A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  “Honey, I didn’t want you to worry. I even told Detective Anderson that I was—”

  “You told the cops, but not me?” Her voice rising again.

  I stopped pacing. “I had to…to be safe. They searched the neighborhood. Quietly, so no one would be alarmed. They even put up roadblocks in case he was still in town.”

  “Jesus, Bobby, what did he say to you?”

  “He said he was sorry, he said—”

  “He said he was sorry?” A mocking look on her face I had never seen before.

  “He said he was sorry and was thinking about turning himself in. You can listen to the entire phone call. Detective Anderson has the audio file.”

  “And you didn’t tell me because you were worried?”

  “That’s right, baby. But I knew I couldn’t keep it from you for long.”

  “Did you ever think that I’m worried about you, Bobby?”

  “Worried about what?”

  She looked away for a moment, then met my eyes again. “Your state of mind for starters.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why aren’t you scared, Bobby? Why aren’t you worried about yourself in this whole thing? I know you loved him like a brother. I know you looked up to him like a brother. But you saw the pictures. You heard the reports.”

  “If he was gonna hurt us, Katy, he would’ve done it a long time ago.”

  “How do you know that? How do you know?”

  “C’mon, he lived a hundred feet away from us for the past eight years.”

  “You don’t know that, Bobby. You don’t know him. None of us did. He’s not who we believed he was. He’s a monster.”

  Thursday, Dec 19

  Grant dumped his duffle bag and knapsack in the foyer and hugged his mother. “Sorry I’m late. Again.”

  Katy laughed and hugged him tighter. “That damn car of yours.”

  “Nothing wrong with that car a brand new engine and muffler won’t fix.”

  We all laughed, and it was music to my ears after the last couple days of strained conversation and uncomfortable silence in the house.

  Grant kissed his mom on the cheek, and then it was my turn for a hug. I noticed that he held on to me a little tighter and longer than usual.

  “Good to see you, Pop.”

  “You, too. You, too.”

  He gestured out the window at the police cruiser parked at the curb. “What are they doing here?”

  Katy glanced nervously out the window, while I gave him my best brush off. “Nothing important. Tell you after dinner.”

  He tilted his head back. “Speaking of dinner, what is that amazingly wonderful smell?”

  Katy picked a fuzz ball off the shoulder of Grant’s sweater. “Why don’t we all head to the kitchen and you can see for yourself?”

  “Don’t have to ask me twice.” And off he went.

  Katy and I laughed and followed Grant out of the foyer. It felt good to be a family again.

  Later that evening, we all sat in the den watching Meet Joe Black on HBO. We had probably seen it a half dozen times already, but it was one of Grant’s favorites.

  Some time early in the movie, Katy reached over and took my hand in hers—and I knew I was forgiven.

  I leaned over and kissed her on top of her head. Whispered: “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

  She squeezed my hand. Whispered back: “No more secrets.”

  “Promise.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder.

  Ten days later, I broke my promise.

  Saturday, Dec 21

  The mall parking lot was a zoo. Grant carefully maneuvered his way around tired pedestrians overloaded with shopping bags and cranky, aggressive drivers looking for an open parking space.

  If there was an undercover cop following us today, he was impossible to spot in the long line of traffic behind us. Or maybe they had given up, I thought. It had, thankfully, been a quiet couple of days; even the press seemed to be taking a breather.

  “Right there,” I said, pointing at an SUV with its reverse lights on.

  Grant flipped on his right turn signal and eased to a stop. The car behind us immediately blew its horn. I glanced in the passenger side mirror, but it was impossible to see because of the duct tape that was wrapped around it, keeping it attached to the car. The SUV backed out of the space, drove away, and we pulled in.

  “Piece of cake,” Grant said, smiling.

  Our annual Christmas shopping trip had been a longstanding tradition—ever since Grant was in middle school and he’d started using his lawn mowing money to buy us gifts. Once he became old enough to drive, Grant had assumed driving duties for the day. It was usually an adventure.

  “You know I could’ve driven today,” I teased.

  “Now what fun would that’ve been?”

  I reached down and released my seat belt, and my hand brushed against something cold and metal between the seats. Concerned, I held up a wrench for Grant to see. “Ummm, protection? You worried about something, son?”

  Grant just laughed and took the wrench from my hand. Without a word, he turned to the driver’s door and used the wrench to hand-crank his window halfway open. I hadn’t noticed until now that his window knob was missing. He looked back at me with a smirk, and then cranked the window closed again.

  “Impressive,” I said, shaking my head and climbing out of the old Subaru. “Mom’s right. You really need a new car.”

  If the parking lot was a zoo, then the inside of the mall was a jungle. I had never seen that many people crammed into one space before, except maybe an Orioles game.

  We had been shopping for over three hours and had purchased exactly two gifts. Two. How was that even possible?

  On the plus side, it had been nice to have some alone time together. We talked about school and life and football. We talked about my job and Katy; he agreed that her mood was brightening and she was acting more like her old self every day. Having him home from college and a couple quiet days had worked wonders for her.

  And we talked about Jimmy, of course. He told me about his ten minute phone call with Detective Anderson before he’d left campus; she had been very nice to him, Grant said, for which I was grateful.

  I’d had a scare early on when I thought I’d seen Jimmy watching us from behind a kiosk, but it turned out to be a false alarm. The guy was there with his grandchildren, pushing them around in one of those fancy double strollers. I saw him up close a short time later, and he didn’t really resemble Jimmy at all.

  We ate dinner in the food court, after a fifteen minute wait in line for pizza and French fries, and another five minute wait for an open table. Afterward, when I came back from washing up in the bathroom, I saw a smiling Ken Ellis shaking hands with Grant.

  “Here he is,” Ken said, when he saw me walking up. “How’s it hanging, Bobby?”

  “Lot better once I get out of here,” I said, glancing around at the surging crowd.

  “Grant’s looking good,” he said, slapping him on the back. “Big man on campus with the ladies, I’m sure.”

  Grant didn’t say anything; just stood there looking embarrassed.

  “Well, we better get going. Still need to buy a couple things and—”

  Ken leaned in close. “Anything new about Wilkinson?”

  I remembered what Katy had said: about Ken telling the cops that Jimmy and I were thick as thieves, and how he’d been spreading gossip around the neighborhood that maybe I was a suspect, too. I decided it was time for some payback.

  I leaned in and lowered my voice. “No one is supposed to know this, not even the press, but…”

  Ken’s eyes widened. “But what?”

  “The police…there’s gonna be another big press conference tomorrow morning. 8am sharp. Right out front of the Fallston Police Department.”

  Ken’s chubby, little face nodded up and down. “I knew there was more coming, I knew it.” He looked around conspiratorially. “Thanks. I won’t tell
a soul.” And he was gone.

  Grant looked at me in surprise as we walked in the opposite direction. “Did you just do what I think you just did?”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You just totally punked Mr. Ellis and sent him on a wild goose chase at eight in the morning.”

  I shrugged. “Karma’s a bitch, son.”

  A few minutes later, browsing in a Barnes and Noble, Grant brought up the day he and Jimmy had spent in Gettysburg, walking the battlefield.

  “It was probably my favorite day I ever spent with him,” he told me.

  I nodded. “I remember when you got home that night. You were so excited and couldn’t wait to go to the library the next day to check out some books.”

  “I really loved walking around Gettysburg and learning about the battle, but it was more than that. I think it was because he treated me like a grown up for the first time that day. I was only fifteen, but the way he talked to me, the way he explained things…it made me feel special.”

  I knew what he meant. Jimmy had that way about him; a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world at any given moment.

  “Something I’ve thought about a lot since all this happened…” He fidgeted with his jacket zipper, and I could tell he really wanted to get this out.

  “When we were walking the field where General Pickett led his famous charge…he went on and on about the ghosts of the past and how he could feel them there on that battlefield. Each fallen soldier’s hopes and dreams and fears and regrets. The way he described it to me…it gave me chills…and I swear it made me feel something there, too.”

  I nodded again, encouraging him to continue.

  “The more you and Mom told me about what was happening…and the more I listened to the news reports…it really made me wonder what kind of ghosts Mr. Wilkinson has been carrying around with him all these years. I mean, if he did all the things they claim he did…it’s almost like there has to be another person inside of him…a ghost that none of us ever really knew…”

  Sunday, Dec 22

  The mood was a lot lighter the next morning, as the three of us busied ourselves in the kitchen, getting ready for an afternoon of watching football with some of Grant’s old high school friends.

  A radiant Katy danced around the granite island, making her pepperoni bread and singing along with the radio. Grant stirred a big pot of chili on the stove and cut up chicken wings on the counter. I sat at the breakfast bar, watching and laughing, as I peeled a bowl of jumbo steamed shrimp for pregame cocktails.

  “I think we’re gonna need more wings,” Grant said. “Mark’s coming, and that boy can eat.” He started rinsing his hands at the sink.

  “You stay and finish. I’ll go,” I said.

  Katy rolled her eyes. “The master escape artist gets out of doing his work yet again.”

  I plopped a fat shrimp in my mouth, chewed it up, and started talking with my mouth open. “Not true, Miss Know-It-All, and highly offensive. Grant needs to remain here in case his friends show up early. You know how they get when there’s free food on the table.”

  They both laughed, and Katy shooed me out of the kitchen.

  I was standing in line at the register with three more packs of chicken wings and a family size bag of Doritos when my cell phone rang. I fumbled it out of my pocket, expecting it to be Katy asking me to pick up something else: chips or pretzels or maybe another jar of salsa.

  Instead, the caller ID flashed a familiar message: Unknown Caller.

  I answered, thinking: No way it’s him. “Hello?”

  I was wrong.

  “I know they’re tracking the call, so I have to be quick, Bobby. I’ve been thinking a lot about you and Katy and Grant. I just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  “…and say how sorry I am again. You’ve been my one true friend, my entire life.” The connection wasn’t as clear as the first time. Was he farther away?

  “Grant was like a son to me. I’m sorry to have put you all through this.”

  “You would never hurt us, right, Jimmy?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

  A burst of static.

  “Right?”

  Another loud crackle of static, and was there something else? Was he laughing?

  “Jimmy? Jimmy!”

  The line went dead.

  Later that night in bed:

  “I think we were right not to tell Grant,” Katy said. “He was so happy today.”

  I handed her the television remote. “No reason to worry him over nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, Bobby.” The look of wariness was back on her face.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Are you sure he was laughing?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I told you, there was too much static to hear clearly.”

  She placed the remote on the nightstand without turning on the television. “What time are you seeing Detective Anderson tomorrow?”

  “I told her I’d come down to the station around ten.”

  “Do you want me to come with you? We could tell Grant we were running to the store.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not necessary. Just stay home with him.”

  “Bobby?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “You swear you aren’t hiding anything else from me?”

  I leaned over and took her face in my hands. Looked into her eyes. “I promise you.”

  Monday, Dec 23

  Grant came downstairs after his morning shower, took one look at us sitting at the breakfast bar, and said, “What’s wrong?”

  I guess our faces gave it away.

  The television was on: a Channel 11 Special Report that had interrupted Katy’s regular viewing of Good Morning, America.

  The news wasn’t good. Three more victims identified. Three more photographs of the deceased. Two women and a young man this time. Police sources described “souvenirs”—jewelry, articles of clothing, even a driver’s license—found under a floorboard in 1922 Hanson Road that had helped connect James Wilkinson to the murders.

  Grant stood and watched in silence; he looked as if he wanted to cry.

  Katy got up and put her arm around him. “Honey…”

  “That’s eight now,” he said, looking at her. “And they’re still saying there might be others.”

  “We just have to try to block it out. We have to try to—”

  “Block it out?” he said, pulling away from her. “He was my Godfather for Christsake.” Tears spilled from his eyes now. “I loved him.”

  “Grant—”

  He waved her off and walked out the side door and into the garage. Katy looked at me with a helpless expression I’d rarely ever seen on her face.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” I said, and took off after my son.

  “He obviously feels very strongly about you,” Detective Anderson said.

  We were sitting in the same dinghy interview room as the last time I had been at the station. The same camera was recording our conversation.

  “He knows we’re watching you and tracing your calls, yet he still risked contact.”

  “He sounded lonely. It’s Christmas.”

  “We have someone trying to clean up the audio right now. Do you really think he was laughing at the end of the phone call?”

  “I don’t know. For one second, I thought maybe I could hear him, but it was probably just static.”

  “Have you ever considered that he might be playing a game with you, Mr. Howard?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Why would he torture, mutilate, and kill eight innocent people?”

  I had no answer for that.

  “You said that Mr. Wilkinson liked to play chess. We found several other strategy games downloaded on his laptop.”

  “Okay…”

  “We also found a hidden collection of video tapes in his garage.
It seems Mr. Wilkinson was stalking and filming some of his victims ahead of time.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I think it’s important that you realize a couple things about James Wilkinson: he is very smart and he likes his games.”

  “Okay. I’m hearing you.”

  “Anything else at all you can think to share? It’s important you tell me, no matter how small or trivial you might consider it.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  She stared directly at me. “And you would never keep anything from us, right?”

  I almost said You sound like my wife, but held it in. Thank God. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Still think you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Howard?”

  She was looking for a reaction, and she got one.

  “Do I think Jimmy would hurt us? No, I don’t. Do I want you to find him and put him away? Yes, I do.” Deep breath. “Look, he was my friend. A part of my family. And, yeah, he has the same name as my brother, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. It’s hard to think about everything we shared—Christ, just three weeks ago, he sat at my table and carved our Thanksgiving turkey—and it’s even harder to think that it wasn’t real. But it wasn’t. I know that. None of it was real.”

  “Well, it’s good to hear you say that, Mr. Howard. Because it appears that he isn’t quite finished yet. Last night, Pennsylvania police discovered a local florist murdered in her home and her car missing. They believe that James Wilkinson is responsible.”

  It wasn’t real.

  The words echoed in my head the entire drive home from the police station. I suddenly felt so tired. Beaten.

  None of it was real.

  I thought about all the times we had talked about the meaning of life and death; if there was a God or not; all of Jimmy’s Army stories; the laughter-filled conversations about history and politics and football and the Orioles.

  I thought about the countless times he’d helped me with odd jobs around the house and how he was the one who taught me how to use half the tools in my garage. The time he loaned me money so I could afford to send Grant to summer camp. And the time he counseled—and talked sense into—me after I confided in him that I was thinking about having an affair with a co-worker; my one near-slip in over twenty years of a happy marriage.