Jeep? Sounds like you had a nightmare to me. I’d just forget about it if I were you.”
Claire stared straight ahead. “But I’m trying to remember, Linda,” she said. “Isn’t that what all this is about?”
“Well, I thought you might have heard something, Dottie,” Claire said. She’d taken the nightstand phone near the window, where she sat in the easy chair. The cord was stretched across the tiled floor. She was talking to the mother of Brian’s best friend. “Brian has been missing for over ten days now. Derek must have some idea where he is. Could you have Derek call me?”
“He’s not home, Claire.”
“Well, when Derek comes home—”
“He’s in Europe,” Mrs. Herrmann interrupted. “And there’s no way we can get in touch with him, Claire. He’s backpacking all over the continent. Derek won’t be back until Christmas.”
“I had no idea,” Claire murmured. Brian never mentioned his friend was planning a trip. “When did this happen?”
“He left a week ago Saturday morning. It’s something he’s always wanted to do.”
“Saturday morning?” Claire echoed. That was the same day she’d disappeared—and the morning after Brian had supposedly run away. “You took him out of school?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Um, does Derek have a cell phone number where I could reach him?” Claire asked. “It’s really important—”
“I’m afraid not.” Dottie Herrmann paused. “How are you, Claire? I understand you were in some kind of accident. A mugging or something?”
“That’s right,” Claire lied. “But I’m doing much better now.” She stared out the window at the hospital parking lot and the woods beyond. It was a gray, overcast afternoon.
The story they’d given the people on the island was that Claire had wandered out of the department store, then someone stole her purse and knocked her unconscious. Everyone knew that she’d been missing, and that the search for her had been focused in the Seattle area. If they hoped to protect Claire from Rembrandt and a vulturous press, only a handful of people could know she was “Jane Doe.”
“We’re saying you’ve been in a Seattle hospital for the last week,”
Harlan had told her.
“I don’t think anyone will press you for more details. Folks around here are too polite for that.”
The only people on the island who knew the truth were Harlan, and Ron and Linda Castle. Everyone else got the cover story.
“I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to visit you in the hospital,” Dottie Herrmann said on the other end of the line. “I wanted to send flowers, but Linda Castle told me not to bother. She said you were coming home soon.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Claire replied. “Listen, Dottie. I’m surprised about Derek’s sudden trip to Europe. You let him go by himself?”
“He’s old enough.”
“Do you suppose Brian might have snuck off to Europe with him?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she answered, an edge in her voice. “One reason we agreed to let Derek go on this trip was to put some distance between him and your son. I don’t mean to be unkind, but we feel Brian has been a bad influence on our Derek.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Derek never got into bit of trouble until he met up with your son,” Dottie Herrmann explained. “There, I’ve said what I needed to say. Let’s not discuss it further. I sincerely hope you’ll be out of the hospital very soon, Claire. I’ll pray for you—and Brian too. Good-bye.”
Claire heard a click on the other end of the line. “What the hell?” she muttered to no one.
She wanted to call Dottie Herrmann back and tell her she was delusional. Talk about denial. During Claire’s first conference at Brian’s high school, his homeroom teacher warned her that Brian’s new friend, Derek Herrmann, was a troubled kid. According to Brian, Mr. Herrmann often beat Derek.
The first time he slept over at their house, Derek stole three checks from Claire’s checkbook. She noticed them missing the next morning while at the Safeway. That afternoon, Claire sat Derek down and talked with him. He denied all culpability at first, but after a half-hour, Claire had made him feel so guilty, he was confessing, apologizing, and crying. He said it would never happen again. Just the same, Claire hid her checkbook and purse whenever Derek Herrmann came by. He still stayed over at their house occasionally. The poor kid had to have some refuge from his father’s beatings.
Still, Claire often wished Brian would find himself another best friend, someone who wasn’t a potential candidate for
America’s Most Wanted.
Then again, she couldn’t entirely blame Derek Herrmann for getting her son into trouble all the time. Brian was no angel.
It was no excuse, but Brian hadn’t exactly had a cushy childhood. Despite everything they’d told him to the contrary, Charlie and she had figured Brian somehow blamed himself for his baby sister’s death. That went on for a couple of years. Then when he was twelve, Brian’s father got sick.
Claire had discovered the mole a few inches above Charlie’s left butt cheek—below his tan line. Charlie thought it was a wart, or a little patch of eczema. Claire thought it was gross, and wanted him to get rid of it. He tried Claire’s Oil of Olay, Ambesol, and even some of Brian’s Clearasil for a while. Nothing worked. Then the mole started to bleed, and Claire demanded that he have it checked.
When the doctor called back about the biopsy results, he asked Charlie to come into the office. That was all he had to say. They knew it was cancer. The dermatologist simply gave the cancer a name: a Stage III melanoma, vertical growth.
Charlie started chemotherapy. Brian had to watch his father become sicker and sicker. Brian’s thirty-four-year-old dad showed up to his class’s science fair with a cane. And later, at a sit-down lunch in the cafeteria, Charlie had a seizure. “Well, Brian will have to change schools now,” he later said. “He’ll never want to show his kisser in that place again.”
They went into debt trying herbal, holistic, and acupuncture remedies their insurance wouldn’t cover. Charlie began spending more time in the hospital than out. And Claire was usually by his side or in a waiting room. Brian came home from school to an empty house—and an empty refrigerator. He learned how to do the shopping, laundry, and the cooking. For several months, he lived on frozen pizzas and microwave dinners. He was very independent, and insisted he was fine by himself. In fact, at times, Brian wouldn’t even speak to her. He’d refuse to visit his father, or talk to him on the phone. Charlie wasn’t hurt by this. He told Claire that their son was protecting himself from the impending loss.
There were other times when “Mr. Independence”—as Claire sometimes referred to him when talking with Charlie—would have dinner ready for her when she came home at night from the hospital. Brian would fix her a hot dog, or Sloppy Joe’s, or a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Comfort food. Brian was very often there for her when she didn’t expect it.
After Charlie died, Claire and Brian moved into a small, two-bedroom apartment. She’d survived near-poverty as a newlywed, but being poor again—without Charlie—was utter misery. She hated borrowing money from her mother, who was ailing. Claire’s paintings weren’t making enough to support them. So she got herself a clerical job through a temp service. And Brian got himself into trouble a lot.
The first time Claire was summoned to a meeting with Brian’s high school principal, she had to leave work. Her boss caught her off guard, and asked if Brian had gotten hurt. Claire didn’t have time to think up a lie. The truth was so humiliating. “No, Brian’s all right,” she heard herself say. “He—he’s in trouble. He skipped class and stole a six pack of beer from a grocery store near the school.”
According to the principal, Brian’s teachers liked him—despite some of his mediocre grades and outbursts in their classes. He was also quite popular with his fellow freshmen—as well as many upperclassmen. “I think Brian’s running around with a group who are a little too mature for him,” the principal told her. “In fact, they’re a little too mature for themselves. Anyway, Brian won’t say who coaxed him into stealing the beer, but it seems to be a case of peer pressure. I understand Mr. Ferguson died last year. I wonder if you’ve considered having Brian talk with a someone, a therapist or psychiatrist…”
They couldn’t afford it, but Claire didn’t tell him that. She merely thanked the principal for his advice, and agreed that two days’ suspension seemed fair.
The school secretary asked Claire to fill out some paperwork, and they stepped into her office. Through a narrow window by the door, she could see the waiting room, and Brian slouched in a hard-back chair. He caught her eye, then glanced away, visibly ashamed. He reminded her of Charlie, the same wavy, golden hair. Claire had to take a couple of deep breaths to keep from bursting into tears. She started to fill out the suspension forms.
“My daughter, Kim, is in Brian’s homeroom class,” the secretary said. She smiled at Claire. She was a slim, pretty Asian woman. The name plate on her desk read:
Ms. Soyon Wright.
“He’s a handsome young man, Mrs. Ferguson,” she continued. “And very popular. You know, they have that dance class for the freshmen on Thursday nights. Kim tells me Brian is one of the best dancers there. All the girls want to dance with him.”
“Really? I had no idea.” Claire stopped writing, and stared at Ms. Wright. She wondered what the school’s secretary was getting at.
“You know, kids can be awfully cruel. There are a couple of girls in particular, who are frequently the butt of jokes, and they’re picked on. One of the girls, Sally, she has a weight problem. And there’s another freshman, Jessica, she just doesn’t fit in. Well, high school kids can be pretty vicious.” She sighed. “Mrs. Ferguson, I think you should know something about your son. At dance class, the boys still choose the girls for most of the dances. Like I said, all the girls want to dance with Brian. But every class session, your son always picks Sally for at least one dance and Jessica for another. My daughter overheard some boy ask him why in the world he did that—when he could have his pick of any of the girls. Do you know what your son’s answer was?”
Claire shook her head.
Ms. Wright smiled.
“‘I just feel like it,’
he told him.” She set another form in front of Claire. “I only need your signature on the bottom of this one. Anyway, don’t be too hard on him. He has a good heart.”
Claire kept telling herself that. She tried to remember Ms. Wright’s story two months later when a call from the police woke her up. Brian and two friends—upperclassmen—had been arrested for trespassing, being drunk and disorderly, and indecent exposure. With two six packs of beer, they’d jumped the fence at a private country club, then went skinny-dipping in the club’s pool. A night watchman had seen them, and telephoned the police.
Five weeks later, Claire received a call at work. Brian had skipped summer school, and was one of four passengers in a stolen car, stopped by a patrolman down in Tacoma. The kids in the vehicle were on their way to the beach. Two bottles of liquor, a two ounce bag of marijuana, and various drug paraphernalia were also found in the stolen vehicle.
“What exactly do you want me to do with you?” she asked Brian later. “Would you tell me? Because I don’t know how to handle you any more. You’re out of control. You were in a stolen car! And there were drugs! Who are these
jerks
you’re hanging around with?”
“I won’t see them any more,” Brian muttered, tears in his eyes. “I promise. And I didn’t have anything to drink—or smoke. I swear. I’m sorry, Mom. I just wanted to go to the beach.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted. “Brian, I keep thinking the next call from the police is going to be the capper, and you’ll end up in some correctional facility for minors. Is that what you want? Because that’s where you’re headed…”
Two months later, Claire got another call—in the middle of the night. It was from the nurse looking after her mother.
After the funeral costs and medical bills, there wasn’t much left from her mother’s estate. But Claire paid off a chunk of their debt, and set a little aside for Brian’s college. Her mom would have wanted that.
One of the last conversations she’d had with her mother had been about Brian. She hadn’t told her mom about Brian’s brushes with the law and his trouble at school. An ailing old woman shouldn’t have to hear such troublesome news about her only grandchild. But on the phone the last time they’d spoken, Claire’s mother had seemed to know. “You’re worried about Brian, aren’t you?” she’d asked. “He’ll be okay, Claire. Brian’s a good boy. He’ll be all right.”
Claire thought about that last conversation some time later—after eight months, two more visits to the school principal, and one more trip down to the police precinct to escort Brian home. She was standing in line at the Burger King near work, waiting to order her lunch. Over the Muzac system came “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Suddenly she could see Charlie waltzing around the darkened nursery with little Julia in his arms, singing that tune. She thought of her mother—and Brian. Would he really be all right, as her mom had said?
All at once, Claire felt this awful, aching sadness rising within her. Tears welled in her eyes. She let out a rasp, and knew she couldn’t control it. She didn’t want to start sobbing in the middle of the stupid Burger King.
She ran out to the parking lot, almost getting mowed down by someone peeling away from the drive-thru. The car horn blared. “Stupid, fucking bitch!” someone yelled from the window. “Watch where you’re going!”
Claire reached the sidewalk on the other side of the drive-thru. She didn’t want anyone seeing her. Tears streaming down her eyes, she ducked through a gap in the trimmed hedges bordering the Burger King, and found a row of empty benches by a deserted car wash. Claire plopped down on a bench and cried.
After a couple of minutes, she dried her eyes and blew her nose. Then she realized someone was standing at the end of the bench. Claire glanced up at a tall, handsome man with salt and pepper hair. He held a Burger King bag. “I wasn’t sure what you were going to order,” he said. “So I just got you a cheeseburger, fries, and a Diet Coke. Is that okay?”
He sat down on the bench and set the bag between them. “I know I’m imposing, but you looked like you could use a friend—and some lunch. My name is Harlan Shaw.”
Later, over dinner at home, she told Brian all about him: “He’s a widower. His wife died—along with her best friend—in a car accident fifteen months ago. He has a four-year-old daughter. They live on Deception Island, up in the San Juans. I mean, it’s like a vacation spot for a lot of people, and he lives there year round. He’s manager at a chemical plant on the island. He’s really very nice. I think you’ll like him. And isn’t it sweet how we met?”