Safer

by Sean Doolittle

Shit.

  Roger was home.

  30.

  OPTIONS:

  I could run downstairs, slip out the front door, hope Roger didn’t see me. I could walk downstairs, meet Roger in the garage, and shove my credit card statement in his face. I could hide up here under the desk.

  Meanwhile, the engine growl grew louder, shifted to a lower pitch. I heard what sounded like a screech of steel on steel. What sounded like a chain rattling.

  What the hell was he doing down there, ramming the house? I went to the window, peeled back the curtain.

  Down below, on the street, I saw a big green truck from Deffenbaugh Waste & Recycling making its way around the circle. Two guys in orange vests hopped off the back of the truck, hauled the garbage cans and the recycling tub from the curb in front of Pete and Melody’s house. I heard the sound of glass, clattering and shattering. I could actually hear voices; the guys in the orange vests were talking to each other.

  It sounded almost as though the voices were coming from inside the walls. I realized that I wasn’t hearing this over the baby monitor.

  On this side of Roger’s desk, the east wall of the office made a right angle into an open alcove. I looked around the corner and noticed, for the first time, another door.

  This door didn’t match the others on the upper floor. It had been drilled and outfitted with hardware, but never painted. Along the edge, I saw combination keypads for not one, not two, but three separate dead bolts.

  The door itself stood slightly ajar.

  Roger really had left in a hurry.

  I suppose you could write a paper on the occurrence of magic doors in literature—portals through which a character passes into another world, leaving the familiar one behind.

  On the other side of Roger’s door, I found attic space that had been walled off into a sort of secret garret. Maybe ten feet long by five feet deep, the slope of the roof disappearing just overhead. The space smelled like insulation and lumber.

  There was another chair in here, parked in front of a built-in ledge with a laptop computer connected to an array of external hard drives. The sound of the garbage truck continued to bang and clank from a small speaker box mounted on a wall stud.

  Sitting in the chair, I could watch the sanitation crew outside on the bank of video monitors Roger had installed in here. He had nine screens in all, mounted in a configuration that approximated the layout of Sycamore Court.

  The largest screen dominated the center, displaying the playground in full color. Around this screen, there were smaller black- and- white monitors mounted in pairs. Each set of monitors displayed the front of a house on top, a backyard beneath.

  Looking at the arrangement of screens like a clock, I could see my own house at eight. Pete and Melody at ten. Trish and Barry at noon, Michael at two.

  The grumbling growl of the city garbage truck grew louder over the speaker as the truck pulled into the top screen of the last pair of monitors. The truck was right outside, in front of Roger’s house, the four o’clock position in the circle of screens.

  The speaker clanked and hissed.

  Almost without thinking, I touched the pad of the laptop. The screen flared to life. It didn’t occur to me then, but thinking back, it seems ironic that there was no password required. Who needed a password with three combination dead bolts on the door?

  There were open file directories for each house in the circle. Each directory contained video files named by date, sorted by month. It looked as though Roger had been working on archiving the past few weeks’ worth of surveillance footage.

  I rolled the chair forward and accidentally kicked a heavy object beneath the ledge. The object turned out to be a banker’s box. I got down on my knees and pulled the box out. It had a white label on the lid: 36 Sycamore Court. Printed on the label beneath the address was the name Seward1. I pulled out the box next to it. Seward2.

  The space beneath the ledge turned out to be lined with boxes, each labeled—same as the file directories on the laptop— according to address.

  At last I reached the box with our name on it. I felt like I’d stepped into some absurdist dimension, maybe ten feet long by five feet deep, located somewhere behind the north wall of reality.

  Screech, clank, growl. The garbage truck pulled away from the curb, out of the frame of the security monitor. The growl slowly faded, and the small black speaker fell silent. The sudden stillness clanged in my ears.

  Faintly, on the other side of the wall, Wes yipped in his sleep.

  I opened the box labeled Callaway and followed my own rabbit down into its hole.

  31.

  “HUH,” the first cop said.

  I said, “Do you see?”

  The other cop looked at the tree and scratched his head. “Huh,” he agreed.

  They both looked to be in their late forties, early fifties. The first cop was tall and thin, the other short and round. I imagined them riding the midday shift until their pensions kicked in.

  The three of us stood at the split rail fence separating the back line of our property from the nature preserve. Ten minutes in Roger’s attic was all I could stomach before calling the police and making a trespassing complaint. Setting aside a misplaced golf club, our break- in that July had left me more or less impressed with the local law. Even my last meeting with Detective Harmon, while frustrating in its outcome, reinforced my general perception of competence and profes sionalism.

  Not so much that afternoon. It was as if the Clark Falls Police Department had resurrected Abbott and Costello, dressed them in guns and uniforms, and sent them over to my house.

  “They’re all the way around the circle.” I made a revolving motion around my head.

  “I see,” said Officer Tall.

  Officer Short nodded. “Okay.”

  While the trees stood nearly bare of leaves, it still had taken me nearly thirty minutes of searching before I’d finally found what I now showed the cops: a small wireless camera, about the size of a deck of playing cards, mounted in the crook of a hack-berry tree just outside the fence. The mounting bracket and the camera itself were both colored in a forest camouflage pattern. From the yard, the device was difficult to see even after you knew where to look.

  I looked at the two cops. “Well?”

  They looked at each other. Any ideas?

  Officer Tall said, “Is it even on?”

  “I don’t see a light,” Officer Short said. “Seems like there’d be a light.”

  “It’s on,” I said. I’d told them an edited version of my experience inside Roger’s house: dog, note, open door, video monitors. “I’m telling you, if Roger were home right now, he’d be able to watch us standing here.”

  Officer Tall looked at Officer Short. “Is that illegal?”

  Short thought long and hard. He finally said, “I guess it’s state property, technically.”

  “The camera?”

  “The tree.”

  “Guys, come on.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was as if the three of us weren’t speaking the same language. “Surely there’s some kind of law. Invasion of privacy or… hell, something. Right?”

  Tall seemed to understand my distress. “You’d think so.”

  “Playground and the sidewalks are public areas,” Officer Short said. “I don’t think anything says you can’t point a camera at a public area.”

  “This isn’t a public area,” I said. “This is my backyard.”

  Officer Short squinted at the camera, then turned to look at the house. Seemingly to no one in particular, he said, “Can it see in through the windows?”

  “If you’d found the camera inside the house,” Officer Tall said, “then we’d definitely have something.”

  Either these guys were screwing with me, or I really had stumped them with my camera- in- a- tree problem. Either way, I’d given up on them. “Is there somebody else you could call?”

  “Call?”

  “To look in the statutes or s
omething. You can’t go around planting cameras on your neighbors, can you?”

  “Well, sir, it’s like I said—”

  “Put yourself in my place. You guys have homes, right? Families?” I pointed at the camera. “How would you feel?”

  Officer Short looked at the tree one more time. He looked at the house again. He glanced toward Pete and Melody’s backyard, where I’d showed them the exact same sort of camera mounted in the lower branches of a big Dutch elm.

  “Seems a little creepy,” he finally said. “I’ll give you that.”

  Officer Tall said, “Have you discussed the issue with any of the neighbors?”

  “I will, believe me. But I just found the things. Everybody’s at work.”

  “And are you employed yourself?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing,” Officer Short said. He gave Officer Tall a sideways look.

  “I teach at the university,” I told them. I hadn’t intended to lose my patience. “Do you need to see my vita before you can help me?”

  “No offense intended, Mr. Callaway. My partner’s just establishing a framework.”

  Officer Tall said, “What’s a vita?”

  I was finished. “What kind of framework do you need? I’m telling you that Roger Mallory put that camera”—I pointed at the camera, then the tree—”in that tree. Without my permission and without my knowledge. Without my wife’s knowledge.”

  Officer Short nodded along. He understood. He was here to help me. He said, “Any ideas as to why Mr. Mallory might do something like that? If you had to speculate?”

  “He’s filming a reality show. He’s romantically obsessed with my wife. He’s had a psychotic break and thinks he’s Generalissimo Francisco Franco.” I threw up my hands. “How should I know why Roger put a camera up a tree?”

  “Mr. Callaway—”

  “If I had to speculate, I guess I’d say he did it so that he could watch what we’re doing without our knowledge.” I touched my chin. Hmm. “I think it’s the camouflage on the camera. You know, the way it’s all hidden there in the tree and everything?”

  Officer Short straightened his posture.

  Officer Tall seemed to be scrutinizing me a bit more closely now.

  I sighed. Piss off the cops you called yourself. Good plan. “Guys, I’m sorry. I’m just a little bit wound up about this. I don’t mean to be difficult.”

  “Sure,” Officer Tall said.

  Officer Short nodded. “It’s an unusual situation.”

  “Bottom line, I guess all I really want is for that camera to come down. The one pointed at the front of our house, too, wherever that one is.”

  Of course, I wanted more than that, but I needed to be careful. I couldn’t just fly at these cops with everything I’d found while snooping inside Roger’s house. For one thing, I’d been snooping inside Roger’s house. And I was already starting to sound like a lunatic.

  But I could point to this little camouflaged spy camera I’d found in this tree behind my house, and both of these cops could see it with their own two eyes. It was a start.

  “We can certainly understand,” Officer Short said.

  “Just for our knowledge,” Officer Tall said, “have you asked Mr. Mallory to remove the cameras?”

  “Like I told you. I just found it.”

  “Well. We’ll certainly talk to Mr. Mallory.”

  Even as he spoke, I could hear a car approaching. In a moment, I saw the side of Roger’s GMC flashing between the bare trees along Sycamore Drive.

  “Speak of the devil,” I said.

  It turned out that Roger had been called away from home unexpectedly. One of the elderly residents down the hill had taken a nasty fall on her back steps, and instead of dialing 911, she’d crawled to the nearest phone and called Roger.

  Sure. Why not?

  Officer Tall, it turned out further, was named Bill. Officer Short answered to Stump.

  What the hell had I been thinking? Of course they’d all be on a first- name basis with Roger. He’d been on the force. Three cops, plus a little old lady who had broken her ankle and had nobody to help her.

  And then there was me.

  “Paul,” Roger said, as though I’d hurt his feelings. “What’s this all about?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” I tried to make my eyes say, Go ahead. Tell Bill and Stump here what this is all about.

  “But you signed the service contract.” Roger glanced over his shoulder. “I have it on file in the house.”

  Officer Bill said, “Service contract?”

  “Roger.” I shook my head. “Come on.”

  Roger seemed genuinely pained by my antagonism. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “This service contract,” Officer Bill said. “Do you remember signing anything like that?”

  I said, “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

  “Rodge, sorry,” Officer Stump said. “Maybe you can—”

  “I didn’t sign up for a camera in a tree, or anywhere else, I can assure you.”

  Officer Bill held a hand up to me. Officer Stump followed with a warning glance. To Roger, he said, “Maybe you can explain?”

  I could hardly fault these two cops. They were just doing their jobs. And Roger had an answer for everything.

  He began by explaining that each home in the circle was secured by an alarm system from Sentinel One, Incorporated. “John Gardner’s outfit. Either of you guys know Johnny Gardner before he retired?”

  John Gardner. I thought of the bald, hawk- faced man I’d met in Detective Harmon’s office several weeks earlier. So that was Roger’s old friend from the force? I thought of the way he’d watched me in the parking lot that day.

  “Lieutenant Gardner,” Officer Bill said. “Sure.”

  “Well, he’s on my board of directors,” Roger said. “And I do a little consulting for Sentinel One. Don’t tell any of John’s other customers, but he runs a little value- add for us over here.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Whole circle’s wired for video,” Roger said. “Sentinel provides the equipment, I maintain the feeds, do the backups there in the house.”

  “So the other neighbors are aware of the cameras, then?”

  “Aware of them?” Roger chuckled. “Hell, they pay for ‘em.”

  Both cops looked at me. My head felt numb. I said, “No body told me anything about video cameras.”

  “Paul, I just don’t know what to say.”

  Roger was putting on a hell of a show. I looked at him.

  “I figured you knew what you were signing.” He sighed. “I’m truly sorry. If you and Sara want your cameras down, we’ll get them right down.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet.”

  Just then, Melody Seward turned in to the circle in her Acura, on her way home from her shift at the bank. Her eyes widened as she drove around, passing me and two cops standing in Big Brother Mallory’s driveway. I thought back to one of the video files I’d scanned on his laptop. A Saturday night, only three weeks ago. On fast forward, it looked like Melody jogging over to our house, staying for an hour, then sprinting back to her house.

  “I was even sorrier Heartland Realty wouldn’t let me get a feed up while your place was on the market,” Roger said. He gave Officers Bill and Stump the quick rundown of our break-in, then explained that the previous owners hadn’t wanted an alarm system from Sentinel, despite the neighborhood discount. “We’d had the cameras running that night, maybe we’d have caught the son of a bitch.” He looked at me as though daring me to keep going. Anything else you want to add?

  “This is incredible.” I turned to the cops, unable to stop myself. “He’s been going through our garbage, too.”

  “Sir?”

  “I found my credit card statement on his desk.” My voice seemed to be climbing in spite of my efforts to seem like the reasonable party here. “I tore it up last night, and he taped it back together a
gain.”

  The conversation went downhill from there. According to Roger, the raccoons had gotten into our trash. It had been windy overnight, and the litter had blown into his yard.

  “I guess I probably stepped over the line a bit.” He put on a sheepish look. “I’ll admit that.”

  The cops nodded along supportively, waiting to hear more.

  “Paul,” Roger said, speaking to me, but framing his words for Officers Bill and Stump, “I was going to give that thing back to you and Sara next time I saw you. Figured maybe I could talk you folks into getting yourselves a paper shredder.” He sighed. “I just wanted to show you how easy it would be for a person to piece together all kinds of personal information if they wanted. You just never know what somebody out there might do.”

  “Not these days,” Officer Bill said.

  “Bought my wife one of those things,” Officer Stump conceded. “Paper shredder, I mean. You can get ‘em pretty cheap.”

  At that point, watching Officers Bill and Stump swallow Roger’s ridiculous explanation hook, line, and sinker, I realized that these two ham hocks were taking every word he said as gospel.

  Ask him to explain why he’s got personal files on all his neighbors, I wanted to tell them. Ask where he got our Social Security numbers. Ask him to explain why he’s got a copy of my doctoral thesis from the NYU library. While you’re at it, ask him to tell you about some guy named Darius Calvin. Because he’s got all kinds of information about some guy named Darius Calvin. I’m anxious to hear more about that one myself.

  But it was three against one. I was outnumbered and outgunned. The victorious warrior wins first.

  I said, “You guys aren’t going to do anything about this, are you?”

  Officer Stump turned to me. “Sir, I’ll be honest. At this point, I’m not clear on what exactly you’d like us to do.”

  “As far as I can see,” Officer Bill added, “the trespassing complaint here isn’t yours.”

  They both looked at Roger.

  Roger shook his head. “No, guys. There’s no complaint here.”

  “You sure about that, Rodge?”

  “I think all we have here is a misunderstanding.” Roger shook his head again for emphasis. “As far as I’m concerned, Paul did me a favor.”