From A Dead Sleep Page 18

  Two wine glasses, one empty and one half full of White Zin, lined the wide top of a thick coffee table near an open bottle. A centerpiece with two tall, lit candles sat beside the wine glasses. An unseen wall clock’s pendulum glided back and forth. It almost sounded like a faint, comforting heartbeat under thin, metallic hands that read a quarter ‘til one.

  Lisa had never noticed it before, but Marty bore a notable resemblance to her husband, especially right then as she twisted her fingers in his short, silky blonde hair. She guided his head in again to press her glossy, carmine-shaded lips to his ear. It had been so long since she’d felt the warm breath of a man along her neck. Though it felt wrong, it also felt good.

  When Marty had arrived at her doorstep with a VHS cassette in tote and clad in his light-blue, neatly pressed guard uniform, he was noticeably nervous. Lisa figured that thoughts of losing his job had occupied his mind the entire drive up. He was charming though— not in an overconfident or cocky way, but almost boyish. Maybe he knew why he had been invited up, but his cautious demeanor signaled that he was ready to interpret the slightest hesitation from her as a stern indication to leave. Now wearing tight-fitting jeans and a low-cut, black silk top, Lisa was certain she wasn’t giving off any rejection vibes.

  She quickly and methodically unbuttoned his shirt as they kissed. A gratified sigh left her lips as his hands went to her slim waist. She hugged his hips with her thighs. Both expressed a hunger that hadn’t been satisfied in some time. She saw her husband in the guard, not just in his hair, but in the shape of his chiseled face that was detailed by the glow of the flames. His touch didn’t feel distant or uneasy, but familiar.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” she heard him say between breaths and before he lowered his lips to her neck, just above where the edge of her shirt rested.

  Her mind wandered to a memory from a trip she and her husband had taken a year and a half ago. A ski trip over a long weekend at the Copper Mountain resort in Colorado. Their room overlooked the white evergreen landscape that had just enjoyed a fresh dusting of snow. She’d told her husband that she loved him when their eyes met above the thick, burgundy carpet where they had laid a white, feather comforter underneath them. When he didn’t hear her, she placed her warm hands along the sides of his face, held his gaze, and mouthed it clearly. She recalled the wide grin that formed on his face, illuminated by flames of a similar ambiance to what she was lost in now. She thought she had forgotten what it felt like when she and her husband kissed, but she hadn’t after all.

  When Marty’s face rose to meet hers and their eyes connected, it was no longer her husband she was with; it was the nice man she’d sometimes greet in passing on her way to and from town. A good man, she was sure of by now, but not Kyle.

  A swooning feeling of indiscretion arrived unannounced. Her body went motionless and removed. He quickly noticed.

  “Hey . . . Are you okay?”

  She smiled apologetically and cupped his shoulder with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  His head lowered, not in complete disappointment but in acceptance of a half-expected outcome. His mouth revealed a smirk to let her know that he understood. “Mr. Kimble’s a lucky man,” he said a bit louder than a whisper.

  His words drew out an appreciative smile from the lonely woman beneath him. He slid to the carpet and rose up to his feet where he began buttoning his shirt back up. His body eclipsed the flickering light from the fireplace and Lisa lost track of the contour of his face in the dark, but he seemed to her to be having trouble with his shirt.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  After assessing himself for a moment, he chuckled and explained that she had yanked off one of his buttons, right at the center of his shirt. She giggled and apologized, and he told her not to worry.

  She grinned when he extended his hand to her. A gentleman until the end. She took it and let him pull her to her feet.

  He picked up his things and was out the door in less than a minute’s time.

  She watched the red taillights of his car vanish, and she thought of how awkward it would be the next time their paths would assuredly cross. She wondered if she’d find the strength to look him in the eye and speak to him, even in casual conversation.

  It wasn’t until she picked up the television remote to flip off the picture that she realized Marty had left the movie behind. She’d make sure that it found its way back into the guard station at the front gate, but she would probably return it during a different guard’s shift.

  She blew out the two candles on the table, and she was suddenly left alone in the dark with her thoughts. The room felt warm so she shuffled along furniture in the dimness until she found a side window that she cracked open with the twist of her wrist. A light breeze poured in and she took a deep breath that relieved some of the tension in her chest.

  She switched on some track lighting near the staircase. It wasn’t terribly bright but it shed enough of a glaze across the evidence of her late-night visitor that she scowled at the scene. She snatched her wine glass from the coffee table and downed it quickly, which left an unpleasant burn in her throat. Her glare then swung to the telephone that sat along her kitchen counter and she crossed the room to it in no time. Her fingers began to press a combination of buttons but she stopped herself before the call was completed. She slammed the receiver down on the base in frustration.

  Her eyes tightened and she flipped on the power button of a small radio that sat next to the phone. The dual speakers emitted a familiar melody amidst accompanying static that dissipated when she toyed with the tuner. Her eyes closed and the fine features of her face soothed to the slow tune of an old Ray Charles song titled “You Don’t Know Me.” It was a personal song to her, and its random timeliness was nothing short of eerie. It was the song she and her husband had danced to on their second date when they ended up in a nightclub inside the Golden Nugget casino in the wee hours of the morning. She’d loved the song ever since watching Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell dance to it in the movie Groundhog Day. She enthusiastically tried her best to reenact the scene with her husband-to-be that night, guiding him through the steps as best she could as an uneasy grin resided on his face, signaling he hadn’t a clue what was going on.

  She later set the same song as a digital ringtone on his cellphone so it would play aloud when she called his number. Though she never expected him to pick up, she hoped that those he worked with would hear the tune and know that he was loved, and perhaps ask him questions about her. She added it to her own phone as well.

  When the song ended and the calm voice of a late-night deejay took over the air, her eyes opened to absorb the stillness of the dark, barren cottage, and her husband was still not there.

  “Damn you, Kyle!” she screamed at the empty room.

  Chapter 25

  His eyes stretched to determine if he was really seeing what he thought he was. It can’t be. How could I have missed this?

  The chirping of morning birds and the clamor of sporadic road construction down the street poured in through the driver’s side window that had been left open a crack overnight. The temperature was comfortable, possibly in the high sixties already.

  Sean’s large shoulders dangled over the edge of the vinyl bench seat with the top corner of his head resting along the floorboard. His eyes were transfixed on the narrow opening below the passenger seat and they pulsated as they adjusted to the morning light. He sluggishly turned his body at a sharper angle to shove an arm up underneath. His lips curled in satisfaction when he felt an aluminum cylinder in his hand. Out came an unopened can of beer that had dwelled there unnoticed for months. Sean pulled himself to a seated position and straightened his stiff neck before punching open the tab. Warm but wet, the contents felt good sliding down his parched throat. It would have gone better with the pizza he’d devoured last night, but a dry belch of layered cheese and pepperoni did make for a more complete breakfast.

  After crawling back into the front
seat, he was stunned to see that the same guard as before was still out by the front gate. He even looked fresh, suggesting that he had either left during the night and came back for another shift, or that he was super-human. Sean very much doubted the latter. The guard was now outside his station doing some tidying up.

  “Pussy,” Sean muttered to himself with a smirk as he watched the guard clean the outside window of his station with a bottle of Windex and a fistful of paper towels.

  It was Tuesday morning. It didn’t seem right to Sean that it had only been three days since he’d watched that desperate stranger blow a hole through the back of his head, but after recounting the pivotal events in his mind, he realized it was indeed true.

  He leaned forward in his seat and glared into the rearview mirror. His eyes looked as tired as he felt. Patches of his short hair were flowing in multiple directions, and the overgrowth of his thick whiskers made him look like a lumberjack. He couldn’t remember when he had last brushed his teeth. His hand glided to the back of his head where he scratched the constant itch.

  The slowing speed of a car along the main drag caught his attention as he lowered himself back down into his seat. It was a shiny, dark gray BMW with its signal on, preparing to turn onto Bluff Walk Road. He watched the security guard take notice of the incoming car and lower the spray bottle to his belt loop. The driver pulled into the small entrance in front of the gate. From Sean’s vantage point, he saw the driver exchange quick pleasantries with the guard who then reached his hand inside the station’s doorway. The gate slowly opened by electronic motor. The car coasted in and disappeared around the edge of the wall that obscured Sean’s view. The gate closed and the guard returned to the window.

  Sean was confident he didn’t have the credentials to just pull up to the front gate and be let in. He wasn’t sure if one had to be a resident or be on a guest list, but his ability to charm—or bullshit, in lay terms—wouldn’t trump his scanty appearance. Unshaven, wearing a weathered gray sweatshirt with dirty jeans and black work-boots, and driving a late ’70s clunker—it would have taken one hell of a story.

  Sean started the Nova up and pulled back onto the main street, hanging a left and crossing in front of the entrance. He turned right when he got to the end of the brick wall and rounded the corner. The road only went down about fifty yards before it dead-ended into another wall, this one a couple feet taller with a darker color of brick that looked newer than what surrounded the gated community. A couple of multicolored newspaper vending machines stood in front. There was a bit of a shoulder to the road just before it met brick. He parked there.

  Through his open window, he heard the distant sound of water splashing somewhere on the other side of the larger wall along with faint cries of what had to be seagulls. He figured there was probably a lake nearby. He leaned across the bench seat and peered up from the passenger side window. Getting over that eight-foot wall shouldn’t be that hard. There were no security cameras that he could see. He’d just have to wait for the traffic to clear from the main street for a few seconds so as not to be seen. He opened his window and began to climb out before hesitating. His eyes shifted to his glove box. He had no idea what he could expect to find at 114 Bluff Walk Road, and that concerned him. All he knew was that the location was somehow tied to that stranger on the bridge whose last possessions included a gun with a silencer, a bloody bandage, and a pair of night-vision goggles.

  “Yep,” he grumbled before letting the glove box drop open and pulling out a Magnum revolver.

  It was a six-inch barreled Colt Python with a nickel finish that shone from the sun above. The seasoned wooden grip was comfortable in his hand. It had belonged to his father, and it was the only inherited item he was never able to bring himself to pawn, even during the toughest of times. This was partially due to Sean’s fondness for guns, but it was more than that. One of his last memories of his father was the two of them out in the forest, shooting at beer cans and paper targets with that gun. His father rarely spent any one-on-one time with him. He was largely a stranger to Sean as a young boy—working all day and coming home late at night, and consumed with his own interests on the weekends. But that day had been different. His dad was different. He wanted to be there with his son, even packing lunch for them to eat.

  That day, Sean’s father had taught him to shoot. He taught him how to load, align the sights, take a deep breath, and squeeze that trigger. Sitting in the car alone now, with that gun in his hand in an unfamiliar place, Sean drifted back to that day long ago. He felt his father’s large arms around him, helping him to steady his aim; his father’s chin draped over his shoulder; the smell of chewing tobacco from his father’s shirt pocket. Take a breath, steady yourself, and squeeze.

  It occurred to him years later, that on that day, his father already knew he’d be leaving. Perhaps his dad wanted to be a father to his son once before he was gone. Or maybe it was his way of teaching Sean to replace him as the man of the house, to take care of his mother and Diana. The new protector. Whatever the motivation, it was a memory that Sean held close to his heart.

  He slid the barrel of the gun down the back of his jeans, letting his clumpy sweatshirt conceal the grip. He locked his car, waited for traffic to subside, and leapt up the wall. His arms hooked the top of the wall and he pulled himself up with a grunt. He quickly dropped down to the ground on the other side where shade engulfed him.

  He suddenly found himself in another world—almost as if in a story book. He stood at the edge of a thick forest that served as home to trees of all sizes and varieties. Most were tall, with dark trunks and limbs and shiny leaves. Mixed in were smaller aspen whose white and black bark reminded him of Winston. A few pine trees also found their way among the vegetation. The soil was dark and damp beneath his feet. Sporadic, light-colored wildflowers accented the landscape, which angled its way up a hill of moderate steepness that Sean hadn’t been able to see from outside the wall. From a distance, he could make out the paved road—Bluff Walk. It led from the entrance into a curved path up the hill. The pavement was very well kept, looking almost new.

  As long as he stayed a distance from the road, he was sure he wouldn’t be noticed as he made his way up the hill toward where the homes presumably resided. The trees and brush were dense— easy enough to duck behind if needed. His clothes were dark, which was helpful. Keeping an eye on the road, he began tromping his way up the hill, weaving in and out of trees and putting a little distance between himself and the brick wall that also flowed upward, increasingly away from the road. Before long, he noticed a row of black mailboxes resting on individual posts along Bluff Walk. There looked to be nearly twenty of them. One for each house, he assumed.

  There was a lot of movement in the forest. Branches and leaves shifted from small birds darting in and out of treetops. Squirrels, with fur a little darker in color than the ones Sean was used to, scampered through limbs, over rocks, and along the ground. A light breeze made the walk comfortable. Had it not been for the reason that brought him to where he was now, it would have felt like he was on a restful vacation.

  Through a small clearing in the trees about sixty yards in front of him, he spotted the side of a brick building. Breathing heavily, he picked up the pace, keeping an eye on the road for traffic. A curved, cobblestone driveway with a carefully trimmed two-foot-high hedge led up to the building from the road. His shoulders sank lower as he approached the raised edge of the driveway.

  An abrupt, sharp cry of metal rubbing on metal ripped through the tranquil setting, sending him down to his hands and knees. He scrambled quickly along the ground, positioning himself for cover between the hedges and thick shrub. Forcing open a small crevice in the hedges with his hand, he now had a full view of the building: a two-story, stately house with a mostly brick exterior, light-red in color. Glaring white wood trim and large latticed windows hung proudly along the front of the home. An arched entrance that hugged and partially concealed the front door stood about ten feet
tall under the sharply angled roof. It seemed higher from Sean’s low vantage point. The front lawn was small, but trim; the grass less green than the forest that circled it. Colorful flowers stemmed from broad ceramic pots along the porch.

  The two-door garage was open and the light from the ceiling above suggested that the noise he had heard came from the garage door. Brake lights from a cherry-red car inside flashed on. He watched as the driver backed his Lexus convertible onto the driveway, coming to a stop only a few feet from where he knelt. Sean could only see the back of the man’s head—salt and pepper hair under what Sean had occasionally described to others as a rich asshole hat, more commonly known as a driving cap.

  The screeching noise returned as the garage door lowered, and he tasted exhaust as the car briskly disappeared down the cobblestone driveway. No other cars were parked in the garage. Probably no one else home, he decided.

  He stayed put for about a minute, looking for any movement through the windows of the house, before checking behind him through the forest. Staying behind the hedge, he circled around toward the entrance. Underneath a large copper wall lantern, to the side of the front door, hung the number 103. He was looking for 114. An annoyed grunt left his mouth at the thought of how long it would take him to find the right house, meandering through the forest on foot in such a broad area.

  “Are you here to fix the sprinkler?” a voice spoke from behind him.

  Sean spun around. His eyes bulged and his stomach clenched. Before him stood two boys, probably twelve or thirteen in age. Both were dressed in t-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. One was thin with red hair, bangs dangling down to his eyebrows. The other had shorter brown hair and was quite a bit heavier.

  Sean answered quickly, “Yes.”

  It was a tactic he had learned years ago from an episode of Simon & Simon. When confronted in a precarious situation, simply answer yes to the first question you’re probed with. It immediately reduced suspicion and provided an angle to exploit. The same tactic had served him well two days earlier with Bailey and the night-vision goggles.