Bouncing and jerking, the car finally finds its way to the main road, and I spin out of the driveway, a scream—half laughter, half relief—erupts from my lips.
Grinning like I won the lottery, I can’t stop laughing.
I did it!
I’m still smiling three miles down the road when blue lights appear in the rearview mirror. I’ve had nightmares about this: When a cop pulls me over and my driver’s license looks nothing like my disguise. Making matters worse, I’m still boot-less and have evidence of my recent crime stuck up the front of my shirt. My heartbeat, which just started to return to normal, starts to race again. Could Prescott have called it in? But that doesn’t make any sense—he wouldn’t want to get the authorities involved.
I steer to the side of the road and smooth a hand over my wig, tugging it back into place. Should I take it off? But then, what can I do about the theater makeup and prosthetic nose? There’s a knock on my window and I roll it down, smiling. Hopefully a nice, normal looking smile, not like a maniac.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” a voice says from behind a blinding flashlight.
“Hello officer,” I say back, fiddling with a button on my shirt.
The cop readjusts the angle of the light so that it’s not shining in my eyes and I can see him slightly better. He is young with light eyes and a bad complexion.
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
What to say? What to say?
“Because I was breaking and entering?” or “For defamation?”
Instead, I shake my head. “Not really.”
“You were speeding.”
I want to laugh out loud in delight. Speeding? Is that all? Wonderful!
“Sorry, officer,” I say. “It’s late and I’m tired. I didn’t realize ...”
“License and registration, please.”
I dig in the glove box and extract the registration and reach for my wallet, which is buried under the front passenger seat, to get my license out.
Handing both to him, I motion to my face.
“You might notice that I don’t look like my picture. I’m in a play and we were practicing tonight.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Sorry?”
“The play. What is the name of it?” he repeats the words more slowly and loudly as though I’m stupid. I’m starting to wonder that myself.
“Oh, uh, it’s Our Town.”
“Never heard of it,” he says. “You get all dressed up in makeup and,” he glances at my license again, “a wig for practice?”
“Oh yes.” I put what I hope is an excited-bordering-on-thrilled note in my voice. “It really helps me to get in character.”
He frowns, nods.
“Sit tight,” he says and walks back to his cruiser.
My palms are so sweaty I’m surprised the documents didn’t fly on the ground when I handed them over. Do I have any skeletons in my driving closet as of late? I go through my mental files. It’s been at least a year since I’ve gotten a speeding ticket. Parking violations? Please, please, please don’t ask me to get out of the car for any reason. I consider putting my boots on but figure rummaging around under my seat might look a little suspicious, or at the very least, draw attention. How long before frostbite sets in? My toes are still numb, and I crank the heat dial up. The pathetic stream of warm air that comes out is like that from a newborn’s mouth.
My teeth chatter. This could be because the window is still half-open or just good ole’ nerves. I crank the window closed in case it’s the former and sit on my hands. Warmth returns to my fingertips after a couple of long minutes. What’s he doing back there? Playing a few rounds of Candy Crush while I freeze to death? Maybe he’s trying to wait out my guilty conscience.
Finally, I hear the crunching of his boots on snow and roll my window back down halfway. I smile up at him, feel the prosthetic nose pulling against my skin and itching.
“All set?” I ask in a sweet, hopefully innocent sounding voice.
“You were traveling sixty in a fifty mile per hour zone,” he says, and hands my paperwork through the window. “I’m letting you off with a warning this time, but please, don’t make me regret my decision.”
“Thank you. I won’t. Make you regret it, I mean. I’ll be a model driver, promise.” I smile again and this time part of the nose pulls free. It smells like a tire but is officially the only part of my body that’s warm.
“Be careful out there,” he says, and heads back to his cruiser.
I want to pump my fist enthusiastically in the air but refrain. Instead, I carefully check behind me (as if not doing so would cause a pile-up on this deserted road), apply my blinker like a good citizen, and pull back out onto the road. I drive forty-five (just to be safe) for the next five miles, then pull onto the side of the road again, get out and put the icy lumps I used to call feet into my boots.
Ten minutes later I follow signs into the village of Enosburg and plaster four of the signs on public bulletin boards. An hour after that and I’ve deposited the rest of the posters on boards in Richford, Sheldon and a couple in St. Albans, for good measure.
My feet have thawed to the point of throbbing when I finally pull into my driveway. Twenty minutes later in front of a small electric heater, they are finally beginning to feel like feet again, instead of giant toothaches. I’m sipping a glass of wine, imagining Prescott’s reaction to his newfound fame.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock when the house phone rings. I stagger out of my chair.
The smile vanishes when I hear the voice on the other end of the phone.
“I’m going to hurt you ...” The same strange, mechanical voice. I slam the receiver back into its cradle and, when it starts ringing again seconds later, pull the cord from the wall.
Chapter Eighteen
My heart is hammering as I walk into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. I drink it, then check locks on the front door and the window latches with shaking fingers, making sure all are closed tight. Stupid, I know. It’s likely just some teenager making prank calls. Still, when I crawl into bed a half hour later I’m reassured by the Glock under the pillow next to me.
The next morning dawns bright and clear, sunshine jamming its way under my sleepy eyelids. I roll over and look at the clock. It’s after nine.
Showering quickly, I pour myself a travel mug of green tea and go through all the normal pre-work morning routine: turning down the thermostat, wiping counters and checking my cell phone for any messages. The signal is surprisingly good this far out. It’s probably time to let go of the landline phone all together. Thinking of the call last night, I shiver.
The sun bounces off the snow-covered road, nearly blinding me as I crest the hill leaving Hendricks Falls. I adjust and re-adjust the visor, then finally give up. I’m too short for it to be effective. Instead, I use my hand to block the light until I’m far enough down the hill that it’s not an issue. I see a couple of trucks and one SUV on my way to St. Albans, otherwise the road remains deserted.
I should walk over to Winston’s tonight. My neighbor, a few seeds short of a full packet, is in his sixties and spends most of his time fixing mechanical things and preparing for The Dark Times which he’s convinced will soon be upon us. Despite this viewpoint, he’s a pretty happy guy and, despite the fact that his place is like hoarder’s-paradise-meets-WWII-bunker, he’s become a sort of father figure to me. I haven’t seen him in over a week though. I worry about him up there all alone without a telephone. Tonight, I’ll bring him dinner.
Grabbing a local paper at the coffee shop on Main Street, I see a front-page headline: “Prescott Acres Farm owner, Emerson Prescott, accused of child pornography.” I pay for a coffee, a pastry, and the paper without even looking at the barista, my eyes already scanning the article. There’s a shot of one of my posters, blown up big. An article starts to the right. I grin as I read:
“The image of local philanthropist and farmer, Emerson Prescott, was seen in town t
oday on posters as seen at left, accusing him of being involved in child pornography. Prescott, who sits on several educational and town planning boards, has not yet been reached for comment. Since the posters were discovered earlier this morning, several town residents have already come forward to share their opinions.
“Edith Wardell, long-time resident of Enosburg, states that whoever created the posters should be ‘ashamed of themselves.’ This reaction was not shared by Judith Rainville. ‘Prescott had this coming. My daughter was involved in one of his programs at the school and said that he gave her the creeps. We can’t allow people like this to run loose in our communities, in our schools. Something should be done about him and all the other pedophiles.’
“It’s unclear as to who created or distributed the posters late last night. Could it be a prank? Wardell believes so. “Whoever did this is just trying to make trouble, trying to damage the name of a wonderful man and a great asset to our community here in Franklin County.’”
I read a few more lines, basically the reporter stating that anyone with information about who might have created the posters to please get in touch with the editorial office and/or the police station immediately. The reporter pointed out the fact that the newspaper has no opinion on the subject but is objectively reporting on community news. (In other words, covering their hineys.)
Practically skipping to my car, I can’t keep a smile from my face. It’s not often that true justice is served or crimes against the innocent prevented. This is the sole reason for Sunflower Specials. Well, that and the money, of course. I’m not a mercenary by any definition, but the pile of hospital bills and my passion for fashion have to be taken care of somehow. So far, no sugar daddy has volunteered to take on the job.
When I get to the office, I spend a few minutes piddling around with email and going through the real paper mail before checking for phone messages. Someday I’d love to hire on an assistant to take care of all this for me. At present though, I’m the accountant, marketing director, receptionist, and every other staff member that a typical business requires.
There’s a message from Phil about our “date” and I glance at the calendar, groaning. Seriously? My good mood evaporates like mist from a can of aerosol hairspray. How did I forget that tonight is the night of the big anniversary party? And here I was hoping to spend a quiet evening with my buddies Ben & Jerry. I make a note to call Phil back. We’re supposed go over the details (i.e., lies) of how we met and what we like to do together, if we have any annoyingly babyish names for each other—you know, the things normal, dating people have already worked out—later today.
There’s one other message, this one from Sandra Garrison. I groan again. In my adrenaline-infused state I’d forgotten temporarily about her and Mark and the whole stalker issue. Good luck getting paid for this one my nasty inner voice says.
I could put her off. There’s a ton of paperwork to do. I haven’t had time to finish all the website updates I wanted to. And honestly? I’d rather pluck my eyebrows, get a root canal, and go swimsuit shopping than make this call. But I force myself to dial her cell phone. It rings three times before Sandra answers.
“It’s Tayt,” I say. “We need to meet.”
***
I secure a table, once again, at the Juice Bar. Where Sandra was model-glimmery the last time we met, this time I barely recognize her. She slouches through the door, hair unkempt and straggly around her face. She’s wearing workout clothes, but none of the form-fitting lycra and spandex. This time it’s baggy sweatpants and a gray track jacket with white strips up the arms. Her face is makeup-less and her eyes are rimmed pink.
I wave to her from the small table, the bright lights making me wish I’d brought sunglasses. Sandra walks over, collapsing onto a stool at the high table.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She shrugs, nods, then shakes her head, no.
I debate asking her what’s wrong. I’m not her therapist and from the look of the woman it’s going to be a long story. Still, my gut tells me to do the right thing.
“Want to talk about it?”
She shrugs, looks at her hands, which are resting on the table as though they are unfamiliar to her. Rubbing one finger absently, she surveys the room, then glances toward me.
“I just get like this sometimes.” Her voice is low, so quiet that I lean forward to hear. “It’s like a sort of depressed state. I don’t know,” she shrugs. “My therapist tried putting me on some meds, but they made me feel so,” she shrugs again, “out of it. Numb. It was like I was living underwater. So, I stopped taking them.”
“How long does it last?”
She rubs her hands over her face, and then leaves them there, talking to me through them. “A while. Days sometimes. A week or two at most. I’ll be fine.”
We sit like this a few minutes, me watching Sandra and alternately scanning the room as people come and go; Sandra with her hands over her face.
Finally, I ask, “Can I get you something?”
She shakes her head.
“Look, I have to get back to the office,” I say, feeling rude. But seriously, is my sitting here helping her? “I wanted to talk to you about Mark.”
She lifts her head at this, hands dropping to the table with a clunk.
“He’s back in town, isn’t he?” she asks.
I nod. “He is. I saw him at the billiards hall and he told me something a little ...” How to put this? “Disturbing.”
Sandra stares at me, eyes vacant. It’s like looking into an abyss. How far down does the emptiness go? She doesn’t say anything, so I go on.
“He told me that you guys weren’t actually dating. That he only knows you from the gym.” I think, in all honesty, I’ve done a good job at being diplomatic here. I didn’t blurt out what I’ve been thinking—He thinks you’re a psychopathic stalker,—after all.
“Yeah, well, he would say that.” Her words are clipped. Sarcastic.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that he’s a typical man. All hot to get into my pants, but now that he’s done, he’s ready to toss me out with the trash. What does he think that I will just shut my mouth and take it?” She bites off these last words so savagely I half-expect her teeth to snap together. She rubs her hands together twice then pinches the skin over her knuckles tightly between her finger and thumb. It turns pink, then white.
“Look, I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever it is going on here,” I say. “I heard a very different story from Mark, but it’s not my job to choose sides. As a professional courtesy, I wanted to give you an update and—”
“Gee, thanks. I appreciate your concern,” she bites the words off.
I sigh, rub my fingers over my jawbone. Patience is a virtue. One I lack.
“Whatever you do from here is your call. I’m just telling you that I’m out of this. Here’s the bill for services rendered.” I slap the white carbon sheet on the table. “Any questions, my office number is on the bottom of the invoice.”
I stand up. Sandra gazes past my shoulder, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’m sorry that it didn’t work out the way you’d hoped,” I say more gently. “It sucks when someone you love doesn’t feel the same about you.”
She chuckles a rough, dusty sound and roughly slashes her hands across her eyes. “Doesn’t it though?” she says.
I leave her sitting at the table, hands once again cradling her head.
Chapter Nineteen
At two o’clock, I meet with Phil at another café on Main Street. Funky artwork and little plaques reminding coffee drinkers of the health benefits of drinking joe line the walls. He approaches me, thankfully, because I probably would have sat there for a good half-hour waiting for him to show up in his Goth-wear.
“Tayt?” he says, walking towards me with his hand extended. “You look great. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
I stumble over my first few words, surprised to see that Phil-the-grownu
p looks nothing like Phil-the-Pill. He is no longer sporting a head of shaggy hair dyed black or the multiple piercings and eyeliner that I remember. Instead, he is clean shaven, has medium brown hair and brown eyes. He’s dressed in khakis, a light blue button-down shirt, and a pair of red Converse sneakers. He’s also got a cool-looking belt, which looks like it’s made from pieces of broken CDs.
“Oh. Uh, yeah, I guess it has.” I smile.
He smiles back. “I look a little different, huh?”
I nod, cheeks red. Were my thoughts that obvious? Ezra always says that I have a “feeling face,” meaning that whatever I’m feeling is written directly across my face.
“Join me?” he asks, motioning toward the table where he was sitting. I trail behind him, hopping onto the tall stool and surveying the area while Phil goes to get us coffees. There are two mothers alternately chasing giggling toddlers to the front door and plopping them back at their tables. A harried barista waits on a line of customers five people deep, Phil the last in line.
Finally, he returns, two stoneware mugs of coffee steaming. I accept mine gratefully and stir in cream and sugar. Phil drinks his black.
“So, where do we start?” he asks.
“Well. With the details, I guess,” I say. I’m glad he’s not interested in a lot of small talk. “We should go over what our likes/dislikes are, how we met, what traits about you annoy me, that type of thing.”
He cocks an eyebrow at this last bit.
“What about the traits about you that annoy me?” He jokes.
“Oh, Phil. You have a lot to learn about me. The first is that you’re head over heels for me and nothing I do irritates you.”
He grins.
“I knew I hired the right woman to be my girlfriend.”
***
Ezra calls that night just as I’m putting the finishing touches on my makeup for the party.
Hear No Evil Page 11