Once I got over the shock and anger (and maybe a little embarrassment) of my run-in with the reporter—a thirty minute phone call with Katy helped a lot—the day turned out pretty damn good.
Two of my morning phone conferences went off without a hitch, and the third, which I was dreading, ended up being postponed. I talked to Grant on the phone while I ate lunch at my desk, and spent the afternoon reviewing purchase orders and a sales presentation that wasn’t due until mid-January.
By the time I said goodbye to Janie at the front desk and walked outside, the skies had cleared and the parking lot had been plowed. Maybe two inches of new snow blanketed the grass.
I didn’t think the reporter would still be waiting, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I looked everywhere as I walked to my car, and I’ll be damned if paranoia wasn’t working its wicked charm on me again, because it felt very much like someone was watching me.
I hurried into the driver’s seat, locked the door, and started the car. I didn’t wait for the engine to warm up. I drove quickly out of the parking lot, that nagging feeling of being watched still itching at the back of my neck.
Dinner was a nice surprise—tacos and Katy’s special margaritas. We ate at the coffee table in the den and watched the remake of The Road Warrior on pay-per-view. It was just what I needed, and I had Katy to thank for that.
As the end credits rolled on the television, I untangled myself from the blanket we were cuddling under and started clearing the dishes from the coffee table.
Katy sat up and yawned. “Just leave it, honey. I’ll get it in the morning.”
“I’m just gonna dump it all in the sink. It’ll still be there in the morning.”
She laughed. “Gee, thanks.”
“Any time, babe.” I gave her a wink and carried the dishes into the kitchen. I scraped the plates and bowls into the trash, and left them in the sink.
“There is something you can do tonight, honey, if you’re up to it.”
I smiled and puffed out my chest. “And what might that be?”
She got up from the sofa and dramatically swung her hips as she walked upstairs. Over her shoulder: “You can take the trash out so the whole damn house doesn’t stink in the morning.”
I slumped. “Oh.”
“Ha, ha. You can take the trash out. Real funny.”
I opened the lid on the garbage can sitting next to the garage and dropped in the zip-tied plastic bag. I replaced the lid and shivered in the frigid night air. The weather folks were calling for lower temps and more snow in the coming days.
Headlights flashed on the street below, and I watched as Ken Ellis’s Escalade slowed and turned into his driveway across the street. He got out and hit the auto-lock on his remote and it chirped twice. He looked over at me and I gave him a wave. He stared for a moment, and then walked into his house without acknowledging me.
“Okay, that was weird,” I mumbled to myself and headed back inside.
And then I heard something.
I stopped and listened—and heard it again.
A rustling in the bushes that bordered the front porch.
I glanced at the wide open front door of my house, light spilling out onto the porch, and moved to put myself between the door and the noise I had heard.
As I came around the side of the porch, I heard the sound again, and this time I could see the bushes move ever so slightly. There was no breeze.
I walked closer, stooping down, preparing for fight or flight, but mostly wishing I had my cell phone on me.
I stopped and held my ground, listening.
Nothing.
I took another step—
—and was flung back on my ass on the snowy ground—
—as Mrs. Watkin’s orange tabby sprung from underneath the bushes with a hiss and scampered past me, disappearing into the shadows.
“Fuck me,” I hissed back at the cat, quickly pushing myself to my feet, embarrassed and pissed for the second time in a day.
I brushed snow off my pants and looked around—thinking Katy’s gonna love hearing about this one—and my eyes settled on the dark window at the side of Jimmy’s house.
With little understanding of why I was doing it, I walked over to the window and peered inside. It was too dark in the house to see much, but I could make out enough details to see that the room was a mess. Furniture moved. Drawers and shelves emptied. Papers and books and knick-knacks strewn all over the carpet.
I flashed back to the many times we had played poker in that same room…
Jimmy’s buddies from the college complaining about the fatty snacks Jimmy had provided and that they’d had to bring their own beer. Jimmy joking that, despite all their degrees and teaching experience, I was the smartest guy in the room. All of us talking and laughing and farting—enjoying each other’s company.
I stood there for a long time, remembering, until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore because of the cold. Then I went inside.
Saturday, Dec 7
We spent the majority of Saturday out of the house. Out of town, as a matter of fact.
It was Katy’s idea to drive up to Middlebury for lunch and some Christmas shopping. She scolded me for ordering onion rings at lunch, and I told her we were even an hour later when she bought herself two new pairs of dress shoes. How many shoes does one woman possibly need? It’s one of life’s great mysteries.
All in all, it had been a near perfect day, and Jimmy’s name hadn’t come up even once.
We got home long after dark, just in time for the early evening news and a tray of cheese and crackers in the den. Katy joked that we were celebrating: it was the first night in a week that there hadn’t been any reporters camped out in front of Jimmy’s house for a live broadcast.
When the news came on at ten o’clock, we were surprised for the second time that evening: Jimmy wasn’t the lead story.
There had been a shooting at a New Jersey playground earlier in the day. Two adults and three children had been killed. Four others wounded. When it was over, the gunman had turned his weapon on himself. It was awful, and while I couldn’t help but wonder why anyone would be outside at a playground in the middle of December, I didn’t say anything. People were dead, kids for Godssake, and my heart ached for their loss.
After a commercial break, Jimmy was the second story. There had been another possible sighting, this time in southern Pennsylvania, coincidentally where Katy and I had just spent most of our day.
Police officials were also planning a news conference for sometime next week.
Then, a brief interview with another concerned neighbor, an elderly Korean gentleman who lived at the end of our block and who rarely ever spoke to any of us. But he sure had plenty to say to the camera, very little of which was probably the truth.
And, then, finally, they saved the biggest surprise for last:
Because there I was in full techno-color, a terrified look on my face as I sat inside my car blowing the horn at the frenzy of reporters blocking the driveway.
I almost choked on my cheese and crackers.
Katy put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
I sat there in shock as a close-up of my face filled the screen, and a television audience listened to me yell, “No comment!” in a pathetically shaky voice.
“According to several sources,” the news anchor explained, “Robert Howard is not only James Wilkinson’s closest neighbor, but also his closest friend. Up until this point, Howard has declined to comment, but sources report that Howard is cooperating with authorities and will be…”
Katy clicked off the television. “Fucking vultures. I told you.” She turned to me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine…just a little surprised is all.”
“I guess until the cops have that news conference they’re scrambling to come up with any story angle they can find.”
“I guess so.” I got up from the sofa and started turning off the lights.
Katy carried the
tray and plates into the kitchen. “Uh, oh, your staff is gonna be buzzing at work tomorrow.”
I groaned. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” I switched off a floor lamp by the den window—
—and froze.
A shadow was moving in the bushes outside—and it was a lot bigger than a cat this time.
“Just tell them you didn’t want to get into it with them and—”
I dropped to a knee in front of the window and “sshhed” Katy.
She looked confused. “What is it?”
“I think there’s someone outside,” I whispered.
She started walking toward me.
“No, no, stop right there.”
I peered over the windowsill—and there it was again. A dark shadow creeping closer now. Definitely a person.
“Call 911. Tell them to hurry.”
She rushed back to the kitchen, and I could hear her voice cracking as she talked to the emergency operator. She hung up, and said, “Three minutes.”
“I’m sure it is, but go double-check the front door’s locked.” I listened to her footsteps grow fainter, and then I snuck another peek over the windowsill—
—and found myself face to face with the curly-haired reporter from the parking lot. He looked as surprised as I did.
This time, I screamed. I couldn’t help it.
So did Katy.
And then the front yard was flooded with flashing lights and loud voices and swarming with cops, and the reporter was turning around and holding his hands up in the air.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to press charges, Mr. Howard?” The officer stopped scribbling in his notepad long enough to give me a questioning look. I glanced at Katy, and she shrugged her shoulders. We were both exhausted.
The three of us were standing in the foyer, the front door closed to the chaotic scene outside.
The reporter, John Cavanaugh, was handcuffed in the back seat of a patrol car parked at the curb. Up and down the street, neighbors stood in small and large groups, drawn by the flashing lights and the hope of more drama. And, of course, the vultures were back, television cameras rolling, microphones humming, hairspray clogging the chill air. It was a circus again.
“I don’t think so. I just want to be done with it.”
The officer flipped his notebook closed. “Okay, but if you change your mind, call us in the morning.” He opened the door and grinned at us. “We’re gonna hang onto him overnight, let him sweat a little bit.”
I smiled back at him. I liked that idea a lot.
Monday, Dec 9
Sunday passed in a blur of football games and naps and ignored phone calls and emails. I never set foot outside the house the entire day, and the only time Katy left was to deliver sandwiches and drinks to the two police officers camped out in their patrol car in our driveway. By late evening, with the temperature plummeting to single digits, most of the press had gotten the hint and cleared out. We’d managed to avoid the news all day and were in bed by eight o’clock, asleep before nine.
So, when the alarm clock buzzed this morning at 6:30, we’d hit the ground running, feeling rejuvenated and hopeful.
After a busy morning of cleaning house and paying bills, Katy was spending the afternoon at a friend’s house, playing Hearts and binge watching Game of Thrones.
All morning, I had faced a barrage of questions from my co-workers—“Why didn’t you tell us? What was he like? Did you have any idea? Do you think he’s still alive? Are you sure you’re telling us everything?”—but eventually the questions had run dry and the office had returned to some semblance of normality.
I was able to eat lunch in peace, and now I sat at my desk, adjusting fourth quarter purchase orders and answering nosy emails from friends I had ignored yesterday.
There was a knock at my office door, and I looked up and saw Janie coming in with a file I had requested earlier this morning. “This what you needed, boss?”
I glanced at the name on the file. “Bingo. Thanks for finding it for me.”
“Tis my job.” She remained standing in front of my desk, and I knew she had more to say.
“Something on your mind, Janie?”
She shook her head. “I just couldn’t believe when I saw the news yesterday. I couldn’t believe it was you they were talking about.”
“Yeah,” I said, fidgeting. “It’s been an interesting week to say the least.”
“Well, listen, if you ever need someone to talk to…I read a lot of true crime books, dozens of them, so if you ever need to share, I’m right here.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m—”
My cell phone rang. I gestured to it apologetically and Janie whispered, “Talk later” and scurried out of my office.
My cell phone rang again, and I picked it up from the desk beside me. Looked at the caller ID: Unknown Caller.
“Hello?”
No response.
I suddenly remembered the hang-ups at the house from the week before.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hel—”
Click.
I pushed the OFF button and stared at the phone.
Katy turned off her light and rolled over to face me in the dark. Outside, a strong wind howled in the trees and buffeted the upstairs windows.
“Do you remember our first apartment?” Katy asked. “Up on the fourth floor.”
“Of course, I do. Brittany Place, Greenbelt’s finest apartment complex.”
She laughed. “The wind tonight reminds of back then. We were so young…scared and fearless all at the same time.”
“Things haven’t changed that much, have they?”
She thought about it for a moment. “I guess not.”
“I think we’re hanging in there pretty darn—”
The phone rang.
Katy groaned and reached for it on the nightstand.
“Hello?”
She waited.
“Hello?”
She hung up.
Neither of us spoke, and I knew she was thinking the exact same thing I was.
“Do you think it could be him?” she finally asked in the darkness, and I found myself wishing I could see her face.
“Him? Jimmy?”
“Yeah. Sometimes it happens during the day, too, when you’re at work.”
“Probably just reporters, honey.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
A long pause.
“Do you think he did it?”
I laid there, thinking.
“Bobby?”
“I don’t know.”
Thursday, Dec 12
The GPS told me to turn right in 200 feet, so I turned right, but I remained skeptical. The damn thing had had me driving in circles for the past half hour and now I was in danger of being late for lunch. A lunch I couldn’t afford to be late for. I was scheduled to meet with the vice president of Canton Industries, something that had taken nearly two months to arrange. The proposal I had put together was maybe the best work I had ever done; now I just had to get my ass to the restaurant.
The past couple days had been relatively peaceful, which was a godsend after what had happened Saturday night. Katy was finally starting to feel relaxed in the house again. The press had quieted down, and there had been no more phone calls. I had actually slept soundly last night and was energized to close this deal.
The GPS told me to turn left in eight-tenths of a mile. I told it to “kiss my ass” and changed lanes—and that’s when I noticed the blue car in my rearview mirror.
Instinctively, I slowed down—and the blue car slowed down behind me. I studied the mirror, trying to determine if it was the same blue car I had seen the week before.
“Your destination is located one-tenth of a mile on the right.”
I looked up and, sure enough, there was the restaurant. “I’ll be damned.” I checked my watch: four minutes to spare.
I switched on my turn signal, glanced in the rearview mirror—and the blue car was gone. A silver mini-van had taken its place.
I swung into the Giovanni’s parking lot and hurried inside exactly one minute early.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I was kicked back in my office chair with my feet up on my desk, feeling like the king of the world.
The meeting had gone well.
The meeting had gone very well.
Charlie Kennedy, Canton Industries VP, had shook my hand in the Giovanni’s parking lot after lunch and promised a sizeable order no later than Monday afternoon. And if that wasn’t blessing enough, he’d also called my boss at Corporate from his car and praised my sales proposal as one of the smartest he had ever seen.
Janie and several co-workers had greeted me like a conquering hero upon my return to the office. I couldn’t wait to get home tonight and surprise Katy with the news.
I adjusted myself in the chair and closed my eyes, letting the feeling of success wash over me. It felt good to feel good about something again.
Before long, I felt myself dozing and didn’t fight it.
The buzzing of my cell phone woke me a short time later. I dropped my feet to the ground and sat up, wiping sleep-slobber from my chin. I snatched up my phone and saw that I had received a text message.
I tapped the screen and read: I KILLED THEM.
My heart trip-hammered in my chest. I read it again to be sure, then typed: Who is this?
I KILLED THEM ALL.
My hands were shaking. Who is this?
YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?
Jimmy?
YOU KNOW.
What do you want?
WHAT DO YOU THINK I WANT?
???
YES YOU DO.
Tell me what you want.
I WANT YOUR BLOOD.
A Long December Page 43
