EIGHTEEN
In the morning Jessie called the hospital to check on Parker Koontz. According to a nurse on the fifth floor, his condition had not changed. Although she wouldn’t elaborate further, she was adamant that his current condition would have prevented him from making a phone call.
Next on the list was a visit to the coffee shop on Sixteenth Street where Adelind Rain had said she’d met a barista by the name of Fiona Hampton. According to Adelind, Fiona had also been stalked by Parker Koontz.
Jessie hopped into the car and started the engine, hoping Fiona would be willing to talk to her. So far her research had proven everything David Roche had said about Parker Koontz was true. He was a well-respected, hardworking attorney who volunteered his free time to worthy causes.
So why the hell had the man shot blanks at her?
He had a clean record, and nothing she could find so far indicated he might be suicidal.
After finding a parking spot on the street, Jessie got out and walked a half block to the coffee shop, glad to see it wasn’t too busy. She ordered a large coffee and grabbed a granola bar to go with it. As the man behind the counter poured her coffee, she asked him if Fiona Hampton worked there.
“Here she comes now.” He gestured behind her.
Jessie looked over her shoulder. The woman coming through the door caught more than a few people’s attention as she removed the scarf from her head, revealing a shock of white hair that matched her skin.
“Hey, Reid,” Fiona said before connecting gazes with Jessie. “What? Haven’t you ever met an albino before?”
“Chill,” Reid said. “The lady was just asking about you.”
“Oh.” She looked Jessie over. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem. I was hoping you would answer a few questions about a man named Parker Koontz,” Jessie said as she dropped her change into the tip jar.
Fiona sighed. “Sure. I guess. I’m early,” she said. “I can spare a few minutes.”
Jessie slipped the granola bar into her purse and then grabbed her coffee from the counter.
After Fiona put her things in the back room, she led Jessie to a table. “So, what’s going on? Did that creep go after you, too?”
“No. I’m here because Adelind Rain told me you were once stalked by Parker Koontz.”
“Ah. I see. Is she okay?”
“She quit her job and moved away.”
Fiona whistled through her teeth.
“So it’s true that he stalked you?”
“Yep. That guy is one sick puppy.” She pointed a finger at Jessie. “Hey, wait a minute. I thought I recognized you. Are you the one who shot him at the park?”
“Unfortunately, yes. What I need to know is whether or not you ever called the police during the time Koontz was disturbing you.”
Fiona nodded. “Dozens of times, but he always disappeared before they could get to wherever I happened to be.”
“Did you ever file a report?”
“No. I guess I should have. I would call the police, they would come, the creep would disappear, and life would go on until the next time I saw him.”
“It must have been frustrating.”
“You have no idea. Longest two weeks of my life.”
“Bottom line,” Jessie said, “is that criminal charges have been filed against me. If I have to go to court, which is likely, any chance you would be willing to tell a judge what you just told me?”
“I’d be happy to help in any way I can. But you should know that whoever is going after you in court could try to use my albinism against me.”
“How so?”
“A lot of people with albinism are considered legally blind. Vision problems resulting from abnormal development of the retina.”
“But what about you? Can you see?”
Fiona’s smile was infectious. “Like an eagle.”
After they exchanged contact information, Fiona stood and said, “I better get to work. It’s getting busy.”
Jessie came to her feet. They shook hands. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you. Having a creep like Parker Koontz follow me around day and night and not being able to do a damn thing about it was a nightmare. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
After leaving the coffee shop, Jessie headed straight for Arlo Gatley’s house in Woodland. Feeling hopeful about her talk with Fiona, she prayed Fiona’s and Adelind’s testimony would be enough.
Twenty-five minutes later she pulled up to the curb outside Arlo Gatley’s house on the outskirts of Woodland, about twenty miles northwest of Sacramento.
Arlo greeted her at the door and invited her inside. The dark circles around his eyes had faded a bit. His hair was combed back with gel, and he looked better than he had twenty-four hours ago. Except for the drop of blood on his thumb on his right hand. She felt queasy. He saw her looking and shoved his hand into his pocket.
The house was one story, the inside painted a muted green with white crown molding, hardwood floors, and lots of built-in shelving filled with assorted knickknacks.
“Would you like to see Zee’s room?” he asked. She knew he had an important job to do at the tech company he worked for because he’d told her as much. When she’d called last night to let him know she wanted to come by and take a look around, he’d told her she’d have to come early.
“Your daughter’s room would be a good place to start,” Jessie said. She followed him down a narrow hallway. Walls on both sides were covered with an eclectic group of pictures. The frames were made of wood, shells, paper—all different sizes—and most of them were tilted at odd angles. Mostly school pictures, and a few of Arlo and his daughter when she was younger.
Jessie stopped to take a better look at his daughter. In almost every photo, Zee had a strange look on her face. Lost? Worried? It was hard to tell.
Arlo stood at the door at the end of the hallway, his arms crossed. Gone was the desperate and accommodating man of yesterday. Today Arlo appeared impatient and agitated.
Jessie peered into the laundry room as she passed by. Everything in the home appeared neat, nothing out of the ordinary. That was, until she walked into Zee’s room.
The walls were covered with macabre pictures of skeletons with bloodshot eyeballs hanging by a thread from their sockets. Above the headboard was a poster of a cemetery, bloodied body parts scattered about like debris after a night of strong winds.
She looked to her feet, where a trail of ants had been hand-painted across the entirety of the wood floor, continuing up one side of the wall and across a stark white windowsill. The ants looked so real, she knelt down to brush her fingers over the smooth wood. On a low table beneath a curtained window were jars filled with incense and herbs. She straightened and walked that way. Bottles of potions labeled “Eye of Doe” and “Dragon Fire” sat in front of a stack of tarot cards. All of it contrasted with the stuffed teddy bear and the pink comforter spread neatly across the bed.
“It can be a little overwhelming,” Arlo said.
That was putting it mildly, Jessie thought.
“She’s fond of her tarot cards, and when she’s not making potions, she likes to do readings and spells.”
“Did she draw these pictures?” Jessie asked.
“Yes. She’s quite talented. She enjoys drawing and painting images that shock people.”
“I can see that. Where’s her mother?”
“She died of cancer when Zee was six months old.”
“I’m sorry.”
Arlo said nothing.
Jessie couldn’t stop thinking about the blood she’d seen on Arlo’s thumb. She went to the notebook sitting on the bedside table and held it up. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead. She’s been writing in journals for as long as I can remember. Most are filled with recipes for potions or spells.”
Jessie turned the pages, noticed that the dates coincided with the time right before Zee went missing. “Mind if I take this with me?”
“As long as I get it back when you’re done.”
“No problem,” Jessie said. “I also need a recent picture of Zee. Do you have one?”
He nodded before disappearing for no more than thirty seconds, then returned with a photo of Zee. Jessie noticed that Zee wasn’t smiling.
“She wasn’t happy with me that day,” Arlo offered, reading her mind. “But it’s a good likeness of her.”
Jessie slipped the photo into the journal, then walked to the closet and slid the mirrored door to the left. Dozens of black T-shirts were lined up on hangers along with black pants, black skirts, and a black leather jacket. Shoes and boots were lined up in neat rows on the floor. All black.
With Arlo’s permission, she searched through dresser drawers and a vintage chest. Under the bed she found a shoe box. She placed it on the top of the bed and pulled off the lid. It was filled with Polaroid pictures and dried flower petals.
Arlo came closer and reached for a picture that showed Zee sitting in the middle of a field of cut grass. The smile on his daughter’s face said it all. She was happy.
Jessie sifted through pictures of Zee on a swing at a park, on a retaining wall looking down into the camera lens, and sitting cross-legged while taking a whiff of a single rose.
Arlo gestured at one of the pictures and said, “That looks like it was taken at Rainbow Park, a few blocks from here.” He frowned. “I wonder who took the picture.”
Jessie handed Arlo a close-up of his daughter. “When would you guess this might have been taken?”
He used his right hand to hold the picture. It was definitely blood on his thumb. She looked away.
“Two weeks ago,” Arlo said. “Zee cut her bangs, straight across, close to her hairline, as you can see in the pictures. My guess is that these were taken within days of her haircut, or maybe even the same day.” He put the picture back in the box.
“You told me she didn’t have any friends and that she was a loner.”
Arlo looked through the contents of the box, a deep frown contorting his features. “Zee and I have always been close.” He rubbed his temple. “Or at least I thought we were. Obviously I haven’t been paying close enough attention to what she’s been doing. I’m at a loss here.”
“I’d like to take these things with me, too, if you don’t mind?”
He nodded. “As long as you take good care of everything. Like the journal, I’d like it all back, you know, after you find her.”
“Of course,” Jessie told him. “What happened to your hand?” she asked, unable to let it go. “It looks like you’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I was cutting some fruit before you came. I must have nicked myself.”
“Would you mind if I have a quick look around the rest of the house? It will only take a minute.”
His face flushed. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to get going. I—I’m late as it is.”
Flummoxed, she said, “Okay. Another time, then.” She looked around. “I don’t see a computer. Did she use one?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a subtle nod. “She used mine. I can’t part with that. Sorry.” His eye twitched, and she wondered if that was a nervous habit of his. She couldn’t remember his eye twitching when they’d first met. Arlo was acting so strange, she didn’t know what to think.
“I have enough to work with here,” she finally said as she piled the journal on top of the shoe box. “You might see me down the street on your way out. I want to knock on a few doors and talk to some of your neighbors, see if anyone spotted Zee coming or going.”
“Good luck with that.”
His statement baffled her. “What do you mean?”
“The neighbors and I have never seen eye to eye.”
The man had a way of saying everything and nothing at the same time. “Why is that?”
“You know how neighbors can be . . . loud music, tall fences, barking dogs. The list is long.” His eye twitched again. “Mrs. Dixon next door. Her husband died years ago. She’s lonely and has nothing better to do than watch my every move. I’m sure you’ll get an earful—that’s all I’m saying.”
“Is that the same neighbor whose house Zee broke into before?”
“Well, yes, but still, I see no reason for Mrs. Dixon to hold any grudges over such a silly thing.”
Jessie nodded, but she couldn’t help but think there was something extremely off about Arlo Gatley.
Why did he seem so nervous?
Had he lied to her about the blood on his hand?
Although she questioned what she might have gotten herself into, she was more determined than ever to find Zee. The girl was mentally unstable, lost, and scared.
Jessie needed to find her.
“Those two are strange,” Mrs. Dixon, the widow and neighbor to the left of Arlo Gatley, said. “If you’ve met Arlo, which it sounds as if you have, you’ve probably already figured out that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I mean, who names their daughter Zebra?”
“She was named Zinnia, after the flower,” Jessie explained. “Arlo calls her Zee.”
The woman rolled her eyes.
“When you say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, what do you mean?” Jessie asked. “Could you elaborate?”
“You’ve met him, talked to him. He’s odd, plain and simple.” She sighed and made a face as if she thought Jessie was a dimwit. “For instance, when Arlo pulls up into his driveway after work, I see him sitting in the car, sometimes for an hour. He’s not texting or talking on the phone, just staring out the window with a blank look.”
Jessie nodded, waited. Arlo might have been right about Mrs. Dixon being lonely.
“Elijah and Lettie Foxletter,” Mrs. Dixon said next, pointing to a two-story colonial house not too far down the block, “are in charge of the neighborhood-watch group. You might want to talk to them.”
“Before I go,” Jessie said, “I was told that Arlo’s daughter broke into your home more than once. Did you and Zee ever have a conversation?”
“No. Once she saw me, she just left the house without an explanation or apology. She’s a strange one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, she did break into my house. That’s strange enough, but it’s more than that. She mutters to herself, and she’s always wearing black.” Mrs. Dixon sighed. “When the girl was younger, I use to wake up to her screaming for help in the middle of the night. It was a frightful time—let me tell you. I called the police every time it happened. And every time the police told me she had some sort of mental disorder and that her father was doing everything he could to keep her outbursts under control.” She shrugged. “Her screams haven’t woken me in years, but that bloodcurdling cry is still stuck in my mind. I’ve considered moving away. Many of us in the neighborhood have.”
“Because you think Zee could be a danger to you?”
“Not the girl—her father,” she said. “He’s strange, yes. And if you ask me, there’s also something disturbing about Arlo Gatley.” Mrs. Dixon smoothed the front of her crisp, clean blouse and then peeked over Jessie’s shoulder as if she was afraid someone might be listening in. “I’m going to have to say goodbye. Talk to the others. Maybe they can help.”
“I will. Thanks for your time.”
Before Jessie had a chance to turn away, the door clicked shut in her face.
As she walked on the sidewalk toward the house Mrs. Dixon had pointed out, she saw before her a quaint picture of a tree-lined street with white picket fences bordering newly mowed lawns. The click of her shoes was the only sound as she moved down the street. A hint of jasmine filled the air. If not for the disturbing images on Zee’s wall and the thought of that same young woman screaming out for help in the dark of night, Jessie might have found a peaceful sort of solace on her short walk to the Foxletters’ house.
Instead she felt chilled to the bone.