loud rap music until after three in the morning, when a man in a robe came rushing out of the next house and across the lawn to pound heavily on the front door.
Howard answered the door with the baseball bat in his hand. The man demanded that the boys cut off their music and get to sleep before he called the cops and lawyer Lindley Howard kept the weapon at his side but told the neighbor there was no sense waking his father. After the man left, the boys, deprived of their music and out of vodka, decided to go to bed.
By four, the boys were all passed out in their beds. The only light was from a television set in the living room. Watcher waited half an hour before going to his vehicle and getting a bottle he kept in his work satchel. After putting on latex gloves, he entered the house, took a washcloth from the bathroom, and doused it with chloroform. Moving to Lindley's bed, Watcher placed the cloth over the drunk kid's face and held it tight until he stopped resisting, which took minimal effort. That done, Watcher put the cloth in his coat pocket, took a look at the unconscious young killer, and stripped off his own clothes. He took Howard's clothes-piled on the floor-and put them on. Howard wore ridiculous, loose-fitting clothing, so they fit the much larger man reasonably well. Sitting on the side of the bed, he slipped on Howard's flip- flops to cover the footprint angle. Taking up the aluminum baseball bat, he went from bedroom to bedroom making an unbelievable mess of the other young men's heads. The boys were so drunk they didn't awaken at the hollow wet smacking sounds Watcher made.
When Watcher returned to Howard's room, he flipped on the lights and, looking in the mirror, admired the amount of gore covering Howard's clothes. The wet shoe patterns stood out on the hardwood. He wiped blood on Howard's hands and he put the bat in them so the kid's bloody fingerprints were clearly printed on the handle like words on the pages of a Bible.
In the bathroom, Watcher stripped off and dropped the saturated clothes onto the floor, covering the bat. Watcher ran a bath, got in, and let the water grow pink with the blood of dead boys. He dried off, and laid out the towel before stepping onto it. After dressing he placed the towel in a plastic Wal- Mart bag he'd brought along in the back pocket of his jeans.
The last thing he did was carry the naked Howard Lindley into the bathroom and place him in the tub, washing him and using a plastic glass to rinse his hair. Lindley remained unconscious the entire time.
His work done, Watcher slipped from the cabin, and, after removing his surveillance equipment from young Lindley's Tahoe, he returned to the lake house, raised the windows in the den overlooking the neighbor's house, and turned on the stereo full blast. He slipped out the back door and crossed yards stealthily until he came to his truck.
Even now, fifteen months later, Watcher found himself smiling at the totally impromptu plan, spurred by the sight of the bat Lindley had been using to threaten his friends.
He gave little thought to the dead boys in the cabin.
They should have chosen their friends better.
SIXTEEN
When Ward got home at five- thirty there was a message on the answering machine from Natasha. “I won't be home before eight, so I guess you better fend for yourself for dinner.” He replayed the message twice, listening closely. Each time her clinical delivery left him cold. These days she left messages, even though she knew he always carried his cell phone.
Ward took a long cool shower, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and turned on the television to the local news.
Ward's cell phone rang at a few minutes past seven. The caller ID showed a number he wasn't familiar with.
“Ward McCarty,” he said.
“Mr. McCarty, it's Todd Hartman. I hope this isn't a bad time.”
“No, it's a good time.”
“Just wanted to let you know I've tracked the young girl down.”
“That was fast,” Ward said.
“Alice Palmer. That's her name. She's eigh teen. Five five, ninety pounds, blond hair, green eyes. Her license picture fits your description. At tends UNCC, math major, with a petty rap sheet that points to a troubled, not a criminal, young woman. She lives with her mother in a three-quarter- million- dollar home in Dillworth. Her mother, Delores Palmer, sells high- dollar residential real estate and she makes mid- six figures. Drives the Porsche you saw to impress prospective clients, and has a large BMW to ferry clients around in. Alice travels to Vegas to see her father a few times a year. She probably doesn't know the monetary value of the car. This was probably for attention from someone. Maybe the parents.”
“What do you do next?”
“I'll catch her in the A.M. on her way to classes on campus. Lots of people around so it's a safe atmosphere for her. I'll talk to her and I'll know where we are.”
“Great work,” Ward said.
“Nothing to it. Just a short conversation with a friendly aviation employee I have on my Christmas list, followed by a computer search. I'll call after the meeting to let you know what happens.”
Ward hung up and his eyes came to rest on the calendar on the counter. He saw that Natasha had marked the anniversary of Barney's death with a red circle. He wondered why she'd have to mark the date to remember that day. While she hadn't mentioned anything to Ward, he couldn't help wondering what she had planned to do on the anniversary.
SEVENTEEN
When headlights illuminated the backyard it was eight- twenty Ward was in his kitchen and had poured a Scotch to help obscure the memory of his afternoon visit with his mother, who hadn't spoken to him for the hour he'd been there. The disease had about run its course, reducing her to a slow- breathing mannequin lying in a bed staring at the ceiling.
Standing at the sink, he noticed the glasses still there from the night before, and Natasha's orange juice glass from her morning jolt. Thinking he should put them in the dishwasher, he was struck by the fact that he'd put his expensive Riedel glass, designed specifically to allow for the appreciation of fine Scotches, rim down in the sink. He never did such a thing. No, he didn't recall putting that glass in the sink the night before, but he always set glasses base down, especially those, to prevent chipping the delicate rims. He wondered if Natasha had done it without thinking, but that was not like her. If she touched it, she would have only done so to put it into the dishwasher.
He heard Natasha's car door slam shut out in the garage, followed by the sound of the garage door's motor engaging. When Natasha came in, Ward was drying the clean glasses with a towel. He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Pinot Grigio, pulled out the cork, and poured some into her glass.
“How was your day?” he asked her.
“Not real good,” she answered, fingering her way through a stack of unopened mail he'd left on the counter.
“Generally or specifically?” he asked.
“I had a session with Dr. Richardson this afternoon.”
He handed her the glass of chilled wine. “And did the shrink make you feel better?”
“No. But I appreciate your genuine concern.”
“I didn't mean anything, but if he doesn't make you feel any better, why do you keep going to him twice a week?”
“You can take one of the sessions.”
“Did he tell you again that I'm in denial?”
