by David Beers
First, though, the arduous task of canvassing the neighborhood. She waited until four the next afternoon, hoping that most people would either be home or arriving.
House after house, she rang the doorbell, she waited, and at about a seventy-five percent clip someone answered. The spiel was always the same, and the answer, too. Teresa saw two possible things happening in regard to the murderer living here—either the murderer lied about losing the key fob, or an unknowing spouse let it slip that, yes, they had lost one in the past week.
Which meant Teresa was looking for underlying cues to show her something.
Twenty houses in, she was beginning to find it hard to hold her concentration. All these people sounded the same, like upper class white people who might have done some drugs in college, but since then haven’t committed any crimes outside of traffic violations.
The guy is here. Stay focused.
Which she truly believed. Why else would someone from this neighborhood have lost a key fob inside that car?
She rang the doorbell on a large white house, only similar to the rest of the houses in its magnificence. This neighborhood certainly wasn’t one full of McMansions, where each house was huge but looked like every other one.
Teresa heard the weight of someone crossing the foyer and watched as the door opened. A taller man, a bit over six foot, answered. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Teresa stopped her mental scan and focused on the man’s eyes.
“Hi,” she said. “My name is Detective Teresa Lord, are you the owner of this house?”
“Depends on who you ask. If my wife was here, she’d say differently, but since she’s not, I’ll say yes. How can I help you, Detective Lord?”
Not a shred of nervousness in the man, just a light joke and a smile.
“Thanks so much. What’s your name, sir?”
“I’m John Hilt.” He extended his hand and Teresa shook it.
“Well, I want to preface this by saying you’re not in trouble, nor is anyone in your household. This is just a routine investigation and we’re canvassing the whole neighborhood to see if anyone can help us. So don’t worry, okay?” She smiled as she said it, hoping to disarm any possible reservations—though this man seemed to have none.
“Not worried. How can I help?”
“I’m wondering if you or anyone in your household lost a key fob to the neighborhood gates in the past week.”
The man’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, I don’t think so. Why? Did someone break in around here?”
“No, nothing like that, Mr. Hilt. Would you mind telling me who all lives here with you?”
“Sure. My wife and our two kids.”
“And your wife would have told you if she lost it?” Teresa asked.
“Yeah, she’s lost it before and told me.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, goodness, I don’t know. At least a year ago,” the man said.
“Okay.” Teresa looked down at her notepad, though she didn’t have anything there to consult. She was buying a few seconds, seeing if her mind came up with anything else to ask. “That’s about all I have,” she said as she looked back up. “Would you do me a favor and mind asking anyone in your house just to be sure? If they say anything, just give me a ring?” Teresa reached into her back pocket and pulled out a business card.
The man took it, scanned it briefly, and then looked back up. “Sure thing. Have a good day, ma’am.”
“You too.”
Teresa made her way to the sidewalk and continued searching.
* * *
John closed the door and placed his hand in the center of it. He leaned against it with his head down, staring at the floor.
He sighed, a short thing that seemed like it might precede tears. He closed his eyes to keep any from possibly falling.
“Too close,” he whispered. “Too close.”
Cops hadn’t visited him since he was a teenager. Getting nearer to forty with each year, no one should be showing up at his house asking questions. No one.
“Harry,” he said.
But Harry was nowhere to be found. Normally, John felt that a blessing too great to truly comprehend. Now, though, he wasn’t sure. Harry thought through these problems, would make John feel okay. Regardless of everything else going on in life, Harry made him feel better—at least some of the time. In the important times.
That’s not true. Harry sees the world as one giant nail and him the hammer. Don’t romanticize him now. He’s the reason you’re in this mess. You need to go to God, John. Not Harry.
With his eyes closed, John struggled with which thoughts to believe. Harry or God.
In the end, it didn’t matter, though, did it? Harry packed up shop and left the moment John watched that woman die. He might not be back for a long, long time either.
John stood up, opening his eyes and looking around the house. The kids would be home soon, so would Diane. They couldn’t see what he felt; that was all important. He could figure out the rest later, but making sure they knew nothing had to be his first objective.
“Get dinner ready and then pray. That’s all you can do at this point.”
* * *
Head bowed, John prayed in front of the statue of Jesus. A few other people sat in the pews; mass ended about thirty minutes ago and some stayed around to offer more praise to their Lord. John wasn’t offering praise, however. He needed deliverance.
He made his requests silently, his eyes closed—in reverence.
“The question I would ask myself, if I were in your shoes, is do you deserve deliverance?”
The words startled John out of his deep concentration, but only for a moment. He knew the voice as well as he knew his own. Perhaps even better than Diane’s or his children’s. This voice had been with him much longer than they had—that was for sure.
“What would your answer be to that question?” Harry said.
“No.” John didn’t raise his head.
“See, that’s where we differ. I think you do deserve deliverance, and that’s why I came, to do what your God won’t.” Harry slapped him on the back. “So come on, let’s cut a rug and start planning.”
John looked over to him, his head still lowered. “What do you plan on doing about it, Harry? What idea could you possibly concoct that will get me out of this?”
“Whoa, whoa. Let’s slow down a bit, okay? You’re not in anything, John. They found the damn key fob. So what?”
“How the hell did you let me miss it? You should have seen it.”
“Twenty years in this business and I make one little slip up, and the world crashes. I tell ya, this business is a ‘what have you done for me lately’ type thing.”
“IT IS WHEN MY LIFE IS IN JEOPARDY EVERY TIME YOU SHOW UP,” John whispered the words, but each one had an edge sharper than any knife.
“Always with the drama. Tell me what they have on you, okay? You already have the new fob, right?”
John said nothing, only looked on.
“Good. More, let’s say you’re the only person in the last month to lose their key fob, or break it, or whatever. Let’s also say your neighborhood association tells them that. It doesn’t mean a single damn thing, because that could have been in the car for years. It’s not evidence.”
“No, Harry? You don’t think so? What about my fingerprints on it. The bleach isn’t going to wipe that away.”
Harry was stunned into silence for a moment, perhaps for the first time ever.
“Didn’t think that one through, did you?” John said.
“Okay, that could be a problem, I won’t lie to you.”
“So, please, indulge me in your plan to rectify that problem.”
Harry turned and looked at the figure on the cross just behind the podium. “I will never understand that. Why sacrifice yourself for a bunch of sinners that your Heavenly Father created in the first place? Jesus gave himself to a bunch of animals, and what did he get out of it? A good job from his dad?”
J
ohn looked with him. “He did it out of love. Because to not do it would sentence everyone to hell.”
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, John, but we’re going to have to kill her. There isn’t any other way. Kill her and get the key fob.”
“We can’t get the key fob. It’s probably in evidence, somewhere.”
“Maybe,” Harry said, “but why wasn’t she with anyone today? She said ‘I’ the entire time—I’m doing this or I’m doing that. Cops don’t make house calls by themselves; it’s too dangerous. They prefer backup. She was probably breaking protocol. Maybe she’s a glory hog, this Detective Lord. Maybe she doesn’t want to turn it in yet because she wants to break the case herself. I don’t think she’s turned in the key fob, though. I imagine it’s either locked in her house, car, or on her person. If we kill her, we can get it.”
John closed his eyes and placed his fingers on his temples. “And what if we don’t find it, Harry?” What choice did John have? His fingerprints were on the damn fob and Harry’s idea made some semblance of sense.
“I’ll think of something,” Harry said.
* * *
Teresa sat down at the small table and watched as Alan followed on the other side.
“So, you ready to tell me what you wouldn’t in the office?”
Teresa had been thinking about it all day. She didn’t find anything during her neighborhood canvassing. She took notes of everyone she spoke with, writing down her thoughts once she left the doorstep and was back on the street. They seemed like good people. Yet she had one last thing she wanted to check.
“Tomorrow.”
Alan looked up from his menu, his eyes finding hers.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, one way or another I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing tomorrow.”
“That’s fine.” He looked back down to the menu.
“You’re not going to change what you order, so why look?”
“Maybe they changed the menu and don’t have what I like anymore.”
Teresa just shook her head and glanced down at her own menu. They did this sometimes, on really late nights like this one, when both didn’t want to go home and wake up their spouses as they pulled food from the fridge and heated it either in a microwave or stove. Not to mention the dishes that would need cleaning.
Teresa had the key fob in her purse, contained in a plastic ziplock. Any fingerprints on it would be preserved, at least for one more day.
“I think we might be able to get him,” Teresa said, not looking up.
“Who?”
“Our Lake Killer.”
The waitress approached from behind the diner’s counter. “Sorry for the wait, folks. What would you like to drink?”
“Two waters,” Teresa said.
“Okay. Do you know what you want to eat yet?”
“Despite his protests, we do. I’ll have the chef salad. He wants the T-bone and eggs. Scrambled. Cheese on top.”
Alan didn’t say anything or look up from his menu.
“Glad we got that over with,” Teresa said as she pushed her menu to the side.
Alan did the same. “You think we’ll get him? Why?”
“That’s what I can’t tell you yet. I have one more thing I want to check.”
“Then stop talking about it. I don’t want to hear anything if I’m not allowed to know everything.”
She smiled. “Okay. Got any plans with the kids this weekend?”
* * *
“You want to do it here, on this street?” John asked.
“It’s almost one in the morning—there’s no one here. Two waitresses inside.”
“And what about the guy with her? That could be her husband or a cop. Either way it’s going to be a problem,” John said.
Harry put his hand on the car’s dashboard and leaned forward. “I think he’s a cop. His hair is too short and tight to be a civilian.”
“My hair is short and tight.”
“Yeah, but you’re an idiot,” Harry said, not smiling, but showing interest only in the diner across the street.
John didn’t say anything for a few seconds, looking along with Harry. “So what’s your plan? How are we going to do it? This is a main road.”
“It’ll be easy. We watched them park in the lot over there. I see four other cars, and two are the waitresses’, one or two cooks in the back of the restaurant. We’ll wait until he and she walk out and head over there. You should kill them both just to be sure.”
“Then it’s a double homicide. Why don’t we just follow them another time? It wasn’t hard to follow them from the station; next time we can get her alone,” John said. He didn’t want to kill two people. He saw the necessity in getting rid of the woman, but the man? Another death at John’s hands, another needless one. And if they didn’t get the fob from the woman?
God forgive me.
“You don’t use your head, John. The reason this has to be done tonight and not any other night, is that we don’t know when she’s going to turn the fucking thing in. We’re hoping that she hasn’t yet, but we still might be too late. If we wait until tomorrow, we’re just increasing those chances.”
John swallowed.
“Okay, Harry. Fucking okay.”
14
Present Day
Susan stepped out of her car and went to the gas pump. The sun went down an hour ago and this was the last gas station before she crossed the border. She didn’t want to be in Mexico alone after dark, let alone stopping at gas stations.
“Nice job agreeing to this, then,” she said aloud as she slid her card through the reader.
She put the pump in place and listened as it emptied gas into her tank.
She’d been thinking about John Hilt her whole ride down here. It didn’t make sense, why he was returning. He left days ago, the moment he found out his priest was dead, apparently, and now he was coming right back. When people run, they run to avoid capture—they don’t walk back into the same trap they left.
And yet, here he was coming back.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” She was growing more and more frustrated as she continued thinking about him. Alan wasn’t contemplating any of this—she was sure of that. Alan was gearing up for war, but he didn’t understand what kind of war.
That’s what scared Susan.
She saw four reasons Hilt could be returning. The first being that he was actually innocent. But Susan didn’t believe that anymore. This guy left a trail of too many dead people.
The second possibility was that Hilt would turn himself in. This was somewhat more likely than the first. He left, scared out of his mind, but realized he couldn’t make it in Mexico. He’d come back, turn himself in, and pray for the court’s mercy.
The third, he fought the case. Probably the most likely given everything she knew about Hilt. The man had wealth and would probably use it to make sure he remained free. Poor people don’t want to go to jail, but it was such a large part of the world they knew, they didn’t fear it above all else. Not true for the wealthy.
Lastly, and the most frightening of all, was something Susan didn’t want to consider—but she had little choice. Hilt could be coming back to tie-up loose ends. Or worse, he could have lost all control. Alan thought he was gearing up for war, but he didn’t know what kind of war Hilt was bringing. Legal or violent.
Alan wanted violence.
Susan didn’t. Find Hilt, arrest him, and plead with the prosecutor to seek the death penalty. Because Susan didn’t know if Alan could handle the violence this man could bring.
“So get down there and figure out what happened. Then you can actually help.”
* * *
John looked to his left, feeling like he was in a dream.
Harry sat in the driver seat, one hand on the wheel and a cigarette in his mouth. The night was dark, and as John looked to the front window again, he saw the empty road. No cars in front of them and no cars behind.
He stared forwar
d for a few seconds, the dream feeling so heavy that he didn’t know if he could talk, like maybe he couldn’t truly control himself but only follow predetermined movements.
“Huhhh … Harry,” he said after a few seconds. His mouth felt sticky, as if a glob of peanut butter sat inside. “Huhhh … How are you driving?”
Harry took a drag on the cigarette and flicked his ash on the middle console. John watched the gray mass drop and then break apart when it hit the car, dirtying the otherwise pristine interior.
“I don’t know, John. I’m just going with the flow.”
John blinked. Had he been drugged? Did someone drug him in Mexico and this was the aftereffect, watching someone who didn’t exist drive his car? Was John really at the wheel, far too inebriated to do anything but kill himself?
“This can’t be,” he said. “It’s not possible. You need to pull over. I have to figure this out.” John didn’t look at Harry as he spoke, but out the window. He meant what he said but found no power behind the words. They sounded as if he was talking about his sheet’s thread count back home.
“John, we don’t have time to stop. We have things to do.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Why? We just left.”
“Well, a few reasons. Do you feel up to talking about them?”
John nodded. The night outside was like a hypnotist that he couldn’t look away from.
“First, the things you did down in Mexico weren’t being looked at too kindly.”
“What did I do?”
“Whatever is happening here is most definitely weird as hell, John. You don’t remember, do you?”
He shook his head.
“Well, let’s just say you got a little loose with your knife work. Went what I might call, a little overboard—though others are probably gonna call it psychotic. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe though, right?”
