Because I'm Watching (16 page)

“I taught elementary school for forty-five years and Walter is a veteran of the Korean War. I hardly think a mere slip of a female could overpower us both.” Mrs. Williamson turned to Sheriff Kwinault. “You're looking well, Kateri, dear. How are you doing?”

With that, the crisis was defused.

Dr. Frownfelter joined the conversation centered around Kateri's health.

Chantal Filips and Dayton Floren drifted away.

Mrs. Butenschoen stood as if she wanted to do something more, something to prove she had not been vanquished, but no one paid her any heed, so at last she vanished toward her house.

Officer Moen arrived to report that Madeline Hewitson was not at home. When he saw Maddie standing there, excitement lit him from the inside and he offered to walk her to her home and check it for monsters.

Maddie looked startled and wary.

Jacob wondered why the kid had suddenly become such a fan of Maddie's. Had he fallen in love? Was he like one of those people who for some sick reason offered to marry a convicted prisoner? Jacob halfway expected Maddie to appeal to him, but instead she grasped Moen's sleeve and allowed him to lead her across the street toward her house.

The EMT was putting his equipment away.

The firefighters were dousing any hot spots and writing their reports.

No one was paying any attention to Jacob. No one at all.

Silently he stood. He made his way through the dripping interior of his once-again ruined home and into his bedroom. He locked the door and figured the world could go to hell.

With or without him it always did just that.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Maddie walked into her house and turned to block the door. “Officer Moen, I appreciate you offering to check for monsters, but I'm not afraid tonight and—”

The big guy pushed his way in and headed right to her desk. He picked up one of her drawings. “You're a graphic artist, aren't you?”

She marched over and snatched it out of his hands. “Not exactly.”

“Last time I was here, I saw your sketches on the desk. You're good.”

She stacked the drawings and stuck them in the belly drawer. “Thank you.” She didn't mean it. Officer Moen seemed like a big, bumbling, good-natured cop. But he had seen her sketches. He knew the monster that chased her. He was pushy and he had been at the end of her street, waiting to be called.… Was he her stalker, her tormentor? Was he one of those men who liked to frighten women?

She backed toward the front door, prepared to run.

“I want to be a graphic artist, too.”

“I'm really not a graphic artist. I was just fooling around.”

“Could you give me lessons?”

“No. I'm no good.”

His face was flushing a mottled red. His blue eyes were bright and getting brighter. “You
are
good. That monster … I'll never forget what it looks like. If you won't give me lessons, would you look at my stuff? Give me advice?”

“I'm not a … No. Really.”

“But if you looked at my drawings and you thought they were good, you could recommend me to your publishing company, right?”

“No! I don't have a publishing company! Officer Moen, are you going to check for … for monsters?”

“Sure.” He rapidly walked the house.

She realized how well he knew the location of every room, every closet. He looked like a big, innocent kid, but she of all people knew better than to believe in appearances.

When he came back into the living room, he dug a card out of his wallet and presented it to her. “If you change your mind, you can call me anytime.”

She took the card from his fingers, careful not to touch him. “I can't help you.”

He opened the desk drawer and pulled out her drawings. “You can. You just won't!”

*   *   *

Kateri walked up Madeline Hewitson's front steps and paused outside the open door. Inside she heard two voices speaking simultaneously.

Moen was saying, “Please. Please, I promise it won't hurt and I would make it worth your while!”

Maddie was saying, “No. No, I can't. I can't do that.”

Kateri stepped across the threshold, slammed her walking stick on the floor, and snapped, “Officer Rupert Moen, what are you doing?”

To her surprise and immense relief, he was standing by Maddie's desk and holding papers in his fist. He jumped, turned to face Kateri, and blushed as red as his hair.

At the sight of Kateri, Maddie closed her eyes in what looked like thankfulness, then opened them and in a bright voice said, “Thank you for escorting me home, Officer Moen. You can go now. Go
now.
”

Kateri said, “Yes, Moen, go.”

He looked wretched and if possible even more embarrassed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. With one last pleading glance at Maddie, he started toward Kateri.

“Rupert, shouldn't you return those papers to Miss Hewitson?” Kateri asked.

He returned to her desk and placed the papers there, then stumbled out the door.

Whatever had been going on was probably not as bad as Kateri thought it initially sounded … but clearly it wasn't good. “Miss Hewitson, do you want to make a complaint about Officer Moen?”

“No. He's fine.” Maddie made her statement firmly. She looked down at the business card in her hand, opened her desk drawer, and tossed the card in the far back.

That wasn't good enough. “If he's bothering you in any way, I'll take action. I won't allow him to behave in an inappropriate manner while on or off duty, and I do promise I recognize signs of guilt when I see them.”

Maddie met Kateri's gaze, and for once she looked normal: mature, calm, balanced, as she always would have if terror and madness hadn't touched her life. “He just … he wants things and thinks I can help him. I wish I could, but I can't. I don't have the power.”

That sounded very much like Moen had made an inappropriate proposition to Maddie Hewitson. But for whatever reason, Maddie was refusing to press charges, and Kateri couldn't take action until she did. “If you change your mind, call me anytime. I'll put my card on your desk.” She started toward the desk, intent on leaving her card—and attempted to quickly glimpse the papers he had left behind.

Maddie hurried to intercept her and snatched the card from her fingers. “I won't change my mind. But I will call you if I need you.”

So Maddie didn't want Kateri seeing what she kept on her desk. What could it be? Pornography? An accounting of drug sales? Maddie's sanity report? “Good. I look forward to hearing from you.”

Maddie carefully propped Kateri's card up on her lamp. “The sun is coming up.”

Kateri glanced out the window. “Yes. That happens at dawn.”

Maddie grinned. “I'm going to bed.”

Thinking of how little sleep she'd had in the past week, Kateri groaned and headed out the door. Behind her, she heard Maddie turn the lock. Kateri was scheduled for duty, and no matter what Maddie said, Officer Rupert Moen was about to have the facts of law enforcement life explained to him in a manner that would penetrate that thick young skull. Then, to give him some perspective on what was important in life, they would go looking for a kidnapped and abused child. God grant that they find the child before it was too late.

*   *   *

“For shit's sake, if I find the arsonist son of a bitch who did this, I'm going to clean his clock.” Berk Moore flung up his arms and shouted, “That fucker! Do you know what kind of smoke damage we're looking at? Do you? Cleaning this place is going to suck big hairy dog dicks! Melted pipes. Melted! And look at the wiring in the attic. Compromised, every bit of it.”

Electricians, plumbers, and carpenters stood staring in awe at their usually even-tempered boss.

Jacob had staggered out of his bedroom in time to witness Moore's tantrum. Wow. Just … wow. Good times. He hadn't seen a fit like that since … well, since his own last fit. He was enjoying it, so he yawned, scratched his belly, and said, “Mrs. Butenschoen won't be happy if this sets back the schedule.”

“Sets back the schedule?”
Moore almost frothed at the mouth. “Hell yes, it's going to set back the schedule! We're back at square one and I've got another job starting. East of town, total remodel, wealthy people who expect it done
now.
This schedule is fucked. Absolutely fucked. Might as well call Web to clean this shit up.”

Web walked up off the lawn. “I'm here, Berk.”

“About goddamn time. Clean all this crap up and haul it away, and start bringing in more shit to do everything over again that we already did.” Moore kicked the blackened remnants of Jacob's table. “I need another set of plans printed out. Pronto!”

Unperturbed as always, Web nodded. “Will do.”

“And shit son of a bitch, has anyone called that prick insurance agent Dennis Wodzicki and made a claim? Updated the claim? Whatever it is we have to do?” Moore looked at Jacob in inquiry.

Jacob shrugged. “Dunno. I went to bed.” He had slept, too. Something about having his nightmares come true vanquished the worst of the terror for at least one night. He scratched again. “I've got nowhere to sit.”

“No shit?” Moore was winding up again. “You might as well blow up every damned piece of furniture in here. There isn't a charity that would take any of it. Cleaners will never get the smell out. Go get a hotel, stay there until we get the worst of this scrubbed up.”

“No.”

“Is that all you know how to say? How about saying
yes
for a change? How about—” The house phone rang. Moore turned to stare at it; his voice got louder, if that was possible. “How the hell can every damned thing in this house fall apart and that damned phone still works?”

“They don't build 'em like they used to.” Jacob would have been enjoying this more if it hadn't been ten o'clock in the morning. That was his mother calling. He wasn't going to pick up the phone.

Moore, good ol' pissed-off Moore, marched over and picked up the phone. “Mrs. Denisov, how are you?” He listened for about half a second before saying, “Someone set fire to Jacob's home last night. He's fine, but we've got blistered paint on the cheapo plywood kitchen cabinets, the whole goddamn kitchen has to be replaced, and he's standing there scratching his nuts like he's looking for gold.”

Jacob opened his arms so his hands were extended far from his body. He glared meaningfully at Moore.

Moore grinned callously back at him. “So I guess he's done being depressed and he's on to being something else. Horny. Or maybe perverted. That's progress, right?” Moore watched a truck come around the corner—a truck advertising the New Age Furniture Store. “I've got to go. We've got a delivery coming. Next time you call, maybe Jacob will pull his fingers out of his sweatpants long enough to talk to you.” He slammed down the phone.

“Thanks, Berk,” Jacob said with a fair amount of irony.

“You're welcome, Jakie,” Moore said with an equal amount of sarcasm.

The truck pulled up to the curb. Two guys got out, opened the back, unloaded a footstool and a black leather recliner—not just any leather recliner, one of those expensive Scandinavian recliners that rocked, had a drink holder in the arm and, if the right music was played, could line dance—and carried it up into the sooty living room. They put the new recliner down, moved the old recliner out of the house, moved the new recliner into its place.

One of the men—Leo, if the stitching on his overalls was to be believed—looked around until he located Jacob. “Mr. Denisov? Would you sign here, please?”

Jacob took the iPad and signed on the line.

Leo took the iPad, read the form, and recited, “This is for you, a gift from Mr. Wodzicki of Wodzicki Insurance, and he hopes you get many years of enjoyment from sitting in it.”

Jacob's eyes narrowed on the small brass plaque attached to the back of the chair.

Leo pulled his phone out of his pocket and found his camera app. “Mr. Denisov, if you'd sit in the recliner, Mr. Wodzicki would like a picture for his collection.” He held up his phone as if expecting Jacob to obey like a well-trained dog.

Instead, Jacob got on one knee and read the inscription:
A gift from insurance agent Dennis Wodzicki to our local military hero, Jacob Denisov. We will never forget.

In a determinedly level voice, Jacob asked, “Has Mr. Wodzicki taken a photo of the plaque?”

“Yes, sir,” Leo said. “He's going to frame it and the photo of you in the chair and put it on his wall.”

Web groaned.

Moore snorted.

Jacob smiled. “I'm afraid that won't be possible.”

Leo wasn't the brightest bulb in the box; he couldn't figure out why all the construction men took a step back. “Why not?”

Jacob sucked in a deep breath of fresh morning air. Standing, he grabbed the chair by the back and one arm and swung it up over his head. Walking to the edge of the makeshift porch, he roared like a berserker and flung it as hard as he could into the middle of the yard.

Leo's cohort stood there, wide-eyed, while Leo sputtered, “But … you … he … the chair … publicity…”

Jacob turned toward him, clenched his fists, flexed his shoulders, and roared again.

Leo's cohort broke and ran.

Leo shook his head and said, “I'm going to be in trouble.”

Moore said, “Kid, if you don't get out of here, you're going to be dead.”

Jacob stalked toward Leo.

Leo looked out at the chair, catawampus in the lawn. He looked at Jacob. He fled, jumping off the porch, and bounding toward the truck.

Jacob stopped, breathing hard.

As if nothing untoward had happened, Web wandered over. “You signed for that, right?”