I'm Watching You

by Mary Burton

  Pastor Richards moved toward her and shook her hand. He had an extension cord in the other hand. ‘Thank you for coming out this evening.’

  ‘Happy to. Thank you for having me.’

  He nodded toward the parlor. ‘I’ve got you set up in the green room. In fact, I was just going to see if I could find a longer extension cord. You said you needed power for your computer.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve a PowerPoint presentation.’

  ‘Go on in and get yourself set up. I’ll see if I can’t find a longer cord.’

  ‘Sure.’ She moved into the room. It was elegantly decorated with silk swag curtains on the tall windows; a Chippendale sofa and chairs; and, in the corner, a baby grand piano. Pastor Richards had set up a podium and table for her, a white projection screen, and a dozen chairs. In the back of the room was a small round table set up with coffee, lemonade, and cookies.

  She removed her computer from the case and set it up just as the pastor returned.

  ‘I can’t find the longer cord,’ he said, scratching the side of his head. ‘Our church secretary is on vacation and, honestly, she is the brains behind this operation. When she’s away, the church and I just stumble along until she returns.’

  Lindsay smiled. ‘It’s fine. I should have enough battery power to get through the presentation. And if not, I’ll do what I do best – talk.’

  Chuckling, he checked his watch. ‘Most of the folks should be here any second. They’re just wrapping up their Monday night supper down the hall. It’s a summer Bible study program and they decided to turn it into a pot luck. They’re four weeks into a six-week program.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Help yourself to coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She moved to the back table and filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee. ‘So tell me a little more about the group I’m speaking to tonight.’

  ‘It’s a ladies circle group and their husbands. They’re studying references to marriage in the Bible and I thought it would be interesting to discuss a modern take on marriage. Domestic abuse is just one of the topics we’re looking at this summer.’

  ‘Right.’ She sipped her coffee. Compared to the espresso, it tasted like water. ‘I want to thank you again for all the help the church has given Sanctuary. We’ve really appreciated it.’

  Pastor Richards’s smile was warm and there was a kindness about him. ‘Oh, we’re just happy to help.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked a tad embarrassed.

  ‘A friend of mine works for the police department,’ he said. ‘He told me a body was found behind your shelter.’

  ‘Yes. It was Harold Turner.’ She didn’t want to talk about the murder but knew it had to be addressed. ‘I don’t know why he was murdered in our backyard.’

  The pastor nodded. ‘I’ve met his wife. Our church works with hers on several children’s charities. Lovely woman.’

  She remembered her conversation with Jordan this morning. ‘I hope she has good support around her now.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she does. I want you to know this doesn’t change First Methodist’s commitment to the shelter. We believe in what you’re doing.’

  Relief washed through her. ‘Thanks. That does mean a lot to me.’

  Within minutes the group of couples gathered in the room. They all looked to be in their fifties and sixties. Each wore a wedding band. The minister made introductions and soon Lindsay stood before the group.

  Lindsay had spoken to groups like this many times before. In fact, she had never turned down an opportunity to speak, believing that if she did, she might somehow miss the one person who needed her help.

  ‘I’m not going to give you a bunch of statistics or talk to you about the problem of domestic violence,’ Lindsay began. She smiled and tried to look relaxed and comfortable. ‘I’m here to tell you a story.’

  She didn’t like to stand behind podiums. She liked to feel a connection with her audience, no matter how small it was. She clicked on the first slide. A picture of a young, smiling, dark-haired woman appeared on the white projection screen.

  ‘This is Pam when she was a senior in high school in Henderson, North Carolina. Pam was a smart girl. She made all As in high school and she married her high school sweetheart. His name was Matt. Pam got a good job as the executive secretary to an insurance president, and he would later say that Pam was hardworking and diligent and that everyone at the insurance company liked her. Five years ago, Pam and Matt moved to Richmond. She didn’t get another job, because Matt wanted her to stay home. They were trying to have a baby. Pam was thirty-five.

  ‘In December of last year, Pam showed up at work wearing dark glasses. And underneath the lenses was bruising. The company president asked Pam about her eyes and she explained that she’d been in a car accident. Two days later, police were called to her residence. The neighbor had heard shouting. But when police arrived Pam assured the officers that she was fine.’

  Telling the story always made her sad. ‘Two days later she ended up in the emergency room. I met with her then and was able to convince her to spend a few nights at Sanctuary. I took her to the magistrate’s office and walked her through the protective order process. She seemed relieved.’

  Pastor Richards frowned. ‘Did I read about this case in the paper?’

  Lindsay nodded grimly. ‘You did. About nine months ago. And, in fact, the husband was just sentenced about a month ago.’ She sipped her coffee as she searched her notes for the spot where she’d left off.

  ‘We’ll say a prayer for them at the end of the meeting,’ the pastor said.

  Lindsay smiled, not sure what to say to that. Maybe wherever Pam was now, the prayers would help. ‘We can offer board in our shelter for only thirty days. As the thirty days ticked away, Pam began to worry that she wouldn’t have a place to live. Her parents were gone, she’d made no friends, and she wasn’t close to her brothers, who had never liked her husband. Matt had seen to it that she’d stayed isolated. Anyway, Pam called Matt. And he came to the shelter and picked her up.’ She paused. ‘We found her body the next morning. She’d been beaten to death.’

  A woman with short gray hair folded her arms over her chest. She glanced at her husband, a short, stocky man with a ruddy face. ‘I can tell you I wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behavior from my husband.’

  Lindsay shrugged. ‘None of us knows what we’d do.’

  The woman grinned as if she had all the answers. ‘I know what I’d do if my husband ever hit me – I’d shoot him.’

  Nervous giggles rippled through the room.

  Lindsay smiled. ‘Do you know how to boil a frog alive?’

  Everyone sobered. ‘You put it in cold water and then you very slowly start to turn the heat up under the pot. When the frog realizes it’s too late and is about to be boiled alive, the heat overcomes the frog and kills it.’

  Few in the room took the analogy that seriously. But when she raised her gaze, she realized Pastor Richards was staring at her with a renewed intensity that made her uncomfortable.

  Zack and Warwick returned to the shelter. It was past six. Ruby had gone home and Sara was still processing the crime scene in Lindsay’s office.

  The two detectives questioned neighbors but learned little other than that Lindsay kept a nice yard. Few knew the house was a shelter, though none worried about the number of cars that came and went during any given day. No one noticed anything unusual around five that morning.

  After several hours, Zack and Warwick called it quits with the promise to meet again at headquarters by seven the next morning.

  By the time Zack pulled into his driveway, he was bone tired. He turned off the car and just sat. His last encounter with Lindsay played in his head as he stared at the salt-box house he’d just bought. He took in the broken windows, peeling paint, overgrown shrubs and, for the hundredth time, wondered why he’d purchased the damn place. He knew the answer.

  Because Lindsay had loved it.

  He’d
passed the house a dozen times in the last month, each time pausing to see if the FOR SALE sign had been pulled up. It hadn’t. In this waning real estate market, the house required more work and attention than most were willing to give. Yet, he still kept coming back, staring past the decay and rot to the possibilities Lindsay had once envisioned.

  Zack got out of the car and slung his coat over his shoulder. After climbing the front steps, he unlocked the door. He prayed his beeper wouldn’t go off before the morning briefing. He needed downtime and sleep.

  Inside the house, plaster walls had trapped the day’s heat, leaving the foyer stuffy and humid. The supplies from the hardware superstore had been delivered a couple of days ago, but the job had kept him on the run and he’d barely had enough time to stack the supplies into the empty living room.

  Late-afternoon sun streamed through the transom above the front door. His footsteps echoed as he moved over scarred hardwood floors toward the kitchen. The place felt unwelcoming.

  He dropped his keys on the gray kitchen counter and laid his coat on a stack of boxes by the back door. From the kitchen window above the sink, he stared at the backyard. It reminded him of the surface of the moon: barren, lifeless.

  Zack went to the new, starkly white refrigerator. When he and Lindsay had been together their refrigerator had been covered with pictures of them, schedules, and drawings from the kids at the shelter.

  He opened it. The bright bulb illuminated two boxes of Chinese food, a half-full carton of orange juice, and a couple of cans of soda. He craved a beer right now but tried not to think about it as he snatched a soda and headed back out to the front porch. He sat on the front step, loosened his tie, and popped the soda’s tab. Maybe he’d go for a run and then order a pizza.

  Zack downed the last of the soda and crushed the can just as a black SUV pulled up in front of the house. The car belonged to his brother, Malcolm.

  This wasn’t Malcolm’s part of town. He must be doing recon for their mother.

  Malcolm wore a loose, white T-shirt, faded jeans, and flip-flops. He strolled around the side of his truck, a brown paper bag tucked in close at his side, sunlight bouncing off his chrome aviator glasses. Malcolm was a year younger than Zack and, at six one, a couple of inches shorter.

  ‘Tell Mom I’m fine,’ Zack called.

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘That won’t be good enough. She’s going to want details.’ He stopped in front of the house, pulled off his glasses, and studied the exterior. ‘Were you sober when you bought this piece-of-crap house, Zack?’

  ‘Sober as a judge.’

  ‘Now I’m really worried about you. Do yourself a favor and bulldoze it and start fresh.’

  That coaxed a grin from Zack. ‘It’s a great investment. The realtor said lots of potential and charm.’

  Malcolm’s gaze scanned the peeling paint on the front porch and the dry rot by the front door. ‘Lots of work. Lots of money to fix it up.’

  ‘Consider it therapy.’ Zack nodded to the bag. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Mom sent food.’ Malcom handed him the bag.

  Zack opened the bag and found a large tinfoil container of ziti, cellophane-wrapped bread rolls, two cookies, and a plastic fork. He was starving. ‘Bless you.’

  Malcolm sat down on the porch and studied the house. ‘Why’d you pick this place?’

  Because Lindsay had once looked at the house and talked about filling it with babies. Instead he said, ‘It’s an investment. I paid next to nothing for it.’ He was nostalgic but not stupid.

  Sighing, Malcolm glanced down the street at the collection of half-century-old homes. Most had been renovated. ‘Fixed up, it could be worth a fortune,’ he said.

  ‘That’s my thought. If it doesn’t work out I can always flip it for a profit.’

  He sighed and didn’t seem convinced. ‘Oh, Mom said to remind you about the party.’

  ‘Party?’

  Malcolm looked at him as if he were dim-witted. ‘Damn, Zack, Eleanor’s birthday party. Saturday. Mom’s been planning it for months. Be there or suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right.’ He opened the tinfoil container and savored the blend of ziti, tomatoes, oregano, and basil. His sister, Ellie, had talked about the party for weeks, and he’d cut off his right arm before he’d disappoint her. ‘I won’t miss it.’

  ‘Mom would have come but the restaurant is packed tonight. She couldn’t get away.’

  ‘No sweat.’

  ‘I saw the six o’clock news. I guess you saw Lindsay today.’ Malcolm didn’t hide the fact that he disapproved of Zack’s unmarriage to Lindsay.

  ‘Yep. And I’m in no mood for lectures about Lindsay, our marriage, or unsigned divorce papers.’

  Malcolm held up his hands. ‘You’ll get none from me today.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Still, this investigation is going to be a hornet’s nest. Is Ayden going to let you stay on the case?’

  ‘Yes, but Warwick’s taking the lead.’

  Malcolm frowned. ‘He eased up on you at all? Or is he still being an ass?’

  ‘Like always, he’s expecting me to screw up.’ Zack bit into a slice of warm, buttery Italian bread. ‘Warwick will have to wait until hell freezes over before I drink again.’

  The comment pleased Malcolm. ‘Any leads on the Turner case?’

  ‘No forensic evidence on the body. Turner’s wife has an ironclad alibi, as does his number one drug-dealing client and his law partner.’

  ‘What about your wife?’ Malcolm kept his voice neutral.

  ‘Lindsay doesn’t have an alibi. She says she was home alone. Frankly, her alibi is so lame, it could be true. But I need to be sure. The judge should sign my search warrants in the morning, and then I’ll work my way through her phone, computer, and office records.’

  Malcolm traced a callus on the palm of his hand. ‘Lindsay can be tenacious when it comes to protecting battered women.’

  ‘But I’m betting she’s no killer. She hates all kinds of violence.’

  They sat in silence for a moment as Zack ate.

  ‘So what are you two going to do about your marriage?’

  Zack jabbed his fork into a cluster of ziti. ‘We’re not talking about that, remember?’

  Malcolm stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. ‘Cut the crap and answer the question.’

  Zack chewed his ziti slowly. ‘I’m going to do my best to save our marriage.’

  ‘Shit, Zack, have you lost your mind? She left you.’ Malcolm was a man of strong opinions. During Zack’s recovery he’d been a rock. But even though Zack had regained his balance, his brother remained overprotective.

  The truth behind his failed marriage shamed Zack. ‘She had good reason.’

  ‘She should have stuck by you when you got sick.’

  Sick. Zack shook his head. ‘It’s not like I had cancer, Mal. I was a drunk. I let her down.’

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘Marriage is for better or worse in my mind. Sickness and health.’

  ‘I guess this is the worse part.’

  ‘How can it ever get better between the two of you? Lindsay is obsessed with work. She can be abrasive. And she is now a suspect in a murder investigation. No one in their right mind would want her.’

  Zack grinned. ‘And your point is?’

  Malcolm’s eyes darkened. ‘This isn’t funny.’

  Zack sobered. ‘No, it’s not. My marriage is sloppy. Sucks right now. But once, it was pretty great. I want that back.’

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘Will she have you back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The Guardian clicked off the television, irritated by the evening news reports. Harold’s name had been released to the press, but the stations had given the murder little airtime. All three stations had screwed up the story, but that dumb bitch reporter from Channel 10, Kendall Shaw, had missed the point completely. She’d prattled on about the county’s low murder rate and domestic vio
lence statistics. She seemed more worried about her own image than reporting the story.

  That was the problem with people. They were selfish and far too wrapped up in their individual lives to notice what didn’t directly concern them.

  The only one who could truly see was Lindsay.

  She reached out to others in need. She put the lives of others in front of her own.

  Her warrior spirit should have appreciated Harold’s hand nestled in a bed of irises. Like the flowers, which telegraphed Friendship, Hope, Wisdom, and Valor, the hand was rich with symbolism. It not only bore Harold’s platinum wedding band, but it was the left hand and it was well known that the attorney was a lefty. It was his dominant hand. His power center. He’d always struck his wife with his left fist.

  One click of another remote and a very different image snapped on the TV. This in full color as well, but it was an image of Lindsay’s living room.

  The cameras had been placed in her apartment thirty days ago. It had been appallingly easy to gain entrance. A work order and a report of fuzzy cable was all it had taken. The cameras had been easy to install. Several weren’t bigger than the size of a dime, and the transmitter, which boosted the signal up to seven miles, was easily wired into an outlet behind the AC unit.

  The Guardian settled back in a chair and studied the television screen. In the background, Lindsay’s favorite Sugarland CD crooned. The country and western song was upbeat, fast paced. In the background he heard Lindsay singing.

  Seconds later Lindsay emerged from the kitchen. Her hair was damp from a shower and she wore an oversized, well-worn T-shirt that said ‘USC.’ She had a large bowl of popcorn and a diet soda. Her favorite evening ritual before bed.

  Lindsay’s habits were so predictable. Two cups of coffee before work. An hour of yoga in the morning. Glasses only when she read. Weekends when she wasn’t on call meant refinishing the chest of drawers that would be a showpiece. Insomnia when she was troubled.

  Lindsay sat on her carpeted floor and switched on a cable news station. Silently she watched and ate her popcorn.

  Her phone rang and she leaned over and grabbed the receiver off the cradle. ‘Hello.’