“It’s under control,” I said. “We’re doing it right now.”
“Oh, God, sorry. I better go.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“What’s the teacher say?”
“Well, he needs to be paying more attention, you know, that kind of thing. How ’bout with you? How’s it going there?”
“Oh, pretty quiet. A fire downtown. But this is interesting. They’ve called out the homicide guys in Oakwood. Not too far from our place. Some woman bought it.”
“Really?”
“Some kid, going to the door trying to sell chocolate bars, finds the driveway covered in blood, it’s leaking out from the garage, cops come and find this woman with her head bashed in. I got two people out there, trying to get something for the morning edition.”
Ms. Wilton was starting to look, if this was possible, even more annoyed.
“Listen,” I said. “I’ll give you a call later, okay?”
“Okay. See ya.”
I slipped the phone back into my jacket. “Sorry.”
“I have other people waiting,” Ms. Wilton said, “so why don’t I sum up. Paul needs to get to class on time, start paying attention, and leave his electronic toys in his locker when he comes to class.”
I nodded enthusiastically, then shrugged as we headed for the door. “I don’t know where he gets it from,” I said.
On the way out to the car, Paul refused to look at me, but said, “Thanks a whole lot, Dad. It’s hard to imagine how that could have gone any better.”
16
“YOU WANNA SLOW DOWN A BIT, Dad?” Paul said. “I’ve never seen you drive this way.”
I’d ignored the stop sign coming out of the high school parking lot, and floored it when the light at the intersection ahead of us turned yellow. It turned red well before I was through.
“Excuse me, Mr. Safety?” Paul said again, trying to get my attention.
“I want to get home,” I said.
“Okay, but remember, I said I had to get dropped off at Andy’s?”
I wasn’t sure, after the interview with his teacher, that Paul deserved to go out with his friends. Any other time, I would have taken him home and sent him to his room with orders to study until his eyes started to bleed, but at the moment I had too much else on my mind. And it might be prudent-given that a man I knew only as an e-mail address who was likely a killer had made it plain to me that he was going to figure out how to find me-to have as many members of my family as possible out of the house.
So I made a detour on the way home that would take us by Andy’s house, and despite traveling well over the limit, there was still time for Paul to push his most recent agenda.
“I’m not talking about a big tattoo. Just a small one, where you’d never even see it. Like on my back, or shoulder, or my butt.”
“You want to get a tattoo on your butt.”
“It’s not like it’s going to bother you or Mom. You won’t even see it.”
“If no one’s going to see it, then why bother to get it done?”
Paul measured his words carefully. “Well, someone might see it. Eventually. Just not you guys. There’s all sorts of neat designs. I can show you, on the Web, just so you don’t think they’re all gross. They’re really a form of art.”
“A form of art that can never be removed. You get a tattoo, you’ve got it for life.”
“They have ways of getting rid of them.”
“I’m not so sure they’re effective. And I think they’re pretty painful.” I was feeling so tired, and developing a headache. Although I’d not been all that hungry, given what I’d seen this evening, the lack of anything in my stomach was taking its toll.
“I’d just like you to think about it, that’s all. Lots of people have them, and it doesn’t make them criminals or anything. Lots of my friends do, and I know grown-ups who’ve got them, too. You know Mr. Drennan, the math teacher? He’s got this little butterfly on his arm, and there’s this guy in Grade 9, his parents let him get this guitar tattoo on-”
We were pulling to a stop out front of Andy’s. I said, “What does your sister think of this? You don’t see her pestering me for permission to do this.” Paul often turned to Angie for the guidance and wisdom her many years afforded her.
“Jeez, Dad, she’s already got one on her-” And he saw the dawn of surprise in my eyes and stopped. He opened the door, said, “See ya,” and bolted for Andy’s place.
I didn’t have time to think about where Angie might have a tattoo. I sped home, killing the lights of the Civic as I pulled into the drive. When I turned the key in the front-door lock, the bolt didn’t slide home the way it usually does. Paul had been the last one out when we’d gone over to the school, and I couldn’t recall seeing him lock it. But then again, Angie might be back from the mall and just hadn’t locked the door when she stepped into the house.
No one listens to me.
“Angie?” I called as I stepped in. I turned off my cell and left it and my keys on the table by the door, and walked into the kitchen. “You home?”
There was no answer. I called again, louder this time: “Angie!”
No one called back. But I could hear noises coming from the kitchen. The opening of the fridge, the clinking of bottles.
“Sarah?” Maybe she’d come home early. No, that wasn’t possible. Her car wasn’t in the drive, and she’d called me from the office only moments ago, when I was in Ms. Wilton’s class. “Who’s there?”
I walked past the door to the study, where the purse stuffed with cash was still stowed, and into the kitchen.
It was Rick, leaning up against the dishwasher, drinking an Amstel from our fridge. He was in his jeans and jean jacket, which he wore over a black T-shirt. Heavy black boots stuck out from the bottom of his worn jeans. He was smiling enough for me to see that one of his front teeth was chipped.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. “And where’s my candlestick, you son of a bitch?”
Rick lost his smile. “That’s not a very nice way to talk to a guy you want to fix your shower.”
“I don’t want you to fix anything. I’m going to speak to Mr. Greenway about you, about the fact that you’re a thief, that when you walk into someone’s house to fix something, there’s no telling what you’ll walk out with. Just get out. We’ll find someone else to fix our shower.”
“I didn’t even realize when I came here the other day,” Rick said, “that your name was Walker. All they gave me was an address.”
“Well, that’s me. Walker. And I’m asking you to leave.”
“Zack Walker. With a ‘Z.’”
That’s when it hit me that Rick wasn’t here to work on the shower.
He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the sheet of paper I had left behind at Stefanie Knight’s mother’s place, the one with my name and e-mail address.
“When I looked your name up in the book for an address, I thought, Shit, I know that house. I been in that house.”
I said nothing.
“When I got here, I found the door was open. You really should lock up when you leave. You never know who’s going to barge right in. But I had a look around the whole house this time. Haven’t seen it since it was under construction. Nice place. Looks like you got a son, and a daughter. That right?”
