“I can’t tell you what to do,” Wylie had said that afternoon in his office. “But I think telling Renee’d be a bad idea. I’m not telling Deeny. Not till we’re done. Then I’ll tell her and we’ll deal with Cherine. I wouldn’t tell Melinda, either, I was you. Keep her the hell away from Teklenburg, but wait till we’re done with him before you sit her down. Like I said, it’s up to you. But I wouldn’t. Women just can’t keep their damned mouths shut.”
I know Wylie is right—about keeping it to myself, anyway—but I don’t know how I can keep it from Renee. And how can I not confront Melinda? I want to shout at her and vent my rage, my confusion. I want to hold her tight in my arms and never let her out of the house again.
Doesn’t she feel any kind of repulsion at the idea of having sex on the internet with a man almost three times her age? In front of the whole world? That’s not the girl we raised.
I punch my pillows a little too hard as I try to get comfortable in bed.
Could Melinda be taking drugs? That would help explain it. But how could I miss that? How could Renee and I not notice something like that? We know what the warning signs are, but we have not seen any of them.
Fortunately, Melinda ate dinner in her bedroom, where she spent the entire evening. Summer vacation ends in a few weeks. She will go back to school, and I will go back to work teaching English at Shasta College. But those weeks will be an eternity if I do not deal with her soon. First, I have to tell Renee.
People usually laugh when I say I tell my wife everything, but it’s true. Renee does the same with me. Not as a duty, but because we want to. We married a few years out of college, each with two lovers under our belts, and have been faithful to our vows for almost twenty years (almost twenty-three if you count the years we lived together before marrying). Adulterous opportunities have arisen for both of us, and we have turned them down. Not as a duty, but because we wanted to. We always tell each other about them later and laugh together. I was taking my problems to her even before we started dating. Renee is smart—a lot smarter than I—and level-headed. She approaches problems with confidence, fully intending to best them. And she always does.
But I’m not sure how she will approach this problem. We already lost one child—our first, at the age of four, before Melinda was born—and I know if she sees the video I watched at Wylie’s, she will fall apart as completely as if she’s lost another. That cannot happen. I have to tell her, and now. It seems I’ve had this bottled up inside me for weeks, months, not just a matter of hours.
Renee comes to her side of the bed and stands there in her lavender robe, arms interlocked over her breasts. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
I smile, pat her side of the bed. “Yes, I promise. Come to bed.” My lips won’t stop trembling as I smile, so I stop, bite my lower lip.
Renee does not fall apart at the news as I expected. I thought there would be tears, sobbing. Instead, her response is one of ferocious anger. I have never seen her so enraged. Her eyes become dark and her chin juts, lower teeth visible between her lips. Rigid cords of muscle stand out in her neck and her voice becomes a low growl.
“How long have you known about this?” she asks. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I told you, I just found out this afternoon, and I—”
“And you’re telling me now?”
This is going to be more difficult than I anticipated.
When she was a little girl, Renee was sexually molested by her father. She sometimes jokes about wanting to kill him, and sometimes I wonder how serious she might be. I did not consider this before telling her about Melinda and Teklenburg. I should have. She is seeing this not only from the viewpoint of a mother, but from that of a cruelly abused child. I wonder if now, along with her father, she wants to kill Chick Teklenburg, too.
I hold her close and she shivers in my arms as I tell her the rest. About Cherine, and that other young girls in the neighborhood are on Teklenburg’s website. Other daughters.
Renee bounds from the bed and paces the floor, fists clenched at her sides. “I want to kill him,” she says, voice law but trembling. She stops pacing at the foot of the bed and faces me. “Give me your gun. I want to kill him now. Right now, tonight.”
I get out of bed and go to her. “Wylie feels the same way. And he wants me to help.”
“He’s a cop. Why does he need your help? He should take care of this himself, right away, goddammit, why hasn’t he already, why hasn’t—”
“He wants us to kill this guy, Renee.”
She looks at me for several seconds, teeth clenched and eyes wide. “Then do it. No jury in the world would convict you.” She is very serious.
I shake my head. “Honey, that’s premeditated murder. The reason behind it won’t make much difference, if any at all.”
“He’s a cop,” she says again. “Do you think he’s going to let you two get caught? Don’t you think he knows what he’s doing?”
Yes, I do think he knows what he’s doing. That makes it all the more appealing. I want to kill Chick Teklenburg. With my bare hands. But it would mean life in prison, maybe the death penalty. Who better to keep that from happening than a friendly, like-minded cop?
I stroke Renee’s hair as I hold her. “We can’t say anything about this to Mel yet.”
“Are you out of your mind? I’d like to go to her room right now and—”
“She might warn Captain Video that we know what he’s up to,” I whisper.
She pulls away and frowns at me. “Do you really think she’d do that?”
“Did you think she’d do this?”
I pull Renee close again. She trembles rigidly in my arms, as if feverish. Her tears fall on my neck, but she is not really crying, not screwing up her face and sobbing. She’s too angry for that. I can hear her anger boiling just beneath the smooth surface of her low, level voice.
“I want to help you,” she says against my shoulder.
“What? Help me—”
“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll cut him up into tiny pieces for you. I’ll even kill him, if you want. I think it should be something slow. And painful.”
The even, serious tone of her voice chills my blood. I tell myself she’s just not taking this well, that’s all, she’ll feel differently once it sinks in. But I’m not so sure. Without comment, I lead her slowly back to the bed. I am exhausted and want to sleep, but I know I won’t until Renee calms down.
She takes a Xanax and we go back to bed. Renee talks in whispers, partly to me, but mostly to herself, I think. About torturing Teklenburg, killing him. I stroke her neck and make small sounds of acknowledgment in my throat as she talks, and try not to visualize the things she is saying. Her whispers fade, words become garbled and farther apart. I am relieved to hear her quiet, purring snore. But sleep does not come as easily for me, and I spend most of the night staring into the bedroom’s darkness. Watching that stringy old hippy fuck my daughter.
3.
Chick Teklenburg moved into the house at the end of Gyldcrest just short of a year ago. Like the family of strict Jehovah’s Witnesses who lived there before him, he keeps to himself. He’s friendly enough if you meet him on the sidewalk, even calls hello from across the street. But he makes no effort to get to know anyone in the neighborhood. He put up no decorations last Christmas, which pissed off a lot of people because it probably cost Gyldcrest a special color photo spread in the Christmas Day edition of the Redding Record Searchlight. Gyldcrest won that honor four Christmases in a row—but then the Jehovah’s Witnesses moved in. Chick was the only one on the street who did not participate in this year’s Gyldcrest Spring Yard Sale, an event that grew bigger and drew more attention from around the state each year. Those who gave him a pass at Christmas were not so charitable about the big yard sale weekend.
If everyone on the street were to find out about this…I’m not sure what they would do. But it would not be good for Chick Teklenburg.
Minu
tes after Renee leaves for work this morning, Wylie calls. Says he wants me to meet a friend of his. Deeny and the girls went shopping, so I should just let myself in the front door. So I do.
His friend is a nervous little guy he introduces only as Ricky. A colleague, he says. He looks more like one of those guys in the city who washes your windshield without asking at a red light and then expects a tip for it. He wears a dirty white T-shirt beneath an open blue chambray, torn jeans, dilapidated sneakers. He looks in his mid-thirties, but that stubble on his face might add a few years.
“Nice to meet you,” I say as I sit on the sofa.
Ricky sits hunched forward on an ottoman and Wylie wanders around the living room with a tall glass of orange juice.
“See, I own Ricky,” Wylie says, then laughs. “I’ve owned Ricky since 1993. Ain’t that right, Ricky?”
Ricky shrugs a shoulder and smirks, but it is not a pleasant smirk.
“Ricky’s my snitch. When he’s not in jail, of course. He’s a pyro. A firebug. I got a couple things on Ricky, here, could send him away for a long time. But I look the other way as long as he keeps his eyes and ears open for me. And helps me out if I happen to need it every once in a while. Like today. He’s gonna help us out.”
A few of my internal alarms go off, and with a jerk of my head, I silently ask Wylie to accompany me to the kitchen.
“Something wrong?” he asks. He gulps the rest of his orange juice, puts the glass on the counter. I can smell no alcohol on him, so I guess the juice was nothing more than juice. I hope.
“Look, Wylie, I haven’t exactly said I’m going to do this.”
He grins. “Well, y’gotta do it now, Clark.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you know I’m doin’ it. If you don’t do it, then I gotta kill you.”
Before I can stir up enough saliva in my suddenly dry mouth to respond, Wylie slaps me on the back and roars with laughter.
“You got any plans for dinner this evening?” he asks, still chuckling.
“Just the usual. Eating.”
“Don’t make any. I’m throwing a little barbecue for our flower child down the street. Think Renee would mind making her potato salad? She makes the best damned potato salad.”
“She’s working today, I doubt she’ll have time.”
“Too bad. Which do you like better, chicken, or burgers and dogs?”
“I always prefer burgers and dogs,” I say, patting my softening belly.
“Burgers and dogs it is. Let’s go.” He puts his arm around me and leads me back into the living room. Says to Ricky, “You ready?”
Ricky stands, nods.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“We’re gonna walk down to Teklenburg’s house,” Wylie says.
“To invite him to the barbecue?”
“Yeah. Just making a friendly visit. Give Ricky a chance to look the place over, see what he’s working with. Just go along with whatever I say, Clark.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know.”
Dread constricts my throat. “Look, Wylie, I’m no good at this kind of thing, okay? I’m a lousy liar, I can’t—”
“What’s to be good at? Just smile and be friendly, Clark, that’s all. You can do that—I’ve seen you!” More laughter.
An unfamiliar Volkswagen Jetta is parked at the curb in front of Chick Teklenburg’s house. His old van is in front of the closed garage. Loud music plays inside.
On the front porch, Wylie knocks hard on the door. Several seconds pass before he pounds harder, longer, then says, “He can’t hear us. Let’s stroll around to the back yard.”
I quickly say, “Wait, do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Sure, we’re neighbors, aren’t we? Why?” Wylie lowers his voice. “You don’t think good ol’ Chick’s doing somethin’ back there he’d be ashamed of, do you?” He laughs as he goes back down the steps and crosses the lawn.
I start to follow, but look back when Ricky doesn’t move. Just stands on the porch looking the front of the house over carefully.
“You guys coming?” Wylie calls, and we jog across the lawn to catch up with him.
“He’s got a couple of big Chows, remember,” I say as Wylie opens the gate in the tall, weathered wooden fence that surrounds the back yard.
“Chick!” Wylie calls as we walk along the side of the house. “Hey, Chick!”
The music’s volume drops by half. There is movement in the house, just beyond the wall to our left. The curtains in the window just ahead of us part. Teklenburg lifts the sash, smiles at us through the screen wearing jeans and no shirt.
“Hi, guys. What can I do ya for?”
“Hey, Chick, how goes it? We catch you at a bad time?”
“Kind of. I’m working.”
“Working? Yeah, that’s right, you said you’re self-employed. What kinda work you do, anyway?”
“I’m an artist.”
“An artist!” Wylie turns to me for a moment, eyebrows high. “Hey, Chick, you’ve met Clark, haven’t you? Clark Fletcher from up the street. And this is Ricky, a buddy of mine. So, Chick, what kind of artist are you?”
His ponytail flops as he glances over his shoulder, preoccupied. “Um, the digital kind. My art is computer generated. It’s, uh, kind of like—”
The high laughter of a young woman comes through the open doorway behind him, followed by the young woman herself. Through the screen she is little more than a silhouette, but a shapely one.
Teklenburg turns to her and says, “I’ll be there in a sec, okay? Just go back and wait for me.”
“I suppose she’s a professional model posing for you? Huh?” Wylie asks with a devilish grin.
Teklenburg smiles and nods. “Yeah, she is.”
I cock my head to one side and say, “You need a model for computer generated art?”
He clears his throat. “Well, uh, I’ve been trying something a little different lately. Sketching and painting. I’m painting a nude right now, and the model doesn’t come cheap, guys, so—”
“Hear that, guys?” Wylie says over his shoulder. “How come you haven’t invited your neighbors over to watch you work, Chick?” We all laugh then.
The pale, stringy hippy laughs with us, showing only the slightest hint of nervousness. The ease with which he lies makes me want to kill him right now, no waiting around. “I’ve gotta get back to it. Was there something—”
“Yeah, I wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight,” Wylie says. “We’re having a few people over for a barbecue. Just people from the neighborhood, here. Nothin’ special, really, just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Burgers and hot dogs, potato salad.”
“It’s nice of you to ask, Wylie, but I’d probably be a bother. I’m a vegetarian.”
“No bother at all! We got vegetarian hamburger patties. My wife’s mother’s a vegetarian, so we’ve gotta keep the freezer stocked.”
“Really? You know, that sounds like just the thing I need. What can I bring?”
“What’s your beverage of choice?”
“Usually white wine.”
“Bring some. About six-thirty, okay?”
Teklenburg smiles. “See you then, guys.” Starts to close the window.
“One more thing,” Wylie says. “You mind if I take my buddy here in the back and show him your koi pond? He’s thinking about starting one.”
“Sure, man. Go ahead.” He closes the window and the curtains fall back into place.
My heart is going off like a machine gun in my ears. Walking beside Wylie, I whisper, “How did you know he has a koi pond?”
“He told me. Sometimes I run into him while he’s walking his dogs, and we shoot the bull a couple minutes.”
As Wylie and I go to the attractive pond with a small wooden bridge arching over it, Ricky walks slowly along the back of the house.
“What’s he doing?” I whisper.
“Trying to get a feel for t
he place. The plan was to go inside so he could look around. Didn’t work out that way. You know what he’s doing in there, don’t you?”
“I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“Yeah, but that don’t stop it. He’s got himself another little girl in there. Got her in front of the camera. You think that car out front belongs to her parents? Or maybe it was a gift for her sixteenth birthday.”
My fists are clenched so hard, my fingernails dig into the flesh of my palm. “Look, if you want to kill him now, right here, fine. Otherwise, knock it the hell off, okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Clark.”
We watch the pretty fish in the pond until Ricky says he’s ready to go, and we walk back to Wylie’s house.
“Since when is Nadine’s mother a vegetarian?” I ask. “She makes the best beef stroganoff in the world.”
“Since a few minutes ago,” Wylie says. “I made it up, figured he’d be more likely to come if we already had vegeburgers in the house. I’ll have Deeny pick some up at the store.” In the kitchen again, Wylie pours himself another orange juice. “Whatta you think, Ricky? Any good?”
Ricky takes an apple from a bowl of fruit on the small kitchen table, bites into it loudly. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Sorry we couldn’t get inside, but—”
“Nah, forget about it. That house is no big mystery. I get inside, I’ll be fine.”
I turn to Wylie. “Inside? When is he going inside?”
“During the barbecue.” Wylie smiles. “All you gotta do is keep the vegetarian entertained, make sure he don’t decide to go back to his house until Ricky’s done.”
“Done doing what?”
Wylie’s big shoulders sag as he sighs. “You gotta pay attention, Clark, okay? Didn’t I tell you Ricky’s a firebug? He’s a pro. Been doing it since he was a kid. Give him half an hour, he’ll set up a fire to start whenever he wants it to, and once it does, nobody gets out.” He smiles again. “That’s what he’s gonna do. After tonight, Clark, that fuckin’ lettuce-eatin’ hippie’s days of getting the little neighbor girls to take off their clothes are over.”
Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 11