Ready and waiting, when Hutchins comes out, I will give him a brief head start and then follow behind him a few blocks so as not to look obvious. My adrenaline is pumping right now as I sit anxiously staring at his car … waiting … and waiting … and waiting.
Thirty minutes later, he has not emerged. Squinting into his dark bedroom, I realize, stupidly, I have forgotten to grab my binoculars. My eyes dart in all directions, searching all around to see if he might have walked to a neighbor’s house … like Eugene Smith’s home, and killed someone in the middle of the night. Is that what happened to poor Eugene Smith?
Shadows move eerily up and down the dimly lit street, creating ghostly images of figures walking back and forth as tree branches sway in the diminished light. It feels like Hutchins is everywhere … and yet he is nowhere. I hate being alone in my car under these conditions and, at any moment, I half expect Freddy Kruger to appear at my window.
The air is freezing cold and my breath is causing the windows to fog up, making it difficult to see into the darkness. I hesitate to wipe the vapor away, fearing the movement of my hand will draw attention. While I don’t think Hutchins noticed me when he peered out his window, who knows, he could be watching me. He may have even caught my movement when I ran to get a key. Did I scare him off? Has he decided it’s too risky to venture out?
An inability to clearly see my surroundings, combined with the uncertainty of my situation has left me unsettled. I have lost sight of my target, and now my tentative position has me on edge. Alone in the darkness has made me feel vulnerable. It is an unwanted feeling and one I do not like.
My head is on a swivel, looking everywhere and trying to figure out what happened to Hutchins. He isn’t wandering up and down the street. His car remains parked and his bedroom is dark. It’s as if he blew off his outing and has gone back to bed. Doubting myself, I wait in my car until I can no longer stand the cold and then I return to Rachel’s door.
It surprises me when the door opens and Rachel ushers me inside. “What happened?” she asks.
“Good question. He must’ve changed his mind about going out.” I pause for a moment, considering optional answers. “It’s possible someone phoned him to tell them they were on their way over. Maybe when I went to get the key, they picked him up and he has left with them.” I consider my own comment. “Maybe I missed him leaving.”
“Jackson, I’m sorry and I realize this is my fault. At some point, we knew you’d have to follow either Logan or David. I should’ve given you a key.”
“No, don’t blame yourself. I’m a stranger in your house and it would be careless of you to hand me a key.” I understand Rachel’s hesitancy to provide me with unlimited access to her living quarters. This is her home and she should feel safe and protected and not have to worry about someone she doesn’t know coming and going at will in her private sanctuary.
“It won’t happen again. I’ll have a key made for you tomorrow,” she assures me with a regretful look. “Hopefully, my failure to do so beforehand hasn’t jeopardized your chances of finding out who is killing people in this neighborhood.”
“I’m sure there will be another opportunity.” I smile at her because her beautiful face is etched with guilt. Her heart wants to catch the murderer, but her brain wants to keep her home secured. I get it. She doesn’t know if I’m trustworthy, or if my intentions are in the right place. And, case in point, isn’t it my true intention to simply have sex with her? It is. Trust me. “If someone picked Hutchins up, they’ll drop him off later. I’ll stay up and watch and maybe I can follow the secondary person. Maybe he’ll lead me somewhere. At the very least, I can obtain his license plate number.”
Rachel fishes her keys from her purse and separates her house key. “I’ll leave this on the corner of my desk, in case you need it later tonight.”
“Thank you. You don’t have to worry about it falling into the wrong hands, or me using it inappropriately. I’ll be very diligent with it.”
She nods and then decides to brew me a cup of coffee. “Here you go,” she offers as she hands me a steaming mug. “Again, Jackson, I’m sorry about the key.”
“Thank you,” I say taking the aromatic delicacy and blowing over the rising heat. “Rachel, go get some rest. There’s nothing for you to do out here.” Her hair is mussed from her short sleep and her face wears a frown. Even so, she is still beautiful.
“If there’s something I can help you with, please let me know … okay?”
I nod. “I will. Now go back to bed.”
“Okay, goodnight.” Reluctantly she pads her socked feet down the hall and disappears into her bedroom.
Once again, I am left alone. But this time, only a few feet away from Rachel, I feel a flutter in my stomach and warm glow in my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rachel
“Did you stay awake all night?” I asked when I found Jackson still peering out the window. He was bleary-eyed when he turned to face me.
“I did … and nothing. The front door remained closed and the car hasn’t moved. I can’t figure out what happened last night. For sure, I thought Hutchins was on the move and we were going to get our first big break.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized once more. “I’ll get the key first thing.”
“Anytime today will be fine because I’m going to have to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.” Jackson rose from my rolling desk chair and stretched his back. “I hope you don’t mind my using your chair. That straight-back chair is killing me.”
“No, I don’t mind at all.” I paused, considering how uncomfortable he must be in my dining chairs. “When I converted my dad’s old office into my bedroom, he placed everything in the storage shed out back. His office chair is in there. It might be more comfortable.”
“Oh wow, that would be great,” Jackson said enthusiastically, an indication of just how uncomfortable he had been.
Jackson followed behind me as we went through the side gate and down a narrow pathway between my house and the fence separating me from my neighbors. Crossing the backyard and unlocking the shed, he pulled the door open and we stepped inside.
Many years ago, the shed was a rentable apartment. My father hadn’t wanted to mess with tenants, especially in his own backyard and so the water and gas had long ago been cutoff, but the electricity had been kept on. With the flip of a switch, the fluorescent bulbs buzzed and flickered, until they finally came to life.
The room was filled with a hodgepodge of items. Among unused washtubs, an assortment of yard tools and some antiquated electronics, I noticed my mother’s old sewing machine. Next to it were some outdated Christmas ornaments and an array of empty flowerpots and vegetable tubs. To the other side were several discarded pieces of furniture, including my dad’s old recliner. But the last items placed inside were his desk, two client chairs and his rolling office chair.
“What do you think?” I asked Jackson.
He nodded. “This will be great.” He maneuvered it around the client chairs and rolled it to the door. “If you’ll get the door, I’ll get the chair.”
“Deal,” I said, holding the door open for him to pass through. In one herculean move, he hoisted the chair up and carried it through the door. In doing so, his chest muscles tightened against his sweatshirt and his arms grew tighter from under his sleeves. I felt my breath hitch in my throat as he performed the manly task, realizing Jackson had a nice body behind those stringy locks and burly facial hair.
When we reached the front porch, he gently placed the chair down and placed a knee in the seat. With a shove of his other foot, he pushed off and rode it to the front door. I giggled at his boyish act, observing he had a playful side to him.
Once he placed the chair in front of the dining room window, he wiggled his butt down and messed with the height and lumbar adjustments. “This feels great. Thank you so much.” He beamed a smile at me and, for the first time, I noticed he had pretty, white teeth hiding behind his overgrown
mustache.
“Let me fix you some breakfast,” I offered. “You’ll be able to sleep better on a full tummy.”
“There’s no bacon,” he reminded me.
I smiled at his gripe. “There are still eggs though. And biscuits if you’d like.”
“I’d like. Very much I’d like.”
While preheating the oven, I took a quick shower. After placing the biscuits in for baking, I dried my hair and put on my makeup. Scurrying back to the kitchen, by the time the eggs were scrambled, I pulled the biscuits and dished up our plates. After brewing a flavorful mug of coffee for Jackson and a cup of hot tea for myself, I served breakfast at the dining table.
“Anything?” I asked as Jackson swirled his chair around from the dining room window.
“Nothing,” he answered. He feasted his eyes on breakfast. “This looks great. Thank you.”
As we dug in, I reminded him, “I need to take several tax returns by clients’ houses to get their signatures on the IRS Form 8879.” He gave me a blank stare. “It’s the e-file signature authorization form for electronically filing a return. Most of my clients either don’t own a computer or wouldn’t have a clue about printing, scanning or adding an electronic signature to a form. Besides, it gives me a chance to visit with them and return their original documents.”
“Okay. Well, I’m going to take a nap, so if you don’t mind, will you just lock up when you leave?”
“Yes, and I’ll bring you back a key.” I paused. “You can use my bed. It’ll be more comfortable than the couch and I’m sure you’ll be able to sleep easier.”
A relieved expression formed on his face. “Thank you so much. I wasn’t looking forward to bunching myself up on the couch.” He waited a beat. “When I wake, would it be okay if I took a shower here?”
“Of course, go right ahead.” I scooped up the empty plates. “Jackson, just make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” He smiled big, flashing his pearly whites at me, the elated expression going all the way to his deep blue eyes, which I had also noticed for the very first time. It seemed there was more to Jackson than a bunch of hair and I felt regretful of my instant characterization of him. And for some stupid reason, I felt a flutter in my stomach and warm glow in my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jackson
An empty spot forms in the pit of my stomach as Rachel organizes her stuff, dons her coat and tells me she is off to do her errands. I don’t want her to go. My night was spent watching out the window and thinking about joining Rachel in bed once again. I know better. She’d castrate me. But even now, as she tells me she is stopping by the grocery store and asks what I would like, it takes a great effort to push aside my one-sided sexual thoughts and concentrate on what she is saying.
“Anything is fine. I’m not a picky eater.” Veronica has never cooked me a single thing … not even heated up a TV dinner for me. If Rachel saw the inside of my car, she’d know I generally lunch fast food from my car … dinner and breakfast too. I probably need to clean it out. I seem to remember there being an extra burrito from a week ago. In this cold weather, I wonder if it is still edible. I contemplate it for a moment and decide it’s not worth the risk. I’ll throw it out … someday.
“Well, you have my number. If you think of anything particular, just call or text me and I’ll be glad to pick it up.”
“Will do,” I tell her. My eyes are locked on her beautiful wide-set blue ones. “I’ll miss you.” Holy shit. Why did I say that! I need to reel that shit right back in. “You know, I’ll miss you at lunch probably … if you’re going to be gone long. I was hoping for a roast beef sandwich together. I hate dining alone.”
“I might be back … if you’re going to take a long nap. Would you like for me to send you a text before I head this way?”
“Uh, yeah,” I mutter, hoping I have saved the slippage from my tongue. Jesus, what was I thinking?!
“Okay, well goodbye then.”
She gathers her folders and heads out the front door. I lock it behind her and then peer at her through the window as she backs out the driveway and gives me a little wave. I wave back and then she shifts into drive and she is gone. I do miss her … already. She must give this lonely house its pulse. I go to her bedroom and lie down under her covers. A wonderful fragrance from her strawberry shampoo is attached to her pillow. I pull it close to me and hold it tight against my chest, imaging myself cuddling her. It is like a comforting caress, and this is how I fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rachel
Stepping out my front door, I noticed the weather was at least ten degrees warmer than the last few days. While it was a slight improvement, it was still bitterly cold, causing me to hurry to my car. I gave a small wave to Jackson as he watched me from the small window in the front door.
My priority was to get Jackson a key to my house. The blame for last night’s delay in trailing David could only be pointed at me. Once I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot and went inside, it only took a few minutes for a guy to grind out a duplicate for Jackson. When this undercover operation was over, I’d simply change the locks. In the meantime, I could only hope he’d have another opportunity to solve the mystery behind the two deaths and whatever happened to Eugene Smith, because when I pictured a murderer getting away scot-free, due to the lack of a key, my stomach twisted into a painful knot. From this day forward, I intended to accommodate the undercover officer’s ability to adequately catch a killer and hopefully avoid such an injustice.
Fearing Jackson might need to leave, and not wanting the house left unlocked, in an abundance of caution, I returned home to deliver the key. Quietly I entered and tiptoed to the edge of my desk and made a note. Then I placed the note and key in Jackson’s chair, knowing he would find it there. From my bedroom, I could hear light snoring and knew Jackson was sawing logs. So, just as quietly, I tiptoed out and began delivering my tax returns.
One by one, I stopped at each client’s house. After returning their personal documents, I went over the returns with them and then had them sign the electronic form. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were my last stop.
“Thank you, Rachel,” Mr. Phillips said. “Not every CPA makes house calls. We really appreciate it.”
“At our age, we don’t get out much anymore,” Mrs. Phillips added, nodding at her husband and then turning her gaze to me.
“I don’t mind at all,” I assured them. “I want to run the business just like Dad did.”
“How are Clyde and Marie?” Mrs. Phillips inquired, adjusting her glasses as she peered at me through the thick lenses.
A smile turned up my lips. “They’re living the life of Riley. As soon as Dad hung up his hat, they bought a travel trailer. For the past week, they’ve been camping in Yellowstone. In a few days, they’ll be off to California.” I chuckled. “I can hardly keep up with them anymore.”
“Simply wonderful,” Mr. Phillips agreed. “Clara and I should’ve done something similar before our knees gave out.”
“I’m happy for them,” I said with an agreeable nod.
“Isn’t it a shame about Eugene Smith?” Mrs. Phillips asked, a deep frown spreading over her face. “Poor Lottie is beside herself.”
“Have they found out anything?” I asked.
“Nothing yet, but you know … it’s been three days now,” Mrs. Phillips whispered, unable to boldly face the likelihood of Mr. Smith being dead.
“And in this cold weather,” Mr. Phillips pointed out, “no one could’ve survived it.” He dropped his head and sighed.
My teeth began gnawing at the inside of my cheeks. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
Mr. Phillips shook his head. “I told him not to take out that life insurance policy. It’s like making out a Will. You might as well buy yourself a coffin.”
My mouth remained closed because a lot of people had insurance policies, Wills, and pre-need burial plans. It didn’t speed up your life-clock, like so many elderly
people feared. In fact, future planning was a smart approach to life’s unfortunate, but inevitable end, even at my age.
Mrs. Phillips nodded at her husband in agreement. “We told that snake oil salesman we weren’t buying what he was selling when he knocked on our door.”
“Jarrod Dawson?” I asked, assuming they meant the insurance salesman who had moved in across the street from me.
“Yeah, him,” Mr. Phillips grouched. “Can you believe his gall, going door-to-door and pressuring people to buy insurance?”
“Was he forceful?” I asked, suddenly concerned about Jarrod Dawson preying upon the elderly, who, in their last years might feel they needed extra coverages to prevent becoming a burden to family members.
“No, I guess he wasn’t,” Mr. Phillips admitted. “I just don’t like anyone knocking on my door and trying to sell me anything. I told him I wasn’t buying whatever he was selling.”
“He’s putting it nicely,” Mrs. Phillips commented with a snicker. “Leroy told him to get the hell off our property and to never come back.”
I laughed. “Good job, Mr. Phillips. I almost told him the same thing.”
“You did?” he inquired with a raised brow.
“He lives across the street from me.” I shared my story with them about him yelling at the two movers. “It was awful. I just took my pie back inside and decided introductions weren’t necessary.”
Mr. Phillips chuckled, causing his potbelly to jiggle. “His loss, because I’ll bet you make a mean pie … just like your mother.”
“Well, it was store-bought. I ended up splitting it with Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Tuttle, and then eating the rest.”
Mrs. Phillips made a clucking sound. “It serves him right.”
The House Across The Street Page 11