by Lane Diamond
I get the sick feeling that this morning's little ruckus is about to come back and bite me in the ass. Might as well cut right to the chase. "Let me guess—Mitchell Norton stopped in to see you."
"Damn it, Tony, what were you thinking? Hell, back in '78, I wanted to take Norton to a field somewhere and put a bullet in him myself. I have little sympathy for the bastard. If a bus turns him into roadkill tomorrow, that will be fine with me." He directs his next statement at Linda. "Sorry if that sounds coarse."
She shrugs it off.
He shakes his head and turns back to me. "You know, that sonuvabitch has the names and phone numbers of three witnesses from Starbucks, each of whom will support his claim against you."
"What's that mean, his claim against me? Has he filed an actual complaint?"
"Not yet, but he's prepared to do so, and to get a lawyer, and to issue a restraining order." He huffs in exasperation. "He said he'd hold off on that if I speak with you and issue a stern warning to stay away from him. I swear to Holy God, I wanted to knock the smirk right off his face."
"I didn't go looking for him, Chief. He was just there. Even then, I'd have left him alone, but he made a comment about having coffee with Linda. I understood the implication, the threat. He was pushing my buttons, and I let him."
"I understand," he says. "Nonetheless, you need to tread lightly. Damn, how could they let that sicko out of prison? At least they could have waited one more year, until I'm retired and cruising around in my RV."
"What, and miss out on all this fun?"
"Yeah, right."
"Let's relax and have some lunch." I throw in all the cheer I can muster. Three of my favorite people are here. "It's a gorgeous day."
Screw Norton! He'll get his soon enough.
Chapter 34 – May 28, 1978: Tony Hooper
Sunday arrived in near silence, and I lamented my only companions: loneliness and sorrow. The TV was off, the stereo off, the washer and dryer idle, Dad was out of the house somewhere, and....
Alex was gone forever.
An aroma drew me to the kitchen counter, where a pot of coffee cooked thicker by the minute. I poured a tall cup in hopes it would help clear my head. The label on the can read "Good to the last drop." Sure. I sipped the burnt coffee and struggled to reconcile the dichotomy of yesterday: two distinct days, two distinct worlds.
World 1: One of the worst days of my life, we'd buried Alex, the Hoopster, my Shadow, ranking right up there with the day we lost Mom.
World 2: Against all odds, I'd experienced the best night of my life with Diana.
She'd persisted in my mind deep into the night, until I awoke and wrote in my diary: Even when we're apart, Diana fuels my desire, the instinctive fire, the roar of primeval yearning. Sleep will not come easy, yet more than the usual thoughts—sex, sex and, oh yeah, sex—distract me. Something greater stirs me: the certainty that we'll be together forever, that we'll marry, have children and grow old together. This is our future.
Yet how could I make that happen? If I departed for college and left her behind, our separation might tear us apart. Marriage was out of the question, with her having a year of high school remaining, and me just getting out—no advanced education, no training, no prospects. I could postpone Duke and go to a local school for a year, after which we could go to school together, perhaps at Duke, if they accepted her and allowed me to defer for a year. If not, we'd go somewhere else.
So much for my plans for the future.
I had nothing on the agenda today beyond mowing the lawn, which I hadn't finished yesterday for obvious reasons. That would take me only a couple hours, and then I must do something—anything—to get out of the house.
Diana and I hadn't talked about it last night because she'd passed out. I'd have to tease her about flipping that particular cliché on its head—the man always wanted to sleep afterwards, and the woman wanted to talk. After last night's performance, I was surprised I hadn't passed out. Would we ever have another night like it?
God, I hoped so.
I jumped when the phone rang, hoping Diana had made the psychic link she liked to think we possessed. I snatched the phone from the cradle and answered.
"Hi." The deep voice at the other end hesitated. "Is this Tony?"
Recognition spun my brain into a three-alarm warning. "Yes it is."
"This is Mr. Gregario."
His tone conjured visions of a long whip, and I steeled myself against the lashing.
"Is Diana with you?"
Whew, this isn't about last night. "Uh... no, Mr. Gregario, she isn't here."
"She's not? When did you last see her?"
"Last night, when I dropped her off at home." Almost the truth.
"That's odd. We assumed she got up early and went off with you, and forgot to leave us a note."
"Maybe she's with other friends."
"I suppose, but she must have left early. We thought she was sleeping late, and when we went in to rouse her, she was already gone. She must have headed out by eight o'clock, pretty unusual for a Sunday."
I'll say, especially after last night, I couldn't add.
"She didn't leave a note, hasn't called—no word at all. Ah! I'll call around to her friends. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning."
"No problem, Mr. G. I was wondering, can you have her call me when you track her down?"
"I don't know. Looks like we'll miss church because of her irresponsibility. She'll probably be grounded, meaning no phone privileges."
Shit, this might be worth a week.
After a few seconds' hesitation, he said, "I suppose one quick call will be okay, but just a quick one."
"Yes sir. Thank you."
She'd probably gone to see Cindi Bronte, her best friend and confidante, to tell her about last night. Why must girls share all the personal details of their lives with friends? Cindi probably knew everything about me, right down to the size and shape of my.... I didn't like it much. If I'd wanted Cindi to know of my prowess as a lover, I'd have had sex with her.
Hmmm, she is hot. A threesome would be.... Sure, as if Diana would ever agree to that! Get it together, Tony.
***
It felt good to push the mower around the yard. I needed the exercise to unwind, especially since I'd missed my usual Friday afternoon session with Master Komura.
We studied many different martial arts, including aikido, jujitsu, karate and ninjutsu. We also spent considerable time training with swords, as demanded by Ben Komura's family history, deeply ensconced in the samurai tradition. My mentor, amazing for his martial arts expertise, to be sure, but also because of his extraordinary calm and mental discipline, was the man I most hoped to emulate. Of course, I'd have tossed in a healthy dose of Frank's country charm and tender heart.
I hadn't mowed the lawn by myself for two years, not without help from my Shadow. I thought of Alex and let the memories flood me for some time, until the pain and depression resurfaced. I pushed it away and concentrated instead on Diana, specifically on how we could stay together during the coming school year.
I should postpone Duke for a year.
Shit! Am I ready to take that leap?
At some deep, subconscious level, I'd probably decided that the instant it popped into my head, but I felt better for having considered it rationally and intellectually, separated from my emotions.
Yeah, like that's possible.
After finishing in the yard, I showered, dressed, and prepared for lunch. I failed to convince Dad to come in from the garage, where he puttered around with whatever he could get his hands on, trying to stay busy. He barely acknowledged me, insisting he had too much to do.
His Jack Daniel's sat on the workbench—no glass, just the three-quarters-full bottle.
He had buried a son yesterday. My choice would have been different, perhaps a kick-ass workout, but twenty-five years from now I might have developed a different attitude. He'd come out of it soon. He had to.
I called Diana
again but got a busy signal. I desperately needed to get of the house, to do something, to talk to someone.
I returned to the garage to roll my bicycle out, and glanced over my shoulder at Dad. He ignored me and took another gulp of his drink.
I hopped on my bike and sped toward Frank's place.
Chapter 35 – June 11, 1995: Reports, Rumors and Re-Enactments
"I'd kill you, but first I'd tell anybody that'd listen about how you pissed yourself and stood there crying with snot running out of your nose." – Stephen King, The Dead Zone
~~~~~
Quiet, idyllic Algonquin suffered so little crime that few residents gave security a second thought. Indeed, they'd enjoyed nearly two decades of uninterrupted peace.
Then a judge released the notorious killer, Mitchell Norton, from custody after seventeen years, a widely publicized event. Despite tight-lipped authorities, small-town America worked its usual magic, and all of Algonquin knew precisely where Norton lived and what he looked like.
Not that Norton went to any great lengths to hide.
Residents kept one eye on their routine, the other peeled for a serial killer, particularly at night. Many avoided situations that might appeal to the imagination of a killer: stay in groups, remain in well-lighted areas, and lock the house up tight at night. Many women carried mace—more than usual—and some folks cuddled a loaded gun under their pillows.
If the courts would no longer provide security from Norton, they would protect themselves.
They'd heard the reports of how psychiatrists had cleared Norton, of how an unfortunate tumor had caused his killing spree. Still, the things he had done! Could a tumor make a monster? There must have been at least a tendency toward that sort of thing already lurking inside. Most God-fearing, law-abiding, kindly-to-neighbors, patriotic Americans couldn't imagine themselves becoming such a monster under any circumstance.
Nothing as simple as a tumor would do it.
That accurately summed up Melody Nesmith's attitude about the matter. At forty-six and recently divorced, Melody lived alone. She often hated that fact and longed to have a man around, someone to help with household repairs, to do yard work, to maintain the car, to make love to her on lonely nights. These were a man's responsibility.
Security was another of those things. A man was supposed to protect her.
She considered her attitude neither clichéd nor archaic, merely practical. At 5'4" tall and 140 pounds, whom could she fight off? She even wished, at times, that she'd not insisted on a divorce from that cheating-bastard-of-a-husband after twenty years of marriage. Okay, so she wasn't exactly a supermodel. Who was he: Sean Connery?
She walked throughout the house to ensure that she'd locked the doors and first floor windows. Since Mitchell Norton couldn't enter the house on the second floor, she could comfortably leave those windows open for fresh air. A good dog would be nice, like a Doberman pinscher or German shepherd, and she resolved to look into that soon. Libby, her cat, kept her company but didn't keep her safe against anything more than a mouse, if that.
In the meantime, the extra deadbolts on the doors soothed her. She left a light on in the downstairs living room, another deterrent, and used a small nightlight in the upstairs hallway outside her bedroom. Despite the general nervousness she'd experienced since her separation, she felt reasonably secure.
She lay down for the night after the late news and switched on the television in her bedroom, to watch "The Tonight Show," with Johnny Carson. She always went to bed with Johnny. A cool breeze entered through her window, comforting after the warm day.
Thirty minutes later, she turned off the television and drifted into slumber.
***
Night shadows lurked beneath the crescent moon, with nary a streetlight to defeat the darkness. Tall oaks and pines surrounded the house and provided further cover.
He knew it well.
He'd arrived through a thin stretch of woodlands that ran right up behind the house. His black clothing and black ski mask rendered him virtually invisible as he stalked, yet he struggled against nervousness and fear. He stopped often to look around and listen, relatively certain that no one would see him at two o'clock in the morning, but preferring to take no chances. Despite the desires that burned within him, he wasn't sure he could go through with it.
Yet he couldn't deny his longing—a deep, almost painful yearning.
He knew precisely where Melody kept her spare keys hidden, as he'd spied on her once when she'd used it. A small rock lay between the hedge and the sidewalk near her back door, away from prying eyes even during the day. Beneath it laid two keys, wrapped in a sandwich bag to keep them clean and dry.
His hands shook as he picked them up.
He paused to check the only tools he carried for his work—a hatchet and hunting knife, both hanging from his tool belt—and took a deep breath. He pressed his ear to the door and listened for any sound inside or out.
Crickets screaming, and a frog belching somewhere in the trees.
Another glance around the neighborhood verified the absence of movement or threat.
He was ready.
He got the keys right on the first try, one for the doorknob and one for the deadbolt, and the door swung open with the faint creaking of rusted hinges. He paused to listen again, stepped inside, eased the door closed behind him, and stood in a utility room off the kitchen.
Inside the kitchen, a cat sat before a food dish and stared at him. He feared it would start mewing or bolt upstairs to wake Melody, but it returned to its late meal and ignored him altogether. He bent down to pet it as he walked by. He always liked cats. It leaned into him, rubbed against his leg and purred, and returned to its late-night dining.
Nice kitty.
He snuck from the kitchen into the living room, where a small lamp cast dull light into the room. He switched it off, willed his hands to stop shaking, and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He took another deep breath and stared at the floor, waiting, reassured by the quiet.
He stepped past the bathroom and a small den, found the stairs at the end of the short hallway, and started up. The first stair creaked.
Freeze!
Silence. Careful to walk on the outside edges of the stairs, he continued with less noise to the top, where a nightlight defeated the darkness. The upstairs level contained three bedrooms, two at the front of the house, and a master bedroom at the rear, six feet from where he stood. That must be Melody's room.
He approached it and smiled at the steady tempo of light snoring. Perfect. He needed to keep her quiet while he worked.
He paused again to consider his next step—his plan. How could he go through with it? Fidgety and uncertain, he chewed on a fingernail. He had to do it. How else could he get what he wanted, what he so desperately needed? He was sick and tired of his circumstances, which he'd endured for too long.
He pulled the knife from its sheath and clutched it in his hand, close to his face. He liked the look of it, the energy it infused in him—powerful, fierce.
Yes, he could do what he must.
He flinched and launched into a short, startled leap. Something had brushed against his leg with hardly a sound. He looked down, trembling again, to discover the cat rubbing against his leg, purring. He caught his breath and relaxed, and leaned over to pet it once more.
Nice kitty.
He stepped into the room, tiptoed to the side of the bed, and stared at the sleeping Melody. Another long, deep breath puffed up his chest, and his resolve.
He raised the knife.
Chapter 36 – May 28, 1978: Tony Hooper
Frank's empty rocker swayed in the light breeze on the back patio, so I knocked and poked my head inside the door and called out.
"Come on in, Tony," he yelled. "I'm in the den."
I plopped on the sofa adjacent to his La-Z-Boy, where he reclined and watched the baseball game on WGN-TV.
"You're in for a good one, young man. The Cubs are ahead 3-1
."
"Don't worry," I said. "It's only the fourth inning—still plenty of time for them to lose."
He rolled his eyes and laughed at the misery we diehard Cub fans loved to share, and we kicked back to watch the game.
When the game ended and the Cubs had lost 5-3, I offered-up my best 'I told you so' look.
He shook his head. "You know what I think? I think the Cubs lost because you expected them to lose."
"Wow, who knew I had that kind of power?"
"The world is what you make of it."
Give me a break! "I'll keep that in mind."
We walked into the kitchen, and he pulled a package of white paper from the fridge, opened it at the counter, and nodded at the two rib-eye steaks. "These will go perfectly with asparagus and sautéed mushrooms. Think your dad will mind if you stay for dinner?"
"I doubt he'd know the difference at this point."
"Come on, Tony, give your old man a break. He just needs a little time."
"He hit the booze early today, probably passed out already."
He tried to hide his concern—fat chance—as he pulled out the vegetables and set them next to the sink. His eyes narrowed in thought, but no sense in pressing him, even though I hoped he'd talk to Dad.
I'd thought about talking to Dad myself, but that probably wouldn't have accomplished much beyond pissing him off. On the other hand, he might listen to Gramps; he respected Frank.
We agreed to eat out on the patio, provided the threatening clouds didn't dump rain on us. A few minutes later, after preparing the vegetables and setting the steaks in Frank's special marinade—light Worcestershire sauce and minced garlic in red wine—we lounged at the table and enjoyed a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Frank had planned to leave the wine for dinner but, after opening the bottle to let it breathe, he couldn't resist.
Worked for me. I settled in for the fine food and company. I'd probably have been happier living here than in my own home. Crazy.
