Somehow, I found my way back to the first bedroom, where one of the twins had been hiding. I assumed the note was meant to be written in my hand, and sure enough, there was a slip of paper. It was the one on which I’d jotted down my name and phone number and given to someone in Shannon’s entourage, maybe Molly?
It was standard, depressed prose: “God forgive me, I’m a failure . . .” The note said I had begun an affair with Memphis, fallen in love, and when I told her it was over because I was a relatively happily married man, she killed herself. Which then weighed so heavily on me that I could only deal with it by killing myself as well.
The note stopped there, probably when I entered the house and interrupted the forger at work.
I thought about what to do next. I should call the police. Yes, call the police. They would arrive, I’d make my statement, a few hours of questioning, and I’d be released around midnight. No, don’t call the police. I stood there, shaking, trying to pull myself together.
Shit. I checked my watch. It was late—I would have to hurry to make my meeting with Shannon.
Leaving the scene of a crime was a felony. So was killing people, and I had two dead bodies to my name, and a third hanging from a ceiling fan.
With the old woman and the hound, and the people on the ferry, I knew there was no way I could avoid facing the cops. The question was: when did I want to face them? Leaving the scene of a crime would be more than enough to have my PI license revoked.
Still, I was hot on this thing, and I had a feeling that my meeting with Shannon would bring it to an end.
I decided to compromise. First, I did a quick run-through of Memphis’ house, looking for anything that I could use with Shannon. It felt good to be moving, to be doing something.
I went through every room in the house but came up empty. There was no other choice. I left the house and made a beeline for the silver BMW. It was either Memphis’ or the twins’, but I didn’t know which.
I looked inside and saw a bag in the front passenger seat’s floor space. It struck a chord with me, and for some reason, I didn’t think it belonged to one of the twins.
In fact, I could’ve sworn that I’d seen the bag somewhere. It looked neat and organized, made of brown leather. I could see the Franklin planner inside.
I had seen the bag before.
It was Molly’s.
I tried the door and found it was locked. At the back of the house was a small flower bed with a border of river rocks. I picked up the biggest rock, went back, and smashed in the Beemer’s window.
The alarm went off, and I grabbed the bag.
On the way back to my car, I lived up to the other end of my compromise.
I called my sister.
She didn’t like what I had to say.
Chapter Forty-Three
I wasn’t really in the best shape. I ached from the Taser blast and a blow one of the twins had laid on my spine. But mostly I was in shock from killing two women. The sight of blood, especially my own, made me very uncomfortable. And right now, I was doing everything I could to not think about what had taken place at Memphis’ farmhouse. I’m sure the cops were there by now, wondering where I was, scouring the scene, trying to figure out what had happened.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell Ellen where I was going. Suffice it to say, if there was any way to reach through the phone line and strangle someone, she would have popped my head off like a champagne cork.
Now I was just trying to keep it together.
I was early for my rendezvous with Shannon. I parked my car in the Windmill Pointe Marina parking lot and hurried out to the dock. The wind was picking up, and the chop had graduated from stiff to severe. Above me, the night sky showed no stars, and I could see the black inkiness of serious storm clouds.
The benches normally taken by fishermen going after the perch that hung out close to shore were empty. As were the picnic tables and beach chairs. The whole fucking place was empty except for me.
And maybe Shannon Sparrow.
•
A flash of lightning threw a spotlight on the lake. There wasn’t a single boat. Even the buoys looked like they wanted to come in and get out of the wind.
My boat was called Air Fare because it was owned by some pilot who’d had money to burn, but then lost his job. I had a feeling it was due to drinking, because when I took ownership of the boat and went down below, the smell of gin was overwhelming. Something told me that the pilot was most likely never far from a martini. A man after my own heart, to be honest. I could use about a baker’s dozen of martinis right now.
It had occurred to me that maybe someone had dropped Shannon off. After all, a woman of her stature usually had a driver. Maybe she’d had someone drop her off then would call to have someone pick her up. I hadn’t noticed anyone in the parking lot. There weren’t even any cars, other than a black pickup truck and a white Toyota Tercel, both of which I knew belonged to park workers.
The boat looked just like I’d left it. The dark-red spinnaker cover was snapped into place. The mooring lines were all taut. The deck was neat and clean.
There was no sign of Shannon.
I turned back toward the parking lot. No sense standing out there waiting for her. I boarded the boat and unlocked the doors to the cabin down below.
The smell was a mixture of marine oil, gasoline, booze, and cleaning products.
I flipped on the generator and turned on some of the interior lights, careful to make sure the curtains were drawn. A glimpse into Molly’s briefcase had confirmed the rising feeling. Things were falling into place, and this meeting with Shannon was going to prove everything I believed to be right.
At least, that’s what I hoped.
•
“John?”
I heard her voice from the pier. I’d been lost in thought but now stepped up onto the deck and called back. “Shannon.”
She had on blue jeans, a windbreaker, and topsiders. A large bag was slung over her shoulder. Her hair was loosely pulled back. She looked . . . normal.
“Nice boat,” she said.
“It’s a tub of shit, but thanks,” I said.
She stood there, uncertain. It was odd seeing her by herself. No gang of hangers-on swarming around like a pack of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. She seemed smaller, less sure of herself. Maybe I was reading too much into it.
She stepped off the main dock and walked along the dividing dock between my boat and the one next to me.
I held her hand as she hopped onto the deck. Without saying a word, she went down the stairs to the cabin. After taking a quick look around and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I followed her below.
The cabin’s layout was simple. On one side was a small table surrounded by a U-shaped bench. The other side was a long counter with a sink, a fridge, and a radio. Small storage compartments were tucked everywhere in between.
I gestured for Shannon to sit on one end of the bench, and I took the other. The space was too small to sit face to face, so she sat straight ahead and I sat with my legs out toward the stairs.
“Okay, who called this meeting?” I said.
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How come you haven’t said a word about Molly’s death?” I said, ignoring her question. I mean, come on, your assistant falls down the stairs, breaks her neck, and you keep an appointment to meet a PI at ten o’clock at night? It was about as absurd as me killing two people and keeping an appointment with a country music star. Chaos reigned.