Vicious. Kevin O'Brien
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The Seattle Times article on April 5, 1998, included a photo of Mama’s Boy’s fourth victim. The picture of Pamela Milford showed a pretty, fresh-faced woman with a big smile. Andy’s mother looked so full of hope. The picture had been taken around the time Pamela found out she was pregnant—back when her hair was still long.
CHAPTER TWO
Mount Vernon, Washington—ten years later
No Signal, it said in the window on her cell phone. This was the second time she’d tried calling him.
Susan Blanchette shoved the phone back in her purse, then sipped her Diet Coke. She smiled at her toddler son in the booster seat across from her. “You’ve had enough French fries, Mattie,” she said gently. “I want you to work on your Arby’s Junior. Just a few bites and you’ll make your dear old mother very happy.”
Mattie dared to eat one last fry; then he adjusted the napkin tucked in the collar of his Huskies sweatshirt. He was a bit short and underweight for his age, but healthy—with pink cheeks, straight, light brown hair, and long-lashed blue eyes. Cautiously touching the top bun of his junior roast beef sandwich as if it were the shell of a snapping turtle, he frowned at her. It was a perturbed expression Susan used to see on his father from time to time. Now she only saw that look on Mattie.
It was 1:45. The drive up from Seattle had taken an hour, and Susan guessed they had another hour to go before reaching Cullen, a sleepy little resort town, where her fiancé had rented them a house on Skagit Bay. Allen was there right now—or at least he was supposed to be. Susan just wished she could get ahold of him.
She hoped Mattie might sleep the rest of the way in the car, after their late lunch. The Arby’s—by a casino off Interstate 5 near the Mount Vernon exit—wasn’t too crowded. She and Mattie took a table in the middle of the restaurant, one of those two-seaters attached to another two-seater. The Formica table and plastic chairs were the color of mustard.
Mattie still hadn’t taken a bite out of his Arby’s Junior. He held it in his hand, but paid more attention to the Woody doll in his other hand. He was skipping Woody across the adjoining tabletop. The slim cowboy doll from Toy Story had belonged to Mattie’s older brother and was becoming something like a security blanket for Mattie lately. For months now, the cartoon cowboy doll had never left his side, and it was starting to smell.
In a nearby booth, three guys in their early twenties had been leering at her—to the point at which it had almost become more irritating than flattering. But they looked as if they were about to leave, thank God.
Susan was tall and pretty and often passed for twenty-five. But she’d just checked herself in her compact mirror—between attempts to phone Allen—and under the restaurant’s glaring fluorescent lights, Susan thought she appeared tired, haggard, and every one of her thirty-four years. That table full of twentysomething guys must have been really hard up. She didn’t exactly look glamorous in her knock-around black V-neck pullover and jeans—even if the ensemble accentuated her trim figure. She had hazel eyes, a pale complexion, and wavy, shoulder-length, tawny brown hair. Lately, Susan had noticed the occasional wild grey strand, and she always yanked them out with trepidation (pluck one, and five more will come to its funeral). At this rate, Susan figured she’d be bald by her fortieth birthday.
With a shifty glance her way, Mattie put down his junior roast beef and reached for another fry.
“Don’t even think about it, kiddo,” she warned him. “You need to put a dent in that sandwich, and only then can you have some more fries. Now, c’mon, put Woody down and eat….”
With a sigh, Matt set Woody aside and lifted the top of the bun and peeked at the roast beef.
“They’re pretty great at that age, aren’t they?”
Susan glanced up at a handsome man in his mid thirties. He had black hair, parted to one side, and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He gave her a cocky smile and then sat next to Mattie on the other tandem table. He set down his soda and started to unload his Arby’s bag.
Baffled, Susan gaped at him. Was this a pickup or something—in an Arby’s, for Pete’s sake? The restaurant was practically empty, and this character had decided to sit right next to her and her son.
“How old are you, little fella?” the man asked Mattie.
“I’m four and a half years old,” Mattie replied, putting down his sandwich to show four fingers on his right hand. He also wiggled his left index finger—to emphasize the extra half year.
“And what’s your name?” the man asked him.
“Matthew Blanchette,” he answered proudly. “And I live at eight-fifteen East Prospect Drive in Seattle, Washington, USA.”
Taking out his sandwich, the man grinned at Susan. “Well, you certainly have him well-trained in case you’re ever separated. You folks are a long way from home.”
Susan tried to work up a smile. So far, the man hadn’t done anything inappropriate. And he was quite attractive. Yet he was just a little too friendly, a little too pushy.
He sipped his soda, winked at her, and then leaned close to Mattie. “I heard your mom trying to get you to eat your sandwich there,” he said in a stage whisper. “You should listen to her. That sandwich is packed with protein, and it’ll help you grow up big and strong—like me. Here, take a look at how big my hand is….” He put his hand up—palm out—almost inviting Mattie to press his little hand against it and compare.
Fascinated, Mattie did just that.
Susan nervously glanced around the restaurant and saw the twentysomething guys lumbering out of their booth. She’d figured if this man got any more familiar—and he had, he was already touching her son—she might have counted on these twenty-year-olds to run interference. One distressed look their way might have prompted one or all of them to get chivalrous and come over to her table. But instead, they were now filing out of the restaurant.
The man growled like a tiger and clamped Mattie’s tiny hand inside his own. Mattie squealed with delight. The stranger leaned in close to him and growled even more fiercely. Mattie shrieked with laughter.
Susan cleared her throat and winced a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t encourage him to make a lot of noise in restaurants and public places.” She turned to Mattie. “Remember what I’ve told you, honey? There are other people here, trying to enjoy a nice, quiet meal. You have to be considerate of them.” She reached across the table and gently pried his hand away from the man’s grasp.
“We were just having fun,” the man said—with a crooked smile and a slightly wounded look. He sat back in his chair. “C’mon, Mommy, don’t be a spoilsport.”
“Yeah, Mom. Don’t be a boil’s port,” her son chimed in.
Susan took Mattie’s sandwich and fries, quickly wrapped them up, and loaded them in the Arby’s bag. “It’s getting late, and we need to skedaddle,” she said, not looking at the man. “You can eat your sandwich in the car, honey. Don’t forget Woody. Say good-bye now.”
The man let out a stunned laugh. “Hey, listen, I didn’t mean anything, I was just—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Susan said, getting to her feet. She managed to smile at him, then grabbed her purse and the Arby’s bag. “We just need to hit the road. It was awfully nice talking with you.” She took Mattie by the arm and helped him off his booster seat. “Say good-bye, Mattie,” she repeated.
“G’bye!” he called, waving at the stranger with his free hand.
The man stood up, but didn’t leave the table. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry. I was just…”
Susan kept walking, pulling Mattie along. But she realized they couldn’t make a clean getaway. They had a long drive ahead, and Mattie would need to use the restroom. She bypassed the glass door exit and headed toward the alcove where