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“She sure wants me to. The producer has called, but I think I’ll pass.” She sidled closer to the bed, thought about how her aunt had used and abused her over the years, but again, pushed those conflicting thoughts aside. For now. “I’ve got a problem with working with her. You see, I’ve already committed to a book deal with this reporter. He’s a little on the shady side,” she said, and saw one side of Tate’s mouth lift. “I think he would even go so far as to pretend to be run over by a half-crazed female just to get a story, but there’s just something about him that makes me think I should throw in my lot with him.” She squinched up her face as if she was thinking really, really hard. Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh, now I remember! Maybe it’s because he took a bullet for me.” At that thought, of Tate leaping in front of her as Walter had fired, she felt tears collect in her eyes and her throat caught. She cleared it. “Anyway, I think I might . . . you know, go with him. We had a deal.”
“We did,” he said and his own voice sounded gruff. “Kara,” he said, his voice low. “Stay at the house. Stay with me.” He grabbed her wrist, his fingers firm and warm. “We’ll figure everything out.”
“Everything?” She laughed. “I don’t know if it’s possible.”
“Let’s find out.” His eyes held hers. “What didyourdoctor say?”
She, too, had spent two nights in the hospital, where she was examined, physically and mentally, and where a psychologist talked to her, a psychologist who had tracked down Dr. Zhou and her associate. Antianxiety drugs had been prescribed and she’d been released, though she was still under a doctor’s care. But she played it down. “My doctor?” she repeated. “What does she say? Hmmm. Well, mainly the usual, you know. That I have anxiety issues, and that I should be on medication, that I’ve been through all this trauma and . . . well, it’s nothing I haven’t heard all my life, it’s just fresh. New stuff to deal with.”
“Big stuff.”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “Big stuff. I’m on the medication. For now. And I have many counseling appointments in my future.” She shrugged. “So what else is new?”
“We’ll get through it together,” he promised, his fingers tightening a bit. “What about the police? They’ve had to have been all over you. Despite the docs trying to keep them at bay.”
“Yeah, but I talked to them, too. Detectives Thomas and Johnson.” In fact, she’d spoken with them for nearly two hours earlier in the morning before heading to Tate’s place to check on her dog. Rhapsody had been fine as Tate had a friend, someone named Connell, whom he’d somehow contacted to walk the dog and feed her while they were in the care of the medical team of Whimstick General. Tate seemed to have lots of faith in Connell and had told Kara as much.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Yeah, they talked to me. The nurses and doctor weren’t happy about it, but I just wanted it to be over.”
“Good. Me too.” More than anything, she wanted the horror of it all to be finally put to rest. If that were possible. At this point, she wasn’t certain. Then again, she wasn’t certain about anything. What had she once heard her father tell Sam Junior one summer? “Life’s a crapshoot, son.” He’d placed a firm hand on his boy’s shoulder. “You never know what the next roll will be.” She hadn’t understood it at six, but she got it now.Amen, Daddy. Amen.
Tate glanced up at her as if he’d suddenly thought of something important. “You know, I’m gonna need a ride. To get out of here.”
“I guess it’s your lucky day,” she said, and held up a ring of keys. “I just happen to be driving your SUV.”
“Mine?”
“How else do you think I got here?” she asked, feeling the urge to flirt with him again. “Mine’s still not quite drivable.”
“You’re a terrible driver,” he pointed out.
“Not always. And, come on, it’s not far.” She winked. “I think you’ll be safe.”
* * *
“So Walter Robinson was a busy man,” Johnson observed, as she and Thomas watched the frozen body of Chad Atwater being zipped into a black bag before being hauled to the morgue. Two hunters had come across his truck and made the grisly discovery. Chad’s throat had been cut with what appeared to be some kind of surgical knife, most likely the same knife that had been used to kill and decapitate Jonas McIntyre. Robinson had a bloody knife with him, still clutched in his hand as he died. And Robinson had a few more stashed in his home in Seaside.
Johnson and Thomas had already made the trip to the coast, where they’d discovered that Robinson’s 1980s home was more than just a residence. The residence had a basement with a bedroom, bathroom and mini kitchen on one side and shop for electrical and electronic equipment on the other. The working theory was that he’d held his daughter captive for two decades in the living area and used the other for his surveillance. Tracking devices had been placed on several vehicles, including Chad Atwater’s truck, Merritt Margrove’s BMW, Faiza Donner’s Lexus, Mia Long’s Honda and Kara McIntyre’s mangled Jeep, vehicles of many of the people connected to the McIntyre Massacre. People Walter could track, and when the opportunity presented itself, murder. So, if the working theory was correct, Robinson had his sights on Faiza and Kara, possibly even Mia. They would never know for certain.
“Too bad Robinson can’t be prosecuted.” She slid him a glance as the tow truck arrived to haul Atwater’s truck to the county garage for processing.
“Really? You’d want the state to spend money on a trial? The way I figure it, we’re lucky we don’t have to waste our time.”
While the tow truck’s lights flashed and Atwater’s pickup was winched onto the flatbed, she said, “I like to see justice served.”
“The daughter he kept captive for twenty years killed him,” Thomas pointed out, as he withdrew his key ring from a pocket and with a click on the fob for his SUV unlocked it. “I’d argue that justice was served, and served with a nice slice of irony.” He shot her a look. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Hungry?”
She tossed a final glance at the tow truck. “Yeah, but let’s get back to civilization first.”
“I know just the place.”
On the outskirts of Whimstick, he pulled into a fifties-style diner complete with black-and-white checkerboard floor, Formica-topped tables and an authentic jukebox that was now playing holiday favorites.
After settling on a booth near the corner, they were served by a waitress with an updo topped by an elf hat. The place was nearly empty but smelled of french fries and grilled onions. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve; the noon crowd had dribbled to just a few patrons at tables decorated with sprigs of holly in small vases tucked near the condiments and napkin holders.
Once they were served and Thomas had taken a couple of bites of his cheeseburger, Johnson said, “Let’s talk this over. One more time.” She didn’t have to explain what she meant; the recent murders had been the topic of conversation all over the state. But Johnson was laying it out. “Jonas killed Donner Robinson and was caught in the act by Donner’s father, Walter.” She took a bite from her vegetarian sandwich, and after chewing said, “But his daughter, Marlie, who was going to run off with the now-deceased Chad, saw her father—or her father and Jonas squaring off, her brother already dead. She locked her sister in the attic, then tried to intervene while there was a fight for the sword and was sliced.”
