CHAPTER 32
Harrison headed south toward Zellman’s house but
wheeled into the Ocean Park Hospital drive first, squealing a
little as he took the turn at the last moment. He drove fast to the
parking lot and practically leapt from his vehicle, checking his
watch. About three o’clock. Laura would be on the floor somewhere,
and he really needed to see her first.
But he was thwarted almost immediately
by a flurry of activity in the ER that had the whole hospital
hopping: a three-car pileup just north of Deception Bay. Racing
teens, he learned, but that was all he got from them.
He tried phoning Laura’s cell, but it
went straight to voice mail. He started feeling anxious, berating
himself for not hanging closer to her, and had to give himself a
stern talking-to. She’s okay. She’s at work.
Getting panicky isn’t going to help anyone, or solve
anything. Besides, the TCSD had called; they were scheduled
for another interview later in the day, after the detectives had
gone over all the initial information.
Phoning her cell again, this time he
left a message confirming that on her dinner break, which she’d
said tended to be in the late afternoon, they were going to meet
with the authorities.
Hanging up, he wondered if he should
have told her about finding Brandt Zellman’s Range Rover abandoned
near her house. Once more he considered going to the police. Once
more he decided to be first on the scene himself.
Feeling superfluous with hospital
personnel rushing all around him, as if he were the rock in the
middle of the stream, Harrison headed back out to his car. The
clouds had fully dissipated, and the beat of the sunshine on his
head and shoulders was downright hot. He would go see Zellman now.
On his own. Geena had told him where the doctor lived, so there was
nothing stopping him.
As he turned out of the hospital drive
onto Highway 101, his cell phone rang. Damn. He was going to have
to get Bluetooth or risk being pulled over for talking while
driving. He answered anyway.
“Frost,” he said.
“Hi, this is Dinah Smythe. You left a
message on my phone?”
“Yes, I did,” Harrison confirmed, his
eyes peeled for the law as he drove along. “I met with your
father.” He sketched out his visit with Herman and finished with,
“He told me to call you to confirm everything he
said.”
“You’re writing an article?” she asked
carefully.
“Just doing research.”
“I’m going to guess this has to do with
Justice Turnbull’s escape, since you’re asking about the women of
the Colony.”
“Your father . . . intimated . . . that
you might be related to them.”
“He believes he’s at least one of thems
father, so maybe. Or maybe not. It’s not some burning issue I need
to know.”
“He says he had sexual relations with
Mary Rutledge Beeman, who is the documented mother of the women who
live there.”
“Ahh . . . you’ve read his
account.”
“I was curious,” Harrison admitted. He
wondered how long it would take to get to Zellman’s.
“My father likes to act as if there
were a time when free love reigned at Siren Song. Maybe it did.
Maybe it didn’t. There are definitely a lot of women living at the
lodge, so somebody fathered them. It’s a lot of hearsay, but my
father isn’t exactly what I’d call a reliable source
anymore.”
“He alluded to the fact that I should
talk to you about them.”
“Because I’m the one who still has an
accurate memory,” she said dryly. “But if you’ve read his book, you
know about as much as I do.”
Harrison talked to Dinah Smythe for a
few minutes more, until he saw a TCSD patrol car coming his way and
hurriedly hung up. After the cop flew on by him, he pulled the note
from his pocket with the other phone numbers from Herman’s list. He
called the first and learned it was a clinic specializing in
gerontology. Herm’s doctor, apparently. The second was a pizzeria
that delivered.
So much for that.
With a feeling of hitting a dead end,
he shoved the Colony aside and concentrated on the road ahead.
Here, 101 cut inland for a stretch of miles before jogging out to
the coast again. His stomach growled, and he reminded himself that
the Subway sandwich he’d bolted down for lunch in Seaside wasn’t
sticking with him as much as he’d hoped.
He drove through Tillamook, spying the
Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, which was located in a
building in the strip of land between the northbound and southbound
lanes of the highway, the very spot he and Lorelei would meet with
the cops. He knew she was uncomfortable talking about Turnbull and
how he was connected to her and Siren Song.
Then again, who wouldn’t
be?
He glanced at the rearview mirror and
caught a glimpse of his reflection. “You really know how to pick
’em,” he said to the eyes glowering back at him. Lorelei Adderley
was trouble with a capital T. Aside from her
weird childhood at the Colony, there was her mental connection to a
madman, whether real or imagined. Either way, it spelled disaster.
Then there was that imperious son of a bitch to whom she’d been
recently married, a prick if there ever was one. Yeah, Lorelei came
with a lot of baggage, and the worst part of it was, he didn’t seem
to care. She was charming and smart, clever, and had a wicked sense
of humor, and when she kissed him . . . oh, hell, he was lost in
the wonder of her.
“Fool,” he ground out, knowing he was
falling for a woman he hadn’t known a week, a woman who seemed to
attract the worst kind of trouble.
And as intriguing as hell.
He, a man of fact and science, who had
carefully avoided any serious relationships for all of his adult
life, was falling for a woman whose beauty and spirit called to
him, touched him in a spot he’d kept closed off for years. Just
like her damned namesake.
It was a real pisser and there wasn’t
much he could do about it.
He forced his concentration back to the
road, where he was following a flatbed truck that was hauling a
load of berries, crates and crates of them strapped to pallets that
seemed to shift beneath the tethers that bound them.
He sped past the truck and noticed an
SUV follow suit, right on his tail. The minute he tucked into the
right lane again, the SUV, with a surfboard atop and what looked
like paraphernalia for hang gliding, a sport that was popular on
the series of capes that rose above the ocean in this part of the
state, along the coastline, flew past.
Yet another idiot, who took the next
turn toward the west.
Harrison followed, but the SUV was
sprinting and disappeared from sight before he reached the next
corner. Once again on the coastline, he drove through a small
hamlet, which boasted Carter’s Bait Shop and not much else, then on
past Bancroft Bluff, where he noticed several sheriff’s department
vehicles and realized they were still swarming around the double
homicide, which had come into the paper earlier and which Buddy was
writing up. More investigation to follow.
Zellman was lucky he hadn’t built on
that unstable section of land; his home was on a rock table, and
Harrison slowed down at the sight of the stone pillars that marked
the drive and the opened wrought-iron gates. He turned into the
long, winding drive, which was asphalt bordered by cut stone, and
wound through tortured pine trees and a riotous fifteen-foot-high
laurel hedge. The woods thinned out closer to the house, and he
suddenly burst into a clearing where an imposing house of
sand-colored stone stood, shaped into an obtuse angle, the massive
garage one arm, the house the other.
The windows were trimmed in cedar, and
there were several flower boxes full of petunias. A few cars were
parked along the garage side. Harrison slotted the Impala beside
the end one, a dark blue Mercedes. He glanced at it as he headed
toward the front door and saw the keys were in the ignition. The
car beside it was a white BMW, also with keys in the ignition. A
car thief’s dream.
Harrison walked along an auxiliary
stone pathway that led to the front door, which was protected by a
post-and-beam cedar portico. Massive wrought-iron door handles were
bolted to the double doors, and as he pressed the doorbell, he saw
it, too, was a wrought-iron rectangle with a raised design of what
looked like beach grass.
The door opened, and a young man stood
in the aperture, gazing at Harrison through worried eyes. He was
thin, with wavy dark hair longer than Harrison’s own, and he was
fighting an attack of acne along his jawline. He gazed at Harrison
expectantly.
“Brandt?” Harrison
guessed.
The worried look turned to a controlled
panic. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Harrison Frost. I’m actually
looking for your father. Is he home?”
“Oh . . . yeah . . . He can’t talk,
though. . . .” He glanced over his shoulder to the dim interior of
the home. Harrison could see down a long hallway to a burst of
light where windows opened onto the back view. “I thought you were
. . . I don’t know. Like coming to tell me something
bad.”
“About your car?”
Brandt looked thoroughly confused. “My
car? No. Not mine. Matt Ellison was driving a red
Blazer.”
“Matt Ellison?”
“I think he’s at the hospital now. It’s
senior skip day, and that’s why they weren’t in school. They’re not
saying on the news yet.”
“The three-car accident,” Harrison
realized. “No, I don’t know anything about that.”
Nodding resignedly, Brandt turned and
led Harrison into the house and down the hall to a large, domed
room with windows that curved to allow a view of 180 degrees of sky
and distant sea. Buttery leather armchairs were arranged in
conversation groups. A glossy black baby grand sat to one
side.
Dr. Maurice Zellman was seated on a
chaise, holding a book. A sweating glass of iced tea sat beside him
on a coaster on a side table made of cherrywood and wrought-iron
detailing. The doctor was small and wiry with a sharp chin, and he
gazed at Harrison with piercing eyes. A white bandage was wrapped
around his throat beneath a casual blue shirt. He wore tan chinos,
and his feet were encased in matching tan socks.
He looked . . . thoroughly
angry.
“My name’s Harrison Frost. I’m with the
Seaside Breeze.”
Zellman gestured fiercely in a way that
made Harrison understand that the doctor knew who he was. Brandt
was standing to one side, and he motioned for Brandt to bring
Harrison an iced tea as well. Brandt went to do his bidding without
asking if Harrison wanted a drink, but it was more because he was
distracted than out of general rudeness.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,”
Harrison told the doctor, “but I also wanted to tell you that I
found your son’s Range Rover. Looks like it was abandoned. I
mentioned it to Brandt, but he didn’t seem to know what I was
talking about.”
Zellman swept up a small notebook and
pen. He jabbed out a note. Where?
“Just north of Deception Bay. On an
unnamed residential access road off Highway 101.”
Brandt returned with the iced tea and
handed it to Harrison. Zellman gestured for Harrison to talk to
him, so he reiterated where he’d found the younger man’s
car.
“My car’s in the garage,” Brandt
denied. “I took the Mercedes to school today ’cause it was out
front.”
“It had your registration inside. A
2007 black Range Rover.”
“It can’t be.” And then, as the
realization hit, he added, “No, wait a minute. I left my car
outside. Oh, shit! It shoulda been with the Mercedes and the
BMW!”
“Were the keys inside the ignition?”
Harrison asked.
“Well . . .” He glanced toward his
father, who glared back, agitation visible in his silent gaze. “We
just leave the keys in the cars. We always have. Where’s my car?”
he asked, the worried look back in full.
“If it’s been stolen, you need to call
it in to the TCSD. You have any idea who might have taken
it?”
“No.”
Zellman scribbled a note. Could be any of your juvenile delinquent
friends.
“I gotta call Barry,” Brandt muttered,
yanking a cell phone from his pocket and heading down a hall toward
the bedroom end of the house.
Harrison gazed at the doctor. “Have you
heard from Justice Turnbull?” he asked.
Zellman blinked several times and shook
his head. No. Why?
“I think he may be the one who took
your son’s car,” Harrison said, trying not to sound as angry as he
felt. If not for Zellman’s incompetence, Justice Turnbull would
still be locked away and Lorelei would be safe. Jaw tight, he
added, “Turnbull terrorized a woman last night who lives near where
it was abandoned. Tried to kill her.”
Zellman blinked hard.
“And she’s not the first, Doctor.
Several people have already lost their lives since he
escaped.”
Zellman blanched and glanced
away.
At that moment a door opened from down
the hall, and he heard the small tap-tap-tap
of a woman’s footsteps against the wood floor. Harrison turned as
Mrs. Zellman entered the room. Seeing them, she stopped short, then
came forward again a bit more cautiously. Harrison saw where Brandt
got his perpetual look of worry. She was short and slim and had
pretty blue eyes and dark brown hair. She threw an anxious look
toward her husband that could have meant anything.
Zellman refused to even look at
her.
“What happened?” she asked. “I—I’m
Patricia, Dr. Zellman’s wife. I saw the accident on the news. They
say the kids are going to be okay, but one of them broke his leg
pretty badly.”
Zellman made a chopping motion with his
arm, clearly meant for her to cut herself off. She stopped talking
and looked slightly stricken. Harrison introduced himself and
brought her up to speed on Brandt’s car. When he mentioned Justice
Turnbull, she paled.
She turned to Zellman. “Morry, that man
. . . ,” she said in an imploring voice. Then she turned back to
Harrison. “He’s always scared me. My husband is his doctor, you
know. Maurice has really helped a lot of patients. But that
Turnbull person . . . I don’t even think God could help
him.”
Zellman looked ready to explode. His
eyes flashed daggers at his wife, who, though not immune, simply
turned away from him a bit, as if putting up a wall.
Like Lorelei claims she
does when Justice Turnbull tries to reach her.
Harrison forced himself to keep his
voice level. Angering Zellman wouldn’t help anything. “Do you know
any reason he might have taken your son’s car?” Harrison
asked.
She thought for a long moment.
“Availability,” she said, surprising him with her candor. “They’re
there and he knows where we live. Everybody practically does. They
know this house. I told you we should have fixed the gate!” she
tossed out to her husband.
Zellman motioned her out of the room
and started writing another missive. She hesitated a moment before
doing as bidden, tap-tap-tapping down the hall to the front door.
Harrison heard it close behind her.
The doctor held out the note to
Harrison with quivering fingers. It said: My laptop
is on the dining room table.
Harrison looked in the direction the
doctor was pointing and passed through the kitchen, all stainless
steel, granite, and dark wood cabinetry, and into the dining room,
which sported a huge rectangular table painted black and made to
look distressed, and crowned above by a heavy iron chandelier with
a myriad of hatted lights.
The laptop was slim and sleek. Harrison
brought it back to Zellman, who fired it up, waiting impatiently.
As soon as he could, he pulled up a blank page on his
word-processing program and began writing.
My wife does not know
Justice Turnbull. He is driven by inner forces. He would not steal
a car because of availability. His mind does not work that way. He
just moves forward and goes after his goal.
“Nevertheless, I believe he took your
son’s car,” Harrison told him. “He was chasing a woman who once
lived at Siren Song, and he left it there.”
Why would he come to my
house?
“Like your wife said, he knows where it
is.” Harrison shrugged. “Because you’re his doctor? Maybe he came
for another reason and just found an available car.”
Zellman thought that over for a long
time. You haven’t told the police your theories
yet?
“No, but like I said, your son should
report the missing vehicle.”
This woman he was
chasing . . . she’s a member of the Colony?
“They’re her sisters. Or half sisters.
She used to live at the lodge but hasn’t for quite a
while.”
Is she
pregnant?
Harrison read these last words in
surprise. “No. What do you mean?”
Zellman started rapidly typing.
In our sessions, Justice revealed himself in bits
and pieces. He was cagey. Didn’t like to give too much away. One
thing that came out was that when he was targeting the women, he
went after the ones outside the gate. I think he was afraid of
meeting them on their own ground. He can’t make himself cross that
fence into their territory. But he said, he could smell them when
they were pregnant and then he could track
them.
“And you’re telling me you believed
him?” Harrison asked, trying hard to keep the skepticism out of his
voice, barely succeeding.
I’m telling you what he
believed. He targeted Colony women who were pregnant and outside
the gates.
“Well, he’s tracking this woman because
she says they have a mental connection. Like a GPS, I guess. If she
lets him in, he can find her. If she shuts the door, he’s
out.”
Zellman shrugged, as if he wouldn’t
write that off completely. Justice is capable of
many things we may never understand. His psychosis is deep,
somewhat indefinable. We made progress, but his world is a dark
place with ironclad rules he must follow. He’s been off his meds
for three days, and he needs them to keep any semblance of reality.
His danger is increasing.
Harrison couldn’t argue with that. “So,
you don’t think he’s the one who took your son’s car?”
It’s possible, I
suppose. If it helped him achieve his goal. This woman you spoke
of, if he’s tracking her, she needs to be extremely careful. For
her safety, she should go back to Siren Song until he’s
caught.
Harrison thought that over. Though he
kind of thought Zellman was serving up a whole bowl of crazy, he
couldn’t quite dismiss it all. “I’m going to leave you my cell
number. I know you can’t talk, but maybe your wife or son could
call if you think of anything else?”
He nodded as Harrison wrote his number
on the pad of paper Zellman had been using earlier.
We will let the
sheriff’s department know about Brandt’s car.
“Good. Thank you.”
They shook hands, and as Harrison left,
he met Mrs. Zellman coming back inside, her hands full of car
keys.
Nothing like locking the barn door
after the horse escapes.