Knockdown: A Home Repair Is Homicide Mystery

by Sarah Graves

  He’d taped them together earlier that day, and thumbtacked them to the tops of the window frames back when it was still daylight. Once the bags were lowered and secured with more tape, he turned the lantern on again, then crept outside to check his work.

  From the yard, not a gleam of light showed from inside the house. And during the day, all anyone would be able to see were sagging, yellowed venetian blinds, like always.

  Satisfied, he went back inside, pulling the broken door shut behind him as quietly as possible, though the music and laughter of the holiday revels going on a few blocks away likely covered any sound.

  Spread out on the tarp-covered floor were more of his equipment: plastic handcuffs, the gag and blindfold. Scissors, adhesive tape, his laptop, and a digital camera, too, of course.

  Steven turned his attention to the laptop. Luckily, there were lots of unencrypted Wi-Fi networks around, so he could get onto the Internet without trouble.

  The laptop itself ran on special batteries. Buying enough of those had been the greatest expense of the project. The weight of them in his pack had been a pain, too.

  But there was no help for it; he couldn’t be sure he’d have a chance to recharge any of them secretly. And secrecy was key.

  Powering the laptop up, he accessed the account he’d set up weeks earlier with the anonymous mail-drop service. The service, which allowed him to send messages with no fear of being tracked down and identified, was expensive.

  But the cost had been worth it, as had the work of setting the messages up to be sent out automatically. More opportunity for confusion, for misdirection …

  Bottom line, more chance for the kind of fear he meant to inspire before he really got down to business.

  Accessing his mail-drop account, he saw the check mark beside each message he’d uploaded before beginning this trip. The marks said the messages had been delivered. Excellent …

  Next he visited the local public library’s website, found from the information on it that as he’d expected, he could indeed use their printer for a small fee.

  Also, he could upload files to the printer, either on-site or remotely, the printout itself to be collected later. As he’d also hoped, it was a color printer.…

  Fabulous. Everything was as he’d planned. So a walk downtown to where the celebration was going on was a reward he deserved.

  And perhaps, if he felt daring, even farther than downtown. After all, he too was celebrating independence. Free from grief, from guilt …

  Free at last from his obligation to do something, someday, about his father’s real killer, Jacobia Tiptree. Because maybe he was a mama’s boy, spoiled and petted. Bullied, too; her prisoner, right up until the end.

  To the last gasp. But at the heart of the matter …

  Down deep, he was his own man. And now …

  Now it was time to prove it.

  Time for her, too, he thought. To understand, to regret. To apologize, even.

  Yes, he decided, giving his glued-back ears a last satisfied pat. Among other things, he would most certainly extract from her that most useless of declarations: the heartfelt apology.

  CHAPTER

  3

  LATE THAT NIGHT, UPSTAIRS IN BED, JAKE LOOKED OVER AT Wade and found him asleep with his book on his chest.

  “The Muzzle-Loader’s Handbook.” She read the title softly aloud. The dogs looked up alertly.

  “Not that kind of muzzle,” she told them.

  They looked disappointed; muzzle-loading was their favorite activity, if the load was kibble. Plucking the book from Wade’s hands, she switched off his lamp.

  At least somebody was getting some shut-eye around here. But she could already tell that for her, it wasn’t in the cards.

  Careful not to step on any squeaky floorboards—even the most dedicated old-house repairer couldn’t fix them all—she padded downstairs.

  Under a tin ceiling whose ornately molded surface had begun shedding flakes of antique paint—wire brush, stepladder, tack cloth, Rust-Oleum, she thought—the dogs pranced with her to the kitchen.

  After dispensing a biscuit to each of them, she made tea. She carried it to the front parlor, where the Victorian-era furniture, heavy velvet hangings, and Oriental rugs made a cozy refuge.

  Turning a lamp on low, she drew the silk quilt from where it draped over one corner of the settee. She would curl up, she decided, and in the dim lamplight manage to doze, or at any rate to rest.

  But in the next instant a shadow moved swiftly across the front window shade. The dogs leapt up, stiffened, Prill wuffing warningly, and even Monday growling deep in her chest.

  Holding her breath, Jake moved the shade aside a scant half-inch. Outside, the night was still and clear; the newly risen full moon hung balloon-like in an indigo sky, turning the narrow patch of the bay she could see from here into a sheet of silver.

  Nothing moved. All the neighboring houses were silent. The Doberman stood beside her briefly, then strode from the room, the measured click of the dog’s toenails sounding distantly from the rest of the house as she made her inspection.

  Finally she returned, teeth bared in a dog grin. All clear, the big animal’s face and body communicated plainly.

  “Everything okay?”

  The voice from the hall startled her. But it was only her father, in striped pajamas and a nightcap like a character out of a Dickens novel.

  Jake waved at the window, feeling foolish. “I thought I saw something.”

  Yawning hugely, Prill lay down again as Jacob Tiptree came into the room. Jake let herself lie down, too, pulling the silk quilt up. Silly, she thought.

  “I could go out looking,” he offered. “Or call Bob Arnold.”

  She smiled at the thought of her father in his nightcap, chasing a prowler. “No, thanks.”

  A leaf, a plastic bag blowing by the window … anything might have made that shadow. “I guess I’m still spooked from this morning.”

  “Been to the cellar?” To the weapons lockbox, he meant.

  “No. Not yet. I guess maybe I don’t quite want to admit how nervous the guy is making me.”

  There’d been no more emails. “And anyway, I don’t haul out a gun for just anything,” she added. “You know that.”

  Her father, on the other hand, was the kind of fellow who, if he heard a strange sound in the house at night, came down with a pistol loaded and ready or he didn’t come down at all.

  Now the shape of the weapon showed in the robe pocket. It was a .380 ACP semi-auto, she happened to know: tiny, effective.

  “I’m not even certain the emails were from him,” she said.

  Amusement crinkled the skin around her dad’s eyes. Of course they were, his look seemed to say gently. Only a fool would think anything else, under the circumstances.

  “So you’ve got an enemy,” he said, ignoring her attempt to evade this truth. “Maybe you should think about why.”

  She nodded reluctantly. Her present life, spent fixing up an old house, wasn’t malice-worthy. Her few civic duties—serving as ballot clerk, cooking for Meals on Wheels now and then, attending town meetings—weren’t likely to make her a target, either.

  Once upon a time, though, after she’d fled Manhattan, some of the biggest crooks in the city had been out for her blood. She’d known their secrets, and if she ever revealed them, they’d be deprived of a lot of money and personal freedom.

  But: “It’s been a long time since any guys from the old days were interested in me,” she said. “Those fences are mended.”

  Besides, the statute of limitations had passed. “He did have a New York accent. But he was too young, mid-twenties, maybe. He couldn’t have been anyone from way back then.”

  Her dad nodded silently.

  “Sam looked at the computer when we got home,” she went on. “He says whoever sent those emails knew just how to do it.”

  Routed them, Sam had said, through anonymous mail servers so he or she couldn’t be traced back and
identified. Or not with the skills Sam had, anyway.

  Her dad got up. “Better get some rest,” he said as he headed upstairs, and when he’d gone she found the weapon he’d had in his pocket on the table by the settee.

  And although she was not usually a fan of guns lying around the parlor, this time she didn’t mind. With it in hand, she took one last tour around the silent house.

  Quiet in the dining room, the back parlor, and the laundry. By the glow of the night-light, the kitchen appliances gleamed and the floor shone with Bella’s final mopping, which she’d done very cheerfully under the influence of those appletinis.

  “You know the drill, right?” Jake asked Prill, patting the dog’s smooth neck.

  “Mmph,” said Prill darkly, lying down by the back door. Her powerful body made a solid thump when it landed, and there was a purposeful gleam in the dog’s eye, too, Jake thought.

  It made her feel better, and so did the silence outside when she peered again out the front window. Downtown on Water Street it was most likely a much livelier matter even at this late hour, but here there was only the hoot of a distant foghorn.

  Then nothing. Nothing else, and no one at all.

  She hoped.

  RUNNING AWAY FROM HER HOUSE IN THE DARK, HE COULDN’T believe what he’d done. Stupid …

  He could have been caught. But he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to creep right up to her window and …

  God, she’d been right there. One solid punch to that flimsy window screen and he could’ve—

  He hadn’t thought of the streetlight behind him, or how it would cast a shadow to betray him. It worried him that after all his planning, his enthusiasm had still gotten the better of him.

  But the exhilaration was worth it. At the corner he slowed, trying hard to look like just another Eastport holiday reveler.

  Water Street on a holiday night was like something out of his dreams. People wandered around with smiles on their faces as if nothing could hurt them. Music from boom boxes and children’s rides, shouts of roving teenagers, and pungent food smells came from all directions.

  At the tempting aromas, his stomach growled ferociously, and suddenly another rebellious impulse seized him: Why shouldn’t he eat? Why did he have to follow his mother’s rules, even now when she was dead?

  Before he could stop himself, he’d walked right up to one of the tents and bought himself a bratwurst on a roll, and a can of soda. The sausage, freshly grilled and still spitting hot juices from the fire, sent up a spicy perfume that made him tremble.

  Angrily he shoved the food into his mouth, unable to resist his hunger. He finished it quickly even though it was hot, then moved on to a table full of handmade chocolates.

  He bought a large box of assorted ones and forced himself to resist tearing it open before he’d paid for it. Then, ripping at the transparent wrapping paper and fumbling at the cardboard, he grabbed a handful of sweet chunks and devoured them, and quickly felt the sugar hit his bloodstream.

  Instantly a rush of shame hit him. What in God’s name had he been thinking? That stuff could make him sick; it was filthy; who knew who or what might’ve been touching it, contaminating it in unspeakable ways.…

  Shut up, shut UP, he shrieked silently at the voice in his head. Her voice, her never-ending harping and criticizing …

  People moved innocently on the street around him. He wanted to kill them all. How dare they be so happy, so free?

  But in the nick of time he caught himself. He wasn’t here to express old resentments. He was on a mission.

  An important one. A sudden revulsion for the remaining candy struck him; he dropped the rest of the box in a nearby trash can. The bratwurst hadn’t been the best idea, either, he realized.

  But it was not a disaster, he told himself firmly, even as his hands began making those uncontrollable washing movements again. He would do better next time, and clean himself thoroughly once he got back to the vacant house.

  He was here to pursue his plan, and no minor lapse—a hot burp from the spicy sausage soured his throat, making him grimace—could be allowed to stop him.

  And eventually, under this onslaught of calming self-talk, he felt his disgust subside, his nausea ease. Enough, anyway, to try going on with what he’d been doing.

  As far ahead as he could see, more attractions beckoned, some mere card tables with awnings, others elaborate commercial affairs with trailers and flashing lights. He strolled toward the blare of canned music from a Guess Your Weight and Age tent.

  A Native American man gripping a carved wooden walking stick sat on a chair in front of the tent. An aging German shepherd lazed at the man’s side while a couple of small boys up way past their bedtimes crouched by the animal.

  The old man looked up. His eyes were the same dark color as the chocolate taste still in Steven’s mouth. The man sat still. Only his gnarled hand tightened around the carved walking stick as his gaze met Steven’s.

  Sensing its master’s alertness, the dog rose, sending the little boys scurrying back. The man spoke a few muttered words to the animal in a language Steven didn’t know.

  In response the dog sat, fixing Steven with its flat stare as he went by. He felt its eyes on his back. Its attention gave him a creepy feeling, as if it were seeing into him. But:

  Forget them. They’re not what you’re here for.

  And what could they do to him, anyway? Nothing. He moved on, resisting the urge to hurry. He had no need to be afraid.

  He was the one who should be giving people a creepy feeling. If they only knew …

  He pressed past a cluster of teenage boys in baggy shorts and faded T-shirts, then some older, less innocent-looking young men dressed in black denim jackets, black jeans, and scuffed boots.

  Eastport’s wild bunch, he thought as they sullenly shifted to let him pass. One made a remark he couldn’t hear; the others laughed meanly at it. A bottle crashed by his feet.

  He kept his head up. But they’d seen the momentary hunching of his shoulders, as if in anticipation of a blow.

  They’d frightened him on purpose, tormented him because they could. And for that, one of them had to die.

  The thought flew into his mind unbidden, but the instant it took shape he knew it was true. It was the real reason he’d come out here tonight, when it would’ve been much safer and simpler to stay in, and now he allowed himself to admit it.

  Once his dad had died—murdered, my father was murdered—he’d never been allowed to attend festivals, street fairs, or any celebratory event where the common people gathered.

  “Germs,” his mother would pronounce in a disgusted voice. “They’re dripping with ger-r-rms.”

  Listening, he’d practically been able to see the organisms, slimy and putrid, that might infest him at a public event. Then he would look around at his own safe, surgically clean home, filled with his own good clean toys and books and the many other solitary amusements his mother bought for him, and he’d decide on his own that he didn’t want to go.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Mother,” he would flute in his good-little-boy voice. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

  Which of course had been her real plan all along. But his presence here wasn’t to make up for it. No, he was here to—

  Another bottle crashed near his shoes; beer foam splashed his slacks. “Hey, faggot.”

  Fury made his face hot. That was always it, the worst they could think of. What they were most frightened of themselves.

  And they should be frightened, though not of that. He stopped. “What?” he said into the air that was suddenly sparking with possibilities.

  Nearby, an impromptu dance party had begun, musicians and a small amplifier providing music from a makeshift stage.

  Once he would have fled. But with his mother’s death, it was as if a clear glass jar had been lifted, freeing him.

  “What?” he repeated softly as the youths circled.

  Two on one side, two on the other.
Swiftly he assessed them and identified the leader.

  Tall and ginger-haired, the gang’s front man squinted at Steven through clear gray eyes that gleamed a surprising amount of malignant self-awareness. Caution, too; just not enough.

  “What’re you, some kind of freaking freak?” Under his black jacket, he wore a work shirt with the name Jerry on the pocket.

  “Answer me, you freak,” taunted ginger-haired Jerry.

  The others grinned, nudging one another. Steven wondered if he was about to get a beating.

  Jerry put his grimy hand on Steven’s chest and pushed. “You think you’re better’n us?”

  Steven wondered how guys like Jerry always knew that. It was as if they had radar for normal IQ or above.

  And hated it. “No,” he lied evenly. “I don’t think so.”

  The guy shoved him again, harder. Steven’s foot crunched onto the broken bottle. Jerry’s pals snickered appreciatively.

  “That’s a real pretty shirt you got on, lemme see,” slurred the one with the worst acne, snatching at it with dirty fingers.

  Just not being drunk gave Steven such a huge advantage, he thought it was hardly fair. Stepping back, he knew he shouldn’t push his luck. But he couldn’t resist.

  “No,” he said mildly again, then blew a loud, wet raspberry at the kid.

  The youths glanced astonishedly at one another. “Oh, man,” breathed the blocky one in the Iron Maiden T-shirt. The quartet closed menacingly around Steven.

  But just as the first big fist came at Steven’s face, a hand reached out over his attackers’ shoulders and everything stopped.

  “All right, all right,” a tired male voice uttered.

  Another hand, pink and plump, joined the first, then each hand clamped firmly onto a black-clad shoulder and pulled.

  The phalanx of hostile bodies parted. Between them stepped a cop. Or at least he was wearing a cop’s uniform.

  “Boys, I’m gonna tell you this once. And you especially, Jerry,” the cop added to the ginger-haired youth. “I want you all to leave this fellow alone. I get a report he’s had any problems? You’re gonna have problems with me. Okay?”