by Jack Ketchum
“Nothing. I made Hot Pockets. She was pretty drunk by then.”
The next morning, there was a letter with Aunt Marjorie’s return address on it lying in the middle of the porch. Steve found it when he went out to get the paper.
“Huh. Another letter for Cody from Aunt Marjorie. I must have dropped it when I brought in the mail yesterday.” He didn’t notice the lack of a stamp.
“Is he ... you know ... all right ... after last night? Should we take him to see somebody?” Tiffany asked while cutting into her Eggs Benedict.
“I’m keeping an eye on him. He hasn’t asked to go home and doesn’t seem outwardly upset anymore. I think I’ll ask his mother if I can keep him here for a few more days, just to be sure,” Steve said. “And thanks for your concern, love.”
Tiffany put on a slightly pained smile. “I guess I’ll call the Ramsleys and beg off dinner with them tonight, then.”
“Oh, gosh, is that tonight?”
“Yes. But it’s all right ...”
“No! They were going to evaluate your paintings. If they don’t do it tonight, then you’ll have to wait until they get back from Florence in October. They might change their minds between now and then.”
“I agree, but what do you want to do about Cody? Do you think it’s okay to go out?”
“I’ll call his mother and see if she can take him back for tonight, and I’ll ask her about having him all of next week. How does that sound?”
“Sounds fine.”
“No answer.”
“If we’re not going to go, I need to give Beatrice Ramsley as much notice as possible. I don’t want to make enemies of those two.”
“What does she care? She’s certainly not cooking the meal,” Steve said.
“She cares, believe me. To her, a social blunder—even a minor one—is the end of the line with her. We can skip it, it’s all right.” Tiffany said, putting on the biggest puppy dog eyes she could.
“No, we’ll go. Even if we have to get a sitter for a few hours.”
“Is that really a good idea?”
“Let me talk to him and see.” Steve kissed Tiffany on the nose, then went in search of his son.
He found him lying on his bed, reading a book of all things!
“Hey, Slugger. Another letter from Aunt Marjorie.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Cody stuffed the letter into his pocket without opening it.
“What are you reading?”
“Hardy Boys.”
“How you doing?”
“I’m fine, why?”
“It’s just that Tiff and I have to go out tonight, too. Plans made a long time ago. You up for another sitter for a few hours?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Thanks, son. The question is, who?”
“I heard from some of the kids that there’s this high school girl who’s really nice. She even has references, if you want them. Her name’s Amy Hopper. After the kids heard about Mrs. Fyler, they gave me Amy’s number, just in case.” He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and held it out.
“Wonderful. I’ll give her a call and get her references. If everything looks kosher, she’ll be here with you tonight.”
“Okay, Dad.”
His father left the room and Cody went back to reading the book he had hidden behind the cover of the Hardy Boys novel. The Hardy Boys were pussies compared to what he was actually reading about. He pulled the lined pad out from behind his pillow and continued taking notes.
“He seems to be okay with a sitter. He even had a name and number with one that’s pretty popular with the kids in the area. She’ll be here at six.”
“Perfect,” Tiffany said. “But are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Tiffany asked, not really caring.
“Everything will be fine. He seems like his old self to me.”
Like you would know, with all the attention you pay to me, Cody thought from his listening post at the top of the stairs. Bet you don’t even know what color my eyes are.
“Cody! Letter for you!” Tiffany called.
“Oh, yeah? Great!”
“Is it from your Aunt Marjorie again?”
I knew it! She can’t even read! “What can I say? She likes me, I guess.”
“Do all her letters to you have money in them?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
He father walked in and said, “Well, you enjoy it, Cody. ‘Bout time somebody pried some cash out of that tight-fisted old bat.”
Cody took his letter and ran back to the room his father had given him in his latest mansion. He closed and locked his door, pushed aside the antique Persian area rug, and levered up the loose floorboard beneath it. He opened the letter from Aunt Marjorie and dumped out the pile of tens and twenties, then grabbed his backpack and withdrew a thick envelope, opened it, and added the bills on the floor to the contents. He guessed the new total was nearly a thousand dollars, but didn’t take the time to count it. Instead, he placed the envelope in the empty Lucite box he’d stowed beneath the floor the last time he was here, knowing that his mother would soon get on his case about Aunt Marjorie’s gifts. With the box there (to keep his money from becoming a very expensive mouse nest), the space was now so small that it was difficult to remove the other important item that he’d already spent big bucks on that was already down there, and once again, reflected on how easy it was to get a homeless guy to buy something for you for the price of a fix. He finally managed to get it out and practiced a few times putting it back and taking it out until he could do it quickly and with only the merest whisper of noise. He replaced it, repositioned the floorboard, and then pushed the rug back into place.
Sooner or later, his mom would have found his cache and spoiled his surprise. Here, nobody would bother it.
He had big plans for that dough. He was going to buy his mother two weeks of vacation time.
“Cody! The baby-sitter’s here! We’re leaving now. Come on down!” his father called.
Cody took his time coming down the stairs. Glancing at Tiffany, he noticed that she was wearing a bracelet that would have put him through college. He could barely hide his disgust at the incredible waste of money on such an incredible waste of space.
His father noticed, though.
“Something on your mind?” he asked, with an edge on the question that would have shamed a Henkel knife.
“I was just thinking about Mom working at the fertilizer plant,” Cody replied, staring pointedly at Tiffany’s bracelet.
Tiffany laughed, and gazed lovingly at her gaudy jewelry. “Guess she’s not in the right line of work.”
“I guess not. But then again, there aren’t any street corners near our house.”
This time, his father slapped him so hard he bounced off the wall. “Get to your room and stay there.”
Cody dashed from the room and pounded up the stairs, slamming the door to his room.
“What did he mean by that, Steve?” Tiffany asked.
Steve ignored her and said, “My cell number is on the refrigerator, Amy. I doubt you’ll need it, because I don’t expect him to be coming downstairs this evening.”
“Have a nice time,” Amy said.
“We’ll be back by midnight, I think, but if we’re going to be any later, we’ll call.”
“That’s fine.”
“God, I thought they’d never go!” Amy muttered. She opened up the freezer and after a little rummaging around, found the stash of microwave pizza, pulled one out, and popped it into the microwave. Then she walked into the living room and flopped down on the couch to wait.
Up in his room, Cody could smell the pizza cooking. His stomach growled. He hadn’t had any supper before his father smacked him into the wall, and after twenty minutes or so, hunger finally won out over his previous resolution to remain in his room until he starved to death.
He walked down the hall to the stairway leading to the living room, then decided that he didn’t want to chance those slippery wooden steps in his stockin
g feet. He returned to his room, donned his sneakers, then made his way downstairs.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in your room?” Amy asked, through a mouthful of pizza.
“I haven’t had dinner. I’ll just heat up a pizza and go back up.”
“There isn’t any more.”
“Are you kidding? There were four pizzas in the freezer!”
“Not anymore.”
Cody ran around the corner into the kitchen to see four empty pizza boxes on the counter. The fat pig had eaten every single one!
“Well, I’ll just take the last two pieces of chocolate cake then,” he muttered.
Amy heard him. “No you won’t.”
In the sink was the empty cake plate.
Cody made himself a salami and cheese sandwich and poured a glass of milk. He also took a small glass bottle from the cupboard.
“All set?” Amy asked. “Good. Don’t plan on coming down here again tonight, or I’ll be letting your father know about it.”
Cody returned to his room.
A couple of hours later, he opened his door, and slipped silently into the hall. He crept to the top of the stairs and saw that Amy was sound asleep, mouth open and snoring, on the couch in front of the television.
Perfect.
He pulled the stopper from the bottle he’d taken earlier, then , mission accomplished, he crept back to his room, stood in the doorway and screamed until he heard the sitter wake and rush to investigate.
He stepped inside his room and closed the door, still screaming.
She never made it to his room.
She slipped on the olive oil he’d spread over the top two steps and bounced back down the stairway.
When the silence continued unbroken, Cody left his room.
The baby-sitter was sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes staring at nothing. He slid down the banister, hopped off, and checked her pulse.
Nada.
He cleaned up the area at the top of the stairs and the bottoms of Amy’s shoes thoroughly, replaced the bottle of imported olive oil in the cupboard, and took care of one more bit of business before he dialed 911. He didn’t bother calling his father this time.
Steve and Tiffany pulled into the driveway behind a police and ambulance light show. They both jumped from the car, Steve pushing in ahead.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
“I’ll have to ask you to stay back, sir,” the patrolman said.
“Stay back, my ass! This is my house! What happened? Where’s my son?”
“There’s been an accident ...”
“Where’s. My. Son?”
“Right here, Dad.”
“Oh, Cody, thank God! Are you all right?”
“Yeah. But Amy’s not.”
Steve turned to the officer just as the gurney with the body bag on it was wheeled past. “Dead? She’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so. Looks like she lost her footing on the stairs and fell. Broke her neck. Very unfortunate.”
“Cody, why didn’t you call me?” his father asked.
“I really didn’t think you’d care,” Cody replied.
“Oh, of course we care, Cody!” Tiffany piped up.
“Shut up, Tiffany! He’s my son and I’ll handle this!”
“How dare you speak to me like that! And after all I do to put up with your little brat!” Tiffany shouted. Then she hauled off and slapped Steve across the face.
And Steve slapped her back.
The officers stepped in and separated them.
Cody stood there watching, trembling, eyes wide. The cop put a protective arm around him. “That’s quite the bruise you have on your cheek, young man,” the officer said. “Where did that come from?”
Cody gave his father a stony look and said, “I fell out of bed last night.”
He turned and went back into the house.
By the time all questions were answered, statements made, paperwork filled out, and the police departed, it was well after two in the morning. Steve and Tiffany, having made up, shuffled to the bar for a well-deserved nightcap and were surprised to find two Waterford double shot glasses and a bottle of the second-best whisky (the best having been consumed by Stella Fyler) on a silver tray with a note that read, “Figured you’d be wanting this. I’m really, really sorry,” and signed “Cody.”
Steve smiled. “I guess he must have done this while we were filling out paperwork.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that a double shot is just what I need right now.”
“Me, too.” Steve poured, they clinked glasses and knocked back the shots. “Again?”
“Please.”
They drank again.
“Does this taste funny to you?” Tiffany asked.
“After all that far-too-garlicy food at the Ramsleys, who knows how anything should taste?” Steve replied.
“Boy, that’s for sure.”
They both sat together on the couch. Cody moved from the shadows at the top of the stairs and returned to his room. He moved the rug, pulled up the floorboard, slipped on a pair of latex gloves and removed the item he’d been storing there ever since that homeless guy had bought it on his behalf.
A gun.
A gun that he’d registered online in his father’s name.
He took it with him and sauntered back downstairs. He figured they’d both be pretty woozy by now from the handful of their prescription tranquilizers that he’d crushed up and mixed into to the whisky. He knew they’d pound it down ... too fast to really taste.
They were both semiconscious and regarded at him with glassy eyes.
“Hey, Dad and Tiff! Let’s play a game, okay? This one’s called ‘Murder-Suicide.’ I think we’ll have Dad murder Tiff, and then off himself,” Cody said, arranging his father’s hand around the pistol. “I know you haven’t changed your beneficiaries yet, ‘cuz I found your latest will and insurance papers in your file upstairs.”
“Why?” his father croaked, too sedated to move.
“Nobody fucks over my mother—not even you. She’s working herself to death and you couldn’t care less ... you and this worthless cunt!”
“How can you do this?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to, but no problem now. You should be proud of me, Dad. I’m probably history’s first baby-sitter contract killer. Not only was it profitable, but it was great practice. Now let’s get your finger on that trigger ...”
THE ROCK
BY JOSEPH BADAL
“Why in God’s name would you bring that old lady down here? Look at her. Seventy years old. White hair, frumpy, face like a bloodhound. She’s a grandmother. No record—not even a parking ticket.” Lieutenant Kyle McIlroy blew out a loud breath. “Your typical cold-blooded killer, right?”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Detective Sergeant Carl Baker said.
“You actually think she might know something about these murders? How’s that possible? She’s the perfect citizen.”
“Could be the husband.”
“Her husband’s a vegetable. I mean, since their grandson was murdered, I hear he’s been catatonic.”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I got a feeling.”
“Hell, she just lost a grandson, Baker. You go easy on this one.”
“Lieutenant, she could be the key to my investigation,” Baker said. He held his gaze steady on the woman behind the one-way glass. “Three men killed in a two-month period. Cruz, Thomas, and Washington. Throats slit.”
McIlroy huffed. “All three of those guys were convicted child molesters. Good riddance.”
Baker turned his head toward McIlroy. “You can’t possibly believe that. We can’t have citizens take the law into their own hands.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. But what the hell do the Galantes have to do with any of the murders?”
“You said it yourself, Lou. They lost a grandson to one of the molesters. That’s awfully strong motive.”
“So they hired
someone to kill Cruz? Maybe the others too?”
“Or killed them themselves.”
McIlroy wagged a finger at Baker. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I tell you, Lou, I’ve got a feeling about this.”
“You already said that. Don’t you turn this into a witch-hunt. Keep an open mind.”
“Sure, Lou. I always do.”
“Uh-huh, just like with that guy you hauled down here last year. Turned out he just happened to resemble the real killer. Our attorney estimates that wrongful arrest will cost the city at least a hundred Gs.”
Now Baker twisted fully toward McIlroy. “Come on, Lou. That guy was dirty and you know it.”
“Yeah, Baker. He was dirty, but not for the crime you arrested him on. And where does it say cops can beat a confession out of a suspect? Even a guilty suspect.”
“There was no evidence I ever touched the guy.”
McIlroy now held Baker’s gaze and leaned toward him. “I know you beat the guy,” he rasped. “I just couldn’t prove it.”
Baker felt perspiration bead on his forehead. He turned back to the one-way glass. “Unless you’ve got something else, Lou, I’d better go talk to the lady.”
“You be careful, Baker. You’re already two strikes down.”
Baker entered the room and flipped the camera switch between the door and the one-way glass.
The interrogation room was about eight feet square, with a metal table bolted to the concrete floor in the corner farthest from the door. A plastic chair was placed on each of the two open sides of the table. Spotlights hung in all four corners near the ten-foot-high ceiling. A tiny camera was fixed below the spotlight diagonally across from the table.
“Mrs. Galante, thanks for coming down here.”
Susan Galante shot Baker a sour look. “Like I had a choice.”
Baker shrugged. “Of course you had a choice. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate with the police.” He smiled and paused a second. Then he said, “This interview will be recorded.” He pointed up and to his left to indicate the camera. “I’ll read you your rights and then we can start.”
