Chapter 4
Shawn looked in the his reflection in Lassiter's tinted window and felt discouraged. A shower, clean clothes, and a burrito had done little to improve his appearance. His skin was still ashen, there were still gray bags under his eyes, and he couldn't hide the huge bluish-purple bump on his forehead where he'd been pistol-whipped. A particularly baggy pair of jeans hid the bandages on his legs, but that didn't count for much, because he couldn't walk without crutches. He was sure he was going to scare Juliet's parents—and that would make things harder.
"I thought there would be more people here," Shawn said as they pulled up to the O'Hara house. "There are always people here." The driveway was empty, the kids toys were picked up off the lawn, and most of the lights were off in the house. The only sign of life was someone moving in the kitchen. Shawn could see her silhouetted behind the thin yellow curtains.
Shawn tried not to feel nervous as he hobbled towards the door on his crutches. He hadn't protected Juliet when she needed him, what could he possibly tell her family? Lassiter rang the doorbell and Shawn started to steal himself. He would be empathetic, he would be composed, he would be honest but tactful.
Mrs. O'Hara opened the door. Her eyes were red from crying, and she was wiping her wet wrinkled hands on a black, white, and red checkered apron. Shawn suddenly found himself speechless.
"Detective Lassiter," She said. Her voice was guarded—she didn't know if she'd be getting good news or bad news. Then she saw Shawn. "Mr. Spencer! You're . . . You've found her then. She's . . . is she . . ?"
Shawn wanted to say something. He opened his mouth, hoping to explain that he'd tried to protect Juliet and he would find her soon, but his voice failed when he looked at the kind and earnest woman before him. Thankfully, Lassiter came to his rescue.
"Actually, Ma'am, we haven't found her yet," the detective said seriously and, somehow, apologetically. "Can we come in?"
"Yes, of course," she said, nodding—trying not to cry. "Please come in." Mrs. O'Hara led them past the living room and towards the kitchen, explaining. "I didn't realize people we're going to be coming here. Joseph is at the police station, you know . . . I thought if anything happened, he'd know. He wanted me to be with him, but I couldn't stand it there . . . sitting, waiting. So I came here to make the fruit salad for the gift-opening."
"A bridesmaid was kidnapped while driving home from the wedding, and their still having a gift opening?" Gus asked in disbelief.
"Well, we didn't tell Gina," Mrs. O'Hara admitted. "We don't want to rain on her day. I hope you don't mind if we talk in here. You can all sit at the table if that's all right. I just promised Lottie, mother-of-the-bride, my sister-in-law, that I'd have enough fruit salad for fifty people. I could back out, of course, but to be honest, I'm grateful for something to do – even if it's just cut melon. But, can I get you anything?"
"Is that pineapple?" Shawn asked, looking at a bowl full of the freshly chopped yellow fruit.
"Shawn," his father scolded.
"Please, Mr. Spencer, help yourself," the woman said—putting the bowl in front of Shawn and smiling at him sweetly but sadly.
"Thanks," he said, trying to smile back. But when he looked at Juliet's mother, all he could feel was guilty, so he let his eyes slip down to the pineapple.
"I have fresh coffee," Mrs. O'Hara continued, walking back into the kitchen and pulling brightly colored mugs out of a cabinet. "Or I could put some water on for tea . . ."
"We're fine," Lassiter said authoritatively, not bothering to see if Gus or Henry wanted anything. "What we really need is to talk to you."
"Oh," Mrs. O'Hara said, putting a mug down on the counter. She seemed intimidated by the table full of men in her kitchen, and she walked towards them cautiously. Again, Shawn felt like he should start, explain how Juliet was snatched from his grip and assure the older woman that her daughter was, at very least, alive. But again he couldn't quite form the words. This time, his father stepped in.
"Mrs. O'Hara, I'm Henry Spencer, Shawn's father. I understand what you're feeling right now. An hour ago, before they found Shawn, I was right there with you. But we're here because Shawn . . ."
"He had a vision," Gus chipped in. "He knows the kidnapper was actually targeting Juliet. He wanted . . ."
"I think he's in love with her," Shawn said, finally finding his voice. "When he . . . when he took her, I-I felt it. Passion, and frustration, and longing."
Mrs. O'Hara started to look horrified, on the edge of tears. Shawn spoke more quickly, trying to calm her down, "But I . . . I was able to establish a psychic link with Juliet. I know she's all right right now—I mean, she has a concussion and a few broken ribs—but she'll be OK if we can find her soon."
"The . . . the FBI?" Mrs. O'Hara said, turning to Detective Lassiter. "They said he wanted Shawn."
"The kidnaper threw then a red herring and the FBI bought it, hook line and sinker. Right now there're all sitting down with for lunch with some fried herring and a side of coleslaw . . ."
"Shawn," Gus said, drawing his focus back to the task at hand.
"The point is," Shawn said. "I think I can get an impression from the RSVP cards, if I could just see them."
"You think the kidnapper was at the wedding?" Mrs. O'Hara gasped.
"No," Shawn assured her. "I know the kidnaper was not at the wedding. But I'm pretty sure he was invited."
Mrs. O'Hara nodded. She looked overwhelmed, but she had grasped the essential information. "I'll call Lottie. I'm sure she would still have the cards, if you don't mind waiting."
They didn't have to wait long. Lottie did not have the cards, but the bride's sister, Clair, did. Luckily, Clair was actually in Santa Barbara picking up a batch of gourmet cupcakes for the gift opening. She was able to drop them off about 15 minuets after Mrs. O'Hara had made the call. When she asked why-on-earth they were needed, and needed so urgently, Mrs. O'Hara muttered something about a scrap book, pretended that she smelled something burning, and quickly closed the door.
"Here they are," she said, urgency in her voice as she handed the pile to Shawn. "Please, do what you need to do."
"Are they organized?" Shawn asked as he unwound the huge rubber band from the pile of cards, almost six inches tall.
"I don't know," Mrs. O'Hara said. "I didn't think to ask."
Shawn flipped through the stack quickly, then started to break the stack into five, approximately equal piles. "They're alphabetical," he explained as he pushed a pile to each person sitting at the table. "Find the 'regretfully decline's and put them in the middle."
Shawn sped through his pile quickly. He had three declines, but they were all simple and straightforward. He had a feeling the killer would do more then just decline. He'd have to insinuate himself into the wedding, even though he wasn't going to be there.
Once he was done with his pile, he grabbed the group in the middle and started looking at them, trying to notice everything the card could tell him. Miss Jennifer Bufoud wrote very neatly with a red pen, she was probably a teacher and couldn't get Friday off. Mr. & Mrs. Dominic Glazer wrote a short note expressing their regret. They had mailed their card from Boston—they probably couldn't afford to come so far for a wedding. Mr. Kevin Maloy didn't give any clues; he just checked the decline box with a back pen. Mr. Keith Roberts, on the other hand, gave Shawn lots of information.
"Oh!" Shawn said loudly, dropping the card and shaking his hands, as if they'd been burned. "That ones hot! I can't touch it!"
"How could it be . . .?" Mrs. O'Hara began to ask.
"He's reading its psychic energy," Gus explained. "Something about that card is giving off powerful vibrations."
"Let me see it," Lassiter said, grabbing the card.
"How can you bare to touch that, Lassie?" Shawn squealed, as he blew on his hands, as if to cool them off.
Lassiter rolled his eyes and read the card. "It's from Keith Roberts, and it's got a note. 'Gina, I'm so happy that you've found Bob. I wish I could be there but I've already pre-paid for a cruise around Alaska, and I won't get back until the 24th. Wishing you all the best.'" Lassiter put down the card and turned to Shawn, clearly annoyed. "Well, that doesn't seem incriminating."
"Doesn't it?" Shawn asked, glancing at Lassiter then returning his gaze to Mrs. O'Hara, whom he'd been watching the whole time. Keith Robert's name had upset her, and the more Lassiter had read, the more upset she became. "What do you think, Mrs. O'Hara?"
"I can't believe it," the woman said, her kindly voice had turned cold and hard. Shawn could tell that, under the table, her hands were clutching and twisting at the fabric of her apron. "He must have been the call she wouldn't tell me about. . ."
"Call she wouldn't tell you about?" Gus asked.
"Wednesday, when we were setting up at the chapel, someone called Gina's cell. She was yapping and yapping with him, I could hear her talking about Juliet—and you, Shawn. But when I asked who it was she got all huffy that her calls were none of my business. Gina is such a self-centered little princess some times. She knew what Keith was like, and she still invited him—probably just because he could afford a big expensive present."
"Tell us about Keith," Shawn said gently.
"Keith Roberts is the spoiled little son of one of Greg's business associates," Mrs. O'Hara explained. "Greg used to own this cabin up in the mountains. The Roberts had a cabin near by—so the kids knew each other pretty well. Still, the way Keith acted . . . I can't believe. . . "
"How did Keith act?" Shawn pressed.
"The summer between high school and college, Juliet spent two months up there with her cousins. They all had jobs at this little ice cream place, with Keith. Juliet says that they were just friends all summer. She said she could tell he liked her, but she didn't like him, so they'd just hang out and have fun. Then, one night, one of the tourists, a customer at the ice cream place, invited Juliet out. She accepted and they went to dinner. As they were walking out of the restaurant, Keith attacked Juliet's date with a baseball bat—screaming that she was his soul mate. Juliet . . . well, you know her. Her brothers had come at her with bats often enough. She was able to disarm Keith and pin him to the ground. Her young man was sent to the hospital. Keith was taken away by the police, but his parent's money got him out with only a misdemeanor and community service. Juliet came home early—more mad then upset. Keith sent her letters, but after the first one made her cry, I just threw out the rest. Again, I think she was more mad then anything else, but she had so much on her mind, with college just around the corner. I called his mother, asked her to do something with her son, but the letters kept coming. He sent then for years." Mrs. O'Hara shook her head, "I wouldn't have thought it of Gina. But then she never thinks of others."
Shawn looked over at Lassiter. Their eyes met, and the detective nodded. For the first time since Juliet disappeared, Shawn felt hopeful. They had a suspect.
* * *
Juliet opened her eyes and was surprised to see light. For a moment, she was confused. She'd expected darkness but she wasn't sure why. Then it came back to her: the van, the handcuffs, her head in Shawn's lap. If there was light, then they must be out. Which could be very good, or very bad.
"Shawn?" she asked.
"No, Juliet," a low voice said. "He's dead. But I'm here."
It was very bad.
Juliet turned her head towards the voice. She appeared to be lying on a cot in a small room, barely 6x6. The walls and the ceiling were painted white. The door was also painted white but it was an oval, and appeared to be airtight, though there was a small vent above it. It looked like a door on a submarine, or a naval vessel. On the wall opposite Juliet's cot, there was a gray metal cabinet and next to it, the kidnapper sat in an old wooden chair.
"Who are you?" she asked, trying to sound brave.
"Oh, don't be coy Juliet," he said, smiling at her—beaming at her. "I've know . . . known for years that we were soul mates. You must have felt it."
"Oh no," Juliet said. Only one boy had ever been hooky enough to say they were soul mates. And, he'd said it just after the police had arrested him for attacking her date with a baseball bat.
"I know you're not feeling well," Keith continued. "You had a rough night, and you need to rest."
"Did you kill Shawn?" Juliet demanded, choosing anger over fear.
"Shawn's in the past," Keith said darkly. "I think you should just forget about him. Now, I've got some soup for you."
"I'm not going to eat anything you give me, Keith," Juliet said furiously. "Tell me what happened to Shawn."
"Enough about Shawn!" Keith said, jumping to his feet. He towered over Juliet, lying on the cot. Her anger dissolved and all she could feel was fear, of the huge, deranged man, who had all the power.
He must of seen the effect he had on her because he quickly backed down. "I'm sorry, Juliet," he told her. "It's just . . . I get so jealous. You know that about me. I'll just leave the soup here. You can eat it when you're ready. I'll come back later, after we've both calmed down a little bit, and we can talk about the future." He stepped to the door and undid the latch.
"Keith," Juliet said, as he was leaving the room. "The only way you'll have a future is if you let me go right now."
"Feel better, my Juliet," Keith said, turning out the light. "I'll see you soon."
He shut the door and encapsulated her in darkness. Juliet stared into it, too frightened to close her eyes.
* * *
"Thanks, McNabb," Lassiter said just before he closed his cell phone. "Turns out, Roberts' alibi checks. He was on a cruise last week with his neighbor, Katherine Avala. The airline confirmed he was on a flight from Anchorage to LAX, then from LAX to Santa Barbara."
They were driving to Keith Roberts' house in Summerville. They'd reached his subdivision full of 1960's ranch homes and were now winding their way through twisting streets at a painfully slow 25 miles per-hour.
"Can't you go any faster, Lassie?" Shawn begged. "Doesn't this thing have sirens?"
"We don't know that it's an emergency," Lassiter said. "Besides there are kids in this neighborhood."
"Ah," Shawn sighed in disgust.
"Wait a minute," Gus said. He'd learned long ago to ignore Shawn's complaining. "Was Roberts at the airport at the same time as Shawn and Juliet?"
"As it turns out, his car did leave airport parking after the van arrived," Lassiter confirmed. "But that's not enough for an arrest."
"Are you kidding?" Gus asked. "That's a smoking gun right there."
"I left a message with Judge Hashaw, asking for a warrant," Lassiter continued. "Until we get that, all we can do is drop by his house and see if he's home."
"He wouldn't take O'Hara to his house," Henry said. "Far too risky."
"No, no," Shawn said. "His house is exactly where he'd take her. He's in love with her. He wants her to be his wife, or mistress, or part of his harem."
"He probably doesn't have a harem," Gus pointed out.
"The point is, he's not going to hide her in some abandoned warehouse—he's going to keep her close. That's why we were in the car all night. He couldn't risk someone in the neighborhood identifying him before he was supposed to be home."
"But, Shawn, he wasn't home." Henry pressed. "He was in Alaska when you were kidnapped."
"That's obviously a lie," Shawn said. "He'll explain how he fooled the airlines after we rescue Juliet and he confesses."
"Oh," Henry said sarcastically, "Did your psychic senses tell you that?"
"Think about it, Dad," Shawn insisted. "It's the only way this could possibly end."
The car was silent. Of course, they all knew that it could end in any number of ways, many of them tragic. But for once, they all wanted Shawn to be psychic. They wanted his prediction of a happy ending to be dead-on.
Lassiter pulled up to Roberts' house. It was bland ranch with a 2-car garage, white siding, and no landscaping to speak of. The grass was overgrown, as if it hadn't been cut for weeks and all the windows were dark.
"It doesn't look like anyone's home," Gus said, as they approached the door.
"No, he's here. I'm sure of that," Shawn called from the back of the group. Shawn hadn't used crutches in years—not since his two-month stint as a water-skiing instructor in Hilton Head. At the time, they'd been a great way to milk attention from concerned women. They'd been cumbersome and awkward then, but that just drew attention to his 'poor broken leg,' which had been exactly what he wanted. Now they were slowing him down, and it was driving him insane.
Lassiter reached the door first and rang the doorbell. By the time Shawn reached the stoop, there still wasn't an answer. "If he's our guy, he's probably beat it." Lassiter groused. "He must have known we would find him, eventually. He's got a three-hour head-start. I'll have to call the feds and set up a perimeter . . ."
"A perimeter?" Shawn asked skeptically. "That'd be, what, a 25,000 square mile area? I don't think so."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Considering Keith Roberts is currently dozing on his couch, I'd say ring the door bell again."
"How can you possibly know that?" Lassiter demanded.
"Because his TV is on," Shawn said. "Listen, you can hear it."
The four men were quiet for a moment. The faintest sound of applause were audible.
"It's The Price is Right," Shawn said. "No one under the age of eighty-five would watch that. He must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. After all, he was out all night."
"Or he could have left the TV on by accident," Henry said.
"For two weeks?" Shawn asked. "Possible, but unlikely. Ring it again."
"Fine," Lassiter said, turning and ringing the bell again.
There was a pause, then a voice on the other side of the door groaned "I'm coming" and, a second later the door opened.
"Told you," Shawn said quickly.
"Can I help you?" Keith Roberts asked with a yawn.
Shawn saw immediately that this was the kidnapper. His build and voice were the same. Shawn's heart started racing and his mouth became dry as illogical fear rushed over him. And, the longer he looked up at Roberts, the more frightened he became, because the kidnapper was completely cool and composed. He must have recognized Shawn, he probably even recognized Lassie—but he didn't show it. He wasn't afraid that they had a warrant. He wasn't afraid that they had come to take Juliet back. Robert's was confident that his plan was still working—and his confidence shook Shawn's.
To be continued . . . .
