“Sacred Grounds,” a woman answered, and Bette’s heart dropped into her stomach.
“Is Rick there?” she asked.
“Umm…, you know what? I think he just left.”
“No,” Bette screamed. “Run to the parking lot. If he’s still there, get him, please. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Whoa, okay. Hold on.”
A minute passed, two.
Bette pulled at her hair and gritted her teeth.
“This is Rick,” he said.
When his voice came on the phone, Bette sputtered and tripped over her words.
A jumbled nothing came out.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
“Rick, don’t hang up,” Bette yelled. “This is Bette Childs. Was her name Greta? Crystal’s friend who was in the coffee shop the last day you saw her?”
The man didn’t speak. Bette imagined him trying to piece together her frantic question.
When he spoke, Bette’s spine went rigid with fear.
“Yes!” Rick exclaimed. “That’s it. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember it. Greta.”
Bette hung up and dialed Officer Hart’s number by memory.
“Hart?” Bette demanded before anyone spoke.
“You’ve got him.”
“It’s Bette.”
The man paused. “Hi Bette. I wish I had some news-”
“I have news,” she cut him off. “It wasn’t Wes. It was his wife, Hillary. I’m sure of it, Hart. The things I’ve learned about that woman. You’ve got to arrest her. Wes is in danger too. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Wait, wait. Bette, we already interviewed Hillary Meeks. I told you, she was half a state away from East Lansing. She couldn’t have done anything to your sister. She didn’t even know she existed, Bette.”
“She lied! Understand? She’s a liar. She’s murdered before,” Bette insisted, knowing she sounded manic, but unable to calm her voice.
“Bette…” His tone told her everything she needed to know. He didn’t believe her.
Bette hung up once more. She didn’t have time to convince him.
She dialed Weston’s number in Lansing. He didn’t answer.
She hung up and dug through her purse searching for her little flip notebook. When she didn’t find it, she dumped the entire purse on Linda’s desk. Her fingers flew across the contents, snatching up the little blue notebook.
She searched for the number she’d written down. The home phone number of Hillary and Weston Meek’s house in Traverse City.
The phone rang three times. The answering machine would pick up. Any minute she’d hear the crisp voice of Hillary Meeks telling her to leave a message.
Instead, Weston Meeks answered.
“Hello?” he sounded breathless.
“Weston. It’s Bette.”
“Did you find Crystal?” his voice was desperate, strained.
“No, but listen, Wes, I think… Fuck it. I think your wife is behind this. I think Hillary did something to Crystal.”
Silence.
She expected him to disagree, to say she was talking crazy.
“Me too,” he whispered.
Bette was stunned and, for a moment, said nothing. Finally, her brain kicked back into action.
“Where is she? Where’s Hillary right now?” Bette demanded.
“I don’t know. I got sick again last night,” Weston confessed. “I think she’s drugging me. When I woke up, I was totally out of it. Her car was gone. She hasn’t been back.”
“She’s dangerous, Wes. You need to get out of your house.”
“No,” he snapped. “No. I need her to come back. I need…” He paused, and when he spoke again, he sounded as if he’d had a brilliant idea. “I need her to drug me again. I’ll pretend to eat what she gives me, and then I’ll follow her. I’ll—”
“What? No, that’s crazy. If she knows—”
But before she could finish her statement, he interrupted her. “I’ve got to go.”
Bette listened to the click as he hung up. She stared at the phone in her hand, incredulous. She clicked the button and re-dialed his number. It was busy. She tried again, and then a third time.
“No,” she shouted, banging the phone against the side table. The small plastic mouthpiece broke off and dangled from a series of wires.
“Shit,” she muttered, quickly screwing it back on.
Linda poked her head from the other room, fixing Bette with a glare, but when Bette offered her own wild stare, the woman quickly ducked out of sight.
Bette had to drive. She was still an hour north of Traverse City.
53
June 25, 1991
Crystal heard the knob turn and knew death had come for her. If she had a mirror to gaze into, she’d see the black shadow had descended.
The knob rattled, but no key turned in the lock.
“Crystal?” Weston’s voice whispered through the door.
Crystal lurched to the side of her bed.
“Wes,” she croaked.
She would have cried if there’d been water enough in her body to shed a tear.
“Oh God,” he murmured.
The knob didn’t rattle this time. A loud splintering sound came from the door as he kicked it. The door didn’t burst open. He kicked it again, and the wood cracked. The third time, his foot broke a hole through the center of the door.
He peered in.
Crystal fell from the bed and crawled toward him.
“Oh Crystal, oh Jesus. Hold on, just hold on.”
He put his hands through the hole and grabbed the splintered edges, ripping the wood back. Only a small piece broke away, and he swore.
“Stay back, Crystal. Okay? Let me try to get this door off.”
He kicked close to the frame. The door groaned but held. He kicked it again, howling angrily as the frame bent and pushed slightly into the room. He kicked it a final time, and it crashed inward taking the door with it. It landed with a bang in the middle of the floor.
Crystal braced her bound hands on the mattress and tried to stand. She couldn’t pull herself up.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Weston moaned, kneeling in front of her. He brushed the hair from her face and wrapped his arms around her. “What did she do to you?”
Crystal wanted to hug him back. She wanted to scream with joy and burst into tears. None of it happened. She lay limp in his arms.
“Have to go,” she moaned, gazing terrified at the open doorway.
He glanced back, recognized the fear etched in her face and nodded.
“Yeah, okay, we’re going.” He scooped her up and ran from the room and down the stairs.
She almost laughed when she saw his jeep parked in the high grass.
He pulled open the passenger door, sliding her into the seat.
Crystal lifted her wrists.
“Shit, yeah, sorry,” he murmured, reaching beneath the seat and pulling out his hunting knife. He cut the ties and kissed the red welts on her skin.
Weston ran around to the driver’s door and climbed in.
“Shit,” he muttered as he reached for the ignition.
“I left the keys inside. Be right back.”
She reached for him but his shirt slid out of her grasp.
They couldn’t leave without the keys, but a wave of horror engulfed her as he disappeared back into the house.
Seconds ticked by and then minutes. Crystal watched the door, hands squeezed together, her breath whistling between her gritted teeth.
He didn’t come out.
After an eternity, the door swung open, and she moaned, relieved. But it wasn’t Weston who emerged from the house.
Greta, blood spattered, stalked across the porch, her face a mask of fury.