You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (24 page)

Diane was about to switch on her desk lamp when she heard the lock click on the outside door. A moment later, a thin line of light appeared at the threshold of her office door. Whoever it was, they'd gotten into the waiting room and turned on the light.

She watched the doorknob twitch.

Grabbing the purse from her desk, she rifled through it for the little canister of mace. “Who's there?” she yelled in her most forceful voice.

She heard the keys rattling again. Then the lock clicked.

“I've called the police!” she lied.

The door opened, and Diane froze.

With the light behind him, it looked like Spencer—in his hooded sweatshirt. He paused in the doorway and tossed a big ring full of keys on the sofa in the waiting room. They hit the cushion with a clatter.

“Spencer?” she asked, uncertain.

“You said he left one of his books?” It wasn't Spencer's voice.

Diane still had a hand in her purse, groping for the mace canister. “Who are you?”

“He left something behind. Good,” the stranger said, stepping into her office.

Now she could see him better. She noticed he was wearing surgical gloves. She could see his eyes. He was looking down at her easy chair—and Spencer's copy of
The Grapes of Wrath
. “Now the police will find it here—when they find you.”

“What?” Diane asked. She still had one hand in her purse. Her fingertips brushed against something that felt like the little canister.

He darted toward the chair. She thought he was going for the book. But he swiped the glass Saturn sphere off the side table. Holding it up in the air, he rushed toward her.

“No, wait!” Diane screamed, dropping the purse. The little canister of mace spilled out and rolled along the carpet. She put her hands up to fend him off. But she was too late.

He slammed the glass sphere against her skull.

There was a loud crack.

But it wasn't the glass.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

W
ith the collar of her trench coat turned up, Andrea stood outside Vios, a Greek restaurant on Nineteenth Avenue. The raindrops on the flat metal awning above competed a bit with her cell phone conversation. “Spencer's getting gyros to go,” she told Luke. “Did you have dinner yet? Can we order something for you?”

Andrea had loathed the idea of Spencer wandering around Capitol Hill alone at night—especially with everything that was happening lately. So when he'd missed his bus and called her, she was all too happy to come pick him up. And she was so relieved to learn that he'd found that Dodgers cap in his school locker. Without any prompting, he'd brought it up soon after climbing into her car at the bus stop. When she'd first found the cap hidden in Spencer's closet, Andrea couldn't help imagining the worst. Now there was an explanation.

She understood why he'd been reluctant to tell the police about it yesterday. Like him, she'd reached a point in that police interrogation room where she would have said or suppressed anything if it meant getting out of there any sooner.

Spencer had explained about the rash of macabre pranks going around school. So Andrea clung to the hope that maybe the Dodgers cap in his locker was just a sick joke. But she had a feeling it was something far more malignant than that. Either way, they'd have to let the police know. There would probably be another round of questions. But on the plus side, they had a little time to brace themselves for it. Spencer said that Diane had volunteered to talk to the police and vouch for his character. Now at least they had someone else in their corner.

Andrea needed to let Luke know about this latest development. No surprises this time. She didn't want him coming home from late rehearsals to find a police car in his driveway.

Spencer hadn't eaten yet. So, while he ordered gyros to go, she stepped out of the noisy restaurant to phone Luke. He said he'd be heading home in about twenty minutes. He'd already had dinner with the director and some cast members.

Andrea watched the rain drip off the metal awning. “Listen, there's been a potential new wrinkle in what the police were investigating yesterday,” she said into the phone. “It could be nothing, or it could be pretty serious. Anyway, do you want to hear about it now—or when you get home?”

“Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. “What is it?”

She told him about Spencer's discovery in his school locker yesterday—and all the possible implications. He was silent on the other end. When she finished talking, she heard him sigh.

“Let's not call the police until I get home, okay?” he said at last.

“All right, sounds good to me,” she said. “I'm sorry about this, Luke.”

“It's not your fault. See you in a bit.”

She heard a click.

Andrea slipped the phone into the pocket of her trench coat and then walked to the far end of the building, where the restaurant's awning still shielded her from the downpour. She gazed up at the church tower against the rainy night sky. She still didn't know how things stood with Luke and her. Would he be spending the night on the couch in his study again? Or maybe they'd all be spending the night at the police station.

“Aunt Dee?”

She glanced back at Spencer, who was standing outside the restaurant door with a big white bag in his hands. “Sorry it took so long,” he said. “Did you get ahold of Luke?”

She nodded. “How about you?” she asked. “Did you talk to Diane?”

He shook his head. “She wasn't picking up. But I left a message.”

Andrea managed a smile. “I'm sure she'll call back,” she said. “C'mon, your dinner's going to get cold.”

In the rain, they hurried across the street to where she'd parked the VW.

It still had the scratch on the driver's door.

 

 

 

He'd been sitting behind the wheel of the parked Mazda CX-9 for the last half hour. He held his breath and felt his heart pounding every time a cop car drove by. It was scary, but kind of exciting, too. It gave him a rush and got him pumped up for what he was about to do.

He'd stolen the Mazda early this afternoon. He'd taken it from one of those cut-rate parking lots near the airport. He figured it might be hours or even days before the owner missed it. Still, he was on his guard.

Raindrops covered the windshield and tapped on the car roof. It was cold in the car, and twice now he'd turned on the engine to get a blast of heat and defog the windows.

He was parked on a four-lane, one-way street, half a block down from the theater where Luke Shuler was working on his new play. They were rehearsing late again. The man had been here before—twice in the last week, observing and plotting. He'd sat in a café on the corner, watching the theater from there.

Last night, Luke hadn't come to rehearsals.

So he'd driven to Luke's town house and spotted the squad cars parked in front of it. He'd figured they were questioning him in connection with the Logan family murders. At the time, he couldn't help smiling and wondering how that bastard felt with the cops breathing down his neck.

Now he was waiting for Luke to come out the theater's side door and head to his green Mini Cooper, parked across the street.

Only he would never make it to the car.

As soon as he saw Luke and had a good shot, he'd step on the gas—pedal to the metal—and plow right into him. If everything went his way, the son of a bitch wouldn't die immediately. He'd linger in agony for a while.

The man at the wheel glanced at his wristwatch. It felt as if he'd been waiting there an eternity. His hands were sweating against the steering wheel.

Then, at last, it looked like the theater's side door was opening.

Starting up the car, he switched on the wipers to get a better look across the way. He turned on the heat to defog the windshield and rolled down his window to hasten the process.

He spotted Luke among a group of people emerging from the side door. Luke held a big black umbrella, which he shared with a thin woman who looked like somebody's grandmother. She must have been a character actress—or maybe some rich-bitch contributor to the theater group. “Well, Grandma, you better get your ass out of the way,” the man in the driver's seat muttered.

He didn't give a damn about collateral damage. If he had to mow down some old hag, he wouldn't hesitate—as long as it meant killing Luke Shuler.

The wipers let out a groan as they moved across the windshield—almost like the distant sound of someone wailing in pain.

On the sidewalk in front of the theater, Luke led the older woman to a BMW parked at the curb. He held the umbrella up while she climbed into the car. Then he waved to her as she drove off. It looked like he was about to cross the rain-slick street.

The man in the Mazda CX-9 went to switch on his headlights, but decided against it. He'd do it at the last second. He didn't want Luke to see him coming, not until it was too late to jump out of the way.

Some cute actress type with a red umbrella stopped Luke and chatted with him on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes.

“C'mon, c'mon, you fucker,” growled the man at the wheel. He shifted to Drive, but kept his foot on the brake.

Luke finally started to back away from the girl. He waved at her, then turned and stepped over a puddle by the curb. There was a lull in traffic. Luke started across the empty four-lane road.

The driver slowly pulled away from the curb. He waited until Luke was in the middle lane. Then he stepped on the gas. The tires screeched and the car swerved as he sped up the street.

The red umbrella woman screamed. Luke froze.

The driver switched on the brights, knowing he'd just blinded his target for a few seconds.

Squinting in the bright glare, Luke dropped his umbrella. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. He seemed panic-stricken. He looked so silly—almost comical— with that terrified expression on his face. The man at the wheel had to laugh, and he pressed harder on the accelerator.

Luke tried to leap out of the way, but he was too late.

The loud, heavy thud against the Mazda's front bumper didn't slow down its driver—not even when Luke bounced off the hood and smashed into the windshield. A crack splintered across the glass. Blood mixed with raindrops. Luke's broken body rolled off the passenger side of the car.

It all happened in an instant. The girl with the red umbrella was still screaming.

The driver pressed harder on the gas. The Mazda skidded slightly and then got some traction. He sped through a traffic light and stole a glance in his rearview mirror. He had to slow down for a moment to take it all in.

Traffic had come to a standstill behind him. The other cars' headlights illuminated the lifeless thing in the middle of the rain-soaked street. Beside Luke's body, the wind caught his open umbrella. It seemed to skip across the pavement on its own.

The man in the Mazda smiled and drove on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

T
hey couldn't find the car.

Andrea and Spencer wandered around the “Kangaroo” level of the hospital's underground parking garage in search of her red VW. The cavernous concrete space was well lit, but still seemed eerie. Despite the late hour, the parking level was at least three-quarters full. Yet there wasn't another person in sight. Andrea had tried clicking the locking device on her key ring so that she could track the car's locale from the beep. But there was a strange echo in the garage, which distorted the sound.

“This is ridiculous,” Spencer muttered. “I think we've covered this whole floor . . .”

She knew they were on the right level. The buttons on the elevator each had a different animal and color: white elephant for level A; blue lion for level B; orange kangaroo for level C; and so on. Andrea remembered their level was orange kangaroo, but had absolutely no recall as to which direction they'd gone to reach the elevators.

When they'd arrived at the hospital over three hours ago, making mental notes about where they'd parked the car hadn't really occurred to Andrea. At the time, all she could think about was Luke—and trying not to get into an accident on the way to the hospital.

She'd wondered why he hadn't beaten them home earlier. She'd called him twice, and instead of his regular message, she'd gotten a generic recording: “The cellular customer you're trying to reach is unavailable right now . . .” Something had to be wrong with his phone—or with him. By nine-forty, she was about to call the theater when Jim Munchel, the play's assistant director, phoned.

“Luke's been in an accident,” he said. “They took him to Harborview . . .”

The ER waiting area was crowded and chaotic. Two cops were there, getting statements from some of Luke's theater associates who had witnessed the hit-and-run.

“All we know is that he's alive and they've moved him into the OR,” Jim told her. He was a handsome, brown-haired, bearded man in his late thirties. He told her that from the erratic way the car had been moving, it looked like a drunk driver had hit Luke. Because of the rain and how fast the hit-and-run had happened, no one had gotten a look at the license plate number.

Andrea couldn't help thinking the hit-and-run was no random accident. “It's got to be connected to everything else that's happened recently,” she told the sturdy-looking young policewoman who had interviewed Jim. The cop had a smooth ebony complexion and short-cropped hair. Her partner—with his eighties-throwback sideburns and mustache—looked like a young Burt Reynolds. While Andrea tried to explain to them about the previous night's marathon interview with Detective Talwar, they kept getting interrupted by a skinny, demented-looking, thirty-something woman. She had a tattoo on her neck and a gash on her forehead, and she wanted them to arrest her boyfriend.

Spencer told them about finding Reed's baseball cap in his school locker. He said he had it at home in a plastic bag—in case they needed it as evidence. He admitted that he'd been too scared to tell Detective Talwar about it yesterday.

The policewoman muttered something to her partner and then headed outside. The other officer frowned at Andrea and Spencer. “Is there anything else you didn't tell Detective Talwar yesterday?”

“No,” Andrea said. She was too concerned about Luke to let this cop intimidate her. She got up and checked with the receptionist again—to see if they had an update on Luke. They didn't.

Over the next half hour, most of Luke's theater friends left, but Jim stayed. Andrea kept waiting for a doctor to come around the corner with news about Luke. She spotted the policewoman walking in through the smudged sliding-glass doors. Scratching the back of her neck, she approached them. “Well, I spoke with Detective Talwar,” she said. “About the Dodgers cap, it looks like your nephew has some comedians at his high school. Someone must have left that cap in your locker as a joke. Detective Talwar said they found Reed Logan's Dodgers cap in his bedroom when they responded to the nine-one-one call from his older brother.”

Andrea felt a tiny bit of relief at that news. She patted Spencer's arm. “When we get home tonight, you can throw that damn thing out.”

The police didn't hang around for very long after that.

It was another two hours before a tall, forty-something man with a full head of blond hair emerged from around the corner. He was wearing green scrubs. As he conferred with the receptionist, Andrea prayed this was their doctor. By this time, she'd had a few false alarms. Just for luck, she didn't get up from her chair as he came toward them—not until he addressed her.

“Ms. Boyle?” he said.

She, Spencer, and Jim all jumped to their feet. “Yes?” she said.

He nodded. “I'm Luke's surgeon, Dr. Cegielski. Can I talk with you alone?”

“Of course,” she said, suddenly a little short of breath. She followed him to a quiet corner of the room, where someone had tacked on the wall a skeleton decoration for Halloween. Andrea couldn't read from the doctor's expression what kind of news he had for her: good or terrible. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked with a tremor in her voice.

The doctor sighed. “We had to remove his spleen.”

Andrea numbly stared at him.

He began to list all the injuries Luke had sustained—including a pelvic fracture, three broken ribs, a tibia fracture, a broken arm, multiple sprains, cuts, and lacerations. “He was very, very lucky there was no serious head trauma or spinal injury. But he's still in critical condition. We've moved him to the ICU.”

“Can I see him?” Andrea asked.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I recommend you go home, get some sleep, and come back tomorrow afternoon. He won't be ready for visitors any time before then.”

That had been nearly a half hour ago. She'd thanked the doctor. Then she and Spencer had said goodbye to Jim. They'd both become so bewildered and turned around that they'd had a tough time locating the elevator to the parking garage.

And now they couldn't find the damn car.

“Wait, is that it?” Spencer said, nodding to a gap between two parked SUVs against a far wall.

Andrea pointed the key fob in that direction and pressed the unlock button. They heard a beep and saw a subtle flash of light between the two SUVs. “Hallelujah,” Andrea muttered, and they headed toward the car. Their footsteps echoed within the vast concrete space.

Andrea heard a mechanical whoosh sound, and glanced over her shoulder. A tall, thin balding man in a leather jacket stepped off the elevator. He had his hands in his jacket pockets. He seemed to be staring at them.

Andrea picked up the pace and nudged Spencer. “C'mon, let's go . . .”

He glanced back and hesitated. “Who's that?” he whispered. “Do you know him?”

“No, and at one in the morning, I don't want an introduction,” she said under her breath. “C'mon.”

The man was coming toward them. He walked at a brisk clip—as if he were about to break into a sprint at any minute.

She and Spencer hurried to her Volkswagen Beetle, sandwiched between the two SUVs. “Get in, get in,” she whispered, opening her door.

“It's locked!” he hissed, frantically tugging at the passenger door handle. “You have to hit the thing again!”

The stranger seemed to be zeroing in on them.

Andrea pressed the device again, and heard the lock click. She jumped in behind the wheel while Spencer scurried into the passenger side. She flicked the universal door lock on her armrest and then jammed the key into the ignition.

“Wait,” Spencer said, putting his hand on her arm.

Breathless, she paused and looked up at the man about twenty feet away. He pulled a key out of his pocket as he trotted to a Honda Civic parked in the last spot of the row directly in front of them. She and Spencer silently watched him start up the car, pull out of the space, and drive up the ramp.

Spencer burst out laughing.

Andrea began to laugh as well. But then something caught in her throat, and the tears started to come. Clutching the steering wheel, she leaned forward and sobbed.

She felt Spencer's hand on her shoulder. “Luke's going to be okay,” she heard him say. “Really, Aunt Dee, he'll be all right. It's all going to be okay.”

She wished to God she could believe him.

* * *

“Okay, this is from something called Healthlink Forum,” Spencer said, looking at Andrea's smart phone. He was slouched in the passenger seat.

At the wheel, Andrea nodded, but she kept her eyes on the road ahead. The rain had stopped. They were about three blocks from the town house. Reaching for the dash, she blindly felt around for the volume knob and turned down “Under the Boardwalk” on her oldies station. “Okay, go on . . .”

“It says, ‘People can live a long life without a spleen . . . '”

She nodded. “That's the good news. I thought so. But there's a big
but
coming up, isn't there?”

“It's a
however,
” Spencer replied glumly. He went back to reading off the smart phone's screen. “ ‘However, because the spleen helps the body fight bacteria, living without this organ can make someone very susceptible to dangerous infections, including pneumonia, meningitis, and influenza.'”

Biting her lip, Andrea tried to hold back her tears. She was thinking about Luke and the weeks ahead for him just learning to walk again—and the months of recovery after that. And yet, his life would never be the same. He'd been so healthy and resilient. She knew many introverted writers who loathed having to promote their work, travel, and interact with their reading public. But Luke seemed to thrive on it. Now he'd have to be careful about traveling and getting together with people. He'd have to avoid crowds and take all sorts of precautions.

Why did this happen? Until just a few hours ago, she'd thought someone might be targeting her or Spencer, implicating them in the Logan family murders. But now this person seemed to be going after Luke. Why? What did Luke do? What had any of them done to deserve this?

She pulled into the driveway, parked, and turned off the ignition. She gazed at the Spanish-style town house. The garden she'd started in front sort of put her own stamp on it. They'd left some lights on. At least they wouldn't have to walk into a dark house.

She and Spencer climbed out of the VW and started up the walk to the front door. “I think I'll ditch school tomorrow and go to the hospital with you—if that's okay,” he said.

Andrea took the house key out of her purse and then checked her watch. If he went to bed right now, he'd need to be up for school in five and a half hours. “It's okay with me,” she said with a sigh as she unlocked the door.

Andrea took a step inside, but hesitated. The house was quiet. The alarm should have been beeping. She realized they'd left in such a hurry that she'd forgotten to set it.

“What's wrong?” Spencer asked, unzipping his hooded sweatshirt.

“Nothing—”

All at once, the silence was broken. Glass shattered somewhere upstairs.

Andrea froze. At first, she thought someone had thrown a rock through a window again. But this seemed to come from inside. Then she heard the rumble of footsteps directly above them.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck. “Oh, Jesus, someone's in the house,” she whispered, grabbing Spencer's arm.

Andrea frantically pulled him toward the door.

He resisted. “I have a gun!” he yelled.

All she could think was the intruder had nowhere to go. He'd have to come down the stairs right in front of them. There was a back door in the kitchen, but no back stairway. Spencer didn't seem to realize the stranger upstairs—unlike them—probably really did have a gun.

The floorboards creaked. It sounded like the prowler was at the top of the steps.

“Spencer, for God's sake . . .” She flung the door open and dragged him outside.

Andrea shut the door after them. She remembered Spencer still had her smart phone. “Call nine-one-one!” she said, pulling him down the walkway toward her car. She expected someone to come charging out the front door at any minute.

With a shaky hand, she dug her car key out of her purse and pressed the unlocking device. The car beeped and the headlights flashed. “Get in!” she hissed. “Hurry . . .”

With the phone in his hand, Spencer paused to look back at the house.

Andrea wasn't sure, but she thought she heard a door slam. Had the intruder run out the back way?

She ducked into the car and Spencer got into the passenger seat. Andrea locked the car doors, and put the key in the ignition.

“It's ringing,” Spencer said.

She grabbed the phone out of his hand. “Thanks,” she said, catching her breath. They both watched the town house. None of the outside lights were on. Anyone could have been hiding in those shadows—those pockets of blackness behind the trees and shrubs. There was a fence in back. Andrea kept expecting to see someone emerge from the bushes alongside the house.

“Seattle Police Emergency,” the 911 operator finally answered.

“Yes, someone broke into my house at nine-one-five Olympic Drive in Queen Anne,” Andrea said.

“Is the perpetrator still on the premises, ma'am?”

Andrea tried to steady her voice. “He could be,” she said. “I'm afraid to go back inside. I'm in my car in the driveway—with my nephew. Could you—could you send someone right away?”