Kevin O'Brien Bundle (125 page)

“’Kay,” he said, slowly taking each step on his tiptoes.

“All right,” Hannah whispered. She hoisted him up in her arms. He was close to forty pounds, and the stairs were hard and steep. But Hannah was so scared she didn’t realize how much of a struggle it was carrying him until she stopped at the door to the third-floor balcony. She put Guy down, then leaned against the door frame. She tried to get a breath.

“Mom?” Guy said, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

“Shhhh.” Hannah shook her head at him.

“Why are we stopping here?” he whispered.

“Just a second, okay?” Hannah opened the door a crack, and peeked out to a small alcove. No one. Taking Guy’s hand, she stepped outside, then peered around the corner down the long balcony walkway. Again, she didn’t see anyone.

At a brisk clip, Hannah headed toward her door, dragging Guy the whole way. He had to run to keep up with her. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said under her breath. “I need you to stick by me.”

With her hand shaking, it took Hannah a moment to unlock her door. She pulled Guy inside, then closed the door behind him. “Good boy,” she muttered.

The intercom buzzed—twice. Hannah knew it was the police. She stared at the four suitcases and shook her head. She could maybe manage three, tops.

“Honey, pick two toys you can carry back to the taxi,” she told Guy. “They’ll have to last you a couple of days.”

She could hear the intercom next door. They were going for her neighbors now.

Guy started rummaging through the box of toys. Hannah checked her answering machine. The message light was blinking. She played back her messages, cutting short each old one until she came to Tish’s call this morning. She skipped that one too, and listened to the next.

“Hi, it’s me,”
Ben said hurriedly.
“Keep your eye out for a burgundy-colored Volvo. It pulled out of the lot across the way after your cab drove off. I couldn’t tell if it was following you or not. Call and leave me a message as soon as you get where you’re going. I’m on my way to Richard Kidd’s place. I love you, Hannah.”

Then he hung up.

She felt a little pang in her gut as she erased the message. She didn’t want the police to hear it.

“C’mon, Guy,” she announced. He’d picked out his new Etch A Sketch and a toy fire engine. Hannah slipped them in a bag. “Now, hold on to these and don’t drop them. You have to keep up with me, and I can’t hold your hand. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he muttered, looking a bit scared.

Hannah smiled bravely and touched his cheek.

She decided to leave behind a suitcase full of clothes. There was enough for them to wear in the other three suitcases. One of the bags had a shoulder strap, and the other two had wheels and pull handles.

Hannah opened the door an inch, glanced up and down the balcony, then nudged Guy outside. “The back stairs, honey,” she whispered. “Same way we came up.”

Taking giant steps on his tiptoes, Guy swayed back and forth as he moved toward the rear stairwell. Tussling with her purse and three bags, Hannah followed him. The wheels on her suitcases made a loud, scraping noise on the cement walkway.

Hannah heard a siren in the distance, and she wondered if it had something to do with her. She wasn’t really certain the squad car parked outside was for her, either. Still, she hurried toward the back stairs. At the end of the balcony, she headed into the stairwell. She heard voices—behind her, outside. She put her finger to her lips and stared at Guy.

He nodded, and put his finger to his lips.

Hannah took a step back and peeked around the corner. One of the cops and a man in a raincoat were coming from the other stairwell—with the building manager. Hannah was too far away to hear what they were saying. But the three of them headed toward her door. The manager was brandishing a large key ring. The three men stopped at her door. The one wearing the trench coat knocked.

Hannah ducked back into the stairwell. Lugging the three heavy suitcases, she straggled half a flight behind Guy as they fled down the stairs. The suitcases weighed her down, throwing off her balance. After the first flight, the bag handles pinched and tore at her palms. Her arms ached. The valise with the strap seemed to be dislocating her shoulder. She teetered down another flight, certain at any minute she’d hear the stairwell door up on the third floor open. For all she knew, someone could now be posted outside the back exit, and she’d bump right into him.

“Guy, please,” she gasped. “Hold the…door open…”

She watched him push at the door, and a dim patch of light filled the dark alcove at the bottom of the stairs. Her lungs burning, Hannah made it down the last few steps. Guy was braced against the open door. She didn’t see anyone outside, and she wondered if they were hiding.

The cold air felt invigorating. The rain had stopped—for the time being. Hannah set down her luggage and readjusted the shoulder strap on the one bag. “Thanks, sweetie,” she said to Guy, between breaths. “You’re—you’re being so good. Just a short—little walk to the cab. Come on….”

She couldn’t pull the suitcases. The wheels made too much noise on the pavement. Her arms felt numb. The palms of her hands were raw. But Hannah hauled the suitcases along the narrow walk and down the steps. Guy ran ahead of her.

The cab driver popped open his trunk, then stepped out of the taxi to help her with the bags. Hannah kept thanking him between gasps for air. She prodded Guy into the backseat, then practically collapsed in after him.

The cab driver climbed behind the wheel. Hannah straightened up, and thought to glance around for a burgundy Volvo that could be idling nearby.

“Just to let you know,” the driver said. “We’ve driven one-point-eight miles, and so far, this ride has cost you fifty-one bucks. Minus the twenty you gave me, of course. Where to now?”

Hannah didn’t see a burgundy Volvo in the vicinity.

“Pacific Place downtown, please,” she said. There was a hotel practically across the street from the chic shopping center. She could catch another cab there. She couldn’t let this driver take them to their destination for the night. The police could track him down too easily.

He started to pull out of the lot. “I think someone might be trying to follow me,” Hannah said. “I want to lose this guy. Can you help me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a glance at her in the rearview mirror.

“Thank you.” She sat back, then gave Guy’s shoulder a squeeze.

Ben found 1313 East Republican Street just a few blocks uphill from the video store. The little two-story cedar cottage was at the end of four houses in a row just like it. They were squeezed close together on one lot. Ben figured it took some big bucks to live in one of those cozy, individual homes. He remembered what Hannah had said about Richard Kidd possibly being independently wealthy.

From across the street, Ben studied the house. He stepped back into a narrow alley beside a tall, brick apartment building. The weather had taken another turn, and it was drizzling again. He took cover under a carport canopy, and hid behind some recycling bins.

Ben wasn’t sure if anyone was home across the way. He wasn’t even sure if Richard Kidd still lived there.

After several minutes, he noticed a mail carrier on his route, working his way up the block. Ben glanced at the front door to 1313 East Republican Street. The mailbox was outside.

Ben stashed his duffel bag in the cement stairwell leading to a basement door of the apartment building. The stairs and threshold area were covered with leaves. He piled a few on top of his bag until it was completely hidden.

Emerging from the stairwell, he checked his wristwatch: 11:10. Hannah and Guy were probably well on their way by now.

On the other side of the road, the mail carrier made his deliveries to the four cedar cottages. Ben waited for a few more minutes until the mailman moved further up the street. Then Ben darted across the way to the front stoop of number 1313.

He dug the envelopes out of the mailbox: junk mail and a bill from a place called VideoTronics. All of the letters were addressed to
Richard Kidd
and
E. Richard Kidd.

Ben put the mail back in the box. He didn’t think anyone was home, but he rang the bell anyway just to be certain. A minute passed, and he rang again. No answer.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ben tried the door. Locked. He pulled out his credit card and slid it in the doorjamb. He tried again and again, but he couldn’t trip the lock.

He heard a car coming, and he quickly backed away from the door. He crept around to the side of the house, looking for a way in. Continuing on to the backyard, he peeked in the living room window, then gave it a tug. Locked. He tried the back door; also locked. Ben skulked around to the other side of the house, then stopped. The neighbor’s identical cedar cottage was only about twenty feet away. Ben didn’t see anyone in the other residence. There were no lights on, despite the dreary overcast sky.

He glanced back at Richard Kidd’s house and spotted an open window on the first floor, but it was out of reach.

Ben grabbed an empty garbage can from around back and hauled it to the side of the house. Turning it over, he set the tall, heavy-duty aluminum bin under the open window. He stole a glimpse toward the sidewalk and street. He didn’t see anyone, so he climbed on top of the garbage can. It was wobbly, and slippery from the rain. He grabbed ahold of the windowsill.

Checking over his shoulder, Ben suddenly froze.

A middle-aged man stood at the window of the house next door. He was facing Ben. He didn’t move.

For a moment, it seemed like a standoff. Ben wasn’t sure if he should make a run for it or not. Once the neighbor called the police, it would take less than five minutes for a patrol car to arrive. There was no time to search the house. There was barely enough time to get away now.

The man remained in the window, his face expressionless. Ben stared back at him, totally perplexed. Finally, he gave the man a tentative wave. No response. After a minute, the man wandered away from the window.

Ben watched him inside the dim house. With the overcast skies, he should have had at least one light on. The man moved to a clock on the wall and put his hand on the dial, touching the hour and minute hands.

“He’s blind, stupid,” Ben muttered to himself.

Sighing, he turned and raised the window higher. His hands were shaking. He glanced around one more time. With the coast clear, he hoisted himself up, then climbed through the opening.

Catching his breath, Ben realized he was in the pantry of Richard Kidd’s small, modern kitchen. On the counter, he saw something that looked like a small transistor radio. A tiny green light was blinking on it face.

He heard a strange series of clicks in the next room. He figured he must have set off some kind of motion detector or alarm device.

Ben hurried into the living room for the source of the mechanical noise. On the floor, tilted against the wall by the front door, he saw another little device with a flickering green light. But the clicking sound wasn’t coming from there.

It came from the VCR beneath the television set. Lights were blinking on and off. It was on some kind of timer.

Ben wasn’t sure whether or not he should cut his losses and get out before the police arrived. If an alarm had gone off, it was a silent one. But wouldn’t the police or security company phone before responding in person?

Still undecided, he stood in the middle of the living room, which was decorated with black leather furniture and chrome-and-glass tables. Very cold and sleek. Ben noticed two big boxes by the foot of the stairs. He knelt down and looked through them. He recognized several books that had been at Seth’s place last night. He also discovered the same envelope with photos of Seth and Richard together—on their group hike, and on the beach with that girl. Richard had removed these things from the garage apartment last night.

In one box, Ben found a wad of paycheck stubs from the community college. Hannah was right. Richard had been giving his paychecks to Seth Stroud.

Ben opened one of the books, a high school yearbook from Missoula, Montana. He looked up Stroud, Seth, and on page 37, he saw a graduation photo of the young man he’d met only once. His hair was longer, and he had one of those teenage-boy wispy mustaches, but it was the same man Ben had seen at the garage apartment.

E. Richard Kidd was on page 33. The glasses were different, and he had some baby fat on his face, but it was Paul Gulletti’s assistant, all right.

Ben found a photo of them together on page 59. Posed behind a table with a movie projector on it, they looked slightly nerdy with their six cohorts in the Film and Video Club.

At the beginning of the yearbook, Ben unearthed an old, yellowed clipping from a Missoula newspaper. The small headline read: “LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT PREMIERES SHORT FILM AT GRAND CITIPLEX THEATERS.” The article had a photo of the young Richard Kidd without his glasses. He looked a bit pompous. The caption said:
“Richard Kidd, 18, wrote and directed
Sticks and Bones,
a twenty-minute experimental short subject, which was a finalist in the National Film Scholarship contest.”

Ben stared at the picture and wondered when Richard Kidd had started borrowing Seth Stroud’s name. He didn’t understand why Richard lived and received mail at this address, but took his friend’s identity to work. With his background in film, it didn’t make sense that he claimed to be someone else at the community college.

Ben kept looking through the two boxes, uncovering more books, two shirts, a bag of marijuana, a camera, and junk mail from the college. Ben also unearthed an address book. Richard Kidd’s name was in it, along with his address, phone number, and cell phone. Ben copied down both phone numbers.

He wondered how they worked out the phones. He checked Richard’s answering machine on the glass-top end table by the leather sofa. Ben played back the recorded greeting:
“Can’t come to the phone. You know what to do after the beep.”
Short and sweet. He didn’t mention his name.

Ben imagined Seth’s greeting was just as anonymous. He couldn’t call to find out. The garage apartment was probably still packed with policemen.

Looking out the front window, he didn’t see anything unusual; no cops creeping up to the house. Perhaps those small transistor devices weren’t part of an alarm system after all.

He glanced over at the VCR again. It was counting down from twenty-two minutes. He’d never seen a VCR with a timer like that. It was strange how the machine had clicked on a moment after he’d climbed inside that window. Was it a coincidence? Or did those little transistors have something to do with it?

The telephone rang. Ben felt himself jump a bit. He waited until the answering machine came on with that anonymous greeting. The caller hung up.

Ben went back to work, quickly rummaging through a cabinet in the living room. Finding nothing of interest, he decided to try upstairs.

As he started up toward the second floor, the VCR counter read nineteen minutes.

Hannah peeked at the meter on the dashboard: sixty-one bucks so far. They were on Interstate 5, about thirty miles south of Seattle. Most of the way, Guy had been quiet, mesmerized by the taxi ride. Since she didn’t have a car, he rarely rode in one. This was a real adventure for him. Hannah had pointed out landmarks they passed: Safeco Field with its retractable roof, Boeing Field, and Sea-Tac Airport. She’d felt Guy’s forehead a couple of times, and checked his complexion. He seemed fine.

The cab driver was an East Indian man who said very little. He had the radio on, easy-listening stuff. He’d picked up her and Guy at the hotel across from Pacific Place. She’d told the driver to take them to Tacoma.

They were almost there. Hannah could already see the Tacoma Dome up ahead. Looking for hotel signs, she barely noticed the easy-listening station had switched over to the local news. But then she heard the announcer say something about a boat explosion on Lake Union.

Hannah leaned forward and listened intently.

“The victims of that blast have now been identified as a thirty-six-year-old Wisconsin businessman, Kenneth Woodley, and a private detective, also from Wisconsin, forty-year-old Walter Kirkabee. Both men were in Seattle searching for Woodley’s estranged wife, who abducted their son two years ago. Police are seeking the woman for questioning. In other news, a fraternity prank at the University of Washington went awry late last night when two seniors…”

Hannah sat back and gazed out the window. It was strange. Guy had just heard his father’s name on the radio, but he didn’t know it. If this morning’s visit from the police had left any room for doubt, now it was official. They were looking for her. They were announcing it on the radio, for God’s sake.

She saw a roadside sign for Amtrak at an upcoming exit. There were also signs for restaurants and motels: a Best Western, a Travelodge, and two more places.

Hannah leaned forward again. “Could you get off at the next exit, please?” she asked.

She decided that the Sleepy Bear Motel looked clean—and cheap enough. The sign out front showed a yawning bear wearing a nightcap and sitting in bed.
“It Feels ‘Just Right!’”
was the slogan above the blinking Vacancy sign. The motel was a sprawling two-story stucco with outside access to each room. Hannah noticed several fast-food places within walking distance.

There was also a train yard nearby. She could see the tracks on the other side of the parking lot’s chain-link fence. One advantage; they could probably walk to the Amtrak station.

The taxi driver unloaded their bags from the trunk. He even helped Hannah carry them into the lobby. The place smelled of coffee and had floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. There were also a lot of teddy bears. There was teddy bear-patterned wallpaper, a teddy bear calendar, a bookcase full of teddy bears behind the registration desk, teddy bear crochet pillows on the sofa and easy chairs, and porcelain teddy bear lamps.

Guy was fascinated with the place. Hannah paid the driver. She noticed the same easy-listening type of music playing on a radio behind the registration desk. She wondered if the motel clerk had just heard the same news report.

A middle-aged woman emerged from a back room on the other side of the counter. She had short brown frizzy hair and a kelly-green polyester skirt with a polka-dot blouse. She had a slightly desperate smile on her face. “Hi, there!” she chirped. “Do you need a room?”

Hannah stepped up to the desk. “Yes, please.”

“If you could fill out our little form, it would be wonderful.” The woman handed Hannah a pen, and put a card in front of her.

She borrowed Ben’s alias for the registration form:
Ann Sturges & son, 129 Joyce Avenue, Yakima, WA 98409.
She’d improvised the address, and purposely made the phone number undecipherable.

“I’m a little concerned about the noise from the railroad yard,” Hannah said, while filling out the form. “If you can give us a room that’s kind of quiet, I’d appreciate it.”

“Two beds?” she asked, typing on her computer keyboard. “One for Mamma Bear and one for Baby Bear?”

Hannah glanced up at her, a smile frozen on her face. “Um, yes. I—I’ll be paying in cash, and we’re staying two nights—maybe three.”

“Well, it’s lovely to have you,” the woman replied.

“Thank you,” Hannah said, handing her back the pen. She glanced out past the rain-beaded window at the parking area. She noticed an old burgundy-colored Volvo in the lot. Had it been there before? Was it the same car Ben had warned her about?

She couldn’t tell if anyone was in the front seat. The windshield was too dark. Hannah kept staring at the car. Then she saw the wipers sweep across the windshield for a beat.

A chill rushed through her. She grabbed Guy’s hand and pulled him closer. She turned her back on the car. The desk clerk was saying something, but Hannah didn’t really hear her. She remembered one of Rae’s e-mails. In it, she’d said her stalker drove a “wine-colored” Volvo.

Hannah didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t grab a taxi and go to some other motel. He’d simply follow her. She couldn’t call the police, either. She thought of Ben. But he probably hadn’t even checked into his hotel yet.

She stole a glance over her shoulder at the old Volvo again. He wouldn’t be just watching her tonight. His
Psycho
scenario was all set: the roadside motel, the rain, a woman fugitive, a cleansing shower. He’d have to use force to get her in the shower. Hannah imagined being stripped and dragged into a tub. What would he do to Guy?