Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  I swallow hard and search the produce section. There are people everywhere. I push my cart forward and move away. I could yell out for help. I almost do.

  But just as soon as I get the courage, Jack Mooney is gone, disappearing into the sea of people just as easily as he’d manifested himself at my side.

  Instinct tells me I should leave my cart, call Greg, call the police, run out of that store. But for what? What am I going to say? That Jack Mooney hit some fruit against the side of the display? As rattled as I am, even I’m aware how ridiculous this sounds. No one is going to take me seriously.

  I rush to grab the rest of the items on my list, while constantly looking over my shoulder. I think about Greg and what he’ll say, and I decide to speak to the manager of the store. I’ll explain to him what happened. Surely destroying merchandise is a problem. Surely their security footage will prove my story. This way, the police will get involved. It will prove that Jack Mooney is following me, and that he is unstable.

  The manager, a middle-aged man who looks like he hasn’t slept in days, regards me with disdain, as though I have taken him away from a very important task. As I explain the situation, his face remains impassable, but he lets me speak, and he does not interrupt. Once I’ve gotten the story out, he shakes his head. Because of privacy laws, only members of law enforcement can request security footage, and even then they need a subpoena. Damaged apples, he assures me, are not worth the time it would take him to do the paperwork. As he explains it, I realize how idiotic the conversation sounds. Like a proper “Karen,” as they’re calling it these days. The conversation wastes nearly twenty minutes I don’t have, not to mention some of my frozen items have thawed.

  As I check out, I text Greg about the situation. The man scanning my groceries surprises me when he clears his throat. Then he says, “You shouldn’t let your children play alone in the park. Unsupervised. It’s dangerous.”

  When I glance up from my phone, my neighbor, Mrs. Crump’s son, is staring back at me. I hadn’t recalled him working here, but then it’s possible I’ve never paid that much attention.

  “You saw them?” I ask. “When?”

  He sort of shrugs and keeps scanning my items. For a moment, I can’t figure out whether he saw them or he’s speaking hypothetically. His voice is very matter of fact, almost robotic. He doesn’t really look me in the eye. I’m aware that he is affected by a learning or mental disability, and a thought passes: His job must be difficult having to deal with the public every day.

  “With my husband, you saw them? In the park?”

  He only shrugs again. This time he refuses to make eye contact. He stares at the monitor.

  I wonder if maybe it was him who had offered the girls candy. Maybe Greg had been right. Maybe it wasn’t Mooney.

  “Well, thank you anyway,” I say. “For keeping an eye on them. You are exactly right. It is not the same world out there that we grew up in. That’s why it’s very important we watch out for our neighbors, you know what I mean?”

  He doesn’t say anything in response. There’s a shift in his eyes, but he makes no move to show that he’s even heard me. It causes me to laugh uncomfortably and do that thing I do when I get nervous. I keep talking. “It takes a village.”

  He perks up a little as he finishes scanning my items.

  He doesn’t speak to me again. He slowly and methodically assists the bagger.

  Finally, he frowns. “Ma’am, your card has been declined.”

  “That’s weird,” I say. “Let me try again.”

  He repositions the screen, so it’s only facing me. “Declined,” he says, pointing to the screen.

  “I’ll have to call the bank,” I tell him with a smile. Then I grab another card from my wallet, the one that is reserved for emergencies.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I have an appointment to show a house this afternoon. Being that it’s the day before Thanksgiving, the buyer’s agent is out of town. Since it’s my listing, she asks if I would be willing to show the home to her client.

  A favor done is a favor earned, and so I agree. That and I need this house to sell. A peek at our bank account has left me feeling more off-kilter and a little down. I haven’t yet spoken to Greg about the situation. I had assumed that he would have consulted me about making a transfer that large from our personal account to his business account. Had he done so, I could have transferred what was left in my business account and my card wouldn’t have been declined while shopping for our Thanksgiving dinner.

  I’m not ready to ruin the holiday by bringing up the topic, although it is evidently more dire than I realized. Letting go is a gradual process, I realize, and hard as it may be, I have to be patient. At the same time, I cannot allow Greg’s business venture to bankrupt us, which is why I’m working instead of prepping for tomorrow as I’d planned.

  The other thing I didn’t see coming was the possibility that the agent’s buyer would be Jack Mooney, so I am not prepared when he comes skipping up the walk with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

  “Now, this is more like it,” he says, holding his palms toward the sky. “I can really see myself settling in here,” he says with a smile. “Can’t you?”

  His thick blond lashes frame his eyes, making their color more intense. His appearance is almost friendly, his demeanor nonchalant in a way that gets under my skin.

  I am not in the mood—not for Mooney, not for his games. Not for any of this. One look at his smug face, and everything in me shifts. It feels like my I-don’t-give-a-fuck valve has been released. I could easily lunge at him, claw his face, rip his eyeballs out with my bare hands. I almost do.

  Thankfully, I saved myself from spending Thanksgiving in the slammer by bringing Greg along. Now he can see for himself what I’m up against. With a wave, I call him over. He can make Jack Mooney go away once and for all.

  I glance toward the car, where his laptop is perched precariously on the console, and his cell phone stuck to his ear. I will him to look up. He’s supposed to keep an eye out, and he is, except that I don’t think he immediately registers that it’s Mooney standing beside me. Turning on my heel, I tell Jack to go fuck himself and then I stride to the car, open the passenger door, and slide in.

  “Drive,” I say curtly to Greg. He lowers the phone from his ear and glances over at me with concern. I pull his laptop from the dash and flip it closed. “Now!”

  “It’s Mooney,” he says, glancing toward the house as the situation fully registers. “Huh.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “He looks different than he did in the photos.”

  My husband doesn’t put the car in gear. He doesn’t drive. He opens his door and strides up the walk.

  My heart races. Greg and his optimism. He does not understand what he’s doing. He has no idea what he’s up against. It’s not like the two of them are going to be friends. It’s not like with a bit of logic and reasoning he’s going to make Jack Mooney leave our family alone. In fact, I’m certain by his expression, this is exactly what he wants. He is drawing us into his web, and we’re too naive not to get caught.

  I don’t know what Greg says to Mooney, or what Mooney says back, but when I reach the two of them, the air in the proverbial room is thick. “It’s too bad you can’t see it,” Mooney says to me. “You’re way too good for—” He motions toward Greg with exaggerated movements. “For this.”

  “You need to leave us alone,” I reply, widening my stance, placing my hands on my hips. Dana taught us this. It’s a power position, and it’s important to take up as much space as possible. “Stop following me. Stop staging encounters. I’ve already gone to the police and—”

  “And what?” He shakes his head. “What do you think they’re going to do?”

  The way he taunts me ignites something in the pit of my stomach. All the rage and frustration that’s been bottled up suddenly comes pouring out, and it’s all directed at Mooney. “I think they’re going to cart your ass back to prison wh
ere you belong.”

  “We should talk about that,” he says.

  “What would it take?” Greg asks. “To get you to leave town and leave us alone?”

  “How funny. You think I can be bought.” He snorts. “You’re exactly the kind of person who thinks money can just make all of your problems float away.”

  “I’m sure that we can work something out,” Greg says.

  “And I’m sure your absurd ideology makes you a target,” Mooney retorts. “Money isn’t everything. Sometimes other things can be equally satisfying…take revenge, for example.” He glances in my direction and then at Greg. “And anyway, if you’d done your homework, you’d know I’m not in need of your charity.”

  “I think what my husband is looking for is a solution.” My voice comes out more threatening than I intend, angrier too, and for a second, I am proud.

  “Ah. Speaking of solutions. Take prison. There’s a different sort of system in there, you know. Different kinds of exchanges are made. Mostly it’s all about power. Gives a man a lot of time to think, if you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Greg says.

  On one hand, I see a different version of my husband than I’m used to seeing. Businessman Greg. On the other, I see the familiar, and it strikes me that he has no idea what he’s leading himself into. I sat on that jury. For the better part of a week, I listened to the details of Mooney’s crimes. I know exactly what he’s capable of.

  Jack Mooney slowly cocks his head to the right and rubs at his chin. Then, he too widens his stance. “It’s often said that you can’t fix yourself by breaking someone else. Prison will teach you real quick that’s a big fat lie.”

  “I can offer you ten grand.”

  “Ten grand?”

  Ten grand? I’m thinking what Jack Mooney is thinking. Only I’m thinking it because we don’t have that kind of money.

  Mooney considers my husband’s offer for a quick minute. “Do you know what it’s like to be bent over a toilet with your head in the bowl as God knows how many men have their way with you?” He glances from me to Greg and back. “No, I didn’t think so.” The corners of his mouth turn upward. “Well, let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. Only positive thing to come of something like that is you spend a bit of time in the infirmary. Gives you a little reprieve from the daily beatings. Either way, it’s all bad, trust me. But nothing is quite as bad as that first time. You should watch your back, Stone,” he says.

  “Are you threatening me?” Greg scoffs. A silly question, all things considered. He’s clearly rattled. His logic isn’t as readily available as he’d like it to be.

  “That’s the worst part of it…” Mooney smiles. “The waiting. You never really know when that first time is coming. You just know that it is.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  We have to do something, I insist over and over to Greg on the drive home. The sun is setting, traffic is light, and the mood is heavy. As the city and then the track neighborhoods give way to rolling hills, my frustration morphs into tears. He tries to calm me, to reassure me, but if there’s anything my husband is allergic to, it’s sweeping displays of emotion. His reaction makes it abundantly clear. He doesn’t know what to do anymore than he knows how to handle my outpouring of emotion. He cannot carry my fear and his too.

  “It’s okay,” he tells me. He turns on the radio, only to turn it off again. I give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

  Instead of telling him that he is wrong, that nothing is okay, that nothing may ever be okay again, or that Jack Mooney is capable of anything, I let him have his silence. Even though I desperately want to hear him agree, while there is still time, while our destiny has not yet been fixed. And what else can Jack Mooney do? Other than what he has planned to do, convinced that whatever action he takes is justified? To me, it feels like the wheels have been set in motion. I don’t see him reversing course. Odds are, he’ll step on the gas. I shift in my seat, craning my neck to peer out the back window. “Do you think he’s following us?”

  “No.”

  “Have you checked the rearview mirror? Maybe we should make a couple of false turns just to be sure.”

  “Amy—” He places his hand on mine. “It doesn’t matter.” He speaks slowly and calmly, as though he’s talking to an animal that might spook. “He knows where we live.”

  My mouth gapes open. I know this. Of course, I know it. It’s my husband’s resignation I am not prepared for. “So what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “Something else. Something different.”

  “Something different,” I repeat solemnly.

  I stare out the window, unable to stop myself from glancing at the occupants of the passing cars when I can. I wonder about the problems the occupants face: The timing of Thanksgiving dinner, the places they need to be. The overbearing in-laws, the alcoholic sister they hope behaves, the uncle who insists on bringing up politics at the dinner table, the nephew who’s allergic to everything. Whatever it is, I highly doubt it’s anything of this magnitude.

  The closer we get to home, the more I wonder if I’m ever going to hit gold status, or if I’m going to spend countless hours chasing my tail, showing up for buyers that don’t exist while fellow agents push ahead.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help,” Greg says, reading my mind, or more likely my body language.

  “How am I supposed to feel?” I shift in my seat until I’m facing him. “What a brilliant idea. Yes. Please. Tell me what I should be feeling.”

  “Whoa.” He holds his hands off the wheel, palms toward the dash. “Hold on a sec…before you attack… look, I know you’re upset.” He glances over at me. “But let’s not forget—we’re in this together.”

  “I’m not upset. I’m pissed. Just a few days ago—” I toss my hands up, gesturing wildly. “A few days ago, we were like everyone else. Happy-go-lucky. Now—”

  “We’ve never been like everyone else.”

  My husband’s blind optimism almost makes me smile. It definitely causes me to pause. “This is supposed to be a happy time,” I sigh. “Our first Thanksgiving at home in forever. It feels like that is being stolen from us.”

  “Only if you let it.” He frowns as though he doesn’t understand how I could possibly have any other opinion. “That man doesn’t hold all the cards, Amy. No matter what it may look like.”

  His comment takes me back. I picture Jack Mooney in the defendant’s chair. I remember how he had looked from that jury box, like a cornered animal. Vicious, glowering, savage. And powerful. The way he’d scan the courtroom, challenging anyone who dared meet his eye. The way he looked at people was unnerving, as though it would be his greatest privilege to snuff them out, to annihilate them.

  But when he looked my way, which was often, there was something different in his demeanor. Pity, maybe. Whatever it was, it was evident he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His gaze made me feel naked, stripped bare. I felt completely and utterly exposed, as though he could see right through me. “He’s not in his right mind.”

  Greg’s fingers grip the steering wheel. They flex and grip, grip and flex. “It worries me,” I say. “It’s almost like he’s detached from reality, and yet at the same time, he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe he has nothing better to do. Maybe we need to dig up some dirt on him. Turn the tables a bit.”

  “I agree.”

  He looks over at me, hopeful. “I mean…there are still so many things we don’t know. Like—where is he staying? Where does he work? I think you’re right. It couldn’t hurt to understand more about what makes him tick. We need to figure out his weak spots.”

  “He sure seems to know ours.”

  It’s nice that Greg has come around to my way of thinking, and that I have led him there seamlessly. Maybe it’s not the strong stance I wanted, but it’s better than nothing. I pull out my phone and text Lucy to check in. She sends back a p
icture of the kids snuggled on the couch. It makes me want to teleport home, to scoop them up, take them in my arms, and smother them with kisses. I love them so much; sometimes it feels like my heart might burst. I reply asking Lucy to double-check the doors and to make sure the alarm is set. She responds instantly. Already done.

  “Maybe we should just turn back,” I say to Greg. “Call the police—or we could drive to the station. Make them file a report.”

  “That’s exactly what he wants, you see. He acts—he expects a reaction. What if we do nothing? What if we wait him out, let him make the next move, and then we pounce?”

  “We should get a gun. I think we should learn how to shoot.”

  “There are easier ways, love.”

  My brow rises. “Did you not see how offended he got when you offered him the money?”

  “I saw. But I think it was a ruse.”

  For a second, I wonder whether my husband and I reside on different planets. I wonder how two people could witness the same thing and yet experience it entirely differently.

  “I think he’s holding out. He wants more.”

  “How much more?” I scoff. “What kind of more?”

  “Look,” he urges. “I need you to hear me, Amy—really hear me. It’s not that I think we should do nothing. I know what you’re thinking…and I’m not suggesting sitting back on our laurels. It’s just very important that any action we take should come from a place of strength. Not fear.”

  “I hear you, but—”

  “So we go to the police—we get a restraining order. What then? You know how those usually turn out.”

  I sigh heavily. “At least it gives us some leverage.”

  “I’m going to contact the cop again. See what he thinks.”

  “He told us what he thinks. He thinks we have to protect ourselves.”

  Greg pulls onto our street. “Okay then, we’ll think about that too. Listen, I’m not taking any options off the table here. But can we at least get through tomorrow?”