Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  “Oh, Christ,” Alan breathed. “Tucker, I’m going to call Owen. I’ll be there soon.”

  I checked the phone face and the time displayed there. It was six-fifteen, the height of dinner hour. “You can’t come, you have to cook.”

  “Screw the restaurant, I’m on my way.” He hung up before I could protest any more.

  I sat on the damp grass in front of the house, careful to avoid the spot where I lost my lunch moments earlier. I hurt all over: stomach, hand, shoulder, face, my soul, my heart. Someone came into my house and tortured animals in there. They left shit and blood and entrails (yes, I recognized the mass of slimy pink and blood in the middle of the hall) everywhere, trying to poison my house, trying to poison me. They put something in my oven and maybe something in my washing machine or my dryer.

  My stomach started to twist again. I got up and walked around on wobbly legs, pacing from Alan’s car to the curb and back again. Who would do such a thing? Good God, if somebody wanted to get rid of me, shoot me or something! It wasn’t like I was protected night and day. Anybody could take a gun and kill me.

  As my thoughts slowed, so did my steps until I was standing in the middle of the street, staring blindly into space. What if John was right? What if someone tried to kill me in the car crash? I ran through it all, pacing it out. Someone—okay, let’s say Guy, because it was his car—Guy hit me. His car was far bigger and heavier than mine. It pushed me into the ditch.

  The drop into the ditch might have killed me. Those drop-offs were at least ten feet deep. Any car doing a nosedive into a ditch might easily result in death, especially if someone was stupid enough to not wear a seat belt.

  It was a crazy way to kill somebody, though. How could he be sure it would work? People have car accidents all the time and don’t die. If you want to kill somebody, wouldn’t it be better to do something that was a sure bet? Did Guy have the guts to do that?

  But why would Guy want to kill me? Why would he send me a threatening text message? I needed to show the text to Owen. I should have done it days earlier. Now I’d have to show him everything Will gave me.

  I almost slapped myself on the head. I couldn’t show him anything because my cell phone was in my purse and my purse was stolen. That explained how easily someone came in and did what they did. Forget the credit card and my identification. I could replace those. Holy crap, what else was in my missing purse?

  Will’s memory stick. My memory stick, with the copies on it. The knowledge settled over me like a pall. I actually shivered, standing there in the rays of the setting sun with the air hot all around me from the late June day. The information Will died for was gone.

  I glanced back at the house then I resolutely marched inside. The light was still on in the basement and I heard noises from below, maybe John shifting something heavy. I tried not to think about what he would find. I made straight for the canisters, lying scattered on the kitchen counter. Flour clogged the sink, mixed with coffee and sugar.

  I held my breath and sifted through it all, digging my hand into the canister and running my fingers through the mess in the sink. No memory stick and no list of files in a plastic bag. “Son of a bitch.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. I drew in a deep breath, held it, and raced through the hall to my home office. My desk was a mess. Everything on it was scattered on the floor or in the chair. My monitor and the CPU tower were smashed. Broken plastic and shards of glass lay everywhere. Sitting right on top of the remains of the CPU was a big metal brick, ugly gray and heavy.

  I kicked through the debris and went to the wicker basket, lying on its side in the corner. I upended it and cat toys rained out, bouncing and scattering. The red Angry Bird bounced, too, and I snatched it up, jamming it in my jeans pocket.

  I next went into my bedroom, grimacing when I encountered another pile of manure, heaped on the middle of my bed. I delved into my dresser drawer, pawing aside my underwear, taking shallow breaths through my mouth. I found my cache of checks and the two credit cards I never carried but only used online. I jammed the credit cards into my back pocket and tore off one check to use for identification for my account. I stuffed the checks back into the drawer and left the room, gasping for air.

  I emerged into the hallway and edged past the gory heap of stinking flesh outside my bedroom door. When I did, John came from the basement. He turned and I saw two kittens tucked into his enfolding arms, their front paws draped over his forearm. “They were hiding under the treadmill,” he said when I hurried to him. “Scared shitless, I’ll bet.”

  “Oh, John, thank you.” I turned to view the wreck that was my home. “What will I do?”

  He put his left arm around me, the kittens still nestled in the crook of his right arm. “We’ll figure something out. First let me get these guys into their cage. We’ll deal with it, don’t worry.” He went to the back stoop and gently pulled the kittens off his arm, setting them inside the cage there. “They’ll be fine here for now.”

  “Are they okay?” I knelt to peer at the two faces, both staring at me in a faintly accusing manner. Hey, lady. We come to live with you and look what happens!

  “They’re fine. Your dryer, though . . .” John’s mouth set in a thin, grim line, his beard twitching angrily. “They put a couple of chicks in there.”

  “Oh, God.” I stepped onto the stoop, anxious for fresh air, anxious to get away from the torture house. My house.

  Sirens blared and I jumped, almost knocking over the cat carrier. John put his arm around me again. It felt amazingly safe to have him there, holding on to me while I surveyed the carnage of my home. “We’ll figure it out, Tuck. Don’t worry.”

  I walked to the driveway to meet the squad car pulling up to the curb. Two officers emerged and I explained what we found. John went with them inside while I went to meet Alan, who pulled up at the curb behind the squad car in a large black pickup truck.

  “Tuck, are you okay?” He sprang from the truck and raced to me.

  I fell into his arms. He still wore his chef’s uniform and I pressed against his chest, the welcome aroma of warm bread enfolding me. “I’m sorry, Alan. You should be at the restaurant, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Shh, shh,” he whispered, hugging me gently. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  As we walked to the house, I steered him around my barf pile but he noticed. “Were you sick? You know what the doctor said, if you’re sick, it could be bad.” He stopped pulling me to a halt with him.

  “I’m fine. It’s inside, it’s what’s inside. It made me sick.”

  One of the officers came outside and met me in the empty garage. He seemed so young, with his smooth-shaven, pink cheeks and baby blue eyes. Then I saw the gun belt with all the gadgets dangling from it and the steely gaze in those baby blues. “Ma’am, we need to get some information from you. Let’s go over here and talk.”

  Alan looked uncertainly from me to the officer. “Can I go in? Can I help?”

  The officer nodded. “Don’t touch anything. We have to get fingerprints.” He steered me to Alan’s car. “You can sit in here, ma’am. You don’t want to go back in there now.”

  I sniffled. “It’s awful.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It is. We’ll find who did it, don’t you worry. There are bound to be fingerprints all over everything.” He was so solemn and upset I wanted to hug him.

  He opened the front passenger door for me and I sank down, my knees rubbery and weak. He started asking me a series of questions and I answered, my voice as weak as my knees. I was suddenly exhausted, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of what was ahead of me. My house was a wreck. I had no car, no purse, no credit card. I still owed fifteen years of a thirty-year mortgage and I knew I couldn’t ever live in that house again.

  While I explained about my recent hospital visit and release, Owen pulled up in the same dark sedan he drove the other day. He got out and the officer excused himself, going to the curb to talk to Owen before Owen came to see me.<
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  “This has been a rough few days, Tucker,” he said, his voice gentle.

  “I get the feeling it’s going to be rough ahead, too.” I ran a hand through my tangled hair. It came away with flour and sugar on it. I stared at it in horror. “They didn’t just trash the house, Owen. They defiled it.”

  He nodded. “I heard. We’ll find whoever did it and they’ll pay.”

  I tried to laugh but it emerged like a strangled croak. “A fine and a slap on the wrist, I bet. While I’m left with—” I gestured to the house, the movement almost unseating me.

  “You might be surprised. Sometimes the legal system is actually just. Stay here. I’m going inside.” He turned to go to the house when Alan emerged, his normally tanned face pale.

  “It’s disgusting,” he spat, coming to stand by the open passenger door. He leaned over it and regarded me. “You’re not going back in there. I’ll pack up your clothes and you’re coming to my house to stay until we decide what to do.”

  I didn’t even consider protesting. “Thanks, Alan. I don’t think I can bear to go in there any time soon.”

  John came out, carrying the cat cage. The two kittens stared bug-eyed through the grate at the sight of the outside world. He set the cage at my feet and joined Owen and Alan, grouped around me in the car. “Why would someone do that to her house?” His gaze shifted from Owen to me. “It wasn’t malicious. It was vicious.”

  “Whatever couldn’t be ruined was defiled.” Alan shook his head. “The oven. My God, what did they do? And the smell in the basement.”

  “They put a chicken in the oven and turned it on. Without plucking it or cleaning it,” John said, his voice rough. “And I found the remains of some chicks in the dryer.”

  “Were they alive when they . . .?” I couldn’t finish the question. I caught a glimpse of the anger in John’s eyes and I had my answer. “What did they do to the computer?” I changed the subject so I didn’t have to consider the death that happened inside. “They took a brick to it or something.”

  “It was a magnet. I’ve seen them in a factory where they need to separate metal from other material. A very powerful magnet. It probably wiped your hard drive.”

  “And with my purse gone, I have no backups. I used to keep backup memory sticks in my purse.”

  “Somebody has it in for you, that’s for sure,” John gently nudged the cat cage at my feet. “Thank heavens these guys hid. Who knows what might have happened.”

  I tried to pick up the cage, but my bruised ribs made such a movement impossible. I straightened, gasping with pain. Alan turned to Owen. “Is she needed here? Can I take her home? She just got out of the hospital. She needs rest.” He turned to the house. “Not this.”

  “I’ll check with the officers in charge,” Owen said. “I think it would be okay, but Tucker will need to provide a sworn statement and she’ll need to inventory the house to make a note of what was stolen.”

  I stared at him blankly. “Stolen? How would I know if something was taken? I won’t know that unless I go in there.” I swallowed, hard. “Owen, it’s awful in there. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “We’ll hire a clean-up crew,” Alan said. “You won’t have to do it. You come to my place and get some rest.”

  “But I can’t stay with you,” I protested. “What if I put you in danger?”

  “I don’t think it will be a problem, Tucker,” Owen said before Alan could speak. “John was right. This was a vicious personal attack, designed to get you off balance. If someone really wanted to harm you, they’d have done it by now.”

  I nodded wearily. “Great minds think alike. If Guy wanted me dead, a car accident was a stupid way to do it.”

  For an instant, Owen froze, his face stiff. Then he relaxed. “There’s nothing to prove Guy was the person driving the car.”

  I stared at him, amazed. “Who else would be driving it?”

  Owen shook his head. “Don’t make assumptions, that’s all.” He turned to Alan. “I’ll check inside with the officers, but I think she can go with you. I’ll have them come to your house when they’re done here.” He started for the house.

  “I’ll pack some clothes for you, Tuck.” Alan followed him.

  “Hold on a sec, Alan.” John walked with Alan to the garage, talking earnestly. Alan nodded before going with Owen into the house while John rejoined me.

  “John, I can’t thank you enough.” I reached again for the cage, but he beat me to it, lifting it easily and holding it so I could peer inside.

  “I’m happy to help, Tuck. You let me know if you need anything else.” He shook his head, his dark face somber. “That was nasty. Nobody deserves to have something like this happen to them, but especially you.”

  I craned my neck to regard him. “Why do you say that?”

  “You love animals. Whoever did that” and he jerked his head to the house, disgust clear in his eyes, “they don’t think of animals as anything but things.” He leaned slightly nearer me. “Did you lose any of the information you got from your friend?”

  I struggled to remember what I told John about Will. It seemed like all previous conversations were shadowy memories, heard through a thick wad of cotton. My brain was fogged. “I don’t know,” I said, hoping it was non-committal enough.

  He must have sensed my confusion. “I mean, you said your friend was at the factory and I assumed he or she would get information. You said you saw what they were doing.”

  “Not really,” I hedged. I switched my attention to the cage, praying John would take the hint and drop the subject. “I’m amazed they survived. I was sure it was their blood on the wall in there. I was sure it was one of them in the oven. I couldn’t have stood it. It’s bad enough it was—” I couldn’t continue. The day’s accumulated stress combined to make my lip quiver while tears rolled down my face.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, Tuck.” John set the cage next to the door and knelt on one knee in front of me, taking my hands in his. “I shouldn’t have talked about it. I’m sorry.”

  He was so worried I smiled. “I’m sorry, too, John. I remember you said you wanted to talk to me about something, but in all the excitement I forgot all about it. A B&B, wasn’t it? We were going to go to a farm, right?”

  “We can do it any time you feel better. You and Alan did such a great job with the Acorn. I can ask him about it sometime. You don’t have to do it.”

  “I’ll try to talk to him tonight about it.” I shaded my eyes with one hand to stare at the house. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, John.”

  “Try not to worry. I’m sure something will work out.” He stood when Alan came from the house carrying two grocery bags. John went to meet him, taking the bags from Alan and stowing them in the back seat. Next John took the kitten cage and put it on the back seat then he and Alan exchanged car keys. “I’ll talk to you later,” John said, leaning in to talk to me.

  “Thank you, John. For everything.”

  He clasped my hand. “Any time, Tuck.” He straightened and walked to his truck while Alan slipped into the driver’s seat.

  “For a minute there it looked like he was proposing,” Alan said in a teasing voice.

  “Not hardly.” I stared at the house in front of me. I knew I could never return. My life was irrevocably changed. I clenched my hand and grunted with pain when my two broken fingers protested.

  “Let’s go home, Tuck.”

  I wiped at my tears. “Yeah. Let’s go.” I turned to check the kittens on the back seat, but the pain in my ribs when I tried to turn made it impossible. I contented myself with angling the visor so I saw the cage in the mirror.

  “They’re fine,” Alan said.

  “Good God, after what they’ve been through, I’m surprised they let anybody touch them. I can’t imagine it.” I leaned my head against the car window. “It must have been done last night. So those poor kittens were in the house, smelling that awful smell all night and being scared and frightened.” I shuddered a
gain. “I should take them to a vet. I never thought about it because I figured I wouldn’t keep them, but what if they were poisoned? I saw those innards.” I shuddered again.

  “They’re wild animals, Tucker. They’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed doubtfully. “I guess my first priority is to figure where I’m going to live. I don’t know if I could ever go back there, Alan. I know it’s stupid but I would feel haunted or something.”

  “It’s not stupid at all. I’d feel exactly the same way. And you don’t have to worry about where to live. You’ll stay with me until we figure it out.”

  “I have a mortgage,” I said, thinking aloud. “I can’t walk away from it. I’ll have to remodel it and put it on the market. I’ll have to get an apartment. Good Lord, I’ll need to pay rent and mortgage.” I started trying to do math in my head, but I didn’t need to be precise to know it was going to be almost impossible. “Maybe if I clean out my savings account I can manage it.”

  Alan left Sherwood Acres and made a right then a left turn into his neighborhood, about a mile from mine. He owned a townhouse not far from the golf course. I knew he had ample space for me, but I was worried about the effects of two kittens on a house that was a designer’s dream. “There’s the third floor over the Acorn,” he said. “You could move in there. The caretaker’s apartment is still there.”

  For a minute I couldn’t figure what he meant. “What?”

  “Remember? The top floor has an apartment. We use it for storage now, but I’ll bet if we fix it up, it would be perfect for you. There’s a bathroom and a living room, a bedroom. There’s even a tiny kitchen.”

  I visualized the space in my mind. When we bought the glove factory, the building had an apartment for an on-site manager, who presumably acted as a security guard when the factory wasn’t in operation. The apartment was still relatively intact and closed off. We removed the floors on the west side of the building for pipes and equipment needed for the brewery.

  “Do you think so? It’s empty, but is it habitable?”