Anonymous

by Christine Benedict

  “I wasn’t sure before because the lounge was so dark, and the parking lot lights made his face all shadowy. But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m pretty sure it was the same man. All those expensive cars in the parking lot, I remember a white van that looked out of place.”

  “I remember it, too. But I thought it was there for deliveries.” Debra wrung the mop out over the washing machine.

  “The restaurant doesn’t make deliveries. I know. I worked there. It was ‘his’. But he made such an ass out of himself that night. I think he was too humiliated to admit he was there. That’s when the letters got raunchy. I don’t know why I didn’t put it together.”

  Debra had only been half listening. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I don’t mind coming over. You should have called me sooner.” Julie continued, “Do you know what else Barger said? I thought I’d ask him if he had any leads on the break-in at my house while I had him on the phone. And get this, he hasn’t even heard about it. I’m starting to wonder what kind of a station they’re running down there.” Julie stopped for a moment, scanning the haunted-like aura. The ceiling dripped a fat drop of water in Julie’s hair. “I don’t know how you can stand it down here,” she said, swiping drips off the ceiling where a frost-covered window suddenly drew her attention. “Deb . . . come here,” she said, looking up at that window. “What do you make of that?”

  A shiver took hold of Debra as she looked in the window; a rose in full bloom pressed against the glass from the outside next to an overturned tiny leaf. The pair must have taken refuge in the warmth of the glass, apart from its dormant bush. Debra felt herself suddenly getting light-headed. The quarry-stone walls seemed to crowd in around the window, around the rose. The pull-chain light bulb bounced off the mist and glistened off Julie’s pendant.

  Her hand to her mouth, her face completely white, Debra turned toward the stairs. “I’m not feeling so good.” She ran up the stairs, holding her mouth. Julie was right behind her. The door was already open when they made it to the top. Debra stepped through the doorway first and then Julie. The light bulb in the corridor flickered off.

  A man was standing there perfectly still, his black silhouette etched in the light.

  The smell of sweet honey—Debra fainted on the spot. Unblinking, her body fell as though time and space moved in slow motion. Here she laid as if she were paralyzed. Someone was screaming, maybe Julie.

  ‘Is this it?’ Debra thought to herself. ‘Is this how it was for her mother? Seeing things that aren’t really there, hearing screams that no one screamed.’ She saw the shadow of a man back away slowly.

  Julie’s glance held Debra’s, but only for a moment. When Debra looked again, the man had disappeared somehow into the light behind him. Lying in a heap on the floor, Debra couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. How could she have fainted and still be conscious?

  “We have to go, we have to go,” Julie spit out the words whispering all along, clumsily lifting Debra by the shoulders. “Come on, come on, we have to get out of here.” Julie was dragging her inches at a time.

  “Did you see that?” Debra whispered back. “Did you see him, too?”

  “Try to stand.”

  Their hushed whispers seemed to shout through the stillness. Debra stood, woozy, perplexed about how she’d gone down. They were halfway through the corridor. “Where is he?” she asked, watching for him, hanging onto Julie, who was rushing her, trying to make her move faster.

  They were in the living room now, the central room, the biggest room in the house where the front door and a window overlooked the porch, where the dining room doorway shared a wall with the corridor they’d just come from, where the bathroom, stairway, and a door to the other part of the house were. The arched doorway to the kitchen to their left was the farthest room.

  “We have to take your car. My purse is upstairs,” Debra said quietly, struggling to get strength in her legs, still slowing them down.

  “My coat’s on a kitchen chair. My keys are in the pocket.”

  They were halfway through the living room. A door slammed from upstairs.

  “Almost there,” Julie said, headed toward the kitchen, tightening her hold on Debra.

  Inside the kitchen, Debra took a labored step, a numbing sensation behind her eyes, throwing her off balance, confusing her feet. She tripped, and when she tried to catch herself from falling, she took Julie down. They both fell into the table and chairs. Debra wrenched her back—her chin hit a chair. Julie hit her head against the corner of the table. The two scrambled to their feet. Debra grabbed Julie’s coat from an overturned chair, and they hurried outside as fast as they could limp. Julie was holding her head, staggering, fishing through her coat pocket for the keys.

  “I’ll drive,” Debra said. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Do you think you can? You don’t look so good either.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Julie handed over her keys and took the passenger’s seat.

  Debra got in, finally feeling her feet. She turned the key, slipped the gear in reverse, and stepped on the pedal. At the end of the driveway, they watched the old house for signs of life. He was there in the upstairs window, his black silhouette. Julie squeezed the juice out of Debra’s hand.

  Back light drew the outline of a faceless man. A round torso. A short crew cut.

  “That’s not the man from last night,” Debra said, sure of it.

  “I’ve still got Jack’s card. I’ll call him.”

  “Did you lock the dead bolt at your house?”

  “. . . I thought I was coming right back.”

  “There’s a phone booth at the Sunoco station. I’ll call the sheriff from there. We’ll wait in the car until someone comes.”

  Twenty minutes later Jack and another officer arrived at the parking lot where the two women had been waiting. Jack approached the car, shining a flashlight in Debra’s face. She rolled down the window.

  “Debra Hamilton?” He leaned in.

  “Yes,” she answered, thrown off because Jack didn’t seem to recognize her.

  “I have a report here that says you reported an intruder.”

  Julie scooted into Debra, to say her piece. “Someone’s in the house. We barely got out.”

  “Oh hi, Julie. I didn’t see you there.” He spoke differently, happily, a silly wink in his eye. Debra didn’t like it. She didn’t like him, this Jack person, a policeman, so friendly to Julie, winking, flirting. What was he thinking?

  “Officer . . .” Debra said, an edge of disdain in her voice.

  “We checked the outer premises of your house and found nothing suspicious. The house is locked. Do you have a key? We’ll see whose inside.”

  “It can’t be locked. I didn’t have time because of everything going on. We literally ran out of the house and left.” Debra told him.

  “He must have locked himself inside when he saw our patrol car. Give me the key.” Jack commanded.

  She handed it over. “This is for the deadbolt. It’s the only lock that works.” She watched him walk from her car to his, him turning around and eyeing Julie with that goofy look of his. There was something about him that Debra didn’t trust. “It doesn’t make sense. You need that key to lock it and unlock it.” Debra said to Julie.

  “It’s been at least an hour. Let’s hope whoever it was is gone.”

  Debra drove behind the cop car, following him to her house. Silence overtook them—for Debra, deliberate. She knew that Jack wouldn’t find anyone. She and Julie had been in the basement . . . water everywhere . . . motors running . . . where Ed had died—electrocuted to death. Jack wasn’t going to find anyone. Deep down inside something whispered, It had to be Ed.

  Greg would have to believe her now.

  Chapter 43

  The Homeowner Association said that it was between Greg and another contractor; that they would let him know. He left the meeting, worried that he might not get the job. Greg w
ouldn’t lower his price. Building materials had gone up because of Hurricane Diana, which hit the east coast. Resources were shifting to North and South Carolina, raising prices all around, grounding the nation’s recession. The other contractor, some fly-by-night scab, bid so low that he could have flipped burgers and made the same amount.

  Driving a long stretch down Route 82, he heard something thumping under his truck. But his mind was still on the job that he might or might not get. He wasn’t going to lower his price for the sake of getting the job. He wasn’t in this just to break even. He felt his ears getting hot, anger brewing. Hurricane season wasn’t over yet. What if materials went up again? He would end up paying for the privilege to work. He thought about work that Mr. Brubom wanted him to do, dangerous work. It paid well. A high, steep, roofing job with a twelve/twelve pitch, a roof covered in moss, nestled in trees. Three layers of shingles had to come off. It needed new wood underneath, and a chimney rebuilt. Greg had used the last of his cash to pay for fixing his six-year old truck, a 1978 GMC Sierra. If he didn’t get the Homeowner’s job, he would have to call Mr. Brubom.

  The thumping was getting louder.

  Greg slowed down. The thumping slowed down. He sped up. The thumping sped up. He felt his veins pulsing. He’d spent six hundred and forty-two dollars on new brakes and rotors, and whatever else the mechanic had said it needed.

  The thumping stopped. The truck lurched and stopped. When he gave it the gas, the engine revved, but the truck wouldn’t move. He had chosen that mechanic because he was a friend of his brother’s. Greg got outside and looked under the truck. The drive shaft was lying on the ground.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He kicked the tires with every ‘shit’, and slammed the truck door. “For crying out loud!” He kicked that, too. And kicking the gravel every other step, he started walking down a lonely road, lined with pasture fencing.

  The stiff, leather, work boots he had on hadn’t been broken in, even if they had been, they weren’t meant for walking. He hadn’t walked far when blisters stung the back of his heels. After seven miles, they hurt so bad that he could hardly walk. The final stretch down his driveway, he checked his pocket for his keys. Then he realized that he must have left them in the truck. He went up to the garage’s side-door and looked inside the window. The garage was dark but he could see the car. The door was locked. Debra would never hear him knocking from out here. He went to the front door, which was locked, too, and knocked loudly. “Deb,” he yelled. “Deb, it’s me. Open the door.” This was taking too long. He took a credit card from his wallet and slid it down the doorway frame, trying to catch the lock. That didn’t work. He went to the garage’s side door and tried it again. A police cruiser sped up the driveway, red and blue lights, lighting the night.

  An officer jumped out of the cruiser. “Police officer, put your hands in the air!” he shouted charging toward Greg. Another officer jumped out.

  “I live here.” Greg casually walked towards him, showing him his hands, still holding his credit card.

  The officer, still on the move, drew his gun. “Hands in the air!”

  Greg threw his hands over his head. “You’re making a mistake. I live here!” he yelled.

  The officer tackled him and shoved him hard, to the ground. Greg tried to explain.

  “Shut up.” He stomped his boot in Greg’s back, twisted his arm, and handcuffed him.

  “Damn it! I live here.” Greg yelled, flattened out on his stomach, face in the snow. “Listen to me.”

  The officer kneed Greg’s back, searching him like a common thief. The wind had taken Greg’s baseball cap and parked it on Julie’s car that was idling at the end of the driveway.

  Julie and Debra had followed the police car to Debra’s house, and were watching the whole thing from inside the car when Jack’s partner came up to them.

  “This guy says he lives here. Maybe you should take a look.”

  Debra got out of the car. She saw Greg’s baseball cap. “Greg?”

  “Quit stalling, Deb! Tell him I live here!”

  “Officer, that’s my husband.”

  Jack let him go.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Greg yelled at Jack, his muscular hands clenched into fists. Every breath steaming in the cold night, his clothes wet with snow and mud, his muscles tensed. “Is this how you help someone who’s locked out of their house?”

  “Your wife reported an intruder.” Jack unlocked the handcuffs. “Just doing my job, sir”

  Greg clenched his jaw, not saying another word, glaring at Jack.

  “I’ll be going now. You folks have a good evening.” He handed back Debra’s keys, smacking them into her hand, looking amused, and got in his car. Debra hated Jack just then. He shouldn’t have treated Greg like that. Any fool could have seen that Greg was being cooperative.

  Debra watched Julie back out of the driveway. The police car backed out, too. She watched it follow Julie, hating Jack even more. ‘What did he think he was doing?’

  Greg and Debra went inside without saying a word. The only sound was Greg slamming the door.

  “What happened to your truck?” Debra asked softly.

  “It broke down,” he said without raising his voice, carefully taking off his boots.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “I already know. You reported an intruder.” His face was an indescribable shade of red. His muscles were bulging with tension. “I don’t want to talk about it . . . not right now. I need some time to settle down. Okay?” He took off his socks. Blisters were broken and bleeding.

  She swallowed, her throat dry, her ears ringing. When did she become afraid of him? She froze where she stood by the refrigerator, afraid to move, fixing her gaze on a chipped bud vase where the chip had been turned to the wall. She could picture Greg hauling off and hitting her—like her stepfather had, like her mother had. She had to be perfectly still.

  He must have seen it in her eyes. “Aren’t I allowed to ever get mad? Nobody’s happy all the time,” he said in a calm pretense.

  Still water pooled in her green eyes—fixed on the bud vase.

  Greg adjusted his baseball cap. “I’m not mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong. Why are you like this?”

  She blinked and the water wasn’t still anymore. It streamed down her cheek. She didn’t move.

  “Come here.” He drew her into his arms and held her there. She didn’t want to cry and she tried not to. She was scared and tired and just wanted him to hold her. To love her . . . to never get mad. She knew how to cry without making a sound, but she couldn’t do it without trembling.

  “It’s okay,” he said, holding her tight, stroking her hair. “Don’t worry so much.”

  “Can I stay here just a little while?” She lifted her head to look up at him, at his face in need of a shave. Her eyes red and wet with tears.

  He kissed her nose, “You can stay here as long as you want,” and drew her close again, and held her. “Everything will be alright . . .”

  Chapter 44

  When Julie went home, Jack and his partner checked the premises there, and because she hadn’t bolted the door, Jack wanted to check inside. She let them in, avoiding glances, keeping her words to a minimum. She didn’t like what Jack had done to Greg, and she didn’t want to be in the same room with him. Hiding out in the kitchen, she opened a bottle of wine. And leaning against the kitchen sink, she poured it into the first thing she could find, a tin measuring cup. It felt warm on her throat, warm all the way down.

  “There’s nothing here to indicate an intruder.” Jack’s voice from behind startled her. She coughed down a gulp.

  “Thank you for coming over,” she said, corking the bottle, her back to him. He approached the sink where she was. He was standing so close behind her that she sensed him smelling her hair. She turned around. Wanting to say, ‘leave’, wanting to say ‘stay’. Face to face with him, a sudden rush of embarrassment rose up to her temples
. She hoped he hadn’t caught her, impulsively, breathing him in. The scent, his scent, was like a drug, a euphoric, dream-like nuance. ‘What was so sensual about this hardened man? What the hell’s wrong with me?’ She curled around and led him to the door, telling herself, ‘He’s just a man, like any other man.’

  “I’m officially off duty in about five minutes. I don’t mind sticking around for a while.”

  With every small gesture, she unwittingly seemed to pull him in.

  Julie hesitated for a moment. “That won’t be necessary. It’s been a long night. I just want to get some sleep.” She opened the door for him to leave, looking at anything but him, being anything but friendly.

  “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “I didn’t like the way you treated my neighbor. He wasn’t a threat. You should have seen that.”

  “That’s just it. I’ve seen a lot. A perpetrator will say anything to not get caught. They’ll do anything. I had no way of knowing that he was telling the truth. He could have been carrying a weapon. I can’t take the chance when I’m face to face with a suspect. And I can’t say I’m sorry about it either. My life depends on it. Your life depends on it . . . .”

  Feigning interest by nodding her head, Julie made no comment, thinking all along that this man was a natural at turning things around so he wouldn’t have to take responsibility . . . just like Kyle, justifying bad behavior. She interrupted him. “I have to ask you. What happened to the evidence you took from here, the mug, the picture frame? You took my statement. Lieutenant Barger says he never got it.”

  “The lab must be behind. Barger should have gotten that by now. I’ll check into it. Let me give you my number at home. If anything comes up, anything at all, call me. I don’t live that far from here.” He lingered there, writing down his phone number, and finally handed it to her and extended his hand for a handshake. She obliged, taking his hand in hers. The spark was gone, and no amount of handsome could bring it back. His handshake, strong, dominating, sickened her now. She thanked him again, said good-bye, and closed the door.