Long Time Gone Part 24

"I'm sorry Beverly did that," I said. "It was completely out of line."

"It was cute," Mel returned. "Your grandmother has your best interests at heart."

"Maybe so, but if I were ever going to marry again, I'm perfectly capable of wife-hunting on my own."

"So you've ruled out remarrying?" Mel asked.

Without seeing it coming, I had suddenly been maneuvered into one of those hopeless trick questions-the old "Do I look fat in this?" ploy. It was time to tread very gingerly.

"Pretty much," I said. "My life is fine the way it is."

After an unbearably pregnant pause, Mel said, "Oh." And then later she added, "In that case you should probably take me back to the office so I can get my car."

As the silence between us lengthened, I could see that one way or the other I had screwed up. Mel's feelings seemed to be hurt. Obviously, and as usual, I was at fault. Had I somehow led her on? On previous occasions I had spoken to her with an uncharacteristic candor. Now I could think of nothing to say. Or do. Were her feelings hurt because she was interested in me? That seemed unlikely. She had always been friendly enough, but I hadn't seen anything that bordered on romantic interest. Yes, she had readily agreed to come along when I invited her to accompany me on my questioning excursion with Tom Landreth, but I thought that was because she was interested in helping me with my case, just as I would be in helping with one of hers. After all, we are on the same team.

That's the funny thing about women. You say one thing-at least you think that's what you've done-and it turns out they've turned it into a whole different conversation.

Mel remained silent until I pulled up next to her Beemer in the parking garage. "What time is Elvira's service tomorrow?" she asked.

"In the afternoon-two P.M., I believe. Saint Mark's Cathedral. Why?"

"Are you going?"

"Yes."

"Do you want company?" she asked. "If you get a chance to talk to Raelene after the funeral and want someone along, I suppose I could help out."

That's another thing that's so baffling about women. You don't know where you stand with them. If Mel was mad at me-if I had hurt her feelings-why would she be willing to help me out?

"That would be nice," I said. "Would you like me to come pick you up?"

"No. I think I can locate Saint Mark's Cathedral on my own," she said. "I am a detective, after all."

She got out of my car and walked to her own. I was going to drive away, but then, at the last minute, I decided to go upstairs and pick up the remainder of the phone company information. Barbara had said she'd leave it in my in-box. The office was empty, but the lights were on. I grabbed the envelope and headed back out. To my surprise, Mel's car was still in the parking lot, next to mine. She got out of the car as soon as I walked up.

"I guess I owe you an apology," Mel said. "For making a fool of myself. Just because I'm interested in you doesn't mean the reverse is true. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't mean that it isn't true, either," I said. "Let's just say having my grandmother initiate the proceedings left me more than slightly speechless."

"Oh," she said again. "Okay then. See you tomorrow." And off she went, leaving me to drive home in a state of complete mystification.

In Belltown Terrace, the P-1 parking level is public parking. The gate for that is open daytime hours on weekdays but closed evenings and weekends. Residents have clickers that allow them to open that gate as well as the one at the far end of the P-1 level, which gives access to the lower parking levels that contain the reserved spots for residents.

I pulled into my spot, shut off the lights, and opened the door. As soon as I did, a figure emerged from behind a car two spots away.

"Uncle Beau?"

"Heather!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," she said. "I need to talk."

It was cold in the garage. When I got close enough to her, I could see she was shivering. She looked disheveled. And scared. I stifled all the things I wanted to say to her, like: "Where the h.e.l.l have you been?" "What were you thinking?" and "Do you realize your parents are worried sick?" I didn't have to ask how she had gotten into the building. Obviously she had dodged inside before the gate closed behind some entering or departing vehicle. Once in and by staying hidden behind a parked vehicle, she had remained out of range of Belltown Terrace's scanning security cameras and the watchful eyes of the doorman.

"Come on," I said wearily. "Let's go upstairs and get you warm."

It wasn't until we were inside the elevator lobby that I saw the bruising on her face. "What happened?" I asked.

She bit her swollen lip. Tears welled in her eyes. "I ran away," she said.

This was hardly news. "I know," I said.

She shook her head. Her hennaed hair was knotted and bedraggled. "No," she said. "You don't understand. I ran away from Dillon."

"Is he the one who hit you?"

Heather nodded. "He wanted me to go with him," she said. "To Canada. He said we had to leave right then, and that as soon as we crossed the border, no one would be able to put me in jail. I asked him why I would go to jail. I didn't do anything. And I told him I didn't want to go. It's all right for Dillon. He's got family there-well, his father anyway. But my family is here in Seattle-Dad and Mom, Tracy and Jared."

We reached my floor and stepped off the elevator. I was so full of righteous indignation that I could barely speak. In fact, it took all the self-control I could muster to manage the key and unlock the door. I held the door open for her and turned on the lights. She bolted for the window seat and wrapped herself in Beverly's afghan. It enveloped her completely, like a gigantic, comforting cape.

A note had been slipped under my door saying there was a package waiting for me at the doorman's desk. Tossing the note aside, I settled into my recliner and gave Heather plenty of s.p.a.ce.

"How did it happen?" I asked. In the state I was in, that was all I trusted myself to say, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer. It's been my experience that domestic-violence victims always a.s.sume that whatever befalls them is somehow their fault. Heather was only fifteen, but she was no exception to that rule.

"I shouldn't have made him so mad," Heather said.

"How did you do that?" I asked.

She shrugged. "We argued," she said. "As soon as we left the house and he told me where we were going, I told him I didn't want to go. Dillon told me he had just talked to one of the detectives, a female detective..."

"Mel Soames," I interjected.

Heather nodded. "That's the one. Dillon said that she was planning on talking to me next, and I said I'd be glad to talk to her. But he wouldn't bring me back, Uncle Beau. And he wouldn't stop the car so I could get out. We argued all the way to Bellingham. When Dillon stopped for gas, I started to open the door and leave. That's when he hit me."

She touched her bruised lip tentatively as though still unable to believe what had happened. I remembered Dillon Middleton puffing out his chest and saying he'd be there for Heather no matter what-the arrogant little s.h.i.t!

"So he backhanded you," I said.

Heather nodded again. "And I stayed in the car the whole time he was getting gas. I couldn't believe it had happened. But it had. I was seeing stars. My lip was bleeding. I was so...so shocked...that I couldn't even move. I just sat there like I was frozen or something."

"Did anybody see what happened or try to help you?"

"It was dark," Heather said. "And there weren't many cars at the gas station. I don't think anyone noticed."

"What happened then?"

"I was scared. I mean, Dillon's been jealous sometimes-especially if I talked to another guy or something-but never anything like that. I knew I had to get away from him. I thought that maybe when he went inside to pay for the gas, I'd be able to jump out of the car and run for it, but he never went inside. Instead, he used one of those pay-at-pump things."

"He used a credit card?" I asked.

"His mother's," Heather said with a nod. "She's got plenty of money, and she doesn't seem to mind how much he charges."

Right, I thought. Give the kid everything he wants. As long as he stays out of her way and life, she can ship him money from a distance. That's a surefire way to create a relatively useless human being. But credit-card trails are excellent when it comes to tracking down someone on the run.

"What gas station?" I asked.

"A Chevron, I think," Heather replied. "But I don't remember for sure."

It took conscious effort on my part to keep from reaching for my notebook. "What happened after that?" I asked.

"We drove on up to Blaine. I sat as far away from him as I could. There was a long line at the border, waiting to get through customs. While we were stopped in line, I opened the door, jumped out, and ran away. He got out of line to come after me, but I managed to make it into one of the rest rooms in the park. I heard him calling for me, but I didn't come out. When they came around to lock up the rest room for the night, I climbed up on one of the toilets so they didn't see me. I stayed there the rest of the night and most of today. I didn't start hitchhiking home until it was dark enough that people wouldn't notice my face."

The thought of Heather hitchhiking alone in the dark down the I-5 corridor made my blood run cold. She's much too young to have lived through the era of a handsome psycho named Ted Bundy and to remember the awful things he did to the unfortunate young women who happened to cross his path. I remember Bundy's crimes all too well.

"But is it true that detective is looking for me?" Heather was asking. "Does she really think I shot Rosemary?"

"She needs to talk to you," I hedged. "But just because she wants to interview you doesn't automatically mean you're a suspect."

"But I could be."

"Whether you are or aren't a suspect is really beside the point here, Heather," I said. "What we need to do is call your folks and let them know you're safe. They're both worried sick."

"No," Heather said. "I don't want to call them."

"Why not?"

"Because they'll just tell me they told me so. Especially Dad. About Dillon, I mean. Dad told me Dillon was trouble the first time he met him. I thought he was just being...well...Dad. I mean, isn't that what fathers usually do?"

"Just because your father was right is no reason not to call him," I said. "Your parents need to know where you are. Come on. I'll take you home."

"No," she said. "I don't want to go home. There's that place down on First Avenue, the one that's a shelter for homeless teenagers."

"Heather," I said, "you're not homeless. You have two wonderful parents. They both love you. They want the best for you. That's why they took such an instant dislike to Dillon. They didn't think he had your best interests at heart. From where I'm standing, I'd say they were right to be concerned. But you can't cut them out of your life. Parents are bound to be right some of the time."

Heather began to cry. "But I'm embarra.s.sed," she said. "I don't want to talk to them."

"Because Dillon beat you up?" I asked. "Or is there some other reason?"

"You mean like am I pregnant or something?" she asked.

The thought had crossed my mind. "Yes," I said.

"Well, I'm not!" Heather declared defiantly. "I'm on the pill, if you must know."

Pill or no pill, I was relieved to hear she wasn't pregnant.

"I'm guessing Amy didn't get them for you," I said.

"You're right," Heather said. "Molly got them for me. She said she didn't want anything bad to happen."

"How very thoughtful of her," I said.

"I couldn't talk to Dad about it," Heather said. "He wouldn't have understood."

Neither did I.

"Well," I said. "No matter what, we still have to call your parents. Whether or not you go home is up to you and them, but you have to let them know you're safe. You owe them that much."

"All right," Heather conceded at last. "Go ahead and call."

So I did. Ron picked up the phone on the first ring. That was hardly surprising. Had I been in his position, I would have been sitting by the telephone, too. I didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Heather's here with me," I said. "She showed up a little while ago, and she's fine."

Ron's answer took me aback. "No," he said. "We still haven't heard from her. We're pretty worried."

I thought maybe I hadn't spoken clearly enough. Or maybe the call had broken up.

"I said, Heather's here," I repeated, speaking a little louder this time. "She's fine. Do you want me to bring her home or do you or Amy want to come get her?"

"No," he said. "That isn't necessary. I appreciate the offer, but we've had about all the company we can stand."

I felt like I was watching a movie where the soundtrack is a minute or two out of sync with the visual images. Ron's disjointed responses seemed to have nothing at all to do with what I was saying. I was about to repeat myself for a third time when it finally dawned on me that the problem wasn't my hearing or his. Something was wrong at Ron and Amy's house. Ron was trying to warn me by speaking in a form of code.

When Ron Peters and I worked as partners for Seattle PD, we knew each other so well that we could almost read each other's mind. It happens that way when you're chasing bad guys and your life depends on knowing in advance what your partner is likely to say or do. But Ron and I hadn't worked together that way for years, and I wasn't sure what he was telling me.

"I'll keep her here with me then," I said. "She'll be safe."

"Good," Ron responded. "That'll be great."

There was no code-breaking technology necessary to translate that last statement. The relief in his voice was readily apparent. Whatever was going on at Ron and Amy's house, Ron wanted Heather kept as far away from the action as possible.

I put the phone down. Heather was staring at me from across the room. "What's going on?" she asked. "Dad's so mad at me that he doesn't want me to come home, right?"

I didn't answer immediately. I was trying to make sense of Ron's seemingly disconnected answers and to formulate some reasonable course of action.

"Is there a chance that Dillon went back to your house looking for you?" I asked.

Heather stopped short. "You think he's there? With Mom and Dad, waiting for me to show up?"

"It's possible," I said, but the wariness in Ron's voice and his intentionally misleading statements spoke to something more ominous than simply having an unwelcome boyfriend hanging around the house.

"Does Dillon have access to any weapons?" I asked.

"He has a gun, if that's what you mean," Heather said. "I've seen it in his apartment sometimes, but I don't know if he had it along with him yesterday in the car."

"What kind of gun?" I asked.

"I don't know exactly. It looked sort of like Dad's."