by Frank Redman
Jenny is Jenny Meredith.
I repeat: I’m an idiot.
By now, the fake feds had already run the tags on my car and have chased down the title owner: me. I didn’t submit a change of address with the Postal Service when I moved to Uncle Joe’s. No one knew me and I paid all of my bills online. I couldn’t easily be traced to Uncle Joe’s address. He would be safe, at least for now.
I retrieved my cell, started to call Jenny and then realized… bad idea. With car ownership they got a name. With a name they would query databases for cellular users, even unregistered. There weren’t too many Elijah Ravens in the world. I couldn’t use the phone without leading the killers to whomever I called. Mr. Broxton’s warning suggested they potentially already knew about the Merediths. But no point in sending an invite.
The cell’s display showed 11:04. Three hours had passed since I arrived at Mr. Broxton’s house. Just a few minutes before that, Mr. Broxton was still alive, Tyler had a master, and I was simply on my way to helping a friend with his computer. It’s amazing how our lives could change—or end—over the course of just a few minutes.
With enough determination, the unknown enemy could identify my cell and find me by using the phone’s GPS to isolate my location, like a Greek god peering down from the clouds, pointing, and with a victorious roar, shouting, “There he is! Off with his head!” Okay, maybe a Greek god in Wonderland.
Mr. Broxton’s murder meant they were determined.
My phone could also be used for other nefarious activities. It was too dangerous to keep. Since it could be traced even while powered off, as long as the battery had juice, I turned it off and left it in the pipe as a decoy. I never kept data on the phone I feared losing.
I powered off the laptop and shoved it in the pack. I said, “Let’s get out of here,” and nudged Tyler in the opposite direction of the pipe entrance.
Tyler looked back from where we came, looked forward, and then back again, seemingly to orient himself. I could hear him sniffing. This way.
I grabbed the flash and we ventured deeper into the pipe. Thankfully I’m not claustrophobic. In fact, under different circumstances, I’d actually enjoy being in a dark, isolated, closed-in place. Somehow it made me feel protected. A Freudian psychosomatic longing for my mother’s womb? Nah. Freud was nuts.
On this occasion, though, I just wanted to get out of there and hoped Tyler wasn’t taking us on a route that would take a long time, or worse, get us lost.
After what seemed like half an hour, but more likely just a few minutes, we exited the darkness of the pipe into the gloom of the chilled night. I looked around wearily, doubtful the killers were waiting to waylay us, but too paranoid to completely dismiss the possibility.
Satisfied there were no killers in the area, including spider monkeys, I straightened my back and stretched my arms upward.
Once I put things together, I didn’t want to talk aloud in the vicinity of the phone. Now that Tyler and I had cleared the pipe on the opposite end, I said, “We need to get to Jenny Meredith’s house. That’s where the bad guys are headed—if they’re not already there. It’s on Monticello Street, but I imagine that doesn’t help you much.”
What does it look like?
“Big southern colonial, three stories, with wide, white columns in front. Big trees and bushes on the sides.”
Got it. Fat squirrels in those trees.
Tyler raced and I chased.
The clouds had started to clear, and what heat they blanketed escaped to the stars. I had lost my electronic tether to the world when I left my cell in the culvert. Without it I couldn’t check the temperature. But I imagined it dropped two or three degrees, yet still above freezing, a big break for us. The challenge of running on ice through the woods and streets might have been impossible to overcome, certainly with any speed.
I continued to run like a hunchback while using my arms to block unseen branches from decapitating me, but Tyler seemed to sense which path to take that would leave my head where it is.
Brilliant dog. I was breathing too hard in the cold to talk, but I would make sure to tell him. And get him his own bag of Cheetos.
We cleared the woods into a neighborhood. I didn’t know where we were while running between trees, but now with streets and houses as landmarks, I knew we were close to Jenny’s house. I’d driven these streets a few times for no other reason than to see her house.
No, I wasn’t stalking her. Just driving by to see where she lived. A few times.
We ran up the hill on Montgomery Street to turn onto Monticello when we saw death on four wheels. A black Suburban a hundred yards ahead and a few houses down from Jenny’s.
No!
Without thinking I started to bolt up the street. Just pure reaction. But then I saw light approaching from behind. If it had been the second Suburban, I wouldn’t have gotten very far. Thankfully I was clearheaded enough to run for cover and Tyler followed me without being told.
We were powerless to do anything. If we charged the house and got shot, we weren’t going to save anyone. If we sat there and hid, we weren’t going to save anyone.
I hate feeling helpless. Absolutely hate it.
But then, a miracle. The car driving up wasn’t a black Suburban. It was a green BMW. Jenny’s car!
The right hand turn onto her street from the hill on Montgomery was a blind turn, which made the driver slow more than usual. I could run faster than she was driving at that moment.
Not wanting to startle her, or get run over, I approached the street at an angle to the side of her car and knocked on the passenger window.
Of course, this startled her and she slammed on the brakes, but not with enough momentum to make the tires bark.
I quickly pulled my hood back so she could see my face. In the glow of the instrument panel, I saw her facial expression transition from the shock of fear to shock of surprise. On her expressive face, that was a dramatic difference.
She unlocked the doors.
I first opened the back door for Tyler, who again knew what to do without instruction. Then I jumped in the front seat.
She said, “What in the world—”
I put up my hand to stop her. “Sorry, I love you—” I put up my hand to stop me, then smacked my palm on my forehead.
Tyler said, Doh!
I didn’t know “doh” was in a dog’s vocabulary.
“That is not what I meant to say.”
She laughed and with her left eyebrow arched, asked, “What is going on here?”
Trying to recover from an acute case of idiocy, I looked at her and said, “Please, trust me, we have to back up now. Don’t ask questions. I’m being serious. I’m sorry for my stupid mouth, ignore that. I’ll explain everything in a few minutes.”
“What part am I supposed to ignore? Your declaration of love, or the stupid mouth part?”
“Jenny, please.”
I guess she saw something in my face, because her expression abruptly changed from embarrassed amusement to alarm. To her credit, she didn’t ask more questions, but put the car in reverse and turned to roll back down the hill on Montgomery.
I motioned for her to stop. Her cell sat in a cup holder. I put a finger to my lips, then grabbed the phone and took out the battery.
Her eyes flared.
I put my finger to my lips again to silence her. After verifying a secondary battery didn’t exist on the phone, I said, “Pull over here and turn off the lights.”
She followed directions. This was a great test of our friendship. I was glad, and surprised, she didn’t start to beat me over the head with an umbrella or something.
Then she looked at me and said irritably, “Okay, what the hell is going on here?”
I quickly searched for umbrellas.
“I’ll explain the phone bit later. They can hear whatever we say—”
She turned to face me. “Who are they? Hear what? What’s happening?”
I decided that being blunt w
as the best plan. “Mr. Broxton was murdered.”
She sank back in the seat. “Oh my God.”
“They killed him. I don’t know who they are yet. They shot at me and Tyler, he’s the dog in your backseat, and chased us but we got away. Before Mr. Broxton died, he told me to get some files off his computer and to warn Meredith.”
She gasped. “Daddy.” She looked in the direction of her house, but it wasn’t visible over the rise of the hill. “So what are we going to do? We can’t just sit here.”
“I know, Jenny, I’m sorry, I’m trying to think of what to do. There were two black Suburban’s at Mr. Broxton’s house. One of them is close to your house—”
“No. I’m—” She reached for the door handle but I grabbed her right arm.
“We can’t just go charging in. They’ll kill us. We can’t help your dad if we’re dead. He may already be dead.”
She yelled, “No!” with such defiance I thought she might actually know whether he was alive or not. She opened her purse and pulled out a pistol.
“Whoa! What’s that?” I don’t like guns. I used one once. The experience cut a slice out of my soul.
“It’s my turn to explain later. We have to get to my house.”
This crisis had suddenly taken a turn I didn’t expect.
She popped open the door and exited before I could say or do anything else, then quietly yet urgently shut the door.
I jumped out and opened the door for Tyler. I scurried after Jenny, yelling in a whisper, “Jenny! Jenny, stop!” I thought the effort would be futile, but she surprised me by turning around.
She said, “There’s a secret entrance to the house on the back side.”
My jaw dropped.
“You couldn’t see it as you drove by my house,” she continued and then patted me on the shoulder.
A train could have used my mouth for a tunnel. “Wait, how did you know—”
“No time. Follow me. Don’t get killed.”
Tyler and I fell in line after her as we ran, Quasimodo-like, up the hill onto her street. She wore dark clothes as well, so none of us stood out in the gloom. We crossed to her side of the street and then stayed close to the houses from yard to yard. Most of these houses had landscape lighting, but the lights were all pointed straight up, illuminating the house or trees. We were only visible in shadow form if someone briefly saw us block a light.
The house next door to hers was dark. She walked to the front door, pulled out a key and unlocked it, letting us in.
“The Foremans live here. I watch the house when they go on vacation. Right now they’re in Berlin.”
The only lighting came from low-wattage lights set into the floorboards along the walls, and the interior seemed to be made with dark materials, so it was hard to see what the place looked like. But it was cavernous.
Jenny led us through the house to the back door and we exited. A brick wall surrounded the yard, though the lot wasn’t as big as Mr. Broxton’s.
I looked at Tyler. He looked at me. He said, Oh boy.
I said to Jenny, “We don’t have to climb the wall, do we?”
“No, there’s a gate leading to our yard.”
Whew.
No landscape lighting illuminated the backyards. As we approached the gate, I said softly, “Let me get this straight, you have a secret entrance to your house?”
She smiled. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Um, no. Why?”
“My father loves spy stories. When you have play money, imagination, and are drawn to espionage, you build secret entrances.”
“Oh, sure, when you put it like that, makes perfect sense.” I looked at Tyler. If a dog could shrug his shoulders, he would have.
A thin fog covered the neighborhood. Either it had just started settling, or I hadn’t noticed it as we ran to Jenny’s house. Thankfully there was no fog while Tyler and I were in the woods. It was already hard enough to see his pure black coat in the moonless night.
We snuck through the gate and inched up to some shrubs that hugged the back of the house. I didn’t see any movement anywhere and the fog hushed noises. The quiet seemed ominous, though I’m sure my imagination contributed.
My scars burned slightly.
I whispered to Tyler, “Smell anything?”
Squirrels.
No help.
Uncle Joe is the only person who knows about my ability to communicate with animals. But Jenny did not give any indication she thought it was unusual for me to be asking Tyler a question. She probably talks to a cat.
The roots of the shrubs were about three feet from the house, growing in a tight bundle at the ground, then flared out as the branches grew leaves. This created a near perfect tunnel-like space. I’d state the name of that type of shrub, but the extent of my horticulture expertise ends at tree, bush, grass. The only plant I can readily identify is poison ivy. It loves me. It should make me feel good to be loved, but it doesn’t. This time of year, nothing to worry about.
Jenny dropped to her knees and crawled into the tunnel. I followed, then Tyler.
Despite the heavy rain, the ground felt just slightly damp.
For me, curiosity is a basic emotion, right up there with happy and sad. Intrigued by the tunnelainvillea hibiscumus, I touched the plant, tilted my head, looked at my fingers, and touched the plant again. Plastic. The bush was plastic. Of course, in such low light, it was hard to judge the quality, but it sure looked real.
“Why are the bushes plastic?”
Jenny glanced back at me and said, “Why wouldn’t they be?”
I thought about that for a moment, then said, “Uh.”
She said, “Not everything is always as it seems.”
“You’re not a man, are you?”
She stopped, half-turned, and looked at me as if I were an idiot and said, “No.” Then continued crawling.
Whew.
We went a few more feet and then stopped. I couldn’t see what Jenny was doing, but a second later, a three-foot by three-foot panel slid to the side. She crawled-rolled feet first into the opening and said, “Come on.”
Jenny stood in a sunken corridor inside the house. The outside ground was level with her midsection. I hopped down and Tyler followed, then Jenny closed the panel.
“You are the first person besides my parents and me to go through this entrance.”
I realized I’d never heard anything about Jenny’s mom before. But now was not the right time to ask.
“When I was little,” she continued, “I used to daydream about sneaking my husband through here, as if having a husband was something to hide.” She smiled.
We were in a forty foot corridor with concrete floor and walls spanning east-west. There were no sounds. It smelled like what you’d expect: damp and musty. On each end of the passage were 90° turns toward the center of the house.
A cat rounded the east end, which commanded Tyler’s attention. To his credit, he didn’t attack, but it seemed like an internal struggle. To be safe, I said, “No Tyler. This one’s not for you.”
Jenny said, “Watson, go away.”
I looked at her. “Watson?”
“Dr. Watson, actually.”
Tyler sighed deeply, almost whining. Please?
“No.”
I don’t want to eat it. Just chew on it. Promise.
“No.”
Dognip. Get it? He looked me in the eye, and I could swear he actually smiled at me.
I stifled a laugh. “No.”
Bugger.
Watson moved closer, paying Tyler no regard. He obviously knew the big dog wouldn’t be able to catch him inside the house. But when Watson looked at me, he stopped. And stared. He studied me for a long, weird moment, long enough for me fake an air of disinterest, then said, “I guess I’m spooking Dr. Watson for some reason.”
Then the cat projected, You hear.
I don’t understand how animals know I can hear them. There are a lot of things in the animal world that w
e, as humans, don’t understand. They are inferior to us in most ways, but superior in others, including the senses.
My best guess is by detecting a chemical I emit that’s imperceptible to humans. Even that doesn’t make sense, but it makes more sense than anything else I’ve been able to come up with. And believe me, I’ve spent years trying to figure it out so I could find a way to stop it.
It’s been my experience that cats are inherently infatuated with facts. This explains why many of them have this sense of haughtiness, believing they are smarter than other creatures. Year after year they gather facts by their observations. When an older cat observes from his perch a kitten going absolutely bonkers over a piece of string, you just know the wise, aged feline is thinking, Stupid cat.
This is also why a cat loves to stare outside through a window. If it could talk, it would be like a news reporter, studying the world from his newsroom, reporting on the events outside: “It is raining. Car drove by. Yellow bird in tree. Looks tasty.”
The cat continued to stare at me. Three men. He is hurt. Gunshot. In study.
Chapter Nine
“Mr. Broxton was murdered in his study. Do you have one?” I said, trying to sound vague.
“Yes,” Jenny replied. “First floor.”
The cat turned and ran down the corridor.
Jenny, Tyler, and I followed. After turning the corner, there were four steps leading to a small landing in an alcove with dark wood paneling. Jenny approached the left side and pulled on a ring set inside a recessed hole, which opened a door. Light spilled into the alcove.
Watson was gone. Evidently he had a different path into the house.
We went through the door into a large pantry. Floor to ceiling shelves were loaded with dried foods and cans of soups, vegetables, fruit… There was a section of Wolf brand chili. I love Wolf brand chili.
Tyler said, Is that Wolf brand chili?
I whispered, “Yes.”
