Slice (23 page)

F
IFTY

O
utside Bryan's window, the trees looked as if they were on fire. It seemed that overnight all the deciduous trees along Hickory Dell—the maples and the oaks and, of course, the hickories—had turned bright red, orange, and gold. Autumn was upon them. There was a cold bite to the mornings now when Bryan threw off his covers, and the nights sometimes meant frost on the grass.

Maybe that was why he'd been drinking more than usual. He was trying to ward off the cold fingers of winter, which he felt were just waiting to grab hold of him. Heather had started sleeping in the guest room, unable, she said, to bear his tossing and turning. Bryan figured she just wanted to be away from him, which he didn't mind in the least—except that meant he wasn't getting any tail from anyone. Clare had announced she'd found a boyfriend and so she couldn't see him anymore. And when Bryan wasn't getting sex, he drank more. And when he drank more, he wanted more sex. It was a vicious cycle.

Plus, it had been a bad period at work. His firm was losing money; this economy was dragging everybody down. There was talk they might have to sell out to another company—possibly the very one Bryan had left, the place where that loathsome Todd Bennett ruled the roost. If so, Bryan felt certain his job would be axed. More than ever, he rued his decision to leave the old firm—and Mr. Thayer's mentorship. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he lost his job. They had quite a mortgage on this house—plus there were the kids. Independent Day wasn't cheap. And Heather expected them to go to the same expensive prep schools she and her brothers had attended. After that, there was college.

Bryan wished they'd never had those two brats.

He could hear them squawking in the other room. Ashton was yelling at Piper to give him back his toys, or maybe it was the other way around. If it weren't for the red hair, Bryan would swear those brats weren't his. Here he was, trying to unwind after a long day at the office—okay, not really so long, he'd left early—and this is what he had to put up with. Something banged against the wall. One of the kids throwing something, in the midst of a temper tantrum.

Bryan flung open the door. “Heather!” he shouted out into the hallway. “Keep those street urchins quiet! I've got a headache and I'm trying to sleep!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Pierce,” came the voice of Consuela, poking her head out from the doorway of the kids' playroom. “Heather isn't home yet. I'm trying to break up an argument between—”

At the moment a stuffed teddy bear came flying out of the door and hit Consuela in the head.

“Between the two children,” the long-suffering housekeeper said.

“Well, tell them I said to shut up,” Bryan growled. “And don't disturb me. I'm napping.”

“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”

Bryan slammed the door.

He poured himself another glass of whisky. He was pleased that Heather wasn't home. That meant she wouldn't be barging in on him unexpectedly. He'd been vaguely horny all day, and now, hastened by the alcohol, his dick was growing in his sweatpants. For some guys, drinking inhibited performance. For Bryan, it seemed to accelerate it.

From his secret lockbox, he withdrew the photographs of Jessie. But now he had a few other things to go along with it. His expedition the other day to her house had resulted in some considerable loot. He'd been so shrewd—slipping in through a front window by popping out the screen, then carefully replacing it once he was inside. If Jessie had thought she was secure in that house, she'd had a rude awakening after that. Bryan laughed. And when he'd left he engaged the front door lock so that it would click into place once he closed the door. Brilliant! He knew he shouldn't have made such a mess of things—tossing Jessie's clothes around, pulling things off hangers—but he liked the idea of freaking her out. It got him even harder knowing that she was scared.

Bryan smiled. He pressed a pair of Jessie's blue satin panties to his face.

He knew he wouldn't be content with photos and panties for long, however. He'd been sneaking over to Jessie's house lately, and spying on her through her windows. But he knew sooner or later—more likely sooner—he would need Jessie herself. Why she had come to occupy nearly his every waking thought, Bryan wasn't sure. It was true she was still hot. It was true that he carried around the feeling of unfinished business with her: she was the only chick he'd ever dated who he hadn't gotten to fuck. But he was smart enough to know his obsession with her these past few weeks was due more to what else was going on his life: the rapid and obvious disintegration of his marriage, his loss of Clare, and his problems at work. Thinking about Jessie got his mind off all of that.

Thinking about Jessie gave him a purpose.

He lay back on his bed, Jessie's panties on his face, the photograph on his chest, and began beating his meat.

That was when the door opened and Heather walked in.

“I come home and the kids are on the warpath and Consuela tells me you're taking a nap—?” she said.

Then she stopped.

She saw the panties, and the photo.

Bryan sat up, looking at her with wide eyes and open mouth.

Heather couldn't speak for a moment. Bryan didn't even try to hide the evidence. It was pointless at this point.

Why hadn't he locked the door?

Maybe, he realized, he'd secretly hoped she'd find him.

Heather looked at him with utter disgust. “You sick perv,” she managed to say, and turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Bryan looked down at the photograph of Jessie.

He had to have her.

Soon.

F
IFTY-ONE

D
etective Wolfowitz unlocked his door and flipped on his light. He liked coming home to an empty, quiet house. After a day at headquarters, with all that noise and all those phones ringing, this was what he craved: peace and quiet. After his divorce, friends had suggested he get a dog. Or maybe even a cat. A cat wasn't as much work, and didn't mind being home alone all day. But Wolfie thought the idea ludicrous. He didn't want some dog yapping at him or some cat meowing to be fed. At the end of the day, all Wolfie wanted was to be left alone.

He opened his refrigerator and took out a plate of leftovers. He'd fried a couple of cube steaks the night before. He didn't mind eating them cold. He'd cut up an onion and a cucumber. That was all he needed with it. That—and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

He popped the top off a beer can and took a sip. Tomorrow he'd take a ride out to Hickory Dell and have a little conversation with Mr. John Manning, and maybe Ms. Jessica Clarkson, too. He thought this first confrontation ought to be low-key, friendly. He'd arrive without Knotts at his side, maybe even in plainclothes. That would make it seem less serious. He'd mention casually that one of the detectives, during the search of Manning's house, had found the collection of clippings about the Deetz-Solek murder case. Wolfie would ask innocently how long Manning and Clarkson had known each other. He wanted to see the initial reaction on their faces. Initial, unexpected reactions revealed so much.

He could return later in the day, in a more official capacity, and confront Manning with the information he'd learned from Deetz's cronies, especially Ernie. Wolfie smiled, carrying his dinner plate and can of beer out to the living room. That was when he'd lower the boom.

Maybe he'd even be able to make an arrest before the week was out, depending on what Manning and Clarkson spilled.

But for now, he was just looking forward to sitting in his chair, eating his dinner, and watching a little
Wheel of Fortune
. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.

Suddenly the lights went out.

“Jesus,” Wolfie groaned.

The bulb in the overhead lamp must have blown.

But the kitchen light behind him, he realized, was also out.

He was about to go check the fuse box where there was a sharp, sudden, searing pain in his buttocks. Wolfie yelled out, thrust forward by the pain, dropping his dinner plate and his can of beer. He saw the can fall onto the old brown shag carpet, the golden lager spilling out in a mound of foam.

He reached around to feel his butt. There was something wet and warm. It was hard to see in the dark, but it seemed like blood.

That was when another sharp pain hit him, this time in his thigh.

Wolfie screamed as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor.

Someone was in the room with him. He could hear whoever it was walking around him. The bastard had stabbed him!

“Who are you?” Wolfie shouted.

It was the last thing Detective Wolfowitz ever said. He felt the sting of cold metal at his throat before he felt the pain. And then he couldn't breathe.

“
H
ow quickly it gets dark these days,” the tutor was saying as Jessie walked with her out to her car. “Every year, I'm still never ready for the change of time.”

“I know what you mean,” Jessie said. “Soon all the leaves will be off the trees.”

They stopped in front of the tutor's little powder-blue Prius. A tiny sliver of a moon hung in the sky and a cool breeze had started to blow.

“I wanted to thank you,” Jessie said. “You've been just great with Abby. I can tell she likes you very much.”

Maxine Peterson was Abby's tutor. Since Mrs. Whitman's death, Jessie had felt better having Abby homeschooled. At least for the time being, she preferred having her at home, where she could see her at all times. She had only told Abby that Mrs. Whitman had passed away, without sharing any of the details. The little girl seemed to suspect something, however. Jessie had noticed in the last couple of weeks Abby had become quieter, more contemplative. There was no more playing with imaginary friends. She seemed sad, and a little distant. A couple of sessions with the school psychologist wouldn't be a bad idea, Jessie figured, and so she'd made an appointment with Dr. Bauer for the following week.

In the meantime, there was Maxine. She was a tall, thin, precise African-American woman with short-cropped gray hair and a soft, calming voice. She taught Abby spelling and reading and some basic arithmetic. Jessie occasionally heard Abby's light, tinkling laughter coming from her room upstairs. That was how she knew Maxine had won her over, and was breaking through her depression.

“She's a delightful child,” Maxine told Jessie as she unlocked the door to her car. “And bright, too. I've been teaching children for nearly thirty years and she's one of the smartest. Rare that a child of five can pick up adding and subtracting so quickly, but Abby has done just that.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“By the way,” Maxine said, “Abby mentioned Halloween to me today. I didn't quite know what to tell her. Are you thinking of allowing her to go out trick-or-treating ?”

Jessie hadn't thought about it. “What made her ask about Halloween?”

“It was in a book we were reading. The little girl in the story was dressed as a princess. Abby said she wanted to dress up just like her.”

“Oh.” This was a dilemma. “I just don't know. A lot of parents, I'm sure, are wondering about letting their kids go out this year, with what's happened.”

Maxine nodded, suppressing a little shiver. “That's why I just told her she was already as pretty as a princess, and didn't mention Halloween.”

“Smart move.” Jessie sighed. “I don't like that she can't participate in the holiday. In New York, she always got dressed up and we went to a party in our neighborhood. Maybe I'll just take her to a few houses along Hickory Dell myself. Monica and I can take her the way we used to trick-or-treat. The Gorins and the Pierces and Mr. Thayer.”

“There are some children in the new houses through the woods,” Maxine said. “Maybe you could drive her over there. The area is very well lit.”

“Maybe,” Jessie said, smiling.

The tutor got into her car. “I'll see you tomorrow afternoon,” she told Jessie.

“Yes, thank you again.”

She waved as Maxine backed out of the driveway, the headlights of her Prius slicing bars of light through the darkness.

Jessie was about to turn and walk back up the hill to the house when, in the reddish glow of Maxine's taillights she spotted a silhouette.

The silhouette of a child.

“Hello?” she called.

Her first thought was that it was one of Bryan and Heather's kids. But as soon as the figure took a few steps toward her, still obscured by shadows, Jessie knew this was not Ashton or Piper Pierce.

The child stepped into the soft amber light thrown from Jessie's front porch.

It was a little boy.

Maxine's car was now gone. Monica and Todd weren't home. Even the Gorins' house across the street was dark.

Jessie stood very much alone, face to face, with this little boy.

He was wearing a white T-shirt and blue shorts, and was barefoot. Even in the dim light, Jessie could see his hands and feet were dirty. The boy was smiling at her. There was something in his big brown eyes that unnerved her.

For several seconds, they just stood staring at each other.

Jessie knew who he was.

“Is your name . . . Aaron?” she managed to say. Her voice, she discovered, was hoarse and dry.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You're . . .” Jessie found it difficult to speak, and her heart was thudding. “Abby's friend.”

“Yes,” the boy said. “Can Abby come out and play?”

“No,” Jessie said. “It's dark, and she'll be having her dinner shortly.”

Aaron's lower lip pouted slightly. “I never get to see her anymore now that she doesn't come to school.”

Jessie lifted her chin as she looked down at the boy. He stood in front of her in the driveway, about five feet away.

“But there's nobody named Aaron in her class,” she told him carefully, watching for his reaction. “I checked.”

The boy's grin grew wider. “I'm homeschooled, too. But sometimes I go over to the school, because I have friends there.” He paused. “Like Abby.”

“Oh, is that so? Where do you live?”

He pointed in the direction of the woods.

“In the new houses over there? What's your last name?”

“Smelt,” the boy said.

“Aaron Smelt,” Jessie said.

The boy smiled.

Something in that sweet little smile disturbed her.

“Well,” Jessie said. “You ought to run home. I'm sure your parents are worried about you being out in the dark. You can play with Abby some other time.”

“Will you tell her I was here?” Aaron asked. “I don't want her to think that I forgot about her.”

“Yes,” Jessie said, turning and taking a few steps back up the hill.

She was lying. She didn't want to tell Abby about Aaron. Why she was reluctant to do so, she wasn't sure. But she was. The fact was, she was frightened by the boy. She was trying not to think it, trying not to admit it to herself—but he looked like Emil.

That's crazy
, she thought to herself.
What am I thinking?

Crazy or not, she kept looking over her shoulder until she saw the boy walk away from the house and back down the dark street.

Jessie's nerves were on edge. It was absurd. Why should a little boy scare her so? He was just a kid from one of the new houses on the other side of the woods. His friendship had made Abby happy. Surely his absence was a large part of the reason why Abby had seemed so sad these last couple of weeks. Jessie really ought to tell her daughter that Aaron had come by. It might bring a smile to her face.

But she couldn't. For some reason, she wanted that boy to stay away from them. She never wanted to see him again. She should have scolded him for enticing Abby out of the house that night and taking her out to the barn. She should have told him she wanted to speak with his mother and to give her his phone number.

She should have, but she didn't.

Because she'd just wanted the boy to go away.

A deep chill had settled within her, and Jessie shuddered.

She hurried up the front steps of her house.

Her hand was on the door to open it when, from out of the shadows on the porch, something moved, causing Jessie to make a little sound in fright.

“Who's there?” she asked.

A hand suddenly reached out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist.

Jessie screamed.