Kevin O'Brien Bundle (128 page)

She heard another scream, much closer this time. Hannah found an opening between a tanker and a flatcar stacked with lumber. Down the next line of tracks, she saw them.

Richard was hauling Guy toward a moving train on the next track. He paused for a moment, then glanced back at Hannah and smiled. Blood from the cuts on his forehead streaked down his face.

Guy was shrieking and struggling in his arms.

“Let him go!” Hannah screamed. She hurried toward them. Up ahead, a train rounded a curve in the tracks. For a moment, the locomotive’s front light blinded her. The loud horn muted the sound of Guy’s screams.

Past the glaring light, Hannah caught sight of them again. Richard was loading Guy into an empty boxcar of an idle train. He climbed aboard after Guy.

Hannah started running after them, sidestepping around wooden ties and rails. She tripped on a lockbox, and toppled forward onto the rocky gravel. It hurt like hell. She knew she’d scraped her hands and knees. She knew she was bleeding. But there was no time to stop and look.

Pulling herself up, Hannah felt a loose spike on the ground. She hid it in the waistband along the back of her jeans. Once again, she staggered toward the train. She heard its air brakes hissing, and the engine starting up.

Out of breath, Hannah hobbled toward the open boxcar.

Then she stopped dead.

Richard Kidd was standing inside the freight car, holding a butcher’s knife to Guy’s throat. Silent, with tears running down his cheeks, Guy looked utterly terrified. His little body was shaking. The front of his jacket had been smeared with blood. It took Hannah a moment to realize that the blood was Richard Kidd’s.

He was grinning at her. She’d never seen him without his trademark glasses. She didn’t realize how cold his eyes could be. With his face covered in blood, he appeared almost demonic.

“Let him go,” Hannah gasped. “I’ll do anything you say.”

Richard Kidd merely snickered. “Come and get him.”

Hannah hesitated, then boosted herself up into the car. Putting weight on her bad leg, she nearly fell backward onto the rock piling and the next set of rails. She grabbed hold of the boxcar’s sliding door. “Please,” she said, catching her breath. “Please, it’s me you want—”

Another blast from a locomotive drowned her out. As much as Hannah pleaded, she knew he couldn’t hear her. And she knew it didn’t matter what she said. He was still going to kill her little boy.

With the knife tip, Richard Kidd traced a thin line of blood along Guy’s neck. Guy didn’t register any sign of pain. But he was still trembling.

“What do you want from me?” Hannah screamed.

“I wanted you to be my leading lady, Hannah,” he yelled over the churning, noisy din of the train yard. He took the knife away from Guy’s throat for a moment, only to wipe the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was pulling all the strings for you,” he went on, the blade against Guy’s neck once again. “I was watching over you, Hannah, protecting you. I have hours and hours of screen-test footage I shot of you. What a fucking waste. You could have been my leading lady. But you’re just as bad as those other bitches who came before you.” He shook his head at her. “At least when it didn’t work out with them, I got to film their death scenes. They were sacrificed for my art. At least I had something to show for my efforts with them. But you, Hannah, you’ve left me with nothing.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Seth,” she said. “I mean
Richard.
I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry.”

He glared at her. “You think you’re very clever,” he retorted. “You don’t know what sorry is yet.”

He dragged Guy over to the other side of the huge, open door. He glanced back at a train approaching in the distance. Holding Guy under the chin, Richard pushed him toward the opening. “Ever see anyone thrown in front of a moving train before?” he asked.

Guy shrieked.

“Please, no…” Hannah begged. Poised on the other side of the door, she reached back for the railroad spike tucked in the waistband of her jeans. The train was coming closer, picking up speed. The sound of its grinding engine grew louder.

Richard laughed. Again, he took the knife away from Guy’s throat so he could wipe the blood out of his eyes.

Just then, the car gave a jolt that shook all three of them. Suddenly, they were moving.

Guy broke away from him. At the same moment, Hannah lunged at Richard, stabbing him in the shoulder with the rail spike. He dropped his knife and howled in pain.

The deafening noise from the train wheels and engines drowned out his cries. The boxcar rocked and quaked as it picked up speed.

Grabbed hold of the sliding door, Richard managed to stay on his feet. He pulled the spike from his shoulder. Blood leaked down his jacket.

Crouched near the floor on the other side of the opening, Hannah pulled Guy behind her. Richard was breathing hard as he came at them. He shook his head and said something. But she couldn’t hear what it was.

The car took another jolt. Richard lost his balance. Reeling toward the edge of the open door, he clawed at Hannah and managed to grab hold of her sleeve.

But she clung to a latch on the door.

His arms flailing, Richard fell out of the boxcar—into the path of the oncoming train.

There was a loud blast from the engine. The brakes screeched. Hannah pulled Guy toward her, shielding his face. She turned away as well. She didn’t want to see Richard Kidd mangled and crushed under the locomotive.

Watching people die had been something he liked. But not her, and not her little boy.

Curling up against the wall of the boxcar, Hannah held onto Guy. Wind swept through the open door. They were both shivering. “It’s okay, honey,” she assured him. “We’re both all right.”

“’Kay,” he said in a small voice.

She felt him nodding against her shoulder.

Hannah patted him on the back. “It was just like a nightmare, sweetie,” she said, over the churning locomotive. “But we’re safe now. Everything’s all right.”

He stopped crying. Hannah rocked him in her arms. “Listen to the choo-choo train, Guy,” she whispered. “Listen to the train….”

The nightmare wasn’t over for Hannah.

Guy was taken from her. She spent the night at a women’s holding center at the King County jail. At least they gave her a private cell.

Another small solace, Guy got to stay with Joyce—and not in some children’s shelter.

Hannah had called her from the emergency room of Tacoma General, near the rail yard. Joyce had made it to the hospital by cab five minutes before the Seattle detectives showed up. Guy had been released into her care.

Hannah, who had severe bruises on her leg and face, had been taken back to Seattle—in handcuffs.

On Saturday afternoon, Jennifer Dorn Podowski was making arrangements for her husband. She handled everything on-line and on the phone. She’d instructed the Seattle Medical Examiner’s office to have the remains flown to New York after the autopsy. The body would be buried in a cemetery not far from their home in Croton-on-Hudson.

Ben said it was the least they could do for Rae. She had no family.

That Saturday morning, police had searched a ravine in north Capital Hill, and they’d found her remains, wrapped in a plastic sheet buried in a shallow grave. They knew where to look, thanks to Ben.

He’d spent Friday night in Harbor View Hospital, where doctors reset his broken left arm, then put it in a cast. They also sewed seventeen stitches in that same shoulder. There were dozens of other cuts and abrasions from the broken glass, and some second-degree burns from the explosion.

The police detectives who questioned Ben in his hospital bed said he was lucky to be alive.

Another bit of luck; they’d found two videotapes in a plastic bag hidden under his torn, seared shirt. He’d given the tapes to the cop who had discovered him. Bloody, charred, covered with dirt and debris, he’d been wandering near the recycling bins of the apartment building across the street from Richard Kidd’s residence—or what was left of it. The cop had written on his report that Ben Podowski had appeared dazed and incoherent.

But Ben had known exactly what he was doing at the time.

The first tape had Seth Stroud ascending the church tower, talking to his friend with the camera. Between the two of them, they made references to the boat explosion, a plot to kill Hannah Doyle, and Richard Kidd’s booby-trapped house.

If that wasn’t enough to shed light on their culpability in this killing spree, the second video showed Richard stabbing Rae Palmer, and Seth Stroud helping dispose of the body.

While detectives in the East Precinct were viewing the tapes and becoming more interested in the whereabouts of Hannah Doyle, their colleagues were interviewing Ben Podowski in Harbor View Hospital’s emergency ward. The doctor on duty didn’t appreciate the constant police presence while sewing up his patient.

Ben kept asking to use the phone. He wanted to call the Best Western Executive Inn. He had to find out if Hannah had left a message, and make sure she was all right. But the police kept telling him that if he needed to phone anyone, they’d make the call for him. The doctor finally had to knock Ben out with a sedative, because he wouldn’t sit still.

He woke up at seven o’clock that night, in a hospital bed. He was covered with bandages and salve for his burns. A nurse was there. And a couple of detectives were waiting to talk with him. Ben’s first words were: “Is Hannah okay? Hannah Doyle?”

“Yes, we have her in custody,” one of the detectives answered.

They questioned him for the next two and a half hours. At Ben’s suggestion, the police interviewed Paul Gulletti about the man calling himself Seth Stroud, and about Paul’s relationships with a couple of the murder victims.

Detectives also spoke with several students in Paul’s class. Most of them misidentified photos of the real Seth Stroud, claiming he was the teacher’s assistant. Tish at the video store also had trouble differentiating photos of the two men.

The pair of killers had indeed looked very much alike. If not for Ben and Hannah, perhaps Richard Kidd might have gotten away with murdering his friend—as well as so many others.

On Saturday morning, Ben’s wife faxed the police hard copies of Rae Palmer’s e-mails. The documents linked the rooftop “suicide” of Joe Blankenship and Lily Abrams’s death with the others. They would finally put the Floating Flower case to rest.

Richard Kidd had been living quite well off a monthly allowance from his late father’s trust fund. His mother in Missoula, Montana, refused to believe the awful stories the police were telling about her son.

The murders made national news by Saturday morning. The media couldn’t help comparing Richard Kidd and Seth Stroud to their kill-for-kicks predecessors, Leopold and Loeb.

By Saturday afternoon, CNN was showing a clip from Richard Kidd’s film short
Sue Aside
. A video and DVD company was already trying to acquire distribution rights to
Sue Aside
as well as Richard’s other student films,
Dead Center and Sticks and Bones
.

According to news reports, Hannah Doyle, the killers’ most recent prey, was unavailable for comment. She was being held by Seattle police as a “person of interest” in several investigations unrelated to the murders.

Ben desperately wanted to talk with her, but the police weren’t allowing Hannah any incoming calls.

When he was released from the hospital at three-thirty Saturday afternoon, Ben took a taxi to Emerald City Video. He’d had one of the nurses buy him some new clothes at the Gap: black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a fall jacket. But with his arm in a cast and three small bandages on his face, Ben still looked pretty beat-up as he hobbled into the video store.

The place was a mob scene.

“We had a TV news crew in here a couple of hours ago,” Scott told him. “Plus we have all these morbid nutcases coming in. They’re not even renting. They’re just poking around, being major pains in the ass. I’m not supposed to be working today. I just got out of the hospital. You too, I guess, huh?”

Threading through the crowd, Ben and Scott ducked into the employee break room. “I’m only putting in a couple of hours to help Tish out, because I’m such a saint—or such a sap,” Scott explained, shutting the door behind him. “You look like you need to sit down more than I do,” he said, pulling out the chair. “Take a load off.”

“Thanks,” Ben said, sitting down. His painkillers were wearing off.

“So have you heard anything about Hannah?” Scott asked anxiously.

“No, I was hoping you could tell me something. I tried phoning Guy’s baby-sitter, Joyce, but I wasn’t getting an answer.”

“She came by earlier,” Scott said. “I guess Hannah’s in-laws flew in this morning. They’re staying at the Four Seasons. They were smart enough to have Joyce bring Guy over there. Joyce said they sent a limo for them. Then the limo drove her back. Anyway, Guy’s with his grandparents now. Joyce said he started crying when she left.”

“Oh, God,” Ben whispered. “The poor kid.”

“Hannah’s in-laws sent someone over here, too,” Scott said, folding his arms and leaning against the door. “I think he was a detective working for their attorneys. I don’t know. He talked with Tish mostly. He was asking about Hannah’s tax records, and any forms she might have signed.”

“What for?” Ben murmured.

“I think Hannah’s in-laws are going after her with both barrels. This guy mentioned something about Hannah committing fraud against the government—in addition to kidnapping, theft, and forgery charges.” Scott shook his head, and his eyes teared up. “Looks like they’re really sticking it to our girl.”

Ben frowned. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You’d think they’d want to sweep it all under the rug, and pay her to keep quiet. Don’t they know why she took Guy and left? Do they have any clue that their son was an abusive asshole?”

“Apparently not,” Scott replied, shrugging.

Ben glanced up at the tiny TV-VCR on the shelf above the desk. “Hey, Scott?”

“Yeah?”

He nodded at the little television. “Do you think I could borrow that for the afternoon?”

The small TV had a carrying handle on the top, and didn’t weigh much at all. Still, Ben took a taxi from the video store to 1313 East Republican Street, only a few blocks away.

Richard Kidd’s bungalow was now a burnt-out shell, cordoned off with yellow police tape. The front yard was littered with rubble and debris. A patrol car was parked in front, and a couple of curiosity-seekers stood on the sidewalk, trying to get a better look at the place.

Ben had the cab drop him off, then wait up the block. He headed for the apartment building across the street from the blast site. He walked under the canopy, past the recycling bins, then down the basement stairwell. He found his duffel bag, still buried under a pile of leaves at the bottom of those cement steps.

The cop who had found him wandering around there yesterday had said Ben appeared disoriented. But Ben had known what he was doing.

Taking the duffel bag, he hobbled back to the waiting cab. Ben thanked the driver for waiting. He put his bag on the seat, beside the portable TV.

“Can you take me to the Four Seasons Hotel, please?” he asked.

Answering the door to Suite 619 was a well-groomed, thirty-year-old man in a three-piece suit. He could have been a lawyer, a bodyguard, or someone who worked for a funeral parlor. He didn’t introduce himself to Ben. He just looked him up and down, and asked, “Are you Ben Podowski?”

Standing at the threshold with a portable TV-VCR tucked under his one good arm and holding onto his duffel bag, Ben nodded.

“Mrs. Woodley will give you five minutes, that’s all,” the man said stiffly.

Ben followed him into the living room, where Mrs. Woodley sat on a sofa. The elegantly appointed room offered a sweeping view of Puget Sound. She had the television on mute, and in front of her was a fancy tea set and a plate of fruit and cookies that she’d been picking at.

With her frosty gaze, stiff mink-colored hair, and the pink suit, Mrs. Woodley looked like a First Lady—minus the people skills. She sipped her tea, and nodded at Ben.

Though he had a cast on one arm and was struggling with the little TV and his bag, Mrs. Woodley didn’t ask her lackey in the three-piece suit to lend him a hand.

“I was hoping to talk Mr. Woodley,” Ben said, setting down his bag.

“Mr. Woodley is terribly busy,” she said. “And so am I. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?”

“How’s Guy doing?” Ben asked. “Is he okay?”

“Little Ken
is napping right now,” Mrs. Woodley replied. “And he can’t be disturbed.”

Ben glanced down around the baseboards for an outlet. “Well, tell him that Ben said ‘hi.’ We got to be good friends in the last few days.” He propped the TV on a desk by the window, then plugged it in.

“You have about three and a half more minutes,” the man in the business suit announced. His arms folded, he stood behind the couch where the woman sat.

Ben glanced at Mrs. Woodley, then rolled his eyes toward the man. “Does he have to be here?”

“Yes,” she said. “And he’s quite right. I have other appointments.”

“Then I’ll get to the point,” Ben said, standing between Mrs. Woodley and the TV. “I was hoping to persuade you and Mr. Woodley to drop any charges you were planning to file against your daughter-in-law.”

Mrs. Woodley sipped her tea and said nothing.

“In fact, I thought you might want to help her out,” Ben continued. “Maybe even get some of your high-powered attorneys to clear her of any other charges like fraud or forgery or whatever. And with all your money, I thought you’d want to help her out financially, too.”

Hannah’s mother-in-law glanced over her shoulder at the man.

“I think you’ve taken up enough of Mrs. Woodley’s time,” he said with a stony gaze at Ben.

“If she’s put on trial, it’s going to come out why she took the baby and left,” Ben said. “You’re aware that your son beat her, aren’t you?”

Putting down her cup of tea, she squirmed a little on the sofa.

“Even if you drop the kidnapping charges, and she went on trial for fraud or something else, she’ll still have to explain why she did what she did. It’ll still come out that your late son was an abuser—in every sense of the word.”

Ben unzipped the duffel bag, and within a moment, the man was right behind him. “It’s just a video,” Ben explained, showing him the cassette.

“Hannah doesn’t know I’m here, Mrs. Woodley. In fact, she doesn’t even know this video exists.” He switched on to the little TV-VCR. “No one knows this exists except the three of us. The man who made it is dead. He was one of the young men who killed your son.”

Her brow wrinkled, Mrs. Woodley frowned at him.

“I really don’t want to show this to you,” Ben said. “But I’ll show it to the world if you insist on prosecuting Hannah. Anyone who sees it would have a good idea of what Hannah had to put up with. It explains why she took her baby and left.”

Ben inserted the video and pressed “Play.”

The image on the screen was dark and grainy. The footage had been filmed at night, through the window of a yacht. There were a man and a woman seated in the galley below deck. They were snorting lines of cocaine.

“It’ll get pretty awful in a few minutes,” Ben warned.

Hannah’s mother-in-law leaned forward and numbly gazed at the image on the little TV.

“Do you recognize your son, Mrs. Woodley?” Ben asked.

At the memorial service for Kenneth Woodley II, Guy stood between his mother and grandmother. Each one held onto his hand, and occasionally Guy swung their arms back and forth.

The service was held in a park overlooking Lake Michigan. It was a gloomy day, and everyone was bundled up in coats and jackets. Hannah noticed several of Mrs. Woodley’s country-club friends in their fur coats.

A minister read some prayers, and one of Mr. Woodley’s golf buddies reminisced about his godson, Kenneth Junior.

Guy was understandably confused. He’d been told his father had died in a car accident a long time ago. And now everyone was saying he’d been killed in a boat explosion just two weeks before.