When the Day of Evil Comes (22 page)

I went anyway, fighting the urge to turn tail and run back to my crummy, haunted hotel room, pack my stuff, and haul my unemployed self to Mexico to start an outlaw life.

I busied myself in the car by checking my messages and returning phone calls. The Ice Queen had called me, insisting in her cold, shaming voice that I call her immediately, and did I fully understand the gravity of my situation? I left her a message, feigning contrition and explaining that I’d had to make an emergency trip out of town. I suggested a Monday morning meeting.

Several of my students had called as well, wanting to know when I would be back in the classroom. Apparently, Helene’s dictatorial teaching style wasn’t engaging them in the manner they’d hoped to become accustomed to. I didn’t call them back. They were in college. Let them take responsibility for their own
learning, whether they were entertained or not. Welcome to grown-up life.

My final message was from Gavin. He’d called from the acute care unit at Green Oaks. He sounded terrible. He was on suicide watch, he said, which I knew from my experience working on locked units meant he was under close surveillance, denied even the simple dignity of shoelaces or pencils. He’d left my name on his call list, though, meaning that if I called the unit, they would put me through to him.

The Green Oaks number was still in my phone, so I called him back immediately, hoping I’d catch him between supper and the evening process group. It took me a while to get through the maze of security checks, an annoying gateway of fairly hostile, suspicious questions that, though off-putting, are necessary to protect patient confidentiality.

I finally made it to the unit, where the psych tech took my name, checked Gavin’s list, and agreed, after some cajoling, to pull him out of group so I could talk to him.

“Hlo?”

“Gavin, is that you? It’s me. Dylan Foster.”

“Hlo.”

“You doing okay?”

“Mmm.”

“Is that yes? Or no? How are you, Gavin?”

“Mmm. Did he find you?” he asked.

“Who? Did who find me?”

“Peter Terry.”

I had never uttered the name Peter Terry in Gavin’s presence, had never told him about my encounter at Barton Springs.

“Is this the same man that’s been in your dreams, Gavin?”

“You know him. The white guy. He’s looking for you.”

“He’s visiting your dreams again, Gavin?”

His speech was slow, slurry “No, no. No. Not in my dreams. He’s here.”

“He’s where?”

“My roommate.”

“Peter Terry is your roommate in the hospital?”

“Peter. Yeah. He’s looking for you.”

“Does he know me?”

“Of course.”

“What did he say, Gavin?”

“He thinks you’re pretty”

Strangely flattering.

“He’s worried,” he was saying.

“About what?”

“Ask him yourself.”

I heard him put the phone down.

“Gavin? Gavin?” He must have walked away from the telephone. I was talking to dead air.

“May I help you?”

It was Diane, the charge nurse. She and I had crossed paths before and knew each other professionally.

“Hi, Diane. It’s Dylan Foster. I was just talking to Gavin.”

“He’s very agitated. I don’t think this is a good time,” she scolded.

“I understand. Could you just tell me—”

“I really can’t answer your questions, Dr. Foster. You must know that.”

“Sure, sure. I know. I was just wondering, could you tell me if Gavin has a roommate?”

“No. Of course not. He’s on suicide watch.”

“Is he stable? Does he exhibit any psychotic symptoms?”

She paused. She really was not supposed to talk to me at all.

“I do believe he is, yes,” she said.

“Is what? Stable or exhibiting psychotic symptoms?”

“The second one.”

“Listen Diane, could you call me if he worsens? I’m really his only local contact.”

“He’ll have to sign a release for that.”

“If you wouldn’t mind asking him, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll check, Dr. Foster.”

I thanked her and hung up.

The drive was congested but beautiful, the sun setting to my left and Lake Michigan calming itself for the evening on my right. My nerves were beginning to fray, the once heroic-sounding idea of hunting down Mariana Zocci now sounding foolish and dangerous. My Neon was buzzing along 1-94, cutting in and out of traffic. I calmed myself listening to the tinny buzz of the car engine and the crackly A.M. radio. I made the exit onto U.S. 41 and headed toward the little city of Highland Park, Illinois, population 31,365.

I had an address but no map. The Zocci estate was on Lakeside Drive, the geography of which seemed fairly obvious to me. I headed east toward the lake, found Lakeside, which indeed ran along the lake shore, and made a left, heading north, craning my neck for address numbers.

The houses were mostly large, stately colonials. One well-behaved Republican house after another. Golf-green lawns. Clipped bushes. Orderly trees. Color-coordinated flower beds. American flags posted by doorways. I felt like I was on a movie set. I half expected little herds of paper-doll children to spill onto lawns and play touch football with their golden retrievers.

The street addresses told me I was about ten blocks off. As I went north, the traffic disappeared completely The lawns
became larger, the houses set further back, until at last, a few blocks before the Zocci address, the houses on the Lake Michigan side were not visible at all from the road. I found myself slowing almost to a crawl, peering through hedges designed to keep people like me from peering through them.

From the road, I could see no posted address for the home I suspected was the Zoccis’. I drove the surrounding blocks again, just to make sure I had homed in on the right house, then parked my car down the road, locked it up, and walked along the hedge-covered wrought iron fence toward the gate.

I was alone on the road. I suspected the neighborhood employed private security services, which would no doubt spot my Ugly But It Runs smiley-face flag in no time. I’d be outed as an imposter and promptly sent packing. That is if Joseph Zocci had not briefed his local security about me. If he had, I was liable to get myself arrested.

A brisk walk from the car took me to the black metal gate in the hedge. It was wide enough for only one car, meant to go unnoticed, I think. Maybe it was a back entrance or something. From the gate, I could see a long curved drive lined with trees, and could catch only a glimpse of the house, which was set a few hundred yards back from the road and obscured by foliage. There was no indication as to who lived in the house, but the numbers on the mailbox matched the ones on my list. I crumpled the paper and stuffed it in my pocket, trying to figure out what to do next.

I could probably climb the fence, but doing so would give anybody that caught me a legitimate reason to arrest me for trespassing. I didn’t want to take the chance. Finally, for lack of a better idea, I pressed the intercom button on the keypad by the mailbox and waited for an answer.

A female voice answered. “Yes?”

What had I intended to say? I couldn’t think of anything. Naturally, I panicked.

“UPS.”

“Pardon?”

“UPS. Delivery.”

I looked around nonchalantly, wondering for the first time if security cameras were installed around the gate. I couldn’t see any.

“What is the name on the package, please?” the voice said.

“Mariann Zocci,” I said.

“Return address?”

I recited the address of the SMU campus.

“One moment, please.”

I waited in silence, fighting the urge to run. What was I doing? Faking a delivery from Mariann Zocci’s dead son. Claiming to be a UPS delivery person when I was driving a purple Neon and wearing a black dress and sandals. What was I going to do if they let me in? Claim someone had heisted my truck and uniform?

The voice was back. “Please proceed to the delivery entrance.”

“I’m sorry, I’m new. I don’t know where that is.”

“To the north of the gate. You’ll see it on your right.”

There were no sidewalks on this end of Lakeside, only a strip of lush green grass running between the hedge and the asphalt. I walked the yardage quickly, the heels of my shoes sinking into the damp sod. As I neared the gate, I slowed and folded myself into the shadow of the hedge.

I peeked around. There was a guardhouse at the gate. With a real live guard in it. And security cameras.

I chickened out.

I walked back to my little purple car, started it up, and
drove off, circling back the way I’d come to avoid passing the guardhouse. Scolding myself mercilessly.

A few miles down the road, I turned off Lakeside into a little shopping center and found myself a Starbucks. I needed a cup of tea.

Times like this made me wish I smoked. It just looked so calming, sitting at a little round table, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. I ordered a piece of carrot cake instead, creamed and sugared my tea, and seated myself at a table outside.

My situation begged for a Plan B. I had no Plan B. I’d had no Plan A. I was driving around Highland Park, Illinois, impersonating a UPS driver, and I had no plan.

Once again, I found myself out of ideas, without resources, and in over my head. And once again, I followed my instinct to worry instead of pray. I sat there through two giant cups of tea before I thought of God, of asking for help. Discussing my little problem with the Creator of the universe occurred to me only after I’d exhausted every other possible option.

I didn’t seem to be learning my lesson.

So at last I prayed.

I drank my tea and prayed. I scraped the last of the cream-cheese frosting off the plate, licked it off my finger, and prayed. I pulled my crumpled notes out of my bag and prayed. I pored over all my thoughts and research and prayed.

I thought about Peter Terry and prayed.

I thought about Mariann Zocci and prayed.

I finally settled on the thought that this woman was an important piece of the puzzle. I needed to speak with Mariann Zocci. I was certain of it.

I didn’t think there was any way I could make it past the fortress at the Zocci mansion to see her. My eyes fell on the other
Zocci addresses on my list. Maybe one of the other family members would be more accessible. Virginia Anne lived in the city I could try to track her down once I got back to Chicago James Andrew lived in Highland Park. I checked my map. His home was less than a mile from where I was sitting. Might as well check it out. I prayed for guidance and got in the car.

I found the house easily and was relieved to discover that James Andrew’s house wasn’t nearly as intimidating as his parents’. He lived in one of the big Republican colonials. Circular drive. Huge trees. Bursting flower beds. And a rope swing. A rope swing hanging from one of the huge oaks in the front yard.

I saw that rope swing as a sign from Jesus.

I parked my car and marched myself up to the front door, stepping over a plastic Fisher-Price dump truck, and rang the bell.

I could hear children running, a dog barking, and a woman shouting for someone to answer the door. As I stood there, the red-painted door swung open.

My eyes dropped to meet the gaze of a skinny little dark-haired girl dressed in footie pajamas. She couldn’t have been more than four years old.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello.”

“Is your daddy here?”

“Mommy!” she shouted. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and waited calmly for the next question.

A woman’s voice came from inside the house. “Who is it, Punkin?”

“A lady.”

The owner of the voice appeared, toddler on her hip. She wore a pink sweat suit, no makeup, had pulled her brown hair
back into a pony tail, and carried a copy of
Green Eggs and Ham
in her free hand. A little blond-haired boy clung to her thigh.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“I’m looking for James Andrew Zocci,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you. You’ve obviously got your hands full.”

She laughed. “It’s the witching hour. They go nuts right before bedtime.”

“Is he here?” I said. “I just need to talk to him for a minute.”

“Daddy went on the plane,” Punkin said.

“Andy won’t be back this evening,” the woman said. “Was he expecting you?”

I decided to tell the truth for a change. She seemed like a good egg. It was worth a try “No, he wasn’t. I knew his brother, Erik. I wanted to talk to James … Andy about him. Could I leave him a note or something?”

She put the toddler down. “Punkin, take your brothers for a minute, will you honey? Put in a movie if you want.”

The little girl stared at me. “You know my Uncle Erik?”

“I used to.”

She turned to her mother. “I told you she’d come.” Then back to me. “Does he miss me?”

“Yes, sweetie, he does,” I said. “I think he misses you very much.”

“Will he bring me a present?”

I looked at her mother.

She leaned down. “I don’t think he can, honey. But Daddy’s bringing you a present when he comes home tomorrow, okay? Now take your brothers for me. I need to talk to Erik’s friend.”

She shooed the kids off and came back to the front door.

“I’m sorry. I left you standing out here. Would you like to come in?”

“No, thanks. I’m really sorry to intrude.”

“How did you say you knew Erik?”

“I was his psychologist.”

I watched the recognition settle onto her face. “The one from SMU.” She looked at me for a moment without saying anything. “Joe’s got his sights on you.”

“He does.”

“I think you’d better come in,” she said. “Knowing Joe, he’s got somebody watching the house.” She looked out onto the street. “Is that your car?”

“Sadly, yes. My rental.”

“It’s ugly.”

“But it runs,” I said.

“Hey, I’ve heard of them. I guess that’s truth in advertising. I’m Liz Zocci,” she said, extending her hand.

“Dylan Foster.”

“Why don’t you park your car in the garage and come inside? I think you and I should talk.”