No One Needs to Know (42 page)

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Listen, this Saturday we’re going to Gil Garrett’s mansion in Medina to audition for a catering job. That’s been a goal of Cheryl’s for almost a year. Now, I’m almost certain she has other reasons for going. That catering audition is just an excuse. The big shot down in L.A. who ordered the special investigation, who’s to say it wasn’t Gil Garrett? He was in love with Elaina. He discovered her.”

“And you’re going along with Cheryl to meet with Gil Garrett?” Adam asked. “Are you crazy?”

“I helped set it up. I promised her I would.”

“Well, so what?” Adam retorted. “God knows what she’s getting you into. Laurie, I don’t understand why you’re even still working with her.”

“Tomorrow’s my last day. Saturday I’m just helping out.”

“With all this going on, I don’t understand why you’re still here. If I were you, I would have packed up and moved somewhere else by now . . .”

She turned to wipe off Joey’s tray. “This was my somewhere else,” she said, her back to Adam. “This is where I packed up and moved away to. I really wanted this to work. I had a—a bad stalker situation in Ellensburg. He broke into my house, and I killed him. Now, his brother is after me—along with a tribe of his followers. The comparisons to Trent Hooper are a little scary . . .”

She felt Adam touching her shoulder. “Jesus, I’m really sorry . . .”

But Laurie couldn’t look at him. Getting to her feet, she unsnapped Joey’s messy bib and carefully carried it to the sink. She ran it under the hot water. “The story isn’t as simple as that,” she said, her back still to him. “The man who was stalking me, I’d slept with him a couple of times—over two years ago, while my husband was overseas. It wasn’t really an affair, and I can’t call it a fling, because that almost makes it sound fun. It was—just a bad mistake.”

She shut off the water, grabbed a dishtowel, and finally turned to face him. “Anyway, I don’t want to keep any secrets from you,” she said, drying her hands. “I wanted you to know, because I like you, Adam.”

“I like you, too, Laurie,” he whispered.

She felt her face flush. Suddenly, she couldn’t look at him again.

“I’m glad you told me about Ellensburg,” he said. “But I still think you shouldn’t go with Cheryl to Gil Garrett’s house. Talk about bad mistakes. I’m really worried something terrible is going to happen there . . .”

Laurie knew he had a point. But it wasn’t as if they were meeting someone in a dark alley at midnight. This was a Saturday afternoon at a mansion in Medina. She wasn’t exactly sure what Cheryl was planning. But a part of her had to go there with her. She still felt a strange loyalty to Cheryl. And at long last, she was going to meet her godfather. Most of all, she had a feeling the resolution to all this was somewhere beyond the front gates of Gil Garrett and Shawna Farrell’s estate.

She told Adam she’d think about what he said.

He needed to get back to Evergreen Manor before visiting hours ended. He was spending the night with his dad again. But before leaving, he asked if there were any photographs of the Biggs Farm suicide scene in those files she’d unearthed.

Laurie pulled some of the Xeroxed photos from Maureen’s files and showed them to him.

It was strange to look at those photographs of dead women and children—while listening to Joey babbling happily in his playpen.

Adam had glanced at only a couple of shots before his face seemed to tense up. “Thanks,” he murmured, handing the photographs back to her. For a few moments, he wouldn’t look at her.

But he smiled when he waved good-bye to Joey. Laurie walked him to the door. “Listen,” he said. “If you get scared or freaked out or anything, call me. I’m fifteen minutes away. I’ll keep my phone on vibrate. You won’t wake up my dad. And I probably won’t get much sleep anyway . . .”

“Thanks,” Laurie said.

“Could I see you tomorrow? I’d like another chance to talk you out of this thing on Saturday.”

Laurie smiled. “Sure.”

“Thank you for dinner,” he said. “You’re an amazing cook. In fact, I think you’re amazing—period. G’night.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Laurie didn’t go back inside until she heard the front gate clank shut.

Thursday, 8:11
P.M.

“Are you spending the night again?” asked Jodi, the copper-haired nurse at the front desk. She reached for a visitor’s badge.

The gun in Adam’s jacket pocket left a bulge, and he tried to conceal it as he signed in at the desk. “Yes, I’m staying over. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“No problem. Let us know if you want a cot.” She handed him his visitor’s badge. “Did your friend get ahold of you?”

He was about to pin the badge to his shirt, but hesitated and stared at her. “What friend?”

“A woman called about ten minutes ago, asking if you were sleeping here again tonight or if she should try you at your friend’s place.” Jodi shrugged. “I told her I didn’t know for sure.”

Adam frowned. “Did this woman leave a name?”

Jodi shook her head. “I asked if I could take a message, but she said no.”

“Well, um, thanks,” he murmured. Scratching his head, he started to wander away.

“Don’t forget to put on your visitor’s ID!” Jodi called to him.

“Oh, thanks . . .” he called back. He pinned the badge to his shirt, and continued down the dimly lit corridor. He was wondering who this woman was who had called for him. Laurie knew he was here, and so did Aunt Doris. Besides, they both had his cell number. Why would they need to know where to reach him tonight? He tried to think of who might have known that he’d stayed at Stafford and Dave’s garage apartment for the last few nights. Had he told anyone at work?

Adam remembered what Uncle Marty had told him:
“Watch your back.”
He nervously patted the gun in his jacket pocket, and made a mental note to go online and read up some more on how to fire the damn thing. He wasn’t even sure he’d loaded it correctly.

Stopping in his father’s doorway, he found the old man in his Barcalounger staring at a Humphrey Bogart movie on TV. The three-footed cane stood within his father’s reach. He had a small bag of Mini Chips Ahoy! in his hand, and cookie crumbs dotted the front of his shirt.

Adam couldn’t imagine him having anything to do with that group suicide on Biggs Farm. It just didn’t make sense.

“Hey, Pop,” he said, stepping inside the room.

His dad glanced at him, and sighed. “Dean, where’s your mother? I’ve kind of had it with this place. When’s she going to come here and take me home?”

Adam sat down on the end of his father’s bed. He didn’t know how to answer him.

So he didn’t say anything.

Thursday, 10:36
P.M.

Ellensburg

He waited outside the door of the darkened restaurant while Tony set the alarm.

Duncan felt funny asking for a ride home. Still, he really hoped Tony would offer him a lift—though there wasn’t much chance of that happening. Tony had some stuff in the back of his pickup, and they’d have to move it around to make room for Duncan’s Blue Bomber. Despite some rain earlier in the day, it had turned into a clear perfect summer night. There was no valid reason why he wouldn’t want to ride home on his moped—except it was two weeks ago tonight that those creeps had taken him for a ride.

The next morning, they’d dumped the dead raccoon by the restaurant entrance. Duncan had gotten sick to his stomach when Paul had told him about it later in the day.

Since then, he’d gone online and ordered some pepper spray, but it still hadn’t come in the mail yet. He’d also gone on sites teaching self-defense tactics. He’d learned how to surprise an attacker with a square blow to the nose or throat—or a kick to the groin. They called this sudden, fierce retaliatory action a
dry gulch.

But Duncan was still scared. His mother didn’t understand why he got so nervous at night. She didn’t know that he’d just recently started keeping a steak knife between his mattress and box spring—within reach if he was awoken in the middle of the night.

He still hadn’t told a soul about what had happened on that rainy evening two weeks ago.

He’d been anxious on these nights when he closed the restaurant. But last Thursday and tonight were especially bad, because they were the weekly anniversaries. Duncan was suspicious that way. He would probably never again wear the shirt he’d had on that night.

While waiting for Tony, he nervously glanced around the Superstar Diner’s parking lot—and checked the access road for any cars headed this way. He didn’t see anyone. He’d wheeled his moped closer to Tony’s pickup. He didn’t have any dessert to go tonight. He didn’t want anything. He just wanted to get home—without anything bad happening.

Tony finally stepped out of the restaurant and locked the door. He was about forty, and looked a bit like Elvis in the later, fat years. Duncan often wondered if that was one reason Paul had hired him—in order to keep with the restaurant’s retro theme. “You know, you don’t have to hang around while I close up,” Tony said, lumbering toward his pickup. “It’s not like when that woman cook was here. I can do it by myself. It’s no sweat.”

“Well, Paul wants two people to be here when we lock up,” Duncan explained. His head bobbed a little. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Whatever,” Tony grumbled, climbing into his pickup. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night!” Duncan called. Then he hopped onto his Blue Bomber, turned the key in the ignition, and pressed the electric start button with his thumb.

Nothing happened.

Beside him, the engine of Tony’s pickup let out a roar. The vehicle backed out of the parking space.

Duncan checked the moped’s kill switch to make sure he had it in the “run” position. Then he tried the start button again and again, but to no avail. He turned toward Tony in the pickup. “Hey, wait!” he called.

But Tony must not have heard him. The pickup pulled away and headed onto the access road. Duncan helplessly watched its taillights fading in the distance.

He gave the moped’s start button another try. Still nothing. He had this awful feeling in his stomach. Someone must have tinkered with his bike again.

With a shaky hand, he reached into the pocket of his cargo pants for his cell phone. But he wasn’t sure whom to call. His mom? She was probably in no shape to drive. And it seemed like jumping the gun to call the police. He wondered what the phone number was for a taxi. And if they could pick him up, just how long would he be stuck out here waiting?

Duncan glanced toward the access road again, and saw a pair of headlights in the distance. He thought maybe Tony had come back for something. For a brief moment, he thought he was saved. But then he realized it wasn’t Tony’s pickup. It was a smaller car driving up the access road. As it came closer to the restaurant, the headlights went off.

In a panic, Duncan tried to climb off his bike, but he tripped. He hit the pavement hard, and the moped toppled over onto his leg. The phone flew out of his hand.

He heard the engine purring as the car approached. He glanced up and saw it was a maroon Honda Accord. It came to a stop right in front of him. Duncan desperately tried to untangle himself from the bike. He felt so trapped. Tears streamed down his face, and his head shook.

Over the sound of the idling engine, he heard the car door open. It triggered the open-door warning chime.

At last, Duncan crawled out from under his bike. He saw a scruffy-looking man standing by the driver’s door. He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was laughing.

When they’d taken him for that ride two weeks ago, he’d seen only the back of the driver’s head and his eyes in the rearview mirror. But Duncan recognized the mean laugh. This was the guy who called himself Hans.

“Hey, Duncan,” he said in a smug tone.

Duncan managed to get to his feet. He couldn’t stop shaking. He clenched his fists.

“It’s been two whole weeks, and not a card or a phone call thanking me for the ride,” the man said, strutting toward him. “Have you heard from your girlfriend, Laurie? I’ll bet you have. I’ll bet you can tell me where she is . . .”

Duncan was so scared he couldn’t move. “Leave me alone,” he murmured.

The man laughed again. “You should see yourself. Your head’s shaking so much it looks like it’s gonna rattle right off your skinny neck . . .” With one hand still in his pocket, he reached out with the other one and grabbed Duncan by the front of his shirt. “Oh, and you’re crying, too. That’s precious . . .”

Duncan remembered how much they’d humiliated him that rainy night two weeks ago. And he remembered the term he’d picked up on the Internet for a surprise attack:
dry gulch.

All at once, he was enraged.

“Asshole!” Duncan cried, slamming his fist into the smug punk’s throat. He grazed the bottom of his chin and punched him in the Adam’s apple.

The man let go of him. He didn’t gasp. All that came out of him as he staggered back was a strange, pathetic, choking sound. His hands came up to his neck.

Duncan punched him again—square in the nose. He heard something snap and blood spurted from the man’s nostrils. Duncan felt some of it spray his face. He was about to hit him again.

But then the punk’s legs seemed to give out from under him. He fell against the front of the car and crumpled to the pavement.

For a moment, Duncan was afraid he’d killed the guy. He stared at the Accord, expecting a group of the man’s friends to jump out of it at any moment. But he took another step toward the idling car, and saw no one was inside. Hans had come alone.

Past the incessant beeping of the car door alarm, Duncan heard the man moaning. He sounded like a wounded animal. His face was covered with blood.

Duncan bent over him and felt his pockets. He found a switchblade in the pocket of his jeans.

“No, no, please . . . don’t . . .” the man begged in a raspy, broken voice. Then he started coughing and sobbing.