airport if he tried to book a flight or a charter. He couldn’t
“Do you even know where the hell you’re going?” he cried out loud. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the wheel.
He took a few deep, calming breaths. George caught a glimpse of the street name as he went through an intersection: Waverly Drive. He realized he was close to Willamette University. The traffic became heavier as he headed into a commercial area full of bars, restaurants, and coffee shops.
George saw a sign: ATOMIC CYBER CAFE. He also noticed a parking space, and immediately pulled into it.
The Internet cafe was dimly lit and about half full of college kids slouched in front of the computer screens. “Can I get Internet access here?” George asked the barista behind the counter.
The young man had a small square of beard hair under his lower lip, and glasses. He wore a red apron. “You bet,” he nodded. “The first half hour is free with a beverage. All I need is a driver’s license for a deposit.”
“Thanks.” George slapped a five-dollar bill and his license on the counter. “Just a regular coffee, please, or whatever you’ve got that’s quick.”
A few moments later, George tried not to spill his coffee as he hurried over toward the free terminals. There were a few by a nicely dressed, uptight-looking man in his fifties, who gave George a narrow glance. Sitting down near him, George realized the guy was looking at porn. George ignored him. He switched on the terminal, and connected to the Internet. He brought up Google, and then typed in Salem, Oregon, Charter Helicopter.
He got two results: both businesses in Jefferson, Oregon. He pulled out his cell and called the first place, Coupland Aeronautic, Inc. He wasn’t sure if anyone would be answering at 7:20 on a Monday night. His chances of actually chartering a helicopter at the last minute like this were probably nil.
A woman picked up: “Coupland, this is Kate.”
“Hi. I’m in Salem, and I need to get to Seattle as soon as possible. Could I charter a helicopter for tonight?” he asked.
“You’re in Salem, that’s about a half hour away,” the woman said. George could hear her fingers clicking on a keyboard. “If you can get here by eight o’clock, we’ll have you in Seattle at eight-fifty tonight. Does that sound good to you?”
“That sounds great to me,” George replied.
“Hello, Naomi, this is Karen Carlisle calling again….”
Karen sat in her rental, parked across from the Wenatchee library. Though she got clearer phone reception outside, Karen had ducked inside the car to avoid the cold. It had also started drizzling. From the driver’s seat, she had an ideal view of everyone coming and going at the library. She was still waiting for Amelia. It had been well over two hours since they’d last talked, and still no answer on her cell.
Naomi Rankin wasn’t picking up either. This was Karen’s third message in ninety minutes for Clay Spalding’s friend. She now understood how telemarketers felt pestering a total stranger. In the last two messages Karen had tried to sound friendly and professional. She hadn’t mentioned Clay or the Schlessingers. She’d just left her name and phone number, and said it was extremely urgent that Naomi call her back.
Though she didn’t want to say too much on the answering machine, Karen decided to start explaining herself for message number three. “I’m sorry to keep calling,” she said. “But I’m a friend of Amelia Schlessinger’s. I’m hoping that name is familiar to you. I understand, years ago, you and Amelia had a mutual friend. If I could talk with you for just a few minutes, I-”
There was an abrupt click on the line. “Listen, if you call here one more time, I’ll get the cops on your ass.”
“Naomi?” Karen asked meekly.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” the woman growled. “Shit, I thought I’d heard the last from you assholes fifteen years ago. Get a life, okay?”
“Please, don’t hang up,” Karen said. “I’m not calling to harass you-”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you aren’t,” she muttered. “I’ve heard it all. There’s nothing new you can tell me. So piss off.”
“Naomi, wait! You want to hear something
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“Naomi?”
“Who are you?” she murmured.
“I’m a friend of Amelia’s, and she doesn’t recall much about her childhood in Moses Lake. But she does remember a Native American man-a neighbor who was very kind to her. You and Amelia seem to be the only ones from around there who don’t think Clay was a monster.”
“So, I’m not totally alone. Amelia, of all people….”
“I read about what happened. Naomi. And from the way you reacted to my call, I get the impression people must have harassed you for defending Clay in the newspapers.”
“And on local TV, too,” Naomi said. “For a while there, I averaged about eight threatening calls a night. I also got my share of hateful stares at work and around town. If you really want people to hate you, just speak up for someone who’s been labeled a serial killer and a child molester. For years, I still received those creepy calls, even after I changed my number. I didn’t let them list me in the phone book until about three years ago.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t sure who you were when you left those first two messages. I thought it was some sort of scam or a telemarketer. But then you mentioned the name Schlessinger, and I just got sick to my stomach. It was a real blast from the past.” She paused. “So, they found bodies on the Schlessingers’ property.”
“That’s right,” Karen said. “Lon’s been dead for three years. His ranch house burned down with him in it.”
“You know, I always knew Clay was framed for that woman’s disappearance,” Naomi said. “Now it all starts to make sense. Lon killed those women. You’ve read the newspaper account of it, so you know the story. He was in Clay’s house earlier that day, hours before he shot Clay. He could have planted that waitress’s wallet and necklace while he was there looking for his runaway kid. God, all this time I thought the cops had planted that stuff. I knew for a fact Clay couldn’t have abducted that waitress. He and I were together the night Kristen Marquart went missing.”
“Did you tell that to the police?”
“Of course. I practically screamed it from the rooftops. But no one believed me. I was in love with Clay for several months. So no one really took me seriously and, after a while, I just made them angry. A lot of people in that neighborhood already had a negative opinion of Clay, anyway. He didn’t quite fit in on Gardenia Drive.”
“Because he wasn’t white?” Karen asked.
“Oh, I guess that might have had a little something to do with it,” she admitted. “But Clay carried around a chip on his shoulder after inheriting that house. He felt everyone still regarded him as Izzy’s yardman. I think he did things to piss people off. He stopped mowing the lawn, and let the place go just to prove he wasn’t a yardman any more.”
“I heard from his neighbor that he used to display some of his art on the front lawn, too,” Karen said.
“Who did you talk to?” Naomi asked. “The old lady?”
“Miriam Getz.”
“Yeah, she had it out for him. She and two of Lon’s cop friends were the main
“Well, I don’t think she was lying to me, Naomi,” Karen said delicately. “Outside of the art displays and letting his lawn ‘going to pot,’ as she put it, Miriam didn’t seem to have any problem with Clay as a neighbor. But her mind changed when she saw what happened that day.”
“She might not have been
