Neighborhood Watch (28 page)

“We can do it right here,” she said, moving to the counter beside the aquarium. Teddy watched with his mouth open, shaking his head as Kurosaka took Kristin’s prints. He put the sample into the envelope carefully. Kristin held her hands up.

“I better wash before I touch anything.”

“Yes. Thank you. Oh. As to the other matter,” Kurosaka said, “we stopped by to

reinterview Mrs. Slater.”

“And?” Kristin asked quickly.

“She wasn’t feeling well. Her husband said she’s somewhat confused by the excitement.

From what he tells me, however, the time frame wouldn’t be right anyway,” he added.

“You’ve got to talk to her yourself. I’m sure that when you do—”

“Let’s see what this turns up,” Kurosaka said, indicating the papers. “I’ll let you know.

Thank you.”

As soon as the door closed, Teddy spun on Kristin.

“You deliberately went walking through the woods, searching for papers, didn’t you? It wasn’t just some relaxing stroll, Kristin.”

“The important thing is I found them, Teddy,” she replied marching down the entryway steps and toward the bathroom. She wanted to tell him about Spier coming at her in the forest, but she was sure he would simply compliment the security guard for being alert.

“And you had them go see Mrs. Slater?”

“I’m sure she saw something,” Kristin insisted. She ran the water and began to scrub the ink off her fingers.

“When did all this happen? I mean, when did you see Kurosaka?”

“Today,” she said nonchalantly, “at his office.”

“You went to the police station? Jesus. Everyone’s going to think you’ve gone nuts.”

Kristin spun around.

“Who’s everyone, Teddy? Huh? Nikki? Philip? The other members of the politburo here?

Anyway, you’ll be happy to know it only reinforces the theory that it was one man who came here to rob and steal. Steven was too overwrought to mention it, I suppose, but Angela’s ring and watch were taken. They found a raft, the weapon, a tire iron, and footprints on the roadside of the lake and they think the killer just threw the papers into the water.”

“Good. At least maybe you’ll stop suspecting our own people.”

“They may be your people, Teddy, but they’ll never be mine,” Kristin said and closed the bathroom door.

The heavy curtain of silence fell between them until Teddy left for the Neighborhood Watch patrol. Jennifer was asleep, the doll Marilyn Slater had given her at her side.

Kristin had tried to watch some television, but then turned it off and sat in the oversized chair by the front window staring out at the street. She saw Teddy returning and

pretended to be reading a magazine when he entered.

“Well,” he announced as he stepped down to the living room, “we did good.”

She looked up.

“What do you mean?”

“We discovered a hole in the fence on the west side, two more blown streetlights, and a car in the driveway with the keys in the ignition.”

“Whose car?”

“The Kimbles. Bill was embarrassed. It will all be in the report. Everyone’s going to get a copy of each patrol report on a weekly basis.”

“So if someone screws up, like leaving his keys in his car ignition, the whole

development will know about it?”

“And he or she won’t do it again,” Teddy said.

“I wonder what they’ll find we’re doing wrong.”

“My mother always says an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” He smiled.

“Come on, Kristin. Lighten up. You have to admit this is a good idea, even if it came from Nikki Stanley.”

“Somehow, I think that woman could even make Christmas a bad experience,” Kristin

said, but she softened. “So? Did you enjoy your patrolling?”

“You know,” he said coming closer, “as I was walking around the development, I

suddenly got this amazing sense of accomplishment, of doing something substantial to protect my family and possessions, and there was something I realized.”

“What?” she asked when he continued his pause too long for her curiosity.

“I will agree with you about our security force to this extent: we have become too

dependent on others to provide our basic protection. It softens us and therefore makes us more vulnerable.”

“We need more John Wayne in us, huh?” she said, half in jest.

“What? Yeah, I guess. I’m not saying we should all become Charlie Bronson in
Death
Wish,
but we should take some charge of our own security and be more prepared, more fit. It’s like muscles. If you don’t use them, they atrophy.

“Ever since the caveman,” he continued, “we’ve had a basic need to defend ourselves.

Technology has made us too dependent on monitors and alarms. Affluence enables us to hire others to stand at the door. It deadens our instinct to survive.”

Kristin started to smile.

“Where the hell did you come up with this theory?”

“We had a chance to talk a bit.”

“Who’s we?”

“The patrol and Philip.”

“I see,” Kristin said. “I still think there’s something sick about all this. It’s like a monster consuming us.”

“It’ll pass,” Teddy said softly. “Things will calm down. You’ll see.”

“Maybe,” she said.

They both went to bed without another word. She kept her eyes closed, even when the eleven-thirty door check occurred and the locks were gently rattled.

She couldn’t help wondering: were they locking the enemy out or were they locking

themselves in?

Surely, there was a difference.

Marilyn Slater retreated to the doll room early in the evening after dinner and remained there pretending to be sewing doll clothing when Philip looked in on her. After

Lieutenant Kurosaka had come to question her for a second time because of a remark she had made to Kristin Morris, Philip became so enraged, she thought he was going to hit her. The whole time he ranted, he had his hands clenched.

“Until this whole thing blows over,” he said in a very controlled voice, the veins and arteries in his neck pressing against his skin, “I don’t want you speaking to that woman.

You understand, Marilyn?”

She nodded. When Philip was like this, it was better to nod and look away, better to wait for the storm to subside. So as soon as they were finished with dinner and she had

cleaned up, she went to the doll room. They had become her only companions anyway.

Each of them had his or her own personality, something different in his or her eyes that suggested his or her temperament.

There was the French doll that she thought resembled her with its diminutive facial features and dainty clothes. It had real human hair, her own shade. Philip had bought her the doll a year after they were married on their anniversary trip to Paris. In those days all she had to do was gaze at something and he would lunge ahead to buy it for her. But even then, she recalled, he bought it as if he had to prove something, prove anything was within his reach. Still, she loved this doll, loved the way its eyes reflected her own moods.

Across the room sat the doll that reminded her of Philip. He had told her he had bought it because it was the first doll he had ever seen that had a real masculine feel to it. He bought it at an antique store in New Paltz when he was there for business. The doll had big features, emphatic shoulders, and a barrel chest. To Marilyn, it looked perpetually angry and distrustful. Whenever she entered the doll room and glanced at it, she saw how its eyes followed her every step. She rarely, if ever, touched it, and did so mainly when she dusted. When she did take it in her hand, she imagined it squirming like a rodent. Of course, she was afraid to give it away or throw it out. Philip would know.

Today, Philip’s doll looked angrier than ever.

“Don’t look at me that way,” she muttered. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Why shouldn’t I tell people what I saw? I did see something. I did. I’m not imagining things and I didn’t have anything to drink that night.”

Philip’s doll had thicker lips than all the other dolls. In her imagination, those lips undulated and looked like two worms. It turned her stomach.

“No one can ever say anything negative about your precious development,” she added, dropping her gaze to the floor. The doll’s eyes were too intimidating.

She didn’t hear Philip come to the doorway, so when he spoke, it was as if his doll were speaking. It sent her heart on a wild tumble, the reverberation carrying down her spine and into her very soul.

“Who are you talking to, Marilyn?” he demanded.

She gasped and raised her eyes.

“No one. I’m not talking,” she said.

He stared at her, the disgust etched along his lips and printed in his dark eyes.

“I made a mistake,” he said. “I should have sent you for some professional help a while ago. Telling people you saw shadows swallow up Angela Del Marco.” He shook his head.

“How do you think this makes me look? A policeman has to come by to ask questions

like that and mentions it to me? Why wouldn’t I have told them what you thought you saw? Just lucky you were sleeping and I could get rid of him, but I’m warning you.

You’re going to end up in a loony bin yet if you keep this up, Marilyn.”

“I’m all right,” she insisted.

“Right,” he said nodding. “It’s the rest of us who are crazy.” He straightened up like a soldier at attention. “I’m going out to join the first Neighborhood Watch patrol,” he announced. “Stay in the house. You’re liable to be mistaken for a prowler.”

Occasionally she did take a short walk on a nice evening, but she had no intention of doing that tonight. She nodded. After he left, she looked at his doll. It was smiling.

Furious, she got up and went to it to turn it around so she wouldn’t have to look at the face, but when she reached toward it, her fingers hesitated as if there was an invisible wall between the doll and her. She couldn’t touch it. It stared up at her, defiant.

She spun around and left the room and went to her chair by the window. She spotted the Neighborhood Watch patrol moving down the street, the beams of their flashlights slicing the darkness, illuminating areas under trees, beside houses and garages, and then the patrol disappeared around a corner. It reminded her of a group of children trick-or-treating on Halloween.

As soon as the patrol disappeared, she went to the liquor cabinet and got out her vodka.

Despite Philip’s warning, she poured herself a half glass and didn’t even add a mixer. She returned to the window and sipped her vodka, enjoying the way it unlocked all the doors and allowed her to lift herself up and out of her body. She closed her eyes and saw herself floating gracefully. The sense of freedom was wonderful. She was gliding over the lake and moving so softly . . . She sipped more and more.

But the grating sound of the telephone brought her down to earth and returned her to her body. Marilyn thought about letting it ring, but whoever was calling wasn’t going to give up. Finally, she rose from her chair and lifted the receiver on the phone next to the sofa.

“Hello,” she said. There was such a long delay, she thought the caller might just have given up. But then she heard her name in a deep, hollow whisper.

“Marilyn.”

“Who is this?”

“Marilyn.”

“I said, who is this?”

“It’s one of the shadows. You must not talk about me or I’ll come for you next.”

She released the phone as if it had turned into fire and backed away. She turned and charged toward the front door, but when she opened it, she froze. Was that a shadow moving up the street? She slammed the door and backed down the hallway until she was against the basement door, her eyes wide and blazing. Suddenly, she heard the sound of a child laughing. It was coming from behind her, from down in the basement.

“Bradley?” she muttered, turning slowly to open the basement door. She gazed down the dark stairway and listened. There was silence, but when she closed her eyes, she could hear him calling her just the way he used to.

“Mommy. Mommy.”

Marilyn wobbled a bit and took hold of the banister. Then she started down the stairway without turning on the light. She was more comfortable with the darkness. She heard a trickle of childish laughter again and she smiled. Her eyes did well in the darkness and she knew every inch of this basement. She rounded the turn at the bottom of the stairway and made her way to the storage room. There, she turned on the light, half expecting to see Bradley sitting by the box of memories. His absence broke her heart.

Marilyn crumbled slowly to her knees beside the box and stroked it as if it were the coffin in which her precious little baby had been placed. It felt hard and smooth like the coffin. She closed her eyes and fumbled with the top of the carton until she opened it and then, when she opened her eyes and looked in, she saw him, just as he had been: his eyes sewn shut by death, his little lips pale, his cheeks chalky white and his hair dry like thin straw.

She embraced herself and rocked back and forth on her knees, the tears streaming down her cheeks. The ache in her heart traveled to her ribs and her stomach and settled in her back. She curled up beside the box, her right arm around it, holding it to her bosom, just the way she used to hold her child when he was sick or frightened. She closed her eyes and muttered words of comfort until she fell asleep.

Marilyn didn’t wake up until she heard, “Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing?”

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Philip standing over her, his hands on his hips, his face swollen with anger.

“What?” For a moment she forgot where she was. Then it all rushed back over her.

“The phone is off the cradle upstairs, and I see you hit the bottle again. Now I find you on the basement floor,” he recited like a judge reading the charges.

“Guilty,” she said, smiling.

“What?”

“I plead guilty, Philip.”

“Get up, Marilyn. For crissakes.”

She sat up and looked into the carton. Bradley was no longer there. She folded it closed and started to stand. Philip seized her arm at the elbow and helped her to her feet.