Beyond Repair (5 page)
I get up and put our mugs in the sink.
Leah bounces into the room. “Who are you calling, Mom?”
“Come on, kid,” I tell her. “I'm going to hose down my bike. Wanna do yours?”
She sends a sideways look at Mom, who is listening to the phone with her eyes closed. “What's Mom doing?” asks Leah.
Without answering, I grab my sister's arm and haul her out of the room.
Mom comes outside as I'm emptying the bucket of grubby water into the drain at the end of the driveway. She's wearing her work scrubs now.
“Don't go too far,” Mom calls to Leah. She's riding her bike along the sidewalk as fast as she can to dry it off. “You shouldn't let her go off on her own,” Mom tells me.
Until six months ago, my bratty sister had the run of the neighborhood. We've lived here so long, it's hard to make a move without everyone knowing about it. But lately even I get nervous when Leah is out of sight, especially if roads and traffic are involved.
“I'm watching her,” I say. “So what did Gail's husband say?”
“Lucas said that three sightings is not much to go on. The cops wouldn't do much with it. Me and all my talk about restraining orders.” She wraps her arms around herself.
“I think I should talk to the guy,” I tell her. “Find out what he wants.”
“He told me. I told you. He wants to make up for what he did,” Mom tells me. “Offer some support. Some
practical assistance
. His words exactly. Although what he meant⦔ She shakes her head, like there's stuff in there she'd like to pry loose.
“I just wish he'd bug off,” I say. This isn't quite the truth. Part of me wonders what the guy means by practical assistance. We never got much of that from Dad.
“Leah. That's enough now,” Mom calls as my sister heads back down the sidewalk. “I wish he'd bug off too,” says Mom. “But I'm at a loss as how to make it happen.”
“Maybe I should track him down. See if I can get him off our case.”
“It's not up to you, Cameron.” She puts one hand on my arm. “I'm the parent here. It's my job to keep you and your sister safe.”
I shake off her hand and step out of reach. I kick the empty bucket so it rolls away on its side. “So why don't you then?” I'm surprised at the rush of anger that swamps me. “I take care of Leah!” I yell. “I do the groceries. Mow the lawn. The days you are home, you spend sleeping. The rest of the time you're at work. Now suddenly you're going to take care of things?”
“Cam. Don't.” She steps toward me.
I step back. “Everyone tells me I'm the man of the family. So I'll take care of this.” I am shaking almost as much as Mom had been earlier. Now she's turned to watch Leah. And Leah's watching us. She sits astride her bike, one foot on the sidewalk, the other on a pedal.
“I'll tell him that we don't need him,” I say to my mother's back. “What did Dad ever do but bury his head in his books anyway? If we didn't need Dad's help when he was alive, we hardly need this guy's help now.”
“Why are you yelling?” Leah watches Mom stomp back into the house. “Why is Mom crying?” She lets her bike drop to the ground. “Everything is horrible!” she shrieks. “All you do is drag me around and bully me and yell at Mom and make us all cry.” She pushes past me. “I hate it. I hate Dad. Everything's awful, and I hate you all.”
I watch her run into the house calling, “Mom! Mommy, where are you?”
I aim a kick at Leah's bike and watch it scrape sideways across the driveway.
I've still got the car keys in my pocket. I'd like nothing more than to take off and drive until the tank of gas is empty.
I look back at the house. Then, without moving Leah's bike onto the lawn, which would be the responsible thing to do, I open the driver's-side door of the Honda and get in.
As I take off, I check my watch. Mom has to go to work in twenty minutes.
Fine, I think as I pull out onto the road. She can take the bus.
“Where are you off to?” Mom asks DJ and me after breakfast. He came over last night after she left for work. We stayed up all night trying to figure out what to do.
Even though I only drove around the block a couple of times and got the car back in time for Mom to get to work, she's still mad. I don't dare ask for the car today.
“Errands for my father,” says DJ. He disappears into the hall before Mom can ask any more questions.
“Can I come? Where are you going?” asks Leah.
I follow DJ out without answering. All the way down the path, we can still hear her screeching in the house.
As we head toward the bus stop, he asks, “So, you got the address?”
I shove back my sleeve. It's written on my arm. I didn't want to write it on a piece of paper that blabbermouth Leah could find. “Errands for your father?” I say. “That's pretty lame.”
He ducks his head. “Actually, I did say I'd pick up some WD-whattzit for him.”
I don't say anything. I don't know the last time DJ offered to do anything for his old man.
“Come on!” We dash to the bus stop and manage to climb aboard before the driver closes the doors.
I collapse in a seat behind a mother whose snotty baby is climbing all over her. DJ drops down beside me. “You figured out the route?”
“Two buses,” I tell him. “I MapQuested it. Thought about what we're going to do when we get there, Sherlock?”
“Hey, this is your gig, man. But I say we check things out. Get ourselves noticed.”
Two girls our age get on the bus. They are wearing almost identical clothes, tight jeans and skinny tops. They're both talking loudly on cell phones. I wouldn't be surprised if they were yakking to each other.
DJ leers at them.
The girls ignore him as they sidle past the woman's baby buggy. “So, like, I said if she was going to keep it up, she could think again,” says the one in the pink shirt.
“I told you I'd be home by sixâ¦I'll be home by six,” says the other, obviously to her mother. Or father.
I open my cell. No messages. I'm just about to pocket it again, when it rings. Home phone. I debate whether to answer it. Then hit Talk. Mom's mad enough at me already. “Yeah?”
“I know where you're going,” says Leah. “I'm going to tell Mom.”
I've told her not to call me on my cell. “Where am I going, smarty pants?” I make a face at DJ.
He mouths, “The brat?”
I nod. “We're going to Home Depot for DJ's dad,” I tell Leah.
“You're going to meet that man. I heard you and DJ talking. I'll tell Mom.”
“I told you. We're going to the mall. Want me to bring you something?” I ask. “A treat?”
DJ rolls his eyes at me and turns in his seat to ogle the girls, who are now too busy texting to notice him.
“I want that new Miley Cyrus cd,” says Leah.
“I mean candy, idiot. Something like that. Look. I gotta go.”
“I'll tell.”
“I'll bring pizza. How about we have pizza for supper?” I ask.
She knows when she's being bribed. “You're not going to Home Depot, are you?”
“See you later.” I hang up.
“She onto you?” DJ asks.
“Probably.” I shrug. I hope Leah keeps her mouth shut, pizza or no pizza. I can imagine what Mom will say if she finds out we're stalking the guy who's stalking us.
But this isn't stalking. It's a stakeout.
Even if I have no idea what to do when we got there.
Bryan Klausen lives in an ordinary house. A blue Ford pickup is parked outside. A green hose is curved under one tire. The driveway is shiny wet. A bucket sits in the middle of a flower bed full of orange flowers. Maybe he's been washing bikes with his kids.
“So, the plan?” asks DJ.
I am looking at the basketball hoop attached to the garage wall. There's one just like it outside our house. It was there when we moved in. I've played there with my friends, but my dad would no more shoot hoops than he'd take ballet classes.
I imagine Bryan Klausen playing basketball with his kids. Maybe right now they are inside playing a board game together.
I bet Bryan Klausen doesn't spend hours in his dusty study, poring over economic reports. I bet he doesn't look up, dazed and frowning, when someone calls him to supper, asks for a ride or for help hooking up a new stereo.
I'm about to tell DJ that we should split when the front door opens.
I grab his arm and spin him around so we're facing back up the road.
“Hey! What's up?” he says.
“He might see us.”
“I thought that was the point.” He pulls out of my grip and turns back. “Looks like he's going jogging.”
All I see is a guy in shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt moving at quite a clip.
“Come on. But not too close,” says DJ. He takes off after the guy, who may or may not be Bryan Klausen. “Catch me if you can,” he taunts me.
It doesn't take me long.
The jogger ahead has a nice smooth stride. But we've not gone half a block before DJ is panting. He runs like a windmill, his legs and arms flailing around. I'm not much better, but I know to keep my arms close to my sides.
The guy we're followingâmy dad's killerâjogs in place while he waits for a truck to pass at the intersection. Then he crosses without missing a beat.
“Guy's. Wearing. An iPod,” pants DJ. His elbow jabs me as I move closer to hear.
“So?” I ask.
“He. Won't. Know. We're. Behind him. Can't hear.” When he stops and leans back with his fists on his hips, I see sweat on DJ's brow. “I can't keep up,” he says between breaths. “In fact, I may be having a heart attack.”
“You're out of shape.” I don't tell him that the stitch in my side feels like someone's shoved a knife in there. I pretend I'm not as out of breath as he is.
I scan the street. The guy's disappeared. “Crap.”
“What?” When DJ looks up, his face is red.
“We lost him,” I say.
“Good. I don't think I could keep that up much longer. Let's grab something to eat and wait to see if he comes back this way.”
We've stopped in front of a Subway. Inside, DJ orders a meatball footlong. I grab a cookie and a pop. We sit at the counter against the window, looking outside.
“Did you see
Casino Royale
?” A piece of onion sticks out of DJ's mouth as he munches. The sub's down to six inches already.
“What's wrong with you?” I ask. “We saw it together.”
“Was that a stuntman, do you think?” he asks. “The opening sequence? Or Daniel Whatzzit himself?”
“I read about it somewhere. All that running, jumping. It's got a name. A French word. Some French guy invented it. Almost like a martial art.”
“Think there's someplace to learn it?” asks DJ. He laughs. “We might need it, if we keep checking out your guy.” He crams the last of his sandwich into his mouth and crumples up the paper.
“He's just jogging, for crying out loud.”
“He got away from you though. Didn't he?”
I could give him a smart-ass answer to that. But what's the point?
“What say we head back to his house and hang out across the street?” DJ asks. “He'll come back.”
“Then what?”
“How 'bout this?” he asks. He spins his stool as he stands up. “How about a sign of some kind. We'll write on his driveway. Or leave a note stuck under his windshield. Something likeâ¦What could we say?”
“
We know who you are
?” I suggest.
“How about,
You are being watched
? That should spook him.”
We're outside when the joggerâ Bryan Klausenâsprints by. I know it's him.
He's holding a newspaper under one arm and a plastic Safeway bag in his other hand. They don't seem to slow him down.
DJ pulls me back against the storefront. Once the guy's a little way ahead, DJ starts running.
I follow. But there's no rush. We know where he's going.
It's hard to be inconspicuous staking out the stalker's house. We're sitting on the ground, leaning against a short wall across the street. A couple of leaves drift down from the tree overhead.
The blue pickup truck is still in the driveway. The bucket is still in the flower bed. No one has picked up the hose.
I try to get comfortable on the hard ground and imagine what might be going on inside Bryan Klausen's house. Beside me, DJ throws his hacky sack in the air over and over.