Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “What else was I supposed to do?”

  “You could have waited. I was on my way home. You could have called.”

  “It didn’t even cross my mind. Honestly—I was just so—”

  “Girls—” Greg says, cutting me off. “It’s iPad time.”

  He watches as they spill out into the family room. Naomi is reluctant to go and tries to hang back. He walks over to her and forces her out.

  “Thirty minutes and then it’s bath time,” I call after them. Then I turn to Greg, testing my own boundaries. “I thought we were doing no tech during the school week.”

  “You’ve freaked them out enough. I don’t think this is a conversation they need to hear.”

  “It seems like you’re blaming me.”

  “I’m not…but we should be careful about what we say in front of them.”

  “He went to their school, Greg!”

  He runs his fingers through his hair, grabs a fistful and then releases it. He turns to face me head-on. This is a complication he doesn’t need right now. His eyes say it so his mouth doesn’t have to. “And what did the police say?”

  “Nothing, really. They took down my story. But I could see it on their faces—they thought I was crazy.”

  “You are walking around in pajamas and house shoes in the middle of the day.”

  “I explained that I’m under the weather. And I didn’t sleep last night on account of the fact that he killed our dog.”

  “We don’t have any proof of that.”

  “I’m not crazy, Greg.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “It felt like they were humoring me. I don’t think they took anything I said seriously.”

  “Well, you did take donuts to a police station.”

  “I thought they might be poisoned!”

  He says nothing for several beats. “That’s probably why they looked at you like that. What did you think would happen, Amy? This isn’t CSI.”

  “Now you’re mocking me, too.”

  “I’m not. I’m listening. And yes…perhaps trying to provide a bit of comic relief.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “I know it isn’t.” He walks over to where I’m standing and brushes my hair away from my face. Then he takes me into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “They asked if he’d made any threats.”

  Greg pulls away and searches my face. “What did you say?”

  “I told them he hadn’t—I mean…not directly, but—he’s a criminal.”

  “That’s not a crime.”

  “Which is pretty much what they said. Unless we can prove that he harmed Rocky, he hasn’t broken any laws.”

  “I figured.”

  “Did you get anywhere with the text messages?” My tone is hopeful, although I already know the answer. He would have said something.

  “No.” He purses his lips into a tight line. “I didn’t get the chance. Not with the investors here.”

  My phone rings. It’s Lucy, returning my call. I let it go to voicemail.

  “Actually, speaking of—” He glances at his watch. “I have a dinner tonight.”

  “Great. So where does this leave us?”

  “We’re going to have to talk to the school…” He goes on, but I’m only partially listening. I’m scanning my texts. Two from Dana and one from a five-digit number. You really shouldn’t have done that.

  “What?” Greg asks, cocking his head. The color has drained from my face. I hold my phone up so he can read it for himself. “Good,” he says. “Now we have something in writing. An explicit threat.”

  “And still no way to prove it’s him. It’s from one of those robo-numbers.”

  “It’s still better than nothing.”

  “We have to do something, Greg. If the police won’t help us…we have to figure this out on our own.”

  “They’ll help. They just need something to go on… they need evidence.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I say. “And what if by then it’s too late?”

  “As in what?”

  “I don’t know. But I have a bad feeling. He isn’t just going to go away.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I ask Greg to skip his investor dinner, knowing that he can’t afford to, especially considering he’s already had to skip out on his pitch. I’m keenly aware of the pressure he is under. His business needs this infusion of cash. Our family needs it. Paying our mortgage depends on it.

  He cannot afford to keep investing personal capital without seeing a return.

  We’ve discussed him bowing out, or rather I’ve discussed it. My husband is not one to let go, which is precisely what I love about him. How can I reconcile the two? If he walks away now, he’ll lose big. Not just financially, but emotionally. Everything he is, everything he has, is quite literally tied up in making this venture work. If he doesn’t woo these investors, I’m not sure what will happen. So I understand where he’s coming from and why he has to go tonight. I’m not sure when the right time to explain to people considering investing in your tech that your family is dealing with a stalker, —and a convicted child rapist at that—but I assume this isn’t it.

  Before he leaves, he puts in a call to a police officer that is a friend of a friend. Greg puts the call on speaker as the man inquires about our security system. He listens intently, and then with a hint of pity in his voice, he advises us to upgrade. He asks about our experience with firearms, and while we don’t say that we have none, that is pretty much what we mean.

  I can tell this is not what he was hoping to hear, but Greg and I agreed a long time ago about guns. Back when we were pregnant with Naomi, we interviewed pediatricians. It was a question that seemed to come up every time, the question about firearms. Most parents don’t think about it until it’s too late, one of the doctors had said. Gun safety. Glad, if not a little smug that we didn’t have to worry about that, we agreed that we would never have a gun in the house.

  The officer suggests that we rethink our position. Afterward Greg points out that is his job; he’s a cop. He knows guns. We don’t.

  I don’t know what to think. Just a few days ago, if anyone had asked me about the problems of my life, purchasing a weapon would have been the last thing I would have listed.

  And the cold, hard truth is we really can’t afford to upgrade the security system. Not right now. Not without blowing our emergency savings, and not unless we put it on credit, which is another thing we agreed we’d never do.

  Greg’s transmission blew two months ago. Then last month Blair dropped a toy in the toilet and thought the best fix was simply to flush, flooding the upstairs bathroom and the mudroom below. Between the car repair and our homeowner’s insurance deductible, we’re still working on building our emergency fund back up.

  “We could ask my parents,” Greg suggests, knowing what my response will be. We can’t ask mine. So his are off the table too.

  “We are not asking your parents.” I roll my eyes. “God, we’re not that desperate.”

  “We can’t put it on credit,” Greg tells me, reading my thoughts. “What if something else happens?”

  “What?” I demand. “What could be worse than this?” And before the words even leave my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them.

  The girls are in bed when Greg returns from his business dinner. He comes in with a stack of mail. Pecking my cheek, he motions toward a letter on the top. It isn’t stamped. Nor does it have a return address. “It was stuffed in the box,” Greg says. He looks tired, and by his expression, I can see that he’s already read it. He slides it across the counter.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stone,

  It pains me greatly to sit back and watch you—to allow you—to take such dangerous risks with your daughters. Children are delicate creatures with fragile bones. Carnival rides are no place for them. Do you know how many carnival-related accidents there are per year? I suggest you do some research. As parents, that is your job.

  Children,
and girls especially, must be guarded against the evils of this world. They must be fed warm meals, not slop in Styrofoam boxes and plastic bags. Do you know how many food-borne illnesses there are a year? I assume not. Perhaps I should educate you. Before it’s too late.

  There are forty-eight million cases of food poisoning each year in the United States alone. That’s sixteen percent of the population. Children are particularly susceptible to hospitalization, and even death.

  In the name of God, I beg you to protect your little girls. This world is a dark place, and darkness is always closer to home than one thinks. Amen.

  Yours,

  A concerned citizen

  “He didn’t sign his name,” Greg tells me sarcastically. “Imagine that.”

  I bite at my lower lip until I taste blood. “I’m not sure this is from Mooney,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t sound like his vernacular.”

  “Give me a break, Amy. He’s a criminal. They have a diverse set of skills.”

  Our eyes meet. I exhale the breath I’d been holding. “Either way, I’ll run it by the station tomorrow.”

  My first stop after I drop the girls off at school the following morning is not the police station. First, I wait in the office to speak to the principal and explain the situation. Not in too much detail, just enough to make it clear that my daughters are to be supervised at all times and released to only their father or myself. The woman listens intently, but she doesn’t appear shocked, as though this is not the first request of this nature she’s ever heard.

  While Greg was at his dinner, I did a little research. If one wanted to acquire a gun, one they didn’t want their spouse to know about, how might one go about it? It’s not that I intend to lie to Greg, but I also don’t want to hear his objections, and I know there will be many.

  I recall a conversation with a former client about teenagers down by the car wash on the Eastside selling handguns. I don’t know if this is true, and the last thing I want is to do something illegal, but there is a part of me that is desperate to find out.

  In the end, I decide to go about the acquisition the legal way and I drive to McBride’s. The process is much smoother than I thought it would be. I am not simply handed a firearm and told to be on my merry way. There’s a process, and although I assumed that any firearm would do, I quickly learn that it is very important to choose the right weapon.

  I am lucky. The man at the counter is very knowledgeable, and he is insistent at imparting his wisdom upon me. He is patient while answering my questions, although he smirks at me when I use shooting a deer as a metaphor for shooting a person, but he does not make me feel as ignorant as I am. It turns out, my metaphor is unnecessary, because most people who purchase guns purchase them for the same reason I am. He tells me something I needed to hear, that I am not a bad person for wanting to protect myself. He also tells me I should brush up on the law. He explains the Castle Doctrine and what I should say if I were to fire my weapon in self-defense. I leave the store feeling less guilty and more informed than when I went in.

  While I still have no plans to tell my husband, I do know that if I am to use the gun for its intended purpose, then I am going to have to keep it close by. At this rate, I may sleep with it under my pillow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She wasn’t the first one he’d watched. His needs have developed over time until the activity became sacred, something that he cannot imagine himself ever giving up. To him, observation is an art form. Loads of people bird watch every year, and while most people would say what he does is immoral, he doesn’t see how this is any different. He considers himself an anthropologist of sorts.

  Which is how he found himself in the park, his favorite place to study.

  He spotted them immediately, the youngest girl’s red hair flying in the wind. He could spot her from miles away. Same as her mother, he is certain. Hair that color could be seen from outer space. It could be seen from anywhere.

  He found himself having a good time. The weather was sunny and breezy, and golden leaves fell from the trees in a way that gave the scene a magical feel. He felt perfectly encapsulated, stuck in a snow globe where everything was perpetually stunning. But then everything turned. Like a winter storm blowing in fast, knocking everything off balance, the man approached. It nearly caused his heart to stop. His palms grew sweaty, and his breathing was rapid and unsteady. It is not good for children to talk to strangers. The little one does not appear to have been told. It’s a good thing he came. Even if he gets caught, he can explain. Parks are like oceans with lots of little fish. Sharks like oceans with plenty of fish.

  This man was a shark—that much he was sure of.

  It takes one to know one.

  The man smiled as he circled the chum. The girl smiled back, and it was as easy as that. He honed in on her. Her parents have neglected to educate her, just as he’d suspected. The older girl stands back at first, eyes shifty, her hands shoved in her pockets. She smells something amiss. And yet she doesn’t want her fear to show…she is not yet ready to grow up. He held his breath and willed her to do something before he had to. Finally, she stepped forward and placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.

  The shark moved closer and offered a deceptive wave. He couldn’t make out what was being said, only that the little one was light on her feet, a bit wobbly at the knees. She trusts the stranger, and that is a grave, grave mistake.

  The father sat talking to a woman seated on a bench opposite him. She has a child too, and every once in a while one or both of them looked up. But right then, no one was looking. The man held his hand out and offered something to the girls. He watched as the littlest one leaned forward and took it.

  She was closing the gap between herself and the shark, and if he didn’t move fast, he would be powerless to stop it.

  He could feel himself being pulled in the man's direction. The children. This was his territory. His ocean. His fish. The man had no right to trespass. He balled his fists, released them. After flexing his fingers, and cracking his knuckles, he reached for the knife in his pocket. It reassured him, the weight of it. If the father didn’t intercede, he was going to have to do it, and he cannot because he is observing, which means he is not supposed to be seen. He knows what happens if you are bird watching and you give yourself away: they all fly away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Greg swears he was watching. He swears it. But he couldn’t have been, could he? If he were, then he would have seen Jack Mooney offer our daughters candy, and he would have put a stop to it.

  But he didn’t see it, and Blair took the candy, and had it not been for her sister, she would have undoubtedly eaten it and then who knows what could have happened.

  Greg says that I am overreacting. He says we need to be vigilant, but we have to live our lives. He accuses me of being paranoid. He laughs at me, telling me it’s absurd when I Google substances that could be placed on candy wrappers, substances that have the potential to do harm.

  He says that there’s no evidence the man at the park was even Jack Mooney, and when I repeatedly question the girls, he accuses me of scaring them. We end up in a huge fight and now we aren’t speaking and if it was Mooney at the park, then he is getting exactly what he wants. Everyone knows a house divided cannot stand.

  Nearly a week passes. Nothing happens. Greg and I make up. The argument, like most marital spats, fades into the distance. It’s the only way you can live with a person forever. Forgetfulness is a blessing of nature; it’s what allows us to mate for life.

  Maybe it’s also what keeps the world turning, because I almost forget that Jack Mooney has reentered my life at all, and if it were not for the feeling of constantly being watched, I might be able to let the thought go altogether.

  The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I am in the grocery store doing our shopping. Our dinner will be low-key; there’s too much going on between Greg’s work and mine for us to fly east to spend it with his family. Mine isn’t even an option. My
mother will be spending it with her fourth husband and his sons. She seems to have forgotten she has a daughter and two grandchildren but that is nothing new. My father is another story. With my mother, at least I know where she is.

  It’s the first Thanksgiving since Blair was a baby we haven’t traveled to Greg’s childhood home. I want to make the day special. I pulled dozens of recipes off of the internet, but I have little idea of what I’m doing or what I’m in for. Greg’s mother usually handles all aspects of the holidays. She’s very territorial over her kitchen. Actually, she’s very territorial over everything, a trait I’ve used to my advantage when it suits me, and complained incessantly about when it doesn’t.

  I know it’s silly, if not petty, but there’s a part of me that wants to hear my husband call his folks back home and report on the job I’ve done. I want to hear him say how amazing everything was, how nice it is for us to make our own memories.

  I am in the produce aisle, picking up apples for my mother-in-law’s famous pie when a man in a ball cap sidles up next to me. He’s wearing dark glasses, and his hat pulled low, so I don’t immediately recognize that it’s Mooney standing next to me. I’m too engulfed in my grocery list, too worried about whether I can really pull off a pie from scratch along with everything else I have to do. This, and I’m focused on finding apples without bruises, which is harder than I thought it would be.

  “If they’re damaged, you get a discount,” the man says. When I look up, he smacks the apple against the side of the display as though he’s cracking an egg. At first I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. But then he does it again, and it’s strange and uncomfortable, so I spit out the first thing that comes to mind. “That seems illegal.”

  He lowers his glasses, and my breath hitches in my throat. “Oh, Amy. My sweet, sweet Amy. It’s only illegal if you get caught.”