Incarnate Read online

  Along the edge of one such dead-end road was the Golden Motel, a long, narrow building featuring four guest rooms and what had once been an office. Some of the windows were broken now; the drapes in the remaining ones were pulled tight. The office had been ransacked, the parking lot littered with beer cans and food wrappers and used condoms. The road had deteriorated until it was nothing but a pair of deep ruts, and the only people who ventured there were snowmobilers in the winter, and teenagers looking for a place to party in the summer.

  Whoever had once imagined that people might pay to enjoy a night in the beautiful Alaskan wilderness, nestled in the Sitka pines a mile above town on a road that was virtually impassable after the first snowfall, had had their dream dashed. But now, it might be Kim and Scarlett’s best hope for escaping the authorities. The Golden Motel was the only place she could think of to hide.

  By noon, Kim and Scarlett were winded and sweating from removing the fallen, dead tree branches that blocked the road. They’d stopped again to allow a flock of wild turkeys to cross in front of them. The Civic had threatened to spin out in the mud on its balding tires, but Kim goosed the gas while Scarlett pushed, and they managed the treacherous ascent to the motel. Scarlett got out and swung open the wood gate that was the last obstacle before the building, closing it after Kim drove past. She parked around the back, making sure the car wasn’t visible from the road, and she and Scarlett unpacked the trunkful of groceries and supplies.

  They set up camp in the least trashed of the guest rooms, forgoing the moldering mattresses and instead laying their sleeping bags out on scarred wooden floors.

  Kim’s anxiety was somewhat lessened by the remote setting—it was unlikely that the police would think to check up here, since Kim had no real connection to the place, nor did Scarlett. But even though she logically knew they were safe for at least the present, she still found herself unable to relax entirely, so as a distraction she sorted through their grocery bags and set about preparing a lunch of fruit and cold cuts. When it was ready, she grabbed them each a bottle of water and they sat down at the splintered picnic table outside the main office.

  After a long moment, Scarlett finally broke the silence. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  Kim nodded appreciatively, not smiling. “Thank you. I had all the fixtures flown in from Paris.”

  “Impressive.”

  Kim turned to Scarlett and took her in. “I’m sorry we’re having to keep you out here. Hopefully it won’t be too long.”

  “I really appreciate what you’re doing,” Scarlett said. “I’ve put Dad through enough. If I can just keep out of the way until they figure out who really killed Isabel—”

  “I think we’re going to have to do a little more than just wait,” Kim said. “I think we may just have to figure this out ourselves.” While she was determined to see this plan through, a part of her still cringed hearing the words come out of her mouth—even now she realized how desperate a plan of action this was. But what else could be done? By bringing Scarlett here, Kim had already set things in motion. Now she had to see it through.

  Scarlett looked doubtful. “But how? I mean, if Chief Plunkett and Detective Trainor can’t find the killer, what chance do we have?”

  “But that’s just it,” Kim said eagerly. “They’ve got their hands full trying to make their case against Albert Sullivan. They know he killed Henry all those years ago, and he’s been in and out of trouble ever since. They ought to look at him for Izzi’s murder, too, but now that they have evidence pointing to you, what’s their incentive to follow up with him?”

  “You really think Albert killed Izzi, too?”

  “I think it’s as good a place to start as any. I mean, it’s true that violent pedophiles rarely pursue adults. But Izzi was young, and Albert has lived in this town for a long time. What if Albert molested her in the past, when she was a child? It would certainly explain some of her behavior. Maybe she tried to tell her parents, or another adult, and they didn’t believe her . . . even more reason for her to turn away from her family and toward someone like Brad Chaplin.”

  “Why wouldn’t she just go to the police?”

  “If she’d trusted people in the past, and been burned, she might be more likely to take things into her own hands,” Kim said, choosing not to think about how easily her words could be applied to their current situation.

  “I guess,” Scarlett said doubtfully.

  “Or maybe . . . from what I could get out of Detective Trainor, it sounds like Isabel was mixed up in some bad stuff. She could have unearthed something about Albert, been threatening him, or even blackmailing him for money. Albert could have snapped and killed her on the spot. Then he disposed of the body in the lake, weighing her down so she hopefully wouldn’t be found.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Scarlett said. “But how are we ever going to convince him to confess?”

  “It’s past time for convincing,” Kim said. She was tired from the exertions of getting to the motel, and her mind was buzzing with the need for resolution—it was time to force things into their proper places. “I’m tired of being nice about this. I’m tired of relying on Chief Plunkett and Zack.”

  “Zack?” Scarlett’s eyebrow raised. “Detective Trainor is Zack now?”

  Kim held her gaze. “Oh . . . is his first name not Zack?”

  “No, it is.”

  Kim nodded.

  Scarlett let it drop. She clearly knew there were more important things right now than calling her doctor out for possibly sleeping with one of the most attractive men in Jarvis. “Okay, so you don’t want to rely on Chief Plunkett or Zack. What are we going to do?”

  “You’re going to stay here. I’m going to get my gun. And I’m going to have a . . . friendly conversation with Albert Sullivan.”

  Scarlett looked horrified. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m just going to threaten him,” Kim said, though her mind was shifting with all the various possibilities. She had to admit it would be satisfying to put the muzzle to Albert’s forehead and pull the trigger, to put an end to at least one evil in the world. “Just enough to get his confession.”

  “Do you even know where to get a gun?”

  Kim nodded impatiently. “You know the pawn shop behind the Hidey-Ho? One of my patients told me about it—his cousin owns it. They sell guns under the table.”

  Scarlett took a sip of her water, her expression clouding with concern.

  “Don’t worry, Scarlett, I’ll be careful. I just have to make Albert think I’d kill him. Once he confesses, everything else will fall into place and you’ll be in the clear—they’ll know you’ve been telling the truth all along.”

  Scarlett frowned. “I don’t know. It seems dangerous. And there’s a lot that could go wrong.”

  Kim felt a rush of annoyance toward Scarlett, and then quickly tamped it down. Scarlett was young. She didn’t realize how important it was that they figure this out. The idea of a lifetime in jail probably just didn’t feel real to her. Sure, what she was doing right now had its risks. But what mattered most was Scarlett’s freedom and safety. Kim had never taken seriously the idea of having her own children . . . but she thought that this is what it must feel like. She might not be Scarlett’s mother, but she felt like a mama bear.

  Kim picked up their paper plates and stuffed them in the trash bag she’d brought, deliberately changing the subject. “I bought you some magazines,” she said, “and you can use a flashlight as long as you’re careful. No light at the windows. I’ll be back sometime tonight.”

  “Wait—you’re going to go see Albert today?”

  “Just as soon as I get the gun. The sooner the better.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” Scarlett demanded.

  “That’s adorable. Really. But no. It’s too dangerous. Look, this is a one-woman job, okay? It’ll be over before you know it.” She smiled, feeling her anger and anxiety settle into a steely confidence. “Tr
ust me . . . tomorrow we’ll take the confession to the police. Albert’s too old and slow to make a run for it—even if he tries, he won’t get far. Trust me. We are going to fix this. I promise.”

  “All right,” Scarlett said doubtfully. “If you really think this is the best thing to do.”

  Kim knew Scarlett still had doubts, and realized that she hadn’t thought through every piece of this plan as much as she might like. A million things could go wrong, not to mention the possibility of Scarlett switching while Kim was gone, but she was safer out here, far from the triggers that would normally affect her . . . arguments, fights, stress. Anyway, they didn’t have time for caution. And it was much better to do something than to simply wait, like sitting ducks, for the police to come for Scarlett.

  If only she’d done something herself, all those years ago. If she’d screamed . . . if she’d distracted the carjackers long enough for her parents to make their escape . . . if she’d launched herself at her father’s killer before he could aim his gun.

  When she was six, she hadn’t been able to stop the evil that had come roaring into her life and taken everything she cared about.

  She wasn’t going to make that same mistake again.

  THIRTY-TWO

  From the outside, it didn’t look like the home of a dangerous man. Kim was looking down on Albert Sullivan’s house from the hillside above, having parked her car at the end of the street and hiked up through the woods above the neighborhood, using the thick pines for cover.

  The house was shabby, and the lawn was overgrown, but wildflowers bloomed at the edges and an untended lilac hedge scented the air, the peacefulness of the scent in stark opposition to Kim’s rapid heartbeat. On the rooftop, a rooster weathervane creaked as the wind gently directed its rusted beak. The drapes were closed tightly over all the windows, but the back sliding door was open a few inches to let in the breeze. Kim could see nothing inside, though she thought she noticed a flash of movement—maybe someone passing by the door in the interior of the house, maybe nothing.

  The afternoon was warm and she was sweating slightly from exertion, but Kim felt ready—more determined than ever to see this through. A part of her knew there was a danger of her thoughts becoming slightly manic and disordered if she didn’t work to resolve the issues brought up over the last few days—but there simply wasn’t time for her to deal with that now. Once Albert Sullivan was locked up, once Scarlett could return safely home to her family, she would focus on herself.

  At least the visit to the pawnshop had gone as well as she could have hoped. The young man behind the counter seemed to accept her claim that “with all these dead bodies washing up, I just need something to protect myself with.” He had suggested a Ruger 9mm that was small enough to sit comfortably in her hand and took up very little room in her purse. She didn’t ask who the gun used to belong to—and he didn’t volunteer the information. Kim had always been a staunch advocate for stronger gun laws, especially considering the elevated risk of violence to social workers, but in that moment she was happy for the “don’t ask, don’t tell” lenience of the Alaskan firearms market.

  “You know how to use this thing?” he’d asked, eyeing her skeptically, but a stack of extra twenties encouraged him to keep his thoughts to himself, and he threw in a box of cartridges for free, even showing her how to load them. Kim had shot a gun once at a bachelorette party for her college friend Kathy Fabian—a party that she left early after feeling the kick of the gun in her hand, her mind flashing to the thought of the bullet piercing her mother’s brain as she still screamed. While she had only fired the gun once that night, she had relived the moment so many times in her memory that she felt sure she’d be able to handle the handgun.

  Now she took the little gun from her back pocket and crept down the slope. As she drew nearer to the sliding door, she could make out a table and chairs beyond, and hear the sound of the television. She checked the neighboring houses, but there were no signs that anyone was home. Soon, children would be returning from school and parents from their jobs, but Kim hoped to be long gone by then. Her phone was in her other pocket, Zack’s number queued up and ready to go, just in case anything went wrong. She worried that he might screen her call, maybe not even listen to a message, if she had time to leave one.

  A sudden creaking sound from above caught her attention, and she looked up to the roof, relieved to see that it was the corroded rooster weathervane responding to the breeze. The rooster turned slowly and the metal directionals spun.

  North. East. West. South.

  N-E-W-S.

  The rooster preened above it.

  Kim audibly gasped as she made the connection to Henry’s confounding declaration. On top, it had a news birdie.

  It was too late to turn back. When Kim reached the house, she flattened herself against the siding, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart, and listened. The television was blaring one of those courtroom shows, and the plaintiff seemed to be accusing the defendant of pouring paint on his brand-new living room floor. The defendant hotly protested that he owed him money.

  Slowly, slowly, Kim turned her body until she could peek inside. The house was dim; the smell of burnt toast and mold wafted from inside. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out the top of a greasy, balding head above the easy chair facing the television.

  Kim took a deep breath and then launched herself through the door, running through the kitchen and into the living room. She stood between the television and the easy chair, and found herself face-to-face with Albert Sullivan.

  He was asleep. As she watched, his face contracted with a snorting cough, and then he settled back down and snored quietly. Kim felt herself deflate, some of her nervousness draining away. She took a moment to look around the room and assess her options. Next to Albert on a side table was a nearly empty glass of iced tea, the ice cubes still melting on the bottom; so he hadn’t been out for long. A stack of newspapers was held in place by an ugly figurine of a dog wearing a tweed hat and smoking a pipe. A magazine rested faceup on Albert’s thighs, threatening to slide down onto the floor.

  Kim squinted at the image, then suppressed a gasp of horror. The little boy pictured in a variety of poses on the glossy pages couldn’t have been older than nine.

  Her fury renewed, she lifted the gun so that it was pointed straight at Albert’s face, and kicked him in the shin.

  He came awake with a yowl of pain, looking wildly around the room, then focused on her. He reached down and massaged his shin as his expression changed from one of surprise to crafty contempt.

  “What you got there, miss, a li’l old peashooter?” Kim suspected he made himself sound more backwater and old-fashioned so people would underestimate him. Well, she wouldn’t make that mistake.

  “You know damn well this gun could kill you, Albert,” Kim said. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Sure I do. You’re that headshrinker bitch. Thought you could shrink my head, didn’t you, down at the police station.” He laughed, and the sound startled Kim for a moment, but she managed to keep the gun steady. “But I’m too smart for that.”

  “You killed Henry Beaumont nineteen years ago. And you killed Isabel Wilcox, too.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Albert wheezed. “I ain’t listening. I know why you really came over. You want to get fucked.”

  Despite his smile, she could see the fear in his eyes. “You killed Isabel Wilcox, didn’t you, Albert?”

  His smile grew wider. “That’s a good one. You wanna hear another good one? What’s the difference between love, true love, and showing off?” He waited for her to guess, but she just kept the gun directed at his face. “Spitting, swallowing, and gargling.” He chortled and then added, “You wanna show off for me, sweetheart?”

  It was amazing how good he was at winding people up—he knew just what to say to upset Kim. With effort, she kept her face neutral. “You need to confess, Albert, or else I’m going to give you a little taste of wha
t you’ve done to all your victims.”

  “How’s that? Don’t tell me you think you’re actually going to fire that thing?” His laughter collapsed into another coughing fit. He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and spit into it. Kim’s stomach turned with revulsion.

  She pointed the gun at the mirror hanging over the dingy fireplace mantel and pulled the trigger. The explosion was near deafening, and the glass broke into a million tiny splinters that clattered to the floor.

  Albert only laughed harder, pointing at the broken mirror as though it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “My poor mirror,” he said, wiping his eyes. “What’d it ever do to you, huh?”

  Frustration combined with adrenaline, making Kim’s head pound. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned this going. Albert was supposed to have realized he was outmatched. He was supposed to be afraid of her.

  But maybe, when he’d given in to his own amoral urgings, when he’d committed acts so vile that his very humanity was no longer intact, he’d stopped being afraid. Maybe he felt he’d made a bargain with the devil, anticipating his own ignominious end all these years as he spiraled down to join the lowest dregs of humanity, as trade for the heinous things he’d done.

  Could she kill him, if he refused to confess? Give him what he deserved after the terrible things he’d done all these years? No. Even in this heightened state Kim could never go that far. But, maybe she could hurt him badly enough to force him to talk to her. To make him confess.

  Kim thought of Scarlett, imprisoned, forced into a state psych ward or worse, unable to go to school or get a job or do any of the ordinary things young women did. If Scarlett were convicted of murder, she would never have an opportunity to receive treatment, to learn to live with her alters and lead a good life.

  Yes. Kim could do this. To help Scarlett, she would do whatever she had to. She slipped her hand into her pocket to press Record on her phone.