Forgive Me, Alex (16 page)

"I'd kill you, but first I'd tell anybody that'd listen about how you pissed yourself and stood there crying with snot running out of your nose." – Stephen King,
The Dead Zone

~~~~~

Quiet, idyllic Algonquin suffered so little crime that few residents gave security a second thought. Indeed, they'd enjoyed nearly two decades of uninterrupted peace.

Then a judge released the notorious killer, Mitchell Norton, from custody after seventeen years, a widely publicized event. Despite tight-lipped authorities, small-town America worked its usual magic, and all of Algonquin knew precisely where Norton lived and what he looked like.

Not that Norton went to any great lengths to hide.

Residents kept one eye on their routine, the other peeled for a serial killer, particularly at night. Many avoided situations that might appeal to the imagination of a killer: stay in groups, remain in well-lighted areas, and lock the house up tight at night. Many women carried mace—more than usual—and some folks cuddled a loaded gun under their pillows.

If the courts would no longer provide security from Norton, they would protect themselves.

They'd heard the reports of how psychiatrists had cleared Norton, of how an unfortunate tumor had caused his killing spree. Still, the things he had done! Could a tumor make a monster? There
must
have been at least a tendency toward that sort of thing already lurking inside. Most God-fearing, law-abiding, kindly-to-neighbors, patriotic Americans couldn't imagine themselves becoming such a monster under
any
circumstance.

Nothing as simple as a tumor would do it.

That accurately summed up Melody Nesmith's attitude about the matter. At forty-six and recently divorced, Melody lived alone. She often hated that fact and longed to have a man around, someone to help with household repairs, to do yard work, to maintain the car, to make love to her on lonely nights. These were a man's responsibility.

Security was another of those things. A man was supposed to protect her.

She considered her attitude neither clichéd nor archaic, merely practical. At 5'4" tall and 140 pounds, whom could she fight off? She even wished, at times, that she'd not insisted on a divorce from that cheating-bastard-of-a-husband after twenty years of marriage. Okay, so she wasn't exactly a supermodel. Who was he: Sean Connery?

She walked throughout the house to ensure that she'd locked the doors and first floor windows. Since Mitchell Norton couldn't enter the house on the second floor, she could comfortably leave those windows open for fresh air. A good dog would be nice, like a Doberman pinscher or German shepherd, and she resolved to look into that soon. Libby, her cat, kept her company but didn't keep her safe against anything more than a mouse, if that.

In the meantime, the extra deadbolts on the doors soothed her. She left a light on in the downstairs living room, another deterrent, and used a small nightlight in the upstairs hallway outside her bedroom. Despite the general nervousness she'd experienced since her separation, she felt reasonably secure.

She lay down for the night after the late news and switched on the television in her bedroom, to watch "The Tonight Show," with Johnny Carson. She always went to bed with Johnny. A cool breeze entered through her window, comforting after the warm day.

Thirty minutes later, she turned off the television and drifted into slumber.

***

Night shadows lurked beneath the crescent moon, with nary a streetlight to defeat the darkness. Tall oaks and pines surrounded the house and provided further cover.

He knew it well.

He'd arrived through a thin stretch of woodlands that ran right up behind the house. His black clothing and black ski mask rendered him virtually invisible as he stalked, yet he struggled against nervousness and fear. He stopped often to look around and listen, relatively certain that no one would see him at two o'clock in the morning, but preferring to take no chances. Despite the desires that burned within him, he wasn't sure he could go through with it.

Yet he couldn't deny his longing—a deep, almost painful yearning.

He knew precisely where Melody kept her spare keys hidden, as he'd spied on her once when she'd used it. A small rock lay between the hedge and the sidewalk near her back door, away from prying eyes even during the day. Beneath it laid two keys, wrapped in a sandwich bag to keep them clean and dry.

His hands shook as he picked them up.

He paused to check the only tools he carried for his work—a hatchet and hunting knife, both hanging from his tool belt—and took a deep breath. He pressed his ear to the door and listened for any sound inside or out.

Crickets screaming, and a frog belching somewhere in the trees.

Another glance around the neighborhood verified the absence of movement or threat.

He was ready.

He got the keys right on the first try, one for the doorknob and one for the deadbolt, and the door swung open with the faint creaking of rusted hinges. He paused to listen again, stepped inside, eased the door closed behind him, and stood in a utility room off the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, a cat sat before a food dish and stared at him. He feared it would start mewing or bolt upstairs to wake Melody, but it returned to its late meal and ignored him altogether. He bent down to pet it as he walked by. He always liked cats. It leaned into him, rubbed against his leg and purred, and returned to its late-night dining.

Nice kitty.

He snuck from the kitchen into the living room, where a small lamp cast dull light into the room. He switched it off, willed his hands to stop shaking, and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He took another deep breath and stared at the floor, waiting, reassured by the quiet.

He stepped past the bathroom and a small den, found the stairs at the end of the short hallway, and started up. The first stair creaked.

Freeze!

Silence. Careful to walk on the outside edges of the stairs, he continued with less noise to the top, where a nightlight defeated the darkness. The upstairs level contained three bedrooms, two at the front of the house, and a master bedroom at the rear, six feet from where he stood. That must be Melody's room.

He approached it and smiled at the steady tempo of light snoring. Perfect. He needed to keep her quiet while he worked.

He paused again to consider his next step—his plan. How could he go through with it? Fidgety and uncertain, he chewed on a fingernail. He
had
to do it. How else could he get what he wanted, what he so desperately needed? He was sick and tired of his circumstances, which he'd endured for too long.

He pulled the knife from its sheath and clutched it in his hand, close to his face. He liked the look of it, the energy it infused in him—powerful, fierce.

Yes, he could do what he must.

He flinched and launched into a short, startled leap. Something had brushed against his leg with hardly a sound. He looked down, trembling again, to discover the cat rubbing against his leg, purring. He caught his breath and relaxed, and leaned over to pet it once more.

Nice kitty.

He stepped into the room, tiptoed to the side of the bed, and stared at the sleeping Melody. Another long, deep breath puffed up his chest, and his resolve.

He raised the knife.

Frank's empty rocker swayed in the light breeze on the back patio, so I knocked and poked my head inside the door and called out.

"Come on in, Tony," he yelled. "I'm in the den."

I plopped on the sofa adjacent to his La-Z-Boy, where he reclined and watched the baseball game on WGN-TV.

"You're in for a good one, young man. The Cubs are ahead 3-1."

"Don't worry," I said. "It's only the fourth inning—still plenty of time for them to lose."

He rolled his eyes and laughed at the misery we diehard Cub fans loved to share, and we kicked back to watch the game.

When the game ended and the Cubs had lost 5-3, I offered-up my best 'I told you so' look.

He shook his head. "You know what I think? I think the Cubs lost because you
expected
them to lose."

"Wow, who knew I had that kind of power?"

"The world is what you make of it."

Give me a break!
"I'll keep that in mind."

We walked into the kitchen, and he pulled a package of white paper from the fridge, opened it at the counter, and nodded at the two rib-eye steaks. "These will go perfectly with asparagus and sautéed mushrooms. Think your dad will mind if you stay for dinner?"

"I doubt he'd know the difference at this point."

"Come on, Tony, give your old man a break. He just needs a little time."

"He hit the booze early today, probably passed out already."

He tried to hide his concern—fat chance—as he pulled out the vegetables and set them next to the sink. His eyes narrowed in thought, but no sense in pressing him, even though I hoped he'd talk to Dad.

I'd thought about talking to Dad myself, but that probably wouldn't have accomplished much beyond pissing him off. On the other hand, he might listen to Gramps; he respected Frank.

We agreed to eat out on the patio, provided the threatening clouds didn't dump rain on us. A few minutes later, after preparing the vegetables and setting the steaks in Frank's special marinade—light Worcestershire sauce and minced garlic in red wine—we lounged at the table and enjoyed a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Frank had planned to leave the wine for dinner but, after opening the bottle to let it breathe, he couldn't resist.

Worked for me. I settled in for the fine food and company. I'd probably have been happier living here than in my own home. Crazy.

He slapped the table. "So, how are things going with your lovely Diana?"

I leapt out of my seat. "Holy cats! I forgot all about her. She's probably been trying to call me all afternoon. Geez, I'm a dead man."

Frank let me use his phone, and it barely completed the first ring before Mrs. Gregario's strained voice responded.

"Hello, Mrs. G., this is Tony. I haven't been home to take Diana's calls. I imagine she's been trying to get in touch with me."

"No, Tony, I'm sorry." She released a five-second sigh. "I was hoping she might have ended up with you."

"You mean you still haven't found her?"

"No. I've never been so worried, and I don't know what to do. Steven is out looking for her at some of her regular haunts. I hate to do it, but we may need to call the sheriff's office. This isn't like our girl. I can't imagine what's gotten into her, or what might have happened."

Her palpable fear mirrored my sheer panic.

What in hell is going on? How could she be missing?

Missing: a simple word, an all too familiar state of being. A week ago, Alex had gone missing. Yesterday we'd buried him.

Now Diana was missing. It must be something simple, an innocent mistake. It
must
be.

Mrs. G. ran out of ideas about where Diana might be, and she paused, expecting me to offer some enlightenment. I could only offer to think about and call her later, or perhaps stop by their house.

"Okay." Her voice, flat and utterly helpless, vanished with a click.

Barely able to move, or breathe, I could only stare into unseen space, until Frank grabbed my attention with a tap on the shoulder.

"Tony, what's going on?"

I stared at him dumbly for a few seconds, and then filled him in on the events.

"
What?
What in the world is...? How long has she been missing?"

"I'm not sure." I recalled the earlier conversation with Mr. Gregario. "Since before eight o'clock this morning, less than eight hours after I left her at home. They don't know beyond that."

"Good heavens."

We flopped into our seats at the kitchen table and simultaneously chugged our wine. I stared through my empty glass, paralyzed but for my shaking hands.

It must be something simple. She has to be okay.

He reached across the table and patted the top of my hand. "I assume you must go, but you need to eat something. No more wine. Let's grill the steaks and get something into your stomach."

"What? No, I can't eat."

"I know, but you will. It won't take long. Then you'll do what you must. Come on."

***

As usual, Frank had been right. My body had demanded the energy, as though instructing me to fuel-up in preparation for tough times ahead. After that, unable to stand it anymore, I left for the Gregario house in the hopes of helping, although I'd no idea how.

Once I arrived there... well, who could know?

I pulled up toward their house, and to a familiar sight—a cruiser with the red-and-blues flashing on the roof, this time belonging to the McHenry County Sheriff's Department, who oversaw tiny Lake-in-the-Hills.

My heart weighed eight thousand pounds.

Mrs. G. answered the door in a frantic state, barely said hello, and led me into the kitchen. She glanced back and said, "We're speaking with Deputy Ricks from the sheriff's department. He has some questions for you."

"For me?"

The deputy and Mr. G. halted their discussion when we entered the room, and the deputy stopped writing on his pad. My colon puckered under Mr. G.'s glare as Mrs. G. introduced me to Deputy Ricks. She confirmed that I'd been with Diana last night—the last one to see her.

He shook my hand and held it for a few seconds, then furled his brow. "Hooper, Hooper, Tony Hooper." He paused, his eyes lit-up with recognition. "That's right, the case with the young boy. What was his name? Alex?"

"My little brother."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hooper." He seemed sincere, formal, but something else lurked underneath.

I nodded.

"Isn't that odd? Someone took your brother... what, a week ago? He ends up.... Well, and now your girlfriend is missing. You seem to be the common link in all of this, Mr. Hooper."

"Common link? What do you mean?"

"I mean there are two disappearances, one we know about, one we don't, and both of the individuals involved were close to you. In fact, weren't you the last one to see each of them?"

I hesitated and swallowed the lump in my throat. "Yeah."

"Tell me, did you drop Diana off in the driveway last night or walk her to the door? Or was there more to it than that?"

Accusatorial looks attacked me from three directions. Four, if one counted my colon again.
Does he think I had something to do with Diana's disappearance? Does he think I murdered my own little brother? Is he
insane
!

Should I tell them the truth about last night? Mr. and Mrs. Gregario might have wanted my head, but it could be important—timelines and what not. Deputy Ricks continued to stare at me as I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I couldn't get my nerves under control, though not for the reasons he thought.

Damn it!

I took a deep breath. "There was a little more to it."

Mr. G. took a quick step forward. "What the hell did you do?"

"Diana asked me to come in, and we were... together for a while."

"Together? What the hell does that mean?"

"Steven," Mrs. G. said, "what do you think it means? Do you think they're somehow different from every other teenager? Different from how we were? Come now."

"What are you saying? In my house? In my goddamn house!"

"Would you prefer they do it in a field, or in the back of the car?"

"Goddamn it!" He spun around and glared out the kitchen window. "And you knew about this, Heather?"

"Steven, really."

"I see." The deputy returned to the conversation, rescuing me from Mr. G., at least for the moment. "And what times were those, from when you arrived here until you left?"

"We got back around eleven o'clock. I left around twelve-thirty or so."

"And where was Diana when you left?"

"Asleep."

Mr. G. grunted and threw his hands up.

The deputy nodded, his suspicion more obvious than ever, and said, "In her bed."

Not exactly a question, but I lowered my head and said, "Yes."

Mr. G. yelled, "That's it, huh? You had your fun and took off?"

"It wasn't like that! I wanted to stay, but I didn't think you'd approve."

"You
think
? I want you out of my house right now, goddamn it!"

"Mr. G., it's not what you think. We love each other." When he didn't respond, I pleaded with Mrs. G. "Don't you understand? I know we're still young and that we have time, but I want to marry Diana and spend the rest of my life with her."

Her sad smile, both thoughtful and accepting, made it clear she already knew. Perhaps they'd talked about it—a mother and daughter thing. Good old Dad, on the other hand, appeared ready to disembowel me and eat my liver.

He yelled again. "She's seventeen, for crying out loud!"

"You were our age when you married, weren't you?"

"Bah!" He dismissed me with a wave of the hand. "Times were different then. Leave, Tony. You need to go."

Times were different then? What in hell does that mean? It was eighteen years ago, for God's sake, not a hundred!

Ricks watched me with continued unease but said nothing.

I had one last question. "Deputy Ricks, is it possible that someone is trying to hurt
me
, by hurting those I love most? How is this happening? It makes no sense."

"Let's not jump to any conclusions or assume the worst here. She may have lost track of time with some friends—probably walk in any minute." He paused as if to examine my reaction. "Teenagers have been known to do crazier things."

He said it with a straight face. Cops always tried to put the family at ease, but he didn't know Diana. Besides, there could be no doubt who topped his suspect list.

Couldn't blame him for that.

I said nothing more, but as they fidgeted about, I could easily imagine Mr. G. spontaneously combusting, or Mrs. G. collapsing with a broken heart. My own panic and fear exploded, as though I dangled above a deep, deep hole, hanging onto the edge with my last fingernail.

Mr. G. nudged me toward the front of the house, and didn't look
at
me so much as
through
me. He followed me to the door and slammed it behind me.

I stood on the stoop for a minute, trying to determine my next move, waiting for some divine inspiration as I stared at my car parked in the street. Nothing.

Still nothing.

I stared at my feet, trying to think while walking down the street, then stopped, looked around, and turned back to my car fifteen feet behind me.

***

I'd been sitting in my car, in my driveway with the engine running, for many minutes. I had no idea how long—didn't even remember driving home.

I needed to go somewhere. Diana was out there.

I must find her before... before....

I dropped my head into my right hand, and heat radiated from my face. I couldn't stop my hand from shaking or my teeth from grinding.

I'm gonna
kill
the sonuvabitch that did this! I'll rip his damn heart out!