The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (29 page)

Mom, I tried to shout. Don’t go down there. Mom…But she drifted away, as if washed by some invisible tide. I turned to my father. Dad, I tried to scream. Stop her. Don’t let her go. But he was caught in his own torrent of commotion, cursing, ripping through closets, tearing at coats and hatboxes, slamming doors.

She didn’t stop when I hollered, so I ran to the basement steps, my feet pedaling air, arms flailing frantically as I realized I was too late; she was already out of sight, gone down into the darkness. I stood motionless, dreading, knowing better than to go down. Open your eyes, I told myself. Do not go on. But my eyes wouldn’t open. I was stuck at the top of the steps, unable to escape, knowing that an awful, unbearable event was about to happen.

Except that it didn’t. As I stood there mouthing silent screams, my mother came back up the steps. Seeing me, she smiled. Relieved and amazed, I stepped back to let her through the door, and she reached out for a hug.

Mom? I tried to say, but made no sound.

Her arms were slender and white, her eyes familiar. She wore a sleeveless pink nightgown, a ring of lace around the neck, and she continued toward me slowly, smiling gently. Was it really my mom? Had she come back? I waited for her embrace, ached for it.

Mom, I tried again. It had been so long. I closed my eyes, anticipating her touch, letting myself fall into her arms, and so I was surprised at the impact on my belly, the snarls, the sharp clawing nails—or maybe teeth—that dug into my flesh, trying to tear the baby from my womb.

A CONTRACTION, I told myself. that’s all it was. I’d fallen asleep, and my dream had been interrupted by a sharp, sudden contraction, and, in the logic of a sleeping mind, I’d worked the contraction into the story of my dream. The ghost of my mother had not reappeared or ripped at my abdomen. Still, I put a hand on my belly, feeling it to make sure it was intact. No wounds. No pain. See that? It had only been a dream. I glanced at the clock: twenty after eleven. A couple of hours had passed since I’d lain down. Suddenly I was hungry. Actually not just hungry. Ravenous. And not for just anything. For peanut butter. Inexplicably, desperately, I wanted peanut butter. I flew downstairs, praying that we had some, that I hadn’t used the last bit on some sandwich for Molly’s lunch. In the kitchen I threw open the cupboard door and scanned the shelf, found the jar, grabbed it and, fumbling to open it, dropped the lid, let it clatter to the floor as I pulled a spoon from the dish rack. Finally, without shame or hesitation, I attacked.

Yes. No bread was necessary. No crackers, either. I shoveled up sticky moist mouthfuls and savored them straight off the spoon, wondering only vaguely at my sudden yearning. I’d never paid much attention to peanut butter before. Why now? Who cared? It didn’t matter why. I had to concentrate on peanut butter. I licked the spoon clean, dug it in again, closing my eyes while sucking on the comforting glob. And, unbidden, the image of my mother reappeared to me, her face so vivid I could see the fine creases around her eyes, and she was smiling, her arms reaching out for a hug. A wave of fear passed through me, recalling the dream. What had it meant? Why had she attacked me?

Stop, I scolded myself. Dreams don’t always have symbolic meaning; sometimes, they merely present a hodgepodge of impressions, a tossed salad of experience. My dream had obviously been just that. It reflected elements of real life: revisiting my childhood hiding place; seeing my mother’s face again in her wedding picture; finding myself at a dogfight; being terrified by Digger and his pals. No doubt my mind had been trying to sort itself out, jumbling pieces of reality together. Still, I couldn’t shake the image of my mother reaching for me, or the surprise and betrayal of sharp talons.

Okay, so I’d had a bad dream. I needed to get over it. I poured a glass of orange juice and headed for the comfort of the living room, my purple velvet sofa, my arms loaded with the jumbo jar, the full glass, some napkins and my spoon. But in the dark hallway I stumbled over something, splashing juice onto the floor. Dammit. What had Molly left in the middle of the floor? Sneakers? Her backpack? Cursing, I turned back to the kitchen, set the OJ and peanut butter down on the counter, grabbed some paper towels and turned on the hall light so I could clean up the juice. And stiffened, suddenly unable to move, as I saw what I’d tripped on.

My handbag. The one that Digger had taken. It was there. On the floor in the hallway.

For an endless moment, I stood blinking at it, trying to make sense of it. Unwilling to touch it, I watched it, suspicious, certain that it couldn’t actually be there. And then, in a jolt of comprehension, I took off, spinning around in panicky circles, ducking into the kitchen, peering down the hall, realizing that whoever had left my bag in the hall had to have been in the house. Might still be there. Lord—

Without another thought, I scurried up the steps, first to check on Molly, and then to find a phone.

O
FFICER
C
ARLA CAME BACK
to search the house, and she’d stayed with us as a courtesy until Nick came home after midnight. When Carla left, he double-checked every inch of the house, finally announcing what I already knew. “Nobody’s here. Molly’s safe and sound asleep, snoring.”

He joined me at the small kitchen table, my pocketbook between us. Nick looked worn out, bedraggled. I thought he’d lost weight. Even the blue of his eyes seemed faded, outlined in pink. The only feature that seemed vigorous and tight was the scar across his cheek. Probably he’d been working too much, hadn’t adjusted well to overtime and late-night hours, had fallen behind in his sleep. Which, lately, with daily crises, I’d been interrupting. I told myself to let up. Nick needed some nurturing.

He lifted my purse. “Let’s see what’s inside. May I?”

I nodded, trying to breathe normally, as if I weren’t having another contraction. It was after twelve; technically, it was a new day. The first one of the day. No need to call the doctor yet.

He unzipped it and turned the leather sack upside down, spilling the contents onto the kitchen table. I leaned back, grateful that Nick was momentarily distracted so that he wouldn’t see me exhaling, wouldn’t notice me holding my belly, waiting for the peak. He was busy, eyeing my scattered possessions. My father’s slippers and parents’ wedding picture were the largest, surrounded by my compact, hairbrush, lipstick. Headache pills. Contraction pills. Stash of M&Ms and chewing gum. A bag of trail mix. A pen. Tissues. My bulging overstuffed calendar. My cell phone. Various receipts and coupons, clipped together. My Institute ID. My keys, and my dad’s. Nick opened my wallet, faced a photo I’d taken of him and Molly, found a couple of twenties, a five, and some change. Diver’s license and credit cards were all there, intact.

“Go through it. What did they take?”

“Nothing.” The tightness intensified. I almost couldn’t speak. “I can’t remember anything else.”

“Good. At least you didn’t lose anything.”

I managed a nod, and as the contraction eased, I wondered why they hadn’t taken the cash.

“These guys don’t consider forty-five dollars worth taking.” Wait, had I asked that aloud? Or was Nick answering my thoughts? He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s be sure to call the locksmith in the morning. They probably copied the keys.”

Oh, God. Of course they had. With their own keys, they could come back whenever they wanted. “You think they’ll come back?”

“Let’s not encourage them, okay?”

“But why did they come? What did they want?”

Nick watched me, spoke simply, as if to a child. “Probably they wanted to let you know that they’d been here. That they know who you are and where you live, and that they can get to you anytime.”

I pictured Digger and his friends in my kitchen, walking down the hall. I wanted to fumigate the place. Nick took my hand and waited for me to digest what he’d said.

“They’re trying to scare me? Why? So I won’t talk about what I saw?”

He sighed. “These aren’t nice people, Zoe. This was a serious warning.”

A warning? I thought of Gavin’s warning, the gutted dogs on his porch. Of Stan, lying dead on my father’s front steps. Had Stan been warned, too? Had Beatrice? Oh, God. Was I next?

“I don’t want you and Molly staying here alone at night.”

Oh, Lord. Neither did I. But we were only alone because he was out. I studied his eyes for the presence of a secret. With Nick, there were always secrets. Was overtime the real reason he was gone so much? “Nick, can you switch back to days?”

He closed his eyes and sighed, releasing my hand. I guessed that didn’t mean “Of course.”

“Can’t you at least try? Just for a while—”

“Zoe, I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, I’ll get somebody to stay with you.” He took out his phone, made a call, got up and walked into the hall.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t want to be alone with Digger and his friends prowling around, threatening us. I sat in the kitchen, an open jar of peanut butter staring at me, accusing me. Oh, God. Look what I’d done. My entire family was in danger because of me. How had this happened? Why? As if in response, my father’s face appeared in my mind. Of course. It all came back to Walter. If I hadn’t been at his house, Molly and I would never have seen the crowd, would never have chanced upon the dogfight. It was his fault. Again I saw my mother, refusing to give him money to pay his debts, regretting that they’d ever married. He’d ruined her life; now he was ruining ours. Because of him, killers and gangsters were after us. Because of him, my life was upside down.

Nick handed me the phone. “It’s Susan.”

Susan? In the middle of the night?

“She’s coming over.”

That’s whom he’d just called? Susan? Was Nick crazy? What good would Susan be against thugs like Digger?

I took the phone. “Susan—”

“I’m on my way.” It wasn’t an offer; it was a fact. “Ten minutes.”

“But it’s after midnight—what about your kids?”

“Zoe, this is an emergency. Besides, Tim’s here.”

“But you don’t need to—”

“Are you kidding? I’m not letting you be alone tonight—”

“So what are you going to do if they come back? Scold them? Give them a time-out?”

“Don’t be cute, Zoe. You’re on their radar, and you better be careful. These guys don’t mess around. Don’t argue. I’m on my way.” She hung up.

I was furious. Why hadn’t Nick asked if I wanted Susan to come over? “That’s genius, Nick,” I began. “Now, not only Molly and I will be in danger, but Susan will be, too. What a great idea.”

Nick didn’t defend himself; he just asked me to sit down. I met his eyes, saw exhaustion there. I sat.

“They won’t be back tonight.” He sounded certain. “They left their warning, but they didn’t expect that you’d find it until morning.”

So then why was Susan coming?

Again he answered my unspoken thoughts. “You’re high-risk, Zoe. All this stress can’t be good for you or the baby. Someone needs to be here, just in case your contractions start up.”

Oh. It wasn’t the burglars he was worried about; it was the baby. I looked away. Did he know the contractions had already started up? How could he? Either way, shouldn’t he have asked if I wanted Susan to come? Why was he so controlling?

“I know. You’re pissed. You think I’m controlling because I called Susan without asking you. But if I’d asked, you wouldn’t have let me call.”

Was the man reading my mind? How come he kept answering what I was thinking?

“So? Maybe you shouldn’t have—”

“Damn it, Zoe. I’m worried about you and the baby. You’re a pregnant woman over forty who is having early contractions and is under a huge amount of stress. For once, can you—” He stopped, exhaled, slowed himself down. “Can you try to let me take care of you both, just for a while?”

He looked wounded. I wanted to hug him. To have him take me in his arms and carry me to bed. I wanted to fall asleep with my head on his chest, feeling his skin, hearing his heart. But he was going back out, leaving me with Susan. Was that his way of taking care of me? And what about tomorrow night? Who would stay with us then? And the night after that?

“Tomorrow, I’ll get you a real bodyguard. But for tonight, Susan should be fine.”

How was he doing that? Were my thoughts so transparent and predictable that I didn’t even have to speak?

Nick took my hand and led me to the living room sofa, covered me with an afghan. Then he went back to the kitchen and puttered around, reappearing moments later with glasses of milk and peanut butter sandwiches. I swallowed carefully, sickened at the smell of peanuts, alarmed once more at how suddenly, how drastically my passions could change.

S
OMETIME AFTER ONE,
S
USAN
arrived with a couple of homemade black-and-white milk shakes. More food. While Nick went back to work, we sat on my sofa sucking thick vanilla-and-chocolate cream through thin straws.

“When I was pregnant, I lived on these.” Susan licked her lips. “They were my lunch. A banana and a shake. That’s where I got these hips.”

I sipped. The shake was sweet and smooth. Soothing. “Thanks, Susan.”

“Don’t thank me. Explain. How could you do that?” Her lips returned to her straw.

“Do what?”

“Go to a dogfight?”

Oh, that.

“And with Molly? Are you insane?”

Maybe. Probably. I sucked thick sweet shake.

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything—I didn’t intend to go.”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense.”

“I didn’t know what it was. There were families, a mix of people, all sizes, shapes and colors. A few of the kids were even younger than Molly. Who’d have thought it was a dogfight?”

She wasn’t listening to my explanation; she’d moved on to another issue. “But you didn’t call me. Why not? Why did Nick have to call?”

“I was going to call you in the morning. I didn’t want to bother you—”