But only the odd numbers.
****
…nine…ten…eleven.
I let go of the breath I’m holding in.
Eleven steps from bedside to bathroom.
At least something has remained the same.
Yesterday, I reached my car in the driveway in sixteen-and-a-half steps—instead of seventeen.
The day before, I strolled from my office to the break-room for a refill on my coffee, and it took thirty-two steps—instead of thirty-one.
On the way back to my office, I took thirty-two-and-a-half steps. I locked my office door and wept at my desk while my coffee went cold.
It’s been a week since the VP ditched me and I spilled orange juice on the redhead’s sweater. I look at my reflection in the mirror and can see the toll that stress and lack of sleep have taken. My face is gaunt and pale, my eyes sunken and red.
My world has gone mad, and I can’t begin to determine why. Have I done something different after all these years? Have I done something wrong?
I slip off my pajamas and step into the shower.
Once again, I search my mind and try to retrace my actions in pursuit of an answer—but there is nothing to find other than the obvious. It all started with the tree. That damn tree.
I’m not a foolish man. I know what the psychiatrists would say. I’ve heard it all before.
Two simple words: Childhood Trauma.
I was nine the night I was attacked by the tree.
I don’t remember why the tree always bothered me so much. There was nothing particularly menacing or frightening about it. It was an old oak. The tallest tree in the yard of my youth. Sure, it leaned a little toward the house I grew up in, and its branches obscured most of the view from my second-floor bedroom. But it was just an ugly old tree. I remember my mother sending me outside to read Encyclopedia Brown and Hardy Boys books under its cooling shade and to play marbles in the grass amongst its ancient roots.
And I remember having nightmares about it. Unsettling dreams that were eerily similar to the dreams I was experiencing now.
My mother blamed the comic books I read and the Creature Double Features I loved to watch on television on Saturday afternoons and my overactive imagination for the dreams. My father just told me to stop being such a big baby and a sissy. After the third or fourth time I had the nightmare, he angrily forbade me from watching any more scary movies. But he worked at the plant most Saturdays, so my mother let me watch them any way. In fact, she usually joined me. The two of us cuddled beneath a blanket on the sofa, lights dim, bowl of buttered popcorn on our laps.
Mom was wonderful like that. She would always surprise me with fun adventures—like night fishing at the quarry or the time she pretended the electricity was out all weekend and we lived by candlelight until it was Monday and time for school again—and she always made me feel “special” instead of “different.” That was her favorite word for me—special.
My father, on the other hand, told me directly to my face that something was wrong with me. That I wasn’t special, that I wasn’t even normal like all the other neighborhood kids. I guess that’s why he left us the summer I turned sixteen. He got in his truck one Thursday evening and drove away for a night shift at the plant and never came home again.
My mother spent a lot of time trying to convince me that it wasn’t my fault—that they’d had a lot of “grown-up issues” and we were better off for his departure—but your father up and leaving is a hard thing to make peace with. At any age.
I turn off the shower and stand there naked and shivering, silently counting to thirty-three, back in the present now, and afraid of where the day will take me.
As I carefully step out of the shower and reach for a towel, my mind betrays me—and I am nine years old again. Lying in the dark in my childhood bedroom. Surrounded by my books and model airplanes and superhero posters.
I have just awakened from another nightmare and am counting the plastic models hanging from kite-string from the ceiling in an effort to calm my thumping heart. I have just reached the number eight (a British Spitfire dive-bombing my bookshelf) when I hear a stealthy scratching noise at the window.
I have just enough time to glance at the window and make out one spidery, claw-like tree branch gently caressing the glass before the window explodes inward in a shower of broken shards. The claw-branch lunges into the room, grasping for me…
I scream and my parents come running.
My mother rushes to my bedside, face stricken, taking me in her arms, asking, “Are you okay, honey? Are you hurt?”
My father just stands there in the middle of my bedroom, staring at the shattered window, mouth hanging open. Finally, he turns to me with a cold expression. “What the hell did you do, boy?”
****
Months later, fed up with my continuing night terrors, my father would try to blame the movie Poltergeist for my bad dreams and a summer thunderstorm for the broken window.
But I knew better. I had never seen that movie—still haven’t for what should be obvious reasons—and, in case my memory had somehow failed me, I checked the weather charts: there was no storm that night. The night skies were clear, the temperature mild, and the wind light and from the northwest.
There was no storm.
****
The walk from my front porch to my car in the driveway takes sixteen steps—another half-step fewer than yesterday. My drive to work takes twenty-four minutes and four seconds. It’s never taken fewer than twenty-five minutes before.
None of this surprises me anymore.
Tonight is the real test.
****
…twenty-one…twenty-two…twenty-three…
I find myself consciously trying to take smaller steps across the grassy back yard, but my body doesn’t allow it.
…twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine.
Jesus, it feels like I just started walking.
Twenty-nine steps from back door to weeping willow—this feels like a waking nightmare.
I immediately start back for the house, but instead of counting, I unclip the cellphone from my belt and, with trembling hands, call the number I programmed into my phone earlier today.
Two rings (pick up, dammit!) and a man’s voice answers: “Freeman Tree Service, how can we help you?”
“I have an emergency. I need a tree cut down. Right away.”
“Okay, sir. Is the tree presenting a danger to your home or place of business?”
“No. I mean yes. It is.”
“Okay, I’m gonna need to get some info from you to start. Address, telephone number, some details about the tree’s location.”
“Anything you need. I just need it down by tomorrow at the latest.”
I hear a shuffling of papers at the other end of the phone. “Sir, our schedule is currently running at least two days out, so Friday afternoon is gonna be the earliest we can get a crew out to you…”
****
Friday afternoon is too far away. I know that, but there’s nothing I can do.
I glance at the red glowing numbers on my bedside alarm clock. 3:47am. I’m exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come easy these days. At the most, I’m getting three, maybe three-and-a-half hours a night.
4:03am. Maybe I should try another sleeping pill.
4:24am. God, I hate that number.
I toss and turn in bed, trying to think happy thoughts: my mother laughing while she shows me how to knot a neck-tie in the hallway mirror; the two of us sitting in the bleachers at Camden Yards, drinking lemonade and counting the advertising banners that decorate the upper deck; my bright red Edgewood Rams jersey hanging in the closet.
The pleasant memories work their magic, and I’m just about to doze off when I hear a scratching noise coming from the bedroom window. Too scared to open my eyes
and look, I hold my breath and listen…and it comes again. Louder this time.
I pinch my leg to make sure I’m not asleep.
I’m not—and sleep doesn’t come at all tonight.
****
For the first time in nearly two decades of employment at Bender and Price Electronics, I leave work early.
By two in the afternoon, I can take it no longer, so I call Personnel and tell them I feel feverish and nauseous and I need to go home. The nice lady on the phone tells me something must be going around the office and she hopes I feel better.
I’m afraid to count the steps from my office to the parking lot, so I don’t. Nor do I time my drive home.
It’s just past three in the afternoon, and once again I’m standing in front of the bay window in my kitchen, staring out at the weeping willow tree.
There’s no reason to walk outside and count my steps. Not anymore. The tree has moved past the shed on the left side of the yard and the birdbath that stands just a dozen or so yards from the back door. It’s a wonder its branches aren’t pressing against the back of the house, trying to smother it.
I turn my back to the window and close my eyes in thought. After a moment, I open them and retreat to the family room for a drink.
****
An hour and three drinks later, I stumble upstairs to the bedroom bathroom. I don’t look out any windows along the way and I don’t count my steps.
The house phone rings—and I almost spill my drink when I try to balance it on the edge of the sink.
The house phone rings again. I ignore it.
I open the medicine cabinet.
The phone rings a third time and the answering machine picks up. After a silent beat, I can hear a man’s voice coming from downstairs in the kitchen:
“Mason, it’s Charlie Griffin. Sorry to hear you’re out sick. I have some good news that should make you feel better, though. You got the promotion. You’re our new Director of Sales. I apologize for it taking so long, but we needed to hear back from corporate and you know how that goes. Anyway, feel better, buddy. We’ll celebrate next week with lunch.”
****
But I don’t hear any of this—just a muffled mish-mash of indecipherable words from downstairs—because the bathroom door is closed and I’m too busy counting pills as they spill from the tilted bottle into my sweaty palm.
…thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two…thirty-three.
Thirty-three. My lucky number.
I flick the first three pills into my mouth like breath mints—and swallow them with a gulp of bourbon.
I savor the burn and stare into the mirror and swallow three more.
I don’t think about the tree or my father or how big the world is.
I swallow three more pills.
I don’t even think about my mother’s smile or her sweet laughter or how soft her hands feel when she holds me.
Three more.
Instead, I think about the red number thirty-three jersey hanging in my closet—and I wish I had put it on before I started this.
Three more pills, and the image in the mirror ripples like pond water that has just swallowed a stone.
Still more pills and another gulp of bourbon, and I realize I’ve lost count. It doesn’t matter.
I picture the jersey in my hands and wish I could run my fingers along the stitching of my name one last time.
Three more pills.
The image in the mirror blurs, and then coalesces into that of a pale teenager, a bright red jersey hanging loosely on his skinny frame. The boy in the mirror is smiling.
I recognize that self-conscious smile and, with the numbness spreading up my legs, I gulp down three more pills. Old Lady Reeves is going to be so sad.
I look away from the mirror and swallow three more pills—and my palm is empty.
I start counting while I wait.
One…two…three…
THE HUNCH
“All I’m saying is that you should consider the idea.”
“I did.”
“Yeah, for about ten seconds.” I sighed. “You need the exercise, Frank.”
Frank Logan, bald head, double chin, and wrinkled suit, stared at me from the passenger seat of our unmarked patrol car.
“We’re outdoorsmen, Ben. Fishermen. Hunters. We don’t play tennis, for Christsake.”
“My doctor says it’s a great way to lose weight and get fit.”
“Your doctor’s an asshole.”
“Really mature, Frank.” I swung a left into the Eastern Precinct parking lot. Flipped a wave at a uniformed cop I knew from my days downtown.
“Can you imagine me walking into a country club? Little white shorts and a polo shirt. I’d rather hump my ex-wife.”
“Who said anything about a country club?” I asked, searching for a parking spot close to the station.
“Where else you gonna play tennis?”
I glanced at my partner to see if he was being serious. “There are public courts all over the city, Frank.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”
“What do you mean you don’t believe that? What’s not to believe?”
“I’m just saying I’ve never seen one.”
“Jesus Christ, we drive by them every day. Big fences around them so the balls don’t—”
“Why you getting so riled up?”
“Admit you’ve seen them before, Frank. Every damn school has tennis courts. So do most of the parks.”
“Those are basketball courts.”
I stopped the car in the middle of the parking lot and looked over at him. I could feel my face getting red. I opened my mouth to argue, then thought better of it. “You’re the asshole, Frank.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Really mature, Ben.”
I showed him my middle finger and took my foot off the brake. Frank pointed at an empty spot ahead. “Speaking of assholes, pull in there.”
RESERVED FOR SGT T COLLINS was stenciled across the asphalt.
“Where do I know that name?”
“Last month’s softball game. The douchebag with the tight uniform and the wife—”
“—with the gigantic fake boobs.”
I swung into the parking spot and turned off the engine. We got out and started walking. Halfway across the lot, I said, “You’ve never hunted in your life, Frank.”
“Not true.”
“Name one time.”
He started walking bow-legged and in a horrible John Wayne drawl: “I hunt bad guys all the time, padna.”
I opened the door to the station house and walked inside. “How did this become my life?”
From behind me: “Guess you just got lucky, cowpoke.”
****
Captain Rickstad was waiting for us in the hallway. He shook our hands and got right to business. “You guys get a chance to look over the file I emailed?”
I nodded. “He sure looks like your guy.”
“I think so, too,” Rickstad said, and then hesitated. “But just wait until you talk to him, something’s a little off about the whole thing. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You worried he might be clean?” Frank asked.
Rickstad shrugged. “That’s why I called you guys.”
“What’s wrong with Henderson?” I asked. “He’s good in the box.” I had worked with Charlie Henderson for a year before we both made detective. He was a solid cop.
“Salmon fishing in Canada with his son.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Tell me about it. He’s not back until next week. That leaves me with Burton and Burton’s an asshole.”
I looked at my partner. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
Frank stared innocently back at me.
Ricks
tad gestured down the hall. “You guys want coffee? Water?”
“I’m good.”
Frank shook his head. “Give me a minute to drain the dragon and we’ll get started.”
****
While Frank hit the restroom, I sat and studied the bank of video monitors that displayed various angles of the interrogation room across the hallway.
A man sat alone in the room, arms crossed on the table in front of him, head resting atop his arms. He hadn’t moved since I started watching. He could have been asleep.
According to the police report, the suspect’s name was Harold Rutherford II. With a name like that you would have expected him to be the trust-fund son of a wealthy corporate tycoon or at the very least a successful businessman himself, not a junior college English instructor.
Rutherford, age forty-three, was five feet and ten inches tall, weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds, had black hair and brown eyes. He wore contact lenses or glasses, depending on the day. He was married to Rose Marie Rutherford, age forty-two, his high school sweetheart. She worked at a downtown florist shop. Rutherford and his wife had no children.
Rutherford belonged to a monthly book club at the college and was well known at several local libraries. He collected old stamps and did most of his buying and selling online. He was a private man and not very active in his neighborhood. According to several of his neighbors, the only time they saw Rutherford was when he was walking to and from his car in the driveway or mowing his lawn. He wasn’t considered unfriendly, merely elusive.
Rutherford took medication for allergies, blood pressure, and anxiety and saw a psychiatrist twice a month. He claimed to suffer from pedophobia, the fear of children, which is especially pertinent considering the crime he is suspected of committing.
Based on information gathered during the investigation, Rutherford had been taken into custody for questioning without incident this morning at his home on Canterbury Lane. He refused legal counsel. Search warrants for his home and automobile were currently being served.
****
I slammed the door to the interrogation room, and Rutherford jerked his head off the desk and sat up. Behind his dark-framed glasses, his eyes were red and swollen. He had been crying at some point.
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