Karma Police: Karma Police Book Two

by Sean Platt

  “So, that’s the only reason you’re with him, for his money, for me?”

  “No, not at all. Like I said, I loved, er, love him. He’s been through a lot. He had a crappy childhood, and given what I know about his life, he’s not nearly as bad as he could be.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t be like that.”

  “What? I’m just telling the truth. He’s a jerk, and you don’t need him. We don’t need him. I’d rather live in a crack den, or on the streets, than in his house.”

  “He’s not that bad, Tommy.”

  “You keep saying that. But he hits you. He freaking hits you! There’s no excuse for that. I don’t care how bad his childhood was.”

  She shakes her head. “I wish you could see him how I do. He’s trying, so hard.”

  “Wow,” I say, pointing to my bruise, “this is him trying? And how many times has he hit you?”

  “You can’t possibly understand what those two years were like before we met Frank. You’re … you’re too young.”

  “Understand what? How lonely you were?”

  She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are watering, again.

  I can’t imagine she’d ever choose a lover over her son’s safety. That doesn’t seem like her. But I don’t know what else could keep Stacy blinded to the danger of staying with Frank. Maybe she doesn’t see him as a threat, even though his violence has escalated to Tommy. She needs to see the danger before either of them get caught in the crossfire of Frank’s violent mood swings or an assassin’s bullet.

  “He’s going to kill us,” I say.

  Then, of course, the waitress appears with our food.

  There’s an awkward silence as she sets our food on the table, just me and Stacy trading stares.

  “Do you all need any — ”

  Mom cuts her off, “No thank you.”

  The waitress leaves.

  Mom looks at me, eyes narrowed, and whispers, “He’s not going to kill us. How can you even say something like that?”

  “You hear about stuff like this on the news all the time. And people are always saying, ‘Yeah, he was violent, but he wasn’t that bad.’ You’re enabling him, Mom. He hits you; he hit me. What’s next? Especially now that he lost his job?”

  “What would you have me do, leave him?”

  “Yeah,” I say, a bit too loud, as if it’s the world’s most obvious answer.

  She closes her eyes, covers her face with her hands. Her weakness is infuriating.

  “We can go home right now, pack our bags, and leave tonight.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “I dunno. Don’t you know anyone who could take us in until we get back on our feet?”

  “Gram’s in the nursing home, and I don’t have any other family, at least none who are talking to me after what happened with your father.”

  “A coworker, I dunno. Heck, we can get a hotel room, or move to a crappy apartment. We did it before; we can do it again. Come on, Mom, we can do this.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I can’t leave him.”

  “Why? Give me one good answer.”

  “Because he said he’d find us and kill us if I did.”

  Shit.

  **

  Frank is surprisingly nice when we get home. We sit in the living room, Frank and Stacy on the couch and me in a recliner, discussing our days.

  He tells us how he went by his work and his prick of a boss wouldn’t give him his job back. “Screw ’em. I can do better,” he says.

  Stacy makes some suggestions, places she’d heard may be hiring, including a few that would offer a significant bump in pay.

  The whole thing is surreal. They’re talking like a happy family, no sign of either Frank’s rage from yesterday or of the fact that the man has threatened Mom into imprisonment.

  I’d tried to convince her to tell the police, but she’s too scared. Stacy explained how no restraining order in the world could protect her if Frank was determined enough to hunt her down. Then I’d suggested we go into hiding, but she said it’s not feasible. At least not now.

  As we sit in the living room, I find myself starting at the television, Frank has it on ESPN, but sports is the last thing on my mind. I’m wondering why the assassin didn’t return to finish the job. Had he, or she, seen that I was in Tommy’s body and decided to put a hold on the order?

  I try not to watch as Frank turns on the charm, wrapping his arm around Stacy and cuddling her on the couch. The entire time, I’m sickened that she’s allowing him to work his way into her heart. But maybe she’s putting on a show, or making the best of a bad situation. She’s so used to pretending and capitulating to his demands, maybe she’s forgotten how to be genuinely happy.

  He nuzzles her neck, whispers something.

  It’s all I can do not to go to the kitchen, get a knife, and slit his throat myself. I smile at the fantasy. I don’t think I can kill him in cold blood. If he tried to hurt Tommy or Stacy, I’d do whatever it takes to protect them, but I’m not an assassin.

  Or am I?

  I can tell he’d like me to leave the room, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction.

  Frank looks at me a few times, raises his eyebrows, suggesting I go. I pretend not to see him and stare at the TV.

  After a few minutes, I hear rustling on the couch, then they both get up.

  Mom leans over and gives me a kiss on the forehead, “Goodnight, honey.”

  “Goodnight,” I say, hugging her, realizing that tomorrow I’ll probably wake up in a different body, so for me this is goodbye.

  I don’t want to let her go.

  But Frank says, “Come on,” and pulls her away, off to their bedroom where he’s going to defile her.

  I stare at the television, not sure what to do. Maybe I’ll hit the Internet — Stacy’s laptop is on the dining room table. Then I hear them laughing in their room, and what sounds like Stacy moaning.

  I can’t listen.

  I get up, go to the front door, and close it softly behind me.

  A cold breeze blows the trees in my yard, and I look up the block at the other houses, wondering if the assassin is in any of them. It’s dark, and the street is quiet. There are lights behind most of the windows, but the shades are all drawn. No sign of a killer lurking in shadows.

  Of course, if the assassin is well trained, I probably wouldn’t see him or her. So just in case he or she is watching, I decide to wave my hands back and forth as a signal.

  Come and get him. Just leave the mom and kid alone!

  I wait for several minutes, but the street is dead quiet. It figures, the one time I want the assassin to kill Frank, he or she is nowhere to be found.

  I head back inside, and am about to lock the front door, but then decide to leave it unlocked. Maybe the assassin will sneak in in the middle of the night while I’m sleeping and on my way to tomorrow’s host.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  I wake up to a loud purring right next to my ear.

  Then a light tap-tap-tap on my face.

  I open my eyes. An orange tabby, Charlie, is staring down at me with big golden eyes, waiting for breakfast. I scratch him between the ears, and he presses against my hand.

  Tired, I look past him and at the clock: 6:31 a.m.

  My name is Ruby Simmons, a retired schoolteacher, amateur painter, and owner of four cats, which might be two shy of being known as “the cat lady.” My body is old, and I can feel it, especially after being in such a young body yesterday. I sit up in bed, and see three other cats waiting for breakfast. Two in a cat bed on the floor, one sitting on the windowsill. They begin meowing.

  Another detail fills itself in. I live on Baker Street.

  I’m back. But for the first time, I’m relieved. I want to know what happens to Frank, Tommy, and Stacy. But whether I can do anything to help them in this old body, I don’t know.

  I pull myself out of
bed, body creaking and aching as I step past the cats, all running up to me, competing to rub against my legs.

  “I’ll feed you; gimme a second,” I say, brushing by them on my way to the bedroom window. I pull the sheer white curtains aside and peer out at the Miller house at the end of the block. Everything looks the same as I last saw it. Both cars in the driveway, no police tape on the doors. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that the assassin didn’t strike.

  Followed by the cats, I head to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, then look at my reflection. Ruby is a tall black woman in her sixties with a short haircut, hair mostly still dark. She looks a lot younger than her body feels to me. Prompted by a memory of her morning routine, I return to my nightstand and open the drawer for my morning meds.

  I’m surprised to see a pistol sitting in the nightstand and flash back to Ruby receiving the gun from her husband, Keith, when he first got sick. While he hadn’t told her how bad the cancer was at the time, giving her a gun and the words, “I want you to be safe if I’m not around to protect you” said it all.

  Fortunately, she’s not had occasion to use the gun — yet.

  I take my meds then head to the kitchen so I can take care of the meowing, purring fuzzballs.

  Once I put down their food, the cats completely forget me and get to the business of devouring their breakfast. One of them, a fat black-and-white female named Oreo, is particularly noisy, purring loud enough to sound like she has a broken motor.

  I leave the cats to their food, get dressed, then head out the front door. Ruby takes a walk every morning and evening, so this gives me an excuse to walk by Frank’s house.

  I push past the white picket gate at the end of my sidewalk, look to my left, and see Old Man Wilbur sitting on his porch swing, pretending to read the paper.

  He sees me, and raises his hand in a wave. “Good morning, Ruby!”

  “Morning, Wilbur.” My best attempt at a smile is kind but does nothing to invite conversation. Ruby has endured too many chats with Wilbur, particularly since his wife passed away a year ago. While she feels sorry for him, she doesn’t like him, and is pretty sure he’s called code enforcement on her a few times for petty things, like not taking her trash can in on pickup day, and for letting her grass grow too tall when she’s not feeling up to mowing it herself. She thinks he keeps a notebook under his paper where he writes down every perceived violation before calling them in to the city. Nothing worse than a gossiping busybody, in Ruby’s opinion.

  It’s still a few minutes prior to Tommy’s usual departure time, so I turn right, up the street rather than heading down to the end of the cul-de-sac, so I can time my walk by their house as close to their leaving as possible, and maybe overhear something to indicate how they’re doing today.

  As I walk up the street, Ruby’s memories fill me in on each of the neighbors. She’s lived here longer than nearly everyone other than Wilbur, so she knows the surrounding blocks and is friendly with most of her neighbors, even if her closest real friend, Dee, lives a half mile away. Wilbur is the only person she specifically tries to avoid.

  Katherine, a single mom with twin three-year-olds, is putting her kids in the car, getting ready for daycare before heading to work.

  “Hi, Kat,” I call out.

  “Hey, Ruby. How’s it going?” she asks, straightening the car seat and strapping in one of the girls.

  “Can’t complain. And no point if I could, because ain’t nobody listening,” I comment with a laugh — I’ve heard a lot of old people say this, so I figure I’ll try it with Ruby.

  I walk up to her, peek in at the girls, and comment on how cute they are this morning.

  “How are you?” I ask Kat.

  “I’ll let you know after I get some Starbucks. The girls decided that today would be a great day to wake up at 4:30.”

  “Oh, my,” I say, looking at them.

  They giggle at me, clueless that waking their mom so early is not a good thing.

  “Yeah, it’s gonna be one of those kinds of days,” Kat says. “See ya later.”

  “Have a good one.”

  I continue on my walk then pick up my pace when I feel like it’s nearly time for Stacy and Tommy to leave.

  I hear a slamming door and turn to my right, the house next to Frank’s, and see Craig Carson, a math teacher at Tommy’s school, storm out of his house looking pissed. He’s usually a jovial guy, especially when he’s hosting a block party with his next-door neighbor, Ruben Santiago. It’s surprising to see him so angry.

  Then I get a flash of his wife, Colleen, who has always seemed a bit standoffish — cold whenever Ruby’s been around her. Maybe they had a fight.

  Craig, not seeing me, gets in his car, slams the door, backs out, then screeches away.

  I look over and see that Wilbur is sitting up, alert like a prairie dog, watching everything.

  I roll my eyes and keep walking.

  Right in front of Frank’s house, I kneel down and re-tie the laces on my tennis shoes, stalling for time.

  The front door opens, and Stacy and Tommy come outside.

  I stand back up, wipe the dirt from my jeans, and offer my widest smile. “Good morning!”

  “Good morning,” Stacy says, smiling, her spirits looking good.

  Tommy, on the other hand, looks either tired or sad. He gives a sullen wave, and climbs into the passenger’s side of Stacy’s car.

  She looks at me, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. He’s in one of those moods.”

  “Is Tommy okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just the usual moody preteen stuff.”

  “From Tommy? He’s always so nice.”

  “Yes he is, but he’s still twelve.”

  I nod. “Ah, yes, I remember.”

  Flashes of Ruby’s own kids, she has three, now all grown and with families of their own, run through my head. They seem like good kids, but there were battles in the house growing up.

  “Have a good day, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “You too,” I say.

  I notice Frank standing in the living room window, watching.

  I wave at him, wanting to acknowledge that I see him and won’t be cowed into pretending otherwise.

  He lets the curtain fall closed.

  Maybe today will be the day he gets his, I hope, walking back toward my house.

  As I’m nearing Wilbur’s place, he’s up and off his porch, lingering near the end of the sidewalk waiting to intercept me. Ruby hates gossips, and I can feel her distaste in my mouth as I draw closer.

  “Hey, Ruby, how’s it going?” He steps into the street, newspaper folded under his arm.

  He’s shorter than Ruby by a few inches and even though they might be around the same age, midsixties, he’s out of shape, sickly, and looks to be at least ten years her senior. He also has beady eyes, which make me feel dirty when they’re on me.

  “Wow, that was something, eh?” he says, probably referring to Craig storming out of the house.

  “What’s that?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Craig and Colleen,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper, “though can’t say I’m surprised, what with the way he’s been sniffin’ around Stacy.”

  I really want nothing to do with this gossip, but I’m too curious not to find out what he’s talking about.

  “Stacy? What do you mean?”

  He looks back and forth then draws closer, still whispering, “Oh, you don’t know?”

  “Know what?” I ask, losing patience as he is obviously deriving a lot of pleasure from airing the neighborhood’s dirty laundry.

  “Well, just between you and me,” he says, with a sinister grin, “I think they’re sneaking around.”

  “Sneaking around? Stacy and Craig?”

  He nods.

  “As in sleeping together?”

  He nods again then shakes his head like he’s disappointed in them, and not reveling in their supposed sinful relationship. “Such a shame.”

 
“I don’t know,” I say, “I can’t imagine that.”

  “Oh, you don’t see the things I see. I’ve seen them going to one another’s houses quite a few times when Frank and Colleen are at work.”

  “So, they’re neighbors, that doesn’t mean they’re cheating.”

  Wilbur looks at me, nose kind of twisted, probably repulsed that I’m not buying into his salacious rumor mongering.

  “I hope you wouldn’t think I’m cheating when I go to visit any of the gentlemen on this block. Who knows, maybe someone is watching us right now and thinking we’re cheating.”

  I wink, but he doesn’t laugh. Maybe he realizes I’m making fun of him, though he doesn’t seem that perceptive when the joke’s on him.

  “No, people wouldn’t think that of you. You’re not a whore.”

  I’m barely able to hide my shock at the word. Whore? Where is he getting this from?

  “Whore?”

  “I’ve said too much.”

  It’s obvious he wants me to ask for more, but I’m disgusted and don’t want to offer the pleasure.

  “Never mind,” I say, and start to walk away.

  He calls out, “She slept around … a lot.”

  He got my attention. I turn back around. “Stacy?”

  “Yeah, a lot.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Frank told me one night when he was really drunk. Said that after she lost her first husband, who died in prison,” he whispers, “that she really got around. Slept with more than fifteen people, he says.”

  “No way,” I say. “Not Stacy.”

  Wilbur nods, “Oh, yes, Stacy.”

  “Did you ever consider the source?”

  “Frank?”

  “Yeah, he was drunk, probably in another one of his moods, and decided to spread a vicious rumor.”

  “I dunno, seemed pretty convincing to me. Besides, why would a man ever tell another man that his woman is a whore unless it’s true? No man wants to be known for settling down with a tramp.”

  I really, really want to hurt this troglodyte. But I bite my tongue, so as not to do anything that might come back to bite Ruby in the ass once I’m gone. Sure, Wilbur is being all buddy-buddy-nice with me now, but I’m sure that if he had some dirt on me, the jerk would be sidling up to another of the neighbors, trashing me just the same. He’s a sad little man, and the world won’t miss him when he’s dead.