Chapter Eighteen
Rachel
It took me by surprise when Jackson ran out of here. It was only yesterday when he was pushing to stay for a month. Then suddenly, it was like he had to get away from me. My business was busy right now and I was trying to work, but my concentration kept going back to Jackson. Last night, we had talked for a while before I went to bed. I had sat at the table so he could keep an eye on the Foster house. Unbelievably, it felt like we were breaking down some walls between us. He had come clean about his undercover operation, telling me he mentioned drugs so as not to scare me, and to keep from completely blowing his cover. I promised to keep my mouth shut about his reasons for being here.
Then our conversation evolved to discussing his parents living on a farm south of town. He mentioned having an older married brother with two kids and a younger married sister with three children. “My mom is always pushing me to get married and settle down,” he had said with a chuckle. “I guess she wants more than five grandkids.” He shrugged. “Maybe someday,” he admitted. “Possibly three, like my parents had, and even my sister … but not now.”
I had told him I was an only child, having a doting mother and being the apple of my father’s eye.
“You and Richard never had kids?” he had questioned me.
“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “Good thing. Our divorce is messed up enough as it is. I can’t imagine how awful it would be if we’d had children.”
Once the subject fell on Richard, I had excused myself to go to bed. I looked forward to the day mine and Richard’s marriage was behind me. Until then, I couldn’t even fathom a future. My on-going battles with my estranged husband had broken my heart and caused me to plow myself deeper into my work. Warning myself to push all thoughts of Richard away, I reminded myself to be glad Jackson wasn’t here bothering me.
Around noon, I heated two bowls of soup and took them over to Mrs. Jenkins, leaving Jackson a note to let him know where I was. We ate lunch together and I did a load of laundry for her. Towels. I’d fold them on my next visit.
Heading back to my house, I was, once again, accosted by Mrs. Tuttle. “Rachel, Rachel, I remembered what I wanted to talk to you about the other day.”
It was another bitter cold day. I wanted to invite her over to my house just so I wasn’t stuck outside freezing. But Mrs. Tuttle was a true yakker and, short of being rude, it could take hours to get rid of her.
“What is it, Mrs. Tuttle?” I asked, my cold hands shivering around the empty soup bowls.
“Did your cousin leave already?” she peered across the street to the vacant spot in front of my house.
“No, he’s … he’s out looking for a job.”
“Well, fingers crossed,” she said, literally crossing her fingers.
“What did you remember to tell me?” I prompted through chattering teeth.
“Oh, yes. Well, Monday night that Dawson guy … Jarrod … Jarrod Dawson. He came in just after four in the morning. Now what do you suppose he was out doing?”
I just looked at her and blinked. “Well, I have no idea. Maybe he was at a nightclub, or was coming home from a friend’s house, or came in from an out-of-town business trip. I haven’t any idea.”
“Four in the morning,” she reiterated, adding a harsh tone to her voice.
“Mrs. Tuttle, places like Whataburger are open twenty-four hours a day. Maybe he had a late-night craving.” I sighed. “I just wouldn’t know.”
“Well, here’s the thing … you know my bedroom is right up next to his garage and when the motor ground the door open, it woke me up. In the still of the night, I heard him wrestling around with something heavy. It sounded like he was really struggling with it. A lot of grunting was going on. Then I heard something slam. What would it have been?”
“I don’t know … maybe his luggage. Perhaps he was coming in from out of town.”
She shook her head. “No one’s luggage would be as heavy as this sounded. Think Rachel, it was something else.”
“Maybe it was a piece of furniture. He might have bought a new recliner, or something, and was unloading it.”
She pinched at her lip. “I suppose he might have.” She paused for a moment and looked back at the middle unit. “Go over there and ask him.”
“I will not,” I shouted. “And neither will you.” I frowned at her. “Mind your own business on this. You don’t want him knowing you can hear him through the walls. Let this one go.”
She sighed. “Yes, I guess I should. But, for the record, I have a bad feeling about this. You mark my words.”
****
As soon as I returned home, I pulled a roast from the fridge. I hadn’t planned on cooking it until the weekend, but with Jackson staying here, I knew he’d tire of having soup every night, like I had planned. After seasoning and flouring the meat, I browned each side in my electric skillet and then added peeled and diced potatoes, onions, and celery. The carrots were prepackaged so I dumped the whole bag in and added water. Placing the dial on a lower setting, I returned to work.
For the next hour all I thought about was Jarrod Dawson, and what noise Mrs. Tuttle might have heard. Mr. Dawson had moved into the middle townhome unit about three months ago. When the giant moving van pulled up out front, I was excited about getting a new neighbor. As I peeked out my front window, I didn’t see a wife bringing in frilly things or even a child carrying in toys and wondered if he was single. My intrigue wasn’t because I had been looking for someone to replace Richard, but it couldn’t hurt to keep my options open. With my living alone, it might be nice to have a big strong guy living across the street to help me with a repair or carry something heavy … like what he was carrying the other night, according to Mrs. Tuttle.
Anyway, I had watched out the window as the movers carried furniture inside the front door and noticed the new guy standing watch over them. From across the street, he looked to be a little over six feet with dark black hair. After giving him the once over, I decided to do the neighborly thing and go over to introduce myself. Thinking up a good excuse, I found myself baking a pie. Well, sort of. It was one of those store-bought frozen pies. But I heated it up, thinking the gesture should count for something. After pulling the warm juicy apple delicacy from the oven and deeply inhaling the sweet aroma, I headed out the front door.
It was at that moment when I had heard Mr. Dawson screaming his head off at one of the movers. “For God’s sake don’t place my expensive chair down on the ground. You imbecile, just look, now one of the legs has mud on it. Don’t expect a good review from me.”
After berating the mover for a good two or three minutes, he then griped about every piece of furniture thereafter. “Watch what you’re doing,” he yelled. “These are my personal possessions and should be given considerate care. I’m filing a complaint. You can count on it.”
It was horrible. I felt sorry for the two guys having to deal with him. Needless to say, I went back inside my home, taking the pie with me, and decided I didn’t like him. Of course, this dislike came after several argumentative sessions with Richard, a few which ended badly. So, from my point of view, there was no way I wanted another guy in my life with anger issues.
****
Periodically I checked my roast, adding water a couple of times. The house was starting to take on a scrumptious odor as the delicious savory smell made its way from the kitchen into my work area. It was getting late in the afternoon and I couldn’t believe Jackson hadn’t returned. It seemed he would’ve been peering out the window from early on and possibly following Logan or David to see if they went to do any handyman jobs. But as the day wore on, I began to wonder about his whereabouts.
Hours slowly ticked by and still Jackson was a no-show. It was to the point I was worried something might have happened to him. We hadn’t exchanged phone numbers so I couldn’t call him. Eventually my worry grew into imagining him being hit over the head with a metal object, or pushed down a flight of stairs, or ev
en slipping by a pool’s edge. With horrible thoughts conjuring in my head, I resorted to calling the police and asking for Rob Brown, just like Jackson had instructed me to do yesterday when he first appeared on my porch.
“Mr. Brown, this is Rachel Anderson. We spoke on the phone yesterday about Jackson Barnes.”
“Yes, of course, I remember.”
“Jackson was supposed to be using my house as part of his undercover operation. He left early this morning and told me he’d be back this afternoon. I haven’t heard from him and was getting worried.” It was beyond me as to why I cared about him. On the other hand, I had cooked that roast.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s out somewhere doing his job. Most likely he’s someplace he can’t break cover to call you. If so, he’s probably gathering good intel and doesn’t want to leave his position.”
“I forgot to get his number. Will you give it to me … just so I can make sure he’s okay?”
“No, no. I can’t give you his contact info. It might compromise his situation. Sorry.”
“I understand,” I said with a sigh. “If you can get a message through, just let him know I was worried and have a roast cooked and waiting.”
After waiting another two hours and hearing nothing from Jackson, I took a couple of plates over to Mrs. Jenkins’ house and ate with her, leaving the same note on my door, this time adding my phone number.
“Delicious as always,” Mrs. Jenkins complimented. “You’re such a wonderful cook.”
I cooked often for Mrs. Jenkins, or sometimes I split takeout meals with her. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t eat.
“Thank you. I’ll tidy up and fold your towels.” Once I completed my tasks, I asked, “Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Jenkins?”
“Oh goodness no, Rachel. You already do so much for me.”
“Well goodnight then.” I hugged her and went back to an empty house, still wondering what happened to Jackson. I tried to still my anxiousness by watching TV for a while. Then I even used his binoculars to watch my neighbors across the street as they had their own meals.
My mind had focused all thoughts on where Jackson was and why he hadn’t returned. Over and over, I replayed the morning’s events. I yelled about him being in bed with me. I had mentioned Detective Tanner Sutton taking a shift so he could get some rest. Oh, and I didn’t have bacon. One of those things had made him angry. Then I remembered when he was in the bathroom, cussing, and he had said something about, “that asshole just had to come over here,” meaning Tanner. Had he been jealous because I had found Tanner attractive? But I only met Jackson yesterday, so why would that be?
Chapter Nineteen
Jackson
After rejecting sex with Veronica, a declination which still baffles me, I leave the house and go back across town. I drive past Rachel’s house three times, telling myself I am scoping out the Foster house. Logan’s older model, black Toyota Prius is still parked in the ribbon-paved driveway, and David’s dark gray Honda Accord remains snugged by the curb along the street. I park several houses away and behind another vehicle so if Rachel ventures across the street, she will not spot me. There I sit, back in my car and freezing my ass off. I think of how warm and cozy Rachel’s house was. Yesterday she had a glowing fire heating her little home. It was gas, not real logs, but it gave the place a homey feel.
I had told Rachel I would be back later today, even if it was just to retrieve my equipment. But I find myself unable to return to her home. Worse, I don’t even have the nerve to pick up the phone and call her … not that I even have her number. Chicken shit. That’s what I am. My brain tells me to at least give her the courtesy of letting her know I am not going to use her house anymore.
My heart wants me to hang on, don’t throw in the towel so quickly. I have never given up on a girl so easily. I only met Rachel yesterday. It is beyond me why she has left me emotionally stripped. How can I feel this way so quickly? Especially when considering all I want from Rachel is a good roll in the hay. It’s only natural for me to want to take advantage of every opportunity with the opposite sex. And Rachel is beautiful and I’m, after all, a visual man. I just need to get back in the saddle, forget about Sutton and go back over there and charm the pants off her … literally. And this is where my mind has been all day … fantasizing about getting her pants off.
Just as Sutton’s name crosses my mind, my phone vibrates in my pants pocket and when I retrieve it, I see it is the troublemaker himself. “Hello,” I say, biting my tongue to keep from telling him to go to hell. Be nice, I warn myself. If I am successful with this job, he will be my ticket into becoming a crime detective, as opposed to undercover cop. I need him.
“Hey, I was wondering if there was any activity on the subjects,” he began.
“No. They came home late yesterday evening, ate, watched TV and then turned in around midnight. I watched until four in the morning before deciding they were in for the night. I’m down the street right now and they’re both still at home.”
“Oh, are you not at Rachel’s house? I thought you were working from there.”
“Yes. She had some stuff going on today and I didn’t want to be in her way.”
“I see,” he says. “Well, give me a call if anything turns up.”
“I certainly will,” I say with a lot of fake enthusiasm.
Later in the afternoon, I watch Rachel taking something over to Mrs. Jenkins. It is lunchtime and my mouth waters thinking of her soup. I should just go down there. Act like nothing happened and I’d simply be back at her house. I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I’m behaving like a child. Even so, I stay in my car, cold and now hungry.
All day I watch the Foster house, and both vehicles remain unmoved. I don’t leave until well after dark, when I have fully become a Popsicle and nearing starvation. I drive by Rachel’s house on my way out of the neighborhood and remember how warm she felt when I snuggled under the covers next to her. I go home and crawl in bed with Veronica. Repetitively, I tell her I do not feel well, avoiding yet another sexual encounter with her. Something is most definitely wrong with me.
Chapter Twenty
Rachel
Using Jackson’s telescope, I performed a final check of the neighbors, once again wondering why Jackson hadn’t returned. Frankly if there were two murderers living across the street, I’d kind of like to have Jackson here. Every bump, squeak and creak in the night had me unsettled. Feeling nervous in my quiet and lonely house, I turned in for the night and slept restlessly, imagining Logan or David killing me while I slumbered.
After sleeping with one eye open all night long, when morning finally arrived, I felt ragged and tired. Before I was barely out of the bed, I heard banging on my front door. Immediately I figured it was Jackson returning. It surprised me to find Mrs. Tuttle hammering on my wooden frame. I’ll bet she was surprised to find my door was locked, but since I hadn’t even had breakfast yet, my door had remained off-limits.
“Just a second,” I yelled, quickly moving Jackson’s equipment into my pantry before opening the door. When I unlatched both locks and pulled the door open, my mouth gaped to find Mrs. Tuttle in a pale blue terry cloth robe and her dyed black hair wasn’t styled in her normally piled-high look. Of course, I was in a white robe of the same material and hadn’t combed my hair either. “Come in, Mrs. Tuttle,” I invited because I knew the frigid morning air was blowing up her legs. “Have a seat,” I gestured toward my dining table.
“Oh my God, Rachel, I just received a call from Lottie. She said Eugene is missing.”
Lottie and Eugene Smith, an elderly couple, lived down at the end of our street in a two-story, red-bricked house. Lottie and Mrs. Tuttle were good friends. Then again, Mrs. Tuttle was good friends with everyone.
I gasped. “Oh, my goodness, what happened?” She followed me to the table and slumped in a chair.
“She’s unsure. Her daughter and son-in-law had to go out of town for their business … some weekend trade show or som
ething. Anyway, Lottie left last Friday evening to go stay with her grandkids while the parents were out of town. She talked to Eugene on Saturday afternoon once she arrived and everything was fine. He called her on Sunday just to touch base and chat with the grandkids. She called again on Monday afternoon and he was about to run an errand … said he was working on a surprise for her. Then she tried to call him yesterday, but she didn’t get an answer. After leaving a voicemail, she tried again late last night, but still nothing. Her daughter and son-in-law came home late in the evening and Lottie got up at the crack of dawn to drive home. She just arrived a little while ago and discovered Eugene wasn’t at home.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing. And it didn’t look like anyone tried to break-in.”
“What about his car? Is it still at home?”
“It’s gone,” she almost whispered. “My God, Rachel, what if he didn’t come back from running his errand on Monday afternoon?” She looked at me with wild, panicked eyes.
My brows furrowed together. “This errand … any idea what the surprise could have been? It might be a lead as to where he was going.”
She shook her head. “No idea. And his car hasn’t been located. But Rachel, think of how cold it’s been. I don’t think he would’ve survived the night in his vehicle. And now it’s been two days … two days!”
“Did he have his phone with him?”
“It wasn’t at home, but at any rate, it’s only going to voicemail.”
“What should we do to help?” I asked, knowing Mrs. Smith must be worried sick about her husband.
“We need to organize a search party … get people looking for Eugene,” she suggested. “I’ll go home and get dressed and come back over. We’ll come up with a game plan.”
The House Across The Street Page 8
