Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  A noise on the second floor catches his attention. He starts toward the stairs. At the top, he knows where to go. Only he doesn’t get there. Theo’s foot makes contact with something in the dark.

  He lurches forward, breaking his fall, but not before he’s down on all fours. Behind him, faint light filters in from the front door. He thought he’d closed it. Surely he had? He wouldn’t have wanted to let the cold in. Children need warmth. Now he’s glad on account of the wretched smell. Theo slaps his palm against his forehead several times. He should have been smarter. If only he’d thought to bring blankets, the way the paramedics do. If he wasn’t worried about going to jail he might call them.

  Trouble, he mumbles to himself. This is bad. This is trouble. Just like the lady in the hospital had taught him. Theo remembers other things too. He remembers how her breath smelled like stale oatmeal, and her eyes were so close together that it made him dizzy to look at her. And sometimes he wanted to kill her. He was glad he hadn’t, because he recalls what she’d said now. To clear his mind, he had to regulate his emotions. Or was it the other way around? She spoke so fast Theo often had a hard time keeping up. Take deep breaths, she’d repeat. Focus on what is in front of you.

  At the end of their sessions, she always asked if he had any questions. Theo knew she didn’t care to hear what he thought, that her asking was just routine—an afterthought. Meaningless words. Theo asked no questions. But there was one that plagued him. One that danced on the tip of his tongue: how would you prefer to die?

  He imagines the woman now, splayed out before him, undigested oatmeal still in her stomach. His mind does this sometimes. Plays tricks on him. Theo knows it isn’t her, the lump of flesh and bone contains more mass than her frail old body had.

  Theo tries not to panic. It’s obvious the man is dead. There is a solidness to him, a finality, an absence of anything. His palms sweat, and his breath comes in heavy bursts. He wishes it weren’t so dark. Theo can’t make out the man’s features, and he’d rather see. Then his mind wouldn’t have to fill in the blanks. He wishes he could flip things in real life as easily as his mind does it.

  He trips over furniture that’s been turned over. There was a struggle. There is still a struggle, he knows. Up the stairs and to the left. An intruder. Or maybe to the right. He’d have to wait and see. First, he had to breathe and calm his emotions.

  He has to be careful. He doesn’t want to make any noise. He doesn’t want to give the repairman any reason to hurt the children.

  Theo’s mind flits from image to image like the View-Master camera he had when he was a kid. His mother’s crime shows display on the reels. He hates television but if he has to watch, Theo much prefers the programs about saving the children, sometimes animals too—although those make him feel particularly desolate. At least children can talk. But now there is a glimmer of something. Not quite gratitude, but a seed of hopefulness, as though his mother and the television had been preparing him all along. If you want to save anything, it’s helpful to know what you’re up against. The world is a terrible place, she says, like clockwork, at the start of one of her programs. A terrible, terrible place. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she wouldn’t stop droning on about her knife, and more importantly, she wouldn’t let him out of the house.

  A faint cry takes him away from his swirling thoughts, away from the bloodbath. He can feel the man’s vacant eyes stare back at him, leaving an unsettled feeling in his belly. Theo uses the tips of his gloved fingers to close the man’s eyes the way he’s seen on his mother’s shows. Then he pushes himself upright, and though his feet stick to the floor, he pushes onward. Maybe he couldn’t save all those children, on all those nights, on all those programs. But maybe he can save these.

  He has to. Theo likes the family that lives in this house. He is especially fond of the youngest daughter. The older girl has her moments, but she can’t help it. She’s already been hardened to the world. She looks at Theo like most everyone does, as something other, a specimen to be handled carefully, something to keep at a distance.

  Theo never let that stop him. He tried to be respectful. What he loved most of all were the times she didn’t know he was looking. The times no one noticed he was watching, not even his mother. Out their rear window, which faced the family’s yard, he’d watch the older girl as she played. It was one of the few times she let her guard down. He loved the girls’ giggles, the push and pull of it, the games they played. Sometimes he’d join in, imagining himself with them, showing them how much fun he could be when he let go of the bad thoughts.

  He wanted to tell them about the old woman at the hospital with the sour breath and scruffy voice. He wanted to warn them about all the bad things that could happen, and sometimes, even though he wasn’t supposed to, he did.

  Now he realizes he should have told them more. He takes each step carefully, pausing halfway up the stairs. The girls are weeping. He can hear it down the hallway. He hears their mother, speaking hurriedly, reasoning, pleading: Whatever you want—whatever—anything — I’ll give it to you. If it’s money you need, I have a little. You can take it all. But please. Please don’t—they’re just children.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  His pistol is trained on me, mine is aimed at him. I’ve flipped the safety and lined up the sight, exactly the way Greg showed me. I plead with him not to hurt the girls, although it’s pointless. I can see in his eyes that very same look I saw in the courtroom all those years ago. He’s challenging me. He knows I won’t pull the trigger, but just for fun, he wants to see.

  In the corner of our king-sized bed, Naomi and Blair are huddled up together. They cried on and off at first, but shock kicked in, and now they are simply silent. I’ve made a terrible mistake in not preparing them for this—for not teaching them how to get out, how to run for their lives while I stayed to fight.

  I guess I hadn’t expected that Jack Mooney would appear in our bedroom like an apparition, out of thin air. We hadn’t had a chance. The alarm hadn’t sounded. There was nothing other than Greg’s warm hand tapping my thigh. “Wake up,” he said. “Amy, wake up.”

  Through half-closed lids, I watched as Mooney forced him out of bed at gunpoint, and down the stairs. Meanwhile, I searched frantically for my cell and then for Greg’s. They were nowhere to be found. By the time I reached for the landline, I realized it was futile. This was not an accident, not some haphazard crime. Jack Mooney had planned this out. The line would surely be dead. And it was.

  As I rushed to the girls’ bedroom—it was the first night Blair and I moved back upstairs—I heard the tussle between Greg and Mooney downstairs. I scooped up Blair and practically dragged Naomi, still half asleep, down the hall. When we reached my room, I locked the door and pushed the dresser in front of it. Then I combed through Greg’s drawers in search of the .357. I knew it would be there under his folded sweaters. I hid the pistol downstairs. It had been Greg’s idea to keep one on each floor, just in case, and I prayed that he would get to it.

  I checked the clip and then flipped the safety, and I questioned my decision. Maybe I should have left the girls in their beds asleep. I’d thought about going downstairs, taking aim at Mooney, but I was afraid for my children. What if a stray bullet hit them as they slept in their beds? What if Mooney killed Greg and me both? Who would protect them? I was not that sure of a shot, anyhow. I only wanted to get them to safety. I hadn’t considered what a feat this would be, being on the second floor, with Blair in a cast.

  It’s then that I remember the ladder Greg had bought in case of a fire. With the gun in one hand, I riffle through our closet and pull out the box. I’ve just gotten the window open and the ladder set up when the lock is blown off our bedroom door.

  Mooney stands, caked in blood, his eyes scanning the room. “Please,” I say as he trains the gun on Naomi’s head. His eyes flit toward me, toward the window, but he does not lower his weapon. He wants me to suffer, I can see that. “Whatever you want—whatever—
anything — I’ll give it to you.” I suck in a deep breath. “If it’s money you need, I have a little. You can take it all. But please. Please don’t—they’re just children.”

  “I’ve thought about this moment for so long,” he tells me with a smirk. “For so many years, I’ve dreamed that we would one day be together. And look, here we are.”

  “Jack,” I say, thinking if I make this personal it might help. I have nothing left to lose. “Listen…”

  “It’s hard to listen, darlin’, when you’ve got a gun pointed at my head.”

  He smears blood from his hand onto his white T-shirt. “All those years in that tiny little cell, I imagined this moment. But I gotta say…” He nods in my direction. “I didn’t picture it like this.”

  I grip the gun tighter, trying to steady my shaking hands.

  “I’m sorry I have to do this,” he tells me, using his gun to motion toward the girls. “We could take them with us, but you know how that goes. Children just complicate things.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” My intention is to reassure the girls, but it’s clear I am trying to reason with a psychopath when I ought to just pull the trigger.

  Briefly, I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror. I hear Greg’s voice in my head. Wake up. Amy, wake up.

  I try to force myself to squeeze the trigger, but I am not sure I will be the faster shot.

  In my periphery, I see Naomi stroking her sister’s hair. Wake up. Amy, wake up. He cannot kill us all. I have to make a choice, or it is very likely that we are all going to die in this room—and if not here, somewhere far worse.

  I pull the trigger. Everything happens at once, and simultaneously, in slow motion, Jack Mooney slumps forward. Behind him, our neighbor holds a knife, though it drops from his hand. Surprise registers on his face. I haven’t shot Mooney. I shot Theo.

  Jack Mooney kneels on the ground, his hand reaching for his back, and when he raises it to his face, it is covered in blood. He gropes for the gun that lies at his feet. And as his fingers brush it, I aim and then empty my clip.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Outside, there’s a bevy of flashing red and blue lights. Police cars and emergency vehicles line the block. After some coaxing, the girls leave the house with a police officer, whose expression will forever be etched in my memory. I can still hear their stifled sobs as I assure them that everything is going to be okay. They know I am lying. Nothing is ever going to be okay again.

  Someone wraps a blanket around my shoulders. They wheel Theo out on a stretcher. Police officers ask me to relay the events in detail, again and again. The questions keep coming. What had Jack Mooney said? What time had I first discovered him in the house? Had he touched me or the girls? How had the neighbor come to be involved?

  He said he was going to kill my children. He said he’d thought about it for years.

  10:48 p.m.

  How did I know?

  I looked at the clock on Greg’s bedside table.

  He hadn’t touched us. I hadn’t given him the chance.

  I had no idea why Theo was in the house or why he’d gotten involved. He’d seemed increasingly concerned about our family over the past several weeks. He’s strange. But he just saved our lives.

  Even as I answer, they repeat the same questions over and over, as though I’m suddenly going to come up with a different response, something that I haven’t already stated. It feels repetitive and robotic, but I answer the best I can, which is matter-of-factly.

  I keep asking for Greg. They tell me they are checking him out, but I can see on their faces this isn’t the truth. My husband is dead.

  They ask who they can call for support, family or a friend, but no one comes to mind. My mother lives across the country. She has a new life, and considering the great lengths she’s gone to forget the old one, it’s probably better not to disturb her. My father is somewhere on the streets, somewhere avoiding phones, somewhere avoiding help. Somewhere believing that everyone is out to get him. What help could he possibly be? Finally, I tell them they should call Greg’s parents. The rest I forget.

  As I sit on the footrest of the rocking chair I nursed both my children in, I think about how this day, the tenth of December, would turn out to be the best and the worst day of my life. The best because it was the last time my family was together, and the worst for the same reason.

  Just a few hours ago, I’d made lasagna, Greg’s favorite. The dirty dishes are still in the sink. We hadn’t told the girls about Lucy yet, and we hadn’t discussed how we were going to do it, either. It was too much, so instead, in what felt like a brief reprieve, we pretended things were normal. We settled in on the couch with the kids for a family movie night. Though, I can’t recall anything that happened on the screen now, I do know it was a superhero movie, the kind where the good guy always wins.

  Naomi had curled into Greg’s side, proud to have secured my usual spot, but I didn’t mind. I was just thankful to have her home. I knew it could be worse. Just down the street, Lucy’s parents were making funeral arrangements.

  It had taken someone dying, but the cops were finally taking a hard look at Jack Mooney, and it was starting to feel like they were perhaps taking things seriously.

  Later, after Greg and I put the girls to bed, we’d made love. It was sweet sex, loving, as vanilla as you can get. The kind of sex you might have if you’re worried about being caught on camera.

  Afterward, he’d wrapped me in his arms, the sound of his heartbeat serving as the backdrop as we discussed sending the girls to his parents after Christmas. Then, when and if Jack Mooney bothered us, we’d shoot him. Greg spoke of it as a home invasion gone bad. I can’t say how serious either of us really were, only that it felt therapeutic to make plans. He joked about all the ways he’d planned to torture Mooney as payback for what he’d done to us, and I laughed until I got a cramp in my side. It felt good not to feel like victims. It felt like we had a hand in deciding the outcome of our future.

  The thought that I should have done something differently will keep me awake every night, from this moment on, until forever. What if I hadn’t fallen asleep with my head on his chest? What if, when he’d woken me, I’d hopped out of bed, grabbed the gun, and followed them downstairs? Would my husband still be alive?

  What if I’d asked Benny Dugan to kill Mooney? What if I had made sure that Jack Mooney could never harm my family again? Could it have been that simple? What if I had put up a better fight?

  From my bedroom window, I hear officers outside talking. There’s enough going on inside that I only catch bits and pieces of their conversation, but in between the shuffling and the questions, a few things become clear.

  “The bastard was living in the attic.”

  “Right under their noses this entire time.”

  “You mean above,” a female voice says.

  “Looks like he’s been coming and going from the outer garage door. He has quite a set-up. Even found a set of house keys.”

  I think of Greg’s keys. How he’d been using the spare set. How long had his been missing?

  “Seems crazy to me that they wouldn’t have known. But I’ve heard of cases like this before.”

  “I thought it was squirrels,” I say to one of the detectives, who is sitting with me. “I thought a lot of stupid things, actually. I thought the police could keep me safe. I thought the law would protect me…”

  He swallows hard and then goes over to the window and shuts it. I give him a look that says that this is a crime scene, and I don’t think he’s supposed to touch anything, but he only shrugs. “Are you sure there’s not someone we can call?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  I still see him in my dreams. Some nights it’s Jack Mooney, but more often than not, it’s Greg. I think of the years we spent together, all the highs and the lows. I speak of him often, hoping he will stick in the girls’ minds, but the further away we get
from him being gone, the more of life with him fades.

  We never went back in that house. I remember when I’d heard from Dana about what happened with Alex, when he lost his girlfriend and child, how he’d just walked out and left her to deal with everything. I hadn’t understood how a person could walk away from all the good just because of the bad. But now I get it. After something like this happens, everything is tainted.

  The span of three weeks changed my entire life. It’s hard to not fixate on those twenty-one days, and especially not on that final one. I go over and over it in my mind: the things I should have done, the things I should have said, and probably more than anything, the things I shouldn’t have.

  Greg’s parents and a team of movers packed up the items they thought I would want to keep, and those things sit in a storage unit. Someday I’ll muster the courage and strength to go through it all, but I don’t foresee that day coming anytime soon.

  For now, we’re in a temporary place with new things, things that have no meaning and no memories attached, and for now that feels okay.

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I see a family therapist with Naomi and Blair. She’s a nice enough woman, and the girls seem to like her, and I don’t mind the sessions so much because it’s the only time I can really check out.

  Sometimes I think about my own mother, and how I can understand why sometimes it’s easier to run than to stay and face the damage. Other times I think about my father and how I still look for him on every street corner, how I’m not sure I’ll ever stop, and how thin the line between crazy and normal can be.

  But mostly, I think about Greg. I think about all the things I took for granted. And how loneliness is a real thing that can settle deep in your bones and make a home there.