Too Close to Home

by Linwood Barclay

  “I was just taking a break,” he said.

  I got out my wallet, peeled off a twenty and a ten, put the money into his hand, and said, “That’s all your pay, severance included. You got a cell, or do you want to borrow mine so you can call your mom to pick you up?”

  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN WRONG to make generalizations about kids today, that they don’t know how to put in a good day’s work, that they think they’re entitled to something for nothing. Derek certainly wasn’t like that. He always kept pace with me, pulled his weight.

  But Jesus Christ, kids today.

  I must have muttered it under my breath a hundred times through the rest of that day as I handled the rest of my clients solo. By the time I got to the Blenheims, on Stonywood Drive, I thought I was going to plant myself facedown into the lush, green front yard.

  Stonywood’s a quaint old street in Promise Falls, and the Blenheim place is on a corner, situated across the street from a two-story century-old house with hedges so tall you can hardly see the first floor. If it were me, I’d cut them down to show the place off, but at least the place was well tended.

  There was a gap in the hedge where the walk led up to the front porch, and I’d seen a man poke his head out from behind the bushes a couple of times, watching what I was up to. Maybe he’d spotted my name on the side of the truck parked at the curb out front of the Blenheim house, recognized it from the news. There’s the guy, he was probably thinking, whose kid whacked that family.

  Although I’d only caught a glimpse of him, I put him in his mid-thirties or so. Hair cut short, military-style, round head, thick neck, broad shoulders. About my height, maybe not quite as tall, but built, as they say, like a brick shit house. Probably played football in his younger days. Maybe he still did, for all I knew.

  As I was finishing up with the Blenheim house, feeling a bit groggy and disoriented from the heat, I drove the lawn tractor around to the back of the trailer, where the ramp was already extended and in position. I was about to drive up it when something huge and red seemed to come out of nowhere, only inches away from me.

  I swung my head around to see what it was, and I guess my arms, and the steering wheel, must have moved a bit with the rest of me. A shiny van, with four big letters on the side followed by two more: “TV.” A local news crew. The van screeched to a halt, its entrance so jarring and dramatic that I allowed the tractor to veer a bit too far to the left, and the front wheel slipped over the edge of the metal ramp.

  The tractor tipped about forty-five degrees and I lost my grip on the steering wheel. Maybe, if I hadn’t been feeling so logy from lack of sleep, I’d have been ready. But I wasn’t, and I tumbled off the machine and landed on the pavement. The tractor was still roaring, the right back wheel spinning in the air, looking for purchase, and then there was a man in a nicely tailored suit, shouting, “Oh fuck!” He’d come running out of the van and was attempting to grab the steering wheel, but the dumb shit ended up nudging the tractor further, so it fell right off. The housing that enclosed the blades landed on my leg, halfway between my knee and ankle.

  “Jesus!” I shouted, and as I writhed I caught sight of my football player, looking out from between the hedges, a stunned expression on his face. “Help me out here!”

  He bolted across the street and had to more or less step over me to get to the tractor. He got his left hand on the steering wheel and gripped the sheet metal of the rear fender and lifted.

  The tractor might as well have been a toy to him, he lifted it so effortlessly. I crawled far enough away so that if the machine fell again, it wouldn’t land on me.

  The man gently let the tractor back down, half of it touching the pavement, the other half still on the ramp. He reached over and turned the key, and the tractor went silent. The guy in the suit, whom I now recognized as an on-air reporter for the local news, now had a young, long-haired man in jeans at his side. His driver and cameraman, I presumed.

  “You okay?” the reporter asked.

  “Fucking hell!” I said. “You just about cost me a leg there!”

  “I was just trying to help,” he said.

  “That’s what you were doing, when you drove up and scared the living shit out of me?” I shook my head and then looked at the man who’d lifted the mower off me. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Can you walk?” he asked. For a tough-looking guy, his voice was very quiet.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. He got on one side of me, the van driver on the other. My leg was sore, but it didn’t feel as though anything was broken.

  I let the two of them back off to see if I could stand unaided. I was okay. I bent down, pulled up the leg of my jeans, and while I had a bruise forming, the skin hadn’t been broken.

  “Hey, that’s great,” said the reporter. “Listen, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your son.”

  I said, “If you leave right now, maybe my first stop on the way home won’t be to a lawyer to sue your fucking station’s ass off for nearly putting me in the hospital.”

  The reporter glanced at his cameraman, then back at me and said, “Sorry. Maybe we can catch you later.” He extended a business card to me between two fingers, but I didn’t reach for it. Then the two of them got back in the van and drove off.

  “Assholes,” said the football guy.

  I extended a hand. “Jim Cutter,” I said. “Thanks very much. Jesus, you’ve got arms like a bear.”

  “Drew,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Drew Lockus.”

  “Well, thanks, Drew.”

  Drew looked a bit sheepish. “I didn’t mean to be spying on you there before.”

  “No problem.”

  “It must have looked funny, me peering at you from behind the bushes. It’s just, I saw the name on the truck and wondered if you were related to that boy, the one that got charged.” Drew spoke slowly, deliberately, like he was thinking everything out before he said it. “It was on the news.”

  I nodded. “I am,” I said. “That’s my son.”

  Drew let out a noiseless whistle. “That must be tough.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I said, wanting to make the point right away, whether Drew got around to asking or not.

  “Sure,” said Drew, nodding. “I’m sure he didn’t. Cops, you know, they’re always railroading people.”

  He sounded as though he was speaking from experience, but I had enough problems without inquiring about someone else’s.

  “Your tractor,” he said, pointing. “It’s still off the track here, if you want a hand.”

  I said I’d be grateful, and he got on one side and I on the other, and we got it back on the ramp. I could see muscles bulging under his shirtsleeves. When I lifted, putting weight on my leg, I could feel pain shoot through it.

  “Shit,” I said. “That smarts.” I felt the need to explain why I was even out here, considering my circumstances. “It’s been quite a day so far. My son, he normally helps me,” I added. “We’re a team.”

  “That’s a nice tractor,” Drew said. “I used to fix these.”

  “Really?” I said. “What kind of work do you do now?”

  Drew shrugged. “I’m sort of between jobs.” Then, as if he’d just remembered where he was, he nodded back at the house surrounded by the high hedges and said, “I look after my mom here at the moment. Big house for her to live all alone in.”

  I glanced over at it. “Beautiful house.”

  Drew nodded. “Well, if you’re okay . . .”

  I nodded, took a couple of breaths. I had a thought, then shut it down. Then it came back.

  “You looking for work?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sort of. But not that much. Why?”

  “I had someone else working for me today. Kind of a short-term thing. A kid. Didn’t work out.”

  “Oh. I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’d have to bounce it off my mom, see if she’d be okay with me being gone some through the day.”<
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  “Your call,” I said. If Drew didn’t want a job, no big deal. I was sure I could find someone else. There was some kind of unemployment office down at city hall. I could probably luck into someone there.

  But I gave him one of my business cards, wrote my cell phone number on the back. “If you’re interested, try that number. We’re not answering the house phone much these days.”

  “Hope your leg feels better,” he said, his voice quiet, like he was afraid if he spoke too loud out here on the street, he’d wake his mother.

  “Thanks again,” I said, and got back in the truck. In the mirror, I saw him standing in the street, watching me drive away until I turned the corner, and then we lost sight of each other.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ANY OTHER DAY, it would have been time to pack it in and head home. Ellen called my cell and said she’d thrown a small chicken into the oven an hour ago, and dinner would probably be ready by the time I got back.

  “I’m going to try to get one more job in,” I said. I was only a few blocks from the Putnam house, which was a property of almost two acres, but I thought, cranking up the speed a bit on the Deere, I could finish it off before it started getting dark, even without help.

  “Jim,” Ellen said, “come home.”

  “Just set a plate aside for me,” I said. “We need money now more than ever. I don’t make a lot, but it’s better than nothing. You figure out the finances, how we’re going to pay Natalie Bondurant?”

  “Yes,” Ellen said. She sounded defeated. “We’re going to have to cash in a few things.”

  “Sounds like I better keep cutting grass,” I said. “I’ll be home when I’m home.”

  “I’ll see ya,” she said tiredly.

  I pulled up to the curb in front of the Putnam home. A big, two-story affair, double garage, a Porsche parked on one side of the drive, a Lexus on the other. Leonard Putnam was some hotshot financial adviser, far as I knew, and his wife was a much-respected psychiatrist.

  I rarely ran into either one of them. The last time was probably when they hired me to look after their property for the season. I’d come out on a Saturday to meet with them, summer before last. I didn’t need to see them if all I did was cut their grass. I did the job—or Derek and I did the job—and once a month a check showed up in the mail. A hefty one, too, given the size of their property.

  But because I was running behind, and getting to the Putnam house at an hour when they were likely to be home, I wasn’t surprised to see Leonard Putnam coming out the front door as I walked around to the back of the flatbed trailer to unload the Deere.

  “Mr. Cutter,” he said. Not really a friendly greeting. There was a tone to it that suggested an imminent scolding. He had silver hair and was dressed in a creamy yellow sweater and white slacks. He dressed rich, looked rich. If he got a grass stain on those pants, it’d never come out.

  “Evening,” I said.

  “May I have a word?” he said.

  This was different. Leonard Putnam wasn’t the type to talk to the hired help. Maybe he was pissed I’d come so late in the day. The noise of the mower was going to interfere with his pre-dinner cocktail.

  “Sure,” I said, walking up the drive. He met me halfway, by the back end of the Porsche.

  “Mr. Cutter,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re going to be going with someone else.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Another lawn company.”

  “Is there a problem? If there’s something you’re unhappy with, I’m sure I can address your concerns. I wasn’t aware that you or Dr. Putnam have been anything but satisfied.”

  “Oh no, nothing like that. You’ve always done a good job.”

  “My rate’s competitive. Look around if you don’t believe me,” I said.

  “It’s not that, either, Mr. Cutter.” He paused. “You see, Albert Langley, he was my lawyer.”

  I studied him a moment, then nodded slowly. “I see. And what does that have to do with whether I look after your yard or not?”

  He almost laughed. “Is that a serious question, Mr. Cutter?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

  “I cannot, in good conscience, maintain our relationship, given what your son has done. My wife is very troubled, to think that he has been here, with you, week after week, that there were even times when she was home when you and your boy were here, that he could have had access to our house. God knows what could have happened. My wife is most distraught. Otherwise, she’d be out here with me to deliver this news. She also knew Donna Langley quite well, personally and professionally, in fact, although I’m certainly not at liberty to discuss what that involved. She’s quite destroyed by this tragedy, as am I.”

  “My son is innocent,” I said, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

  “Well, I certainly don’t blame him for pleading not guilty,” Leonard Putnam said. “That’s how the game is played. Albert Langley knew that better than anyone, I suppose. I wouldn’t have expected anything different, and that’s not a reflection on you or your boy. I suppose, were I to somehow lose control of my impulses and commit an act of violence, I’d no doubt proclaim my innocence, too.”

  “I didn’t say he was pleading not guilty. I said he was innocent.”

  Putnam half chuckled again. “Look at me, actually having a debate with you about this. It’s quite extraordinary, really. We won’t be needing you anymore, it’s as simple as that. I’ll send you a check to cover the entire month, however. I’m a reasonable person.”

  I wanted to kill him. But even more than that, I wanted to throw him to the ground and drag his white-panted ass across his lush green yard. Once I’d made a sufficient mess of him, maybe then I’d kill him.

  But I didn’t knock him down, or drag him across the yard, or grab him by the neck. I turned around and walked back to my truck, nearly blind with rage. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see Lance Garrick in time.

  As I was rounding the back of the trailer, I caught a momentary glimpse of something down there, hiding behind it, but there wasn’t time to react as this shadow leapt up and came at me.

  I only had time to dodge slightly to the right, which meant the fist coming at me didn’t connect squarely with my nose, but caught the side of my cheek. Even though its path was slightly deflected, it still hurt like hell and kept me from seeing the other fist, coming a fraction of a second later and at the same rate of speed. That one caught me just under the ribs and completely took my breath away.

  I collapsed to the pavement, clutching my side, writhing and moaning. I looked up at Randall Finley’s driver, standing over me and grinning.

  “Not fun to get sucker punched, is it?” Lance asked. “Who’s laughing now, dickwad?”

  I was gasping, still trying to get my breath.

  Lance had knelt down, and I could feel his hot breath on my ear as he continued, “Tough break about your kid, huh, motherfucker? Guess he’s got some of the same problems you got. Maybe, if they don’t actually give him the chair, when he gets out in twenty years, the two of you can go to anger management classes together.”

  And then he spit in my ear.

  From the pavement, the world at right angles, I watched him walk up the street, whistling, then get in a blue Mustang and drive off.

  DRIVING HOME, feeling the pain in my gut more than the blow to my face, I phoned Natalie Bondurant. Not to get some sort of restraining order against Lance, but to ask her a question. I got her voicemail, so I left my question with her and asked her to call me when she had a chance.

  Ellen met me at the door and said, “Hey, I’ll just warm up your din—”

  And then she saw my face. I told her what had happened. Not just my encounter with Lance, but my discussion with Leonard Putnam. I wasn’t sure which made her angrier. Putnam, I think. She knew I had to take some of the blame for what had happened with Lance. I’d sucker punched him days earlier, and he’d returned the favor.

  She got a
n ice pack, wrapped in a towel, for my face. I tried holding it there while I ate my dinner. It hurt to chew, but I was hungry enough to put up with the aggravation. Ellen was pouring me some coffee when there came a soft rapping on the kitchen door.

  We looked at each other warily. At least we knew it wasn’t Conrad. He’d have tried to walk straight in.

  “Stay,” I said to Ellen, and got up from the table. I pulled the curtain back an inch and saw Penny Tucker standing on the deck. I unlocked the door that was so rarely locked before, and opened it. “Penny. Come in.”

  She did. She was a pretty girl, petite, with slightly olive colored skin, indicating, I thought, a Mediterranean background. “Thanks,” she said. “How’s Derek?”

  “Not so good,” I said. “He’s in jail. The judge wouldn’t allow him to post bond.”

  “How did you get past the police?” Ellen asked.

  I figured she’d snuck past, just like last time, but she said, “I talked to him. He let me come down.”

  Ellen and I exchanged glances. I said, “He’s really there to protect a crime scene, not run interference for us.”

  “What can we do for you, Penny?” Ellen asked, her voice slightly icy. She hadn’t forgotten, and neither had I, how our son had been treated by her parents the last time he’d gone to see her.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m not even supposed to be here, and my parents are going to kill me”—she paused a moment, maybe second-guessing her choice of word—“when they find out I’ve snuck out of the house.”

  “You should call them,” I said, pointing to the phone. “They’ll be worried sick about you.”

  “Derek, he must have told you, what happened when he came to my house.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I just felt awful about that. But the policeman, Mr. Duckworth?”

  We nodded.

  “He’d been to the house earlier that day, about the phone calls. He figured out Derek had phoned me from the Langleys’ house, and then he came to see us, to see me, and, like, he made me tell him everything, because my parents were there, and they said I had to tell, so I told him he’d been in the house right before they all got killed.” She was talking so quickly she was starting to run out of breath.