A short, middle-aged man in a dark suit who I assumed was the principal poked his head out of an adjoining office. “Yes?”
“Sorry, but would you have a phone book I could borrow for a sec?”
He looked puzzled, but nodded, went over to a desk, found one, and brought it over to the counter. I flipped it open to the back, found “W,” flipped through the pages for the Walker listings. I ran my finger down the dozens and dozens of Walkers, down through the alphabet. For every letter, there were several Walkers. I scanned right to the end, found a slew of “Walker W's,” not one “Walker X,” a couple of “Walker Y's,” and then I found my own listing. “Walker Z,” followed by our address and phone number.
There was only one “Walker Z.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Pardon?” said the principal. I didn't bother to close the book before turning around and running back down the hall, up the stairs, and down the corridor where I'd left Paul, expecting to see him waiting his turn to see Ms. Wilton. But he was gone.
I looked into the classroom and there he was, sitting across from his teacher. I swept into the room, breathless.
“Sorry,” I said. “Really sorry. Sorry I'm late.” I extended a hand to Ms. Wilton, who took it reluctantly and smiled grimly. I grabbed a chair. “So, listen, really, sorry, but thank you for making time for this meeting.”
“Of course.”
“So, what's the problem with Paul here?”
“Well, first of all,” said Ms. Wilton, opening a binder and examining a chart with all sorts of numbers and checkmarks and notes on it, “Paul seems to have a problem getting to class on time. He's rushing in at the last minute, which causes a real disruption to the class, especially when everyone else is settled in.”
It was pretty hot in there, especially after all the running I'd done. I pushed my chair back, causing it to squeak against the floor, to allow myself room to work my jacket off. “Just hang on a second,” I said, struggling to free myself from one sleeve while in a sitting position. Once I had the jacket off, I slipped it over the back of the chair. “You were saying?”
“When Paul comes to class late, it can cause a disruption to the class.”
“I can understand that.” I turned to Paul. “Is this true?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes I'm coming from gym, and we have to get changed, or have a shower, so I don't always get here on time.”
Time, I thought. How much time did I have? How long before this stranger found his way to our house? And what did he plan to do when he got there? He could have the purse, the $20,000, it didn't matter to me. Just take it and get out of our lives. As long as I handed it over, there was no reason for him to hurt me or any member of my family. He didn't know that I knew he was a killer, so it wasn't like he had to eliminate me as a witness. I'd tell him pretty much the truth. I found the purse at the grocery store, just wanted to return it, you must be her husband, nice to meet you, here it is, have a nice day, don't slam the door on your way out.
“Paul also has some difficulties in staying focused,” Ms. Wilton said. “The material we're covering is fairly complicated, so if you're not paying attention, you're going to have a lot of trouble when it comes to tests and assignments. Mr. Walker?”
“Yes?”
“You follow what I'm saying?”
“Of course. He has to be on time. I'm in total agreement there.”
“No, I was talking about how Paul needs to pay more attention.”
“To what?”
Ms. Wilton seemed to be the kind of person who got irritated very easily. There was a tone in her voice when she said, “To what goes on in class. To what I'm saying.”
“Oh, again, I agree.” To Paul, I said, “Aren't you paying attention in class?”
He shrugged. “I try. But I'm just not very interested in science. I mean, what's the point? What am I going to do with this stuff?”
I looked back at Ms. Wilton. “Over to you.”
Ms. Wilton's eyes narrowed. “Mr. Walker, you're an author of science fiction novels, are you not?”
Again, this tone. This was not the way a fan usually brought up my work. “That's true, yes. I've done a few novels.”
“Wouldn't you agree that even if you don't intend to become a rocket scientist, or an epidemiologist with the Atlanta Centers for Disease Control, that a general background in science is valuable? Even though your focus is fiction and good storytelling, haven't you benefitted from a general understanding of scientific principles in your line of work?”
Slowly, I nodded. “That's an excellent point.” I turned to Paul. “That's a good point.”
“That's all I'm trying to do here with Paul. To give him a good grounding in science. He doesn't have to find a cure for cancer, but he should at least know, for example, what keeps an airplane aloft, the aerodynamic principles involved that keep it from crashing to the ground.”
I've never really understood why airplanes don't crash into the ground, but this didn't seem like a good time to ask for an explanation.
“Paul's got a 55 for this semester, and there's only a few weeks left of school, and a major exam coming up, and he's going to have to work hard to make his mark a passing one,” the teacher said. “And it would help a lot if Paul spent less time listening to his little gadgets and more time listening to me when I'm speaking.”
“Gadgets?” I asked.
“Pagers and phones and those, what do you call them, MP5 players?”
“MP3,” Paul corrected her. “That's all I've got. I don't bring a phone or pager to class.”
“As you can imagine,” Ms. Wilton said, addressing me, “it's very difficult to compete for attention against all the technological toys that are out there these days.”
I nodded. “Sure, I can—”
And the cell phone in my jacket pocket started to chirp. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Could you excuse me for just a second?”
I turned around in the chair, reached into my pocket, and withdrew the phone. “Hello?” I said, smiling sheepishly over my shoulder at Ms. Wilton.
“Zack?”
Sarah.
“I totally forgot. I tried to get you at home and there was no answer. The interview with Ms. Winslow.”
“Wilton,” I said, smiling at the teacher.
“Yeah. You're supposed to be there.”
“It's under control,” I said. “We're doing it right now.”
“Oh, God, sorry. I better go.”
“No, that's okay.”
“What's the teacher say?”
“Well, he needs to be paying more attention, you know, that kind of thing. How 'bout with you? How's it going there?”
“Oh, pretty quiet. A fire downtown. But this is interesting. They've called out the homicide guys in Oakwood. Not too far from our place. Some woman bought it.”
“Really?”
“Some kid, going to the door trying to sell chocolate bars, finds the driveway covered in blood, it's leaking out from the garage, cops come and find this woman with her head bashed in. I got two people out there, trying to get something for the morning edition.”
Ms. Wilton was starting to look, if this was possible, even more annoyed.
“Listen,” I said. “I'll give you a call later, okay?”
“Okay. See ya.”
I slipped the phone back into my jacket. “Sorry.”
“I have other people waiting,” Ms. Wilton said, “so why don't I sum up. Paul needs to get to class on time, start paying attention, and leave his electronic toys in his locker when he comes to class.”
I nodded enthusiastically, then shrugged as we headed for the door. “I don't know where he gets it from,” I said.
On the way out to the car, Paul refused to look at me, but said, “Thanks a whole lot, Dad. It's hard to imagine how that could have gone any better.”
16
“you wanna slow down a bit, Dad?” Paul said. “I've never seen you drive this way.”
I'd ignored the stop sign coming out of the high school parking lot, and floored it when the light at the intersection ahead of us turned yellow. It turned red well before I was through.
“Excuse me, Mr. Safety?” Paul said again, trying to get my attention.
“I want to get home,” I said.
“Okay, but remember, I said I had to get dropped off at Andy's?”
I wasn't sure, after the interview with his teacher, that Paul deserved to go out with his friends. Any other time, I would have taken him home and sent him to his room with orders to study until his eyes started to bleed, but at the moment I had too much else on my mind. And it might be prudent—given that a man I knew only as an e-mail address who was likely a killer had made it plain to me that he was going to figure out how to find me—to have as many members of my family as possible out of the house.
So I made a detour on the way home that would take us by Andy's house, and despite traveling well over the limit, there was still time for Paul to push his most recent agenda.
“I'm not talking about a big tattoo. Just a small one, where you'd never even see it. Like on my back, or shoulder, or my butt.”
“You want to get a tattoo on your butt.”
“It's not like it's going to bother you or Mom. You won't even see it.”
“If no one's going to see it, then why bother to get it done?”
Paul measured his words carefully. “Well, someone might see it. Eventually. Just not you guys. There's all sorts of neat designs. I can show you, on the Web, just so you don't think they're all gross. They're really a form of art.”
“A form of art that can never be removed. You get a tattoo, you've got it for life.”
“They have ways of getting rid of them.”
“I'm not so sure they're effective. And I think they're pretty painful.” I was feeling so tired, and developing a headache. Although I'd not been all that hungry, given what I'd seen this evening, the lack of anything in my stomach was taking its toll.
“I'd just like you to think about it, that's all. Lots of people have them, and it doesn't make them criminals or anything. Lots of my friends do, and I know grown-ups who've got them, too. You know Mr. Drennan, the math teacher? He's got this little butterfly on his arm, and there's this guy in Grade 9, his parents let him get this guitar tattoo on—”
We were pulling to a stop out front of Andy's. I said, “What does your sister think of this? You don't see her pestering me for permission to do this.” Paul often turned to Angie for the guidance and wisdom her many years afforded her.
“Jeez, Dad, she's already got one on her—” And he saw the dawn of surprise in my eyes and stopped. He opened the door, said, “See ya,” and bolted for Andy's place.
I didn't have time to think about where Angie might have a tattoo. I sped home, killing the lights of the Civic as I pulled into the drive. When I turned the key in the front-door lock, the bolt didn't slide home the way it usually does. Paul had been the last one out when we'd gone over to the school, and I couldn't recall seeing him lock it. But then again, Angie might be back from the mall and just hadn't locked the door when she stepped into the house.
No one listens to me.
“Angie?” I called as I stepped in. I turned off my cell and left it and my keys on the table by the door, and walked into the kitchen. “You home?”
There was no answer. I called again, louder this time: “Angie!”
No one called back. But I could hear noises coming from the kitchen. The opening of the fridge, the clinking of bottles.
“Sarah?” Maybe she'd come home early. No, that wasn't possible. Her car wasn't in the drive, and she'd called me from the office only moments ago, when I was in Ms. Wilton's class. “Who's there?”
I walked past the door to the study, where the purse stuffed with cash was still stowed, and into the kitchen.
It was Rick, leaning up against the dishwasher, drinking an Amstel from our fridge. He was in his jeans and jean jacket, which he wore over a black T-shirt. Heavy black boots stuck out from the bottom of his worn jeans. He was smiling enough for me to see that one of his front teeth was chipped.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. “And where's my candlestick, you son of a bitch?”
Rick lost his smile. “That's not a very nice way to talk to a guy you want to fix your shower.”
“I don't want you to fix anything. I'm going to speak to Mr. Greenway about you, about the fact that you're a thief, that when you walk into someone's house to fix something, there's no telling what you'll walk out with. Just get out. We'll find someone else to fix our shower.”
“I didn't even realize when I came here the other day,” Rick said, “that your name was Walker. All they gave me was an address.”
“Well, that's me. Walker. And I'm asking you to leave.”
“Zack Walker. With a ‘Z.'”
That's when it hit me that Rick wasn't here to work on the shower.
He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the sheet of paper I had left behind at Stefanie Knight's mother's place, the one with my name and e-mail address.
“When I looked your name up in the book for an address, I thought, Shit, I know that house. I been in that house.”
I said nothing.
“When I got here, I found the door was open. You really should lock up when you leave. You never know who's going to barge right in. But I had a look around the whole house this time. Haven't seen it since it was under construction. Nice place. Looks like you got a son, and a daughter. That right?”
I nodded very slowly.
“So I was trying to find Stef tonight, she had something of Mr. Greenway's I had to pick up, and went by her place, and when I couldn't find her there, I decided to drop in on her mom. You met her, right?”
“Her mother, yes. And her brother.”
Rick nodded. “You meet Quincy?”
“We met.”
“I gave them Quincy. It was a gift, like. I love snakes. I think they're really beautiful. Merle, that's Stef's mother? She's a nice lady. We got to be friends when Stef and I were a thing, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“But Quincy's been giving them a lot of trouble lately. He's a bit of a handful, I admit, but he's a good snake. So they asked me to take him off their hands for a while. You want to come out to the car and see him?”
I felt a chill. “No, like I said, we met.”
“I got him out in the trunk. Gonna take him back to my place. You're sure you don't want to come out, pet him?”
I shook my head.
“Because, if I don't leave here with what I want, then I might insist that you come out and pet him.”
“I'm sure we can work something out.”
“Merle and Stef, they don't talk that much, but Stef drops by once in a while, you know, so I thought, maybe she was over there. But she wasn't, but Merle started talking about this man who came by, saying he had something that belonged to Stef, but he was acting kind of funny, and I got a bit suspicious, you know. And he left this e-mail address. So they let me use their computer so I could send you a little message.”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “So if you've got something of Stef's, why don't you just hand it over to me, and I'll be on my way.”
“Okay,” I said. “That's fine. Follow me.”
I led him out of the kitchen and down the hall to my study. He stepped into the room, looked around, his eyes landing on the various items of SF kitsch, and said, “Whoa, I missed this room when I took my tour. This is quite the setup you've got here.”
He leaned in close to the shelves to admire the models and trinkets and action figures, stepped back to check out the posters on the walls. “This here, I know this is a Batmobile, but which one?”
“From the animated series.”
“I always liked the one from the old TV show, you know, from the sixties, where they had the words ‘pow' and ‘bam' and everything
, when they took punches at each other. It had the red pinstripes, and little bat symbols on the wheels? I always thought that one was cool. I had a little Dinky Toy of that one.”
“It was a Corgi, actually,” I said.
“Huh?”
“A Corgi toy, not a Dinky Toy. It's right there, on the shelf above.”
He looked up. “Oh wow. Shit. That's it. That's the one I had as a kid.” He took it off the shelf and admired it. “Fuck me. That's really cool.” He felt the heft of the metal model in the palm of his hand. I wanted to tell him to be careful with it but held my breath instead. “It's a beauty, looks like it came right out of the box, still got the little antenna on it and everything.”
“Yeah, it's mint.”
“Where did you get this? My stuff, from when I was a kid, my mom just threw it all out, I guess. Fuckin' bitch.”
“That's mine. I mean, it was mine when I was a boy. I've kept it all these years.”
The man nodded, impressed. “You keep your stuff nice.”
I shrugged. “Well, I try. I've saved a lot of toys and things from my childhood, some better than others.”
“Well, it looks like it really paid off.” And then he slid the Batmobile model into the pocket of his jean jacket and smiled at me. Just like that, daring me to ask him to put it back on the shelf.
“Wait a minute,” Rick said, looking at the books on the shelves, including several duplicate copies of the ones I'd written. “Zack Walker. Is that like Zachary Walker?”
“That's right.”
“I know that name.” His eyebrows went together, like he was trying to remember something from a very long time ago. He pulled a copy of Missionary off the shelf. “Did you write this?”
I nodded. “That was my first book, yes.”
“Is this the one where those guys go to another planet and try to get the people to stop believing in God?”
“Yes, that's the one.”
“Shit, I loved this book! I read it while I was inside.”
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