Creep

by Jennifer Hillier

  He pointed the barrel at her. “Put the cuffs on.”

  Sheila picked up a handcuff but didn’t fasten it. The steel felt cold against her bare leg. “Come on, even if I could hurt you, how am I going to get out? You’ve got this place locked up like Fort Knox. I can’t get out without the codes.”

  His face was like stone. She softened her voice and tried a different tactic. “Ethan, you’re in control here. You’re the boss. I’m not going anywhere. Let me at least sit on the sofa when you’re not here and use the bathroom when I need to. Let me have some measure of dignity. What difference does it make? Let me feel human before I die.”

  His face twitched. She contained her jubilation. She’d gotten through to him.

  “Fine.” He kept the gun trained on her. “We’ll give it a try. But if you—”

  “I won’t.”

  He leaned over her, cupping her chin with his free hand, his eyes boring deeply into hers. He spoke with perfect enunciation. “If you piss me off, Sheila, I’ll end you. Without hesitation. I’m getting as tired of this as you are.”

  She nodded, her chin still in his hand. “So let me go.” She said it quietly, keeping her eyes focused on his face. “I’ll walk out of here and hitch a ride home and never tell anyone what happened. You can leave town. I’ll say I freaked out, started drinking again, passed out, and didn’t know where I was. I’ll say anything you want me to. Just let me go.”

  “So you can go back to Morris?”

  Morris again. Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to say.

  Before she could respond, Ethan shook his head. “Never mind. Shut up. I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “But—”

  “I said shut up.”

  “Do you actually think I’m in love with him?”

  That got his attention. “Aren’t you?”

  She gazed back, hoping her calm demeanor concealed her increasing heart rate. “I have love for Morris, yes. But I think you’ve misunderstood what it is I feel for him.”

  A moment of silence passed before he sat down beside her on the bed. The gun rested comfortably in his hand. “Explain it to me.”

  She was ready. “I’m thirty-nine. I’ll be forty in a few months. I’m divorced. I don’t have children. Morris was my chance to have the family I’ve always wanted.”

  She reached out and placed her palm lightly on Ethan’s knee. He jerked in surprise, but didn’t pull away. It was the first time since she’d been here that she’d willingly touched him. “You’re twenty-three and still in grad school. Can you tell me you’re ready for that? You said it yourself the day we broke up—our affair was never destined to go anywhere.”

  “I was angry.”

  “So you didn’t mean it? You wanted to be with me? Long term?” The words were ridiculous. He would see right through them. But her eyes stayed steady on his face.

  “What difference does it make now?” Ethan’s face was impassive. “Look around. It’s too late.”

  “It’s not too late.” Sheila tucked her bare legs underneath her, a girly move that would make her seem more vulnerable. Her right hand was still on his knee, and she used her left hand to smooth her straggly hair behind her ears in an effort to look less unattractive. “This situation is extremely unconventional, yes, and I’ll be honest when I say you have serious issues we’ll need to work on. You know that. But if the reason you brought me here is because deep down you want to be with me and can’t stand to see me marry someone else, then that’s normal. That’s human.” She paused for effect. “Ethan, you should have told me how you felt. You should have fought for me. You would have won.”

  She moved her hand from his knee to his palm. Squeezed. He looked at her, studying her features closely. “Don’t bullshit me.”

  Was that hope she heard in his tone?

  “You think that’s what I’m doing?” She unfolded her legs. “I’m going to take a shower if that’s okay with you. Stay right here. Don’t leave, okay?” She squeezed his hand once more before letting it go.

  He made no move to stop her when she slipped off the bed and headed back toward the bathroom.

  When she finished showering fifteen minutes later, he was gone.

  CHAPTER : 27

  The doorbell rang at seven thirty, and Morris’s subconscious promptly implanted it into his dream.

  He was in his kitchen cooking up a huge breakfast. Bacon, eggs over easy, sausage links, and French toast topped with his mama’s famous strawberry preserves (even though his mama had been dead for fifteen years).

  Sheila was there, playful and affectionate, her arms around his slim waist.

  In Morris’s dreams he was always thin.

  He and Sheila started teasing each other about who should answer the door, and neither of them could because he was cooking and she was naked.

  The doorbell ringing turned to banging, and Morris woke with a jolt.

  He sat up, a new crick in his neck from yet another night in the Barcalounger. The doorbell rang again. Someone really was at the door, and the person was damned persistent. Goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses. Third time this month they’d come around.

  Swearing under his breath, he heaved himself out of his chair and padded toward the front door, pausing briefly to check his appearance in the hallway mirror. His thick hair was standing up in crazy tufts. His old terry-cloth robe hung open to reveal a stained undershirt and wrinkled pajama pants. Booze was on his breath from the night before. He was guessing he wouldn’t smell too good to a clean and brightly smiling messenger of God. He tousled his hair once more for good measure. He looked deranged.

  Perfect. Maybe he’d scare them away once and for all.

  Not bothering to check the peephole, he swung the door open with a flourish, prepared to lambaste the unfortunate soul standing there. The sudden insurgence of sunlight into Morris’s eyes temporarily blinded him and he couldn’t make out the shape standing on his porch. He shielded his eyes, trying to focus.

  Then the shape spoke. “Hi, Dad.”

  At the sound of the voice, Morris’s mouth dropped open.

  Blinking through the sunny haze, he found himself face-to-face with a man in his late twenties. Dark hair, six feet four, maybe two hundred pounds. White button-down shirt and jeans. Tanned, fit, and healthy. An almost exact replica of Morris at that age.

  He stared into the young man’s blue eyes, identical to his own. “Randall?”

  “I see you’re off the wagon,” his son said with a sad smile. He reached over and grabbed Morris in a tight embrace. “Looks like I got here just in time. Hey, what’s up with your hair? How come you look crazy?”

  Fifteen minutes later, father and son were sitting in the kitchen. His hair still wet from the world’s fastest shower, Morris brought over two cups of freshly brewed coffee and marveled at the handsome man who was his eldest son.

  “I figured I could catch you before you went to work.” Randall looked around the kitchen, then out the window at the golf course behind the house. “Beautiful place, Dad.”

  Morris stared at him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Randall grinned and took a sip of coffee. He took it black, just as Morris did. “Flew in late last night. Been in Austin with Mom the last couple of days. She and Bob just bought a new place. Needs some work, but it’s nice.”

  Morris wasn’t interested in news of his ex-wife. “Where have you been?”

  “Well, I—” Randall stopped, then laughed. It was a sound that warmed Morris to the core. “Dad, it’s been six years. How do I sum up?”

  “Don’t. Tell me everything. How’s Donna?”

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend. It is Donna, isn’t it?”

  Randall shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Dad.”

  “Oh.” Morris was confused. “Sorry, I don’t know why I thought . . .”

  Randall waved a dismissive hand. “It’s okay. It’s my own fault for not doing a better job keeping
in touch. Where do I start? I guess after you and I . . .” Randall hesitated. “After I left Stanford, I went backpacking in Europe for about a year. Met a bunch of people. One guy, Dave, convinced me to go with him to the Philippines to volunteer for a youth organization. Our goal was to help impoverished communities achieve greater independence. It was hard work, but unbelievably rewarding. Then I hooked up with Amnesty and went to India, Burma, the Sudan, Borneo, Honduras . . . and here I am. Ten-second update.”

  “Wow.” Morris didn’t know what else to say.

  Randall had been twenty-two when they’d last spoken, and he certainly hadn’t been anywhere near as composed and articulate as he was now. Of course, he wasn’t hurling insults at the moment.

  “Are you planning to visit long? When do you have to get back?”

  “I’m not going back,” Randall said, and Morris’s heart leapt. “I’ve had my fill of sleeping in tents and pissing in the dirt for a while. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been an amazing experience, but I’m burned out.”

  “That’s understandable.” Morris felt an immense sense of pride, and a thought popped into his head. “Hey, why don’t you come work for me? I can find you something. You could start next week. I’ve got lots of room here and—”

  “Dad.”

  Morris stopped. “Sorry.”

  Randall chuckled. “Some things never change.”

  Morris settled into his chair. “Okay, no more talk of that. So what brings you to Seattle?”

  “Well, you, of course.”

  Morris grinned.

  “And I do have friends here, believe it or not. One in particular.”

  “Of course.” Morris’s grin widened. “What’s her name, and is she cute?”

  “His name is Kyle, and, yes, I think so.” His son’s gaze was steady.

  Morris blinked. “Oh. Wow. Okay.” He paused, searching for the right words. There weren’t any. “So, you’ll stay awhile?”

  Randall let out a breath and smiled. “That’s the plan. I’m going to see about an apartment today. Seattle has a great vibe and I thought it would be a nice place to settle down. And good for us. You and me, I mean. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”

  Randall touched his arm. “Listen, Dad, I heard about your fiancée. I’m really sorry. I heard you got sober but . . .” Randall sighed. “I’m not here to bust your balls. Been there, done that.”

  Two identical grins lit the room.

  “Phillip told Mom you haven’t heard from Sheila in a while? What happened?”

  Morris rubbed his head. His ex-wife had heard? Great. “I don’t know where she is. And frankly, I’m really worried.”

  “Are the cops looking for her?”

  “They were. But they don’t think anything’s happened to her and they closed the case. I hired a PI to look into it. Sheila told me things were over, but she had some, uh, personal problems I only recently found out about. I need to make sure she’s okay.”

  “At the very least you need closure.” Randall sipped the last of his coffee. “Funny, I wouldn’t have predicted this in a million years. She seemed so committed to you.”

  “I thought she was,” Morris said, then looked up. “But how would you know that?”

  “Because we’ve been in touch. She tracked me down to invite me to your wedding. Was pretty relentless about it, actually. She got me thinking about things.” Randall frowned. “If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. I thought you knew.”

  Morris was stunned. “I had no idea.”

  “Maybe she wanted it to be a surprise. She was trying to find me for weeks. But I couldn’t get to a phone or a computer all that often, couldn’t even remember what my e-mail address was half the time.”

  Morris nodded. “That’s what I’d heard. Though it was good of you to send me that e-mail about your friend Tom.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend? Tom Young? From Stanford. I interviewed him for a position at the bank.”

  A look of concern spread over Randall’s clean-cut features. “Dad, I have no idea what you’re talking about. First Donna, now Tom? Are you sure you don’t have another son out there named Randall who knows these people?”

  Morris was bewildered.

  Randall seemed equally confused. “Maybe I’d know him if I saw him—I’m better with faces than I am with names. Or maybe he just really wanted the job at the bank and dropped my name to score an ‘in’ with you. Did you hire him?”

  “He never came back.” An uneasy feeling swept over Morris. “Never mind. I’ll sort it out.” He smiled, but something wasn’t right. His mind flew back to the night he’d had dinner with the guy. Tom Young had known too much about his family problems for a guy who’d just wanted an interview.

  Someone was fucking with Morris and he didn’t like it one bit.

  His son stood up. “I should get going. I have to see that apartment in half an hour. It’s downtown, near the fish market. You still make a mean grilled salmon? If I get the apartment, you should come over, show me your secret recipe.”

  Morris resisted the urge to rumple Randall’s hair. He wasn’t a kid anymore. “You bet,” he said instead. “What about football? You still play?”

  “Not since I left Stanford. You?”

  “Does it look like it?” Morris rubbed his belly and grinned. “Nah. Knees are shot. Not even a weekend warrior anymore.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw a game.”

  “I have Seahawks season tickets. What are you doing next Sunday?”

  “Going to the game with you.”

  For only the second time in six years, Morris embraced his son. “I’m glad you stopped by.” Morris’s voice was choked with emotion. “And that you’re doing so well, despite all the things I put you through as a kid. You deserved a much better father than you got.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” Randall’s voice cracked, too. “It was my choice to disappear. But we can deal with it later. I just want to move forward.”

  Morris waved as his son drove off in the dented Jeep, feeling the best he’d had in weeks. Then he headed back into the house to call Jerry Isaac.

  Happy day or not, who the hell was Tom Young?

  CHAPTER : 28

  Jerry had some information of his own to share with Morris.

  The two men met for lunch at the Golden Monkey, a dive in the heart of the International District that was cheap and funky smelling even going by dive Chinese-restaurant standards. The place was packed. Men and women in business suits filled the room, happy to take advantage of the lunch specials.

  “I love this place,” Jerry crowed, digging into a small plate of Cantonese chow mein. “It closed down last summer due to health-code violations, but it just reopened. Thank God.” Using his chopsticks, he scooped up a mouthful of noodles and chewed contentedly.

  “Was it necessary to tell me that?” Morris stirred his wonton soup and suddenly wondered if the wontons were really wontons. His mind flashed back to the scene in the second Indiana Jones movie where the queasy actress asked for soup and they brought her a big bowl of steaming eyeballs.

  Jerry belly-laughed. “I’m kidding. Really. The food here’s excellent. I know the owners.”

  “I’m glad they put their money into the food, since they obviously don’t spend it on the décor.” Morris looked around dubiously at the peeling wallpaper and dusty window ledges. Sheila was Chinese, and she would have hated it here. But he took a spoonful of soup, not wanting to be impolite. He was surprised by how good it was.

  Jerry leaned forward. “So, I thought you’d like to know that my friend was able to hack into your fiancée’s computer.”

  Morris stopped eating. “And?”

  “We found some interesting things in there.”

  “Like what?” Morris couldn’t meet Jerry’s gaze.

  The private investigator took another mouthful of noodles, then put his chopsticks down.
“Did you know that Sheila was a member of an online dating service called Montgomery’s Den?”

  Morris let out a breath. “No, I didn’t.”

  “It’s geared specifically to married or ‘attached’ adults. In fact, you can’t sign up for it unless you declare that you are married or have a full-time live-in partner.” Jerry sipped his tea, looking uncomfortable. “The point of it is to meet people for sex.”

  Morris slumped back in the stained upholstered chair. “So it’s a site that helps married people cheat?”

  “Exactly. And it’s popular because it preaches discretion. The people you meet on the site would never rat you out because they don’t want to be caught themselves.”

  “Fantastic. Where was this fifteen years ago when I was thinking of cheating on my wife?”

  Jerry snorted. “Gotta love technology. Anyway, we were able to get into Sheila’s account. My friend has a password-retrieval program. It seems she was quite active until about three years ago. Almost nothing since.”

  Morris put his spoon down, his appetite gone.

  Jerry looked sympathetic. He took another bite of his noodles and chewed slowly before swallowing. “She’s talked to a large number of men. A lot of the exchanges, as they’re called, were saved on her hard drive. It would appear that her main interest on this site was webcam-type stuff. It’s hard to tell if she’s met with anyone in person, but I’m guessing she hasn’t, at least not in the last three years. We found quite a few videos she’d saved—basically peep shows that other men have done for her. I would assume she’s done the same back for them.”

  “We met two years ago.”

  “So she quit before she met you.” Jerry smiled. “Good news, right?”

  Morris felt like kicking him. “What about her e-mails?”

  “We checked, but it would seem she kept most of the Montgomery stuff in her Montgomery account. There were a couple of e-mails from men she met on the site, so it looks like from time to time she may have given them a personal e-mail address, which was a Gmail account. Doesn’t look like anyone used their real name, though, and there’s no way to follow up since everyone else used free webmail, too.”