Chapter 5
"What's this?" Shawn asked, banging his crutch against a hatch on the ground of Roberts' back yard. They'd already turned Roberts' house inside out. There was no evidence—not a gun with Shawn's blood on the hilt, not a Nixon mask, not even papers indicating he'd bought a blue van or hired a messenger service. Throughout the search, Robert had followed them, not-quite smiling. Of course, if he'd smiled he'd have given himself away.
He admitted to the incident with the baseball bat. He claimed not to have seen her for 10 years. He feigned concern, but Shawn could tell he was thrilled. He'd always known they'd find him, and he was enjoying every second that they wasted scrolling through the pictures of Alaska on his digital camera, digging through his unorganized filing cabinet, and examining trunk of his car.
"That's actually a bomb shelter," Keith said, walking over to Shawn. "Most of the houses in this neighborhood have them. I use mine for storage."
"Mind if I go down there?"
"Knock yourself out," Keith said, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket, unlocking the hatch, and throwing the door open.
Gus followed Shawn down the steep stairway into the small cement room, which was lit only by one florescent bulb. It was filled with boxes, most of them containing old clothes, old books, old papers, and the like. "Gus, check along the walls, see if there's a door leading to another room," Shawn ordered.
"There's not," Keith said as he sat down on the steps and watched Shawn fumble with his crutches in the tight space. "I don't know what they were thinking when they built this place."
"Perhaps that the Russians would drop a bomb and we'd all die if we weren't in shelter," Gus suggested.
"I'd rather die then live the rest of my life in a little hole like this," Keith said. "Don't you think? One room, artificial light, canned food. You know, when I bought this place it was fully stocked—enough canned food for 5 years, they said. The old man who lived here before me was a real nutter."
"That's what comes of watching Dr. Ziago too many times," Shawn said as he struggled with a box full of old copies of the Santa Barbara Mirror. Why anyone would keep three-year-old copies of a newspaper instead of recycling them, Shawn could not guess.
"I think you mean Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb," Gus corrected.
"I've heard it both ways," Shawn commented.
"No you haven't," Gus replied, shaking his head. "And I don't think there is anything down here but dust."
"I could have told you that," Roberts said. "But I'm just trying to be open and helpful."
* * *
"Oh, come on," Shawn protested as Keith Roberts' locked his door behind them. "She's right next door. Why not?"
"Because we've already wasted enough time on this, Spencer!" Lassiter said angrily as he walked down the small path to his car. "This was a dead end. I can't believe I let you talk me into this."
"This was not a dead end," Shawn said. "I can feel—"
"You can't feel anything!" Lassiter yelled, yanking the car door open. "We all know you followed your gut and your gut was wrong. Now, it's time to go back to the station and see if FBI and their actual investigative efforts have turned up anything."
"Fine, go!" Shawn said as Lassiter got in the maroon sedan, and his father, opened the back door, ready to follow. "I'm staying. I'm talking to Mrs. Avala. And she's going to tell me what Roberts is hiding and I'll find Juliet before the FBI even notice you're there."
"Shawn, you can't stay," his father said. "Lassiter has the only car."
"I'll walk home," Shawn said. As if to prove his point, he started hobbling forward, past the car, and towards Mrs. Avala's house.
"You can't walk home," Henry said with a skeptical laugh. "You're exhausted, and you have no idea how to use your crutches. I bet you couldn't even walk to the corner."
"Then I'll call a cab," Shawn said, continuing his trek across the driveway.
"Shawn wait," Henry said with a sigh, closing the car door and jogging over to his son – blocking Shawn's path. "You have to slow down, and think."
"Crimany," Lassiter muttered, pulling himself out of the car. "Are we going or not?"
"I wouldn't bet on it," Gus said as he walked up.
"I've thought about it Dad," Shawn insisted, looking his father boldly in the eyes. "We are so close. It's Roberts, I'm sure of it. All we need to do is find the one thread that unravels the whole thing."
"And you think his next door neighbor, Mrs. Avala, is that thread?" Henry asked.
"She is his alibi, Dad," Shawn said, focusing all his persuasive attention to his father. Lassiter was a good detective, but he wasn't much of a leader. He'd follow the group's consensus. Gus was loyal and would follow Shawn anywhere. But Henry was the key. If Shawn could convince him, then not only would they all go over to talk to the old woman but Shawn would also know his theory was sound. "All we have to do is prove he lied about where and when and we can take him in."
"But we know he didn't lie," Henry insisted. "I just spent an hour flipping through photos of Roberts and Avala on an Alaskan cruse."
"There's a hole," Shawn insisted.
"They were still on the camera. I checked the history; they were all taken in the past week. The camera's date is correct too, by the way, I didn't forget to check that."
"You're focusing on the wrong facts," Shawn said angrily. "Maybe he and his 67-year-old next door neighbor did sail around the Bering sea together. But why, Dad, why? What 30-year-old guy wants to spend his vacation with the widow next door?"
"I don't know, Shawn," his father admitted, without giving any ground. "But it happens. Harold and Maude."
"Aston Kutcher and Demi Morre," Gus added from his position, safe behind the car.
"That's not helping, Gus," Shawn fired back. "Besides, Demi Morre is hot and Harold was a horny, depressed fourteen-year-old who would have done anything to get anyone in the sack."
"Well, maybe he should have stolen a car," Henry said.
"Don't make this is about us," Shawn yelled at his father. "This is about Juliet. We are so close. We can't stop now. Mrs. Avala's house is right there. All we have to do is ring the doorbell."
Henry stared at his son coldly, and Shawn stared back. Gus and Lassiter both watched, fascinated. The Spencer's were strong willed. It was impossible to guess who would win.
"They ever done this before?" Lassiter asked softly, hoping neither Spencer noticed their commentary.
"No," Gus said. "Usually one of them gives in long before this."
"Dad, please," Shawn said softly. "I couldn't stop him from taking her. I have to find her."
"You'll do it," Henry said, "whether I let you or not. Won't you?"
"She's close. I can feel it."
"Shawn, you aren't psychic, you can't feel things."
"I can feel things," Shawn insisted. "And it's too soon to drop this lead."
"I'll make you a deal," Henry said. "No matter what we find there, your next stop is the hospital."
"But, Dad, if there are clues . . ."
"If there are clues, Lassiter can follow them up. But you and I are going to the hospital."
Shawn opened his mouth to protest, but Henry didn't give him the opportunity. "Look kid," he said gruffly. "I had one of the worst afternoons of my life. I got a call from the police telling me my son, my only son, was in a car crash, and was being held for ransom because of some hair-brained case he took without police back-up. Now I'm watching this same son run himself ragged because he feels like it. Considering all that, I think I'm being very accepting, very supportive. But I will only go so far— I can only watch you go so far."
"You don't have to be here," Shawn said, as if he hadn't heard his father's speech at all. "Gus and I . . ."
"Four hours ago, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again. You think I'm letting you out of my sight?" Henry demanded.
"Well, seriously, Dad, you'll have let me out of your sight eventually," Shawn retorted flippantly. "Unless you want me to move in again. Which, I suppose I could—rent free, of course. And we'd have to put my bike in the garage."
"Spencer," Lassiter yelled. Both men turned to look at him, which seemed to startle him. "Detective O'Hara?"
"Keith Roberts is the kidnapper and Mrs. Avala is the key," Shawn said. "Let me go just a little bit further."
Henry sighed and looked away. "Fine," he said angrily. "But, I'm serious Shawn. Once we're done with this you're going to the hospital."
"Great," Shawn said. He wanted to jump up-and-down with the thrill of his victory, but he was much too tired. "I know exactly how to get what we want. Just follow my lead."
* * *
"Hello," Shawn said, smiling as sweetly as he could at Mrs. Katherine Avala. She was a motherly figure, with short white hair badly permed, large tortoiseshell spectacles, wrinkled hands, and a yellow, toothy smile. "My name is Shawn Spencer, I'm with the Alaskan tourism board. We were informed that you recently came back from a cruise in the Bering Sea."
"Why yes," Mrs. Avala said. "How did you know?"
"Because I'm from the Alaskan Tourism Board," Shawn said, surprised that he needed to explain something so obvious. "We keep track of that."
"Really?" The woman asked.
"Actually, yeah," Shawn said nodding. "We're taking a survey of people who've recently traveled to Alaska."
"Really?" she asked again. "All of you?"
"Yes," Shawn said. "All of us. This is Captain AnTeniel from our cruise review department," he said, motioning to his father. Then he pointed to Lassiter and said, "Severus Snape, from the Northern Lights Division, and Running-Eagle-Falls-Down-Cliff," Shawn motion to Gus. "From Native American Affairs."
"Oh," Mrs. Avala said, nodding, wide-eyed. "Yes."
"We'd like to talk to you about your trip. Do you have a minute?"
"I suppose," she said. "I just got back."
"Yes, we know that," Shawn said.
"This is your key witness, Shawn?" Henry asked softly.
Shawn ignored his father's comment. He'd assumed Mrs. Avala was an easy mark—after all, Keith Roberts had convinced her to cover for him so he could stalk and kidnap someone. Shawn had always liked easy marks. "May we come in?"
Mrs. Avala's living room was charming. Thanks to the plastic covers on the goldenrod living room set, the couch and arm chairs looked as new as the day they were purchased, over 30 years ago. The gold and cream wallpaper with gigantic bamboo print meshed with the burnt-orange shag carpet, and Shawn was sure that the old 36in TV in the TV cabinet had not made the digital transition.
"Now, can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?" Mrs. Avala said.
"No," Lassiter snapped. "We need to ask you a few questions."
"Severus, you may not be thirsty but Running-Eagle and I are parched," Shawn said. He turned and smiled at Mrs. Avala. "I don't suppose you'd have anything in a lemonade?"
"Well, no," Mrs. Avala said. "But I could make some if you'd like."
"Gee, that'd be swell," Shawn said. "If it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble, no trouble," Mrs. Avala said as she scuttled into the kitchen. "You gentlemen just take a seat and I'll be right back."
Once she was gone, Gus slid into one of the armchairs and, with the lack of friction, almost slid out. Henry went over to the far wall, where dozens of pictures were hung and started examining them. Lassiter stepped up to Shawn and said, in a low, threatening voice, "What the hell do you think you are doing?"
"We did Roberts your way," Shawn said. "We do Mrs. Avala my way."
"And what way is that, exactly?"
"I'm just following the spirits, Lassie. I usually have no idea where they will lead me."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Lassiter grumbled.
Shawn sank onto the plastic-covered couch and took a deep breath. The clues were here. Roberts had been meticulous in cleaning the clues out of his house, but Mrs. Avala was not a meticulous person—the over-filled dusty curio cabinet proved that.
"I can't believe you're just going to sit here," Lassiter said. "Shouldn't we be interrogating the old woman?"
"Dad, what did you tell me when you found cigarettes in my backpack in sixth grade?" Shawn asked as he grabbed a pile of catalogs out of the magazine rack and started flipping through them.
"People lie, stuff doesn't," Henry said. He'd moved on from the photos and was now examining the bookcases.
"You had cigarettes in your backpack in sixth grade?" Gus asked with a scoff. "Dude, how stupid are you?"
"Stupid enough to know it would get me grounded," Shawn said as he flipped through an Eddie Bauer catalog. "And I wouldn't be allowed go on the field trip to the police station the next day—which meant I was saved the embarrassment of having to be pegged as 'Officer Spencer's Boy.' Added bonus, I could stay up late and watch the Godzilla marathon on channel 5 and sleep all day at school."
"Did you really do that, Shawn?" Henry asked.
"I don't recall," Shawn said, putting down the Eddie Bauer magazine and picking one up from Sunsetter Awnings. "It was a long time ago."
"This is such a waste of time," Lassiter muttered. "I could have walked back to the station by now."
"Waste of time, Lassie?" Shawn asked, as he put down his awning catalog and picked up the next publication in his pile. "What do you think of this?"
"Is that what I think it is," Gus asked, leaning forward in his chair to get a better look at the mailer.
"I don't know," Shawn said, handing it to Lassiter. "Let's ask the detective."
"This is a newsletter from the Crystalline Temple," Lassiter said. "But she wasn't on the list of members."
"Check the address label," Shawn said. "To Mrs. Katherine Avala or current resident. She got put on a mailing list somewhere along the line."
"Probably by her niece or daughter," Henry said. "One of the girls in the pictures over there was wearing a crystal necklace. There's a clear family resemblance."
"Was that last month's newsletter?" Gus asked.
"Yes," Shawn said as Lassiter was scanning the first page for the date.
"Check page three," Gus said. "There should be an article about Shawn and me."
Lassiter flipped to the page and found not only an article, describing a séance Shawn had held for the entire temple, where he divined that the culprit was really a mischievous eight-year-old, but also a picture. "Spencer, are you wearing a bathrobe?"
"Not now, no," Shawn said, flipping through an American Girl Doll catalog. "Why do you ask?"
"And a turban?"
"I think he's talking about the picture," Gus explained.
"And who is Magic Head?" Lassiter asked.
"The lemonade is ready!" Mrs. Avala said from the kitchen.
Shawn quickly put down the catalogs. Henry walked over to the couch and sat next to his son. Lassiter remained standing by the door, still reading the temple newsletter.
"This is instant, you know," Mrs. Avala said, handing Shawn a large plastic glass filled with cold lemonade. "I hope that'll be all right."
"That'll be fine, Mrs. Avala," Henry said. "Thank you very much."
"Oh, look, you put little slices of strawberry in it," Shawn said. "How sweet."
"Mrs. Avala," Henry said, leaning forward. "We understand that your went on the cruise with your next door neighbor, Keith Roberts."
"Yes," Mrs. Avala said, nodding enthusiastically. "Keith is such a dear. I was just telling him how I'd always wanted to see the northern lights and so he said 'Well, Ms. Katie'—he call's me that, Ms. Katie—isn't he sweet—he said 'Well, Ms. Katie, we can make that happen.'"
"Wait," Gus said. "Are you saying he paid for the trip?"
"He did, bless his heart," Mrs. Avala confirmed. "The whole thing."
"Well, that's exceptionally generous," Shawn commented. "He must be very found of you."
"Keith is very generous," Mrs. Avala confirmed. "When the bank was going to foreclose on me, he bought this house—and let me stay in it."
"That's amazing," Gus said.
"I try to pay rent—but he doesn't want money. He says he just wants a mother. His died when he was just a baby, you know."
"No," Shawn said, even as he remembered Mrs. O'Hara talking about speaking with Keith's mother when he was stalking Juliet. "I didn't know that."
"Yes, poor dear. He says all he wants is Sunday dinner and a little company now and then. I bake for him of course, and mend his clothes, and give him vegetables from my garden . . . ."
"You have a garden, really?" Shawn asked enthusiastically. "I don't suppose you could show it to us."
"Well, of course I could, sweetheart," Mrs. Avala said. "But I don't know what that has to do with Alaska."
"It's a very detailed survey," Gus explained.
* * *
Juliet was able to grope along the wall and find the lights. The bright, flickering fluorescents against the white walls did nothing to help her pounding headache but she tried to ignore it.
The first thing she did was eat the soup Keith had left for her. He had gone to a lot of trouble to get her into his little white room, she reasoned, so he must have wanted her alive. And if he wanted her alive, he wouldn't poison the soup. She felt much better with something in her stomach. Granted, breathing still hurt and the waves of dizziness and nausea could flare up at any moment but they weren't nearly as bad.
When the bowl was empty, she went over to the door and inspected it. She banged on it, and it made a hollow sound, while the walls around it sounded solid. She thought it was probably made of reinforced steal, and it was locked. The vent above the door was only about a foot wide and six inches tall. With enough work, Juliet knew she would be able to pry it open, but she didn't know what possible good it could do.
Giving up on the door, she turned to the cabinet. She expected it to be locked, but it was not. The doors swung open easily and showed Juliet the last thing in the world she expected to see, and the one thing that scared her more then anything else.
The cabinet was full of clothes, nice, brand new, blood-red clothes.
Juliet looked through the fitted t-shirts, stylish skirts, cozy sweaters, and even a few elegant dresses. She remembered their uniform at the ice-cream parlor, so long ago. They'd all had to wear red polo shirts. Juliet had complained it several times that red didn't' flatter her at all; but Keith had always said it made her look sexy.
The top shelf had a box on it. Carefully, Juliet pulled the box down and looked in it, then she dropped it in horror. Red bras and panties tumbled onto the floor.
Juliet sank down on the cot and looked up at the wardrobe. This wasn't Ruthless People, as Shawn had optimistically suggested. This was Misery.
To be continued . . . .
