Vicious

CHAPTER FIVE

She didn’t realize where she was at first. Susan rolled over on her right side, expecting to see the alarm clock with the glow-in-the-dark numbers on her nightstand. But there was nothing, just unfamiliar shapes in the murky blackness. And she was alone.

It took a few moments, but then she knew. They were in that house by the bay in Cullen, their weekend getaway. Allen must have gotten up to read. He did that sometimes. He had problems sleeping.

She had problems, too. Tonight, for example, when they’d made love, she had to fake it again. She’d become quite the actress lately. It wasn’t Allen’s fault. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. She just had a hard time letting herself go with him. Susan chalked it up to the fact that she was too cautious, afraid of loving someone again—and possibly losing them, too.

After Walt’s death, she’d gone to this grief counselor for a while, a skinny, fifty-something East Indian woman who dressed like a conservative lawyer and wore her hair in a tight bun. Six months after the accident, Dr. Kumar had told her that she needed to move on. She suggested Susan start by taking down some of Walt’s and Michael’s pictures at home. The woman acted as if Susan had a regular shrine to her dead husband and son in the duplex. Yes, she had a few pictures out. She wanted Mattie to feel a connection to those images. And okay, maybe she still needed that connection, too. It was tough enough giving all of Walt’s clothes to Goodwill. So Susan didn’t get rid of the photos. She got rid of the counselor.

That first year without Walt was like sleepwalking. She felt numb. It was all about taking care of Mattie and finding work, going through the motions to survive each day without her husband and firstborn. Thank God her lawyer brother-in-law, Bill, jumped in and got a local attorney to represent her in the class-action lawsuit. Everyone who had been injured or lost a loved one when that deck had collapsed was suing the construction company—which, in turn, was trying to blame the city inspectors and the architectural firm. It was a mess, and the blame game promised to drag on for at least another year. Susan’s lawyer was asking for 1.5 million dollars.

She couldn’t get excited over the money, though, God knows, they needed it. Walt’s insurance had only covered seventy percent of the hospital bills. A year after the accident, Susan was still in debt.

She still missed Walt horribly, but started noticing other men. In fact, some days—and most nights—she just wanted to be near a man, any man. Dr. Chang had a few attractive, athletic male patients—men who spent too much time in the sun with their shirts off. Susan would sit in the small examining room with them, the clipboard in her lap, taking notes and doing her best not to get caught looking as Dr. Chang examined those tanned, toned bodies for moles and melanomas. At some point in the session, the gown often got tossed aside, and the patient would be naked or in his underpants. Susan managed to keep a clinical, business-as-usual expression on her face, and then she’d go home that night alone and frustrated.

Her friends tried to set her up, but not too many men were looking to date a woman in her mid-thirties—with a three-year-old, no less. So one of her girlfriends bought her a month’s subscription with an Internet dating service: MatchMate.com. Susan met several interesting men through the service, but most of those interesting men were just interested in getting laid.

When she agreed to a coffee date with Jack—38, 6 feet, 175 lbs, brown hair, blue eyes, ad executive, nonsmoker, occasional drinker, spiritual, no tattoos, Taurus—Susan was skeptical. They got together one February afternoon at the Top Pot on Capitol Hill. Jack was actually better-looking than his photo. Coffee turned into a romantic dinner at That’s Amore restaurant, and then a long kissing session by Susan’s car. By the time they said their final good night, her head was swimming, and she felt almost giddy.

They made a date for dinner at Daniel’s Broiler at Leschi on Lake Washington that Friday. The same afternoon, she had to appear at a deposition—four grueling hours in a conference room. One of the defense attorneys made wild claims about people jumping up and down on the deck—and filling it beyond capacity. Susan was furious. The SOB made Jim and Connie’s Fourth of July gathering sound like a frat toga party. She didn’t even get to testify. At the end of it, her lawyer gave her a pile of documents to review and said they might have to wait another six months before they saw any money.

Susan got home late that afternoon to a voice mail from her babysitter, canceling on her.

“It’s okay,” Jack said, when she phoned to tell him what had happened. “We can still have dinner at Daniel’s. Bring Matt along with you. I’d love to meet him. Maybe afterward, I could follow you home, and we can put Matt to bed. I’m pretty good at reading bedtime stories. We can stay in and have a nightcap or something. How does that sound?”

It sounded wonderful. And nightcap sounded like code for something else.

She didn’t know Jack very well and wondered if he’d really show up to this date with her—and her child. Maybe he’d just been jerking her around. When she pulled into the parking lot by Daniel’s Broiler, Susan kept looking for Jack’s car. She remembered he drove a white Mazda Miata.

The restaurant was in a little marina-type complex off Lake Washington, across the street from several secluded lakefront homes. The gravel parking area could have used a few more lights. Carrying Mattie toward the restaurant, she spotted Jack’s white Miata under the shadow of a tall oak tree. So he’d come, a man of his word. Nice.

And he was great with Mattie. Sitting at the lake-view table, Susan had her beautiful, blessedly quiet son in a booster seat on one side, and her gorgeous, charming potential boyfriend on the other side. Mattie got a special kiddy meal while she and Jack each enjoyed a glass of merlot. Then their salads arrived.

And then Mattie kicked the table.

Jack went to grab his wineglass and knocked it over. Merlot spilled into his pear and butter lettuce salad, across the white tablecloth, and onto Jack’s lap. “Shit!” he hissed.

“Oh, my God,” Susan murmured, steadying the table—and then, Mattie’s leg. “I’m so sorry—”

“Shit, my good khakis,” he muttered, dabbing his trousers with the cloth napkin. “Goddamn it….” He stood up.

Susan started to stand, too. “Maybe some club soda from the bar will get out the stain—”

“Just—just—never mind, okay?” he growled, throwing his napkin down on the wine-soaked tabletop. “Be right back.”

Biting her lip, Susan sat back down and watched him hurry toward the restaurant’s bar. People were staring at her. Mattie started to whine, and she patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she murmured.

Susan managed to flag down a busboy. “Could you please take that away?” she whispered, nodding at Jack’s salad—swimming in merlot. “And could you have our waiter bring my friend another salad and another glass of the merlot?”

But the waiter didn’t do that. Instead, he brought their dinners. By then, Mattie was crying—quite loudly. Susan politely asked the waiter to check on her dinner companion in the men’s room. She knew what had happened before the waiter even returned to the table. Her charming, handsome potential boyfriend wasn’t in the restroom—or the bar, or anywhere else in the restaurant. He was gone.

Five minutes and $135 later, Susan made the walk of shame toward the restaurant door, clutching a carryout bag in one hand, and her cranky, screaming toddler in the other. “Good God, about time,” she heard one man at a nearby table mutter to his date. “That stupid woman’s finally taking her brat out of here….”

She hadn’t quite made it to the door when Mattie spun around and knocked the carryout bag from her grasp. The bag ripped, and two cartons—Lobster Newburg and the garlic prawns and pasta—spilled over the tiled floor. Some of it got on Susan’s legs.

The hostess called a busboy over. Susan kept apologizing. “It’s all right,” the hostess said edgily. Frowning, she opened the door for her. “You can go. We’ll clean it up. Really, just go….”

After slinking out the door with Mattie, she noticed the empty spot where Jack’s car had been parked. What had made her think she’d ever find another nice guy like Walt?

Susan couldn’t help it. She started crying before she even got her car keys out. She strapped Mattie in his child seat. Before climbing in the driver’s side, she tried to wipe off her hands with a Kleenex, but they still felt sticky. As she scooted behind the wheel, Susan noticed all the lawyer’s documents on the front passenger side, where she’d left them. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and then turned the key in the ignition.

Click, click, click. That was all, then nothing.

“Oh, no, please, God, enough already,” she murmured. She turned the key again and stepped on the gas. Click, click, click.

She tried two more times, but nothing.

“Damn it,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes again. She rested her forehead on the top of the steering wheel for a moment.

A knock on the passenger window startled her.

Susan gaped at the handsome man with the wavy salt-and-pepper hair. He gave her a shy, friendly little wave on the other side of the glass. “Need some help?” he called.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Susan stared at him.

He walked around to her side of the car and then twirled his finger to indicate she should roll down her window. Susan lowered it about two or three inches. She realized her door was still unlocked.

“I don’t know much about cars,” the man said. The cute scar on his cheek looked like a dimple. “But I have a cell phone and Triple A. Do you want me to call them for you?”

“It won’t do any good. I don’t have Triple A,” Susan said through the window gap.

“But I do,” he replied. He pulled out his wallet, then checked a card he had in there. “If I tell them I’m a passenger in your car, you’re covered.” He took out his cell phone and made a call. He stepped back from the window. “Hi, my name is Allen Meeker, and I’m with a friend who’s having car problems….” Susan couldn’t hear any more because he wandered away from the car for a few moments. She wasn’t sure about this guy. He seemed too good to be true. And his timing was almost too perfect, showing up exactly when he did.

In the backseat, Mattie yawned.

“What’s wrong with the car, they want to know,” he asked through the gap in the window.

“It just won’t start,” Susan answered. “When I turn the key in the ignition, it makes this weird, clicking noise—and nothing.”

He turned away and talked into the phone again. She watched him finally slip the phone back in his pocket, and then he lumbered back to her window. “It’s going to take them forty-five minutes to an hour to come out here.”

She smiled politely. “Well, I couldn’t ask you to wait here all that time. I’ll call a tow….”

He nodded at the mini-marina complex. “I was about to have dinner. Ruby Asian Dining is where I always go for Thai. Hi there, sport!” He smiled at Mattie in the backseat. Then he pointed to the stack of papers on her passenger seat. “Better move those so when Triple A gets here it’ll look like I was riding shotgun. What is that, legal stuff? Are you a lawyer?”

“No, my lawyer gave me these documents today,” Susan explained. She rolled down the window a bit farther. “I’m involved in a lawsuit right now.”

“Is somebody suing you?” he asked with concern.

“No, just the opposite,” she admitted. Susan didn’t know why she was telling him this, and she didn’t know why she was starting to tear up again. She’d told others about what had happened to Walt and Michael without getting all weepy about it. Maybe she was just feeling terribly vulnerable tonight. “My—my husband and older son were killed when they were on this balcony that collapsed…and…and two others died, and several people were injured. Anyway, there’s this lawsuit, and I don’t give a shit about the money. I just miss my husband and little boy….” She was sobbing now. Turning away, she opened her purse and tried to find another Kleenex.

“Mommy’s crying,” Mattie announced.

“That’s right, sweetie,” she said. She turned toward the man again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I—why I’m unloading all this on you, a perfect stranger….”

He offered her a handkerchief through the car window opening. “My name’s Allen Meeker,” he said. “So I hope I’m no longer a stranger. I was just about to have some Thai food by myself. You and your son have probably already eaten. But as long as we’re all waiting for your car to get fixed, I’d really enjoy your company. Maybe you could have some coffee or dessert.”

Susan wiped away her tears with his handkerchief. She managed to smile up at him. “As a matter of fact, I—I haven’t had my dinner yet.”

In the Thai restaurant, Allen paid for dinner and Mattie’s ice cream. He also tipped the man from Triple A, who had to tow Susan’s car. Allen gave them a ride home.

Ever since that night, he had been there for her. Even when he went out of town for his job—selling hospital equipment—Allen still called her practically every day. He was good with Mattie, too. So what if Susan didn’t see skyrockets every time they made love? That was okay. She cared for Allen and was beholden to him. Since meeting him, every few weeks she’d put away another photo of Walt. It wasn’t premeditated. It just seemed the right thing to do as Allen became more and more a part of her life.

He hadn’t come with much baggage. His mother died in a car accident when he was eleven and his father passed away a decade later. He had a stepmother and a younger stepbrother he wasn’t close to at all. There was also an ex-wife from six years before, whom Susan had no interest in ever meeting.

They’d been seeing each other for seven months when Allen paid for their trip and accompanied her and Mattie to Vero Beach, Florida, to visit her parents—a gesture that, in Susan’s opinion, made him a candidate for canonization. He kept Mattie entertained during the duration of the seven-hour flight, and then won over her parents, who were getting crazier and crazier in their old age. Without complaint, he even slept on the lumpy sofa in her dad’s small study—in their stuffy, sultry, mothball-scented retirement village condo. Susan and Mattie shared the guest room. During that trip Allen asked her parents if he could marry their daughter.

That had been five weeks ago. Susan didn’t want him spending money on an engagement ring, and they still hadn’t set a date. She wasn’t in any real hurry. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she still had two framed photos of Walt on display in her living room.

Allen didn’t ask her to put them away, nor did he pressure her about setting a wedding date. So when he’d started pushing for this trip to Cullen a few days ago, she couldn’t very well refuse. Allen didn’t ask for a lot.

Half sitting up in bed, Susan groped around in the darkness until she found the lamp on her nightstand. She switched on the light, then picked up her wristwatch and squinted at it: 2:50 AM. She gazed at the vacant spot beside her on the bed. There was a noise downstairs; it sounded like the sunroom’s glass door sliding open.

Susan crawled out of bed and threw on her bathrobe. Pushing her hair back from her face, she padded down the corridor and checked in on Mattie in his bedroom. He was sleeping. From the top of the stairs, she could see a light was on—probably in the kitchen or the sunroom. Susan crept down a few steps. “Allen? Honey?” she called softly.

No answer.

From the bottom of the stairs, she didn’t see anyone in the first-floor hallway. “Honey?” she called again—a little louder. “Allen, are you down here?”

She poked her head in the kitchen. Only the stove light was on. She heard water steadily dripping from the faucet—and then, outside, a rustling noise. In the window above the sink, she spotted someone—or something—darting past the house outside. Susan gasped. “Allen? Allen, where are you?”

She retreated toward the sunroom, where she saw the sliding glass door halfway open. A chilly night breeze drifted into the house. Susan felt it kissing her bare feet. She clutched her robe at the neck. There was a light on by the sofa—and a small glass, half filled with bourbon on the end table. The Robert Dugoni book she’d given Allen was open, pages facing down, on the sofa cushion.

Susan heard floorboards creak on the porch outside. She swiveled around toward the glass door and gaped at the shadowy figure standing there.

A hand went to her heart. “Oh, Lord, Allen, you scared the hell—”

She fell silent as he stepped inside. He wore sneakers, sweatpants, and a Rainier Beer T-shirt. Allen looked frayed, and he had a gun in his hand.

“Where did you get that?” Susan murmured, staring at the gun. “I didn’t know you had that. What—”

“I thought I saw someone out there,” he said. He glanced outside again before sliding the glass door shut behind him. “But it’s okay now….”

Dumbfounded, Susan stared at him. “Was that you I saw running past the kitchen window?”

Nodding, he adjusted the safety on the gun. “If someone was out there, he’s not coming back.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“I’ve had it for years,” he answered. “I just didn’t mention it because I knew you’d freak out if I told you I owned a gun.”

“Well, you were right,” she replied. “I am freaking out. I hope you haven’t been bringing it inside my house—”

“Relax, I’ve never smuggled any firearms inside the Blanchette duplex,” he said wryly. He set the gun on the end table and then picked up his glass of bourbon. “Just be glad I brought it along for this trip—what with that creepy son of a bitch following you here and probably giving you that flat tire.” He took a gulp of bourbon.

Booze and guns, good combination, Susan thought. Frowning, she shook her head. “Well, I don’t want that thing in this house, not with Mattie around. I’ll be a nervous wreck.”

“I had it in the glove compartment of my car,” Allen assured her. “I only took it out about an hour ago when I heard a noise outside. I’ll put the gun back tomorrow morning. Until then, I’m holding on to it, okay? I’ll make sure it stays out of Mattie’s reach.”

With a sigh, she leaned against the sunroom doorway. She still didn’t feel very reassured. “I don’t understand why you felt you needed to bring a gun along this weekend. I mean, were you expecting trouble?”

He wandered over and rested his arms on her shoulders. Then he leaned in to kiss her.

Susan kept her arms folded in front of her. She could taste the bourbon on his lips.

Allen touched his forehead against hers. “Please, don’t freak out about the gun, okay? I’ve had it for years, and I know how to handle it. I’m just looking out for you and Mattie. Why don’t you go back upstairs and try to sleep, babe? I’ll be up in a little while—as soon as I’m sure we’re all safe and sound here.”

Susan still felt uncomfortable. Her eyes wrestled with his. “Listen, do me a big favor and don’t have any more to drink, not while you’re toting that gun.”

He smiled and kissed her again. “No problem, point taken. Besides, believe me, I don’t want to be hungover while we’re sailing tomorrow—” he glanced at his wristwatch, “or today, rather.” He chuckled. “Yikes, he’ll be up in about four hours. You better go to bed, Mommy. Get some shut-eye.”

He kissed her again, and this time, Susan kissed him back.

Heading up the stairs, she nervously rubbed her arms. She thought she knew everything about Allen, but until a few minutes ago, she had no idea he owned a gun. And it still seemed odd that he’d brought it along on this carefree weekend retreat, which he’d planned. He’d never really answered her question. Had he come here expecting trouble?

She stopped by Mattie’s room again and peeked in on him. He was still asleep, undisturbed. Susan moved on to the master bedroom.

Shedding her robe, she draped it over a chair. Then she crawled under the covers, reached over, and switched off the light. Allen had told her to get some sleep. But she knew it wouldn’t come easily, not while he was downstairs keeping watch—with a gun, for God’s sake. Clearly, he was expecting something bad to happen, and she couldn’t ignore that.

Her head on the pillow, Susan took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. But she knew—as much as she tried—she wouldn’t fall asleep.

It would be hours until morning.