When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  My cell phone rang loudly, echoing around the tile in the small room.

  I clutched my bag to my stomach, muffling the sound while I groped for the phone to silence it. I found the right button and brought the phone out of the bag to check the caller ID. It was my father.

  The perfect ending to a perfect day.

  I ignored the call and waited another few minutes before poking my head out the bathroom door. The hallway was still empty. I slipped out of the bathroom and hurried to the elevator at the end of the hall. The twenty yards or so between me and the elevator seemed like a mile. As I covered the distance, I saw the lighted numbers above the brass doors begin to descend from the second floor. In a few seconds, the elevator doors would open and someone would step into my path. My day’s luck would ensure it was Sam Molina.

  I ducked behind a silk ficus plant as the bell dinged and the doors whispered open. Two black-outfitted hotel employees stepped off and walked past without noticing me. I waited till they were several feet down the hall, then slipped into the elevator just as the doors were about to close and pushed the button for the lobby.

  As the doors opened on the first level, I found myself at the south end of the lobby. The concierge desk buzzed with activity as hotel guests made their evening plans. The bar had filled up as well, with businessmen occupying most of the wingbacks.

  I shouldered my bag and kept my eyes focused on the revolving door, the brass gateway to my escape. As I passed the bar, I brushed past a waitress, barely sparing her tray of martinis. A quick glance around the lobby revealed a couple of security men engaged in an animated conversation with a suited man, the three of them laughing. Talking about football perhaps. That sort of conversation. Neither of the uniformed men glanced my direction.

  I breathed a prayer as I covered the last few feet, then turned to survey the room before I crossed the threshold to the street.

  The only face I recognized belonged to Earl, the porter I’d met yesterday. He stood erect behind a wingback, watching me.

  Our eyes met. He shook his head slowly, no.

  I stopped, my head cocked in silent curiosity.

  He shook his head again.

  I looked through the glass just as Joseph Zocci ducked into the backseat of a black Mercedes, the driver shutting the door behind him, closing him in behind a dark curtain of glass. The car pulled out quickly. I watched it exit the circular drive and slide into the traffic on the street.

  After I’d lost view of the taillights, I turned to meet Earl’s eyes again. He was gone, folded back into the late afternoon swirl of activity in the lobby.

  Clearly the staff, or parts of it at least, had been briefed. I slipped out the door quickly. Why Earl had helped me, I had no idea.

  My car was several blocks away, and I walked the distance uneasily, once again troubled by the feeling I was being watched. Paranoia in this situation was starting to make sense, though, so I tried not to make too much of it. Someone, I suspected Sam Molina, had ratted me out. And I’d come face to face with the enemy.

  Though the possibility of being followed on the crowded streets of Chicago seemed absurd, I whipped around a few times just to make sure, making a thorough fool of myself and annoying the pedestrians marching along at my heels. But I saw nothing suspicious. Certainly no glance of Molina or Zocci. Or Peter Terry, for that matter.

  My purple Neon looked downright gorgeous to me, I was so happy to see it. I slipped into the driver’s seat, locked the door, and then sat there for a good five minutes and cried, allowing myself a brief meltdown after a stressful afternoon. Then I blew my nose, wiped my tears, and picked up my cell phone.

  Back in the saddle.

  My first call was to Helene. She answered this time, and I explained as briefly and clearly as I could the situation with Gavin. She held her tongue, though I’m certain she was as appalled as I was about this recent development. Appalled on Gavin’s behalf, of course. But probably more so on mine. My mentor was being forced into a front row seat to view the demise of my career. Her anger and pain were palpable to me.

  Our conversation was quick and to the point. She asked me how things were going in Chicago. I told her fine, but left out the details. Somehow we shared a tacit understanding that there were things better left unsaid for now. Hopefully, I could get to the bottom of all this and clear my name. And our mutual nightmare would be over.

  I called my father next. Some sort of masochistic impulse on my part, I guess. And since he’d tracked down my cell phone number, he’d be calling me a dozen times a day until he got what he wanted anyway, so I might as well take the bullet now.

  He picked up on the first ring, cuss words flying out of his mouth.

  I started listening when he finally got to my name.

  “… Dylan. I just cannot believe you. Just the height of irresponsibility.”

  “You want to calm down? I’m thirty-three years old, Dad. I don’t need to check in from the movies anymore, okay?”

  He let a few more fly, but his anger eventually ran out of steam. “So you’re okay, then.”

  “Of course I’m okay.”

  “Good. You worry me, Dylan.”

  “You worry me, Dad. What do you need?”

  “I had to call your brother to get your number.”

  “Guthrie had my number?”

  “Cleo did. Your sister-in-law knows how to get in touch with you. Your own dad has to call—”

  “Dad, can we move on? What do you need?”

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “I don’t think I can do it, Dad.”

  “I haven’t even asked you yet.”

  “I do not want to be a bridesmaid.”

  “Are you insane? I can’t have you in the wedding, Dylan. Kellee specified no family. No family at all. I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

  “Oh.”

  Why was I hurt? I had spent days avoiding the man so he and his bubble-head fiancée wouldn’t ask me to be in their tacky, expensive, over-the-top wedding. And he’d just kicked me off the roster and now. I was hurt.

  I needed therapy. Badly.

  “Your mother needs a trustee,” he was saying.

  “What?” Nonsense. The man was speaking complete nonsense.

  “A trustee. Your mother’s estate. A trustee.”

  “Dad, I don’t understand what you’re asking me. Use verbs.”

  “The trustee,” he recited, “makes fiduciary decisions and handles all administrative responsibilities for the various entities of the estate.”

  “You want me to manage Mom’s estate?”

  “She needs a trustee. Someone to manage her estate. Yes. That’s it. That’s the favor.”

  “Who’s doing it now?”

  “I am.”

  “So what’s wrong with you? Why can’t you do it anymore?” I knew what the answer would be.

  “I think it would be better for Kellee if you did it.”

  “Better for Kellee. You want me to do it because it would be better for Kellee.”

  “Better for me, Dylan. It would be better for me.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time my father had asked me to do anything for him. “Why me? Why not Guthrie?”

  “He’s moving, his life’s up in the air. He and Cleo—those two could split up any minute. I just think … you’re the stable one.”

  Except for the part about the pending malpractice charges, the lawsuit, and the looming unemployment. None of which he knew about, of course.

  “Your mom would—”

  “I’ll do it, Dad. I’d be happy to. No problem.”

  “I’ll have Janet box up the files and ship them to you.”

  “Ship them? How many are there?”

  “Your mother left a sizable estate, Dylan.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Maybe four, five boxes.”

  “What am I getting myself into?”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

>   We agreed to speak when I returned so he could go over it all with me. I hung up with the distinct feeling that I’d just stepped into a quagmire of paperwork and responsibility.

  The meter had run out on my parking place. I sat there for a minute, trying to decide what to do next. I finally decided I was on a roll. Why not slay one more dragon before day’s end?

  I started the car, shoved it into gear, and reached for my map. I’d overheard Joseph Zocci say he was flying to New York tonight. If the traffic was good, I could make it to Lake County before dark.

  22

  ONCE AGAIN, I HAD NO PLAN. As I barreled north, breaking multiple laws of the state of Illinois—speeding, rolling through stop signs, talking on my cell phone while driving—I became fully aware that once again, I was acting on instinct. Impulsively throwing myself into a situation I was completely unprepared for.

  I went anyway, fighting the urge to turn tail and run back to my crummy, haunted hotel room, pack my stuff, and haul my unemployed self to Mexico to start an outlaw life.

  I busied myself in the car by checking my messages and returning phone calls. The Ice Queen had called me, insisting in her cold, shaming voice that I call her immediately, and did I fully understand the gravity of my situation? I left her a message, feigning contrition and explaining that I’d had to make an emergency trip out of town. I suggested a Monday morning meeting.

  Several of my students had called as well, wanting to know when I would be back in the classroom. Apparently, Helene’s dictatorial teaching style wasn’t engaging them in the manner they’d hoped to become accustomed to. I didn’t call them back. They were in college. Let them take responsibility for their own learning, whether they were entertained or not. Welcome to grown-up life.

  My final message was from Gavin. He’d called from the acute care unit at Green Oaks. He sounded terrible. He was on suicide watch, he said, which I knew from my experience working on locked units meant he was under close surveillance, denied even the simple dignity of shoelaces or pencils. He’d left my name on his call list, though, meaning that if I called the unit, they would put me through to him.

  The Green Oaks number was still in my phone, so I called him back immediately, hoping I’d catch him between supper and the evening process group. It took me a while to get through the maze of security checks, an annoying gateway of fairly hostile, suspicious questions that, though off-putting, are necessary to protect patient confidentiality.

  I finally made it to the unit, where the psych tech took my name, checked Gavin’s list, and agreed, after some cajoling, to pull him out of group so I could talk to him.

  “Hlo?”

  “Gavin, is that you? It’s me. Dylan Foster.”

  “Hlo.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Is that yes? Or no? How are you, Gavin?”

  “Mmm. Did he find you?” he asked.

  “Who? Did who find me?”

  “Peter Terry.”

  I had never uttered the name Peter Terry in Gavin’s presence, had never told him about my encounter at Barton Springs.

  “Is this the same man that’s been in your dreams, Gavin?”

  “You know him. The white guy. He’s looking for you.”

  “He’s visiting your dreams again, Gavin?”

  His speech was slow, slurry “No, no. No. Not in my dreams. He’s here.”

  “He’s where?”

  “My roommate.”

  “Peter Terry is your roommate in the hospital?”

  “Peter. Yeah. He’s looking for you.”

  “Does he know me?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did he say, Gavin?”

  “He thinks you’re pretty”

  Strangely flattering.

  “He’s worried,” he was saying.

  “About what?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  I heard him put the phone down.

  “Gavin? Gavin?” He must have walked away from the telephone. I was talking to dead air.

  “May I help you?”

  It was Diane, the charge nurse. She and I had crossed paths before and knew each other professionally.

  “Hi, Diane. It’s Dylan Foster. I was just talking to Gavin.”

  “He’s very agitated. I don’t think this is a good time,” she scolded.

  “I understand. Could you just tell me—”

  “I really can’t answer your questions, Dr. Foster. You must know that.”

  “Sure, sure. I know. I was just wondering, could you tell me if Gavin has a roommate?”

  “No. Of course not. He’s on suicide watch.”

  “Is he stable? Does he exhibit any psychotic symptoms?”

  She paused. She really was not supposed to talk to me at all.

  “I do believe he is, yes,” she said.

  “Is what? Stable or exhibiting psychotic symptoms?”

  “The second one.”

  “Listen Diane, could you call me if he worsens? I’m really his only local contact.”

  “He’ll have to sign a release for that.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind asking him, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll check, Dr. Foster.”

  I thanked her and hung up.

  The drive was congested but beautiful, the sun setting to my left and Lake Michigan calming itself for the evening on my right. My nerves were beginning to fray, the once heroic-sounding idea of hunting down Mariana Zocci now sounding foolish and dangerous. My Neon was buzzing along 1-94, cutting in and out of traffic. I calmed myself listening to the tinny buzz of the car engine and the crackly A.M. radio. I made the exit onto U.S. 41 and headed toward the little city of Highland Park, Illinois, population 31,365.

  I had an address but no map. The Zocci estate was on Lakeside Drive, the geography of which seemed fairly obvious to me. I headed east toward the lake, found Lakeside, which indeed ran along the lake shore, and made a left, heading north, craning my neck for address numbers.

  The houses were mostly large, stately colonials. One well-behaved Republican house after another. Golf-green lawns. Clipped bushes. Orderly trees. Color-coordinated flower beds. American flags posted by doorways. I felt like I was on a movie set. I half expected little herds of paper-doll children to spill onto lawns and play touch football with their golden retrievers.

  The street addresses told me I was about ten blocks off. As I went north, the traffic disappeared completely The lawns became larger, the houses set further back, until at last, a few blocks before the Zocci address, the houses on the Lake Michigan side were not visible at all from the road. I found myself slowing almost to a crawl, peering through hedges designed to keep people like me from peering through them.

  From the road, I could see no posted address for the home I suspected was the Zoccis’. I drove the surrounding blocks again, just to make sure I had homed in on the right house, then parked my car down the road, locked it up, and walked along the hedge-covered wrought iron fence toward the gate.

  I was alone on the road. I suspected the neighborhood employed private security services, which would no doubt spot my Ugly But It Runs smiley-face flag in no time. I’d be outed as an imposter and promptly sent packing. That is if Joseph Zocci had not briefed his local security about me. If he had, I was liable to get myself arrested.

  A brisk walk from the car took me to the black metal gate in the hedge. It was wide enough for only one car, meant to go unnoticed, I think. Maybe it was a back entrance or something. From the gate, I could see a long curved drive lined with trees, and could catch only a glimpse of the house, which was set a few hundred yards back from the road and obscured by foliage. There was no indication as to who lived in the house, but the numbers on the mailbox matched the ones on my list. I crumpled the paper and stuffed it in my pocket, trying to figure out what to do next.

  I could probably climb the fence, but doing so would give anybody that caught me a legitimate reason to arrest me for
trespassing. I didn’t want to take the chance. Finally, for lack of a better idea, I pressed the intercom button on the keypad by the mailbox and waited for an answer.

  A female voice answered. “Yes?”

  What had I intended to say? I couldn’t think of anything. Naturally, I panicked.

  “UPS.”

  “Pardon?”

  “UPS. Delivery.”

  I looked around nonchalantly, wondering for the first time if security cameras were installed around the gate. I couldn’t see any.

  “What is the name on the package, please?” the voice said.

  “Mariann Zocci,” I said.

  “Return address?”

  I recited the address of the SMU campus.

  “One moment, please.”

  I waited in silence, fighting the urge to run. What was I doing? Faking a delivery from Mariann Zocci’s dead son. Claiming to be a UPS delivery person when I was driving a purple Neon and wearing a black dress and sandals. What was I going to do if they let me in? Claim someone had heisted my truck and uniform?

  The voice was back. “Please proceed to the delivery entrance.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m new. I don’t know where that is.”

  “To the north of the gate. You’ll see it on your right.”

  There were no sidewalks on this end of Lakeside, only a strip of lush green grass running between the hedge and the asphalt. I walked the yardage quickly, the heels of my shoes sinking into the damp sod. As I neared the gate, I slowed and folded myself into the shadow of the hedge.

  I peeked around. There was a guardhouse at the gate. With a real live guard in it. And security cameras.

  I chickened out.

  I walked back to my little purple car, started it up, and drove off, circling back the way I’d come to avoid passing the guardhouse. Scolding myself mercilessly.

  A few miles down the road, I turned off Lakeside into a little shopping center and found myself a Starbucks. I needed a cup of tea.

  Times like this made me wish I smoked. It just looked so calming, sitting at a little round table, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. I ordered a piece of carrot cake instead, creamed and sugared my tea, and seated myself at a table outside.