The Good Neighbor (23 page)

Maybe if I told him about Bernie’s threats
first, my news would soften the blow somewhat. I knew that wasn’t
going to happen. No matter which order I told him in, it was going
to be horrible.

But I decided to tell him anyway. He had to
know. I was tired of carrying these things around by myself.

I walked through the house, calling out
Andy’s and Owen’s names, alternately, but getting no response from
either man.

My frustration was starting to grow.

I was just about to give up and go back home
and wait when I heard a voice. It was loud, clearly yelling. I
followed the sound, no longer calling out for anyone. The sound led
me to a closed door in the hallway. I hesitated outside the door.
After a minute or so, I heard the voice again. It was Owen, and he
wasn’t yelling now.

With relief, I opened the door and stepped
inside.

For a second, just a split second, I was
overcome with happiness. There was my Andy. My gorgeous, red-haired
Andy.

Then, I was racked with pain. Oh, god, the
pain was unbearable. I fell to the floor, unable to speak. I
managed to move my mouth, but couldn’t make any words come out.

I could hear the shouts, but I couldn’t
understand what they meant. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate.
I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The only thing I could
think of was the pain, the horrible, unbearable pain bouncing
around in my head. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before.

I watched through blurry vision as my world
grew dark. Life as I knew it was over. There would be no news now.
No chance of telling Andy that we were finally going to have a
baby. No chance of telling him that Bernie had marked me as his
next victim. No chance of telling my adorable red-haired husband
that he meant more to me than anything or anyone ever had or ever
would. No chance of telling anyone goodbye.

No chance.

I tucked the knitting needles into the back
pocket of my jeans. I used the potholders I’d knitted to carry the
bowl of steaming soup Hazel had made for Owen. She made enough to
feed a small army, and insisted that I take it all to Owen. She
said he wouldn’t feel like cooking, so this would be what he ate
for a day or two. I thought it would be more like a week or two
with as much as there was.

But I didn’t argue with her or tell her that
she’d made too much. Cooking was her thing. It’s what she did. She
fed people. She came from a generation where if you had food,
everything would be okay. Her generation knew what it was like to
be hungry, and was determined not to let anyone else know the
feeling.

I loved her generation. Hell, I loved her,
even though I hadn’t known her very long.

The kids stayed with Hazel while I headed
down to Owen’s house, needles in pocket, soup in hand.

Though I didn’t want to, I looked across the
street to Bernie’s house. There was nothing to see. No curtain
flutter, no door opening or closing. There was no sign of him at
all, which both frightened me and gave me a sense of relief. I was
glad I didn’t see him, but I couldn’t help but be a little worried.
If he wasn’t in his house, watching out the window as he seemed to
have a habit of doing, then where was he?

I pushed thoughts of Bernie out of my mind. I
hated thinking about him. If I thought of him for long, my thoughts
would turn into memories. Him touching me, biting me...no. I
wouldn’t think of him anymore.

As I passed Andy and Jill’s house, I noticed
both cars parked in the driveway. I was glad to see that Andy was
home.

Instead of going straight to Owen’s house, I
found myself ringing the doorbell at Jill and Andy’s. When no one
answered the door after a couple of minutes, I wondered why. I
considered that they were napping. However, it was mid-morning. Who
took a nap before noon?

I decided against ringing the bell a second
time. I might try again as I walked back to Hazel’s, but for now I
let it go and went to Owen’s.

As soon as I stepped out of the taxi, I
wanted to climb back in it and go somewhere else. I hated it here.
I don’t know why I hadn’t sold this house and forgotten that Hewitt
Street existed. I planned to. Of course, I’d been planning to for
years. I suppose I kept putting it off because I was rarely here.
It was so easy to forget about it once I was in Paris or Italy or
Cairo.

I collected my bags from the trunk, wondering
why I ever came back here at all. I wasn’t sure why I even owned a
house. I lived out of hotels. I didn’t need a house. I had no one
waiting for me. I didn’t own so many things that I needed a house
just to store them. I didn’t even feel right in this house any
more.

I’d spent my life feeling trapped in
kitchens, even though I was doing what I loved. Now I couldn’t
stand to feel tied down to one place. Fortunately, I had a
successful line of cookware and a series of cookbooks that paid me
well enough to finance my travels. I was thankful that all that
hard work and all the years of being trapped in hot kitchens had
paid off in the end.

I paid the driver and walked my bags to the
porch.

The porch was the same as always. So was the
house. Everything was always the same here. Maybe that’s why I
hated it so much.

There was one thing different this time.
There were muddy paw prints on the steps and porch. I visually
followed the trail, which stopped at the dog. He lay in a corner on
the porch, paws covered in mud. I knew it had rained recently
because the street was still wet, and clearly this dog had taken
advantage of the wet dirt.

Since he was on my porch, I could only assume
he was digging something of mine.

I sighed.

This meant I would have to find out who he
belonged to and demand restitution for whatever damage he had
inflicted. Of course, that would cause problems with the owner, but
it didn’t matter. I was putting this house on the market
tomorrow.

I walked to the kitchen and set the large
bowl of hot soup on the table. I placed the potholders on top of
the bowl. I was going to give them to Owen after I showed them to
him. I knew it was silly, and men cared nothing for things of the
sort. But it meant something to me to give him the first thing I’d
ever made with my own hands. And who couldn’t use potholders?

I called his name a couple of times, but got
no response. I glanced in the living room and saw no one, so I
headed upstairs, assuming he’d be in bed since he wasn’t feeling
well.

Knocking gently on his bedroom door, I opened
it. The room was empty. In fact, the bed was made and looked as if
no one had slept there at all. It didn’t even appear that he’d
slept on top of the blankets. It was untouched.

I checked the bathroom, but he wasn’t there.
In fact, I checked all the upstairs rooms but found no one.

I went back downstairs, determined now to
find him. I was more than a little puzzled as to why he wasn’t in
bed, or seemingly anywhere in the house if he was ill.

When I reached the foot of the stairs, I
heard the sound of someone yelling. I couldn’t make out any words
or even identify the voice, but I followed the sound anyway,
thinking to myself about how curiosity had killed that cat.

Here kitty, kitty.

Yes, curiosity. Here I come.

I dropped the quilts off as usual. I left
quickly thereafter. That was unusual. I liked to sit around and
talk with these men. They were good guys and I enjoyed their
company as sure as they enjoyed mine. But today was no usual day. I
couldn’t sit around and make chit-chat and small talk about this or
that. Not while I had this feeling.

When the men asked where I was rushing off
to, I lied. I hated lying, but there were times when it was
necessary.

How was I supposed to explain this feeling?
Heck, I didn’t even understand it myself. There was no way I could
have them understand when it perplexed me.

I made up a story and got out of there. The
feeling of something being wrong was stronger now. It was nearly
overwhelming. My hands shook as I tried to put the key in the
ignition. I missed twice, but got it on the third try. I fought the
urge to ignore the speed limits and race home. I went the speed
limit, but no more. How senseless it would be to get into an
accident hurrying home to see what was wrong.

Though I held the car at the legal speed
allowance, I let my mind race wildly. I wondered what form the
trouble would be in today. Would it involve me? Could I be of some
help? Could I stop it from happening? I knew that was completely
impossible. You can’t stop something if you don’t know what it is
or where it is. I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking I could. But
maybe I could help. Maybe I could keep it from being so bad this
time. Had I seen the hitchhiker the last time, maybe I could’ve
shouted a warning to her and she could’ve gotten out of the
way.

Being realistic again, I knew that the
feeling I had that day wasn’t a
need-to-shout-out-a-warning-to-avoid-an-accident feeling. It was a
feeling of unavoidable impending doom and disaster. Though the
feeling was foreign to me, I knew even then that I was going to be
helpless against it.

Just like today.

But I continued on anyway, heading home to
wait for whatever was coming my way.

I walked down the hallway slowly. I noticed a
pair of scuffed black cowboy boots lying on the floor as if they’d
been tossed there. I knew I’d seen them before, but I couldn’t
place them. I also knew that Owen didn’t wear cowboy boots. Even if
he did, they wouldn’t have been in such a ratty manner.

Finally, I was standing at the door to the
room from where the sound came. My heart was thumping loudly,
making it nearly impossible to hear what was happening. I don’t
know what was making my heart race. Maybe it was the sneaking
around. It made me feel as if I were doing something bad. After
all, this wasn’t my house and even though Owen had given me a key,
wanting me to have total access to his house, I still felt like I
was being intrusive and invading his privacy.

I put my ear to the door carefully to see if
I could hear anything more.

I waited.

There were some thumps.

I waited.

There was a voice. It wasn’t yelling. In
fact, it was so low, even with my ear to the door, I couldn’t make
out the words.

I closed my eyes in order to block out one of
my senses. With my eyes closed, my ears worked harder. Maybe now
I’d be able to make out something being said on the other side of
the door.

I was just registering the fact that the
voice was getting closer to the door. I was just thinking that it
would be horrible to get caught snooping and eavesdropping like
this. I was just thinking that I should walk myself right back down
the street to Hazel’s, where the smell of soup was thick in the
air.

Then, the door opened.

I stood at the kitchen sink pouring myself a
glass of steaming hot water that was going to be tea, wondering how
much I could get out of my house. This was a great neighborhood.
The houses were all two-story with large yards. Every house on this
street was bound to appraise for more than a half million dollars.
Some of them, even more than that. My house was probably middle of
the road in appraisal price. It didn’t matter, though. I was
selling and getting out of here. No more mundane living for me. No
more homeownership. I lived out of hotels ninety-five percent of
the time anyway; why not make it a hundred?

I dipped the teabag up and down, in and out
of the scalding water. The aroma brought a fresh batch of saliva to
my mouth.

I wondered if I had remained married if I’d
still want to sell the house. I should’ve given it to her in the
divorce. Of course, at that time, she was lucky I’d let her walk
away with anything. Two-timing tramp. I wondered if it was too late
to make her take it. It’s a shame the house wasn’t just a tad
smaller. I’d shove it up her ass and she’d have no choice but to
take it. Oh, screw her. I’d sell it. Then, I’d make her watch me
burn the money.

The thought of the look on her face as she
watched me burn a huge pile of cash made me laugh out loud.

Still smiling at the thought, I stirred the
tea and brought the mug up to my mouth. I froze before I could
complete the task because that’s when I saw him.

He was standing in my back yard, covered in
mud.

He stood before me, eyes wide, with one hand
still on the handle of the door. I noticed he was breathing hard
and sweating. His hair was disheveled. His shirt was torn. His nose
was bleeding. His left cheek was swelling before my eyes. He was
bleeding from somewhere other than his nose. I saw the blood, but
couldn’t identify the source.

“Carla?” He said my name in such a way that
it could’ve been a question or an exclamation. I wasn’t sure how to
take it.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” I looked
past him now, and wished like hell I was knitting at Hazel’s.

On the floor a few feet inside the room, lay
Jill. She was lying on her side in a pool of her own blood. Her
right hand rested on the floor, palm up. In her palm, lay a
pregnancy test. I couldn’t tell from the doorway, but I was sure it
was positive. I held my breath and watched closely for a few
seconds for the rise and fall of her side to indicate that she was
alive.

There was no movement there. She was
gone.

In the middle of the room, just beyond Jill,
sat a kitchen chair. In this chair sat a man. His arms were pulled
tightly behind him and tied together. Binding his body to the chair
at the chest was a curtain that had been yanked from a window and
wound around him and tied in a knot.