Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

  I jumped when Tony's car engine fired up and the lights came on.

  Damn it, Mitchell, pay attention!

  He backed out of the driveway and pulled to the corner, where, under the streetlight, his lone silhouette filled the car.

  "Is that it? Is the night over?"

  The house remained dark except for the light over the entrance, and Diana's parents hadn't come home yet.

  "Where could they be? What time will they arrive? Does Diana have brothers or sisters in the house?"

  I didn't think so, or she and Tony wouldn't have been.... What else could they have been doing in the dark all that time?

  "Does that mean she's alone?"

  If she did have brothers or sisters, they must have been asleep.

  "Is she sleeping too? What should I do? How much time do I have? What happens if her parents arrive while I'm inside the house? Should I take a weapon? Just in case?"

  Act Mitchell! Or don't act! Make up your fucking mind and do it now! You don't have time to fuck around here!

  PART 6 – Plans Formed, Fates Tested

  Chapter 32 – June 8, 1995: Mitchell Norton

  My mom's cheap, weak coffee tastes like shit, worse than even the crap we had at the nuthouse. Since I have a few bucks burning a hole in my pocket, I'm gonna check out some new place called Starbucks. I snag Stephen King's The Dark Half off my mom's bookshelf to pass the time at the coffee shop.

  I have some significant thinking to do. I need to find a job of some sort, but I doubt many people will be willing to give a reformed multi-murderer a chance. Fuckwads.

  I educated myself while a ward of the state. They offered a remarkable library, damned curious given the nature of the facility and the idiots who resided there. They even provided computer classes on site.

  I'm ready for the modern office. But are they ready for me?

  I don't need to make much money. It's not like I got any bills, and Mom says I may live at home for as long as I wish. At sixty-three, she appreciates having me here to help around the house.

  Tommy helps, but he has limits. He's amazed that I've read over a thousand books, fiction and non-fiction, a fair number of them twice. He thinks I'm the smartest man ever. Good old Tommy.

  I'd like to do something from home, as Tommy does, like landscaping. I wouldn't have to answer to some annoying shithead boss, but I'd have to deal with clients. I can imagine the reaction of prospective clients when they find out who I am. What a fuckin' joke that is.

  Whatever. I'll worry about it later.

  Mom carpools to work with Mrs. Reinhart from down the street, so until I get a new van she's allowed me to use her car, ostensibly for job interviews. I should probably get my driver's license first. To hell with it. Coffee and a book isn't what Mom had in mind, but I need the diversion.

  I've concentrated my first two days of freedom on catching up with Mom and Tommy. Prior to that, I had three intense days of final interviews at the hospital, and this five-day stretch without reading is the longest I've endured in fifteen years. I feel something akin to withdrawal. What a kick in the head that would be for people who knew me when I was a kid.

  I always had the brains; I just never gave a shit. Why should I have, given how people treated me? They always made me feel like....

  Ah, fuck it!

  The short drive past Lake-in-the-Hills to Randall Road, only a couple miles, takes longer than expected. With some new stores and housing developments to accommodate the population explosion, and the traffic lights necessitated by that growth, traffic has quadrupled since 1978.

  Starbucks is a small place, not exactly what I expected. It contains one sofa and two easy chairs, and a series of small wooden tables with wooden, unpadded chairs that look like real ass-busters. I toss my book onto an available easy chair to reserve it before walking to the counter.

  "I'll have your strongest coffee please."

  The pimply-faced clerk says, "Tall, grande or venti?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "What size?"

  "Oh, I'll have a large."

  "One venti coffee."

  "A what?"

  "Venti is the largest size."

  "Uh-huh. All right then, I'll have a venti coffee."

  "And you want the Sumatra?"

  "The what?"

  "That's our extra bold variety."

  "Super. A venti Sinatra."

  "Sumatra."

  "Whatever."

  What, coffee ain't coffee? And what's with the price? Two bucks a cup? Sure, it's a big-ass cup—uh, venti—but the last cup of coffee I bought cost a quarter. With unlimited refills. Bob Dylan had it right: the times are definitely a-changin'.

  Old jazz standards play in the background, and combine with the comfortable easy chair to provide a pleasant atmosphere. I flinch after my first sip of coffee, strong enough to curve my spine and grow hair on the bottom of my feet, as George Carlin joked back in the '70's. Sure beats the hell out of the swill they served at the nuthou—um, I mean, Psychiatric Care Facility.

  What a fuckin' joke.

  I open The Dark Half with every intention of reading, but people coming into the place keep distracting me. Many of them are young, of college age or less. The girls dress provocatively with jeans or shorts that drop low below their waist, often exposing their underwear—and more. Their tops drop only slightly below their tits, exposing more of their midsection than I remember as customary. This assumes they've redefined the midsection to run right to the crack of their ass. The boys wear jeans about three sizes too big, which drop halfway down their asses, exposing their underwear for the entire world to admire. Boxers appear to be all the rage. Terrific.

  A well-dressed, attractive, adult woman walks into the store, and it's all I can do to take my eyes off her. It's been so long since I've been with a woman. Would I remember what to do? Shit, a man never forgets that. I hope.

  She glances around the shop while she waits in line. I turn away; don't wanna get caught staring.

  I look back and, although I can't quite place her, there's something familiar about her.

  She takes her coffee and heads in my direction, to the chair opposite me. She leans over to set her cup down on the small table, and I get a quick glance down her blouse. Nice cleavage. She glances over and flashes an automatic smile, then grabs her coffee.

  Almost immediately, her eyes return to me, wider and brighter. Her smile has disappeared.

  Shit! She recognizes me.

  I look down at my book and attempt to ignore her. I've been worried about precisely this sort of occurrence. People don't understand the realities of my situation. They know only that I murdered some kids. They're repulsed and frightened, unwilling to consider the mitigating circumstances, or giving me a second chance.

  Well, fuck 'em!

  I look up from the book to catch her still staring. Her face suggests disgust and anger, and something else. Could it be amusement? How do I know this woman? I study her face and eyes—nice eyes—but I can't make the connection. That's hardly unexpected; it will have been at least seventeen years since I last saw her.

  "Well, well," she says. "Look what the cat dragged in."

  Gee, I never heard that one before. I offer no response.

  "You don't recognize me, do you?"

  "You look vaguely familiar. I assume we've met."

  "You could say that. I was on the team that hunted you seventeen years ago."

  Hunted me? That makes her a cop, maybe FBI. She must have been one of the smaller players, not someone who stood out, although she is attractive. Still, I don't think she's one of those who testified at my trial.

  "Special Agent Linda Monroe," she says, "with the FBI, Behavioral Science. You helped jumpstart my career."

  No kidding, and now you're here in Algonquin two days following my release. "Pleased to be of service. I suppose you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

  "Something like that. You needn't flatter yourself. I didn't come here
for you."

  "Terrific. Then exactly what are you doing here?"

  She hesitates, sips her coffee and glances toward the door, and her eyes go wide again. She jumps up and hustles toward the man entering. He scans the place as if searching for someone.

  "Hey there," she says to him. "Let's go somewhere else, okay?"

  "What? Why?"

  His expression changes from puzzled to curious to.... He looks around and his eyes settle on mine. After seventeen years, I know that face, those eyes. He's all grown up, but no matter; I'll know them forever.

  He looks at Monroe again, then back at me. His eyes narrow as he stalks in my direction.

  "Tony, wait." She sighs and stares at the ceiling.

  Hooper ignores her, stopping only two feet away from me. "Looky, looky, looky. Who knew that the devil likes coffee?"

  The devil? Sure, why not?

  "What in hell are you doing here?"

  He asked me, but Monroe answers as he looks back and forth between us. "I'm here to meet you, remember? Tony, I came in, got a cup of coffee and sat down. Imagine my surprise when I look up and see Mitchell Norton seated across from me. I know how this looks, but I swear it is a coincidence. I promise you."

  "You say it's a coincidence, and I'm sure you think it is, but what about him?"

  He spits him in disgust. I remain quiet, and must fight to keep the shit-eatin' grin off my face, though come to think of it—who gives a flyin' fuck? Why are these two here together?

  "He was already here when I arrived," she says. "This is a small town."

  I don't blame him for the way he feels, given that I wrecked his world. He has every right. Still, I hate him. He's my fuckin' nemesis. Why is that?

  He exudes such violence that I can't help but goad him on.

  I offer a hearty laugh. "Hey, Tony, old-buddy-old-pal, I'm just having a cup of coffee and catching up with my old friend Linda."

  Oops. He lunges forward, grabs me by the shirt and lifts me right out of the chair. I grab his arms to pull his hands off me. Holy shit, this fucker is strong!

  "Listen up, shitbag!" His face burns red and his spittle splatters on my face. "Don't even think about it, you understand me? If you come near Linda or anyone else I know, or anyone at all, for that matter, I will destroy you. I know where you live, Norton. Are you listening? I will destroy your entire damn world! I will tear you to pieces until you beg me to kill you! I will heap on you a giant dose of your own sick medicine. Do you hear me?"

  "Loud and clear." I squirm in a futile attempt to escape his grip—like iron hooks.

  "Tony, let him go! Tony!"

  What do you know; it's the FBI to my rescue—a little irony to brighten my day.

  She puts a hand on his shoulder. "Please, Tony, let him go."

  He relaxes slightly, but holds on, still intimating blood and hatred from every pore, no doubt considering whether he should kill me here and now.

  I'm not ambivalent about it. I don't wanna die, but there ain't a fuckin' thing I can do about it.

  He releases my shirt and pushes me down into the chair, and my elbow hits the coffee and spills it onto the floor.

  "Stay away from me, shitbag." He lowers his voice. "Stay away from everyone I know. Keep your nose clean or, so help me God, you'll wish you'd never been born."

  He turns and storms toward the door with Monroe chasing after him.

  I almost say something, to goad him again and have a little fun. Maybe next time.

  Everyone in the place is staring at me. I wonder how many recognize me from the news reports.

  I need to do something about that fuckin' Hooper.

  Chapter 33 – June 8, 1995: Tony Hooper

  Man, you almost lost it there. Get a grip!

  Not exactly the smartest thing I've ever done. I wanted to kill him right there in the store, and with only about a dozen witnesses. Dumbass! If I do act against him, it would be helpful if I didn't first throw the spotlight on myself.

  Linda agreed to leave her car at Starbucks and ride with me to Frank's place. She's remained silent for the entire trip, upset over my antics, but I think there's more to it. I consider launching a conversation, but best give her time to sort through it.

  Frank knows I'm bringing a friend, but I provided no details. I'm home only about half the time, often on the road for weeks on end. My hunts for serial killers take time, as those bastards are typically a tricky, intelligent bunch—difficult to find. I often cross paths with the FBI, whom I must carefully avoid. In fact, I've seen Linda on two separate occasions since our last meeting three years ago. She doesn't know this—can't bring myself to tell her. The FBI at-large would not appreciate my unique avocation, and Linda would be hard-pressed to do so.

  Suspect's rights? I couldn't care less. Miranda? Pfft! Harsh interrogation methods? You betcha. Judge? Nah. Jury? Nah. Executioner? Yep.

  Linda might look the other way because she feels indebted to me, because I saved her from a vicious death at the hands of Ronald Allen Stegman. Yet even she has limits, a line she can't cross. What would she say about my phony FBI badge and ID, or about my informant inside her august organization?

  I walk quite the tightrope, and I fear I've drawn her onto it. Without a net. Perhaps that's what she's thinking about during this uncomfortable silence.

  I take the plunge as we pull into Frank's driveway. "Here we are."

  She doesn't look at me.

  "How long you going to continue the silent treatment?"

  "I'll let you know."

  Geez, Tony, that was smooth. You do have your way with women.

  I bolt from the car and hustle around to open her door, hoping a little chivalry will earn me some points. She steps out and turns toward the house before I can get there, leaving the car door open. I close it.

  Yeah, nice plan! Well, if at first you don't succeed.... "I stay here when I'm in town. Frank enjoys the company, and I help him out around the house, a nice arrangement for both of us. He's not so sprite anymore, but don't let that—or his good-old-boy charm—fool you. He's still sharp as a razor. Let's see how long it takes him to charm you again."

  She throws me another one of her silent, incredulous rebukes, shakes her head, and says, "I'm not that easy, you know."

  I laugh and reach for her hand, the perfect opportunity to break this frosty mood, but she pulls away from me.

  "Come on, Linda, what do I have to do to make things right?"

  "I'm sure I'll think of something. Later."

  I bounce my eyebrows and bow low with a sweep of my right hand. "I am your slave."

  "You're darn right, and don't forget it."

  At least she's smiling again.

  We find Frank on the patio, rocking gently and reading a book, his customary diversion. He spends most of his time there when the weather is good. The aroma, like a hundred bouquets of roses, blankets us the moment we step onto the patio.

  Linda spins toward the garden and gasps. "My goodness, would you look at that."

  Frank smiles and stands with cane in hand, and I reintroduce them. She insists that he should remain seated.

  "Nonsense," he says. "A gentleman always stands when a lady enters the room. Or the patio, as the case may be."

  I smile and observe, curious to see how long it will take him to charm her.

  He kisses her hand. "It's been a long time, young Linda. I must say, you're even lovelier than I remember."

  She laughs and tilts her head appreciatively.

  "And my goodness, your eyes are most remarkable, like two emeralds shimmering in the sunlight."

  The bright white of her smile shines through the red of her cheeks. She rests her hand on his arm.

  "Please, come sit next to an old man and allow me to enjoy your company. It's not often a lovely young lady visits. You must allow me to take advantage of the opportunity."

  Yeah, that should do it. He guides her to the chair next to his.

  When I slide a third chair over to f
ace them both, he looks at me as though I let go an eye-watering fart. "Where are your manners, young man?"

  I must look like an idiot for a few seconds, but I finally figure it out and recite the Willow household drink menu for Linda. She and Frank settle on his lemonade, rather famous in these parts, and I head into the kitchen.

  Hmmm... it's early, but.... Screw it!

  Norton put me in the mood, so I grab a Sprecher Black Bavarian, a dark beer from a small regional brewery in Milwaukee.

  Yeah, sure. As if I won't have it drained long before that.

  Though I was gone only a couple minutes, they're already laughing when I return.

  Old Gramps could charm the truth out of a politician—a genuine charm, because Frank Willow hasn't a disingenuous bone in his body. Linda relaxes again, taken in by the old smoothie.

  I may still pay for that incident at the coffee shop, but a temporary reprieve is nice.

  We spend the next two hours touring the garden and catching up with Linda on the past seventeen years. As lunchtime approaches, I offer to grill some burgers to go along with the homemade potato salad Frank gets from Ethel Simmons, a seventy-six-year-old widow who lives across Cary Road on Geringer Road. As his part-time chef, she stops in three times a week to cook a fresh meal. She hasn't exactly taken Martha's place, the wife Frank lost to cancer in 1966, but he likes having Ethel around.

  Just when I think it can't get any better, another old friend arrives and pokes his head over the rear gate.

  "Howdy folks, I knocked out front but nobody answered. I saw the cars in the driveway and heard some laughter back here. I hope you don't mind."

  I wave him forward. "You know better than that, Chief. Please come in. Have you had lunch yet? We're about to dig into some grilled burgers, and we'd love it if you joined us."

  "Sure sounds better than the bologna sandwich I have back at the station, and I'd just about kill for one of Frank's lemonades."

  I pour him a glass and reintroduce him to Linda, reminding him of her involvement in the Norton case back in '78. He smiles and says he remembers her quite well, and lets it go at that. No "What brings you to Algonquin?" No "Are you here because of Norton?" No "Why is the FBI back in my back yard?" Indeed, the crafty old codger shows no surprise at all.