Disturbed Page 7

  Corson frowned at him. “Are you a sadist? Walk it off? I’m practically crippled here.” He continued to rub his calf, then gazed up at Chris again and nodded. “Okay, okay, I’ll try walking on it.”

  Chris helped him to his feet and led him back to the track. “Ouch. . ah. . damn it. .” Corson grumbled. With an arm around Chris’s shoulder, he hobbled along. He kept sucking air through his gritted teeth. But his faltering walk seemed to improve. “I think you’re right,” he admitted at last. “Must be a leg cramp. I’ve just never had one this severe. Then again, I’ve been stressed a lot lately. My daughter’s driving me crazy. How old are you — sixteen, seventeen?”

  “Sixteen,” Chris replied. Corson was still leaning on him and limping a bit.

  “That’s how old Tracy is,” he said. “So — do you hate your parents, too? Does everything they say and do seem stupid or shallow or phony to you?”

  “Kinda,” Chris admitted.

  Corson pulled away slightly, but still kept a hand on his shoulder. “Well, then maybe it’s normal for the age. Or have you always felt this way about your folks?”

  “Not always,” Chris heard himself say. “Just lately.”

  “Why the sudden change? That’s what I’d like to know. Tracy used to be such a loving child, and now she acts like she can’t stand me. All she and her mother do is fight.” He broke away and rubbed his calf again. “So — what happened with you? Did you just suddenly decide on your sixteenth birthday that your parents were losers? Is that how it works?”

  “No. At least that’s not how it worked with me,” Chris mumbled, glancing down at the ground. “My parents are getting a divorce. And they’re both being pretty selfish, so I’m pissed at them. In fact, lately, I’m pissed all the time — at everyone.”

  Corson stared at him. “That sucks.” He seemed to work up a smile, and then held out his hand. “I’m Ray Corson, the guidance counselor.”

  Chris suddenly felt his guard go up, and he wasn’t sure why. Still, he shook Corson’s hand. “I know who you are. I’m Chris Dennehy.”

  “Well, Chris, if you ever want to talk, just let me know and I’ll block off an hour for you. It’ll get you out of study hall.”

  Chris shrugged. “I don’t see how talking about it is going to help. They’re still getting a divorce. And no disrespect, but you can’t even figure out how to connect with your own daughter. So how are you going to help me?”

  Corson let out a stunned laugh. “You’re a real wiseass, aren’t you? But I like that. Listen, it’s always easier to help other people with their problems than to solve your own issues. That’s why I was asking how you got along with your folks. I recognize that I need help dealing with my daughter.” He bent down and massaged his calf again. “So — Chris, when you recognize that you need help dealing with your parents, come see me in my office. Or you can usually find me here between five and six on weekdays. I could use a running partner — if for nothing else, in case I ever get another leg cramp.”

  He straightened up, and still limping slightly, started toward the school. “Take care!” he called over his shoulder.

  Two days later, Chris came and saw him in his office.

  Between the scheduled appointments and the impromptu running sessions together, Mr. Corson helped him to understand his parents better and forgive them for not being perfect. Mr. Corson also urged him to give Molly a chance, and Chris realized his soon-to-be stepmother was actually kind of nice. From what he could tell, she had nothing to do with his parents’ breakup. And she was a good artist. In fact, Molly even had him pose as the hero for the cover of a young adult novel that could end up being the start of a series.

  Though he liked Molly, he still felt a loyalty to his mother, who clearly disdained her. Mr. Corson helped him deal with those conflicts. Chris took drivers’ education at school during the summer, and he met up with Corson at the track once or twice a week. The guidance counselor had become his friend, and Chris depended on him. He didn’t mean for Mr. Corson to take the place of his father, but that was what sort of happened.

  And just as his father ultimately disappointed him, so would Mr. Corson.

  In the end, Chris would wish he’d never walked into this office, where he now sat waiting for Munson to return.

  Slouched in the chair, he nervously tapped the cover of the self-help book and sneered at the To Thine Own Self Be True clown poster on the wall. He heard someone coming and quickly straightened up in the chair.

  “That’s the damnedest thing,” Munson muttered, stepping back into the office with a file folder. He sat down at his desk again. “There are no records of your visits here with Mr. Corson.”

  Chris just stared at him and shrugged.

  “Corson made evaluations and progress reports of every student who consulted him — even the onetime visits,” Munson explained. “Your evaluation — along with your progress reports and all the notes he took during your sessions — they’re missing.”

  Chris shook his head. He remembered all the deep, private conversations he’d had with Mr. Corson in this room, all the things he could admit to his trusted counselor and no one else. Corson was taking notes during all those sessions. “What happened to them?” he asked numbly. “You sure Mr. Corson didn’t just take them with him when he left?”

  “No, I checked the files from last semester, and his critiques and progress reports are there for the other students,” Munson said.

  “Well, who would want to steal Mr. Corson’s notes on our sessions? Those conversations were private.” Chris felt a pang of dread in his gut — as if realizing he’d lost his wallet. Only this was far more valuable — and personal. “Maybe we should call Mr. Corson, and ask—”

  Chris remembered and stopped himself. He swallowed hard. He hated the look of pity in Mr. Munson’s eyes. “I just don’t understand why anyone would take something like that,” he murmured. “Who would do that? What would they want with it?”

  Munson continued to study him in a pained and wondering way. He sighed and shook his head. “That’s what I’d like to know, too, Chris,” he replied.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Last night, a stranger to everyone here was cruising up and down this cul-de-sac,” the handsome cop announced. “This man was trying to determine which one of your homes would be the easiest to break into.”

  Everyone in the room fell silent. They stopped passing around the tray of cookies. The policeman had them hanging on his next words.

  Molly guessed he was about thirty-five. He had short, chestnut-colored hair and pale green eyes. Tall and athletically lean, he looked sexy in his black suit and a blue shirt with the collar open. He was probably a big hit with all the bored, lonely housewives at Neighborhood Watch meetings like this one.

  Hands in his pockets, he stood in front of the Hahns’ fireplace, above which hung a large studio portrait of the Hahn family: Jeremy and Lynette and their kids, Courtney, seventeen, Carson, eight, and Dakota, five. They were in front of a forest backdrop. Jeremy and Carson had matching blazers, and the girls were decked out in their yacht-club-dinner best. It was odd to see their frozen smiles in the portrait while the police officer made such a disturbing announcement.

  “This stranger checked out every house on the block,” the cop continued. “He made observations of who was home and who wasn’t, how well-lit your backyards were, and whether or not you had home security systems. . ”

  The residents of Willow Tree Court were gathered in the Hahns’ family room for the down-to-business portion of the Neighborhood Watch potluck. Molly sat next to Henry Cad-well, a stocky forty-five-year-old work-at-home architect, who lived on the other side of a vacant lot next door to her and Jeff. Henry and his partner, a chiropractor named Frank, had an adopted daughter in Erin’s class, Su-Li. Hank and Frank, Chris called them. They were moving soon, and Molly didn’t want to think about it. Henry was her only real friend on the block. Among this clique, she and Henry were the outsiders. Perhaps
that was why they sat in folding chairs while everyone else was ensconced on the sofa or in a cushioned easy chair.

  Occupying the chair was Mrs. Kim Nguyen, the quiet, middle-aged, not-altogether-friendly neighbor at the end of the cul-de-sac — on the other side of Hank and Frank. At least, she wasn’t too friendly with Molly. Then again, they’d only met a few times. Molly had asked her earlier — at the buffet table — if she and Dr. Nguyen had had a visitor this morning, someone driving a blue minivan. “I guess I’m already starting to neighborhood-watch,” Molly had explained, trying to make light of it.

  Mrs. Nguyen had frowned. “My friend picking us up at airport,” she’d explained in her fractured English. “She driving blue van.”

  Molly had been relieved to hear that. Yet Mrs. Nguyen had seemed annoyed by the question. Molly had asked how long she and Dr. Nguyen would be in town.

  “Three days,” Mrs. Nguyen had replied curtly. Then she’d moved over to the other end of the buffet table, where Angela had stood.

  A few minutes later, Molly had seen Mrs. Nguyen and Angela laughing about something.

  Angela had the middle spot on the couch, with her gal pals, Lynette Hahn and Kay Garvey, on either side of her. Her mink-colored hair was perfectly styled, but she’d laid the makeup on a bit thick. Plus she was slightly over-dressed — in black pants and a black V-neck sweater with a shimmering silver striped weave. Her girlfriends, Lynette and Kay, had raved about how gorgeous she looked, and they wanted to hear all about the man in her life — the one with the beautiful house on a cul-de-sac in Bellevue. Angela had brought a quiche to the party — along with a bit of attitude.

  “Hi, Molly,” she’d said to her coolly. “You look so pretty — but then, you always do. I love your blouse.” Molly had been in the middle of thanking her and was about to return the phony compliment when Angela had excused herself to instruct Lynette on how to heat up the quiche. That was the extent of their conversation so far, after ninety minutes.

  While grazing around the buffet table earlier, Angela, Lynette, and Kay had whispered about Ray Corson’s murder. “I knew something like that would eventually happen,” Lynette had concluded. “You have to wonder what he was doing in that park so late at night. He went there looking for trouble, and he found it.”

  Molly had steered clear of the conversation.

  The Toll House cookies she’d baked that morning were on a plate in a hard-to-reach spot on the buffet table. Though Lynette knew she was bringing chocolate chip cookies, she’d baked a batch herself. “I thought you might forget or bring store-bought,” Lynette had cheerfully explained. “And besides, I have to admit, I make the best chocolate chip cookies in the universe.”

  Molly hated Lynette. She had this phony perkiness to her — like a sitcom mom moonlighting in a commercial for deodorant. She was just a little too self-satisfied cute. She had a slim, tennis-taut figure, and frosted brunette hair with bangs. She seemed to think of herself as Supermom! But her daughter Courtney was shallow and selfish, and the two younger kids were utter brats. On several occasions, Molly had spotted Carson and Dakota and their friends throwing dirt balls at passing cars from an abandoned lot at the start of the cul-de-sac. She’d tried to tell Lynette about it, but Supermom was in total denial: “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Molly.” Her kids could do no wrong. For a while, Lynette had talked about suing a local restaurant, where the owner had had the unmitigated gall to ask if her children could please use their quiet voices so as not to disturb the other patrons.

  Madison’s mom was rather plain, with blond hair and a pale complexion. She was friendly enough when Lynette and Angela weren’t around. But Molly was dead certain Kay talked behind her back to the other two. They seemed to regard her as this flaky, vapid successor to Angela — and only a temporary one at that.

  And it hurt.

  “Why do you care what those bitches think of you?” Henry had asked her at one point.

  Molly couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was because she was living in their friend’s house, or because their daughters were in Chris’s class. Once Henry moved away, she wouldn’t have any friends on the block. He was her only friend in Seattle.

  “Your cookies are infinitely better than Squeaky’s,” Henry had whispered in her ear — after sampling one of Lynette’s from the tray being passed around the family room. Unbeknownst to Lynette, he called her Squeaky — after Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, the onetime Manson follower who tried to assassinate Gerald Ford.

  The detective had missed the potluck brunch portion of the proceedings earlier. Lynette had gotten up to present him to the group. She’d given a long, sickeningly cute introduction, which included a story about how her dear, sweet Dakota had once mistaken a guard at the zoo for a policeman (“Is he going to arrest the elephant, Mommy?”). Then she’d finally called on their guest speaker, Detective Chet Blazevich.

  Molly could tell her neighbors were still wondering about this stranger who had been cruising around their cul-de-sac last night, studying the lay of the land.

  “Didn’t any one of you notice a dark green Toyota Camry going up and down your block around eight o’clock?” Detective Blazevich asked, with a hint of a smile.

  Angela and her friends glanced at each other and shrugged.

  Molly cleared her throat, and half raised her hand. “Do you drive a dark green Toyota Camry, Detective?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Very good, Ms. — ?”

  Molly tried to ignore Angela out of the corner of her eye. She hesitated. “Dennehy.”

  “Ms. Dennehy is correct,” Blazevich announced. “I scoped out your cul-de-sac last night, and found some things that might make you vulnerable to a breakin — just the kind of stuff a burglar would look for. . ”

  Molly glanced over at Angela and her pals on the sofa. Lynette shot her a look, and then whispered something in Angela’s ear.

  Molly turned away — just as Henry leaned in close to her. “Hell, if I knew this hunk was driving around our block, looking to break in to somebody’s home, I’d have left the front door open.”

  Molly patted his knee and then turned her attention to Chet Blazevich. She felt a bit sorry for him. As he explained about their need for more streetlights and recommended spotlights for their back and side yards, the trio on the couch were still whispering to one another. Mrs. Nguyen pulled out some knitting and went to work on an ugly pink and maroon scarf — or maybe it was a sweater, Molly couldn’t tell for sure. Blazevich had to talk loudly over the clink, clink, clink of her knitting needles. Then Henry’s cell phone rang, and he went to talk on it in the kitchen. For a while, Molly felt like the only one paying any attention to the poor cop.

  He was talking about how if they noticed any kind of maintenance truck on the block — a plumber, electrician, or a carpet cleaning service — it was best to check with neighbors to make certain the service truck was legitimate. That was when Kay Garvey raised her hand. “Excuse me. Do you know anything about this murder last night at the Arboretum?”

  Gaping at her, Blazevich looked stumped for a moment.

  “This Ray Corson person who was killed,” Kay explained. “He was the guidance counselor at our kids’ high school. So naturally, we’re concerned.”

  Blazevich shoved his hands in his pockets. “I understand, but — um, I can’t tell you any more than what’s been on the news. It’s not my case.”

  “Is it really true he just happened to run out of gas by that park?” Lynette pressed. “Or is that something the media is saying to protect his family or his reputation or whatever?”

  Blazevich shrugged. “I’m sorry. As I said, it’s not my case.”

  “You were talking about service trucks on the block,” Molly spoke up. “Is that something burglars do when they’re casing a house or a neighborhood?”

  He smiled at her. “Yes, thank you, Ms. Dennehy.”

  “And is that something this Cul-de-sac Killer might do when he’s figuring out where to strike next?�
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  Blazevich’s smile faded and he nodded somberly. “Yes, we believe these killings are well planned. He knows ahead of time exactly where, when, and how he’s going to gain entry into a house. And we think he has a pretty good idea of how many people are in that house. . ”

  Mrs. Nguyen ceased knitting, and Angela’s group suddenly stopped whispering to each other. Henry quietly returned to the folding chair beside Molly.

  “So — be cautious, be concerned,” the policeman said. “Just the few extra seconds it takes to watch for strangers driving or walking around your cul-de-sac may be enough to prevent a crime.”

  Molly was thinking of all the strangers who house-sat for the Nguyens. It would be tough to keep track of who was supposed to be there and who wasn’t. “Is there anything else we should be on the lookout for?” she asked. “Any warning signs specific to these — killings?”

  Folding his arms, the cop hesitated before answering. “This hasn’t been made known to the general public, for reasons I’ll explain later. But if you notice your no-outlet or dead-end sign at the start of the cul-de-sac is missing, report it to the police immediately. With each murder, the sign at the beginning of the street was gone. We believe the killer takes the signs — possibly ahead of time — and keeps them as souvenirs or trophies of his crimes. We’re doing our best to warn people who live on cul-de-sacs like this one. Unfortunately, some teenagers have heard about it, and we’ve had a rise in incidents with kids stealing the dead-end signs as a prank. So — if you do see a sign is missing, don’t panic, but definitely report it to the police right away.”

  The policeman glanced around the room. “Now, even if you’re taking all the proper precautions,” he said, “you still might be a bit nervous in the house after dark — especially if your spouse is away, or if one of your children has seen the news stories about these murders, and they’re scared. One thing you don’t want to do is turn on all the lights in the house. Since this has become part of the killer’s ritual, you don’t want to alarm the neighbors. Instead, call a neighbor if you’re scared or you suspect trouble. Count on each other for help. You might even agree on a code word to use if you have reason to believe an intruder is in the house, listening in. . ”