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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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Out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw Coach Chertok through the window of his office. He was on the telephone in there. Chris began to notice a few people in the stands furtively whispering into their cell phones. He wondered if all the calls to the police would do any good. Would the cops make it there before Ian started shooting?
“Nothing happened with me and Mr. Corson!” Ian shouted. “You’re all liars! What did I ever do to any of you?” He seemed to clutch Margaret even tighter, and his face was pressed up against hers. He stuck the gun under her chin again.
Squirming, she let out a shriek. “God, somebody help me!”
“Ian, stop it!” Chris managed to say. “Please, you don’t want to do this. . . .”
Ian swiveled around and gazed up at him again. All at once, he shoved Margaret away. She screamed again as she hit the tiled floor. He aimed the gun at her.
“No, Ian, don’t!” Chris yelled.
Ian stared up at him. Tilting his head back, he opened his mouth, then stuck the gun barrel in it.
The shot rang out, and Chris recoiled, almost falling off the board. He managed to grab on to the railing.
Stunned, he watched Ian’s body flop down on the tiles. The gun dropped out of his hand, and his head hit the edge of the pool.
Everyone was screaming. Chris could hear Coach Chertok yelling over all the noise that the police were on the way, and everybody should stay calm. Mrs. Chertok hurried from the stands and helped the traumatized Margaret to her feet.
Doubled over, Chris clutched the diving-board rail and gazed down at Ian Scholl’s lifeless body.
Sometimes, when Chris lay in bed in the dark, he could still see Ian—with his eyes open and his face turned sideways against the pool’s edge. Chris remembered the puddle of blood under his head, some of it running into the pool, billowing in the blue water.
He suddenly bolted up in Larry’s sofa bed and tossed back the covers. He started to reach for the duck decoy lamp on the end table, but changed his mind.
He could hear someone walking around upstairs. He wasn’t sure if it was his mother or Larry. Either way, he didn’t want anyone to know he was awake.
So he sat there in the dark.
He didn’t want anyone to come down and see he was crying.
C
HAPTER
T
EN
The teddy bear on the rumpled bed was splattered with blood.
Molly didn’t want too much blood—just enough for people to notice when they saw the book on the store shelves. She stood at her easel in her studio on the third floor, painting the cover to the latest Sally Shortridge mystery,
The Teddy Bear Killer
. After saying good night to Kay, she’d changed into an old pair of jeans and a paint-stained sweatshirt. Linda Ronstadt’s
Greatest Hits
spun on her old CD player.
Past Linda’s rendition of “You’re No Good,” Molly thought she heard a noise downstairs.
Putting down her paintbrush, she moved over to the CD and pressed the PAUSE button. Molly listened for a moment, but didn’t hear anything. She told herself it was probably just the house settling.
One of the great things about having a studio on the third floor was that she became oblivious to everything happening two levels down. The kids could have the TV on, and she couldn’t hear it. She was shut off from the rest of the house.
That was also a bad thing sometimes—especially when no one else was home. Since the cul-de-sac killings had started, Molly wasn’t completely comfortable up in her studio during these nights alone.
She almost wished she hadn’t sent Kay home. Having another person in the house would have made her feel better—even if that person was drunk and a bit too inquisitive.
Molly glanced at her wristwatch. It was just past ten o’clock. She’d been up here less than an hour, and this was the third time she’d put her CD player on pause because of a noise downstairs. She hadn’t made much progress with
The Teddy Bear Killer
cover. It would just have to wait until morning—when she’d be a little less nervous up here.
Putting away her paint and brushes, she switched off Linda Ronstadt and went downstairs to Jeff’s and her bedroom. She pulled her paint-splattered jersey over her head and changed into a long-sleeved tee. Molly glanced out the window at Kay’s house next door. She’d figured Kay would have passed out by now. But several lights were still on inside the house—including one in Kay’s bedroom. There was a glass door and a little balcony off the master bedroom, and through the sheer curtain, Molly noticed a shadow moving around.
Somehow, it made her feel better. In case she got too scared, someone was awake just next door. She wasn’t so alone after all.
Molly decided to check her e-mail on the computer in Jeff’s study. She switched on the radio, and “American Pie” came on while she accessed the Internet. It looked like two junk e-mails, something from her agent, and a message with the subject head “A Blast from the Past” from [email protected].
“Oh, wow,” she murmured, staring at the computer monitor. She opened the e-mail.
Dear Molly,
It’s been too long, at least 2 years. The last address I have for you is in Alexandria, VA. Are you still there? If not, you should contact the gallery & update us. We still have 3 of your paintings for sale in our online catalog. Once in a while, I see your work on some book cover, and it’s always fantastic. But you’re way too good for them!
Anyway, there’s a reason for this e-mail (besides the fact that I often think of you). Yesterday this guy came by the gallery, asking about your paintings, but pretty soon he started grilling me on your background & your family. I don’t know who he was, but I told him if he wasn’t interested in buying your art, he could get lost. Anyway, I just thought you should know that someone has been snooping around, asking questions about you. I’m not sure if he knows about Charlie or what, but I have a feeling that’s what he was getting at with all his questions.
I hope I was right to contact you about this. I don’t want to cause you any unnecessary worry or heartache.
Feel free to give me a call. I’d love to catch up & find out how you’re doing.
Take Care,
Doug
At the bottom of the e-mail, he’d included Windy City Art Gallery’s phone number, as well as his cell phone number—the same old one. Molly could see he’d sent the e-mail at 4:52 that afternoon, Chicago time. She glanced at her watch again. It was after midnight in Chicago, but it was also a Saturday, and Doug liked to stay up late. At least, he’d been a night owl back when they’d dated.
She didn’t think she could wait until morning to call him. She had to know more about this man who was snooping into her past.
Getting to her feet, Molly headed into the kitchen, where her purse hung on the back of a chair at the breakfast table. She dug out her cell phone. It just didn’t seem right calling an old boyfriend on the house line—and in Jeff’s study, no less.
She sat down at the table and punched in Doug’s number. She didn’t have to look at it again. She still remembered. She wondered if he still lived in that third-floor apartment on North Kenmore. Doug had curly, light brown hair and Clark Kent glasses that made him look slightly bookish—and very sexy. He was an assistant manager at the gallery that had commissioned six of her pieces years back. They’d dated for almost a month—until he met Charlie. Then things got fouled up.
Charlie had a way of fouling things up.
Molly was counting the ringtones. Doug answered on the third one. “Molly?”
“Hi, Doug,” she replied. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s great to hear your voice again, Molly. I guess you got my e-mail. I hope it didn’t freak you out or anything.”
“Well, it did—kind of,” she admitted. “You said this man came into the gallery and asked all sorts of questions about me?”
“Yeah. He was about fifty years old with black hair that looked like a bad dye job, and he talked out of one side of his mouth all the time. Does that sound like anybody you know?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Molly murmured.
“He didn’t seem like an art aficionado,” Doug continued. “He didn’t give me his name. He wanted to see your paintings, and asked if I knew you, stuff like that. I showed him the three pieces of yours we still have for sale. But I could tell he wasn’t really interested in the paintings. He started asking about your family—if you’d been married, and didn’t you have a brother who died? That’s when I told him to take a hike.”
The phone to her ear, Molly was frowning. “How did he figure you knew me?”
“My guess is he went on the Internet, looked up Molly Wright, and found your paintings on our website. He didn’t seem like a stalker. There was something kind of snaky about him, but it was more
professionally
snaky, if you know what I mean. I think he may have been a private detective or something along those lines. Anyway, I didn’t tell him anything about your family—or your brother. Like I say, when his questions started to veer in that direction, I figured something was fishy, and I gave him the heave-ho. I hope I did the right thing to tell you about this—I wasn’t sure.”
“No, I’m glad you did, thanks,” Molly said. She rubbed her forehead. If this guy asking questions about her was indeed a private detective, it didn’t take much guesswork to figure out who had hired him. This had
Angela
written all over it. Jeff’s ex and her buddies were always trying to stick their noses into her background and personal life. Hell, Kay was just grilling her about Chicago earlier tonight.
“So—are you still living in Alexandria?” Doug asked.
She suddenly realized that they hadn’t said anything for a few moments. “Oh, no, I—I’m married now. I moved to Seattle.”
“So who’s the lucky guy? Another artist?”
“No, Jeff’s an executive for Kendall Pharmaceuticals.”
“Pharmaceuticals? Well, then I guess you guys must be doing okay.”
“We’re doing all right,” Molly said.
“Are you?” he asked, a sudden serious change in his tone. “I think about you a lot, Molly, and everything you’ve been through. I’ve always wished I was more—
there
for you when things got so horrible. Anyway, I hope you are okay. You deserve to be happy.”
“Thanks, Doug,” she murmured, staring down at the kitchen table.
They talked for another ten minutes. Doug had been seeing a concert cellist named Kate for the last year. She was
the one
. And if Molly had any new paintings, he wanted her to send him some slides. And should that guy come into the gallery again asking questions, Doug would find out who the hell he was—and who had sent him.
Molly already had a pretty good idea who might have hired the man. She just told Doug to keep in touch.
After she clicked off the phone, she remained seated at the breakfast table.
So what if Angela and her gal pals find out about Charlie?
They were bound to learn about him eventually. Jeff already knew. Molly had planned to tell Chris about her brother sometime soon. Still, it was just so damn creepy that Angela had gone to the trouble of hiring someone to go to Chicago and pry into her family past.
Molly imagined some snaky, fiftysomething guy talking out of the side of his mouth as he asked her old family doctor about Charlie’s condition.
Her brother had been bipolar, which seemed like a blanket label for all kinds of emotional problems. Seventeen months younger than her, he was a very handsome, charming little boy with black hair, beautiful blue eyes, and long lashes. Maybe that had been why everybody cut him so much slack. He’d do something wicked, then start crying and apologizing, and people just caved. He was a bit of a manipulator that way.
But by fifth grade, Charlie started getting into trouble at their grade school, and it just wasn’t so forgivable anymore. That was when her parents had him diagnosed. They talked about putting him into a special school. He begged Molly to intercede so they wouldn’t send him away. Early on, she’d felt responsible for him. She was always trying to neutralize things when her crazy, erratic kid brother acted up. Sometimes, he’d go nuts and hit her—or he’d mess up her room, or destroy some drawing she was working on. And then, he’d be so sorry.
Molly always forgave him—eventually. He started collecting elephant figurines—like her. By the time he was thirteen, he had a hundred elephants to Molly’s thirty. Whenever he did something really awful, he’d give her one of his elephants, and tell her it was his favorite—a total lie, of course. She knew Charlie’s favorite: a detailed, six-inch gray marble elephant with its trunk up. But she also knew giving up
any
of his prized elephants practically killed him. So she always sucked it up, thanked him, and assured him that all was forgiven.
By the time Charlie hit puberty, he became more and more unpredictable. The guys he’d befriended were trouble-making morons. Molly couldn’t have any girlfriends over, because he was always hitting on them—or hitting them, anything to get their attention.
One Friday night while their parents were out at a party, Molly heated up a Lou Malnati’s pizza for the two of them. She was sixteen at the time and had gotten away with renting
The Big Easy
from the video store. Charlie was so excited, because of the video’s R rating. He anticipated ninety minutes of nonstop sex and violence ahead. He was hyper to the point at which he started to go out of control. Molly kept telling him to calm down. They were waiting for the pizza in the oven when he picked up the pizza cutter and started shaking it at her.
“Cut it out!” she yelled, backing against the kitchen counter.
“Cut out what, your heart?” Laughing, he moved closer to her, waving the cutter in front of her face. “I’m the Pizza Killer, and I’m gonna slice you up!”
But Molly wasn’t laughing. She threw the oven mitt at him. “Stop it! I’m serious, Charlie! I mean it, back off. You’re getting too close with that thing. . . .”
He wasn’t listening. He brandished the pizza cutter, slashing an X in the air—just inches away from her nose.
“Damn it, Charlie!” she screamed, putting up her hand. “I said, back off!”
Suddenly, she felt the cutter slice into her arm—inches below her elbow. For a few seconds, Molly thought he’d merely grazed her. She saw a pink line along her pale skin—a long scratch.
Charlie was still laughing. He raised the pizza cutter as if ready to strike again.
Then the two-inch line below her elbow turned red. Blood seeped out and started dripping down her arm.
“Oh, shit!” Charlie said, dropping the pizza cutter.
Grabbing a dish towel, Molly hurried over to the sink and stuck her arm under the cold water. She frantically wrapped the dish towel around the wound. “Damn it, Charlie, what did I tell you?” she cried. “Why do you have to be this way? Oh, God, I think I’m going to need stitches. . . .”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He sat at the breakfast table, sobbing.
Molly kept her arm up over her head, and with a second dish towel, she had Charlie make a tourniquet and wrap it tight above her elbow. She had to coach him through the whole process. Taking her mom’s Chevy Celebrity, Molly drove to Highland Park Hospital. She’d gotten her driver’s license only two months before. While she steered with one hand, she kept her right arm raised. Charlie sat in the passenger seat, silent. By the time they reached the hospital’s emergency room, her makeshift bandage was drenched with blood.

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