You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (32 page)

Spencer nodded. She started to give him her umbrella, but he quickly shook his head and gave it back to her. “You're so nice,” he said. “You're doing enough for me as it is. If you were my girlfriend, I should be so lucky.”

She stared at him for a moment, and Spencer wondered if he'd been a little too honest. Was it creepy of him to have just said that?

Bonnie smiled. Then she turned and hurried toward her house.

Spencer smiled, too—for the first time since he got up this morning.

He watched her open the front door, collapse her umbrella, and duck inside the house. He heard a car coming down the block and looked behind him.

It was a police car.

He raced across the driveway and hid behind some evergreen bushes. He wondered if the cop had already spotted him. If that was the case, he'd just given himself away as a pretty damn suspicious character. He wondered if Bonnie's dad and brothers were watching him from inside the house, wondering who this guy was creeping around their house.

Crouched down by the shrubs, Spencer glanced back at the house. Bonnie had left the front door open a bit. He heard the police vehicle pass. At least, he thought it was the police vehicle. He didn't move. He checked the house again.

Bonnie came out to the front stoop and waved him in.

He darted across the lawn. She held the door open for him. “My dad and brothers are still downstairs,” she whispered. “We'll go up the front way. Better take off your shoes . . .”

The house felt warm, and Spencer shuddered gratefully. He stopped to pull off his shoes in the front hall, careful not to make a puddle. He carried them as he followed Bonnie up the carpeted stairs. They crept down a long hallway past a couple of bedrooms. Bonnie's room was at the very end of the hall, by the back stairs.

It was mostly pink and white—with a lot of Paris-themed stuff, like the art on the walls and the Eiffel Tower bedspread. It smelled nice in there, too.

“You can put your jacket and shoes in the bathroom,” she whispered. “Help yourself to a towel.”

The bathroom had blue tiles on the walls, a tiled floor and a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment. The shower curtain had an Impressionist painting of water lilies on it. Spencer set his shoes on the floor and draped his soggy jacket over the shower curtain rod. His sweater was damp, so he took that off, too, and hung it next to his jacket. He still had on his T-shirt, but he started to shiver—partly because he was cold, and partly because he was nervous being in her room.

Wrapping a towel around his shoulders, he stepped back into Bonnie's bedroom. She'd taken off her jacket, too. She wore a black pullover with her jeans. She stood by her desktop computer. “I found a site that has a better, clearer version of Damon's webcast,” she said, turning to type on the keyboard and adjust the mouse. “I got a chance to study it, and I'm pretty sure I know what Damon did . . .”

She brought up the webcast and moved the arrow along the bottom of the video to the last couple of minutes. She clicked on the size option, and the image filled the screen. Then she froze the frame. It showed Damon on the phone when he was talking with Luke.

She turned to Spencer. “Did you ever see
Sixteen Candles
?”

Drying his hair with the towel, he gave her a baffled smile. “Molly Ringwald?”

She nodded. “There's a scene near the end, when the grandparents are all piling into a car to go to the sister's wedding. If you look carefully, you'll see that one of the grandmothers doesn't actually get into the car. Maybe there wasn't enough room for her or it was a timing thing. But she doesn't really climb inside. She ducks behind the car and shuts the door. Check it out next time you see the movie.”

“I don't understand,” Spencer murmured.

She turned back to the computer and started the video. “Damon does the same thing here. You never actually see him climb inside the car. Take a good look . . .”

Spencer watched once again. At sixteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds into the video, Damon angrily threw the phone into the woods. On the larger screen Spencer could see three old, rural-style mailboxes in the background.

Damon opened the front door of the BMW, and then he moved out of camera range.

Bonnie clicked her mouse and froze the image on the computer. “Why do you think he opened the car door then? He opens the door, and then he goes and does something else. He doesn't climb in . . .”

She clicked the mouse, and the video continued.

Damon moved toward the camera and repositioned it. Everything turned blurry for a few moments. “It's a distraction,” Bonnie said.

“Jesus,” Spencer whispered. “He left the car door open for someone else . . .”

“That's what I was thinking, too. There's just enough time here for someone to load another body into that front seat.” She pointed to the screen as the image went into focus again. “Look where he's moved the camera so we're seeing the passenger side of the car.”

Spencer frowned. “Okay, but who do you think was helping him out? Tanya? I can't see her loading a dead body into that car in a matter of a few seconds.”

“Why not? Tanya's a big, sturdy girl.” Bonnie nodded at the screen. “Here's where he pretends to get into the car. I watched it three times before I figured it out.”

Spencer studied Damon's every move as he bent down next to the car. The driver's door shut.

Bonnie backed it up and played it again. “You never see him actually getting inside the car,” she said. “He's just ducking on the other side of it . . .”

Spencer imagined Damon trying to get away from that car before they blew it up, crawling away on his belly like the fastest snake in the world.

“Whose body do you think they used?” he wondered aloud. “And—wouldn't the police be able to tell it wasn't Damon?”

She frowned. “Spencer, that body was sitting next to five sticks of dynamite. The police would have been lucky to find a few teeth. Besides—”

A knock on the door silenced her. “Bonnie?” a woman called.

Looking panic-stricken, Bonnie mouthed the words,
my mother,
and then she pointed to the bathroom.

“Bonnie? Who are you talking to in there?”

On his tiptoes, Spencer hurried into the bathroom. As he closed the door, he stole a glance at Bonnie, picking up her phone. He didn't close the door all the way. He figured if it was completely shut, the bathroom would be the first place her mother looked.

He heard the bedroom door open. “Bonnie . . .”

“Mom, I'm talking with Beth.”

“Who?”

Spencer felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He wondered if they could hear it. He quickly pulled it out of his pocket and shut it off.

“Beth Kinsella,” Bonnie was saying. “I didn't know you were back. Is everything okay?”

“When you finish talking to Beth, your dad and I would like to have a word with you downstairs.”

“This sounds serious,” Bonnie said. “Am I in trouble?”

“Just—finish up your call, and come down to your father's study.”

Spencer heard the bedroom door close. But he didn't move.

After a moment, Bonnie opened the bathroom door. “I don't know what's going on,” she said under her breath. “Maybe a neighbor saw us walking down the block or something. You better stay in here, and don't move.”

He nodded. Backing away, he sat down on the edge of the tub.

Bonnie retreated into the bedroom, and a few moments later, he heard the door shut.

Spencer switched his phone back on and checked his messages. The caller hadn't left one.

Then he checked the caller ID.

“Oh, Jesus, no,” he whispered.

He stared at the words on the little screen:
SEATTLE POLICE DEPT
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

 

A
ndrea stared at the varsity letter jacket in the trunk of her VW. She'd moved it aside, so it wouldn't get soiled by the dirty, deflated tire she'd just dumped in there—along with the tools for changing the tire.

She'd managed to replace the tire in about half an hour. But it still seemed to take forever. While toiling away in the rain with the jack, lug nut wrench, and tires, she'd been crying. She couldn't help it. She was soaked and chilled to the bone. She felt the roadside gravel digging through her pants into her knees. Her hands were wet, filthy, and numb. The whole time, she thought of Luke in the hospital, without a spleen, and the infection that was killing him. She thought of Spencer, and the too-real possibility that he'd killed again.

She realized right then that she needed to be with Luke. She couldn't help Spencer anymore, not if he'd murdered Ron Jarvis—and maybe Reed Logan and his parents, too. If that was the case, she was finished with him.

For the last six years she'd done everything she could for this kid who had shot her sister and brother-in-law. He'd murdered them. How much longer could she keep making excuses for him?

She often thought about how Viv had asked her to look after Spencer that evening in July six years ago. But she'd had a date, and she even made some snarky comment to her sister that she was trying to have
something resembling a love life
. It turned out the guy and the date were both unremarkable. If only she'd agreed to look after Spencer that night, none of it would have happened.

But her nephew wasn't really the guilty one. It was that other boy.

Spencer had always been so sweet and affectionate. He and Andrea had had a special bond. When he was a toddler, and she'd drop by her sister's house, Spencer wouldn't leave her alone. She always lapped up the attention from this beautiful little boy. He drew pictures for her, and wanted to show her his toys. When she was ready to leave, he'd always cry and cling to her leg. As Spencer got a little older, she loved being the cool aunt who took him to his first Redskins game, the Smithsonian, and on the White House tour. Viv and Larry made the most of the fact that she enjoyed babysitting for them. They would go away for a weekend about once every two months, leaving Spencer to stay with her. It got so that the tiny guest room in her Washington, DC, apartment became Spencer's room. Andrea never really considered it an imposition, but then she found herself turning down guys who wanted to go out with her, because she had to babysit while her sister and brother-in-law had another weekend getaway. So, on that Saturday night in July, 2009, although she relished the time she spent with her adoring nephew, she'd resolved to go on what would be an unremarkable date.

She knew in her head it wasn't her fault that Viv and Larry had been killed that night. But she couldn't help feeling somehow guilty. She also knew in her head—and in her heart—that Spencer wasn't a killer.

She couldn't turn her back on him. He had no one else. She kept remembering him as a toddler, crying and clinging to her leg as she was about to leave him.

Andrea shut the hood of her VW Beetle, and then climbed back into the driver's seat. Luke's estate planning portfolio was still on the floor. She reached down and set it back on the passenger seat. Starting the car, she switched on the heat and the windshield defogger. She couldn't keep from trembling as she pulled the phone from her purse. She clicked onto her last call—from that Dr. Lombard who had called from Harborview. She wanted to explain that she was on her way. Or was she too late already?

Andrea clicked on the number. She counted five ringtones. All the while, the rain was tapping on the car roof. The traffic on Dexter seemed to have gotten busier since she'd first pulled over. The cars were zooming by.

Finally, someone answered: “Harborview Hospital. . .”

“Hello, is Dr. Lombard there, please?” Andrea asked.

“Dr. Lombard?” the woman repeated.

“Yes, Dr. Lombard. He called me about Luke Shuler.”

There was no response on the other end. All Andrea could think was,
Oh, no, Luke's dead, and they don't know how to tell me. They're going to connect me to the hospital chaplain or some social worker . . .

She had a hand over her heart. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“You're calling about Luke Shuler?”

“Yes,” Andrea said. “I know his condition was—critical this morning, and they were concerned. Dr. Lombard called me about an hour and a half ago . . .”

“Ma'am, we don't have a Dr. Lombard in our directory.”

“But he called me from this number.”

“The number you called is a patient room that's unoccupied. No one's picking up in there. So your call was automatically forwarded to me here at the switchboard. Would you like me to transfer you to Mr. Shuler's room?”

It took Andrea a moment to realize what happened. “Yes . . . please . . .”

It rang twice. “Hello?” Luke picked up, sounding groggy.

“Luke?”

“Hey, babe.”

“Are you all right?”

“Well, outside of a headache that's killing me, I'm okay I guess . . .”

“So you didn't have an infection or a fever this morning?” she asked. She needed to hear from him that he was all right.

“No, just this lousy headache,” he said. “What—what are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” she murmured.

She glanced at the Estate Planning Portfolio, sitting on the passenger seat. She thought about the last agonizing hour and a half. She decided Luke didn't need to hear anything about it. She wondered why someone would call her from an empty room at the hospital, pretending that Luke was at death's door. Had the same person done something to her tire—after planting the varsity jacket in the trunk?

After all, she was sure to find it in there when she changed the tire. If she hadn't had the blowout, weeks might have gone by without her knowing the jacket was there. She'd thought it a bit bizarre the doctor told her to come alone. Did this creep want to make sure Spencer wasn't with her when she found the varsity jacket?

Or was all of this merely wishful thinking? Maybe the call leading her on this wild goose chase had nothing to do with what she'd found in the trunk. Maybe she was just trying to convince herself once again that her sweet nephew was incapable of murder.

“Honey, are you still there?” Luke asked.

“Yes, I—I'm on my way to see you . . .”

“Well, have you left the house yet?” he asked. “Because if you haven't left yet, why don't you just wait until later this afternoon to come visit? Right now, I was hoping to take a nap, maybe chase away this headache. Do you mind?”

“No, I—I haven't left yet,” Andrea lied. “I can wait until this afternoon . . .”

After they hung up, Andrea called the hospital again. She explained that some stranger had called her from an empty room, claiming to be a doctor. She knew most of Luke's doctors. She should have questioned this guy. Her main concern was the security around Luke. If this stranger had snuck into an empty room, what was to keep him from sneaking into Luke's room?

The man she spoke with from hospital security apologized and then assured her they'd ramp up security on Luke's floor. She had a feeling he was placating her.

“I don't think this was just a prank,” she pointed out. “I believe this person could be dangerous. He might want to harm Mr. Shuler.”

“Well, if you truly feel that way, I'd contact the police about this if I were you,” he replied.

“I—I'll do that,” she said. “Thank you.”

But as she hung up, Andrea thought about the varsity jacket in the trunk of her car.

Pulling into traffic again, she headed for home. She hoped Spencer was waiting for her there. Andrea told herself that once she got the truth out of him—whatever it was—she would indeed call the police.

* * *

“Now, we were both here when the police questioned you,” her father said. “And we know what you told them. But I want you to tell us: Has this Spencer
Rowe-Murray
—or whatever he calls himself—has he contacted you at all today?”

“No, he hasn't, Poppy,” Bonnie lied.

She sat on the ottoman, facing her parents, who were on the sofa in her father's study. The police had met with the three of them in this same room a few hours ago—to tell her that Ron was dead. Bonnie wondered what the point was to this follow-up session.

Once again, she wondered if some neighbor had spotted her with Spencer outside and phoned her parents. If that was the case, her folks had just caught her in a lie.

“Sweetheart, the police called about ten minutes ago,” her father said. “They're looking for your friend, Spencer, as ‘a person of interest' in the murder of a therapist on Capitol Hill. She was bludgeoned to death earlier in the week. Her body was discovered in her office early this morning. The last client she had listed in her notebook was this Spencer person on Tuesday night. He even left a book behind in the office.”

Bonnie shook her head. “Well, he couldn't have,” she said. “God, it's not enough that they're trying to blame him for Ron's death—”

“The police are calling him ‘a person of interest,' which means—”

“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “They're trying to make him out like he's some kind of monster, and he isn't. Somebody must have set this up to frame him. If—if Spencer really killed this woman, do you think he'd be foolish enough to leave a book behind? Someone planted it there!”

“Bonnie, honey,” her mother said. “I know you're fond of this boy—despite his history. Neither your father nor I am thrilled about it. But that's not important right now. If you know where he is, and you're trying to protect him, you aren't really helping him. The sooner he gives himself up and talks to the police, the sooner they'll straighten this all out.”

Bonnie said nothing. She wondered if she was letting her attraction to Spencer warp everything. Was the sweet, handsome guy now hiding in her bathroom really a psychotic killer?

“This isn't a punishment or anything,” her father said. “But for your own safety, you'll need to stay home today—and tonight.”

She shrugged. “Well, after the news about Ron, I really didn't feel like going out anyway. I don't mind.”

“The police said that starting this afternoon, they'll be keeping an even closer surveillance of the block,” her father continued. “If this boy tries to call you, or text you, or Twitter or email you, I want you to let us know.”

Bonnie looked him straight in the eye and nodded. “Yes, Poppy, of course.”

* * *

Spencer sat on the edge of the tub in Bonnie's bathroom. He held his phone in his hand. He tried to convince himself that the police probably just wanted to ask him some questions—like where he was last night when Ron was killed. They weren't trying to hunt him down so they could arrest him. They just wanted to make some routine inquiries.

The phone vibrated again, startling him. He automatically switched it off.

He figured it was the police again. They weren't giving up. Maybe they'd uncovered some evidence linking him to Ron's murder. After all, Damon's accomplice had planted Reed's baseball cap in his locker in an attempt to link him to last week's murders. They could have found a similar way to frame him for Ron's lynching.

Would the police believe him if he told them Damon was still alive?

Hell, probably not. He'd be lucky if they even bothered to study the video again. If they did, they might not see what he and Bonnie saw. There was still no real proof that Damon
didn't
get into the car.

Why would they believe him—a kid who had murdered his own parents six years ago?

Spencer thought he heard footsteps. But he realized the sounds were coming from another part of the house, nowhere near Bonnie's room.

She seemed to be taking forever downstairs.

Biting his lip, he switched his phone back on. The message light blinked. It was from his Aunt Dee. He turned the phone volume down and played the voice mail: “I'm in my car, down the block from Luke's,” she whispered, sounding grim. “There are three cop cars parked in front of the place. I have a feeling you aren't there. I have a feeling you came home, saw them, and turned around and ran. Spencer, what happened last night? Where were you really? Damn it, I wish you'd pick up. The police will want to talk with me. What am I supposed to tell them? I can't keep . . .” she hesitated. “Listen, call me, okay?”

Spencer heard someone coming up the back stairs. Switching off the phone, he stood up and listened.

It sounded like the person had passed Bonnie's room and continued down the hallway to one of the other bedrooms. Someone else was up here on the second floor now.

He put his phone in his pocket again. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't go back to Luke's. And his aunt didn't seem to believe him anymore.

And where the hell was Bonnie?

Earlier, the two of them hadn't heard her mother come home. Had she brought the police with her? For all he knew, there were a couple of cops downstairs, grilling Bonnie. He wanted to go over to the window and look outside for a police car. But it was one of those frosted bathroom windows, and he didn't dare make any noise attempting to open it.

Spencer reached up toward the curtain rod and felt his sweater. It was still a bit damp, but he put it on anyway.