by Alan Lee
Lynch advanced on him. His voice quaked with the enormity of what he’d done. “Don’t you come into MY house and HIT ME! I didn’t… I didn’t want to do that!”
Gibbs pivoted across the counter and landed with a grunt. Held up his hands. “Alright, boy. Alright, calm down. Boys don’t hit their daddies.”
“You’re no father to me, Chief.”
“Take deep breaths. Relax, Peter.”
“Francis. Francis told you Daisy and I were getting married.” Lynch put a hand to his mouth and swallowed.
“Francis told me about your absurd… Of course he did.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because you’re destroying the family, Peter!”
“We’re NOT a family! I’m the fat idiot you’re stuck with. You told me enough. Daisy and me, we’ll be a true family.”
“I’m trying to fix things. To fix you.”
“It’s too late, Chief.”
Gibbs’ shoulders dropped, muscles unclenching. Peter was right, it was too late. Gibbs saw the truth. They had run out of time—no more chances.
“Get out,” said Lynch.
“I’m staying.”
“I don’t need you here. I can control myself.”
“No Peter. You can’t. You haven’t ever. And tonight won’t be any different. I’d be retired ten years if you could. I’m staying, and you know why? That one-legged Green Beret might show.”
The phone fell from Lynch’s left hand. Landed with a crack.
“Daniel Jennings?”
“That’s the one.”
“I didn’t invite… I won, I beat him. He’s prohibited by the court,” said Lynch.
“Think that’ll keep him away?”
“You should have kept that sergeant nobody in jail. You cops are worthless.”
“That’s why I’m staying. If Jennings shows, I’ll arrest him.”
“Daisy chose me.” Lynch was staring at the ceiling.
“Okay, Peter. Whatever you say. Enjoy your party. I’ll help clean up after.” Gibbs moved toward a chair, looking like an old man stretching his neck.
Francis had been right—now the day was here, Gibbs had woken that morning convinced he couldn’t murder his own son. Their plan, kill Jennings and Peter and stage it so they’d shot one anther, was solid but unthinkable. He’d arrived at the house, desperate for a way out.
But now?
Now he only saw a rabid dog that needed to be put down. That was the path to preserve the future of Francis, the future of his grandchildren, and his own legacy. The madness of Jennings would be blamed, and not the madness of Peter Lynch.
His powerful pain meds had taken the edge off too, he was certain. Provided his violence additional agency. More pills would be necessary later.
Through the wide front doors, the sound of laughter reached them. Ann and Homer helping with the decorations. The first guests would be arriving in two hours.
55
A bored bond officer watched Jennings pee in a cup. When asked why, the officer explained some people arrive with balloons full of clean urine to beat the system.
Afterward, Jennings took care not to look in the mirror. Didn’t want to dwell on himself. No longer a Green Beret and probably not a teacher for long. Wasn’t even invited to the Christmas party. On a Friday evening he was peeing in a cup while a bond officer watched at District 15 Probation and Parole.
“How many times do I have to do that?” said Jennings.
The front administrator checked her papers. “Once a week until your court date.”
“Not the finest five minutes of my life.”
“I bet.”
Jennings hurried to his car, the trunk full of food and luggage. Ready to retreat. Parked in the adjacent spot was a black Acura. The door opened and the Honorable Francis Lynch rose from behind the wheel. He remained where he was, giving him distance.
Jennings’ pulse accelerated. “Judge Lynch.”
Francis smirked. He called and his words came as fog. “Mr. Jennings, no need for alarm. I only need ten seconds of your time.”
“For what?”
“To chat.” Francis indicated the building he’d vacated. “We’re in a public parking lot, outside a parole office. A dozen security cameras are watching. You can trust me.”
Jennings was shivering. “Go ahead. Talk.”
Francis came near, close enough to touch him with his camel jacket.
“Don’t speak, only listen. Craig Lewis was someone I cared about. And he…” Jennings’ face, like his mind, was armored. Even still, he was surprised to see tears in Francis’ eyes. Francis cleared his throat and said, “I won’t and can’t help the police apprehend Craig’s killer. Nor can I help you with your current charges. But I feel compelled to somehow…honor Craig’s death. Here’s the best I can do—Peter intends to propose to Ms. Hathaway. Tonight, at the Academy’s holiday gala. It’s absurd and misguided, I know, but he’s increasingly… She has broken his mind, put it that way. You can use your imagination on how he’ll endure her rejection.”
“He’ll kill her,” said Jennings.
“He might. Unless he’s stopped.”
“Daisy isn’t going to the party.”
“Are you positive?”
Jennings’ reply died on his lips. He’d called Daisy twice, both times leaving messages. He’d assumed she was packing, or maybe she’d gone into work, and he was on his way to her house now. But what if…?
What if he was too late?
Francis nodded. “Good luck, Daniel.” He turned on his heel and walked to the sedan.
Jennings got to his car first and gunned the engine.
56
Hathaway’s red Lexus was in her driveway. A good sign or a bad sign, Jennings didn’t know. He parked on the street, refusing to let a horror shop of images gain advantage over his self-control.
Hathaway is fine. She has to be.
He peered through the dark kitchen window—vacant. Without knocking, he tried the front door, found it open, and pushed in. He carried his grandfather’s stunted shotgun and he cleared the room. Closed the door and waited, listening.
The black house emanated silence, accusatory and loud in his ears. He flipped the light switch. On the table, Hathaway’s keys.
Jennings knew the place was lifeless. She wasn’t here but he verified. Room by room upstairs, turning on lights and ready to fire at a hairy giant. His footsteps squeaked on the hardwood, announcing him throughout. He dreaded finding a dead body in her bed but it was empty. Her purse lay on the nightstand.
A cold shiver prickled his skin. She wouldn’t have left the house voluntarily without her purse.
Jennings flicked on the basement lights and descended the stairs. His finger was off the trigger—he felt itchy, ready to shoot at shadows, didn’t trust his reflexes.
He’d met Daisy’s fiancé Byron once and recognized him on the couch. His head rested on a pillow and blankets were piled near his feet, like he’d used the couch as a bed.
A big tuna hook protruded from Byron’s neck. The point had been driven through the man’s throat and into cushions underneath. A bib of dried blood had soaked Byron’s shirt, the couch, the carpet. His body was desiccated from blood loss. Eyes wild and turned upward, looking for eternity.
The hook had ripped through his jugular, killing Byron within seconds. He’d probably been asleep and never knew what happened. The amount of strength required to punch through a trachea was hideous to consider.
Peter intends to propose to Ms. Hathaway. Tonight, at the Academy’s holiday gala.
She has broken his mind.
Jennings bent over and vomited the remains of his lunch. He let go of the shotgun with one hand, the other searching his pocket for a phone. But he didn’t have one. He raised up and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Ran upstairs and grabbed the phone off the wall, a landline. It produced no tone, maybe never activated, maybe the line was cut.
Hands shaking, he loo
ked at his watch; the Christmas party was starting.
57
Daisy Hathaway battled memories of waking. Distant confusion and fear, dreams vanishing when reached for, a mist.
When she surfaced for good, she felt like a swimmer who’d been struggling to breathe for hours; her oxygen out of reach and now it came in a trickle. She was groggy and disoriented from the effort.
She was in a bed. Good—she’d never been more exhausted. A dark room, a lamp burning. Noise from somewhere.
Her eyes tried to close but she fought them. She needed her phone, that’s what she needed. Reaching for the nightstand, her fingers knocked off a bag of syringes and three glass vials, which thumped softly onto her rug.
Frustrating. She rolled to her side, peering over the bed. Frowned. Not her rug. Not her nightstand.
What was the noise? Music. Music and people somewhere below.
She sat up and her vision swam sideways. Her stomach revolted and she groaned and collapsed backward onto the pillow.
I’m naked, she thought, and she was. An abstract notion that should matter but didn’t. She couldn’t force facts to take on importance.
Sat up again. Still dizzy and now her head ached, but she refused to stay down.
She swung her legs over the mattress. Scooted to the edge, closing her eyes and the room played tricks. She stood and her muscles failed, operating without power. “Oh!” The sheets wrapped around her and she slumped to the floor in a white cocoon.
She was pushing herself upright when a man stumped in. A big bearded man, but his face blurred.
“She’s, she’s awake! Oh no, oh no, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t move.”
A little girl wandered in. She pushed the big man.
“Daddy says she’s sick. Pick her up but don’t touch her.”
Hathaway couldn’t make out details. Couldn’t make sense.
The big man scooped Hathaway, sheets and all. His eyes were clenched tight, not looking, and he was biting his tongue like a little boy concentrating. He laid her, as gently as if she was a baby, back on the king mattress and turned away. “Okay. Okay I did it.”
“How do you feel?” said the girl.
“Mmm,” said Hathaway. “I don’t know.”
Sounded like, Mahdunoh.
“There’s water on the other side. The bathroom door’s there.”
“Thank you.” Han’yew.
“Daddy says the medicine should have worked. You’re healed now. If you feel better, you’re supposed to get dressed and go downstairs.”
“Get dressed?”
“He bought a dress. It’s in the bathroom.”
“Where am I?” Hathaway felt dreamy and awkward, talking to the strange girl.
“At the Christmas party.”
“Okay.” That made sense. Maybe. A little. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m Ann. Ann Lynch. This is Homer. We’re in the next room watching Anne of Green Gables. Homer is in love with Anne. Her name has an E but mine doesn’t.”
The little girl took the big man’s hand and pulled him out, telling him he could open his eyes now.
Ann Lynch?
That was Jingle Bell Rock drifting up from below. The Christmas party at Peter Lynch’s house?
Concrete facts began to solidify. Implications and warnings landing on her shoulders.
Hathaway realized she was having a nightmare wide awake.
The Lynch homestead was lit up with Christmas bulbs and music. Late partygoers were still arriving and three valets arranged cars up and down the long driveway.
Jennings parked out of the lights, a ways down the drive. He’d driven here at a hundred miles per hour, but now he needed calm. He needed good decisions. He sat in the car, adjusting his prosthesis, and breathing deep. Said a prayer and shoved open the door.
He hurried up the road, staying inside the tree line, but paused near the parked cars—at the roundabout, near the house, there was a police cruiser. Next to it, he recognized an unmarked cruiser, the chief’s.
Waiting inside, waiting to arrest him. And the chief had brought at least one henchman…
There! At the stairs, prowling the front porch, just beyond the lights. Officer Hudson, the corrupt cop who’d pulled Jennings over and torn him from the car.
Theories and fears and questions demanded Jennings’ attention. How much did Gibbs know? That his son had killed an innocent man earlier that day? Doubtful, because the body was still there. Did Hudson know he was guarding the house of a madman? Did Hudson know a woman had been kidnapped? Was Daisy really in that house? Who could Jennings call for help? Maybe Mackenzie, the private detective? No one at all until he got his hands on a phone! But Daisy couldn’t wait.
Jennings wouldn’t risk charging through the front door. He’d be immediately arrested, or possibly shot. Or maybe Hathaway wasn’t there and he’d misread the situation. He needed information first, needed to recon.
Using his memory of the house and the lawn, Jennings made his way around back. The ground was wet enough so the leaves didn’t crackle, but not so wet to give his unsteady prosthesis trouble. He used no light, walking slow, and relying on the ambient glow of the house.
Circumventing the wide clearing took ten minutes, the loneliest of his life. Every step his faith failed. The people inside were probably laughing at crazy Mr. Jennings and his cocaine charges. He’d been desperate to earn his place and failed in spectacular fashion. He couldn’t do this. Maybe Hathaway wanted to marry Lynch. He’d go to jail. Maybe she’d be killed. He’d bleed out into the rocks. The tribunal would find him guilty.
He squeezed on the fear. Remembered Kelly Carson. Refused to let Hathaway suffer the same or worse.
He reached the rear lawn and checked his watch—the party had been going for forty-five minutes. Had Lynch proposed yet? A wide porch dominated the back of the house, like the front. The rear doors led into a hallway off the busy kitchen.
He would let himself in that way. He wasn’t trying to sneak in entirely unnoticed, but rather enter the party without causing a scene. It’d be better if Lynch—
Police Chief Gibbs appeared at the window and pinned him with a glare. The bald man’s eyes full of hate.
Jennings froze. He knew that car belonged to Gibbs! Everything was ruined now. Gibbs would arrest him for trespassing, for breaking the conditions set on his bond. He was going back to prison and there was no chance of getting out before his hearing. He reached for his phone. But it wasn’t there. Should he start shouting? Should he…
But wait.
Gibbs’ gaze shifted away from him. Searching the darkness of the entire backyard. After a minute the man left the window, returning to the party. He hadn’t seen Jennings in the shadows.
Relief flooded Jennings and his heart pounded like someone beat on his ears. That was too close.
Damned if he’d back out now. He’d just be more careful. Stay away from Gibbs until he saw Hathaway.
But he couldn’t go in through that door, into the hallway patrolled by the chief. Jennings’ eyes fell to the basement door.
He tried it and the door swung inward. Stepped in and flicked the light switch. He stood next to a utility sink in the bowels of the house. The gas furnace was churning and a tankless hot water heater hissed. The air handler drowned out the music above. He crossed the room, through a door, and entered a concrete storage area. Wooden shelves were stacked with boxes, bottles of alcohol, two steel safes, an old bicycle, football equipment, books, electrical cords, surplus construction materials, buckets of paint. A work bench was laden with tools.
Two doors led out of the storage area. Jennings tried the first but it was locked. The second, on the far wall, was unlocked and it opened into a dark billiard room and a staircase leading upward.
First, though, sick curiosity ate at him. What was behind that locked door?
He returned to it and searched the top of the frame for a key. Circled the room looking in all the obvious places.
Found nothing. But there was more than one way to breach a door. He took a screwdriver from the work bench.
As he worked on the doorknob he heard footsteps and laughter on the wooden floor above, muffled by insulation. The screws came out and he retracted the knob. Pushed the opposing spindle with his finger until it fell and clattered inside the locked room. Using the screwdriver, he twisted the latch until the bolt popped free of the faceplate.
Through the little hole in the door he could only see darkness beyond. His skin crawled like pure evil leaked out.
The deadbolt wasn’t engaged. He pushed open the door but could see very little. His fingers found a switch and he flicked it, and madness jumped at him.
In the brilliant great room above, the party raged and Hathaway was missed. She was popular and the faculty had assumed she would attend. The charges against Daniel Jennings were on everyone’s lips, each with a different opinion, but the most common was that the Green Beret was framed, whispered so the host wouldn’t overhear.
Dean Gordon was three drinks in and he’d forgotten his embarrassment from last year when he’d asked Hathaway to dance and she politely declined. Where was she? Should he try again? One more drink and he might, if he could break away from the awful conversation with Angela Pierce.
Coach Murray’s wife Eden was in her element, drink in hand, chatting with friends. Murray kept to himself, in no mood to celebrate. By coming, he’d betrayed his friends, especially Craig Lewis. He was a hypocrite, demanding his players be warriors when he was a coward. His assistant coaches tried to talk but he was worthless and they drifted away. He kept to himself and his glass of Cruzan 151, a strong rum, remaining by the roaring fireplace.
Across the room, Peter Lynch was in high cotton, circulating among the guests with greater spirit than normal. No one noticed but Murray, but Lynch’s eyes kept darting to the stairs.