Falling

by Rebecca Swartz

  As I followed after Lena through what I guessed was the family room, I could see that the ceiling consisted of pressed tin, painted white, but the paint was stained yellow and peeling in several places. The walls had been painted a dull green, and not recently. The floor creaked beneath our feet. In one corner of the room the flooring had buckled and then sunk enough to leave about an inch gap between itself and the wall. The walls themselves had fine cracks everywhere, no doubt from the house settling over time, but they had not been plastered and painted over.

  I imagined that maintaining a house over two hundred years old was no easy feat. But even though the house was showing its age and neglect, it still exuded comfort, solid and mature, and I liked that. You could respect a house like that.

  The kitchen and dining room were at the very back of the house. We passed through a smaller sitting room, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves overflowing with books, and two very comfortable-looking armchairs, each with its own lamp and ottoman. The kitchen was galley style, narrow and long, making maximum use of the restricted space by utilizing the walls vertically—cupboards and shelves and hooks everywhere; all available space was occupied. The countertops were attractive white ceramic tiles, with an alternating matte and glossy finish. The appliances looked relatively new. Everything was spotlessly clean. I glanced down at the floor, and saw something that made me pause: a line leading from the screen door off the kitchen, to the cupboard beneath the sink. A moving line.

  Lena turned, noticing I had paused. “Oh, yes,” she said. “We have an ant problem. The entire South has an ant problem. You get used to it.”

  I looked closer; a line of tiny red ants traveled across the off-white linoleum in one direction, while a few others headed in the opposite direction, from the cupboard to the screen door.

  “That’s where we used to keep the trash, up until a month ago. They haven’t adjusted to the change yet.”

  Her words made me look up. “‘We’?” I asked.

  “Me,” she said, turning away once more. “I. Whichever.”

  “You indicated when you contacted my company that you lived alone. If there’s someone else, I need to add them to the list of occupants for the security company.”

  She had reached the dining room, and there she faced me. “Yes, I live alone,” she assured me blandly. “There’s no one else here.”

  “All right, I just have to check.” I shrugged to show it was no big deal.

  She smiled then, but it came across as more of a grimace. “Please, have a seat.” She waved a hand at the dining table and chairs. “Cream and sugar with your coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” I placed the folder on the oval table, and briefly admired the solid structure and dark wood of the furniture. I ran my fingers over the gleaming tabletop. “Are these antiques?”

  “Yes, they are. They’re family heirlooms; they’ve been here since the house was built.”

  I looked up. “Your family?”

  Her smile was genuine this time. “That’s right. My grandfather’s great-grandfather built this house when he was a young man. It’s been in our family ever since. It was left to me—” She broke off, and then visibly collected herself, before continuing. “It was left to me and by proxy, my brother, when our parents died.”

  “Oh. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  She raised her eyebrows a fraction. “It was a very long time ago, but thank you.”

  “And your brother? Where is he?”

  She hesitated, so briefly I almost didn’t catch it. “He’s not here,” she said, and returned to the kitchen and the coffeemaker.

  I took that to mean the subject was closed. I pulled a chair out and sat, fingers intertwined, elbows on the table. The gorgeous scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Lena loaded a carafe, mugs, utensils and condiments onto a serving tray and brought it to the table. She unloaded the items onto the tabletop, and filled the two mugs from the carafe.

  “Please, help yourself,” she told me, placing a mug within my reach. She pulled the other mug closer as she seated herself across from me.

  “Thank you.” I fixed the coffee the way I liked it, and my first sip made me smile with pleasure at the rich and complex flavor. “Now that is very good coffee.”

  She mirrored my smile, and a measure of her guarded aspect fell away. “It’s always nice to share a cup of coffee with someone who truly appreciates it.”

  I nodded and raised my mug in solidarity.

  “This is an organic blend,” she continued, raising her own mug. “Number 46, from Counter Culture. It’s one of their most popular blends, and my personal favorite.” She took a sip, swallowed, and then smiled again. “It is very good, isn’t it?”

  After a couple of sips of the splendid coffee, I reached for the folder. “We can go over the paperwork now if you like, but you don’t have to sign anything until I’ve determined what you require, and we’re both in agreement. Then I’ll place the order. When the kit arrives, we’ll both be involved in setting up the system. It’s imperative to my client’s peace of mind, meaning you, obviously, to be a part of the process. Also, the company I deal with expects the homeowner to be involved, and usually it’s the homeowners themselves who take the initiative to install this particular system, once they discover how simple it is.”

  Her complexion reddened faintly. “I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” I told her with a smile.

  “Right, of course,” she said, with a brusque nod. “And you’re absolutely certain there’s no drilling, no wiring installed, or anything like that.”

  “No wiring, no drilling,” I assured her. “The only thing I have to ensure before we get started is that you have the wireless Internet setup I recommended.”

  “Yes, that’s been done,” she said, with a look of obvious relief. “My only concern is the age of this house. Back when some rewiring had to be done, to meet existing codes and regulations, the electricians had a very difficult time of it. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. Or put you through that.”

  “I appreciate that. I’m not an electrician, but even so, I can understand your concerns.” I flipped open the folder to bring out some of the literature. “The beauty of this system is that it’s completely wireless.”

  I pushed one of the pamphlets toward her; she picked it up, studied it a moment or two, and then raised her eyes to mine.

  “And you don’t work for this company?” she asked, with a hint of amusement.

  “No,” I replied, “but I do recommend them to all of my clients. And now I’m going to explain to you why.” And with that, I pulled out my notepad and pen, spread the rest of the literature out before us, and proceeded to do my job.

  Chapter Thirty

  Five years. Five killings.

  It becomes easier each time. Her diligence, her attention to detail, her caution, never wavers. Her departure date varies. She traverses the country, and returns within six to seven weeks. She is not sightseeing, but she sees a lot of sights: The boardwalk and pier in Santa Monica; the rolling hills of Eau Claire; the St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans; the KiMo Theater in Albuquerque; the Texas State Aquarium in Corpus Christi. She passes through innumerable towns and cities, always hitching, using secondary roads, meeting many people who are actually friendly and helpful, but whom she never encourages, and to whom she always lies if she must talk.

  Sometimes, her lies sadden her. Mostly, they are necessary deceptions, and she welcomes the opportunity to be imaginative.

  And always, always, she is lonely.

  She trusts her instincts when she is hitching, and bolts if the driver is male. Surprisingly, many women pick her up, perhaps trusting their instincts as well. Her favorites, indeed her preference, are the female long-haul truck drivers, for they want nothing except company, someone to talk to or with. They are never as creepy as some of their male counterparts.

  She encounters troubl
e only once. Pretending to be a runaway teen, she hangs out in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Albuquerque, New Mexico, while keeping an eye on her fifth target. Four out of the five days she watches him. He visits with a woman several blocks away from his residence. She has two younger daughters, one pre-teen, maybe nine or ten, the other nearer twelve or thirteen. He’s served twelve months for indecent liberties with a child. Previously, the charges against him—two counts of aggravated indecent liberties—were dropped, due to mishandling of the cases. What he’s now doing around a woman with children confounds her.

  He lives on the third floor of a walkup in a run-down tenement. She’s already scoped the place out. In the space of three days in this less-than-savory neighborhood, she has witnessed two drug deals; seen a couple of teens threatened by a drunk, knife-brandishing thug, and a man in his forties beaten by three younger men. There is no indication that law enforcement was or is ever called. The building is easily accessible, both coming and going. Yet she considers letting it go, walking away. It seems too busy, the chance of being seen too high. Until shots ring out one night while she is hanging back, observing. It takes the police almost half an hour to arrive. The slow response makes up her mind.

  She stops him on the sixth day, as he’s just heading out. She asks him if he’s got any cigarettes, she’s jonesin’ for a smoke. He looks her up and down. She knows she passes for a teen easily. Yeah, he says, upstairs. She obligingly follows him. He lets her into his apartment, a filthy bachelor suite that reeks of stale sweat, fried food and cigarette smoke. His eyes gleam and he appears hunched, vulture-like. She steps inside, feels a flare of misgiving rise in her gut. A moment later she stumbles over something, and as she pivots to regain her balance, glimpses the word Penthouse on top of a pile of magazines missing their covers. Her back is turned for only a second, but he is on her in an instant, and tries to overpower her. With his arms wrapped around her, she cannot maneuver. She stomps on his foot, bringing the point of her heel down. He curses, his grip loosens, and she quickly bends at the waist to unbalance him. She then drives her elbow into his solar plexus. As he sags forward, she smashes the same elbow into his nose, breaking it. He shrieks and stumbles back, hands to his face, blood flows over his chin. He trips over a pile of newspapers next to a ratty sofa, slips, and crashes to the floor on his back. She releases her compact weapon from the clip at her back, her blood pounding in her ears, fury dictating her moves. She strides toward him, releasing the safety as she brings the gun forward. When he sees the gun, he attempts to scramble backward, making a pathetic whimpering sound. She is close enough to bring her boot down on his chest, to fire as he begins to struggle, and then to fire again to ensure the kill. She wants to continue firing, to give in completely to her fury. Instead, she exits quickly out the same door she entered. A flash of red high up catches her eye for a moment. She glances up and around, but it is so dark she sees nothing. She dismisses it, takes the stairs two at time, and is soon far away.

  On the road once more, she makes the decision to attempt to deal with two targets in one trip. It is early July and she has again taken several weeks leave of absence from her job. She feels the need to shake things up, to change her routine, her habits. She feels restless, agitated. She decides to head east across the Midwest, then south. An idea begins to take shape in her head.

  The day the tan Jeep zips past her, she has been standing out in the heat for an hour, and is just about to take a break in the shade of the tree line behind her. She sees the driver look her way; in that brief span of time the intimation of an attractive woman causes her to pivot and watch the vehicle drive on. She is pleased when she sees the brake lights. She casually makes her way to the passenger side. And when she asks the driver to remove her sunglasses, that, as they say, is that.

  She does not know if she believes in love at first sight. She’s never even thought of it. What she thinks, when she looks into the driver’s eyes, is that this is the woman she’s been waiting her entire life for.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ashleigh House had been named after Lena Bowman’s very distant relative’s wife, Ashleigh Bowman. Back then, I was told, there was money in the family. A lot of money. The house was a plantation house, with fields that stretched far to the north, past where the highway now ran and no trees obscured the view. The various outbuildings arranged somewhat haphazardly at the back of the house, a hundred yards away, were at one time servants’ and slaves’ quarters, work sheds, stables, and the like. All were in poor shape. Farther back, two tobacco-curing sheds stood next to each other, obviously once very sturdy, now decaying and falling apart. The main crop had originally been cotton, but as the popularity of tobacco increased, the crop had been split. Apparently, at the time, it had been a very smart move, financially.

  “That didn’t last, obviously,” Lena said, quite dryly.

  We were upstairs, standing on the balcony off one of the bedrooms. The view looked to the north, but I couldn’t see much beyond the heavy growth of trees at the edge of the property. I stepped back into the room and glanced around; it had been converted to an office. The office downstairs was Lena’s; this office had a decidedly masculine air to it, if such a thing were possible. It was the only room with a balcony, and the furnishings were large, blocky, and wooden, very utilitarian.

  “This is your brother’s office?” I asked as Lena joined me from the balcony.

  “Yes.” She added, quickly, “Was. I’m having everything removed next week.” We left the room and headed back downstairs to her office.

  The tour of the house had been quick, merely to familiarize me with the number of windows and doors. I indicated she sit before the computer while I pulled up a padded office chair on wheels. Once she was logged in, I gave her the website address for the security company.

  “There it is,” she said, when the site loaded. She actually sounded kind of excited.

  “There it is,” I agreed, and then placed my notepad on the desk. I thumbed it open to my notes, and pushed it over to her. “And now, you’re going to place your order.”

  While Lena was filling in her personal information, I sat back and allowed my thoughts to wander. When I had originally conceived the idea of helping women, I had limited myself to considering only women who had been assaulted. In my fervor to do my part in righting a universal wrong, I pictured myself as some sort of avenger, tracking down the perpetrators and dispatching them as I had the rapist in the back alley. Eventually, of course, I had come to see that while my ambition was admirable and perhaps satisfying, it was completely unrealistic and would likely be a short-lived endeavor, all things considered.

  That was when I broadened my thinking. Yes, I could certainly help women who had suffered. I could also help to ensure that other women wouldn’t suffer. Many, many women lived in fear in their own homes, places where they should feel secure but didn’t. If I could help some women feel safe where they most definitely should, perhaps that was the greater good I was meant to do. Not running around being a vigilante, avenging crime victims after the damage was done.

  Kael abruptly loomed in my mind, her image as clear as that day she first kissed me; I jerked upright in my chair, thumping my feet down on the wooden floor, causing the chair to roll back a few inches.

  Beside me, Lena shot me a startled look. “What? What did I do?”

  “Sorry, sorry, nothing,” I said, managing an embarrassed laugh. I raised my hands in a placating gesture. “That wasn’t—I’m sorry, it’s fine, you’re fine. Please, continue.”

  Like all of my clients, Lena was surprised at how simple it was to order exactly what was needed to provide the peace of mind she sought. Possibly she would, like my other clients, also come to feel a sense of satisfaction, independence, and empowerment from being involved in the entire process from start to finish. That remained to be seen, of course, but my track record was good. No one had expressed any disappointment so far.

  “Okay, that was much easier
than I expected,” Lena said as she logged off the computer. She slumped back into her chair. “And not very expensive, considering the package we had to order.”

  “That’s the first time anyone’s had to order the Platinum package, in my experience,” I told her with a wry grin. “You have a lot of doors and windows.”

  She suddenly slapped her hands down on the arms of her chair and sat up straight. “I think that calls for a celebration. How about a beer?”

  She seemed very lively now, very enthused, a state I had come to expect of my clients once they actually started taking control. None of my clients had ever offered me a beer at ten thirty in the morning though, and my grin broadened. I took in her sparkling eyes and her slightly flushed features; she looked much more relaxed, her rigidity gone. Even her speech was less formal than it had been. These were all positive changes and I was always happy to see them. I picked up the folder and pushed my chair back.

  “Lead the way,” I told her, and followed as she headed for the kitchen.

  * * *

  We sat outside on the back patio, out of the sun. Even though it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock, the temperature had to be approaching ninety degrees. We sat in pale green Adirondack chairs made of recycled plastic. The patio was comprised of slate-colored flagstones, some of them over four feet across, with moss growing between them. Whoever had constructed the patio had done an excellent job. It stretched outward from the house about fifty feet, and ended at a large stone-encircled fire pit ringed by more chairs. A John Deere lawn tractor sat parked off to one side, and an extension ladder was propped up against the side of the house. Lena had mentioned earlier something about cleaning windows. I guessed that that was quite the job for one person.

  I took a sip of my beer, a Foothill’s Torch pilsner, very refreshing. I didn’t feel guilty at all to be drinking before noon on a weekday. It wasn’t as if I was drinking alone, after all. I didn’t normally socialize with my clients and I certainly didn’t spend time imbibing alcoholic beverages with them, but Lena was proving to be good company, if a little evasive, and one beer was not going to hurt me.