Tenants become like family, you know. I'll get it. Wait here'
If he's not back in two minutes, I'm going inside.
She heard the voices of the landlord and a woman, presumably his wife.
'God, I hope we don't have to re-rent that unit,' the woman said, 'it's so hard getting decent folks.'
If you only knew who you had rented to, Emily thought. Your wife wouldn't have had a decent night's sleep in months.
A few minutes later, a smile on his face, the landlord returned. By then, Christopher had come over.
'Everything okay?' he asked.
With a nod, Emily indicated the returning landlord. 'He's coming now with the address of Dylan's relative's vacation place. Says there's a good bet he's there'
'Nice'
'Here it is,' the landlord said. 'Told you she'd have it in her book'
He pressed a small white card into Emily's hand.
4444 Copper Beach Rd. Copper Beach, WA
She felt a wave of recognition and dread. 'Where did you get this?'
'From my wife. She keeps everybody's address in her book'
'No, not the address. The card. Where did you get the card?'
The man shrugged. 'It's just old photography paper I cut up. I went digital and closed out my old darkroom a year ago. I have boxes of the stuff I stupidly bought in bulk from some guy who was smart enough to unload it on me because he went digital. Cut it all down into index cards'
Emily looked at the address. It was familiar, too. Deadly familiar.
'You all right?' The landlord was staring at Emily. 'You look like you've seen a ghost or something.'
Emily handed the card to Christopher.
'I guess you could say that,' she said, trying to avoid revealing too much of what she was feeling. She looked into Christopher's eyes, now full of an awareness of their own.
'Yeah,' he said. 'We know the address'
Reynard Tuttle had breathed his final breath there.
'I'm not sure what's going on,' Emily said, as they walked to their respective cars. 'But I'm going there right now.' She fumbled for her keys. 'There's something I haven't told you. I don't know what it means. But I think I'll find Jenna at the cabin.'
Christopher stopped and looked at her. 'What are you talking about, Emily?'
'I think Jenna and Nick are in serious trouble.' She felt awful just then, knowing that she'd withheld information from a man who had been nothing but kind to her. Interested in her Cared about her. 'They were at Bonnie's.'
'At Bonnie's?' He was stunned by the disclosure.
'Yeah,' she said, her voice ready to shatter. 'I found this.' She pulled out the purse. It was tiny, pink, and sweet. 'It's Jenna's. It was by the desk. She left it there'
'Why didn't you tell me? And wait a minute, this could be anyone's.'
Emily shook her head. 'No. It's hers. I'm certain. Her dad bought it for her. Even though she'd long since outgrown it she kept it because it was from him.'
'What were they doing there? I mean, how?'
'They'd been researching Dylan Walker, Angel's Nest. Don't you, see? Nick Martin was an Angel's Nest kid. Bonnie put him in the Martin home. They're all connected.'
Emily got behind the wheel and turned the ignition. 'We're going to find him, and then we can find Jenna. Walker's playing some sick game. He's using Kristi Cooper's case to mess with me. I don't know why. But I do know this-I'm not going to let him hurt Jenna. Not one hair.'
'I'm right behind you,' Christopher said. 'I'll call the desk and tell them what's up. But let's get going.'
Chapter Thirty-four
Monday, exact time and place unknown
Jenna woke up, shivering. her hands and legs were still bound together. Dried tears had formed a gluelike crust on her eyes. She rubbed her face against the fabric on which she lay. She tried to lift her head and breathed in. Good. The sickly sweet smell that had left her dizzy, then asleep in the darkness, had abated. The air was damp and heavy, but it did not have that strange odor. To her left the crack of light had narrowed to the thinnest of slits. Where was she?
She called over to Nick. 'Can you hear me?'
There was no response, so she tried again, saying his name in a louder voice, though still a whisper.
But again, nothing. She worried that he was still overcome by the fumes of what had been tossed into the dark space. She rolled over on her right side. As she did so, the mattress beneath her buckled on its rusted frame. For the first time, she realized she was on a bed of some kind. It had springs and batting. She wriggled her torso to get on her side so she could see Nick. He'd almost been free when she passed out. He'll get us out of there. He was cutting the tape that bound him.
'Wake up,' she said, urgency rising. 'Nick, I need you' She could feel the ligature around her wrists. Was it her imagination? It seemed looser than it had been before the curtain of utter blackness fell. Before the sound of the crashing, breaking glass. The smell. It was all in her memory as she twisted her body. In shifting her position, she'd been able to reduce the tension of the binding. It no longer cut into her flesh. Instead she felt she could move her wrists. They hurt. The raw edges of her sliced skin stung. She did not cry. Instead, she could feel something else rise within her. Resolve. Hope. Courage.
I'm going to get out of here, she thought. Nick and I are going home. Please wake up.
Monday, 4:05 RM., Seattle
Olga Morris-Cerrino knew she wasn't on the case anymore. She knew that she'd long since exchanged her love for the law for the joy she'd found tilling the soil and making fruit leathers from her own apricots and her husband's prized golden raspberries. But when she heard that Bonnie Jeffries had been murdered, Jenna Kenyon was missing, and Dylan Walker had been released from prison, she went into Seattle and sought out the one person she thought might have some answers.
'Hi Tina,' she said, as she stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling painting, an abstract of a waterfall, at the Winter Gallery, where the former prison-groupie-turned-society-babe volunteered two days a week.
'Do I know you?' Tina looked blankly right into Olga's penetrating eyes. She was scanning for recognition. A party perhaps? Probably not, the jewelry's from Macy 's. A patron? No, the shoes are cheap. She tilted her head and looked suitably confused.
Tina looked as good as though only a few years had passed, not so many more. Olga put on a reasonably warm smile. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary. They were in a public place. 'We met years ago,' she said, 'through a mutual friend, Dylan Walker. I'm Olga Cerrino. I used to be Detective Olga Morris.'
Tina's flinty eyes flitted nervously around the gallery. Patrons stood in front of enormous contemporary paintings that mimicked the splattered work of Jackson Pollock. They stared as if there was meaning in the chaos of the artist's wanton spray.
Olga said, 'Is there a place we can talk? Or should we just do it here?'
'Oh no,' Tina said quickly. 'Let's go back to the docent's office'
'Then you do remember me?'
'Yes,' Tina said, leading her past the sculpture gallery and into a long white-walled corridor. Her Pradas smacked hard on the marble.
Olga didn't say anything as Tina took a brass key and turned the lock on an office door. Some African tribal figures stared from one corner. Supplies nearby indicated that they were in some state of repair. One of them was a large woman with a protruding belly. She was obviously some kind of fertility goddess.
'I call her Trader Vicki,' Tina said, noticing how transfixed Olga had been by the statue, 'I think she belongs in a bar and not a museum' She smiled nervously.
Olga didn't see the need for small talk. 'Look, I know about you and Bonnie and Dylan.'
