RECALLED
(a sequel to “The Distributor” by Richard A. Matheson)
Time to move.
Monday, April 26
Another town, another rental in another peaceful, unsuspecting neighborhood.
That was the easy part. As for the rest . . . it used to be so much simpler.
Listen to me, he thought. I sound like an old fart.
Well, he was an old fart. He’d been at this for decades, but instead of becoming routine, it had grown increasingly difficult. And he knew the problem wasn’t with him.
The world had changed.
Used to be reputations could be ruined with a mere hint of impropriety – adultery, drunkenness, wantonness, porn peeping. Now it was anything goes. Only incest and pedophilia seemed to lack champions in the mass media, and it was anyone’s guess as to how long before their paladins appeared and hoisted their flags.
People daily bragged on TV about what in the good old days would have had them afraid to show their faces in public. And nowadays the love that once dared not speak its name would not shut up.
But other, newer taboos had arisen from what used to be a matter of course.
And the ability to improvise was the greatest asset of an effective distributor.
* * * * *
The last town had been a quiet little place in central Jersey known as Veni Woods. He’d called himself Clay Evanson there, a name he’d used before, way back when. Just last week, before arriving here in Wolverton, a quaint little town on Long Island’s south shore, he decided to use another alias from the past: Theodore Gordon.
Every night before his arrival he’d closed his eyes and made the name his own. He was Theodore Gordon. All other names faded. He was Theodore Gordon and no one else.
After a little research, he found a furnished rental in the racially mixed Pine View Estates development on the eastern end of town. It had come down to a choice between that and another area half a mile west, but when he saw a woman wearing a striped hijab get out of a Dodge SUV on Fannen Street in Pine View and let herself into one of the houses, his decision was made.
He’d spent last Thursday night introducing himself around. As usual, he was a widower – not quite two years since his poor, dear Denise passed – and a financial consultant who worked from home, renting with intent to buy. Seven other houses made up this block of Fannen Street. He met the McCuins and their sullen fifteen-year-old son, Colin; the very Catholic Fabrinis and Robinsons; the waspish Woolbrights; the irreligious Hispanic Garcias with their noisy dog; the Muslim Rashids; and the very black Longwells. He made a point of inquiring at each stop about the best Internet access in the area. This induced Mr. Robinson and Mr. Woolbright to brag about the wi-fi networks they’d installed in their homes. Theodore had been hoping for one; two was a blessing.
Over the weekend he’d used his digital Nikon with the telephoto lens to snap photos of as many of his neighbors as possible as they worked in the garden or mowed the lawn, washed the car, or collected the mail. Between shoots he’d wandered Fannen Street, saying hello, helping unload a van, or transplant a bush. In the process he’d managed to see most of the backyards.
Since the Catholics held the majority, he’d attended mass at St. Bartholomew’s yesterday morning, making sure he introduced himself to Father Bain in sight of the Fabrinis and Robinsons.
Tonight he’d be ready to go. He’d made starting on Monday a tradition.
The Pine View houses all sat on well-wooded half-acre lots. Four of the homes on this block – the Longwell, Woolbright, Rashid, and Fabrini places across the street – backed up to the woods that lent the development its name. His place sat directly across from the Rashids; the Robinsons were stage left on the corner, the Garcias next door to the right, and the McCuins next door to them on the far corner.
He spent the daylight hours observing the comings and goings and refining his notes. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Rashid carpooled. This was Mr. Rashid’s week to drive. Theodore watched Mr. Robinson open the rear door to Mr. Rashid’s car, place his briefcase on the seat, then take the passenger seat in front. Mrs. Rashid, a secretary at the grammar school, drove Robinson’s girl, Chelsea, to school along with her own daughter, Farah, both ten.
Theodore noted the times of the comings and goings of everyone on the block. Today’s were all consistent with last week’s.
He admired consistency.
During the course of the day he used his laptop to access Mr. Robinson’s wi-fi network next door, but could not enter the system due to a firewall. He would work on breaching that during the week. Firewalls were handy in that they gave people a false sense of security. He’d try the Woolbrights tonight.
* * * * *
Shortly before midnight he wound his way among the pines behind the houses across the street until he came to the rear extreme of the Woolbright’s property. There he turned on his laptop and slowly made his way closer to the darkened house, stopping every dozen feet or so to see if he could access the wi-fi signal from their home network.
He could, and when it was good and strong, he tapped in and discovered that Mr. Woolbright had accommodatingly left his computer on and his webmail program open. Theodore had found this increasingly common over the years. Folks liked to hop out of bed and check their email before running off to work, and didn’t want to fuss with all that log-in nonsense.
Theodore found that Mrs. Woolbright’s password was also stored and so he switched over to her account and logged in to the Village Voice’s online classified site. There he used her email address to apply for membership. He waited for the verification email, then followed the instructions. As soon as he was officially registered, he placed an ad as Mr. Woolbright in the men-seeking-men category. He described himself as “rich and horny and into young stuff. Send a picture or no go.”
That done, he turned off his computer and crept to the tool shed by the fence between the Woolbright and Robinson properties. Easing open the door, he slipped a couple of gay porn magazines inside, then reclosed it.
When he returned home he removed a tray of ice cubes from his freezer and carried it to the extra bedroom on the second floor. He raised the window and the screen about twelve inches, then pulled his Firestorm High Performance slingshot from the night table drawer. He popped an ice cube out of the tray, loaded it into the sling, then winged it toward the wooden doghouse where Daisy, the Garcias’ short-furred bitch mutt, spent her nights. Theodore had become expert with the slingshot over the years, and rarely missed, even at this distance.
The cube shattered against the doghouse, startling Daisy to full-throated wakefulness. She rushed out with a howl that progressed to frenzied barking.
Finally, after inspecting the six-foot picket fence that defined the perimeter of her domain, she quieted down. With some satisfied gruffs, growls, and grumbles, she returned to her abode.
Theodore gave her time to settle down, then let fly another cube.
As Daisy repeated her howls and barks, he heard Mr. McCuin shout from a window on the Garcias’ far side, “For Christ sake, Garcia, shut up that goddamn mutt or bring her inside!”
Theodore closed the screen and the window.
He made an entry in his ledger and went to bed.
A good start.
Tuesday, April 27
He waited until 9:30 A.M., watching the various carpool and solitary departures, before knocking on the Woolbrights’ door. He’d learned last Thursday that Mrs. Woolbright was a stay-at-home wife.
She looked pale and uncertain when she answered. Perhaps she had received some disturbing emails. He gave her his brightest smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Woolbright. My lawnmower seems to be on the fritz and I was wondering if I might borrow your husband’s.”
“My husband’s?” She blinked and paused, as if she were translating the words. “Oh, yes. I suppose so. It’s around back in the shed.”
“Could you show me?” To underscore his probity, he added, “I’ll walk around the side and meet you there.”
They converged at the shed in the backyard.
“It’s in here.” She pulled open the doors.
“Thank you.”
He waited for her to notice the magazines, then realized they weren’t there. He poked his head in and looked around, but they were gone.
He took hold of the lawn mower handle and pulled it out, wondering if they had slipped beneath. But no . . . no magazines.
“Did your husband come out to the shed this morning?”
“What? No. He was running late. Skipped breakfast and ran. In a big hurry to get to . . . the city.”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll be sure to have it back by tonight.”
She only nodded, looking distracted.
Theodore wheeled the mower across the street. Where were those magazines? He’d ponder that while he mowed the grass – something he hadn’t counted on. He always hired a lawn service whenever he moved into a new town, but he’d put it off because of the Woolbrights. Today he’d planned to be so upset by the sight of those magazines that he’d forget about the mower. But now that he had it, he was obliged to use it.
* * * * *
He turned off the mower. Finally. He’d forgotten what a noisy, monotonous chore it was. Plus he was no spring chicken. He was puffing a little and had wet rings in his armpits. He’d clean off the mower – always be a good neighbor – and wait for Mr. Woolbright’s return before wheeling it back across the street. Might catch an earful of domestic strife along the way – though not as much as there could have been had she found those magazines. Someone had taken them. But who?
He saw the mail truck pull up to his box. Even though he’d never receive anything but flyers and contest come-ons at this address, he’d introduced himself to the mailman, whose name was Phil. He waved and Phil waved back.
After the mail truck moved on, Theodore slipped into the backyard and stood behind the big rhododendron next to the post-and-rail fence that divided his property from the Robinsons’. The bush shielded him from the street. Once he was sure no one was in line of sight, he climbed over the fence. In the old days he would have hopped it, but he wasn’t as spry or as flexible as he used to be.
He hurried to their back door. When helping Mr. Robinson transplant a spirea on Saturday, he’d noted that the back door lock was a Schlage. He inserted a Schlage bump key, gave it a twist as he tapped it with a little rubber hammer, and he was in. He’d seen no evidence of an alarm system on his introductory visit, so no worry about disarming that.
He hurried upstairs and had no problem locating Chelsea Robinson’s room – pink wallpaper, posters of the latest boy group. He went to her dresser and found her underwear drawer. He removed a pair of panties – pink, of course – and stuffed them into his pocket.
Then he was on his way down the stairs, out the way he’d come in – making sure to lock the door behind him – and back over the fence.
Five minutes from leaving his yard to returning. And no one the wiser.
Now that he had the panties, he could pick which photos of Chelsea to print out.
* * * * *
He watched the Rashid house until all was dark except for the glow of a TV from the master bedroom. He’d printed out half a dozen photos of Chelsea – close ups of her face, and crops centered on her flat chest and her little rump. With these trapped under his shirt, and the panties in his pocket, he stole across the street and into the Rashids’ backyard. On Sunday he’d helped carry bags of wood-chip mulch from the van to the rear, and had made note that the backdoor to their garage was secured by another Schlage. No surprise. Development builders invariably used the same hardware on their houses.
A tap and a twist of the bump key and he was in. He opened the rear passenger door of Mr. Rashid’s Volvo sedan and placed the photos and the panties on the floor where the pink could not fail to catch Mr. Robinson’s eye. Then he would see the photos beneath.
Theodore pulled out a penlight and snooped around until he came upon an expensive-looking socket wrench set. He tucked that under his arm and slipped back outside, locking the door behind him.
Before heading for the Longwell house, he detoured to the Fabrinis’ front yard where he pulled up every geranium Mr. Fabrini had planted over the weekend and scattered them across the front lawn.
He strolled the starlit street to the other end of the block where he slipped into the back of the Longwells’ corner lot and hid the wrench set under the deck.
Back home, he slung ice cubes at Daisy’s doghouse until Mr. McCuin screamed again from his window.
After making his daily entry in the ledger, he went to bed.
Wednesday, April 28
Theodore had set his alarm to be sure he’d be awake to see Mr. Rashid pick up Mr. Robinson. He’d given himself enough time to make coffee first.
So now, steaming cup in hand, he sat by his front picture window to wait and watch.
Right on time, Mr. Rashid pulled out of his garage and backed into the street. Equally punctual, Mr. Robinson strode from his front door to the Rashid sedan. He opened the rear door . . .
. . . now the good part . . .
. . . and placed his briefcase in the rear . . .
. . . here we go . . .
. . . then slammed the door and slipped into the passenger seat. Mr. Rashid gunned the car and off they went.
Theodore found himself on his feet, staring through the window. How could Robinson have missed the panties and the pictures? Impossible. Unless . . .
Unless they weren’t there.
He focused on the yard next to the Rashids where he’d pulled all the geraniums last night . . . where the lawn should have been littered with dead or dying plants.
But wasn’t. At least it didn’t appear so from here.
He threw on some clothes and hurried outside, slowing as he reached the sidewalk. Had to be calm. Had to appear to be going for a morning stroll, a constitutional, as they used to say back in the day.
But his inner pace was anything but leisurely as he passed the Fabrini yard and saw that each and every geranium he’d torn out last night had been replanted. He might have convinced himself that he’d dreamed what he’d done but for the orange petals and scattered clumps of potting dirt here and there on the lawn.
He heard a garage door rolling and saw Mr. Fabrini smiling and waving as he backed out of his driveway.
“Good morning!” he called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it.”
Theodore nodded. “Yes. Beautiful.”
Another wave, another smile – “Have a good one!” – and Mr. Fabrini was on his way, acting nothing at all like a man who’d been forced to spend his first waking hours repairing mindless vandalism. Theodore had been all set to tell him that he’d glanced out his window last night and thought he’d seen the McCuin boy in the front yard, but no point now.
Someone was on to him.
Hard to see how that was possible. He knew no one in town, especially on this block, and no one knew him.
Or was he wrong about that?
He supposed it was possible. In fact, statistically it might even be inevitable that after all these years he would run into someone from a previous distribution point.
But he was always so careful, so circumspect. How could someone connect him with the unfortunate incidents that occurred during his brief stays?
He couldn’t avoid the possibility that someone had. Judging from the missing porn magazines, the replanted geraniums, and what he had to assume were the missing panties and photos, the possibility looked more like a certainty.
Someone was undoing his work. And that meant someone was following him around, watching his every move.
But who?
He was sure he would have noticed.
It had to be someone with good tracking skills – and other skills as well. Theodore had locked the Rashids’ garage door behind him. To remove the panties and photos, the one shadowing him would have to be adept at lock picking.
Who, damn it?
He took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. He prided himself on never becoming upset, never emotionally involved. This was a job, and he a professional.
And a professional could always out think an amateur.
He spent the rest of the day planning and making a few purchases. Midafternoon he placed one call using his untraceable ATT Go Phone.
“Mrs. Woolbright?” he said when she answered, dropping his voice an octave. “Sorry to bother you. This is Harold Mapleton with the Suffolk County parole board.”
“Parole board? I have nothing to do with the parole board.”
“Of course you don’t, Mrs. Woolbright. But your neighbor, Cletus Longwell, does. I’m his parole officer.”
“What? He’s on parole? For what?”
“Grand theft. But he won’t be on parole much longer. His three years will be up next month and I’m just calling to see what kind of neighbor he’s been. Any reported thefts around the neighborhood? Anything missing from your premises?”
“No . . . not that I know of.”
“Well, good. But ask around will you? Just in case. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”
Shortly before midnight he took his laptop into his yard and tried again to access the Robinsons’ wi-fi network but couldn’t find the signal.
Frustrated, he took up his position in the extra bedroom and set the Garcia dog to barking until Mr. McCuin screamed from his window.
After that he made a ledger entry but did not go to bed.
Thursday, April 29
Around 1:30 Theodore slipped outside and into the overcast night. He paused in the deeper shadows of the arbor vitae flanking his front door and scanned the neighborhood.
Was someone out there now, watching, waiting to undo his work?
Thursday was garbage pickup day in Pine View Estates. Everyone on the block except Theodore had their cans waiting at curbside. Fannen Street lay empty before him. Still, he had a feeling of being watched. Real? Or paranoia?
He had to assume someone was watching, but could not let that disrupt his schedule. He’d made adjustments to prevent that.
He crossed the street to the Fabrini house and emptied a can of Speed Weed, a fast-acting herbicide, on the geraniums. Nobody was going to save them now. Then he walked to the other end of the block, took the lid off the McCuin garbage can, and left the Speed Weed container on top in plain sight.
Before leaving, he dropped the lid on the grass, pulled a baggy from his pocket, and emptied a dog turd onto it.
Next he stopped back at his place and picked up a ten-quart plastic container and a wrench. Mrs. Robinson always left her car parked in the driveway. Theodore wriggled beneath it and felt around for the drain plug on the crankcase. When he found it he loosened it and let the oil empty into the container. When it was completely drained, he took the container and the plug and carried them across the street, making sure to spill a little oil every six-to-eight feet or so along the way to the Fabrinis’ driveway. He left everything in their backyard.
He wondered how far Mrs. Robinson would get before her engine seized up and self-destructed.
Though tired when he returned to his house, sleep was not in tonight’s equation. He set himself up in his front window – where he had a pair of Rigel 3250 compact night vision goggles and a carafe of hot coffee waiting – and settled in to watch. He had no view of the McCuin house; he could see the Fabrinis’ front yard but not their back where he’d left the oil and drain plug.
But he could see the Robinson car, right next door, not a hundred feet away. If anyone tried to undo Theodore’s work there, he’d spot them and identify them with the help of his binocs. Then he’d start some countermeasures of his own.
* * * * *
Theodore yawned in the dark and checked his watch. Four A.M. Did his quarry suspect that the car was under surveillance? If so –
He felt a cool breeze around his ankles. Where was that coming from?
His chest tightened. He kept all the windows closed. Had someone opened one?
He rose and walked to the stairs. No flow from the second floor. He moved through the dark dining room to the even darker kitchen –
And froze when he saw the back door standing open. He’d locked that, he was sure of it.
His heart pounded as he pushed it closed and scanned the backyard. It hadn’t opened itself. What had the intruder wanted? Had he taken anything? What if he was still out there?
Theodore’s heart rate doubled as a terrifying possibility struck: What if he was still in the house?
He flipped on the kitchen lights. Nothing out of place, nothing obvious missing.
He turned on all the lights on the first floor. No sign of anyone. But what about the second floor? Had he sneaked past while he’d been on sentry duty?
Was he after the ledger? It catalogued all his work. If it fell into the wrong hands –
He dashed upstairs, flipping every light switch within reach as he moved. He fairly leaped into his bedroom, turned on the lights, then dropped to his knees and jammed his hand between the mattress and box spring.
There. The ledger. He pulled it out. Safe.
But why–?
Diversion!
He ran back to the living room and peered at the Robinson car. It stood alone, just as he’d left it.
Relieved but still unsettled, he turned out all the lights and resumed his watch until dawn.
* * * * *
As the neighborhood came alive, Theodore wheeled his garbage can to the curb. There he made a show of stretching and yawning as he glanced down the block toward the McCuin place. He was pleased to see the lid still off their container. He couldn’t see the herbicide can but didn’t expect to at this distance.
Across the street he saw Mr. Fabrini scratching his head as he looked at one of his gardens. Theodore wandered over.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it,” he said in a most neighborly way.
Mr. Farbini turned but didn’t smile. “What? Oh, hi, Mister Gordon.”
“Theodore, please.”
“Right. Yeah, beautiful for us maybe.” He pointed to the bed of wilted, shriveling geraniums. “But not for these things. Yesterday they were perfect. Today . . .”
Theodore knelt and touched a browning leaf. He rubbed it between his fingers, then sniffed.
“Hmm.”
“What?”
Theodore tore off the leaf and handed it to Fabrini.
“Smell.”
Mr. Fabrini did and made a face. “It smells . . . chemical.”
“Right. Like Round Up or some other weed killer.”
Mr. Fabrini looked dumbfounded. “Weed killer? But who . . .?” He voice trailed off.
Theodore leaned closer. “I saw someone in your yard last night. At the time I thought it was you. Now I’m not so sure.”
“It wasn’t me, I can tell you that. Did you see his face?”
“No, but he looked young . . . like a teenager.” He let his gaze drift toward the McCuin house.
Mr. Fabrini followed and said, “You don’t think it was Colin, do you?”
Theodore backed away a step, as if the conversation had just entered taboo territory. “I’m not pointing any fingers. Like I said, I didn’t see a face.” He clapped Mr. Fabrini on the upper arm. “Don’t take it personally. Some kids have a lot of anger to work out of their systems.” With that he turned and waved. “Have a nice day.”
Mr. Fabrini’s drive to work would take him past the McCuin house. He’d be looking at it. He’d see the Speed Weed can – if it was still there. If someone had interfered and removed it, no matter. A seed had been planted.
As he crossed the street he glanced at the blacktop, searching for the trail of oil he’d left. Where–?
He stopped and stared at a discolored spot on the pavement. It might have been an oil splotch at one time, but now it was . . . something else. It looked like someone had sprayed it with a detergent solution, emulsifying the oil . . . erasing the trail.
When? When had this happened?
He jumped at the sound of a toot. When he looked around he saw Mr. Rashid smiling and waving from his car. Theodore realized he was standing in the middle of the street.
He managed a smile and stepped toward the curb. As he did he glanced at the Robinson car and almost tripped when he saw the puddle of oil spreading out from beneath it. Where had that come from?
Unless . . . while Theodore had been searching the house for an intruder, perhaps his nemesis had tried to replace the drained oil. But that wouldn’t have worked because of the missing drain plug. Whatever he added would have ended on the driveway.
Standing next to the vehicle was a very angry looking Mr. Robinson.
“What the hell?” he was saying. “What the fucking hell?”
“My goodness,” Theodore said, walking over to him. “It looks like you’ve sprung a leak.”
He was looking at the oil. It didn’t look fresh at all. In fact it looked well used, ready for a change.
“Leak, hell. The plug’s missing. Somebody did this.”
Theodore put on a shocked expression. “Someone from around here?”
“Who knows? But why me?” He looked past Theodore and waved to Mr. Rashid. “Be right there, Munaf.”
Theodore made a point of looking up and down the block. “Maybe it was simply opportunity. After all, you are the only one who leaves a car out overnight. Has anyone ever complained about that?”
Robinson made a face. “No. And as for–” He broke off and stepped around to the front of the car, pointing at the driveway. “I’ll be damned. Look at this – footprints.”
Theodore did look, and hid his shock as he saw clear imprints of treaded footprints – sneakers, most likely – leading from the oil slick, across the driveway, and into the grass between Theodore’s house and the Robinsons’.
“They head toward your place.”
He started across the grass. Theodore, hiding his alarm, followed to his front walk where Robinson stopped, pointing. “They go right to your front door.”
He was right. They were fainter here, but no mistaking them.
He wheeled on Theodore. “What the hell’s going on, Gordon?”
Theodore didn’t have to feign shock. “You can’t think I had anything to do with this!”
Robinson pointed to the prints. “What else am I supposed to think?”
“I barely know you. Why would I do this? And I don’t own any shoes with soles like that. And have a little respect for my intelligence. Would I be dumb enough to leave a trail right to my front door?”
“Maybe you’re a dumbass, what do I know? But I do know there’s been some strange shit going on lately.”
“Like . . . like what?”
“Like someone hacking into Herb Woolbright’s computer system and signing him up for a gay website or classified or some such shit. Herb’s about as gay as I am. That convinced me to shut mine down. Yesterday Munaf found his socket wrench set gone, and now my car.” He fixed Theodore with a narrow-eyed glare. “Nothing like this ever happened around here before you moved in.”
Nothing like this had happened to Theodore so early. Later in a job, when a neighborhood was falling apart, suspicion naturally drifted to the newcomer, but by then he was packing up to leave. This was only day four.
But he held his ground.
“I won’t stand here and be spoken to like this. And I warn you, if you slander me with these lies, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
He turned and stomped to his front door. But once inside, he slumped against the door, mind racing, thoughts whirling.
He went to the window and watched Mr. Fabrini pull out of his driveway and coast down the block. He slowed as he passed the McCuin house – within a few feet of their open garbage can – but he didn’t stop to inspect it, merely drove on.
Theodore ground his teeth. His nemesis had most likely removed the herbicide can. Blocked at every turn. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
An unfamiliar sensation began to burn in his gut: uncertainty.
What to do? Abort?
* * * * *
Theodore spent the rest of the day debating it, finally deciding on no – he’d never aborted a job and wasn’t about to blemish his record now.
He went to his front window and looked out. The commuters were all home by now, eating dinner or having a drink with their spouses. Well, not everyone. Look at this . . .
Across the street, at the far end of the block, he saw Mr. Rashid and Mr. Longwell in what looked like animated conversation – perhaps even an argument.
He decided a stroll might be in order.
As he neared, he saw Mr. Longwell’s usually placid black face contorted in anger.
“So, you’re missing something from your garage, and what’s the first thing you do? You think of the neighborhood nigger? Is that it?”
Mr. Rashid looked offended. “I have never used the N-word in my life!”
The N-word . . . really, the world had become pathetic.
“You came to me looking for stolen property. Why me? Why not your buddy, Robinson?”
“Because he isn’t on parole for robbery!”
Mr. Rashid looked instantly regretful for saying that, while Mr. Longwell gaped in shock.
“What? What did you say? Me? On parole? Where’d you hear that bullshit?”
“Your parole office called Jean Woolbright yesterday and–”
“My parole officer?” He stared at the Woolbright house. “I know she never liked us living next door, but I never thought she’d stoop to this. Is she insane?” He glanced at Theodore. “What are you looking at?”
Theodore had hoped his bold stare would trigger just that remark.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“Well, I am a member of this community now. Perhaps, as a disinterested third party, I might help mediate this disagreement.” Before either could object he turned to Mr. Rashid. “You are apparently missing something, and you think Mister Longwell might have it.” He turned to Mr. Longwell. “Since I’m sure you don’t, why not let Mister Rashid check your grounds and, say, your garage and–?”
“Nobody’s snooping through my property without a search warrant, so you both can go to hell!”
So saying, he turned and stomped back into his house.
“My, my,” Theodore said. “You’d think if he had nothing to hide he’d want to clear this up.”
Mr. Rashid nodded. “Yes. You’d think he would.”
He shook his head and walked away toward his home.
Thinking that this job could yet be salvaged, Theodore continued his walk. Even if his nemesis had removed the wrench set from the Longwell yard, Mr. Longwell’s refusal to let Mr. Rashid look would be perceived as a sign of guilt.
He began to whistle.
* * * * *
Around 11:30 he began his nightly task or inciting Daisy. Finally, just shy of midnight, he heard Mr. McCuin shout, “I’m gonna kill that dog if you don’t shut it up!”
Just what Theodore had been waiting for.
He waited until Daisy calmed down, then whacked her dog house with another ice cube. As she renewed her frenzied barking, Theodore shut the window and went down to the kitchen refrigerator.
He pulled out the nice piece of sirloin he’d been saving. He removed a box of mole poison from under the sink. The label said each tablet contained 1.0 mg. of strychnine. He estimated Daisy’s weight at thirty pounds. A dozen tablets would be plenty.
Just to be sure, he cut fifteen angled slits into the meat and pressed a pellet into each.
Thursday, April 29
At exactly 3 A.M. he tossed the meat over the fence so that it landed near Daisy’s house. She came out with a howl but stopped when she caught the scent of the meat. She was on it in an instant, wolfing it down in a single gulp.
Good dog.
Next he pulled out another can of Speed Weed and used it to write on Mr. Longwell’s lawn. He’d thought of using gasoline to burn the word into the grass, but decided this would be more discrete.
Under normal circumstances he would hide the box of poison in the McCuin garage and the empty herbicide can in the Rashids’ bushes, but his nemesis would undoubtedly remove them.
He returned home and stood on his front steps where he surveyed dark and slumbering Fannen Street. He sent out a challenge:
Let’s see you undo these.
* * * * *
He was up early the next morning, waiting. At 7:10 he heard Mr. Garcia’s distraught wail.
“Daisy? Oh, my God, Daisy!”
Theodore immediately stepped out onto his rear deck and called over the fence.
“Mister Garcia? Is anything wrong?”
“It’s Daisy! She’s not breathing!”
“Oh, dear. Quick! Bring her around front and I’ll get my car and take you to the vet.”
Never pass up an opportunity to be a good neighbor.
* * * * *
Theodore comforted the sobbing Mr. Garcia on the way home. Daisy’s corpse lay draped across his legs.
“Was the vet sure she was poisoned? Who would do such an awful thing?”
Mr. Garcia’s tear-stained face contorted into a mask of rage. “I have a pretty goddamn good idea.”
Theodore glanced at Daisy. He’d had nothing against the dog. He had nothing against anyone. Collateral damage.
“Oh, dear,” he said as he turned onto Fannen Street and saw the police car. “What’s happened here?”
He slowed and watched Mr. Longwell pointing to the browned letters spelling NIGGER on his lawn, then down the street toward the Rashid house.
A hate crime was such a terrible thing.
* * * * *
He’d intended to spend the rest of the day making notes in his ledger and quietly planning his next moves – a productive way to while away the time before Mr. McCuin and Mr. Rashid came home to the inevitable confrontations with, respectively, Mr. Garcia and Mr. Longwell.
A knock on the door interrupted him. He found Phil the postman glaring at him. He thrust something into Theodore’s hands.
“What do you think you’re doing, Gordon?”
Theodore looked down and started when he saw the two gay porn magazines he’d left in Mr. Woolbright’s shed. They’d been wrapped in clear plastic and addressed to someone he’d never heard of. The return address was his.
“I don’t care what you’re into, but you oughta know you can’t mail something like that so it’s out there for everyone to see.”
He turned and strode back to his truck before Theodore could answer. He stared at the magazines. They must have been in his mailbox. He closed the door and dropped them on the dining room table. He stood there thinking.
What was happening now? Had the contest moved to another level, with his nemesis switching from defense to offense?
He went to the window where he saw Phil, the postman, across the street talking to Mrs. Woolbright. Theodore saw him pointing his way.
Perhaps it was indeed time to abort. He’d make that decision tonight after seeing how things went with the McCuin-Garcia and Longwell-Rashid bouts.
* * * * *
Shortly after six, Theodore positioned a chair at his front window, hoping for some fireworks. He was about to seat himself when he heard a sound. He whirled and saw a man standing behind him, but had only a glimpse before a fist smashed into his gut. He doubled over and turned away. Two more blows followed, one to each kidney, driving him to his knees and then onto his side, writhing in agony.
“That was for the dog,” said a voice.
When Theodore’s pain-blurred vision cleared, he saw a man sitting in a chair, looking down at him. He was average height, average build, average features, with brown hair and eyes. Theodore thought he was the most nondescript man he had ever seen.
A silenced, small-caliber pistol rested on his thigh, pointed in Theodore’s direction.
“I’m really pissed about the dog,” he said in a flat tone. “That was the last straw. I’m seriously thinking of kneecapping you for that.”
Kneecapping? A vision of that almost made him forget the agony in his kidneys.
“No, wait. Who are you? Do I know you? Why are you doing this?”
“You don’t know me, and I’m here because someone’s paying me to be.”
“Paying? Who–?”
“Remember Nelson Pershall, former resident of Veni Woods, New Jersey?”
Mr. Pershall . . . was that what this was about?
“I’ve never heard of Veni Woods. I don’t even like New Jersey.”
“You did a good job of pretending to when you were living there and calling yourself Clay Evanson.”
How did he know all this?
“Ridiculous!”
Slowly, painfully, he started to push himself off the floor but the intruder kicked him back down.
“I prefer you on your belly. Anyway, Nelson Pershall hung himself after being caught in a kiddie-porn sting. His computer was loaded with graphic photos.”
“If you’re looking for sympathy for a pedophile, you’re in the wrong house.”
“His daughter swears he wasn’t. He lived alone and ran a website that published poetry by codgers like himself.”
“What does a daughter know about a parent’s hidden life?
“That’s what I thought at first. But she said he was something of a techie and had set up a wi-fi network in his house. Someone could have been using his computer without him knowing it. Sound familiar?”
Theodore said nothing. That was exactly what had happened. He’d even triggered the police sting through Mr. Pershall’s computer. But he certainly wasn’t admitting it to this thug.
“She said she suspected a man named Clay Evanson. Told me her father’s neighborhood had been friendly and peaceful until shortly after this clown arrived. Before he moved on, two people were dead – her father and a woman killed by her husband for cheating – a house had burned to the ground, one man had been arrested for assaulting his next-door neighbor, and another arrested for a hate crime. Are we seeing a pattern here?”
Theodore’s felt ice sludging through his gut.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what this has to do with me. I’ve never heard of this Clay Evanson. And this woman is obviously paranoid.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought, but she wanted me to fix it and she had the fee. Since I had the time, I took the job. Funny thing was, the day I started, you moved out. So I followed you here. And all of a sudden you’re Theodore Gordon. I decided to stick around.” He shook his head. “Whoever you really are, you’re one sick bastard.”
“You’re mistaken, I tell you. I–”
“Shut up.” He cocked his head. “Listen. Sounds like your neighbors. Let’s take a look.”
He grabbed Theodore by the back of his neck and hauled him into the chair he’d set up by the window. He was stronger than he looked. Theodore felt the muzzle of the pistol press against the base of his neck.
“Ever wonder what it’s like being a quadriplegic? Do anything stupid and you’ll find out.”
Through the picture window he saw Mr. Robinson between Mr. Rashid and Mr. Longwell. The side window was open so he could hear their angry words. Normally it would be music to his ears. Mr. Fabrini and Mr. Woolbright came out of their houses to try to calm things down. Mr. McCuin joined them.
Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Mr. Garcia was racing across the street. He took Mr. McCuin down with a flying tackle. It took three men to pull him off.
“Hold it, guys,” Mr. Robinson shouted. “Hold it for just one goddamn minute!” When the men calmed, he said, “Look at us. We were never like this. What’s going on here?”
“I can tell you what’s going on,” Mr. Longwell said, pointing a finger at Mr. Rashid. “He calls me a thief and writes ‘nigger’ on my lawn!”
Mr. Robinson said, “Hold it! Hold it! Do you know what kind of abuse Munaf gets? He gets called a ‘towel head’ or a ‘terrorist’ or – you’ll like this one, Cletus – a ‘sand nigger.’ You really think he’s gonna write ‘nigger’ on you lawn? And by the way, I heard the story about Cletus’s parole and asked a friend in the DA’s office to do a little checking. The call was a lie.”
“Who’d do something like that?”
“Look around,” Mr. Robinson said. “Who’s not here?”
Theodore held his breath as all heads swiveled his way.
“All this started after Gordon moved in. And I’m pretty damn sure he drained my crankcase.”
“And that homo classified I got signed up for,” Mr. Woolbright said. “Phil told Jean he had gay porn in his mailbox today.”
“But why?” Mr. Garcia said.
“Why don’t we go ask him?”
The muzzle pressed harder against his spine.
“That’s what I want to know. Why? That ledger of yours – looks like you’re writing reports. Who are they going to?”
He had the ledger! How–?
How didn’t matter. Everything was falling apart. And he was asking the question Theodore never would answer. Never.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The muzzle pressed deeper into his flesh, then was removed.
“If we had time, you’d tell. But things are moving faster than I’d planned. Robinson is sharp, and you’re about to have some very angry people on your doorstep.”
“I’ll talk to them, reason with them.”
“No amount of talk will calm them after they see what’s in your garage.”
“My garage?”
“Yeah. I raised the door halfway. Front and center is Rashid’s wrench set. But there’s also an empty can of Speed Weed, some strychnine-containing rat poison, and Robinson’s drain plug along with pink panties and photos of his daughter.”
Theodore felt as if his bones were dissolving.
“What do you think Robinson is going do when he sees all that?” the intruder continued. “Oh, and I called the vet. I said I was from poison control and he told me it looked like the Garcia dog died from strychnine. So I called Garcia – again as poison control – and told him to make sure he didn’t have any strychnine-containing pest control around. How do you think he’ll react when he sees that box of rat poison?”
Theodore closed his eyes and trembled.
“You’re busted, pal. I’d love to have more time with you, but I don’t want to be here when company comes calling. Have a nice day.”
Rising on wobbly legs, Theodore turned and faced him. He found his voice. “You’d make a good distributor.”
“Is that your game?”
Game? It wasn’t a game. It was serious business.
“Who would I be working for?”
Theodore shook his head.
A gloved hand shot out and smashed against his jaw, rocking his head back and sending him to the floor.
“Just in case you thought I’d forgotten about the dog.”
Theodore lay there, groaning. After a moment he heard the back door open and close. And then he heard the voices in his front yard.
“What if he’s not home?”
“He’s always home – haven’t you noticed?”
“Maybe he – hey! That’s my wrench set! What’s it doing–?”
The voices moved toward the garage.
“Speed Weed! That kills grass doesn’t?”
“And geraniums too.”
“What’s this? Pictures of Chelsea and – oh shit!”
“Rat poison! The motherfucker!”
An angry babble rose as someone began pounding on the door.
Theodore struggled to his feet and stumbled upstairs.
Exposed . . . bad enough, but losing the ledger was the final humiliation
He was finished. Nothing to do now but bow out and avoid further embarrassment.
He jumped at the sound of smashing glass. Something had crashed through the front window.
His shaking fingers removed the cyanide capsule from its container. He put it between his teeth and bit hard.
Time to move.