Redemption Road

13

He watched the courthouse from a distance and recognized so many faces: the police, the lawyer, even some of the reporters. It was like that when you’d lived in a town as long as he had, when you knew people. He kept his eyes on the woman, though, on the way she moved and kept her eyes down and touched the old man’s elbow.

Elizabeth.

Liz.

So many years, he thought. So many times he’d laid up in the dark knowing it would end with her.

Did he have the strength to do it?

He rolled the idea around his mind, taking it apart, putting it back together. Everyone else had been a stranger. He knew the names, yes, where they lived and why he chose them: a multitude of women who, in the end, were as blank to him as water in a ditch.

Things now were getting complicated.

Same town.

Familiar faces.

He settled lower in the seat, watching the line of her jaw, the angle of her shoulders. When she put the lawyer in the limousine, she looked his way but didn’t see him up the street, safe in the car. He watched her walk away and pictured the girl who would be next. The thought made him sick, but it always did.

When the nausea passed, he started the car, drove six blocks, and stopped at the curb. Beyond the glass, children ran and played under the gaze of the day-care staff. Most of the women were used up. They slumped on benches and smoked cigarettes under trees. The woman he’d chosen was not like that. She stood beside the slide, smiling as she held a little boy’s hand. He was six, maybe, small and happy even though his parents were at work, and none of the other children looked at him twice. He went down the slide, and the woman caught him when he hit the dirt, laughing as she spun him so hard his heels flicked up and showed the bottoms of his shoes.

If he had to say why he’d chosen her, he probably couldn’t. The look was wrong, except for the eyes, of course, and maybe the line of her jaw. But she lived in the same town as Adrian, and Adrian was part of this.

Still…

He watched for another minute. The way she moved, the eyelashes, black on her skin. She had a good laugh and was pretty and tilted her head a certain way. He wondered if she was smart, too, if she would see through his lies or understand the church as it rose in the distance.

In the end, it didn’t matter, so he pictured how it would be: the white linen and warm skin, the bow of her neck and the communion as she died. He felt sick again, thinking about it; but already his eyes were brimming.

This time, it would work.

This time, he would find her.

He waited until it was dark, and she was home alone. For an hour, he watched the lights in her house. Then he circled the block and watched for an hour more. There was no movement in the night. No walkers or porch-sitters or idle curious. By nine o’clock he was certain.

She was alone in the house.

He was alone on the street.

Starting the car, its lights off, he pulled forward, then backed into her driveway. The neighboring house was close on that side, but his car settled above an oily spot only ten steps from the porch. There were bushes, trees, pools of blackness.

On the porch, he saw her through the glass. On the sofa. Legs curled. He tapped on the glass and watched her eyebrows crease as she came hesitantly to the door. He lifted a hand so she saw it through the pane: a friendly wave from a friendly face. The door opened a few inches.

“May I help you?” A trace of doubt flickered, but she would overcome it. She was young and polite and Southern. Girls like her always overcame it.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s late, but it’s about the day-care center.”

The door opened another six inches, and he saw that she was barefoot in jeans, and that she’d removed her bra. The T-shirt was worn thin, so he looked away, but not before she frowned and the door’s gap narrowed.

“The center?”

“There’s a problem. I know it’s sudden. I can drive, if you like.”

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Of course, she didn’t. He had nothing to do with the center. “Mrs. McClusky is not answering her phone or her door. I guess she’s out.” He smiled one of his good smiles. “I just naturally thought of you.”

“Who are you again?”

“A friend of Mrs. McClusky.”

She looked at her feet-a palm on each thigh-and it seemed as if it might be that easy. “I need shoes.”

“You don’t need shoes.”

“What?”

That was stupid. Stupid! Maybe he was more nervous than he thought, or more frightened of failure. “I’m sorry.” He laughed, thought it was good. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Of course, you need shoes.”

She looked past his smile and saw the car in the drive. It was dirty and dented and streaked with rust. He used it because he could burn it if he had to or drop it in the river. But it caused these problems.

“We should hurry.” He tried again because headlights rose two blocks down the street. Getting the girl in the car was taking too long.

The door closed another inch. “Maybe I should call Mrs. McClusky.”

“By all means. Of course. I’m just trying to help.”

“What did you say the problem was?”

She turned into the house, going for the phone. The headlights were a block away and would hit the porch in seconds. He couldn’t be there when it happened. “I didn’t exactly.”

She said something about waiting on the porch, but he was already committed. He caught the door, two steps behind her. The phone was across the room, but she didn’t go for the phone. She spun and hit the door and drove it into his face. He snatched at her shirt, caught fabric, and felt it tear. But she wasn’t running. She lurched sideways, one hand behind the door as she pulled a bat from the crack, then spun and swung it at his head. He threw up an arm, caught the blow on his elbow, and felt a burst of yellow heat. She tried again, but he stepped back, let it pass, then snapped a palm under her chin, clacking her jaw closed and making her eyes roll white.

She swayed, and for a split second he was amazed by the quiet ferocity of her attack. No screaming or crying.

But it was over.

He caught her with one arm and felt the tiny waist, the flutter. Mosquitoes whined as he moved down the stairs to open the hatchback and make space. Back inside, he wiped every surface he’d touched: the edge of the door, the bat. When it was done, he checked the street and carried the girl to the car.

She fit perfectly.

Candy in a box.