by David Perry
“I’m not letting you drive, Chrissie.”
“I’m fine,” she slurred.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and directed her to the passenger side. She resisted, pushing him away. Jason clutched her tighter, pressing her to him. Christine tried three times to free herself, each attempt weaker. She was no match for his strength. She relented, leaning on him as he opened the door. In two minutes, they were in traffic, headed to her house.
“Why did he hang up on you? Were you two arguing?” he asked as they drove.
“No, Daddy was preoccupied with something. Then all of a sudden he stopped talking and hung up. I finally got worried and went over there. Daddy was gone, and the place was a mess. I thought someone had broken in, but nothing was taken. I assumed Daddy was just being sloppy.”
“Chrissie, there are too many strange things going on. Your father dies in an accident because he was drunk. His house is a mess and he ends up dead in Smithfield. It doesn’t make sense.”
“He’s dead. What are we supposed to do about it now?”
“Would you mind if I took a look around your father’s house? Just to ease my mind.”
“I don’t see how that’ll help,” she said, her anger subsiding.
“Humor me.”
“Well, okay. I’m meeting the real estate agent at nine. I can show you Daddy’s obsession before that.”
“The box of files?”
“Yes. A box he’s been compiling for nearly thirteen years.” Her speech was slowing.
“What’s in it?”
“Files that supposedly support his conspiracy theories. There’s something else…”
“What?”
“The police questioned me about Daddy’s death. They did an autopsy. The coroner said he had a gunshot wound in the shoulder. It was sutured, but didn’t contribute to his death. They asked me if I knew anything about it.”
“Did you?”
Christine shook her head and laid it back against the passenger-side window. “No.”
“I need to see your father’s files. The sooner, the better,” said Jason. “How about tomorrow morning at seven? I think I’ll be pretty busy after that.”
“Why?” Christine asked.
Jason negotiated several turns but didn’t answer. Christine’s head slumped back against the headrest, angled toward the door. Soft snoring soon filled the car.
At her place, he roused Christine, helping her into the house and up the stairs. On the bed, he placed a pillow under her head and removed her shoes. He found a blanket in the closet and covered her with it. Before he went downstairs, he wrote a note about meeting her at her father’s house at seven and set the alarm clock for six.
Christine woke and asked him the question again, as if it would keep her from sleep. “Why are you going to be so busy?”
“I’m going to accept Lily’s job offer.”
CHAPTER 7
Thursday, September 21
“Ever thought of living here?” asked Jason.
Christine shook her head. Her hair was in a ponytail pulled through the back loop of a Virginia Tech baseball cap, and she was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. “No way. I have my own place now. I’m going to sell this old house. The last ten years were nothing but painful memories.” Christine studied the coffee in her cup.
She looked tired, he thought, remembering her state last night. “Found any booze?”
“I’ve been through every room at least twice. I never found a drop. Of course, I wasn’t looking for it or anything. But you’re welcome to take a look.”
“We better get started.”
“What do you want to see?”
“Let’s start with your father’s collection of conspiracy information. We’ll check for liquor as we go. Where’s the box?”
Christine walked toward the study, motioning for him to follow. “He kept it locked in the office closet, and he wouldn’t show it to anyone. It was a poorly kept family secret.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“I can’t find the key to the closet.”
They passed through the living room and into the office. The door to the study had been closed when Jason had attended the funeral reception.
“There,” she said, pointing.
The room was fifteen foot square with darkly stained wood and retro-seventies paneling. A wooden desk and a swivel chair sat near a window. A credenza struggled under the weight of books and papers. The closet was to the right. Jason tried the knob. It turned easily, and the door swung open.
“You said it was locked,” he said, turning to her.
“It was. I checked the day of the funeral. I didn’t want anyone opening that door and seeing it.” Christine stepped closer, inspecting the closet. “Oh, my God,” she said.
Five wooden shelves held office supplies, pharmacy periodicals, and old newspapers. A two-drawer metal filing cabinet was crammed to one side. But an empty space yawned next to the filing cabinet. Jason placed a knee on the carpet and ran a hand over the fibers. A rectangular depression was clearly visible. Except for a few scraps of paper, a filing cabinet, and dust bunnies huddled in the corner, the floor of the closet was empty. The files were gone.
* * *
“Where could he have put it?” Jason asked.
Christine frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe he moved it to somewhere else in the house.”
“I’ve been through every closet and space in the past week. There’s no box.”
“And you say this door was locked the last time you were here?”
“Yes. After the funeral. I can’t find the key.”
“When were you here last?”
“Today’s Thursday. The funeral was Tuesday. That’s when you were here. I checked it then. So, yeah, Tuesday.”
“And you locked up when you left?”
Christine nodded. “Someone’s been here, Jason!”
“Let’s go take a look.”
They began in the kitchen, checking doors and windows. The back door and the garage were both locked. Moving to the dining room, every window was intact. The office contained three windows, one behind the credenza and two on a side wall. Sitting on the credenza, he spotted a black console wired to the satellite dish on the side of the house. He’d noticed it at the gathering after the funeral. He read the name of the manufacturer: Digitronics.
“What’s the satellite dish for?” he asked.
“I have no clue,” Christine replied. “Daddy never watched much television.”
Jason tried the window over the credenza. Locked. A window on the side wall was also locked. The third, however, slid up easily. Wet granules of dirt lay on the carpet beneath it. They had been hidden behind the desk.
She grabbed his arm, fingernails digging his flesh. “Look!”
The sole of a boot was outlined in dirt on the carpet. “Someone’s been here.” Jason knelt beside the print and ran a finger over the granules of dirt and mud. “It looks fresh.”
He moved to the window, avoiding the footprint, and yanked it open. The ground beneath the window was damp with morning condensation. Footprints began where the edge of the driveway stopped. He pulled his head back in. “Is anything missing? Has anything else been disturbed?”
“Looks like nothing was moved since I was here last.”
“Someone was in the house.”
“I don’t feel safe,” she murmured.
“Have you been in every room of the house today?”
“No, I’ve been downstairs the whole time.”
“I’ll check the rest of the house. You stay here.”
“I’m not staying here alone.”
“Okay, come with me then. You can tell me if anything’s been taken.”
Squeezing Jason’s hand, Christine followed Jason up the staircase slowly. At the top, he pushed open the first door, revealing a bathroom. She stuck her head in and gave him a tentative thumbs-up. Empty.
The next door
, on the left, was also closed. Christine whispered, “Bedroom.” He cracked the door. It squealed as he slowly pushed it open. The bed was made, covered with a comforter. A dresser, a nightstand, and a lamp were the only other furniture. Christine pulled him into the room with her and opened the closet.
Nothing.
Two more bedrooms and a small sewing room in which Pettigrew had stored an assortment of odds and ends revealed nothing unusual. The last room on the right was the master bedroom. Confident they would find nothing, they entered casually. The room looked as if Thomas Pettigrew would emerge from the bathroom any moment. Nothing had been touched. His effects were still there, on the nightstand, including pictures of his wife, Eleanor, and a conspiracy magazine he’d bought at Dealey Plaza in Dallas. An envelope marked a page. Beneath that was a hardcover book about fake NASA moon landings. Jason felt like he was stepping back in time. He and Christine had made love in this very bed while Thomas was at work many years ago. A chill ran through him.
Jason scanned the room and then looked at Christine. “You haven’t packed this room up yet?”
“I didn’t have the nerve.” She moved to the walk-in closet. “There’s no one here,” she said, turning toward him.
Her words were cut short. A figure sprang from the shadows of the closet like a cornered panther.
CHAPTER 8
The huge, masculine figure rammed into Christine’s back, driving her into the dresser. Two small framed photos of a younger Christine dropped from the dresser top. Even as he was pile-driving her, the hooded man’s large, desperate eyes, visible through two wide holes, were focused on Jason.
Christine shook off the blow and watched as the intruder stepped over her and hit Jason from the side, wrapping him in tight bear hug, pinning his arms, and lifting him into the air. Jason, too surprised to react, hit the far wall between two windows, caving in plaster.
Jason’s nose and cheek hit first, his arms welded to his side by the bear hug. Hooded Man rammed him into the carpet, pressing his full weight onto Jason. A gloved hand moved to Jason’s neck and squeezed, choking him. Jason struggled, his face reddening. His breaths came faster and weaker. As he struggled, spittle flew from his mouth.
The attacker made no sound. The in-and-out pulsation of his mask quickened, but otherwise revealed no stress. Jason tried in vain to pry the hand from around his neck. But against the man’s godlike strength, his attempts were anemic. Jason rammed a fist into the midsection, hoping to release the choke hold. He failed.
A loud shriek filled Christine’s ears. She realized it was emanating from her own throat as she hurtled through the air. She slammed her shoulder into the side of the cloth-covered head. The man bounced into the wall beside the bed. Christine’s baseball cap dropped over her eyes as she gouged skin beneath the mask. She felt Jason scramble free beneath her.
The intruder’s arm whipped violently, shedding Christine like a rag doll. She landed in a heap a few feet away. Jason rose up and delivered a trio of punches with alternating fists to the mask Christine had dislodged. The eyeholes were filled with tan skin. The figure, temporarily blinded, was stunned by Jason’s blows. Loud cracks penetrated the air. The intruder rolled away. His hands moved to his face, readjusting the mask.
“Chrissie! Police!” Jason shouted, launching a side kick. It was blocked by an unyielding forearm, stopping Jason’s foot dead as if it had struck granite.
The man sprinted toward the door, past Christine and toward freedom. She flinched, thinking he might strike again. Jason jumped over Christine, trying to get at the attacker again.
Hooded Man grabbed Jason in midleap and flung him through the bedroom door. Jason’s head slammed into the doorframe, bouncing on the floor upon landing. The intruder raced to Jason and stood over him ominously, waiting for him to move. He turned toward Christine, who was retrieving the lamp from the nightstand. She took two steps in his direction.
The man sprinted down the hall and disappeared down the stairs. Seconds later, Christine heard the front door open. She ran downstairs and looked out. The figure was racing away through Mrs. Liggieri’s yard.
* * *
“I’m fine,” Jason persisted.
The paramedics had tried several times to convince him to get in the ambulance and go to the hospital. “You might have a concussion,” one said. Jason, steadfast, declined. They packed up their gear and helped him downstairs, planting him on the sofa. They told Christine he should not be alone for the next twenty-four hours, and gave her instructions to get him to a doctor as soon as possible. Jason signed a release refusing treatment, scratching his name without looking at the form.
A police officer waited at the bottom of the stairs, watching silently until the paramedics were gone. He asked Jason a few questions, who answered with his head in his hands.
“He had a tattoo on his arm,” said Jason.
“Where on his arm?”
Jason exposed the inside of his right forearm and pointed to the spot on his own arm without looking up.
“What did it look like?”
“Like a squiggly line.”
“Can you draw it for me?” The man handed the pad to Jason. He took it without looking up and drew the small tattoo.
The officer left, promising that a detective would follow up in a few days. He said that dusting for fingerprints would not help, since the attacker had worn gloves. “We have several units cruising the neighborhood,” he said.
* * *
“Kneel,” Lily commanded. Oliver obeyed and knelt on the thick carpet of her expansive bedroom. “Tell me what happened.”
He described the events of the altercation with Jason Rodgers, speaking in hushed tones. His Adam’s apple bobbed quickly several times during his monologue. Zanns listened patiently until he was finished.
“Did they see your face?”
“I wore a hood,” he replied, eyes downcast.
Zanns frowned. “That box must be found, Oliver. Go back to Pettigrew’s and search again. Then search the daughter’s house. Obviously, if he was looking for it, Jason Rodgers does not have it.”
“But the daughter doesn’t know where the box is,” Oliver offered, hoping this insight might help him win a reprieve.
“Nonetheless, Pettigrew may have hidden it in her house. Search it. You must find that box.”
Oliver slumped.
Lily patted Oliver’s shoulder. “You have failed me, Oliver. You are a true and loyal servant. If you were not so valuable, your punishment would be much more severe. Consider yourself lucky.” Lily could not afford to part with his services. His skill as a pilot and a bodyguard had served her well many times, and would do so again in the near future.
“Yes, Ms. Lily.”
Oliver remained, kneeling on the carpet while Lily left the bedroom. She returned with a blanket, bandages, gauze, and a jet lighter. She spread the blanket out and laid the supplies on it. Oliver lay on his back, his right hand and arm across the blanket, wincing in anticipation of the pain.
“Oliver, your incompetence could have crippled our mission had you been caught, stealing from Allah his chance for vengeance. Vengeance we have worked so long and so hard for. He has no patience for such clumsiness. Your deeds cannot go unpunished. It is no different than a thief who is caught stealing a loaf of bread.”
Lily recited a verse from the Quran. “As for the man who steals and the woman who steals, cut off their hands as punishment for what they have earned, an exemplary punishment from Allah.”
“I will not cut off your hand, Oliver. Only a fraction of it, to remind you that the mission is paramount.” The blades of the boning scissors gleamed in the dim light of Zanns’s desk lamp. “You will be cleansed of your sin. Do not repeat it!”
She slipped his right pinky between the blades as Oliver sucked in a deep breath. With a forceful, loud snap, the severed finger dropped to the blanket, followed quickly by large droplets of blood.
Oliver’s wail shook the walls.
Michael wound up and fired. His fastball zipped at Jason and popped like a rifle shot into Jason’s ancient mitt. A plume of dust exploded from the glove. Not bad, Jason thought. For the last two months, Michael had worked hard, throwing against the fence and with his father, to strengthen his arm for next year’s Little League season. This past summer he’d realized he needed to work on developing a curveball and his arm strength if he was going to compete against the year-round ballplayers.
Jason’s head still throbbed and spun like a carnival ride. He steadied himself by placing a hand on the driveway.
“Nice pitch, Son,” he said weakly.
Michael had begged him for a round of catch before starting his homework—a report about the code breakers of Bletchley Park during World War Two and their use of the Colossus, the world’s first electronic, programmable computing machines.
Michael fired another one straight down the middle.
“If you keep throwing them like that next season, they won’t be able to touch you.”
Jason always loved playing catch with Michael. He’d dreamed about it since before Michael was born. Today, it took his mind off his headache, eased the pain, and made him wonder about roads not taken.
Jason had always placed Chrissie’s face in the picture frame of his mind that was saved for his wife. When he’d dreamed about playing ball with his as-yet-unborn son, Chrissie was Michael’s mother, even in the years that followed their breakup. Then he met Jenny, married her, and those visions melted away.
Michael threw ten more pitches, mixing in a few change-ups and fastballs.
“That’s all for me.” Jason sucked in several deep breaths. His temples pounded.
“You okay, Dad?”
“Just fine.”
The ibuprofen dulled the pounding, and the nausea had resolved. But balance was still an issue. As a pharmacist, Jason knew he should have gone to the hospital. If one of his patients described the way he’d struck his head, Jason would have strongly suggested visiting an emergency room. X-rays or even a CT scan were called for. But Jason feared if they found something serious, there was no telling how long he would be confined to a hospital bed, and Lily Zanns would find someone else to become her new VP. That was a chance he was not willing to take.