See No Evil (5 page)

“Whatever. You know who I mean.” Lucy looked thoughtful. “I wonder what it's like to be named after a color.”

I pulled on my sleep boxers and top and headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth. Lucy followed and said, “At least his mother's maiden name wasn't magenta or chartreuse. It'd be hard on a guy being named Chartreuse.”

I paused in the middle of brushing and just looked at my housemate.

“Well, it would.”

I mumbled through the foam, “I'm sure you're right.”

Lucy's face crumpled suddenly. “Oh, Anna, you could have been killed. Right this very moment Meg and I could be having broken hearts over losing you.” She threw her arms around me, foam and all.

“Easy, Luce. I'm fine.”

“I'm not.” She gave me a hard squeeze. “Lord, thank You for keeping her safe!”

I rinsed, turned, and gave Lucy a hug in return. One of the best things that happened to me four years ago when I began teaching at Amhearst North was that Lucy, a veteran of one year, took me under her wing.

“Don't stand too near Mrs. Meanix, the English teacher, when she's excited,” she'd told me the first day in the teachers' lounge. “She spits, sort of like a llama. And watch out for old Mr. Simmons.” We both looked at the skinny old man who taught math and should have retired ten years ago. “He's got roving hands.” When all I could do was sputter, Lucy nodded vehemently, her eyes dancing. “I kid you not. And whatever you do, don't smile until after Thanksgiving.”

“What?”

“My father's advice,” Lucy said. “He's a teacher, too, though in New Jersey. ‘Remember you are not their friend, Lucy,'” she mimicked in a deep voice. “‘You are their teacher. Don't smile till after Thanksgiving. Don't send your discipline problems to the office. Take care of them yourself. And whatever you do, don't take off one day every month like so many women.'”

Lucy turned big brown eyes to me. “I'm afraid to get sick except on weekends, but I don't want to get sick then because I'll miss all the singles' stuff at church. So I have a policy never to get sick.” She grinned. “You have to come to church with Meg and me. You'll love it.”

Lucy introduced me to Meg. The three of us clicked, and soon I found myself living with them, enjoying the third bedroom and as unwilling to get sick on weekends as Lucy and Meg. There wasn't a day that went by that I didn't thank the Lord for these special friendships.

But tonight I was more than ready for solitude and a good sleep. I knew Lucy would be happy to stay and talk until all hours, so I shooed her with a flick of my hand and a smile on my face. “I've got a lot to do tomorrow, girl, so good night.”

Lucy paused in my bedroom doorway. “Be sure you dream of Ed.”

Right. Last time I dreamed of a man, he left me. Boom. Gone. Pain. Still, there was something about Ed. Gray.

I eyed my bed and the black furry boneless creature filling half of it. “Luce, you forgot Tipsy.”

I put a hand under the cat and pushed. “Off, buddy.” Moving not an inch, he turned his great head and showed me his fangs. I pushed harder.

The cat smiled, I'm positive, as Lucy gathered all twenty pounds of him close.

Moments later, snuggled under the floral print Martha Stewart sheets and summer blanket from Kmart, I found I couldn't sleep. Every creak of the house, every chug of the refrigerator's motor, every snore that came from Meaghan's room, every hum of the air-conditioning system going on or off made me go rigid.

He's not here, my practical self assured me.

How do you know that? my irrational self countered.

He doesn't know who you are or where to find you.

But he saw me. How spooky is that?

Very. Now go to sleep!

I wish.

The whole situation was preposterous. I was an art teacher, for goodness sakes, the original good girl. I painted on the side, and not even all that well if the truth be told, though I'd never admit it to my father. I sewed curtains and drapes for people for extra cash. I made fabric pictures—“fabric mosaics” Lucy called them—for the fun of it. I spent more time at church than I did at the mall. Any previous dealings with bad guys were absolutely nonexistent, any run-ins with law-enforcement authorities almost nonexistent. Almost.

Once I'd called in a child abuse report about one of my students. Once I'd gotten a ticket I couldn't afford because of my penchant for being heavy-footed. Once when I'd glanced at my watch and seen I was going to be late for a date, I'd accidentally walked out of a store with a pair of gloves in my hand. I'd rushed right back in to pay for them, probably passing the store detective coming after me to arrest me.

I'd committed one of my two serious offenses when I was six years old. I lifted a chocolate bar at a Wawa mini-mart. When I climbed into the car eating it, Dad marched me right back to the store and made me apologize. He paid for the candy, then made me work off the price by helping him with his annual garage cleaning. He made certain the task took all day.

You'd think that between the mortification and the sore muscles over the chocolate-bar incident I'd have learned my lesson, but I guess I'm just slow. Once, as a teen, I kept too much change at Kmart, using the undeserved five dollars to buy a colorful scarf. I still had the scarf, but I had yet to wear it. I kept it to remind myself of the fine line between evil and good, guilt and grace. I'd returned the five dollars as soon as I'd gotten my next babysitting job.

That was about as close as I ever came to lawbreaking and lawbreakers, Skip Schumann excepted, if mouthiness and
disrespect were breaking the law. Evil people, really bad guys, couldn't usually be bothered with ordinary goody-goody people like me. They thought we weren't any fun, and we sort of thought the same about them. We went our separate ways.

Until tonight.

I squeezed my eyes shut again and tried to get comfortable in my very comfortable bed. Lucy sneezed, Meaghan snored and I sat bolt upright, trying to see through the darkness. I told myself over and over that it was only Luce and Meg, but my nerves, busy jitterbugging up and down my spine, didn't seem to grasp that truth.

Light. I needed light. If he came after me, I wanted to see him, rather than be taken unawares. I reached for my bedside lamp. As soon as I snapped it on, all the shadows dissipated, and all my fears quieted. Just seeing that everything was normal made all the difference. With a sigh that was a combination of relief and fatigue, I slid down and pulled up the covers. I was asleep in seconds.

 

I was up at eight the next morning, down at the police station by nine, and down in my basement workshop by ten. Lucy and Meg left to run errands, and I sewed. If I was lucky, I'd have almost everything done today. The rug should be down by then, assuming the cops were finished, and I could run to the model and work before the development became deserted. I was not staying there alone ever again.

Praise music rang from my boom box, and I sang along, almost drowning out the muted roar of the sewing machine. In a momentary pause of both the machine and the CD, a muffled, “Anna, open this door,” sounded.

What in the world?

“Anna!” A fist beat rhythmically on the front door.

The music started again and I lunged for the off switch.

“Anna, come on!” The doorbell rang and rang, and knocking continued unabated.

I hurried upstairs. It sounded like Gray, but why was he banging on my door in the middle of the day?

I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the front hall. Yikes! I quickly combed my hair with my fingers and stuffed it back in the red rubber band I found in my shorts' pocket.

“Anna!”

“I'm coming! I'm coming!”

I threw the door open to find Gray, today wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, looking like an August thundercloud about to hurl lightning bolts at anyone within range. He had the day's Amhearst
News
in his hands.

He stalked into the house. “Look at this!” He shoved the paper at her.

Staring at me from the front page above the fold was a picture of Ken Ryder, looking stricken. Standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, was Gray, and standing beside Gray, looking heartbroken, was me.

“Ken Ryder, husband of victim Dorothy Ryder, being comforted by friends Grayson Edwards and Anna Volente,” read the caption beneath.

“I didn't even know the picture had been taken,” I said. “That reporter must have done it.”

Next to the picture were my head sketches of the red-shirted man. Beneath his picture were the words: “Do you know this man? Wanted for questioning in the murder of Dorothy Ryder.”

I put my forefinger on the face of the red-shirted man. “The drawings reproduced well.”

“That's not the only likeness that reproduced well,” Gray muttered. He dragged a hand through his hair.

I stared at him. “What?”

He pointed to my face, then to the caption beneath.

I went cold all over. “He knows who we are.”

D
ar Jones was not a happy man, but he also wasn't a particularly worried one. He just hated that the job hadn't gone perfectly. He prided himself in being the best hands-on for-hire killer in New Jersey, maybe the whole Northeast. Maybe the entire country.

He wasn't one of those prima donnas the movies were fixated on, the guys who used rifles and scopes and elaborate scenarios. He was a good, basic craftsman. Hire him, and your intended target went down quickly and cleanly. No prints. No clues. No DNA. No nothing but a dead body, done up close and personal so there was never any doubt.

So this time a woman saw him. Granted it irked him. After two weeks of casing the development, he knew that everyone was gone way before seven. Last night was the very first night someone other than the Ryder woman was there at that hour. Who could have guessed?

But so what? It wasn't like the woman in the window was a threat or anything. He hadn't looked like himself. So what if she saw the man with the light brown hair and the bushy mustache? She'd never finger him, not in a million years.

He ran his hand back over his naturally black, poker-straight hair and smiled to himself as he looked out his over
sized window at the Atlantic Ocean rolling relentlessly onto the Seaside, New Jersey, beach. Even that red shirt with the little pony over the heart was a disguise. He'd never wear one of those preppy rags. He'd go naked first. And khaki slacks? He shuddered.

Basic black was his color. Black jeans, black T, black athletic shoes and socks. If he had to get dressed up, like for a funeral or to eat at some fancy-schmancy restaurant, he had his black cashmere sports coat. When winter came, he had his black leather bomber. If it was unbearably cold, there was the black down jacket.

The Man in Black. Just like Johnny Cash. Too bad he couldn't sing like Cash, but then Cash, if he was still alive, couldn't kill like him. Dar grinned. To each his own.

He could still see her horrified expression when she saw his gun. His grin broadened. She probably thought she was very fortunate to have escaped with her life. She probably spent the night thanking her lucky stars.

He laughed out loud. Like he'd ever miss. If he'd wanted, she'd be as dead as the other one. But all he'd needed to do was scare her so he'd have plenty of time to drive away.

Even if she'd seen him leaving, he'd been driving the black Taurus with the Pennsylvania plate with the scene of the old square-rigged warships fighting on it. The numbers and letters on the plate were impossible to read because they blended so well with the picture. Everything was beige. The plate was registered to Jon Paul Jones, just like the false registration and insurance papers, all with a phony Pennsy address. If anybody ever tried to trace the address, they'd end up at the credit union in South Coatesville.

Dead end.

The Taurus was tucked away in New Jersey, in Tuckahoe in a garage behind the house of a little old lady who was as
daffy as they came. Every month an automatic bill payer sent her a check under his phony name, Jon Paul Jones. He kept just enough cash in the account in a Tuckahoe bank to pay her.

He turned from the window and slipped on a pair of black flip-flops because in August, the beach was too hot to walk on barefooted. He already wore his black swim trunks. He grabbed his black beach towel, draped it around his neck, and let himself out. He carried Lawrence Block's latest Bernie Rhodenbarr book. He loved reading about the thief, and he got some good ideas too.

Today he was rewarding himself for a job well done. He'd already put the ten thou for completing last night's job in the bank, joining the ten grand he'd gotten when taking the contract. Today was a day for sun and sand and the blissful relaxation of the well-satisfied. This evening he'd take himself to Moe's, his favorite hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant, then head for Atlantic City. Maybe he'd even splurge and allow himself a hundred dollars for playing the slots. He'd never be foolish enough to head for the high-stakes tables. He'd worked too hard for the dough, and as far as he was concerned, real gambling was too much like dumping your money into a shredder.

He had two other hit jobs in the queue, but they could wait a day or two. Neither had a time aspect, like some hits he did where a witness had to go before the trial date or something. These two were the plain I-hate-the-target-kill-him type.

Forget the woman who'd seen him. Besides, if she made any trouble, he knew where to find her.