“Pardon me for thinking it’s a big deal having our nine-year-old daughter walk around in public looking like a hooker,” he said.
For Chrissakes, just let it go,
a voice pleaded in his head. But he couldn’t stop. He was too revved up. “You know how many perverts there are out there just waiting to prey on little girls? The woods are full of them.”
She gave a snort. “On Grays Island? Please.”
“It happens. Remember the Gibbons kid?” he said. True, the guy hadn’t exactly molested Joanie Gibbons, only flashed her, but even so . . .
“Gary, I know all about sexual predators,” she said, in that excessively patient voice she used on kids who weren’t paying attention in class. “But don’t you think you’re carrying this a little too far?”
He felt something shift in him, his anger turning ugly. Yet he seemed to have no more control over it than if it had been someone else’s mouth the words were coming out of. “No, as a matter of fact I don’t. What I think is that it’s a good thing at least
one
of us cares what happens to our kids.”
Denise’s face went slack. She couldn’t have looked more shocked than if he’d used his fist on her, something that in eighteen years of marriage he’d never even contemplated doing but which lately he’d been terrified might happen, if he didn’t get a grip.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said.
Gary used a mental trick of his that had worked in the past, picturing himself pulling on the hand brake in one of those old-fashioned steam engines. But this time the brake was stuck and the runaway train continued to hurtle down the tracks. “Oh, so now I’m the bad guy? That’s typical of you, Denise. You rag on the kids all day long. Do this, do that, don’t forget to clean up your room,” he mimicked in a whiney falsetto. “But I say one little thing to them and you’re all over me like I’m some kind of dictator.”
He could see that she was close to tears. “I never said—”
He smacked his fist down hard on the kitchen counter, causing her to jump. Some of the beer foamed up over the top of the can he was holding in his other hand, dripping onto the floor. “Don’t contradict me! I’m still the man of this house, and what I say goes.” Words that might have come straight out of his father’s mouth and that shocked him as much as they surely had her.
“Gary, what on earth’s gotten into you? Why are you acting this way?” Denise looked more worried than upset. Not just worried, scared. And for some reason that made him even angrier. Because he knew that
he
was responsible. He’d become a stranger to his own wife.
In a sudden fit of temper, he hurled the can at the wall. It landed with a hollow cracking sound, spewing a foamy geyser. For a long moment he just stood there staring at the beard of foam dripping down the light green wallpaper patterned with vines and miniature watering cans. Then, struck with horror at what he’d done, he sank to his knees with a groan, burying his face in his hands. He was scarcely aware of the puddle spreading across the floor and now soaking into the cuffs of his trousers; all he knew was that he was
more scared than he’d ever been in his life: Another few inches and he’d have nailed Denise with that throw.
“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Dry sobs tore at his throat. Wrenched from him against his will, they were like the deep, hacking cough of a man choking to death. He was out of control and he knew it, but some part of him still insisted he could still get a grip if he just . . . if he just . . . rode this out a little while longer.
He felt Denise’s hand on his shoulder and it was the last straw. He shook it off and lurched to his feet. He could barely see straight as he headed for the back door.
Through the roaring in his ears, he heard his wife cry out in alarm, “Gary! Where are you going?”
“I need some air.” The words came out in a harsh rasp. “Don’t wait up for me. I may be a while.”
“What about supper?” She sounded panicked, and he knew it wasn’t supper she was concerned about.
“You guys go ahead and eat without me.”
He was letting himself out the door when he heard a small voice call after him, “Daddy?” He turned around to see Taylor poised there, in her leggings and Hello Kitty T-shirt, a worried look on her face.
The sight of her almost broke him, but he managed to pull it together just enough to say, “Everything’s okay, sweetie. Daddy has to go out for a little while. I’ll be back before you know it.”
As soon as he stepped outside, Gary felt a strange calm descend on him. As he headed down the path, part of him marveled at the way his anger had magically dissipated, taking with it all of the tension that had been building over these past weeks. At the same time, the cop in him knew it wasn’t unusual in situations like these. His years on the
force he’d seen it all: bloody victims of accidents being carried off on stretchers, fretting aloud about some business meeting or lunch date they were going to miss; domestic disturbances where he’d arrive to find the wife casually making dinner or vacuuming the carpet, as though she hadn’t just been beaten to a pulp; and once, memorably, a hit-andrun driver, who, when they’d finally tracked him down at his house, had calmly explained that he’d needed to get home and unload his groceries before the ice cream melted.
Psychiatrists had a name for it. It was called a Fugue state. But right now all Gary knew or cared about was that it was a blessed relief from the tension that had been building in him for weeks. As he settled in behind the wheel of his cruiser and turned the key in the ignition, he might have been dreaming; one of those dreams where everything seems so clear you almost imagine you’re awake. And like in dreams, he hadn’t the vaguest idea of what was going to happen next; he was in the driver’s seat only in the purest physical sense.
Twilight was approaching and long shadows lay over the road. He drove slowly, mindful of the deer that had a habit of wandering onto the road this time of day. When he reached the outskirts of town, he found himself taking the turnoff for Killibrew Harbor. The road curved along a horseshoe-shaped stretch of waterfront that had a quaint little marina, where the people who lived in the fancy homes nearby kept their boats moored.
Owen White lived in one of those homes, a great sprawling monument to excess dubbed The Birches. Gary had been there only once, a cocktail party that had been held out on the lawn, some political fundraiser. On that occasion he’d spent almost the entire time jawing with Bud Hogan,
who ran the chamber of commerce, but at one point, after he’d gone in to take a leak, he’d had a chance to nose around a bit inside the house. He recalled the general layout. He knew its vulnerable spots. In his mind he could see the wheelchair ramp that angled up along one side of the house to a sliding glass door opened by an electric eye. He could see the old, abandoned dog house, and the outdated security system that anyone with experience in law enforcement could have bypassed blindfolded.
As if this were a movie playing out toward its foregone conclusion, Gary saw himself turn onto the dirt road that serviced the private dock where at one time Owen’s yacht had been moored. He switched off the cruiser’s headlights, keeping a foot on the brake as he eased over the rutted surface in the near dark, watching for low-hanging branches. When he was within sight of the house, he shut off the engine and coasted the rest of the way.
He parked and got out, standing there for a moment, perfectly still with his head cocked, alert for sounds other than the hooting of owls and the hollow slap of waves against the dock. The Tudor-style mansion where Owen White lived with his wife of forty years sat on a low rise off to Gary’s left, about a hundred yards or so from where he stood. As he set off in that direction, Gary’s footsteps crunched pleasurably in the fallen leaves that littered the grass. He began to hum under his breath.
He was thinking about the time, when he was a kid, that he and his brothers had broken into an abandoned house down the block. They’d been hoping to discover something exciting, like a dead body or a dusty treasure, but all they’d found was a lot of broken glass and mice droppings. The excitement hadn’t come until one of the neighbors, alerted
by their flashlight beams, called the cops. Before they could make a getaway, they’d found themselves pinned against the outside of the house by a pair of headlights. Luckily, the officer, a big, burly Latino with a handlebar mustache who’d identified himself as Officer Ramirez, had gone easy on them. Even as he’d lectured them in a stern voice about trespassing, Gary could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Afterward, he’d given them a ride home in his cruiser, agreeing not to say anything to their parents if they promised never to do anything like that again, a promise Gary had kept until now.
Now, thirty-some years later, here he was lurking about like a prowler. The part of his brain that was still functioning knew what he was doing was wrong, possibly even insane, and that if he were to get caught he’d lose more than his job. But in the Fugue state Gary was paying no attention to that small, faraway voice; it might have been a mosquito buzzing in his ear.
He hoisted himself over the low stone wall that bordered the grounds, then he was strolling across the lawn. Dusk had faded into twilight and a white ghost of a moon sailed on a thin raft of clouds overhead. In one of the ground floor rooms a window was lit, throwing a soft yellow light over the grass and shrubs below. Gary caught sight of a shadowy figure moving behind the curtains and he froze, reaching for the .38 on his hip. But no floodlights came on, no alarm sounded, and after a moment he relaxed.
Minutes later he was making his way up the wheelchair ramp, with its automated glass door that slid open easily at his approach. Islanders didn’t bother much with locks; he probably could have strolled right in through the front door if he’d wanted. A snippet from the conversation he’d had
with Bud Hogan, at the party, floated into his mind now.
Crime? Why, I tell them it’s almost unheard of around here. You’re more likely to get mugged at Disneyland.
Gary smiled at the thought as he stepped through the doorway into a room cluttered with knickknacks, most with a nautical theme. In his old life, Owen, like his father before him, had been an avid sailor. In a display case filled with trophies won in various regattas, was a large framed photo of him at the helm of his yacht. There were a number of family photos as well. Gary paused before one of Owen as a young boy, standing with his father on the wide porch of their house, as pale and skinny as Lowell was manly and robust. Sailing must have been the only bond between them.
His thoughts turned to the bones that had been dug up on Spring Hill. The old man’s bones. At first, Gary had seen it only as a bad omen. They’d mucked around where they didn’t belong and look where it had led. Now he found himself wondering what it must have been like for that little boy in the photo, growing up without his father, not knowing what had become of him.
But those were only idle musings. And now the governor that had taken charge of Gary’s faculties was giving him a gentle nudge, reminding him that he had business to attend to. Gary tiptoed into the hall. He could hear the muttering of voices in the next room, but as he drew nearer he realized it was only the TV. When he reached the open doorway, he eased his gun from its holster, and positioned himself with his back to the wall, twisting his head around to case the room for any sign of danger, as he’d been taught to do in training exercises at the academy but had had little call to employ since. A stance that, under the circumstances, struck him as more than a bit absurd, as his eye fell on the
room’s sole occupant: a balding man, grown soft around the middle, seated in the wing chair in front of the TV, his wheelchair parked a few feet away.
Owen tore his gaze from the evening news as Gary walked in, an expression of surprise dawning on his face. Sitting there in navy sweats, a tartan throw covering his lap, he looked old and defenseless. He must have been aware of the picture he made, for as soon as he’d recovered, he demanded, in his most authoritative voice, “Elkins! What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
“Good evening, sir.” Gary didn’t bother to illuminate the mayor as to how he’d gained entrance. He merely tucked away the useful bit of information he’d been given: That Owen was alone in the house. Or wouldn’t he have assumed that someone else—the maid, or maybe his wife—had let Gary in? He went on in the same queer, flat tone, “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’m afraid it couldn’t wait. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Gary saw Owen’s gaze drop to the gun in his hand, and now he saw fear flare in those pale, shrewd eyes. Glimpsing his own reflection in the darkened window, he could certainly understand why: In his disheveled, beer-stained uniform, his eyes staring like a zombie’s out of shadowed sockets, he was scarcely recognizable as the officer responsible for keeping the peace in this township. He almost had to admire Owen for the quickness with which he assessed the situation and attempted to defuse it.
“Well, in that case, don’t just stand there,” Owen said, his tone switching to that of a genial host. “Pour yourself a drink and sit down.” He waved toward a burled-wood cabinet, atop which was arrayed a selection of liquor bottles and cut-glass decanters. “Please, help yourself.”
Ignoring the offer, Gary calmly swiveled around and pulled the trigger on the gun, blasting a hole through the twenty-four-inch plasma TV. The sound and picture simultaneously died. “Beats remote control,” he said, a maniacal giggle escaping his lips.
He heard a gasp and looked over to see that Owen had gone a pasty shade of gray. Owen licked his lips, asking in a noticeably less welcoming tone, “What . . . what is it you want?”
“What do I want? That’s a very good question, sir.” Gary appeared to ponder it a moment before replying with a touch more feeling, “For starters, you can stop fucking with me and my family.”
The older man looked almost relieved. “Well, if that’s all, consider it done. In fact, you should have come to me sooner. I’m not an unreasonable man, Gary, despite what you might think.”