Just One Look

Wu moved to the driver’s seat now. He had a plan.

• • •

Charlaine had a bad feeling the moment she saw the policeman step out of the car.

For one thing, he was alone. She had assumed that there would be two of them, partners, again from TV-Starsky and Hutch, Adam-12, Briscoe and Green. She realized now that she had made a mistake. Her call had been too casual. She should have claimed to see something menacing, something frightening, so that they would have arrived more wary and prepared. Instead she had simply come across as a nosey neighbor, a dotty woman who had nothing better to do but call the cops for any little thing.

The policeman’s body language too was all wrong. He sauntered toward the door, slack and casual, not a care in the world. Charlaine couldn’t see the front door from where she was, only the driveway. When the officer disappeared from view, Charlaine felt her stomach drop.

She considered shouting out a warning. The problem was-and this might sound strange-the new Pella windows they had installed last year. They opened vertically, with a hand crank. By the time she slid open both locks and cranked the handle, well, the officer would already be out of sight. And really, what could she yell? What kind of warning? What in the end did she really know?

So she waited.

Mike was in the house. He was downstairs in the den, watching the Yankees on the YES Network. The divided night. They never watched TV together anymore. The way he flipped the remote was maddening. They liked different shows. But really, she didn’t think that was it. She could watch anything. Still Mike took the den; she had the bedroom. They both watched alone, in the dark. Again she didn’t know when that had started. The children weren’t home tonight-Mike’s brother had taken them to the movies-but when they were, they stayed in their own rooms. Charlaine tried to limit the Web surf time, but it was impossible. In her youth, friends talked on the phone for hours. Now they instant-messaged and lord-knew-what over the Internet.

This was what her family became-four separate entities in the dark, interacting with one another only when necessary.

She saw the light go on in the Sykes garage. Through the window, the one covered with flimsy lace, Charlaine could see a shadow. Movement. In the garage. Why? There would be no need for the police officer to be in there. She reached for the phone and dialed 911, even as she began to head for the stairs.

“I called you a little while ago,” she told the 911 operator.

“Yes?”

“About a break-in at my neighbor’s house.”

“An officer is responding.”

“Yeah, I know that. I saw him pull up.”

Silence. She felt like a dope.

“I think something might have happened.”

“What did you see?”

“I think he may have been attacked. Your officer. Please send someone quickly.”

She hung up. The more she’d explain, the stupider it would sound.

The familiar churning noise started up. Charlaine knew what it was. Freddy’s electric garage door. The man had done something to the cop. He was going to escape.

And that was when Charlaine decided to do something truly stupid.

She thought back to those wicked-witch-thin heroines, the ones with the mind-scooped stupidity, and wondered if any of them, even the most brain dead, had ever done something so colossally stupid. She doubted it. She knew that when she looked back on the choice she was about to make-assuming she survived it-she would laugh and maybe, just maybe, have a little more respect for the protagonists who enter dark homes in just their bra and panties.

Here was the thing: The Asian guy was about to escape. He had hurt Freddy. He had hurt a cop; she was sure of it. By the time the cops responded, he would be gone. They wouldn’t find him. It would be too late.

And if he got away, then what?

He had seen her. She knew that. At the window. He had probably already figured out that she was the one who called the police. Freddy could be dead. So too the cop. Who was the only witness left?

Charlaine.

He would come back for her, wouldn’t he? And even if he didn’t, even he decided to let her be, well, at best, she would live in fear. She’d be jumpy in the night. She’d look for him in crowds during the days. Maybe he would simply want revenge. Maybe he would go after Mike or the kids…

She could not let that happen. She had to stop him now.

How?

Wanting to prevent his escape was all fine and good, but let’s stay real here. What could she do? They didn’t own a gun. She couldn’t just run outside and jump on his back and try to claw his eyes. No, she had to be cleverer than that.

She had to follow him.

On the surface it sounded ridiculous, but add it up. If he got away, the result would be fear. Pure, unadulterated, probably unending terror until he was captured, which might be never. Charlaine had seen the man’s face. She had seen his eyes. She couldn’t live with that.

Following him-running a tail, as they say on TV-made sense, when you considered the alternatives. She would follow him in her car. She would keep her distance. She would have the cell phone. She would be able to tell the police where he was. The plan did not involve following him long, just until the police could take over. Right now, if she didn’t act, she knew what would happen: The police would arrive; the Asian man would be gone.

There was no alternative.

The more she thought about it, the less nutsy it sounded. She’d be in a moving car. She’d stay comfortably behind him. She’d be on her cell phone with a 911 operator.

Wasn’t that safer than letting him go?

She ran downstairs.

“Charlaine?”

It was Mike. He stood there, in the kitchen, standing over the sink eating peanut-butter crackers. She stopped for a second. His eyes probed her face in a way only he could, in a way only he ever had. She fell back to her days at Vanderbilt, when they first fell in love. The way he looked at her then, the way he looked at her now. He was skinnier back then and so handsome. But the look, the eyes, they were the same.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I need”-she stopped, caught her breath-“I need to go somewhere.”

His eyes. Probing. She remembered the first time she ever saw him, that sunny day at Centennial Park in Nashville. How far had they come? Mike still saw. He still saw her in a way that no one else ever had. For a moment Charlaine could not move. She thought that she might cry. Mike dropped the crackers into the sink and started toward her.

“I’ll drive,” Mike said.

chapter 18

Grace and the famous rocker known as Jimmy X were alone in the den-cum-playroom. Max’s Game Boy was lying on its back. The battery case had broken, so now the two double As were held in place by Scotch tape. The game cartridge, lying next to it as if it’d been spit out, was called Super Mario Five, which, according to Grace’s less than sophisticated eye, appeared to be exactly the same as Super Mario One through Four.

Cora had left them alone and returned to her role as cybersleuth. Jimmy had still not spoken. He sat with his forearms against his thighs, his head hanging, reminding Grace of the first time she’d seen him, in her hospital room not long after she regained consciousness.

He wanted her to talk first. She could see that. But she had nothing to say to him.

“I’m sorry to stop by so late,” he said.

“I thought you had a gig tonight.”

“Already over.”

“Early,” she said.

“The concerts usually end by nine. It’s how the promoters like it.”

“How did you know where I lived?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I guess I’ve always known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer and she didn’t push it. For several seconds the room was dead silent.

“I’m not sure how to begin,” Jimmy said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “You still limp.”

“Good opening,” she said.

He tried to smile.

“Yes, I limp.”

“From…?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I got off easy.”