by Gregg Olsen
No cavities and an aquarium full of floaters. Who could ask for more?
Chapter Forty-three
The morning light filtered through the café curtains that Olivia Barton had made as her first sewing project with the machine Michael and the kids had given her that Christmas. She hadn’t liked the frilly selection at the Linen N Things that commanded most of the real estate in their neighborhood strip mall. She wanted simple and chic, not country saloon. She smiled at her handiwork and waited for Michael to notice them. She vowed she’d wait a week if she had to. Maybe two.
The smell of orange juice and frying bacon filled the air of the amber-painted walls of the kitchen. The children were still asleep, which was slightly unusual. Olivia didn’t mind. Michael had come in late on Friday, and the kids waited up to see their father. Their slumber meant that she’d have time alone with the man she loved.
But something seemed wrong.
Olivia looked at Michael with her dark brown eyes full of genuine concern as he stared at the screen of the small TV mounted under the white cabinets.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen.
A brunette helmet-headed reporter with a shrill delivery reported on the horrific murder of the girl at Beta Zeta House at the university in Dixon, Tennessee. Michael looked a little flushed. It was more than being tired from the long trip. He just didn’t look right. Out of sorts? Sick?
“…The crime scene was so grisly that FBI profilers tell me that the killer was driven by rage against the victim. This killing, they say, was personal.”
“Fine,” Michael said. He reached for his World’s Best Daddy coffee cup. “I’m fine.”
Olivia looked at the photo on the screen. It was a pretty girl, young, full of life. Under her photograph, the chyron lettering identified the victim: Sheraton Wilkes, dead at 20.
“Sad story. Such a waste,” Olivia said as she poured some creamer into the cup.
Michael looked down at his twin piles of hotel and restaurant receipts and took a swig of his black coffee. “Agreed.” He fidgeted with the receipts, as though he couldn’t find something important. He was really looking for a way out of the conversation. A graceful way out. One that wouldn’t cause worry.
“I’m not feeling so well, I guess,” he said. “Probably food poisoning from that seafood restaurant.”
Olivia felt his forehead. “You know you should never eat seafood if you can’t see the ocean from the dining room.”
He managed a brief smile. It was as fake as could be, but he hoped she didn’t see that. He loved her more than anything. A tear in his facade, and just maybe she’d see him for what he was.
“I know. I know,” he said, excusing himself for the downstairs powder room.
“Oh, baby,” she said, “I’m sorry you don’t feel well.”
“It’ll pass.”
With the door shut and locked, he turned on the fan and ran the sink tap at full force. He flushed the toilet. He did whatever he could to give him a second in which he could let out his anger and disappointment. He paced, but there was barely any room in there to move. He felt the walls move in and out, taunting him.
From the kitchen, Olivia heard the muffled noise and went in search of antacid.
He must be really, really sick, she thought, rifling through the shelf next to the sink that held ten kinds of children’s vitamins, cough medicine, and a few things for the adults of the house.
Michael braced his body by grabbing on to the opposite sides of the pedestal sink. He faced the mirror straight on. His eyes were dilated in the dim lighting of the windowless powder room. His mouth was tight, a knothole of anger. He wanted nothing more than to yell out to the world that he was the stupidest man on the planet. A fool. An idiot. All that everyone had told him about himself was true. He had fooled Olivia, but for how long? When would she know what he was? What fueled him? What he’d done to survive?
What twisted lengths he’d gone to to calm himself?
He grabbed a hand towel and shoved it into his mouth, nearly gagging. Sweat poured from his temples. He reached over and flushed the toilet again; the noise of the rushing water filled the small space. At least he hoped so. He wanted to scream, but he let out a muffled yelp.
Sheraton Wilkes.
Jesus, he was the fool they’d all said he was. The bed wetter. The kid no one wanted. The kid who was dumped off at Disneyland by a mother who surely cared more about herself than her children.
Sheraton Wilkes.
He’d killed the wrong girl. He’d never even heard of her. What was she doing there, at that time? Sheraton Wilkes wasn’t on his list.
Jenna Kenyon was.
He splashed water on his face and then let out a couple of phony coughs.
Olivia stood outside the door. The knob turned a little, but he’d locked it. “Honey, you OK?”
“Be out in a minute.” He flushed the toilet for the third time and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked older than his years. He was tired. Angry at the world. “I’m not going to screw up again. I can do this,” he said in a soft, but angry whisper. “I can do this.”
“Honey?”
“Just a minute, Olivia!” He snapped at her, and wished he hadn’t. She wasn’t the problem. She was never the problem.
He swung open the door, ready to face the world and plan what he had to do.
“Here you go,” Olivia said, handing him a fizzing glass of water. She looked worried, not scared. For that, he was grateful.
He looked at the glass questioningly.
“Alka-Seltzer,” she said.
“I hate that stuff. You know that.”
“It’s not like it’ll kill you.”
Michael smiled at his wife. If killing were only so easy. Killing, he knew, was sometimes very difficult and, frequently, very disappointing work.
“Let’s go wake up the kids,” he said. “I need some hugs.”
Chapter Forty-four
The offices of Human Solutions, Inc., were on the fifth floor of a mirrored glass building in Santa Ana, California, two blocks west of the courthouse. It was a nondescript location with a trio of dying date palms and clumps of tiger lilies that the garden service should have divided or yanked two seasons ago. A vendor selling sliced melons and churros worked the outer edges of the parking lot. Other than shabby gardening practices, it was as nondescript as any shiny building off any interstate.
Inside, the HSI offices were mauve-and-taupe cubicles with laminate counters and gooseneck lamps. It had a distinct nineties milieu, but that had more to do with the company’s frugal nature than the fact that the offices had once been used as the headquarters for a diet center company that went belly-up.
Michael Barton’s office was hard-walled with a door. On one wall, he had a framed poster given to him by his coworkers. It depicted four men silhouetted against a fading sunset with the words: Teamwork: Together We Achieve More. He found the rah-rah sentiment exceedingly hokey. He didn’t think he needed anyone to do anything. Despite all odds, he’d achieved quite a lot, thank you. Despite his compulsions, he had made a life. A picture of Olivia taken on their honeymoon in Hawaii and another of his children sat on his desk. The surface of his desk was in order. All papers were placed perfectly squared up with the edge of the desk. His office phone gleamed from having a daily dusting. His laptop’s docking station was as pristine as it was the day it was installed.
Everything about the space suggested a man in control.
The company CEO, a pudgy man with black hair that he VO-5’d to such a degree it dripped, knew that Michael Barton was among his most brilliant consultants. He’d come up through the ranks, first as a programmer, then an engineer. HSI tapped the kid on the shoulder and made him into what he was by paying for his education at Cal Polytechnic. There were things about him that the office staff both admired and found amusing. On the days that he came into the office, he walked in at 8:
30 on the dot. It was uncanny. Never a minute earlier, or a second later.
One of the temps from Kelly Services found out why. One day, she saw Michael in the parking lot looking at his wristwatch like a swimming coach with a stopwatch. He didn’t move until the second hand told him just when. Once he got the go-ahead, he marched right for the front door, black briefcase at his side, can of Diet Coke or cup of coffee (“caffeine du jour” he liked to call it) in his hand.
No stopping to say hi. No tip of the hat or acknowledgment to a friendly face. Just a beeline through the door and up the staircase. Never, ever, did he take the elevator.
Michael was rigid in other ways, too. He seldom took a lunch break, but instead took a two-mile run down the boulevard and then back to the basement of the building for a shower. He’d return to his office right at 1 P.M., again on the dot, smelling of Irish Spring soap.
Only one time did he deviate from that routine. He came back a half hour late with a big scratch across his cheek.
“I fell down,” he said, scooting into his office and shutting the door. He stayed put that day until after everyone else had gone.
The next day, when he returned to work, the sharp-eyed Kelly temp thought she noticed something strange on his face.
“I think Mr. Barton is wearing makeup,” she said to an office friend when they were getting Doritos and Diet Cokes. “It looks like he tried to cover up that scratch from yesterday.”
The other woman nodded. It did, indeed, appear that way.
“At least it isn’t eyeliner. That would make me worry.”
They laughed, fished for their change from the slot of the pop machine, and went back to their desks.
Business partners—“never call a customer a customer”—liked Michael Barton for all the reasons that made him dependable. The IT industry had been populated with kids, goofballs and flakes, and a young man who knew what it meant to be where he was supposed to be and do what he said he’d do was refreshing.
In time, Michael Barton became Human Solutions’ most sought-after consultant. His business card read: SENIOR CONSULTANT. The demand led to freedoms and perks that eluded other troubleshooters in the office. He was able to work at home one or two days a week. He was able to pick and choose which business partners he wanted to call on.
When he told his boss that he was heading to Nashville to assist a restaurant chain that was having problems with their database, no one stopped him. No one knew that the client hadn’t called for support—that it was Michael who called them.
“I’m going to be in town anyway, and I thought I’d stop by,” he said. “Just a friendly see how y’all are doing, OK?”
The business partner saw no harm.
His boss saw no need to query him. The South was booming, after all.
“Have a great trip,” he said. “We’re making a killing over there and we have you and your good work to thank for that. Keep it up.”
Michael grinned. It was just too funny a comment not to flip it back at his oily-headed boss.
“Oh, I intend to. I really do.”
Olivia was in the Barton’s home office printing copies of the flyer she was going to post in the neighborhood when she heard her husband activate the automatic garage door opener and pull his car inside. Michael had been gone overnight to a trade show in Portland. With him home, things could get back to normal. She smiled when she heard the car door close and the garage door rumble back shut.
The drama of their missing cat had come to a head.
“Daddy’s home!” she called out to Danny and Carla, who were sitting in front of the TV, enthralled by a reality show that they probably were too young to watch. But Olivia hadn’t wanted to fight that battle with her husband away on business.
The laser printer lurched into action and after a quick glance, Olivia determined that the toner cartridge would probably hold up for the ten copies she needed.
LOST CAT
His name is Simon and he’s very friendly…
and very missed by two small children.
Please call if you see him.
She met Michael by the door that led from the kitchen to the interior of the garage.
“Hi, baby,” she said, setting the sample flyer on the kitchen table.
“Hi yourself, beautiful,” he said, embracing her and they kissed. “Missed you tons.”
“Me, too. Good trip?”
“Not too bad. Fixed the problems, and upsold some, but, you know, I always wish I could do better.” His eyes lit on the flyer.
“I’ll get the kids a dog,” he said.
“We’re not giving up on Simon. You know, I’m no quitter.”
“Yeah, I know. But I think a coyote got Simon. Saw one by the garbage can the other day. A dog would have a better shot at survival around here.”
A second later, Danny and Carla came running into the kitchen.
“Daddy’s home!”
Michael scooped up his children one at a time and kissed each on the tops of their heads.
“Hey, I think I have a little something for you two in the car.”
“What is it?” Danny asked. Having his father come home from a business trip all but guaranteed a surprise of some kind. Sometimes it was just a little token, picked up at the airport gift shop, other times it was the item that Santa had forgot to bring.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise,” he said, “if I told you.”
While the children squirmed in anticipation and Olivia smiled at their excitment, Michael disappeared into garage.
“Shit,” he thought, looking over at the workbench vise where he’d crushed Simon’s head with a final twist. Killing the cat, torturing the cat, had brought a kind of relief. It was like he was a kid who’d gotten the right dosage of Ritalin and was able to focus clearly. It brought a rush, too. But not now. Not when he saw the faces of his wife and children. They missed the cat. They wanted the cat to come back home. They didn’t know, and he knew they couldn’t understand anyone’s compulsion to crush the family pet’s skull.
Maybe no one could.
Maybe there was no one else in the world who could understand him.
The only one who might really understand what had made him who he was had been taken away. She was so young, but she was there. She’d seen it happen. She alone understood what had transpired. But she’d been taken away. The day after his thirteenth birthday, Michael was alone for good. Sarah, almost five, was selected by a foster couple as a “transitional foster daughter” and was moved to Riverside, east of Los Angeles. She was in the queue for full-time adoption by another couple.
They told me they wouldn’t split us up, he thought, remembering. She’s my blood.
Only one time in their married lives had Olivia seen her husband fall apart in a manner that suggested he might have residual problems from a very difficult childhood. It happened when Danny was just three. Olivia and Michael were in bed, having drifted off to a sound sleep after passionate lovemaking that had Olivia forgetting that she was anything other than a lover to a wonderful man. No wife. No mother. No chief cook and bottle washer. As she lay next to her husband, she counted her blessings. Moonlight scattered across the walls in crisp slits from the miniblinds that she’d twisted only partially shut. The blissful moment was shattered by the sound of her son’s voice.
“Mamma?” It was Danny’s little voice, as he entered his parents’ bedroom.
Olivia awoke and reached for her robe. “What is it?”
“I made an accident.” Danny started to cry, waking Michael.
“What is it?”
“He wet the bed. I’ll take care of it.”
Michael sat up like a shot. “What happened?”
“He wet the bed. Sleep.”
“What about his Pull-Ups?”
“I thought we’d try big-boy underwear tonight.”
“He’s not ready! And now he’s wet the goddamn bed. Jesus! Olivia! How stupid could you be?”
“Honey—”
Michael, still nude, bolted out of bed and chased after his son. His lean body was a contorted mass of muscles and anger. Sweat ran from his temples.
Danny’s cries turned into screams.
“What are you doing?”
“I will not,” he said. “I will not have a boy that wets the bed. You understand? I don’t care if he wears diapers until he’s ten.”
His face was red and his eyes were bulging. Olivia was stunned. His rage was way off the charts. Every little boy makes a mistake or two.
“Calm down,” she said, “You’re scaring our son!”
Michael gulped for air. “He doesn’t know what fear is.”
Olivia scooped up Danny and took the crying three-year-old into the master bedroom. “Find another place to sleep tonight.” She shut the door.
“I will not have it,” Michael said. “I will not.”
The next morning, Olivia could barely look at her husband. He apologized for what he’d said and done, but no matter what the underlying reason, there was no excuse.
He’d only wet the bed. He’s just a little boy.
Most men hate the idea of changing a diaper. Some consider it “woman’s work” or just flat-out avoid it because they’re lazy and don’t like the idea of foul-smelling, soiled diapers or even the perfumed baby wipes that are supposed to make the task more tolerable. But for Michael Barton, avoiding changing Danny’s diaper was about self-preservation. He had no idea what, if anything, he’d do when faced with a tiny penis and a helpless child. He worried that whatever had been done to him, even before Mr. Hansen, had happened when he was so small.
So helpless.
So without the ability to comprehend.
“I just can’t do it,” he told Olivia when they first brought Danny home. “I can feed him. I can burp him. Just can’t see myself changing him. Don’t have the stomach for it, babe. Sorry.”
