Gregg Olsen - Fear Collector

And there it was, air was pouring in through a crack at about knee height. She stuck a finger into the jagged fissure.

Could this be a way out?

Had God answered her prayers?

Or was this just a cruel joke made by a man who’d kept her like a zoo animal?

She heard his footsteps and she hurried back to the mattress. If it was the promise of a way out, she wasn’t going to squander it by lamely standing next to it. She wouldn’t tip off the man. She’d kill him first.

He opened the door.

“Stay down,” he said. “Or I’ll beat you until you can’t stand without being bound to a two-by-four.”

He set down the tray and shut the door. The lock dropped back into place. Her mind on the fissure in the wall, Emma Rose still needed to eat and drink. She started on the sandwich and washed it down with a different drink, a citrus-flavored soda.

Her legs started to wobble and she went back to the mattress.

Grace Alexander studied the man across from her. They didn’t get many like him in an interview room at the Tacoma Police Department. Paul Bateman looked at her and nodded. Palmer Morton, dressed in a European cut suit with shoes that probably cost a week’s wages-a detective’s wages, that is-was a smug little prick. He was puffed up and trying to appear as if he was a gracious sort of person.

It wasn’t a good fit for his personality.

“Glad we could have a little talk,” he said.

“Frankly, we’re surprised to see you,” Paul said. “You know, without an attorney.”

Palmer smiled and shrugged a little, his perfectly fitting suit flowing effortlessly with each muscle movement. “If you ask me, attorneys and accountants have ruined the world.”

The remark was meant to be a kind of “everyman” statement. But he was far from everyman status.

“Real estate developers haven’t been so great, either,” Paul said, with a slight laugh. It was meant to be a little dig, but Palmer didn’t bite. He was there for a reason and taking the obvious bait was a fool’s mistake. He prided himself on being a smooth negotiator and that’s just what he was there to do. He considered Alex a piece of crap, but the boy was his piece of crap. If his kid went down, he’d go down along with him.

“It’s nice of you to stop by. But really, we’d like to interview Alex,” Grace said. “Maybe you can call him and have him come down.”

“He’s a kid,” Palmer said.

“He’s nineteen. He’s an adult.”

Palmer ignored the detective’s remark and didn’t say anything. It was strategic, a way to get the detectives to reveal more about their motives in talking to Alex in the first place.

“We’re surprised that you wanted to see us,” she said.

Palmer Morton folded his hands on top of the table. “I was on my way to a meeting and I thought I’d stop by. A little out of the blue, I guess. Hope I didn’t interfere with any of your investigation into the disappearance of the girl.”

“That girl is Emma Rose,” Paul said.

A look of obvious recognition over his face, Palmer nodded. “Yes, Emma. Nice girl. Some problems, but nice.”

Grace could have guessed it. Palmer Morton was there with a gas can. He was going to douse Emma Rose’s character and drop a lit match. It made her even more suspicious of Alex and what kind of role he might have played in her disappearance.

“What kind of problems?” Grace asked, not giving away her irritation.

“I don’t know how to say this, because I want to be PC,” he said, looking first at Grace then at Paul.

“We’re trying to find her, so tell us what you know,” Grace said.

“I hate talking about anyone like this, but she was like a lot of girls. She wasn’t interested in my son at all. She was just using him.”

“Using him how?” she asked.

Palmer shrugged a shoulder. “Using him, you know…” His voice trailed off. “Look, my son’s not the brightest bulb in the box and he sure as hell didn’t inherit much of anything from me. Looks like his mother’s side, that’s for sure.”

“I’m sure your family tree is fascinating, Mr. Morton,” Grace said, her tone a little less polite than she’d intended. “But what, exactly, are you getting at?”

Palmer stared hard at Grace. “She was a little bit of a whore, a gold digger. She just cozied up to my son because of his big, fat trust fund.”

“I see,” she said, barely believing she’d heard him correctly, but knowing full well that she had.

He didn’t like her tone and bristled right away. “Don’t look at me like that, Ms. Alexander.”

“Detective,” she said, coolly correcting him. “How do you know this?”

“I know it because I saw it. Look, I don’t want to embarrass my boy. He’s already embarrassed. But Emma hit on me.”

“Hit on you?” Grace asked, suppressing the desire to roll her eyes at her partner. The man across from them really was the biggest jerk in Tacoma. Bar none.

Palmer Morton fiddled with the money clip in his pants pocket. It was a platinum affair that had an angel on one side and the devil on the other. “Look, it happens a lot,” he said in his best imitation of being somewhat sheepish. “I get it. Girls are looking for their daddies. Roll in some serious money and a manse like mine and it happens. All the time. Truth be told, I’m kind of sick of it.”

Grace didn’t need to make a mental note. With that remark there was no doubt that she and Paul would be joking about that ridiculous line for years to come. So sick of being hit on! And really, who in the world but an egomaniac uses the term “manse”?

“I imagine it happens a lot,” she said, convincingly deadpan. “Considering who you are.”

Palmer brightened a little. “Then you get it, right?”

She nodded. “Oh yes. Big-time.”

The interview with Palmer Morton over, Grace hurried to her desk to get her purse and coat.

“Where you headed in such a rush?” Paul asked when he caught up with her by the stairs.

“Got an interview,” she said.

“I’ll get my coat.”

“No. This is personal,” she said, heading down the stairs.

And it was. Very.

Across town, Anna Sherman looked at the box of Ted stuff she’d kept all those years and noticed that inside a copy of The Only Living Witness, she’d hidden that horrible letter that Ted had sent her. Not one that he’d written, but one that he’d sent her. On purpose? Or a mistake?

She’d forgotten about it completely. She’d forgotten about many things and it scared her. She could no longer recall Susie’s laugh. That hurt so, so much.

She reread the letter. With each word, she felt a pang of worry, anxiety.

Dear Ted,

Sometimes I just want to call you Teddy! You are my huggable Teddy Bear! Don’t be embarrassed. I know that you don’t mind a pet name. I saw a new photograph of you on the news this morning. I think it was an older photograph. Maybe taken last year? You are wearing a turtleneck and it fits you like a glove. I thought that jail made guys pudgy. But not you. You are just as handsome and fit as ever. I am looking forward to seeing you. I have been over at Tricia’s mom’s house just to keep in touch with the O’Hares. You know, keep your enemies close. I tried to tell Tricia’s mom that she would be surprised when the real truth comes out, but she says that I’m a fool to think that you are innocent of anything. She’s the fool. She thinks that I care more about doing interviews with the newspaper than trying to prove who killed her daughter. Tricia is dead. She is over. What is the point on trying to assign blame now? No point if you ask me. Let Tricia rest in peace and leave me/us alone.

Now back to you. I heard an old song on the radio today and it made me think of you. I don’t know if you will think that this song is silly, but I kind of think of it as our song. It is called “Love Will Keep Us Together.” The group is a husband and wife group called The Captain and Tennille. I almost didn’t want to tell you about this, but I really do think it fits us. No matter what happens, Ted, love will keep us together.