Instrument of the Devil

by Debbie Burke

  Skipper grinned back, swaying. “She got any girlfriends?”

  Kahlil waved him off. “If she did, I’d keep them for myself.”

  “Asshole.” Still smiling, the drunken man turned over the engine, revved it, and sped across the reservoir.

  After parking Skipper’s truck, Kahlil returned to the picnic table, where he again went to work with the disposable cell, logging into the man’s profile. Skipper was behind on his child support and his divorce had stalled, not finalized because he owed his attorney. Yet he kept a separate account, one his wife knew nothing about, that automatically made his boat payments and probably kept his cooler stocked with Budweiser. Kahlil transferred $9,800 into that account.

  Of the two dozen targets Kahlil had selected for the mission, only Tawny questioned the bounty from an unknown benefactor. Quite remarkable. All the rest simply accepted their good fortune as well-deserved luck. When Kahlil counted on greed, people rarely disappointed him.

  One final task left to do on the throwaway phone. He texted a single word: Withdraw.

  He removed the battery from the phone. Scanning the water and shoreline, he saw no one close enough to observe him fling the phone far into the reservoir. It landed with a faint splash. Fifty feet farther down the shore, he threw the battery in as well.

  He hiked back up to the road that ran across the top of the dam, pausing for a moment to gaze into the rippling water of the reservoir. Dams always brought to mind his father, who had believed the future lay in hydroelectric power. Not just from rivers but by harnessing ocean waves. A dreamer, a naïve idealist who believed problems could be solved. And that those in power wanted to solve them.

  Poor Father.

  Kahlil shook off the flash of melancholy before descending into the bowels of the dam.

  Chapter 4 – Being Neighborly

  Tawny double-locked her front door and sank on the brown velour living room couch, head in her hands. Despite the doubt swimming in her mind, she knew deep in her core that she still grasped reality. She might zone out, she might misplace things, but she had not gone around the bend.

  The imposter was a real person who’d handed over real cash.

  Why did a stranger who looked like her put money in her account? Had the second large deposit been made the same way?

  Tawny wished she’d had the presence of mind to ask to see video for the second transaction but she’d been too rattled. She hated herself for freezing, helpless and useless. Confrontations terrified her. Always before, Dwight had been the point man, taking the lead, going on the attack in disputes, while she lagged back, making excuses to herself that she played a supporting role. In reality, she was a coward, hiding behind his strength.

  She should have stood her ground but she’d been desperate to escape the suspicious glare of bank employees and the armed guard. Their knowing eyes condemned her. Someone wanted to make her appear to be a criminal or at least the perpetrator of questionable activities. Why?

  Acid churned in her gut. She felt guilty but for what? Nothing she’d done was illegal.

  Except maybe withdrawing the cash now locked in Dwight’s gun safe.

  Why had she followed Virgie’s advice? It felt wrong but she’d trusted her friend’s judgment above her own. She shouldn’t have.

  If the bank hadn’t already filed a “suspicious activity report,” surely they would now. Federal officers might even have Tawny under surveillance. During the drive home, she’d spotted a dark blue sedan that might be following her.

  Tawny realized the manager must have alerted the armed guard when he reached under the desk, probably hitting a silent alarm. Hyslop also recognized Tawny without her identifying herself. From the moment she’d entered the lobby, she sensed that every employee in the bank knew exactly who she was and trained eyes on her, as if waiting for her to rob the place.

  Where had that rapt attention been when she begged them over and over to look into her problem? They couldn’t care less. She’d been invisible and inconsequential when she was simply a customer with a problem. Now they treated her like Pablo Escobar.

  Fists clenched, she pounded the couch cushions. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” She gripped a throw pillow, hugging it to her chest. “Dwight, I need you.”

  Except Dwight was gone.

  Tawny was alone.

  Twisting her wedding ring, she pulled it hard against her swollen knuckle. The pain felt reassuringly real in this unreal situation.

  She crossed the living room to the pass-through window into the kitchen where the answering machine sat. She pushed the playback button to listen once again to the precious message she had saved for a year.

  From out of the past, Dwight’s voice, hoarse from chemo and radiation, spoke to her, “Hey, love, I’m done with the infusion. If you come pick me up, I might be persuaded to take you out for an ice cream cone.”

  Swallowing a lump, Tawny remembered that day. By the time she’d arrived at the hospital, he was too sick for ice cream. But she’d saved the message, knowing soon this would be the only record she had of his voice.

  She pulled on her braid. “Dwight, what am I going to do?” She tried to think of someone to call for help. The Slocums, her ex-banker neighbors? Sheryl, definitely no, Phil, maybe. But his parting expression had revealed doubt.

  Virgie? A good friend, an educated doctor, but her well-meaning advice had already put Tawny in a worse situation.

  Her children? Neal didn’t answer her texts. Who knew where he might be, an unknown foreign base, out of touch, but hopefully—please God—alive and healthy. Emma? Living in a van, moving from state to state, with a cell phone that sometimes worked, sometimes not, depending if she had enough money to buy more minutes. A good heart but the judgment of a cantaloupe.

  Dwight’s old Army buddies? Only a few survived, most dead from Agent Orange, or alcohol, drugs, and suicides borne out of their tours in Vietnam. The remaining men would fly across the country at the slightest hint of need from a fellow veteran. All had come to say goodbye during Dwight’s final week of life. Several might help her but she felt reluctant to ask because they had given so much already.

  She yearned to talk to the Roths, dear old friends who’d treated her like a daughter since she was a girl. They’d do anything for her. Except they’d been killed in a terror bombing during their vacation to Israel more than a year before Dwight died.

  Other friends, couples they used to share dinners with and take trips together, had dropped off, one by one, during Dwight’s long ordeal of declining health. When Tawny occasionally ran into them after his death, the wives linked arms through their husbands’ as if to warn her away. As if she were on the prowl. What a laugh.

  Phil Slocum’s words came back to her. Suspicious Activity Report.

  She needed to clear suspicion from her name. Who should she ask for help? The FBI? An accountant? A lawyer? Where did you look in the yellow pages to prevent a bank from turning you in for crime you didn’t commit?

  If she went to the cops, they wouldn’t believe her, not once they saw the bank’s video. No, she needed a lawyer.

  Kit Albritton might know how to untangle the mess. He’d written their wills and handled Dwight’s probate. As a high school boy, Kit had worked in their diesel repair shop to earn college money. Now, she called his law office but he was already gone for the weekend. She left a message.

  Paranoia clutched Tawny’s throat. Each breath felt like it might be her last. In the bedroom, she unlocked the safe. The paper sack of cash sat there like an accusation. She should turn it in. Would that make her look less guilty? Or more?

  Dammit! She had no reason to feel guilty. She was an innocent victim being set up for unknown reasons.

  The woman in the video clearly intended to impersonate Tawny, down to the same sunglasses and the braid falling over her shoulder. She’d forged a signature well enough to convince Tawny. Who was she?

  She slammed the safe door and spun the dial. Virgie was rig
ht. Better to be in trouble with money than without it. If the mess ever got straightened out, she’d give the cash back. Now, it served as her ace in the hole.

  She hoped.

  The phone trilled in her pocket. Caller ID read Kahlil, no doubt calling about the dinner date he’d mentioned earlier. Not now. She didn’t feel like either food or company and swiped his call off to voicemail.

  To escape the turmoil swirling in her brain, she decided to take a walk. Fresh air and exercise always cleared her mind, and usually helped her figure out a solution. But she had never before encountered such a complicated problem. She needed answers but didn’t even know what questions to ask.

  After changing into sneakers, she locked the door and walked the wide avenues, canopied by red maple and mountain ash. On the parkway, a few massive stumps remained from grand old trees cut down by Dutch elm disease. Roots had lifted the sidewalks. She picked past broken slabs of concrete, small hazards compared to the problem she now pondered.

  With the school day over, children played in front yards, pumped in tree swings, and bounced basketballs in the alley. Her neighborhood was a welcome throwback to a calmer era. When families went on vacation, neighbors fed each other’s dogs and watered each other’s houseplants. Many a kid had knocked on her door, needing a Band Aid and a hug.

  Tawny loved the security of her surroundings, where she strolled regularly without a thought to safety. Peacefulness eased her troubled mind now. This was normal, where neighbors waved and no one suspected her of unlawful transactions.

  No one except maybe the suspicious ex-bankers, the Slocums.

  She walked the opposite direction from their house, avoiding a possible encounter. Rounding the corner, Tawny approached the Roths’ old home. The tragedy of their violent deaths had left the narrow clapboard cottage vacant and mournful. A “For Sale” sign planted in the front yard made Tawny think of a marker on a grave. Her heart ached when she remembered the dear old couple who had shared many evenings of cribbage with her and Dwight over glasses of tea.

  Except now the house looked lived in, the single garage door partly raised, revealing the trunk of a silver sports car. And a light shone from the kitchen window where a figure moved behind the mini-blinds. Tawny paused, leaning against a horse chestnut tree in the parkway, curious about the new occupant.

  A covered breezeway connected the kitchen to the garage. She heard a door bang then a dark man appeared.

  Kahlil? Here in her neighborhood?

  Tawny recalled the call from him that she’d ignored. Stepping behind the tree and out of sight, she checked Lucifer. A blue light blinked. She couldn’t remember if that meant a new voicemail or it needed charging. Damn this complicated phone. Finally, she hit on the correct icon to retrieve messages.

  “Tawny,” Kahlil’s mellow voice said, “I hope I may take you to dinner this evening. Please call me when you can.”

  In passing conversation, he’d mentioned renting a place for the duration of his work project. Cautious of being a new widow living alone, she intentionally kept her address to herself. All their meetings had occurred in public places, the library, the coffee shop, the park.

  Could he really be living a block and a half away, in the home of her old friends? What a weird coincidence. But that’s how small towns were.

  An incoming text clicked. Tawny swiped the screen and read: R U all right? U seemed preoccupied this a.m. Dinner invitation still open. K.

  She sighed. It had been rude not to answer his earlier call but the bank business put her in a tailspin of worry and paranoia.

  A rumbling noise made her peek from behind the chestnut tree. Kahlil slid the garage door to full open. He backed the convertible into the driveway. Shutting down the engine, he got out and used a hose and a bucket of soapy water to wash the car. She watched the rhythmic roll and rotation of his muscular shoulders and biceps as he scrubbed. Even in a ratty tee shirt and jeans with holes in the knees, he looked dashing.

  As he wiped down the gleaming finish with meticulous strokes, Tawny felt touched by his effort. It was something Dwight used to do—wash the car before taking his “best girl” out on the town. Emma would scoff at a boy who made that effort but Dwight would have shared the suggestion with Neal. A sweet, old-fashioned gesture of respect to honor his date, a date Tawny now felt guilty about. Why hadn’t she responded to Kahlil’s messages?

  Embarrassed, hiding behind a tree, like a teenage airhead. Ridiculous. She was a mature woman. This man had been unfailingly kind and patient with her. Only her silly vanity because of the ten-year age difference kept her from saying yes. That and the irrational feeling she was somehow being unfaithful to Dwight.

  Stop being stupid. It’s only dinner.

  She shook out the tension in her shoulders and strode down the sidewalk toward Kahlil. “Hello!”

  He looked up from polishing the side mirror. A grin lit his face. “Hello! How did you find me?”

  She stopped a few feet away. “I wasn’t actually looking for you. Do you live here?”

  He hung the towel over the mirror and rubbed the rough shadow on his jawline. “Excuse my bad appearance. I need a shower and shave.” He waved at the house. “Yes, this is where I’m renting. It belonged to an older couple who passed away.”

  She nodded. “The Roths. They were friends of my husband and me.”

  “Excuse me, would you like to come in? It’s a bit messy, but…” He shrugged and smiled an apology. “Living alone, no one to impress.” He swept his arm toward the door. “Please, come in. I’ll make tea.”

  Tawny followed him through the breezeway and into the kitchen. The Roths’ furniture still remained in place, the round oak table and four chairs, same gingham cushions. She moved to the arched doorway leading to the living room, knowing what she’d find. The familiar pair of recliners faced the TV, flanked by a plaid couch.

  The hutch still held Ruth Roth’s collection of Disney figurines, lovingly collected over the years for her granddaughter. A granddaughter who, as the Roths’ sole heir, hadn’t even bothered to attend their memorial service.

  Last fall, Tawny recalled talking to the real estate agent as the man pounded the sign in the yard. He’d confided that the granddaughter only cared about whatever money she could pull out of the house and was pissed off it wasn’t selling, as if she were the only one inconvenienced by the collapse of the housing market.

  Sadness welled in Tawny’s chest. The Roths gone, Dwight gone, no more visits full of laughter and bantering accusations of cheating at cribbage. No more long-winded stories Solly loved to tell while Ruth heaved exaggerated sighs of impatience. Tawny imagined the echo of her voice, Solly, puh-leeze, we’ve heard this a hundred times already.

  Kahlil touched her shoulder from behind. She hadn’t heard him approach. He murmured, “Are you all right?”

  Tawny swallowed. “They were sweet people. I miss them.”

  “Had they been ill?”

  “No. Both were still sharp and active. He’d just retired. They went on a trip to the Holy Land. It was their dream. They lived in Israel years ago when they were students in a kibbutz. They wanted to go back one more time before they died.” Her jaw clenched. “A terrorist blew up the café where they were eating lunch. Killed fourteen people.” Bitterness pinched her.

  “How terrible.” Kahlil squeezed her shoulder.

  “Senseless tragedy.” Tawny faced him, eager to move away from the uncomfortable subject. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Are you superstitious or squeamish now about living in their house?”

  He shook his head, gazing at her with a sad smile. “Not at all. I can tell this home was a happy place for them.”

  “It was.” His perceptiveness touched her. What a sensitive, caring man. She found herself longing to sink in the depths of those beautiful, yet sorrowful, green eyes.

  The kettle whistled. He made tea while she leaned against the archway, watching him. He moved with easy grace as if he might be a good danc
er. How would it feel to twirl in his arms? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Stop these fantasies. You’re fifty years old.

  He brought her a mug and again rubbed the stubble on his face. “Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I will not be long.”

  She eased into Ruth’s recliner as Kahlil disappeared down the hallway leading to the bedrooms and bath. How like Dwight—didn’t want her to see him until after a shower and shave, immaculate in clean clothes. With cancer, that fastidiousness had fallen away and she knew how ashamed the odor of wasting and sickness had made him.

  While she sipped fragrant jasmine tea, she noticed the few changes Kahlil had brought to the house. An open laptop sat on Solly’s desk, the screensaver moving like ocean waves across the face. A card table had been set up to hold a combination printer/fax/scanner and a stack of external hard drives. The work area was orderly without normal desk litter. A battery backup as large as a file cabinet hummed on the floor, barely squeezed under the card table. Looked like enough capacity to run the entire neighborhood, if not the whole town.

  Other than the computer equipment, the interior appeared surprisingly unchanged, as if Kahlil treated the place like a motel room, setting up only what he needed, without personalizing it into a home. Understandable, since his work involved frequent travel from place to place. Did he have a permanent home? He’d mentioned many different universities and countries where he’d lived but all sounded temporary, not lasting.

  Must be a lonely life, she mused. No roots, connections, lasting relationships, all values that Tawny cherished. Yet both her children had chosen nomadic existences, Neal with the Army and Emma with her aimless wandering ways. Maybe Tawny’s emphasis on stability had stifled them, made them feel closed in and claustrophobic, instead of safe and wanted.

  Her life had eroded away from underneath her. The children gone, Dwight gone, the Roths gone. Remaining friends deserting her. Even the local bank where she now had to deal with indifferent, yet hostile employees.

  Only her neighborhood remained the same—safe, familiar, friendly. But without family and friends, a house wasn’t really a home, just four walls and a roof.