Zeitgeist

by Grace Jelsnik

  Grant took one last look at their efforts, slowly revolving. They’d placed three voice-activated recorders in strategic places around the room, a wireless baby monitor in a bedroom air vent, another monitor in the office, and a tiny speaker in a hole drilled in the chifferobe. He’d drilled a second hole, running a wire to the door release inside the chifferobe, making certain they weren’t trapped down there, should someone discover the trapdoor during their exercise, and he’d fastened his bathrobe tie to the back, screwing it in place in case they needed to close the chifferobe from the inside. He and Fiona, the man and woman behind the curtain, so to speak, would sit at the base of the spiral staircase on the folding lawn chairs she’d brought over from the garage.

  While she’d shopped, he’d played the DVDs of her childhood, cutting and splicing a clearly labeled track listing of voices. When he hadn’t been distracted by the DVD contents, that is, by a family consisting of two loving parents, an easy-to-love daughter, and a difficult-to-like son. Seeing Fiona like that—laughing, carefree, and impish—had made him ache inside.

  Her parents should have known Whitley had problems. If not the mother, then certainly the father. Harley Delaney knew first-hand how Whitley’s mother had been. How couldn’t he have seen the same symptoms in the dark looks Whitley gave his younger sister when no one was looking or the way the boy had stiffened every time Fiona gave him one of her impulsive hugs? The signs had been there. The father had known the boy’s history. Yet the man had overlooked both the telltale signs and the dark history, exposing himself, his wife, and his daughter to the retaliation promised by the hard eyes and jutting lower lip.

  Fiona had been untouched by evil back then, a sweet child with no shadows in her eyes. He wanted her to be like that again. He believed she could be like that again, once she put her horrors behind her. He wondered which of them would most enjoy tonight’s exercise in mind-snapping: her or him.

  “What’s for supper?” he asked, following her out the door.

  “I hid fried chicken in my closet.”

  His pace quickened, and he caught up with her. “More real food? I wondered why you had to race ahead of me into your room. We still need to record you saying mind-blowing things.”

  “Like what?” Fiona began the climb up the first floor stairs.

  “Like, ‘Why did you kill me, Whitley?’ or ‘What did I ever do to you, Whitley?’”

  “We won’t be able to talk after they get here,” she threw back over her shoulder while walking up the second floor stairs.

  “That means you should probably eat less. It kind of takes the fright out of ‘frightening’ when one’s ghost is speaking with her mouth full.”

  “Nice try, sidekick, but the baby monitor in the office will give us plenty of warning.”

  Grant raced ahead of her, opening the door to her bedroom and stepping back to graciously allow her to enter first. Women liked that.

  She frowned at him while passing. “What’s that all about?”

  He felt his face heat. Another flowerbed faux pas. He should have remembered that what most women liked didn’t apply to this one. Next time, he’d plant a garden full of guns and speedbags while slamming the door in her face. That’d bring her around. “Nothing. I tripped and had to grab the doorknob to keep from falling. I don’t know why it opened like that. You must have forgotten to close it all the way.”

  Grant thought he saw a trace of a smile before she turned away, heading for the closet and, glory of glories, more real food. He glanced around the room, seeking traces of their residence and satisfied when he saw none. They were ready to leave, should Plan A fail. They’d repacked, condensing the five clothing suitcases into three, sticking the purses into the backpack, and hiding suitcases, metal case, and backpack behind the garage bays. Any items deemed unnecessary, including his suit and dress shoes, had been crammed in the two extra suitcases and shoved beneath his bed.

  “We should eat in your room,” Fiona commented on her way past him and out the door, leaving him, as always, to follow. And she wondered why he’d stalked her. “Should he surprise us by arriving home early, we can slip down the spiral staircase without having to walk down the hall, and if we must escape, the dormer window in your room is the one overlooking the loggia roof, with its drainpipe.”

  “His friend is picking him up at seven. How far from the airport to this house?”

  “Fifteen minutes in light traffic, as long as a half-hour if traffic is heavy, which it should be at that time of the night.”

  He preceded her into his room, resisting the urge to slam the door in her face. “Did the announcement of his wedding mention honeymoon plans?”

  “No.” She set the chicken in the center of his bed, taking her usual position on the right side with her back braced against the headboard. “Why?”

  “If they went to a foreign country, then they’ll have to go through customs on their return, and if he flew in his own private jet, that might make a difference in arrival times.” At the shadowed look crossing her face, he regretted having mentioned a private jet. “I apologize. I forgot he no longer has a private plane.”

  “I’m sure he does,” she remarked, pulling a boxed chicken dinner from the bag. “He’ll have purchased one from the insurance proceeds on the one he blew up.” Her expression brightened. “Yet another charge we can get him on: Insurance fraud.”

  Grant joined her on the bed. “We have about thirty minutes before we need to head down the stairs. Eat fast, and keep your hands off the third dinner.”

  Chapter 24

  All across a nation torn by internecine warfare, families gathered together, reuniting after long separations. Soldiers home on leave, college students moving their possessions into familiar bedrooms for the long summer break, children disembarking busses after their stays at summer camp—across the country, hugs were being exchanged and grateful tears shed. In the Delaney home, a sister awaited her brother’s homecoming while sitting in a lawn chair at the base of a spiral staircase, a gun tucked in the back waistband of her blue jeans, the barrel, trigger guard, or hammer savaging flesh, no matter which way she shifted.

  There’d be no hugs, no tears, at this family reunion. Three years away had been too long for the vengeance she sought, too short for her wounds to heal.

  The five-foot square at the base of the spiral staircase made for cramped quarters when filled with two lawn chairs and two people. Using duct tape, Grant had joined the chairs, winding it over and under the aluminum arms until he’d created a durable surface for the lantern, laptop, and baby monitor receivers. Fiona sat in the company of a stranger while waiting for her family reunion to begin.

  She evaluated the thought. Was Grant a stranger? No, not any longer. Somewhere along the way, her stalker had become her friend. On the drive here from Worthing, he’d told her she’d one day be grateful for his interest in her. He’d been right. She could have done all this without him, but it had been easier, less overwhelming, with him here.

  “Incoming,” Grant whispered, holding up the office monitor.

  Fiona leaned forward to better listen.

  “Stop looking over your shoulder, or you’re going to hurt yourself,” the friend said. There it was. She knew that voice. An image began to rise of a face and a name to go with the voice, but Whitley’s next words stripped it away.

  “I saw her in Munich. Did I mention that? She was standing on the sidewalk, staring up at my window. She looked right into my eyes.”

  “Yes, you mentioned it. Several times. She’s dead, Whitley.” The sound of a keycode being entered served as background for the voice.

  “She’s not. She’s out there.” Whitley’s voice faded, and the office door opened and closed. Grant set the officer monitor back on the shelf. Several seconds passed before murmurs became distinct words while the two men approached the bedroom.

  “ . . . saw her in Munich, she can’t be here.” They entered the room.

  “She is, damn it! Don�
�t patronize me. I can smell her. Even as a kid, she had this special scent. Like seduction. The temple prostitutes must have smelled like Fiona. Like sex. Even as a kid, she drew men toward her like the whore she is, and all with her scent. I told you how it was. I wanted to take her, right then and there, had to leave the room, had to run from her before I did something I’d regret. And I tell you, I can smell her now.”

  Fiona felt herself go numb with horror. Whitley’s deviance went beyond the homosexuality she and Grant had suspected. Her brother was a pedophile. That’s why he kept the photo albums of his girls T-ball team in his special room. That’s why he’d taken exception to what he called her promiscuity. He’d had his eye on her all those years. He’d wanted his little sister for himself.

  She felt Grant touch her arm, and she looked at him, seeing concern in his eyes once again. Surprisingly, this time it didn’t anger her. This time, she took comfort in it. She wasn’t a nineteen-year-old innocent hiding alone beneath a desk while her brother called her a slut. She was twenty-two, and she had Grant with her.

  She froze when the chifferobe opened and cloth hissed against the wooden back. Neither of them had anticipated the use of the chifferobe, with its drilled holes for the speaker and the wire Grant had jury-rigged to open the secret latch from this side. She eased one hand behind her back and rested it on the butt of the pistol while Grant tensed, reaching for the bathrobe-tie handle. When the door snicked shut, Fiona removed her hand from the pistol, and Grant relaxed back into his chair.

  “Here. Get dressed for bed. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Big day? I get there at 8 AM. I park. I wait until Fortney shows. I pass off the package. I drive home. What’s so big about that?” His voice was trailing off. He must have gone into the study or bathroom.

  “It’s important. That’s what’s so big. You’re striking a blow for Zeitgeist.” His friend had raised his voice to be heard.

  “Speaking of striking a blow, you know who’s another whore?” Whitley shouted from the distance. “My blushing bride.”

  The friend muttered something garbled.

  When Whitley spoke again, his voice was muffled. “I thought you said she’d been vetted.”

  “She was,” the friend said, speaking loudly.

  “By whom?” Whitley’s voice was nearing.

  “By Fortney.”

  “Well, you’d better do something about Fortney. If you don’t, I will. No, scratch that. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, tell him exactly what I think of his background-checking skills.” Whitley walked into the bedroom. “She’s a whore. I won’t tell you what she tried to do in Munich, but she sure as hell isn’t the sweet Christian girl she pretended to be. Disgusting. Vile. I’ll be having the marriage annulled as soon as I’m done with this Jewish business tomorrow. And don’t even start in on me again about how I’m supposed to sire the next generation of Delaneys. Better no Delaneys at all than ones produced by a slut like her.”

  Fiona recalled the woman she’d seen on the newscast, a woman who’d seemed fresh, young, sweet, and in love. Sympathy rose. As far as Whitley was concerned, all women were whores, all women but those who’d taken a vow of celibacy. She remembered the hurt she’d felt when her brother had told her lover she was a slut. She’d been consumed with shame, but now she knew it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d slept with only one man, maybe even only thought about sleeping with one man. Even that would be enough to earn the designation of slut from her brother.

  The bedsprings squeaked. “She’s here. Fiona. I can smell her.”

  “She’s not here. She’s dead. Farley killed her.”

  Fiona and Grant shared a quick glance. She mouthed, “Is that enough?”

  He narrowed his eyes and then shook his head and mouthed back, “Fort Folly,” which made no sense at all.

  “And who killed Farley? Tell me that, Mr. She’s-Dead?”

  “We don’t know Farley’s dead, but if he is, the McDermott woman killed him, not your sister.” The friend’s voice held a trace of impatience.

  Whitley swore in the language of the gutter. “I’m tired! I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve been exhausted since I left Munich. Slept on the flight over, but it didn’t appear to do me much good. You might need to find a substitute delivery boy for tomorrow. I can’t remember when I was last this bushed.”

  Fiona couldn’t see the friend’s panic, but she heard traces of it in the tight voice. “We’ve gone through this, Whitley. It has to be you. You’re the only one Reinhardt trusts to get the job done right. You know this area; the other upper level members are all from out of town. You can get in and out without being noticed.”

  “Whatever. Get the hell out of here. I need to sleep.”

  “Which makes it even more important you quit thinking about Fiona and concentrate on tomorrow’s job.” Footsteps moved away and then stopped. “Seig Heil.”

  “Screw you.”

  The bedroom door closed, and Grant picked up the office monitor, holding it to his ear for several minutes before setting it down. “His gong,” he mouthed at her.

  Fiona considered the statement and decided he meant “he’s gone.” She nodded. Another failure to plan ahead. They should have brought down a notepad and paper for their communication.

  “Weird odd,” he mouthed.

  That one was tougher. “Weird what?” she mouthed back.

  He nodded, grinning at her and giving her a thumbs up. Grabbing his computer, he placed it on his lap, popping it open and powering it on. Fiona leaned back in her chair to better view his activities, watching him load the media player and poise the mouse over a file titled “Father_1.” He turned to her and mouthed “breading.” She nodded, hoping he meant “ready.”

  A disembodied voice emerged from the speaker. “Whitley, why break up a precious family, son.”

  The voice didn’t rise at the end, as it would have if phrased as a question, and it was choppy, enough so Fiona could recognize the two scenes from which he’d cut and spliced it. Nevertheless, it gave her the chills.

  The bedsprings squeaked. Whitley was sitting up in bed, but he didn’t respond.

  Grant clicked on “Mother_1.”

  “Whitley.” Fiona felt pain rise at the sound of her mother’s voice. “Why did you blow up Fiona and Harley?”

  The bedsprings squealed, and the soft pad of footsteps sounded on the carpet.

  Grant clicked on “Fiona_1.”

  “What made you hate me so much you wanted to kill me, Whitley?”

  “Shut up!” Whitley screamed. “Just shut up!”

  Grant paused with the cursor resting above “Father_2.” He waited, but all they heard was rapid pacing throughout the room. He clicked on the file.

  “I love you, Whitley.”

  “You didn’t! You didn’t! You wouldn’t have sent Mommy away if you loved me! You wouldn’t have locked her in the room! You wouldn’t have brought home that elephant-jockey slut if you loved me!” They heard the sound of glass breaking.

  Grant furrowed his brow in thought before jumping ahead to “Fiona_3.”

  “Whitley, is it that I’m half-Indian? Is that why you hated me so much?”

  “Half-Indian? Half-Indian? That’s a laugh! All Indian. All slut. All whore! You bitch!”

  Grant gave him thirty seconds of silence before clicking on “Family_1.” Laughter filled the room, first a peal from her mother, then a burst from her father, and finally a ripple from the child Fiona had once been. He hit repeat when it finished, and again, Whitley’s three relatives laughed. Over and over, Grant played the laughter track, his eyes narrowed while he angled the side of his head toward the bedroom.

  A low moan rose, sounding at first like wind creeping through the eaves but gaining in strength until the moan erupted into distinct words. “No, no, no, no. Leave me alone! All of you, leave me alone!” Footsteps departed at a rapid pace. A door slammed.

  “Where’s he going?” Grant whispered, his expression
alarmed. “He’s not going upstairs, is he?”

  “No, I think he went into the study.” She cocked her head, listening and frowning. “I can’t hear anything. Wait. Is that the toilet flushing?”

  They sat in silence for a minute, and then, at the sound of a staccato burst of curse words, Grant asked, “Why is he swearing?”

  “I don’t know. All I’m getting is that he has a foul mouth. Wait. There. The bathroom door’s opening. He’s returning.” Fiona stiffened in her chair at the sound of a howl followed by a resounding thud and a suspicious silence. “What was that?”

  “I think he fell down. We need to wait for him to get back up.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes before Fiona decided she could no longer handle the suspense. “I think he knocked himself out when he fell down. I’m going to check.” She stood.

  “No!” Grant shout-whispered. “It could be a trick.”

  “I have my gun. I’m skilled at both boxing and taekwondo. I also have little patience for the man who killed my father. I look forward to the opportunity to take him down.” Without waiting for him, she tugged on the wire, releasing the door and tensing when it swung open.

  The room was empty. No Whitley stood outside, waiting for her to emerge. She turned back to Grant. “Are you coming?”

  He raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed before rising to his feet. “If you’re determined to check, let me go first.”

  She shot him a disbelieving look and walked away, moving through Whitley’s study to the bathroom on the far side and stopping. Her brother lay on his front, half in the bathroom and half out, his face turned toward her, his eyes closed. He wore only pajama bottoms, and bile rose in her throat at the sight of his bare back.

  Whitley’s back was crisscrossed with short weals of raised scar tissue, some over half an inch thick. There was more scar tissue than there was unmarked skin. She wondered whether he even felt the lashes any more.