She only ran faster, straight to her room. The door slammed in Gus's face. He tried the knob. It was locked.
"Morgan, let me explain." He knocked and tried the knob again.
"Go away!" she shouted.
He wanted to tell her it wasn't true--that he had never hit Beth, that she had withdrawn the complaint. Crucial details that a sensationalist newsman hadn't bothered to report.
"Morgan?"
"Just go away!"
He pressed his ear to the door. His mind whirled, then stopped, as though he'd hit a stone wall at full speed and was crushed beneath the fallen rubble.
Inside, he could hear Morgan crying.
Chapter Fourteen.
Even the rain looked cold. Tiny droplets sprinkled the windshield, where they huddled together on the brink of freezing until the intermittent wipers cleared them.
A light rain had been falling all day, classic winter weather in the Pacific Northwest. In any given year, dozens of American cities got more precipitation than Seattle--Miami, Atlanta, even New York City. But it seemed nowhere did the rain come down so continuously, so steadily for hours, days or even weeks on end.
Colleen Easterbrook adjusted her wipers. The rain was falling harder. The wet road ahead glistened beneath the long reach of her headlights. She had left the Red Lion airport hotel at nine-thirty, after an exhausting ten-hour shift. As assistant manager she was used to overtime, hardly able to remember the last time she'd worked an eight-hour day. Today had been the usual stressor. Five bus loads of rowdy Rotarians all trying to check in simultaneously. It was always some group coming or going. Her interstate commute was a welcome daily ritual, almost like therapy. That precious time alone in her car was her only chance to unwind.
The radio shifted from pop to news on the half hour. She was about to change stations, but the lead story caught her attention. More mention of a possible serial killer from the baritone newscaster. Her finger froze on the button as she listened.
"Unidentified police sources say the killer may be striking pairs of victims in rapid succession, killing one and then another who bears a stunning resemblance to the first."
She switched it off. She'd read the same story in this morning's newspaper with only passing interest. "Bookends" was what the paper had called it. The first two were men, neither of whom struck a chord with her. The third was an unidentified white woman. She was a brunette, in her mid-thirties, roughly five feet five inches tall. Like her. And probably like twenty thousand other women in the metropolitan area. Back at the bustling hotel, the vague resemblance she bore to some unidentified victim had barely caught her attention. With a quick dismissal she'd moved on to the Arts section and checked out the latest movies. Driving alone at night, however, was a different story. The thought of a missing bookend and a potential fourth victim gave her serious pause. The similarities seemed closer to home. Too close.
Traffic slowed beneath the overpass. A string of blinking red taillights dotted all five lanes ahead. Probably a fender bender. Her Mustang slowed to a crawl. Nearly every night for the past two years she'd driven past this exit. Tonight was the first time she'd encountered a traffic jam. It was a chilling coincidence. She was suddenly reminded that the Green River Killer--Seattle's worst serial' killer--had dumped one of his victims not far from here. More than a decade had passed, but that unforgettable television newscast was still ingrained in her memory--the police pulling that poor woman's naked body from the grassy field, her lifeless left arm dangling from beneath the blanket.
She glanced at the radio. It was off, but she could still hear the newscaster talking about the bookend killer. Another thought interrupted: the Green River Killer had never been caught. Forty-nine probable victims, and he was possibly still going strong.
Her car came to a complete stop. She was trapped at the exit. She checked her fuel gauge. Less than an eighth of a tank. Not enough to sit through a long traffic jam. Her mind flashed with fears of running out of gas somewhere down the road. The doors were locked, but that would hardly keep a madman from running through the rain, smashing her window, grabbing her around the throat, and dragging her into a ditch. The need to keep moving soon overwhelmed her. At the first opening she turned into the far right lane, the only one moving. She weaved recklessly through the jam, cutting off cars and eliciting angry horn blasts. She passed the wreckage on the highway and broke into the clear with a final, quick lane change. One last rubber-necker had to swerve his van to the shoulder to avert a collision. She glanced in her rearview mirror. He was flipping her the bird. She drew a deep breath, surprised at herself. She was normally the most courteous driver on the road.