Possession

by Rene Gutteridge

“Look, maybe we could find a mall while I go talk to him. Get you out of the house to go do something.”

  “The mall is no fun when you don’t have any money.”

  “I’m not leaving you here. And I don’t want Conner scared. I don’t want him to hear me talk to Cantella. The guy’s old and crusty and doesn’t like kids, anyway.”

  “I know you mean well. And I get it. But I’m not going to let this guy bully us, dictate our lives. He’s not going to have me scared to stay in my own house.”

  “This isn’t an option.”

  “I’m not going. I have the gun. I know how to use it.”

  They stared each other down for a few seconds. Lindy searched his weary eyes. He was taking this thing so hard. He seemed to be withdrawing into himself. Again.

  “Okay.” His eyes passively blinked, then wandered to the back window, where Conner could be seen digging in the dirt. “But Conner stays indoors. The whole time I’m gone.” His gaze snapped back to Lindy.

  “All right,” she sighed. “Maybe I can get him interested in chess.”

  “I have to go. He’s waiting for me.”

  “You think this guy can help us?”

  “He’s as good of a shot as anything. You know what to do if Joe comes to the door.”

  “Lecture him and give him a stern look?”

  That quip managed to get a small smile from him. “Funny.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “I will call the police after I pull the trigger.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Vance walked out the door and to his car, which he’d parked at the curb. She watched him drive away as she dead-bolted the door, then went to the window to watch her son. He chipped away at the dirt with a thin but sturdy-looking stick, caught up in his own world. His imagination seemed to have blossomed since they’d arrived in California, out of pure survival. She hoped he could meet some new friends once they got him in school. She hadn’t seen any kids out playing in the neighborhood, but she hadn’t made an effort to find any either.

  Maybe they could find a good park. She didn’t want to bring him in; he was having such a good time.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang. Lindy whirled around, her back against the window she had just been peacefully staring through. In an instant she realized there was no peephole. She was going to have to look out the side window, which meant alerting whoever was out there that she was home.

  She calmed herself, rationally thinking through the fact that anyone in the world could be behind that door. A neighbor. The mailman.

  It rang again. This time twice, with urgency chiming through the electronic bell.

  Lindy hurried to the bedroom and grabbed the shoe box with the gun from the closet shelf. She took off the safety and felt her pocket for her cell phone.

  The doorbell rang again, angrily repeating itself. Lindy hurried to the door, her left hand squeezing the gun tightly, her right hand shaking as she tried to get the phone out of her pocket.

  She was just about to find the nerve to peek out the window when she heard, “Linda Michaela Webster, open this door this instant!”

  Lindy unlatched the locks and pulled open the door.

  Joan Webster loomed six feet tall without heels. Her sharp green eyes, small like they’d been pinched into her skull, seemed unaffected by what must’ve been a shocked expression on Lindy’s face.

  “Mother! What are you doing here?”

  “Are you going to invite me in, or am I going to have to sit out on this dusty porch and get a sunburn?”

  9

  Vance knocked on what looked like a freshly painted front door. It was baby blue and so was the porch. The house looked awfully small, but it sat on the bay, so the size didn’t matter. The salty, heavy smell of the water saturated the air. The sound of waves spilling onto the rocks caused a deep sense of relief even as he held his breath, waiting for Detective Doug Cantella.

  The door opened, and there the man stood, a plaid cotton button-down shirt tucked neatly into tan pants. A nice leather belt was cinched tight. Vance figured that was exactly what he’d look like one day. And maybe he’d have a beachfront house, too. He’d always wanted one.

  “Sir, it’s Vance Graegan. I used to work for the Montgomery County Police Department.”

  Doug’s eyes lit with recognition even as he took a skeptical glance around and then focused on Vance. “What’s your business with me?”

  “My family and I just moved to Redwood City.” Vance paused, trying to figure out how to word it. “We’re in a situation, and I’m not sure how to handle it.”

  “How’d you find me? I moved out here so I wouldn’t ever have to think about that police department again.”

  “I understand, sir. I’m kind of in the same boat.”

  “I suppose you are a detective—and apparently a decent one, if you found me. You worked the sniper case. I barely remember you.”

  Vance smiled with relief. There were rumors that he’d had a nervous breakdown after retiring from the department. “I was a rookie then. Had just come off the streets.”

  “That case made us all feel like rookies, kid.” He took one more look around, then waved Vance in. “Enter.”

  The house was small, tidy. Everything had its place. Ocean-view paintings and nautical decor crowded the living room walls. In one corner sat a TV with rabbit ears that had been unhooked. The side wall of the house was taken up mostly with a large plate-glass window holding a breathtaking view of the bay.

  It smelled like he’d just microwaved lunch.

  “Have a seat,” Doug said with a short gesture toward an old-looking couch.

  “What a view.”

  “Had to have something to remind me there are things to live for.” He limped toward a recliner like he had a bad knee. Easing down into it, he still looked skeptical.

  “I know it’s strange that I’m here. But I wasn’t sure who to turn to. We don’t know anyone in the area.”

  “We?”

  “My wife. And I have a son, Conner.”

  “How long were you with the department?”

  “Twelve years on patrol, then eight years inside.”

  “Retired at twenty years, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Losing a lot of benefits.”

  “My wife and I moved out here to start a deli. It’s a dream of hers.”

  “I bet there’s more to the story than that.” He smirked. “Instinct.”

  Vance laughed. “Yes, there’s a lot more to the story.”

  “I retired early, too, you know.” His gaze was set at the view of the bay. “Could’ve had thirty years.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “You saw the madness, didn’t you?”

  Vance nodded. “I still can’t stand in open spaces.”

  Doug briefly looked him up and down. “If that’s the worst of your problems, you’re doing okay, kid.”

  “The problem is that it isn’t.”

  A knowing expression softened the lines crisscrossing Doug’s rugged features. His eyes narrowed suddenly. “I remember you now.”

  “You do?”

  “You were in that shoot-out.” He fingered the edges of his recliner. “Yes. Earl Stormand.”

  “Earl Stormand.”

  Doug began rocking slightly in the recliner, seeming to relax a little. “If I recall, your partner took him down.”

  “She saved my life.” The sounds of the bay washed over his words.

  “It is a debt you can never repay. You can only accept it. Or you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “I tried to repay it. And I made a terrible mistake.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  Vance took the paper Joe had left on his mailbox out of the pocket of his Windbreaker. He unfolded it and handed it to Doug. “This is why I’m here.”

  Doug slipped reading glasses out of the front pocket of his shirt. He held the paper close and read it. Then he peered at Vance. “Secrets.”<
br />
  “Secrets.”

  “All right.” He refolded the paper. “This is going to require a cup of coffee.”

  * * *

  Lindy’s grip on the doorknob was causing the blood to drain from her hand. Joan’s stoically cold expression never faltered even as wave after wave of awkwardness washed between them. Lindy stared out the door like she might just make a dash for freedom. It had taken years to unlock all the chains her mother had put around her.

  She released the doorknob and stepped out of the way. Joan strolled in, her long, shapely legs a reminder that Lindy never got the glamour gene.

  Joan stopped, putting one hand upside down on her hip, striking a pose like she’d just stepped out of a 1940s movie and needed a cigarette and a stiff drink. “You’ve yet to unpack, dear?” she asked, swiveling on her three-inch heels. “Where is all your furniture?”

  Lindy sighed. She’d hoped her mother’s first question would be Where is my grandson? But Joan was not one who liked children very much, though she seemed to tolerate Conner more than most. Still, even as a child, Lindy had sensed her mother was not fond of children.

  “It’s a long story,” Lindy said. “We’ve got two lawn chairs over there.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “I drove all the way from Guerneville to see you, Linda. You are telling me that you can’t offer me a couch?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.” Lindy pulled at the bottom of her shirt, just like she used to when she was eight. “And it’s Lindy. Please.”

  “Lindy never suited you. It sounds like you never reached maturity.” Joan walked to the back sliding-glass window. “There’s Conner. He is growing fast.”

  “I’ll call him in so you can say hi.”

  “No. Not now. Let him play outside. He’s got muddy hands.” She turned around, her fist again planted sharply on her bony hip. “We have things to discuss. I hoped I might come help you unpack. Where are all the boxes?”

  “They haven’t arrived. We had a slight delay.” The words sounded weary on her tongue. “But it was nice of you to drive all the way here just to help me unpack. How’d you find me?”

  “So you weren’t going to let me know you moved to California?”

  “Of course I was. But we don’t talk often. I figured we could catch up once I was in your home state. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

  “Hmm. Surprise indeed.” Joan fluffed her hair with her fingers. A heavy pearl bracelet draped off her tiny wrist like it was a necklace. Blue veins swam under her translucent skin—particularly in her hands, which had been pasty and frail-looking even when she was younger. Lindy used to spend hours watching her mother tap her fingers against her cheek or pull at her dangling diamond earrings. Her fingers always seemed freakishly long, especially with the fiery red fingernail polish. Joan’s nails had not been naked in decades.

  Lindy sat in one of the lawn chairs. Joan stood.

  Joan. Lindy wasn’t sure, but she thought it was around college when she stopped calling her mom Mother and started calling her Joan. At least in her head. She still called her Mother to her face, when she called her anything at all.

  “Where is that husband of yours?”

  “Vance.”

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “He’s out.”

  “Working?”

  “He retired.”

  “Oh?” This actually caused an expression to flicker across Joan’s face.

  “You know how I’ve always enjoyed catering?”

  She nodded even though she didn’t seem to know that.

  “We’re starting a deli. Just across the street if I can get that storefront.”

  “A deli.”

  “It’s been a dream of mine.”

  “And your husband went along with this?”

  “Vance. Yes, he’s very supportive.”

  Joan shrugged her shoulders as she found interest in the ceiling. “Hmm. Surprising.”

  “Which part?”

  “Well, I harped enough, didn’t I, about your marrying a cop?”

  A weariness crawled over Lindy’s skin. Indeed, she had. She had been relentless. It was what had broken an already-rocky relationship.

  Lindy tried to relax in the chair. It had taken years, but she knew she was capable of not letting her mother get to her. She had few memories of nice, normal conversations with Joan, but she clung to them anyway. She remembered being awed by her presence as a child. Joan could walk into any room and immediately dominate it. As she grew older, she wondered what her mother was like as a therapist. Could she set anyone at ease, or did she simply scare them into spilling out all their feelings?

  The older she became, the less she feared Joan. But she never understood her either, and that’s what she wanted most as an adult. What made Joan Webster tick?

  Joan had dropped in every now and then when they lived in Maryland. She never stayed long and always wreaked a little havoc—either intentionally or unintentionally—while she was there. Yet Lindy always longed to see her. There was something that connected a mother and daughter. She never could put her finger on exactly what that was.

  “I know you never approved of me marrying Vance,” Lindy said, suddenly wishing she weren’t sitting below Joan. “But everything has turned out well. He’s a good husband and a good dad.”

  Joan’s sharp eyes cast their shadow across Lindy. “That didn’t seem to be the case the last time I saw you. You weren’t well. You looked horrible, like a ragged housewife who’d stopped taking care of herself.”

  “You don’t understand what we’ve been through. That sniper case took a toll on us.”

  Joan fingered the scarf around her neck. “Don’t you see, Linda? There is always a case. Always a reason. Always something that makes them not want to come home.”

  Lindy sighed, looking out the back window to watch Conner. “You’ll just never understand. Besides, we came through it. We’re okay now.”

  “Did your home get foreclosed on? Is that why you have nothing?”

  “I told you, the moving van is late.”

  “I know what you told me. I’m only wondering if you would tell me the truth.” Joan’s eyes flashed with fierce mistrust, then softened. “Lies only lead to terrible things, Lindy.”

  “Our house was not foreclosed on. In fact, we made good money on it, which is what is going to help us start our deli.” Lindy looked away again, fearful Joan might see right through her . . . see that they were in a heap of trouble.

  To Lindy’s surprise, Joan suddenly sat in the lawn chair next to her. Lindy wished she could serve her tea or biscotti. Her mother liked fine things and believed that riches made the world go around.

  “Darling, I only wanted to protect you.” She shifted in the chair as if she were having to endure pine needles.

  “I’m sorry Dad left, but it doesn’t mean all cops are like that.”

  “I was the chief of police’s wife, Linda. For twenty years. I saw what it can do to a person. I saw what it did to your father. So few of them can bear the scars.”

  “Then Vance is the exception.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Yes, the sniper case was difficult. It was horrible on everyone. But Vance got the help he needed.”

  Joan only stared at her watch, twisting it around her wrist, zipping her fingernail along its gold band.

  “I’m glad we’re closer now. Maybe we can see each other more.” Lindy looked at her, unable to hide the hopefulness she knew had latched onto her expression. She’d always wanted a normal relationship with her mom, but this was what she had. Maybe she could build on it, one small step at a time.

  “I told you I was here to help you unpack,” Joan said, her voice low, like a purr. “But I lied. There’s another reason. And I will tell you what it is.” Her gaze fixed on Lindy. “But I want you to prepare yourself for what you are about to hear.”

  10


  The small deck creaked slightly against the strong breeze gliding off the ocean’s surface. Supported by two wooden beams erected on the sand, it seemed unsure of itself, but Vance figured it had outlasted many storms. He wondered how old the house was. The railing looked freshly painted, but the deck wood had been lightened by the sun. The deck was so tiny it held only a hibachi, two wicker chairs, and a short table in between, but what else would you need with this view?

  Vance had just started to relax a little when Doug returned with coffee. He set down a small serving tray between them. “Cream and sugar? I take mine black. Real black.”

  Vance laughed. “Me too.”

  “I always told my boys they should stop drinking all that sugar. I’d watch ’em in the afternoon. They’d about be asleep at their desks. Nobody listens to old guys on the force, though. See? It was good that you got out when you did. You’ll never be that old guy.”

  Vance nodded, watching the waves roll in and out. Sometimes he couldn’t help but think about what his last years might have been like. The glimpse he saw caused him to lose sleep. But he would go there to remind himself what he had to fight for in the present.

  Doug listened intently, occasionally asking questions as Vance told the story of the move, how Joe had held all of his belongings for ransom, and how he felt like there might be some connection to the sniper case.

  When he got to that part, Doug turned quiet. His expression looked mildly reflective, but in his eyes Vance recognized horror, because the eyes always told the real story. That’s what they taught at the academy, anyway. Vance had seen that horror duplicated many times in his own mirror.

  “I thought it would never end,” Doug said, his finger tracing the rim of his mug. “I remember that first day. Do you remember it?”

  “October third.”

  “Five of them.”

  “We didn’t even know for sure it was the same shooter.”

  Doug nodded, finally taking a sip of his coffee. He continued to stare out to sea. “We first thought the victims were connected somehow.” He rubbed his fingers over his brow, pushing his thumb hard against his flesh. “It didn’t occur to us that this was random. That he was picking and choosing people at will. That we had a real-life sniper on our hands.” He blew out a breath and leaned forward like he was mesmerized by a crime scene in front of him. “Snipers. One of them just a kid.”