Accidental Evil

by Ike Hamill

  Jenny shook her head. With a car, she could hang out with fun people. She could go to the decent parties and find some older boy who was interested in more mature things. Sarah and Lily seemed like they were trying to stay little girls forever. Jenny wanted more, and she had no intention of waiting any longer.

  With that in mind, she picked up her pace. She knew just where her father would be.

  [ Boss ]

  She saw him from fifty yards way. It was his yellow hat that made him stand out. All the people who worked for her father wore orange hats. His yellow one let everyone know that he was the boss.

  She marched right up to him and folded her arms, just like his.

  “Dad, we need to talk,” Jenny said.

  “I’m a little busy at the moment, sweetheart.”

  To her eyes, he didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. He just stood there, watching the other men as they carried supplies from the truck into the little camp. It must have been like a clown car inside—there were way too many men going in and out of the tiny building. She couldn’t even imagine where they were putting all the lumber, pipes, and shingles.

  “It won’t take but a minute,” Jenny said. The important thing with her father was to be assertive and not take “no” for an answer. She knew she had to press on, even if he it seemed like she was being a bitch.

  “Sweetie, we can talk over dinner,” he said. “Right now I’ve got thirteen guys on a two man job. This has to get done pronto or I’ll lose a lot of money on this place this summer. Don’t you want to go to a nice college when you get older?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you have to let me do my job now. You can’t let your immediate needs overshadow your long-term goals, sweetie. You have to always remember that.”

  “Okay, but you can listen to me talk while you watch them for mistakes or whatever, right?”

  Her father sighed. “What is it?”

  “I need a job. I was turned down at your Bottle Redemption Center today.”

  “Hold on,” he said, putting up his hands. His eyes were locked on the men, but he seemed to be listening. “First off, that’s not my Bottle Redemption Center. I’m on the board that manages the collection of them.”

  “You started it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but then in…”

  “And you make decisions about which one stays open and which one closes, right?”

  “We have performance-based metrics that we consult…” he stopped himself and cupped his hands around his mouth to yell. “Gary! You and Frank take that upstairs to the loft, got it? Don’t leave that on the first floor.” The men shifted the heavy box in their arms. One of them glanced at the building and then back to her dad. He seemed to want to say something, but instead Gary and Frank exchanged a few words and carried the box into the building.

  Kirk Hilliard nodded and then turned back to his daughter. “What was I saying?”

  “You were saying that I would be a great employee, and any of your stores should be thrilled to hire me. I know the business and I’m a hard worker.”

  He reached to ruffle her hair, like he used to do when she was a little girl. She pulled back and gave him a warning look. She was a little girl when she wanted to be. Now was not the time.

  “Listen,” he said. “They have to make their own decisions because they’re responsible for the outcome. I wouldn’t let them come to me in a month with lower-than-average profits and make some excuse about how their margins were down because they hired the boss’s daughter. I won’t let them make that excuse, so I won’t tell them who to hire.”

  “This is me, Dad. I have to get that job or I can’t get the car. Remember?”

  “I’m not saying you can’t have a job. I’m just saying that I’m not going to pull the strings to get you one. You don’t want to work in bottle redemption anyway. Those guys bust their humps for pennies. Trust me, it’s not a fun summer excursion.”

  “I don’t care about fun,” she said. She held herself still so she wouldn’t stomp her feet. That would be a fast way to being dismissed. “I want a job.”

  “Why don’t you go up to Christy’s, or down to Dawn’s? You have friends who work at those places. Sounds ideal.”

  “Dad, those jobs are locked up years in advance. They’re passed between siblings, or only given out as favors. There are no leftover jobs, especially now that the summer has already started.”

  “Be persistent. Maybe someone will quit. Maybe they have someone who isn’t doing a great job. Show them that you can offer more than someone they already have on staff. Offer to work for less money.”

  “You’re impossible. Why can’t you just make them hire me?”

  “Honey, why would you think that one of my businesses is less important than you getting a car? I have a responsibility to keep those going. It’s not just for us, it’s for the families of all the people I employ.”

  Jenny folded her arms and turned away from her father.

  “Why don’t you intern for me? I’ll show you the ropes of all the things I do. You can take notes in meetings, make coffee. I won’t pay you much, but you’ll learn something.”

  Jenny tuned out what her father was saying. Her mind had already turned back a few sentences to something he had brushed by—what about when someone quit? Jeffrey had just left the stables. Those jobs were strenuous, long, and disgusting, but they paid well. Maybe she could slip into the hole that he had left behind.

  Jenny walked away from the conversation with her father. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was too busy directing his men. He had a lot of nerve lecturing her about the importance of his business. He spent most of his time overseeing building and renovation, but the profits from that work were minimal. In fact, the profits from most of his businesses were low. He only kept his head above water because he maintained a high volume of business. He liked keeping his hands in real estate because it meant they could move to a new house every couple of years. It made him feel like a big shot.

  Jenny was more practical than that. She had a very specific goal in mind and would work towards it. She wasn’t after status or prestige. She wanted her freedom, and it would come on four wheels.

  [ Adult ]

  Kirk Hilliard cut his eyes to the side and waited for his daughter to disappear down the road. Dealing with her mother was bad enough. How was he to know that Chelsea was raising Jenny to be an exact copy of herself? By the time he’d realized it, the pattern of selfish, entitled bitchery was so deeply ingrained that it was intractable. He loved his daughter, but at this point he was just trying to keep a shred of his sanity intact while he waited for her to be old enough to run off with some unfortunate guy. Maybe in ten years he could re-establish a decent relationship with his daughter. Maybe by then he could extricate himself from Chelsea without losing his shirt.

  These thoughts had worn a groove in his brain. They shot through his neurons so often that they were like a song stuck in his head. It was a terrible song with sour lyrics, but he couldn’t shake it.

  Well, one thing could shake it. A smile passed over his face as he climbed in his car.

  He rolled up next to Lyle and leaned through his window.

  “Make sure everyone clocks out after the last of the supplies are unloaded. I want them back over to the Davis place to make some progress on that roof tomorrow. Then it’s back here for demo. Got it?”

  “Yup,” Lyle said.

  Kirk nodded at him and backed towards the road. Lyle wasn’t always dependable, but at least he was always positive. Kirk headed south and turned on the access road that led up to the golf course. A quick nine was just what he needed to brighten his mood.

  The road up to the course was steep and the gate was closed. It was so steep that Kirk didn’t trust the transmission to hold his car there. He cranked his wheel to the side and then engaged the parking brake. He got out and climbed the hill to read the note.

  He didn’t get to it. One of the guys who wor
ked there—Brett? Bart?—appeared with a radio in his hand. He looked like the world’s least-intimidating Secret Service agent with his blue blazer and the ear piece dangling from his ear.

  “What’s up?” Kirk asked. “Closed on a Wednesday?”

  “Sorry, sir,” the man said. He gestured back up the hill with his radio. “Lightning struck the clubhouse last night. We’ve got downed lines and no power. We’re still waiting on CMP to fix us up.”

  The CMP truck was going to have a hard time up there. Kirk saw the top of a UPS truck just visible over the hill. Apparently, they could still take deliveries.

  “It’s five o’clock. How long does it take them to get out here?”

  The man only shrugged.

  “Call up Harry Frisk. He’s on the board and he knows people over at CMP. He’ll get you squared away,” Kirk said. He had the sneaking suspicion that Harry Frisk didn’t have any pull at all with CMP anymore, but it was important to him that this guy—Brett or Bart—wasn’t just sitting on his ass, waiting. The people who kept the golf course afloat paid way too much money to have their whole facility knocked out by a simple lightning strike. That’s the kind of thing that should have been fixed post-haste.

  “Mr. Frisk has been alerted,” the man said. “In the meantime, could I get you to a better location in case the truck does decide to come? They need to get a running start at the hill, and if you’re in the way they’ll have to back all the way down.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Kirk said, grumbling. His legs were already getting tired anyway. It was a bitch trying to stand on that tilted pavement. Whoever decided to make the driveway go straight up like that should have been fired. It wasn’t like they couldn’t have put in a switchback. “Is the lower gate open at least?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “We’ve put a few carts down by the parking lot. You should find a space or two open. Please bear in mind, we don’t have any drink service and the driving range is closed.”

  “Fine,” Kirk said. The limited options ruined his cover, but it would be okay as long as Brett or Bart didn’t ask any questions. It was fine—they knew not to ask too many questions. The members used the golf course for lots of things, and almost all of them required a certain level of privacy. The staff were well-trained in discretion. “Thanks.” He gave the guy a wave to let him know it was okay for him to get lost.

  Kirk got back in his car and started to back down. The least that Brett or Bart could have done was let him continue up so he could turn around. It was fine. He didn’t meet anyone on the way back down.

  Brett or Bart was true to his word—there were a few golf carts parked near the lower lot. The parking spot was little more than a rough clearing sprinkled with gravel, but it served as overflow parking when the upper lot was full. And the golf cart would haul Kirk up around the back of the ninth hole so he could reach the network of paths.

  Kirk glanced around for prying eyes before he turned onto the path that skirted the woods. When he found the spot he was looking for, he locked the brakes and took the key. If anyone stumbled on his cart, they would probably assume that he was off in the woods heeding nature’s call. In a way, he was. There was no trail where he was going. He picked his way through the trees until he saw the yard he was looking for. Before he stepped out onto the grass, he paused the make sure his shirt was tucked in and his hair looked okay. He dug a mint out of his pocket. He caught his breath while working the mint into the deep corners of his mouth.

  He smiled when she stepped out onto her back deck.

  “You should have called,” she said.

  His heart sank. Was she going to send him away?

  “I would have fixed you a drink if I’d known you were coming at happy hour,” she said.

  His smile brightened and he picked up his pace.

  “I need a drink when I’m not with you,” he said. “When I’m in your presence, you’re intoxicating enough.”

  He loved this phase, when they were still trying to impress each other with expressions of their adoration. She never called him corny, or frowned when he misused a word. Peg took him into her arms and then led him inside.

  Chapter 11 : Polhemus

  [ Dinner ]

  PEG’S AFTERNOON VISITOR WAS unexpected, but not unwelcome. He had caught her in one of those in-between times. She had finished her afternoon chores and was still deliberating about what to do for dinner. The Girls had asked her over to sit on their deck and talk about nothing until the sun went down, but she had given them only a, “Maybe.” She liked to keep the Girls at arm’s length so they didn’t get too familiar. She knew what they really wanted, and they could look elsewhere. Yes, she was game for the occasional affair, but she would rather invite in the sweaty Kirk Hilliard than put up with their nonsense.

  At least Hilliard would do all the work and thank her for the opportunity. The Girls would expect the opposite.

  Peg smirked at herself. The whole thing was speculation. The Girls hadn’t propositioned her directly. She had extrapolated their intent from a perfectly nice invitation. Still, Peg didn’t have the energy to deal with a long conversation tonight. There was a reason she had moved to the woods and not into a community, and it wasn’t about the money. She liked privacy. The occasional visit from a man like Hilliard was pleasant, but it was nice to get rid of him.

  She moved the shade to the side and watched him walk through the woods. He paused to make sure nobody was coming before he continued to the golf course. He was cautious—that was good.

  After her shower, Peg put on casual clothes and went to the kitchen. She poked through the cabinets, looking for something forgotten, and then perused the refrigerator. It was all the same old stuff that had been in there that morning. She didn’t have a magic refrigerator fairy filling up the shelves when she wasn’t looking. She leaned against the counter and sighed.

  Through the sliding doors, the evening invited her out. She could light the mosquito candles, fix a drink, and slide into a peaceful meditation out on the back deck. Her stomach rumbled at her, warning that it wouldn’t be satisfied with a liquid dinner.

  Peg pushed upright and opened the draw where she kept her menus. Fanned out on the counter, they were a sad lot. The middle of Kingston Lakes was pretty, but it didn’t offer a ton of options for take out dining.

  She could choose from a wide variety of pizza, subs, or fried seafood. One place even offered fried seafood on a sub. With a frustrated grunt, she swept the menus back into the drawer.

  There were two major things that Peg wouldn’t bend on. First, she was particular about her bathroom. When she lived with someone there had to be one bathroom that was hers alone. Growing up with seven siblings, most of them brothers, she refused to lift the toilet lid to discover someone else’s mess.

  She had a second bathroom-related rule—the bathroom had to be at least seventy-five degrees, year round. In the New Jersey farmhouse where she had grown up, the bathroom was tacked on to the side of the living room, and it had barely been insulated. The only reason the pipes didn’t constantly freeze was because the bare copper ran directly next to the wood stove. Even the toilet water would steam in the winter time.

  Peg’s private bathroom had electric heat, heat under the tile, and its own thermostat. One of her boyfriends had joked that she could bake a pie in there if the oven ever went on the fritz. She could take jokes. She couldn’t take a cold bathroom.

  Her other major rule regarded the variety of meals. At the farm, they had been served meat and potatoes every night except Friday. As an adult, Peg was careful to not repeat the same genre of meal more than once a week.

  An idea began to form. She pictured thick slabs of roasted meat, a puffy cloud of mashed potatoes, and soft green beans that had clearly been liberated from a can. The whole thing would be smothered in heart-stopping gravy. It was the exact meal her mother would have made on a Wednesday evening in July. Peg hadn’t treated herself to that kind of home cooking in years. She could aff
ord the calories—she had just burned off a ton trying to squirm underneath the giant Kirk Hilliard.

  And she knew just the place to get it.

  Peg grabbed her keys and her wallet. She thought about calling in the order, but then decided that it might be nice to sit out on the bench and look at the sun setting over the lake while she waited for her take out to be prepared.

  She smiled as she pulled the front door shut.

  The car was dirty. She assessed the mud as she circled around to the driver’s door. Maybe that was something else she could treat herself to. Tomorrow, when she went into town for groceries, she could stop at that gas station that had the fancy…

  Peg stopped and looked into the woods. She only had a couple of acres, but it was plenty enough for privacy with the thick woods around her house. The back of her property abutted the golf course, and they were the best neighbors she’d ever had. Although if an uninvited golfer was currently trudging through her woods, she might need to revisit that opinion.

  “Hello?” she called.

  She heard a whirring sound that she associated with a motor driving a telescoping lens on a camera. She turned to look for the origin of the sound, but she only saw trees.

  “If you’re taking pictures of me without my permission, I hope you enjoy lawsuits.”

  She heard the sound of high-speed fans, buzzing into top gear. Peg nodded to herself as she realized the likely cause. She turned back for her house and walked quickly to the door. Peg barely slowed as she crossed through her little living room. The shotgun was in its rack in the back of her hall closet. Peg popped it free from the hook and scooped a handful of shells from the shelf. At the door to the deck, she pushed open the sliding door with her elbow as she loaded the last shell.

  “Show yourself,” she whispered. From what she knew of those little helicopters, they didn’t like trees. Whomever was operating it would keep it in the open as much as they could. She pictured some punk in his family’s summer rental, geeking out with a headset on. He probably got his jollies spying on people. She wished that her shotgun could somehow shoot through the radio waves and zap the little punk right in his eyeballs. Until her inheritance had come in, Peg had spent years trying to get a classroom full of preteens to settle down long enough to learn some basic math. Now that she was retired, she had no intention of showing any mercy to kids who hadn’t learned basic courtesy.