“See you in a bit.” Clicking off the line, Karen shoved the phone back in her pocket, and gave Roseann a pale smile. “Sorry, Ro. About that talk regarding my dad, can it wait until later in the week? I have an emergency with one of my clients.”
Roseann nodded. “No sweat. Go help somebody. Like I say, it’s what you’re good at.”
Karen patted Roseann’s shoulder as she headed out of the employee lounge.
Before taking off, she stopped to peek in on her father. The orderly had cleaned him up, and now he looked so peaceful in his slumber. She wondered if in his dreams he was his old self again, if he wasn’t frightened and confused. She took a long look at him, and remembered back in high school when it had been just her and her dad in their big, four-bedroom white stucco house near Seattle’s Volunteer Park. Cancer had killed her mother when Karen was fourteen. Her brother, Frank, was married and living in Atlanta. Her sister, Sheila, was away at college. So Karen and her father looked after each other. They had a housekeeper, but Karen did most of the shopping and cooking. It was a lot of work, and took a bite out of her social life. Some afternoons, after school, all she wanted to do was nap. Her dad always let her sleep. He often snuck into her room while she was napping, and covered her with his plaid flannel robe. Then he’d wait a while and fix their dinner-either hamburgers or bacon and eggs. Those were the only things he knew how to cook. She remembered how she’d wake up to the smell of his cooking-and the feel of his soft flannel robe covering her. Sheila had brought him another robe years ago, a blue terry-cloth which he’d taken to the rest home with him. But the old plaid flannel robe still hung in his closet, and Karen sometimes still used it to cover herself when she took a late-afternoon nap.
She gazed at her father in his hospital-style bed and began to cry. She’d been miserable throughout most of her high school years. But now she missed that time-and she missed her father. Wiping her eyes, Karen bent over and kissed his forehead. “See you tomorrow, Poppy,” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.
Stepping out of the room, she wiped her eyes again and peered down the hallway. She spotted Amelia-at least she thought it was Amelia. The young, pretty brunette at the end of the corridor locked eyes with her for only a second. Then she turned and disappeared around the corner.
As he dialed the number for Helene Sumner in Wenatchee, George felt like a fool. He was overreacting. He’d let Amelia’s weird premonition get to him. So Ina had promised to call this morning, and didn’t. Big deal. She’d broken promises before. This wasn’t the first time. Mark, Jenna, and Ina had probably decided to drive someplace else for breakfast. Or maybe they’d eaten at the house, then went hiking and lost track of the time.
Yet here he was, about to ask this old lady to schlep a quarter mile down the lake and check on his wife and in-laws. He listened to the first ring tone. Through the living room window’s sheer drapes, he could see the kids still playing with Jody’s friend.
“Yes, hello?” the woman answered on the other end of the line. She sounded frazzled.
“Hello. Is this Helene?”
“Yes. Is this the police? I thought someone would be here by now.”
“No, this isn’t the police,” George replied, bewildered. “I’m calling from Seattle. Your neighbors down the lake, Mark and Jenna Faraday, they’re my in-laws. My name’s-”
“They’re dead,” the woman cried, cutting him off. “He shot the two women, and then himself….”
George felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Swallowing hard, he caught another glance of his children playing on the front lawn. Stephanie let out a loud scream and then laughed about something.
“I called the police twenty minutes ago,” the woman said in a shaky voice. “They still aren’t here yet. God, I still can’t believe it. But I was in the house. I saw their bodies-and the blood. They’re dead, they’re all dead….”
Chapter Five
Twenty-six-year-old Lauren Tully felt like the walking dead. The pretty, slightly plump brunette worked as a paralegal, and she’d just helped her boss finish up the Bensinger complaint. They’d toiled over the case all week, right up until 9:15 tonight. Her boss would file it in the morning, and said she could take the day off, thank God.
Now that she was outside, Lauren realized what a gorgeous day she’d missed, buried in her cubicle. It was one of those warm, balmy late-June nights. She hadn’t had dinner yet, so she’d swung by Guji’s Deli Stop on her way home. The four-aisle store was in a minimall, along with a hair salon, a Radio Shack, some teriyaki joint, and a real estate office, all of which were closed at this hour. Guji’s was the only lit storefront. They closed at ten. There weren’t many customers, and the parking lot was practically empty. Lauren picked up a frozen pizza, some wine, and-what the hell, she deserved it-a pint of Ben amp; Jerry’s. She was coming out of the store when she noticed something a bit strange.
“Damn it!” the man yelled. “I’m sorry, honey. Daddy didn’t mean to swear.”
His minivan was parked over by the Dumpsters, near the bushes bordering one side of the lot. A big tree blocked out the streetlight, so Lauren hadn’t noticed him and a child moving in and out of the shadows until now. The minivan’s inside light was on, and the back door was open.
“No, no, no,” the man was saying. “Don’t try to lift that, honey. It’s too heavy. Maybe someone in the store can help us.”
Lauren opened her passenger door, and set the grocery bag on the seat. She glanced toward the minivan again. She could see the man now. He was on crutches. He and his little girl were trying to load groceries into the vehicle. One of the bags was tipped over, and two more stood upright. The man turned in her direction. “Excuse me!” he called softly. “Do you have a minute? I hate to bother you…”
Lauren didn’t move for a moment. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Still, her heart broke as she watched the little girl struggling with one of the bags. She was about ten years old, and very pretty.
Lauren stepped toward them. “Do you folks need some help?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” the man said. “You’re very kind.”
“It’s okay!” the little girl said-loudly. “I got it!” She loaded one bag into the backseat, and then quickly grabbed another. “It’s not heavy at all! Thank you anyway!”
This close, she could see the man on crutches shoot a look at the young girl. He had such a hateful, murderous stare, it made Lauren stop in her tracks. Nothing in his malignant glare matched that soft, gentle voice coming out of the shadows just moments before.
But the child ignored him and loaded up the second grocery bag. She glanced at Lauren. “Thank you anyway!” she repeated. “You can go back to your car! Good-bye!”
The man turned to Lauren and tried to laugh, but she could tell it almost hurt him to smile. “Well, thanks for stopping,” he said with an awkward wave. “It looks like my daughter has the situation under control. Good night.”
Lauren just nodded, then retreated toward her car.
On the way home, she wondered why they’d parked on the other side of the lot from Guji’s Deli when there were plenty of spaces right in front of the store. Why walk all that way when he didn’t have to? And the man was on crutches, too, though she didn’t remember seeing a cast on his leg.
If Lauren Tully had turned her car around and driven back to Guji’s Deli ten minutes later, she would have found that man on crutches and his little girl in the exact same spot. She would have seen the three grocery bags once again waiting to be loaded into the minivan.
If she had turned her car around, Lauren might have been able to warn 21-year-old Wendy Keefe that it was all a ploy.
The blond liberal arts major at Willamette University had ridden her bicycle to Guji’s for a pack of cigarettes. Never mind that her boyfriend made fun of her for being both a smoker and a bicycle enthusiast. She was emerging from the store with her bike helmet under her arm when she spotted the minivan, along with the man on crutches and his daughter. The little girl was crying. Wendy hadn’t been there ten minutes earlier, when the man had slapped the child across her face. And he’d slapped her hard. It was too dark for Wendy to see the red welt on the
