Red 1-2-3 (5 page)

“No. Not in years.”

“Have you made any enemies at work?”

“No.”

“Have you recently had to fire an employee?”

“No.”

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“Have you had any run-ins with neighbors? Like maybe a nasty dispute over a property line, or your dog got out and chased their cat, or something like that?”

“No. I don’t have a dog.”

“Has there been anything out of the ordinary in the last few days or weeks that you noticed, like telephone hang-ups, or vehicles following you on your way to or from work?”

“No.”

“Have you had any recent thefts, or a break-in either at your home or office?”

“No.”

“Have you lost your wallet or a credit card or some other type of personal identification?”

“No.”

“How about Internet? An identity theft, or—”

“No.”

“Can you think of anyone, anywhere, for any reason who might want to harm you?”

“No.”

The detective sighed, which Karen thought was unprofessional. Again, she did not say this out loud.

“Come on, Doctor. Surely there’s somebody out there you might have crossed, maybe even inadvertently. Did you ever misdiagnose some patient? Fail to provide some medical service that caused someone to get ill, or even to die? Ever been sued by some unsatisfied customer?”

“No.”

“So you can’t think of anyone . . . ?”

“No. That’s what I told you. No.”

The detective paused before continuing. “How about someone who might want to play a practical joke?”

Karen doubted this. Some of the other performers she met at comedy clubs had what she considered pretty far-out senses of humor—and there was a style of
punking
other comedians with pranks that verged on the 29

JOHN KATZENBACH

sadistic and cruel—but a letter like the one on the kitchen table in front of her seemed way beyond any comedian’s idea of good fun, no matter how twisted he or she was. “No. And I don’t think it’s very funny.”

She could imagine the detective shrugging on the other end of the line.

“Well, I’m not sure there’s much we can do right now. I can have regular patrol cars frequent your street a bit more often. I’ll have an announcement made at our daily staff session. But until there’s some sort of overt act . . .” The detective’s voice trailed off.

“The letter isn’t an overt act?”

“It is and it isn’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Detective Clark said in a voice that was probably designed for giving a lecture to a high school class about the law, “a written threat is a second-degree felony. But you say you have no enemies—at least, none that you are currently aware of—and you haven’t done anything to war-rant a threat and no one has actually
done
anything, other than write this harassing letter. . . .”

“I think, Detective Clark, that someone saying ‘
You have been selected
to die
’ might register as more than merely harassment.” Karen knew she sounded overly stuffy and stiff. She hoped that this would energize the policeman in some way, but it had the opposite effect.

“Doctor, I think I’d just chalk it up to some bizarre moment, or someone with a lousy sense of humor, or someone who wants to mess you up a little bit for whatever reason and forget about it until something actually happens. Unless, of course, you see someone following you, or someone raids your bank account or something like that. Or else they demand money. Then maybe . . .”

He hesitated before continuing, “The cases we see where there is a threat—well, usually we’re talking about a stalker. Someone obsessed with a teacher or a coworker or a former boyfriend or girlfriend. But it’s always someone they had a relationship with. The threat is part of some larger picture of compulsion. But that’s not what you’re saying, is it? Do you think you’re being stalked?”

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“No. Or I don’t know.”

“Well, look at your life. Anything else unusual?”

“No.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“You mean there’s nothing at all I can do?”

“No. I mean there’s nothing
we
can do. You should certainly take some precautions. Do you have an alarm system in your house? Better get one, if you don’t. Maybe get a big dog. Take a much closer look at the people you’ve come into contact with over the past few months. Start to put together a list of anyone you
might
have crossed, or anyone you
might
have wronged. Maybe take a closer look at all your patients, and consider their families. Maybe someone you’ve been treating with less-than-great results has a psychotic brother-in-law or a cousin that just got out of prison.

Think about that. Usually in threats like these people can’t see the person doing the threatening even though they’re standing right next to ’em, because they just don’t expect it.”

The detective continued to drone on. “You know, you could consider a private detective service, see if they can’t trace the letter—but that’s damn difficult. An e-mail? Well, that they could manage. But an old-fashioned letter?

Even the FBI has trouble with that sort of thing. Remember those anthrax letters? Or the Unabomber? Big-time hassle even with all their modern, up-to-date resources. And here in our small town we don’t have anywhere near their capabilities or manpower. Hell, even the state police don’t. But, if I were you, the most important thing is coming up with that list of who there is out there you’ve managed to offend, because there might be someone you’re just totally unaware of. Most likely that’s it. You come up with a name, even ten names, well, I’ll be more than happy to go have a real direct and not-too-pleasant conversation with them. Put the fear of God and the mighty resources of the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts into them. Until then . . .”

“You mean threatening to kill someone isn’t a crime you want to investigate?”

“Well, I’ll file a report so your complaint becomes a part of the legal record. But to be frank, Doctor, people make idle threats all the time.”

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JOHN KATZENBACH

“This doesn’t seem idle.”

“No. But you just don’t know, do you? It’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah,” Karen said. “Probably.”

She hung up.
Except if it isn’t,
she said to herself.

Sarah Locksley was quivering when she slowly walked through the door to her dead husband’s small office. It was a narrow room, with only a single window in the back with the blinds shut and a scarred old oaken desk with an out-of-date computer on it. It was where he’d done their taxes and paid their bills and off and on worked on a memoir of the dangerous months that he’d spent driving supply trucks and heavy machinery up and down the Baghdad Airport Road in the early part of the Iraq war. The idea all along was that when she got pregnant again, it would be turned into the nursery for the new baby.

There were framed pictures on the walls of the two of them on their wedding day, then the three of them, and of Sarah and their daughter.

There was a Red Sox pennant signed by several of the players after the 2004 championship and a picture of her husband with his National Guard unit during their deployment. There were some other memorabilia, photographs, the sorts of knickknacks and silly stuff one collects that have small meanings—a seashell painted in pink and orange with a big heart in the middle that she’d bought him as a joke on a Valentine’s Day; a gim-mick fake trophy fish, a fad a few years back, that sang a tinny version of

“Take Me to the River”; a scale model of a black turbo Porsche that occupied a corner of the desk. This had been a birthday gift. One exhausted, colicky night shortly after their daughter was born her husband had made a series of jokes about why he needed something utterly irresponsible in his life instead of all this dedicated-parent stuff—and he was going to buy a sports car, preferably the most expensive and fastest he could find. He’d laughed wildly months later when he’d opened up the brightly wrapped toy car.

In all the time following the accident that killed her family, she had entered the room only two or three times, and each time she had not 32

RED 1–2–3

lingered, but had grabbed whatever it was she’d gone in for and then quickly shut the door tight behind her. The same was true for her daughter’s room, just next door. Each had been left as it was on the day the pair of them had died. Sarah knew that it wasn’t unusual for people who were grieving, but entering either of the rooms scared her, because when she did, she thought she could hear her daughter’s or her husband’s voice echoing in the shadows and she could feel their touch on her skin. It was like they were crying for her, and the eerie sensation of their touch and the hallucination of their voices always caused her to break down sobbing.

He had promised her many times he would get rid of the gun. He hadn’t had time.

Of course,
she thought, as she stood in the doorway afraid to even turn on the light,
there hadn’t been time for anything
that they had planned
. The trip to the Grand Canyon. The trip to Europe. The bigger house in a nicer suburb. A new car. They hadn’t known this, of course, because if they had, things would have been different. At least this was what she imagined, but there was no way to be certain.

She glanced across at a bookshelf that was jammed with his favorite mystery novels and thrillers, alongside a number of World War II and Vietnam memoirs that her husband had been studying as he’d worked on his own. On the very top shelf concealed behind well-read, dog-eared copies of Val McDermid and James W. Hall and John Grisham, there was an old military surplus olive-drab metal ammunition case, with a combination lock keeping it shut. That was what she’d come in to get.

She knew the combination. It was their daughter’s birthday.

“I’m sorry,” she said out loud, as if apologizing in advance to the pair of ghosts who were watching her. “I’ve got to get the gun.”

Her husband had been a lieutenant in the local fire department. She taught children. He put out fires. She corrected spelling tests. He rode in a red fire truck, sirens blaring. It was never going to be a life with exotic vacation homes and large black Mercedes-Benzes. There was little ostenta-tiously first-class about them. But it was always going to be a good, solid, American life. They were always going to be middle-class, liberal, and 33

JOHN KATZENBACH

respectable. They bought their clothes at the local mall and watched television together at night after dinner. They rooted for all the New England professional sports teams and considered a trip to Fenway Park or Gillette Stadium for a game to be the ultimate indulgence. They would be union members and proud of it. They would complain about their taxes, and occasionally work overtime without pay because they loved their jobs.

And there was never a night that they fell tired into bed in each other’s arms that the two of them hadn’t looked forward to the sun rising.

Sarah thought that was even true on the last day of her life, the day Ted had swept little Brittany up and held her above his head, tickling his daughter so that she was red-faced with laughter before he carefully strapped her into the car seat in the rear of their six-year-old Volvo. She had seen him fasten his own belt before giving a jaunty wave, grinning, and taking off.

Nine blocks. Grocery store. Death.

It was not an equation anyone would ever have imagined. There was no actuarial table, no sophisticated algorithm that could project the heating oil fuel delivery truck that ran the red light and slammed into them.

She had always hated that detail madly. It was nearly summertime. The weather was mild and warm. No one in New England was still using an oil burner. There was
no need
for the truck to be on the road.

They were properly belted. The air bags instantly deployed. The Volvo’s steel frame, designed to crumple protectively upon impact, had performed exactly as its engineers had designed.

Except none of it worked, because they were both dead.

Still hesitating in the doorway, Sarah said, “Look, Teddy, someone says they’re going to kill me. I promise I won’t get it and use it on myself. Even if I really want to, I promise, I won’t do that. Not yet, at least.”

It was almost as if she needed his permission to find the ammunition box and get the gun. Both of them had been raised in devoutly Catholic households and there was that profound prohibition against committing suicide.
A sin,
she thought. The most reasonable and logical sin she could imagine, but a sin, nevertheless.

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She thought she was a complete coward in so many different ways that she could hardly count them. If she were brave, she could have decided to kill herself. Or, if she were brave, she would have decided to go on with her life and not let it disintegrate around her. If she were brave, she would have dedicated herself to something meaningful, like teaching special education in the inner city or going on missions to help AIDS babies in the Sudan, as a way of honoring her dead husband and dead child.

“But I’m not brave,” she said. It was sometimes hard for her to tell if she had been talking out loud or not. And sometimes she had entire conversations in her imagination that ended up with some sentence blurted out that made sense only to her. “Definitely not brave.”

But,
she thought,
I still need the gun
.

It was, she guessed, some leftover frontier gene that lurked within her.

Someone makes a threat, and like a cowboy in a Western, she would reach for her weapon.

She paused in the doorway for another moment. Her eyes scanned the room—and then she launched herself inside, moving rapidly. It was as if by looking around she would be inviting the memory attached to each item to punish her further. She went directly to the bookcase, pushed aside the novels that hid the dust-covered ammunition box, seized it, and then retreated as fast as she could, slamming the office door shut behind her.

“I’m sorry, Teddy, darling, but I just can’t stay in there.”
She knew this was a half-thought, half-whisper.