Authors: Erin Quinn
“No. He’s by the door. He’s hurting my mommy.”
“All right, honey. Someone’s on the way. Can you tell me your name?”
“Jessica,” she cried.
“Very good, Jessica. The police are on their way. Do you know who the man is?”
“No,” she moaned. “He was in our house,” she sobbed. “He’s got my mommy.”
“Hang in there, Jessica. Do you hear the sirens yet? Jessica? Can you hear the sirens?”
Jessica held her breath, cocking her head.
“No. No sirens. Mommy’s screaming. Please hurry.”
“Jessica, can you tell me what the man looks like?”
Jessica clutched the phone to her ear. “Yes.”
“What does he look like?”
Jessica swiveled around, looking fearfully at the hallway beyond the bedroom door. As she stood there, her mother’s screams stopped, and then there was silence.
She dropped the phone. It clattered to the nightstand and bounced. She raced to the doorway in time to see him stand over the still body of her mother. Bright red splashes of blood soaked the silk blouse that only this morning had been white.
Jessica took two steps forward, thinking only of running to her mommy’s arms, which had always meant safety. But the man turned then and spotted her hovering in the darkened hall.
Blood dripped from his face. He smiled at her, motioning her closer with his hand.
“Come on, Jessica. I’m not going to hurt you. Come to Papa.”
Jessica cried out. Turning, she charged back inside the bedroom and slammed the door. She pushed the lock on the knob and backed away.
Hurrying, she hid under the bed.
He hit the door from the other side. Peeking from the lacy dust ruffle, she watched the door bulge on its hinges.
Was Mommy dead?
He hit it again.
And again.
The door wobbled.
Whack!
It flew open, bouncing off the wall behind and leaving a dent in the plaster.
He looked huge from her spot on the floor. He advanced on the room, eyeing it, circling it. Grabbing the phone, he yanked it from the wall. He threw open the door to the closet and rifled through her mommy’s dresses then swiped at the pretty perfume bottles and her mommy’s jewelry box, knocking them off the dresser top.
Jessica screamed silently into her clenched fist, watching as he checked the bathroom. She saw his feet turn, move closer. Stop.
He was looking at the bed.
* * *
Christie breathed a sigh of relief when Sam pulled the Jeep to the curb in front of the gym. Joining him on the sidewalk, she faced the ocean and filled her lungs with salty, fresh air.
Sandwiched between a pool hall and a yogurt shop, the gym squatted on the cracked sidewalk. A battered sign, proclaiming it an establishment for
The Man Serious About His Body,
hung from rusted chains above the door. The picture on the front window showed a prime male specimen, inflated like Popeye after a dose of spinach.
Sam opened the chipped, green door for Christie and they both stepped inside. The “lobby,” barely large enough to hold the brown, metal desk, was painted a beige that had withered to a mildewed gray. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, adding its flickering illumination to the sunlight filtered through the dirty window.
“No wonder it’s exclusively men,” Christie whispered. “No woman would even think of joining.”
The smell of sweat—old, oily, and trapped—permeated the very walls. Not the scent of good, hard work, but the odor of hours of tortured strain, pushing muscles to do what they were not intended to do on their own. Like a closed room full of cigarette smoke, no breath was free of its pervasive reek.
A man whose shoulder span rivaled his height lumbered from the dingy hallway. His massive biceps bulged out of his skimpy body tank, forcing his arms to hang at strangely deformed angles.
He had an open, friendly face though, and a splatter of Howdy Doody freckles.
“Lady with the locker,” he said.
Christie returned his smile. “That’s right. I brought my brother.”
“Great. Wait here.” To Sam, he said, “Follow me.”
Christie shuffled impatiently as the two men, Sam, tall and slim beside the shorter bulk of the other, disappeared down the hall. Faintly, from behind the walls, she could hear the clanking of weights and an occasional grunt from some unseen muscle man. The front door opened behind her and an enormous man stepped through. He gave Christie a curious look as he disappeared down the hall.
It seemed like hours that she waited in the airless lobby, but really only a few minutes passed before Sam reappeared. In his hands, he held a duffel bag. Quickly, he guided her from the sweat-shop and took a deep breath of fresh air as soon as the door closed behind them.
“Whew,” he said.
Christie felt another smile curl her lips. “That bad?”
“Worse. Smelled like a bear cave back there. I’ve been in locker rooms that were bad before, but... The mildew was alive. Does the guy who’s after you look like the Hulk in there?” he asked, cocking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve been picturing him a lot smaller.”
“No, no. He is smaller. He’s wiry. Scrappy. Like an alley cat.”
“I was trying not to act suspicious by asking a lot of questions, but when we got to the locker, Hulk told me it had a hold on it. He checked the records and said that your husband should have paid dues when he came by last night. I had to pay before I could open the locker.”
Sam handed her the receipt for the dues paid. Feeling an aversion she couldn’t face or name, she glanced at the pink slip of paper.
The name scrawled on the top was DC Porter.
“Christie? Are you okay?”
Sam’s voice sounded as if it came through a tunnel, intensified by the roar of the ocean. The waves crashing against the beach rivaled the tidal sensations swamping her.
DC Porter. She stopped walking.
Worse than any nightmare. More horrifying than any fictional monster.
DC Porter. Oh, God! How could it be him?
Of course it’s him,
her subconscious jeered.
Only a fool would have denied it.
But he looked so different. His nose…his cheekbones…. Even his teeth were different.
But the eyes,
the jeering voice insisted.
The voice. Those never changed.
She felt Sam’s arm circle her, supporting her as he led her toward the beach. He stopped at a vacant picnic table.
“Christie? Talk to me! Are you all right?”
She shook her head, her voice coming in halting disbelief. “I just didn’t think it could really be him. I mean . . .” her words trailed off.
“You know him?” Sam exclaimed. “I knew it!” He glanced down at the pink receipt. “Who is he? Who is he, Chris?” His voice was soft, his words hard. A feather pillow with a hunk of steel hidden in its fluffy center. “Why have you been lying about knowing him? Are you protecting him or—”
“No! No, Sam, I….” She took a deep, cleansing breath before continuing. “I really didn’t know it was him. I swear.”
“How could you not know it was someone you knew?” he demanded.
“He doesn’t look the same anymore and . . . and he wasn’t—
isn’t
—someone I
knew,
exactly. He knew my mother.”
“Your mother? How did he know her? Was he a friend or something?”
She nodded, avoiding his eyes.
“Why the hell would
a friend of your mother’s be attacking you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice small and sounding unconvinced even to herself. “He was always…strange. He left just before my mother died. I didn’t know he was back.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about him looking familiar before?”
“I thought I was crazy. I really did.”
“So you didn’t mention that he might have known your mother to the cops?”
“I didn’t see the point in dragging her name into it.”
“Didn’t see the point? Jesus, Christie—”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Sam.”
“Damn right, I don’t understand! Make sense, Christie! First you claimed you’d been robbed when nothing was missing, then you ignore your own instincts and withhold information that could help them find the guy who attacked you!”
Christie crossed her arms and stared out at the ocean.
“Okay, okay. I’m yelling. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath and asked more calmly, “What was his relationship with your mother?”
“He worked with her.”
“At the clinic? Doing what?”
“He did custodial stuff. Handyman jobs. Ran errands.”
“That’s it?”
She sighed, feeling like a butterfly trapped in a jar. “DC and my mothe…. They were involved.”
“Involved? How involved? Did he sweep her floors or—”
“They were involved romantically. I hate to disappoint your overactive curiosity, but I don’t know any more than that.”
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that your mother and this DC were
lovers?
He was her
boyfriend?”
She nodded, frowning. “Everyone thought he was a nice guy.”
“A nice guy? Obviously, he wasn’t attacking people when your mom dated him, huh?”
She didn’t answer. Her silence weighed heavy on the light breeze. Sam watched her intently.
Finally, with apparent care for his wording, he repeated, “Everyone thought he was a nice guy. Okay. How about you, Chris? What did you think of him?”
“I only met him a couple of times,” she hedged.
“And?”
She looked down at her clasped hands. “And I thought he seemed like the kind of guy who’d go around attacking people.”
“Did your mom know how you felt about him?”
“I couldn’t tell her. She seemed so happy. So bubbly all the time. She seemed ten years younger when they were together. Then he just disappeared one day. I don’t know why or where he went, so don’t bother to ask.”
“Okay, how about this, then: Why’s he back now? Did she leave you any money with that house?”
“Not much. And, there’s no way he could know about it.”
“Maybe he thought she was loaded. Figured you got it all when she died.”
“Sam. Read my lips. It wasn’t much. We’re talking about a few thousand dollars after all her debts were paid. She never had a lot of money. I didn’t even know she had the house until she died.”
“You didn’t even know? You mean she never lived there?”
“No. None of her things had been moved from her house in La Mesa.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Of course I think it’s strange. But no stranger than anything else that’s been going on.”
He nodded. “I wonder how this guy got a job at the clinic? You’d think they’d do background checks there, wouldn’t you? I’ll bet this guy has a record.”
“Like I said, everyone else thought he was wonderful. And Mom…I mean, after he came into her life….”
“What?”
“Nothing. She just changed.”
“Changed how?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just a feeling I had. Things were different.”
“That’s so enlightening, Christie,” he said, throwing his hands in the air in obvious frustration. “With that kind of vivid recall, we’ll track him down by the end of the day.”
“You can cut the sarcasm, Sam. If you’re going to lose your temper, then I don’t want your help.”
“I’m real sorry, Christie, but like it or not, there’s a lunatic out there who, for whatever reason, is after you. I can’t help it if that upsets me just a little.”
“And you think I like it? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No! No, that’s not what I’m saying, for chrissake. I’m saying there’s got to be a reason for this guy to be after you and I want you to quit being so secretive about everything.”
She took a deep breath. “All right, all right. What do you want to know?”
“Back to the house,” Sam said, leaning forward.
“What about it?”
“Is there something in it—”
“You’re getting carried away, Columbo. You’ve been inside. There’s nothing.”
“Maybe it’s hidden.”
“Maybe it’s not.”
His angry look smoldered. “There you go again. Why are you so unwilling to cooperate?”
“I’m not. I just don’t appreciate the way you’re grilling me. Making accusations about my mother—”
“What accusations?”
“Didn’t they do a background check?’ My mother would not have been with him if she’d thought he was a criminal.”
“I wasn’t implying she would have. I’m just trying to help you, Christie.” He stared at her closed expression, then sighed. “Okay. Enough about your mother. Is there anything else you can think of that I should know about this guy?”
“No!” she answered too quickly.
His skeptical look said more than any words.
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “Yes, there’s more. But don’t ask me to talk about it now. I need to think. I need to get myself together first.”
He looked like he would press her, then managed a grudging nod. He reached for the duffel bag on the table. “Let’s see what’s here,” he said, pulling out a stack of manila folders. Each folder had a colored, typed, last-name-first label. They both took one and opened it.
A business card fluttered across the table. Christie picked it up, recognizing the familiar logo of the soaring ball and 18th hole flag. Shock penetrated the numbing husk surrounding her.
“Sam, this is your card.”
“
What?”
She handed it to him, feeling as powerless as one of the red-and-white buoys buffeted by the waves.
A black cloud of anger darkened Sam’s features. “Where the hell’d he get this? And what’s it doing in that locker?”
“I don’t know. What are these files?”
“They look like medical records,” he said, frowning. “They’re somebody’s medical records. This DC guy isn’t a doctor, is he?”
“No way. I told you, he was working as a custodian at my mother’s clinic.”
They stared at the files as if expecting them to speak.
“Should we put them back?” Christie asked.
Sam shook his head. “Hell, no. He’s been making the rules until now. I don’t know why he’s got these files, but it’s a good bet they’re not his. Let’s jerk
his
chain for a change and make
him
wonder what the hell’s going on. Besides, he doesn’t even have a key anymore.”