The Caller

by Dan Krzyzkowski

  “I don’t want to hear anything over the radio,” I said. “I don’t want to hear about Patrick that way. I want to be there.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t come through the radio,” he returned levelly, looking ahead. His head was angled to one side to better his view through the windshield. He was beaming with concentration. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, I’m hoping.”

  “Sit back, Leslie,” Sam suggested, on my left. He tightened his grip on my hand and squeezed my shoulder with his other. “Ease back and hang on. We’ll get there when we get there. The man has to drive slowly—”

  “I just don’t want to hear it through the radio, not like that, not before I can even see him,” I cut in, speaking so fast that my words were nearly connected. I was also slurring. The closer we crept toward my house on Westfall Boulevard, the less control I wielded on the words that slid out of my mouth.

  “I know it,” Sam told me softly. “Just relax, and we’ll get there safely.”

  It was pure superstition, I knew. By waiving radio info and hanging on, gutting it out the entire way there, the mental anguish and torture I endured would warrant Patrick’s health. I was really reaching for straws now. Anything, anything to give me an edge.

  The wind drove millions of icy flakes into the windshield, like tiny asteroids. They sounded like hail as they bounced this way and that, rubbed away by the sweeping pair of wipers.

  “This storm is unbelievable, simply unbelievable,” the trooper remarked, hunkered over the wheel. His voice was a threaded whisper in the Ranger’s interior.

  I swallowed hard and leaned my head back. This was the worst of it, this ride, the wait, the icy feeling in my stomach. Unable to do anything but endure. I turned and looked at Mary, who looked back solemnly, seeming to mirror my countenance. Her face was deep and warm and loving and hopeful but concerned. I often think today that she was as anxious as I was that night, most probably unnerved by the grim prospect of handling me spiritually, helping me cope, if the coming news turned out to be bad.

  We were on Orchard Drive, negotiating the hazardous twists and turns I had come to know and respect over time. The snow swept horizontally from left to right across the windshield. The apple trees spread out into darkness on both sides of the road, their branches heavy with snow. Red police lights materialized ahead of us. Emergency vehicles were strung out along both sides of the road. This was the accident scene to which David Block had alluded over the radio. We passed slowly through the middle of it.

  “Oh, look.” Mary was nudging me, pointing through her window.

  I squinted into the darkness and saw a police cruiser on its roof. It had slid fifty feet into the orchard, coming to rest with its back end tilted upward, rear brake lights a pair of crimson eyes unblinking in the forest.

  “It was on its way to Justin’s house,” I told Mary. Sam leaned over, listening. “It’s why the police never got there. That’s why they never showed up.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WE TURNED THE CORNER onto Westfall Boulevard minutes later. I saw the police presence immediately. Westfall was designed strictly for residential purposes and came to a dead end after the Rudebakers’ house. No cul-de-sac, just a dead end with a galvanized guardrail overlooking US Route 7 far below. Even through the swirling wind and snow and the Ranger’s wipers, I saw the red emergency flashers from a distance, oscillating through the storm and throwing chaos into the night. That visual confirmation stabbed into me like a garden spade, and I felt my jaws unhinge. As the Ranger rumbled forward through freshly exposed tire trails, I was oddly reminded of ogling similar scenes in other locales at other times. But those emergencies had been happening to other people.

  I swallowed hard. “Oh my God, that’s my house. They’re all in front of my house.”

  I saw Mary turn to look at me through the corner of my vision. For a moment, I thought she’d say, Of course it’s your house, what’d you expect?, but she didn’t.

  Sam tightened his pressure on my forearm as we moved closer. His tension was evident through the gesture. The interior of the Ranger fell eerily silent as the scene grew before us. And it did grow. Features began to take form, and the stroboscopic flashing gradually originated from more than one vehicle. First two, then three, then four, and then I stopped counting. I saw lights everywhere, red beacons and white lights, headlights and spotlights, then handheld flashlights bobbing up and down in the snowy night, beams slashing all ways through the dark. As we drew nearer, those moving beams became attached to human forms, and I suddenly saw people everywhere. I saw officers in heavy trench coats and other unidentifiable men scooting about the scene in thick, brown garments. Neighbors and onlookers were clumped loosely at the outskirts of the confusion, eyes wide, looking on with morbid fascination. It reminded me of the bridge from which Becky had fallen and all the drivers bending over the concrete railing to see. Disgusted but fascinated.

  I tried to process everything in a frenzy, my eyes working furiously as we pulled up—but there was too much to absorb, too much happening. I saw the onlookers again and wondered what they were thinking, what they were discussing among themselves. Oh, how little they knew.

  I saw four ambulances, a pair of Rangers like the one we were in, countless police cruisers, and several other unmarked vehicles equipped with plows and chain-link tires. Men were everywhere. Moving in all directions. Some talking, some watching, others moving toward an unknown purpose. What fueled my panic the most was the spatial arrangement of everything; the vehicles seemed to have been parked recklessly, without regard to one another or anyone else. The cacophony of flashing lights was hopelessly out of sync, and as a result the area was rendered in a constant state of pulsing red. The entire boulevard was frantic.

  Finally, we came to a stop. Sam popped his door open.

  “Stay with me now,” he said, looking back at me as he stepped out into the snow. “Don’t let go of my hand. Mary is right behind you.”

  I barely acknowledged his words or his caring expression as I slid off the seat, onto the snow-covered road beside him. There was simply too much to take in, too much to keep track of. I heard men’s voices, and transistor radios, and Sam’s voice beside me, and the hellish wind curdling at my ears, driving sharp particles of snow into the side of my face, making me wince. My heart jabbed fiercely at my chest.

  “Come on,” ordered the driver, waving for us to follow him.

  We plundered through the snow behind him, Sam on one side of me, Mary on the other, as he led us around the front of the Ranger. The big engine was still running, a component of all the background noise, but it was quickly dwarfed by the shrieking wind as we moved away from it. I was spinning my head in all directions, as were Sam and Mary, struggling to obtain a fix on things, trying to lock onto something that looked familiar. With the blinding snow and the bedlam and lights and people and voices, nothing about the place seemed familiar at all, not even my own house, which loomed to our left. I saw men walking in and out the front door over there, and lights everywhere.

  What has happened here? Dear God, all these people …

  My pulse was throbbing at the sides of my neck, pounding inside my ear cavities. I had to squint to see anything at all, and I saw Patrick nowhere.

  “Where is he?” I moaned worriedly. “Dear God, where’s Patrick?”

  “It’s okay, honey,” said Mary, to my right, clutching my arm. “We’re going to know everything in just a minute now. Just stay behind the man.”

  He led us past the front end of a flashing ambulance, past a pair of conversing officers who paused to give us a speculative eye as we passed, then through a narrow slat between two enormous, unmarked plow trucks that had been parked a foot and a half apart. He turned left, and we followed. The wind was coming at us now, and we all put our arms up to protect our eyes. The snow was hard and stinging as it cut into the exposed areas of our faces. I nearl
y had to shut my eyes.

  We were moving toward my house now, past where the sidewalk should have been, and onto my front yard, calf-deep in snow. I spun my head to the right a bit and saw more activity over at the Rudebakers’ house, men milling near the front door. I didn’t see Mr. or Mrs. Rudebaker and wondered if they’d returned from their late-night affair or if they planned on returning at all. I saw more men over at the Pattersons’ place, fifty yards to the left of my house, and that should have set my mind spinning even more, but it didn’t because my brain was overloaded, unable to absorb anything new.

  Patrick, where are you? Where the hell are you?

  A small group of men was huddled just below my front porch, talking among themselves, and we seemed to be approaching them. Seconds later, the trooper we were following angled off to the right, directly toward them.

  Oh God, this is it now. You’re about to learn everything that’s happened here tonight.

  This abrupt revelation unnerved me, and I suddenly had the feeling that bad news was coming. I could taste it in the poignancy of the moment, felt it bulging into the hollow abscess of my throat, and I shuddered horrifically.

  Mary turned and looked at me as we approached the group, but I refused to look back. I didn’t want to see the fear etched into her face. I could feel Sam rubbing me gently on the back. I think they both anticipated the worst during that moment—I think they tasted the same dark premonitions that I did, and we were equally afraid to learn the truth.

  We neared the group. My heart was thundering. Thundering. It seemed ready to explode into my throat.

  The group disbanded as its members saw us approaching, and a huge man with a gray overcoat stepped forward, distinguishing himself through the torrents of snow that bulled past him. He exchanged a word or two with our driver before approaching us. He stood over six foot, taller than Sam even. His dark hair, littered with snow, was a tangled mess on his head—he was the only one in the group not wearing a hat, I noticed—and he was unshaven. His face was covered with a two-day stubble.

  Contrary to his physical size, his voice wasn’t booming but was barely prominent over the wind. The cords in his neck bulged as he made the effort to speak.

  “Miss Calloway,” he said, looking down at me, “I’m Carl Wickman, Chief of Police. I assure—”

  “My son, Patrick?” I blurted desperately in a hoarse voice. I felt my entire body go numb beneath the weight of my words. I kept my mouth open to repeat them, but my voice died in my throat, and I was suddenly paralyzed.

  “Your son is fine,” he said, his expression unchanging. He laid a big hand on one of my shoulders. “Perfectly, wonderfully fine.”

  I froze for a minute as those blessed words plumed past me. Then I exploded with relief and felt tears sputtering down my cheeks, the wind searing past them, making them feel like ice.

  “Oh, Patrick,” I sobbed joyfully, weeping as Sam and Mary held me up in the gusting blizzard. “Oh, thank God, thank God, thank … W-where is he now? I have to see him, I have to—”

  “He’s fine, believe me,” Wickman said, not moving. “He’s back in the house right now. I’ll have my men bring him out.” The towering chief turned to his left and motioned to one of the officers with one hand. The officer nodded and made off toward the front porch and through the open front door.

  Wickman turned back to us. “Sorry about having to stand out here. It’s best if we stay out of the house until the investigators and forensics arrive.” A powerful jump of wind surged past us, and we all paused, tucking our heads down as it roared by. It made a high-pitched whistle in my ears.

  “Your son is extremely lucky, Miss Calloway,” Wickman continued, stuffing his hands into his overcoat pockets. “It was dumb luck that he slept through everything. He was sound asleep when we got here. Never knew what happened.”

  “What did happen, sir?” Sam asked then, taking the words out of my mouth.

  “The house was broken into via a back entrance. Several drawers were left opened in your master bedroom, so we assume it was your valuables they were after, Miss Calloway.”

  “What about Tammy?” I asked, feeling another knot constricting my throat.

  The big man hesitated a moment, peering down at me, and I knew Tammy was gone. “Your babysitter was killed, I’m afraid. We found her on the living room floor. I’m terribly sorry, Miss Calloway, I really am.”

  A sick feeling found the pit of my stomach, and I felt my legs growing weak beneath me. I swayed and would have fallen had Sam and Mary not been supporting me.

  Fresh tears made tracks down my cheeks. I sniffled heavily. “Oh, Tammy, no, not her.” I was staring into the ground at our feet, wondering if any night of my life had ever been worse. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my teeth together, crying openly. Mary massaged the back of my neck with one hand, trying to console me.

  I lifted my head moments later, my vision moist and blurry. The snow tore painfully at the wet corners of my eyes. “Someone’s gonna have to … tell her parents—”

  “We’re taking care of that,” Wickman said slowly. “Her parents are being notified as we speak.”

  I lowered my head and let another sob escape as the horrible image of Mr. and Mrs. Culberson receiving news of their daughter’s death entered my mind. The bitter truth burrowed into my core, and I bent forward in the blizzard, crying loud and hard, my knees wobbling. In effect, my muscles went limp, and my body collapsed. I tried to fall forward, but Sam and Mary held onto me as I grieved.

  Tammy’s parents were presently receiving the worst news a parent could bear. It could as easily have been Patrick, so damn easily. It got inside me and clawed at my soul, making me more scared at that moment than at any time before.

  Tammy had been murdered in my home. My Tammy, so sweet, so innocent, who looked after Patrick three nights a week.

  Mary hugged me hard, and I wept into her neck. I was a bundle of whirling emotions. Was I to thank God for sparing my child and claiming Tammy? Was I to thank God for anything, really, when it seemed implausible that He’d played any role in this terrible chain of events tonight? It was difficult to know what to think.

  The wind whipped, and I heard a voice behind me.

  “Mommy!”

  My ears pricked, and I withdrew from Mary’s grasp. I whirled around, and there was Patrick, bound in a thick wool blanket, standing six feet away. His face was reddened by the flashing lights, his body silhouetted by the porch lights behind him.

  “Oh, honey!” I yelled, kneeling in the snow to embrace him. I held my arms open, and he ran to me and wrapped his own arms around my neck, burying his face into me. I whispered into his ear and held him tightly, rocking him. “Oh, Patrick, you’re okay, thank God you’re okay, thank God.” I closed my eyes and held him. “I love you, honey, I love you.”

  He spoke into my ear. “I love you too, Mommy, but I’m scared. What’s happening?”

  “It’s a long story, honey, it’s a long story. I can’t tell you right now.”

  He pulled back to look me in the eye. His eyes were large and confounded, brimming with a child’s fear. “What happened to Tammy, Mom? What happened to her?”

  I felt my heart pounding and knew I had to tell him, right there and then. “Tammy was killed, Patrick. Some bad men broke into the house after she put you to bed, and they killed her. I’m sorry.”

  His face contorted, and I grieved for him. He was six years old and so damn confused. He buried his face into my neck again, and I held him.

  “Have you heard what happened?” Sam asked Wickman, who was still standing in front of us.

  “About the phone call and all? Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Enough bits and pieces of it from the Rudebaker boy to put the puzzle together.”

  “How is Justin?” I asked, looking up from my kneeling stance.

  “He’s all right,” Wickman
replied, rubbing his stubble with one hand. “A bit shaken up and all, but he’s fine. We’re still waiting for his parents to return, wherever the hell they made off to. They may find themselves in hot water after this one.”

  “For leaving him alone like this, I hope,” I said.

  Wickman nodded. “Neglect is every bit as serious as physical and sexual abuse.”

  “Absolutely,” Sam added, with Mary nodding in agreement beside me.

  “What about those men?” I asked. “Did you catch them?”

  The chief shook his head. “Gone when we got here. Must’ve heard the Rudebaker kid making his break or else the sirens. We found faint footprints leading out the back door, but they were snowed under beyond that point. We think they made for the highway down the hill, probably had someone waiting.”

  “Route 7 is open tonight?” I remembered the bus accident. “Tonight? In this?”

  “Sure, yeah. Plows running back and forth down there, and it’s a major road for this area. They’ll have it open all night.”

  “So, they’re gone then,” Mary said dismally, visibly shivering in the gale. “They robbed two houses and killed a girl, and they’re just … gone.”

  “As of now, until our team runs its investigation through the three houses, yes. We’ll have to wait and see what turns up.”

  “Three houses?” I asked, standing up, and I suddenly knew.

  Wickman was nodding. “That’s right. We made our check, and it turns out your other neighbors were hit as well. A three-point job.”

  “My God, the Pattersons,” I mumbled. “They’re in Honolulu.”

  “Let there be no doubt, Miss Calloway. These guys played their cards tonight. This was no accident. This was planned well in advance. We even think the storm added to their advantage. We have several units combing Route 7, but there’s only so much we can do. That’s why I can’t stress how lucky your son was tonight. And the other boy.”