Wicked Lies (52 page)

He knows you’re with Lorelei. That’s what it all comes back to. You’re with one of his “sssissters.”

He shuddered as he thought of Turnbull’s twisted mind. Through Seaside and past the interchange for Highway 26 he drove, the cloud cover and rain seeming to keep morning at bay.

He was just on the south side of Cannon Beach when his phone rang again. Steeling himself for another call from the monster, he glanced at the phone and realized it was Detective Stone’s cell.

“Frost,” he answered.

“Stone here. I got your message. I’m on my way to the Zellman house now. What’s going on?”

“I’m going through the tunnel at Arch Cape. Hold on.” Harrison gunned it through the darkness, the sounds of the truck barreling the opposite direction echoing against the cavern-like walls, his headlights cutting through the dark.

Once he was through the tunnel, he gave Stone a quick rundown of the last few hours. For his part, Stone listened intently, only interrupting to ask a question to clarify things.

“So I left Laura at the inn, called you, and started driving.”

“You haven’t tried to get hold of Zellman at home?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Turnbull said he was dead.” Harrison said. “And he has the doctor’s cell so I can’t get through.”

“He could be lying about the Zellmans.”

Harrison remembered the sound of the maniac’s voice, the barely suppressed delight in the killings. “Maybe,” he said, unconvinced.

“The guy’s completely off his nut. Off his meds, too, according to Zellman. What the hell’s he doing?” Stone muttered. “Why go after Zellman?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, thanks. Now, I want you to back off. Don’t come down here. Turn around, go back, and wait. I’ll get in touch with you later. This is either a sick prank or police business, but you’re out of it.”

Harrison’s answer was a short laugh. He wasn’t backing off now. Not when there was a chance of nailing Justice Turnbull.

“Listen—”

“I’ll be there in half an hour, Stone!” He gunned the Impala’s engine, up past the viewpoint on the rim of Neahkahnie Mountain. “Turnbull’s dragging me into it whether I want to be or not.”

“Did you hear me, Frost?” Stone demanded, his voice tight. “This is the sheriff’s department’s bus—”

But Harrison had switched off. No way was he backing off. No damned way.

Son of a bitch!

Stone glowered through his windshield. The bullheaded newsman wouldn’t do as he was told. Not when there was a story as big as Justice Turnbull’s escape and killing spree to cover. Luckily, Stone knew that he could beat the reporter to Zellman’s estate.

He half expected to find the family gathered around the kitchen table, eating breakfast, or already heading to their cars: the kid off to one of the last days of school, the wife ready to run errands, and the doctor on his way to the hospital. Hadn’t he said as much two night’s ago—that he was going into the office? An attack by a psychotic killer wasn’t about to keep Dr. Maurice Zellman away from his work with the other nutcases at Halo Valley.

He called Dunbar on the way to the Zellman residence and told her, a little reluctantly, what was going down and where he was going. She was all business and said the troops were on their way. He wanted to ask more about the pregnancy but decided if she wanted to say more, she would.

On a whim, he called Zellman’s work. “Halo Valley Hospital,” an even voice answered. “How can I direct your call?”

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Maurice Zellman,” Stone said, then identified himself.

“Dr. Zellman was out for a medical leave and . . . wait. That’s odd.” He heard her clicking buttons, a muted quick conversation with someone else, and rustling papers before she said, “I’m sorry. I was mistaken. It looks like he came in early this morning.” Clearly, she wasn’t trusting whatever it was she was seeing. “I’ll try to connect you.”

Stone turned off of the main road and wound up the smaller lane leading toward the Zellman estate. The rain was coming down in sheets now, blowing in from the west on a gusting wind that was tearing through the branches.

A second later a barely audible voice whispered, “This is Dr. Zellman.”

Stone felt instant relief. “Detective Stone, Doctor. Sorry to bother you, but Harrison Frost claims he received another call from your cell phone.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said with effort.

“The caller claimed he was Turnbull and said he’d attacked your entire family.”

Silence.

“He claimed you were included in the attack, and obviously you weren’t.”

“No . . . I . . . I couldn’t sleep and came into the hospital early. . . .” His voice, already weak, faded out altogether.

“I’m almost at your house. It could be a ruse.” Stone saw the lane turnoff for the Zellman house and wheeled in. The gate, still unrepaired, hung open, and through the trees, in the gloom, the house lights glowed warm in the gray dawn.

“That bastard’s toying with me. He always resented me.” Zellman was struggling to get out the words, and Stone had to strain to hear. “Please . . . check on Patricia. . . . I . . . I have her cell phone with me, so I can’t call her. I brought hers with me to work since mine is missing. . . .” There was a pause and then the doctor forced out, “Oh, God, tell me she’s all right.” His voice, faint, cracked with fear.

“I’ll call you right back.”

Stone snapped off as he pulled into the driveway. The garage doors were down, no vehicles visible. Everything seemed fine, but as he stepped out of his car, he unbuckled his holster and pulled out his sidearm. No reason to take foolish chances.

Through the drizzle, he walked briskly up the walk, pausing only to look through the windows at the front of the house but seeing no one, only perfectly decorated rooms that were empty of life. The living room and dining room were in shadow, lights coming from the back of the house.

He rang the bell and waited, his hand over the butt of his gun. If Turnbull was hiding in the shrubbery or behind a tree, he could rush Stone and he might not hear him over the constant, dull rumble of the sea.

No one came to the door.

He rang the bell again, heard dulcet tones peal inside, but no answering footsteps. “Mrs. Zellman?” he called loudly, pounding on the thick door with a fist. “It’s Detective Stone. Mrs. Zellman!”

Nothing.

He tried the door. Locked tight. Then he started walking around the big house, past rhododendrons shivering in the rain, under the wide branches toward the rear of the estate, where the forest opened up to the cliff. His boots squished in the puddles collecting on the ground, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift as he rounded a corner and stepped onto the patio off the family room and kitchen.

The French doors were ajar.

Stone’s stomach tightened.

Eyes trained on the warm interior, where the blinds Patricia Zellman had insisted on closing were wide open, he saw a pair of feet, one bare with toes painted a deep cranberry, the other still half inside a black slipper.

“Mrs. Zellman!” Using the nose of his gun, he pushed the doors open farther and stepped inside. The house was utterly still, and there, lying in front of an L-shaped sectional, Patricia Zellman lay in a pool of blood, red stains blooming through her silk pajamas.

“Damn . . . oh, damn . . . ,” Stone whispered, angry.

Checking her pulse, knowing he would find none, he snapped up his cell phone with his free hand. As he speed dialed, he leaned forward, listened for her breath. Nothing.

“Nine-one-one,” an operator said. “What is the—”

“This is Detective Langdon Stone,” he said, his gaze sweeping the rooms. What if Turnbull was still in the house? He snapped out his badge number, then ordered, “I need backup and an ambulance.” His gun in his right hand, he began moving through the rooms as he gave the operator the Zellmans’ address. “I’ve one victim dead, Patricia Zellman, and I’m searching the rest of the house now.”

“I’m sending a backup unit now, and the EMTs are on their way,” the 911 operator said just as he heard a noise from the hallway.

Spinning, his heartbeat accelerating, Stone held his pistol with both hands.

“Come on, you bastard,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Something dark moved in the shadowed hallway.

Trying to save time, Harrison raced down a back road that wound through the Miami River valley, avoiding some of the small towns and their speed limits. He sped through Tillamook and drove south, all the while his heart thudding. This could be it. Turnbull could be captured and the nightmare could be over.

He and Laura could be together.

He almost missed the turnoff to the Zellman estate and stood on his brakes just as he heard the sirens and saw, in his rearview mirror, the lights of police cruisers strobing the morning gloom. He didn’t doubt for a second the emergency vehicles were heading for Zellman’s address as he wrenched the wheel and sped into the lane ahead of them.

Passing the open broken gate, he set his jaw. His hands tightened over the wheel and his gut wrenched. Something was going down. Something big.

And it wasn’t good.

He slid the Impala to a stop behind the police vehicle parked near the garage—Stone’s car—then cut the engine and scooped up his 9 mm from the passenger seat.

Clicking off the safety, he crouched and started for the front door.

The first police vehicle sped down the drive. As the car slid to a stop, both front doors flew open and he heard, “Police! Drop your weapon!”

Harrison did as he was told. His gun fell to the wet lawn.

“Turn around!”

He did and saw he was staring into the barrels of two guns, both leveled straight at him.

“Get on your knees,” a young man in uniform demanded.

“Hey, I’m the guy who called Stone! I—”

“Get the fuck on your knees and keep your goddamned hands in the air!”

Heart thudding, Stone aimed at the man looming in the darkened hallway.
Go straight to hell, Turnbull!

“Dad?” a deep voice rasped. “Mom?” The dark figure stumbled a step, then pitched forward, falling into the light of the family room.

“Oh, no.” Stone flew across the thick carpet to the spot where Brandt Zellman, wearing only boxer shorts, bleeding from wounds to his chest and neck, collapsed. But he was alive. Dragging in shallow, gurgling breaths.

“Jesus . . . Hang in there!” Stone said to the boy and heard the sound of sirens approaching.
Oh, God, will they make it in time?
“You hang in there.” There was so much blood running from the jagged cuts on his chest and neck. Brandt had twisted onto his back, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Stone held the kid’s bloody fingers. “I’m here. Help is coming.”

The kid seemed to be fading away.

“No way, Brandt. You hang in there.”

Stone heard the sound of tires screeching to a stop.

Thank God!

More sirens. Close now. Screaming.

Voices. Shouting. Angry commands.

Maybe they caught Turnbull outside.
Get in here! Get the hell in here now!

The boy was fading away, his skin blanched white, showing the acne of his youth amid the thin stubble of his whiskers. “Brandt! I’m right here. Don’t you let go.” He gave the boy’s hand a squeeze. “Help is here.”
Why the fuck aren’t they coming inside?
“You hang on. . . .”

He yelled toward the front of the house. “In here! For Christ’s sake . . .”

From the corner of his eye, he saw two officers hurrying through the shrubbery, their pistols drawn. Then, as Dunbar looked through the window and caught a glimpse of the bloody scene inside, she sprang forward, through the open French doors.

“Holy . . . ,”she whispered.

“We need an ambulance!” Stone said.

“They’re here.” She was already heading to the front of the house.

As Stone gripped the teen’s hand and kept offering up words of encouragement, he heard the welcome sound of footsteps.

“We’ve got him,” one of the EMTs, a slim, dark-haired, small-featured woman, said.

“I don’t know if the house is secure,” Stone admitted, and two other cops began searching each of the rooms.

“We’ve got the reporter in cuffs,” Dunbar said. “Found him outside with a nine millimeter.”

She glanced at the body, turned a little green.

“He called in the crime. Turnbull phoned him.”

“Still, he stays in cuffs in the back of the vehicle, till we sort this all out.” She took a deep breath, then slid her partner a glance. “Let’s let Clark Kent cool his jets for a while.”

CHAPTER 41

H
arrison was gone.

Not in the bed, not on the settee, not on the floor, where a pillow and blanket had been left, not in the bathroom.

He was missing.

As was the gun.

Laura’s heart went cold. She threw off the covers and noticed on the bedside clock that it was after nine in the morning. Quickly, she tossed off her sleeping shirt and yanked on her jeans and a sweater. With the distinct feeling that something was very, very wrong, she was starting out of the room when she heard his vile hiss:

You’re nexxxt, Ssisster.

She nearly tripped on the stairs outside the room.

She slammed up the wall before Justice could terrorize her any further, wasn’t ready to get into a telepathic shouting match. . . .

Her throat was dry as she raced down two flights to the main level, where the scents of brewing coffee and cinnamon tantalized her nostrils. Three couples and a single man were already seated in the dining area. Two of the couples were laughing and talking, planning a trip to the nearby Astoria Column, a historic tower on the highest hill in the city, while the other couple was just finishing up, sitting across from each other at a small table for two and sipping coffee over their finished plates. The sixtyish single guy perused the sports section of a newspaper through reading glasses while absently picking at a gooey cinnamon roll.