I'm Watching You (20 page)

No manners.
Typical.
"You look like you
could use a score."

Saunders found his keys and snatched them up. "Like I said, fuck
off,
bitch
."

Killing this fool was going to be a true pleasure, one destined to be
savored. "I've got some coke if you're interested. It would
go a long way to taking the edge off."

Licking his lips, Saunders glanced around to make sure no one watched.
"I don't know what you're talking about."

The fish had taken the bait. "I can make all the
pain go
away."

"You look like a cop."

"Follow me and I'll show you what I've got."

"I don't need you." To punctuate his statement, he
tried to put his key in the car door lock. His hands trembled so badly that he
couldn't manage the task.

"Suit yourself." To be too eager would spook the prey.
Saunders was a mean son of a bitch but he wasn't stupid.

The Guardian started to walk back toward an alley.

Saunders hesitated and then staggered forward.
"How
much?"

"Fifty."

"Thirty is all I've got."

"Make it forty."

Saunders considered the counteroffer and then nodded.
"Fine."

Gotcha.
"In the van
in the alley over there."

The drunk nodded and followed. In the moonlight the shadows were long
and narrow, shrouding the alley in the darkness. The scent of garbage and urine
clung to humid air.

Saunders's large feet shuffled as he moved away from the street.
He pulled two crumpled twenties out of his pocket.

The Guardian thought about Saunders's wife, Gail. The woman had
been broken and afraid when she'd run from the hospital yesterday.
She'd tried so hard not to cry when she'd fumbled with her keys in
the hospital parking lot.
So brave.
So
much like Debra.
"In the van."

Saunders climbed in, the hunger bright in his eyes.

From a jacket pocket, the Guardian pulled out a baggy filled halfway
with white powder. Saunders tossed his money on the seat and snatched the bag.

As he turned to leave the van, the Guardian pressed a Taser to
Saunders's neck. The tall man's body jerked and convulsed and he
fell back against the seat.

Fear sharpened the haze in Saunders's eyes. "What the
fuck?"

The Guardian jabbed the Taser to the soft flesh of Saunders's neck
again. The man convulsed painfully. His eyes rolled back in his head and his
chest rose and fell as he struggled to suck air into his lungs.

"Retribution is mine,"
the Guardian whispered, uncapping a
syringe and shoving it into Saunders's arm.

Within seconds Saunders's eyes glazed over. The Guardian started
the van and eased into the street. There was no hurry tonight. No nervous fear
either, like the other night with Turner.

Lindsay couldn't fall asleep. Today had
started off as a good day. She had finished her first week in kindergarten and
was excited about the day she'd just spent in school. Her teacher had
shown the class how to make paper butterflies. Lindsay had loved the colors and
the way the crepe paper folded and made delicate wings.

But the joy she'd felt at school had
quickly faded when she'd returned home. Her mother had been edgy and
worried. When Lindsay's father came home the tension had gotten worse.
Her father didn't like the dinner her mother had prepared and he seemed
determined to find fault with everything.

Now Lindsay lay curled on her side in her bed
with the covers pulled over her head. Her father was shouting at her mother and
her mother was crying.

"Who gives you the damn right to talk to
him about our problems?
I'm
your family."

"He's my brother."

"A brother who's not
been around for years.
I've been here all along. I've
been the one putting food in your mouth and clothes on your back. He
hasn't."

"He was just worried about me. And I
missed seeing him."

"Well, if you think he's so damn
great, you go and live with him. But Lindsay stays with me."

"I'll never leave her."

"She's mine. Just like everything
else in this house. So if you want to leave, you leave with the shirt on your
back."

Footsteps sounded down the hallway toward
Lindsay's room. Her mother was crying louder and her father was shouting
more. Lindsay's door opened and light from the hallway shone into her
room.

"Don't touch my daughter!"
her mother shouted.

Flesh smacked against flesh and someone
stumbled back. Lindsay peeked out from under the covers and saw her mother
fall.

Lindsay started to cry.

Lindsay's cell phone, perched on her nightstand, rang just after
midnight and jerked her awake. Accustomed to being awakened in the middle of
the night, she sat up and answered it. "Hello?"

No answer.

She shoved back her hair and glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
Sam had dropped her off over three hours ago and she'd fallen into bed
exhausted. "Hello?"

There was breathing on the other end. Normally, when she got late-night
calls, it was a frightened woman hiding out from her abuser, too afraid to
talk. Often she had to coax the woman into speaking.

But tonight, she didn't sense someone in trouble. She sensed
danger. Her voice harsh, she demanded, "Who is this?"

There was a moment's pause. And then the line went dead.

Lindsay checked the incoming number and discovered it was blocked. She
closed the phone. Fully awake, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and
clicked on the bedside lamp.

A chill slithered through her.

It wasn't like her to be so easily spooked. She got out of bed,
clad only in an oversized T-shirt. The air-conditioning chilled her skin.

Careful not to wake Nicole, Lindsay hurried past her roommate's
closed door and went down the carpeted stairs to check the lock on the front
door. She peered out the peephole.
Nothing.
Then she
went to the back sliding glass door.
Locked.
She moved
from window to window checking them. All locked.

She flipped on the floodlight and it shone over her backyard garden. She
stared into the yard looking for any sign of movement.

Nothing moved.

And yet she had the feeling that someone was watching. Hugging her arms,
she stared into the darkness inside her home. There was no one there.

She shoved stiff fingers through her hair. This was insane. She was
driving herself nuts over what was likely a wrong number. She shut off the
backyard light.
"Too much caffeine."

She opened the refrigerator and peered inside at the carton full of
leftovers from the bistro. She opened the container of chocolate cake and
sampled a piece. It melted in her mouth. After closing the door, she moved into
the living room, switched on a light, and sat down. In the silence, she ate the
cake, savoring every bite.

As she rose to pitch the takeout container in the the kitchen trash bin,
she spotted the door under the stairs. Behind it was a small storage place
where she kept a box of old pictures. She tossed the carton, wiped her hands,
opened the door, and removed the worn box. She carried it to the couch, sat,
and dug among the photos, careful to avoid the ones with Zack. She'd
never organized or put the photos in an album, but she'd written dates and
notes on the back of each.

There were pictures of Lindsay with her friend Joel. They were at the
pool, smiling. Joel had his arm wrapped casually around her shoulder. She
smiled as she traced Joel's face. Joel and his dad had been the ones
who'd gone back to the house after her mom died and gotten these photos
and her clothes.

Going deeper in the photo box, she found a picture of herself as a baby.
Other pictures of herself at swim and tennis meets with her father and mother
smiling proudly behind her. They looked so happy.
Picture
perfect.

And yet, behind the smiles, there was tension in her parents'
eyes. Most wouldn't have noticed it, but she did.

She found deeper in the box black and whites of her mother as a young
girl before she'd married her father. Her mother had had a bright smile,
dark wavy hair that set off her hazel eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion. In
one photo, Lindsay's mother stood with her older brother, who was fifteen
years older than her mother. He looked to be about twenty-five in this photo.
His arm was slung casually around her mother's shoulders, and he wore a
sailor's uniform that accentuated his trim waist and broad shoulders. She
had no memories of her uncle except for the rare story her mother told.

Buried at the bottom of the box were pictures of three-year-old Lindsay
holding a baby
boy.
The child had been her younger
brother; he had died of crib death when he was just seven months old. Her
mother had rarely spoken about her brother, Bobby, but Lindsay knew the
boy's death had left a hole in both her parents' hearts that had
never healed.

Maybe if Bobby hadn't died. Maybe if...

These stupid mind games weren't going to change her past. It was
what it was.
A mess.

She dropped the pictures back in the box, unable to bear the sadness.
She replaced the lid and put the box back in the closet under the stairs.

Suddenly very tired, she climbed the stairs and got into bed. The sheets
felt cold against her skin. Despite her fatigue, her mind was restless.

She reached for the light. She'd searched the house and assured
herself that she and Nicole were alone. And yet, she still felt as if someone
stood over her.

Watching.

The Guardian checked Saunders's bindings. Secure. The man lay
unconscious, his arms and legs stretched wide and tied to stakes driven in the
concrete floor.

After turning on the three TVs, the Guardian flipped on the evening news
reports. He wanted to see what the press was saying about him.

The first two stations had nothing to report beyond police were still
trying to unravel the murder of a local attorney. He flipped to Channel 10 to
see Kendall Shaw reporting.

...a troubled past marred by the violent
murder of her mother. When I spoke with Lindsay O'Neil earlier this
spring, she talked about her passion for saving women in abusive relationships.
But Lindsay O'Neil harbored a dark secret. Her father, Frank Hines, a
garage owner in Hanover, a church leader and well known in his community,
routinely beat his wife--Lindsay's mother.

Two days before Lindsay's seventeenth
birthday, Hines killed his wife and then shot himself.

Now exactly twelve years after the Hines
murder/suicide, the body of a murdered man has been found behind the
women's shelter O'Neil created. The victim, Harold Turner, a local
attorney, was seen just weeks ago arguing with O'Neil at a local
fund-raiser.

Tension rippled through the Guardian's body.

Kendall Shaw's news report bordered on hateful. She'd all
but called Lindsay a murderer.

Facts could suggest that O'Neil could
have embarked on her own plan of revenge.

Kendall Shaw's raw ambition had driven her too far. She was
twisting facts to suit her own purposes. She was a liar and a manipulator and
very much like the men who abused their wives. She abused the public trust with
her half-truths and innuendo.

The Guardian turned back toward Saunders. He was out cold. No good. He
needed to be awake.

He needed to feel pain.

A broken ammonia capsule waved under his nose woke Saunders instantly. Wide-eyed,
the man stared around the room, trying to take in his surroundings. He muttered
several foul words through his gag and tested the ropes that held him.

"We're in a basement, Mr. Saunders. It's very
secluded.
Very private."

Bloodshot eyes focused on the Guardian. Confusion gave way to anger.
Saunders jerked at his restraints.

The Guardian was pleased. "You're not going anywhere. Not
until you've learned a few lessons."

Saunders kicked his legs, trying to loosen the ropes. They didn't
budge. He screamed into his gag.

"You're a fighter. I like that." The Guardian grabbed
a black bag. "Harold Turner caved when I cornered him. He cried like a
baby. You aren't going to cry are you, Mr. Saunders?"

Saunders's eyes narrowed.

"Good. I don't like criers."

From the black bag came the machete. The shiny blade reflected the dim
lamplight. "You know what this is? It's the blade I used to cut
Harold's hand off."