A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  He stopped and stared at a discolored spot on the pavement. It might have been an oil splotch at one time, but now it was . . . something else. It looked like someone had sprayed it with a detergent solution, emulsifying the oil . . . erasing the trail.

  When? When had this happened?

  He jumped at the sound of a toot. When he looked around he saw Mr. Rashid smiling and waving from his car. Theodore realized he was standing in the middle of the street.

  He managed a smile and stepped toward the curb. As he did he glanced at the Robinson car and almost tripped when he saw the puddle of oil spreading out from beneath it. Where had that come from?

  Unless . . . while Theodore had been searching the house for an intruder, perhaps his nemesis had tried to replace the drained oil. But that wouldn’t have worked because of the missing drain plug. Whatever he added would have ended on the driveway.

  Standing next to the vehicle was a very angry looking Mr. Robinson.

  “What the hell?” he was saying. “What the fucking hell?”

  “My goodness,” Theodore said, walking over to him. “It looks like you’ve sprung a leak.”

  He was looking at the oil. It didn’t look fresh at all. In fact it looked well used, ready for a change.

  “Leak, hell. The plug’s missing. Somebody did this.”

  Theodore put on a shocked expression. “Someone from around here?”

  “Who knows? But why me?” He looked past Theodore and waved to Mr. Rashid. “Be right there, Munaf.”

  Theodore made a point of looking up and down the block. “Maybe it was simply opportunity. After all, you are the only one who leaves a car out overnight. Has anyone ever complained about that?”

  Robinson made a face. “No. And as for—” He broke off and stepped around to the front of the car, pointing at the driveway. “I’ll be damned. Look at this—footprints.”

  Theodore did look, and hid his shock as he saw clear imprints of treaded footprints—sneakers, most likely—leading from the oil slick, across the driveway, and into the grass between Theodore’s house and the Robinsons’.

  “They head toward your place.”

  He started across the grass. Theodore, hiding his alarm, followed to his front walk where Robinson stopped, pointing. “They go right to your front door.”

  He was right. They were fainter here, but no mistaking them.

  He wheeled on Theodore. “What the hell’s going on, Gordon?”

  Theodore didn’t have to feign shock. “You can’t think I had anything to do with this!”

  Robinson pointed to the prints. “What else am I supposed to think?”

  “I barely know you. Why would I do this? And I don’t own any shoes with soles like that. And have a little respect for my intelligence. Would I be dumb enough to leave a trail right to my front door?”

  “Maybe you’re a dumbass, what do I know? But I do know there’s been some strange shit going on lately.”

  “Like . . . like what?”

  “Like someone hacking into Herb Woolbright’s computer system and signing him up for a gay website or classified or some such shit. Herb’s about as gay as I am. That convinced me to shut mine down. Yesterday Munaf found his socket wrench set gone, and now my car.” He fixed Theodore with a narrow-eyed glare. “Nothing like this ever happened around here before you moved in.”

  Nothing like this had happened to Theodore so early. Later in a job, when a neighborhood was falling apart, suspicion naturally drifted to the newcomer, but by then he was packing up to leave. This was only day four.

  But he held his ground.

  “I won’t stand here and be spoken to like this. And I warn you, if you slander me with these lies, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  He turned and stomped to his front door. But once inside, he slumped against the door, mind racing, thoughts whirling.

  He went to the window and watched Mr. Fabrini pull out of his driveway and coast down the block. He slowed as he passed the McCuin house—within a few feet of their open garbage can—but he didn’t stop to inspect it, merely drove on.

  Theodore ground his teeth. His nemesis had most likely removed the herbicide can. Blocked at every turn. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

  An unfamiliar sensation began to burn in his gut: uncertainty.

  What to do? Abort?

  Theodore spent the rest of the day debating it, finally deciding on no—he’d never aborted a job and wasn’t about to blemish his record now.

  He went to his front window and looked out. The commuters were all home by now, eating dinner or having a drink with their spouses. Well, not everyone. Look at this . . .

  Across the street, at the far end of the block, he saw Mr. Rashid and Mr. Longwell in what looked like animated conversation—perhaps even an argument.

  He decided a stroll might be in order.

  As he neared, he saw Mr. Longwell’s usually placid black face contorted in anger.

  “So, you’re missing something from your garage, and what’s the first thing you do? You think of the neighborhood nigger? Is that it?”

  Mr. Rashid looked offended. “I have never used the N-word in my life!”

  The N-word . . . really, the world had become pathetic.

  “You came to me looking for stolen property. Why me? Why not your buddy, Robinson?”

  “Because he isn’t on parole for robbery!”

  Mr. Rashid looked instantly regretful for saying that, while Mr. Longwell gaped in shock.

  “What? What did you say? Me? On parole? Where’d you hear that bullshit?”

  “Your parole office called Jean Woolbright yesterday and—”

  “My parole officer?” He stared at the Woolbright house. “I know she never liked us living next door, but I never thought she’d stoop to this. Is she insane?” He glanced at Theodore. “What are you looking at?”

  Theodore had hoped his bold stare would trigger just that remark.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Well, I am a member of this community now. Perhaps, as a disinterested third party, I might help mediate this disagreement.” Before either could object he turned to Mr. Rashid. “You are apparently missing something, and you think Mister Longwell might have it.” He turned to Mr. Longwell. “Since I’m sure you don’t, why not let Mister Rashid check your grounds and, say, your garage and–?”

  “Nobody’s snooping through my property without a search warrant, so you both can go to hell!”

  So saying, he turned and stomped back into his house.

  “My, my,” Theodore said. “You’d think if he had nothing to hide he’d want to clear this up.”

  Mr. Rashid nodded. “Yes. You’d think he would.”

  He shook his head and walked away toward his home.

  Thinking that this job could yet be salvaged, Theodore continued his walk. Even if his nemesis had removed the wrench set from the Longwell yard, Mr. Longwell’s refusal to let Mr. Rashid look would be perceived as a sign of guilt.

  He began to whistle.

  Around 11:30 he began his nightly task or inciting Daisy. Finally, just shy of midnight, he heard Mr. McCuin shout, “I’m gonna kill that dog if you don’t shut it up!”

  Just what Theodore had been waiting for.

  He waited until Daisy calmed down, then whacked her dog house with another ice cube. As she renewed her frenzied barking, Theodore shut the window and went down to the kitchen refrigerator.

  He pulled out the nice piece of sirloin he’d been saving. He removed a box of mole poison from under the sink. The label said each tablet contained 1.0 mg. of strychnine. He estimated Daisy’s weight at thirty pounds. A dozen tablets would be plenty.

  Just to be sure, he cut fifteen angled slits into the meat and pressed a pellet into each.

  Thursday, April 29

  At exactly 3 A.M. he tossed the meat over the fence so that it landed near Daisy’s house.
She came out with a howl but stopped when she caught the scent of the meat. She was on it in an instant, wolfing it down in a single gulp.

  Good dog.

  Next he pulled out another can of Speed Weed and used it to write on Mr. Longwell’s lawn. He’d thought of using gasoline to burn the word into the grass, but decided this would be more discrete.

  Under normal circumstances he would hide the box of poison in the McCuin garage and the empty herbicide can in the Rashids’ bushes, but his nemesis would undoubtedly remove them.

  He returned home and stood on his front steps where he surveyed dark and slumbering Fannen Street. He sent out a challenge:

  Let’s see you undo these.

  He was up early the next morning, waiting. At 7:10 he heard Mr. Garcia’s distraught wail.

  “Daisy? Oh, my God, Daisy!”

  Theodore immediately stepped out onto his rear deck and called over the fence.

  “Mister Garcia? Is anything wrong?”

  “It’s Daisy! She’s not breathing!”

  “Oh, dear. Quick! Bring her around front and I’ll get my car and take you to the vet.”

  Never pass up an opportunity to be a good neighbor.

  Theodore comforted the sobbing Mr. Garcia on the way home. Daisy’s corpse lay draped across his legs.

  “Was the vet sure she was poisoned? Who would do such an awful thing?”

  Mr. Garcia’s tear-stained face contorted into a mask of rage. “I have a pretty goddamn good idea.”

  Theodore glanced at Daisy. He’d had nothing against the dog. He had nothing against anyone. Collateral damage.

  “Oh, dear,” he said as he turned onto Fannen Street and saw the police car. “What’s happened here?”

  He slowed and watched Mr. Longwell pointing to the browned letters spelling NIGGER on his lawn, then down the street toward the Rashid house.

  A hate crime was such a terrible thing.

  He’d intended to spend the rest of the day making notes in his ledger and quietly planning his next moves—a productive way to while away the time before Mr. McCuin and Mr. Rashid came home to the inevitable confrontations with, respectively, Mr. Garcia and Mr. Longwell.

  A knock on the door interrupted him. He found Phil the postman glaring at him. He thrust something into Theodore’s hands.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Gordon?”

  Theodore looked down and started when he saw the two gay porn magazines he’d left in Mr. Woolbright’s shed. They’d been wrapped in clear plastic and addressed to someone he’d never heard of. The return address was his.

  “I don’t care what you’re into, but you oughta know you can’t mail something like that so it’s out there for everyone to see.”

  He turned and strode back to his truck before Theodore could answer. He stared at the magazines. They must have been in his mailbox. He closed the door and dropped them on the dining room table. He stood there thinking.

  What was happening now? Had the contest moved to another level, with his nemesis switching from defense to offense?

  He went to the window where he saw Phil, the postman, across the street talking to Mrs. Woolbright. Theodore saw him pointing his way.

  Perhaps it was indeed time to abort. He’d make that decision tonight after seeing how things went with the McCuin-Garcia and Longwell-Rashid bouts.

  Shortly after six, Theodore positioned a chair at his front window, hoping for some fireworks. He was about to seat himself when he heard a sound. He whirled and saw a man standing behind him, but had only a glimpse before a fist smashed into his gut. He doubled over and turned away. Two more blows followed, one to each kidney, driving him to his knees and then onto his side, writhing in agony.

  “That was for the dog,” said a voice.

  When Theodore’s pain-blurred vision cleared, he saw a man sitting in a chair, looking down at him. He was average height, average build, average features, with brown hair and eyes. Theodore thought he was the most nondescript man he had ever seen.

  A silenced, small-caliber pistol rested on his thigh, pointed in Theodore’s direction.

  “I’m really pissed about the dog,” he said in a flat tone. “That was the last straw. I’m seriously thinking of kneecapping you for that.”

  Kneecapping? A vision of that almost made him forget the agony in his kidneys.

  “No, wait. Who are you? Do I know you? Why are you doing this?”

  “You don’t know me, and I’m here because someone’s paying me to be.”

  “Paying? Who–?”

  “Remember Nelson Pershall, former resident of Veni Woods, New Jersey?”

  Mr. Pershall . . . was that what this was about?

  “I’ve never heard of Veni Woods. I don’t even like New Jersey.”

  “You did a good job of pretending to when you were living there and calling yourself Clay Evanson.”

  How did he know all this?

  “Ridiculous!”

  Slowly, painfully, he started to push himself off the floor but the intruder kicked him back down.

  “I prefer you on your belly. Anyway, Nelson Pershall hung himself after being caught in a kiddie-porn sting. His computer was loaded with graphic photos.”

  “If you’re looking for sympathy for a pedophile, you’re in the wrong house.”

  “His daughter swears he wasn’t. He lived alone and ran a website that published poetry by codgers like himself.”

  “What does a daughter know about a parent’s hidden life?

  “That’s what I thought at first. But she said he was something of a techie and had set up a wi-fi network in his house. Someone could have been using his computer without him knowing it. Sound familiar?”

  Theodore said nothing. That was exactly what had happened. He’d even triggered the police sting through Mr. Pershall’s computer. But he certainly wasn’t admitting it to this thug.

  “She said she suspected a man named Clay Evanson. Told me her father’s neighborhood had been friendly and peaceful until shortly after this clown arrived. Before he moved on, two people were dead—her father and a woman killed by her husband for cheating—a house had burned to the ground, one man had been arrested for assaulting his next-door neighbor, and another arrested for a hate crime. Are we seeing a pattern here?”

  Theodore’s felt ice sludging through his gut.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what this has to do with me. I’ve never heard of this Clay Evanson. And this woman is obviously paranoid.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought, but she wanted me to fix it and she had the fee. Since I had the time, I took the job. Funny thing was, the day I started, you moved out. So I followed you here. And all of a sudden you’re Theodore Gordon. I decided to stick around.” He shook his head. “Whoever you really are, you’re one sick bastard.”

  “You’re mistaken, I tell you. I—”

  “Shut up.” He cocked his head. “Listen. Sounds like your neighbors. Let’s take a look.”

  He grabbed Theodore by the back of his neck and hauled him into the chair he’d set up by the window. He was stronger than he looked. Theodore felt the muzzle of the pistol press against the base of his neck.

  “Ever wonder what it’s like being a quadriplegic? Do anything stupid and you’ll find out.”

  Through the picture window he saw Mr. Robinson between Mr. Rashid and Mr. Longwell. The side window was open so he could hear their angry words. Normally it would be music to his ears. Mr. Fabrini and Mr. Woolbright came out of their houses to try to calm things down. Mr. McCuin joined them.

  Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Mr. Garcia was racing across the street. He took Mr. McCuin down with a flying tackle. It took three men to pull him off.

  “Hold it, guys,” Mr. Robinson shouted. “Hold it for just one goddamn minute!” When the men calmed, he said, “Look at us. We were never like this. What’s going on here?”

  “I can tell you what’s going on,” Mr. Longwell said, pointing a finger at M
r. Rashid. “He calls me a thief and writes ‘nigger’ on my lawn!”

  Mr. Robinson said, “Hold it! Hold it! Do you know what kind of abuse Munaf gets? He gets called a ‘towel head’ or a ‘terrorist’ or—you’ll like this one, Cletus—a ‘sand nigger.’ You really think he’s gonna write ‘nigger’ on you lawn? And by the way, I heard the story about Cletus’s parole and asked a friend in the DA’s office to do a little checking. The call was a lie.”

  “Who’d do something like that?”

  “Look around,” Mr. Robinson said. “Who’s not here?”

  Theodore held his breath as all heads swiveled his way.

  “All this started after Gordon moved in. And I’m pretty damn sure he drained my crankcase.”

  “And that homo classified I got signed up for,” Mr. Woolbright said. “Phil told Jean he had gay porn in his mailbox today.”

  “But why?” Mr. Garcia said.

  “Why don’t we go ask him?”

  The muzzle pressed harder against his spine.

  “That’s what I want to know. Why? That ledger of yours—looks like you’re writing reports. Who are they going to?”

  He had the ledger! How–?

  How didn’t matter. Everything was falling apart. And he was asking the question Theodore never would answer. Never.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The muzzle pressed deeper into his flesh, then was removed.

  “If we had time, you’d tell. But things are moving faster than I’d planned. Robinson is sharp, and you’re about to have some very angry people on your doorstep.”

  “I’ll talk to them, reason with them.”

  “No amount of talk will calm them after they see what’s in your garage.”

  “My garage?”

  “Yeah. I raised the door halfway. Front and center is Rashid’s wrench set. But there’s also an empty can of Speed Weed, some strychnine-containing rat poison, and Robinson’s drain plug along with pink panties and photos of his daughter.”

  Theodore felt as if his bones were dissolving.

  “What do you think Robinson is going do when he sees all that?” the intruder continued. “Oh, and I called the vet. I said I was from poison control and he told me it looked like the Garcia dog died from strychnine. So I called Garcia—again as poison control—and told him to make sure he didn’t have any strychnine-containing pest control around. How do you think he’ll react when he sees that box of rat poison?”