Death Watch

by Elizabeth Forrest

  Hotchkiss sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. He blinked several times to clear his eyes, then smiled as the mountain home focused in his sight. He loved his mountain retreat. He called it a condo, to avoid speculation about its worth, but it was a house, all his, all three stories, meandering and stacked and built in a most unconventional way on the sharp hillside overlooking the lake. He’d bought the house in foreclosure several years back when the real estate market had absolutely crashed to a ten year low and interest rates had plummeted afterward, though the second mortgage had been straining. Then his grandmother had died and the strain was gone, and he was eternally grateful he had not missed this window of opportunity.

  He reached around back for his duffel and slid out of the car. This was his haven, this was home, this was where no one else could reach him or touch him. He had no phones here, though his cell phone, if he left it on, could function. He didn’t think he would even turn it on today. This afternoon, this day, these last rays of sunlight, he intended to enjoy.

  Tomorrow morning he would think about what to do.

  Hotchkiss threw his keys on the foyer table and locked the door behind him. Through this section of the house, he could see the sunken living room with its fireplace, and beyond, the deck.

  Fallen branches and small, rusty piles of needles littered the deck. A few pinecones had eddied to a stop in the deck corners. He could sweep for a while, just enjoying the rhythm of the corn straws across the redwood, or he could go upstairs, fill the spa, and wait for it to heat.

  That sounded better.

  He took a detour through the kitchen, found some imported beer still cold in the refrigerator, popped the cap, and carried it with him. The mountain air had made his mouth feel like it was full of cotton and the beer tasted great. This would be a premium day after all. Peaks and valleys, peaks and valleys, all life was peaks and valleys. Guess it took a valley to make anyone appreciate a peak.

  Upstairs, the wing took a sharp turn, and then wound around. The guest rooms and first set of bathrooms and storage closets were here. He opened a door which looked as though it belonged to a pair of additional closets and, two at a time, took the stairs to the third and master floor. The wood creaked as if welcoming his step. He could smell the faint scent of the cedar lining the closet even before he opened the door to the master suite.

  It was not opulent, despite the dhurrie carpet and several lamb rugs scattered over the planked flooring. The massive bed, the dresser, and armoire were all in Danish modern, spare and clean of line. He tossed his duffel onto the bed and went straight to the bathroom, which was a corner of the suite. The cobalt-colored tile bathroom beckoned, but he stepped past it to another deck, hidden completely from any other aspect of the house, and began to fill the spa. A squirrel ran along the railing, flipped his tail when spray from the tub caught it, and ran away chattering. Stephen set the heater as well, not hot, for he wanted it tepid, then returned to the bedroom to unload his duffel.

  He paused when his fingertips came across the software. He took the laser disk, then Frisbeed it across the room into a shadow-darkened corner. He would deal with it when he felt like it. Tomorrow. Perhaps later tonight. Maybe he would roast it in the fireplace, then sink its warped remains in the lake. He stripped down to swimming trunks, finished unpacking and laying out clothes for the next day. The massive cedar-lined closet filled the room more fully with its aromatic scent.

  The spa shut off when it reached its fill line. Stephen lay down on the bed and waited for the heater to bring the water up to its preset temperature. He stared at the ceiling, rough-hewn beams painted a soft, yet very dark blue, with ivory, amorphous stars splattered here and there. It was not unlike the sky and cloud-filled ceiling his mother had painted in his room when he was very young, only this room held a touch of dark mystery, a brush of the unknown, a hint of New Age mysticism. He was staring at it when he fell asleep.

  The sky’s glow had turned to pumpkin when he woke, its harvest glow slanting over the floorboards and through the window shutters. Hotchkiss blinked. His tongue felt thick and his throat was dry again. The room’s ceiling had darkened as well, casting long purple shadows into the far end of the room, nearly obliterating the bathroom. He sat up, massaging the back of his neck, thinking that the spa would be ready by now. He could almost imagine the surge and pulse of the water over his aching body. It would soothe away anxieties, cool his brow....

  “Time you were awake, Hotchkiss.”

  A cramping pain shot through his neck as he swung about in alarm. From the far depths of the bedroom’s shadows, a pearlized planet gleamed, a shimmering diskette that rose and tracked through the air as if levitated. He could only see the man-shape that held the disk vaguely, smokelike, in the beyond.

  His heart thumped. His voice leaped brashly ahead of his other emotions and fears. This was his territory, his sanctuary! “How’d you get in here?”

  “Easy enough. You see—” and the diskette came slinging at him across the room, slicing through the dusk like a pendulum of the Inquisition. He ducked and batted it away.

  “We not only know who you are, we know where to put our finger on you any time we want you.”

  “Who the hell are you?” His voice rose, near to breaking, the cords in his throat aching from the effort to keep it steady.

  It moved forward, and the stray column of afternoon light that moved across its face lit up a horror which made Hotchkiss gasp into strangled silence. It was nothing human, not the eyes, not the harshness of its metallic shell, not even the mouth. A hooded sweatshirt was drawn tightly about it and even as Stephen gargled his panic, he thought, Mask. It’s got to be a mask.

  But it looked like no mask he’d ever seen. It took another step forward, back into striped shadow.

  “Don’t play games with us,” the being warned. “We don’t want to have to play games with you.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You ran this morning.”

  “I—I don’t like to be pressured. Whatever else you may think of me, I ... I vote my conscience.”

  The being shifted. Its massive shoulders shrugged back, the chin of the horrendous face rose, and it began to laugh, as if hugely amused. Stephen felt stung. It pierced through his fear. The thing was laughing at him! It knew his darkest secrets, it thought to manipulate him by them, and now it laughed at him!

  Hotchkiss shied the diskette away from himself, back at the intruder, who slapped it down and then stamped a heavy foot upon it, grinding it down into the floor.

  “Whatever you want from me, I won’t do it.”

  “Oh, I think you will. After all, Hotchkiss, we both share a love for children. Children are the future, the reason for everything that we do. They are the hope, the potential.” The shadowy being shuffled a step closer. The diskette under its feet shattered into a thousand sparkling crystals. It looked down. “What a shame. But there are more where that came from. With your name and self within it. A truly personalized program of porn and perversion.” It laughed again, as if amused by its own cleverness.

  “It’s not as if we’re asking so much of you. We’re not asking for more air pollution, or money laundering, or contract kickbacks. We’re not asking for racial discrimination or union shortchanging. We’re asking for some overdue honesty, Hotchkiss.”

  Hotchkiss tried to swallow. He couldn’t quite manage enough spit to do it, and ended up choking. The strange-faced beast waited patiently until he caught his breath.

  “This time,” he got out.

  “Well, of course. We’ve put too much time and effort into this for a one-shot deal. You’re very astute, Hotchkiss. I don’t know what we have planned for your future, but I’m sure that we have a future planned for you.”

  Stephen rubbed his throat. “I can’t do it.”

  “Oh, we think you will. You’ve worked too hard to upset the applecart this far along, haven’t you? We’re not that unreasonable. We won’t ask much of you, in the long ru
n. We’ve worked too hard, as well.” The intruder stepped backward abruptly. Shadows blurred.

  Hotchkiss blinked. He jumped off the bed, ran forward, running into ... nothingness. He found the light switch and flooded the room with yellow-gold illumination.

  Nothing.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Emptiness answered him.

  Hotchkiss stood, breathing raggedly, for long moments. From outside, he thought he heard the faint sound of a car engine starting up and pulling away. Sound traveled far on the quiet mountainside.

  “I won’t do it!” he screamed. His throat tore with the sound.

  A mountain breeze came in off the balcony. It carried a high altitude chill with it. The skin on his forearms prickled with gooseflesh.

  Sure he would.

  He had too much to lose.

  Walking like a broken thing, he shuffled across the room, heading for the spa. Sharp cutting particles ground into the soles of his fish-belly white feet, but he scarcely noticed it. Did not see the faint trail of blood as he stepped into the spa.

  He had to think. Had to. Had to.

  Hotchkiss lowered himself into the water, oblivious to the red ribbon swirling about him as he turned on the jets. The water churned, late afternoon had become sunset, its own pinks and roses spilling across him, over the foaming water, tinting the side of the deck and house.

  The water felt tremendously good. He settled into it, letting it rise up over his shoulders, lap up against his neck. He would relax first, then think.

  He never felt the gaping wound in the sole of his right foot, bleeding steadily into the foam. The purpling shadows of the dusk off the lake colored everything.

  Hotchkiss sighed and let himself bleed away into the bubbling water.

  Jack Trebolt leaned his hip against the worn linoleum corner of the Fat Boy burger counter and knocked off the last of a tepid cup of coffee. The coffee, like the stand’s burgers, was best tossed down steaming hot ... colder, they both tended to congeal. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth to clean them. The sun was lowering over the smog-tinged cityscape. He eyed the horizon idly, then checked his watch. Dinner must be over. He wondered what McKenzie had had to eat. Something fattening, he supposed, something which would make her hips bulge out like saddlebags and drop her butt down to the back of her knees. Or maybe, since this was California, she’d have gotten sushi and sprouts instead of meat loaf and mashed potatoes.

  Grinning at his wit, he pushed away from the food counter and sauntered across the broken asphalt lot to his car. In the privacy of his door-dented vehicle, he pulled out his phone to make a call.

  It was answered on the second ring. “Mount Mercy Hospital.”

  He smoothed his voice. “This is Reverend Michaels. I understand one of my parishioners was admitted last night, poor girl. I don’t have her room number, but her name is Smith, McKenzie Smith.”

  “Just a moment and I’ll connect you,” the helpful woman offered.

  In a moment, there was another ring, muted, softer. He counted them. A-one ringy dingy, a-two ringy dingy, a-three ringy dingy. Why McKenzie must be a real little sleepyhead tonight, and the sun not even down.

  He recognized her drowsy voice when she picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “How’d you like your present?”

  Blurred, confused, Mac repeated, “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Mac. How’d you like that little bit of home I brought to you?” He laughed dryly. “Well, there’s more where that came from. You see, we miss you, me and Cody. We figure you ought to be back home. We’re doin’ what we can to bring you back. Of course, Cody has his heart sunk into it.”

  “Jack!”

  “You remember me. Having a nice rest, Mac? I just called to tell you....” His voice dropped involuntarily, dropped to that hard cold place inside of him where he sometimes had to live.... “I just called to tell you it’ll be a long, cold day in hell before you walk away from me. Hear that? Don’t ever think you can walk away from me!”

  The cell phone did not give him the intense physical satisfaction of slamming the receiver down, but he did hear a shocked cry from McKenzie before he disconnected. He must have sat in the car grinning like a fool for a good ten minutes before he put the car in gear and headed to Motel 8.

  Moreno called from home. He charged it to the office card, but it was late, and he’d put in enough hours, and he sat in the little den of his ranch-style California stucco-sided home and looked at the plastic evidence bag while the phone rang somewhere in rain-soaked Washington. He’d have to refrigerate it and wondered if his wife would put up her usual fuss, then give up and hide it in the back to keep the kids from seeing it. Though, truth to tell, he wasn’t sure what kind of evidence this would be. It certainly didn’t prove McKenzie Smith or Fordham or Trebolt or whatever she liked to call herself hadn’t come to blows with her father. If anything, it might lean toward the “had.”

  He became aware that the phone had not been answered by the fourth ring. Automatically he checked his watch to verify the time, wondered what time it was in Washington, chastised himself for being so damn stupid about the time zones, reminded himself that, as the thirteen-year-old like to remind him, at his age brain cells were dying by the dozens, and stayed on the line. This was a family phone, and if the Whiteside family were anything like his, a ring-through was a wonder in itself. It ought to be, even with call waiting, terminally busy.

  So maybe the family went out for burgers.

  In that case, the answering machine ought to be on.

  But nothing picked up. Tsking impatiently, Moreno settled in for the long haul, knowing that if there were an answering machine but it had been turned off absentmindedly, if it was a newer model, it would turn itself on by the twelfth ring or so.

  And, if they didn’t have an answering machine, the incessant ringing was probably driving the family pet out of its gourd.

  Moreno’s stubby fingers strayed over the evidence bag again. Trebolt had said his wife had killed the family dog. He didn’t buy that. Women very seldom killed anything out of rage, and when they did, unfortunately, it was generally their children. But by far, when it came to domestic violence, the evidence pointed to the man of the house. It was he who rose to the testosterone level of professional athletes during the Super Bowl, World Series, Olympics, World Wrestling Federation, you name it. It was he who could not stand to be disrespected, ignored, hassled, or hampered by family demands.

  Ten rings.

  So what was she doing with this ghoulish piece of flesh in her hand, clutching it as though it were a teddy bear?

  Eleven rings.

  Moreno sighed. He’d eaten a big dinner, but he was still hungry, something unsatisfied nibbling at his edges. He ought to go back on his diet. If he had to chase somebody down now, he’d be out of breath in two blocks, hell—

  The line clicked. “Hello, this is the Whiteside residence. If you’ve called for (and the individual’s voice spoke each subject’s name), John, Sarah, Terry, or Freddie, please leave a message after the beep. Sorry we missed you!”

  Good old Washington, where people weren’t afraid to say they were gone. Moreno listened to a brief stretch of music, something scratchily sounding like the theme to Raiders of the Lost Ark, and then came a faint beep.

  He left his message, couched as carefully as he could to not alarm, but to make an impression as to the importance of responding, then hung up.

  He wondered when the Whitesides would be home.

  Chapter 17

  He made a copy of the disk and waited for Dolan to show up to pick it up. Both of them had worried that the Feds might have Carter staked out, but Dolan said he’d taken care of it. Even so, Carter was a little surprised when the doorbell rang and he answered it, to find Dolan dressed as a pizza delivery boy, passing him through a savory smelling pizza box out of the thermal envelope. He looked the part of a delivery boy, spotty face, ill-gotten haircut, his shirt tucked
in sideways.

  Dolan palmed the disk and a five dollar tip as Carter passed it over. He grinned. “I oughta deliver pizza more often.”

  Carter pried open the corner of the box. He wrinkled his nose. “Next time, no mushrooms.”