The Watchman (5 page)

“Did the police know who made the call?”

He shook his head. “It originated from an untraceable cell phone. The police never found out who placed it.”

“Did you notice who she talked with at the country club that evening?”

“The usual club members. I've plumbed my memory for years trying to remember everything...but I never noticed any strange faces.”

Banks of clouds moved in, and the temperature dropped. I had to concentrate to keep my teeth from chattering. “You gave this information to the authorities? They checked out the country club members and staff?”

Armstrong seemed oblivious to the sudden chill. “As far as I know. It's all in the report I obtained from the police.” He grinned. “I had to pull some strings to get copies.”

He stared at the lake again before shifting his gaze back to me. Deep creases ran across his brow, giving him a tired expression. When he spoke, it seemed almost a plea. “Find out what happened to my wife, Noah. She deserves a proper end to her life. I owe her that much. A final place to rest—here by the lake.”

A surge of compassion ran through me. I'd never become immune to the unhappiness that came with my job. I got to my feet and clasped his hand. “I'll do all that's within my power to make that happen, sir.”

He appeared to notice me for the first time. “You'll have to forgive me, Noah. I've kept you out in the cold too long. Come. Let's go back to the house. I'll give you those reports and some hot coffee, and we'll settle the financial arrangements.”

 



 

Noah's Home, Hebron, Wyoming

The predawn nightmare returned and refused to loosen its grip. The images swirled and engulfed me in their depths. My heart squeezed with fright, foreshadowing events to come, and I couldn't breathe. The sequence varied, but the scenes never changed.

It's my tenth birthday and a bright Sunday afternoon. I ride home with my grandmother. I've spent the weekend with her. Warmth and happiness envelop me as we ease around the corner onto my street.

The day turns dark as the car pulls to the curb. I get out. Foreboding washes away the pleasure. A street lamp snaps on, shattering the blackness that suddenly settles over the neighborhood.

I trudge along the broken sidewalk toward the front door. My feet drag on the cement as I move forward. What lies beyond the entrance terrifies me. Each time I reach the door, it leaps farther away. Finally, I grab hold with a desperate grip and turn the knob.

On quiet feet, I ease inside.

Shouts and curses blast at me like noise from a boom box. Sounds become a physical force that drive me back into the entrance. My little brother sits wide-eyed, scrunched into the sofa's corner, his thumb in his mouth. I drop my overnight bag near the stairs and move toward the tirade that washes over me like waves before a hurricane.

 



 

Damp and breathless, I woke up hard. The familiar fear of the recurring nightmare—that didn't want to let go. After a few gulps of air, my sleep-fogged brain relaxed.

My heavy lids open, greeted by two pairs of hazel eyes just inches from my nose.

Bella and Brutus, two-year-old Saint Bernards, smiled at me. The pups didn't bark. They just grinned and stared. Staring can be incredibly effective.

I slipped into the warmth of a wool bathrobe and my gaze fell on a photograph of my father on the dresser. He wore his Air Force dress uniform, and his cap position according to regulations, over dark hair. Square jawed, his deep blue eyes that sparkled with life. I didn't remember him. His plane was shot down over a Vietnamese jungle when I was four. At six feet four, I'd inherited my height from him. My grandmother said I was his spittin' image, and her assessment was confirmed every time I looked in the mirror.

Half asleep, I stumbled downstairs and picked up the newspaper on the front stoop. Bella and Brutus plunged ahead into the kitchen where I tossed them a couple of fake-bacon treats. I filled a mug with hot, black liquid and thanked God once again for whoever invented the automatic coffeemaker.

Bella nosed my arm. I scratched her ear with one hand and unfolded the Sunday newspaper with the other. The dogs were family. Their presence kept me grounded.

Insistent door chimes ended doggie family time.

Craning my neck to the right, I checked the time on the microwave. 8:00 AM. That would be my neighbor, Ted Bennett. Coordinated Universal Time called Ted to verify their accuracy. I left my cup on the table and hurried to answer the summons.

I'd given Ted a key more than two years ago when he started walking the animals for me. Even so, whenever my car was in the drive, he always rang the bell.

At thirty, Ted was a little overweight with the mentality of an eager fourth grader. He lived across the street with his grandmother, Mabel Bennett.

The pups rushed past me to greet Ted––their second favorite human in the world. Ted dropped to his knees, relishing the affectionate slobber the dogs spread across his face. “Mornin', Noah. Can I walk the dogs now?”

“Sure, Ted. Come over after church, and we'll watch the game together.”

In a flurry of white and brown fur, Ted leashed the animals and grinned at me. “I'll come back soon. I like to see the Cowboys play.” Brutus strained to get through the door, Bella following in his paw prints.

Ted turned honest brown eyes toward me. “Grandma gets on my nerves a little, sometimes.”

There was a story behind that, but I knew better than to ask. I clapped Ted on the back as he let the dogs pull him out the door.

While Ted was gone, I cleaned house. I checked in with Rachel to make sure things were still good, and the situation still under control. A Marine trained neatnik I caught up on my laundry and housework, and then dressed for church.

After the service ended, I came home and grilled burgers, made a big bowl of popcorn, and went next door to find Ted.

Mabel answered my knock, a smile in her blue eyes. “Hi, neighbor.”

“Hi, Mabel. Ted wanted to watch the game with me. Is he around? You're invited, too, if you want to hang out with a couple of jocks.”

She laughed. “Thanks, but I have to go back to the restaurant.”

“How did the court hearing go?”

She motioned me into the entryway. “We won. I'm now and forever officially Ted's legal guardian.”

Mabel rescued Ted two years ago from the state mental institution where her son had placed him.

I pulled her into a hug. “Congratulations.”

“Your grandmother wears combat boots” was a description that fit Mabel Bennett perfectly—her attitude––not her dress code. She had three passions in life. God, Ted, and her business, the Chateau Bennett, Hebron's only steak house. Mabel handled Ted like a fully functioning adult. And heaven help anyone who treated him otherwise in her presence.

She returned the hug with gusto. “Thanks. Wait a minute and I'll get Ted for you.” She moved to the bottom of the stairs and called his name.

Soon, Ted hurried into the room in his weeble-wobble gait, and we strolled back to my place.

A navy blue sedan that caught my attention earlier in the morning still sat down the street. I'd never seen the car in the neighborhood before. Tinted windows hid the occupant from view.

I nodded at the car. “Did a new family move into the Clarkson place?”

Ted rooted his feet in the middle of the street and stared at the vehicle. He shook his head. “Nope. The Clarksons left to spend Christmas in Louisiana.”

Ted knew almost everything about the neighbors. They shared their lives with him as though he was the neighborhood mascot.

“Wait for me on the curb, Ted. I'm going to introduce myself.”

“I'll come with you, Noah. I like to meet new people.”

“No, Ted. Wait on the curb like I asked.” I spoke sharper than I intended, but there was no way of knowing who or what the automobile contained.

Ted dropped his head and shuffled to the curb.

With Ted stationed a safe distance away, I walked toward the car. Six feet from the vehicle, the motor revved and the car whipped around me, too fast to get a good look at the driver. The car disappeared around the corner.

Real unfriendly for neighbors.

Big surprise, the license plate's surface was caked with a mixture of snow and mud, making the tag illegible.

“Why'd the car do that, Noah?”

I shrugged. “Maybe they were late for an appointment.”

We entered the front door and I opened a couple of soft drinks. We took the burgers down to my man cave in the basement, and I gave two to the pups. Ted and I settled in to stuff ourselves and watch the game. Life didn't get any better.

At half time, I took Bella and Brutus outside for a stretch.

The blue sedan hadn't returned.

 

 

 

 

4

 

Harold London's Home

Early Monday morning, I drove to Crown Heights and parked a few blocks from the London home. I hurried through the gate in stealth mode, and into the library that lay just to the right off the living room. The ugly painting Rachel mentioned hung in prominence above a massive desk.

I scanned the room, and my gaze rested on the opposite wall. As expected, a man with Harry's conceit had a wall dedicated to his accomplishments. The trophy collection mirrored his sense of self, with a local Chamber of Commerce Man of the Year plaque in the center. Must have been a bad year for qualified candidates.

The awards didn't impress me. I had nothing but disgust for any man who used physical force on a woman and child.

I hadn't always used my God-given gifts altruistically. In my teens, I'd tormented a thug who bullied me—revealed his secrets—messed with his head. Power over others can be as addictive as drugs. Did revenge bring satisfaction? Far from it. Not even a shower could scrub away my self-disgust. That experience made me understand why the Lord said, “Vengeance is mine.”

Harry London probably never had an emotion remotely close to remorse.

Twenty minutes after my arrival at the London home, Harry entered the library and crossed to the safe.

Rachel was right. He didn't go to jail, and he had shaved my time limit close.

Peering over Harry's shoulder I noted the spins and reverses his hands made on the dial, and then committed the data to memory. Before he jerked open the vault door, Harry wheeled around and stared directly at me. For one insecure moment, I panicked. Had I materialized? After a quick glance at the grandfather clock in the corner, only 6:27. I relaxed. Three minutes left.

Time is the enemy when I'm invisible.

Anxious to leave the premises, I scurried down the hallway. Passing through the den, I shot a quick look at the timepiece above the fireplace, 6:29 and counting. I had less than a minute.

So much for the accuracy of antique clocks.

From the library, I heard the safe door snap shut just as my reflection appeared in the plasma television screen on the wall. I scrambled into the kitchen and stepped into the walk-in pantry.

Harry's footsteps echoed on the tile floor moving toward me, they faltered, and then continued on, as if he looked for something or someone. With my back pressed against the wall in a gap at the end of a huge upright freezer, I sucked in my breath as Harry stalked into the food closet. I could kiss my P.I. license good-bye if he saw me. The profession frowned on breaking and entering.

Harry stood in the doorway for what seemed an eternity and then closed and locked the door. Locked the door? The man was seriously paranoid. The access had been unbolted when I entered. Why secure it now? Only a major control freak put a lock on a pantry, anyway. Probably made Rachel account for everything she used.

The ping of the security system told me Harry had set the alarm at the garage entrance. Within minutes, the car started, and the sounds faded into silence.

Harry's behavior unnerved me—too crafty and suspicious for my comfort. He could decide to return, and I didn't intend to wait another twenty-five minutes to become invisible again. I opened the pantry with a credit card and wiped away my prints.

As I left, I switched the sugar and salt. Juvenile? Yeah. But it felt good.

Aware I would break the Arrow Security circuit, I ran through the kitchen door. Outside, I checked the exterior for security cameras. None occupied the usual places. I scanned the street before opening the gate and took a less than casual stroll to my vehicle. I covered the two blocks, wrote the safe combination on a notepad and placed it in the console. The information would give Rachel access to the money and passports.

The imminent arrival of Crown Height's finest was a real possibility, so I started the engine and pulled away. A few blocks later a squad car passed, headed in the opposite direction. I groaned when the cruiser made a U-turn, switched on the strobe lights, and eased in behind me.

I swung to the curb and watched as the Irish twins, Ryan and Duncan, did the same. My luck had taken its usual turn. Out of Crown Heights' six-man police force, these two guys had drawn patrol duty in this section again.

Duncan sauntered over and pecked on the window. I lowered the glass.

He leaned forward. “Hey, Adams, what brings you to this neighborhood? You live around here?” He already knew the answer. I'd given him my address Friday night.

My excuse was ready. “No. Can't afford it. My attorney lives one street over, Jacob Stein. You know Jake?”

Duncan ignored my question. “Isn't it a little early to call on your attorney?”

“Not for Jake. He retired last year, and he gets up with the birds. I'd ask you boys to come along, but he isn't fond of cops.”

Duncan didn't smile. “The security system went off at Judge London's home a few minutes ago. You know anything about that?”