Bad Memory Read online

  He had two more numbers left to try. He punched in the digits for the penultimate entry on Charlie’s cell phone call list. Heard static, followed by ringing. No dead tone. Good, Pryce thought, the number was still in operation.

  A woman answered.

  She offered a greeting she’d probably uttered a million times before.

  Pryce sat up straighter in the chair. He was suddenly alert. Heart pumping. Just like those tension-packed seconds before the starter gun went off ahead of a big race during his college track days.

  He asked the woman to repeat what she’d just said. Wanted to be sure he hadn’t misheard her. She repeated the words. Pryce had heard correctly the first time.

  Holten had used his cell phone to make a call just hours before he’d gotten into his car, driven to Echo Park, and climbed into a truck outside some deserted warehouses at midnight. The same night someone had put a bullet in his forehead.

  Pryce mumbled something about a wrong number and hung up. His mind was racing faster than his legs used to during those track meets more than thirty years ago.

  He circled the second-to-last entry on his list.

  It was a Hundred Acres telephone number.

  33

  JESSICA

  Jessica called Ed on the truck’s hands-free mode to inform him there had been a change of plan. She wouldn’t be in the office today after all.

  She was already on the Antelope Valley freeway—the Silverado swallowing up mile after mile of blacktop, the rugged, rolling peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains growing smaller in her rearview mirror.

  The call connected, and Ed’s voice boomed over the speakers.

  “Hey, kiddo, how you doin’? Where you at?”

  “Right now, I’m on Highway 14 heading north toward Chowchilla.”

  “Some new developments?”

  “You could say that,” she said. “I found out who Megan’s secret boyfriend was. The mysterious L whom she wrote about in her diary.”

  Ed sounded confused. “We already know who the secret boyfriend was. It was Lucas.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Who then?”

  “Tom Lucchese. Although, back then, he was known by the nickname ‘Lucky.’”

  Jessica heard nothing but the hiss of the speakers for a quarter mile. She assumed the cell signal had dropped out, but when she glanced at the phone’s screen, she saw the call was still connected, and the signal was strong.

  “Ed? Are you still there?”

  When he answered, his voice sounded weird.

  “What you’re telling me is impossible. There’s no way Megan and Tom Lucchese were an item.”

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “It just is. Trust me. Where did this new piece of information come from anyway?”

  “Rue Hunter. I spoke to her earlier on the phone.”

  “Rue Hunter?” Ed snorted. “Now there’s a surprise. Megan and Lucas were dating each other—that’s why Rue killed them. Although it sounds like she’s still not willing to accept they were romantically involved. Now she’s coming up with this fantasy nonsense about Tom Lucchese.”

  “Patty Meeks didn’t think Megan and Lucas were dating either,” Jessica pointed out. “She told me she would have known if they were a couple.”

  Ed snorted again. “Patty ought to know better than most how kids that age get up to all sorts of stuff their folks don’t know about. She’s a prime example.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, forget it,” he said quickly. “Just don’t go trusting everything Rue Hunter tells you.”

  “There’s something else,” Jessica said. “I discovered more about the body you told me about. The one they found buried on the site of Bruce Lucchese’s casino. His name was Clayton Manners, and he was a pedophile.”

  “Sounds like he was a piece of shit. But I’m guessing there’s a reason why you’re interested in this guy?”

  “There sure is. The night he disappeared—and was most likely murdered—he was wearing blue denim jeans and a black-and-white plaid shirt. Clothing identical to what Rue Hunter claimed Lucas James was wearing the night of the Devil’s Drop murders. Except we know Lucas was wearing different clothes entirely.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Has Rue Hunter offered an explanation?”

  “She claimed she’d never heard of Clayton Manners. Got real upset when I told her about him and mentioned the clothing.”

  “Seems like a hell of a coincidence to me. What do you think, Jessica? Do you think she’s lying? You think she’s playing you?”

  “I really don’t know. But I don’t like coincidences as big as this one. I’m planning on finding out what exactly is going on.”

  “You on your way to the prison?”

  “No, I’m on my way to pay a surprise visit to Rose Dalton.”

  It was midafternoon when Jessica arrived in Chowchilla.

  She cruised along Avenue 26, passing yellow sunbaked fields and a red tractor parked on the dirt shoulder, and headed, from memory, for the motel where she’d met Rose on Saturday when she’d signed the contract following the prison visit with Rue.

  Only four days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

  Rose’s temporary home was located behind a small shopping plaza, which housed a liquor store and a Mexican restaurant and a vacant unit up for lease. The motel was a medium-size two-story structure, whitewashed with navy-blue trim and railings, bringing to mind a sailor’s uniform. Despite the nautical color scheme, the building was a hundred miles from the nearest ocean, surrounded on all sides by the driest of land. The motel was probably kept in business all year round by families visiting loved ones incarcerated at the nearby Central California Women’s Facility or Valley State Prison.

  Jessica pulled into the lot next to Rose’s metallic-blue Audi. A central staircase took her to the upper level, and she found Rose’s room at the end of the walkway. Jessica knocked on the blue door and waited. When there was no answer, she retraced her steps, then walked around the building to the small pool area out back, where she found Rose sitting at a table on her own, face upturned to the sun. Despite the huge Jackie Kennedy sunglasses, she could see the woman was surprised when Jessica dropped her bag on the tiled flooring and slid into the empty seat facing her.

  “Jessica, what are you doing here? Has something happened? Is everything okay?”

  “I thought it was time I checked in. Provided you with an update.”

  Rose removed the sunglasses and frowned.

  “You drove all this way to give me an update?”

  “Kind of. There’s also some stuff I want to ask you about.”

  “Sure. Anything I can do to help.”

  “I found out who gave Rue a ride to Devil’s Drop the night of the murders. A guy called Tom Lucchese.”

  “Really? I remember him. He was a year or two younger than myself. Kind of an asshole. I didn’t realize Rue knew him.”

  “She didn’t,” Jessica said. “Not really. But Rue claims Megan and Lucchese were dating. She says Lucchese was the secret boyfriend, not Lucas.”

  “Wow. Why hasn’t Rue mentioned this Lucchese guy before?”

  “I guess she didn’t remember him until now.”

  “But this changes everything,” Rose said, excited. “Don’t you see? If Tom Lucchese was Megan’s boyfriend, then it blows apart Rue’s so-called motive for the murders.”

  “If Rue is telling the truth, that is. Tom Lucchese drove Rue to Devil’s Drop, that much I do know for sure, but there’s no real evidence to suggest Lucchese and Megan were a couple.”

  “Maybe Lucchese will confirm it himself?” Rose suggested hopefully.

  “I don’t think so. I spoke to him a couple of days ago. He says he gave Rue a ride because she was late meeting friends, but he didn’t mention anything about even knowing Megan, never mind dating her.”

  Rose looked deflated. She stared out
at the pool, where a middle-aged man was splashing about in the water with two girls aged about eight and twelve. Jessica wondered if they were in town to visit their mom at the prison, what the woman was inside for.

  “There’s someone else I want to ask you about, Rose.”

  “Who?”

  “Clayton Manners.”

  All the color drained from Rose’s face, like bathwater being sucked down a drain. She gripped the edge of the plastic table, as though she might keel over, and her chin began to tremble. There was no hiding the fact Clayton Manner’s name was familiar to Rose Dalton.

  When Rue had denied all knowledge of the man, Jessica had decided to quiz Rose. It was more than just a hunch or a gut feeling. You didn’t have nightmares about a guy for three decades because you heard about him in the news. Manners had to be connected to the Hunters somehow. Jessica felt her pulse spike even though she wasn’t completely surprised by Rose’s reaction.

  She waited for the woman to speak.

  When she did, all Rose could manage was “What . . . ? How . . . ?”

  Jessica said, “I know Clayton Manners’s body was found on the site of Bruce Lucchese’s casino. And I know, when he disappeared, his clothing was identical to what Rue claimed Lucas James was wearing at Devil’s Drop. I also know from your reaction you know exactly who Clayton Manners was.”

  Rose blinked, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  “I haven’t heard anyone say his name out loud for forty years. But there’s not a day that’s gone by since when I haven’t thought about him and what he did. What we did.”

  “If you want me to help you—if you want me to help Rue—you need to start telling me the truth.”

  Rose watched the two sisters fooling around in the pool for a few minutes. Their laughter bounced off the tiled surroundings as they flicked water at their daddy, who yelled, “Hey, two against one! Not fair!”

  Then Rose turned to Jessica, leaned in closer, and spoke very quietly.

  “Rue is a killer,” she said. “Just not in the way everyone thinks she is.”

  34

  ROSE

  1979

  The screen door snapped shut with a sharp crack, jerking Rose awake.

  Her heart hammered, and she sat up in bed. Nothing but impenetrable blackness lay beyond the thin gauze of the drapes on the bedroom window. It was late. She listened in the darkness.

  There was a soft thud from the hallway, like a shoulder hitting the wall. Some giggles barely stifled by a hand over a mouth. A stage-whispered “Sssshhhhh.” A low, guttural growl. More giggles. Then wet smacking and sucking sounds and soft moaning.

  Rose lay back down in bed and pulled the bedsheet up to her chin.

  “Gross,” she muttered.

  She hoped Rue was still fast asleep and wasn’t having to listen to their mom making out with whatever guy she’d picked up tonight. She knew the noises were about to get a whole lot worse. Footsteps padded along the hallway before stopping outside Barb’s bedroom door. There was a creak of old springs as a heavy weight landed on the bed. More giggling and moaning. A male voice mumbled something, and Barb slurred, “Don’t be long, lover.”

  Heavy footsteps headed back down the hallway, followed by the steady flow of water hitting water. He hadn’t even bothered to close the bathroom door when taking a leak.

  “Gross,” Rose muttered again.

  She heard the toilet being flushed, just as a loud, wet snore filled the house. Rose breathed a sigh of relief. Most of the time, Barb’s snoring set her teeth on edge, made her want to scream. The exception was nights like this, when Barb had company. The snoring was a welcome alternative to the headboard banging against the wall and the heavy panting and moaning. Rose knew Barb was out cold until the morning, and she hoped the guy would do what the rest of them usually did and slip quietly out into the night, instead of sleeping over and then picking up where they’d both left off.

  She held her breath as his footsteps echoed along the hallway again, in the opposite direction of the front door. He stopped, she guessed, in front of Barb’s bedroom. Maybe he’d left his wallet or watch on the nightstand or had dropped his coat on the floor in the heat of passion and had to collect his things.

  Rose breathed out slowly. Barb was now snoring so loudly she was in danger of waking the whole town. Over the rhythmic snorts and sighs, she heard the guy on the move again.

  Please leave. Please leave. Please leave.

  But the footsteps were heading in the wrong direction. Even farther away from the front door. Traveling toward her own bedroom. The heavy boots stopped right outside her door. She flipped over onto her side and faced the wall. Tried to slow her rapid breathing. There was a creak of hinges. Dull yellow light from the hallway spilled into the room.

  The man’s own heavy breathing was much louder than her own, as he stood there in the doorway. She could feel him watching her. Rose remained still and silent, but she was sure he must be able to hear the thundering of her heartbeat.

  Boot soles shuffled across the wooden floor. There was another creak, and a soft click, as the room was plunged into darkness again. Slow, deliberate footsteps carried him toward her bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “C’mon, sugar pie, we both know you’re awake.”

  His voice was low, hoarse, gravelly.

  When she didn’t respond, didn’t move, the hand tightened on her shoulder and pulled her roughly onto her back. She could see the outline of a figure looming over her. The shadow shifted, and in one clumsy movement, he was straddling her, her legs pinned beneath him.

  “Why don’t me and you have ourselves a little fun?”

  “No,” she said. “Get off me.”

  She heard a jangling sound, like a belt buckle being unfastened. The metallic scrape of a zipper being undone. Felt his hand fumbling around, his breathing coming fast and heavy now. Rose felt a scream build up in her throat, but before she could unleash it, a meaty hand was clamped over her mouth. She smelled stale cigarettes on his fingers. He leaned in close, and his breath stank of beer and whiskey and tobacco.

  “Stop playing hard to get, you little slut,” he whispered in her ear.

  He licked her face, and she could feel his hardness pressing against her belly. The hand over her mouth was replaced by wet lips. Rough stubble scraped against her chin like sandpaper. His tongue slid into her mouth, thick and fat and wet and probing. She thrashed her head from side to side. Reached out and grabbed a handful of hair slick with grease and yanked as hard as she could. His head snapped back.

  “You fucking bitch,” he snarled.

  Rose heard a flicking sound and felt something cold against the soft flesh of her neck.

  “Are you going to be a good girl for Clayton, or do I have to cut your fucking throat open?”

  Hot tears spilled down each temple and soaked into the pillow. The hand not holding the knife searched under her nightshirt and closed around a small breast. She felt the nipple harden involuntarily under his fingers, and he moaned loudly. The hand moved down and tore at her underpants.

  “Open your legs,” he gasped.

  Rose shook her head. She squeezed her legs tightly together.

  “Please stop,” she pleaded.

  She heard the clatter of the knife hitting the floor; then both of his hands were grabbing at the inside of her thighs, trying to pry them apart. Her hand was in his hair again, trying to pull him off her, but he was too strong.

  Her thighs parted.

  He adjusted his position on top of her.

  The room suddenly seemed brighter.

  She could see his face now, inches from her own.

  Dark eyes filled with lust, teeth bared, white spit foaming in the corners of his mouth.

  Then a dreadful scream tore through the air, like the howling of a wild animal. The man’s eyes widened in shock. He slumped heavily on top of her, winding
her. He jerked once, twice, three times. A sickly, wet wheeze escaped from his lips.

  Then there was nothing.

  Only stillness.

  Rose lay there panting, trying to catch her breath, his weight suffocating on top of her, crushing her lungs. She turned her head and saw Rue standing next to the bed. Skinny, pale, shaking, teeth chattering. Ten years old. Her hands were covered in blood.

  Rose pushed the man off her and slid out from under his bulk. Felt her legs collapse beneath her as her feet hit the wooden boards. She crawled toward Rue and pulled her sister into her arms. Hushed her and stroked her hair as Rue began screaming again.

  The overhead light snapped on, and Rose blinked.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  She looked up to see her mom swaying in the doorway, her arms outstretched, hands grabbing for the doorframe to steady herself. Barb Hunter took in the room. Her glazed eyes fixed on the bed and rapidly became a whole lot clearer. Her jaw slackened, and her mouth dropped open. Rose turned and followed her mom’s gaze.

  The dead man was lying on his belly, his head twisted to the side. His eyes staring straight at them but seeing nothing. The back of his black-and-white plaid shirt was torn and soaked dark red. His jeans were around his knees, his bare ass exposed under the harsh glow of a hundred-watt light bulb. The knife was wedged in the side of his neck, the blade buried up to the hilt.

  “What did you do?” Barb said quietly.

  “He was trying to hurt Rose,” Rue said.

  Rose realized her sister had finally stopped screaming. Tears spilled down Rue’s cheeks now.

  Barb lurched toward them, pulled Rue from Rose’s grasp, and shook her youngest daughter hard by the shoulders.

  “What did you do?” she screamed into Rue’s face. “What did you do?”

  “I . . . didn’t . . . mean . . . to,” Rue gasped between sobs and hiccups.

  “Fuck!”

  Barb slapped Rue hard around the head. Then she hit the little girl again.