Читать книгу Vicious - Kevin O'Brien - Страница 10

Mount Vernon, Washington—ten years later

No Signal, it said in the window on her cell phone. This was the second time she’d tried calling him.

Susan Blanchette shoved the phone back in her purse, then sipped her Diet Coke. She smiled at her toddler son in the booster seat across from her. “You’ve had enough French fries, Mattie,” she said gently. “I want you to work on your Arby’s Junior. Just a few bites and you’ll make your dear old mother very happy.”

Mattie dared to eat one last fry; then he adjusted the napkin tucked in the collar of his Huskies sweatshirt. He was a bit short and underweight for his age, but healthy—with pink cheeks, straight, light brown hair, and long-lashed blue eyes. Cautiously touching the top bun of his junior roast beef sandwich as if it were the shell of a snapping turtle, he frowned at her. It was a perturbed expression Susan used to see on his father from time to time. Now she only saw that look on Mattie.

It was 1:45. The drive up from Seattle had taken an hour, and Susan guessed they had another hour to go before reaching Cullen, a sleepy little resort town, where her fiancé had rented them a house on Skagit Bay. Allen was there right now—or at least he was supposed to be. Susan just wished she could get ahold of him.

She hoped Mattie might sleep the rest of the way in the car, after their late lunch. The Arby’s—by a casino off Interstate 5 near the Mount Vernon exit—wasn’t too crowded. She and Mattie took a table in the middle of the restaurant, one of those two-seaters attached to another two-seater. The Formica table and plastic chairs were the color of mustard.

Mattie still hadn’t taken a bite out of his Arby’s Junior. He held it in his hand, but paid more attention to the Woody doll in his other hand. He was skipping Woody across the adjoining tabletop. The slim cowboy doll from Toy Story had belonged to Mattie’s older brother and was becoming something like a security blanket for Mattie lately. For months now, the cartoon cowboy doll had never left his side, and it was starting to smell.

In a nearby booth, three guys in their early twenties had been leering at her—to the point at which it had almost become more irritating than flattering. But they looked as if they were about to leave, thank God.

Susan was tall and pretty and often passed for twenty-five. But she’d just checked herself in her compact mirror—between attempts to phone Allen—and under the restaurant’s glaring fluorescent lights, Susan thought she appeared tired, haggard, and every one of her thirty-four years. That table full of twentysomething guys must have been really hard up. She didn’t exactly look glamorous in her knock-around black V-neck pullover and jeans—even if the ensemble accentuated her trim figure. She had hazel eyes, a pale complexion, and wavy, shoulder-length, tawny brown hair. Lately, Susan had noticed the occasional wild grey strand, and she always yanked them out with trepidation (pluck one, and five more will come to its funeral). At this rate, Susan figured she’d be bald by her fortieth birthday.

With a shifty glance her way, Mattie put down his junior roast beef and reached for another fry.

“Don’t even think about it, kiddo,” she warned him. “You need to put a dent in that sandwich, and only then can you have some more fries. Now, c’mon, put Woody down and eat….”

With a sigh, Matt set Woody aside and lifted the top of the bun and peeked at the roast beef.

“They’re pretty great at that age, aren’t they?”

Susan glanced up at a handsome man in his mid thirties. He had black hair, parted to one side, and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He gave her a cocky smile and then sat next to Mattie on the other tandem table. He set down his soda and started to unload his Arby’s bag.

Baffled, Susan gaped at him. Was this a pickup or something—in an Arby’s, for Pete’s sake? The restaurant was practically empty, and this character had decided to sit right next to her and her son.

“How old are you, little fella?” the man asked Mattie.

“I’m four and a half years old,” Mattie replied, putting down his sandwich to show four fingers on his right hand. He also wiggled his left index finger—to emphasize the extra half year.

“And what’s your name?” the man asked him.

“Matthew Blanchette,” he answered proudly. “And I live at eight-fifteen East Prospect Drive in Seattle, Washington, USA.”

Taking out his sandwich, the man grinned at Susan. “Well, you certainly have him well-trained in case you’re ever separated. You folks are a long way from home.”

Susan tried to work up a smile. So far, the man hadn’t done anything inappropriate. And he was quite attractive. Yet he was just a little too friendly, a little too pushy.

He sipped his soda, winked at her, and then leaned close to Mattie. “I heard your mom trying to get you to eat your sandwich there,” he said in a stage whisper. “You should listen to her. That sandwich is packed with protein, and it’ll help you grow up big and strong—like me. Here, take a look at how big my hand is….” He put his hand up—palm out—almost inviting Mattie to press his little hand against it and compare.

Fascinated, Mattie did just that.

Susan nervously glanced around the restaurant and saw the twentysomething guys lumbering out of their booth. She’d figured if this man got any more familiar—and he had, he was already touching her son—she might have counted on these twenty-year-olds to run interference. One distressed look their way might have prompted one or all of them to get chivalrous and come over to her table. But instead, they were now filing out of the restaurant.

The man growled like a tiger and clamped Mattie’s tiny hand inside his own. Mattie squealed with delight. The stranger leaned in close to him and growled even more fiercely. Mattie shrieked with laughter.

Susan cleared her throat and winced a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t encourage him to make a lot of noise in restaurants and public places.” She turned to Mattie. “Remember what I’ve told you, honey? There are other people here, trying to enjoy a nice, quiet meal. You have to be considerate of them.” She reached across the table and gently pried his hand away from the man’s grasp.

“We were just having fun,” the man said—with a crooked smile and a slightly wounded look. He sat back in his chair. “C’mon, Mommy, don’t be a spoilsport.”

“Yeah, Mom. Don’t be a boil’s port,” her son chimed in.

Susan took Mattie’s sandwich and fries, quickly wrapped them up, and loaded them in the Arby’s bag. “It’s getting late, and we need to skedaddle,” she said, not looking at the man. “You can eat your sandwich in the car, honey. Don’t forget Woody. Say good-bye now.”

The man let out a stunned laugh. “Hey, listen, I didn’t mean anything, I was just—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Susan said, getting to her feet. She managed to smile at him, then grabbed her purse and the Arby’s bag. “We just need to hit the road. It was awfully nice talking with you.” She took Mattie by the arm and helped him off his booster seat. “Say good-bye, Mattie,” she repeated.

“G’bye!” he called, waving at the stranger with his free hand.

The man stood up, but didn’t leave the table. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry. I was just…”

Susan kept walking, pulling Mattie along. But she realized they couldn’t make a clean getaway. They had a long drive ahead, and Mattie would need to use the restroom. She bypassed the glass door exit and headed toward the alcove where there was a wooden highchair along with several orange plastic booster seats in a stack. In the alcove, she bypassed the men’s room and started into the women’s lavatory.

“NOOOOOO!” Mattie screamed. In his latest mode of resistance, he stopped and tried to sit down on the dirty tiled floor. He was at that age when little boys start to realize places like this were only for girls. So getting him into a women’s room to pee or poop was a major ordeal lately. “No, I don’t want to go in there!” he protested loudly.

“What did I just tell you about making a lot of noise in restaurants?” Susan growled. She took him by the arm and pulled him up. She tried not to drop her purse, the bag of food, and her Diet Coke. With her hip she pushed open the women’s bathroom door, and then she peeked inside. “No one’s in there, honey,” she said with a sigh. “C’mon, the coast is clear. Let’s go….”

“NOOOOOOOO!” he screeched, resisting.

A shadow swept over the alcove, and Susan glanced up to see the stranger coming at them. “So—Mattie, you don’t want to go in the ladies’ bathroom?” he was saying. “Well, I don’t blame you, sport.” He grinned at Susan and started to reach out his hand for Mattie—his big, grown-up hand. “I’ll take him into the men’s room for you—”

“Would you please just…no, thank you!” Susan snapped at him. “We’re fine here!” She yanked Mattie into the lavatory, and felt cold Diet Coke spilling down the front of her sweater. It seeped through her T-shirt to her stomach. Mattie let out another wail of protest, but in he went. With her shoulder, Susan quickly pushed the door shut behind her—right in the man’s face.

She still had a firm grip on Mattie’s hand. Whining, he twisted around and tried to sit down on the restroom floor. He kept Woody firmly tucked under his other arm.

“That’s enough out of you, young man,” Susan barked, pulling him up. “Now, get in here….” Guiding him toward the open door to a toilet stall, she made sure the toilet was flushed. Why in the world some people didn’t flush after using a public toilet was beyond her. This one was clean. “Do you think you might have to go number two?” she asked.

Pouting, he shook his head.

Susan took his Woody doll and then lifted the toilet seat for him. “All right, you know what to do,” she said briskly. She left him standing in front of the toilet. “And I don’t want any more screaming or crying. I’ve just about had it, mister.”

“You’re mean!” Mattie retorted.

“Yes, you have the meanest mother in the world,” Susan shot back. She retreated toward the sink and unloaded Woody, her wet purse, and the wet bag of food on the orange Formica countertop. The half-crushed drink container was only a quarter-full now, and the plastic lid had come undone. “Shit,” she muttered.

“You said a swear!” Mattie called from the stall.

Someone knocked on the women’s room door. “Hey, you know,” the man said loudly. “I was just trying to help!”

Leaning over the sink, Susan took a deep breath. “Yes, thank you!” she called back. “We’re fine in here! You can go now, thank you!”

She waited for a response. But there was none. She tossed the soggy bag of food and what was left of her drink into the trash. With a paper towel, she dabbed the front of her pullover. Then she shoved Woody inside her purse. Maybe she’d overreacted with that man. But the guy had unnerved her. And she wasn’t about to entrust her son to this stranger. Her older sister, Judy, claimed she was way overprotective with Matt. Maybe that was true, but she had good reason to be—considering what had happened eighteen months ago. Susan still hadn’t completely recovered from it. She doubted that she ever would.

She paused to listen for a tinkling noise in the stall. Nothing.

“Sweetheart?” she said, eying the dirty mirror over the sink. Behind her, Susan could only see Mattie’s red Converse All Stars and the cuffs of his jeans beneath the stall’s partition. It looked like he was still standing in front of the toilet. But obviously, nothing was happening.

“Honey, can’t you tinkle?” she said. “C’mon, I know you can’t rush these things, but give it a try. We still have a long drive ahead.” She turned the water on full blast in the sink. It was a trick she’d picked up in nursing school. She always used to turn on the faucet in the bathroom when a bladder-shy patient had a problem providing a urine sample. There was something about the sound of running water that helped prod them along. In her early twenties, Susan had been on the staff at Harborview Medical Center, a very stressful job. After she’d married and had Mattie’s older brother, Michael, she’d kept up her nursing credentials part-time, consulting for an insurance company. She’d been able to work out of her home—and look after her babies. Of course, Susan hadn’t realized it then, but that was the best time of her life. She should have savored every minute.

Now Susan was a single mother with one child, and working full time again—for a dermatologist in Ballard. Fridays at Dr. Chang’s office were half days. She usually spent those free afternoons at home, grabbing a nap or just doing absolutely nothing (and loving it) for those two hours alone before picking up Mattie at Yellowbrick Road Day Care. She cherished her Friday afternoon routine and had been a bit reluctant to give it up today. But Allen had been so insistent they take this weekend getaway to Cullen.

So—instead of napping on the sofa right now with the soft Pottery Barn throw blanket over her and Joni Mitchell on the CD player, she was in an Arby’s bathroom, seventy miles from home, doused with Diet Coke and despised by her toddler son. No doubt, she’d also offended that slightly creepy wannabe Good Samaritan, too. Well, tough.

Susan stepped over to the stall and found Mattie standing in front of the toilet with his pants up and fastened. He was idly playing with the toilet paper dispenser. All this time, Susan had thought he’d had a shy bladder. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered, leaning over him. “You aren’t even trying!” Susan unfastened his jeans and yanked them down; then she pulled down his underpants. “Now, tinkle, okay?”

Nothing.

Susan hovered behind him with the stall door open. “C’mon, sweetie, give it a try,” she said, more gently. “Listen to the water in the sink. I know you hate being in the ladies’ room. As soon as you go, we’ll get out of here.” But nothing was happening. At times like this, the kid really needed his dad.

Susan was about to throw in the towel and pull up his pants. That was when she heard the restroom door yawn open. A woman with her little girl had just stepped into the lavatory. Mattie saw them, too. He let out a shriek, and then so did the frightened little girl. Their screams reverberated within the tiled walls of the small bathroom. Mattie kept crying—screeching angrily—while Susan fastened his pants back up and led him toward the restroom door. All the while, she apologized to the woman and her startled daughter. Mattie continued to scream and squirm as she hustled him toward the restaurant exit. Susan figured everyone in the Arby’s probably thought she was kidnapping him.

She half expected to see her wannabe Good Samaritan among the patrons, sitting at another table—perhaps trying to hit on another woman, some young mother.

But Susan didn’t see him at all. There was no sign of him in the parking lot either.

She strapped Mattie in his booster seat on the back passenger side of her old-as-the-hills but reliable red Toyota. It had a bent antenna, and the indicator handle easily screwed off the steering column—a discovery she’d made while nervously twisting it during a traffic jam. But the old car got her around just fine. Besides, she couldn’t afford a new one.

She gave Mattie his Woody doll, and he started to calm down. He let her wipe away his tears with a Kleenex from her purse.

“Is he coming with us?” Mattie asked.

“Is who coming with us?” Susan was crouched down by the open back door of her car.

“The man we ate lunch with,” Mattie said. “Is he coming, too?”

She shook her head. “No, he’s not coming with us, sweetheart,” she said. “I don’t even know him. We won’t be seeing him again…. God willing.” The last part, she muttered underher breath. “Fingers and toes!” she announced, straightening up. Then she closed the car door.

As she walked around to the driver’s side, Susan took one last look around the parking lot. There was still no sign of the man anywhere. She ducked inside the car, started up the engine, and pulled out of the lot.

She didn’t look back.

“I have to go potty.”

Hands on the steering wheel, Susan glanced in the rearview mirror at Mattie. He’d set aside his book and now squirmed in his booster seat. The breeze through the partially open window made a mess of his hair. He impatiently tapped his feet against the back of the passenger seat.

“Do you have to go number one or number two?” Susan asked.

“Both,” he whined urgently. “I have to go bad!”

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered under her breath. Susan gazed beyond the dirty, bug-splattered windshield at the road ahead. The narrow highway weaved through a dark forest and beside a creek. At times, the road took her along the edge of a cliff with only a short guardrail to prevent her from careening into the gulch. Every once in a while, the late-afternoon sun would peek through the tall trees and momentarily blind her.

After his hissy fit in Arby’s, Mattie had turned quiet. By the time they’d reached Cullen—with its picturesque harbor, quaint shops, and galleries—he’d been mesmerized by the scenery. Checking a MapQuest printout on the passenger seat, Susan had followed the directions here to Carroll Creek Road, north of the town center. That had been a mere fifteen minutes ago, and she’d asked Mattie if he needed to go to the bathroom.

“Naw,” he’d muttered, distracted by the boats in Skagit Bay.

Now he acted as if he were about to explode.

Along the road, there were several signs with symbols that warned of FALLING ROCKS, CROSSING DEER, STEEP IN-CLINES, and HAIRPIN TURNS. Watching for all these hazards, Susan kept glancing back at Mattie. She wondered what the symbol might look like warning drivers of a toddler passenger about to poop in his pants. “Honey, try to hold on,” she urged him, tightening her grip on the wheel. “Allen said there’s a mini-mart on the way to the house. I’m sure it’s coming up soon. I’ll bet they have a bathroom. Have you—have you been looking for deer, sweetheart? The signs say a lot of Bambi’s relatives and friends live here in these woods.”

And here’s hoping your frazzled mother doesn’t plow into one of them, Susan thought.

She’d never gotten ahold of Allen. Her fiancé had driven up earlier that morning to open the lakeside rental house and make arrangements for a special “surprise.” So far, the only real surprise was the lack of cell phone reception, probably because of all the mountains and trees. Susan hoped he was waiting for her at the house right now, because she didn’t have the key.

Biting her lip, she glanced at the MapQuest directions again. They claimed it was 5.1 miles on Carroll Creek Road before the turnoff for the rental house on Birch Way. Susan was beginning to wonder if she’d missed it. She’d passed several turnoffs—mostly dirt roads or one-lane paved arteries. Maybe one of them had been Birch Way. For all she knew, she could be headed deeper into these godforsaken woods.

Susan had had some initial misgivings about this trip, but kept them to herself. Allen had seemed so bent on going—and quite suddenly, too. He’d only started talking about the trip a few days ago, saying they needed a break from the city and Cullen was the perfect spot. The strange part was he didn’t seem very eager about it, just determined.

Susan went on the Internet to learn more about where they were spending their weekend. The first few search results were from the City of Cullen, the Washington State Tourist Bureau, and The Seattle Times’s “Best Places to Visit in the Pacific Northwest.” According to the articles, Cullen was a terrific destination for sailing, fishing, camping, and hiking. Charming shops, art galleries, and restaurants made the town center a must for visitors, who could also view the eighteen-foot bronze sea lion statue in historic Harbor Park. And Cullen was a haven for antique collectors. The town’s lovely inns and B&B’s were the perfect romantic getaway for travelers visiting the nearby casino and vineyard.

Susan found another link on the Google listing for Cullen, Washington. The article was a year old:

Missing Bellingham Woman Assumed Dead – Bellingham Herald October 7, 2008…Local police discovered Matusik’s abandoned car on Timberlake Drive in Cullen…www.bellinghamherald/news/100408–22k

It wasn’t what Susan had hoped to find in her search for information about Cullen; nevertheless, she clicked on the link to the article.

Beneath the headline, there was a photo of the missing woman, a twenty-seven-year-old bank clerk named Wendy Matusik. The snapshot must have been taken at a party, because someone—cropped out of the picture—had their arm around the chubby, pretty-faced, curly-haired blonde. From her bright smile, she looked like she was having a great time.

MISSING EIGHT WEEKS, the caption said. Wendy Matusik of Bellingham, shown here at an engagement party for a friend. Matusik disappeared on Friday, August 8, while driving to Arlington for a bridal shower.

Susan read the long, detailed article with interviews that profiled the missing woman and examined her last known hours. The author of the piece obviously wanted to bolster the public interest in Wendy—and keep the search for her going. The first reference to Cullen caught Susan’s eye in the second paragraph: Local police discovered Matusik’s abandoned car on Timberlake Drive in Cullen. One of the rear tires was flat. Wendy Matusik was last seen that Friday afternoon around 2:30 at Rosie’s Roadside Sundries in Cullen. She was alone….

The journalist had interviewed the store clerk, who said that Wendy had bought a Diet Coke, an eight-ounce bag of Lay’s barbecue-flavored potato chips, and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum.

Wendy’s best friend, a Seattle resident, Margarita Donavan, had also been interviewed for the article. She mentioned that Wendy had a tabby named Chowder. She was a crossword puzzle fiend and had recently joined Weight Watchers. She wanted to lose fifteen pounds in time for her friend’s wedding. Margarita was getting married in October, and Wendy was to have been her maid of honor.

That Friday afternoon she’d planned to meet Margarita at Angel of the Winds Casino in Arlington. Wendy was throwing an early, unofficial bachelorette party for her pal. The other two bridesmaids had agreed to join them at the casino hotel the following day.

She’d left a voice mail for Margarita that afternoon, and her friend had saved it: Hey, Margarita, it’s moi, and I-5 is insane. So I’m taking the scenic backwoods route down. I’m going around Cullen, and I’ll be at least an hour late. Have a wine spritzer, and start the nickel slots without me. I’ll give you another update as I get closer to Arlington. I don’t think you’ll be able to call me because the cell phone reception here is awful. Talk to you soon!

That was the last Margarita Donavan ever heard from her friend.

At ten o’clock that night, during a routine patrol, Cullen’s sheriff, Stuart Fischer, noticed the abandoned car on the shoulder by Timberlake Drive. The sheriff said his headlights caught sight of a raccoon lazily stepping out of the vehicle’s driver’s side. The door had been left open—and the interior light was still on, but dimming, due to the drain on the car’s battery.

Sheriff Fischer found a Diet Coke in the dashboard’s cup holder—along with a map and an open bag of potato chips on the front passenger seat. The raccoon had eaten all but a few chips, still scattered on the seat and the car floor.

The sheriff said he didn’t find a purse or any car keys. But in the trunk, authorities later found a small suitcase. The article pointed out that among the clothes in the overnight bag was a black cardigan with a colorful spade, heart, club, and diamond design. According to Margarita Donavan, Wendy always wore the cardigan when she gambled. It was her lucky sweater.

Susan had gotten a memory jolt reading the last three paragraphs of the story. And those memories were from a very scary time:

According to Cullen’s Sheriff Fischer, “It’s been ten years since we’ve had a missing persons case like this one.”

On September 3, 1998, a Bellevue resident, Stella Syms, 38, was abducted from her summer home in Cullen, while vacationing there with her 8-year-old son. Syms’ body was discovered 36 hours later in some woods near her home. She had been strangled. Syms is believed to be the seventh known victim in the Mama’s Boy murders that plagued the Seattle area from November 1997 through October 2000. The vicious serial killer is believed to have strangled at least 13 women, all mothers who left behind sons. Mama’s Boy was never captured, and his identity remains a mystery.

“They keep searching the area over and over for clues to Wendy’s disappearance,” said longtime Cullen resident, the Rev. George Camper of First Episcopal Church. “These are the same woods, streams, and ravines the police were combing ten years ago for Stella Syms. It’s hard not to remember the Mama’s Boy slaying. But no one wants to say it out loud. No one even wants to think something similar has happened….”

Hands tight on the steering wheel, Susan watched the winding road ahead. She remembered Mama’s Boy, too, and shuddered. He’d killed most of his victims that first year, 1998, when Susan had been a new mom. In fact, her son, Michael, was the same age as the baby boy left behind when the fourth victim was abducted in Volunteer Park. That literally hit too close to home for Susan, Walt, and Michael. They lived five blocks away from the park.

Susan had read The Seattle Times’s accounts of each new murder, the endless speculation from police and forensic psychologists, and the warnings. She remembered the widely released police-artist’s sketch of the suspect—based on vague descriptions from the surviving sons and other witnesses. The result was a creepy half-photo, half-cartoon of a man with dark hair, thin lips, and a dead-eyed stare. It gave Susan chills to look at it. The image burned in her head. Some nights, she imagined a stranger with that stark, caricature-like face quietly sneaking into their home while she was looking in on the baby. She could almost see him, with those cold, lifeless eyes, glaring at her from the doorway of Michael’s nursery.

By the end of 1998, he’d killed eight women. He’d broken into the homes of two of them. Walt installed a home security system and fit dead-bolt locks on both the front and back doors of their duplex. He insisted she buy a cell phone and got her a small canister of industrial-strength pepper spray. Susan wasn’t the only one taking precautions. Seattle mothers armed themselves with handguns, switchblades, or knitting needles. Police encouraged women to have whistles or alarms on their key chains whenever they stepped out with their sons. Playground dates became group excursions. Police beefed up security at playgrounds throughout the area—ironically, more for the safety of the mothers than their children. Whenever Susan needed to go somewhere with little Michael, she called her neighbor, who was also a new mom, and they went out as a team.

It should have been an idyllic time for Susan, with her first baby. In so many ways, it was. She felt lucky to work at home with the part-time consulting-nurse job. Walt was a great dad, very doting. He was an engineer for Boeing, and every afternoon, when he returned home from work, he’d look after Michael so she could have a run, go to the store, or just steal some alone time. Susan remembered many an afternoon, handing the screaming baby to Walt before he even made it through the front door.

Walt. If someone had ever told her she’d end up marrying a man who was follicularly challenged, she would have told them they were crazy. She usually liked a guy with a nice, full head of hair. But Walt was practically bald on top. He had a handsome, chiseled face—with intense blue eyes and thick, dark brows. Both of his sons had inherited his long eyelashes. Walt was a fitness nut, and he had the lean, wiry body to prove it. As soon as Michael could sit up, Walt regularly took him out in the special jogger’s stroller—or he set him in the little canopied attachment that trailed after his bike. Susan couldn’t do that. She couldn’t risk going out alone with her son.

She remembered one case in particular in November 1999, because she’d planned to take Michael to his first movie, a matinee of The Borrowers. But then she read about Dianne Rickards, thirty-nine-year-old Bellevue stay-at-home mom, who took her seven-year-old son to see the same movie at Factoria Cinema. During the film, she left her coat on the seat and went to use the restroom. Dianne’s son never saw her again. In the pocket of his mother’s coat, police found two slightly banged-up Matchbox trucks. Dianne’s son remembered a man sitting behind them, but he’d never gotten a look at his face in the darkened theater. An engineer with the Burlington Northern Railroad spotted Dianne’s bruised and battered body in a marsh beside the railroad tracks in Kent two days later.

At Walt’s urging, Susan postponed taking Michael to the movie. Mama’s Boy often waited just long enough between victims so that mothers let down their guards—and then he’d strike again. And everyone would be on edge once more. Sometimes, Susan got fed up always looking over her shoulder, and she’d resolve not to let this creep scare her. But then little things would happen—like someone calling and hanging up, or a piece of trash that mysteriously made its way into their backyard—and suddenly she’d feel hunted.

One solace: at least none of the victims’ sons had been harmed, not physically anyway. But Susan often worried that if anything were to happen to her, Michael wouldn’t have any memory of her.

It was strange, after all the precautions they’d taken, they still couldn’t escape tragedy. But it was Mattie who couldn’t remember his father or older brother. Susan kept plenty of framed photos of them at home to help her son feel connected to them. She didn’t want to lose that connection either.

She still needed it—even now, with Allen in her life.

“You know, maybe Allen will rent us a boat tomorrow,” Susan said, with a glance at Mattie’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “We could go sailing. Your daddy used to take us sailing all the time. Do you remember going out on a boat with Mikey and Daddy?”

Her son let out a long sigh. “Mom, I gotta go now!”

“Okay, honey, okay.” Biting her lip, Susan slowed down for another curve in the tree-lined road. She considered taking him out to the woods and letting him go there. But she thought about Wendy Matusik, and the notion of venturing into those woods with Mattie right now gave her the willies.

Wendy’s wasn’t the only recent missing-person case in Cullen. In her Web search, Susan had found a link to a brief story about a thirty-six-year-old woman from Vancouver, British Columbia, who had been camping with friends in Cullen earlier in the summer. Monica Fitch had gone hiking in the woods by Skagit Bay one morning and never come back. A weary rescue worker on the unsolved case said he believed Monica might have attempted to go swimming in the bay and drowned.

None of those “Best Places to Visit” articles that Susan read had mentioned any casualties among Cullen’s hikers and campers.

After another curve in the road, she noticed an intersection up ahead. At the corner stood a slightly run-down, one-story cedar shaker with an illuminated sign over the front porch. ROSIE’S ROADSIDE SUNDRIES, it said between twin Coca-Cola logos.

“Hallelujah,” she sighed. “Hold on just a little longer, sweetie. We’ll stop in here. I’m sure they have a bathroom. That’s my good boy….”

As Susan pulled into the gravel lot, she noticed a neon sign for Rainier Beer in the front window. A sandwich board by the screen door advertised:

Gourmet Deli & Snacks! – ATM

Beer & Wine – Fresh Coffee – Ice Cold Drinks

Camping Supplies & Live Bait

RESTROOMS

“Thank God,” Susan whispered as she read the last line.

Also on the porch, on the other side of the door, was an old-fashioned, coin-operated bucking bronco for the kiddies to ride. Someone had tacked a faded, weather-beaten handwritten placard on the front porch post: THIS IS A KID-FRIENDLY ZONE—WATCH WHEN YOU BACK OUT!

Susan parked beside a dark green Honda Civic, the only other vehicle in the small lot. Switching off the ignition, she glanced up at the illuminated sign again and remembered the Bellingham Herald news article: Wendy Matusik was last seen that Friday afternoon around 2:30 at Rosie’s Roadside Sundries in Cullen. She was alone….

As she helped Mattie out of his booster seat in back, Susan glanced at her wristwatch: 2:30. And Friday, too, she thought, hesitating for a moment.

She told herself she was being silly. “C’mon, sweetie,” she announced. “Let’s leave Woody in the car. He can sit out this little excursion. I’ll crack a window for him….”

Once Mattie climbed out of the car, he made a beeline for the bucking bronco on the store’s front porch. Clutching the front of his pants with one hand, he bounced on his heels and pointed to the coin-operated pony ride. “Can I, Mom? Can I, please?”

“First, the bathroom,” she said, shutting the car door. “Then you can take on the mechanical bull.” Stepping up to the front porch, she took Mattie by the hand and pushed open the screen door. Inside Rosie’s Roadside Sundries, it smelled like stale coffee and popcorn.

Two teenagers—a pretty brunette and her gangly, goofy-cute boyfriend—wandered up the aisle with shopping baskets. Susan guessed they were both about eighteen. “We’re getting this,” the young man declared, waving a box of Cap’n Crunch at his girlfriend. “I have breakfast with the captain every morning.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Do you sleep with him too?” She tossed a box of Pop-Tarts into her basket. “God, you’re so retarded—” The slim, pixie-haired girl stopped and grimaced with embarrassment when she locked eyes with Susan and Mattie.

The boy let out a laugh and nudged her. “Hey, nice talk, Moira, real sensitive….”

Susan ignored them and headed up another aisle with Mattie in tow. The shelves were full of slightly dusty canned goods, from pork n’ beans to corned beef hash to Chef Boyardee—all stuff that could be heated over a campfire. There was Cheez Whiz and Saltines and Progresso and Campbell’s Soup cans. The store had old hardwood floors and somewhat poor overhead lighting—all the better not to see the dust or the expiration dates on the merchandise. On one side of the store, there was a movie-theater-type popcorn maker, a microwave oven, two kinds of coffee brewing, a Coca-Cola fountain, and a heated display case with rotating spits that kept hot dogs and corn dogs warm.

Pulling Mattie by the hand, Susan headed up to the counter. Beside the register and a lottery ticket display stood a plump, kind-faced woman with bright orange hair that had to be a wig. Susan guessed she was around seventy years old. “Excuse me,” Susan whispered to the woman. “Where’s the restroom, please?”

“Oh, this looks like an emergency. Am I right?” The woman didn’t even wait for Susan to respond. She motioned for her to step behind the counter. “C’mon, let’s take the shortcut, honey. It’s right here out back.”

“Thanks very much,” Susan said, following her. Between the counter and the back door, they passed by a little play area with a mat, some Fisher-Price toys, and a multicolored, plastic mini jungle gym for toddlers. Mattie stopped dead in his tracks to gaze at it. He was still clutching himself in front.

“C’mon, sweetie,” Susan urged him.

The woman waddled to the back door, opened it, and looked back at them. “Oh, that’s for my grandson when he visits,” she explained. She smiled at Mattie. “He’s just about your age. You can play here, too, honey—after your bathroom break.” She pushed open the screen door. “You can come back in this way, too, if you’d like. I’ll leave the door open for you.”

“Thanks again, you’re a lifesaver,” Susan said, prodding Mattie out the doorway.

They hurried up a short dirt path, past a Dumpster and some recycling bins, to a chalet-style, white stucco hut. Susan noticed a paved pathway that wound around from the front of the store, intersecting with this trail. There was a bicycle rack and a phone station at the junction point. The hut housed the men’s restroom on one side and the women’s on the other. Pulling Mattie by the hand, she headed toward the women’s side.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” he shrieked. He must have noticed the international women’s symbol by the door. He stopped and tried to sit down on the ground. “Don’t take me in there!”

“We’re not going through this again,” Susan hissed, hoisting him up to his feet. “Now, c’mon, please—”

“No! I don’t want to go in there!” he protested. He tried to wriggle free from her grasp. He started crying. “Please, Mom! Please! I want to go in the boys’ room!”

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered. She took a deep breath. “Okay, fine, fine. The boys’ room it is. I haven’t got time for the pain.” She led Mattie to the other side of the little chalet hut. He went back to holding himself in front. Susan paused at the men’s room doorway and cracked it open a few inches. “Excuse me!” she called. “Is anyone in here?”

“Yeah! I am!” someone answered.

Susan could hear water running—and then, a hand-dryer roaring. She stepped back from the door and glanced down at Mattie, who was doing an I-have-to-pee dance. “Hold on, sweetie. I can’t take you in there just yet.”

The door swung open, and a handsome young man almost bumped into her. He drew back for a moment. “Um, excuse me….”

He was about eighteen. Susan guessed those two kids in the store were his friends. His short, dark brown hair was messy and wind-blown—and somehow looked perfect. It gave his boy-next-door good-looks a sexy edge. About six feet tall, he had a lean, solid build. He wore a leather jacket over a black T-shirt and olive cargo pants. For a moment, he blocked the doorway and gaped at her.

“I’m sorry, but is there anyone else in there?” Susan asked. “I want to take my son in.”

“Oh, go for it,” he said, nodding. He stepped aside. “If you’d like, I’ll stand guard out here, make sure no one goes in.”

“Thanks a lot.” Susan started to lead Mattie past him.

He touched her arm. “Um, someone wrote a nasty message on the stall divider,” he whispered. “You might want to—avert his gaze.”

“Thanks,” Susan said. Then she took Mattie inside the men’s room. The young man hadn’t told her that the place stank or that someone had thrown a roll of toilet paper—now yellow—in one of the urinals. But thanks to the young man’s warning, she managed to distract Mattie so he didn’t see “SUCK MY BIG DICK” carved on the wooden stall divider. Mattie was just learning to read, too, so she was grateful for the warning. While Mattie did his business, Susan thought about Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, saying how he wanted to go around erasing all the Fuck yous so little children wouldn’t see them. It was sweet of that young man to warn her about the graffiti, sweet of him to stand guard, too.

After all that panic and drama, Mattie didn’t go number two. He didn’t even tinkle much. Susan kept his attention diverted from the stall divider while he washed his hands at the sink. When they stepped out of the men’s room, she found the young man standing by the door.

“Thanks, you’re very nice,” Susan told him. She nudged Mattie. “Can you say thank you?”

“Thank you!” Mattie said, squinting up at the young man. “Do you play football?”

He smiled at Mattie. “I’m on my high school’s lacrosse team. It’s almost like football, but much cooler. Are you a Huskies fan?” He nodded at Mattie’s sweatshirt.

“The Huskies rule!” Mattie announced, though he’d never seen a Huskies game. It was just something he’d picked up from the other boys at Yellowbrick Road Day Care.

The young man smiled at Susan. “You from Seattle?”

She nodded. “Yes. We rented this house for the weekend, and I’m not exactly sure where it is. Are you from around here?”

“No, I’m from Seattle, too. But my family has a cabin not far from here. I’m staying there with some friends. Anyway, I know the area. Where are you headed? Maybe I can help.”

“Birch Way,” Susan replied. “It’s a house on the water, number twenty-two Birch Way.”

The young man just stared at her. His smile faded.

“Do you—do you know where that is?” she asked, a bit puzzled by his sudden, somber reaction.

He nodded glumly and cleared his throat. “Sure. Just keep going north on Carroll Creek Road for about fifteen minutes. Birch Way will be on your left. Look for a red mailbox. Number twenty-two is the only house on that road. It’s pretty isolated.” He seemed to work up a smile. “I’m one of your closest neighbors. My family’s cabin is a little over a mile away.”

“So this house, is it nice?” Susan asked. “Is it okay? I mean, the way you looked at me when I mentioned the address—”

“No, it’s fine,” he said coolly, cutting her off. “There are a lot of rental houses around here, and that’s one of the loveliest.”

Susan gave him a puzzled smile. It struck her as odd that this high school lacrosse player would use the word loveliest. It seemed rehearsed, as if he had been told to describe the house that way to people. Susan automatically tightened her grip on Mattie’s little hand.

“Well, I should take off,” he said after a moment. He glanced toward the gravel lot at the front of Rosie’s Roadside Sundries. “My friends are probably waiting for me. Nice talking to you. Enjoy your weekend.” He smiled at Mattie, made a fist and shook it. “Go, Huskies, right, dude?”

“Go, Huskies!” Mattie enthusiastically agreed, shaking his little fist, too.

Susan watched the young man retreat up the pathway, toward the parking lot in front of the store. She could hear his friends talking, and the girl laughed about something. As Susan retreated toward the store’s back entrance, she heard car doors shutting and the motor starting up, and then the sound of gravel under tires.

Inside Rosie’s Roadside Sundries, the nice woman with the Lucille Ball hair—who turned out to be Rosie herself—let Mattie run wild in the small play area. Susan picked up a few things for the weekend. Allen had probably already stocked the house with groceries and supplies. But Susan figured she ought to give Rosie her business, after they’d used her bathroom and play area.

“I’m staying the weekend at this house on the water,” Susan told Rosie at the counter. The plump older woman was ringing up her items. “It’s—um, Twenty-two Birch Way,” Susan said. “Do you know it?”

“Oh, yes, that’s a very nice house,” Rosie answered, momentarily distracted. She donned a pair of cat’s-eye glasses dangling from a chain around her neck to read the price sticker on a box of Ritz crackers. She kept them on while totaling up the sale. “You’ll like it there, hon. That’ll be twenty-one-oh-five.”

Mattie didn’t want to leave the play area, but Rosie assured him he was welcome to come back and play there any time. She opened her till drawer, fished out a quarter, and handed it to Susan. “That’s for a ride on Seabiscuit outside—for my new little buddy there.”

With a bit of prompting, Mattie thanked Rosie, and then they headed out of the store. The coin-operated pony was pretty tame, rocking Mattie very gently. Still, Susan put down her grocery bag to keep ahold of his arm while he rode the pony. Mattie squealed with delight. He’d only been on the pony for half a minute when Susan noticed a red MINI Cooper turning into the store lot. The car pulled up a few spaces away from hers and parked.

“Gimme up, gimme up!” Mattie squealed. He must have meant giddyup.

Susan turned to him and smiled. “Pretty fun, huh, sweetie? Yippee-eye-oh…” She glanced over toward the car once again. The driver hadn’t gotten out of the front seat yet. Susan couldn’t see him because the late afternoon sun reflected on the windshield. But then some clouds moved in front of the sun, and Susan noticed the driver, sitting alone in the car. She saw his handsome face, the dark hair parted to one side, and the rugged five o’clock shadow. He stared back at her, unsmiling.

It was just a few fleeting seconds, and then the glare on the windshield wiped his image away. Susan could no longer see him, but she still felt his eyes on her. She remembered his cocky grin as he’d sat down next to them forty-five minutes ago. Well, you certainly have him well-trained in case you’re ever separated, he’d said. You folks are a long way from home.

“Yippee!” Mattie sang out, kicking the toy pony’s flanks. “Gimme up! Gimme up!”

Susan tightened her grip on his arm. “Um, honey, that’s enough for now,” she said, pulling him off the pony in midride. “We need to get a move on. Allen’s probably waiting—”

“NOOOOOOO!” he screamed, his legs kicking in the air.

“Enough of that,” she said firmly. Susan managed to grab her grocery bag while wrestling with him. “The pony needs to rest up. He’ll give you two rides tomorrow.” She carried Mattie to the car.

Susan hated turning her back to the stranger in the MINI Cooper, but she had to put down her bag and strap Mattie in his booster seat. Her hands shook as she fumbled with his seat belt. All the while, she listened for a telltale click of the door handle of the car behind her. Any minute now, she expected to see a shadow creeping up on her and Mattie.

“Okay, sweetie, fingers and toes,” Susan said, a bit out of breath. She shut his door, then glanced back at the red sports car. She could see the man, still at the wheel, his head slightly tilted in her direction. Part of her just wanted to scream at him to leave her and her son alone. But instead, Susan hurried around to the driver’s side of her car. Tossing the bag on the passenger seat, she scooted behind the wheel, then shut her door and locked it. Her hands were still trembling as she turned the key in the ignition and shifted into reverse. Then she backed out of the space, turned the car around, and headed out of the lot.

Speeding down Carroll Creek Road, Susan checked her rearview mirror several times. The MINI Cooper hadn’t moved. Finally she took a curve in the tree-lined road, and she couldn’t see the store anymore.

Susan started to wonder if she’d overreacted back there. The man really hadn’t done anything—except come on as overly friendly and solicitous at the Arby’s earlier. Yes, he’d shown up at the store, but fifteen minutes after her. Was he really following her? Maybe he was a local.

Something buckled under the car. Susan glanced in her rearview mirror to see if she’d hit a piece of metal on the road—or had lost some part of the car. But the road was clear behind her.

The car suddenly rocked and wobbled as if it were going over a series of potholes. Biting her lip, Susan clutched the steering wheel. It vibrated from the rough ride. She nervously glanced at the driver’s side mirror—shaking so much the reflection was just a blur.

Mattie was jostled in his booster seat. “Gimme up! Gimme up!”

Easing up on the gas, Susan steered over to the side of the road. The car seemed to be limping. It felt like she had a flat tire. “Oh, I really don’t need this now,” she muttered to herself, a pang of dread in her stomach.

She switched on the emergency blinkers, cut the ignition, and then glanced back at Mattie. “Well, that was pretty exciting, wasn’t it?” she asked.

Wide-eyed, he nodded and put his thumb in his mouth.

“I’m just going to take a look at the damage, okay, sweetheart?” she said. “I’ll be right outside where you can see me.” Climbing out of the car, Susan checked around the back. The rear tire on the driver’s side was flat; the hubcap pressed against the gravel roadside.

“Oh, swell,” she murmured. She remembered that article again: Local police discovered Matusik’s abandoned car on Timberlake Drive in Cullen. One of the rear tires was flat….

Even though she knew it wouldn’t work, Susan took out her cell phone and tried dialing Allen. Her hands were shaking. No signal available came up on the tiny screen.

With a nervous sigh, she popped open the trunk and started to unload their suitcases so she could get the spare tire, jack, and other equipment. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty road behind her.

The narrow highway curved around a wall of tall evergreens, but there was a gap between some of the trees, and she saw another little stretch of road—and a car. Susan was too far away to see the color or the make of the car.

But it was coming her way.

He watched her unload the jack, wrench, and spare tire from the trunk of her old Toyota. All the while, Susan Blanchette kept looking over her shoulder.

He stood behind a tree in the woods, about thirty feet away, snacking on a Three Musketeers bar.

He’d given her the flat tire, his way of welcoming her to Cullen—and an ominous start to this weekend he’d planned for her. Susan had no idea he was calling all the shots. He knew Susan would be coming to Cullen before she did.

And he knew she would die.

He’d been waiting for Susan and had kept a lookout for her red Toyota—license plate: MLF901. While she’d been in Rosie’s Roadside Sundries, he’d set a small device under her rear left tire. It was a foot-long spiked metal strip—a section cut from a long grid that rental car companies used at their lot exits and entrances to prevent theft. Those spiked strips instantly punctured tires and disabled cars. His smaller, portable version perforated only one tire, but it got the same job done. It just took a bit longer for the tire to deflate.

In fact, last year, Wendy Matusik had driven at least two miles from the grocery store before all the air left her back tire. He hadn’t gone to any great lengths to hide the perforating device afterward. He’d merely tossed it on the ground by the cellar storage doors on the shady side of Rosie’s. And there it remained for days—much to his amusement—while state police combed the area for clues to Wendy’s disappearance.

The Wendy episode had been unplanned, a mere impulse. He kept her alive for a few days until he got bored with her. It was the same with that hiker, Monica, who was a bit too mannish for his tastes. After the initial capture, the thrill had worn off pretty quickly. As a kid, when he’d grown tired of a toy, he would smash it with a hammer, and there was always a bit of regret afterward. Except with Wendy and Monica, there were no regrets after he’d slit their throats. Those were departures from the Mama’s Boy killings. All of them had been strangled. And neither Wendy nor Monica had been mothers—not to his knowledge anyway.

He finished up his candy bar and watched Susan struggle to loosen the tire’s lug nuts. He shoved the Three Musketeers wrapper in his jacket pocket.

He couldn’t imagine growing tired of Susan. He’d been watching her for weeks now, and she continued to fascinate him. He’d seen her coming and going—sometimes wearing her white nurse’s lab coat—at Dr. Chang’s office. He often parked across the street when she picked up Matthew at Yellowbrick Road Day Care. And sometimes he watched from outside her bedroom window as she climbed into bed alone. She wore a man’s T-shirt to bed. She only wore a nightgown when her fiancé spent the night.

Of course, he knew her fiancé’s whereabouts most of the time, too.

But he had become far more interested in studying Susan. He knew the whole layout of her first-floor duplex on Prospect Avenue in Capitol Hill. He’d even broken in once. He’d gotten so close to her, but in her home, he could actually touch her clothes, her shoes, and her panties. He smelled her hair on her pillow—and thought about how he could touch her and smell her as she was tied up. He could do whatever he wanted to her. And maybe after he killed her, he would even taste her blood.

He’d been looking forward to this weekend for quite some time. He had to be patient. He couldn’t rush it.

When he’d spotted that teenage girl outside Rosie’s a few minutes ago, he’d thought about going after her, too—just something to tide him over until he had Susan. He’d heard of some guys who masturbated before a big date—to take the edge off. Killing that cute teenage girl before starting in on Susan might serve the same purpose. It was something to think about.

On the shoulder of Carroll Creek Road, Susan took her young son out of his car seat in the back. “All right, sweetie,” she told him, handing him a wrench. “I need your help with these thingamajigs! I can’t get them unstuck!” Hovering over him, she showed him how to unscrew the lug nuts she’d already loosened. The kid seemed to get a real kick out of helping.

Watching them, he had to admit, it was pretty damn cute.

Thirty feet away, Susan stood bent over her son by the rear bumper of the old Toyota. Her brown hair was blowing in the wind. Soon he would be close enough to touch it.

And soon, before the end of this weekend, her little boy would be an orphan.