Address to Die For

by Mary Feliz

  “Someone tried to force the lock on the barn,” Stephen added. “I wired the handles together. It looks secure enough for tonight, but the lock will need to be replaced.”

  “I’ll call the locksmith in the morning,” I said. “He changed the locks on the house earlier today . . . or was it yesterday?” I looked at the clock on the stove, which showed it was minutes until midnight. It seemed much later.

  “You changed the locks?” Jason said. “Was that a precaution or did something happen?”

  I ran through the odd events with the dishwasher, emphasizing that both Brian and I were sure that someone had been in the house. We didn’t know why or how they’d intruded, but we were certain neither of us had turned on the dishwasher.

  “I believe you,” Jason said. “It’s a new dishwasher, right? I need to get out the manual for the first week I own any appliance. You’d both remember turning it on because you would have needed to think about it more than usual.”

  I felt my shoulders release some of the tension that had them hunched up almost to my ears.

  “Getting the locks changed immediately was a good idea,” Jason said. “Next time, though, let me know if anything happens that you can’t explain. Your instincts are good. If anything worries you or the kids or Belle, I want to know.”

  I stood and poured coffee into mugs. I handed one to Stephen and another to Jason, and put a carton of milk and a five-pound bag of sugar on the table. We were making progress with the move, but I hadn’t yet unpacked a sugar bowl or cream pitcher. David stirred hot-chocolate mix into a cup of hot water.

  Stephen palmed his coffee mug. “Munchkin and I are going to take a look out front.”

  They hadn’t been gone more than ten seconds when Stephen called from the front room. “Jase? I’ve got something here you’re going to want to take a look at.”

  Jason leapt from his chair, spilling his coffee. He dashed through the pantry and dining room to join Stephen at the front of the house. David and I followed.

  With a tight rein on Munchkin’s leash, Stephen pointed his flashlight beam toward the welcome mat outside the open front door. Munchkin bared his teeth and growled. I didn’t blame him. In the center of the circle of light cast by the flashlight was a small gray squirrel pinned to the porch with a four-inch nail. The nail looked exactly like those that had pierced the bodies of the squirrels at the middle school.

  Chapter 14

  Sometimes listening is the greatest gift. I learn so much from my clients’ stories.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, September 7, Early morning

  Jason moved between me and the impaled squirrel, backing David and me into the house while he dialed his phone.

  “I want a patrol team walking the road in front of the house until dawn,” he barked into the phone. “At six, I want them going door-to-door asking questions. Put our best guys on it. If anyone in this neighborhood saw anything or knows anything, we need to know too.”

  We reconvened in the kitchen. Jason topped off our coffee and started a new pot. He took a sip and placed a hand on David’s shoulder. He looked at Stephen and Munchkin.

  “Are you two okay to stay here for what’s left of the night?” he said.

  Stephen nodded. If anyone had asked me later, I would have sworn Munchkin did too.

  “That’s not necessary . . .” I began, but Jason interrupted me.

  “No arguments, Maggie,” Jason said. “This is serious stuff. This vandal is escalating and we need to know you’re safe. We have to catch him before he does anything worse.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Jason cut me off.

  “Stop,” he said. “Stephen is staying here. He’s Marine Corps retired, Special Operations Command. He does this sort of thing for us often. He’ll take good care of you so that I can focus on the investigation and catch this guy before he actually injures someone.”

  “Maggie, David, go on up to bed,” Stephen said. “And take Belle with you if she’ll go. Munchkin and I will hold the fort down here. Mind if I build a fire?”

  “That’s fine.” I put my arm around David and we trudged up the stairs. I looked over my shoulder at Stephen, but he flapped his hand at me, urging me up the steps.

  “Go on,” he said. “I’ll be fine. So will you.”

  At the door to his room, David stopped. “Mom, do you think we should stay in Brian’s room so we can tell him what’s going on as soon as he wakes up?”

  I took that to mean that David would feel safer if we were all together. I felt the same way. We grabbed our sleeping bags from the top of the attic stairs where they were still waiting to be put away and moved them into Brian’s room. Brian stirred but didn’t wake.

  “Mom, are you going to tell Dad what’s going on?” David asked, whispering.

  I nodded. “Right now, actually. Is there anything you want me to tell him?”

  David shook his head. “Just that I hope he comes home soon.”

  I smiled, nodded, and held up my phone. David was asleep before I’d scrunched into my sleeping bag, trying to find a comfortable position on the floor. I sat leaning against the wall and opened the email app on my phone. I hesitated before I started typing. Should I ask Max to come home? It would make all of us feel more secure. But was it necessary? Surely the police would catch the vandal quickly and tonight’s excitement would be forgotten—probably before Max’s plane landed in San Francisco. I sighed and started typing.

  To: Max.McDonald2111@gmail.com

  From: SimplicityItselfOrganizing@gmail.com

  Hey Hon,

  First, let me tell you that we’re all safe, happy, and doing well after our first week with the new routine.

  Second, I’m not excited about you being gone at all, let alone a few more weeks, but I’m glad you’re able to help out the manager who was hit by a car. That poor man! He must be in terrible pain. What’s his name? I can’t go on calling him “Man hit by car.”

  Third, I need to fill you in on some weird stuff that’s going on. Before I do, though, please know that it’s all under control—over and done with. If you left India right this minute, by the time you arrived it would probably be nearly forgotten. So, no worries, OK?

  Saturday morning, when I took David to marching band and ran some errands, Brian was home with Belle. They were out exploring and while they were gone, someone came into the house and started the dishwasher. Weird, right? Unfortunately, they used laundry soap or something, and when I came home, the floor was covered with suds. We got it wiped up quickly and there was no damage, but it felt creepy to know someone was in the house—even someone who felt like doing dishes and didn’t take anything. Brian and I solved that problem by getting the locks changed. The locksmith was great and fixed us up with new keys in a little over an hour.

  We all went to bed pretty early. David loves marching band, but it’s taking a lot out of him. He comes home, does homework, eats like a horse, and falls asleep. Remember when the kids were little and would fall asleep with their heads in their plates? We may be in for a reenactment of that period in our lives.

  Sometime before midnight, Belle started freaking out and woke David and me up. Something was clearly wrong, so I called 911. Detective Jason Mueller came back, along with Stephen Laird—the big bald guy with the mastiff. At first they couldn’t find anything wrong, but later Stephen found a squirrel nailed to the front porch. (I think the squirrel was dead before it was nailed to the porch. I don’t know why that matters so much, but it does. It would be worse to think it had suffered.)

  The police are taking it seriously, along with the dishwashing intruder. Jason asked Stephen and Munchkin (the mastiff) to stay here tonight. At first I didn’t want them to but Jason insisted. He says that Stephen is some sort of super-stealthy attack-trained Marine (retired), so we’re in good hands. I think Munchkin could chomp the arm off anyone who wanted to hurt any of us.


  So, please don’t worry. But let me know if your schedule gets pinned down any better and you have an ETA for landing in San Francisco. Just being able to write this all down has helped.

  We all love you and miss you!!

  Maggie

  To: SimplicityItselfOrganizing@gmail.com

  From: Max.McDonald2111@gmail.com

  What?! I need to come home. This all sounds crazy and super-dangerous. I’m glad Stephen was able to stay, but the person protecting you all should be me.

  I’ll look into flights home and send you my itinerary. No arguments.

  Love, Max

  . . . and BE CAREFUL!!

  To: Max.McDonald2111@gmail.com

  From: SimplicityItselfOrganizing@gmail.com

  I keep forgetting that the middle of the night here is mid-morning there. Do I have that right? I hate time zones. And yes, I hate that my dear beloved husband is a gazillion miles away and can’t give me a hug and say “There, there, everything will be OK.”

  At this point, though, that’s really all you could do. It’s been super-quiet here after all the excitement. I’m working off a tiny bit of an adrenaline rush, but the kids are all snoozing and even Belle is sound asleep.

  Would it help if you could hear our voices? Do you want to phone? I think you said that 8 pm here is a good time there for you to call. We’ll all be here tomorrow night if you want to phone in.

  Would it help if I had Jason Mueller email you?

  I absolutely promise I’ll email if there’s anything to worry about. Please don’t worry.

  Love, Maggie

  To: SimplicityItselfOrganizing@gmail.com

  From: Max.McDonald2111@gmail.com

  OK. I’ll stay put. But telling me not to worry about you and the boys is crazy. Please ask Jason to email me with an update. It’s not that I don’t believe you or trust you, but it would feel good to hear “nothing to worry about” from a detached third party. I guess if I freak out every time you tell me something has happened, you’ll stop giving me an honest update. I know that’s not what I want.

  Do you think one day when we’re old we’ll be able to look back and consider this a great adventure and laugh about it? I hope so. But, please remember that in order for that to happen, you need to stay safe! Be careful! You, Brian, and David are the most valuable things in the world to me. Nothing is worth endangering any of you.

  And, yes, I’ll call at 8 pm your time on Sunday. I need to hear your voice.

  Love,

  Max

  I put down my phone and listened to the kids, both of whom were fast asleep. I climbed out of my sleeping bag, grabbed my throw—which was serving as my bathrobe—and snuck back down the stairs. A cheerful fire burned in the fireplace, highlighting the tiles with the knights on them. Stephen must have heard me, because he turned toward me as I stepped off the last step.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked Stephen. “More coffee?”

  “Tea would be great,” he said. “I’ll make it. What kind?”

  “Mint, please,” I said, “With caffeine and honey.” We had a full cupboard devoted to tea: black, green, caffeinated, decaffeinated, and herbal. Stephen stood, threw another log on the fire, and moved to the kitchen without making a sound. Special Operations.

  After he brought me a steamy cup of perfectly brewed tea, we sat in silence watching the fire. Munchkin snored under the big square coffee table, which bore the scars of family games and crafts.

  “Can’t sleep?” Stephen said.

  “Nope. Not sure whether it’s nerves or a desire to catch the twisted little brat in the act.”

  “Catching twisted little brats in the act is what I’m here for . . . and Munchkin too.”

  Munchkin, hearing his name through his dreams, thumped his tail and went on snoring.

  “He’ll be a big help,” I said.

  “Oh, he’s a good soldier. Sleeps when he can, but is never more than a second away from full alert.”

  “How’d you two meet?” I said. “Last week, in the barn, you promised you’d tell me one day.”

  “It’s a long story . . .”

  “Tell me.” We needed to pass the time and I needed to know this man better if he was going to be spending the night on my couch.

  Stephen took a deep sip of his tea and passed his hand over his bald head. He sighed, leaned back against the couch cushions, and began.

  “Jason mentioned I was Special Ops?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “I was in Afghanistan, heading up an expeditionary force of bomb-sniffing dogs and handlers. We’d been there about six months. The dogs, the handlers . . . we were a tight group. We found more improvised explosive devices—you know, IEDs—and saved more lives than any robotic unit ever has. Eventually, the insurgents figured out it was our unit that was throwing a wrench in their plans.”

  A log shifted in the fire and sparks flew up the chimney. Stephen got up, grabbed the poker, and rearranged the logs.

  “Was Munchkin one of those dogs?”

  Stephen laughed. “The way he eats? He’d have broken the Defense budget beyond repair. No, we met up after . . .” He paused and picked at nonexistent lint on his jeans.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I said, not wanting to probe a painful wound.

  “No, it’s okay. They say it helps to tell.” He fiddled with what looked like a wedding ring on his left hand.

  “Make a long story short, my dog and I headed out, clearing a path for the patrol behind us. My dog, Paxon, cut his foot and I stopped to bandage it. While I was doing that . . . well, I was the only one who made it out.”

  “Paxon?”

  “The whole patrol. It started with a thud. One big thud—not even a sound, but more like a feeling under your feet, like someone picked up the whole world and dropped it on its ass, leaving your stomach somewhere up around your chin until it falls with the same thud and knocks you flat. I have no idea what happened. Paxon hadn’t alerted me to anything. Near’s I can figure, some brand-new baby grunt forgot he was in a war, stepped off the trail and onto a mine.

  “Paxon recovered sooner than I did and he took off, running in circles, sniffing and whining, looking for our buddies. A sniper picked him off. I dove behind a rock and called for air support, but by the time they arrived, the snipers had killed everyone.” Stephen sighed, slumped, and touched the side of his head. “I got off with a head wound and a shattered leg.”

  I didn’t say anything. Dozens of sentences half-formed in my head, but they all sounded lame. I couldn’t begin to imagine this man’s pain or the sacrifices he’d made. He looked up from his tea, rubbing Munchkin’s paw with his foot. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted comfort, understanding, or silence. When in doubt, go with the truth.

  “Stephen, I’m afraid to say or do anything that would make your pain any worse.” He stared into the darkness beyond the fire, expressionless, saying nothing. “I can’t even begin to understand the depth of your sacrifice . . . or theirs. Thank you for trusting me with your story. I’m honored.”

  We both let the silence linger. Stephen sipped at his tea, then peered into the mug, looking surprised that it was empty.

  “My turn,” I said. “What are you drinking?”

  Stephen handed me his mug. “Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.”

  I shared a smug smile with him, recognizing a fellow Star Trek fanatic, and took his mug. “One Captain Picard special, coming up.”

  Restocked with tea, I took my place on the sofa opposite Stephen and tucked my feet under me. He was supposed to be telling the story of how he and Munchkin met. We hadn’t gotten to Munchkin yet, but there was no way I was going to ask Stephen to continue. That decision was up to him. But his story had captivated me and made me completely forget the stupid brat who was terrorizing my family.

  Stephen crossed, uncrossed, and recrossed his legs.

  “I don’t remember much after that,” he said “Not for a long time. Just bits and pieces of medevac helicopt
ers, a base hospital, then Landstuhl and Walter Reed.

  “They had me at the veterans hospital in Palo Alto, trying to figure out whether I’d get to keep my leg and helping me walk again after the surgeries. I stayed on, helping other vets and working with retired Marine dogs. You know they used to euthanize them?”

  I leaned back into the cushions of the couch, away from Stephen, and covered my mouth with my hand, shocked that anyone could kill a healthy dog, let alone one trained to give up his or her life to save American soldiers.

  “They don’t anymore. They discharge them and send them home like any soldier. The dogs end up working for other government agencies or for the private sector or they get adopted. I work with the dogs and canine handlers who are struggling with post-traumatic stress. No one knows the best way to treat that—in dogs or in people—so we’re figuring it out together. Matching up dogs who’ve lost their handlers with handlers who’ve lost their dogs—finding ways for them to use their skills at home.