Fook (9 page)

“Katie,” he called again as he reached the
end of the hall and stepped into the kitchen to the sight of flames
leaping from a frying pan on the stove and his sixteen year old
daughter attempting to put them out by swatting at the air almost
five feet away. “Jesus!”

Dropping the disheveled paper on the island
countertop, he yanked the dish towel from the oven door and tossed
it over the flames as he slid the pan from the lit burner and
killed the supply of gas just as the smoke detector let out its
first cries for help. Pulling the towel from the extinguished pan,
he rushed back into the hall, waving it overhead until the
emergency device ceased its ear piercing rant.

“It must be genetic,” he mumbled as he
lowered the towel from overhead, remembering countless occasions
being awakened to the same situation by his wife’s kitchen follies.
It had been three years since her passing and since then his
daughter had made it her mission to fill in for her departed
mother, right down to her tragic inability to cook.

“Sorry Daddy,” Katie timidly lowered her
head as her father reentered the room.

“That’s ok sweetie. I appreciate the
sentiment. So, what
were
we having, bacon?” he questioned as
he made his way back to the stove, turning on the hood vent. The
blackened remains of the pan vaguely resembled bacon but he
couldn’t be sure.

“Eggs,” Katie replied.

Looking at the pan again he couldn’t figure
out how his daughter had messed up eggs so badly. The charred
remains weren’t white or yellow but pure black and compressed into
three relatively neat rows that he would have sworn were strips of
bacon if it weren’t for the uncooked entrails of egg whites puddled
on the stove top beside the burner.

“The bacon’s in the oven,” his daughter
quietly added.

He knew what to expect as he opened the
oven, but for some reason he kept his face directly in front of the
door as he pulled it open and a thick cloud of smoke billowed from
the inferno within.

“Son of a…!” Phil yelped as the smoke struck
his eyes, instantly drawing tears. Quickly he pulled his face away
from the continuing plume, waiting for the burning sensation to
subside. He was aware, however; that with every second the door
remained open, the smoke detector was preparing for its next
rant.

Quickly he closed the oven and spun the knob
to off, only briefly catching a glimpse at the cause of the fire
within it. Apparently, his daughter had chosen to line the baking
sheet with wax paper instead of aluminum foil and to make matters
worse, she’d chosen the cookie sheet without raised edges to trap
the abundance of grease. A river of flammable fluid poured from the
edge of the pan to the hot surface below as the paper glowed a
bright orange, ninety percent of its surface already consumed by
white hot flames.

“We’ll just let that burn itself out,” he
coyly remarked as he wiped at his still burning eyes.

“I’m sorry Daddy,” Katie apologized as she
hurried to the sink, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and
running it under the faucet before handing it to her father.

Still caught off guard by the near inferno
that was his home, he didn’t notice the warmth of the wet cloth
until he applied it to his face. His daughter wasn’t the brightest
of girls. At age five she’d attempted to plant a nickel in the
garden out back, claiming that a money tree would soon grow and
help the family pay for her mother’s expensive treatments. Of
course at the time he and his wife had found the claim adorable and
thought nothing of it. They had even bought a small tree and
planted it overnight in the exact spot where the nickel had been
buried. The next morning they’d been awoken by young Katie jumping
up and down on their bed, shouting at the top of her lungs, “It
growed! It growed!”. She’d led them down to the garden, barely
giving them time to put on their shoes before dragging them outside
to show them her tiny tree with dollar bills taped to its branches.
Now the tree was ten feet tall and on occasion he would still tape
a few dollars to the lower branches for her to find, though at
times he wondered if she understood the joke or really did believe
that money grew on trees.

Her questionable intelligence aside, he
loved his daughter more than anything. She was the spitting image
of her mother with the same long, blonde hair and hazel eyes;
everything right down to the tiny dimple on the right side of her
mouth whenever she smiled. And even though she’d managed to end up
six months pregnant at the young age of sixteen, he couldn’t be
mad. In his opinion she was perfect and the tiny grandchild in her
womb was a blessing.

“I’m so sorry Daddy,” she wet another paper
towel before rushing to her father’s side.

Anticipating the scalding cloth, he blocked
her advancing hand with his. “That’s okay, sweetie. It happens,” he
attempted to comfort her while watching the glow of the oven window
and imagining what the inside of the appliance would look like once
the flames subsided. He also couldn’t help but wonder if they’d
ever have a meal again that didn’t taste and smell of bacon or
ash.

“I could make something else.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” he quickly
interjected, discarding the now cooler first paper towel on the
island beside the newspaper.

“How am I ever going to raise a baby? I
can’t even cook a simple breakfast,” Katie slid closer to her
father, placing her head against his shoulder.

“Listen,” he took ahold of her chin, lifting
her eyes toward his. “You’re going to be an excellent mother. You
know how I know? Because, just as you seem to have inherited your
mother’s infamous inability to cook, you’ve also been blessed with
her amazing ability to nurture.”

A glassy quality took over his daughter’s
eyes.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother
because your mother was an amazing mother and wife and I’m positive
that you couldn’t be anything less.”

“Thank you Daddy,” his daughter replied,
obviously trying to fight back her emotions as her voice quivered
and she buried her face deeper within his shoulder.

“Now, how about a fool proof breakfast? A
real American classic.”

Katie raised her eyes from her father’s
shirt, the evidence of her emotions displayed by the dark spots on
his police uniform.

“You get the Cheerios and I’ll get the
milk.”

NINE

“This is the best system you have, right?” Bill
continued questioning the alarm technician as he wandered from
window to window, installing the sensors that would alert the
Nesbits to any future intrusions into their home.

He’d been amazed by the company’s response.
After the police had left, Jennifer had demanded that he call about
the security system immediately. He’d insisted that it would
probably take at least a couple of days to get someone to come out
and look at the house, let alone install it, but she’d continued
throughout the night until he’d finally caved and called the alarm
company around 3:00 am; if for no other reason than to satisfy her
persistent nagging. To his amazement, an actual person had answered
and after a five minute conversation, he had an appointment for
8:00 am that morning. With he, his wife and newborn son sharing the
same bed, they’d been able to get a patchy three hours of much
needed sleep.

“This is your entry sensor,” the technician
began the now familiar mantra as he pointed to the pair of sensors
that he’d just attached to the window. “And this is your shatter
sensor,” he motioned to the thin wire running from the previously
indicated sensor to the large pane of glass. “Nothing can get
through this window without tripping at least one of these sensors
which in turn will trigger the alarm system, which in turn notifies
us. There’s one of these sensors on every window and door, not to
mention three security cameras which will begin recording at the
moment an alarm is triggered. If someone even thinks about entering
this house uninvited, we’ll know about it.”

“What about the skylights though?” Jennifer
questioned as she entered the room, clinging to little Oliver,
still reluctant to let him out of her grasp.

“The skylights too ma’am,” the young man
answered, attempting to be as respectful as possible, but unable to
fully conceal his frustration with his customer’s persistent
interference and questioning.

As if understanding what his mother was
asking, Oliver lifted his gaze skyward to the skylight
overhead.

“We had a break-in last night. I just want
to make sure that my family is safe,” Bill attempted to explain he
and his wife’s constant questioning.

“Yes sir. I understand. I’ll make sure that
you and your family are as safe as possible,” the young kid assured
them with what appeared to be the first moment of understanding and
sympathy he’d shown since beginning his inspection of the
property.

“Thank you...” glancing at the name stitched
on the technician’s shirt, “…Ty.”

“My pleasure sir.”

*****

It had been unexpected and frightening, yet a
pleasant surprise when he’d arrived at work earlier that morning
and had been handed his list of appointments for the day. Typically
he didn’t read the list of customer’s names that he’d be visiting
that day; only the type of services being requested. He didn't
typically care who the service was for, only what type of day he
was in for.

Installations varied depending on the size
and age of the house. Newer houses were typically built on concrete
foundation with cinder block walls, stucco finishes and high
vaulted ceilings. Such houses could be tricky when installing an
entirely new system. On the other hand, many of these houses came
wired with an existing system when built, so installation simply
meant swapping out a couple of keypads, window and door sensors and
maybe a motion sensor or two. Nothing too tricky.

Older homes usually possessed the same style
foundation but were built in a style more typically seen further
north, away from the annual threat of hurricanes. Those houses
typically had hollow, insulation filled walls and plenty of space
in the low, flat ceilings to run and conceal wires from the
system’s central hub to the numerous security points in the house.
Unfortunately, those houses had been built before fear had taken
such a fierce hold on society; back when a knock at your door was
likely your neighbor welcoming you to the neighborhood with a
dinner casserole or freshly baked brownies, rather than a 9mm and
dufflebag in which to shove all your shit. This in turn also meant
that the entire house had to be wired from scratch; a job that
could easily take an entire day, not to mention countless hours
squeezed into the sweltering heat of a tiny attic crawl space.

Three upgrades and one install in a house
built only six years ago, the list read as Ty had made his way
across the parking lot toward the row of matching company vans. But
it hadn’t been the list of services that had stopped him in his
tracks mid parking lot. The name beside his first appointment might
as well have been printed in 3D the way it leapt off the page at
him.

Nesbit, Bill

Suddenly he’d recalled his boss mentioning
the first appointment being very important. That the man who’d
called the twenty four hour appointment line in the middle of the
night had been very adamant about getting the very first
appointment that morning. Even after the scheduler had informed him
that they didn’t have an available opening until early next week
the man had persistently argued that it was urgent and that he was
willing to pay for the top of the line system as long as they got
out first thing that morning. Eventually the scheduler had given
in, bumping what would have been his first scheduled service that
morning to later in the day and placing Mr. Nesbit’s name at the
top of his list.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d stood
motionless in the center of the parking lot staring at the
impossible name on the page before him. It hadn’t been until Bob
Holvis had laid on the horn of his van that he’d been startled back
to reality and continued the rest of the short journey to his
company issued vehicle.

Now he was standing in the living room of
the very house he’d been parked in front of only ten hours
earlier.

“Thank you, Ty,” Mr. Nesbit smiled as he
took a step back, apparently finally at ease with the young
stranger’s ability to perform the job for which he’d been
hired.

“My pleasure sir,” he politely responded,
though unable to look Mr. Nesbit in the eyes. All of his attention
was focused on the young life nested in the arms and against the
bosom of the attractive woman he feared his son would someday call
mom.

He’d contemplated reaching for a screwdriver
from his utility belt and plunging it into Mr. Nesbit’s left
temple. His cunt wife wouldn’t know what hit her, until another
screwdriver had been drawn and firmly buried in her likely barren
womb. She’d slowly slump to the floor, the look of shock and pain
causing her eyes to widen as he slowly loosened her grip and
removed the undeserved life from her grasp.

But then what, he’d considered. The company
knew who he was. They knew that he was there and he was driving
their van. If he went back to pick up his car before his shift was
over, he’d surely be questioned, especially if he was seen removing
a newborn child from the passenger seat. Just the same, he couldn’t
try to run either. The cops would find him in no time.

No, his only option was to wait. He would
lay claim to his son soon enough. For now, he had to leave it up to
the Nesbits to take care of him. Besides, he wanted to know more
about last night’s unexpected visitor.

“So, tell me about this break in.”