Forgive Me, Alex (14 page)

They'd been in the house
forever
, most of it with the lights off. I assumed her parents were out since there weren't no other cars in the driveway. There could be little doubt about what they were doing in there.

Shit!
My head damn near burst into flames. I
hated
that fuckin' Hooper! Maybe I should kill him and get him outta the way; then I could move in on my angel without worrying about him.

Easy, Mitchell, remember the plan,
the Reaper said.
All good things....

"Right, stick to the plan. Still, it would be a fuckload of fun to do some serious work on my nemesis. Maybe later."

I'd parked on the side of the street, uncommon around here, and looked around the neighborhood. No telling what people would find curious or unnerving while looking out their windows at night. Another quick glance showed nothing worrisome, nothing obvious.

"What would I say if a cop suddenly pulled up? Let me see...."

I jumped when Tony's car engine fired up and the lights came on.

Damn it, Mitchell, pay attention!

He backed out of the driveway and pulled to the corner, where, under the streetlight, his lone silhouette filled the car.

"Is that it? Is the night over?"

The house remained dark except for the light over the entrance, and Diana's parents hadn't come home yet.

"Where could
they
be? What time will they arrive? Does Diana have brothers or sisters in the house?"

I didn't think so, or she and Tony wouldn't have been.... What else
could
they have been doing in the dark all that time?

"Does that mean she's alone?"

If she
did
have brothers or sisters, they must have been asleep.

"Is she sleeping too? What should I do? How much time do I have? What happens if her parents arrive while I'm inside the house? Should I take a weapon? Just in case?"

Act Mitchell! Or don't act! Make up your fucking mind and do it now! You don't have time to fuck around here!

My mom's cheap, weak coffee tastes like shit, worse than even the crap we had at the nuthouse. Since I have a few bucks burning a hole in my pocket, I'm gonna check out some new place called Starbucks. I snag Stephen King's
The Dark Half
off my mom's bookshelf to pass the time at the coffee shop.

I have some significant thinking to do. I need to find a job of some sort, but I doubt many people will be willing to give a reformed multi-murderer a chance. Fuckwads.

I educated myself while a ward of the state. They offered a remarkable library, damned curious given the nature of the facility and the idiots who resided there. They even provided computer classes on site.

I'm ready for the modern office. But are
they
ready for
me
?

I don't need to make much money. It's not like I got any bills, and Mom says I may live at home for as long as I wish. At sixty-three, she appreciates having me here to help around the house.

Tommy helps, but he has limits. He's amazed that I've read over a thousand books, fiction and non-fiction, a fair number of them twice. He thinks I'm the smartest man ever. Good old Tommy.

I'd like to do something from home, as Tommy does, like landscaping. I wouldn't have to answer to some annoying shithead boss, but I'd have to deal with clients. I can imagine the reaction of prospective clients when they find out who I am. What a fuckin' joke
that
is.

Whatever. I'll worry about it later.

Mom carpools to work with Mrs. Reinhart from down the street, so until I get a new van she's allowed me to use her car, ostensibly for job interviews. I should probably get my driver's license first. To hell with it. Coffee and a book isn't what Mom had in mind, but I need the diversion.

I've concentrated my first two days of freedom on catching up with Mom and Tommy. Prior to that, I had three intense days of final interviews at the hospital, and this five-day stretch without reading is the longest I've endured in fifteen years. I feel something akin to withdrawal. What a kick in the head that would be for people who knew me when I was a kid.

I always had the brains; I just never gave a shit. Why should I have, given how people treated me? They always made me feel like....

Ah, fuck it!

The short drive past Lake-in-the-Hills to Randall Road, only a couple miles, takes longer than expected. With some new stores and housing developments to accommodate the population explosion, and the traffic lights necessitated by that growth, traffic has quadrupled since 1978.

Starbucks is a small place, not exactly what I expected. It contains one sofa and two easy chairs, and a series of small wooden tables with wooden, unpadded chairs that look like real ass-busters. I toss my book onto an available easy chair to reserve it before walking to the counter.

"I'll have your strongest coffee please."

The pimply-faced clerk says, "Tall, grande or venti?"

"Excuse me?"

"What size?"

"Oh, I'll have a large."

"One venti coffee."

"A what?"

"Venti is the largest size."

"Uh-huh. All right then, I'll have a venti coffee."

"And you want the Sumatra?"

"The what?"

"That's our extra bold variety."

"Super. A venti Sinatra."

"Sumatra."

"Whatever."

What, coffee ain't coffee? And what's with the price? Two bucks a cup? Sure, it's a big-ass cup—uh,
venti
—but the last cup of coffee I bought cost a quarter. With unlimited refills. Bob Dylan had it right: the times are definitely a-changin'.

Old jazz standards play in the background, and combine with the comfortable easy chair to provide a pleasant atmosphere. I flinch after my first sip of coffee, strong enough to curve my spine and grow hair on the bottom of my feet, as George Carlin joked back in the '70's. Sure beats the hell out of the swill they served at the nuthou—um, I mean,
Psychiatric Care Facility.

What a fuckin' joke.

I open
The Dark Half
with every intention of reading, but people coming into the place keep distracting me. Many of them are young, of college age or less. The girls dress provocatively with jeans or shorts that drop low below their waist, often exposing their underwear—and more. Their tops drop only slightly below their tits, exposing more of their midsection than I remember as customary. This assumes they've redefined the midsection to run right to the crack of their ass. The boys wear jeans about three sizes too big, which drop halfway down their asses, exposing their underwear for the entire world to admire. Boxers appear to be all the rage. Terrific.

A well-dressed, attractive,
adult
woman walks into the store, and it's all I can do to take my eyes off her. It's been so long since I've been with a woman. Would I remember what to do? Shit, a man never forgets
that
. I hope.

She glances around the shop while she waits in line. I turn away; don't wanna get caught staring.

I look back and, although I can't quite place her, there's
something
familiar about her.

She takes her coffee and heads in my direction, to the chair opposite me. She leans over to set her cup down on the small table, and I get a quick glance down her blouse. Nice cleavage. She glances over and flashes an automatic smile, then grabs her coffee.

Almost immediately, her eyes return to me, wider and brighter. Her smile has disappeared.

Shit! She recognizes me.

I look down at my book and attempt to ignore her. I've been worried about precisely this sort of occurrence. People don't understand the realities of my situation. They know only that I murdered some kids. They're repulsed and frightened, unwilling to consider the mitigating circumstances, or giving me a second chance.

Well, fuck 'em!

I look up from the book to catch her still staring. Her face suggests disgust and anger, and something else. Could it be amusement? How do I know this woman? I study her face and eyes—nice eyes—but I can't make the connection. That's hardly unexpected; it will have been at least seventeen years since I last saw her.

"Well, well," she says. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Gee, I never heard that one before.
I offer no response.

"You don't recognize me, do you?"

"You look vaguely familiar. I assume we've met."

"You could say that. I was on the team that hunted you seventeen years ago."

Hunted me?
That makes her a cop, maybe FBI. She must have been one of the smaller players, not someone who stood out, although she is attractive. Still, I don't think she's one of those who testified at my trial.

"Special Agent Linda Monroe," she says, "with the FBI, Behavioral Science. You helped jumpstart my career."

No kidding, and now you're here in Algonquin two days following my release.
"Pleased to be of service. I suppose you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Something like that. You needn't flatter yourself. I didn't come here for
you
."

"Terrific. Then exactly what
are
you doing here?"

She hesitates, sips her coffee and glances toward the door, and her eyes go wide again. She jumps up and hustles toward the man entering. He scans the place as if searching for someone.

"Hey there," she says to him. "Let's go somewhere else, okay?"

"What? Why?"

His expression changes from puzzled to curious to.... He looks around and his eyes settle on mine. After seventeen years, I know that face, those eyes. He's all grown up, but no matter; I'll know them forever.

He looks at Monroe again, then back at me. His eyes narrow as he stalks in my direction.

"Tony, wait." She sighs and stares at the ceiling.

Hooper ignores her, stopping only two feet away from me. "Looky, looky, looky. Who knew that
the devil
likes coffee?"

The devil? Sure, why not?

"What in hell are you doing here?"

He asked
me
, but Monroe answers as he looks back and forth between us. "I'm here to meet you, remember? Tony, I came in, got a cup of coffee and sat down. Imagine my surprise when I look up and see Mitchell Norton seated across from me. I know how this looks, but I swear it
is
a coincidence. I promise you."

"
You
say it's a coincidence, and I'm sure you think it is, but what about
him
?"

He spits
him
in disgust. I remain quiet, and must fight to keep the shit-eatin' grin off my face, though come to think of it—who gives a flyin' fuck?
Why are these two here together?

"He was already here when I arrived," she says. "This
is
a small town."

I don't blame him for the way he feels, given that I wrecked his world. He has every right. Still, I
hate
him. He's my fuckin' nemesis. Why is that?

He exudes such violence that I can't help but goad him on.

I offer a hearty laugh. "Hey, Tony, old-buddy-old-pal, I'm just having a cup of coffee and catching up with my old friend Linda."

Oops.
He lunges forward, grabs me by the shirt and lifts me right out of the chair. I grab his arms to pull his hands off me.
Holy shit, this fucker is strong!

"Listen up, shitbag!" His face burns red and his spittle splatters on my face. "Don't even think about it, you understand me? If you come near Linda or anyone else I know, or anyone at all, for that matter, I will destroy you. I know where you live, Norton. Are you listening? I will destroy your entire damn world! I will tear you to pieces until you
beg
me to kill you! I will heap on you a giant dose of your own sick medicine. Do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear." I squirm in a futile attempt to escape his grip—like iron hooks.

"Tony, let him go! Tony!"

What do you know; it's the FBI to my rescue—a little irony to brighten my day.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. "
Please,
Tony, let him go."

He relaxes slightly, but holds on, still intimating blood and hatred from every pore, no doubt considering whether he should kill me here and now.

I'm not ambivalent about it. I don't wanna die, but there ain't a fuckin' thing I can do about it.

He releases my shirt and pushes me down into the chair, and my elbow hits the coffee and spills it onto the floor.

"Stay away from me, shitbag." He lowers his voice. "Stay away from everyone I know. Keep your nose clean or, so help me God, you'll wish you'd never been born."

He turns and storms toward the door with Monroe chasing after him.

I almost say something, to goad him again and have a little fun. Maybe next time.

Everyone in the place is staring at me. I wonder how many recognize me from the news reports.

I need to do something about that fuckin' Hooper.