The Sitter Page 20

  She was sleeping. On her side facing him, her head rested on an arm. She was wearing a low cut, soft looking pale blue blouse and light blue jeans. One leg was bent beneath her, and the other hung over the edge of the bed. Her bare foot was beautifully shaped and had glowing red nails. A hand rested low on her belly. The zipper there was opened partway down and she had three fingers tucked inside her jeans. With her fly open the way it was, Larry could see bare skin between those fingers. Jeannie's bare skin.

  What would it be like to touch her there?

  The real Jeannie, not just a picture? The heat of this thought was delicious, and he felt his cock begin to swell. Larry raised his gaze to her face. Her eyes were wide open now, and they were looking directly into his.

  “Phone... ” he muttered as hot blood rushed to his face--so much of it and so fast, he thought he was going to pass out. Jeannie continued to stare at him. “Right there,” he said inanely waving a hand toward the phone on her bedside table. “I'll hang up downstairs” His face blazing, Larry hurried away.

  *****

  “What the hell is going on over there?” Bertie asks. “You have Lurch Cutler employed as a butler these days?”

  “You'd think so, wouldn't you?” I am outraged at Larry and his disregard for my privacy. But there was something almost funny when he realized I was awake and staring at him. His face had been a study in shock. I hear Larry hang up the down stairs phone noisily, and begin to share this bizarre experience with my friend. “You won't believe this Bertie,” I start out, but pause when I realize Larry may not have really hung up the phone. A sobering thought and a chilling one as well.

  How can Steven allow this boy access to our home? It simply has to stop!

  “What? What won't I believe?”

  “Oh. The price of a jacket I saw. I need to tell you about it. You home?”

  “Well, yes... ”

  “I'll be right over.”

  “Bertie-Luv” I say as she opens her door. “You have a minute?”

  “Of course,” Bertie says, smiling. We walk to the kitchen. “What was that about a jacket?”

  “Nothing. I wanted to tell you the latest about Larry but then I thought he might be listening in.” I settle myself at the breakfast nook while Bertie opens a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. “Mmmm. What's the occasion?”

  “You, me.” Bertie brings the bottle and two wine glasses to the table. She pours the wine and sits down. We touch glasses and each take a sip. “Is Larry living with you now...or what?”

  “Of course not, though Steven sometimes allows him to get a drink out of the fridge when he's working in the yard.” I tell her then about Larry coming to my bedroom door.

  “My God, Jeannie, listen to yourself! Can't you hear what you're saying? You allow this leering teenager into your bedroom? You see how far this has gone?”

  “Not in the bedroom--he was just at the door. I know it's bizarre, but he didn't mean anything. He just wanted to see if I was...there.” I feel ridiculous--like an idiot. “There's more to this, you know. This situation is more complex than it appears. I don't think Larry will be around much longer anyway. Kevin's getting along much better these days.”

  “Tell me again...what important service is Larry providing?”

  “Steven wants Larry around... at least for a little while.” I hate to explain this mess, as well as to live it. “He helps Kevin with the loss of Stevie.”

  “Helps?” Bertie stares at me. “As in--takes his place? That what you mean?” Bertie takes a sip of wine. “Is that what you want? A guy like Poor-Larry-Cutler taking Stevie Connor's place in Kevin's life?”

  “I hate it when you get logical, Bertie,” I say, trying for a lightness I don't feel. “It's not forever. I'll get rid of Larry,” I say firmly, “but not just yet. Things are going fairly well right now. Kevin is...fine. And Steven is actually doing some work--coming out of his slump.”

  “That is truly wonderful, Jeannie. But those things would happen without Larry. Jeannie,” she goes on slowly, “do you ever wonder just where, exactly, Jordan Kennedy is?”

  After dinner I clean up the dishes while Steven and Larry play with Kevin upstairs in his room. Happy sounds of their game reach me faintly, and I find them upsetting. If I am honest with myself, I find anything to do with Larry Cutler upsetting.

  The doorbell rings and I look through the peep hole to see some sort of policeman standing there.

  “Mrs. Connor?” he asks respectfully as I open the door.

  “Yes?”

  He removes his hat with an almost comical flourish. “Deputy Sheriff Albert J. Schmidt,” he states, bowing slightly. He grins at me, displaying a magnificent set of white, white teeth. “I need to ask you some questions, Mrs. Connor,” he says with so much deference and respect it seems excessive. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  He is tanned and handsome, a well-built young man--somewhere in his thirties, I imagine. As he precedes me, I swear he's clenching his buns for my benefit. Probably his gut as well. Deputy Schmidt turns to face me with a smooth, athletic grace--which would have been impressive if it didn't look so practiced. He removes his cap revealing a helmet of closely cropped blonde hair. He cocks his head, giving me those teeth again. Here is a man, I think, who spends an inordinate amount of time in front of a mirror.

  “Jordan Kennedy,” he states. The grin disappears and his eyes narrow. “Do you know the name?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Know where she might be?”

  “No. I haven't a clue.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “I don't. I've never met her.” He looks at me quizzically. “I do know a Jordan Kennedy is missing, Deputy. Everyone in Pine Glen and the Flats knows that.”

  He frowns slightly. “I understand a Larry Cutler works for you? A sitter, I believe?”

  I nod. “Once in a while, yes.”

  “What's your take on him, Mrs. Connor?”

  “My 'take'?”

  “Yes. What can you tell me about him?”

  Suspicious as I am about Larry's involvement with Jordan, I somehow can't bring myself to tell that to this swaggering, self-important law man. “Larry is upstairs right now. With my husband and son.” I realize then that I should be telling Steven and Larry that this deputy is here asking questions.

  “You seem uneasy, Mrs. Connor,” he says, hooking a thumb into his belt. His stance is combative yet sensual. “Kid scare you?”

  “Of course not!” I snap at him. “Do you think I'd have a sitter I'm afraid of?”

  He shrugs. “Stranger things have--”

  “Not here. They don't happen here.”

  “Do you think Larry is capable of any sort of foul play?”

  Foul play, a catch-all phrase. “What do you think, Deputy?” I'm genuinely interested in his reply.

  A look of fake sadness glazes his handsome face. “A young girl is missing, and I'm doing my best to find her. This Cutler kid,” he says softly, nodding his head toward the stairs, “had a run-in with her. Since you and your husband are in a position to know the boy, I thought... ”he smiles again, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Of course,” I say, somehow unwilling to return his smile.

  I want to tell the deputy that I'm suspicious of Larry in connection with my son's death, but I really haven't a clue about his behavior concerning Jordan Kennedy. And, Steven seems to feel he is blameless in her disappearance.

  “I really don't know anything about Larry and Jordan, Deputy...I'm sorry.” I walk back toward the front door, hoping he'll take the hint and follow. Which he does.

  “Thanks anyway, Mrs. Connor.” He puts his cap back on and hands me his card. “Will you please ask your husband to call me at his earliest convenience? And, if you think of anything more... ”

  I realize then that I may be too hasty in shooing this man away. Maybe he knows something about Larry.

  Of course he does! Why else would he be here?


  “Deputy Schmidt!” I call out as I go down the stairs after him. He stops and turns, sucking in that gut of his. I look into his ice-blue eyes and decide to play it straight. “Do you know something? About Larry? Because, if you do, I think it's only fair that you tell me. I mean he is here sometimes...I have a young son...Do you know anything about him?”

  “No Ma'am. I'm checking on him 'cause of the problem he had with the missing girl. I'd tell you if I knew anything.” He tips his cap and gets into his car.

  Wednesday, December 13th

  The rains came. And stayed. It had been raining steady for the last three days and Larry was worried. So much so that he'd been unable to get a good night's sleep lately because of worry. About her.

  What's this rain doing to you, Jordan? You're not floatin' up on me are you?

  It was driving him crazy. He replayed the burial scene in his head over and over as he lay in bed, listening to the rain beating at his window. He remembered thinking he had her deep enough--a little over a foot or so. But with this rain...was that deep enough? He just didn't know. What do water and dirt make? Mud. Soft, mushy mud. Larry pictured the water forming rivulets, little tunnels in the mud running down to Jordan. Would it be enough to uproot her? Float her? Or was he just a nut case? Or both?

  At dawn, in the middle of one of those killer headaches that were now back in his life, Larry made a decision. He had to move her. Even if the grave was okay, it was too risky to leave her where he had her. More rain could come. And then there was that damned dog Louie digging everything up the way he did. He rubbed his temple. Fact was, Larry was scared of Louie--figured he must have a little pit bull in him somewhere. Problem was, Louie knew Larry hated him. He was always snarling and nipping at Larry. And, the way that dog sniffed and dug stuff up it was a wonder he hadn't found Jordan by now.

  The more he thought about it the more obvious the solution became. He had to do it and the sooner the better. Tonight when it was good and dark, he'd dig her up and drag her to the river. It was only...what? 65, 70 yards or so, maybe 100. It could be less if he took her directly through the trees. Yeah. He'd push her over the bank where her weight and gravity would help her fall into the swollen river. That river would carry Jordan Kennedy right on out of Larry's life.

  After his mother left for old lady Murphy's around 11:00, Larry went out to the garage to make his preparations. He selected a shovel, a pick and a length of strong rope he could tie around Jordan's body to drag it. If that didn't do the job, he could always carry her but the thought of her extremely dead body hanging over his shoulder gave him the shakes. And again, gloves. He couldn't bear the thought of touching her.

  In the very back of the garage he caught sight of a piece of pegboard on the wall there that he had never noticed before. It was half hidden behind the water heater. Curious, he walked over to check it out. There were a bunch of tools hanging on it. With a little shudder of pleasure, Larry realized they must have belonged to his dad.

  He remembered when he was in Little League. Larry had missed having a dad so much he actually hurt. He'd played left field and it had been sort of fun, but a real pain with his mom trying to be his dad at the games. Waving at him from the bleachers, she would always yell the wrong thing. Like when he was at bat and let a ball, easily three feet too high, whiz by, she'd holler, 'Good eye, Larry! Make him pitch to you!' Or she'd yell 'Good catch Larry before the catch, which usually made him screw up and drop the ball.

  With his dad in the stands it would have been different. All dads, Larry guessed, just came into the world knowing baseball. Like Steven. As he stared at the tools, he felt as if all his strength and confidence were draining away. With John Cutler in his life, Larry knew so many things would be different. He didn't think of the man once a year, but here he was, staring at a part of his dad's life.

  “You left me, Dad,” he said softly. But he knew it wasn't his dad's fault. It was hers--his weird, nutcase mother. “You left her. Just like I'm trying to do.”

  He took a breath, trying to bring himself back to the job at hand. Not much of a legacy maybe, but Larry decided to claim these tools.

  Then he noticed they were all hammers. A collection of a dozen or so, different types and different sizes. Conventional, ball-peen, some with a hatchet blade on one side and a hammer-head on the other. He reached out and pulled a particularly nice hammer/hatchet combo off the board. Gripping the smooth, dusty handle, Larry was surprised at how heavy it was. It swung down from his hand with a life all its own. Moving his hand up some, to where it was more balanced, he swung it slowly back and forth. A confidence... a feeling of power flowed into him, and he laughed aloud.

  The strike plate of the head had an interesting waffle pattern to it. What that was for he had no idea, but it pleased him. With a rag he wiped the hatchet blade clean, and it shown in the dim light. For luck, Larry added this gift from his dad to the tools he would take with him that night.

  But Catherine screwed him up real good. It was around 3:30 when she told him, “I can't let you have the car, Larry; not tonight. Emma and I are going Christmas shopping.”

  “What about her car?”

  “In the shop,” his mother cried merrily, and Larry wanted to smack her one.

  She stays up nights, figuring ways to screw me!

  Panic fluttered through him and he started chewing on the inside of his cheeks. It was still raining. Water running down...pooling...under Jordan?

  I gotta get her! Get her into the river!

  “What time are you going?” he asked and then hurried on. “Could you wait 'til seven or so? I need the car for... an errand.” Catherine sighed, shaking her head, and then it came to him what to say to her. “Ma, it's Christmas, right?” He gave her his warm and winning smile. “Can't a guy have a secret errand at Christmastime?” For good measure, Larry put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it affectionately.

  *****

  “I'm curious. Why did you want to come here?” Joel Gant asks me.

  Why indeed? “I don't know really,” I answer. “It just seemed like a good place to meet.” I look around and wonder at my choice. The Red Rock Saloon in a seedy strip mall on the cusp of Pine Flats and Pine Glen is certainly not a charming choice. I don't think I'll see anyone I know here though, and that's a plus. I rub at the table top too generously endowed with a thick veneer of shiny red plaid plastic. The place needs a good scrubbing, sweeping and airing followed by brightly colored tablecloths...But my God, what do I care?

  A skinny girl in black jeans and a glittery silver cowboy shirt appears and sets our drinks down carefully on the tiny table. She slaps down napkins and an ashtray and then, with a flourish, lights the small red candle.

  “Anything?” she inquires, smiling brightly at Joel.

  “Not a thing,” he says, and she walks jauntily back to the bar.

  “I really appreciate you coming, Joel, you know, meeting me...really.” Dear God, why can't I form a sentence? I take two fast swallows of the house red. “I...need some information, and I thought...in your work, you know... ”

  “Please, Jeannie,” he says with a smile, “just spit it out.”

  A refreshing idea, I think. He reaches across the table and puts a hand on mine--a reassuring, welcome gesture. “Tell me, Joel, about a person who would--no, about a boy who would kill a child he was baby-sitting? What would such a young man be like?”

  “You mean Larry Cutler, right?'

  “Yes, but I'm not making an accusation.”

  “Of course not.”

  Joel thinks for a moment, sipping at his martini.

  “I'm an expert on this type of thing,” he says. “What that means is that I'm well aware--more so than most--of how little I really know.” He laughs briefly. “There's the usual abused kid stuff, you know, perpetuating the cycle of abuse onto someone else. But almost as often we find that a killer will come from what we'd call a loving, caring home. Like the kid who runs amok and knocks off a few people, and then all
the neighbors describe him as a quiet, likable boy--good to his parents, loves animals, that kind of thing.” He is silent then looking at me. “I hope the autopsy wasn't too upsetting to you and Steven?”

  “We're over it. It was something I had to do.”

  He nods. “What can you tell me about this Larry?”

  “I'm ashamed to say I don't know very much about him. He could be either type you describe.” As I speak, Joel drains his glass and signals to the waitress for another. He looks at my half-empty glass and gives me a questioning look. I shake my head. “I've never liked Larry and I can't tell you why. Since Stevie--”

  “Hold up a minute, Jeannie. You really can't say why you took an initial dislike to him?”

  I shake my head. “I've tried to analyze that, but can't come up with anything. It was a basic distrust. A gut level sort of thing.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Since Stevie, my dislike and distrust have grown, and continues to grow. Joel, I know I must be wrong about him. But I thought it might help me if I knew--hypothetically of course--some reasons why a young man might be driven to kill his charge, a boy he seemed to be so fond of.”

  “Ah,” he says, as his drink arrives. “Motives are illusive and extremely varied. Especially in the young. It could be anything. Hated the kid's dog; hated his parents, I mean any damned thing! Plus the fact that he might be mentally unhinged... a psychopath. Even hypothetically, Jeannie, I can't even take a guess. What I can do though, is run a basic check on him. To see if there's anything suspicious in his background.”

  I hesitate and he puts his hand on mine again, smiling. “I'll do that,” he says. “No charge.” I think to pull my hand away, but I don't.

  “Are you enjoying the portrait?” I ask, uneasy with his offer, but wanting a moment to consider it.

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “And Alicia? Is she still happy with it?”

  “My wife...tends to be a gusher when it comes to her daughters. Not to say,” he goes on, pressing my hand, “that the portrait isn't absolutely charming, because of course it is.”