Authors: Kenneth G. Bennett
The guest’s eyes cleared at last, but it was not a reassuring development.
“I know where my little girl is,” said Joe. “I’ve seen her. She’s dead.”
SPINELL’S FIRST IMPULSE
was to jump for the phone and call 911, but the guest from 22 was marching for the front door. The old man shouted toward the back of the lobby. “Doris! I need you out here. Now!”
“Lorna Gwin!” Joe screamed, blasting through the door and stumbling toward the parking lot.
Spinell sprang after him. “Son. Please. It’s five thirty in the morning. Keep your voice down. The other guests—“
“Lorna Gwin,” Joe howled. “God in heaven!”
It was late June—the start of the summer season—and the place was completely full.
“I want my little girl back!” Joe roared, voice full of pain.
“Son!” cried Spinell. “For Christ’s sake!”
Doors thumped open. Frightened guests peered around curtains and from behind safety chains.
“They’ve taken my girl,” Joe wailed. “The bastards took my baby.”
“Fella,” said Spinell, setting a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Calm down!”
Spinell saw a wild-haired guest raise an iPhone and begin filming the spectacle through his window.
“Lorna Gwin!”
“Stop shouting!” Spinell yelled, almost as loud as Joe.
Doris Spinell burst from the motel office clad in a bathrobe, a look of shock on her face.
“Call 911!” Walter Spinell cried.
“Lorna G,” Joe growled, low and anguished. Then, full-throated: “Lorna Gwin!”
Doris Spinell stared, frozen.
“Call the damn police,” her husband commanded. “Now!”
Doris turned and ran.
“Mister,” Spinell said, angry now, reaching for Joe. “I’m asking you—”
“They murdered my little girl!” Joe twisted away, bumping into cars, staggering like a drunk.
Spinell—red-faced, breathing hard, looking like he might have a coronary at any second—addressed his terrified guests. “Not sure what we’ve got here, folks. Police are on their way. It’ll all be sorted out real soon.”
Joe slumped against a cherry-red Corvette, triggering the car’s alarm. Lights flashed. The horn wailed.
More doors thumped open.
Spinell saw Joe’s wife at the railing on the second-floor walkway. Her hair was wet, as if she’d just stepped from the shower. She looked confused, then alarmed.
“Where’s his little girl?” one of the downstairs guests yelled from behind her safety chain.
“That’s what the police are gonna help us figure out,” Spinell replied. “Everybody just needs to relax.”
“Little difficult when somebody’s screaming their kid’s been murdered!”
The Corvette’s owner silenced his car’s alarm, and Spinell heard sirens, vehicles approaching fast.
“Please,” he cried, “just go on back to bed.”
Joe stumbled toward the far stairwell, clutching his head like a madman, muttering his daughter’s name. Spinell saw Joe’s wife moving for the stairs, tracking Joe as he crumpled against a cinderblock wall.
“Joe?” she called. “What happened? What’s going on?”
There was no reply.
“WE’RE NOT MARRIED,”
said Ella Tollefson.
They were sitting in the Breakwater lobby: two San Juan County sheriff’s deputies and Detective Vince Palmer in folding chairs, Ella and Joe on a bench against the wall. The Spinells puttered behind the registration desk, eavesdropping on every word.
“We’ve been dating,” said Ella, eyes cloudy from crying. “Getting pretty serious. But we’re not married.”
Joe leaned forward on the bench, head down. Ella held his hand.
“What about the child?” Detective Palmer asked.
“There is no child,” Ella said softly. “I already explained that to your colleagues.”
Palmer typed notes on a tablet PC. Looked at Joe. “Sir?”
Joe lifted his head slowly. Eyes glassy, vacant.
“Can you tell me about the little girl?” Palmer asked.
A radio crackled, and one of the deputies headed for the door. Palmer kept his eyes on Joe. “Can you tell me about this morning? About what happened here?”
A group of curiosity seekers sauntered past the entrance, the latest in a stream of looky-loos.
“Christ on a bike,” Spinell muttered as Doris hurried out to talk to them.
Joe stared at Palmer. Stared hard, like he wanted to speak. His jaw quivered.
“Who is Lorna Gwin?” Palmer asked.
No reply.
Joe Stanton was a tall, athletic twenty-eight-year-old. Outdoorsy. Strong. Graceful. At the moment, though, he looked wasted. Weak and washed-out. More like a patient emerging from anesthesia than a vital twentysomething.
“Can you tell me what’s going on here?” Palmer asked.
Joe said nothing, and after a few seconds Palmer turned back to Ella. The woman was stunning. Even with bloodshot eyes and no makeup, she was gorgeous. Reminded Palmer of the models in his wife’s running-gear catalogs. Fit. Healthy. Looked like she could jog around the island and go dancing afterward.
Palmer said, “What’s up with your friend?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, squeezing Joe’s hand. “I want to get him to the doctor.”
Palmer nodded. “Couple more questions first.” He adjusted his glasses. Glanced at his tablet.
“Got a wallet on him? I’d like to see some ID.”
“Joe,” Ella said gently. “Sweetie? Your wallet?” She put her hand on his shoulder.
Joe looked at her, eyes big, like wet marbles. Jaw slack.
“Your wallet?” Ella repeated. She turned to the detective. “I’d like to get him to a hospital. Now.”
Joe finally seemed to process what she’d asked, fished his wallet out of his pocket, and passed it to her absently. She found his driver’s license and handed it to Palmer.
The detective studied the license, then passed it to a deputy, who took it to a sherif’s department SUV parked outside.
Palmer typed more notes, then regarded Ella again. “He’s never acted like this before?”
“Never.”
“What’s he on?”
“On? Nothing.”
“Prescription meds? Sleeping pills? Ambien? Something like that? Antidepressants?”
“No,” said Ella. “I’m telling you, he hates taking anything. I’m a nurse. I’d know if he was on something. I can’t even get him to take Advil when he’s hurt.” She turned to Joe. “He looks like he’s had a stroke or something.”
“Or too much crack,” Spinell muttered. Ella glared at the old man.
“Please, Walt,” said Palmer, as if Spinell was an old family friend. “Go check on your other guests or something, would you?” Spinell grumbled and focused on a pile of papers.
Palmer turned to Ella. “Mind if we take a look in your room?”
“Not at all.” She handed Palmer her room key. “I don’t know why Joe did what he did this morning, but he is
not
on drugs.”
Palmer passed the key to a deputy. Whispered some instructions.
He looked at Ella again. “How long have you known Mr. Stanton?”
“We’ve been together about ten months. Almost eleven.”
“And how long have you been on the island?”
“Since Thursday. We just came up for a long weekend.”
The deputy who’d run the ID reentered the lobby and handed Palmer a one-page printout.
Palmer studied the page, then said to Ella, “And you were traveling from—”
“Bremerton. That’s where we live.”
“Purpose of your trip?”
Ella shrugged. “Vacation. Fun.” She glanced at Joe. “His new congregation is doing really well. We wanted to celebrate.”
“Congregation?”
“He’s an Episcopal priest,” Ella said. “A very gifted one.”
Palmer watched for a reaction from Joe. Nothing.
Palmer said, “And again, as far as you know, Mr. Stanton does not have a child?”
“No.”
“From an earlier marriage?”
“No.”
“An adopted child?”
Ella shook her head.
“There was no child with you on this trip?”
“Definitely not.”
“I want to press charges,” Spinell cried.
“Easy, Walt.”
“Damn nutcase, screaming like a lunatic. Scaring the hell out of everybody in my place.”
“Walt, please,” said Palmer. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of it.”
Joe stood abruptly, pivoted, and teetered toward the restroom at the back of the lobby. Ella followed.
The restroom door banged open. A fan came on. Two seconds later Joe was vomiting.
“Christ!” Spinell cried. “Now the freak’s puking up my john.”
“He needs a doctor,” Ella yelled. “Can’t you see that? Call an ambulance!”
“He’ll need a coroner if you don’t get him the hell out of my motel!”
“Bring him out,” Palmer told his deputies. “When he’s done. We’ll finish with the questions outside.”
Doris Spinell burst into the lobby just then, eyes wet with tears. “Walter,” she cried. “There’s a video.”
“Huh? Whatdya mean?”
“I saw it,” Doris managed between sobs. “On one of the guest’s computers. Our motel. That young man screaming. You can see our sign in the background.”
“The Breakwater?” Spinell’s voice sounded fragile. “In a video?”
“On YouTube.”
Joe tottered past the desk just then and Spinell lunged for him, murder in his eyes. “Crackhead creep! Get off my property!”
Joe trundled on, oblivious, Ella at his arm.
Ella let go, just for a second, as they passed through the door. “Joe?” she said. “You okay?”
Joe’s eyes rolled like cue balls, and he corkscrewed to the ground, too fast for Ella to break his fall. His body lurched forward, and his head smacked the curb.
His final, disturbing, fleeting thought before he lost consciousness was of a girl he’d never met. A girl named Lorna Gwin.
Are you out there?
Joe wondered as his world went dark.
NOT FAR FROM THE MOTEL
, Lorna Gwin’s mother fretted.
The contact with the new man had been solid, but fleeting.
Did the contact last long enough?
she wondered.
Did I reach him? Did I push hard enough?
She hoped so, because time was short.
There’s something about this man
that makes him different from the others. Better.
Lorna Gwin’s mother tried to pin down the difference.
She thought back to when they’d met, yesterday, just for a moment. Mulled it over in her mind.
He’s stronger, she thought
.
The others were weak. Couldn’t endure the contact. Now they’re dead.
Lorna Gwin’s mother knew this to be true, though she had not
seen
them die. One minute she had been able to peer into their minds. The next, contact was broken. It could mean only one thing.
The contact killed them.
She felt no remorse for this. None whatsoever. Not after what had happened to her beloved Lorna Gwin.
Molten-red fury filled her mind and quickened her heart.
I hate them.
She tried now to conjure this latest man’s name. Focusing on what she’d gleaned during their encounter, she turned the information in her mind. Much of it was unintelligible: images and sounds and patterns she could not comprehend.
Did I get his name?
she wondered.
Would I even recognize it as a name?
Strange sounds ricocheted in her brain.
She focused harder.
Gradually, the sounds took shape.
Stan…ton.
That was it. That was his name.
Stan-ton.
There’s something else different about Stan-ton
, she thought, struggling with the realization. Not liking it.
He is…compassionate.
Lorna Gwin’s mother shoved the notion from her mind.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Stan-ton is just a tool. Like the others. Nothing more. If he dies, he dies.
But she hoped he wouldn’t die. Not yet. She needed his help. Desperately.
URGENT CARE PHYSICIAN
Myron Goss entered the cramped exam room where Joe and Ella waited and removed an ophthalmoscope from the pocket of his white lab coat without uttering a word. He smelled like hand sanitizer.
“Hi,” said Ella.
Goss stepped in front of Joe, who was holding an ice pack against his forehead.
Joe looked exhausted, but the vacant stare was gone from his eyes. He was feeling like himself again, and the bizarre events of the morning swirled in his mind now like a half-remembered dream. The more he tried to conjure specific images, the more remote and surreal they seemed.
“Tilt your head back,” said the doctor.
No smile. No “Please.” No “Hello, I’m Dr. Goss. How’re you doin’ today? Heard you had a rough morning.”
Goss switched off the overhead light and studied Joe’s pupils, one at a time, through the ophthalmoscope.
“His eyes look normal to me,” Ella said, as Goss turned the light back on. “What do you think?”
Goss said nothing, and Ella and Joe exchanged looks. “Excuse me,” said Ella, getting to her feet.
Goss turned his back to her and took a stubby plastic stick from an instrument tray.
“Excuse me, what’s the deal?”
Goss removed the lid from the plastic stick and lifted it quickly to Joe’s left nostril.
Joe snorted and pulled back hard. “Whoa. What is that?”
Goss didn’t answer, just raised the stick to Joe’s other nostril.
Ella said, “Scratch-and-sniff test. Compromised sense of smell might mean frontal lobe damage. You smacked your forehead when you collapsed at the motel, so he’s checking for concussion.”
“She’s a registered nurse,” Joe said proudly. “Studying to be a nurse anesthetist.”
If the news impressed Goss, he gave no sign. He merely sighed, plopped onto a swivel stool, and began typing notes into a laptop.
“This is bullshit,” Ella said. “Is there another doctor we can see. Or a PA?”
“Nope,” answered Goss, without looking up. “It’s Sunday. I’m it.”
“Well, what the hell?”
Joe touched her arm. “Ella—”