Unseen (17 page)

“How do you know?”

“Robbie said so. I just got so mad at him.” She looked out the window into the night.

“Why?”

“Because I just did.” They drove on for a few more minutes and then she asked, “What’s a drunk tank?”

Gemma pulled into LuLu’s parking lot. “Sounds like somewhere Robbie’s dad spends a bit of time.”

“Why didn’t you pick me up today?” Charlotte asked suddenly.

“I just did.” She yanked on the emergency brake.

“I mean when I was walking. I waved at you and you waved back, but you didn’t stop.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charlotte leaned forward and gazed at her hard, searching for something in Gemma’s face in the gloom of the cab. “On the road in front of Robbie’s house. I saw you!”

Gemma regarded her blankly and shook her head.

“It was you,” Charlotte said stubbornly.

“No, Charlotte. I was working today at the diner. I left and went home and I was there until this evening.”

“I know it was you!” she declared. “You musta forgot. Did you go to the store or something?”

“No, I took a nap.”

And woke up naked
.

“Maybe you were sleepwalking. Sleep driving,” Charlotte corrected.

“I see Macie in the window,” Gemma deflected, not liking the way this conversation was going. “Let’s go talk to her.”

By the time Gemma returned to the farmhouse she felt like it had been the longest day in history. She yanked the truck to a halt and headed inside. She poured herself a glass of tap water and drank it standing at the kitchen sink, gazing at her own reflection in the window, her image backdropped by the kitchen cabinets and hanging lights. She couldn’t see into the black night beyond.

Macie had been understandably upset with Charlotte. She’d sunk into one of the booths and said, “What am I going to do with you?” so Charlotte pointed out that if she’d had access to her bike none of this would have happened. Macie turned eyes covered in parrot-green shadow to Gemma for help. Gemma hadn’t had any answers.

She thought about her mother’s mangled Camry. It could either be her salvation or her downfall. If she told Tanninger about it, the car would be tested and if there was even the most microscopic evidence that it had made contact with Edward Letton then she would be arrested for vehicular homicide, or manslaughter, or some other equally serious crime that would send her to prison.

If it couldn’t be proven that it had made contact with Letton, then she would be off the hook. So, if she hadn’t actually rammed the bastard, she was home free.

The question was: was she innocent?

And why had Charlotte thought she’d seen her this afternoon? What did that mean?

She trudged upstairs, dug out the charger for her cell phone, plugged it in, then as it fed the battery she checked the last numbers that she’d dialed. Her home phone. LuLu’s. A couple of numbers she didn’t recognize which she tried calling now. The first was to a movie theater, which reminded her she’d called about show times. When she punched in the second she was connected to the Noack residence. Luckily an answering machine picked up and Gemma hung up quickly. Hopefully Davinia didn’t have her cell number.

Next she checked to see if she had any messages on her cell voice mail. Nothing. Nothing at all. Gemma sighed. She had this depressing sense that she’d been living life in a vacuum, insulated from the real world. She’d made Nate Dorrell her whole world and since being back home had simply been going through the motions of a life.

Putting aside the phone, she dumped the contents of her purse onto the bed. Lipstick. Pens. A comb and brush. Her wallet. She unsnapped the wallet and examined the old bank card and a credit card, which she’d cancelled. There were a couple small pictures tucked behind a checkbook. One of her with Jean and Peter, a number of years earlier. Another of Charlotte. Another of her with Macie and Charlotte in front of LuLu’s.

In the checkbook register she saw the listings of utility bills, credit card payments, and deposits from the various clients she’d still been seeing. So she had taken money for her services. Maybe Macie was right and she should just “go with it,” but she found the idea distasteful.

Closing the wallet, she went to the drawer that held old credit card statements. She’d run across them earlier and had paid little attention. Now she examined her last few purchases. No surprise she was a steady customer at LuLu’s. She also purchased groceries and gas and occasionally went to a department store. She even had a bill or two from the PickAxe.

Back down in the kitchen, she looked at her reflection in the window again.

“You need to tell Tanninger about the car,” she said aloud.

She slowly picked up the receiver, stood undecided for several minutes, then replaced it just as slowly.

Maybe tomorrow.

Will stripped naked and ran through the shower. For reasons he didn’t want to look at too closely he couldn’t get Gemma LaPorte out of his head. And it didn’t help that he was in the shower with warm water cascading over his head, thinking about Gemma in a thoroughly non-professional way.

A couple more minutes of that and he switched the hot water to cold and stood under the spray as long as he could stand it. He finally yiped and slammed off the spigot. Jesus, that was freezing.

But it did the trick. All he could think about now was warmth as he grabbed a towel and rubbed his shaking body briskly.

He threw on a pair of sweats and a Georgia Bulldogs jersey, not that he was necessarily a fan but it was something he’d had awhile and it was available. Dressing for success wasn’t on his top ten list.

Checking the time, he saw that the news was on and as he clicked on the remote his cell phone rang. He snatched it up from the kitchen counter. Caller ID said: Mom.

“Hi, Mom,” he answered, his gaze on his forty-two-inch LCD screen. For the little amount of time he had to watch TV it sometimes caught him up short that he’d splurged for this toy. Not that he didn’t enjoy it when he did watch. It just seemed excessive for his lifestyle. The weatherman was predicting a windstorm coupled with driving rain.

“Dylan?” she asked in confusion.

“It’s Will, Mom. Dylan’s been gone for years.”

“Oh.” There was a pause and Will used the time to grab a beer from the refrigerator. There was absolutely no food inside and he determined he would head to a nearby tavern that made a decent pastrami, jack cheese, and red onion sandwich. He sometimes asked for them to add a lettuce leaf, just to make himself believe he was eating healthy.

“Do you know where I am?” she asked at length.

“You’re at home. At your house. Is Noreen there?”

“Noreen? Oh. No. She went to the grocery store.”

“Okay.”

This was where it got hard. The struggle to come up with conversation. He’d watched other people with their loved ones just chatter away about nothing. But Will didn’t possess the knack. He wanted a meaningful conversation, or he wanted out. He couldn’t do small talk. Couldn’t fake that he couldn’t do it.

“Are you still seeing that girl? What’s her name?”

Will instantly had a vision of Gemma. Naked. Hair down. Hazel eyes hit by sunlight so they gazed like glittering emeralds. Skin taut. Breasts round and smooth, and he could visualize his hands moving toward them. He made a sound of frustration, wondering if another cold shower was in order.

But he knew his mother meant Shari, Dylan’s ex.

“No, Mom. That was over years ago.”

“She was a nice girl.” She waxed rhapsodic about Shari for a few disjointed minutes, which made Will want to jump in and deny everything. Shari hadn’t been nice. She’d been needy and emotionally manipulative. Why Will had gotten involved was a mystery to him now. Maybe it was because he went for a type. Shari and Gemma shared a passing resemblance, although when he thought of Shari he mostly remembered her complaining.

“I was thinking about her,” she went on, her voice turning to a smile.

But Will couldn’t hear her anymore. His attention snapped to the television as Mandy Letton appeared in a brief interview.

“The police know who ran him down,” she was saying tightly. “They just won’t do anything about it!” She’d stuffed herself in a low-cut, tight black dress that pushed her breasts up alarmingly. Will half-expected them to spill onto the screen. Her hair was scraped back from her face and her eyes, her best feature, were huge and wide, full of innocence and disbelief. “She was in the hospital while my husband was…suffering.” Crocodile tears slid from the corners of those big eyes. “She actually confronted me and called me names. I know people are saying terrible things about Edward, but she
killed
him. Why won’t the police arrest her? They know she did it.”

“Goddammit,” Will muttered harshly.

“Will?” his mother said uncertainly.

“Mom, I have to go. Are you all right? You need anything?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’ll stay on the phone till Noreen gets back,” he said shortly. Now the reporter was asking Mandy if she’d spoken to someone at the police department.

“The sheriff’s department,” she confirmed. “They’re not very cooperative. One of their detectives tried to shut me up and hustle me away. They know I know what they’re doing and they’re trying to cover up.”

“Noreen? She’s coming here?”

“Yes, Mom. That’s what you said.” Will grabbed the remote and hit the volume.

The woman reporter turned to the screen and said that no one from the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department had been willing to talk to them. However, a retired detective, Mr. Burl Jernstadt, had allowed a statement. Burl Jernstadt had been a respected member of the department and Sheriff Nunce still engaged his expertise upon occasion.

Will made a strangled sound.

“Are you choking?” his mother asked anxiously.

“Mom, I’ll call you right back.” He needed to hear what Burl had to say.

“The department has several cases that it’s deeply involved with.” Burl spoke seriously. His hair was combed and slicked down, and it looked like he’d actually trimmed his ear hair for this interview. His coat was too small, however, making his belly spill forward. He looked like the yahoo he was.

“You want me to call 911? If you’re choking I should call 911.”

“I’m not choking! Don’t call 911!” He heard his tension and knew he was scaring her. “Okay, okay. Just hold on. Okay?” He dropped the phone and scrambled for the DVR. He needed to record this.

“Don’t say it, Burl. Don’t do it,” he warned through his teeth.

“The Letton case isn’t as high priority as others,” Burl said in a tone that suggested the sheriff’s department wasn’t playing fair.

“Isn’t this vehicular homicide?” the reporter asked. “Mrs. Letton says the authorities know who’s behind the vicious attack on her husband.”

Burl nodded. “There are several persons of interest.”

“One in particular? The woman who was at the hospital when Mr. Letton was?”

Burl struggled. He so wanted to nail Gemma.

Will squeezed his hands into fists, willing Burl not to say it, though he knew the interview had been taped earlier.

“I am not at liberty to say,” he stated primly.

The reporter came around it another way, saying a woman who’d shown up with bruises consistent with an automobile accident had actually been one floor below Edward Letton at the same hospital. She’d been released and the authorities had seemingly moved on to other possibilities.

Will swept up his cell phone. “Mom?” Dead air. “Mom?” Nothing. He clicked off, relieved that the segment was over and the news people had moved on to something else.

His phone rang and he checked the number. Barb. Probably as apoplectic as he was.

“Did you see Channel Nine?” she asked, barely reining in her fury.

“Just caught it.”

“I’m going to rip him a new one! What a moron. What a complete, utter moron.”

“Maybe it’s just what we need,” Will said.

“How so?” Barb sounded angry that he could even think that way.

“Maybe this’ll finally cook Jernstadt’s goose.”

Barb snorted and rolled that around in her head. “God, I hope so. You going to Clatsop to look at that body?”

Will made a face. “It’d be great to have a first-hand look, but I’ve got to take care of a few things here.”

“Something you’re not telling me about the Letton case?”

“No, I’ve got to call 911 dispatch and make sure they haven’t sent someone to my house to make sure I’m not choking.”

Chapter Fourteen

The offices of Dr. Tremaine Rainfield were in a four-story brick building in Portland’s warehouse district, which had been gentrified into condominiums and shops, and a big chunk of it was now known as the trendy Pearl District. Gemma struggled to find parking, finally settling on the highway robbery of a parking structure. She took a ticket from the machine and rattled her truck to the nearest spot, which she had to squeeze into.

It occurred to her as she was locking the vehicle that she should have asked Charlotte what she was driving when she supposedly spotted her.

She took an elevator to the ground level and exited through a glass revolving door to the street. The building she sought was four blocks away and she moved through an overcast day that seemed to bear down on her oppressively.

Rainfield’s office building sported dark gray carpet and wood paneled elevator doors. Gemma punched the button for the fourth floor and rode up in silence, her arrival announced by a soft, respectful
ping.
She turned toward a set of glass doors etched with
dr. tremain rainfield
in gold, lowercase letters.

The receptionist gave her a careful smile of greeting.

“Gemma LaPorte to see Dr. Rainfield.”

The receptionist gave her a nod and Gemma took a seat in the waiting room. Ten minutes passed before the inner door opened and a woman in scrubs admitted her to a short hallway that led to an office in the back. So there was a clinic somewhere, Gemma deduced.

Tremaine Rainfield’s office itself was a study in brown tone-on-tone, with carved wooden statues of quasi-African origin and hammered pewter bowls and plates. Someone had designed it to look more like an upscale law office than a psychologist’s place of business. The one softer touch was a glass bowl filled with floating red candles cut into the shape of some spiny-leafed flower.

“Gemma,” the doctor said, getting up from his chair and coming around the desk to take her hand. “I haven’t seen you in years. Do you remember me?”

He was grinning and she had a flash of the boy he’d been, hanging around his dad’s offices. “I do,” she said, which pleased him enormously.

Had he known that what she remembered was how he’d scowled and whined when he hadn’t gotten his way, his greeting might not have been as warm. He was older than Gemma by four or five years and had exhibited all the signs of extreme jealousy whenever he’d come across her with his father. Bernard Rainfield had always treated Gemma with fatherly kindness and his son, Tremaine, hadn’t liked it one bit.

Tremaine’s brown hair was cut close and turning silver at his temples. His brown eyes were like his father’s, except Gemma didn’t detect the inherent kindness she’d found in Bernard’s.

“I’ve been anxious to meet with you,” he said. “I’ve always thought you were my father’s most interesting patient.”

“You talked about me with your father?”

“More like I listened at doors when we were young. And your mother, Jean, was a colorful character. She was very worried about you. Do you still take the medication my father prescribed?”

He said it casually, but it sent alarm bells ringing in the back of Gemma’s head. “I haven’t gotten a new prescription in years.” She didn’t tell him she still had some of the pills and only used them sporadically.

“It was Atavan, mostly. Anti-anxiety. You don’t feel the need of them anymore?”

“No.” Gemma was careful.

“I understood they inhibited your psychic abilities.” Responding to her look of consternation, he said, “That’s what Jean believed.”

“I don’t have psychic abilities.”

Tremaine smiled. “I know. That’s just what your mother wanted to believe. But I also know you lose time. You told Jean that.”

“Well…not exactly…” Gemma swallowed. It sounded like he knew more about her than she did herself. “I never told my mother I lost time.”

“Didn’t you?” He cocked his head.

“I’m missing pieces of my life but the journal I wrote helped a lot.”

“Good. How far back does it go?”

“Well, to when I started seeing your father. He had me start the journal.”

“So, you don’t know anything about your past before that point.”

“I know I was found on a ferry.”

“But you were told that,” he stressed. “It’s not a memory. Have you thought about accessing your memories? Regression hypnosis therapy? It might explain a lot of what’s been a mystery to you far too long. We might even get to the root of this,” he added lightly.

As if the words had actually passed his tongue, she heard his thoughts:
It’s DID, and it’s a godsend! All I have to do is step carefully. Don’t want to scare her.

She said, “What’s DID?”

His body jerked and his eyes widened. “You think you have DID? I didn’t know you knew…that…that’s amazing. That you have that awareness. When did you come to that? How? Did something happen?”

His questions came thick and fast. Gemma was growing less and less interested in talking with him. “I asked you what it was. That’s all.”

“Dissociative Identity Disorder. What was once termed multiple personality disorder. Another self. One that lives outside of your awareness, generally.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You don’t believe it,” Tremaine said, getting all professional again. “Hmmm. Why?”

“I don’t even think it exists,” Gemma said, staring at the red floating candles. She could see water on their fake petals.

“Oh, it does. It does.” His smile was faint.

“I may have some memory problems, but I’m not doing things that I’m not aware of.” As Gemma said the words she thought about Charlotte seeing her on the road, and of Letton being run down by a car. Still, she was not going to indulge Tremaine Rainfield just so he could make a name for himself.

“Let me ask you this: what do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. Plain old memory lapses.”

“There are no plain old memory lapses. They have root causes. Some physical, some psychological. Yours started before you were adopted, by what I’ve learned. That’s why I’m suggesting hypnosis. Repressed memories could become recovered memories.”

When she didn’t answer, he added, “Wouldn’t you like to know whether you’re responsible for Edward Letton’s death?”

Gemma stared in shock.

“Last night’s six o’clock news,” he explained. “The widow Letton said a woman who’d been hospitalized the same time as her husband was responsible. And someone from the sheriff’s office intimated the authorities weren’t doing their job by not arresting her.” He slid her a look. “I gather the police don’t have enough evidence.”

“I’m not responsible for his death,” Gemma stated firmly.

“But you don’t know for certain, do you?”

“I know.”

“Not for certain,” he said again.

Gemma’s jaw was tight. No, not for certain. Not completely. But it just didn’t fit with everything else, and with the healing of her bruises came the conviction that she was innocent of killing Edward Letton.

Still…there were questions. Anomalies. Coincidences.

No, not for certain.

Rainfield kept after her to sign up for hypnosis but Gemma demurred, having basically checked out. She didn’t know what she wanted other than she didn’t want to be Dr. Tremaine Rainfield’s show pony. Or guinea pig. Or test case.

But he’d helped her learn a couple of things about herself that she hadn’t expected to from this meeting, things Dr. Rainfield never meant to teach. One, she wasn’t going to live in fear anymore. If she did run Edward Letton down with her car it could be proved, and as time went on she felt it was a pretty big “if”. She found it more and more likely that someone else, someone who looked like her and shared her disgust of anyone who preyed on children—maybe even surpassed it, if that were possible—had been the woman behind the wheel. So, she was going to call Will Tanninger and give him the location of her mother’s silver Camry. And she believed—well, hoped—that she would be exonerated.

Secondly, though she’d denied having any psychic ability to the self-serving doctor, she’d finally realized that she may indeed. And though she shied away from the label itself—weren’t all would-be psychics a little crazy themselves?—by just being with Tremaine Rainfield she had realized something more about her particular ability. What she could do, to an amazing level, was read the most powerful thoughts inside a person’s head. What was uppermost on their mind. Their strongest desires, needs, fears. Dr. Tremaine Rainfield wanted to use Gemma to further his career. Milo was worried about his pregnant girlfriend, Shirl. Sally Van Kamp had wanted news on her son when she was really worried that he was an addict, no matter what she sputtered to the contrary.

Whoever Gemma had chased out of the diner was a pedophile in his mind, if not yet in action.

And somehow she was fairly certain she’d been chasing someone other than Edward Letton. Not
certain
, no. But fairly certain. Certain enough to trust the information to Will Tanninger.

Before she left the parking garage she scrolled through her cell phone where she’d stored the detective’s number. Before she could stop herself, she punched in the call and then headed out through the garage gates to the street.

Sheriff Nunce ducked his head inside the door and said to Will, “Can you come into my office?”

Will looked up from his notes. Barb was on the phone but her eyes shot from Will to Nunce and back, her brows lifting. It had to be about Burl.

“Sure.” Will followed after the older man and stood inside the office as Nunce closed his door, an action out of the ordinary in itself. Will waited, half-knowing what was to come.

“You know I’m planning to retire, and because of it I’ve been—loose with some of the protocol.” He grimaced, and with an effort Will kept his countenance merely interested. Loose with protocol was an understatement. “Haven’t wanted to fight all the little battles that flare up. I’ve let Burl overstep his bounds and it hasn’t been right. I called him this morning and reminded him that he no longer works here. I also told Dot not to admit him past the gate.”

Will inclined his head. “I expected something after last night’s TV showing, but wow.”

“Burl’s a good man,” the sheriff defended.

Not hardly,
Will thought, but wisely kept silent.

“But…” Nunce walked around his desk and sank into the chair, absently picking up a rubber band and rotating it like a wheel with the help of his two pointer fingers. “He overstepped his bounds with that damn interview. And he’s too personally involved in the case. Keeps blabbering on about his friendship with the Dunleavys and how the LaPortes are crazy, and all. Unprofessional, but then he’s no longer a part of this office.”

Will nodded.
And hasn’t been for a long time.

“I called you in here because I’m afraid you’re going to get the brunt of it. Burl thinks you’re soft on the LaPorte woman. He blames you for not arresting her, when he knows full well we don’t have the evidence.”

Will’s smile was cold. “I can take it.”

Nunce nodded shortly. “Good.”

Thinking the interview was over, Will headed toward the door. Before he could open it, Nunce said, “Do you still consider her a suspect?”

“A person of interest,” Will clarified.

“Anything new that would link her to the crime?”

“No.”

“I just didn’t want it forgotten, with this psycho-burner out there.”

“I think about it all the time,” Will told him.

“Okay.”

Once in the hall Will almost ran into Barb. “Listening at keyholes?” he asked her.

“If I have to. What did Nunce want?”

“To make sure we haven’t given up on the Letton case, and to let me know that Burl is
persona non grata
around here, based on his connection with the Dunleavys, the LaPortes’ neighbors.”

“Oh, really.” Barb’s brows lifted.

“One less headache,” Will said.

“What about the Letton case, though. It’s stalled.”

Will’s cell buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. The number looked somewhat familiar but it didn’t immediately click in his head. God, if it was about his mother again…“Tanninger.”

“Detective? This is Gemma LaPorte.”

Will’s steps slowed automatically, and Barb, who was keeping stride with him, slowed down as well, looking askance. He tried to wave her off but she stubbornly stood pat. “Hello,” he greeted Gemma a bit more cautiously than he would have if he were alone.

“You told me to call you if I remembered anything.”

“Yeah?” His interest quickened.

“I’d like to talk to you in person. Would it be all right if I stopped by the department after work tomorrow?”

“Um…Why don’t I come your way.”

“I’m at LuLu’s diner tomorrow.”

“Peach cobbler,” he said. “I remember.”

He thought he could almost hear her smile. “See you then, detective.”

As he hung up, Barb said suspiciously, “Peach cobbler?”

“Yep.” He headed toward the staff room and the locker that held his coat.

“Damn it, Tanninger, you’re going to see that LaPorte woman!”

“I’m going home,” he said.

“You’re going to that diner where she works!”

“Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?” When he didn’t answer, she accused, “You’re not the choir boy you let everyone believe.”

He found himself smiling inside, his thoughts turning to Gemma. It was foolish and dangerous, but he couldn’t help himself. But Barb was bristling beside him, so he made his most angelic, choir-boy face and started in on “Ave Maria” in an off-key, warbling baritone which made Barb make a retching sound and shoot him the middle finger.

“Hilarious,” she said, turning away from him.

He thought so and was laughing out loud as he gave Dot the high sign and she buzzed him outside to the late afternoon shadows.

Lucky woke with a lurch to find herself slouched behind the wheel of her truck. It was night, she was on a country road, and clouds covered the moon and stars, leaving her staring into almost pure blackness. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them slowly. It was still night. Her last memory was of late afternoon.