Slice

by William Patterson

  Wolfie had believed Manning should have gone to jail a long time ago. Maybe he’d never pay for killing his wife.

  But Wolfie would make sure he paid for something else.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jessie tugged and tugged and finally the stubborn bittersweet root gave way, ripping through the soil and sending her backwards onto her butt. She laughed out loud, then got back on her haunches to attack the next invasive vine.

  She was cleaning out the patch of land on the side of the house, where her property adjoined John Manning’s. It was all overgrown with weeds and vines. In the spring, she thought she might put in a little pond here, where she could maybe have some koi in the summer—with a protective scrim on top to keep the raccoons out—and a couple of benches. It was the perfect place to sit in the afternoons, shaded by the tall fir trees. She could even write out here.

  She’d forced herself to return to the spot where Inga had died so that she could exorcise those particular demons from her head. Building a garden on the spot would make her feel better. Indeed, being outside these last few days had restored much of Jessie’s equilibrium. She was still unable to write, so this was definitely better than just watching television all day. She knew that when she did start writing again, she’d be better able to describe dealing with such trauma. She’d explain that you don’t force yourself to do what you think you should be doing. You confront your fears, but you’re gentle with yourself, and you give yourself the time you need to heal. For right now, getting her hands dirty with soil and earth was more soothing than sitting at her computer.

  And it was working. As Jessie cleared out vines and weeds and pruned back perennials in the hopes of a second bloom, her spirits were rising. She had been worried that her old jitters and fears were returning. Abby’s imaginary playmate and her use of the word “brother”—and the coincidence of her new friend Aaron’s name—had threatened to send her spiraling back down into the anxieties she’d lived with in New York. The nightmares had returned—but thankfully only briefly. Jessie realized she was stronger now than she’d been when she’d first moved to New York. She had written a book about survival and was starting on another. She had to remember who she was, not who she had been.

  True, she wished Abby’s friend at school wasn’t named Aaron. But she was just glad that her daughter had a friend. It was so wonderful to see how happy Abby was when she came home from school these days.

  “Mommy!”

  The sound caused Jessie’s ears to perk up.

  It was a child’s voice, but it wasn’t Abby. Abby was with Aunt Paulette in town, shopping for new shoes.

  “Mommy!”

  Jessie felt a strange trickle of fear.

  It was a little boy’s voice.

  And then she saw him through the trees.

  It was little Ashton Pierce. Bryan and Heather’s kid. He was running up John Manning’s driveway. Following behind were Heather and the little girl, Piper.

  Jessie could make them out through the thicket of pine trees. If she stayed quite still, she didn’t think they’d notice her. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to remain unnoticed and watch them, but she did. She stopped moving around and settled in to see what she could see.

  “Mommy, hurry up!” Ashton was demanding. “I want to see the brontosaurus.”

  “Well, press the buzzer,” Heather was telling him.

  “I can’t reach it! Come on, Mommy! Why do girls have to walk so slow?”

  Heather had reached the front gate of Manning’s house by now.

  “I don’t care about any stupid brontosaurus,” Piper was telling her brother. “I want him to take us into the greenhouse so I can see the orchids.”

  “Orchids are stupid!” Ashton shouted.

  “Mommy! Ashton said orchids are stupid!”

  “Be quiet, both of you,” Heather said, as she pressed the buzzer on Manning’s gate. “He won’t be able to hear me with you two squawking.”

  Jessie noticed that Heather was wearing extremely short denim cutoffs, and a sleeveless white midriff blouse, revealing her belly button. Her hair was tied in a ponytail with a big pink bow. Jessie thought Heather was too old, at twenty-seven, to be dressing like Miley Cyrus, especially in front of her kids.

  “Caleb,” Heather said into the intercom. “It’s Heather. You meanies changed the code on me so I can’t come in. I’m with the kids, Ashton and Piper. Say hi, kids!”

  “Hi!” shouted Piper.

  “I want to see the brontosaurus,” demanded Ashton at the top of his voice.

  Caleb said something back to Heather that Jessie couldn’t quite make out. But she did hear Heather grumble, “Jesus Fucking H. Christ.”

  Jessie wasn’t terribly religious, but she always cringed when she heard someone using Jesus’s name like that. What did Jesus ever do to deserve such disrespect except tell people to love one another?

  “How come he’s not buzzing us in?” Piper asked.

  “Because he’s a prick,” Heather said with a long sigh.

  “I. Want. To. See. The. Bronto. Saurus,” Ashton insisted, enunciating his syllables for emphasis. Jessie could see this was one a very impatient kid. She could never imagine Abby acting like that.

  “Just hold on,” Heather told her son. “He’s coming down.”

  Jessie waited and watched. She heard a clang, and then the gate opened from the inside. John Manning appeared.

  He didn’t look pleased.

  “I told you not to come by unannounced,” Manning snapped at Heather.

  “The kids wanted to see you,” she replied. “Didn’t you, kids?”

  “I want to see the brontosaurus!” Ashton whined.

  “And I want to see the orchids in the greenhouse,” Piper sang.

  Manning looked at them and then back at Heather. “This is low,” he growled at her. “Using your kids to get to me . . .”

  “Please, Unca John!” Ashton yelled. “I want to see the brontosaurus!”

  “I’m sorry,” Manning told him. “I’m in the middle of writing. I told your mom I can’t be disturbed.”

  “That’s not fair!” Ashton shrieked, and he kicked the gate. The action set off a security alarm. A long, high-pitched wail suddenly soared out through the neighborhood. Startled, Jessie stood up, and as she did so, she was afraid she might have been spotted. But no one looked in her direction. Manning was hurrying back inside the gate, where he evidently tapped in a code on a keypad and switched the alarm off.

  Ashton and Piper were still covering their ears when the angry author came back outside.

  “You really have to go now!” he ordered. “Heather, I’m telling you for the last time. Do not show up here unannounced!”

  “You’re a meanie!” Piper spit.

  “I should have kicked you!” Ashton shouted.

  John Manning just glowered down at them.

  “Come on, kids,” Heather said, shooing her children back toward the road. “We don’t stay anyplace we’re not wanted!”

  Jessie watched her wiggle her ass down the driveway. The two brats ran ahead of their mother, Ashton’s squeaky little voice was echoing through the trees. “But I wanted to see the brontosaurus. . . .”

  What a pathetic display, Jessie thought, her eyes following them as they made their way back down the road to their house.

  When she returned her gaze to John Manning’s front gate, it was still open. But Manning was nowhere to be seen.

  Jessie turned, intending to resume pulling up the bittersweet.

  But as she did so, she nearly collided with someone standing right beside her.

  John Manning had snuck through the trees while she had been watching Heather and the kids make their retreat.

  “Oh!” Jessie shouted, startled.

  “I thought Gert Gorin was the only snoop in the neighborhood,” Manning said, looking intensely at her with those deep dark eyes of his. He stood only inches from her.

  Jessie’s heart started thumping wild
ly. She felt an absurd jolt of fear.

  But John Manning was smiling.

  And not a mean smile, she realized.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said.

  “Well, I—I—” Jessie struggled to catch her breath and find her words. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just clearing out this patch of all the weeds and vines and then I looked up and saw . . .”

  “It’s fine, Jessie,” Manning told her. “I was just joking.” His smile faded. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

  Jessie wanted to get away from him. She didn’t trust this man. He might have killed Inga. . . .

  “Look, I’ve been meaning to come by and speak with you,” Manning said. “Might I have just five minutes of your time?”

  Jessie just looked up at him. She had the same sense of being somehow mesmerized when she looked into those mysterious, reflective eyes as she had on the day of the picnic. She found she couldn’t speak.

  “I just want you to know how sorry I am about Inga. I’ve stayed away because of all the harassment from the police. I figured it was best. But I know how close the two of you were. She was a lovely girl. And you have my deepest condolences.”

  Was he being sincere? Jessie studied his eyes, but she could see nothing there but reflections of herself.

  “You know,” Manning said, “I was hoping you and I could be friends. We have a great deal in common.”

  “We do?” Jessie asked.

  “Yes, we’re both writers.” And he smiled, sadly this time. “And one half of the town thinks you had something to do with Inga’s death, the other half thinks I did.”

  “Did you?” Jessie found herself asking, even before she was aware that the words were on her lips.

  Manning’s smile faded. “The police went over every square inch of my house. They found nothing.”

  Jessie stiffened. “That’s not answering my question.”

  “I didn’t kill Inga,” Manning told her.

  For some reason, Jessie believed him.

  “If I can be of any help to you, Jessie,” Manning said, “I’d like to be. Whether that’s as a writer, or as a neighbor, or as a friend. I know what it’s like to be looked at and whispered about. This town has been saying all sorts of things about me ever since Millie died. So if you need a friend ever, I’m here.”

  “Thank you,” Jessie said. “But I’m doing okay.”

  “You seem very strong,” Manning said. “Bittersweet roots can be tough to get out. And if you don’t get it all, it’ll just keep growing.”

  He bent down and grabbed hold of one gnarly root and gave it a good yank. It resisted, but under his strength it finally gave way, cracking through the soil and mulch and pine needles to reveal its long orange tail.

  “Thank you,” Jessie said, smiling.

  “No problem,” Manning said, and he started back toward his house.

  “Hey,” Jessie called after him.

  He looked back around.

  “Do you really have a brontosaurus in there?” she asked.

  Manning smiled. “I have the partial skull and jaw of one. I picked it up on one of my travels. Maybe Abby would like to see it sometime.”

  “I think she’d prefer the orchids in the greenhouse,” Jessie told him.

  “I’d be happy to give her a guided tour,” Manning replied.

  Jessie smiled.

  Manning smiled back, then disappeared through the trees.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The night was quiet. Not even the crickets were chirping. A sliver of moonlight striped the floor. Abby lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting.

  Then she heard it.

  The whistle.

  Just a low sound, hardly anything more than the stray call of a bird. Abby could hear it through her window, even though the window was closed. The little girl didn’t move at first. She waited to hear the whistle again, which she did. Then she threw off her sheet and stepped out of her bed.

  Moving over to the window, she looked down into the yard. There, in the moonlight, stood her friend.

  Her only friend.

  No one else at school talked to her but Aaron.

  The little boy lifted his hand and gestured for her to come down and join him. It was better that way. Mommy would hear them if they played up here again.

  Abby pulled on a hoodie that was hanging on the post of her bed, and stuck her bare feet into a pair of sneakers. She didn’t bother trying to tie the pink laces, since she wasn’t that good at it yet, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Mommy.

  She opened the door of her room and peeked out into the hall. There was no one in sight. She tiptoed toward the steps, pausing at the top to listen. She could hear Mommy in the kitchen, the soft tap-tap-tap of her computer keyboard reaching the little girl’s ears. When Abby had gone to bed, Mommy had been sitting at the kitchen table, trying to write. Abby was glad that her mother seemed to be writing now. She knew Mommy was always happiest when she was writing.

  She took the first few steps down the stairs.

  Abby knew sneaking out of the house was bad, and she didn’t like to be bad. But Aaron was outside waiting for her. She couldn’t say no to Aaron. She would just have to be very, very quiet so Mommy didn’t hear.

  Abby reached the bottom of the stairs. She peered around to look into the kitchen. Mommy was at the table, with her back facing Abby. But the moment Abby made a move toward the front door, Mommy stopped typing and got up out of her chair. Abby froze, taking a step back on the staircase, ready to scramble back up to her room. But Mommy moved out of the little girl’s view. Abby heard the refrigerator open, and then the pop of a lid on a can of Diet Coke.

  In that instant, Abby made a mad dash for the door.

  In the kitchen, Jessie thought she heard a sound.

  Taking a sip of her Diet Coke, she strolled out into the living room. She looked around and saw nothing. Then she noticed the front screen door wasn’t closed tightly. That must have been what she’d heard—the door rattling. She thought she had shut it securely earlier—and locked it, too. She’d been very careful about keeping the doors locked ever since Inga’s death. She pulled the door shut, pressing the lock into place. It was an old lock, and could easily come loose. That must have been what had happened. Even a breeze could rattle the door and unlock it. She needed to fix it. Jessie looked outside. It was such a quiet night. Even the crickets were silent. The trees stood utterly still. There was no breeze, none at all.

  So how had this door come unlocked?

  THIRTY-THREE

  “But I don’t wanna go to bed!” Ashton was shrieking.

  “Our mother never makes us go to bed this early!” Piper wailed.

  Consuela was having none of their guff. “It’s past nine o’clock,” the housekeeper-cook-assistant told the children. “And nine o’clock is your bedtime on Sunday nights.”

  Heather was still at the Radisson Hotel downtown, overseeing a catering job. Consuela was standing at the bottom of the stairs, pointing her finger up at Ashton and Piper and telling them to stop yelling and screaming and throwing things and get to bed. Bryan, meanwhile, sat within earshot in the living room, pouring himself another Manhattan. He preferred not to get involved in such squabbles.

  “You’re just a servant!” Ashton shouted at Consuela. “You work for us! You can’t tell us what to do.”

  “Your mother left me in charge,” Consuela replied, hands on hips now. “And she said you should be in bed by nine.”

  “I wonder if you’re even in this country legally,” Piper charged, tossing a tennis ball down at Consuela. In the living room, Bryan heard it hit the marble floor and bounce several times.

  “If my father wants us to go to bed, he’d tell us himself,” Ashton whined.

  Bryan paused, his drink to his lips. Sure enough, Consuela poked her head in the room. “Mr. Pierce?” she asked, her face tired.

  “Get to bed, you goddamn brats!”
Bryan shouted at the top of his lungs.

  He heard muttering and grumbling and maybe even a curse word or two. First and second graders using “fucks” and “shits.” What kind of kids were they raising?

  But there was no more whining. He could hear the kids scuttling overhead into their respective bedrooms.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pierce,” Consuela said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Bryan said, taking another sip of his Manhattan. “By the way, Consuela, you’ll be here for a while longer, won’t you?”

  “I told Heather I’d wait for her to get back so I could help her put away the dishes from the catering job,” she replied.

  Bryan smiled. “Good. Because I’m going for a walk. Just out to the brook and back.”

  “Oh, do be careful, Mr. Pierce,” Consuela pleaded. “They still haven’t caught that madman who killed that poor German girl.”

  Bryan laughed. “My money’s on Todd Bennett as the killer. Probably killed the chick because she rebuffed his advances.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think Mr. Bennett—”

  Bryan stood up. “One never knows what a man is capable of, Consuela,” he told her with a wink. “Or what lurks down deep in his soul.”

  Consuela shivered and hurried off to the kitchen.

  The whisky was making Bryan feel agitated. He couldn’t just sit there anymore. Since the other night, he’d been completely unable to get his sweet Jessaloo off his mind. He had to see her. He suspected strongly she was still in love with him. Otherwise she wouldn’t have reacted so intensely that day of the picnic when he’d come on to her.

  He figured she’d be alone tonight. Her kid would be asleep.

  He’d just pop by and say hello.

  Maybe he’d even stop and pick her one of Heather’s pink roses that were growing on the side of the house. He’d even pluck off all the thorns.

  Bryan smiled.

  Yes, he’d do just that.