All the Beautiful Lies(68)

“You okay here by yourself?” the officer said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Lock the door after I leave, and don’t open it for anyone who’s not a police officer, okay? And call immediately if you think something’s strange, okay? We’ll be swinging by all night for periodic checks. You’re going to be fine.”

She thanked him, and he left. She showered, then got into bed, thinking there would be no way she could fall asleep. But after texting her mother and brother about her arrival time for the next day, she curled into the fetal position, tucking one hand under her head, and the other, wrist turned, between her breasts—the only way she could fall asleep—and within five minutes she was out.

She was awakened at just past five by a soft, tentative rapping on the door. She opened her eyes, emerging from a dream in which she was swatting at a bee’s nest with a tennis racket, and, for a moment, had no idea where she was. Then she was up, and moving toward the door, worried suddenly that something else—something bad—had happened.

She cracked the venetian blind and peered out into the hazy light of morning. She thought there’d be a police officer there, but instead, it was the old man from the hospital, the one who’d arrived with Harry’s stepmother. He saw her through the window, grinned, and waved, but with a little too much eagerness. Her stomach buckled. Something must have happened to Harry. She cracked the door, aware that she was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt.

“Hello?” she said.

“Caitlin McGowan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sorry to show up like this . . . Harry sent me. He’s, uh . . .”

“Is he okay?”

“Fine, fine, we think, but he very much wants to see you, and so, I came. I’m John, by the way. I work with Harry at the bookstore.”

“Oh, right,” Caitlin said, and opened the door a little bit more as the man inched forward. Did he want to come into the room? “I’ll go straight there as soon as I get dressed,” she said.

“Oh, right,” he said, moving back a little. “I’ll let you do your thing. You don’t need a ride?”

“No, I know where it is. I’ll be right there.”

Caitlin almost shut the door, but not wanting to be rude, she opened it a little bit wider, and said, “Thank you, John, for coming to get me. I appreciate it.”

He was still smiling, but his eyes were darting quickly from Caitlin’s face to the frame of the door and back, almost as though he were measuring something. “Okay, then,” she said, all her instincts telling her to slam the door. Instead, she began to push it gently shut, but before it closed, the man shoved against the door and caused her to stagger back, surprised, as he swung something at her and hit her in the throat. She took a ragged, painful breath, and he stepped inside and swung again. She reared back, and something hard clipped her nose. Next thing she knew she was on her back, the world swimming before her eyes.

She heard the door of the motel room shut, and then he was crouching above her. He touched her face, and she flinched. He said, “Did he see me?”

“I don’t . . . Who?”

Like a slightly exasperated teacher, he said, slowly, “Did Harry see me last night? Did he tell you who it was he saw?”

Blood was flowing from Caitlin’s nose and pooling into her mouth. She tried to scream and began to choke.

The old man was looking over his shoulder, then he turned back, and said, “We’ll talk later.”

For one moment she actually, blissfully, thought he was going to leave her, but he lifted his arm. She tried to scream again, and then it was blackness.





Chapter 28





Then



Killing Bill had been easy.

Jake Richter, going by John Richards now, had asked him where he’d been walking recently, and Bill, ever the explainer, told him how most days he walked down to Kennewick Beach then followed the cliff path along to Kennewick Harbor, then back home.

“You see the same people every day?”

“No, I hardly see anyone. Except in July and August, but then I usually do a different walk.”

A few days later, on a Wednesday, Bill asked Jake if he minded staying a little longer and doing the closing up. He was going to try to get a walk in before it got too dark. Jake had told him it wasn’t a problem, then followed Bill outside into the cool evening and watched as he made his way down toward Kennewick Beach. Jake locked the front door and left out the back—in case anyone was looking, even though it was highly doubtful—and took Captain Martin Lane down toward Kennewick Harbor. He walked casually—just out for some fresh air, he kept telling himself—then passed by the Kennewick Inn, its east wing covered by scaffolding while it got a fresh coat of paint before tourist season began.

He found the southern starting point of the cliff walk, realized he was breathing heavily, and slowed his pace. If he timed this right, he’d meet Bill coming from the opposite direction. While walking he fiddled with the homemade cosh in the pocket of his suit pants. He had made it a few days ago by putting a handful of quarters into one of his nylon socks. He hadn’t learned much from his father, but he’d learned how to make a cosh, something his father insisted on carrying in his jacket pocket at all times. His father’s had been filled with ball bearings, but quarters worked almost as well.