One Last Scream

He knocked on her window. “Karen?” he called. “Karen Carlisle?”

She stared at him through the rain-beaded glass. He was very handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and pale-blue eyes. She guessed he was in his early thirties. “Yes? What do you want?” she called back.

He grinned, and made a little whirling motion with his hand like he wanted her to roll down the window.

Karen started up the car engine again. She pressed the control switch, and with a hum, the window lowered only an inch before she stopped it. “I said, ‘What do you want?’” she repeated loudly.

As he reached into his suit jacket, Karen tensed up, until she realized he was pulling out his wallet. He opened it, and showed her a Seattle Police Department identification card. Det. Russell Koehler it said, under a very macho-somber photo of him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Amelia Faraday,” he said, almost too loudly, as if he wanted to get across to her that he was becoming annoyed by the window between them. “You’re her therapist, aren’t you?”

Karen flicked the switch, lowering the window some more. “Yes, I’m her therapist,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“I’m investigating the deaths of her parents and her aunt.”

“I thought the police had already determined that Mr. Faraday shot his wife and sister-in-law and then himself,” Karen replied warily. “Besides, the shootings happened in Wenatchee. Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”

“Let’s just say I have a special interest in the case.”

Despite what had happened in the rest home basement and all her new uncertainty about Amelia, Karen still felt very protective of her. She shrugged. “Well, I can’t tell you much, at least nothing Amelia has shared with me during our sessions. That’s strictly confidential; I’m sure you understand.”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of treading on your doctor-patient confidentiality. But the fact of the matter is, Karen, I’ve read the police reports. Amelia came to your house on Saturday afternoon, saying she had a premonition about something bad happening at the family getaway at Lake Wenatchee. That doesn’t quite count as a doctor-patient session, does it?”

She stared back at him. “I treat any client emergency as a professional session.”

“Really? So are you going to charge her for Saturday?” he asked pointedly.

“That’s none of your business,” Karen replied.

He smirked-that same cocky grin again. “You know, Karen, it looks like I’ve started off on the wrong foot with you. The thing is, I don’t believe Mark Faraday shot anyone. I think someone else killed Mark, along with his wife and sister-in-law. Maybe you’d be more willing to cooperate if we sat down together over a cup of coffee and you let me explain where I’m coming from.” He glanced over her shoulder at the house as if it were her cue to invite him in, and then he smirked at her. “‘Where I’m coming from,’ that’s one of those therapy terms, isn’t it?”

Karen eyed him warily. She wasn’t about to invite this guy into her home. She still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was really a cop. “There’s a coffee place on Fifteenth called Victrola. It’s about a five-minute walk from here. I’ll meet you there in ten. I just need to make a call.”

“Who are you calling? Amelia? Or your lawyer?”

Karen flicked the switch and started to raise the window up on him. “Neither.”

He grabbed the top of the window to delay its ascent. “You aren’t hiding Amelia, are you?”

She released the switch for a moment. “No. Why do you ask that?”

“Because I’ve been trying to get in touch with her since one o’clock this afternoon, and she’s MIA. No one knows where she is-not her uncle, her roommate, or her boyfriend.” He glanced back at the house again. “Are you sure Amelia’s not in there? That’s an awfully big place for just one person. Do you live there alone?”

“It’s my father’s house. He’s in a rest home with Alzheimer’s. So, yes, I’m living here alone. And yes, I’m sure Amelia’s not in there.”

“And you don’t have any idea where she might be?”

Karen shook her head. “No, I don’t.” She flicked the switch, raising the window again. “I’ll see you at Victrola in ten minutes,” she said over the humming noise. She watched him in the rearview mirror as he turned and strutted down the driveway toward the street. Then she looked at her house, and couldn’t help wondering, Are you sure Amelia’s not in there?

Climbing out of the car, Karen kept her eyes riveted on the house, watching for any movement within the dark windows. She should have turned on a light before running out the front door this afternoon. At least she’d remembered to set the alarm. She glanced at her wristwatch: 6:25. It was strange to feel so nervous about walking into a dark house by herself at this early hour. But then, it had been a very strange day.

Karen approached the front stoop, then tested the doorknob. Still locked; that was a good sign. She unlocked the door and opened it. Flicking on the light, she headed for the alarm box and quickly punched in the code.

She paused for a moment, and felt a pang of dread in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong. Why wasn’t Rufus barking? She anxiously glanced around, then ventured down the hallway to the kitchen. Switching on the light, she hurried to the backdoor. Still locked. Good. She noticed the basement door was ajar. She turned on the light at the top of the stairs and peered down at the steps. “Rufus?” she said. “Here, boy!”

Nothing. Karen shut and locked the basement door in practically one swift motion. She headed toward the front of the house again. “Rufus?” she called out. “Where are you?”

Poking her head in the living room, she stopped dead. The dog was trying to sneak down from the lounge chair her father had had recovered to the tune of $850 only ten months ago. Naturally, it had become Rufus’s favorite spot to nap, when no one was around. “You stinker!” she yelled. “No wonder you didn’t bark when I came in. You know you’re not supposed to be on that chair. Some watchdog. I could have been strangled, and you wouldn’t care, as long as it didn’t interrupt your nap.”

His head down, the dog slinked toward the kitchen.

“Don’t even think you’re getting a cookie,” Karen growled, retreating into her office. She checked her address book. Her contact with the Seattle Police from her days at Group Health was Cal Hinshaw, a smart, dependable, good old boy. She found his number, then grabbed the phone, and dialed. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was sneaking up behind her. She could hear Rufus’s paws clicking on the kitchen floor, but nothing else.

“Lieutenant Hinshaw,” he answered after three rings.

“Cal? It’s Karen Carlisle calling, you know, from Group-”

“Karen? How the hell are you? It’s been an age. Listen, I’m running late for something and just about to head out. Can I call you back?”

“Actually, I just wanted to hit you up for some quick information.”

“Lay it on me. What can I do you for?”

“I’m wondering if you know anything about a Detective Russell Koehler. He just came by asking a lot of questions about one of my clients, and I’m stalling him. Is he on the level?”

“Koehler? Yeah, I know the guy. He thinks his shit is cake. He’s been on paternity leave the last two weeks. He found something in the employee regs that allowed him to take a month off with pay while his wife pops out a kid, not that I’d think for one minute he’d be any help to her. He’s kind of a sleaze. But I hear he knows somebody in the mayor’s office, and gets away with a lot of crap at work. You say he’s flashing his police credentials and asking questions?”

“Yes, about those shootings in Wenatchee last week, the Faraday murder-suicide case. My client is their daughter. I’m wondering why this cop-on leave-is investigating a practically closed case out of his jurisdiction.”

“You got me, Karen. He’s always working some angle.”

She shot a cautious glance toward the front hallway. “Maybe this man isn’t really Koehler. Is he in his midthirties with pale blond hair and blue eyes? Good looking?”

“Not half as good looking as he thinks he is. That’s Koehler, all right. Watch your back with him, Karen.” Cal let out a sigh. “Listen, I need to scram. Let’s get together for coffee sometime and catch up. And keep me posted if you find out why Koehler’s sniffing around this Wenatchee case. You’ve got me curious now.”

“Will do. Thanks, Cal,” Karen replied, and then she hung up the phone.

Grabbing her umbrella, she set the alarm again, and ran out of the house.