Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  Kenneth was dead to her. It would say as much on Guy’s new birth certificate. Father: deceased. Guy’s new name would be James Christopher Doyle. New birthplace: Evanston Hospital in Evanston, Illinois. Same birthday. Hannah’s new name would be Hannah Dean Doyle—after James Dean, and Barney Doyle, a good friend of her dad’s.

  Those fake documents were like visas out of some sort of prison state. She was terrified that something would go wrong. She didn’t really know Juan that well. Maybe his contact would leave with her money. Maybe Juan would disappear, and she’d never get out of Green Bay. When he called to say the documents were ready, she wouldn’t allow herself to believe it until they were actually in her hand. She arranged to meet him in the east stairwell of the hospital during one of her follow-up visits to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.

  On the landing between the third and fourth floors, Juan slipped her an envelope. It had Guy’s new birth certificate, an Illinois state driver’s license for Hannah Dean Doyle, and a Social Security card.

  Everything looked genuine. Hannah was impressed with the job they’d done. She hugged Juan and started to give him an extra hundred dollars.

  “Save it,” Juan said, his voice echoing in the stairwell. “Put it in your escape fund. You can leave a little sooner. I don’t want to see you again, Mrs. Woodley, especially not in here.”

  “I’m not that worried. He’s found himself a distraction in town. I hardly ever see him anymore.”

  “That could change very soon,” Juan said. “Her name is Holly Speers. She was in here this week, all banged up. They put five stitches in her forehead. She was wired up on cocaine when they admitted her. She claimed she fell against a coffee table.”

  Hannah numbly stared at him.

  “I think for Holly, the honeymoon’s almost over. Besides, too many people know about them now. The Woodleys will be stepping in pretty soon. Your husband might be coming back to you. So—you keep that extra hundred for travel money, Mrs. Woodley. And get yourself and your little boy out of here as soon as you can.”

  Juan’s prediction came true about ten days later. Kenneth started spending his nights at home again. He was on another “good behavior” streak. Hannah figured that his father must have given him a talking-to.

  She slept in the guest room, which had more or less become her bedroom. Hannah had no intention of letting him touch her. She wondered how long Kenneth would go before he forced himself on her—or beat her up.

  Though she saw it coming, Hannah was still caught off guard when he finally exploded. She was washing the dinner dishes on a Tuesday night. As long as Kenneth was playing the dutiful husband, she’d done the dutiful wife bit and fixed his favorite supper that evening, a special recipe for grilled halibut and baby potatoes. He’d stuffed himself. Now he was in the den, watching TV and looking after Guy. All was quiet, except for the slightly muted television. Then Hannah heard him.

  “Goddamn it!” he shouted.

  She heard a smack; then Guy shrieking. Hannah dropped a wineglass, and it smashed in the sink. She didn’t even turn off the water. She just ran toward the den.

  “You want another?” Kenneth was yelling. Hannah had heard that question too often at the start of a beating.

  She stopped in the doorway to his den for a second, long enough to see what was happening. Her son was on the floor, crying. Standing over him, Kenneth had one hand raised. In the other hand, he held an expensive miniature model of his yacht. Kenneth cherished the stupid thing. Guy must have started playing with it, which was a no-no.

  “Did you hit him?” Hannah asked, her voice shrill.

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She lunged at Kenneth and started beating him in the face. She was like a crazy woman. She didn’t let up until he hauled back and knocked her to the floor. All the while, Guy was screaming.

  “Fucking bitch!” Kenneth growled.

  Blinking, she stared up at him. He had his hand to his face. Blood streamed from his nose down the front of his shirt. Hannah didn’t even realize she’d done that to him. His prized model yacht had fallen out of his grasp and now lay broken by his feet.

  “You’re dead,” Kenneth muttered. Then he stomped out of the room.

  Hannah quickly gathered Guy in her arms, grabbed her purse, then hurried out the front door. Taking her new Jetta, she drove to a Holiday Inn Express on the edge of town. She parked the car in back so no one could see it from the highway. At the 7-Eleven next door, she bought a box of Huggies and some toiletries.

  And so Guy spent his first night in a motel. Hannah hardly slept. She was so certain that she’d wake up to the phone ringing—or Kenneth pounding on the door.

  In the morning, she drove back to the house. Not seeing his car in the driveway, she figured it was safe to go inside. She started collecting the essentials: everything from the fake documents, to a stuffed giraffe that Guy couldn’t live without.

  It took her ninety minutes to pack four suitcases and load up the car. All the while, she worried that Kenneth would come home and find them. She hated leaving behind certain items: an old clock and a few other knickknacks that had been in her family forever, certain books and CDs, a couple of photo albums. She had to say good-bye forever to these mementos, and move on.

  Her heart sank when she stepped into the Savings and Loan. There was a line; about a dozen people. Guy began to fuss and cry, attracting the attention of everyone in the place—including a friend of her mother-in-law’s. Of course, the woman came up to her and chatted on for a few minutes. Hannah could only pretend to listen. Every second was grueling.

  At the teller window, Hannah filled out a savings withdrawal slip for eight thousand dollars. By the time she left the bank, Guy was screaming in her arms, and she was soaked with perspiration.

  They drove to Milwaukee, where she sold the Jetta at an upscale used-car lot for twelve thousand dollars. She and Guy took a bus to Minneapolis. He cried most of the way. In her effort to keep a low profile, Guy wasn’t helping. No doubt all the other passengers utterly despised the two of them.

  From the Twin Cities, they took the train to Seattle. Guy liked the train. For the first time in forty-eight hours he actually seemed content, and slept well. Hannah could almost convince herself everything would be all right.

  In Seattle, she found a cheap hotel with kitchenettes in the rooms. Every day, she and Guy went apartment hunting. She always picked up a Milwaukee Journal at the magazine store, and searched for any articles about the disappearance of Mrs. Kenneth Woodley II and her son. She didn’t find anything.

  She phoned Juan at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.

  “It’s not a good idea to call me,” he warned her. “They’re looking for you. A private detective has been asking questions around here.”

  Hannah talked with an old friend from McNulty’s Tavern, a coworker named Arlette Ivey. “Some guy came by two nights ago, asking about you,” Arlette told her. “He was really obnoxious. He said you’re in some kind of trouble, and we’re all accessories to kidnapping and grand theft if we hold back any information. What’s going on, Hannah?”

  “Nothing. It’s all just—a big misunderstanding. I’m all right. But please, Arlette. Don’t tell anyone I called, okay?”

  Once Hannah found her two-bedroom apartment at the Del Vista, she and Guy lived like hermits. Except for trips to the park, the supermarket, and video store, she didn’t go anywhere. The only person who even knew her by name was Tish at Emerald City Video. When Hannah’s money started to run out, she went to Tish for a job.

  Guy wouldn’t have to worry about money once he was an adult. Among the essentials she’d taken from the house in Green Bay was his real birth certificate. Her son was heir to the Woodleys’ fortune. She’d tell him the truth when he was college age. Until then, he was hers.

  As they walked up the steps to the apartment, Hannah watched him struggling with the small bag of paper towels. “You’re doing a great job there, sweetie,” she said. “You’re really hel
ping me out. Such a gentleman.”

  “I have to tinkle,” Guy replied.

  “Okay, hold on.” Hannah unlocked the door and let him run inside first. He dropped the small bag, then made a beeline to the bathroom.

  Hannah hoisted the groceries onto the kitchen counter and began to unload them. Underneath the Oreo cookies, she found a videotape.

  “What’s this?” she whispered.

  The tape didn’t come in a box or container. It was just a cassette: Tape B of The Godfather.

  With a glance toward the bathroom, Hannah went to the VCR and slipped the tape inside. She switched on the TV and turned down the volume.

  On the TV screen, Al Pacino and Diane Keaton were acting as godparents at the christening of their nephew. Hannah knew the movie. But she hadn’t anticipated the very next cut: Alex Rocco, playing “Mo Green,” lay seminude on a massage table. Someone approached him. He reached for his glasses to look up at the intruder. Hannah knew the scene now. Cringing, she watched the faceless visitor shoot Mo Green in the eye.

  “Mom?”

  With a shaky hand, she switched off the TV. Hannah glanced over her shoulder at Guy. She quickly ejected the tape. “Did you flush, and wash your hands?” she asked.

  Guy nodded.

  Hannah sat down on the floor and motioned him to come to her. She put her arm around Guy, then showed him the tape cassette. “Honey, did you see someone put this in our shopping cart?”

  He shrugged and shook his head.

  “Did you see it in the cart? Was it in there?”

  Guy picked at his nose. “Yeah. But I didn’t touch it.”

  She tried to smile, but a tremor crept into her voice. “Was this tape in the cart before Craig came up to talk to us? Think real hard, sweetie. It’s important.”

  He winced. “I don’t remember. Are you mad?”

  “No, no,” she assured him, kissing his forehead. “It’s all right. Everything’s fine.”

  Guy pointed to the cassette in her hand, then touched it. “What is this, Mom?”

  “I don’t know, honey,” she whispered. She held him closer. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Seven

  The young woman stepped out of the taxicab. She wore tight black leather pants and a fuzzy, baby-blue angora sweater. Her chestnut-brown hair was in pigtails tonight. She pulled her folded-up massage table and duffel bag from the backseat. “Think your fucking arm would fall off if you helped me?” she muttered to the cab driver.

  The audio probably didn’t pick it up. But he caught the woman on videotape as she threw her money at the driver, then kicked the door shut with her spiked boot. She carried her table and bag to the front door, then rang the bell.

  It was Tuesday night at Lester Hall’s house.

  He’d been watching Lester—and videotaping him—on and off for the last week. He’d already figured out how to break into Lester’s house. There were several times he could have snuck into the place and quite easily murdered Lester in his sleep. But he needed to wait until tonight.

  His video camera captured Lester coming to the door and letting the girl inside. The camera shut off for a minute. The next image was rickety. His hands were a bit shaky from running to the backyard, where he now photographed them through the sliding glass doors of Lester’s recreation room. The woman was setting up her massage table. Lester stood at the bar, fixing them drinks.

  One of the neighbors was throwing a party. The music and laughter drowned out what little conversation went on inside between Lester and his masseuse. He handed her a drink, then started to undress. The camera panned to her. She sipped her drink, then pulled the sweater over her head, pried off her boots, and wriggled out of her pants. She’d peeled down to just her thong before Lester even got his pants unzipped. The woman took another hit of her drink, then excused herself and padded toward the bathroom.

  Lester Hall started to step out of his pants.

  The camera went off.

  Tarin Siegel sat naked on the toilet in Lester Hall’s bathroom. For the next ninety minutes, Lester would demand her undivided attention, and that meant no bathroom breaks.

  If she had the cash, Tarin would have gladly given Lester her one-hundred-and-twenty-buck fee just so she wouldn’t have to touch his paunchy old body tonight. Lester was Tarin Siegel’s best and worst customer. Every Tuesday night she could count on him. No other client was as steady. He had a nice place, and always fixed her a drink. The fact that he was out of shape and had a couple of weird moles on his back didn’t actually matter to her. She barely noticed the bodies any more—unless the guys were cute and really fit.

  But there was nothing cute about Lester. Tarin had learned early on that he didn’t like her talking during the massage part. But when it came time for the big finish, she couldn’t read his mood. Often he wanted verbal encouragement; sometimes not. Nine times out of ten, she’d make the wrong call. “Well, don’t just jerk me off, stupid, say something!” he’d complain one week. Then, during the next session, he’d grouse “How do you expect me to concentrate when you won’t shut up?”

  One thing predictable about him was the way he acted afterward: sullen and mean. Once he was finished, he was finished—with her. It was like he couldn’t wait for her to leave. He was such lousy company, she preferred to wait outside for the cab to pick her up. Of course, Lester didn’t want her standing on the curb in front of his house, so she always had to hide behind a stupid hedge near his front door. Those nights when the cab was late, she absolutely dreaded having to ring his damn bell and use his phone again. Some nights, it just wasn’t worth the one hundred and twenty bucks.

  The son of a bitch was out of toilet paper. Tarin sighed. Still crouching a bit, she moved over to the cabinet beneath the sink. It was a tiny, windowless powder room—no tub or shower. She found a roll of Charmin under the sink, sat back on the toilet, and loaded up the dispenser.

  Tarin wiped herself, and was about to flush the toilet. That was when she heard Lester raise his voice: “Who the fuck are you?”

  “You shouldn’t have called her a bitch,” someone whispered.

  Though he spoke softly, Tarin could still hear him. In fact, the words sliced right through her.

  “No, God, no!”

  A loud shot rang out.

  Tarin gasped. Her heart seemed to stop for a second.

  Paralyzed with fear, she didn’t dare utter a word. Her whole body start to shake. Tarin thought she might be sick, and she swallowed hard. Tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. She had to keep very still.

  She heard his footsteps. He was getting closer. Did he know she was in here?

  Slowly, Tarin stood up. All of a sudden she felt naked, and she covered her breasts. She glanced over at the door, then cringed. She hadn’t locked it.

  The footsteps got louder, then stopped.

  Waiting for the next sound became unbearable. Her eyes riveted to the door, Tarin watched the knob slowly turn to one side.

  All at once, the bathroom light went out, and she was engulfed in total darkness. She’d forgotten that the light switch for the bathroom was outside the door. At the threshold, a line of light cut through the blackness. She could see the shadows of his feet skimming across that line.

  She heard him laugh, a strange cackling.

  Tarin couldn’t breathe. Blindly groping in the dark, she tried to find the towel rack or something she could hold on to, something with which she could defend herself.

  The door burst open, and slammed against the wall.

  Tarin screamed.

  The last thing she saw was a man’s silhouette coming at her. His face was swallowed up in the shadows, and he held a shiny object in his hand.

  “Chicago,” Hannah said, over her glass of Diet Coke. “I’m originally from Chicago.”

  Craig was asking way too many questions. It had been years since she’d dated. But she didn’t recall ever having to weather through so many inquiries about her background.

&nb
sp; They were eating lunch across the street from the video store, at a place called Bagels & Choosers. It was an upscale sandwich shop with high ceilings, metal tables, and regional artwork hanging on brick walls. Craig looked handsome in his gray turtleneck and jeans. But that didn’t matter, because Hannah’s guard was up. At this point, she didn’t trust anyone. Still, it was a date, and she’d dressed a notch above her usual store-clerk knockabouts. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore khakis with a pink oxford shirt.

  “When did you move to Seattle?” Craig asked, picking at his Cobb salad.

  “About three years ago,” Hannah lied.

  “Are you—um, still in touch with Guy’s father?”

  She shook her head. “He died in a car accident before Guy was born.” Hannah put down her spoon. The chicken noodle soup was a bit too salty. “Listen, do you mind if we change the subject?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Forcing a smile, Hannah shrugged. “It’s okay. The marriage was pretty much kaput by the time I got pregnant. I just don’t feel like discussing it. Let’s talk about you. What exactly does a Web content director do anyway?”

  Craig started explaining it to her. Hannah nodded and pretended to listen. All the while, she wondered about that Godfather cassette in her shopping cart. She’d been wondering for days. It was why she couldn’t really trust Craig Tollman. Was he the one who had slipped that tape in her cart? She hadn’t had a chance to ask him yet. So far, he’d been the one asking all the questions.

  “Anyway, it’s not what I thought I’d end up doing,” he was saying. “How about you? What line of work were you in before you got married?”

  “Um, retail,” she lied. “I worked at Marshall Field’s.”