that led past several rooms, their doors opened. I walked down, passing each room, looking in. They seemed in order and looked to me like guest rooms. This hallway ended at another, smaller family room. Again, nothing was out of place.
I turned and crossed the catwalk to the hallway to my left. Nothing unusual: a study, a full bathroom, a small workout room, all perfectly ordered. I looked in each and then came to the room at the end of the hall. I stopped dead.
This last room was trashed, ransacked. The mattress was overturned and torn. Pillows were gutted. The bureau top and shelves were bare, their contents cast to the floor. It took a moment, but I could tell by the belongings that this was a girl’s room, more specifically a teenage girl’s room. There were stuffed animals about and the remnants of pop star posters that had been torn from the wall. I scanned through the mess till I saw half lying under a heap of bedding a framed photograph of a smiling and tanned girl on a sailboat. It was Amy Curry, I could tell that from where I stood. She was beautiful, radiant with life, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen.
Downstairs, the phone started ringing again. I counted nine rings altogether. Once it was done silence returned abruptly to the house. I waited a moment, looking over the room once more, and then I heard the sound of a car door close outside, coming from the direction of the garage. I went into the next room, which overlooked the right side of the house. Below a brown Mercedes sedan was parked outside the garage. A man carrying a briefcase and a suit bag was walking toward the house. All I could see was the top of his head, dark with flecks of gray that looked like scattered paint.
I broke then from my stillness and bolted. I took the stairs two at a time, reached the bottom, and turned toward the back door. Behind me I heard a key working the lock of the front door. It clicked, and then the door began to open. I was nowhere near the back door yet and had no choice but to duck through a side door. I found myself in the kitchen and waited, panting.
I heard the man at the front door enter and pause. I figured he must have been at the keypad, which read “disarmed.” Then I heard him say, “What the fuck,” and I knew by this that he had spotted the French door with the broken pane. I heard heavy footsteps start then. He walked with certainly toward the door. I waited just inside the kitchen door, uncertain just where I was going to go now and not knowing how he couldn’t hear me in such a quiet house. I listened to his footsteps approach and ignored my pounding heart beating against my ribs. He was about halfway down the gallery and I was in real trouble when the phone rang again. It stopped him. He turned and headed back through the gallery to the family room. I waited till he answered and heard his voice, distant, muffled, but clear enough. “This is he,” he said. “Yes. What? What…? This must be a mistake. When? Oh, Jesus. Jesus. I’ll be right there. Yes. I’ll be right there.”
I knew then that it was one of the Chief’s boys on the other end notifying Amy Curry’s next of kin. Amy’s father let out a final denial as I slipped out the back door and down the steps to the brittle grass. I made it around the house and to my car quick. I got in and got the hell out of there.
Later I went out to the Texaco station and bought the Southampton paper with the change from my ashtray. I was still shaken by my foolishness but I needed to look for another job and figured I could do that while I waited for Gale to call.
Tina was asleep in my bed, so I sat on my couch and laid the paper out on the coffee table and looked through the help wanted ads. There wasn’t much to choose from. This wasn’t the time of year to be looking for a job. But there was an ad for a dishwasher at the LeChef, the French restaurant on Job’s Lane. I knew the owner’s wife from the college. I circled the ad and closed the
I turned and crossed the catwalk to the hallway to my left. Nothing unusual: a study, a full bathroom, a small workout room, all perfectly ordered. I looked in each and then came to the room at the end of the hall. I stopped dead.
This last room was trashed, ransacked. The mattress was overturned and torn. Pillows were gutted. The bureau top and shelves were bare, their contents cast to the floor. It took a moment, but I could tell by the belongings that this was a girl’s room, more specifically a teenage girl’s room. There were stuffed animals about and the remnants of pop star posters that had been torn from the wall. I scanned through the mess till I saw half lying under a heap of bedding a framed photograph of a smiling and tanned girl on a sailboat. It was Amy Curry, I could tell that from where I stood. She was beautiful, radiant with life, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen.
Downstairs, the phone started ringing again. I counted nine rings altogether. Once it was done silence returned abruptly to the house. I waited a moment, looking over the room once more, and then I heard the sound of a car door close outside, coming from the direction of the garage. I went into the next room, which overlooked the right side of the house. Below a brown Mercedes sedan was parked outside the garage. A man carrying a briefcase and a suit bag was walking toward the house. All I could see was the top of his head, dark with flecks of gray that looked like scattered paint.
I broke then from my stillness and bolted. I took the stairs two at a time, reached the bottom, and turned toward the back door. Behind me I heard a key working the lock of the front door. It clicked, and then the door began to open. I was nowhere near the back door yet and had no choice but to duck through a side door. I found myself in the kitchen and waited, panting.
I heard the man at the front door enter and pause. I figured he must have been at the keypad, which read “disarmed.” Then I heard him say, “What the fuck,” and I knew by this that he had spotted the French door with the broken pane. I heard heavy footsteps start then. He walked with certainly toward the door. I waited just inside the kitchen door, uncertain just where I was going to go now and not knowing how he couldn’t hear me in such a quiet house. I listened to his footsteps approach and ignored my pounding heart beating against my ribs. He was about halfway down the gallery and I was in real trouble when the phone rang again. It stopped him. He turned and headed back through the gallery to the family room. I waited till he answered and heard his voice, distant, muffled, but clear enough. “This is he,” he said. “Yes. What? What…? This must be a mistake. When? Oh, Jesus. Jesus. I’ll be right there. Yes. I’ll be right there.”
I knew then that it was one of the Chief’s boys on the other end notifying Amy Curry’s next of kin. Amy’s father let out a final denial as I slipped out the back door and down the steps to the brittle grass. I made it around the house and to my car quick. I got in and got the hell out of there.
Later I went out to the Texaco station and bought the Southampton paper with the change from my ashtray. I was still shaken by my foolishness but I needed to look for another job and figured I could do that while I waited for Gale to call.
Tina was asleep in my bed, so I sat on my couch and laid the paper out on the coffee table and looked through the help wanted ads. There wasn’t much to choose from. This wasn’t the time of year to be looking for a job. But there was an ad for a dishwasher at the LeChef, the French restaurant on Job’s Lane. I knew the owner’s wife from the college. I circled the ad and closed the
Similar Books
