by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Sixteen
It’s just paranoia, Gene thought from under his ‘69 Chevelle Super Sport. Just paranoia animating a sound that didn’t really issue. He set the wrench down and whispered to his nearby son, “Sammy, did you hear that?”
“Hear what, Daddy?”
“Never mind. Be quiet for a minute.”
Lying still on his back, staring up at the dark big-block engine, Gene listened carefully. There was a low muffled TV barely audible coming from somewhere—the Parcher’s, yes from there, his next-door neighbor’s. Another minute he lain in wait before picking up the wrench. It was starting to get dark out, another twenty minutes and the starter either needed to be connected or he’d be taking his wife’s car to work tomorrow morning. He supposed he could get Sammy to crawl under the car with him to shine a flash light. If it weren’t for those son’s of bitch upper bolts being obscured from sight and damn near impossible to get to, he’d be cleaning up now instead—
Another sound. Yes, a scream, just as the last one had been. So distant and muted that he didn’t blame himself for being uncertain last time. It sparked dread in Gene’s heart, this being southwestern Sacramento. A scream couldn’t be taken lightly; you had to assume the worst and act on it quickly. If not, the murdering asshole might continue his killing spree endlessly.
“Sammy,” Gene whispered.
The boy dropped down to his knees and lowered his head to between the Chevelle’s bumper and driveway, “Yes? What is it, Daddy?”
“Go inside the house, make sure all the doors are locked. I’ll be inside in a moment.”
“Are you done with the car?”
“Do as I say.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Didn’t you hear it just now? A scream?”
From his expression Gene knew he hadn’t.
“Who’s screaming?”
“Nobody. Go inside, now.”
Sammy did as he was told as Gene scooched his way out from under the car, quiet in his enterprise so that he might hear the scream again. He stood up and looked through the window of his house and saw the blue glow of the living room television. A few seconds later the front-porch flood-light buzzed on—that was his son being thoughtful. He paced up the driveway past his wife’s car, with a ponderous pipe wrench in hand. There was a six-foot-tall brick wall separating his property and the Parcher’s, and it got shorter in increments as it neared the street. If the scream indeed originated from the Parcher’s, there was no visual evidence of a crime to accompany it. The house windows were dark. He surveyed the homes across the street. He could see through the windows, the brightly lighted living rooms and dining rooms and empty sidewalks and streets. Everyone was inside, probably watching the news. If they glanced outside and saw Gene, they’d probably think he has some screws loose to be out at night by himself. He did have some screws loose… well, bolts, really. But his neighbors would be right in their concern; he hadn’t anticipated working till dark. Sometimes time gets ahead of you when you’re focused on a difficult task. He felt absolutely alone out here.
The front door of his own house opened. Gene waved his wife to get back in. She didn’t, and wouldn’t without knowing what was going on. Her face was the embodiment of dread. Dread from her husband walking furtively up the driveway wielding a wrench for a weapon, and searching the neighborhood that had gotten untold hours of national news attention these last couple months. He waved her back inside with a scowl.
“Should I call the police?” She whispered forcefully. “Did you see something?”
He matched her volume. “No I didn’t. Get back inside this instant.” But she remained.
Gene was now at the sidewalk, looking down the street in both directions. He wished he’d hear another scream now, now that he wasn’t lying down under the car and disadvantaged to pinpoint the location of the cry. There were the sounds of everyday life, of a woman scolding some child, of dishes being stacked in a sink, of televisions being watched.
He went back to his first estimation of the sound’s origin: the Parcher’s. He faced their house and studied it. Something bothered him about it and damned if he could say why. Full dark was approaching rapidly. The sun had set better than forty minutes ago. So why weren’t the lights on at the Parcher’s? That’s what evoked his unease: they always had lights on at this hour. A porch light, a few inside lights, but not this evening.
They’re probably not home, that’s why the lights are off. That was probably it. Bob Hodges from work had packed up and taken his family to his brother’s house in Marysville a couple weeks ago, fearing for his family’s safety, and he wouldn’t be the only one with that mindset. But the Parcher’s were just two middle-aged people, their kids moved out years ago. They wouldn’t feel compelled to move away if it were just the two of them. Well that was a presumptuous thing to think.
The night was falling before his eyes. He’d be taking Beth’s Ford to work tomorrow, that much he knew for sure. He glanced over his shoulder. His wife stood in the door’s threshold, Sammy at her side. He gave her a thumbs-up. Then gestured with a finger that he’d be right back, and walked down the sidewalk fronting the Parcher’s’ home, staring acutely through the black windows. The driveway was empty, the garage door open. He could see the shadowy Cadillac, their only vehicle, parked inside. He heard a car door open and close down the street. Then heard steps padding toward him. There was a man with a ball-cap low on his brow on the same sidewalk, headed his way. Gene looked at the man’s hands, half-expecting to see a gun or a knife but there was nothing. If the man did the same to Gene he’d see a large wrench. Perhaps he was alarmed from spotting a wrench-wielding man standing suspiciously before a home and moved to investigate, a champion of the Neighborhood Watch.
The man was only a dozen yards away from Gene when he said, “Is there a problem?”
“No, just thought I heard something and wanted to see what it was.”
“I suppose the murders have gotten everyone wound up,” the man said, “but I guess you haven’t heard the great news.”
“Great news?”
“They caught him, about an hour ago. The SacTown Slayer.”
It was all Gene could do to keep from throwing his arms around the guy and hugging him. “Oh praise God,” Gene said.
“Yes, praise God,” the man agreed.
“Who is the guy? It really just happened an hour ago? That’s great. I’m going to watch the news.” Gene took his first step toward home when the man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t bother. It won’t be on the news yet. Maybe the ten o’clock edition. They want to be sure before they announce it.”
Gene frowned at him. “Then how do you know about it?”
“My brother is a cop. He just called me.”
“Oh. Well thanks for telling me. I thought I heard someone screaming and was scared shitless to investigate it. I’m Gene by the way.” He offered his hand.
“I’m Trent. Trent Blackwood.” They shook hands.
“You have a great night, Trent.”
“You too.”
Gene walked with a bounce in his step toward home. The stranger was heading in the same direction, back to the car from which he came. At the porch he heard the car-door open and close, but the engine never started. He went inside and told his wife the wonderful news. She shrieked she was so thrilled. Sammy who didn’t know much about the serial killer other than there was a bad man doing bad things in town, and that he needed to come home straight after school until being told otherwise, found excitement in the news and thought he’d be permitted to play at his friends after school in the wake of this.
The three took to the couch and turned up the news. Gene mentioned that it wouldn’t be on the news probably till ten, and why that was. But he was hopeful and anticipated a breaking news story coming in at any moment. During a commercial he went to the home phone and dialed Bob’s cell number, told him the great news, that he could return home wi
th the family now, that the piece of shit serial killer was in custody.
The news ended at nine; still no mention of the killer taken into custody. He told Sammy to get to bed. He turned the volume up just as the ten o’clock news aired. The headlines were given to whet the appetites of the viewership, and none of them were the SacTown Slayer caught. Gene looked at his wife, nodded at her once, encouraging her to be patient, that it really was the case, give it time.
At eleven Gene turned the TV off and said it would be all over the news in the morning. “The guy’s brother is a cop, he would know.”
They went to bed.
Gene set his alarm fifteen minutes early, and darted out of bed when it went off. Beth never got up at five A.M. with him, but today she did and Gene knew why: she was eager to watch the news.
Together they stood before the television as he clicked it on with the remote. A news anchor was reporting a train colliding with a car in Yuba City, two dead. It was just a couple minutes past five, so this was the story they were leading with. He looked at his wife with a troubled expression.
“Are you sure he said he was in custody?” Beth asked him.
“Of course I’m sure.”
At six he left for work in his wife’s car. He idled past the Parcher’s’ home, windows dark, garage door still open, the chrome bumper of the Cadillac catching and throwing the first rays of morning sunlight at him. He prayed the news story would break soon.
He returned home from work at four P.M., saw no activity inside the Parcher’ home, garage door still open, Cadillac parked inside. Mr. Parcher should be at work, that Cadillac shouldn’t be there. And the garage door should be closed, for that matter.
He parked his wife’s car on the driveway and went next door, rang the doorbell. No answer, so he rang it more rapidly, added a few sharp knocks into the mix.
“John? Barbara? It’s Gene from next door.”
He trudged back home feeling out of sorts. The car that Trent Blackwood had come from last night wasn’t there. He reflected back to the morning and couldn’t recall having seeing it, and wished he had checked.
When the six o’clock evening news aired, Gene felt a little sick. No news of the SacTown Slayer. The name Trent Blackwood cycled through his mind. Why would that young man lie to him? To what gain? That the Parcher’s remained unaccounted for made his thoughts darker. At seven he went next door and rang the bell again. Then went around the house to the back door and knocked there, calling John and Barbara’s names. Sweat dotted his brow. On impulse he reached for the doorknob and turned it. Unsettling as hell was that the door wasn’t locked. Who didn’t lock their doors during this epoch? Nobody with a right mind, that was for sure. He opened the door just a tad, debated entering. He knew damn well he wouldn’t be at peace without investigating this further so he opened the door, took only one step inside when he saw the silhouettes of two people seated side by side in dining room chairs facing away from the table, away from him. Without seeing that they were dead, he knew it.
He sprinted home and picked up the phone.