The Sitter Page 26

  Schmidt heard and cocked his head. He walked over to Calvin. “They still got her scent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, what's that mean exactly?” Leo asked.

  “Means the dogs are still tracking your wife,” Schmidt said. “Her trail doesn't stop here.”

  They were soon on their way again following the dogs while Travis stayed behind to preserve the area and wait for more personnel from the sheriff's department.

  Leo was hopeful; Steven was not. To him, this horror movie wasn't over yet--it had just moved on to the next reel. The dogs led them toward the river, the terrain a little rough, but not particularly dense with ground cover. Schmidt insisted on moving slowly, while Leo wanted to let the dogs go and race on with them.

  “Something?” Steven asked as Deputy Schmidt paused and squatted, looking closely at the ground.

  “Hard to say.” He glanced at Leo who was trotting ahead, just behind Calvin. “Looks to me like something's been drug along here.”

  Steven knelt on his haunches beside the deputy. “Yeah,” he said, noticing the matted grass and gouged earth. “I wouldn't mention that to Mr. McQueen just now though.”

  “No,” Schmidt agreed. The two men rose and started walking on.

  A few yards ahead the dogs stopped again, nosing and sniffing excitedly at the ground. One began to howl, the sound sending a chill down Steven's back. A dull glint of silver near an exposed root caught Steven's eye as he came up behind Schmidt, who was on his haunches examining it. Steven came close and leaned down. It was a large silver key ring, its broken chain still attached. Leo came back to have a look and stood staring down, the color draining from his face.

  “Oh, God,” he murmured as he dropped to his knees. He reached for the ring.

  Like a shot, Schmidt's hand snaked out and caught Leo's hand. “No, no. You think it's hers?”

  Leo nodded.

  “Okay. We'll just mark the spot and then the print boys can work with it.”

  “All right,” Leo said. Then he pointed at the ground a few inches from the ring. “There,” he whispered. Another bit of silver.

  Using a gloved finger, Schmidt carefully lifted a leaf and uncovered Bertie McQueen's house key.

  *****

  It took four tries, but Larry finally got two really good shots of himself and the damage crazy Jeannie Connor had done with her handy-dandy baseball bat. To say he looked awful was a huge understatement. And then there was that sad, haunted look in his eyes. Hah! That's not hard to understand. Who wouldn't have that look if their life had been threatened by a madwoman?

  Now that he had a photographic record of Jeannie's attack, he could clean himself up. It stung, but working slowly and gently he was able to sponge off the area pretty well. His ear and upper jaw were swollen now, and bright red. At least his headache was gone. It had faded to nothing the minute he'd thought of nailing Jeannie with proof of what she had done. He rinsed out the sponge and went to work on the top of his head.

  “I might kill you, Jeannie,” he said to himself conversationally. “I am seriously thinking about doing that very thing. Then again, I might not.” Larry figured the sensible thing to do would be to go back to the Connor's and wait outside for Steven to get home with Kevin from pre-school. “We'll see what your husband, thinks of your handiwork, Jeannie!” He could see her delicious, stricken face. “We'll see what he thinks of my...condition. Not just the obvious physical stuff--which, by the way Jeannie, I have documented--but the also obvious emotional... abuse I have suffered at your hands.”

  And that, thought Larry, as tears came into his eyes, was the really tough part of this whole mess. His heart was broken, shattered by the memory of his beloved Jeannie trying to do him in with that bat...

  I had such plans for us, Jeannie! But...what now? What do I do now? He stared at his ravaged image.

  “What do I want?” Larry asked himself and the answer, of course, was obvious. “I want in. I want into that family. You're right, Jeannie, you are the golden ones. And, I still WANT IN! Into that golden place you all live.”

  Is that impossible now, Larry wondered. Or could he still make it work?

  “Not with Jeannie, you can't,” Larry said to the mirror. He saw her hate-filled face as she shouted that he leave and never come back. Never!

  He looked hard into his eyes, and it all came clear. He knew. It pained him, yeah, like a knife in his gut, but...No matter how things went with Steven, the most Larry could hope for was a little time. Time to...figure a way to...kill Jeannie.

  We will still be a family though, Larry vowed. Me, Steven and Kevin. It will be all right. I will make it all right.

  And, then...the inspiration of the century came to him. Now...

  Now is the perfect time to do it! Now before Steven brings Kevin home...only to find that Jeannie Connor, distraught by her friend Bertie McQueen's disappearance, and then her complete and totally insane loss of control with her faithful friend Larry Cutler...in crushing despair...Jeannie has killed herself.

  “Wonderful. How will she do it?” he asked himself.

  “Well...gas! The Connors have a gas oven.”

  “So Jeannie will pull a chair up to the oven and lay her head down on the open door while I turn on the gas...?”

  “I will...disable her...no, I will drug her. That's it! No problem. Forget the gas. She will take too many sleeping pills and die from an overdose.”

  “How will I get the pills into her?”

  Larry put his head in his hands, thinking hard. “I'll have to knock her out. How?”

  “Use a plastic bag.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Over her head. From behind. I'm bigger and stronger than she is, right? Suffocate her, kill her that way. Then sprinkle some pills around and people will think she OD'ed.”

  “What if there's an autopsy?” Larry was chewing busily on the inside of his cheeks.

  “So pour some down her throat like I did with my mom.”

  “Yeah! Oh-fuck-oh-god-it'll work!”

  His descent into chaos slowed and Larry regained a measure of control. He even had the pills! Catherine used to take pain-killers for her knee.

  The sobering thought crossed his mind then that he was about to kill his beloved Jeannie. How could he? But then he remembered her face as she swung the bat...

  It has to be done!

  Larry checked the time--it was 1:15. He would have to hurry.

  *****

  The bloodhounds were still on scent, heading for the river. It was obvious to Steven that something had been dragged along the ground. A trail of crushed grass and ground cover hadn't had time to spring back up, and was discernable. It was also obvious that the something had probably been Bertie McQueen. The dogs certainly thought so.

  Steven was beside Leo as they hurried along behind Schmidt, Calvin and the dogs. They heard the river. High with rainwater, it rushed noisily through the shallow canyon just ahead. They soon arrived at the edge of the riverbank. Steven and Leo stood at the precipice, looking down at the river some 10 yards or so below. The hounds were frantic, straining to plunge down the steep bank to the water. Calvin held them back with the leashes, talking softly.

  Schmidt knelt, examining the ground right at the lip of the embankment. “I think something's been dumped here,” he said. “Over the edge,” he added, standing. “Scuff marks here...like it was hauled up here and--”

  A shriek. Loud. Steven almost fell over the edge. It was Leo. He cried out again, gesturing wildly. Steven followed his friend's waving hands to the waters below. A pale shape just inches beneath the surface of the water. It seemed suspended there. A woman's body, snagged and held in the swollen river by a partially submerged tree branch. Her face was turned upwards, eyes open as if looking at them through flawed glass.

  It was Bertie McQueen.

  The dogs were quiet at last. They lay at Calvin's feet chewing on biscuits as Calvin murmured soothing words of praise.

  Schmidt
called back to Travis and explained the new development. More deputies were called and would soon be arriving with wading gear and a vehicle they could use to haul Bertie's body out of the river and up the embankment. Steven sat quietly on the grass holding a silent, completely shattered Leo.

  Steven knew Leo needed him, but he had to get away from this horror story--back to his family. Who could have done this terrible thing? No question who Jeannie would think of. Jesus! Could it be Larry? But, why? Why would Larry do such a thing?

  Arms around Leo, he gazed idly down at the ground, wondering at the horror of this day. He realized then that he was looking at a still muddy area with no grass. That in itself was not remarkable, but, clear as day--in the very center of that area--was a perfect shoe print, showing the tread clearly.

  He jumped up, almost knocking Leo over. “Schmidt! Come over here!” He pointed at the print. “Look!”

  Schmidt peered as did Leo. “Tennis shoe,” he announced with an edge of excitement to his voice. “I can get a cast of that shoe,” he said. “I'll radio in and--”

  “That's a Nike.” Steven said, heart racing. “It's Larry Cutler's Nike.” He couldn't get his breath and opened his mouth to suck in more air. The same Larry Cutler who was at this very moment in his home. With Jeannie.

  Oh, my God, Jeannie!

  ”There's a whole lot of Nike Tennis shoes in the world, you know,” began Schmidt, but Steven didn't hear. He began to run. Soon he was running full out. Back to his home and his Jeannie.

  *****

  Is that everything? Pills, plastic sacks and the gloves he had rescued from the trash. He'd drive his mother's car. It was fuckin' great to have his own car! Larry pulled on his Nikes and started for the hall, ready to roll.

  “Larry?” a voice said. An old woman stuck her head into his doorway.

  *****

  “Hello, Larry. I'm Emma Murphy, a friend of your mother's.” So handsome he is! Often the case, she considered thoughtfully, with the Devil's spawn. The boy continued to stare at her, mouth open.

  “We spent a good bit of time together, your mother and me.” Emma caned her way into the room.

  “She worked for you...right?”

  “Well, yes, that's true enough. More importantly though Dearie, we were friends. A true friendship is the most binding relationship there is on earth...did you know that?”

  She spotted the stool at his desk that looked about right for her and slowly made her way to it. Slipping her coat off, she draped it over the desk top.

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “How did you get in here anyway?”

  Rude pup, thought Emma as she settled her old lady girth onto the stool and arranged her purse comfortably in her lap. “With my key, of course,” she answered in a cool voice, and was pleased to see his cheeks redden. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, and she knew she was not mistaken about this young man. She wondered if a more generous use of the rod when he was a wee lad might have saved him. But probably not, Emma decided. Not when the Devil had marked the boy as His own.

  “Why... are you here?” he asked.

  White as a sheet he was, and scared to death by the look of him. His obvious fright saddened Emma and she hoped it would go easy. For them both.

  “To pay my respects,” she answered. “I miss her already. Your mother was my...well, she--” Her throat constricted with sorrow. She swallowed a few times and continued. “We had some lovely years together.”

  Larry stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues, and she knew that to a boy as narrow and cold as this one, she probably was.

  “The funeral is tomorrow,” he told her, a parent chiding a backward child.

  “Yes,” she murmured, shaking her head sadly. “What's happened to your ear?”

  He put a hand up to it, his face going red again. “I fell down.”

  Hah! Thought Emma, allowing herself a slight smirk. “It looks to me like somebody's gone and belted you one.” She gave him a smile.

  “Not really,” Larry said with bluster. His color deepened.

  Enough of this, Emma decided, this childish play.

  As the Good Lord knows, I'm a grown woman and I've a grown woman's work to do.

  “I won't keep you, Larry,” she said, and he smiled, obviously relieved. She struggled to her feet, clutching the purse to her bosom. She leaned against the desk. “I'm so very sorry about your mother's passing, Larry,” Emma pronounced solemnly. “Come give a grieving old lady a hug, will you?”

  Struggling to be the 'good boy' that circumstance required here, Larry nodded and approached her. She put her arms around his waist, her purse in one hand. He embraced her tentatively. While Larry awkwardly patted her back, she reached into her purse behind his waist and removed a gleaming instrument. It shone in the sunlight coming in Larry's window.

  She released him, dropping her purse to the floor. Dutifully, he bent down to retrieve it.

  “Thank you, Dearie,” said Emma Murphy, as she grasped the razor in her right hand and brought it up across his throat with a strong, ripping motion. She finished her stroke with her elbow cocked high, a grin of pure pleasure on her face.

  “For you, Cathy-Girl!”

  A beautiful arc of red appeared, shooting from Larry's throat as if it had been waiting impatiently for Emma's blade to release it.

  A brief, noisy thrashing of the boy's body on the floor then, blood flying. It reminded Emma of Father Warren's work at the church, but messier. Though Larry's blood wouldn't be captured and shared with the congregation, Emma felt sure this sacrifice would earn her a fine place in the hereafter. One, she would, of course share with her dear friend.

  She stood motionless, watching as Larry quieted and then became perfectly still. “You're in the Good Lord's care now, Larry Cutler. He'll do with you as he sees fit.”

  Pulling her silver flask from her coat pocket, Emma tipped it to her mouth and drank. She thought of Cathy's favorite carol about the beautiful mother and child and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  After a moment, Emma found some paper and a pen on Larry's desk and wrote a note explaining what she was certain Poor-Larry-Cutler had done in his short, guilty life and what she had done to send him to his maker.

  Clutching the razor as if it were now part of her, she caned her way slowly through the bathroom into Catherine's bedroom. Completely drained of energy, it was all she could do to make the trip. She crawled onto the bed and lay down on her back.

  “I miss you so, Dear Friend.”

  But Emma couldn't give up just yet. She needed her strength for one last chore. With the razor, she carefully cut each wrist. Deeply. She didn't know whether the cuts should be vertical or horizontal, so, while her strength lasted, she did both.

  “May the angels of mercy guide us to our rest, Cathy-Girl,” Emma murmured, closing her eyes.

  After

  It is called 'Angel's Rest', a small, non-denominational cemetery in the outskirts of Pine Glen. Steven is with me as we once again pay our respects to our boy. At first we came almost daily. Now we come about once a week. Bertie is here as well. We have flowers for both graves. It always comes back to me, the horror of that day. I doubt it will ever leave me.

  Steven arriving, so out of breath it was minutes before he could speak. And then, the shock of learning that Bertie was dead. He asked me where Larry was and I couldn't tell him right away; the news about Bertie hit me too hard. Steven shook me, demanding an answer, and I confessed what I had done to Larry and that I'd thrown him out. I assumed he was home. Deputy Schmidt arrived and the two of them drove to Larry's house where they found Larry and Emma Murphy.

  Gradually, the probable chain of events came together--with the considerable help of Emma's note. The horror story was finally over.

  The body count was appalling: six in all, including Louie. The motive for Emma's suicide is still not clear to me. I guess she was too despondent over Catherine's death to want to go on.

  An odd bit of information came ou
t several weeks later. The morning of Emma's death, she went to her attorney and changed the beneficiary in her will from Catherine Cutler to the Church of Personal Peace--an off-beat church in the nearby desert.

  I went into a profound depression unable to forgive myself. Or Steven. I believed us both guilty of Stevie's death, almost as if we had hired Larry to do him in.

  I'm kneeling and murmuring to Stevie at his grave, and Steven pulls me to my feet....

  “What are you saying to him?”...

  “I'm begging for forgiveness. From him. From God.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and I am comforted by his touch....

  “Does Stevie hear you?”...

  “I...don't think so,” I say, and the never ending tears come again.

  “I don't know if he hears you,” Steven says, “but I do know that he forgives you. And me.”

  I shake my head and try to pull away from him. He holds me, his hands like a vise.

  “You suspected Larry--I was a fool. But how were we to really know? Do good mothers and fathers just naturally know it all?” He was hurting me, his hands crushing my shoulders. “We're just people, Jeannie. We're human. A psychotic boy fooled us both. Me more than you, I know. He fooled a lot of people.” He dropped to his knees then, his arms clasped tightly around me, his face against my abdomen.

  “Please forgive me, Jeannie. Please come back to me. And Kevin.”

  And, I did.