Pursuit

by Gene Hackman

  “Oh, definitely community. You know, dogs, cats, kids, trees, and such. Whatever, the full disaster.”

  “I have a couple things I could show you both. Nice developments. When would you be available, Mr. Phil?”

  “Phillips. Sooner the better for us. We’ve got a couple of rug rats and a teenager that we need to get into school. Hold for a minute; I have to ask my wife something.” He covered the phone and then came back. “Ah yeah, thanks. Excuse the interruption. Today would be fine.”

  “We have a three-bedroom in the Bristol Heights development, asking two-seventy-five, or a lovely two-story farmhouse-style new home in our own development on the west side.”

  Bingo.

  “At the end of the street, lovely trees, somewhat isolated and yet a real part of the Thousand Pines Estates settlement. Large one-acre lots—”

  “That last one sounds fine. When can I see it?”

  “My husband and I will meet you at the office or the home at three o’clock. Would that work?”

  They agreed on the time, and, given that he didn’t want to sit through a half-hour sales pitch in the broker’s car, they would catch up at the house.

  He had an hour before the appointment to do a bit of a makeover. Tucking a compact throw pillow under his dress shirt, his jacket stretched tight over his middle-aged potbelly. A pair of mild-strength reading glasses from Walgreens and a beat-up snap-brim fishing hat.

  The drive back to the subdivision filled him with expectation. Over the course of his twenty-year career of extracurricular activities, he had become many different people. Charming and polite, aggressive, and even a passive, milquetoast kind of fellow. But never in a real disguise. It should be fun. Where’s the harm? he reasoned.

  “How does this suit you, Mr. Phillips?”

  They stepped out of their car, grinning like fools.

  “Seems fine. May I walk around for a bit, get acquainted?”

  The middle-aged couple gushed, “Make yourself at home.” The house, being used as a model, was decorated with run-of-the-mill furniture spread generously throughout. The first-floor bedroom looked into the woods. He unlocked the window and pulled the curtain shut, and then inspected the whole house.

  “You have done a nice job on this place. Can we look outside?” Upon first meeting, the couple had told him that they had a condo showing in an hour. He tried stretching his viewing so they would, pressed for time, lock up the front door and not reinspect the house.

  “Mr. Phillips, if you would like us to show the home to your wife and children, that can be arranged. The power is on; we could meet here in the evening, if you like.”

  Looking at the place from the street, he took his time, stating that he would come back with his wife at the broker’s convenience. It worked: the elderly man simply snapped shut the universal broker’s lockbox on the front door, and they all parted.

  He bought a portable radio at Kmart, using a credit card and driver’s license lifted from a man in the crowded checkout line. He picked up the rest of his necessities at a hardware store, relying a great deal on having seen what he thought was a dog tag hanging from the collar of mutt Scooter.

  Driving past the Thousand Pines Estates entrance, he made notice once again of the unfinished guard shack and electric gate. A half mile beyond the development, he turned right on Deerpoint and continued until he felt he was parallel to the house in the cul-de-sac. His aged Bronco blended with surrounding trailers and steel-sided buildings. He parked on the edge of the road closest to Thousand Pines, threw his backpack over his shoulders, and started his long trek through the virgin timber.

  The hike through the woods reminded him of days gone by. Dampened pleas, the excellent memories of yore.

  The dog whistle he bought upheld its advertised worth. Bringing on a horde of inquisitive canines, he easily curried favor with Scooter and bundled him into his arms, giving him just a whiff of sleepy time. The For Sale sign came out of the soft earth with ease. He wiped his prints and hid it behind the front door.

  The window he had unlocked earlier proved difficult, budging only an inch at a time. Finally, he entered into the stillness of the house, savoring the emptiness. The dog whimpered. It did, in fact, have an “If found, call 562-1242” tag. He turned on a few lights, plugged in the radio, and, in keeping with his impression of the neighborhood, tuned into a country music station. He laid out the items of his trade on the kitchen counter: the bottle of sleepy time, gauze, tape. Rope for that all important calming effect and cloth hoods for his new friends, to be used against the glare of the rising moon.

  “Hi, I’m new in the neighborhood. I have one cute but homesick puppy.” He gave his voice a lilt, his inflection leaning toward the benign.

  “Oh God!” Cheryl called out. “Aunt Billie, someone on the phone says they’ve got Scooter!”

  “I twisted my ankle at work, have to hobble around, can you come get this little rascal? Sorry. My wife will be home shortly; she can bring him to your place if you wanted to wait.”

  “Ah, thanks, but I don’t. Can you hold while I check with my aunt?”

  “Certainly.”

  With her leg now stronger, Julie felt better. Overall, not quite a new woman but passable. Her trip with Todd to the Preston house, insightful. She couldn’t imagine what Beverly Preston must have gone through, and by all indications, was still dealing with.

  While driving, she debated whether to call and tell Billie she was coming over to fetch Cheryl, or just appear. Better, she thought, to alert them so that Cheryl could pack and be ready. Julie dialed but then hung up. She felt a little unsure of herself these days and wondered if she was healed enough to ensure Cheryl’s safety while driving. Perhaps Mrs. Whitman from across the street could drive Cheryl to school tomorrow, and that extra day of rest would put Julie in better shape. The hell with it. She dialed Billie’s number; it was busy.

  Cheryl returned to the phone. “Who did you say this was?”

  “Phillips. Ronnie Phillips.” He nudged the dog with his boot.

  Scooter half yelped, half growled.

  “There, there, baby. What’s the matter? You want your mommy, don’t you? This little rascal is so cute. I don’t know where you live, but you’re welcome to pick up—”

  “Scooter.”

  “Ah yeah, Scooter the tooter.”

  “Can you hold on for a minute? I should tell my aunt—my mom’s friend. She’ll be right here. Oh, is that Scoot barking?”

  Reaching down again, he squeezed the neck of the little spaniel. Scooter bellowed.

  “I think I can hear him without the phone.” She laughed. “You’re down the street. Are you in the house that was for sale? At the end of the road?”

  “Yes, I’ll be going to bed soon. I hate to be a pest but—”

  “Be right there. I just have to tell my aunt Billie.”

  Charles went out the back of the house to the front door and snapped off the broker’s lockbox with oversized cutters. He left the door open a good foot and turned up the radio a notch. Scooter was held by a short length of newly purchased clothesline. It was a straight shot from the entrance through the living room and into the galley. The swinging kitchen door was propped open for a clear view of the chopping block in front of the refrigerator where the dog had been tied. He stood behind the door waiting to deliver his sleepy time.

  “Hello, I’m here!” She rang the doorbell several times.

  He waited.

  “Mr. Phillips, hello! Come to get the dog. Howdy-ho, knock, knock!”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth and turned toward the wall. “I’m back in the laundry room, come in, please.”

  “Sorry about Scoot.” She came down the hallway and stepped into the kitchen.

  He grabbed her around the waist from behind and pressed his nighty-night cloth over her nose and mouth. He felt the girl’s air leave her body. Holding her tight, he breathed against her neck.

  A voice came from the street. “Chery
l, you in there? Do you have Scooter? Cheryl?”

  He cursed his luck. Now the older woman was on her way. He tidied up the last few knots of rope and then hid once again behind the kitchen door.

  Julie let Billie’s house phone ring seven or eight times until voice mail picked up. She tried Billie’s and Cheryl’s cells, with the same fruitless result. She’d thought that Billie and Cheryl were eating in tonight. After the third phone call, she headed for Thousand Pines.

  He stood behind the door, the girl’s inert form at his feet, the impatient calls of the woman getting closer. He poked the tied-up dog with a broom handle.

  “Scooter, is that you, baby? Scooter, hello. Cheryl, you in there? Answer Aunt Billie, please. Cheryl!”

  “Come on in!” he called out, snorting a friendly chuckle. He stepped toward the kitchen, his back to the front door. “Come in, come in. We’re just having a—” He stopped and looked back toward the kitchen wall. “Ha, ha. Cheryl says Scoot wants to stay here.” He waved a casual invitation and stooped down to speak to the dog.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course,” he continued, on a pretense of petting the dog. “We’re just telling Scooter the perils of running away from home.” He stood up and in sweeping fashion gestured a “Welcome to my humble kitchen” just before she entered.

  He saw the woman glance down at his feet. A pair of bound hands snaked between his shoes. The woman bellowed when he struck her on the forehead. She held her hands to her face as blood splattered onto the tile floor.

  His plans had definitely changed. He now had two potential subjects, and he didn’t want either. But a lure was still a lure. Miss Julie’s missing brat would stir the very foundation of that woman’s soul. The older woman would serve as simple R & R and then be disposed of.

  A car made a U-turn in the cul-de-sac. After turning off the lights in the kitchen and the living room, he stepped to the door. He looked up the block to see Julie get out of her car and step carefully up the walkway.

  A country singer on the radio lamented lost chances and roadhouse bars. The neighborhood slowly came alive, with porch lights flicking on. A streetlamp halfway up the block cast a dim bluish glow over the dampening pavement. A light rain began to fall.

  He had to hurry; there might only be fifteen minutes before a search of the neighborhood ensued.

  Julie made her way up to Billie’s front door. The quaint coziness of the Pines had its appeal, but it was sad to admit that a playground across the street was no longer in the realm of Cheryl’s interests. It seemed mere months since her girl had hung upside down on their backyard swing set.

  She heard music down the street.

  The door was wide open.

  He stuffed their mouths with washcloths from the freshly decorated powder room and placed muslin cloth hoods over their heads, securing them with tape wrapped under their chins. Clothesline extending from tied hands to their necks joined the captives five feet apart. They were both drowsy, and he considered leaving the older woman behind in the house, but she had seen him.

  “Listen to me.”

  The teen, lying on her side, pedaled her legs, searching for purchase.

  “Listen, dammit. Stop thrashing, or I’ll make you stay still. Got it?”

  The hood shook up and down.

  “You’re going to get up now. You’re tied by the neck to this other woman. If you make a sudden jerk, you’ll strangle yourself or break bones. Hear me?”

  Once again the nod.

  He repeated his instructions to the woman, who got to her knees then struggled to a standing position, whimpering like the mutt. The only light came from the laundry room with the door cracked open. Leading the two women by their leash, he opened the back door.

  This would be the most dangerous moment. Although dark out, they would be visible crossing the yard, and conspicuous if hooded and led by a short length of rope. The girl in the lead tugged on her tether but stopped after he snapped the rope, hard. The light rain turned into a harsh downpour.

  Halfway across the yard, the woman tripped, and they both fell. Before he could get them on their feet, a rear door opened down the street, and light flooded the fence surrounding the property. He crouched down, his arms encircling his two captives. The fence might have saved him, the horizontal and angled boards creating a mixed pattern of shapes in the darkened yards.

  Distant lightning whitened the sky. He waited until it was dark again and pulled his charges back on their feet, hustling them into the edge of the woods.

  Scooter barked twice, his sharp voice dulled by heavy rain. He had locked the pest in the powder room. Now he wished he had strangled the little bastard.

  The trio made its way into the woods, the two females stumbling while being led through the rock-strewn forest. Charles glanced back at the development. In the distance, through the trees, he saw the revolving blinker lights of a police car. He damned his luck. He had to either cut and run or lighten his load.

  The younger of his two burdens stood head down, almost calm, while the older woman struggled with her bindings. He walked to her side. “Stop your infernal Hoochie McCoochie, or I’ll place a rock upside your head, hear me?”

  He led them onward through the slash and rocks of the dank forest.

  In the near distance, Charles saw the dim house lights he’d noticed when he parked earlier, off to the left, several light poles away. He waited, uncertain if he should proceed with both his prizes. The heavyset woman continued her weeping and pulled against her rope restraints.

  “Either quit your blabbering, or I’ll put an end to it for you. You choose.” Charles yanked on the lead rope hard, pulling both his captives off their feet and onto the rock-and-weed forest floor.

  The older woman bucked, making wet choking sounds as Charles cut the rope between them. He pushed the girl toward the road, leaving the woman behind on the ground. The older one was more dangerous to have around than any benefit she would have provided later.

  He retrieved his vehicle and secured Cheryl in the back. Settling into the driver’s seat, he reconsidered leaving the woman in the woods. If she talked, it could be difficult for him later. He eased himself out of the truck and headed back into the tall trees.

  Billie was lying right where he’d left her. Legs pulled up tight to her chest, her head turned into the earth.

  “You had to kick up a fuss, didn’t you?” he whispered. “Had to show your hind side, be all whiney, right?” He poked her with a long stick. “I’m talkin’ to you. Shake your head.”

  She lay still.

  He stepped closer, nudging her with his toe. “You playing possum, hefty?”

  The smell of corroded earth and animal death penetrated Charles as he walked back to the truck. He felt no guilt about the lump of humanity lying soaked and still in the blackened forest. She had caused her own demise by being desperate and unruly. After all, he was only having a bit of fun.

  Julie searched the house and took a quick look into the backyard. Neither Cheryl nor Billie answered her calls. Julie thought the dog might have strayed and they went in search. But they would have gone on foot as Billie’s car was in the drive. She stood by the front door, watching as the rain eased.

  She got a flashlight from her car and headed for the playground. She met up with a couple and their son crossing the street.

  Julie aimed her flashlight down at the wet pavement. “Excuse me, I’m looking for my daughter and Miss Cooper from across the street.” She gestured toward Billie’s house. “Have you seen them?

  “That hefty gal with the pesky dog,” the man said to his wife. “Haven’t seen them. That cur was yapping a while ago down the street toward the end there. Who wants to know?”

  “Just a friend, thank you.”

  “ ‘Friend’? We’re careful around here about strangers.”

  “I’m an officer. Just concerned; the door was left open.” She took out her badge and turned to walk away. “Thanks for your help.
”

  “Ma’am, would you like me to accompany you?”

  “Thank you, no!” she called out. Just what she needed. A neighborly vigilante. It didn’t make sense. If Cheryl and Billie were in the vicinity, they would be calling for the dog. It was too quiet. She walked deep into the playground and then rested her leg on the pipe supporting the teeter-totter. In the back, toward the lit street on the other side of the development, she saw picnic tables and trash cans. A gully separated the green area on the near side from the backyards on the other street. The only way to check out the rest of the development would be in her car.

  Driving, she moved her flashlight back and forth across the street and pointed it toward the end of the cul-de-sac where she had turned around earlier. Nothing.

  Somewhere from behind, she detected whining. Then a crisp bark.

  She picked up her phone. “Todd, listen to me. I’ve got a problem. I can’t figure it out.”

  “Where are you? I’ll come over.”

  “Would you? I’m out at my friend Billie Cooper’s in Thousand Pines.”

  “Be there in fifteen.”

  Julie went to the end of the street and saw no signs of a dog. Going back through her friend’s house, there were no indications of struggle or violence. She stepped outside. Once again a light drizzle slicked the black asphalt before her.

  Todd arrived sooner than expected. They stood in Billie’s living room.

  “What worries me is her car is in the driveway. I’ve been here for almost an hour, maybe less, and—” Julie noticed lights blinking. “What’s that?”

  Todd parted the curtains. “Police. Local guys. Let’s go cool them down.” They took out their badges before meeting up with two officers pulling up in their patrol car.

  “State troopers, fellows. Not sure if we have a situation here or not.”

  “We got a call from a guy who says he lives here in the development.” The lead officer seemed receptive.

  “That’s me, Officer. I called. It seemed suspicious.” The ever-vigilant home owner walked up behind them.