Gregg Olsen - Fear Collector

The Howells had moved to a nice middle-class neighborhood in Tacoma, on North Howard, not far away from where Ted had grown up. Donna Howell had taken her relocation money from the old neighborhood in Ruston and paid cash for the two-story house with the brick facade and bright green louvered shutters-a house that Peggy had insisted was the perfect location. After Donna died in 1994, the house was willed to Peggy, who was already living there with her adult son, Jeremy. While none of the neighbors liked Peggy, they did appreciate Jeremy’s dedication to keeping the yard in perfect shape. He never missed a mowing and, better yet, kept it sprinkled in the summer.

“I haven’t seen you in years. Since you were a child. But I know who you are,” Peggy said, when she answered the door. “You look a lot like Tricia, not quite as pretty, but a lot like her.”

“Hi, Peggy,” Grace said, looking her over. Peggy wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Her skin was wrinkled and her hair was long, but very thin. It dawned on her that her sister would be showing signs of aging by then-had she not been murdered. “May I come in?”

Peggy nodded. “If you must. I’m surprised you’ve come by. Your mom pretty much disowned me. Shoved me to the side when all I wanted to do was help bring Tricia back home.”

“That was a long time ago, Peggy.”

“Yeah, well, it still hurts,” Peggy said, searching for her cigarettes. “I worked my ass off putting up flyers, you know. I did everything I was asked to do and then some.”

“I came here to talk about my sister.”

“You want a cigarette or a beer or something? I have some thick-cut potato chips if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not hungry, Peggy. But I am here for something.”

“For what?”

“The truth.”

“What kind of truth?”

“The truth that only you know. The truth that the only living witness knows.”

Peggy, still looking for her cigarettes, gave up. “You’re talking in riddles. Can you get to the point? I have to take my son out for a haircut later.”

“Jeremy?”

“Yes, Jeremy.”

“Is his father home?”

“No. His father is dead. Now you’re going to have to leave. You’re making me uncomfortable and I don’t like feeling that way in my own home,” Peggy said.

“I thought that this was your mother’s house.”

“She’s dead. It’s mine now.”

“Right. She was bought out by The Pointe developers, is that right?”

Peggy nodded. “She was. And they really screwed her over. They were supposed to give us six months before they tore down the house so we could salvage those gorgeous old leaded windows by the fireplace. But no, they didn’t. Really made my mom mad.”

There were several ways to conduct interviews. One way was to build up to the key question, one little drop at a time, until there was a bucket of water to toss over the witness. The other tactic was to just go for the jugular.

Grace used the second technique.

“You killed my sister, Peggy. Didn’t you?”

Peggy stepped backward. “Jesus! Where did that come from?”

Grace had Peggy where she wanted her.

“Tricia wanted you to stop messing around with the professor, didn’t she? Did she say she was going to tell? Did you kill her because of that?”

Peggy looked flustered and angry.

Where were those damn cigarettes?

“I have no flipping idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. I think you killed her and buried her at your mom’s house on Ruby Street in Ruston.”

“What are you talking about? Killed her? Buried her? You are really going to have to leave now. My son is at work and when he gets home he’s going to rip you a new one for treating me like this.”

“The bones found at the beach were full of lead and arsenic. They came from your yard. You know what I’m talking about. I can see it in your eyes.”

Emma Rose could hear yelling going on above her. It wasn’t the TV. It was louder, continuous. Two women were yelling at each other. She heard footsteps. Someone other than him was there. This was her chance. Her only chance.

She took the People magazine with Selena Gomez on the cover and rolled it up into a megaphone.

“Help!” she screamed. “I’m down here!”

She stopped and listened for movement, but there wasn’t any.

Next, she did what she had to do. It was her last chance. Her only hope. The stakes could not have been higher. If she failed, she would die.

She took the match she’d found up from the floor and ran it against the concrete, but nothing happened. Only a white line.

You have to light! she thought. Light! Please!

She tried it again. She could smell the scent of a burning match, but there was no flame.

God, why don’t you love me? she asked.

She thought of Elizabeth Smart. She’d made it. She’d found freedom.

The match lit and she held it the edge of the People cover. She knew that Selena had been through a lot of things in her life, and she would forgive her.

It was a torch. She was the Statue of Liberty. Emma Rose knew that the smoke would need to find the nose of someone who would help her. Someone upstairs. Someone yelling. For good measure, she took off her T-shirt and doused it with Sam’s Club diet cola and held it over her mouth and nose. Next, she carried the blanket to the chair under the furnace vent and lit it on fire.

If she died of smoke inhalation or even if she’d burned alive, it would be better than dying at the hand of the sicko who held her in the apartment. She held the Sam’s Club-diet-cola-soaked T-shirt and waited by the door. She didn’t cry. She wasn’t even that scared. She knew that whatever happened would be for the best.

Whatever happened, she would be free.

Grace stopped talking. She breathed in cautiously.

“I smell smoke,” she said.

“I don’t smell anything,” Peggy said. She was angry. Her face contorted. “I want you to leave.”

“We need the fire department.” Grace reached for her phone and Peggy shoved her, knocking it out of her hand. It spun across the floor like a gyro.

“Are you crazy?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Get the hell out of my house.”

“The smoke must be coming from the basement.”

“No, it’s not. I was cooking earlier. Get out of my house!”

Grace picked up the phone with one hand, and pulled out her police issue. She pointed the gun at Peggy.

“What’s downstairs, Peggy?”

She punched in 911 with her thumb and put the phone on speaker.

“I’m at 2121 North Howard and there’s a fire. This is Detective Grace Alexander with the Tacoma PD. I need backup, too. This is an emergency.”

Grace didn’t wait for the dispatcher response other than to hear that “help is on the way.”

By then Peggy was gone.

With her gun drawn, Grace made her way first to the kitchen, where the back door had swung open. The door to the basement was locked. She kicked at it, but it didn’t budge. She stepped back a couple of feet and fired in the lock. It took only one shot and the door was open. She turned on the light.

Smoke oozed from the slot in the steel door.

“I’m down here!” It was a scream, but it was soft, muffled. It was not Peggy’s voice, but even if it had been, Grace would have gone down there to get her. She wanted her in prison for what she’d done. Dying in a fire was too good for her sister’s supposed best friend.

Her murderer.

The basement lights were dimmed by the curtain of smoke and Grace called out to whoever it was who was trapped down there.

“I can’t see very well. Tell me where you are.”

Emma started banging against the door with her shoulder. She screamed out. “I’m here! I’m in here. In the apartment.”