Vicious (9 page)

That had been five weeks ago. Susan didn’t want him spending money on an engagement ring, and they still hadn’t set a date. She wasn’t in any real hurry. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she still had two framed photos of Walt on display in her living room.

Allen didn’t ask her to put them away, nor did he pressure her about setting a wedding date. So when he’d started pushing for this trip to Cullen a few days ago, she couldn’t very well refuse. Allen didn’t ask for a lot.

Half sitting up in bed, Susan groped around in the darkness until she found the lamp on her nightstand. She switched on the light, then picked up her wristwatch and squinted at it: 2:50
AM
. She gazed at the vacant spot beside her on the bed. There was a noise downstairs; it sounded like the sunroom’s glass door sliding open.

Susan crawled out of bed and threw on her bathrobe. Pushing her hair back from her face, she padded down the corridor and checked in on Mattie in his bedroom. He was sleeping. From the top of the stairs, she could see a light was on—probably in the kitchen or the sunroom. Susan crept down a few steps. “Allen? Honey?” she called softly.

No answer.

From the bottom of the stairs, she didn’t see anyone in the first-floor hallway. “Honey?” she called again—a little louder. “Allen, are you down here?”

She poked her head in the kitchen. Only the stove light was on. She heard water steadily dripping from the faucet—and then, outside, a rustling noise. In the window above the sink, she spotted someone—or something—darting past the house outside. Susan gasped. “Allen? Allen, where are you?”

She retreated toward the sunroom, where she saw the sliding glass door halfway open. A chilly night breeze drifted into the house. Susan felt it kissing her bare feet. She clutched her robe at the neck. There was a light on by the sofa—and a small glass, half filled with bourbon on the end table. The Robert Dugoni book she’d given Allen was open, pages facing down, on the sofa cushion.

Susan heard floorboards creak on the porch outside. She swiveled around toward the glass door and gaped at the shadowy figure standing there.

A hand went to her heart. “Oh, Lord, Allen, you scared the hell—”

She fell silent as he stepped inside. He wore sneakers, sweatpants, and a Rainier Beer T-shirt. Allen looked frayed, and he had a gun in his hand.

“Where did you get that?” Susan murmured, staring at the gun. “I didn’t know you had that. What—”

“I thought I saw someone out there,” he said. He glanced outside again before sliding the glass door shut behind him. “But it’s okay now….”

Dumbfounded, Susan stared at him. “Was that you I saw running past the kitchen window?”

Nodding, he adjusted the safety on the gun. “If someone was out there, he’s not coming back.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“I’ve had it for years,” he answered. “I just didn’t mention it because I knew you’d freak out if I told you I owned a gun.”

“Well, you were right,” she replied. “I
am
freaking out. I hope you haven’t been bringing it inside my house—”

“Relax, I’ve never smuggled any firearms inside the Blanchette duplex,” he said wryly. He set the gun on the end table and then picked up his glass of bourbon. “Just be glad I brought it along for this trip—what with that creepy son of a bitch following you here and probably giving you that flat tire.” He took a gulp of bourbon.

Booze and guns, good combination
, Susan thought. Frowning, she shook her head. “Well, I don’t want that thing in this house, not with Mattie around. I’ll be a nervous wreck.”

“I had it in the glove compartment of my car,” Allen assured her. “I only took it out about an hour ago when I heard a noise outside. I’ll put the gun back tomorrow morning. Until then, I’m holding on to it, okay? I’ll make sure it stays out of Mattie’s reach.”

With a sigh, she leaned against the sunroom doorway. She still didn’t feel very reassured. “I don’t understand why you felt you needed to bring a gun along this weekend. I mean, were you expecting trouble?”

He wandered over and rested his arms on her shoulders. Then he leaned in to kiss her.

Susan kept her arms folded in front of her. She could taste the bourbon on his lips.

Allen touched his forehead against hers. “Please, don’t freak out about the gun, okay? I’ve had it for years, and I know how to handle it. I’m just looking out for you and Mattie. Why don’t you go back upstairs and try to sleep, babe? I’ll be up in a little while—as soon as I’m sure we’re all safe and sound here.”

Susan still felt uncomfortable. Her eyes wrestled with his. “Listen, do me a big favor and don’t have any more to drink, not while you’re toting that gun.”

He smiled and kissed her again. “No problem, point taken. Besides, believe me, I don’t want to be hungover while we’re sailing tomorrow—” he glanced at his wristwatch, “or today, rather.” He chuckled. “Yikes, he’ll be up in about four hours. You better go to bed, Mommy. Get some shut-eye.”

He kissed her again, and this time, Susan kissed him back.

Heading up the stairs, she nervously rubbed her arms. She thought she knew everything about Allen, but until a few minutes ago, she had no idea he owned a gun. And it still seemed odd that he’d brought it along on this carefree weekend retreat, which he’d planned. He’d never really answered her question. Had he come here expecting trouble?

She stopped by Mattie’s room again and peeked in on him. He was still asleep, undisturbed. Susan moved on to the master bedroom.

Shedding her robe, she draped it over a chair. Then she crawled under the covers, reached over, and switched off the light. Allen had told her to get some sleep. But she knew it wouldn’t come easily, not while he was downstairs keeping watch—
with a gun
, for God’s sake. Clearly, he was expecting something bad to happen, and she couldn’t ignore that.

Her head on the pillow, Susan took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. But she knew—as much as she tried—she wouldn’t fall asleep.

It would be hours until morning.

At first, Jordan didn’t pay any attention to the other customer who walked into Rosie’s. From where he stood by the refrigerated foods and drinks section, Jordan briefly glanced at the guy—a good-looking man in his late thirties with wavy, silver-black hair and a cocky manner. Except for Rosie, behind the counter, they were the only ones in there.

Jordan was on a mission. He’d already driven into town and picked up the birthday cake he’d ordered for Leo. Just for kicks, he’d told the bakery it was for a young boy, so the cake had Speed Racer’s likeness in the multicolored frosting and a miniature plastic race car by the
Happy Birthday, Leo!
Jordan figured his buddy would get a good laugh out of it.

Leo would definitely like his birthday present. He’d flipped over a leather aviator jacket they’d first seen at Nordstrom about six weeks ago. Leo had gone back on two separate occasions to try it on again—even though he couldn’t afford the damn thing. Now it was wrapped and hidden in the back of Jordan’s Honda Civic. It cost three hundred and ninety-nine bucks. But that didn’t break the bank for Jordan, not at all. His dad was rich, and he’d also inherited a ton of money from his mom.

While in town, he’d also picked up birthday candles, streamers, and balloons. The plan was Moira would go for a walk with Leo in the woods. By the time they returned at one o’clock, Jordan would have the cabin decorated and the cake on display.

It wasn’t even noon yet, plenty of time. So, Jordan had stopped by Rosie’s for some Tim’s barbecue-flavored potato chips and Cheetos, and—after Leo’s diabetic episode last night—they also needed to restock on OJ.

Jordan opened the refrigerator door and reached for a big glass jug of orange juice. He heard the other customer talking to Rosie: “Say, listen, do you sell sunscreen here?”

The sound of that voice made Jordan’s stomach lurch. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe—or move.

“You bet we carry sunscreen,” Rosie was saying. “Let me show you….”

“We’re going sailing this afternoon,” the man continued. “Sometimes you can really get burned on these cool, overcast days—”

Jordan listened to the voice and to the man’s footsteps as he followed Rosie down the next aisle. Bent over by the refrigerator, Jordan started to shake violently. The jug of orange juice slipped out of his hand. It crashed on the wood floor. Glass shattered, and a puddle of orange juice bloomed across the aisle. Shards of glass were everywhere.

“Are you okay, hon?” Rosie called to him.

Jordan couldn’t answer her. He stood paralyzed in the middle of the puddle. Splattered orange juice soaked the legs of his jeans and his black Converse All Stars. He gaped at the man one aisle away, and they locked eyes. Jordan thought he was going to vomit.

“Hey, Mr. Destruct-o,” Rosie called, “what are you doing over there? Jordy, are you tearing the place down or what?” She waddled around the corner and balked at the mess on the floor. Then she gazed at Jordan. “Hon, you’re as white as a sheet….”

Numbly, he turned to her. He was still shaking. “I—I’m sorry, Rosie. I—don’t feel well.” For a moment, he thought he’d pissed in his pants, but then he realized it was orange juice. As he bent down to pick up some of the glass, everything around him started spinning.

“Leave that,” he heard Rosie insist. Rushing to his side, she took the bags of chips and Cheetos from him and set them on the counter. She quickly led Jordan down the aisle toward the door. “Careful of the juice on the floor, don’t slip now. Let’s get you some fresh air….”

As they passed the older man, Jordan couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t get out of that store fast enough. He broke away from Rosie and ran out the door. He raced around the corner—to the shaded side of the store so he could throw up without anyone seeing him. Over by the doors to the cellar storage space, he braced one hand on the wall.

“Sweetie, should I call somebody?” Rosie asked, coming around the corner. She stopped a few feet away from him.

“No, it’s okay,” Jordan managed to say. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Rosie. Could you—could you please just leave me alone for a few minutes?”

She backed away. “Give me a yell if you need anything. You hear me?”

He nodded. Rosie patted her orange hair and then headed back around the corner.

Jordan took a few deep breaths. He told himself he wasn’t going to puke. And he wasn’t going to start crying either. No, he had to keep his cool—and figure out what to do. Yet he was still shaking. His throat began closing up—and the tears streamed down his face. He slumped back against the cedar shingle wall and let go. He couldn’t stop sobbing.

Then after a few moments, he became enraged.

He couldn’t believe how he was acting—like a frightened little boy.

Wiping his face and nose with his shirtsleeve, Jordan paced back and forth by those cellar doors. He needed to
do something
, for God’s sake—before that guy jumped into his car and drove off.

A metal object on the ground by a woodpile caught Jordan’s eye. It resembled the head of a spiked rake. Part of it was rusted, but the prongs were still sharp and shiny—as if someone had recently sharpened them. Jordan picked it up and wandered toward the gravel lot in front of Rosie’s. He paused behind the thick trunk of a tall evergreen.

The only other car in the lot—besides his own Civic—was a black BMW. Jordan took a long look at the car’s tires. Then he examined the strange spiked object again.

He knew what he had to do.

That son of a bitch wasn’t getting away, not this time.

In the distance ahead, he watched the BMW listing to one side as it hobbled onto the gravel shoulder of Carroll Creek Road.

Jordan pulled over as well, leaving about a block-long gap between them. There weren’t any other cars in sight. He imagined the guy looking in his rearview mirror and barely making out the Honda Civic down the road behind him. He hadn’t stepped out of his BMW yet.

“Your cell phone doesn’t work around here, asshole,” Jordan whispered, his voice shaky. “Never mind trying to call anyone. Just get out of the car. See what the problem is….”

After setting the pronged device under the BMW’s rear passenger-side tire, Jordan had hidden behind a tree on the shady side of the store. He’d watched the man emerge from Rosie’s with a small plastic grocery bag and then climb inside his car. The spiked device remained on the ground while the BMW pulled out of the lot. Jordan couldn’t be certain if it had punctured the tire.

Once the BMW disappeared around a bend, Jordan retrieved the device and hurled it into the woodpile at the side of the store. He hurried up to the front porch. “Sorry, I’m leaving you with a real mess, Rosie!” he called through the screen door. “I still don’t feel so hot. I’ll be back to pay for the orange juice later….”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Jordy,” she called back. “I hope you feel better!”

He barely heard her as he rushed toward his Civic. Jumping inside, he gunned the engine and peeled out of the lot—not slowing down until he’d finally spotted the BMW up ahead in the distance.

It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile before the car had started listing to the right.

Now Jordan watched and waited inside his idling Civic. He nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d parked in the sun at Rosie’s lot earlier, so the car was hot, and it smelled of orange juice, sweat, and birthday cake. Jordan cracked a window. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, eying the crippled vehicle ahead. “Get out and look at the goddamn tire….”

He didn’t want anyone else coming along to help the guy. Jordan wasn’t sure yet exactly what he was going to do, but whatever it was, he didn’t want any witnesses.

At last, the driver’s door opened.

Biting his lip, Jordan watched the man step out of the BMW, then slam the door shut. He was wearing sunglasses. He stomped toward the back fender and checked the flat tire on the rear passenger side. He kicked at the gravel and then treaded back to the driver’s door. Opening it, he reached into the front for something on the dashboard. The trunk popped halfway up. The man moved around toward the trunk, but suddenly stopped and stared down the road.

Jordan shrank back in his seat. He couldn’t discern the man’s expression—and his eyes were hidden by his sunglasses—but Jordan was almost certain the guy was glaring at him.

Finally, the man turned and opened the trunk lid all the way. Taking off his jacket, he draped it over the edge of the trunk, and then he began to unload the spare tire and the tools.

Jordan waited a few more minutes. He found it tough to breathe right, and his heart was racing. He felt a little sick again. Glancing around to make certain no other cars were coming, he slowly pulled onto the road. He didn’t have to drive far before veering back onto the shoulder and crawling to a stop behind the disabled BMW.

The man had just set the spare tire and the last of the tools on the ground. He stopped and took off his sunglasses to stare at the Honda Civic. He reached for his jacket again.

Jordan swallowed hard and then climbed out of the car. He worked up a friendly smile and tossed him a little wave. “Need any help?” he asked.

The man didn’t return the smile. He squinted at Jordan. “Say, weren’t you in the store earlier? Are you following me or something?”

Jordan stopped in his tracks. He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, I was at the store, but I—I’m not following you, no.”

Holding on to his jacket, the man patted it down for something in the pockets. “Well, this is a pretty weird coincidence. Something just like this happened yesterday. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Jordan replied, moving a step closer. “I’m Brad—Brad Reece.” It was the name of his English Lit teacher.

The man found whatever he’d been searching for in the jacket’s pockets, but he didn’t take it out yet. “If you weren’t following me, what were you doing parked back there?”

Jordan shrugged. “Oh, well, huh, I thought you might be in trouble or something. There isn’t a lot of traffic on this stretch of the road. I didn’t want to leave you stranded.” He laughed and then shrugged again. “Then again, you could have been sitting in there lighting up a joint for all I knew. I just—I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I passed you by.”

“That’s extremely nice of you,” the man said, with a skeptical sidelong glance.

Jordan took a deep breath and then stepped over to the car. “So—do you live here in Cullen, or are you visiting?”

“Visiting,” the man answered, still guarded.

Jordan nodded a few more times than necessary. “Well, my family—we live in Everett, but we spend a lot of weekends here. We own a cabin down the road a bit.” He feigned interest in the flat tire. “Wow, that’s shot to shit, isn’t it?” Rolling up his sleeves, he picked up the tire wrench. Jordan hoped the man didn’t notice his hand trembling. “I bet the two of us can get this tire changed in less than five minutes.”

The man didn’t respond. He seemed to be watching Jordan’s every move.

With one end of the wrench, Jordan pried the hubcap off the flat tire. His palms were sweating, but he kept a firm grip of the wrench as he started to loosen the lug nuts. “Damn,” he grunted. “These suckers are on here tight—tighter than a bull’s ass in a snowstorm, as my dad likes to say.” He forced a laugh. “Hey, um, you know, you never told me your name—or where you’re visiting from.”

Bent over the flat tire, Jordan wasn’t looking at the man. He just had to go by the tone of his voice. The guy waited a few beats before answering. “My name’s Allen Meeker. I’m here for the weekend with my fiancée and her little boy. We drove up from Seattle yesterday.”

“Oh, really? So—how old is the boy?” Jordan asked.

“He’s four. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” Jordan replied. He knew the man was lying. He’d taken a long look at this BMW, and if the guy had driven up here with a child under five, there would have been some kind of child safety seat in the back.

“Are you camping, or did you guys rent a cabin?” Jordan asked, keeping his eyes on his work.

“We’ve rented a very nice house on the bay.”

Jordan hesitated. He remembered the woman and the little boy he’d met yesterday afternoon outside Rosie’s. “Is—um—the house about two miles farther down this road?”

Standing over him, the man nodded. “How did you—”

“Twenty-two Birch?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

Jordan felt a bit sick again. He tried to keep his voice steady as he answered: “It’s the only rental house on the water on this side of the bay.” He glanced up at the man again.

Allen Meeker put on his jacket—and his sunglasses. It struck Jordan as odd, because he didn’t need the jacket. Despite a slight autumn chill in the air, the sun was strong and warm. There were even beads of sweat on his forehead. He’d been feeling around for something inside that jacket earlier. Jordan figured he had a gun, a switchblade, or
something
in there. Right now, he kept his hands in his jacket pockets—and he kept sweating.

Jordan loosened the last of the lug nuts. “Is this your first visit to Cullen?” he asked—as casually as he could.

“I—um, yeah, this is my first visit,” the man answered with hesitation.

He was lying again. Jordan knew.

“So—Allen,” he said. “If you don’t mind getting your hands a little dirty, could you roll that spare over here and hand me the jack?”

He laughed. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you do all the work. Listen—um,
Brad
, thank you very much. You really deserve a Good Samaritan award.” He took his hands out of his pockets and retrieved the jack. He set it by Jordan, and then went to fetch the spare tire.

Jordan wedged the jack beneath the car and started cranking it up.

The man rolled the spare tire over to him. “I think you were right,” he said. “You’ll have this done in five minutes.” While Jordan worked the jack, Allen unscrewed the loose lug nuts by hand. They made a hollow clanking noise every time he dropped one of them inside the upturned hubcap. They were both squatting down by the car’s rear passenger side. Allen stopped to glance at him. He took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. “Say, your color looks better now—at least, better than it did in the store earlier. I thought you were going to be sick back there.”