by Lynn Ames
***
The next morning, Pax sends a text to Hayley letting her know that Rebecca Cassidy is safe at work, the front door to her townhouse is unlocked, and Pax is tailing Todd Bennett, who is just returning to the land of the living after his surprise meeting with the business end of a Taser. I have no idea how she manages to get so many things done in such a short space of time without anybody noticing. Does she have a clone? Does she have underlings who do her bidding in various cities? I’m sure I don’t want the answers to these questions, but I’m curious just the same. Inarguably, this is why her fee is exorbitant. She certainly earns it.
I park down the street from Rebecca’s development and stroll into her parking lot, trying to be as nonchalant and unnoticeable as I can. I’m once again wearing my Seahawks hat and the glasses, and my clothes are just as boring as they were yesterday: jeans and a long-sleeve Tar Heels T-shirt. Everybody in this city who’s not wearing a Duke shirt is wearing a Tar Heels shirt, so it’s not like I’ll be standing out.
The sky is robin’s-egg blue today, and the sun is shining cheerfully. It all seems so strange, all bubbly and happy, unmindful of the turmoil that some people are no doubt going through today. The sun warms my head gently, the bluebirds flit around looking for debris with which to build their nests, and spring flowers bloom in bright colors, despite the fact that Rebecca Cassidy’s life is in danger and has been for years. Nature is blind like that. Hell, lifeis blind like that.
I nod silently to a young man I pass as I walk, but I’m relieved that nobody is around Rebecca’s unit. I act like I know exactly what I’m doing, like I’m totally supposed to be there, as I reach her door. I learned that lesson early on. Unobtrusive is the last thing you are when you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, skulking around like you don’t belong. Thatmakes people notice you. Instead, I simply walk up to Rebecca’s door, turn the knob, and walk in, then close and lock it quickly behind me.
It takes a couple moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room, and the pounding of my heart in my ears is temporarily distracting. No matter how long I do this, I don’t think I’ll ever feel easy about being someplace I’m not supposed to be. I’m a good girl at heart and sneaking around like this makes me a little ill at ease. I tend to think that’s a good thing. Frankly, the idea of not being the least bit bothered about breaking into somebody else’s home freaks me out.
Rebecca Cassidy is neat, but not obsessively so, and a quick glance around her living room makes me like her right away. There aren’t a lot of froo-froo items lying around, no dust-collecting knick-knacks, or scary collections of weird stuff like nutcrackers or Precious Moments figurines, but there are a lot of books, several well-worn throw pillows, and a really nice stereo system. Lots of fiction, comfortable lounging areas, and great sound…Rebecca is obviously a girl after my own heart. If there’s mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer, I might have to marry her. Don’t tell Hayley. She has nothing on the walls, which gives a little bit of a stark feel to the place, but two things occur to me. One: she hasn’t been here that long. Two: she has probably grown used to being ready to flee at a moment’s notice, which just makes me sad, because judging by what I can see, she’d do a really nice job decorating a living space she knew she’d be staying in for a while. My sympathy for her wells up a bit, and I sigh, wondering not for the first time why stalkers can’t hunt annoying, high-maintenance bitches instead of nice girls. A stupid thing to think, I know, but I think it anyway.
I like the smell of Rebecca’s place. The air doesn’t reek of violence or anger or fear, like the situation warrants. It’s simpler. Sweeter. Welcoming, even, like cinnamon or freshly baked bread. It invites me in, tells me to pull up a chair and stay for a while. And I want to.
Her tastes lean toward feminine—more flowers and paisley than I would pick for my own home—but the furniture speaks of comfort, and the atmosphere is warm. Rebecca Cassidy is probably a fabulous hostess. I imagine sinking into her floral-print couch while she brings out bold, rich coffee in kitschy mugs and a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. Yes, I realize I’m making her into a fifties housewife, but I can’t help it. That’s the image this place hands my brain.
The presence of Pax, of course, puts a damper on my fantasies. How could it not? She’s like a hulking harbinger of doom, so completely out of place in this setting, it’s almost laughable. She’s like an angry, dark scab on an otherwise perfect ass, and I have to look away to hide my grin at the comparison.
Since there’s not a doubt in my mind that the bedroom is always the room of focus for somebody like Todd Bennett, I head up the stairs. The second floor is nicely laid out with two good-sized bedrooms, a bathroom, and a washer and dryer hidden smartly behind folding doors, which stand open now. The smell of Downy tells me Rebecca was doing laundry this morning.
Her bedroom is where the personal items are, and I’m strangely relieved to see them. The protection I feel for this woman I’ve never met isn’t new to me—it actually happens a lot in my line of work—and the lack of photos or anything that reflects her personality in the living room made me sad for her. Here on her dresser, though, is a pewter-framed black-and-white wedding photo of a couple that can only be her parents. A smaller frame outlines two teenage girls with the same strawberry-blonde hair, their arms wrapped lovingly around one another’s shoulders. Rebecca and her sister. I have trouble pulling my eyes away as I wonder where these family members are and why they haven’t helped her. Then I realize it’s more than likely she hasn’t told them much—if anything—about Todd Bennett. There are any number of reasons why—embarrassment, not wanting to worry your loved ones, miscalculation of the danger—and they all seem silly to me now.
I move to the bed, neatly made and covered with throw pillows as if they were candy sprinkles on ice cream. The colors are cheerful primaries—reds, blues, oranges—and the room is the perfect marriage of teenage girl and grown woman. I take a seat on the mattress that’s a bit too soft for me, close my eyes, and try hard to clear my head.
I wish Hayley was here.
And then I’m glad she’s not.
I hate that she’s touched at all, even fingertip-lightly, by this life of mine.
There is no sound from the rest of the townhouse, and I know Pax is practicing her own waiting ritual. I have no idea how long this will take, and I concentrate on visuals of things that help me relax—a warm, sandy beach, a gentle rainstorm, the lull of a silent car ride—and soon, my heart rate slows, the pace of my breathing evens out, and I talk each muscle into loosening, letting go. It’s a long process, which is why I do it. I could be sitting on Rebecca’s bed all day, for all I know.
Such will not be the case today, though, and at the sound of the front door, my muscles spasm suddenly with tension like so many overextended rubber bands. Hoping Rebecca returned home for something she forgot, but knowing instinctively that it’s Todd Bennett, I hold my breath and marvel at how frighteningly easy it is to break into somebody else’s home. How horrified would Rebecca be to know that at this very moment, there are strangers wandering through her space and looking at her things?
I brace myself as whoever it is climbs the stairs. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. The emotional mix that floods my system—anger, disgust, fear, hatred, and disappointment—narrows and pinpoints until it’s only disgust. My expression hardens; I can actually feel it do so, and my eyebrows draw together. At this moment, there is nothing else in this world. Just this. Just me and this piece-of-shit man who will never terrorize or terrify another woman again. I gave him the chance to change his ways and he blew it. Game over. He is a boil on the skin of humanity. I am the lance.
His shock is plain as he steps into the bedroom. He sports jeans and a black, tight-fitting T-shirt, a non-descript duffel bag dangling from his shoulder. Blue eyes widen behind the wire rims, then dart around the room in apparent confusion. I cock my head to the side and watch him, wondering what’s going through
his head. Is he kicking himself for not being more patient and waiting longer before making his move? Is he calculating his chances of making it back to the door and escaping? Is he wondering if maybe he can take me out with his bare hands? Or does he already know how this will end?
When his gaze settles back on me, it almost seems questioning, as if he thinks we’re at an impasse, as if asking, “Now what?” My answer to him is quite simple.
“I warned you.”
The only visible change in his expression is a small twitch at one corner of his mouth. In the next second, he’s convulsing on his feet, the second bite of a Taser in twenty-four hours coursing through his nervous system. I didn’t even see Pax, had no idea she was so close. As Todd Bennett collapses to the floor like a heap of wet towels, Pax shoots me a quick glance and no-nonsense command.
“Go.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. The deadness on her face, the utter lack of any kind of emotion at all, is enough to propel me up off the bed and out of the room. I don’t look back as I maneuver down the stairs, hoping I don’t trip over my own freaked-out feet. My hand grips the doorknob so tightly, my knuckles go immediately white, and I have to close my eyes and force my ragged breathing to steady. I can’t sprint out of the townhouse, much as I’d like to. I’m supposed to be discreet, subtle, unnoticed. Like I’m preparing to go onstage and give a speech, I take a deep breath, count to five, and open the door. I exit Rebecca Cassidy’s home calmly and unobtrusively, as if I’ve done it a million times before.
I don’t look back.
Chapter Nine
I drive for a while; it’s the only way I’m ever able to really clear my head. My brain goes into this weird zone of thinking-but-not, and I’m barely conscious of things like stopping and turning. I am truly on autopilot.
At some point, more than an hour later, my subconscious must just turn control back over to me because I’m tooling along down highway fifty-four when I register something round and brown in the road about a hundred yards ahead of me. Luckily, traffic is light on the two-lane road. A great blue heron soars by as I brake to a gentle stop, put my car in park, and get out.
The turtle is the size of a dinner plate, which is a little intimidating. From what I’ve read, it’s very common for them to wander into the road and get squished by fat rubber tires as they roll on by. There are wetlands on either side of this stretch, and it’s much greener and lusher here at this time of year than it is at home in New York. I breathe in the scent of nature as I approach the turtle, and he pulls in his feet and head to ward off my likely attack.
“Hey there, big man,” I say softly to him as I gingerly grasp him by the sides of his shell. “You got a death wish or something?” He’s surprisingly heavy as I lift him and carry him the rest of the way across the road in the direction he was facing, then set him down in the grass.
A car slows as it passes, bless the polite heart of the true southerner, and the driver gives me a smile and a nod of approval for my actions. Isn’t that ironic? Here I am, rescuing a turtle in distress, not two hours after ordering and paying handsomely for the extermination of another human being. Would the woman in the car be so quick with her smile if she knew that? I can almost envision the horror as it washes over her face once she has all the facts. I am a murderer just as surely as Pax is a murderer. Just because I don’t do the actual killing doesn’t mean I don’t have blood on my hands. I’m painfully aware of this fact, believe me.
Later that afternoon, I go to a movie. I can hear you making judgments, thinking, You just had somebody killed and then you went to see a flick? What kind of a cold-hearted bitch are you? I’ve asked myself the very same questions, I promise you. But I need something to hijack my focus for a while, something to make the time go by, because I have one more thing to take care of before I can head home. Just bear with me, and you’ll understand. The film is an above-average romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock and some impossibly handsome guy. Frankly, Sandy could be on the screen doing absolutely nothing for two hours, and I’d gladly fork over my money to watch, so it’s a good choice for me. By the time it’s over and I emerge, blinking rapidly in the blinding sun like somebody trapped for weeks in a dark cave, it’s nearly five o’clock. I give my BlackBerry a glance, and there’s a text from Hayley that says simply, “Done.” She hasn’t called or left any other messages because she knows I need time. I’ll contact her when I’m ready.
***
I knock on the front door, no shaking or sweating or nerves, not once showing any signs that I was in this very same place illegally not six hours ago. The development is bustling now, people returning from work, kids home from school. The change in atmosphere from this morning is almost jarring.
This is the part I love. The impending conversation—if it goes well—is what will allow me to sleep tonight, to look at myself in the mirror tomorrow morning, to understand why Hayley isn’t repulsed by me.
“Hi,” Rebecca says. “Can I help you?” Her smile is genuine but hesitant, as if she’s expecting me to try to sell her something or offer to save her soul.
“Rebecca Cassidy?” I ask, even though I know I have the right person.
“Yes?” Maybe a bit more hesitant now.
“My name is Norah, and I’d like to talk to you about Todd Bennett.”
Her complexion immediately drains of color, and she tightens her grip on the door. Her smile doesn’t falter, it merely drops right off her face.
“Please,” I say, rushing to reassure, but keeping my voice down. “Please, don’t be afraid. I’m on your side.”
Forever and a day go by as she studies my face, looking for…what? Sincerity? A trick? I can only guess and wait. Finally, she steps aside and lets me in, then waves me into the small eat-in area of her kitchen.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” Ever the hostess, I see, and I bet she was raised that way, always to be polite even if she’s so scared she’s about to crap her pants.
“No, thank you. I’m good.” She motions me to the table and chairs, and we sit.
Her green eyes are just as friendly, just as kind in person as they are in her driver’s license photo, and I know that she’s easily liked. A person like Rebecca has many friends and tons of acquaintances. She is the kind of woman you want to be around, just hoping you can suck up some of her positive energy. I wonder how much of that Todd Bennett has sucked out of her over the years. I pretty much have my answer when I see the worry on her face. I rush to alleviate it.
“This is going to be very hard for you to believe,” I begin. There’s no standard, easy-to-absorb wording for something like this. I’ve done it more than once, and I always seem to stutter and stammer and fumble for the right words. “First, you need to understand that I know all about Todd Bennett, the troubles he’s caused you, the police reports, the restraining orders, all of it. I know about all of it.”
I give her time to absorb that. Her pale eyebrows furrow slightly, and I’m sure she’s trying to figure out how I have all this information as her hands clasp and unclasp on the table between us.
“I’m not a cop,” I go on. “I’m not a detective or in any kind of law enforcement. But I have sources, and I’m privy to information in cases like yours.” I’ve found it best to leave the details vague. Most of the time, people are too stunned or confused to ask for them anyway. I’ve also found that it helps to get right to the point. “It’s important that you know and understand that Mr. Bennett will never, ever bother you again.”
At that, her eyes narrow, as if she’s certain I’m lying to her, that this is a sick joke and she can’t believe I’d do something so cruel.
I shoot her a half grin. “Told you it’d be hard to believe.”
“I—I don’t understand.” It’s the most common phrase uttered by my clients after I tell them such a thing. I don’t do face-to-face very often at all. In fact, I prefer to stay behind the scenes, cloaked by shadows and unseen, like the Wizard of Oz beh
ind his curtain, except way more competent, I’d hope. But in cases like this one, it’s important for the Rebeccas of the world to know they can take a deep breath and go on with their lives without having to constantly look over their shoulders, without wondering if they’ll have to flee their lives at any given moment…again. I feel I owe them at least an attempt at a conversation about it.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to go into great detail,” I say, which is, of course, a big lie. “But let me assure you that I know exactly what you’ve been dealing with where Mr. Bennett is concerned. Exactly.” I look her dead in the eye when I say this, and I think it helps my credibility. She’s listening intently, her focus solid on my face despite the gentle trembling of her hands. I cover them with my own. “Listen to me. I’m sure you know you’re not alone in the world, that many other women around the globe have been terrorized, stalked, afraid to be alone in their own homes, because of some sick pig like Todd Bennett. You also know that the authorities can only do so much to help, especially if the asshole is familiar with the law.”
“Or doesn’t care about it,” she adds softly.
“Or doesn’t care about it.” I tighten my grip on her. “Those extreme cases? The ones that seem hopeless? The ones like yours? That’s where I come in.”
Rebecca squints at me. “So…you’re a private investigator or something like that?”
“Something like that. Let’s just say Mr. Bennett is not the first of his kind with whom I’ve had…business dealings.”
I sit quietly and let her examine my words, my thinly-veiled hints. She seems like a smart girl. She’ll get there.
“But…how do you know about him?” she asks.
“I have sources.”
“Did somebody call you?”
“I really can’t say. I’m sorry.”