Watch Them Die (23 page)

It was unusual to have a swarm of customers descend on them at three-thirty, and, of course, the phone had started ringing off the hook at just the same time. But Seth and she had sailed though it without incident. Tish was right; unless Seth turned out to be a total psycho, he was a keeper.

Both Hannah and Seth were just finished up with her last customers. She spotted Nutty Ned approaching the register, smiling at her. “Seth, can you cover for me?” she said, moving around the counter. “I need to take this call in the break room. Hi, Ned.” She bypassed him, then called back to Seth. “Give me a shout if it gets crazy again!”

Hannah ducked into the break room, stepped over to the desk, and stared at the blinking light on the telephone. She needed a moment before saying hello to Ben’s wife.

She finally picked up the receiver. “Hello, this is Hannah.”

“Hi, Hannah. It’s Jennifer Dorn calling.”

“Dorn?”

“I kept my name,” she explained. “It’s a bit easier to carry around than Podowski.”

Hannah let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sure.” She sat down at the desk. “Um, listen, Jennifer, I want to thank you for helping us—or helping me, actually. It’s very nice of you to do this for a total stranger.”

“Well, Ben asked me,” she replied. “Anyway, ten minutes ago, I got an e-mail on that account I set up this morning. It’s from W-KIRK-A-BEE-at-G-L-I-dot-web. I did a trace on that, and it’s someone named Kirkabee at Great Lakes Investigations in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But the e-mail was sent from the Pacific Coast, according to the send time.”

“Ben was right,” Hannah said. “You are good.”

“Thanks. Are you ready for the message?”

“Yes.”

“It reads:
Who the fuck are you?
and it’s signed
K. Woodley
. That’s all, short and not-so-sweet. Do you want me to respond?”

Dumbfounded, Hannah was at a loss for a moment.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’ll respond,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead,” Jennifer said.

“Okay, here goes:
Mr. Woodley—Someone else is following her. If you or Mr. Kirkabee—”
Hannah paused. “Is that the name?”

“That’s right. Kirkabee, go ahead.”

Hannah continued. She could hear the faint clacking of fingers on a keyboard as she dictated. Jennifer was taking it all down.
“If you or Mr. Kirkabee have seen this man, please furnish a description or identification at this address as soon as possible. He is dangerous. Be advised, he may be responsible for the death of Ronald Craig, and could target you next. Avoid sailing or boating. There is a high risk of sabotage to a sailboat or yacht.”

“Is that it?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Hannah replied, with a sigh of relief. Yet she was still gripping the receiver a bit too tightly.

Jennifer read the message back to her. It sounded all right. With the note mentioning both Ronald Craig and the new detective, Kirkabee, by name, at least Kenneth would know to take it seriously.

“No changes? I’m about to send it,” Jennifer said.

“Go ahead. Thanks.”

“Okay, it’s sent, Hannah,” she said. “I’ll call you when I get a reply. What time will you be home tonight?”

“Around six.”

“All right. Is—um,” she paused. “Is Ben going to be there?”

“He might be,” Hannah answered carefully.

Jennifer didn’t say anything.

Hannah let out a skittish laugh. “This sure is awkward, isn’t it?”

“Ben asked me to do this for him,” Jennifer said. “That’s why I’m doing it, Hannah. I want my husband back.”

“I understand,” Hannah murmured.

“So I’m not asking any questions I don’t want to hear the answers to. I’ll call you when I get a reply here.”

“Thank you, Jennifer,” Hannah said.

She heard a click on the other end of the line.

“Darkness, Light, and Shadow: Essays on Film,
edited by Brendan Leonard,” said the librarian at Seattle’s downtown branch. The wiry, middle-aged black man stood behind the counter at his computer terminal. Hannah could see the computer screen reflected in his glasses. “That’s checked out right now. Went out today, in fact.”

“Today?” Hannah asked. “Does it say what time today?”

He nodded. “About two hours ago; four twenty-three
P.M
., to be exact.” He started typing something. “And I’m sorry, but that’s the only copy we have in the whole system. The current due date is November twelfth. Would you like to put it on hold?”

Hannah sighed. “Thanks anyway. You couldn’t tell me who checked out the book, could you?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

Hannah worked up a smile. “I understand. Maybe you could help me with something else. Does it say there in your computer when the book was previously checked out?”

With a sigh, the librarian started typing on the keyboard again. “Yes, the book was last checked out on February sixteenth of this year.”

“So—it just sat on the shelf for eight months, up until two hours ago?” Hannah said.

“At four twenty-three,” the man said, nodding.

“Just a little over an hour after someone told me about the book.”

“Funny coincidence,” the librarian said. “But then, isn’t that the way it always is?”

“It’s no coincidence,” Hannah murmured.

She thanked the man, then turned away.

Ben was waiting to walk Joyce home, while Hannah helped her on with her raincoat.

Joyce paused in the doorway and peeked inside her purse. “Oh, my keys…” She smiled at Ben. “Could you be a dear and check Guy’s room? I think I left them there.”

Ben nodded. “No sweat.”

Once he started down the hall, Joyce pulled Hannah out to the walkway. “Honey, I don’t mean to be a buttinski,” she whispered. “And if it’s none of my beeswax, just say so. But I don’t want to see you get hurt—”

“What is it?” Hannah asked in a hushed tone.

Joyce grimaced. “Oh, Hannah, I hate to tell you, but he’s married. His wife called here tonight.”

Hannah quickly shook her head. “It’s okay, Joyce. I know he’s married. He’s separated. In fact, I talked with his wife today myself.”

“Oh, I see,” Joyce replied, her brow wrinkled. “Kind of.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Hannah said, taking hold of her hand. “In fact, it’s pretty messed up, but I think it’ll work itself out. At least, I hope so.”

“All right, honey.” She squeezed Hannah’s hand. “You’re like my own daughter; you should know that. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Hannah kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Joyce.”

Ben came from the hallway, empty-handed. “Sorry, no luck…”

Joyce pulled her keys from her purse. “Oh, silly me,” she announced. “They were here all the time. I must be getting senile. Thanks, handsome. C’mon, walk me home. I’m liable to lose my way.”

Hannah watched them leave; then she stared out at the city and the Space Needle. She would have to leave Seattle very soon.
It’ll work itself out,
she’d told Joyce. Her packing up and skipping town with Guy was the only way it could work out.

She went to check on him. He was dozing. His chicken pox seemed to be clearing up. Joyce said he was on the mend. All this week, he kept talking about how he wanted to be better in time for Halloween. He would probably be spending the holiday in a motel someplace—away from his friends, and Joyce, whom he adored. He was becoming too fond of Ben as well.

Hannah grabbed a sweater and walked back out to the balcony. She saw Ben emerge from the stairwell. Smiling, he came up to her and kissed her on the mouth.

Hannah carefully pulled back. “I hear Jennifer called tonight,” she said. “Joyce told me.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “In fact, Joyce is worried. While I was walking her home just now, she said I’d better not break your heart.”

“She’s a little late,” Hannah murmured. The chilly night wind kicked up, and she rubbed her arms.

Ben leaned against the railing. “Are you still sore at me for calling Jennifer this morning?”

Hannah shrugged. “Maybe not so sore as I am confused. I don’t understand how you can be so—cool about it.”

He smiled sadly. “The thing is—staying with you and Guy these past few nights has been pretty terrific. It would be easy to fool myself into thinking we have a future together, Hannah. But we don’t. You made that clear to me early on. Anyway, this morning, it hit me—my future is with my wife.”

He gazed out at the cityscape, and sighed. “So—I went out this morning, had a cup of coffee, and called her from the pay phone in Starbucks. And I asked for her help. You know, you can’t be mad at someone and ask them to help you at the same time. It’s impossible.”

“That’s very nice,” was all Hannah could say.

Ben touched her shoulder. “But it doesn’t change how I feel about you. For me, last night was wonderful. I realize we have to go in separate directions. But you know something? If I never see you again after tomorrow, I won’t ever forget you—or the past few nights with you.”

Hannah started to cry. She turned away from him and clung to the railing. “What did your wife call about tonight?” she asked, her voice strained.

Ben sighed. “She was relaying another message. Kenneth and this private detective, Kirkabee; they’ve seen your stalker. They even have a couple of photos of him.”

She gazed at him. “Really?”

“Well, we still need to find out if Kenneth is on the level. I’m meeting him tomorrow night at Duke’s restaurant.”

Hannah started shaking her head. “No, you can’t. It’s probably some kind of trap—”

“Hannah, he’s agreed to show me the photos of this stalker. We could put an end to this nightmare. And maybe I can work something out with Kenneth, get him to drop the charges. You won’t have to spend the rest of your life on the run—”

“You don’t know him,” Hannah said. “He’d never give me a break. He’s going to take Guy away. He’ll follow you back here. He’ll break in, and take Guy. I’d have no recourse—”

“Hannah, I’m pretty certain he already knows where you live,” Ben said. He motioned with his arm toward the parking lot where Ronald Craig had been mowed down. “Hell, Kenneth or one of his detectives is probably out there right now, watching us. Isn’t it crazy? We’re communicating through my wife in New York and her e-mail account, while they’re right out there. HEY!” Ben yelled, “SEE YOU TOMORROW AT DUKE’S! FIVE-THIRTY!”

“Stop it!” Hannah hissed. She quickly pulled him inside and shut the door. She broke down and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, everything’s so screwed up,” she cried. “I don’t want to hurt your marriage, but I can’t stand losing you, either. Don’t take any chances tomorrow. Kenneth might try to hurt you, and whoever is behind these murders—he, well, if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Ben kissed her forehead and rocked her back and forth in his arms. “Hush now,” he whispered. “It’s okay. We’ll get these guys before they kill anyone else. Quit worrying about me. Everything’s going to work out…”

Hannah held onto him. She didn’t believe a word. Still, she held onto him.

Nineteen

“Say
cheese!”
Tish called, aiming her Polaroid camera at them.

Seth put his arm around Hannah. She tried not to tense up.
“Cheese,”
they said in unison. The flash went off, blinding her for a moment.

“All right, now I want just Seth in this next one,” Tish declared. “Oh, and take off your glasses.”

Hannah stepped toward Tish, who handed her the undeveloped photo.

Seth removed his glasses, then smiled self-consciously for the camera. “I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” he said.

“It’s for my personal Rogue’s Gallery,” Tish replied from behind the Polaroid camera. “I put all the newbies through this. Now, say
cheese.”

“Havarti,” Seth said. Then he blinked as the flash went off.

“Okay, customers in the store,” Tish announced. “Back to work.” She plucked the first photo out of Hannah’s hand, and started for the break room.

Seth put on his glasses and stepped back behind his register.

Hannah followed Tish. “We need to talk about next month’s schedule,” she said, ducking into the break room after her. Hannah closed the door.

Tish gave her the Polaroid photos. “Okay, so why did I have to bring in my camera this morning?” she whispered. “What’s with the photo session?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Hannah said. She glanced at the two Polaroid photos. The images were starting to emerge.

“I want you to take a look at these pictures for me,” Hannah said.

Scott was sitting up in his hospital bed. His chicken pox seemed to have cleared up—at least on his face. He frowned at her. “Well, that’s a fine greeting. No
Hello, how are you, how are your chicken pox?
Just a very brusque
Take a look at these pictures for me.
Sweet.”

Hannah figured he couldn’t see her smiling behind the surgical mask they’d made her wear along with the disposable smock. Scott was still in isolation. “Mea culpa, mea culpa,” she said, stepping up to the foot of his bed. “So—how are you? How are your lousy chicken pox?”

“Well, I must be okay,” he said. “Because they’re springing me from this joint day after tomorrow. And remember that cute intern I liked? Guess what?”

“He’s straight?” Hannah asked.

“No. Gay as a Maypole—and a
resident,
not an intern. We have a dinner date next week. Can you feature that? I’m going to be the wife of a doctor.”

“Well, that’s fantastic. So—you’re not holding out for Nutty Ned?”

“No, Ned’s all yours, babe,” he replied. “I know you’ve had your eye on him. So what’s going on with you? I haven’t talked to you since the day before yesterday—”

“The day after Britt’s funeral,” Hannah said soberly.

“Yeah,” Scott muttered. “Well, we’ve managed to avoid the obvious. What about this video-killer? Do these pictures have anything to do with him?”

Hannah nodded. “Maybe. This is the teacher’s assistant in my film class. He just started working at the store. We had a strange discussion yesterday about an essay he wrote for my film professor. It’s kind of hard to explain, but I think he could be involved in these murders somehow. Anyway, this morning I had Tish take these snapshots. I thought you might recognize him from hanging around the store.” She pulled the Polaroids out of her purse and started to hand them to him.

“You have to show them to me, Han,” Scott said, leaning forward. “I can’t handle anything yet.”

“Oops, sorry.” She walked around to the side of the bed and held up the photos for him to see. “Does he look familiar?”

Scott squinted at both pictures. “Oh, yeah. He used to come into the store a lot. It was a while back—before you started working there. The glasses are new. Is he a pal of yours?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, he’s the new guy at work. He took over for Britt.”

“Well, that’s gonna suck.”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“It’s gonna suck working with him. He’s an arrogant SOB, if I remember correctly. The guy had attitude up the wazoo.”

“Does the name Seth Stroud ring a bell?”

Scott shook his head. “Nope, that’s not it. I mean, if he’s who I think he is. This guy went by some other name.” He shrugged and sat back against the bed pillows. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

“Well, Tish thought he looked familiar, too.”

“She always works the day shift. I doubt she would have seen this guy very much. He usually came in at night. He was a real film buff, and snotty about it, too. I remember him taking off on me one afternoon because I mispronounced Akira Kurosawa. Very big deal.”

Hannah frowned. “That sounds like Seth.”

“Well,” Scott said, settling back. “When I knew that SOB, his name wasn’t Seth Stroud.”

Ben was late.

They were supposed to meet in the hospital’s little courtyard. Hannah had been waiting on a park bench for the last ten minutes.

The notion that she’d never see Scott again hit her hard. Somewhere down the line, she might call him from a pay phone from another city, but that was all she could hope for. This quick visit had been the last time she would ever lay eyes on Scott. What a shame she couldn’t even hug her friend good-bye.

Hannah fought off the pangs of premature homesickness. She dug the photos of Seth Stroud out of her purse, and studied them. She wondered why he’d changed his name, and what he was hiding.

She glanced up from the Polaroids to see Ben approaching. He wore a denim shirt, jeans, and a tan jacket. His face was flushed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, catching his breath. “I practically ran up the hill here.” Despite a late-autumn chill in the air, he was perspiring.

“Well, I’m due back at work—two minutes ago,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch. “Want to walk back down the hill with me?”

He nodded again. “Fine. Sorry to hold you up. You had a visitor this morning. And I was following him—up until about ten minutes ago.”

“A visitor? Where, at my apartment?”

“Gulletti,” Ben said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “C’mon. I’ll tell you on the way back to the store.”

They started down a residential street, past piles of fallen leaves along the sidewalk.

“I followed Gulletti from his house, to Seattle’s Best Coffee, to the college,” Ben explained as they strolled. “Then, something must have happened, because he suddenly tore-ass out of his office. He tried to hail a cab in front of the college, but without any luck. So he hoofed it to your apartment building. He buzzed, and I guess Joyce gave him the heave-ho. She wouldn’t let him up. So he went to the video store. He didn’t stay long. I could spot Seth in there through the window. I didn’t know what to make of it, but they both seemed surprised to see each other.”

“Seth didn’t want Paul knowing that he was working there with me,” Hannah explained.

“Maybe that’s it,” Ben said. “Anyway, something weird was going on between them, I could tell. Then Paul went back to the school—and his office. That’s where I left him.”

“I wonder what Paul wanted,” Hannah murmured. “By the way.” She dug into her purse, then took out the two Polaroids and handed them to Ben. “Here are the pictures of Seth. Do you have a photo of Paul?”

Studying the photographs while they walked, Ben nodded. “Yeah, the portrait from his review column in the newspaper. This one is cute of you.”

Hannah plucked it out of his hand. “You know, the picture of Seth alone should be enough—even without the glasses. I don’t want Kenneth seeing any current pictures of me.”

“Well, they claim they have photos of your stalker. They probably have photos of you already, Hannah.”

“Just the same, I’d rather not
give
them any.”

“I understand,” Ben said, shoving the photo in his jacket pocket. “I can always draw a pair of glasses on this picture of Seth—if they don’t recognize him without the specs.” He looked toward the store, just a block away. “You be careful. I hate the idea of you working alongside of Seth Stroud all afternoon.”

“If that’s his real name,” Hannah said.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she replied. “Besides, he’s probably gone already. He only works half a day today. Paul’s class is tonight.”

She wrapped her arm around his. “You’re the one who needs to be careful. You’re taking all the risks this afternoon. I don’t trust Kenneth. Just get in and out of there as quickly as possible.”

He nodded. “I know, I know. We already went over this last night. Three things: one, I warn him about the boat explosion; two, I get a description of your stalker; and three, I set up a meeting between you and Kenneth for Saturday night.”

“By which time, Guy and I will be long gone,” Hannah added, staring straight ahead. “At least, I hope.”

A Seahawks game was broadcasting over three strategically located TV sets in Duke’s Chowderhouse. The Happy Hour crowd in the bar seemed rather sedate, and the restaurant area was just starting to fill up. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunset cast an amber haze over the Lake Union marina.

Ben sat down at a small table near the window. Hannah didn’t have any pictures of her estranged husband, so Ben had no way of recognizing Kenneth Woodley. But Kenneth and his detectives had been watching Hannah for several days. They knew him, they had an advantage. Ben imagined they were staring at him this very moment.

He ordered a Lite beer, and sat there, waiting to be recognized. He glanced over at the different men at the bar. One of them was smirking back at him. He had black hair, a goatee, and wore a tight, gray, long-sleeve T-shirt that showed off his brawny physique. Ben wondered if this was Kenneth, or the detective, or maybe just some gay guy who found him attractive.

Ben looked away, toward one of the TVs. His beer arrived and he paid for it. After the waitress left, he glanced again at Mr. Tight T-shirt, who was still staring at him.

Ben turned away again. Gazing out the window, he sipped his beer.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ben glanced up at the Tight T-shirt Man. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

The man chuckled, then slid into the chair across from Ben. He sipped his martini, then sat back. “Maybe you’re waiting for me, buddy.” He glanced out the window. “You know, for somebody who’s so full of gloom and doom about sailboats, it’s pretty weird you agreed to meet here.”

Ben looked at all the boats docked just outside the restaurant. “It was your suggestion. I’ve never been here before. Are you Kirkabee?”

The man with the goatee smiled. “I might be. Who are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” Ben said.

“That’s true. You don’t matter to me at all.”

Ben gave him an ironic smile. Someone sat down in the chair directly behind him, and Ben inched forward. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I want to explain my warning in that e-mail. There’s someone else following her, and he’s responsible for several murders—including the hit-and-run of your pal Ronald Craig. This killer likes to give my friend videos illustrating how he plans to murder his next victims—and it’s always someone she knows. In the last video, there was an explosion aboard a yacht.”

The man shook his head and chuckled. “Pretty incredible.”

“Before Ronald Craig was killed, my friend received a video showing someone repeatedly mowed down by a car.”

The man stopped smiling. “Yeah?”

Ben nodded. “In your response to my e-mail, you said you’ve seen this stalker. You said you have surveillance photos of him.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, maybe we can identify him. He murdered Ronald Craig. I’d think you’d want to see this killer brought to justice.”

The man stared at Ben, and his smile returned. “Funny. Bringing someone to justice is exactly why I’m here. Speaking for my client, most fathers don’t appreciate having their sons stolen out from under them.”

“We can get to that in a minute,” Ben said. “For now, I’d like to see these photos you have of the stalker.”

“Why?” the man asked. “You already know who this
stalker-killer
is. And so do I.” He sat back. “You can cut the bullshit. We both know—it’s you.”

Hannah went through the last of the kitchen drawers. She’d managed to fill two tall trash bags with junk. One drawer had been full of finger paintings and art projects Guy had made at Alphabet Soup Day Care. She didn’t want to part with them. At the same time, someone planning to skip town couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

She’d sent Joyce home. Guy was feeling better. He sat in bed, playing with an Etch A Sketch that Ben had brought for him earlier today.

The doctor had told her the recovery time for chicken pox was ten to fourteen days. By Saturday, it would be ten days. She didn’t want to take chances with Guy’s health. But they couldn’t risk staying on any longer. They had to leave Saturday. They’d take a cab out of town, stay in a cheap motel, then catch a bus or train heading south, maybe Phoenix, Tucson, or San Diego.

Hannah worked the bottom drawer back in its opening, then glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly six. If all was going smoothly, Ben was wrapping up the meeting with Kenneth right now. But, she knew from experience, things never went smoothly with Kenneth.

She opened the cupboard, and took out a canister of bread crumbs and a packet of elbow macaroni. She was baking a macaroni and cheese souffle tonight, one of Guy’s favorites. She’d let him put on his robe and socks, and eat at the kitchen counter; his first meal out of bed in over a week.

The intercom buzzer went off, startling her. It was too soon for Ben to be here already.

Hannah hesitated before picking up the intercom phone. It buzzed again, then again. Whoever was outside must have started leaning on the button, because the buzzer droned continuously.

“Mom?” Guy called from his bedroom.

“It’s all right, honey,” she called back. “I’ve got it!”

She snatched up the intercom phone. “Yes? Hello?”

“Hannah? It’s Paul,” he said anxiously. “Paul Gulletti. I need to see you. Could you buzz me in? It’s important.”

“Well, I—ah, have people here, friends of mine,” she said. “I’ll meet you out on the balcony. All right? Come up the stairwell to the third floor.”