A fine layer of dust covers the tables and cabinets and I have a crazy urge to leave a little message in the powdery layer. Or break out a can of Pledge and a rag. I close the door and check the next two rooms: a guest bedroom and what was probably another bedroom at some point but has now morphed into a storage unit. Behind door number four, however, I hit pay dirt: the office.
Prescott breaks all the stereotypes when it comes to farmers: he’s obviously very up on technology. In fact, there are so many electronic gadgets in the room, it’s a wonder he ever has time to do any farm-related things. Say, for instance, milk a cow. But maybe he doesn’t.
Pulling off my gloves, I sit gingerly at the desk, slide my backpack to the floor, and wake the dozing computer. It’s a PC and the screen, like the television downstairs, is jumbo-sized. Prescott isn’t the most organized fellow: there are about fifty icons on the desktop screen, none of which interests me. Instead, I open the Internet browser and check its history. Yesterday’s entries were boring: farm-related, business related, and one search on “toenail fungus.” TMI.
But wait, what have we here? A website called, “sexyrompings.com.” I click the site and am treated to more skin that I’ve seen in the last three Vermont summers put together. I check the history again and find a few more adult sites. Viewing pornography is hardly a crime though.
My nose feels itchy due to the dust. I do a quick search on the computer’s hard drive and find a ton of folders. Like the icons on his desktop, Prescott seems to have files for every document he’s ever created or been sent. There is a section that’s labeled only with dates. The little arrow hovers over the list.
There is a soft creak from downstairs.
I stop breathing. Is he home from poker early?
Staying where I am, I slouch lower in the high back office chair and train my eyes to the door. It’s located directly across from me, my back vulnerable. Obviously, Prescott is not familiar with the ancient art of Feng Shui which dictates that when seated in a room, one should always be able to see who is entering and exiting.
Another creak, this time on the stairs. I flick the monitor off and slide out of the chair, moving to the side of the door which is partially closed. My heart is smacking into my ribs, my head yelling, run, run, run. Under the circumstances, though, that seems like a bad choice.
I can barely see through the crack in the door and wiggle a finger through to make the space a little wider. The hallway is dim. I hadn’t realized how dark it had gotten outside. Suddenly I feel eight years old again, having a sleepover at a friend’s house. The house is strange and spooky, shadows are throwing unfamiliar shapes around.
Another creak comes, this time from the stairway for sure. What do I do? What do I do? Looking wildly around the room I notice that there are no closets or other doors leading into or out of the room. The house must be older than I thought when armoires were used in place of closets.
There are footsteps now.
I count them: one, two, three, four, five . . .
I grab my stun gun from my coat pocket and try to slow my breathing down. Attacking Prescott wasn’t really on my list of things to do, but what are my other options? In the off chance he doesn’t come in here, maybe I can wait him out. If I don’t slow my breathing down though, I’m going to hyperventilate and then he’ll find me in an unconscious puddle on the floor.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. When this is over, I promise I’ll take up meditation.
The footsteps are still coming, up the stairs.
Slow.
Quiet.
A shape appears. It stands at the top of the staircase, motionless.
Chapter Sixteen
There are no lights on in the hallway. Or anywhere else in the house, for that matter. The figure standing there doesn’t turn one on. Because he lives here and doesn’t need to, my brain says, but you don’t, so should get out. Out. Out! Believe me, brain, there is nothing I’d like as much.
My breath isn’t so loud anymore because, I realize, I’ve stopped breathing all together. I take a few small sips of air and watch as the figure finally moves. It takes a few steps forward, pauses. Then stops. Listening for something? I make myself absolutely motionless. The slightest change in shadow or variance in light and dark could alert him that I’m here. The shadow moves forward though, apparently not seeing me. It enters the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. The door creaks when it opens, and the sound reverberates around the still space like a gunshot.
I start breathing again, trying not to pant like a dog. What was in the first bedroom? I mentally retrace my route. Sewing supplies.
What does Prescott want in there?
Maybe he’s a secret seamstress. I have a visual image of the crusty farm owner bent over one of the sewing machines, humming, straight pins clenched between his lips. Sighing over a crooked seam. Hysterical giggles bubble toward my lips. Inappropriate and uncontrollable laughter is a job hazard.
My thighs ache, my back has a knot from the weird, crouched angle I’ve been standing in. I rise slowly to full height, tuck the stun gun in my pocket, and ease the door open further. A swath of light cuts through the dimness of the hallway, spilling out from the sewing room doorway. I debate with myself, then ease my feet out of toasty boots. I creep slowly along the hallway in my stocking feet.
The floor is cold, the boards slightly rough. Some planks have knots that catch on the fibers of my socks. I stick close to the horsehair plaster walls and pray that none of the boards squeak. Passing the second bedroom, I hear a deep sigh. Not the type of sadness or satisfaction, but frustration. Maybe Prescott can’t find the right material to finish his quilt? I nearly snort and pinch my nose shut so no sound will escape.
My toes are just about even with the light spilling onto the hallway floor when I hear a voice.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My instinct is to freeze. I’ve been spotted! But no, the voice sighs again, low, and loud. It’s coming from the far corner of the room, not near the door. Also, it is not a man’s voice, but a woman’s.
I press closer to the hallway wall, trying to see through the slit in the open door between the hinges. Mountains of fabric are cover nearly every surface. The window opposite me is black, curtains undrawn.
A female figure bends over an old desk under the window, opening and closing drawers. She’s dressed like me, all in black, but her hair is frizzy and blond, a mix of ringlets and straw-like pieces poking out wildly from a stocking cap. It must be Prescott’s ex-wife. She’s small and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. If there is a confrontation, I can easily take her.
Still, my purpose is to get in and snoop and find something incriminating that I can use against Prescott, not attack his ex. I leave her to her searching and creep back down the hall, trying to find the same spots my feet touched before.
Nearly back to the office a board under my left foot squawks like only floors in an old house can. The sound startles me, and I jump, then get back into the office and close the door gently.
Crap. Crap. Crap!
The light goes off in the sewing room within ten seconds. Did she fly across the room to hit the lights? I look around the room again, searching for someplace to hide. No closets, my brain reminds me. The room is crowded with tables and cabinets, but none is quite big enough to hide behind and not be seen if the overhead light comes on blazing.
The footsteps are nearly to the door. I lunge silently into the space behind the door and have a sudden image of me as a cartoon, smooshed flat into the plaster. The “sleep” button of the computer throws the only light into the room, a faded blue glow.
The door opens silently. I can’t see anything but hear a hand fumbling along the wall, then the bright overhead light glares to life. I have the crazy desire to hide my eyes, as though doing so will keep her from seeing me. Seconds tick by. Apparently convinced that the space is empty, the woman clicks the light switch back off and retreats down t
he hall.
I would like to say that I immediately bound back to the computer and continue my search of it like a true professional. But it would be a lie. Instead, I stand rooted in place for about five full minutes, trying to keep from hyperventilating. My heart hasn’t experienced this much exertion since before my accident.
Finally, there’s a creak in the hallway again, then the sound of footsteps going down the stairs. Seconds later I hear one of the exterior doors close quietly. I breathe easier knowing I’m alone in the house again.
When I’m calm enough to cross the room, I turn the monitor back on and begin clicking on the files on the hard drive. It’s hard to concentrate. I find myself listening for more footsteps or creaks of the floorboards. Focus. Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, the folders are all dated. I open the first one and my stomach roils: children in various processes of nudity. I click it closed and open the second to find more. I scroll down, quickly, and check another date and see more of the same.
The hot, sick feeling in my stomach intensifies. I debate pulling the flash drive from my pocket and copying some of the pictures as evidence. But then what? This isn’t an official investigation. How exactly can I tell the cops how I found the evidence?
I think of Reba. If her husband wasn’t so desperate for a job. If they could go to the authorities... but they can’t. There’s no way we can make up a story about Reba finding the pictures, not without them finding out her whole family is working under the table on the farm. I chew a hangnail as I close out of the folders and go back to the main screen.
On the one hand, at least I know what I’m dealing with. In addition to mauling Reba’s underage daughter, Prescott is a pedophile. But what do I do with this new information? My previous plan—a warning to Prescott—feels, well, pathetic if I’m being honest considering this new development. I contemplate my other options. I could: a) pose as an underage girl online and hope to draw Prescott into meeting with me or b) wait for him here in the house, where he is unsuspecting. Then attempt to kick the crap out of him or c) hit on him at a bar or the weekly poker game and try to seduce him into a vulnerable position.
I lean back in the chair. While option “b” is the most attractive to me, let’s be honest. Even when I’m at my fighting best and uninjured, attacking a six-foot man with fifty or more pounds on me isn’t smart. Yes, I’d have the element of surprise. But that’s about my only advantage. There must be something else ...
My brainstorming ends abruptly as headlight beams bounce around the room.
He’s home.
I jerk upright in the big cushy desk chair and launch myself toward the computer. The plan I came here with will have to do. For now, at least.
Opening the internet browser, I search through Prescott’s desk. All though experts tell us to never write down passwords or login information, the gross population ignores this advice. I find the list within a few seconds and practically squeal with happiness. Next, I search Prescott’s computer for a headshot. The man likes to appear in the public eye, and it turns out I have a wealth of options to choose from. I select one that makes his craggy face look smug and save it to the desktop so I can find it easily in a few seconds.
The lights flick off in the driveway and I hear steps stomping up the porch steps. My heartrate skyrockets once again as I hear the door to the house opening followed by the normal sounds of someone arriving home: boots clunking onto the floor, keys rattling as they bang into something else metal. I sit motionless. Please, please don’t let me pee my pants. The sound of the TV fills the air. The surround sound speakers blare. I think of the poor kids on Prescott’s computer. Of Leanne. I take a deep breath and continue my work.
Using the password log, I go into the first of his social network accounts, Facebook, and log in. Prescott has been busy, happily updating his status to reflect all the good he’s been doing in schools and nonprofits around the county.
I start a new post on his timeline. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but there is something that has been eating away at me, something I can’t keep secret anymore. I’m a pedophile. After all these years it feels good to get this off my chest.”
I hit return and watch the status update. After doing the same on each of his social networking sites, I open another window and create a phony email account for Prescott in two minutes. Then write a long, poignant letter about the fact that he can’t stand the lies anymore, that he’s officially coming out of the closet and admitting that he is a sexual predator. The television downstairs continues to blare. It sounds like he’s watching an episode of CSI or another crime show.
Fitting.
I upload his smug photo as an icon on his account then send the email off to the news desk at three local papers. I’d jotted the newspapers’ email addresses on a scrap of paper which I retrieve from my back pocket. I have no idea if they’ll run with it or not, but at least I’ve planted a seed.
Now for the best part.
Logging into a free online photo editing program, I upload Prescott’s picture one more time, add in text about his love of underage porn and enlarge the photo. It looks cheesy and homemade, but it will serve its purpose.
I check the computer for paper and am happy to see that the man has not just regular sized but jumbo sheets for his oversized office printer. I make the necessary adjustments and send ten of the flyers to the printer. Holding my breath, I wait for the printer. The volume of the TV is cranked so loudly though that I don’t need to worry about Prescott hearing anything up here.
Clicking back onto the Facebook window, I see a steady stream of insults already building under the recent update. Some posters are confused: “Is this a joke?” Others are hurling obscenities right and left.
I grin, log out of all the open windows, and go to the computer’s history button, deleting all my recent online activities. While it’s shutting down, I pull a little card from my pocket. It’s about the size of a drink coaster and blank, except for a butter-yellow sunflower in the bottom corner. In large, block letters I print the words, “Stay away from Leanne” and sign it, “A friend.”
Turning the computer off, I hear the printer spitting out the last paper. At the same time, I hear something else.
Silence.
It’s as loud as the television was minutes ago, quietness pressing against my eardrums and smothering me. Grabbing the flyers, I shove them between my shirt and jacket, rub the edge of my flannel shirt over the keyboard, printer and everything else I remember touching in a clumsy attempt to erase myself from the room. I turn off the computer and printer and pocket the pen I used—the gel ones are my favorites. Then, slipping my backpack straps over my shoulders, I walk in stocking feet back to the hall.
The television clicks back on. Maybe he was just making a phone call or something. The volume is a bit lower now though. I stand, shivering, in the hall.
Where are my boots? I turn. Grabbing them in one hand I steady myself on the wall. The TV turns off again and I hear footsteps on the floor beneath me. I can’t put the boots on now. The sound of clunking overhead is sure to alert him of my presence.
Or is he already aware?
Another creak of floorboards, and then the sucking sound of the fridge door opening, a bang when it shuts. The TV is still off. Why keep turning it on and off?
Creeping down the hall in the opposite direction of the staircase, I pray not to hit any squeaky floorboards. My mouth is pasty. When I run my tongue over my lips it practically sticks.
I pass another darkened bedroom. Then there is an expanse of hall without doors. Finally, at the end, is the entryway where I came up the stairs.
I reach out to grasp the railing when suddenly, behind me footsteps thunder up another flight of stairs at the opposite end of the hall. A light floods the hallway.
I’m caught.
Chapter Seventeen
I jerk the door before me open.
At the same time a deep voice yells “Hey!”
Heart skittering, I
race down the second staircase two at a time. Footsteps thunder down the hallway and I slip, nearly falling, as I miss the last step.
The staircase spits me into the kitchen and I run through the living room and out of the exterior door where I first came in. The posters in my shirt are itchy, but I clamp one arm across my stomach to keep them from falling out. My boots are still in my hand. I don’t have time to stop and put them on.
Feet pound behind me. Another low curse. I launch myself down the front stairs and start running across the field to my car. Hopefully Prescott also has no shoes on. My own boots are sliding in my free arm, my feet feel like ice cubes. If I glance down I’m sure I would see puffy snow slippers over my socks. My breath comes in big clouds of white. I slip, nearly twist an ankle in a divot in the field. I glance behind me and see no one. I slow my stride but keep moving, twisting my head behind me and searching wildly.
Nothing.
I stop, gasping for air and turn around completely. There! Just coming out of the house, pulling a last boot on, is Prescott. Do I have time to put on my own?
No.
I run again. Where is the shed? Seconds later I crest a small knoll and see the nose of my ancient Toyota silhouetted in the darkness. Thank God for the full moon. I put on a final burst of speed, a side stitch threatening to stop my breath all together. I grab the driver’s side handle. The door squeals in protest. The sound cuts through the silence of the cold winter night.
Launching myself behind the wheel, I don’t even bother to remove the posters. My feet are so cold that I feel nothing below my ankles. Hopefully I will be able to feel the gas pedal.
The car starts on the first try (miracle!) and I slam the shifter into reverse and bounce backward down the snow-covered dirt driveway for a few seconds. A spot on my left widens where a tractor would have room to navigate into the field. I back the car in, put it into first gear. Flick on the lights and slam my foot on the gas. Snow spins off the back tires. I glance in the rearview mirror and see a shadow standing at the top of the knoll, then running toward me.
Hear No Evil Page 10