The Dying Hour (4 page)

J
ason’s bedroom glowed with light dimmed through the tilted slats of the venetian blinds. He was trying to figure out what had awakened him when his phone rang again and he grabbed it.

“Hey, it’s Astrid Grant. Oops, I woke you, didn’t I?”

Jason ran a hand through his hair, guessing she was calling on a cell phone from a car. “What is it?”

“Good story today,” she said. “Have you got anything more on it?”

“Why?”

“I’m on my way to the scene where they found her car and I don’t know how to do these police stories. Can you help me out, Jason, please?”

And help myself out of a job. Right.

Among the interns, Astrid Grant was the best feature writer. She’d already landed several big stories in the paper. All of them came together with the help of another reporter. Astrid was a user and Jason was not going to be used.

“Sorry, I put everything I had into my little hit.”

It was true.

“Well, whatever,” she said. “This whole Harding thing seems odd to me. No sign of a murder. It’s a story of an abandoned car. For all we know, she climbed into the cab of some trucker stud for a ride to Las Vegas.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “That’s right, Astrid.”

In the shower, Jason grappled with the feeling he was being pushed off his story. He couldn’t let that happen. After dressing, he seized two bananas and two apples for breakfast in his Falcon on his way to the
Mirror
and was near the door when his apartment phone rang.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

The clang of steel and the hydraulic whoosh of forklift trucks came across the line with his father’s voice. Jason could almost smell the hops.

“I was on my way to the
Mirror.
”

“I just wanted to say good job on the story. I must’ve bought twenty copies. I’ve been bragging to all the guys on the dock.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, Son, I know you’re busy but it’s been a while since you dropped by the house. How are you fixed for this weekend? I can get us some steaks, we can watch the game. Shoot the breeze.”

“I don’t know, Dad. I might have to stay on this story.”

“Pretty serious business. I understand.”

“Dad, I promise. I’ll get over to South Park when I can.”

“All right, Jay.”

* * *

On his way to the paper, Jason wondered what his father had on his mind. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he should just say it. As far as Jason was concerned, all of the bad stuff was far behind them.

Well, nearly all of it.

Stepping from the elevator into the
Mirror
newsroom, he searched for the assignment editor. Unable to spot him, he went to Phil Tucker, one of the
Mirror
’s Pulitzer winners. Tucker peered over his glasses from behind his monitor.

“Young Jason, the night stalker.”

“Morning, Phil.”

“What’re you doing here? I thought you guys melted in daylight.”

“Came in to work on the Harding story. Do you know who’s on it?”

“Astrid Grant went up to Sawridge with a shooter. I think Nestor’s got other bodies on it.”

Tucker indicated the man approaching them. Jason turned to Ron Nestor, the metro editor, who supervised the thirty reporters in his section. Before becoming an editor, Nestor was a marine sergeant, who then became a reporter covering the military for the
Mirror.
He was six feet two inches tall. He had a brush cut, kept his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. He was accustomed to having his orders followed.

“Good story. You can go home now.”

“I’ve come in to work on it.”

“You’re on nights, I need you fresh for your shift tonight.”

“I can handle it.”

Nestor’s eyebrows rose slightly as he assessed Jason, then he jotted an address on his pad, snapped off the sheet, and passed it to him.

“Your fellow intern, Ben Randolf, is at this place. Go help him work the neighborhood.”

Jason stared at the address. “It’s Karen Harding’s apartment building.”

“That’s right. In Capitol Hill.”

“What do you want from there?”

“Everything we don’t already know. Otherwise known as news.”

The street in front of Karen Harding’s building was lined with police and press vehicles. On the sidewalk, a clutch of TV crews and radio and print reporters were talking to the uniformed Seattle officers while inside, plainclothes detectives were searching her apartment. Jason caught glimpses of their whitegloved hands and grim faces through the crack in the curtains as he joined the group.

Ben Randolf’s smile evaporated when he greeted him.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Nestor sent me to help you out.”

Randolf led him out of earshot.

“I don’t need your help. I’ve got this covered.”

“So what’re her neighbors saying?”

“Not much. Look, we’re getting a police statement soon. I’m good here. Shouldn’t you be sleeping or something?”

“I’m fine.”

Jason took stock of the bystanders watching from across the street, then looked farther uphill. Half a block away, almost out of sight, in a patch of park under a tree, he saw two young women watching the scene. It appeared one was crying while the other rubbed her shoulder. Randolf hadn’t noticed them; he was focused on the cops.

“You’re right,” Jason said. “No need for both of us to stand here. Besides, my bed is calling me.”

“Good,” Randolf said absently.

Jason took the long way around the block so none of his competitors would see where he was headed. As he neared the women, the one doing the consoling eyed him coolly.

“We have no comment.”

The other woman’s gaze was fixed on Karen Harding’s building. A copy of the
Mirror
was folded next to her. She had blond hair and dabbed a tissue to her eyes.

“I noticed you sitting here watching and thought you might be Karen Harding’s friends.”

“Well, we still have no comment,” the first one said.

“Sure.” He reached into his pocket. “If you do, here’s my card.”

The blond-haired girl read it, then looked up at him.

“You wrote the story?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any more?”

“Only what the detective in Sawridge County told me.”

“Stralla?”

“Yes.”

“I just talked to him on the phone today,” the blonde said, making Jason’s pulse skip. “I reached him after I read your story.”

“Trudy, don’t say anything,” the dark-haired woman warned.

“If you want to tell me stuff, off the record,” Jason said, “I can keep your name out of the paper. And I’d be willing to trade information.”

The women looked at each other, reading each other’s expressions. Trudy looked at Jason’s name in the paper, and on his card.

“All right.”

“First. I have to know you are who you say you are.” Jason produced his press ID, then asked to see their identification.

“I’m Trudy Moore,” she said, showing him her school card. “I live directly under Karen’s apartment.”

“Have you spoken to any other reporters, Trudy?”

She shook her head and then Jason asked her to tell him what she knew.

“I saw her leave her place the night of the storm. She looked upset, like she was in a hurry.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No, she rushed by me. Then the next morning I heard footsteps in her apartment. Someone was up there and it sounded like they were looking for something.”

“Any idea who?”

“No, I never saw. It’s so creepy.” She cupped her hands to her face. “What’ve you heard? Do they know what’s happened to her?”

“From what I understand, Karen was going to see her sister in Vancouver and had car trouble. They’ve got a massive search going on right now around where they found her car. But so far, there’s no indication of any violence.”

A few moments passed in silence and then Jason got ready to leave by getting all of Trudy Moore’s contact information.

“You can use my name in your story. I trust you. I’m staying at my mother’s house until I feel safe again, if I ever will.”

“I’ll be working the late shift tonight, so please call me if you hear anything.”

Later that night, after filing what he had on the Harding story, Jason went to the night photo editor, who showed him the
Mirror
’s pictures of her car from the site. An array came up on the editor’s large color monitor and he clicked through them. They were dramatic. Shots of Stralla talking to reporters, the helicopter, the white-suited crime scene people scrutinizing her Toyota. Volunteers helping search the scene.

Vic Beale called him over. “Wade, we’ve thrown everyone’s work into one big take. Astrid’s copy from the scene is pretty thin. Seems like nobody’s saying much. You’re getting top byline because your stuff about footsteps in Harding’s apartment is strong.”

“Where’s it going?”

“Page one.”

Good, he thought, going to the window at the far side of the newsroom to look at the lights twinkling across Elliott Bay and puzzle over Karen Harding’s disappearance. Keys left in the ignition. Belongings left in the backseat. No sign of a struggle. Footsteps in her apartment.

It was bizarre.

His phone began ringing and he strode to his desk.

“Jason Wade,
Seattle Mirror.
”

“It’s Trudy Moore, I talked to you earlier today.”

“Hi, Trudy.”

“Maybe you know this, but there’s a new rumor flying around that someone at the college might have something to do with what happened to Karen.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask around.”

After the call, Wade thought for a moment before going to the photo desk. He shuffled through the prints of images taken at the search scene, coming to shots of Karen’s school friends and teachers. A few dozen men and women near Jason’s age, combing the area side by side with a handful of teachers and what looked like local volunteers. Jason moved on, concentrating on the cutlines, which identified most of the people in the pictures. He found what he was looking for, circled a face, then drew a line to the name.

Luke Terrell. Karen Harding’s boyfriend.

This guy had to know something.

J
ason was up early the next morning to roll the dice on a long shot.

He considered it as he guided his Falcon southbound on I-5. Odds were slim he’d break news. He had nothing to lose if he struck out, nobody had gotten this story yet. Besides, this was his own time.

He was listening to Hendrix, tracks from
War Heroes,
when he came to the edge of the campus. After doublechecking his map, he wheeled into the Motherlode Village Court Apartments where Luke Terrell lived.

It was called Loader Village: a maze of motel-type units, one of several complexes built to handle the rising student population and aging buildings near Seattle’s colleges and universities.

Terrell’s address was Block D, number 231. Jason took the exterior stairs. The air hinted at sweet marijuana. As he approached Terrell’s unit, music blared from across the earthen common area. Painful at this hour. Towers of pizza boxes and pyramids of beer cans flanked every door. He knocked on 231, got no response, and knocked again, louder.

“Who is it?” a male voice called from the other side.

“Jason Wade, I’m here to see Luke.”

Muffled movement, then two clicks at the door. A guy about Wade’s size but a few inches taller, wearing frameless glasses, a blue tie-dye T-shirt, and faded jeans opened it and studied him.

“Are you Luke Terrell?”

A nod.

“Jason Wade. I’m a reporter with the
Seattle Mirror.
May I talk to you for a few minutes?”

Luke’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. His hair was disheveled, he was unshaven. Looked like he hadn’t slept for two days. He stared at Jason. “Did they find something up in Sawridge?”

“No, I’m sorry, but can we talk?”

“I don’t want to give any interviews. I was up there helping on the search, I’m beat.”

“A few minutes is all I’ll need to let you know what I’ve heard.”

Luke weighed the offer, took a breath, exhaled.

“All right, a few minutes.”

It was a studio apartment. A futon with messed sheets was in one corner. Shelving constructed of pine planks and cinder blocks, supporting a TV and sound system, stood against one wall. It faced a torn sofa and two unmatched chairs. A large desk with two laptops and a big freestanding hard-drive system occupied one end. The walls were covered with posters for classic horror movies.

“Nice poster collection.”

“It’s a hobby.”

They sat in the chairs. Seattle papers, including the
Mirror,
were on the sofa. Karen’s face stared from various angles.

“How are you holding up, Luke?”

He shrugged. “Anything new?”

“Maybe something.” Jason pulled out his notebook. Luke’s eyes locked on to it. “I’d like to take notes. I just need to be accurate for the story.”

After a few moments passed, Luke nodded.

“What do you think happened to Karen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. I want her to come home.”

“All police have said is that she was on her way to see her sister in Vancouver, yet she didn’t call ahead. It seems odd that she’d set off like that without telling anyone.”

“I don’t know why she did it.”

“You have no idea?”

Luke shook his head.

“I see.” Jason checked his notes. “Trudy Moore, who lives below Karen, said she’d heard strange noises. Someone was walking in Karen’s apartment the very next morning.”

“I saw that today in your paper. The story sounded like some mystery man was rifling through her place. That was me in her apartment.”

“Excuse me?”

“That was me in her apartment that morning. I went there looking for her when I couldn’t reach her on the phone.”

“But how did—”

“I have a key to Karen’s place. She has a key to mine.”

“I see.”

“Police know I was there. I answered Karen’s phone that morning when a deputy called saying he’d found her car near Laurel but no trace of Karen. I told the deputy that, given the car’s location, Karen had likely been on her way to see her sister, Marlene Clark, in Vancouver. The deputy told me to call her sister in Vancouver and check. That’s how it got started.”

“Have the police given you any theories?”

“No. I’ve told them all I know, but they’re not telling me anything.”

“What about the possibility that someone from the college may’ve had something to do with it?”

“Like who?”

“Like anybody.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Why do you think Karen left Seattle without alerting anyone?”

Luke glanced at the movie posters as if for the answer, then looked back at Jason and swallowed. “I wish I knew. I don’t understand it.”

Jason let Luke’s answer hang in the air long enough to signal that he doubted him.

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“The night she left, just before her car was found. I work part-time tending bar at the Well and called her on my break to talk.”

“How was she? Was she sad? Happy? Angry about something?”

“All right. I’d say she was fine.”

“Really? A neighbor who saw her leaving said Karen looked upset.”

“She was fine when we talked.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“We just talked a bit about her upcoming trip to Africa.”

“She’s going to Africa?”

“For a year.”

“First time I heard that. Tell me about Karen and how you met. I could profile her. Maybe someone will read a detail that might help.”

Luke took a moment to consider the request. Jason thought it a little strange that he seemed reluctant. In his shoes anyone else would be calling a press conference every ten minutes asking for people to help find his girlfriend. Maybe he was exhausted with anguish and not thinking clearly.

“I’m sure the more people know of Karen,” Jason said, “the more they’d be inclined to come forward with information, or help locate her.”

Luke agreed.

“We met a few years back at a campus rally for Third World relief. She’s studying African history. I’m taking software design. I told her I was concerned about globalization, poverty. I want to create advanced programs to bring remote regions of the poorest countries online.”

“What’d she think?”

“She was cool with that. Her parents are missionaries in Central America. She said her mother’s time in the peace corps had inspired her to devote a year in Ethiopia as an aid worker. One of Karen’s professors in religious studies told her about an African fellowship. I told her to do it.”

“You hit it off.”

“We’re unofficially engaged. After graduation I’m going to work here to establish things while Karen does her year in Africa. When she returns, we’ll get married. She wants a small ceremony by the Pacific.”

“When was she supposed to leave?”

“In a few months.”

“The last time you talked to Karen on the phone, did you disagree on anything that would upset her?”

Terrell shook his head.

“What went through your mind when you picked up the phone in her apartment that morning and the deputy said they’d found her car on the side of the road not far from the border?”

“I thought it wasn’t true.”

“So she wasn’t upset after you talked. You didn’t argue?”

“No.”

Jason was uneasy with Luke’s account. It contradicted Trudy Moore’s account. Was he lying? Jason had to confirm it with the investigators.

“So what do you think happened to her?”

“I think she was on her way to see her sister when her car broke down and someone came along offering to help her.” Luke paused. “She’s a beautiful trusting person who doesn’t preach, doesn’t judge anyone, sees only the good in people.”

Then Luke stared at Jason with a question.

“You tell me, how could she just vanish?”

He didn’t have a quick answer, although he was familiar with the torment of losing someone. Sitting there in Luke’s apartment surrounded by walls plastered with poster art from old horror movies, Jason was transfixed. Karen’s picture in the newspaper bled into the unsettling images. Women’s faces frozen in wide-eyed terror as they tried to escape deranged men, demons, or malevolent forces on the brink of destroying them.