CHAPTER 14
Dr. Maurice Zellman sat in a room on the second
floor of the hospital. As Lang strode across the threshold, he
noted the white gauzy bandage around the man’s neck and the sharp
lines of pain that bracketed his mouth. Zellman’s eyes, however,
were bright with anger, and as soon as he saw Lang’s TCSD uniform,
he lifted a hand and motioned him forward.
“Dr. Zellman, I’m Langdon Stone with
the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department,” he introduced as he
took a few steps toward the bed.
Zellman motioned more furiously, and
Lang moved next to the bed, to where he was gazing down at the man
with the trim beard and grimly set mouth. Zellman touched his
bandaged throat, then pointed to his quivering lips and shook his
head slightly.
“You can’t talk.” Lang nodded. “You’ve
had surgery. How about I ask a couple of yes or no questions and
you let me know what the answer is by nodding or shaking your
head?”
A curt nod.
“I just want to clarify some facts.
Your patient, Justice Turnbull, stabbed you in the throat with your
own pen.”
Zellman pressed his lips together and
nodded again as the sound of a rattling medication cart slid
through the door Lang had left ajar.
“He wasn’t wearing handcuffs. Was that
your decision?”
The doctor gazed at him with burning
eyes and didn’t respond.
“He attacked the security guard, Conrad
Weiser, and took off in the hospital van. Thinking back, do you
remember anything, anything at all, that now seems significant?
Something that could lead us to him now? Something small, maybe,
but that on reflection, could have been a clue that he had plans to
escape?”
Zellman just stared at him. Lang could
feel the man’s fury rolling off him in waves. Anger and
embarrassment, perhaps. The doctor’s lax standards had directly led
to Justice’s ability to escape. And he knew it.
Lang said, “If something comes to you,
maybe you could write it down. Or, if you remember something that
may have come from your therapy sessions, something that could help
. . .” Lang knew he was treading down that super sacrosanct road of
patient/doctor confidentiality, but hey, the psycho had stabbed
Zellman in the throat and that had to count for something in Lang’s
book.
Zellman, pursing his lips, motioned
imperiously for a pen and paper, and Lang stepped into the hall and
grabbed the attention of a junior nurse, who scurried to get him
what he needed, returning quick enough for Lang to flash her a
smile of gratitude that made her blush.
He handed the small pad and pen to
Zellman, who looked long and hard at the pen itself for long
seconds before writing: The lighthouse. His
mother’s motel. Seagull Pointe?
“Seagull Pointe is where his mother
resides,” Lang said for confirmation.
Zellman nodded once more, and his
shoulders seemed to sag a bit, some of the starch leaving
him.
“We’re checking those places, but so
far, he hasn’t shown up at any of them. Anywhere
else?”
Zellman considered, his eyes narrowing.
After a few moments, he wrote: He wants to watch
the sea. He spoke of it with reverence. He would face west. Even
being locked up.
Lang thought about that and considered.
There was a lot of seashore along the Pacific Ocean. “You think
he’ll stay around Deception Bay?”
Once again, Zellman inclined his head
sharply.
“And will he go after the women at
Siren Song again?”
At this, Zellman frowned and wrote:
They are his obsession. He paused, then
scribbled: But anyone in his way will be at
risk.
“He never directly attacked the lodge
last time,” Lang said. “Think he would launch a full-scale attack
now?”
Zellman’s mouth compressed.
He’ll take them one by one. They are too strong in
numbers. He is smart. Calculating. Capable.
There was almost admiration in the
words. Had the good doctor let himself be taken in by Justice? Or
was he trying to explain his ridiculous lapse in judgment in
allowing Turnbull to get the better of him?
“If you think of anything else . . . ,”
Lang said, glancing at the notebook he was leaving in Zellman’s
care.
The doctor nodded grimly, then gazed
straight ahead, his brows a black line of fury and resolve. Lang
figured Zellman detested being bested, being played for a fool, and
good old homicidal Justice had done just that.
Zellman’s eyes blazed a quiet,
smoldering anger.
Maybe he’d been taken in, but he sure
as hell wasn’t happy about it.
The June day was gray and gloomy and
cold, and fog was creeping from inland, obscuring surrounding
dunes, houses, commercial buildings, and the Coast Range. Justice
stood on the socked-in beach, able to see little but the frothy
waves that rushed toward his booted feet.
Even with the fog, there were people
everywhere, and it had taken him by surprise. Normally, on a day
with this weather, Oregon beaches would be practically empty. He
was so involved with his internal world and the urgency of his
mission that he’d nearly run into two separate individuals in the
short distance from the parking lot of the clam shack and the beach
itself.
Now he heard, before he saw, a group of
maybe seven people wandering his way, talking together in bright
tones, wearing coats, hats, gloves, and boots, their heads turning
this way and that, arms stretched out and fingers pointing. He
turned away as they approached and then saw the baseball cap that
one sported with bright red letters that said, CLEAN UP THE BEACH!!
A beach cleaning day with volunteers.
He felt instantly protective and selfish of this stretch of sand.
Get away, he thought. Damned
do-gooders. Leave me and this place alone.
His fingers curled inside Cosmo’s
gloves. He looked just like them, he realized. It was a perfect
cover. God’s next gift to him. Cosmo’s boots, jacket, and pants,
which were belted tight as Justice was thinner than the hippie by
at least twenty pounds.
The group moved on, a vanishing knot in
the low-lying mist, and Justice let out a pent-up breath. He stood
quietly, his face to the sea, and thought about the crowds that
were bound to be scouring the sand all day. Crowds hidden in the
fog.
But maybe that could help
him.
Where there were people on the beach,
there was bound to be vehicles left in the various lots and
turnouts near the dunes.
He was good with vehicles.
Energized, Justice walked northward and
toward the road, pretending to be bending down and searching
through the beach grass for litter as he put distance between
himself and his temporary abode. It was still miles to Deception
Bay, but he didn’t plan to walk the whole way. He could take a car
or truck or SUV and keep it for hours, maybe days, if he planned it
just right.
About a mile from where he’d started,
he trudged through the dry sand of the dunes toward the beachfront
houses beyond, then followed a short, two-block road that teed into
a meandering lane that eventually found its way to Highway 101,
which began an upward rise along this stretch, allowing for a wide
parking area with a view of the ocean, at least on clear days.
Normally, this lot held about three or four cars, but today they
were crammed in every which way, with even more vehicles jammed in
behind them and fog wisping between the tightly packed bumpers.
About three rows back from the beach was a silver compact, its rear
end dangerously close to the highway. It was nose in to the
viewpoint, but there was really no room for it. Its driver was a
young woman on a cell phone who was half in, half out of the opened
driver’s door and was practically spitting into the
receiver.
“No! Hell! I can’t park anywhere.
Anywhere! This volunteer stuff is crap, Kay.
God, no. I haven’t seen Derek at all, and if he’s not here, then
fuck this. I’m outta here.” She listened for a few seconds, then
said, “Just tell him I was here, okay? I’m going home and sleeping
off this damn headache. I’ll call when I get to
Portland.”
She snapped the phone shut and suddenly
felt Justice’s attention. Without turning his way, she demanded,
“What are you staring at, freak?”
He felt a familiar coldness spread
through his insides. Freak. Changeling.
There was no one around. Fog had
settled over them, making the farthest cars seem like some
indistinct humps in a lot that time forgot. He leaned forward and
said, “You’re going to get your tail hit.”
“Fuck you.” She grabbed for the door
handle, but Justice was between them. “Get lost, loser!” she screamed.
He backhanded her so hard that her head
made a popping sound.
“Wha—what?” she cried, trying to stand
up from the driver’s seat, but Justice grabbed her head with both
hands, stared into her wide, blue, terrified eyes, then twisted
with all his strength. She fought him hard, scratching his arm,
which only excited him more, convinced him that she was vile. With
renewed energy and a thrill running through his soul, he wrapped
his hands around her throat and squeezed until she gasped what
sounded like a last breath.
She was no one. She had to
die.
“Sisssterrr,” he
whispered aloud, sending a message to the others like her. This one
didn’t matter, but they would know what he’d done and their black
souls would shiver.
Shoving her limp body into the
passenger seat, he leaned her head back against the headrest. Her
eyes were wide open; her tongue protruding a bit. Closing her eyes
with his fingers, he gave her a quick consideration. She looked
dead. He buckled her in, then carefully turned her face toward him,
arranging it so that it looked as if she were nodding forward in
sleep.
Then he adjusted the driver’s seat to
give himself some legroom and backed carefully onto the highway,
heading into the fog-shrouded day.
Sissstterrr . .
.
The message sizzled beneath Laura’s
skin, and she straightened with a jerk from where she’d laid her
head on the table and fallen asleep.
She blinked several times, coming back
to the moment with difficulty. She was home. Dozing in a chair.
Memories crashed through her brain. In the parking lot at Davy
Jones’s Locker she’d managed to convince Harrison Frost that she
would contact him immediately should Justice contact her, and so
they’d parted ways. And now this—Justice’s mental
assault.
Fully awake, she mentally castigated
herself for talking so freely to Frost, wondering what it was about
him that had made her want to trust him so much, envelop him, drag
him into her world. And him, being a reporter, no
less.
This dozing . . . this lapse in
concentration had cost her. She’d inadvertently released her grip
on her mental wall, and Justice had slipped his message
inside.
Sissterrr . . .
His hiss curled through her brain.
Her heart shuddered. Oh, God,
no!
Though Laura had almost instantly
slammed her wall against him, she’d received a backwash of
information that left her quivering with fear.
He’s killed
someone. A woman. Someone in his
way.
An
innocent!
Climbing unsteadily to her feet, she
walked to the window and stared out the panes, her fingers trailing
on the sill. She realized Justice wanted her
to know. Wanted them all to know. She wasn’t even sure what he’d
thrown out to the mental airwaves was true, but he certainly wanted
her to think so. To terrify her.
“Bastard!” she muttered.
She shouldn’t have let Harrison go, she
thought now, grabbing for her purse and digging for his card and
her cell phone. With shaking hands she first inputted his cell
number into her call log. Then she held her thumb over the green
button, ready to place the call.
But . . . was this the right thing to
do? He wanted her to signal Justice herself, and she wasn’t certain
she could.
But what if Justice really had killed
someone? Should she call the police? Someone?
Pressing her hand to her mouth, she
counted her heartbeats and sank into one of the living room chairs
by the small fireplace. Justice wanted her to believe the woman was
dead. If she was, then she was no longer in danger; Justice had
taken care of that. And if it were an untruth, then if she called
the police or Harrison, for that matter, they would want to know
where she’d gotten her information and it would all be a mess for
nothing.
Harrison would believe her more than
the authorities, but it was risky to alert him, too.
But what else could she do? What should
she do?
Staring down at the phone, she let her
poised thumb descend to the green call button and dial through to
his cell.
Saturday afternoon, with threatening
fog like a gray fur coat hanging on the mountains and down the
beach to the south, but not yet covering the city of Seaside.
Harrison was seated at the table outside the coffee and ice cream
shop, this time without Chico’s company, thank God.
He’d ordered a coffee, which he’d left
untouched. His mind was full of his morning with Laura—make that
Lorelei—Adderley. Ex–Mrs. Byron Adderley. A member of the cult
itself and a onetime resident at Siren Song.
That, in itself, was a story. Not one
she was willing to broadcast, yet, but a story worth
cultivating.
However, it was only a part of the
Justice Turnbull saga, he thought as he watched the pedestrians and
motorists cruise slowly down the long stretch of Broadway and felt
the cool breath of sea air against the back of his
neck.
He hadn’t wanted to leave her, yet he
couldn’t just demand to be her bodyguard. She wouldn’t stand for
it, and anyway, he had things to take care of, too. He didn’t much
believe her ability to “talk” to Justice, but it didn’t matter in
the least. She was connected to the cult. A card-carrying member.
And if by some strange kink in reality, she could sense where the
psycho was, well, okay, he’d go with that. All the
better.
Didn’t matter. One way or the other,
the whole thing was a reporter’s dream. He took a long gulp from
his cooling coffee.
“Hey, mister,” a cold female voice said
behind his left ear.
It took an effort not to jump at the
sound, but Harrison covered up a momentary lapse by stretching and
yawning and saying, “Yeah, what?” in a bored tone.
She came around into his view. It was
not the girl he’d spoken with the day before. This was the one who
worked at the gelato store. The hair at her crown was braided, the
rest of her dark tresses falling over her shoulders. A tattoo of
some kind of heart shape peeked out of the neckline of her uniform,
while several woven bracelets surrounded her left
wrist.
And she was pissed, but
good.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Hanging around here, trying to pick up jailbait? I should call the
cops.”
She was pretty, in a kind of pinched
way. Suspicion made her seem older than her probably sixteen or
seventeen years; it also made her seem harder.
“Can’t a guy just be jobless and
aimless without being a pervert?” he snapped back at her. “I’ve got
an old lady, okay? She’s about all I can handle, and she’s at least
old enough to have some brains!”
She bristled. Surprised. Then quickly
armed for a new attack. “What are you saying, mister? That I’m
stupid?”
“I’m just sitting here,
okay?”
“Like you’ve been for days and
days.”
“Hey, I buy coffee. It’s a free
country. Go be miserable around somebody else.” He waved his hand,
shooing her away.
“I saw you talking to Lana. Asking all
kinds of questions that are none of your business!”
He gave her a hard stare, like he was
totally annoyed at her for getting in his space. “Well, Jenny, I
don’t know any Lana,” he snarled. “So, why don’t you just go back
to your job and leave me alone?”
Her eyes widened a bit, and then she
clapped her hand over the built-in name tag on her
red-and-white-striped uniform top.
“You . . . stay away from us!” she
sputtered and then stalked back to the flip-up counter that was her
entry to her side of the shop.
“Gladly,” he muttered, stretching out
in the chair and throwing her a dark look of pure
disgust.
Inside, he was jubilant. He’d already
known Jenny’s name from reading it on her name tag, but he hadn’t
known Lana’s. Now he had two of the seven members of the Deadly
Sinners, and Lana had alluded to N.V., which made three. And these
kids weren’t exactly hiding their exploits and staying under the
radar. They were entitled and angry and looking for attention. It
wouldn’t be hard to figure out the whole lot of them.
Idly, he wondered when Jenny got off
work. He thought it would be a simple matter to trail her. He’d bet
she and Lana would get together and meet the others. Down on the
beach. With all these damn cleanup people swarming across the sand,
they would be just another group among many.
And it was Saturday. To date, their
burglaries had all been on Saturday nights.
His cell phone rang and he didn’t
recognize the number. Second time in two
days, he thought, annoyed. “Frost.”
“Hi, it’s Laura Adderley. I . . . I’m
calling you . . . because . . .” She trailed off on an intake of
breath.
He was surprised. Pleasantly surprised.
The way she’d shut down this morning, after their huevos, hadn’t
boded well for her calling him with information anytime soon. As it
stood, she’d phoned within a matter of a couple hours. “Because?”
he coaxed.
“I think Justice may have killed
someone.”