Unspeakable (49 page)

She heard Stampler sobbing as he aimed the tin at the door to the shed. Olivia realized he was dousing the shack with charcoal starter.

She realized what Wade's firebug friend was doing.

“No!” she screamed. Coming from behind the tree, she charged at him with the tire iron. Olivia thwacked him on the shoulder, and he howled in pain. He dropped the can, and a stream of the fluid splashed him. The can fell to the ground by his feet and made a hollow clank.

Olivia reeled back to hit him again with the tire iron. But he grabbed her wrist. “Goddamn it,” he hissed. But Olivia saw the tears in his eyes. She saw that a part of him didn't want to do this.

“No, you can't!” she cried out, fighting him.

She caught a glimpse of Collin on the floor of the shed, his back against the wall. He had his head tipped back, and his eyes were half open. She was about to yell at him to wake up and get out of there. But then all at once, she felt a hammer-like blow across her face. It knocked Olivia off her feet, and she let out a frail cry. She hit the ground with a thud. The wind was knocked out of her, but she wouldn't give up. She grabbed the canister and hurled it at Stampler. It hit him on the shoulder and splashed him again.

Olivia saw he had the tire iron now. Desperate, she grabbed a rock and threw it at him. It missed Stampler completely. Gasping and grunting, she heaved another rock at him. It sailed by his face. She let out a frustrated cry.

It was Wade's voice coming from inside the shed.

Olivia watched Andy Stampler turn and gape at his grandson.

Sitting up, Collin stared back at him. The cocky, defiant grin on his face belonged to Wade. “Do it, man,” he whispered.

Andy Stampler shook his head at him. “Why is this happening?” he cried. “Why are you doing this? Goddamn it, you're dead! You got mowed down by a train fifty years ago. And I was happy about it. Understand? I didn't want anything more to do with you. . . .”

Olivia saw the smirk disappear, and a horrified look passed over Collin's face. He covered his mouth with a shaky hand. She'd never told Wade during any of their sessions that he was actually dead.

“What?” Collin whispered. It was his voice, not Wade's. Dazed, he stared up at his grandfather.

Olivia swiped part of a tree branch off the ground. “Collin, run!” she screamed, getting to her feet. She lunged toward Stampler and swung the piece of branch at him. He put up his arm, and the stick broke against it. Pieces of rotten wood flew everywhere.

Grabbing her, Collin's grandfather threw her into the shed. Olivia fell on top of Collin. Momentarily winded, she gaped up at Stampler. Sobbing and shaking, he pulled out a box of matches. Helpless, Olivia watched in horror as he struck the match. The flame sparked.

Then he dropped it.

With all the deadly fires Andy Stampler had started, he'd never once burned his fingers—until now. The lit match fell on his trouser leg, soaked with the charcoal starter. He didn't even realize what had happened. All at once, the flame shot up his pants leg to his waist.

Down near his feet, the fire snaked along the ground—igniting the shed's fluid-soaked door. Flames shot across the doorway, sending a wave of heat and smoke into the little shack.

Past the hissing and cracking, Olivia heard Andy Stampler howl in agony.

Choking on the smoke and fumes, Olivia struggled to her feet. She pulled Collin out of the fiery, blistering hot shed. The two of them clung to each other and gasped for air.

She turned and saw Collin's grandfather swallowed up by flames. He screamed and flailed around helplessly.

Olivia had no idea that fifty years ago, two teenage boys—as a prank—had set an old derelict on fire. His screams and his waggling dance as the fire swept over him had made those boys snicker. The old drunk had burned to death. Andy Stampler might have died the exact same way. But the two people with him wouldn't let that happen.

Shucking off his coat, Collin threw it over his grandfather and tackled him to the ground. He rolled him back and forth in the dirt. Stampler was yelling and twitching in pain the whole time. Olivia helped beat out the flames with her sweater—until it too caught fire. She threw it aside and stomped on it. Collin didn't give up until the flames were snuffed out.

His grandfather lay there, whimpering. His face was blistered and red and his scorched clothes smoldered.

Exhausted and gasping for a breath, Olivia felt a drop of rain on her face—and then another. She heard the gentle patter filling the woods. The rain began to extinguish the blaze that had consumed the shed. Black clouds plumed up to the tree tops and beyond. What remained of the shack was just a charred, cindery shell.

Olivia kneeled down on the ground beside Collin, hovering over his grandfather. She was still trying to catch her breath. “I'll go up the path to the street, where the cell phone reception is better,” she said, her hand on his back. “We'll get him some help. You saved his life, you know.”

Collin nodded. “And you saved mine.”

Patting his shoulder, Olivia straightened up. She glanced over at the blackened remains of the little shack. “Collin, I'm sorry we couldn't rescue your secret hiding place.”

“It's okay,” he replied, holding his grandfather's hand. The raindrops cascaded down his face. “I—I don't think I'll need it anymore.”

Olivia smiled at him. Then she hurried toward the pathway up the hill.

O
livia walked her four o'clock patient to the door. Dana Gold-Roberts was a nineteen-year-old UW student who seemed to be conquering her sleep problems. She and Olivia had just discussed how this would be their second-to-last session. For Olivia—and the client, too—the
you're cured, so good-bye
talk was always a happy, yet bittersweet milestone.

Olivia had redecorated her office with new carpeting and a jazzy sofa and chairs set. There was also a Matisse print to replace the framed Monet that had been damaged. She'd decided to forgo another mini-fountain. The old one had started to get on her nerves anyway.

At home, they had a new red front door. But she wouldn't be using it so much anymore. Next week, she was moving into a one-bedroom apartment on East Capitol Hill, about a mile's walk from work. She'd already started to furnish the place, and even figured out where she'd put the Christmas tree. Clay's family had asked if she wanted any pieces from her old Portland house, but Olivia had politely declined.

Last week, they'd given her an update on Corinne, who was still in the hospital. Apparently, the doctors weren't too optimistic about her chances of walking again—at least, not without a cane or a walker. In addition to malicious mischief and property damage, Corinne had also been charged with manslaughter. She was in no hurry to leave the hospital.

For a while, Olivia was concerned she'd be facing charges, too—for withholding evidence. Before the police and paramedics had found them along the wooded hillside path behind 5818 Gilman Place that Thursday afternoon, she and Collin had agreed on what to tell the authorities about his hypnotherapy sessions. Olivia didn't think anyone needed to know that while under hypnosis, Collin had taken on the persona of a serial killer who had been dead fifty years. No one needed to know the sessions had been recorded either. Collin's grandfather had already destroyed recordings of the sessions on Collin's computer, Fernando's cell phone, and Collin's cell. The story Olivia and Collin had agreed upon was close enough to the truth. In their telling, the first hypnosis session with Gail Pelham had unleashed Collin's subconscious memory of hearing Wade Grinnell's taped confession years before. The sessions with Olivia had drawn out more and more details. All of this was true. The fact that the gifted young actor had actually taken on the part of this killer was something the police and press didn't have to know. As the center of yet another sensational murder case, Collin Cox was under enough scrutiny. If news of this other persona was made public, it would have ruined him.

While rescuers had made their way down the crude forest trail, Olivia had leaned in close to Andy Stampler—so close, she'd smelled his cooked flesh. “If you really care about your grandson,” she'd whispered in his ear, “you'll keep your mouth shut about him becoming Wade. This is your chance to make it up to Collin and see he comes out of this okay.”

Olivia hadn't been able to tell if the burnt, traumatized man had even heard her. But Andy Stampler didn't say anything to the police. In fact, he didn't utter a single word. The following day, he'd suffered a massive stoke.

Wade Grinnell's taped confession contained several phrases and expressions Collin had used while under hypnosis. Olivia had turned over Sheri Grinnell's tapes to the police. In the middle of four of the reels, Sheri had rerecorded that same confession from her brother. After extorting an initial ten thousand dollars back in the early sixties, Sheri must have hoped to squeeze Andy's family for even more money later on down the line.

In press coverage of the murders, Collin and his grandfather were the reluctant stars while Olivia was relegated to a minor supporting role. That was just fine by her. Still, the exposure brought in a lot of potential new clients. After weeding through the curiosity-seekers and nutcases, Olivia still had twenty-three new names on her appointment list

Dana wasn't a new client. She'd been one of the first people to see Olivia when she'd started up the business in August. After two sessions a week for three months—and many soul-searching conversations—Dana was a bit misty about the prospect of moving on. The pretty blond student had tears in her eyes at the office door.

“You better get out of here before I start bawling, too,” Olivia told her—with a tiny laugh. She patted her shoulder. “We still have another session after this. I'll stock up on Kleenex.”

“See you in a week, Olivia.” Smiling, Dana wiped a tear away and headed through the empty waiting room.

Olivia closed the door. She was about to reach for a tissue when she heard Dana scream.

Flinging open the door, Olivia rushed through the waiting room and out to the corridor. She found an awestruck Dana in the hallway, shaking the hand of a handsome young man. “Collin Cox!” she gushed. “My God, I can't believe I just screamed! You must think I'm such a dork, but I absolutely loved you in the Fragile Bastards video . . .”

Collin wore a wool military coat, a striped sweater, and jeans. In just a few weeks, his slight gawkiness had disappeared. In its place was a relaxed confidence and maturity. A music video he'd shot at the beginning of November had gone viral earlier this week. Fragile Bastards' “Wicked Wasted Life” was a huge hit. Among the young demographic, he was a star again, a new teen sensation—more for the popular quirky, sexy video than for his personal tragedies.

Collin and his grandmother were living in a furnished rental home in Seattle. Though Olivia and he had emailed back and forth, she hadn't actually seen him in over a month. When he'd called asking for some time late this afternoon, she'd quickly cleared her schedule. It was a far cry from their first meeting, when he'd literally begged to see her again.

He had a little brown paper bag tucked under his arm while he autographed the back of a cable bill envelope for Dana. She kept apologizing for making a fuss.

“It's okay, I like it,” he assured her. “I haven't gotten jaded yet. This is fun.”

A few moments later, he was in Olivia's office, taking off his jacket and glancing around at the new furnishings and the bold colors. “I like this better,” he said, setting his jacket and the brown paper bag on her sofa. He seemed a bit nervous.

Olivia sat down in one of two chairs facing each other. “You want to get this over with so we can relax?”

Chuckling, he plopped down in the chair across from her. “You read my mind.”

“Okay,
Russ
, I want you to take some deep breaths. . . .”

He laughed. “I have a confession. My real name is Collin Cox.”

“Not
the
Collin Cox, star of the Fragile Bastards music video . . .”

“Oh, you ain't heard nothin' yet,” he said. “I just signed yesterday for the film version of
Broken Home
, which I keep wanting to call
House Broken
. I'm the teenage son, one of the main characters. They're going after either George Clooney or Russell Crowe to play the father.”

“My God, that's incredible,” she said—with a stunned laugh. “Can you smuggle me onto the set?”

“I wish I could. They're shooting mostly in Europe. I'm getting a tutor and everything. It's in the contract. It's kind of funny, though. After my grandfather was so bent on whisking me off to Europe, that's where I'll end up for three months—starting in February.”

“Well, as long as you brought him up,” Olivia said. “How's he doing?”

“The same.” He shrugged. “He's still in isolation. The burns are taking their sweet time to heal. The doctors are really worried about infections. Every time Dee goes to see him, she has to wear a smock, gloves, a surgical mask, and this shower-cap thingy on her head. No skin against skin, no saliva, no kissing, no hand-holding. Because of the stroke, he still can't speak. All he does is groan and mutter. The doctors are pretty sure he can see, hear, and understand things. But he can't talk or move.”

“Have you gone to see him?” Olivia asked, trying to sound neutral about it.

Collin shook his head. “Not since the last time—over a month ago. Even if I could forgive him for what he did to me, I can't get past him killing my friends—and all those families fifty years ago.” He let out a long sigh. “Well, should we get started?”

Nodding, Olivia straightened up in her chair. “Okay, just relax, and think about a place where you feel safe. . . .” She realized he couldn't think of that shack anymore. The memories attached to it couldn't be pleasant or calming. But Collin seemed content; so she didn't say anything. She held her hand in front of his face and slowly moved it back and forth. She watched his eyelids flutter as she guided him into a trance. Once his eyes were closed, she whispered to him, “Collin, can you hear me?”

Slouched back in the chair, he nodded.

“I'm talking to the person inside Collin,” she said with uncertainty. She suddenly felt short of breath. “I'm talking to Wade now. Wade, are you there?”

Collin stirred slightly.

“Wade?”

He shook his head. “There's no one else,” he murmured in his own voice, “just me.”

Olivia smiled. “Okay, Collin, when I say your name and snap my fingers, you'll wake up feeling refreshed and happy. . . .”

 

 

Ten minutes later, Olivia was standing by the door, and Collin was putting on his coat. “I'm supposed to meet Ian for dinner after this,” he said.

“He's back in town?” Olivia asked. She felt a slight pang in her gut.

After Ian had broken his leg, Olivia had hoped to look after him. But technically she'd still been married to Clay, and there had been a lot to deal with as his new widow. It had cast a pall over whatever seemed to be blooming with her and Ian. She couldn't really object when Ian's family had put him in a wheelchair and on a plane home to Pittsburgh. After a few polite emails back and forth, she'd figured whatever they'd had—or started to have—was gone.

“Yeah, he came back yesterday or the day before,” Collin said. “He's got crutches and a walking brace now.”

Olivia worked up a smile. “Well, tell him I said hi.”

Collin nodded, and then grabbed the small brown paper bag from the sofa. “Before I forget, I thought you might want this.” He handed the bag to her.

It was heavy. Olivia reached inside and took out a snow globe with a Disney Pluto figurine inside. She remembered seeing it in Gail's room during one of her and Clay's visits to the Pelhams. “They found it among some of the things stolen from the house that day,” she heard Collin explain. “Gail's Aunt Cathy thought I might like it. But I'm pretty sure Gail would've wanted you to have it.”

Gail gazed at the snow flurries within the glass ball. “Thanks, Collin,” she whispered.

They hugged good-bye in the doorway, and then he headed through the waiting room. He was about to step out to the corridor, when she called to him: “I meant to ask . . .”

Hesitating, he turned around in the other doorway.

“I was wondering where you went in your head when you were slipping into your trance,” Olivia said. “Your ‘safe place,' do you have a new one?”

Nodding, Collin smiled. “It's here with you.” For a moment, a trace of the gawky young teenager swept over his face. Then it was gone. “See ya, Olivia,” he said.

“See you, Collin.” She watched him walk out the door.

 

 

The two clerks behind the counter at Madison Val-U Mart greeted her as she stepped into the store. Glimmering red and green Christmas bunting and white lights decorated the counter. Over the radio, Harry Belafonte sang “Mary's Boy Child.” Glancing at the cigarettes in the display case, Olivia tried to tabulate how many days it had been without a smoke.
Twenty-eight.
She was past the worst of it.

She was on her way home from a Thai dinner with an old UW friend, one of the few who were still single. It was part of her campaign to improve her social life. She'd had a good time.

Swinging by the store, Olivia had hoped against hope she would find his car in the lot. But there had only been a taxi—with a cabbie alone in the front seat. She really didn't need anything there. With a defeated sigh, she headed down the aisle toward the ice cream case, but stopped herself. She pulled her cell from her purse and dialed Ian's number.

Beyond the tall shelves of food, she heard a phone ring in another aisle.

Olivia immediately looked up at the security mirror and saw the man on the crutches three aisles over. He was checking his phone's caller ID screen. He almost toppled over, shoving his fist in the air as if he'd won something.

“Olivia?” he said into the phone. “I was just thinking of you. . . .”

She gazed up at him in the mirror and smiled. “Hi, Ian,” she said.

 

 

The pain was nonstop. Sometimes, if he stayed very still, he could learn to tolerate it. But one little move under the sterilized bedsheets and he felt as if his body were on fire again. Andy Stampler was convinced the doctors and nurses were purposely skimping on the painkillers—just to torture him. He'd heard them discuss his slow healing process, and knew they had to be undermedicating him or something. He'd stare at them—with their sterilized smocks, the surgical masks and bonnets. One stray hair or a tiny bit of saliva could be fatal for him. At the very least, it could set back his recovery for months. He'd heard it said over and over again.

Except on TV, he hadn't seen one person's face since they'd brought him in here.