CHAPTER 40
His cell phone, tucked inside the front pocket of
his jeans, vibrated, and Harrison was instantly awake. The first
streaks of dawn were piercing the windows, and Laura was still
sleeping soundly, breathing deeply, dead to the world while he had
barely been asleep. He glanced at the clock. Six a.m.?
He fumbled for the phone, checked the
screen, saw that the number belonged to Zellman’s cell
phone.
Justice!
Scrambling to his feet, he flipped the
phone open and slipped through the door to the upper
landing.
“Frost.”
“They’re dead,” the rasping voice
declared. “Zzzzellman and his family!”
What the hell was he hearing? “Zellman?
Dr. Zellman?”
“Along with his evil sssspawn! And
they’re not the lassst,” the voice assured him in its hissing,
sibilant tone. “You can write about them all. And don’t forget the
ssisssterss!”
Full-blown panic struck Harrison. Hard.
“Wait! No! Turnbull! You can’t—”
But the monster had clicked
off.
“Damn!”
Desperately, Harrison called
back.
No answer.
“Don’t do this . . . for the love of
God. . . .”
He tried again.
Nothing.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he muttered
under his breath, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Was this
serious? Had Turnbull slaughtered Zellman’s family and then called
to brag?
He punched in the cell phone number for
Detective Stone. “Come on, come on,” he muttered when the phone
rang four times and went to voice mail. “God damn it.” He waited
impatiently for the voice mail to answer, then left a message.
“This is Harrison Frost. I just got another call from Turnbull. He
says he killed Zellman and his family. I’m on my way to their house
now, but I’m in Astoria, so it will take a while. Call me.” He
snapped the phone closed and walked into the room.
Laura was still sleeping.
He noticed the gun on the table and
grabbed it; then he found his shoes, shirt, and jacket and slipped
out, locking the door behind him. If he bothered waking her, she’d
insist on coming with him and he didn’t want to risk that. There
was a chance—a good one—that Turnbull was screwing with him, maybe
even setting a trap, so it was best to leave Laura here, where she
was safe. He’d call her later, as soon as he knew what was really
going on.
The owner of the B and B was already
awake, working in the kitchen, where his wife was baking some kind
of cinnamon rolls for breakfast, when Harrison reached the foyer.
Harrison pulled him aside, told him that he’d left his girlfriend
sleeping and, if anyone came looking for her, to please call him
immediately.
“Is she in some kind of trouble?” the
guy asked.
“No. She’s just really tired. When she
wakes up, have her call me.” He didn’t have time to explain further
and dashed through the rain to his car. He backed around Laura’s
Outback and hoped by the time she woke up, this would be sorted
out.
Flipping on his wipers, he wound down
the hillside to hit the highway. It was early enough that traffic
was thin as he drove south, pushing the speed limit, passing slower
cars and trucks. All the while he thought about Turnbull’s call and
his sudden interest in Harrison.
Why call him? To get his story out
there? Why not Pauline Kirby, where Justice Turnbull would get
television attention?
He knows you’re with
Lorelei. That’s what it all comes back to. You’re with one of his
“sssissters.”
He shuddered as he thought of
Turnbull’s twisted mind. Through Seaside and past the interchange
for Highway 26 he drove, the cloud cover and rain seeming to keep
morning at bay.
He was just on the south side of Cannon
Beach when his phone rang again. Steeling himself for another call
from the monster, he glanced at the phone and realized it was
Detective Stone’s cell.
“Frost,” he answered.
“Stone here. I got your message. I’m on
my way to the Zellman house now. What’s going on?”
“I’m going through the tunnel at Arch
Cape. Hold on.” Harrison gunned it through the darkness, the sounds
of the truck barreling the opposite direction echoing against the
cavern-like walls, his headlights cutting through the
dark.
Once he was through the tunnel, he gave
Stone a quick rundown of the last few hours. For his part, Stone
listened intently, only interrupting to ask a question to clarify
things.
“So I left Laura at the inn, called
you, and started driving.”
“You haven’t tried to get hold of
Zellman at home?” It was more of a statement than a
question.
“Turnbull said he was dead.” Harrison
said. “And he has the doctor’s cell so I can’t get
through.”
“He could be lying about the
Zellmans.”
Harrison remembered the sound of the
maniac’s voice, the barely suppressed delight in the killings.
“Maybe,” he said, unconvinced.
“The guy’s completely off his nut. Off
his meds, too, according to Zellman. What the hell’s he doing?”
Stone muttered. “Why go after Zellman?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, thanks. Now, I want you to back
off. Don’t come down here. Turn around, go back, and wait. I’ll get
in touch with you later. This is either a sick prank or police
business, but you’re out of it.”
Harrison’s answer was a short laugh. He
wasn’t backing off now. Not when there was a chance of nailing
Justice Turnbull.
“Listen—”
“I’ll be there in half an hour, Stone!”
He gunned the Impala’s engine, up past the viewpoint on the rim of
Neahkahnie Mountain. “Turnbull’s dragging me into it whether I want
to be or not.”
“Did you hear me, Frost?” Stone
demanded, his voice tight. “This is the sheriff’s department’s
bus—”
But Harrison had switched off. No way
was he backing off. No damned way.
Son of a
bitch!
Stone glowered through his windshield.
The bullheaded newsman wouldn’t do as he was told. Not when there
was a story as big as Justice Turnbull’s escape and killing spree
to cover. Luckily, Stone knew that he could beat the reporter to
Zellman’s estate.
He half expected to find the family
gathered around the kitchen table, eating breakfast, or already
heading to their cars: the kid off to one of the last days of
school, the wife ready to run errands, and the doctor on his way to
the hospital. Hadn’t he said as much two night’s ago—that he was
going into the office? An attack by a psychotic killer wasn’t about
to keep Dr. Maurice Zellman away from his work with the other
nutcases at Halo Valley.
He called Dunbar on the way to the
Zellman residence and told her, a little reluctantly, what was
going down and where he was going. She was all business and said
the troops were on their way. He wanted to ask more about the
pregnancy but decided if she wanted to say more, she
would.
On a whim, he called Zellman’s work.
“Halo Valley Hospital,” an even voice answered. “How can I direct
your call?”
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Maurice
Zellman,” Stone said, then identified himself.
“Dr. Zellman was out for a medical
leave and . . . wait. That’s odd.” He heard her clicking buttons, a
muted quick conversation with someone else, and rustling papers
before she said, “I’m sorry. I was mistaken. It looks like he came
in early this morning.” Clearly, she wasn’t trusting whatever it
was she was seeing. “I’ll try to connect you.”
Stone turned off of the main road and
wound up the smaller lane leading toward the Zellman estate. The
rain was coming down in sheets now, blowing in from the west on a
gusting wind that was tearing through the branches.
A second later a barely audible voice
whispered, “This is Dr. Zellman.”
Stone felt instant relief. “Detective
Stone, Doctor. Sorry to bother you, but Harrison Frost claims he
received another call from your cell phone.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said with
effort.
“The caller claimed he was Turnbull and
said he’d attacked your entire family.”
Silence.
“He claimed you were included in the
attack, and obviously you weren’t.”
“No . . . I . . . I couldn’t sleep and
came into the hospital early. . . .” His voice, already weak, faded
out altogether.
“I’m almost at your house. It could be
a ruse.” Stone saw the lane turnoff for the Zellman house and
wheeled in. The gate, still unrepaired, hung open, and through the
trees, in the gloom, the house lights glowed warm in the gray
dawn.
“That bastard’s toying with me. He
always resented me.” Zellman was struggling to get out the words,
and Stone had to strain to hear. “Please . . . check on Patricia. .
. . I . . . I have her cell phone with me, so I can’t call her. I
brought hers with me to work since mine is missing. . . .” There
was a pause and then the doctor forced out, “Oh, God, tell me she’s
all right.” His voice, faint, cracked with fear.
“I’ll call you right
back.”
Stone snapped off as he pulled into the
driveway. The garage doors were down, no vehicles visible.
Everything seemed fine, but as he stepped out of his car, he
unbuckled his holster and pulled out his sidearm. No reason to take
foolish chances.
Through the drizzle, he walked briskly
up the walk, pausing only to look through the windows at the front
of the house but seeing no one, only perfectly decorated rooms that
were empty of life. The living room and dining room were in shadow,
lights coming from the back of the house.
He rang the bell and waited, his hand
over the butt of his gun. If Turnbull was hiding in the shrubbery
or behind a tree, he could rush Stone and he might not hear him
over the constant, dull rumble of the sea.
No one came to the door.
He rang the bell again, heard dulcet
tones peal inside, but no answering footsteps. “Mrs. Zellman?” he
called loudly, pounding on the thick door with a fist. “It’s
Detective Stone. Mrs. Zellman!”
Nothing.
He tried the door. Locked tight. Then
he started walking around the big house, past rhododendrons
shivering in the rain, under the wide branches toward the rear of
the estate, where the forest opened up to the cliff. His boots
squished in the puddles collecting on the ground, and he felt the
hairs on the back of his neck lift as he rounded a corner and
stepped onto the patio off the family room and
kitchen.
The French doors were
ajar.
Stone’s stomach tightened.
Eyes trained on the warm interior,
where the blinds Patricia Zellman had insisted on closing were wide
open, he saw a pair of feet, one bare with toes painted a deep
cranberry, the other still half inside a black
slipper.
“Mrs. Zellman!” Using the nose of his
gun, he pushed the doors open farther and stepped inside. The house
was utterly still, and there, lying in front of an L-shaped
sectional, Patricia Zellman lay in a pool of blood, red stains
blooming through her silk pajamas.
“Damn . . . oh, damn . . . ,” Stone
whispered, angry.
Checking her pulse, knowing he would
find none, he snapped up his cell phone with his free hand. As he
speed dialed, he leaned forward, listened for her breath.
Nothing.
“Nine-one-one,” an operator said. “What
is the—”
“This is Detective Langdon Stone,” he
said, his gaze sweeping the rooms. What if Turnbull was still in
the house? He snapped out his badge number, then ordered, “I need
backup and an ambulance.” His gun in his right hand, he began
moving through the rooms as he gave the operator the Zellmans’
address. “I’ve one victim dead, Patricia Zellman, and I’m searching
the rest of the house now.”
“I’m sending a backup unit now, and the
EMTs are on their way,” the 911 operator said just as he heard a
noise from the hallway.
Spinning, his heartbeat accelerating,
Stone held his pistol with both hands.
“Come on, you bastard,” he muttered
through clenched teeth.
Something dark moved in the shadowed
hallway.
Trying to save time, Harrison raced
down a back road that wound through the Miami River valley,
avoiding some of the small towns and their speed limits. He sped
through Tillamook and drove south, all the while his heart
thudding. This could be it. Turnbull could be captured and the
nightmare could be over.
He and Laura could be
together.
He almost missed the turnoff to the
Zellman estate and stood on his brakes just as he heard the sirens
and saw, in his rearview mirror, the lights of police cruisers
strobing the morning gloom. He didn’t doubt for a second the
emergency vehicles were heading for Zellman’s address as he
wrenched the wheel and sped into the lane ahead of
them.
Passing the open broken gate, he set
his jaw. His hands tightened over the wheel and his gut wrenched.
Something was going down. Something big.
And it wasn’t good.
He slid the Impala to a stop behind the
police vehicle parked near the garage—Stone’s car—then cut the
engine and scooped up his 9 mm from the passenger
seat.
Clicking off the safety, he crouched
and started for the front door.
The first police vehicle sped down the
drive. As the car slid to a stop, both front doors flew open and he
heard, “Police! Drop your weapon!”
Harrison did as he was told. His gun
fell to the wet lawn.
“Turn around!”
He did and saw he was staring into the
barrels of two guns, both leveled straight at him.
“Get on your knees,” a young man in
uniform demanded.
“Hey, I’m the guy who called Stone!
I—”
“Get the fuck on your knees and keep
your goddamned hands in the air!”
Heart thudding, Stone aimed at the man
looming in the darkened hallway. Go straight to
hell, Turnbull!
“Dad?” a deep voice rasped. “Mom?” The
dark figure stumbled a step, then pitched forward, falling into the
light of the family room.
“Oh, no.” Stone flew across the thick
carpet to the spot where Brandt Zellman, wearing only boxer shorts,
bleeding from wounds to his chest and neck, collapsed. But he was
alive. Dragging in shallow, gurgling breaths.
“Jesus . . . Hang in there!” Stone said
to the boy and heard the sound of sirens approaching. Oh, God, will they make it in time? “You hang in there.”
There was so much blood running from the jagged cuts on his chest
and neck. Brandt had twisted onto his back, his eyes open, staring
up at the ceiling. Stone held the kid’s bloody fingers. “I’m here.
Help is coming.”
The kid seemed to be fading
away.
“No way, Brandt. You hang in
there.”
Stone heard the sound of tires
screeching to a stop.
Thank
God!
More sirens. Close now.
Screaming.
Voices. Shouting. Angry
commands.
Maybe they caught Turnbull outside.
Get in here! Get the hell in here
now!
The boy was fading away, his skin
blanched white, showing the acne of his youth amid the thin stubble
of his whiskers. “Brandt! I’m right here. Don’t you let go.” He
gave the boy’s hand a squeeze. “Help is here.” Why
the fuck aren’t they coming inside? “You hang on. . .
.”
He yelled toward the front of the
house. “In here! For Christ’s sake . . .”
From the corner of his eye, he saw two
officers hurrying through the shrubbery, their pistols drawn. Then,
as Dunbar looked through the window and caught a glimpse of the
bloody scene inside, she sprang forward, through the open French
doors.
“Holy . . . ,”she
whispered.
“We need an ambulance!” Stone
said.
“They’re here.” She was already heading
to the front of the house.
As Stone gripped the teen’s hand and
kept offering up words of encouragement, he heard the welcome sound
of footsteps.
“We’ve got him,” one of the EMTs, a
slim, dark-haired, small-featured woman, said.
“I don’t know if the house is secure,”
Stone admitted, and two other cops began searching each of the
rooms.
“We’ve got the reporter in cuffs,”
Dunbar said. “Found him outside with a nine
millimeter.”
She glanced at the body, turned a
little green.
“He called in the crime. Turnbull
phoned him.”
“Still, he stays in cuffs in the back
of the vehicle, till we sort this all out.” She took a deep breath,
then slid her partner a glance. “Let’s let Clark Kent cool his jets
for a while.”