lived five doors down and had mowed the lawn since spring. Alice herself had flirted with him on several occasions over the years, but to no avail. Now, standing on tiptoe, his shorts a nylon puddle on the floor, he thrust his hips, driving himself in and out of Delores Palmer, his gaze moving between her breasts and his member's mesmerizing vanishing act.
Furious, Alice turned and went to the den and started to go out through the French doors, thinking she'd slam the door to jar the couple. With her hand still on the handle, a thought occurred to her and she looked at the telephone. She crossed over to the table, punched in 911, and waited for the operator to answer.
“Nine one one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
Alice cupped the receiver and whispered, “Hurry, help me. I'm afraid… he's going to rape me.”
She set the phone down, leaving the connection open so they couldn't call back and spoileverything. The best thing about living in a good neighborhood was that there were lots of cops with not much to do.
Delores Palmer might figure out Alice had called them, but whatever shit she caught would be worth it. Her mother knew Alice was home, since her car was in the driveway. Delores conducted her life as though she was a busy, single woman without a worry in the world… or a child.
Alice went out the door, closing it gently so her mother wouldn't be disrupted. Alice imagined that the interruption would be much more impressive when accomplished by armed police officers peering in at the fuck session from the freshly mown backyard.
FIFTY-TWO
Standing in his bedroom, Watcher slipped on black jeans and a long- sleeved black T-shirt. His flashlight and the Randall lay side by side next to his black sneakers.
Watcher's mind locked on a memory three years old. One cold night, after spending two adventurous hours in bed with a young sergeant's wife, Ross had just fallen asleep when Watcher slipped out of the man's closet, overpowered the older man, tied him up, and gagged him. He wrapped the naked man in a sheet and carried him, kicking and twisting, out to his waiting car. Watcher drove to an abandoned house trailer ten miles outside Fayetteville. After lashing the sergeant to a kitchen chair, Watcher had gone back into the bedroom and led in his own wife, who began sobbing when he tied her into a chair facing her lover.
Sergeant Ross begged Watcher to let him live, and cried that he was sorry about the affair. Picking up a section of heavy iron pipe from the counter, Watcher broke both of the man's knees with two swift blows. The sergeant's screams reverberated on the cheap paneling and leaked out through the broken windows, carrying over the vacant fields surrounding the trailer.
Watcher had next taken up a propane torch and lit it. Evelyn was new to violence and was certain that she was going to soon follow the sergeant's fate, so her screams were even louder than her ex- lover's. The sergeant was a fit man of forty, which helped him last two hours while Watcher first played the torch over his naked extremities and then went to work on his torso, neck, hair, and finally his face. Thick smoke and the unmistakable smell of cooking meat filled the trailer to the point that it was difficult for Watcher to see through it.
The last thing Watcher did was turn off the torch, shake up a can of spray- foam insulation, and push the plastic straw into the barely conscious man's throat. Pressing the trigger mechanism, Watcher heard the hissing as the foam shot out, filling Ross's throat with the yellow foam that expanded rapidly, oozing back out of his mouth and nostrils. That done, he removed the sticky surgeon's gloves, slipped on a second pair, and smiled at his wife, who looked at him with terrified eyes. Roughly, he tied rope around her knee, then pulled the loose end behind the chair and tied it around her other knee, opening her legs wide.
“Evelyn, my darling slut,” he said emotion-lessly aiming the straw's tip at the exposed target. “Could I interest you in a refreshing douche?”
FIFTY-THREE
The gates into pastoral Oakwood Cemetery faced Church Street in Concord. Behind the painted iron fence, narrow asphalt roads serpentined among gently rolling hills lined with stone monuments dotted with evergreens, boxwoods, and stately oak trees. Barney's grave was located just to the left of his grandfather's in the family plot where McCartys had been buried since 1918.
Natasha parked under a large oak at the top of a hill.
Ward reached to the floor for the flowers purchased from a florist on the way, leaned over to kiss Natasha, then opened his door and stepped out into the afternoon heat to the buzz of insects.
They walked hand in hand between the rows of graves to the familiar cluster of headstones. Still clutching hands, they stood before the newest stone and gazed down. The grass was brown due to the drought. Dried flowers crumbled in a vase that leaned against the granite base of Barney's headstone. Ward handed the new flowers to Natasha and she replaced the dead ones.
“It's so nice here,” she said. “Peaceful.”
“Barney, we love you,” Ward said, his voice choking. “We'll always love you.”
“He knows that,” Natasha said, squeezing Ward's hand. “He knows.”
Ward took Natasha into his arms and together they wept softly.
“Maybe we should come here more, together,” Natasha said.
“He isn't here,” Ward said. “Barney is in heaven. I truly believe that. He isn't in there,” he said, looking at the grave. “But we can visit this place… for us.”
They stood holding each other for ten minutes. Ward kissed Natasha gently on her lips and put his forehead against hers. Taking her hand, Ward led his wife back to the car.
FIFTY-FOUR
When they returned, the TV van was gone. Ward stopped beside the guard standing near the throat of the driveway and rolled down his window. The guard, a tall, wide- shouldered bald man, smiled when they stopped. He had a black garbage bag in his hand, fairly full by the look of it. The street looked pristine compared to only hours earlier. Several bags were already filled and lay side by side near the NO TRESPASSING sign the guards had put up around the property.
“We can pick up the garbage,” Ward told the guard.
“Gives me something to do,” the guard said, smiling.
“Looks pretty quiet,” Ward said. He noticed calluses on the man's strong hands. The black uniform looked uncomfortable in the heat. There was a large survival knife on the gun belt. The man's eyes weren't smiling in concert with his lips.
“Word's out that you're not news anymore,” the guard said. “That FBI agent told the media creeps they were wasting their time and could call Tom Wiggins if they wanted the scoop. They checked it out and hauled ass. I'm just waiting around to be officially dismissed. Todd said with the hole behind your house, you might want some protection until you don't.” He put a hand on the gun at his side. “I'll make sure nobody bothers you guys.”
“I guess you should hang around a little while,” Ward said.
“I'm not going anywhere as long as there's a threat. We'll leave the go- away sign,” he said.
“Thanks,” Natasha said. “We really appreciate it. I don't know your name.”
“People call me Thumper. Y’all have a nice evening. As long as I'm here, you won't be in any danger from any hole- dwelling creep.”
Ward pulled away, rolling the window back up as he went.
“Somehow I don't feel any safer,” Natasha commented. “He is sort of…”
“I know,” Ward answered.
