Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease (19 page)

“How am I going to keep it to myself, when Lauren has the right to know? It’ll kill me to keep my mouth shut.”

“You’ll do what you need to do.”

But it was too late. Lauren had already heard every word.

Once home, Lauren walked through her empty house to the kitchen. She saw the padlock and hasp lying on the kitchen table. She grabbed the padlock and looked at it for a moment.

“
Fuck!
” she screamed, and threw the lock as hard as she could. Its weight carried it straight through the windowpane, which shattered on impact and whose pieces shattered a second time when they hit the kitchen linoleum and the back porch.

Only a few seconds passed before Rita was calling her name.

“Lauren? Are you all right?” Rita’s red, springy curls appeared on the other side of the broken window. “Oh, shit. Lauren?” She came through the kitchen door, Bert right behind her.

“Oh, honey, oh dear.” She held the sobbing Lauren once again. “I can’t stand this! I can’t stand seeing you this way!”

“You don’t have to.” Lauren said, the word broken by her sobs, her chest heaving. “You don’t need to be here.”

“Yes, I do,” Rita insisted firmly. “Bert and I are going to fix this for you. Aren’t, we, Bert?”

“Yep,” Bert responded. He was already sweeping up the broken glass with Lauren’s kitchen broom.

But neither of them was talking about the broken window.

Lauren didn’t fall into the numb depression she had experienced when she lost Michael and Allison. Her mind worked overtime, thinking about Rosalie Preacher. Cold anger motivated her, propelling her through her subsequent days, during which, when she replayed it over in her head, she kept seeing Rosalie Preacher standing in her front yard with a satisfied smirk on her face, patting her nephew, Brandon, on the back. The more she put that split-second together with the conversation she’d overheard, the more convinced Lauren became that Rosalie Preacher had seen and taken an opportunity to get back at Lauren for dismissing her.

But she couldn’t prove it. Her dog had run across street, excited at chasing a potential new playmate.

Rosalie Preacher had killed her daughter’s dog, the last remaining member of Lauren’s family. She had no siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents. She had been placed in the foster system at an early age, and had grown up in several foster homes. One of the only things she had ever wished for in life had been an average, traditional family. With her marriage to Michael and then Allison’s birth, Lauren’s dream had come true. A real family, with a family dog. She had cherished her husband and daughter, and then her daughter’s dog.

Her husband and daughter were taken from her by an angry, confused teenager.

Now, her family pet had been taken by an ignorant, spiteful bitch.

Lauren started making plans.

* * *

Two days after the accident, an unfamiliar number came across Lauren’s cell phone display. She normally ignored unfamiliar numbers and sent them to voicemail, but this time, she answered.

“Is this Lauren Lattimer?” A man’s voice said.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m sorry, it’s Jack Phillips. Um . . . I’m the one who hit your dog.”

“What the hell? Why are you calling me?
How did you get my number?
”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, your friend Rita told me I should call you and try to help you.”

“How do you think you can help me?
You killed my dog.
”

“Like, maybe help with his expenses . . .”

Lauren hadn’t even begun to think about arrangements. Jack’s phone call was a grim reminder that she had to take care of Mop’s body as soon as possible. And then she thought,
he was speeding . . . but he was set up, too . . . it wasn’t all him . . .
but it could have been. Even if Rosalie hadn’t been there, there was a good chance that Jack would have hurt someone, sometime. But Rosalie
had
been there, and if it hadn’t been for her actions, Mop might still be alive. And at least
one
of those responsible for his death was coming forward, and last rites, even for a pet, were expensive. She should accept the offer.

“Um . . . okay. I’ll send you the bill. You can reimburse me.” She took down Jack’s address and phone number.

After another two days, Mop’s ashes lay in an urn beside the other two on the living room shelf, his framed photograph together with the photographs of Michael and Allison. Lauren had missed the previous four days from work, and decided that it made no sense to return to work on a Friday, so she took the day off and returned to work the following Monday.

She didn’t tell the Williams that she had overheard them. She knew that if anything happened to her and they knew she had heard their conversation, they would feel guilty and want to take the blame. Lauren didn’t want that. What she intended to do was her own decision, and she would accept the consequences of her own actions.

* * *

She wore a black pair of jeans, black sweatshirt, black jacket, and sneakers. The autumn nights had grown colder; a good excuse to tuck her long brown waves into a black winter cap. When she got home from work every day, she ate a small meal and went to bed to try to catch a couple of hours of sleep so that she could be awake and alert at 10:30 p.m. – right when Rosalie Preacher left on her lonely evening walk to work.

Lauren watched out the window from her darkened bedroom. When she saw Rosalie leave her house, she waited five minutes and slipped out her back door, out the gate and up her driveway. Keeping Rosalie just in sight and staying to the shadows, Lauren tailed her every night for the next several weeks.

Lauren found that she could set her clock by the scrawny older woman. She left her house at precisely 10:30 every night. She carried her mid-shift meal in the same light blue lunch bag. She walked at the same speed, took the same route, and reached work at the same time each night.

Lauren also noted another detail that helped her formulate her plan. Rosalie Preacher crossed the Marshall Avenue train tracks just ahead of the 10:53 train.

Without fail.

Lauren decided on the date to fulfill her goal: Halloween. She didn’t want to wait too much longer than that. The snow would soon fly, and she didn’t need the added complications of footprints leading back to her.

* * *

One dark night, Bert Williams, ever the insomniac, sat in the shadows of his front porch, quietly smoking a cigarette. He wore a knit cap and quilted flannel jacket against the cold.

He had just butted his smoke and was about to open his front door to go back inside when he saw motion from the corner of his eye. He looked on silently as Lauren walked quickly through the shadows, following Rosalie preacher.

He mentioned his misgivings to his wife. “She’s up to something,” he told her over dinner one evening. “She’s going to get herself into trouble.”

“Well, what do you want do about it?”

Bert sighed. “I don’t know what to do about it if I don’t even know what she’s doing.”

“You know what I think?” Rita tipped the salad bowl and spooned a second helping onto her plate. “If it were
me
in her shoes, I would want revenge.” She speared a tomato wedge and popped it into her mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Think about it. Justice was never served with that boy that shot Mike and Allie. Lauren is still dealing with that loss. Then you get that old skinflint over there, scratchy, harsh, ignorant, and mean enough to do what she did, all because Lauren kicked her off of her porch.”

Bert sat for a moment, contemplating his plate. He shook his head and looked at his wife. “I don’t
want
to think it,” he said.

Rita put her plump hand on his thin, bony one. “I don’t either.”

* * *

When Lauren visited Rita on occasion during those few weeks, secrets hung in the air, invisible, between them. Lauren didn’t volunteer any information about her nocturnal activities, and her friend acted as though the only reason for Lauren’s preoccupation was the loss of her family pet. Bert said very little about anything, but that wasn’t unusual. Lauren didn’t notice the glances the couple exchanged.

Rita visited Rosalie Preacher twice more after day of the accident. Because Rita was the neighborhood busybody and none of the neighbors on their block were exempt from her periodic drop-ins, anyone who might have seen her entering or leaving the Preacher house wouldn’t think twice about it.

Her last visit was on Halloween afternoon, and Rosalie took a pie with her – an individual pie.

“Now Rosalie, honey, you’ll want to eat this pie up all on your own. Don’t share it, it’s a gift just for you. And make sure you eat it
tonight
, after dinner. This brand of pumpkins spoils quickly, so you can’t let it sit long, at all.”

Rosalie Preacher obliged and ate the pie while Mack took Elaine and Brandon trick-or treating.

That evening, Lauren went over to help Rita hand out candy. The trick-or-treaters came and went, some in large groups, some in-between stragglers. Most of the parents stayed down by the sidewalk, allowing their children the illusion of independence. Others whose kids were still toddlers accompanied them to the door, coaching them on how to push the doorbell or knock on the door and yell “Trick or treat!”

As the hour grew later and the throng slowed to a trickle, Rita looked at Lauren’s wan face with concern. “Are you all right, dear?”

Lauren shook her head, her hazel eyes brimming with tears. “I should have been out there with Allison tonight.”

Rita put an arm around her. “I can’t even begin to imagine how this must feel to you. I wish that I could help.”

Lauren was silent for a few moments as she tried to calm her emotions.

“Would you like to stay with us tonight? There’s no reason for you to be alone. Why sit home by yourself?”

“Oh no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Are you sure, dear? We’re right here. We have the room. We would love to have you as an overnight guest. Right, Bert?”

“Yep,” Bert said from the armchair where he sat watching
Jeopardy
.

“See? Stay with us, Lauren, please. There’s no reason to leave.”

“Thank you so much, Rita, I really appreciate your offer. And I know you’re really trying to help, but tonight I kind of feel like I need to be alone.”

“Okay, but we’re right here if you need us. For anything at all. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you. You’ve been a wonderful friend to me, and I am really grateful. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

Rita forced a smile. “Of course, you will, dear. Have a peaceful night.”

After the door closed behind her young friend, Rita turned to her husband. “You’re tagging along tonight, right?”

“Yep.”

“Can you say anything besides ‘yep’? I’m afraid for her.”

Bert turned and looked around the side of his armchair. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. You did your part, I’ll do mine. It’ll work out all right.”

“Are you sure?”

He grasped her hand as she came to stand beside him. “Positive.”

She sat on the arm of his chair and leaned over to hug him. “Aw, Bert, I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“Got that right.”

Wanting to be alert and refreshed for her evening’s activities, Lauren napped for a couple of hours. By the time she woke up, the trick-or-treaters had dispersed and most of the houses on her section of Blackberry Lane were dark.

She dressed carefully, tucking her brown waves up into the wig cap before arranging the short wig upon her head. It was a man’s hairstyle. She taped the bulky padding around her midsection and thighs. She pulled on Michael’s old nondescript gray-blue sweatshirt over a thermal shirt and long-sleeve t-shirt, and completed the outfit with a pair of his blue jeans. She hadn’t yet been able to bear sorting and donating his clothes. His larger clothing accommodated the extra padding.

She donned a pair of old platform boots that added two inches to her height while retaining stability and balance. She had considered wearing a fake moustache and a baseball cap to further disguise herself, but decided against it, thinking that too many props would make her more identifiable. Instead, she went subtle and used brown-tinted contact lenses over her hazel eyes and opted for a little fake stubble.
Less is more.

Anyone who might have seen Lauren as she walked down Blackberry Lane that Halloween night would have described her as an average white man, twenty pounds heavier and two inches taller than she actually was.

The night was chill and empty as she slipped after her prey. It was easy to keep to the shadows. Clouds had created a canopy that obscured the moon and stars, leaving the street cloaked in darkness, except where the yellow light pooled beneath the streetlights.

Rosalie Preacher seemed never to sense the presence behind her. On the evenings that Lauren had previously tailed her, the sharp-faced woman had never so much as looked backward over her shoulder. Tonight was no different, except that Rosalie Preacher walked a little slower than usual . . . and she seemed to have picked up a slight weave to her gait.