by Mark Lukens
He closed his office door and went to his desk, sitting down. He still had thirty minutes before his next patient, and he needed that time to calm down. He felt sick and shaky. He pulled the white notecard out and read the one sentence typed on it.
I know what you did to that girl.
Phil slid the notecard back into the envelope and then stuffed it into his briefcase on the little table next to his desk.
He wondered where Carlos had run to. Where was he going now?
And then he thought of Cathy. His heart froze for a second and he grabbed his cell phone.
Carlos wouldn’t go to my house, would he?
Phil dialed Cathy’s number—he had to make sure she was okay.
TEN
Cathy
Cathy was in her art studio—which was really the fourth bedroom in their home—when she heard the noise in the house.
Her art studio was also her office, but more studio than office. The office part consisted of a desk and a small bookcase in the corner with a computer, printer, and drawers full of papers and receipts. Down the wall from the desk was a drafting table, slanted to the perfect angle for Cathy. The table had a flexible lamp attached to it. Her easel and stool were in the middle of the room right now. She and Phil had removed the carpet when they’d moved in, replacing it with some cheap linoleum to make paint spills easier to clean up.
She was working on the last of the paintings for the art show in Sarasota that was coming up in two weeks. Six other completed paintings were already in frames and stacked against the wall. There were stacks of other paintings in various stages of completion. She did some original paintings for art shows, some for profit and some for charity. She also sold originals online through her website and at larger arts and crafts websites. She used to work for a design company in Tampa, but her dream had always been to strike out on her own, and that’s what she’d done. Though the bulk of her work was still design projects for customers (which she had a different website for), her true love was still painting.
She remembered taking the plunge on her own two years ago, when she was considering walking away from her job. Phil had just started his own practice and the bills were mounting, but Phil had built up a respectable patient list and a good reputation. And even though Phil did well right away, it was still scary for Cathy to quit her job and start her own business.
“Just do it,” Phil had told her. “This is your dream. Don’t put it off. You supported me while I chased my dream, now I want you to pursue yours.”
God, she got chills when she thought of that conversation, of how much Phil loved her, how much he put her and Megan ahead of himself so often.
Still, she’d been hesitant to do it. It wasn’t just fears about the money; she had the same fear that a lot of creative people had when they first showed their work to the world. Would people like it? Would they buy her designs and paintings? Would she get a lot of negative feedback?
“Just do it,” Phil kept telling her.
And finally she did. And now she was happy.
She touched up the painting of flowers with a splash of green on a leaf. She sat back, studying the painting for a moment.
A banging noise sounded from somewhere else in the house. She jumped, nearly dropping the paintbrush. She turned around and stared at the closed door of her studio.
The noise couldn’t be Megan—Cathy hadn’t even picked her up from school yet. Maybe Phil had come home early. But he never did that. And even if he had come home early, he would’ve called her.
Her cell phone was on the desk. She got up and checked it to make sure it was still on, making sure that she hadn’t somehow missed a call or a text. It was on. No calls or texts.
Taking her cell phone with her, Cathy crept out of her studio, walking down the hall past Megan’s bedroom and the other bedroom on this side of the house that they used for their treadmill and extra storage.
It was probably nothing. She hated feeling this way now, jumping at every little noise. Maybe the incident on Saturday night had gotten to her more than she realized.
Everything in the living room looked okay. The front door was still locked, the alarm still set. She entered the kitchen—it looked okay, too. Maybe the noise had come from the garage or even from outside.
When she got all the way into the kitchen, she let out a little scream, jumping as her cell phone rang in her hand.
“Shit,” she breathed out, looking down at her phone to see who was calling. It was Vince.
“Hey, Vince,” she said into the phone.
“Hi, Cathy. I was just calling to see how your masterpieces are coming along.”
“Almost finished. Just doing some touchups.”
“You okay? You sound a little out-of-breath.”
“Yeah. I was . . . uh . . . working out a little on the treadmill.”
“The treadmill and touching up your paintings? You are a multi-tasker.”
Vince laughed at his own joke.
Cathy forced a chuckle as she hurried across the living room to their bedroom. She checked around, even checking inside their walk-in closet. She felt a little braver with Vince on the phone with her.
“The paintings will be ready for the show,” she told him as she walked back to the kitchen, going to the door that led out to the garage. “I promise.”
“I know I can always count on you,” Vince said.
Cathy unlocked and opened the door to the garage. Her SUV (Phil called it her Soccer Mom Tank) was parked farther away, the empty space beside it reserved for Phil’s Lexus. Everything seemed fine out here. It didn’t look like a stack of boxes had fallen over or anything like that. She still wasn’t sure where the noise had come from. Maybe it had come from outside.
“Well, I should let you get back to work,” Vince said as Cathy went back into the kitchen. “How are Phil and Megan doing?”
Cathy locked the door to the garage and then left the kitchen. She walked past the formal dining area to the family room. She approached the vertical blinds that covered the sliding glass doors that led out to the pool.
“They’re doing great.”
“That’s good. Can’t wait to see you at the show.”
“Looking forward to it,” Cathy said as she pulled the blinds apart and froze for a second—someone was out there by the pool.
“You sure you’re okay?” Vince asked.
Cathy let out a breath, trying not to breathe too heavily into the phone. It was just the pool guy skimming the pool. He was dressed in a stained white polo shirt and khaki shorts. He had a baseball cap pulled down low. A new guy. It seemed like they had a new pool guy every month.
“Yeah,” she said quietly checking to make sure the sliding glass doors were still locked. She didn’t want the pool guy seeing her check the doors, but he never looked her way. She realized that he had wires coming from earbuds—probably listening to music or talking to someone on his phone while he worked. “I’m fine.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Cathy let the blinds fall back in place as quietly as she could and went back to the kitchen. She breathed out a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what that noise had been, but it must’ve been the pool guy outside. Maybe he had dropped something.
She jumped again when the phone rang in her hand. It was Phil.
“Hey,” she said into the phone. “Is everything okay?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Phil answered. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because you usually don’t call me during the day.”
Phil was quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
But Phil sounded strange; he sounded nervous.
“I was just working on the paintings,” Cathy told him. “Doing some touchups. Vince just called. Impatient and nervous as usual. He was trying to act like it was a casual call, but he was really double checking
to make sure I’m going to have them done in time.”
“Okay,” Phil said. He sounded a little better now. “I’ll be home around six.” He paused. She could tell that he wanted to ask her something. “Could you check the doors?” he finally asked. “Make sure they’re all locked.”
“I just did,” she told him. “Everything’s locked. Alarm is on.” She wasn’t going to tease him about still being nervous after what she’d just gone through herself, scared from a noise outside and checking every room.
“Okay. Sorry . . . I’m just still—”
“I know. Me too, a little.”
“I’ll be home around six,” he said.
“You just said that.”
“Yeah, I know. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Cathy hung up and stood there for a moment in the kitchen. “God, he’s making me paranoid,” she said.
ELEVEN
Phil
Cathy had dinner ready as soon as Phil got home. All three of them sat at the table, all of them quiet for a moment as they ate.
“So,” Megan said, drawing the word out to soooo. “Have you guys thought about it?”
“About what, sweetie?” Cathy asked.
“About going out with Arianna tomorrow night. No parents. And I wanted to stay the night.”
Phil glanced at Cathy. He already knew how she felt about it.
“It’s for my birthday,” Megan said like she had to remind them.
This was going against Phil’s gut instincts right now, but how could he say no to his daughter? She would be with Arianna’s mom the whole time, except for the hour and a half that she would be at the theater. Nothing was going to happen. He had to let her go. “It’s okay with me,” Phil finally said. “If it’s okay with you.” He looked at Cathy.
Megan practically did a victory dance; she knew she had it in the bag now. She looked at Cathy, a scream of triumph slowly building in her throat, jittery in her chair.
“It’s fine with me,” Cathy said, making it official.
Megan jumped up and attacked Cathy with a hug. Then she ran around the table to give Phil a hug.
“You just be careful,” Phil said. “You stay right there at the movies after Arianna’s mom drops you off, no wandering around.”
“No, Dad. We wouldn’t do that.”
“Promise me.”
“Of course I promise.”
“And take your cell phone with you,” Cathy said.
Did Megan go anywhere without her cell phone? Phil wanted to say, but didn’t.
“And make sure it’s turned on the whole time,” Cathy added.
“Mom, you’re not supposed to have your phone on when the movie’s playing.”
“Well, text me when you get there, and then text me again as soon as the movie’s over.”
“I will.”
The doorbell rang.
They all froze.
“Who’s that?” Cathy asked.
“Wait here,” Phil said as he got to his feet, a knot of fear fluttering in his stomach now. He hurried to the living room, staring at the front door as he approached it.
But instead of going to the front door, he went to the windows just beyond the couch and peeked out through the blinds. This felt a little like the dream he’d had yesterday morning, and he almost expected to see a white pickup truck parked out there in the street. He almost expected to see the door handle start to jiggle, the deadbolt lock begin to turn.
There was no pickup truck parked outside. Instead, there was a dark gray sedan.
Phil shifted his eyes to the man standing at their front door. The man had backed away almost like he knew he was being observed from the window. He was pretty tall, somewhat thin, maybe Phil’s age, but with thinning blond hair and pale skin. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, and he had sunglasses on. He had a leather wallet open in his hand, revealing a badge and an ID. The man looked his way, and even though the man had sunglasses on, Phil knew the man was staring right at him.
Phil went to the door. “Who is it?” he called through the door.
“Mr. Stanton. I’m Detective Grady with the police department.”
“I . . . I didn’t call the police.”
“I’m following up on a call you made two nights ago. About a man who followed you home.”
Phil didn’t say anything. He could tell the detective was getting impatient with their conversation through the door.
“I’ll leave my business card under the welcome mat,” Detective Grady said. “This is just a follow-up. That’s all.”
Phil peeked out through the peephole in the door and watched the detective bend down and slide his business card underneath the mat. Then the detective turned and started walking away.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
Phil looked behind him and saw that Cathy and Megan were standing there, watching him. He felt a little foolish now, and he opened the door. “Detective Grady?”
The detective turned back around.
“Sorry,” Phil said. “We’re all still a little . . .”
“Perfectly understandable,” the detective said as he walked back up the steps onto the wide front porch.
Phil offered a hand in greeting as he stood in the open doorway. Detective Grady shook his hand, giving him a quick, two-pump handshake. The man’s hand was very dry.
“Come on inside,” Phil said, stepping back and opening the door wider. He looked at Cathy and Megan. “This is my wife Cathy. Our daughter Megan.”
“Evening,” Detective Grady said with a tight smile and a nod of his head. He had removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his suitcoat pocket. But he hadn’t come inside yet.
“This is Detective Grady,” Phil told Cathy and Megan, even though he was pretty sure they had heard the detective already say that. But he was nervous, and it felt like he couldn’t stop talking. “He stopped by for a follow-up.”
Megan smiled at the detective.
“Pleased to meet you, Detective Grady,” Cathy said, but she didn’t come forward to shake his hand.
The detective still remained outside on the front porch, just beyond the doorway, seemingly a little uncomfortable about entering their house, perhaps not wanting to draw this visit out any longer than necessary. In fact, to Phil, it seemed like the detective was already impatient to leave, like this was a bullshit part of his job that he was forced to do.
“Look, I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Detective Grady said. “I just wanted to come by and make sure everything was okay.”
“Sure,” Phil said.
Cathy and Megan were already heading back to the dining room. Phil stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door.
“I’m sure it was pretty scary when that guy followed you home the other night,” Detective Grady said.
“Yes, it was.”
“All of you are doing okay now?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“And you haven’t seen that pickup truck since that night?”
“No.”
“Nothing else unusual?”
Phil thought of his session with Carlos today, and how Carlos said he liked to kill people. He thought of the note Carlos had left behind with its one-line warning. He thought of his suspicion that Carlos might be the driver of the pickup truck. He thought of his dreams about Dolores.
But Phil shook his head no. “Nope. Everything’s fine. My wife thinks the guy was trying to scare us. She thinks he’s had his fun, and now he’s going to leave us alone.”
Detective Grady just stared at Phil, unmoving and unblinking.
Phil started to feel even more nervous now. His skin was hot, like he was going to start sweating at any moment. He knew he was talking too much—like guilty people did—in danger of revealing too much. He could tell that Detective Grady was used to questioning people, used to watching people’s reactions, studying their mannerisms, reading between the lines of their words, picking up on subtle
clues with an almost sixth sense.
The detective seemed a little rough around the edges; he had a five o’clock shadow, his suitcoat and shirt were a little rumpled. But Phil was suddenly sure that the man’s appearance was all an act. This man was shrewd. This man was good at his job. Phil couldn’t let himself fall for the laid-back act of an easy-going detective who was just concerned and only asking a few routine questions because of some bullshit procedure he had to follow. No, Phil could tell that there was some other reason the detective was here. The detective suspected something. He was a dog that had caught the scent of something that didn’t smell right, and he was the kind of dog that would follow that scent until he found the source of the stink.
“You haven’t remembered any other details about the pickup truck or the driver since that night, have you?” Detective Grady asked, already getting out his worn pocket-sized notebook and pen, like he assumed Phil had some information for him.
“Sorry. No.”
“You never saw that pickup truck before . . .” And here the detective made a show of glancing down at his notebook even though Phil was fairly sure the detective already had the information memorized. “Uh . . . before Saturday night?”
“I don’t think so,” Phil answered.
Detective Grady’s eyebrows shot up in mild surprise, his curiosity piqued.
“I mean, I couldn’t really be sure. There are a lot of older white pickup trucks driving around.” And it was the truth, wasn’t it? How could Phil be one hundred percent sure that he’d never seen that particular truck before? Especially if Carlos was driving that truck, and especially if Carlos had been watching him for weeks now. But he wasn’t ready to tell the detective, or any other cop, anything about Carlos yet.
Detective Grady nodded. “Fair enough, I guess. Is there any reason someone would want to follow you home? Harass you for some reason?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“You’re a psychiatrist, right?”
“Psychologist,” Phil corrected.
But you already know that.
Detective Grady nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t know there was a difference.”
Phil smiled. “Just a difference in pay,” he joked.