Because I'm Watching (9 page)

He had needed a job, and she figured with his news experience, he understood how to run a campaign. Besides, nobody else in town would take the position. Which pretty much told Kateri exactly what her chances of winning were.

Cordelia was looking at him like he was a tasty morsel.

Cordelia had previously been married to a tasty morsel. In an oddly focused sort of way, she was attractive, and she made a lot of money.

Kateri didn't know if she should warn Noah or tell him he had won the jackpot. Probably she would mind her own business.

Kateri tapped her coffee cup with her spoon, and when she had Cordelia's attention, she asked, “About these texts—what specifically made you unhappy?”

“The text that said,
‘Electronics are working. First test run. Subject afraid, insane, malleable.'”

“Wow. Malleable?”

“I thought it sounded like torture and brainwashing. But I thought there could be something I was missing. I don't always comprehend conversations the way normal people do.”

“I'm comprehending that text the same way you are.”

“Okay. Also, whoever wrote back was cautioning, because the next text from this woman … person … said,
‘Don't back out now. She will make us a fortune.'”

Kateri felt like she'd stuck her finger in a light socket. “Sounds like a kidnapping.”

“Yes!” Cordelia dug a paper out of her briefcase. “I wrote down every text I thought came from this woman. Person. Whoever.”

Kateri took it and glanced at the texts and the associated dates. “Is there any way you can discover who is sending the messages?”

“That is against the rules of my game.” But Cordelia looked guilty.

“Did you break your own rules?”

“When I got worried, I tried to catch the signal. It's almost impossible, but I had some success, and I discovered the phone, and the service is changing every time it comes into the area.”

“Which makes it unlikely the cell companies can chase it down.” Kateri thought of the amount of territory in this county, the expensive homes tucked out of the way, the hermits and survivalists who lived off the land, the long stretches of lonely highway and the occasional narrow side road. Then there was the Olympic National Forest, valued for its wilderness … “I don't even know where to start.” But she did. She focused on Cordelia. “You sit here every weekday, working at this table. You see people come and go. Do you have any idea who this is?”

“No.”

Digging her business card out of her wallet, Kateri handed it over. “If you suspect anyone, anyone at all, call me. I need your help. I depend on you.”

Cordelia looked alarmed. “You can't depend on me.”

“I think I can. In fact, I am.” Kateri's phone vibrated and chimed. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at it. She groaned and stood up. “I have to go. Promise me you'll call me or you'll talk to Rainbow if you hold suspicions about anybody. Promise you won't tell anyone else about this.”

Cordelia nodded, but she looked sulky. “I wouldn't have said anything if I had known it would distract me from my work.”

Kateri leaned over the table and patted her hand. “You were already distracted or you wouldn't have said anything.” While Cordelia was chewing on that, Kateri walked toward the door.

Bergen intercepted her. “Can I give you a hand with anything?”

Cynically, Kateri reflected that Bergen wanted to be seen offering the little lady sheriff a hand. So she pulled out her phone and showed him the text.

He backed away, hands up. “You'll handle this better than me.”

“Maybe you ought to come along and learn. After all, you want to be sheriff.” Kateri showed all her teeth in a blinding white grin, then strode out of the café, got in her car, and drove back to the neighborhood of shotgun houses, one galloping case of PTSD, one case of sometime sanity and … Mrs. Butenschoen.

Kateri was going to have to explain to Mrs. Butenschoen why it wasn't against the law for Madeline Hewitson to trim her bushes with scissors.

If her life were a cop TV show, viewers would use it for a sleep aid.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Abruptly tired, Jacob dropped Mrs. Butenschoen's pie onto the table and seated himself in the crummy recliner.

He had done more today than he had in the past three months … or so. Hell, he didn't know how long he'd lived in this house, in the dark and the stink and the silence. He only knew he wanted to go back to yesterday, when he had been alone and nothing assaulted his senses.

Jacob looked across the way.

Maddie was contemplating the bush.

Mrs. Butenschoen was lecturing Maddie.

Without paying a bit of attention to Mrs. Butenschoen, Maddie headed toward the rear of her house.

Mrs. Butenschoen shut up, crossed her arms, and looked impatient.

When Maddie came back with full-sized hedge trimmers, a Pulaski, and a shovel, Mrs. Butenschoen splashed hissy all over her historic neighborhood.

Jacob pushed the chair into the reclining position, crossed his arms over his chest, and considered the situation.

He did long for the safety of yesterday.

But damn, Mad Maddie Hewitson kept him entertained.

Mrs. Butenschoen kept harassing Maddie.

Maddie kept whacking at the branches with the hedge trimmers. Dark green leaves flew onto the scanty lawn.

Sheriff Kwinault drove up in time to see Maddie start hacking at the center of the rhododendron with the pointed end of the Pulaski.

Apparently, Mad Maddie really had it in for that bush.

Sheriff Kwinault clumsily vaulted the fence, took Mrs. Butenschoen by the shoulders, moved her aside, and spoke to Maddie.

Maddie stopped assaulting the rhododendron, put the head of the Pulaski on the ground, and answered Sheriff Kwinault.

Mrs. Butenschoen started in again, yammering at Sheriff Kwinault about Maddie, and her voice was the only voice audible from this distance.

Sheriff Kwinault turned to her, spoke.

Mrs. Butenschoen kept jabbering.

Sheriff Kwinault paced toward her until they were nose to nose.

Mrs. Butenschoen tried, she really tried to retain control, but in the face of authority she visibly wavered, then shut up and flounced off toward her house.

When she had slammed her front door behind her, Sheriff Kwinault spoke to Mad Maddie as she walloped the bush.

Maddie turned, faced her, and answered.

Jacob got a good look at her face.

She didn't look crazy to him. She looked tired. She looked determined. But not crazy.

Apparently, whatever she said satisfied Sheriff Kwinault, for she touched the brim of her hat, walked around to the gate and down the driveway to her patrol car. She was limping as if it had been a long day. She opened the driver's side door, looked across at the roof of the car at Jacob, and gave him a nod.

Like Maddie, Sheriff Kwinault looked tired. And determined.

Jacob started to think Kateri Kwinault deserved to keep the sheriff's job.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jacob had to hand it to Maddie. She hacked at the bush until she was sweaty and dirty, then dragged a chaise lounge out from the back, stretched out in the shade, and went fast asleep.

Jacob watched over her until he realized what he was doing. Abruptly furious, he stood and was headed back toward the dark of his room when a guy in a Ford F-350 drove up, wheeled his truck around, and backed into Jacob's front yard.

Jacob stopped and wavered between safety and knowing who was invading his privacy now.

A tall Native American got out of the driver's seat. He wore jeans, a battered cowboy hat, and a dirty snap-front shirt that would surely send Mrs. Butenschoen into a froth of malice and indignation. He walked up to the porch and in a baritone voice said, “I'm Web. Berk sent me. I'm supposed to clean up the scrap and haul it away.”

Jacob sat back down and shrugged.

Web shrugged back and started flinging the pieces of porch railing, plaster, and shingles into the truckbed. He left once for the dump, then returned for another load.

Jacob liked Web. He mostly communicated in grunts. The electricians showed up; he liked them, too. They spoke in low tones, and they worked fast. He thought, by the glances he intercepted, that they were less sanguine about his appearance than Mr. Wodzicki and Mrs. Butenschoen. He thought again about cutting his hair. But thinking about it made him tired. He dozed, and woke up when Web said, “I bought a sandwich at the grocery store. You want some?”

Jacob started to say no.

Web didn't wait, just tore it in half and handed it over. “Trade you for the pie.”

“Take it.”

“Okay. Where are your cups? I've got coffee.”

Coffee. God, coffee sounded good. Hot, dark, bitter. How long had it been since he'd had coffee? “In the kitchen, next to the sink.” Jacob sniffed the sandwich. He took a bite. It was pretty crummy; a cold grocery store sandwich on white bread with too much mayonnaise.

Damn Madeline Hewitson. She'd made him remember what good food tasted like. But he was hungry, shaking, so he took another bite.

Web came back with two discolored Melmac cups hanging off one big, hooked finger. He poured coffee out of a thermos and handed Jacob a cup.

Jacob placed the sandwich on the table beside him. He put his nose close to the steam and smelled coffee. Good coffee: toasted nuts, black pepper, a smoky campfire … He took a sip. Damn. How had he forgotten this particular pleasure?

Web sat down on the trunk from the attic and ate, and stared across the street.

Mad Maddie got up, picked up her shovel, and surveyed what remained of the shattered rhododendron.

“She the crazy one everyone's talking about?” Web asked.

“No, that's me.”

Deadpan, Web looked at Jacob. “She the crazy lady everyone's talking about?”

“Probably.”

Maddie started digging at the roots.

“She's lousy with a shovel,” Web observed.

She was. She kept hopping on the end and slipping off, and once she got it deep enough under the bush that the blade stuck and she had to wrestle it free.

“I'm taking my lunch hour, right? I'm not charging you now.” Web stood up and dusted his hands on his pants. “Can't stand it anymore.” He walked over to his truck, got in, drove over to Mad Maddie's, and backed up to the fence. He got a chain out of his crossover toolbox, hooked it to his trailer hitch, jumped the fence, and gently pushed Maddie aside. He wrapped the chain around the base of the bush, got in his truck, eased off the clutch and tore the rhododendron's roots free of the ground.

Maddie smiled.

Jacob stared.

She not only had a nice ass, she had a nice smile, warm as a down comforter on a cold winter morning.

He looked away. He put down the coffee. He stood. He went back into his bedroom, shut the door, and stretched out on his bed.

Mistake.

He slept.

He remembered.

He came awake fighting and screaming, careened around the room, broke his toe and his face, and only stopped when he knocked himself out against … something. When he returned to consciousness, the pain was there, and he welcomed it. He used the bathroom and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like a woolly mammoth with two black eyes and smears of dried blood from the open gash on his forehead.

Damn Madeline Hewitson. He hadn't had an episode like that since he'd shut himself in here, and it didn't take Freud to know what had happened. She had broken open his house and broken open his memories. He couldn't live with this pain.

No, not pain. Call it what it was. Shame. He couldn't stand to look into his own eyes.

He didn't want to go out to the living room. It was light out there. Even at night it was light out there. But two bites of sandwich weren't enough; he had reached the point where he had to eat. If he didn't, he would collapse and not die. Not die, because Berk Moore would come by with more work orders, and when Jacob didn't answer, Moore would break down the door. He'd call an ambulance, they'd take Jacob to the hospital, and then … they'd make him undergo more psychological treatment. He was absofuckinglutely never going to do that again. He didn't want to be healed. He didn't deserve to be healed.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jacob trudged to the kitchen.

Apparently he hadn't slept more than a couple of hours, because everyone was still there working.

After one horrified glance, the electricians deliberately avoided looking at him.

Web contemplated him, but said only, “Your groceries showed up.” He pointed at the cooler. “Kid put them in there.”

Jacob opened the cooler, took out another crummy, flavorless white bread, bologna, and mayonnaise sandwich, and ate. He drank water, then he sat down and waited for the night. Time was marked by occurrences, not by the clock.

Soon the electricians knocked off.

Web drove his pickup away.

The sun sets after ten.

The lights at Mrs. Butenschoen's went off after the news.

This time of the year, it wasn't fully dark until eleven. The lights stayed on at Maddie's. She'd managed to tack her shades back up. He could see her silhouette seated there, facing the window. She was working on something, drawing or writing or both.

About two, her head nodded, and he thought,
Here we go.

He wasn't being mean. He didn't want her to imagine something was attacking her. Misery loves company, and all that crap, but his face hurt and his toe was swollen and throbbing and he had banged the hell out of his shins. He didn't wish those wounds on anyone. He knew so well what it meant when sleep was your enemy.

Which is why he was surprised when she rose from her desk and calmly walked away. He was more surprised when she came out her front door, dressed for work in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and strolled down her driveway. She didn't hesitate; she turned toward the end of the street, toward the end with the metal traffic guard set up to stop cars from driving over the cliff into the ocean.