They're Watching

by Gregg Hurwitz

  My back was slick with sweat. My eyes moved involuntarily to the window. Through the semi-sheer sage green curtains, the black square of glass stared back, giving up nothing. Until that moment I’d never grasped the stale phrase “knotted stomach.” But I felt my fear sitting there, deep in the pit of my gut, dense and unyielding. Every second my eyes were off the screen caused a rise in my panic. Surreally, the TV seemed to contain the present threat, and the window itself—outside which someone could be lurking at that very minute—seemed fictitious. The screen reclaimed my absolute attention.

  Growing bolder, the perspective rose above the sill. Brazenly sweeping the interior through the window, it settled on a form slumbering beneath a blanket on the couch.

  As the camera pulled back, I heard the low rush of my heart shoving adrenaline through my veins.

  The image bounced along, moving parallel to the wall, toward the kitchen. A rapid swing to our rear door, autofocusing from the blur. My breath stopped.

  A hand gloved in latex reached out and twisted the knob. It turned. Despite Ariana’s reminders, I often forgot to relock that door after running trash out to the cans. A gentle push and the intruder was inside, next to our refrigerator.

  My eyes pulled frantically to the kitchen, back to the screen.

  The point of view floated farther into the kitchen, not hurried but not cautious either. Crossing the threshold to the family room, it angled toward the couch, the couch on which I lay sleeping, the couch where I now sat, stupidly willing myself not to look over my left shoulder for a camera on its way, grasped by a gloved hand.

  I couldn’t move my eyes from the screen. The angle dipped. The intruder was standing over me. I slept on. My cheek was white. My eyelids flickered. I stirred, rolled over, curling an edge of blanket around a fist. The camcorder zoomed in. Closer. Closer. A blur of REM-shifting eyelid. Closer still, until the flesh was no longer distinguishable, until all bearings were lost, until only the twitching remained, as detached as lines of static across the bleached screen.

  Then darkness.

  My hand was curled in the blanket, just as in the clip. I swiped a palm across the back of my neck, wiped the sweat on my jeans, leaving a dark smudge.

  I ran upstairs, heedless of waking Ariana, and pushed open the door of the darkened master bedroom. She was there asleep, oblivious. Safe. Her mouth was slightly open, and her hair fell forward over her eyes. Relieved, I felt the rush of adrenaline drain from me, and I sagged against the doorway. On the TV, Clair Huxtable was riding Theo about his schoolwork. I had an urge to go over and wake Ari, just to check, but I contented myself with the rise and fall of her bare shoulders. The new bed, an oak sleigh with hand-carved scrolls, looked solid. Protective, even. She’d replaced our old bed last month. The mattress, too. I hadn’t slept on either.

  I stepped back into the hall, eased the door closed, and put my shoulders to the wall, exhaling hard. It made no sense that she’d have been harmed, of course; the footage was shot last night at the latest, and I’d seen Ariana less than an hour ago. But rationality was about as helpful right now as it had been when I’d braved my first post-Psycho shower.

  I went back downstairs. To the couch where the intruder had pointedly shown me sleeping apart from my wife. The foldout couch that I’d steadfastly refused to fold out for fear that would add a level of permanency to the current arrangement. In the clip, the blanket covered whichever boxers I’d been sleeping in, so more laundry forensics wouldn’t help me deduce when it had been shot. Bracing myself, I picked up the remote and clicked “play” again. Seeing that grainy approach to the house sent another jolt through my system. I tried to detach myself and watch closely. No gauging how recently the lawn had been mowed. No fresh scratches on the back door. The kitchen—no plates in the sink showing the remains of a meal. Trash! I punched “pause” and studied the full can. Empty cereal box. A crinkly ball of foil stuck in the mouth of a yogurt cup.

  I rushed into the kitchen. The trash in the can matched the screen snapshot precisely, in content and composition. Nothing on top of the cereal box or yogurt cup. Today was Tuesday—Ariana had worked late as usual and probably ordered takeout to the showroom, so she’d added no new trash since yesterday. I checked the coffeemaker, and sure enough the soggy filter from this morning was still parked inside.

  The footage of me sleeping had been shot last night. So that clip, on the third DVD, had been shot before the second clip, which in turn showed me checking out the location of the first. Pretty good planning. I almost had to admire the care being taken.

  I checked the back door. Locked. Ariana must’ve caught it this morning. I wouldn’t require any more reminders to throw the dead bolt. Handling the DVD, as before, with a tissue, I snapped it into a spare case.

  Julianne’s nicotine-fueled commentary in the faculty lounge took on fresh significance. Clearly this had gone beyond harassment. Three DVDs like this in under eighteen hours constituted a threat, and that scared me. And pissed me off. It seemed certain that, as Marcello has intoned in innumerable trailers, this was only the beginning. I would have to tell Ariana now, that was certain; for all its shortcomings, our marriage had a full-disclosure policy. But first I wanted to cross Don, the obvious red herring, off the list.

  I headed out, turned left at the sidewalk. The night was brisk, the clean air and bizarre mission making me light-headed. Just a neighborly visit.

  A bus rattled by, unnervingly close, a behemoth on creaky joints. It carried a coming-this-summer ad for They’re Watching: a figure in a raincoat, made blurry by Manhattan rain, descending into the subway. He toted a briefcase, his shadowy face peering over his shoulder with a furtive panic that implied paranoia. As the bus passed, I skipped back to the curb, dodging a slapstick obituary.

  The chimes sounded unusually loud inside the Millers’ foyer. Charged from fear, the night air, my proximity to their house, I shifted from foot to foot, composing myself. An interior light clicked on. A shuffling, some grumbling, and then Martinique at the front door. Don’s long-suffering, beautiful wife, with her sad eyes and contrived L.A. name. The flesh at the backs of her arms was feathered, loose from the sixty pounds she’d dropped. Her waist now looked like you could fit a napkin ring around it. Stretch marks formed half-moons emanating from her belly button, the lines of a cartoon explosion. They were faded, microdermabraded into submission, and looked soft and feminine. Even roused, she looked impeccable—her hair shiny and brushed, satin pajama bottoms matching her burgundy halter camisole. She was aggressively competent—ethnically appropriate holiday cards, morning thank-you calls after our infrequent dinner parties, twigs and raffia adorning neatly wrapped birthday presents.

  “Patrick,” she said, casting a wary glance over her shoulder, “I hope you’re not going to do anything you’ll regret.” She clipped some of her words, only barely, but enough to broadcast that she was Central American instead of Persian.

  “No. Sorry to wake you. I just stopped by to ask Don something.”

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea. Especially right now. He’s wiped. Flew back this morning.”

  “From where?”

  “Des Moines. Work. I think, anyway.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  She frowned. “Just two nights. Why—did she take a trip, too?”

  “No, no,” I said, trying to hide my impatience.

  “Someone lies once, you know. How am I supposed to believe he went to Iowa?” She was standing quite close. I felt her breath on my face. It smelled faintly of mint toothpaste. It seemed odd to be close enough to a woman to breathe her breath, and it brought home how long Ariana and I had been keeping our distance from each other. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she said. “They’ll never understand. We were the victims here.”

  I balked at the word “victims” but didn’t say anything. I was trying to figure out a good segue into asking for Don again.

  “I’m sorry, Patrick. I wish we all didn’t have to hate each
other now.” She spread her arms, her perfect nails flaring. We embraced. She smelled divine—faded perfume, feminine soap, sweat mixed with lotion. Hugging a woman, really hugging her, brought back a flood of sensations—not quite memories, but impressions. Impressions of my wife, of another time. Martinique’s muscles were tighter than Ariana’s, more compact. I patted her back and let go, but she clutched me another moment. She was trying to hide her face.

  I pulled away. She wiped her nose, looked around self-consciously. “When Don and I got married, I was beautiful.”

  “Martinique. You are beautiful.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  I knew from experience there was no winning this battle with her. My fingers drummed involuntarily against my forearm.

  “You guys all think because you only value us for what we look like, that’s what we value in ourselves. It’s kind of pathetic how often you’re right.” She shook her head, hooked a wisp of hair back over an ear. “I gained so much weight after we got married. It’s hard for me. My mom’s huge, and my sister . . .” She drew her fingertips along her lids to remove smeared eyeliner. “And Don lost interest in me. He lost his regard for me. And now I understand. Once it’s lost, it’s lost.”

  “Is that true?”

  She looked at me anxiously. “You don’t think so?”

  “I hope not.”

  And then, abruptly, he was there at her shoulder, nervously cinching his bathrobe. His bare chest was wide and sported a salt-and-pepper scattering of hair. The muscles of my lower back tightened instinctively, pulling me into a harder defensive posture. The air took on a different charge.

  “Martinique,” he said firmly, and she withdrew, padding down the hall, casting a glance at me over her shoulder. He waited for the bedroom door to close, and then his big, handsome head bobbed on his thick neck, his eyes darting to my hands. He looked as nervous as I felt, but he wasn’t letting on. “What do you want, Patrick?”

  “Sorry to wake you. I know you’re tired from your trip.” I studied him, looking for some poker tell that he hadn’t really been out of town but instead tiptoeing around rooftops with camcorders like a perved-out Santa Claus. “Someone’s been surveilling our house. Have you seen anything?”

  “As in watching you?” He looked genuinely confused. “How do you know?”

  I held up the unmarked DVD. “They sent this. And the POV on it seems to be from your roof. Have you had any workers at the house or anything?”

  “Patrick, you’re starting to concern me.” He put a thick hand on the door, ready to slam if I lunged.

  “Let’s skip past this part,” I said. “We both know this script. You push the buttons and I’m supposed to respond.”

  “I’m not pushing any buttons, but it sure seems like you’re responding.” He started to swing the door closed.

  I put my hand out, stopped it. Gently.

  I said, “Look, I’m not storming over here making threats. I’m not calling the cops. I just want to ask you, calmly—”

  “The cops now? I don’t know what you’re trying to set up here, Patrick, but I’m not going for it. I’m gonna shut the door now.”

  I removed my hand. Not taking his eyes from mine, he slowly closed the door. I heard the dead bolt clunk, the chain fuss into the catch.

  I walked back home. Locked the front door behind me.

  Ariana was sitting on the couch. Those dark eyes lifted, looking straight at me. And then she raised her hand, holding two of the DVDs. “What the hell is this? Are you paying someone to watch our house? To keep an eye on me? Or is this Martinique’s doing? She spies on me while you spy on Don? Not even getting into how fucking invasive this is, I thought we were beyond this.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Those recordings are of me—”

  “They’re surveillance. So a few clips caught you. How many others are there? What have they been watching me do?”

  “I have no idea who’s behind those videos.”

  I took a quick step forward, and she recoiled in fear. I froze. She’d never flinched from me before, not ever. We stood in the still house for a moment, both of us horrified by her reaction.

  She brushed a lock off her forehead and flattened her hand against the air, willing us both to calm down, slow down. “You’re telling me you’re not part of this.”

  “No. No. Of course not.”

  She looked away, took a deep breath. “Patrick, you’re starting to scare me here. You’ve been like a coiled spring. And now it’s as if you’ve gone off the deep end. You’re snooping by their fence, up on our roof spying on them, now you go storming over there. I didn’t know what to do. I thought this whole thing was going to blow up on their porch. Don has all those hunting rifles. This is gonna get you killed, and then I’m gonna have to feel guilty.”

  “Get me killed?”

  “I thought Don was going to shoot you.” She gave a dark little cry, half anger, half relief. “And if anyone’s gonna shoot you right now, it should be me.”

  I held up the third DVD. “You need to see this one.”

  Still using the tissue to preserve any prints, I slotted it in, and the blue screen quickly gave way to the shaky view of the back of our house. As the clip ran, Ariana pulled her legs under her, distressed, and pressed a cushion across her thighs. She gasped when the latex glove materialized to grip our doorknob. For the first time, I noted the black sweatshirt covering the brief flash of the intruder’s wrist.

  The footage ended, and Ariana said hoarsely, “Why didn’t you tell me about this? Why didn’t you go to the cops?”

  “I didn’t want to scare you.” I held up a hand. “I know. But I just found this one tonight. On our roof. I was coming to tell you, right now. But I wanted to rule Don out first, for obvious reasons.”

  She said firmly, “There’s no way this is Don.”

  “I agree. But still, the cops aren’t going to do any good.”

  “What do you mean? Someone came inside our house.”

  “It’s creepy, but it’s not proof of a crime. They’ll say they don’t have a way to know who did it. They’ll say it could’ve been you.”

  “Me? Patrick—”

  “They won’t be able to do anything. ‘Contact us again if there’s further trouble. Blah, blah, blah.’ ”

  The doorbell rang. She froze. “Shit, oh, shit,” she said. “You might not want to answer that.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I opened the door, revealing a vast, pyramidal woman with oval, plastic-frame glasses. Her hair, a touch puffy, was center-parted and feathered. The pooch under her belt said she was a mother, and she had the brisk, no-nonsense demeanor to back it up.

  “I’m Detective Sally Richards. This is Detective Valentine. He’ll give you his first name if he’s feeling social.”

  A slender black man stepped out from behind her. His hair was about two inches deep all around—no shape, no notched part, just a uniform rise of dense black curls. His mouth twitched, his mustache undulating. Like her, he wore slacks, a button-up, and a blazer.

  Behind me, Ariana said faintly, “Detectives? I assumed they’d just send a couple patrolmen.”

  “Bel Air service.” Richards hoisted her belt, weighed down with a hip-holstered Glock and a flashlight. “The surveillance tape sounded bizarre, so Dispatch kicked it to us. Plus, we’re bored. West L.A. station. There’s only so much Starbucks you can drink. Even the doughnuts aren’t doughnuts. They’re gourmet cupcakes.”

  Valentine blinked twice, displeased.

  Ariana had called them to protect me from Don’s guns, but now that they were here, they required an explanation of some sort. I ushered them in. We sat at the dining table like it was some sort of social visit. Richards’s gaze caught on my bruised knuckles. I dropped my hand quickly into my lap.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Ariana asked.

  Valentine shook his head, but Richards smiled brightly. “I would love something to drink. Glass of water. Wit
h a spoon.”

  Ariana arched an eyebrow but brought both over. Richards plucked three Sweet’N Lows from her inside lapel pocket and shook the pink packets down. She tore off the ends, dumped the sweetener in, and stirred. “Don’t ask. It’s a fucking diet so I can fit into a boat tarp by beach season. Now, what’s going on here?”

  I ran through it all for them, Richards quietly noting Ariana’s surprise at some of the revelations. Halfway through, Valentine got up and stood at the kitchen window, staring out despite the fact that the blinds were closed. After I finished, Richards knocked the table twice and said, “Let’s take a look at these DVDs, then.”

  I fed in the first disc, Richards and Valentine exchanging a glance over my tissue-handling of the evidence. We stood before the flat-screen, all four of us, arms crossed, scouts watching batting practice. After the last one finished, Richards said, “Well, well.”

  Back to the dining table. She sat, and Ariana and I followed suit. Valentine stayed in the family room, poking through the cabinets. Ariana glanced over her shoulder at him a few times, nervously. I realized, with approval, that Richards had taken a chair on the far side so Ariana and I would wind up sitting with our backs to her partner as he snooped.

  Richards smoothed her hands across the lacquered surface. “This one of your designs?”

  Ariana said, “How did you . . . ?”

  “Stacks of trade mags on the table by the front door. Sketch pad on the stairs, there. Charcoal smear on your left sleeve. Lefty—creative. And your hands”—Richards reached across the table, took Ariana by the wrists, like a fortune-teller—“rougher than suburban. These hands work with abrasives, I’d guess. So: a furniture designer.”

  Ariana withdrew her hands.

  Valentine was behind us. “You keep a house key outside somewhere? Hidden?”