Scott Nicholson Library Vol 1

by Scott Nicholson

  She drew a deep lungful of the Blue Ridge air that was moist and tangy with pine. She fumbled in her purse for the key, silently cursing herself for not leaving on the porch light. Her fingers brushed across the wooden box in her purse. She had carried a piece of the past here, a piece of Memphis. Maybe that had been a mistake. But she could worry about that tomorrow.

  One day at a time . . .

  As she searched for the key, out of habit she tried the knob.

  It turned easily in her hand.

  The latch clicked back like the hammer of a gun, like the final beat of a heart.

  Had she forgotten to lock the door, even after that first scare with Walter?

  Impossible.

  One thing Julia Stone never failed to do was to lock the door. That was Rule Number One for keeping Creeps out of the house. Unless, of course, they snuck in behind you, as Mitchell had.

  Or were already inside.

  Julia stood, frozen with her hand on the doorknob.

  She replayed the scene in her mind of leaving for the trip. Suitcase at your feet, slam door, insert key, turn, click. Check to make sure.

  Yes, she had locked it.

  Walter could be inside, doing some kind of repair.

  Or it could be The Creep. The one who may have left a row of wooden blocks across the coffee table a few days ago.

  Because you KNOW you didn’t put them there, don’t you?

  Don’t you?

  The autumn wind rattled the undergrowth. The branches that had been comforting moments before were now like the gnarled arms of wooden witches. Julia fumbled for the mace on her key ring, fingered the spray nozzle. If a rapist were waiting inside, she would give it to him full in the eyes, give him all the punishment she should have dished out to Mitchell. If it happened in the bedroom, she had the Louisville Slugger under the bed.

  Or . . .

  She glanced longingly at her car. She could get in, drive away, call the cops from the safety of a gas station.

  And maybe Lieutenant T.L. Snead would get the dispatcher’s call. The Snead of unsolved cases, the Snead of coincidence.

  No. She would not run this time. She would not let someone invade her house. Or mind.

  She pushed the door a few inches, and it creaked like the lid of a wooden coffin. Fine hairs twitched like electric wires on the back of her neck. She tried to inhale but couldn’t concentrate on a relaxing breath.

  Sweating in the chill night, Julia peered through the narrow crack.

  Nothing but dark inside. Deep and endless dark, the kind of dark that jumped out and sank its claws into you, sharp dark, the kind that—

  Stop it, Julia.

  Her hands trembled.

  A phone rang in one of the neighboring apartments. It purred faintly six times and stopped. Someone revved a car engine in the housing development that stood behind the wall of woods. A dog’s bark echoed across the black hills. The sounds of normal life.

  She gripped the mace and shoved the door open with her shoulder, half-expecting the flash of an arcing blade. With her left hand, she reached across her body and raked her fingers across the wall switch. The lights burst to life like exploding stars.

  The room was empty.

  Julia went around the hall, her purse against her side, one hand holding the spray can of mace, the other clenched into a fist. Nobody in the kitchen. She kicked open the bathroom door.

  Movement erupted along one wall. Julia’s forefinger tightened on the mace nozzle. A grunt died against her teeth before it became a scream.

  Just her reflection, in the mirror above the sink.

  Julia flipped on the light, eyed the shower curtain. No Creep would be that unimaginative, would he?

  She reached out, touched the plastic, yanked it across the rod, mace poised. Nothing but the fiberglass stall.

  Heart racing, Julia spun and returned to the hall. Only one room left to check.

  Of course. Her bedroom.

  The ultimate violation, that of the inner sanctum.

  The door opened with a whisper. A breeze blew across the room. The window was open.

  Go back now, girl. It’s okay. No one can blame you for being scared. This isn’t just your disorder speaking. It’s ME.

  Sure, she could flee. She could surrender.

  Just like always.

  She clenched her jaw and stepped inside. The first thing she saw was the clock, numerals blazing like the reddest of hellfire against the darkness.

  4:06.

  If she were holding a gun instead of a spray can of mace, she would have emptied the cartridge into that digital demon to exorcise the obscenity of its frozen time.

  She could no longer fool herself that no one had been here, that she’d only forgotten to lock the door and left the window open and, gee, what an absentminded little thing she was.

  No, some Creep had waltzed in, removed the clock from her trash, restored its strange programming, and left it as a message to Julia.

  A message that he could get in any time, no matter how many locks she held keys for.

  Why would a Creep advertise? If he wanted to jump her, he could wait in the dark wings for his moment and reach out like the long fingers of the past. Just as Mitchell had done.

  The memory of her fiancé’s attack flooded through her, made the room grow fuzzy, and she almost lost her balance. Then she shook her head clear. If the Creep were still here, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  Julia eased into the room, elbowing the switch up and blinking against the sudden light.

  Her room looked the same, except for the clock. The bed not quite neatly made, Mr. Ned and some CD’s on her shelf, the Jefferson Spence paperback parted open on the bedside table. The window screen was gone, and the lace curtains shifted in the breeze like uneasy ghosts.

  Julia crossed the room and closed the window, sliding the latch into place. Walter was right, the windows were of solid construction. She saw no scars in the frame that might indicate a forced entry. Either she’d overlooked a lock, or some Creep had access to a copy of her house key.

  Without looking at the clock, Julia grabbed it, yanked the plug free of the wall, and tucked it under her elbow. She wondered if, even powerless, the clock’s digits still blazed.

  4:06. Why 4:06?

  A thought fluttered at the edges of her memory, like a lost bat that disappeared back into its cave. She had so deliberately kept herself from remembering that the past had become a place that she visited with effort, a place that required a travel agent. She would only go when Dr. Forrest told her so.

  She went back through the house, locked the front door, and then checked all the other windows. She would unpack under the morning sun. For now, she was safe enough. As safe as she could ever be inside her own head.

  Unless someone had a key to her head as well as her house.

  Julia took a plastic shopping bag from the great mound of them under the sink. She slid the errant clock into the bag and tied it tightly closed. She wrapped a second bag around it for good measure and then tucked it under some coffee grounds and an ice cream box in the kitchen garbage. Maybe tomorrow she would find a big rock and smash the clock to bits.

  Killing time. The image was almost funny, but the persistent buzz of adrenaline still tickled the surface of her skin. She felt as if she were being watched.

  Was someone still in the house?

  No, she had checked all the rooms. The attic access was in the bathroom. She’d covered a case in Memphis where a Creep had crawled through the maintenance access of his apartment, climbed over the rafters to the next unit, and drilled small peepholes in the bedroom ceiling. The woman had come home one day to find Sheetrock dust on her bedspread, saw the holes, and called the police.

  The Creep was caught, but the woman never knew how many times he had watched her through his little series of spy holes. A hundred hot showers couldn’t wash that kind of violation from your skin. Could the victim ever again undress without a tiny pa
ranoid shiver? How much therapy had the woman needed before she’d quit scanning the ceiling of every room she entered?

  Paranoia was partly a survival instinct. But at some point you had to let it go.

  Julia thought of calling Dr. Forrest. Her wristwatch said eight o’clock, plenty early enough. But she suspected Dr. Forrest had a lover, the man Julia had overheard in the background of several phone conversations. Julia hated to be so needy, so dependent, so demanding of the therapist’s time and attention. Most of all, she didn’t want Dr. Forrest to tire of her.

  If she could survive the night, she would be okay. If she could survive her life, she would be okay.

  Julia went back through the house to her bedroom. She stopped herself from double-checking the window. An odd buzz sounded in her ears, the near-silent alarm of something amiss. The shelf where the engagement ring was hidden appeared undisturbed, Mr. Ned giving his friendly terrapin grin and books in an alphabetized row. But the top drawer of her dresser was slightly ajar.

  She wasn’t a neat freak by any stretch, but she did have a compulsion to close things. Doors. Windows. Lids. Cabinets.

  She pulled open the drawer. Underwear and bras lay in ruffled tangles, a few of them black and red, most boring old beige or white. She dug into the pile, turned it over. The teddy was missing.

  Mitchell had bought it for her in hopes that she would model it. And she would have, if Mitchell hadn’t turned savage. How she had longed for the right moment, a moonlit holiday, maybe, or a romantic anniversary of their first time. But Mitchell never mentioned it again, and Julia could never be sure how he’d react to a seductive surprise. Turned out he was the one full of surprises.

  She was glad to be rid of that reminder of their flawed relationship, but there was the immediate problem of the teddy’s disappearance. Did a Creep sneak into her house for the sole purpose of digging through her naughties? Was he, at this very moment, parading around in the negligee, shivering and swelling with a secret thrill?

  Julia sensed the eyes on her again. Paranoia, she knew. And yet—

  She turned to the window.

  Two bright glints, reflecting the light of her room. Staring between the lace of the curtains.

  The eyes faded back into darkness as Julia’s breath caught. Then she heard a shout, the breaking of tree limbs, and a grunt of pain as bodies slammed against the siding and fell to the ground.

  “Quit it, or I’ll break your arm,” someone shouted.

  Julia stood undecided for a moment. Then she reached under the bed, got her Louisville Slugger, and ran to the window. In the rectangle of light cast into the back yard, she saw two men struggling on the ground. She gave the Louisville Slugger a little test swing. It was easier to handle than a wooden lamp.

  God, I’m getting better with all this batting practice.

  Julia hurried through the house, stopped in the living room to grab a flashlight and stuff the mace in her pocket. Feeling a little braver gripping the baseball bat, she went out the kitchen door to the side of the house. She edged around the corner into the back yard, shining the flashlight ahead of her.

  “Get off me,” one of the struggling figures yelled.

  The two had rolled to the trees that grew near the house. Julia pointed the light at them, but her hand was trembling so much that she couldn’t see their faces. “Who’s there?” she said, but her voice was lost amid the sound of scattered leaves and grunts.

  She raised the bat, hoping to be menacing, and tried again. “Who the hell is it?”

  “Julia!” gasped the man who was currently on top.

  “Walter?”

  She held the light more steadily and saw that the man on bottom was pinned, belly down, his arm behind his back. Still his legs flailed, and he twisted like an eel on a spear. His face mashed against the dirt, bits of leaves stuck to his hair. Walter straddled his back, a bronco rider whose steed had collapsed.

  Walter grimaced with effort as he tugged the man’s wrist up to the shoulder blade. The man groaned sharply.

  “I’ll snap it,” Walter told him. “I’ve wrestled a steer or two in my day, and if I can handle them, I can surely handle the likes of you.”

  Walter gave an extra push to emphasize his point. The man lay still, breathing heavily.

  Julia approached slowly, stopping a few feet away. “What’s going on?” she asked, not sure which of the two she should be prepared to slug with the bat.

  “Call the police,” Walter said, blinking into the flashlight’s beam.

  “You didn’t answer me,” she said, fingers clenched around the bat handle.

  “He—” Walter panted. His face was strained, and she wondered if he really could keep the other man pinned. The man on bottom seemed younger and just as strong as Walter.

  “I saw him climb out your window,” Walter said. “Right, scumbag?” he said to the man beneath him.

  The man turned his face toward the forest, away from the light.

  Julia backed up slowly and ducked inside, still holding the bat. She dialed 9-1-1 from the living room, carrying the phone so she could watch through the window. Walter was still on top.

  “Communications,” came the clipped male voice.

  “Yes, sir, I’d like to report a—”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  What? A Creep? She thought of all the false reports she’d filed in Memphis, how the Metro cop had ridiculed her. She tried out the copspeak she’d learned as a crime reporter. “There’s an altercation in progress.”

  “Altercation. You mean a fight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any weapons involved?”

  “Not that I can see. But you better hurry.”

  “Could you confirm that address, ma’am?”

  “102 Buckeye Creek Road, in Elkwood.”

  The man on the ground flopped like a beached fish, but Walter held on.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the communications officer. “I’ll send a patrol car right away. Say, you live near Mabel Covington, don’t you?”

  Julia sighed into the phone. What was next, a recipe swap? “You may want to dispatch an ambulance, too.”

  “Why? Is somebody hurt?”

  “Not yet, but may be.” Especially if you don’t hang up and get on the damned radio.

  “You where you’re safe?”

  “Excuse me, but I’d better go help.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that—”

  Julia hung up before the dispatcher could finish his “ma’am.”

  Julia ran outside, her hand cramped from gripping the bat. Even Mark McGwire had to rest the lumber on his shoulder once in a while, steroid-stoked or not. But Julia couldn’t rest yet. She wasn’t going to let the bat go until the police arrived. And maybe not even then, because Snead might be on duty.

  “You doing okay?” Julia asked Walt.

  He shook his head “no,” but said, “I’ve been whooping punks like this since I was six.”

  Then he jerked his head, urging her to help. His brown hair was damp with sweat and a nasty bruise welled up under one red and watery eye.

  “If he moves again, brain him with the bat,” Walter said.

  “Bat?” the man grunted against the ground. “You’re crazy.”

  “Hey, I ain’t the one that was sniffing a woman’s underwear,” Walter said.

  The teddy. This was the Creep. The one who had left the footprint, who had sneaked into her house, who had reprogrammed her clock. She fought a brief urge to tap his skull with the Louisville Slugger.

  A siren wailed in the distance, coming up the valley and echoing off the slopes. The Creep gave another half-hearted struggle upon hearing the sound. Then he lay quietly again, his arm forced at a painful angle.

  “Thank you,” Julia said to Walter. “No telling what he would have done . . . “

  “The thing that burns me the most is that people like this got no respect,” he answered, giving another upward yank to the young man’s arm.

  �
�I was–owww–just here for the ring.” The flashlight showed the reddened face of a college-aged man, and Julia recognized him from the apartment building down the road.

  The guy’s face clenched in pain, and Walter eased off the pressure a little. “What ring?”

  “Some dude hired me to get it,” he answered. “Called me out of the blue a couple of weeks ago, mailed me a money order.”

  Julia raised the bat. “And the underwear?”

  “Christ, lady, it was a gag,” he said. “The dude said to screw with her head.”

  Walter was ratcheting up the pressure again when the guy moaned and said, “No more till I get a lawyer.”

  Blue lights flashed across the trees as the patrol car roared up in front of the house. Julia ran to them, waving the flashlight, letting the bat drag on the ground. Two policemen bounced out of the car, one drawing his sidearm.

  “Don’t shoot,” Julia said. “They’re around back.”

  “Drop the weapon and step away,” ordered the cop with the gun.

  “It’s only a souvenir bat,” Julia said. “It’s got an Ozzie Smith replica signature on it.”

  “Drop it.”

  She complied. Satisfied, the cop with the gun went past her while the other crept to the corner of the house. Julia didn’t know what she was supposed to do. The cop hadn’t ordered her to freeze or anything. She stood for a moment, watching the bar lights bounce off the nearby apartment building. Some of the college students had come out and were standing on the porch, talking and drinking beer.

  Julia followed the policemen around back. The cop with the gun now had it pointed at Walter. The other cop knelt by the man on the ground, fumbling with a pair of handcuffs and shining a large-beamed flashlight.

  “This guy was breaking into her house,” Walter said. “I saw him peeping at her through the window.”

  “Get off him and slowly back away, sir,” ordered the cop. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Walter’s eyes narrowed in anger, but he obeyed.

  The second cop helped the other man to his feet. The man rubbed his elbow, glowering at Walter with a “You just wait” look.

  “What’s your side of it?” the cop asked the injured man.