Into the Dark

28

San Marino, California

The piercing whine of the high-speed table saw filled Robert Bowen’s garage as he carefully moved a sheet of three-quarter-inch plywood along the pencil line.

Another perfect piece.

Bowen enjoyed the smell of fresh-cut lumber as he brushed away sawdust. He was pleased his work was proceeding well. Since returning home a few days ago from the cabin, then a trip flying executives to Dallas, Denver and Phoenix, he had a number of tasks to take care of, in addition to the several chores he’d promised to do for Claire.

Maybe when he completed them it would change her frame of mind. She’d become a bit cooler toward him over the past few weeks, a little standoffish. At times it was if she were looking at him differently while trying to mask it. Maybe her moodiness was a side effect of her new treatment? Whatever it was, he was too busy to give it much thought.

He set the new piece aside and prepared to cut another. When that was done, he measured and cut two more pieces, this time using the pine. He positioned them all with others on his worktable, reached for his power drill and fastened the sections in place with screws.

Soon the wooden sections evolved into a sturdy oblong box with latticework between the ribbing. He stretched his measuring tape to check its dimensions: two feet wide, six feet long and two feet deep.

It would do nicely.

The rattle of aluminum at the approach to the open door of his garage distracted him from his work.

“Gosh, Bob, what’re you building there, a coffin?”

Gabe Taylor, the Bowens’ neighbor, had Bowen’s metal extension ladder on his shoulder. Taylor was a retired lawyer. He and his wife, Margie, sang in their church choir.

“I saw your gate open and garage door up and thought, Bob’s home,” Taylor grunted as he and Bowen successfully replaced the ladder on the wall hooks. “Thanks again for rushing over with your ladder to help me last week with that window problem. Good neighbors are such a blessing. Margie’s making you one of her blue-ribbon apple pies.”

“She doesn’t have to go to all that trouble, Gabe.”

“She’s happy to do it.”

The older, heavier man padded his brow with the back of his arm and exhaled as he looked over the box.

“She enjoys it, and now that you’re our famous local hero, it gives her bragging rights with the alto section. So, what’s this you’re making?”

“It’s a planter box. I’ve been catching up on a few chores for Claire. She wanted two for the patio.”

“I see. It looks like a fine job. I won’t keep you from your important work. Thanks again.” Gabe extended his hand and shook Bowen’s. As he left he said, “Margie will be by later with the pie.”

“Tell her thanks, Gabe.”

Bowen got himself a glass of cold lemonade from the kitchen before he resumed measuring and cutting, which took him into the late afternoon. He was still working when Claire’s Toyota rolled into the driveway.

He was putting the finishing touches on the second planter box when she kissed his cheek. She looked good in her cream suit, he thought.

“I see you finally got around to my planter boxes,” she observed, running her hand over the sanded parts of the fragrant wood.

“Just have to stain them. I’m thinking of making a few extras.”

“I’m impressed. I can’t wait to load them up with flowers.”

“How did your day go?” he asked.

“Fine. Very busy.”

The cordless house phone started ringing. It was on the bench next to Claire and she answered. Bowen only heard her side of the short conversation.

“Hello?… Yes… Yes, it is… Well, of course, Mr. Montero, I remember you from the hospital. Yes… My goodness, how thoughtful.” Claire threw a glance to him. “Thursday? At seven-thirty? I’ll check with Robert… Really? How wonderful. Yes, I’ll check with him and we’ll get back to you…. Yes, yes, thanks again.”

Claire hung up.

“That was Ruben Montero, the husband of the woman and baby from the car.”

“So I gathered.”

“His community association is having its annual banquet Thursday. They want us to come.”

“Why?”

“When the crash happened, Ruben’s wife, Maria, had been doing work for the association.”

“I recall something about that.”

“Well, the association board voted unanimously to make you the guest of honor and give you an award for your bravery.”

He gave a little half smile. “I don’t know, Claire.”

“Don’t be modest, Robert. Besides, Ruben sounds like a nice man and he said it would mean a lot to him, his family and friends. It’ll be easy. We go to the dinner, you stand up and say thanks and everyone’s happy.”

He didn’t respond. He was clearly thinking it over.

“What harm could it do, Robert? All part of being a local hero.”

“All right. If you want to, sure.”

Claire nodded, then shifted the subject.

“I’ve got a lot of work backed up that I want to get at after dinner. I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “What do you say about ordering a pizza tonight?”

“Sure.”

She went into the house, leaving him in the garage thinking, there it is again-that ever-so-subtle coolness.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that.

He glanced under his work table. Hidden behind the small piles of scrap wood, concealed under the tarp, was a third oblong box.

This one had a sealable lid at the halfway point, creating a false bottom.

Whatever he was going to put under that lid would never escape.