The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (33 page)

M
OLLY GAVE ME A
butterfly kiss and flitted off into the back of Susan’s car to join Emily on a trip to Lenape Farms for a fall apple-picking excursion. I watched them pull away, waving, and turned to face my day. Rudo Bachek sat in my kitchen, taking up too much space. His hulking back hunched, he leaned onto the counter over his coffee cup, looking bored, waiting to accompany me to the supermarket.

But I couldn’t focus on making a grocery list. I was unsettled, inexplicably jittery. I felt compelled to get out of the house, but not to do my Saturday chores.

“Come on, Rudo,” I said. “It’s a beautiful day; we’re going for a drive.” At first, I didn’t think about where we were headed. Maybe we’d ride out to the Main Line where we could explore winding roads and look at elegant homes in which nothing nefarious ever happened. Or the countryside. Maybe up to Bucks County—to flea markets and antiques shops in New Hope. Or out to Valley Forge. We could walk the trails there, look at the fall foliage and the tiny log cabins where George Washington’s soldiers slept.

Fact was I didn’t give a hoot where we went. I just wanted to get away. Rudo didn’t comment, but apparently he was as glad as I was to be moving. He seated me in his ‘02 blue Taurus, got behind the wheel, started the engine and pulled out of the parking spot without even asking where we were heading. And that was fine. We drove silently west through Center City toward the art museum. From there, I guided him onto Kelly Drive, and suddenly I was clear about where I wanted to go. Once again—like a lemming to the shore or a moth to the flame—I was going back to my father’s house.

I told myself that it was important not to abandon the place. I’d just stop in briefly. Check on the property. Clean up a little; throw out another bag of trash or two. But the truth was, I had no idea why I wanted to go there. I just needed to. Rudo accompanied me up the front walk, stepping inside before me, making sure it was safe, and gesturing for me to come inside. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, though, I knew that, once again, someone had been there. There was no question this time. I told myself that it must have been my father. When he’d wandered home, he’d probably rearranged chairs and moved the end tables. But I wasn’t convinced by that explanation. This time, the living room sofa had been moved. Instead of sitting neatly beside the fireplace, it sat sideways, at an awkward angle. Why would my father move the sofa? He wouldn’t, even if he’d been strong enough. I grabbed Rudo’s arm, partly to get his attention, mostly to steady myself.

“Rudo.” I didn’t know if he’d understand me. “Somebody’s been here.”

Rudo brightened; he had something to do. “Okay.” He patted my hand. “I will check house. Sit here. Don’t you to move.” He put a hand on his holster and, surprisingly quiet for so large a man, crept down the hall, beginning his search.

I sat on the crooked sofa, waiting, looking around. Noticing the chairs. They were too close together. And the coffee table was off center. All the furniture, not just the sofa, had been moved, cushions turned. I couldn’t sit there anymore, got up and wandered into the dining room. The hutch had been shoved several inches from the wall. Who had moved it? And why? Rudo slunk down the stairs to check the basement, then headed upstairs to the bedrooms. Curious to see what else had been moved, I went to investigate the part of the house he’d just secured. I stepped into the kitchen, headed down the basement steps. As always, I steered clear of the cedar closet, avoiding that corner. Wandering through chill air and damp shadows, I passed the stacks of packing boxes and trunks of old linens and clothes. The clutter seemed intact, untouched. The furnace, the workbench. The shelves laden with soup pots and cracked coffee mugs. So much stuff. Bulky old cushions, damaged kitchen chairs. And, in the far dark corner, a flicker of my mother, stashing valuables under the linoleum flooring or behind the loose brick in the wall.

Wait a second. Until that moment, I had forgotten all about that brick. But where was it? I closed my eyes, envisioning the wall, and in my mind I saw the spot clearly. It was at eye level, behind a pipe. I remembered it vividly now. A brick that came loose, concealing a cigar box full of valuables. Slowly, squinting in the dim light, I scanned the perimeter of the basement, examining the walls near pipes. And there it was, on the wall opposite the staircase, near the washing machine. I’d found it. It was real. I hadn’t been just dreaming or recalling a childhood fantasy; the brick was there, just as I’d pictured it. Suddenly, all around me, other memories flickered, coming alive. The basement teemed with hiding places and secrets, all of them clamoring, fighting for attention. “Look over here,” I heard them whisper. “Remember what happened?” “See what I’ve got?”

I looked around, making sure that the taunts I heard were only in my head, the voices of lost memories, struggling to break free. But I didn’t follow any of them. I remained where I was, standing by the wall beside a loose brick. It wasn’t at eye level, though; it was chest-high. I’d been shorter when I’d last looked at it. Still, I didn’t dare to touch the thing. I stood there, staring at it, rubbing goose bumps off my arms, reminding myself that I was safe. Rudo had checked. Nobody was down here, lurking in the shadows. There was nothing to be afraid of; it was only a brick. Whatever was behind it couldn’t hurt me. Slowly, I extended an arm and touched it, fingering the dark gaps around its edges. Then, tentatively, I pulled at it, but couldn’t get a grip; the brick was wedged tight. Leave it, I told myself. Go find Rudo. But I didn’t go. I stayed where I was, couldn’t stop picking at the brick. I broke a fingernail, then another. I scraped a knuckle. I jiggled it, dug and tugged. Still, it wouldn’t budge.

Get a tool, a voice in my head suggested. Look on the workbench. I crossed the basement and riffled through my father’s tools, finding duct tape, screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches. A saw. A file. A file? I took it, slid it into the wall alongside the brick, working the brick loose until finally it came out far enough to grip. Then I tugged. Finally, easily, the brick came out, leaving a dark hole in the wall. I stared at it, wondering what was inside. I saw my mother tiptoeing down the stairs, hiding something under her robe. And I saw myself following, crouching on the steps, watching, wondering what she was holding. More than thirty years had passed. And now I could finally find out. I bit my lip, took a deep breath. Then I stuck my hand into the space, feeling for the box.

But nothing was there. No cigar box. Not even a spider web. Nothing but crumbled cement and dust. No sign that anything had ever been hidden there. I closed my eyes, replaying the memory. I knew the box had been there. I could picture it clearly, the big letters on the front, the insignia. Coronas? But it wasn’t there. Probably my father had found it, sold the valuables and gambled away the money. At any rate, it was gone. As if it had never been there.

A wave of sadness washed over me, taking me by surprise. Stop it, I told myself. Nothing happened. There’s no reason to feel anything at all. Still, I was overcome, as if I’d discovered a tragedy or lost something irreplaceable. Why? What was wrong with me? I stared at the brick, hoping it would answer, but it lay still and silent, and the only sounds I heard were the hushed echoes of my past and my rapid breathing. And the footsteps creaking on the floor above me.

I spun around, expecting to see Rudo standing at the top of the basement steps. But nobody was there. You’re imagining things, I told myself. You’re spending too much time in a dusty old house.

“Rudo?” I stood still, waiting for him to answer.

But he didn’t. The floor creaked again. He probably hadn’t heard me calling, must be looking for me.

“Rudo—” This time, I shouted louder. “I’m down here. Rudo?”

Still, Rudo didn’t answer. But over my head, old wood creaked as somebody slowly crossed the kitchen floor. And silently, cautiously, opened the basement door.

OH, GOD. SOMEONE was in the house. Someone who wasn’t Rudo was coming downstairs to the basement. Oh, God. Where was Rudo? Why hadn’t he seen them?

Quickly, silently, I skedaddled across the basement, huddling behind stacks of crates and luggage, scooting when I got close to the door. Without looking back, I dropped to my knees and slithered through the doggie door into the mud, and as fast as I could I flew up the stairs, leaping through weeds and overgrown grass, trying not to stumble on roots and stones. I didn’t know where I was going. Rudo’s car was out front, but I didn’t have the keys. Think, I told myself. Call somebody. But my bag, my phone were in the house. Okay, go to Lettie’s. She’ll call for help. You’ll be safe there, with Lettie and Craig and all the dogs. I ran across the path, and through overgrown grass dived into the hedges that divided the properties, separating bushes with my outstretched arms, and stumbling over some roots, sprawled into sharp branches that scratched my skin but broke my fall.

I lay still for a moment, panting, stroking my belly, listening for someone following me, but Lettie’s dogs had sensed my approach, and I couldn’t hear anything but their barking. Branches were above, beside, beneath and beyond me. They jabbed my back, arms, face and thighs. All I could see were leaves, dirt and rough bark. When I finally caught my breath, cautiously, I attempted to get up. My knees, then my feet made contact with the ground, and squatting in the hedges, I pushed foliage aside to peer out toward my father’s house. Everything seemed quiet. No one was following me, not even my so-called bodyguard. Why didn’t he know I’d left the house? Where the hell was he?

Pushing hair out of my eyes, I managed to stand and tried to regain some composure. It was possible, I admitted, that nothing at all had happened. It may have been Rudo I’d heard in the house. Maybe he hadn’t heard me calling. Or maybe I hadn’t heard him answer. Maybe I’d panicked and run for no reason except my overactive nerves and overworked imagination.

I stood in the middle of the hedges, looking at Lettie’s place, then back at my father’s, wondering where I should go. Maybe I should go find Rudo before I made a huge fool of myself. Probably, yes, that’s what I should do. I started out of the hedges, going back in the direction from which I had come. And again, I tripped. This time, though, I caught myself, regaining my balance before I fell. Glancing down to see what I had tripped over, seeing a leg.

R
UDO
B
ACHEK’S LEG
. O
H
, God. My eyes followed the leg to the rest of him. Through the dense cluster of bushes I could barely see his body or find his face, but I could see the carnage at his throat, and now I felt woozy, smelling blood.

Dizzy, frantic, I whirled around, tore through the scraping hedges, sped past Lettie’s dog agility course, raced across her backyard, not stopping until I reached her back porch. I was about to shout her name and pound on the door when I glanced around and saw Craig behind the picket fence of her side yard. Lettie was out there, too, the top of her head barely visible above the fence. Side by side, they were out there training dogs.

I called her name, but dogs were barking wildly, and she didn’t seem to hear me. I ran off the porch, mouth dry, heart pounding, midriff tightening, contraction beginning. “Lettie,” I called again. Again, my voice was lost in the yelping of dogs.

And the contraction intensified. Slow down, I told myself. Take your time. Breathe through it. Dr. Martin had said the baby was okay, but she also had reminded me that I was still in danger of going into early labor. Oh, God. Was that what this was? I was only halfway through the fifth month—was I about to lose the baby? Stop it, I told myself. You’re panicking. This is no different from any other contraction you’ve had. Sit down and rest. Nothing will help Rudo anymore; wait until the contraction passes and you can move again. So, holding on to my belly, I stopped running and shouting and hoped for the stranglehold around my middle to ease. But Rudo Bachek’s eyes were watching me through the branches, warning me to move. Slowly I made my way toward the gate to the side yard. Light-headed, I stumbled forward, one foot following the other. At the gate, I stopped to breathe through the peak of the contraction, leaning for support against the wooden fence, staring at the blurry latch with unfocused eyes.

When the contraction finally eased, I reached out to open the gate, peeking over the top of the fence to make sure no loose guard dogs would greet me. Two immense beefy Rottweilers met my eyes, growling with bared teeth, their muzzles moist and dripping red. They were right behind the gate, standing on hind legs, jumping, snarling, leaping to reach me.

I waved across the yard, hoping to get Lettie’s attention, but she didn’t notice, absorbed in what she was doing. She wore a bulky glove that covered her lower arm; Craig wore an entire outfit of protective gear. They stood together under a tree alongside a third man—maybe the one named Jimmy?—all facing away from me. I couldn’t see what they were looking at; the tree was in the way. But I couldn’t get their attention. The Rottweilers grew more excited, began slamming their bodies against the gate, trying to get to me.

“Good doggies.” I tried a smile but, unimpressed by the sturdy fence, they leaped toward my throat, dripping pink foamy saliva. “Lett—” I started again, but the man beside her took a step, turning to talk into her ear, and I saw part of his face, and I stopped calling mid-syllable. Oh, God. I shut my eyes and opened them again, making sure I was seeing right. The man with Lettie—could he be the ADA …the one in charge of dogfight cases? It was. Definitely, Doug Morrison. But what was he doing here? How did he know Lettie?

Instinctively I ducked, crouching behind the fence so they couldn’t see me. Why had I done that? What did I care if the ADA saw me? But there I was, hiding. The dogs, though, were not fooled. Smelling me or maybe my fear, they continued to bark and attack the wooden planks.