The Neighbor (31 page)

Sandy was pregnant.

He needed to do something.

Couldn’t access his computer. Couldn’t confront Ethan Hastings. Couldn’t run. What to do? What to do?

It came to him, shortly after two
A.M.:
his last course of action.

It would involve leaving his daughter, sleeping alone upstairs. In four years, he’d never done such a thing. What if she woke up? Found the house once again empty and started screaming hysterically?

Or what if there was someone else out there, someone lurking in the shadows, waiting for Jason to make his first mistake so he could swoop in and grab Ree? She knew something more about Wednesday night. D.D. believed it; he did, too. If someone had abducted Sandy, and if that same someone knew Ree had been a witness …

D.D. had sworn the cops were watching his house. A promise or a threat. He had to hope it was a little of both.

Jason went upstairs, changing into black jeans and a black sweatshirt. He paused outside Ree’s door, straining his ears for any sound of movement. Then, when the silence unnerved him, he had to crack the door open to reassure himself that his four-year-old daughter was still alive.

She slept in a rounded huddle, one arm thrown over her face, Mr. Smith tucked into the curve of her knees.

And Jason remembered clearly then, vividly, the moment he’d first watched her slide into the world. How wrinkly and small and blue. The flail of her fists. The tight, screwed-up pucker of her wailing mouth. The way he instantaneously, absolutely fell in love with every square inch of her. His daughter. His lone miracle.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

Sandy was pregnant.

“I will keep you safe.”

Sandy was pregnant.

“I will keep you all safe.”

He left his daughter and jogged down the street.

| CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR |

You know the thing that takes you the longest to get used to in prison? The sound. The sheer, unrelenting noise of men, 24/7. Men grunting, men farting, men snoring, men fucking, men screaming. Inmates muttering away in their own delusional world. Convicted felons, talking, talking, talking even as they’re sitting on the john, as if shitting in plain sight is somehow easier if they talk through the entire freaking event.

First month in the system, I didn’t sleep a wink. I was too overwhelmed by the smells, the sights, but mostly the unrelenting sound that never shuts up, never gives you even thirty seconds to escape to some far corner of your mind where you can pretend you aren’t nineteen years old and this didn’t just happen to you.

I got jumped week three. Knew that by the sound of soft-soled shoes suddenly rushing up behind me. Then came other time-honored prison sounds—the wet thump of one man’s fist connecting against another man’s kidney, the crack of a skull against the cinder-block wall, the excited cries of the other zoo animals as I lay in a stunned heap, my orange suit somewhere around my ankles as one, two, three—hell, maybe half a dozen guys went at it.

No one goes to prison and comes home a virgin. No sirree, Bob.

Jerry visited me week four. Only visitor I ever had. My stepdad sat across from me, took in my bruised face, shell-shocked eyes, and started to laugh.

“Toldya you wouldn’t last a fucking month, you prissy little piece of shit.”

Then my stepfather left.

He’s the one who turned me in. He found my stash of letters, the ones I’d written to “Rachel.” So he called the cops, but not before ambushing me the instant I walked in from school. He caught me above the eye with the metal locker I’d used to store my few personal possessions. Then he’d gone after me with his fists.

Jerry was six two and two hundred and twenty pounds. Used to be a star high school football player, back in the day, then worked the lobster boats before he lost two fingers and figured out he liked sponging off women instead. My mom had been act one. But after she died when I was seven, he’d found several replacements. I was just along for the ride after that, no more family, just the little blond-haired kid Jerry used to pick up chicks. Wasn’t even his kid, I tried to tell them, but the women didn’t care. Apparently, widowers are sexy, even ones with enormous beer guts and only eight remaining digits.

Jerry hit like a Mack truck, and I was done after the first blow. He landed twenty more, just to be thorough about things. Then, when I was curled up, coughing up blood, he called the cops to come take out the trash.

Cops didn’t say boo when they walked through the door. Just nodded at Jerry, gazed down at my sorry ass.

“He’s the one?”

“Yes suh. And she’s only fourteen. I’m telling you, he’s one sick sonuvabitch.”

Cops dragged me to my feet. I was still coughing blood, swaying in the wind, eye swelling shut.

Then Rachel appeared. Came up the walkway, fresh off the bus from junior high, lost in her own thoughts. Then slowly but surely, she realized the front door was already open, that a whole cluster of blue suits were standing there. We all watched the comprehension wash over her face.

Then, gazing at my smashed-in nose and rapidly swelling eye, she started to scream and scream and scream.

I wanted to tell her I’d be okay.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry.

I wanted to tell her I loved her and it had been worth it. The pain, everything. I loved her that much.

But I never got to say anything. I blacked out. By the time I regained consciousness, I was in county lockup and I never saw Rachel again.

I pled guilty for her, spared her the trauma of the trial just like the DA asked me to. I gave up my freedom. I gave up my future.

But the courts will tell you it wasn’t true love.

I know what I gotta do tonight, and it has me all pissed off. The pretty cop lady is gonna come back. She has that look about her. A dog with a bone. And the guys at the garage are gonna come over, too. Except they’re gonna bring baseball bats, and rolls of quarters in their fists. They got that look about them, too—you know, the overexcited drool of muscle heads armed with pitchforks.

Even Wendell called me this afternoon, the fucking flasher from group therapy. None of us is supposed to have each other’s personal info, but Wendell no doubt bribed some flunky just so he could grill me for the inside skinny. He’d watched the press conference on the missing woman and wanted to hear all about it. Not that he thought I was innocent, mind you. Not that he was calling to offer support. No, he wanted details. Exactly what Sandra Jones looked like, exactly what she sounded like, exactly what she felt like when I squeezed out her last breath. Wendell has no doubt that I killed her. And he doesn’t care. He just wants me to share the glory so he has something fresh to fantasize about while whacking off.

Everyone’s got an opinion about me, and I’m just plain fucking sick of it.

So I hit the liquor store. Screw my probation. I’m already gonna get arrested and I haven’t done anything wrong. So following the time-honored tradition that I might as well commit the crime, since
apparently I’m serving the time, I’m getting liquored up. No beer for me. I’m gonna do this the right away.

Maker’s Mark whiskey. That’s what my stepdad always bought. I used it the first night I seduced Rachel. Poured us giant shots mixed with lemonade. What are a couple bored kids gonna do after school but steal from the liquor cabinet?

I buy two bottles, practically jogging all the way home, because now that I’ve decided to be bad, I don’t want to waste a moment of it. I crack open the first liter, drinking straight from the bottle. One sip down, I nearly cough up a lung. I’ve never been a big drinker, not even as a teenage slacker. I’ve forgotten just how badly whiskey can burn.

“Jesus Christ!” I gasp. But I keep at it. Oh, I keep at it.

Half a dozen swigs later, my belly is nice and warm and I already feel calmer, loose even. Perfect for what I gotta do next.

I go into my closet. Cast off all my clothes, and there it is. A giant metal locker. The object I’m pretty sure Officer Blondie found earlier and now wants to ask me lots of questions about. Let her. Just let her.

I pick up the locker, last piece of my old life, and stagger with it out to the back yard. Night’s cold. I should put on a sweatshirt. Something other than my usual ugly white tee. I drink more Maker’s Mark instead. That’ll warm you to your toes, yes sirree, Bob.

I crack open the locker. It’s filled with notes. I don’t know why Jerry didn’t toss them. My best guess is that Rachel grabbed the box, maybe that very afternoon. She carried it away. She saved it for me.

And somehow, some way, one afternoon while I was out working at Vito’s garage, she left it on the front step of my apartment for me. I came home, and boom, there it was. No packaging. No note. Not even a follow-up phone call. I guess it had to be her, right, because who else would do such a thing? And it made me consider that she would be seventeen now, old enough to drive, fearless enough to brave the trip from Portland, Maine, into the big city of Boston.

Maybe she’d discovered my address on the checks I sent to Jerry. Maybe once she realized where I lived, she had to pay me a visit. See how I was doing.

Did she read the letters? Did it help her understand why I did what I did?

I went through the contents often the first few weeks. Best I could tell, every single letter I ever wrote was there, including the rough drafts of bad poetry, the get-well card I made when she had mono, the bits of verse I tried to write when really I oughtta stick to tuning engines. I searched for responses she might have scribbled in the margins, maybe hints of lipstick, a greasy print from the palm of her hand.

One night, in a fit of inspiration, I sprayed the letters with lemon juice, because I’d just watched a
MythBusters
episode where they used citric acid to uncover disappearing ink. Nothing.

So I waited for her to return, day after day after day. Because she knew where I lived, and God, I hoped, I prayed to see her again. Just to have five minutes to tell her something, to tell her everything. Just to … see her.

The waiting game has proved to be a lot like the searching-for-scribbles-in-the-margin game. All these months later, I got nothing to show for it.

And I wonder now, as I wondered every single fucking night in prison, did she ever love me at all?

I toss back another hit of Maker’s Mark, and then, before the burn can leave my throat, I flick the match and watch the world’s most expensive collection of love letters start to burn. I sprinkle them with whiskey for good measure, and the fire roars its approval.

Except, at the last moment, I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.

I’m reaching in with my bare hands. I’m grabbing whatever little scraps I can even as the fire licks my wrists and melts the hair on the back of my hands. The pieces of paper are curling up, disintegrating to the touch, floating away as burning embers.

“No,” I cry stupidly. “No, no, come back. No.”

Then I’m chasing floating pieces of fire around the back yard, as my forearms burn and my legs wobble unsteadily, and suddenly for the first time, it comes back to me: sound.

You never forget the sounds of prison.

And I hear prison sounds right now, coming from the other side of the yard.

My hair is on fire. I don’t notice it at the time, and that’s probably what saves my neighbor’s life: me, tearing around to the front of the house, my arms waving wildly while my hair begins to spark bright orange flames.

I come careening around the corner and three guys look up at once.

“Aidan,” the first one says stupidly. His name is Carlos; I recognize his voice immediately: he works at the garage.

Then they simultaneously glance down at the black heap on the sidewalk. “Oh shit,” the second guy says.

“But if he’s Aidan,” the third guy starts, clearly not the sharpest tool in the box. He has his booted foot on the downed man’s back, and he’s bent over with his right arm drawn back, captured mid-punch.

I realize at that moment that I’m still holding the Maker’s Mark bottle, so I do the sensible thing and smash the bottom on the corner of Mrs. H.’s vinyl-sided house. Then I hold the jagged remains above my head, and hyped up on cheap whiskey and unrequited love, I launch into the fray, screaming like a banshee.

Three black-clad figures scatter, Carlos leaping out to an early lead, his arms pumping. Bachelor number three proves once again to be slow and stupid. I catch him across the upper arm with my impromptu weapon, and he screeches like a cat as I draw blood.

“Shit, shit, shit,” guy number two keeps saying. I jab him in the side. He jumps clear. I slash down and catch part of his thigh. “Carlos,” he’s screaming now. “Carlos, Carlos, what the fuck?”

I’m wild. I’m drunk and pissed off and tired of being a doormat in the game of life. I’m swinging at Stupid Slow Guy, I’m slashing at Screeching, Oh Shit Guy. I’m going nuts and the only thing that saves them is that I’m the world’s worst brawler when I’m sober, let alone when I’m drunk. I’m all fire and no focus.

Soon enough, the two dudes manage to pull free from my wind-milling madness and bolt down the darkened street in Carlos’s long-gone wake. That just leaves me, lunging at shadows and roaring obscene death threats until finally I realize my skull is screaming in agony and I smell something terrible.