A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  That done, he turned off his computer and crept to the tool shed by the fence between the Woolbright and Robinson properties. Easing open the door, he slipped a couple of gay porn magazines inside, then reclosed it.

  When he returned home he removed a tray of ice cubes from his freezer and carried it to the extra bedroom on the second floor. He raised the window and the screen about twelve inches, then pulled his Firestorm High Performance slingshot from the night table drawer. He popped an ice cube out of the tray, loaded it into the sling, then winged it toward the wooden doghouse where Daisy, the Garcias’ short-furred bitch mutt, spent her nights. Theodore had become expert with the slingshot over the years, and rarely missed, even at this distance.

  The cube shattered against the doghouse, startling Daisy to full-throated wakefulness. She rushed out with a howl that progressed to frenzied barking.

  Finally, after inspecting the six-foot picket fence that defined the perimeter of her domain, she quieted down. With some satisfied gruffs, growls, and grumbles, she returned to her abode.

  Theodore gave her time to settle down, then let fly another cube.

  As Daisy repeated her howls and barks, he heard Mr. McCuin shout from a window on the Garcias’ far side, “For Christ sake, Garcia, shut up that goddamn mutt or bring her inside!”

  Theodore closed the screen and the window.

  He made an entry in his ledger and went to bed.

  A good start.

  Tuesday, April 27

  He waited until 9:30 A.M., watching the various carpool and solitary departures, before knocking on the Woolbrights’ door. He’d learned last Thursday that Mrs. Woolbright was a stay-at-home wife.

  She looked pale and uncertain when she answered. Perhaps she had received some disturbing emails. He gave her his brightest smile.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Woolbright. My lawnmower seems to be on the fritz and I was wondering if I might borrow your husband’s.”

  “My husband’s?” She blinked and paused, as if she were translating the words. “Oh, yes. I suppose so. It’s around back in the shed.”

  “Could you show me?” To underscore his probity, he added, “I’ll walk around the side and meet you there.”

  They converged at the shed in the backyard.

  “It’s in here.” She pulled open the doors.

  “Thank you.”

  He waited for her to notice the magazines, then realized they weren’t there. He poked his head in and looked around, but they were gone.

  He took hold of the lawn mower handle and pulled it out, wondering if they had slipped beneath. But no . . . no magazines.

  “Did your husband come out to the shed this morning?”

  “What? No. He was running late. Skipped breakfast and ran. In a big hurry to get to . . . the city.”

  “Yes. I’m sure. I’ll be sure to have it back by tonight.”

  She only nodded, looking distracted.

  Theodore wheeled the mower across the street. Where were those magazines? He’d ponder that while he mowed the grass—something he hadn’t counted on. He always hired a lawn service whenever he moved into a new town, but he’d put it off because of the Woolbrights. Today he’d planned to be so upset by the sight of those magazines that he’d forget about the mower. But now that he had it, he was obliged to use it.

  He turned off the mower. Finally. He’d forgotten what a noisy, monotonous chore it was. Plus he was no spring chicken. He was puffing a little and had wet rings in his armpits. He’d clean off the mower—always be a good neighbor—and wait for Mr. Woolbright’s return before wheeling it back across the street. Might catch an earful of domestic strife along the way—though not as much as there could have been had she found those magazines. Someone had taken them. But who?

  He saw the mail truck pull up to his box. Even though he’d never receive anything but flyers and contest come-ons at this address, he’d introduced himself to the mailman, whose name was Phil. He waved and Phil waved back.

  After the mail truck moved on, Theodore slipped into the backyard and stood behind the big rhododendron next to the post-and-rail fence that divided his property from the Robinsons’. The bush shielded him from the street. Once he was sure no one was in line of sight, he climbed over the fence. In the old days he would have hopped it, but he wasn’t as spry or as flexible as he used to be.

  He hurried to their back door. When helping Mr. Robinson transplant a spirea on Saturday, he’d noted that the back door lock was a Schlage. He inserted a Schlage bump key, gave it a twist as he tapped it with a little rubber hammer, and he was in. He’d seen no evidence of an alarm system on his introductory visit, so no worry about disarming that.

  He hurried upstairs and had no problem locating Chelsea Robinson’s room—pink wallpaper, posters of the latest boy group. He went to her dresser and found her underwear drawer. He removed a pair of panties—pink, of course—and stuffed them into his pocket.

  Then he was on his way down the stairs, out the way he’d come in—making sure to lock the door behind him—and back over the fence.

  Five minutes from leaving his yard to returning. And no one the wiser.

  Now that he had the panties, he could pick which photos of Chelsea to print out.

  He watched the Rashid house until all was dark except for the glow of a TV from the master bedroom. He’d printed out half a dozen photos of Chelsea—close ups of her face, and crops centered on her flat chest and her little rump. With these trapped under his shirt, and the panties in his pocket, he stole across the street and into the Rashids’ backyard. On Sunday he’d helped carry bags of wood-chip mulch from the van to the rear, and had made note that the backdoor to their garage was secured by another Schlage. No surprise. Development builders invariably used the same hardware on their houses.

  A tap and a twist of the bump key and he was in. He opened the rear passenger door of Mr. Rashid’s Volvo sedan and placed the photos and the panties on the floor where the pink could not fail to catch Mr. Robinson’s eye. Then he would see the photos beneath.

  Theodore pulled out a penlight and snooped around until he came upon an expensive-looking socket wrench set. He tucked that under his arm and slipped back outside, locking the door behind him.

  Before heading for the Longwell house, he detoured to the Fabrinis’ front yard where he pulled up every geranium Mr. Fabrini had planted over the weekend and scattered them across the front lawn.

  He strolled the starlit street to the other end of the block where he slipped into the back of the Longwells’ corner lot and hid the wrench set under the deck.

  Back home, he slung ice cubes at Daisy’s doghouse until Mr. McCuin screamed again from his window.

  After making his daily entry in the ledger, he went to bed.

  Wednesday, April 28

  Theodore had set his alarm to be sure he’d be awake to see Mr. Rashid pick up Mr. Robinson. He’d given himself enough time to make coffee first.

  So now, steaming cup in hand, he sat by his front picture window to wait and watch.

  Right on time, Mr. Rashid pulled out of his garage and backed into the street. Equally punctual, Mr. Robinson strode from his front door to the Rashid sedan. He opened the rear door . . .

  . . . now the good part . . .

  . . . and placed his briefcase in the rear . . .

  . . . here we go . . .

  . . . then slammed the door and slipped into the passenger seat. Mr. Rashid gunned the car and off they went.

  Theodore found himself on his feet, staring through the window. How could Robinson have missed the panties and the pictures? Impossible. Unless . . .

  Unless they weren’t there.

  He focused on the yard next to the Rashids where he’d pulled all the geraniums last night . . . where the lawn should have been littered with dead or dying plants.

  But wasn’t. At least it didn’t appear so from here.

  He threw on some clothes and hurried outside, slowing as he reached the sidewal
k. Had to be calm. Had to appear to be going for a morning stroll, a constitutional, as they used to say back in the day.

  But his inner pace was anything but leisurely as he passed the Fabrini yard and saw that each and every geranium he’d torn out last night had been replanted. He might have convinced himself that he’d dreamed what he’d done but for the orange petals and scattered clumps of potting dirt here and there on the lawn.

  He heard a garage door rolling and saw Mr. Fabrini smiling and waving as he backed out of his driveway.

  “Good morning!” he called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it.”

  Theodore nodded. “Yes. Beautiful.”

  Another wave, another smile—“Have a good one!”—and Mr. Fabrini was on his way, acting nothing at all like a man who’d been forced to spend his first waking hours repairing mindless vandalism. Theodore had been all set to tell him that he’d glanced out his window last night and thought he’d seen the McCuin boy in the front yard, but no point now.

  Someone was on to him.

  Hard to see how that was possible. He knew no one in town, especially on this block, and no one knew him.

  Or was he wrong about that?

  He supposed it was possible. In fact, statistically it might even be inevitable that after all these years he would run into someone from a previous distribution point.

  But he was always so careful, so circumspect. How could someone connect him with the unfortunate incidents that occurred during his brief stays?

  He couldn’t avoid the possibility that someone had. Judging from the missing porn magazines, the replanted geraniums, and what he had to assume were the missing panties and photos, the possibility looked more like a certainty.

  Someone was undoing his work. And that meant someone was following him around, watching his every move.

  But who?

  He was sure he would have noticed.

  It had to be someone with good tracking skills—and other skills as well. Theodore had locked the Rashids’ garage door behind him. To remove the panties and photos, the one shadowing him would have to be adept at lock picking.

  Who, damn it?

  He took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. He prided himself on never becoming upset, never emotionally involved. This was a job, and he a professional.

  And a professional could always out think an amateur.

  He spent the rest of the day planning and making a few purchases. Midafternoon he placed one call using his untraceable ATT Go Phone.

  “Mrs. Woolbright?” he said when she answered, dropping his voice an octave. “Sorry to bother you. This is Harold Mapleton with the Suffolk County parole board.”

  “Parole board? I have nothing to do with the parole board.”

  “Of course you don’t, Mrs. Woolbright. But your neighbor, Cletus Longwell, does. I’m his parole officer.”

  “What? He’s on parole? For what?”

  “Grand theft. But he won’t be on parole much longer. His three years will be up next month and I’m just calling to see what kind of neighbor he’s been. Any reported thefts around the neighborhood? Anything missing from your premises?”

  “No . . . not that I know of.”

  “Well, good. But ask around will you? Just in case. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”

  Shortly before midnight he took his laptop into his yard and tried again to access the Robinsons’ wi-fi network but couldn’t find the signal.

  Frustrated, he took up his position in the extra bedroom and set the Garcia dog to barking until Mr. McCuin screamed from his window.

  After that he made a ledger entry but did not go to bed.

  Thursday, April 29

  Around 1:30 Theodore slipped outside and into the overcast night. He paused in the deeper shadows of the arbor vitae flanking his front door and scanned the neighborhood.

  Was someone out there now, watching, waiting to undo his work?

  Thursday was garbage pickup day in Pine View Estates. Everyone on the block except Theodore had their cans waiting at curbside. Fannen Street lay empty before him. Still, he had a feeling of being watched. Real? Or paranoia?

  He had to assume someone was watching, but could not let that disrupt his schedule. He’d made adjustments to prevent that.

  He crossed the street to the Fabrini house and emptied a can of Speed Weed, a fast-acting herbicide, on the geraniums. Nobody was going to save them now. Then he walked to the other end of the block, took the lid off the McCuin garbage can, and left the Speed Weed container on top in plain sight.

  Before leaving, he dropped the lid on the grass, pulled a baggy from his pocket, and emptied a dog turd onto it.

  Next he stopped back at his place and picked up a ten-quart plastic container and a wrench. Mrs. Robinson always left her car parked in the driveway. Theodore wriggled beneath it and felt around for the drain plug on the crankcase. When he found it he loosened it and let the oil empty into the container. When it was completely drained, he took the container and the plug and carried them across the street, making sure to spill a little oil every six-to-eight feet or so along the way to the Fabrinis’ driveway. He left everything in their backyard.

  He wondered how far Mrs. Robinson would get before her engine seized up and self-destructed.

  Though tired when he returned to his house, sleep was not in tonight’s equation. He set himself up in his front window—where he had a pair of Rigel 3250 compact night vision goggles and a carafe of hot coffee waiting—and settled in to watch. He had no view of the McCuin house; he could see the Fabrinis’ front yard but not their back where he’d left the oil and drain plug.

  But he could see the Robinson car, right next door, not a hundred feet away. If anyone tried to undo Theodore’s work there, he’d spot them and identify them with the help of his binocs. Then he’d start some countermeasures of his own.

  Theodore yawned in the dark and checked his watch. Four A.M. Did his quarry suspect that the car was under surveillance? If so –

  He felt a cool breeze around his ankles. Where was that coming from?

  His chest tightened. He kept all the windows closed. Had someone opened one?

  He rose and walked to the stairs. No flow from the second floor. He moved through the dark dining room to the even darker kitchen –

  And froze when he saw the back door standing open. He’d locked that, he was sure of it.

  His heart pounded as he pushed it closed and scanned the backyard. It hadn’t opened itself. What had the intruder wanted? Had he taken anything? What if he was still out there?

  Theodore’s heart rate doubled as a terrifying possibility struck: What if he was still in the house?

  He flipped on the kitchen lights. Nothing out of place, nothing obvious missing.

  He turned on all the lights on the first floor. No sign of anyone. But what about the second floor? Had he sneaked past while he’d been on sentry duty?

  Was he after the ledger? It catalogued all his work. If it fell into the wrong hands –

  He dashed upstairs, flipping every light switch within reach as he moved. He fairly leaped into his bedroom, turned on the lights, then dropped to his knees and jammed his hand between the mattress and box spring.

  There. The ledger. He pulled it out. Safe.

  But why–?

  Diversion!

  He ran back to the living room and peered at the Robinson car. It stood alone, just as he’d left it.

  Relieved but still unsettled, he turned out all the lights and resumed his watch until dawn.

  As the neighborhood came alive, Theodore wheeled his garbage can to the curb. There he made a show of stretching and yawning as he glanced down the block toward the McCuin place. He was pleased to see the lid still off their container. He couldn’t see the herbicide can but didn’t expect to at this distance.

  Across the street he saw Mr. Fabrini scratching his head as he looked at one of his gardens. Theodore wandered over.

  “Beautiful morning, isn’
t it,” he said in a most neighborly way.

  Mr. Farbini turned but didn’t smile. “What? Oh, hi, Mister Gordon.”

  “Theodore, please.”

  “Right. Yeah, beautiful for us maybe.” He pointed to the bed of wilted, shriveling geraniums. “But not for these things. Yesterday they were perfect. Today . . .”

  Theodore knelt and touched a browning leaf. He rubbed it between his fingers, then sniffed.

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  Theodore tore off the leaf and handed it to Fabrini.

  “Smell.”

  Mr. Fabrini did and made a face. “It smells . . . chemical.”

  “Right. Like Round Up or some other weed killer.”

  Mr. Fabrini looked dumbfounded. “Weed killer? But who . . .?” He voice trailed off.

  Theodore leaned closer. “I saw someone in your yard last night. At the time I thought it was you. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “It wasn’t me, I can tell you that. Did you see his face?”

  “No, but he looked young . . . like a teenager.” He let his gaze drift toward the McCuin house.

  Mr. Fabrini followed and said, “You don’t think it was Colin, do you?”

  Theodore backed away a step, as if the conversation had just entered taboo territory. “I’m not pointing any fingers. Like I said, I didn’t see a face.” He clapped Mr. Fabrini on the upper arm. “Don’t take it personally. Some kids have a lot of anger to work out of their systems.” With that he turned and waved. “Have a nice day.”

  Mr. Fabrini’s drive to work would take him past the McCuin house. He’d be looking at it. He’d see the Speed Weed can—if it was still there. If someone had interfered and removed it, no matter. A seed had been planted.

  As he crossed the street he glanced at the blacktop, searching for the trail of oil he’d left. Where–?