Hidden Vices (5 page)

Nine

The man staring down
on her didn't blink an eye, as if he'd caused Megan to wake on cue and was hardly surprised when she did.

“What the fuck!” Megan yelled before pulling her gun out from the ankle holster. She pointed and slowly moved toward the window. At first she thought a man was standing over her, but she now realized he stood on the deck leering through the window. She jumped over the coffee table with Olympic gold hurdler fashion. She knew the alarm was on, latches secure at each entrance.

The man stood outside holding up one palm as if to say,
it's okay
. There was nothing Megan could think of in that moment that felt okay, especially a stranger on the deck watching her sleep.

“I work for the Macks.” His words were mouthed through the window, but the tone in his voice implied that this tedious situation of scaring the shit out of a sleeping woman was an everyday occurrence.

“Yeah, right!” Megan maintained a tight grip on her gun.

“I'm checking on the boathouse and the bubbler.”

“At eight o'clock at night? It's pitch black out.” Megan grabbed her cell phone, about to call 911 when the thought crossed her mind:
she
was the police. She couldn't bring herself to make the call. Sheer dignity mixed with a whole lot of stubbornness.

“There are light switches in the boathouse, Psycho Sally.”

He's offending someone holding a gun on him? What an asshole.

“Check the binder they left you, my name is in it. Jake Norden. They told me they'd leave the renter my number if anything went wrong with the boathouse or dock. I work at the marina in the next cove over. ”

Megan didn't take her eyes or her gun off of him. She pulled out the binder and went to the maintenance portion. At the top of the page was, in fact, his name. She closed the folder and asked, “Do you make it a point to watch women sleep?”

He was medium height and broadly built, or perhaps he only appeared that way with all the winter gear he was wearing.

“Show me your identification.”

He slapped his wallet against the window. “Satisfied?” His voice was gruff, as if he survived only on cigarettes alone.

Megan inspected the unfamiliar Jersey license and reluctantly nodded. “Do what you have to do.”

“Try not to shoot me. I'll only be a few minutes.” He cupped a hand around a cigarette while lighting it, the wind blowing up against his back. He drew a deep inhale and slowly exhaled the smoke, all the while staring at Megan, moving his eyes up and down her.

She stood and gave him an equally heavy glare.

Once he left the deck, Megan moved closer to the window. “I do not like you, Mr. Norden,” she whispered. She watched the entire fifteen minutes as he inspected the inside of the boathouse, testing the bubbler system and the wires leading from it up into the electric sockets they plugged into.

As he was leaving, Jake knocked twice on the side door. In a loud but not shouting voice, he said, “I'm leaving, but I'm sure you already knew that. I'll be back in a week.”

He moved around to the street and climbed into a truck. Megan watched as he turned the engine over and was on his way.

Good riddance.

Megan placed another log on the fire, but she was much more alert this time as she lay on the couch. She picked up the coffee table books describing the history of New Jersey. She read for the next few hours before going to bed with her gun beside her.

Megan woke and curled herself tighter under the covers, listening to the wind as it mounted the house. There was a curious rhythm to the noise, easily sending her back into a light trance. But she couldn't regain sleep. The bedroom was borderline freezing and her foggy focus now turned to the lack of noise from the furnace kicking on.

She wrapped herself in the down comforter, leaving only her face visible, and waddled to the hallway to check the thermostat. It read fifty.

“Fuck.”

Resigning herself to necessity, she went into the kitchen to check the Mighty Mack binder. She found the section on heating and read aloud:
“If the heat goes out, push the red button on the back of the furnace three times, then pray.”

“Oh very funny, Mr. Mack.”

Megan had been shown where the furnace was, so she scurried down to the lower level muttering, “Why does heat always go out in the middle of the night? Why not at noon?” She pushed the button three times but didn't pray to God—that was something she'd stopped doing over the course of the last few years. Instead she prayed to the furnace. It turned on in less than a minute. She closed up the back room, walking by the lower level's sliding glass doors. The whistling noise outside prompted Megan to look out. She saw the line of arborvitae trees swaying so strongly they looked as though snapping would be inevitable.

“Damn.” She turned, letting the drapes fall back into form, missing the shadow as it moved to the upper deck.

A slight smell of oil filled the house, which was reassuring; the heat was definitely back on. Her only goal was to get back to sleep and not wake until noon. She rechecked the thermostat. The number had already risen a degree. She was relieved until a slam against the side door made her jump. She dropped the comforter as if the air had just shot from fifty to ninety degrees. Her shock quickly turned to anger. “You son of a bitch! Jake Norden, if that's you, this time I'm going to use my gun.”

Megan threw on boots and a jacket, then double-checked that her gun was fully loaded. She approached the side entrance door as slowly as walking through a minefield. She lifted the blind. Nothing. Slowly she opened the door, trying not to make a sound as she stepped outside, which was nearly impossible in a house fifty years old. Adrenaline insulated her from the harsh wind hitting her face. She pressed her back up against the house, side stepping toward the back yard. Taking a deep breath, she turned the corner with her gun drawn. The only menacing object within range was the barren magnolia tree. No one. Just Megan, standing in flannel pajamas in the middle of the yard at three in the morning, pointing her gun at a tree. Not exactly a declaration of mental health on her part.

The force slammed into her from behind. She pitched forward face first, hitting the cold frozen ground. He jumped on top of her, pinning her down with the sheer force of his weight. Megan had the wind knocked out of her. She couldn't yell out, not as if anyone would hear her anyway. She searched the ground for her gun. It wasn't in sight. He tore at the back of her head, and she managed to elbow him and turn on her back. He lunged at her again before she had the chance to draw her knee up in hopes of kicking him in the groin.

It was useless. She'd lost the battle.

“Get off of me, you damn dog!” Megan yelled, pushing at his fur-covered chest, trying to gain leverage. “Off!” She pushed again, having little effect on the overexcited pooch. Time for another tactic: “Good crazy dog, good crazy dog,” she crooned. The mutt calmed enough to let her sit up.

As a Homicide detective, Megan had dealt with many predators in her work, but none sat after a fight with pointed ears wagging their tail. This dog looked wide awake and ready to play. She opened the gate pointing toward the top of the street. “Go home. Go on. Go.” Her attacker whimpered and walked in circles. Megan noticed he had no collar and, after further inspection, no tags. She looked at dog-with-no-name, and then back at the lake house. He again cocked his head. Megan had seen men in the past make the same motion, but they didn't want shelter—they wanted much more. She sighed. “You can't stay out here, you dope; you'll freeze. Come on.”

He ran to the door in seconds.

Megan picked up her gun and put the safety lock on. Heading back toward the house, she couldn't help but stop and stare into the dark back yard wondering if an overzealous dog was all that had awoken her.

Ten

Wayne Clarke drilled a
hole through the four-inch-thick ice. The small cove had been frozen over for nearly two weeks, early for the season, but this was the first morning he'd had a chance to do what he loved most: ice fishing. Wayne was fifty-one, but he knew he looked like he was going on seventy. He figured his three ex-wives were responsible—not the two heart attacks, the pack-a-day smoking habit he'd started when he was fifteen, or his love of whiskey.

Wayne led a predictable life, and that's how he liked it. He still lived in the house he grew up in. He worked contracting for the towns surrounding the lake, mainly paving and construction. Every Thursday was pub night, every Saturday was the Elks Lodge. Every Sunday he attended Our Lady of the Lake Catholic Church. The latest service available; it's not as if he were drinking lemonade at the Elks on those Saturday nights. He had a theory that if he attended church at a location on the lake, maybe God would grant him a few good catches. He was a simple man, with simple needs.

He set up his equipment, poured his coffee, added a shot of Jameson into his cup, and lit a cigarette. He wore the necessary gear for a particularly cold early-December day: insulated pants, gloves, boots, bright black and orange checkered winter coat, and the raccoon fur bomber hat an ex-wife gave him for Christmas one year. He couldn't remember which ex, but it was the best gift he'd gotten from any of them and certainly warmed him more than they ever had. All of this would keep his outside protected, but the whiskey, he told himself, is what kept his blood warm, Another one of his self-indulgent theories. He may have been on to something, given the expected high for the day was going to be eighteen.

The lake was filled with an assortment of fish. Trout, bass, largemouth bass, walleye, pickerel. Wayne held the state record a few years ago for a rainbow trout nearing thirteen pounds, but the following year some New Yorker beat his record by a pound or so. Not that Wayne cared, because it wasn't someone from the great Garden State of New Jersey, so to him, it didn't count. It wasn't about the catch today; just being outside, alone, listening to the sound of the wind and the birds pleased him. The patch of ice he fished on was as clear as if he were seated on a sheet of glass covering the lake. The water was nearly still beneath him. Wayne lit another cigarette and checked his watch: a little after nine thirty in the morning. He'd arrived at five, and still no catches. The coffee was long gone, but the whiskey was holding out well. He scratched at the gray stubble on his face, contemplating packing it in and heading to the pub down the street since it opened at ten, when he felt a tug on his fishing pole. Shifting his cigarette to the corner of his mouth, he began to reel his catch of the day in. “About fucking time.”

Wayne struggled with the line. The catch was heavy and it fought against the drag of the water. Floating between his legs, four inches under the clear ice, was a man's face, bloated, nibbled on, and staring up at him.

The cigarette fell from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

If they only had fishing contests classed by weight and weren't too picky about the catch having gills or fins, Wayne Clarke would have won that morning. He dropped his fishing pole and ran for shore.

So much for Our Lady of the Lake Sunday prayers.

Eleven

Megan woke to the
smell of the automatic coffee maker, as well as a quick reminder of her late-night discovery when dog-with-no-name donkey kicked her in the back. He released an exasperating yawn and proceeded to climb over her to jump off the bed.

I wonder if the villa in Mexico is still available.

Two beeps from the kitchen signaled the brewing of the first of many morning coffee jolts was complete. She put on some warm clothes and poured her cup while calling the Macks to let them know about her newfound discovery in their yard. Much to her chagrin, they told her they were huge animal lovers and it wasn't a problem at all to shelter the dog for a while. They added that old dog food, leashes, and pet beds from their own pets still remained in the basement.

Of course they did.

Megan sat down on the couch with her cup of coffee. Dog, as she decided to generically call him, sat beside her on the floor. Megan loved dogs and usually had one growing up, but pet care wasn't high on her priority list right now. She was
not
going to get attached. Dog was definitely black Labrador mixed with something perhaps equine in nature, she thought to herself. He had a white chest with white-tipped paws and breath that reminded her of crime scenes featuring week-old bodies.

“You hit the lottery, Dog, until I find your proper owners.”

His ears popped up and he bolted to the bay window. A slow deep growl emerged, and he began to paw at the glass. His snarl quickly turned into barking. “Right. Bathroom break.” Megan put on her coat and opened the sliding glass door. Dog bolted out now in full steam down the stairs into the fenced yard.

When Megan walked on to the deck, she saw a far too familiar scene. A few dozen yards away in the cove were policeman, New Jersey troopers, sirens, an ambulance, and a yellow tarp with police tape blowing in the wind.

She closed her eyes, but the images jabbed her memory like an ice pick, tearing her mind apart one more time. Her first scene she was green as a shamrock. Tough as nails on the outside, but terrified to see her first homicide case. It was a stabbing, and never in a million years did she think a human being could hold so much blood. It was obvious the man was dead, but she was told to check his pulse, and that was the first time she'd touched a dead body. The memory haunted her. She'd walked through years of police tape since, not knowing what she'd find on the other side, but she did it because it was not just her job but her calling. She'd thought nothing could be worse than her first case, but her last homicide topped it in every way.

It's not a good thing to have your worst fear topped by a bigger nightmare. It makes you want to escape, and Megan thought she'd done that. Of course her detective brain knew what they were pulling out of the icy water, and it wasn't a bass.

Her coffee had grown as cold as her stomach. “Dog! Come!” Much to her surprise, he did. Animals can sense when someone is serious, and there was zero lilt in Megan's tone. They headed back indoors.

She gave Dog the canine equivalent of a breakfast protein bar: a slice of cold pizza. She went into the basement, found the supplies needed to walk him, and redressed as if she were planning to sign up for the Iditarod.

Before they stepped foot on the driveway, Megan took one last look over at the commotion on the ice in Great Cove. She shook her head. “No.”

As soon as they stepped one foot on cement, Dog yanked the leash, dragging Megan up the driveway. Something told her the alpha position was not going to be hers in this temporary arrangement. Every few feet Dog stopped, lifted his leg, released, and then moved on to the next ill-fated target. The street was oddly quiet for a Saturday. There were no signs of any of her neighbors other than cars parked in the driveways. It was as if she was the only inhabitant of McGregor Avenue. Dog urinating against telephone poles was the only noise to be heard. The feeling changed as soon as they walked around the bend in the road.

Dog lunged forward, forcing Megan to let go of the leash unless she wanted to be dragged across the ice and salt on the street. He'd come back when she turned around. Probably. Looking up, Megan saw a woman in a hooded green parka walking a golden retriever.

“Dog! Stop!” It was an exercise in futility; he was already there, planting a few sniffs and attempting to plant something else in the poor unsuspecting dog. Oddly the woman didn't seem surprised to see this massive male canine charge at her. Megan grabbed Dog's retractable leash, attempting to reel him in from his canine ladylove. “I'm really sorry about that. He's not my dog. I just found him and apparently he's not well trained.”

“It's okay. He's just honoring his nature.” She pushed her hood back, exposing cropped brown hair and a grin that told Megan she was truly humored by the exchange. She looked fifty-something, thin, and fit. “I'm Leigh. I live down the street on the right in that house.” She turned and pointed at a white Cape Cod with green trim.

“I'm Megan, I just moved in—” She was about to point down the street.

“To the Macks' place, right?”

Megan looked stunned. “Ah …”

“It's a small town, and an even smaller neighborhood. Actually, the Macks are good friends of ours. They mentioned the last time we had them over for dinner that you were going to rent the place. Mr. Mack has lived on this street since he was three years old.”

“He mentioned that to me before they left for Florida. I thought I was the only one here. You're the first person I've seen besides a teenager and a woman jogging by. Vivian, I mean. I met her at the diner later.”

“The teenager is Billie, great kid. She house sits when Jo and I are out of town.” She turned to look over her shoulder. “Actually, here she comes now. Everyone is buzzing about what's happening on the lake.”

“I'm sure,” Megan added faintly.

A small ways down the street they both heard, “Hey, wait up guys!” Billie, with her jacket half on and one shoe untied, raced to meet them. “I don't want to miss anything.” Billie looked down at Dog with a scrunched up face. “You got a dog?”

Megan held on to the lead as best she could. “Um no, but if you know who owns him, I'd like to take him back to wherever he came from.”

Billie and Leigh looked at one another and shrugged, indicating neither knew.

“C'mon Leigh, I don't want to miss this!”

“I'll catch up in a second, Billie, you go on ahead,” Leigh said. “It must seem a bit odd for you that people show interest in something like this.” Leigh pointed toward the commotion down the street.

Megan had a quiet response. “No, not anymore.”

“If you don't have anything going on later, would you like to join Jo and me for dinner? A kind of welcome to the neighborhood,” Leigh offered.

Megan was taken aback. She answered without thinking, “Sure, that would be nice.”

“Great! Come by any time between six and seven.”

At this point Dog had had enough of human socialization and had stopped trying to accost the uninterested female dog. He dragged Megan a few feet away. For a brief moment Megan regretted accepting the invitation, worried there would be too many questions asked about her situation. Then she reminded herself that her life had been splashed all over the news in gory detail, so there was really nothing to be asked.