George Hartmann Box Set

by Kelly Utt

  “George,” Roddy says, stepping towards me and placing Ethan in my arms. “Console your son. Put one of his ears against your body and cover the other with your hand. Be sure his face is turned away. And stand in front of that camera, would you?”

  Before I can respond, Roddy is in motion. He leaps on top of the intruder with a swiftness impressive for a man of any age, let alone one in his mid-sixties. Without giving the intruder time to rally a defense, Roddy narrows his eyes, raises his fists, and places three calculated blows. He doesn’t hesitate. His moves are precise and effective. The intruder’s body heaves forward from the impact, dislodging itself from Lady’s mouth and coming to rest on the concrete driveway with a thud. The intruder lets out one final moan as blood begins to pool under his head on the ground and his body goes limp. And just like that, the most harrowing ordeal of our lives is over.

  When I get to the basement where the others are waiting, it takes them a few minutes to remove all the furniture they used to barricade themselves in. I’m glad they followed Roddy’s instructions. Things could have turned out a lot worse. The door opens and Ali leaps into me, throwing one arm around my neck and the other around Ethan. Her face is soaked with tears and strained with worry.

  “Georgie,” she says with a whimper.

  “I know, baby,” I say as I kiss her swollen eyes, one at a time. “It’s all okay. We’re safe now.”

  “Georgie,” she tries again. “I couldn’t… With Will… I heard a gunshot.”

  “Ali, I know. It’s okay. Ethan’s okay,” I say. “He isn’t hurt.” I shift Ethan over into his mother’s arms and she cries out in relief. I don’t think Ethan has said a word yet, which is understandable. He’s traumatized and in shock. He buries his head in Ali’s embrace and tucks his shoulders in close like a little turtle. Our poor, sweet boy.

  “How is Leo holding up?” I ask. I turn and see that Marjorie is rocking him on the other side of the room near Sara and Nicky. He’s staring blankly in my direction but doesn’t seem to be tracking.

  “I’ve got him,” Marjorie responds. And then, “George, where’s Roddy?”

  I pause before I answer. Roddy and I didn’t discuss how we’d handle what just happened. I’m not sure the real story should go beyond the two of us. I’m not a fan of lying to loved ones. In fact, I’ve never lied to Ali other than omitting classified information related to my Air Force job that I absolutely couldn’t share with her. This is something else though. We don’t know what the police are going to do. The surveillance camera feeds will clearly show the intruder entering our home and taking our child out the window. They might chalk his death up to injuries sustained during the descent from the third-floor window and close the case without filing charges. From what I understand, officials tend to get pretty generous when it comes to measures necessary to protect little children from predators. But it could just as easily go the other way and Roddy could be charged with murder. If it comes to that, then everyone will hear the details. For now, I’m going to tread lightly.

  “He’s out by the road waiting for the police,” I answer. “He’s fine.” There aren’t any windows in the rec room, so our family members have no idea what happened.

  “Georgie, where is the guy who…” Ali begins to ask, her voice trailing off. She can’t yet find words to describe the monster who did this to us.

  “He’s laying at the end of the driveway right now. He was injured,” I say, pausing to see how they seem to be taking it. “He did not survive.” There’s an audible gasp from the adults in the room. Ethan and Leo are too dazed to follow the conversation. I’m not sure Sara understood either. She looks scared and out of sorts.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Ali mumbles, her hand covering her mouth.

  “That’s horrible,” Nicky adds, standing up to help comfort his sister. “Are you and Dad shaken up?”

  “I think we are all shaken up. We’re doing okay though. Roddy and I worked as a team, along with Lady,” I say.

  “Oh, Lady,” Ali says, the concern evident in her voice. “Why isn’t Lady here with you? Georgie?”

  I sigh deeply and furrow my brow as I prepare to answer. “Lady is injured. I’m pretty sure she was shot. She was hanging on when I left her, but I don’t know if she’s going to make it. She lost a lot of blood. Roddy is tending to her wounds as best he can.” Ali bursts out into tears upon hearing this news. She bites her lip to try and hold some of the sounds in as she pulls Ethan closer and strokes his back. Nicky puts his hand on Ali’s shoulder, while Sara and Luis lean into each other from where they’re seated on the sectional. Marjorie shakes her head. It’s terribly sad for all of us. We’re dog people, and Lady is our much-loved girl.

  “Lady is a hero,” I continue. “She saved the day. The intruder had Ethan and was almost to the end of our driveway where a getaway van was waiting when Lady intercepted him and attacked. It was too dark in the shadows for Roddy and I to see exactly what happened, but when we caught up, Ethan was free. He stood and ran towards us. Lady had the intruder on the ground and pretty much immobilized. She kept her jaws clamped down on his forearm, even while she lay bleeding.”

  “And the van?” Luis asks.

  “It drove away. We think the intruder Lady took down was the only one on our property,” I answer.

  “Oh, Georgie, I hope Lady pulls through,” Ali says. “We love her so much. She’s our girl. Did you tell her she was a good girl? We’ll be forever in her debt.”

  “I did tell her,” I reply. “I told her she’s done a great honor for her family. I don’t know what to think about her injuries. I hope the medics who arrive will be able to help her. Roddy and I didn’t want to leave the scene to take her to a vet.”

  The classic sound of a police siren rings out from the front yard and I hear a pair of car doors close.

  “The police are here,” I say. “I need to go with Roddy to give a report.”

  “Go,” Ali says. “We’re okay here.”

  “Good,” I say, kissing her and then Ethan on the forehead. “I’m sure they’ll want to talk to all of you, too. And they’ll need to sweep the house to be absolutely sure no one else is on the premises.”

  “We’ll stay put until we get the all clear,” Nicky says. “We’re alright down here, George. Go ahead. You’ve done a good job tonight, brother. You and Dad go handle the rest of your business.”

  I nod. I don’t think I could muster a smile right now if I had to. I’m relieved that we came through this ordeal as well as we did, but holy shit. It’s not smiling time just yet.

  6

  It Burns

  In the days following the break-in, life takes on a different hue. Snow continues to fall little by little, but it doesn’t look magical like it did before. Temperatures don’t warm up enough for what’s on the ground to melt. I tell Cornell I’ll need more time before I begin work and, thankfully, they’re supportive. I stay around the house and close to Ali and the boys. I don’t know if we’ll ever be the same. The new home we loved and were so excited about now feels cold and dangerous. The room that was the scene of the crime feels heavy and ladened with negative energy. We move all of the boys’ things out of there and the four of us sleep in the master bedroom together. Ali is despondent, laying in bed and crying until her eyes are bloodshot and puffy. We allow the setup company to unpack the house as planned figuring we need the comfort and familiarity of having our things out. It’s little relief.

  Nicky, Luis, and Sara head home to the City as scheduled. Sara has school, and they couldn’t do much to help here anyway. We all agree it’s best if they get right back to their usual routine. Sara is no doubt traumatized enough as it is. The healthiest thing for her to do is to be at her own home, attending her own school, and interacting with her friends. I hate that our house turned into a bad place for her. It was important for us to make a welcoming space where the family could gather. We couldn’t have imagined the house would have become a place of fear and darkne
ss.

  Duke and Jen come to check on us and Duke promises to make sure the best investigators from his department handle the case. He can’t work it himself since we’re friends, but he assures me we will be well taken care of. He wears his badge when he visits and reassures the boys that local law enforcement is watching over us and will keep us safe. Jen cries with Ali, more than once. She tells me the description of the intruder sounds like the mover Lady barked at. I never got a look at him myself on moving day, but I had a suspicion it was the same guy. I’m tempted to take Duke aside and beg him to do more. To tell me more. To get involved in our case. I feel pretty helpless and want desperately to do something. What I really want to do is to go back to Saturday evening before our lives changed and to stop the break-in from ever happening. I want our innocence back. I want this house to feel like home. I want my sweet little boys to think the world is a kind and gentle place. I want my wife to feel good about bringing a new life into our family. I want her to smile. I want her to believe I can protect her.

  When I call Liam and fill him in, he immediately gets in his car and drives up from D.C. to be with us. I try to protest, saying we’re okay and that we have all the help we need. It doesn’t work. He insists. He takes the rest of the week off and puts everything in his life on hold. I’m awfully glad he does. I’ll take all the support I can get right now. My whole world feels turned upside down. When he arrives, I make a beeline out to the front yard to get to him. Our driveway is still blocked off by crime scene tape, so he parks his blue Toyota Tundra on the road in front of the house. I feel like a child who wants someone to make all of this go away. I hug my uncle and can’t hold back the tears. I’m unsteady on my feet. Liam tells me to hold on to him and that he’ll help me through this.

  Liam and John Wendell are my go-tos for emotional support and John Wendell doesn’t have the stamina to be there for me like he used to. In fact, Mom and John Wendell are the last ones I call to tell what happened. I know how exhausted John Wendell was after our big night out on Saturday. I don’t want the stress of all this to set him back. I take very seriously what Mom said about him wearing himself out and then crashing. I can see his energy levels waning. He used a lot of his reserves Saturday night at Yellow Cob.

  Mom is more than a little distressed to hear about the incident and wishes I’d called her right away, but she understands my thinking about John Wendell. She is acutely aware of her responsibility to him. She realizes that when it comes to caring for him, it’s much easier to anticipate and avoid problems than to be reckless and let things get out of hand. An ounce of prevention and all that. Like babies, elderly folks walk a precarious line when it comes to their health and wellbeing. If I had called Mom right away, she would have wanted to come right over. That would have meant John Wendell staying home alone while way too tired, or more likely, John Wendell coming over with her while way too tired. I would have loved nothing more than to have seen them both and to have John Wendell stand beside me like he did so often after Dad died. But times are changing. Our relationship is not all about me anymore. I think about the pitiful souls who have heart failure and die from anxiety or fear. When you’re young, that sounds ridiculous and nearly impossible. I could have imagined it for a really nervous type in an extreme situation like a plane crash, but even then it seemed hard to picture. At some point as we all age though, such a scenario starts to enter the realm of very real possibilities. I’m pretty sure John Wendell is there. He needs to be shielded a bit from unpleasantries. Upsetting news needs to be delivered gently and when he’s well rested.

  The Ithaca Journal picks up the story and features it prominently on the front page. Here I was uncomfortable with my photo on the front page when it went along with the story about my position at Cornell. Now I wish that was the only story connected to my name. Ithaca is a small town and this is huge news. I have no idea if there’s ever been another abduction attempt in the area. This is the kind of thing that puts cities on the map in a bad way. Think Boulder, Colorado after JonBenét Ramsey. Or Salt Lake City after Elizabeth Smart. Thank goodness ours was an attempt and not an actual abduction. The population of Ithaca is a mere fraction of Boulder or Salt Lake City’s though. People are rattled. I’ve noticed an uptick in traffic on our street. I imagine people are curious and want to see the scene of the crime. Our house is one of the most expensive in all of Ithaca, which no doubt adds to the fascination. When a tragedy happens, it’s human nature to find something that differentiates you from the victims. The value of our home checks that box. People probably tell themselves we were targeted because we’re wealthy. Maybe they’re right.

  I do some of my own research on the construction company connected to the logo on the hat the intruder was wearing. It’s a quasi-legitimate outfit called Orangeland Commercial Builders based in rural South Carolina. There’s an outdated website that doesn’t provide much useful information, but I’m able to piece together a little more from a Better Business Bureau profile and a couple of online listings in professional directories. From what I can tell, they contract with larger companies to provide skilled workers for short-term remodeling projects at hotels and resorts. They are on record as having worked for multiple hotels in the Finger Lakes region, so it’s likely the company has a presence in Ithaca. I don’t know if the intruder was an actual employee of the company’s or not. He may have found the hat in a laundromat or picked it up at a second-hand store. If he is an employee though, it’s likely he isn’t from around here. So, how and why did he choose us? I mean, that’s the question regardless of where he’s from, but it seems especially odd that a random subcontracted construction worker from out of state would target us. Or maybe it’s a good thing creeps like him aren’t living right here in Ithaca permanently. Creeps tend to be drifters. The thought that this guy might be a sex offender has crossed my mind. I’m informed enough to understand it’s a strong likelihood, actually. I just don’t want to go there. If the man had sexually assaulted Ethan, I wouldn’t have waited for Roddy to end the guy.

  Roddy and Marjorie decide to stay longer than scheduled. They notify colleagues in the City about our ordeal and are both encouraged to take as much time as they need. Roddy and I still don’t discuss what happened in the shadows. I have no idea what he tells the police. For my part, I describe the events of Saturday night in detail right up until the part where I took Ethan out of Roddy’s arms. Beyond that, I confirm that I observed the intruder lying motionless and that at some point he stopped breathing. I don’t mention Roddy’s blows, and the investigators don’t ask about them. I imagine they know. They have to. Roddy’s hands were bruised and bloodied.

  The police treat us fairly. They record our statements and question Roddy and I separately at the station, but so far haven’t made an arrest. I’m sure glad we had the surveillance cameras up and running. We provide the footage for officials to review. The recordings clearly show the intruder entering our yard while clumsily carrying a huge ladder, then extending and leaning the ladder up against the back of the house and climbing up to break the boys’ bedroom window and step inside. Of course, the recordings also show the intruder exiting the bedroom window a few minutes later carrying Ethan. They show me leaning out the window and trying with all my might to reach down far enough to grab the ladder. And they show the chase in the front yard where Lady, Roddy, and I make a mad dash for the guy and intercept him just before he reaches the getaway van. I’m sure it’s chilling to watch, even for seasoned veterans of the force. I’m pretty sure most of these folks keep a soft spot for kids regardless of how jaded and hardened they become. One particular officer helps us get the alarm system at the house activated and set up with the heaviest monitoring available. We consider having a gate and fencing installed around the property. Ali and I don’t want to wall ourselves off from other human beings, but we’re shaken. We have to keep our kids safe.

  Ali has a friend from college at the University of Virginia who was a high-level analyst for th
e FBI in Albany before leaving to start his own security firm in Connecticut. He’s coming out to personally assess our home and make additional recommendations. Ali and Taye Jackson have stayed in pretty close touch over the years. They talk on the phone and text every now and then. They don’t get together in person all that often what with family and work obligations, but they’re the type of friends who can go a long time without seeing each other and then pick right up as if no time has passed at all when they do. I get the idea Taye watched over Ali in college. They never dated. There’s sort of a big brother and little sister vibe between them, probably because he’s seven years older and a late bloomer who was back in school after spending his early twenties finding himself. He’s a tall, muscular, smart as a whip African American guy. I imagine anyone who might have considered hassling Ali would move on to an easier target knowing Taye had her back. He and I have a chummy relationship. He was a groomsman in our wedding. But everyone knows he’s more Ali’s friend than mine. I’m okay with that. Taye has a twelve-year-old son who lives with his mom in Western Massachusetts, but who visits every other weekend and on school breaks. When Taye left the FBI and was looking to make a move within the region, he chose the New York City suburb of Fairfield County, Connecticut in order to tap into the ultra-wealthy clientele there and still be relatively close to his boy. The Gold Coast in the Southern part of the county, in particular, is a bastion of wealth. Lots of rich folks with waterfront Connecticut mansions need security services and consultations. I think it was a smart choice on Taye’s part. As I’m learning from my own experiences, rich people sometimes have a hard time determining who is out to take advantage of them. When they spot someone who clearly has nothing but good intentions, they’ll typically move forward without hesitation. Taye is an honest guy who loves what he does and that shines through. He sincerely cares about helping his clients. Hell, he cares about people in general. He’s the boy scout type. And so smart. His clients realize almost immediately they can trust him, and they refer him to friends and neighbors. His business is booming. I know he’ll do right by us and put all of his expertise to use in setting us up so we have peace of mind. Hopefully, we’ll be able to breathe a little easier when Taye’s done with our house. We trust him implicitly.