Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  Finally, she grabbed the phone. “Britt?”

  “Oh, hi. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you—”

  “No. It’s okay. You’re a doll to fill in for a couple of hours. I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, Hannah. See you soon.”

  Hannah hung up the phone. She crept back to Guy’s room, and poked her head in the doorway. The shades were drawn, and in the darkness Hannah couldn’t see the rash on his face and hands. He was asleep. She longed to hug him good-bye, but couldn’t. She kept thinking this might be the last time she’d see her little boy before the authorities came to take him away.

  The knots tightened in her stomach, and she wandered back toward the living room.

  “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.” Joyce handed Hannah her coat and purse. “Would you relax? He’ll be fine. I’ve seen all my kids through the chicken pox—and a lot worse. He’s in good hands.”

  Hannah hesitated in the doorway. “You’ll call if anything happens?”

  “Yes.” Joyce nodded. “Now, get out of here. You’re driving me crazy with all your worrying.”

  “Don’t answer the phone unless it’s me. And don’t answer the door, either. I’ll call you in an hour.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Joyce said, giving her a gentle shove. “Now scram!”

  Hannah turned and hugged her. Then she started off to work.

  She wore a black pullover, black jeans, and her hair was swept back in a loose ponytail. She didn’t have on any makeup, and knew she looked terrible. Plus, her back ached. She’d gotten only three hours of sleep last night, curled up on the beanbag chair in the corner of Guy’s room.

  It had started around two-thirty in the morning. She’d just finished packing when she heard Guy coughing. She went to him.

  “Mom, I feel kind of cruddy,” he whimpered.

  Guy had a fever of 100.9, as well as a rash all over his face and hands. Hannah unbuttoned his Spider-Man pajama top, and gasped at the sight of the little red welts on his stomach and chest.

  “Sounds like chicken pox,” Joyce told her over the phone at six in the morning. Hannah had known she’d be up. “I have a dental appointment at nine, but I can be over there by eleven if you need me to baby-sit. In the meantime, you’d better call the doctor.”

  An hour later, Hannah got Dr. Donnellan at his home. “If it’s chicken pox, I’d rather you not bring him in. Chicken pox is awfully contagious. I’m on my way to the office; I’ll swing by. What’s your address again, Hannah?”

  Dr. Donnellan always struck Hannah as one of those guys who was considered a nerd throughout high school and college—and maybe even medical school. But there was something very cute about him, too. Tall and skinny, he had glasses and curly, receding brown hair. Hannah guessed he was in his early thirties. Having him in the apartment, making a good old-fashioned house call, gave Hannah a sense of relief.

  Then came the bad news: Guy did indeed have the chicken pox. He’d have to remain in bed for at least ten days. Dr. Donnellan asked Hannah if she’d had chicken pox as a child.

  Hannah remembered that she had.

  “Um, listen, my aunt wants Guy and me to visit,” she lied, wringing her hands. She and Dr. Donnellan were standing in the hallway. “My aunt has an extra room. She’d be a lot of help with Guy. I was wondering if it would be okay to move him. Her place is just a couple of hours away by bus. I’d keep him warm—”

  Dr. Donnellan was shaking his head. “You might as well take a bomb aboard that bus, Hannah. Chicken pox is highly contagious. Exposure to adults is serious. It can lead to he-patitis, encephalitis, and pneumonitis. Exposure to pregnant women often causes birth defects.” He shook his head again. “You don’t want to take Guy on any bus rides. Just keep him in bed. There’s a risk he could develop scarlet fever if you’re not careful. Guy needs to take it easy. No trips or outings, Hannah.”

  Nodding, Hannah tried to smile. So much for her great escape.

  She phoned Britt and got her to fill in at work for a couple of hours.

  When Joyce arrived, Hannah asked if she and Guy could possibly stay at her place. It was a stupid idea—right up there with wanting her doctor’s permission to infect a bus-load of people. But Hannah didn’t feel safe at home. How soon before the police or her stalker or some goon the Woodleys had hired showed up at her door? Hiding out at Joyce’s apartment seemed like the only option. No one would be looking for her and Guy there.

  “Guy could sleep on your sofa,” Hannah heard herself babbling. “I’d be fine on the floor. It would just be a couple of days—until I feel okay about everything. I know it sounds silly, but—”

  “It sounds nuttier than a fruitcake is how it sounds, hon,” Joyce broke in. “He’s better off in his own bed. You really shouldn’t move him. If anybody sleeps on a sofa, it’s me. I’ll stay here as long as you want.”

  Hannah gave Joyce her purse and sent her to the supermarket for some calamine lotion, coloring books, and other last-minute essentials. “I don’t have any cash,” Hannah said, handing her the shopping list. “The ATM card is the silver one in my wallet, and the code is 1963. Just remember the year Kennedy was assassinated. And get yourself some cookies.”

  While Joyce was out, Hannah quickly showered and changed her clothes.

  In a strange way, work was probably the best thing for her right now. She could carry on as if nothing was wrong—total denial.

  As Hannah stepped into the store, the anti-theft alarm went off.

  The loud beeping gave her such a start, she almost lost what little composure she had. Scott and Britt looked up from their registers, and several customers stared at her. Hannah hurried past the sensors. “What was that about?” she managed to ask.

  “Probably that metal plate in your head again,” Scott replied. Then he went back to waiting on his customer.

  Hannah moved behind the counter. Scott glanced back over his shoulder at her. “How’s Guy doing?”

  “I think he’ll be okay,” Hannah muttered. “It’s me I’m not so sure about.”

  Britt ducked into the break room, then came out again with her sweater and purse. Sometime within the last couple of days, she must have changed her maroon hair color. It was black again, but she’d added two blue streaks on one side. The ring in her eyebrow now had a blue stone that matched the hair dye.

  “This was in my cereal,” Britt said, pulling a cellophane packet from her bag. She handed it to Hannah. “They’re Cap’n Crunch decals and stamps. I saved them for Guy. I figured he could play with them in bed.”

  Hannah thanked her. Once Britt hurried out of the store, Scott leaned against the back counter. He plucked the cereal prize from Hannah’s hand, then studied it. “Wish I had something to play with in bed.” He tossed the packet on the back counter, and sighed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m still a little freaked out over last night. I looked for a story about it in the morning newspaper, but I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t even have a chance to look.” Hannah stashed her purse in the drawer below her register.

  “Did that good-looking blond guy from last night ever call you? What’s his name again?”

  “Ben,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, he called. Apparently, someone broke into Craig’s hotel room and car. They cleaned out everything. So the police don’t know much about Craig or what he was after here—at least, they didn’t late last night.”

  “What do you think?” Scott asked. “How does this Ben character fit in? What’s his angle?”

  “I really don’t know,” she murmured. She stepped up to the register to wait on a customer.

  Scott took a couple of videos from the return bin and checked them in. He waited until Hannah’s customer left; then he leaned against the back counter again. “I was tossing and turning all night,” he said. “I think I figured it out. You’re in your own kind of witness protection program, aren’t you? You�
��re running away from something.”

  She sighed. “Scott, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Does it have something to do with your husband’s death? You never talk about him. Please tell me you didn’t bump him off.”

  “That’s a pretty tactless statement,” Hannah muttered. She turned away and noticed some movies in the return bin. Without even a glance at Scott, she started checking them in. She felt herself trembling inside.

  “He’s alive,” Scott said. “Isn’t he?”

  Hannah tried to appear interested in her work.

  “Did your husband—smack you around?” Scott asked with concern. “I’ve often wondered why you’re so tight-lipped about him. I once asked how you got that scar on your chin, and you quickly changed the subject. Did he give it to you?”

  Hannah finished keying in the video codes. She still couldn’t look at him. She swallowed hard. “You’re the one who should have been a detective,” she finally said. “He’s from a very rich and powerful family in a small Midwestern town. There was no way I could have divorced him and kept my son. And there was no way I could have stayed.”

  “What makes you so sure the police are looking for you?”

  “Since I ran away, I’ve talked to a couple of old friends. They’ve been hounded from time to time by a private detective.”

  “You mean, this ‘Craig’ fella’?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. When I left town with Guy, I also took some money from the joint checking account. Anyway, this detective told my friends that I’m wanted for grand larceny and kidnapping.”

  “Did any cops actually talk to your pals?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, how do you know the police are really looking for you?” Scott asked. “I mean, maybe this private dick—if you’ll excuse the expression—maybe he was just jerking your friends around. If your husband’s family is so rich and powerful, wouldn’t they want to keep the whole runaway thing under wraps—especially if he was beating you up? That’s probably the reason for the private detective—to avoid involving the cops. Hell, the police might not even know anything about you, Hannah.”

  “Maybe,” she granted. Scott’s theory gave her a little bit of hope. Perhaps the authorities weren’t really after her. Still, her name was bound to come up when the police asked the detective agency what Ronald Craig had been investigating in Seattle.

  “God,” Hannah whispered. “They’ll think I had something to do with it.”

  “Something to do with what?”

  “Ronald Craig was here investigating me,” she said, glancing around to make sure no customers were nearby. “He was murdered. All evidence of his investigation was stolen. They’ll blame me.”

  “No, no, they can’t,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Hannah, I was with you when it happened. You have a witness—me. Craig came over uninvited. You asked him to leave. We saw him get killed together. They can’t pin his death on you—not as long as I’m around—”

  Scott seemed to choke on the last word. The reassuring smile faded away from his face. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I’m toast. I’m a fucking dead man.”

  “What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

  “I know too much,” Scott said, running a hand through his moussed hair. “And I’m the only one who can testify you had nothing to do with killing that guy. This weirdo who’s been following you around, he’ll go after me next. I know it.”

  Wincing, Hannah shook her head. “Don’t say that.”

  He let out an exasperated laugh. “But it’s true! Hell, who’s always one of the first to go in slasher movies? The funny gay best friend, that’s who! It’s a wonder I’m not dead already.”

  Despite everything, Hannah rolled her eyes. “Oh, Scott, I wouldn’t worry. You’re not really that funny.”

  “Yeah, but I make up for it by being super-gay.”

  She actually laughed, then hugged him. “Thanks for making me smile—at least for a second or two.”

  “I’m semi-serious, you know,” he said, patting her back. “What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t a damn clue,” she replied, her head on his shoulder. “I’d planned on leaving town this morning. Then Guy got sick. I can’t move him. Chicken pox is serious stuff. We’re stuck. I’m going crazy, just sitting here.”

  She clung to a shred of hope that what Scott said was true. Perhaps the police weren’t looking for her. And maybe, just maybe, Ronald Craig hadn’t yet reported anything about Hannah Doyle to the Woodleys.

  It was a good scenario, but not very likely. She was second-guessing everything. In the meantime, all she could do was maintain this awful, idle holding pattern for the next ten days until Guy recovered.

  She held Scott at arm’s length. “Listen, please don’t tell anyone else about Guy’s father or any of this.”

  He smiled. “Hannah, I didn’t come out to a soul until I was twenty-three. And as long as can I remember, I knew I was a great, big homo. So I know how to keep things under my hat. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Hannah hugged him again. She held him tightly—until she heard someone on the other side of the counter, chuckling “Hey, you two, either cut it out or get a room!”

  “Oh, Ted, you’re such a pain in the ass,” Scott groaned. “I was just about to get to second base with her, too. Hold on, I’ll take care of you.” Scott went to his register to wait on one of their regulars. He glanced over his shoulder at Hannah. “Don’t forget Britt’s toy for Guy.”

  Nodding, Hannah grabbed the cereal toy off the counter, then opened the drawer below the register and reached for her purse. She started to put the toy in her bag, but suddenly froze up. “Oh, no,” she murmured. “No, no, no…”

  For a moment, she just stared at the video stashed in her purse. She wondered how and when it had gotten in there. Had someone been following Joyce around at the supermarket this morning when she’d had Hannah’s purse?

  After a minute, Hannah felt Scott hovering behind her. “What is that?”

  “It’s another ‘special delivery,’” she heard herself say. She took the video out of her bag.

  “It’s one of ours,” Scott pointed out. “The store sensor tag is still on it. That’s why you set off the alarm when you walked in here.”

  Hannah straightened up, then closed the drawer with her foot. She looked at the label on the cassette. It was Tape B of Casino.

  “He didn’t give you the box,” Scott muttered. “And only one tape. Just a sec…” Scott hurried around the counter and started toward the back of the store.

  Hannah could see that the tape was wound to a certain spot near the end of the spool.

  Scott came back with the box for Casino. “It was on the shelf like this,” he said, showing her the double-cassette box with only one tape. “I don’t understand how he got the video out of here undetected. You’d think he would have ripped off the sensor tape and made it easier to steal. But he left it on. I wonder why.”

  “To show me how clever he is,” Hannah replied numbly. She studied the videocassette. “I haven’t seen Casino. What happens near the end?”

  Frowning, Scott shrugged uneasily. “It’s really violent, Hannah,” he said. “A lot of people die.”

  “Everything’s fine here,” Joyce told her over the phone. “I just put some calamine lotion on Guy’s rash, and he’s playing with the puzzle book we got him this morning. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Yes, put him on, please,” Hannah said. She stood behind the counter at the store. Scott was helping a customer; otherwise they weren’t too busy. Hannah waited for to Guy come on the line.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said.

  “Hi, honey. How are you? How are your chicken pox?”

  “The chicken pox are fine,” he answered. “Joyce put pink stuff on them. It looks like Pencil Bismal.”

  “Pepto-Bismol. That’s calamine lotion. It’ll stop the itching. Are you being a good boy?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. Here’s Joyce.”

  “Well, bye—” Hannah barely got the words out before Joyce was back on the line.

  “Not one for long conversations, is he?” Joyce said. “Listen, you got a call a while ago. I let the machine take it. Ben Somebody. He left a number.”

  “Do you have that number handy?”

  “It’s right in front of me. Ready? 555-3649.”

  Hannah scribbled down the number. “Got it. There haven’t been any other calls or hang-ups?”

  “He’s the only one.”

  “Listen, Joyce, have you noticed anyone hanging around outside or anything?”

  “No, honey.”

  “You’re on the cordless, right? Could you check outside for a second? And be careful. I just need you to see if there’s anyone out on the balcony—or down in the parking lot.”

  “Sure, Hannah. But what the heck is all this about?”

  In the background, Hannah could hear the door opening. She bit her lip and waited. Some static came on the line. “Joyce? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, honey. No one on the balcony, and nobody down in the lot either.”

  “Okay, don’t forget to lock the door when you step back inside. And that front window needs to be closed and locked.”

  “Hannah, what is going on?”

  “Um, I’m—still worried about that break-in from a couple of weeks ago. Plus—well, did you notice anyone following you around the store this morning? Did someone bump into you or brush against you by accident?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you have my purse with you in the store?”

  “No, I took your wallet and left the purse in my car. But I put a sweater over it and locked the car doors. Why? Was something missing from your bag?”

  Hannah cracked an ironic smile. “No, nothing was missing, Joyce.” She sighed. “Anyway, thanks. Listen, give me a call if anything—”

  “Call you if anything happens, yeah, honey, I’ll call,” Joyce cut in. “We’re fine. What’s that expression? Take a chill pill? Relax. We’re all locked up, and I have the pepper spray in my bag. We’ll be fine. First sign of trouble, you’ll hear from me.”