Children of Paranoia

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

DUTTON

Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First printing, September 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Trevor Shane

All rights reserved

 

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Shane, Trevor.

Children of paranoia / Trevor Shane.

p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-54907-0

I. Title.

PS3619.H35465C47 2011

813'.6—dc22 2011010262

Set in Janson Text LT Std

 

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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Dear Maria,

I doubt that you expected this journal to amount to much when you gave it to me, but here it is. I wrote it for you. When you gave it to me, you said that you wanted to understand me. I'm still not sure you'll understand what I've done but I have hope.

You're a big part of this story now, bigger than I expected when I started. I just kept on writing. So here it is. Here I am on a few hundred ratty pages.

I don't know if I've sinned or if sin even exists. If it does, then I guess I've committed more than my share. Maybe I should care, but I don't. All that I care about now is that you and Christopher are safe. Everything else will take care of itself.

I love you.

Love,
Joe

It's hard to decide where to start. I know you're supposed to start at the beginning, but how do I know where the beginning is? It's hard for me. I've always had a much better sense for endings. But I guess it starts in Brooklyn, standing in the dark on a street corner, waiting for a woman to finish closing up her shop.

When she first stepped out of the building, I backed into the shadows. She took a few quick glances in each direction but I knew that all she could see was the empty street. Seeing nothing, she turned her attention back to locking up. She had spent the last hour cleaning up, wiping down the counter, and putting the bottles of wine that the customers had rearranged back in order. Now she stood there on the street outside, her long day over. She was ready to go home to her family. She pulled down the metal grate meant to protect her store, attached a padlock to the grate, placed the key in her purse, and then stepped back again. She took another quick glance in both directions. Still nothing. She reached into her purse and pulled out a loose cigarette. She lit the cigarette, took one deep draw, turned to her left, and began walking down the dark street toward home.

So far everything was exactly as I had been told. She had no escorts. She exhibited no suspicions. Her husband was away on business. This one was supposed to be easy. For once, it looked like it might actually work out that way.

I waited until she was a full block away before stepping out of the darkness where I had been waiting. I turned to my right and began to walk down the opposite side of the street from her. She walked quickly, each stride deliberate but relaxed. Every few steps, she would take another draw from her cigarette. She was wearing a long black skirt, black sneakers, and a purple blouse. She was attractive, but I did my best to block this from my mind. I concentrated on pacing myself so that I would move just fast enough to catch up to her by the time she turned toward her apartment, but not so fast as to arouse suspicion. This wasn't the first time I'd done this. I busted my cherry years ago. It wouldn't be the last time either. I was certain of that even then. The thought didn't bother me. I had a job to do.

I was less than a quarter of a block behind her when she turned left down the street toward her apartment. I watched as she flipped the butt of her cigarette onto the sidewalk and put it out with a twist of her foot. Then she started down the even quieter, tree-lined street that she lived on. When I was sure that she couldn't see me, I jogged across the street. As I did, I pulled a pair of thin black leather gloves out of my bag and slipped them onto my hands. It was darker on the side street. There were fewer streetlights.

She was moving quickly now. Faster than I suspect she normally would. I don't think she saw me but she must have sensed something. This was normal. It was some sort of sixth sense, a sinking feeling of impending tragedy. She didn't dare look back, not yet. With a few long strides, I closed the distance between us to little more than ten feet.

It was clear now that she knew I was following her. She still hadn't seen me. She simply felt me behind her. She could have screamed now but I knew that she wouldn't. She wouldn't risk the embarrassment. After all, I might have been one of her neighbors returning home just like she was. She'd been out of the game for a while. She'd lost the ability to trust her instincts.

I watched as she put her hand back into her purse. She could have been reaching for anything. I watched her hand. If she pulled out a gun, Mace, even a cell phone, I would have had to move faster than I wanted to. I would have had to grab her wrist, twist it, and force her to let whatever she was holding go. I didn't have to, though. I heard a slight jingling sound. She was just reaching for her keys.

There were shadows on the sidewalk from the trees and she stepped quickly between the darkness and the light. Three more houses and she would make a left turn toward her brownstone. I did my best to control my pulse. Adrenaline—adrenaline that I hoped I wouldn't need—began to flow through my system. Physically her reaction likely mirrored mine. She began to walk faster but she still refused to run. I kept my strides long and even and was able to close the gap between us until I was almost touching her.

By now she knew. She must have. I was a mere pace and a half behind her. She must have been all but resigned to her fate. Certain thoughts would be flying through her head, regrets, thoughts about what she could have done differently to save herself. I'm sure she was thinking that it was stupid for her to walk home alone at night even though she'd done it hundreds of times before. It had been years. Years of pleasant walks home through the quiet Brooklyn streets after an honest day's work. This was her home. Twelve years. Two children. Who knows how many fond memories? Could she still scream? What if her screams woke up her kids? She wouldn't want to frighten them. I knew. So what could she have done differently? She could have hugged her kids this morning. She could have told them how much she loved them. She could have not yelled at the poor four-year-old Eric after he spilled his Cheerios on the kitchen floor.

I thought back to that moment, earlier in the day, as I watched her through her kitchen window from the stoop across the street. I would have liked to have said something to her. I would have liked to let her know how much she would regret yelling at her kid like that. Let him spill, I thought when it happened, let him spill. Of course, I didn't say a word.

Now, one building from her home, I ran through my plan again in my head. As I did so, she turned left and pushed open the small gate that led to her apartment. I was close enough behind her that I was able to catch the gate before it clicked closed. I could hear her breathing now. I could hear the sounds of the television from her apartment. The babysitter must have been watching TV.

I couldn't see her face but could imagine her expression. At that moment, her face would be full of one of two things, panic or determination. I had seen both before. I could only hope for determination. Panic could make things messy. She was about to place her foot on the first of the steps that led up to her apartment door. Before she could, I reached forward and grabbed her wrist tightly. I went for the hand with the keys so that she would not be able to use them as a weapon. She'd been taught that at some point, I'm sure. “Go for the eyes,” she was taught. All women are. After grabbing her wrist, I spun her toward me and, after giving her a chance to release only a small gasp of air, I placed my free hand over her mouth.