Pursuit (13 page)

The drive back to the subdivision filled him with expectation. Over the course of his twenty-year career of extracurricular activities, he had become many different people. Charming and polite, aggressive, and even a passive, milquetoast kind of fellow. But never in a real disguise. It should be fun.
Where's the harm?
he reasoned.

“How does this suit you, Mr. Phillips?”

They stepped out of their car, grinning like fools.

“Seems fine. May I walk around for a bit, get acquainted?”

The middle-aged couple gushed, “Make yourself at home.” The house, being used as a model, was decorated
with run-of-the-mill furniture spread generously throughout. The first-floor bedroom looked into the woods. He unlocked the window and pulled the curtain shut, and then inspected the whole house.

“You have done a nice job on this place. Can we look outside?” Upon first meeting, the couple had told him that they had a condo showing in an hour. He tried stretching his viewing so they would, pressed for time, lock up the front door and not reinspect the house.

“Mr. Phillips, if you would like us to show the home to your wife and children, that can be arranged. The power is on; we could meet here in the evening, if you like.”

Looking at the place from the street, he took his time, stating that he would come back with his wife at the broker's convenience. It worked: the elderly man simply snapped shut the universal broker's lockbox on the front door, and they all parted.

He bought a portable radio at Kmart, using a credit card and driver's license lifted from a man in the crowded checkout line. He picked up the rest of his necessities at a hardware store, relying a great deal on having seen what he thought was a dog tag hanging from the collar of mutt Scooter.

Driving past the Thousand Pines Estates entrance, he made notice once again of the unfinished guard shack and electric gate. A half mile beyond the development, he turned right on Deerpoint and continued until he felt he was parallel to the house in the cul-de-sac. His aged Bronco blended with surrounding trailers and steel-sided buildings. He parked on the edge of the road closest to Thousand Pines, threw his backpack over his shoulders, and started his long trek through the virgin timber.

The hike through the woods reminded him of days gone by. Dampened pleas, the excellent memories of yore.

The dog whistle he bought upheld its advertised worth. Bringing on a horde of inquisitive canines, he easily curried favor with Scooter and bundled him into his arms, giving him just a whiff of sleepy time. The For Sale sign came out of the soft earth with ease. He wiped his prints and hid it behind the front door.

The window he had unlocked earlier proved difficult, budging only an inch at a time. Finally, he entered into the stillness of the house, savoring the emptiness. The dog whimpered. It did, in fact, have an “If found, call 562-1242” tag. He turned on a few lights, plugged in the radio, and, in keeping with his impression of the neighborhood, tuned into a country music station. He laid out the items of his trade on the kitchen counter: the bottle of sleepy time, gauze, tape. Rope for that all important calming effect and cloth hoods for his new friends, to be used against the glare of the rising moon.

“Hi, I'm new in the neighborhood. I have one cute but homesick puppy.” He gave his voice a lilt, his inflection leaning toward the benign.

“Oh God!” Cheryl called out. “Aunt Billie, someone on the phone says they've got Scooter!”

“I twisted my ankle at work, have to hobble around, can you come get this little rascal? Sorry. My wife will be home shortly; she can bring him to your place if you wanted to wait.”

“Ah, thanks, but I don't. Can you hold while I check with my aunt?”

“Certainly.”

W
ith her leg
now stronger, Julie felt better. Overall, not quite a new woman but passable. Her trip with Todd to the Preston house, insightful. She couldn't imagine what Beverly Preston must have gone through, and by all indications, was still dealing with.

While driving, she debated whether to call and tell Billie she was coming over to fetch Cheryl, or just appear. Better, she thought, to alert them so that Cheryl could pack and be ready. Julie dialed but then hung up. She felt a little unsure of herself these days and wondered if she was healed enough to ensure Cheryl's safety while driving. Perhaps Mrs. Whitman from across the street could drive Cheryl to school tomorrow, and that extra day of rest would put Julie in better shape. The hell with it. She dialed Billie's number; it was busy.

Cheryl returned to the phone. “Who did you say this was?”

“Phillips. Ronnie Phillips.” He nudged the dog with his boot.

Scooter half yelped, half growled.

“There, there, baby. What's the matter? You want your
mommy, don't you? This little rascal is so cute. I don't know where you live, but you're welcome to pick up—”

“Scooter.”

“Ah yeah, Scooter the tooter.”

“Can you hold on for a minute? I should tell my aunt—my mom's friend. She'll be right here. Oh, is that Scoot barking?”

Reaching down again, he squeezed the neck of the little spaniel. Scooter bellowed.

“I think I can hear him without the phone.” She laughed. “You're down the street. Are you in the house that was for sale? At the end of the road?”

“Yes, I'll be going to bed soon. I hate to be a pest but—”

“Be right there. I just have to tell my aunt Billie.”

Charles went out the back of the house to the front door and snapped off the broker's lockbox with oversized cutters. He left the door open a good foot and turned up the radio a notch. Scooter was held by a short length of newly purchased clothesline. It was a straight shot from the entrance through the living room and into the galley. The swinging kitchen door was propped open for a clear view of the chopping block in front of the refrigerator where the dog had been tied. He stood behind the door waiting to deliver his sleepy time.

“Hello, I'm here!” She rang the doorbell several times.

He waited.

“Mr. Phillips, hello! Come to get the dog. Howdy-ho, knock, knock!”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and turned toward the wall. “I'm back in the laundry room, come in, please.”

“Sorry about Scoot.” She came down the hallway and stepped into the kitchen.

He grabbed her around the waist from behind and pressed his nighty-night cloth over her nose and mouth. He felt the girl's air leave her body. Holding her tight, he breathed against her neck.

A voice came from the street. “Cheryl, you in there? Do you have Scooter? Cheryl?”

He cursed his luck. Now the older woman was on her way. He tidied up the last few knots of rope and then hid once again behind the kitchen door.

Julie let Billie's house phone ring seven or eight times until voice mail picked up. She tried Billie's and Cheryl's cells, with the same fruitless result. She'd thought that Billie and Cheryl were eating in tonight. After the third phone call, she headed for Thousand Pines.

H
e stood behind
the door, the girl's inert form at his feet, the impatient calls of the woman getting closer. He poked the tied-up dog with a broom handle.

“Scooter, is that you, baby? Scooter, hello. Cheryl, you in there? Answer Aunt Billie, please.
Cheryl!
”

“Come on in!” he called out, snorting a friendly chuckle. He stepped toward the kitchen, his back to the front door. “Come in, come in. We're just having a—” He stopped and looked back toward the kitchen wall. “Ha, ha. Cheryl says Scoot wants to stay here.” He waved a casual invitation and stooped down to speak to the dog.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” he continued, on a pretense of petting the dog. “We're just telling Scooter the perils of running away from home.” He stood up and in sweeping fashion gestured a “Welcome to my humble kitchen” just before she entered.

He saw the woman glance down at his feet. A pair of bound hands snaked between his shoes. The woman bellowed
when he struck her on the forehead. She held her hands to her face as blood splattered onto the tile floor.

His plans had definitely changed. He now had two potential subjects, and he didn't want either. But a lure was still a lure. Miss Julie's missing brat would stir the very foundation of that woman's soul. The older woman would serve as simple R & R and then be disposed of.

A car made a U-turn in the cul-de-sac. After turning off the lights in the kitchen and the living room, he stepped to the door. He looked up the block to see Julie get out of her car and step carefully up the walkway.

A country singer on the radio lamented lost chances and roadhouse bars. The neighborhood slowly came alive, with porch lights flicking on. A streetlamp halfway up the block cast a dim bluish glow over the dampening pavement. A light rain began to fall.

He had to hurry; there might only be fifteen minutes before a search of the neighborhood ensued.