Unspeakable (16 page)

Neither did he anymore.

The house still smelled of his grandmother's pot roast. They'd eaten dinner about an hour ago. At the table, his grandfather had asked if anything was wrong. “You act like you have the sword of Damocles hanging over your head,” he'd remarked.

Collin hadn't been sure what that was—besides another one of his grandparents' bizarre expressions. He'd just lied and said he was fine. After helping his grandmother clear the table, he'd mentioned he had homework and retreated up to his room.

On the desk in front of him, he smoothed out the crumpled piece of notebook paper with the questions Gail was supposed to have asked Wade. He looked at the last two questions—questions Gail hadn't gotten around to asking, because he'd scared her off:

Those had been the two most important questions he'd written down, and they'd gone unanswered. Still, he'd found out a lot from the session in the car—most significantly, that there were other murders and deadly fires at Seattle hotels during the World's Fair. And Wade Grinnell may have been responsible for those as well. He'd never denied culpability; he'd merely said,
“They can't pin anything on me.”

Collin wondered why the other hotel fires and slayings weren't mentioned in the Century 21 Exposition timeline article. Had the stories been buried?

On the computer, he pulled up Google and tried a search for “Seattle World's Fair Murders.” Nearly all the results on the first five pages had to do with H. H. Holmes, who confessed to twenty-seven murders, but may have slain at least a hundred more during the 1893 Chicago World's Fair. A bestselling book on Holmes,
Devil in the White City
, kept popping up, too. There was nothing about any murders during the 1962 Seattle World's Fair.

Collin tried another Google search—for “Sheri Grinnell.” But it didn't lead to anything substantial. He gave up after scanning five pages of search results. He figured she was either married with a different name or long dead.

Frustrated, he went back to the Century 21 Exposition timeline article and reread the paragraph on the Hotel Aurora Vista fire. He stared at the last sentence:

Collin figured she'd be eighty-three years old if she was still alive. The family had come from Wenatchee, about two and a half hours east of Seattle. It was a long shot, but he tried a Google search for “Irene Pollack, Wenatchee
.”

He saw something on the second page of the search results:

Biting his lip, Collin clicked on the link and watched the full story come up. He knew Leavenworth was close to Wenatchee, but still had a feeling he was wasting his time. He read the article. Back in the seventies, Irene Pollack-Martin had written a series of picture books about the perilous adventures of a “plucky, lucky ladybug named Bernadette.”

“Shit,” Collin muttered. He forced himself to read on. He kept hoping to find something about this kids' author losing her husband and three children in a hotel fire. Instead, the article went on about how her books had been out of print for twenty-five years, but she still went around reading them to kids at a hospital in Wenatchee and now at the Leavenworth Public Library Kids' Corner. Then in the last paragraph, he finally found something:

Collin scribbled on his Post-it pad:
Riverview Manor Retirement Center, Leavenworth
. The article was from last year, so her age matched the Irene Pollack who had survived the Hotel Aurora Vista fire.

He looked up the phone number for the Center, and then called them on his cell phone. Someone answered after two rings: “Riverview Manor. How can I help you?”

“Hi,” Collin said. He suddenly realized he hadn't figured out what to say. “Um, do you have a—an Irene Pollack-Martin staying there?”

“I can connect you,” the operator said. “I also have a direct line for Irene in case we get cut off. Do you have a pencil and paper handy?”

“Um, yes,” Collin said, grabbing his pen again. “But first. I—I want to make sure I have the right Irene Pollack-Martin. Was she—in a fire at one time? I'm looking for the
Irene Pollack
who lost her husband and children in a fire back in 1962.”

There was a silent beat at the other end. “I'm sorry,” the operator finally said. “We don't give out personal information about our residents. Ms. Pollack-Martin's phone number for future reference is 509-555-0416. If you'll hold on, I'll connect you.”

With a shaky hand, Collin scribbled it down. “Thank you,” he said.

While the phone rang on the other end, he glanced at the clock in the corner of his computer monitor: 9:13. He realized he'd probably wake her up—if she was anything like his grandparents. They'd both nodded off in front of the TV downstairs about an hour ago.

“Hello?” she answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Mrs. Pollack?”

“Yes, I'm Mrs. Pollack-Martin. Who's calling?”

“Hi, um, you don't know me,” he said. “My name's Collin Stampler, and I'm sorry to call so late. I—I'm doing a paper on you for my English class. We're supposed to write about an author, and I chose you. My mom used to read your books to me when I was a kid.”

“Well, that's very flattering,” she said. “What did you say your name was?”

“Collin—Collin Stampler.”

“Do you live here in Leavenworth, Collin?”

“No, I'm in Poulsbo. But I—well, I'm coming to Leavenworth tomorrow,” he heard himself say. “Would it be possible to meet you? I was hoping I could ask you a few questions—and get some quotes.”

“I don't see why not,” she answered. “Are you in high school?”

“Yes, North Kitsap High. A bunch of us are coming over on a field trip, and I asked for time off to talk with you. Um, would around noon be okay?”

“That's fine. Where would you like to meet?”

He glanced at the Post-it pad. “I can meet you at Riverview Manor, if you'd like.”

“Well, that's easy enough for me,” she said. “When you get here, just tell the front desk to ring me, and I'll come meet you in the lobby. How does that sound?”

“That's terrific, thank you. Um . . .” He couldn't hang up yet. He had to find out if this was the right Irene Pollack. “I was wondering if you have any children—that I could talk to. I figured it would be good to get a quote from the—the child of a children's author.”

Silence.

“Hello?” Collin asked.

“No, I don't have any children. But you could talk with some of my neighbors here and get some quotes about me from them if you'd like. So—tomorrow at noon?”

“Yes . . . yes, thank you.”

“You're welcome, Collin. Good night.” She hung up.

He clicked off his cell phone.

He'd planned to square things with Gail and Fernando at school. But that wasn't going to happen now. He'd be driving to Leavenworth instead.

Collin slouched back in his desk chair.
Good night
, the lady had said.

He knew he probably wouldn't sleep a wink.

F
ernando usually walked the two miles to school, unless the weather was crummy or he was feeling lazy. Then he'd hitchhike. This morning he felt lazy.

He'd been walking along the shoulder of the road with his thumb out for the last ten minutes. There was a lull in traffic. So he pulled his phone out of his backpack and texted a message to Collin. He wanted to assure him that he wasn't pissed off at him or anything:

Fernando was trying to think of something funny to say before signing off, but then he heard a car approaching. He turned and stuck out his thumb again. There were no other cars on the road except for the black Saturn approaching him. Fernando could have sworn that same car had passed him five minutes ago. Then again, it was probably just a different black Saturn.

He kept his thumb out and watched the car slow down as it cruised by. It was hard to see how many people were in the vehicle, because the morning sun glared off the windshield and windows. The car passed him. But then he heard gravel crunching under the tires, and Fernando realized the Saturn had pulled over. Turning around, he shoved the phone in his jacket pocket and ran toward the car. He noticed two men sitting in the front seat. The one on the passenger side reached back and opened the car door for him.

Fernando took off his backpack and tossed it on the seat. He saw the man in the passenger seat, and his face lit up with a smile. “Well, hey, I was just heading for school. Thanks for stopping. . . .”

He ducked into the back and shut the car door.

The Saturn pulled onto the road again, and then it started to pick up speed.

Fernando never got to finish his text to Collin.

“Hi, I'm here to see Irene Pollack-Martin. She's expecting me.”

Collin had a pen in his pocket and a notebook in his hand. He wore a lightweight red jacket—and a skinny, dark tie, which he'd hidden in his pants pocket while leaving the house this morning. If his grandmother had seen him wearing a tie to school, she'd have thought something was weird. But Collin had figured a tie was a nice touch for this interview with Mrs. Pollack-Martin.

The stocky, fifty-something brassy-haired receptionist wore a burgundy blazer over her white blouse. Sporting something that looked like a Bluetooth headset, she sat on a tall stool behind the counter, with a computer keyboard and monitor in front of her. Over to one side of her was a tall glass vase full of long-stem flowers.

Riverview Manor looked more like a three-star hotel than a rest home. It was a few blocks uphill from the main drag of Leavenworth, a charming Bavarian village nestled just east of the Cascades. All the stores and hotels had gingerbread architecture and signs with old-fashioned lettering. It was like a town in the Alps. Collin had almost expected the people to be wearing yodeler hats and lederhosen. But all he saw were a lot of normally dressed tourists.

The retirement center looked a like big, sprawling four-story Swiss chalet. Flowerboxes adorned all the first-floor windows. The stone-tiled lobby had big comfortable chairs and a working fireplace along one wall. There were also wheelchair access signs and handrails everywhere—a reminder that this was a retirement home. He'd noticed a lounge off the lobby, with a big-screen TV, card tables, and an entire wall of shelves crammed with books. Collin figured that was where Irene Pollack-Martin had her readings. Right now, there were four old women playing cards at one of the tables and an elderly man shuffling around with a walker. Everyone else must have been at lunch.

After nearly four hours of driving, Collin needed to pee. He hadn't noticed a restroom sign in the retirement center's lobby. Collin squirmed a bit and drummed his fingers on the front desk while the stout receptionist typed something on her keyboard.

“You said Mrs. Martin is expecting you?” she asked.

“Yes, um, my name's Collin Stampler.”

She hummed for a few moments, and then said into her mouthpiece: “Hello, Mrs. Martin. It's Greta at the front desk. You have a handsome young gentleman here to see you. His name's Collin Stampler. . . . Um-hmm . . . I certainly will. See you soon, then.” She looked up at him and smiled. “She'll be down in a jiff, honey.”

“Thanks,” Collin said. “Do you have a restroom?”

The woman directed him to the facilities down the hall. When he stepped into the men's room—with handrails all around and a tall, ugly, beige plastic seat extension on the toilet in the stall—he was once again reminded that this was a rest home. He tucked his notebook under his arm and used the urinal on the other side of the stall.

Washing his hands in front of the mirror, Collin noticed he looked tired and pasty. His hair was a mess from driving with the window open. He smoothed it back with his damp hands. Then he slurped some water from the faucet, wiped his mouth, and ducked out of the restroom.

As he headed up the corridor toward the lobby again, Collin heard a woman talking. He recognized Irene Pollack-Martin's voice from their brief conversation on the phone last night. “. . . called out of the blue and asked if he could interview me for an English assignment. How about that?”

Collin saw her from the back. She stood near the vase of flowers, and sort of held on to the desk. She didn't have a walker or a cane, so he guessed she welcomed having something to hold on to while standing there. She was thin and had neatly styled gray hair. The pale green dress she wore made Collin wonder if she'd gotten
gussied up
(another one of his grandparents' expressions) for him.

“Well, speak of the devil,” the receptionist said. “Here he comes now.”

Irene Pollack-Martin turned toward him. She had a smile fixed on her careworn face. She looked like one of those old actresses who had aged gracefully. At least, she didn't look eighty-three.

But as soon as her eyes connected with his, the smile disappeared.

Irene Pollack-Martin's hand came up over her mouth and she shrank back. Her other hand swept over the counter, knocking over the glass vase full of flowers. It hit the floor with a loud crash and an explosion of glass. The tall-stemmed flowers landed in a heap on the stone tiles. All at once, the graceful, spry older woman looked frail and elderly. Staring at him, she shook her head.

“Mrs. Martin?” the desk clerk asked with concern. “Mrs. Martin, are you all right?”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. Mrs. Pollack-Martin looked as if she were about to faint. “I can't believe it. . . .”

Dumbfounded, Collin gazed back at her. He was paralyzed.

He knew right then. She'd seen him before.

She'd seen Wade.

Fernando ran as fast as he could. He followed the thin, crude trail that snaked through the woods, hoping it might lead to a road or someone's cabin. Then he'd have a chance of getting some help. Scratches from the brush and cold, clammy sweat covered his near-naked body. All he had on were his white briefs. His lungs burned, and his bare feet were bloody and sore. How soon before they became numb to the pain? Right now, he could still feel every twig and rock underfoot.

He pressed on, fueled by terror and a dizzy sense of the sudden freedom. When they'd finally pulled off the dirt road and parked at a clearing in the woods, he'd thought for certain they were going to kill him. They'd led him behind a rotted-out shack with torn screens, old garbage on the floor, and cobwebs everywhere. Then they'd made him take off his clothes.

He'd gotten down to his undershorts when they heard bushes rustling nearby. Startled, the driver of the black Saturn swiveled around and fired his gun. He hit a deer, which had come into the clearing. The deer stumbled down on its hind legs. It seemed to shake uncontrollably. The driver fired at the wounded creature again and again until it collapsed on the ground.

By then, Fernando had already bolted off in the other direction. That had been at least an hour ago—maybe two. He wasn't really sure anymore. He'd spent so much of that time hiding in gullies or ditches. He kept hearing the car in the distance. Every once in a while, the motor would stop, and then he'd hear the car door open. They'd talk back and forth, but the words were always indistinguishable. He still hadn't shaken them. Fernando kept hoping to run into some hikers or nature nuts, anyone who might help him.

Stopping for a moment, he ducked behind a tree and tried to catch his breath. He listened to the bushes rustling and twigs snapping—not very far away. One of them was closing in on him. Fernando crouched down near the cold ground. His salty sweat seeped into the cuts and scratches all over his body. It felt like his skin was on fire. He couldn't stop shaking. He thought of that wounded deer.

“Hey, Fernando, c'mon,” called the driver of the black Saturn. “I know you can hear me. It was all a gag. Collin put us up to it. C'mon, dude, we weren't really going to hurt you. We were just supposed to scare you. We'll give you your clothes and your phone back. Fernando?”

He didn't believe him for a minute. The guy's voice seemed to be fading. Fernando slowly straightened up and crept off in the other direction. After a while, he couldn't hear him at all, and he broke into a sprint. He thought he saw a paved road through the trees ahead.

For a second, he glanced back to make sure no one was behind him. All at once, the ground disappeared beneath his feet—and he was falling. He toppled into a gully, and cried out in pain as he landed on his arm. He heard something snap. For a few moments, he lay there in shock, unable to move. He'd gotten the wind knocked out of him.

“Fernando, did you hurt yourself?” the driver called. “I think I know where you are, but give me a yell so I can help you!”

He heard the footsteps through the brush coming closer—and then the man's raspy breathing.

With his one good arm, Fernando tried to push himself up, but he couldn't. His feet had become numb. They couldn't support him anymore. He collapsed on the ground again and let out a defeated cry. Helpless, he lay there in the rocky ditch.

The sun was in Fernando's eyes when he gazed up.

The driver of the black Saturn had found him. The man stood at the top of the ditch—a dark silhouette against the noon sun. Fernando couldn't see his face. But he saw the policeman's nightstick in his hand. “Why are you doing this?” Fernando whimpered.

Coming toward him, the man shook his head. He slowly raised the nightstick. “Stupid little shit,” he grumbled. “You shouldn't have been hitchhiking in the first place. . . .”

Fernando squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the nightstick whipping through the air—right next to his ear—and then a crack.

He didn't hear anything after that.

“I'm okay now,” Mrs. Pollack-Martin said. She was sitting in one of the cushioned easy chairs in the lobby. A nurse in purple scrubs hovered over her, taking her blood pressure, while Greta, the receptionist, fanned her with a copy of
People
magazine. “I'm so sorry about the flowers,” Mrs. Pollack-Martin went on. “I don't know what happened. . . .”

Collin sat on an ottoman in front of her. Every time she met his gaze, she looked away. The nurse had pushed up Mrs. Pollack-Martin's sleeve to strap on the Velcro cuff, and Collin could see the pink burn scars on her thin, pale arm.

“Really, everyone, I'm fine,” she insisted. “Thank you, Sheila. And Greta, I'm sorry again about the flowers. I'll pay for the vase. . . .”

“Oh, don't sweat the small stuff,” the receptionist said, retreating toward her desk. “It was no antique. Five-ninety-nine at Target.”

The Velcro made a loud ripping noise as the nurse took off the blood pressure cuff. She patted Mrs. Pollack-Martin on the shoulder. “You're all right,” she said. “Just sit there for a few minutes, catch your breath, and let this young man look after you.” She stashed the blood-pressure-gauging device in a doctor's bag and headed down the corridor.

His notebook in his lap, Collin was suddenly alone with her.

Mrs. Pollack-Martin self-consciously rolled down her sleeve. “I must apologize,” she sighed, still not quite looking at him. With a shaky hand, she reached for the water glass on the table beside her and took a sip. “I'm not making a very good first impression, am I? It was just kind of a shock when I first saw you, because you remind me of someone from years ago—fifty years ago, in fact.”

“And I look like this guy?” Collin asked.

Her eyes finally met his, and she worked up a pale smile. “Yes. He was just about your age, too.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No, I never got his name. I only saw him a couple of times—briefly.”

“Something tells me this guy who looked like me wasn't very nice.”

Mrs. Pollack-Martin glanced away again, and she nervously rubbed her arm.

“What did he do?” Collin pressed.

She shrugged. “I'm not certain he did anything, really. He just showed up at a very bad time.” She smiled at him again. “Anyway, you didn't come here to talk about that. You wanted to ask me some questions about my books.”

“Do I really look like this guy?” Collin pressed.

She nodded. “There's an uncanny resemblance, yes. But I can see the differences now. He was handsome, like you, but he also looked sort of cold and—I don't know—unfeeling. You don't seem like that at all.” She shrugged and took another gulp of water. “Maybe it's how I picture him in hindsight, but even when he smiled, he seemed cruel. I suppose that sounds silly.”

Collin shook his head. “It doesn't sound silly at all.” He'd seen the way Wade had smiled in those videos, and she'd just described it to a T. Collin cleared his throat. “You said he showed up at a bad time. What happened?”

“I thought you wanted to talk about my books. Wasn't that your assignment?”

“Well, I'm writing about you, too,” he answered carefully. “I mean, if this was a significant event in your life, I'd like to include it in—in my paper.”

“All right, then. If you really want to know . . .” She glanced over her shoulder.

Collin followed her gaze, and saw a custodian had just finished cleaning up the water, the scattered flowers, and the glass from the broken vase. Beyond him were the elevators.

Mrs. Pollack-Martin got to her feet. “Well, if I'm going to tell you this story, I'll need a glass of wine. And there's a cold ginger ale with your name on it in my refrigerator. C'mon . . .”

In the elevator, on her way up to her apartment on the fourth floor, she still seemed a bit wobbly and held on to the handrail. “You know, it's funny about getting old,” she said. “I can't remember what I was doing the day before yesterday, but I can tell you everything about that day fifty years ago.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Collin held out his hand to help her, but she just patted his arm. “I'm all right, thanks,” she said, starting down the corridor, which had handrails along the beige walls. She stopped in front of apartment 405 and took her keys out of her pocket. She put the key in the door. “Oops, looks like I forgot to lock it again,” she muttered, opening the door for him.

From the living room window, Collin saw a small golf course, the river, and the mountains beyond that. The place was nicely furnished, modest and clean, but she had the heat cranked up kind of high. A silver tabby emerged from the kitchen. The cat rubbed against his leg and meowed.

“That's Smike,” she explained. “Do you know
Nicholas Nickleby
?”

Collin shook his head. “Not very well.” He and the cat followed her into the kitchen.

“I named him after a character in the book.” Mrs. Pollack-Martin fished a can of ginger ale and a bottle of white wine from her refrigerator. “My Smike is an illegal immigrant. I smuggled him in here four years ago when he was a kitten. We're not supposed to have pets. So in case anyone asks, you've never seen him.” Getting out the glasses, she nodded at the small breakfast table—beside a window with another view of the mountains. “Have a seat. It'll be easier if you want to take notes. Besides, you can see all my book covers.”

There were ten of them on the wall, all framed—her lucky ladybug series:
Ladybug's Day at the Park
,
Ladybug's European Vacation
,
Ladybug's Day Off
, and so on. Collin sat down at the table, where she had the newspaper folded over to the crossword puzzle, almost finished.

Mrs. Pollack-Martin moved the paper aside and set down his ginger ale and a glass of ice. “You might have noticed, I don't have any family pictures around,” she said. “Go into any other apartment in this building, and you'll find photos on display of children and grandchildren.” She glanced at her book cover collection. “I guess these are a poor substitute. I keep my family pictures in a photo album. Having them on display wouldn't really give me any comfort. You see, I lost my first husband and my three children in a hotel fire in 1962. My sister-in-law was with us. She died, too.”

Mrs. Pollack-Martin turned away. Collin thought she was going to retrieve her glass of wine. Instead, she kept walking—around the corner and into the living room. Collin waited. He was about to call out to her when she returned with a photo album. She had her thumb at a certain page and opened it to show a black-and-white photo of a family posed in front of a Christmas tree. It was like something out of an early episode of
Mad Men
. She was strikingly beautiful with her big dark hair and her cocktail dress. The husband looked like one of the Mercury astronauts with his blond crew cut. He wore a suit and thin tie. The three kids, also dressed in their Sunday churchgoing finest, ranged from slightly dorky to damn cute.

Ice clinked as she sipped from her wineglass. She pointed to the photo. “That's me—way back when—and my husband, Brandon,” she said. “And those are our children, Brian, Felicia, and Audrey. This was taken at Christmas 1961, eight months before the fire.”

She set down her glass and pulled the photo album to her side of the table. “There's a picture of my sister-in-law, Loretta, in here. She was a very pretty girl—right around your age. Ah, yes, here she is. . . .”

Mrs. Pollack-Martin slid the album back in front of him and pointed to a studio portrait of a cute, young brunette with dark, exotic eyes. She was looking off to one side, and wore a white, round-collar blouse that looked like part of a school uniform. The photo was signed in slightly faded blue ink:
To Brandon & Irene – SMOCK, SMOCK, SMOCK! XXX – Loretta.

Collin had no idea what
Smock, Smock, Smock
meant, but assumed it was a private joke or something.

“When we invited Loretta to come with us for the World's Fair in Seattle, she was so excited,” Mrs. Pollack-Martin said. “I was thrilled to have some help with the kids. My husband and I planned to take off one night, and Loretta said she'd babysit. He'd heard about this ‘Gay Nineties' nightclub at the fair. It was supposed to be the big hot spot.” She smiled and sipped her wine. “This was the other kind of
gay
and the other
nineties
.” Her smile waned. “I remember after the fire, feeling so horrible for my husband's mother. She was a widow. Brandon and Loretta were her only children. Both of us lost everyone in that fire. I kept thinking, if we hadn't invited Loretta to come with us, then my mother-in-law would have at least had one of her children to comfort her. At the same time, if we hadn't invited Loretta, I doubt the fire would have happened. Things might have been very different.” She nodded to the collection of book covers. “I'd probably have photos of my grandchildren up there on that wall.”

Collin sipped his ginger ale. He wondered if he should be taking notes—at least to keep up the pretense that he was there to interview her for an English assignment.

“Has your family been in the Seattle area for long, Collin? Do any of them remember the World's Fair in 1962?”

He shrugged. “I think my grandfather was away at military school at the time.”

“Well, it was about the biggest thing to happen for
everyone
,” she said. “We lived in Wenatchee. We made our reservations at the hotel months ahead of time. The Hotel Aurora Vista had a pool, which would be perfect for the kids, since the trip was in August. I remember all of us piling into the station wagon for the drive to Seattle. This song, ‘Johnny Angel
,
' was a big hit at the time, and Loretta had a crush on a boy in her class named Johnny Something. The song must have played on the radio five times during the trip. We all sang along with it and teased her. Everyone was laughing, even Loretta. We were all so keyed up.”

She glanced down at the photo album for a moment. “We took so many pictures that first day at the fair,” she said. “I think we must have shot two rolls of film. Of course, none of it survived. It all went up in smoke. But the strange thing is I still have those pictures so clearly in my mind—even though they never got developed. I remember the crowds and the smells, and the hot sun on my face that day. We saw the ‘Car of the Future, ' and took in the Bell Telephone exhibit. We couldn't get over the new touchtone phones they were introducing—and all the other innovations. Oh, and the food—from all over the world! No one had ever heard of Belgian waffles before this. The kids stuffed their faces at the Food Circus. There were so many exhibits and international shops. Everything seemed so futuristic with the Space Needle and the Monorail. At one point, my husband and Brian went to the space exhibit while Loretta and I took the girls to the little amusement park attached to the fair. That's where I first saw the young man. He seemed to be following us. Loretta thought he was handsome. He was just about her age, and I think she might have been encouraging him a little, too. But there was something about him I didn't like. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time. Anyway, I took my older girl, Felicia, on the Ferris wheel. And looking down, I noticed Loretta talking with the young man.” She looked across the table at Collin. “His hair was exactly like yours. . . .”

He realized it was still slicked back from when he splashed water on his face down in the lobby restroom.

“I remember when we finished with the Ferris wheel ride, I went to look for Loretta and Audrey, and they'd disappeared. It took ten minutes before we found each other. I asked Loretta what she and that boy were talking about. Apparently, they had talked about Marilyn Monroe, who had just committed suicide. It had happened the day before we'd left for Seattle—so sad. Anyway, I asked Loretta if she knew this young man's name or where he was from. Loretta claimed she didn't know. But she let it slip that he'd asked where she was staying in town. I remember saying to her, ‘You didn't tell him, did you?' I mean, he was a complete stranger. Loretta gave me an odd look, and said, ‘Of course not.' But somehow I knew she was lying.”

As Mrs. Pollack-Martin spoke, Collin could almost see the amusement park and all the rides in the shadow of the Space Needle. He could hear people screaming and laughing over the canned carnival music. He'd never been to that amusement park, and wasn't even sure if it was still there. But somehow she'd made him
recollect
it.

“That night, after dinner, we were exhausted,” Mrs. Pollack-Martin continued. “I'd put Audrey to bed in the connecting room. Felicia was going to share the twin bed with her, while Loretta had the other bed. The hotel had gotten a cot for Brian. With them all crammed into that one small room, we weren't sure how it was going to work out. But everyone was so pooped and so happy to have air-conditioning, I don't think they cared where they slept. The kids were in their pajamas, watching TV in my husband's and my room. Loretta had gone to sit out by the hotel pool, and said she'd be back in time to watch
Hawaiian Eye
at nine o'clock. She wasn't even gone an hour, but I have a feeling she might have met that young man from the amusement park. Of course, I'll never know. She came back a little after nine, and the kids moved into the connecting room with her. I checked in on them around nine-thirty. Both my girls were asleep. Brian was sitting at the foot of Loretta's bed, watching TV. Loretta was on top of it in her nightgown, painting her toenails. I blew them both a kiss and ducked back into our room—my husband's and mine. That was the last time I saw them alive.”