The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (21 page)

“Okay. I’ll just do a drive-by, see if he’s in there. If the lights are on, I’ll know he’s home; if they’re not, I’ll know he’s not there and I’ll come back. I have my cell phone. If there’s a problem— anything at all—I’ll call.”

He frowned. “I don’t like this. I should at least go—”

“No, Nick. It’s okay. My father; my problem.”

He was pouting. Pouting didn’t look right on Nick. Incongruous. But it worked. I felt bad.

“Okay. Look, how’s this? I won’t even get out of the car. I’ll just look for the lights. If he’s there, I’ll call you before I do anything else. Okay?” I kissed his lips gently and kept moving. “You’re wiped. You need to sleep.”

“Zoe, listen—”

“It’s okay I’ll be fine.” I looked back from the doorway.

Nick stood by the bed, his eyes strained and bloodshot from a week of sleepless nights. His jeans were hanging open, his hair was mussed, his chest bare. He fidgeted, uncertain. “I don’t like this—promise me you won’t get out of the car?”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be back before you know it.” Before he could change his mind, I blew him another kiss and headed down the stairs. And I still hadn’t told him about my contractions.

T
HE MOON GLOWED LOW
in the sky, outlining treetops and defining their shadows. Stillness draped my father’s street. Nothing moved; no creatures chirped or stirred in the palpable silence of the night. I slowed the car, scanning the area, seeing no sign of life, telling myself that the hairs on my neck were standing up without cause. Stop it, I told myself. You’ve gotten yourself all worked up over nothing. Nobody’s going to jump out of the bushes at your car. Just look, see if he’s there; if not, just turn around and drive home.

Fine. Good plan. I approached the front of his house, slowing. Sure enough, a dim light shined through an upstairs window. Probably Dad was up in his bedroom, near the back of the house. Probably I was seeing the light from the stairway or the hall. At any rate, he was there, inside. My father had come home. I parked the car, started to get out.

Wait, a voice scolded. Not so fast. Aren’t you supposed to call Nick?

Let him sleep, I told it. He’s exhausted. I don’t need to bother him. I’ll just go get Dad and bring him back to Harrington Place.

I reached for the car door. But the voice continued. You promised Nick you wouldn’t get out of the car. You said you’d just drive by.

It’s all right, I assured it. Relax. This will just take a second.

And before the voice could speak up again, I opened the door and got out.

The air was chilly, thick with silence, and I hurried to the path, trying not to stumble over the overgrowth of weeds along the curb. Tree trunks surrounded me, motionless as if ready to close in, to ambush me from behind. I shivered, told myself to cut it out. This was not some slasher movie; it was the house that, with Hilda’s starched laundry and beef stew, God help me, I’d grown up in. Still, I didn’t dare look behind me, felt the clammy breath of the unknown on my back. I began to run, dashing the last few yards to the porch. There, the house blocked the moonlight, and I hit the stairs in darkness, but I knew the steps well, could climb them blind. So I flew, barely touching the banister, confident even in the shadows. Until my foot struck something lumpy and still warm, and I stumbled, sprawling forward, arms outstretched, to the ground.

T
HE PROCESS OF FALLING
seemed endless. For timeless Moments, my body sailed upward, unmindful of gravity, and my arms stroked frantically, swimming through air. Meanwhile, my mind grappled with decisions: how to cushion my landing and minimize damage, how to inform my body parts before it was too late. At the same time, it tried to define the object that had tripped me, reviewing the sensations of texture and shape, so that, by the time my hands and knees made contact with the porch, my mind had done massive amounts of work. It had concluded, for example, that I’d found my father. That I’d stumbled over him as he lay collapsed on his porch.

I landed with a howl, pain jolting through my limbs, reverberating along my spine. For a few seconds, I couldn’t get up. I rolled onto my back, knees bent, trying to breathe.

“Dad,” I panted. “Dad?” I reached for him, tugged on his shirt. A wave of tightness squeezed my middle, but I pushed myself up to a sitting position and nudged him. Oh, God. He didn’t react. Didn’t move or make a sound. Oh, God.

I shoved him harder. Still no response. Even as my belly contracted I yanked at his shoulders, trying to turn him, amazed that he was so heavy. He must be dead, I realized. That must be why he seemed so heavy. Didn’t dead weight feel heavier than living? But I kept calling to him, refusing to accept that he could be dead. He couldn’t be.

“Dad.” I was gasping, contracting. “Dad? Daddy?” In a final grunting effort, I hefted his chest off the ground, twisting his shoulder up and around, turning him over onto his back. And then, with tightness strangling my midsection, I sank onto the floor beside him, closed my eyes and breathed through the contraction, trying to comprehend that my father, my handsome dandy irresponsible charming son-of-a-bitch father, was dead. I’d known as soon as I’d touched him; his body held the unmistakable stillness of death. I lay there, eyes closed, until the contraction peaked. Then, dreading what I would see, I opened them again.

It was dark and tears blurred my sight, so at first I thought my vision was distorted. I blinked a few times, smeared away the tears with the backs of my hands, and looked again. Nothing had changed. For sure, there was a corpse beside me, but it was not my father’s.

Stan Addison, the guy from Town Watch, was still warm, but he was dead. His blood, still wet, oozed from a gaping hole in his throat.

Oh, God. Panting and trembling, I tried to stand, but couldn’t. My legs were boneless, wouldn’t support me. I sat staring at him and the darkness, holding my belly, telling myself not to panic, seeing the lights glowing next door in Lettie’s upstairs window as if they were miles away. Oh, God. Think, I told myself. Call Nick. Right. I reached for my pocket to get my cell phone. It wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. It wouldn’t be. After all, wasn’t I in a nightmare? Wasn’t this just another bad dream where people fall in slow motion and can’t get up when they fall? Where invisible killers stalk, and even the night air is alive and menacing? All that was missing for complete terror was being late for a final exam I hadn’t studied for in a school I didn’t know in a hallway with too many doors where I’d forgotten my handbag and wasn’t wearing any clothes.

Stop it, I scolded myself. Get your damned phone. It must have fallen out when I tripped. Tentatively, I felt around the porch for it, found only darkness. Maybe it was under Stan’s body; after all, I’d moved him. My fingers slid underneath him through the puddle of clotting blood, probed under his trunk, and there it was, under his shoulder. I heard the bushes rustle beside the porch as my hand closed around the cell phone. Who was there? The person who’d killed Stan? Was he still there?

I ducked, hunkering down on the porch, and held still, listening. Cautiously I watched shadows, shivered, alert for a killer. Someone was out there. But hearing no one, seeing nothing, I slithered, slowly, low and lizard-like, to the front door. I’d be safe inside. I’d call Nick. And 9-I-I. I inched forward, silently, scraping bruised knees across splintered wooden slats, hiding from someone who might not be there.

Finally, I made it to the door and reached up for the knob. It wouldn’t turn. I turned harder, forcing it. But no. It wouldn’t budge. My thoughts were slow, muddled, and it took a moment to realize that, of course, the doorknob won’t turn; the door was locked. I needed the key. Wait, I remembered. I had a key. I’d brought it with me. My fingers fumbled deep in the pocket of my jeans, finding it. Then, phone in one hand, key in the other, I shoved the key into the lock, turned it and swung the door open.

Light flashed in the hall; the air whooshed, and there was a harsh popping sound as the doorframe exploded above my head. Reflexively, I dropped to the floor and rolled away from the door, reacting before I understood that someone was shooting at me.

“S
TOP RIGHT THERE.”
M
Y
father’s voice rumbled low and dangerous.

I squinted, peering around the doorframe, trying to see him. “Dad—”

Before I could finish my sentence, he fired again. Something in the foyer shattered and fell to the floor. A vase? Part of the chandelier?

“Dad—”My mouth was dry, my voice hoarse. “Don’t shoot. It’s me. Zoe.”

“The hell it is. Get out. You have to the count of five, then I shoot to kill—”

“Dad—whoa.” I crouched, covering my head. Where had he gotten a gun?

“One…two…”

“Dammit. Will you stop counting and listen?”

“Three…Come on in. Think I won’t shoot? What do you bet? Ten bucks? A hundred? How about your life? Four…five.” Another flash of light and bam. I hit the ground and rolled sideways.

Oh, God. He was crazy. What had happened to him? Had he had another stroke? And where had the gun come from? I pictured Stan Addison lying outside on the porch, the hole ripped into his neck. Good Lord…had my father shot him?

He kept shouting. “Nobody’s going to drive me out, you hear? Go tell your friends. Tell them I’ll fight to the death, and believe you me, I’ll take a bunch of you vermin with me.”

He was sitting at the far end of the hall, ranting in the dark.

Dimly, I could make out his silhouette against the wall, seated in a dining room chair.

I sat still, catching my breath. “Dad,” I called. “Listen. Will you please just listen for once?”

There was a pause. “Who’s there?”

Was he kidding? “It’s Zoe. I’m here to get you.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. “Zoe?” He sounded skeptical. Or confused?

“Your daughter.”

“Zoe.” He repeated. “What would she be doing up in the middle of the night?” He wasn’t convinced.

Again I explained why I’d come and what I wanted. “Let me turn on the light. You can see for yourself.” I stood up and flicked the switch.

Instantly, sparks flew and filaments sizzled from the chandelier, where a bullet had apparently ripped through the wiring. My father got up. “What the hell?” He walked over to examine the damage, staring up at the flickering fixture, the gun dangling from his hand. “Turn that switch off, will you? You’ll start a fire.”

I didn’t. I stepped over to him and took the gun. He didn’t resist, but when I touched him he looked up and stepped back, his eyes wide.

“Good Lord. It’s you?”

Sparks popped over our heads.

“I swear.” He kept staring. Gaping, actually. “I didn’t know it was you.”

His ogling made me uncomfortable. “Back off, Dad.” I smelled booze on his breath. Bourbon? Wonderful. He’d gotten drunk and started shooting up the house, probably killed a guy.

“Louise? Where have you been? All this time?” He reached for my hand. I thought he might be going for the gun, so I tossed it into the dining room, heard it clatter to the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice. He simply took my hand. “I’ve been so worried.”

Oh. Not again. I opened my mouth to explain that I was his daughter, that Louise was my mother. That she’d been dead for decades. But I didn’t. All that mattered was that my father had stopped shooting. If believing that my mother was back from the dead would keep him calm, then I certainly wasn’t going to dispel the notion.

Besides, there was no point telling him the truth; he’d only get confused again. Dr. Habib had warned that Dad would have increasing periods of disorientation and confusion as the blood vessels in his brain slowly grew brittle and broke. So, suspecting that he’d had another small stroke or two, I let him hold my hand and squeezed his gently. His fingers felt bony and gnarled. If he thought I was my mother, what was the harm?

Holding hands, we went to the living room. “It’s been so long,” he repeated. We sat together on the sofa, and I didn’t mention Stan Addison, didn’t ask my father if he had shot him. Apparently he had already forgotten being holed up in his hallway, fighting off intruders with a gun. He sat rapt beside my mother, captivated, his hand closed around hers.

And slowly, so as not to disturb him, I used my free hand to pick up my cell phone and call home.

AGAIN POLICE CARS swarmed around my father’s house. I sat with him in the living room while paramedics checked out my head and officers secured the crime scene. I gave a statement to the detective on duty, explaining my father’s condition. My father sat quietly, withdrawn, his dark eyebrows knit, looking puzzled. Finally, Nick came in. I stood.

“What happened to not getting out of the car?” he greeted me. “What happened to just driving by and calling me if you saw a light on?”

I squirmed. He was right. I’d promised. “Sorry.”

Nick seemed annoyed but not all that surprised. “You need to be more careful, Zoe. Think of the baby.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Where’s Molly?”

“At Susan’s.”

Oh. That’s what took him so long to get here. “What did you tell her?”

“That we had to go see Grandpa. I told her he’s okay, but he’s got a problem with—”

My father interrupted, shaking Nick’s hand and offering him a drink. “Scotch? Bourbon? Name it. Louise …get some ice, will you?”

Even if he was again confused about my identity, my father seemed very sure of Nick’s. Nick was his friend, his guest. Someone he trusted and actually liked.

“So, what brings you here in the middle of the night, young man?”

Nick asked him to sit and talk. They faced each other like buddies, man to man. “Walter, I’m going to be straight with you, okay? And I want you to be honest with me.”

“You got it.”