White Lies (10 page)

“Someone coming?” John asked.

“Yes, right now.”

Less than five minutes later a black and white pulled into her driveway, reminding Katrina once more of that dare all those years ago. It was a powerful image, a police car. It was the archetype of authority. It seemed to promise order would reassert itself. Wrongs
would be righted. Criminals would be punished.
Peeping Toms would be caught
. Katrina had the front door open before the cop had climbed the front steps. She invited him inside and offered him a cup of the jasmine tea she had brewed. He declined. She went on to tell him what happened. At his request she showed him the bathroom. The air was redolent with the bath oil. The candles were still burning. She flicked on the overhead light and blew out the flames.

While the cop—Officer Murray, he'd introduced himself as— examined the bathtub and window, Katrina took the opportunity to study him. He was downright small, maybe one hundred and forty pounds with his clothes on. He stood at around five foot five—including the extra inch his shiny black boots gave him. The standard equipment that made the typical barrel-chested cops so intimidating, such as a duty belt and gun, almost seemed to weigh this particular fellow down. The image was embellished by his apparent need to continually hitch his belt higher, a jerky, stop-motion action. A balding crown covered by a desperate comb over, buckteeth, too-large uniform, and the sense he was standing as straight as possible to gain an inch made him appear a caricature of authority. His attitude, however, was anything but comical. His eyes were intense, his tone clipped and to the point. It was clear he took his job very seriously. “So you say you were in the bathtub when you heard some noise”—he consulted his battered notebook in which he had been scribbling notes—“and when you turned around you saw some perp watching you?”

“Yes,” she said.

He crouched down beside the bathtub and craned his neck to see up toward the window. “But from this angle, wouldn't it have been tough to see out?”

“I was standing.”

“But you were having a bath, isn't that right?”

“I was getting out.”

“That's when you heard the noise?”

“I think he might have stepped on a plastic flower pot. I saw a few out back the other day. Should we check?”

“Not necessary,” Officer Murray said dismissively, jotting more notes in his notebook. He addressed John Winthorpe, who'd followed them into the bathroom. “You say he was tall and lanky? Anything else?”

“He was wearing a black pullover and black slacks.”

The cop nodded and raised his chin, failing to look bigger than he actually was. “I'd put out an APB, but I'm afraid it wouldn't do any good. I'm the only one on the beat tonight.”

“You're kidding?” Katrina said.

“Small town, ma'am.”

“So you're not going to do anything?”

“Given neither of you got a good look at the perp, there's not much I can do.”

“What about footprints? He must have left footprints. You can get plastic molds, right?”

“This isn't a murder scene, Ms. Burton. From what you've told me, all we have here is some pervert looking through your window. I understand how that might bother you, but these kooks are usually harmless.”

“This has happened before? Recently?”

“No, ma'am. Real Peeping Toms are rare.”

“Maybe that's because they don't get caught,” she said cynically. She knew she should be grateful to the cop, but she couldn't help it. He was pretty much telling her all options were off the table.

“I'm thinking,” Officer Murray said, not rising to the bait, “what you have here is just some guy getting his kicks. Probably no more dangerous than those guys who cop a feel in a crowded place.” He stuck his notebook in his belt with a solid shove, as if to signal the matter was settled.
Justice served. Don't call me, I'll call you
. He took the peaked cap that had been tucked under his arm and replaced it on his head.

“That's supposed to be comforting?” To Katrina's reasoning, it was about as comforting as saying, “Don't worry. He doesn't rape woman. No, no, he just harasses them. Gives them a good scare. He's harmless.”

“Better than a real crazy outside your window, Ms. Burton.”

“But that's the point! What if he
is
crazy? How do you know he's not? What if he has a psychological disorder? What if this kind of voyeurism is an addiction to him? What if he comes back? What if he decides a quick look isn't enough?”

“I doubt it,” Officer Murray said matter-of-factly.

Katrina clenched her jaw. Why couldn't the dispatcher have sent her a real cop? Not half a man with half-baked thoughts on law and order? “So what happens?” she asked, not bothering to hide her frustration.

“I'll cruise around the neighborhood. See if I spot anyone who matches the description you and Mr. Winthorpe gave me. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky.”

“And if he doesn't happen to be walking aimlessly around?” she demanded.

Officer Murray gave his belt a hefty tug. “Like I told you. There's not much else I can do. Without a good description, he could swap clothes and be any tall fellow out there.”

“What about a stakeout?” John suggested. “Like Ms. Burton said, if he comes back—”

“We don't have the manpower for that.”

“But what if he does come back?” Katrina pressed. They were going in circles, but she couldn't steer the cop straight.

Officer Murray shrugged. “Try to get a better description of him.”

“Sure,” Katrina said. “Maybe I'll just set up a canvas and paints.”

John grinned. Officer Murray, seemingly impervious to sarcasm, simply asked if she had a gun.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“I suggest if you don't feel safe, Ms. Burton, you go out and buy yourself one.” He tipped a nod to them both—
all in a good day's work, ma'am
, it seemed to say—then returned to the living room. He paused at the front door to hike up his belt once more. He nodded at the front bay window. “I also suggest you get some blinds.”

He left. John and Katrina remained where they were, in silence,
listening to his booted footsteps descend the front steps. The slam of the cruiser door—which Katrina no longer thought of as the archetype of authority. The grumble of the engine, fading, fading.

“That didn't go too well, did it?” John said, breaking the protracted silence.

She sighed. “I suppose I was a little rough on him. He was just doing his job.”

“I think you handled yourself quite admirably. You've been through a lot. God knows how my wife, Carol, would have reacted had she caught some man peering through her bathroom window.” John chuckled. “Yee-gad! That would be something. Likely she would want to move to a new state.” He shook his head, still contemplating that. He added, “Just lock up carefully tonight. And I wouldn't be too frightened, if I were you. Officer Murray was right about one thing. These guys are cowards. They're after a cheap thrill, that's all. You'll likely never see him again. Not if he knows that you know he might be out there. Which he does now. Nevertheless, you might want to look into getting a handgun, even if it remains in a shoebox in your closet. You know, just in case.”

Suddenly Katrina felt extremely tired, deflated, like a balloon that had just lost a good bit of its air. All this seemed too much. The scare Zach had given her out on the highway. The possibility a good number of her colleagues were planning for a party at a cabin she didn't own. The fact there was a Peeping Tom lurking around the neighborhood. If she was the superstitious type, she would have believed the gods had put a curse on her so she would attract bad luck wherever she went.

“I take Molson for a walk every evening around this time,” John went on. “If it means anything, I'll keep an eye out for anybody who resembles this creep.”

“That's very kind of you. But you don't have to.”

“I insist. Give this old man some excitement.”

Katrina thanked John for his concern and showed him and Molson out. She returned to the kitchen, dumped her tea she'd
barely touched down the drain, and systematically checked to make sure all the bungalow's windows were locked. To be on the safe side, she stripped the sheets off the bed and pinned them over the two bedroom windows, using the Monkey Hooks she'd gotten earlier.

She wondered what Jack Reeves would say if he knew this was how she was using the hooks he'd recommended. It seemed as if she'd met him days ago, not hours. She tried to remember their exact conversation. She couldn't recall any specific details, only a broad rainbow of emotions. Instant attraction when she looked up and saw him standing there, tall, dark, and handsome. Delight when he winked at her. Embarrassment when her mind hit a patch of fog and she couldn't think of anything to say. Regret when she had to leave the store, wondering if she would see him again.

It amazed her she could feel any of these romantic emotions at all, let alone for a relative stranger. Shouldn't she be in mourning? How long was long enough? It had already been nearly two years. A hellish, lonely two years. How many nights had she remained awake in bed, unable to sleep? How many hours had she spent staring into the mirror, examining the wrinkles that creased the skin around her eyes and along her brow, wrinkles that had never been there before? Sometimes during those moments she'd felt as though she'd been looking at the face of a stranger. She'd been not only devastated but lost, drifting aimlessly on an unseen current. It had terrified her to know she might never again find that person she used to be. So she'd made a choice. Close her eyes and float off into the vast expanse of obscurity that threatened to swallow her, or begin paddling in some direction, any direction, and hope she'd hit land. She paddled. She started looking for new teaching jobs around the state—not in Seattle, she had to get out of Seattle if she wanted to start fresh. It had been good therapy. Day by day she began to regain her appetite for simple pleasures. She no longer cried herself to sleep or slept for several hours during the day.

So it
had
been long enough, she thought. She'd put in her
penance, served her time. Wasn't the next logical step to find someone else? Not someone to replace Shawn. Someone to fill the emptiness he'd left inside her.

It was dangerous, she knew, to be thinking of Jack Reeves in this way, as a kind of savior figure. She knew nothing about him. He could turn out to be a jerk, or a player. He might not have a wife, but he could very well have a girlfriend. Why wouldn't he? He was charismatic and handsome. Still, she didn't care about any of that, she realized. She'd already made the decision. She was going to give herself over to, if not Jack, the idea of Jack—a new man, a new start.

Katrina changed into her pajamas—she didn't usually wear them, but she didn't usually have a peeper sneaking around the neighborhood—turned off the lights, then lay down on the futon. The night settled over her, soft and quiet, like a second blanket. But she was unable to fall asleep right away. Not after everything that had happened. Staring into the dark, she began composing a list in her head of what else she might need from the hardware store tomorrow afternoon.

“Zach?” Katrina said, poking her head into his classroom. “I want to talk to you. It's about yesterday.”

Zach was seated behind his desk, a Styrofoam cup of instant noodles in front of him, a pair of chopsticks poking out of it like antennae. He was dressed unexpectedly respectable in a jacket and tie, which was definitely a step up from his hockey jersey. He still looked like a kid, someone too young to be a high school teacher, but he was getting there. A bizarre thought popped into her head: one day he was going to make a very fetching man. She pushed that image away quickly, embarrassed to be thinking such a thing.

He turned to her. An expression that seemed to hover somewhere between suspicion and fear splashed across his face, only to evaporate the next moment. She wondered what that meant.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. Not pleasant, not angry. Just business as usual. The voice you used on the phone when trying to sort out a questionable bill. He deserved nothing more. “I have a bit of a temper. Sometimes it gets the best of me.”

Zach's features thawed. He seemed to visibly relax. “Well, thanks, I guess. Anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“Actually, there is,” she said. “It's about the party. I talked to my sister last night. She's coming up to visit me this weekend. I'm going to be showing her around. There's simply no time for me to have people to the cabin. And since you seem to know more than me about who had planned to come or not, I was hoping you could pass this information along.”

“Well, I—”

“Thanks, Zach,” she said curtly and left his classroom, biting back a smile. That felt good. Both the perplexed look on his face, and the fact the matter with the cabin was now nicely settled.

Back in her classroom, seated behind her desk, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Still another twenty minutes before the first bell. She took out a folder from the desk drawer and browsed her weekly schedule, going over where her breaks were. She found herself frowning. Something was nagging at her. Specifically, why had Zach looked the way he had when she'd stopped by? It was almost as if she'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Only he hadn't been doing anything except staring off into space. What had he been thinking about? What did people like Zach think about? Video games? Dungeons & Dragons? Screwing his siblings out of his parents' wills? Something about her?

That would explain why he had looked so guilty upon her sudden appearance. But just as soon as Katrina entertained that vain possibility, she discarded it. The world did not revolve around her. Certainly people did not sit around daydreaming about her. Even people like Zach. No, it was much more plausible he had thought she was going to let loose another verbal attack on him, especially considering how his attitude changed when she told him she wanted to apologize. Oddly, she found that explanation anticlimactic, as if she wanted a reason to get into it with him again. She usually wasn't like this, this petty, that's just how much he had gotten under her skin.