Otherworld (21 page)

“He's a great guy. I hope I'm a suitable replacement.”

“Oh, yeah,” was all Mike could say. He turned off the radio halfway through the Allegro.

 

“What in the world happened there?” Patty Groden asked.

She maneuvered her long white Cadillac into the Dickeys' gravel driveway and stopped. She and her passenger, Gertie Dickey, had seen the boards nailed over the bedroom window from down the street.

“Pops expecting a hurricane?” Patty asked.

“Probably kids,” Gertie said. “Baseball or something. Thanks, Patty. See you in church Sunday.”

Gertie got out of the car and walked up to the house, hoping her husband's mania had dried out. She had heard enough about flying saucers and alien killers. She climbed the steps to the porch, held the screen door open, and put her key into the door. She stopped and looked into the front window. The shade was up, the curtains spread, and Gertie noticed that no lights were on in the house. She turned her key, twisted the knob, and stepped inside.

The afternoon sun cast a pale light into the living room. She could see particles of dust dancing about in its subtle glow.

“Pops?” she called. The area of the room farthest from her, where the couch sat, lay in darkness. “Pops?”

She took a few steps forward. The silence frightened her, despite the high probability that Pops was working outside or had gone into town. But for some reason, Gertie believed Pops was in the room, or at least in the house. And he wasn't answering.

“Lucas, are you in here?”

Yes, he was, and she could hear him breathing.

“Lucas Dickey, you answer me!”

His voice came soft and low. “Quit your jabberin', woman.”

“Pops, you monster,” she said and wanted to say some more, but as she moved toward him, he became more visible, and she froze when she saw that he was sitting on the couch with his shotgun in his lap.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Why do you have your shotgun out, Pops?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Gert.”

“What happened to the bedroom window?”

“You never did believe me,” he said.

“Pops, what's going on?”

“You're just like that policeman, Gert. You never did believe me, did you?”

She began to shake. “What are you talking about?”

“Stewadell would tell you. He'd back me up. I could always count on ol' Stu. But you—well, you've been against me since the beginning. And I told you, Gert. I told you what I'd seen, and you just laughed at me. Went and stayed with your old hag friends, and they probably laughed at me too. But they won't laugh for long. Nope.”

Gertie's purse dropped from her hand and plopped onto the floor. “I … I don't understand.”

“Sure you do. You just want to stop the show. And, Gertie, I love you, but I just can't let you do that.”

 

Abby Diaz had not been outside since she'd been attacked. Her mother told her it was much too cold and she didn't want Abby to catch pneumonia, but there were other reasons. Lisa was still scared. All day, she repeatedly checked all the doors and windows in the house to make sure they remained locked. She would not let Abby go play at Elizabeth's.
For goodness' sake, that's where it all began the first time
, she thought. She had also begun to think that something was wrong with Abby. Her daughter didn't seem frightened at all. She seemed to have forgotten the entire incident.

Lisa rinsed some dishes in the sink and stared out the window. Abby sat at the dinner table and connected the dots in a coloring book, her innocent eyes wide with anticipation to see what picture would form. The phone rang.

“Hey, hon. It's me,” came Carlos's voice.

“Hey.”

“Would you mind getting some logs from outside and putting them on the hearth? I'll make a fire tonight and we can relax.”

“Okay.”

“See you around six-thirty, okay?”

“Okay.”

Lisa replaced the phone and looked over at Abby. The little girl's lips clenched the straw protruding from her mug of chocolate milk, and she was admiring her connect-the-dots creation (a clown).

“Abby?”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“I'm going to go outside and get some wood for the fireplace, okay? I'll just be out for a few seconds. I'll be right back. Okay?”

“Okay.” Abby turned the page and began coloring a frog red.

“I'll be right outside, okay? I'll be right back in. It won't take long at all.”

“Okay,” Abby said again without averting her eyes from the page.

Lisa's brow furrowed with disappointment.
Why isn't this girl as scared as I am?
“All right,” she said, and she walked into the living room, paused to put on her coat, and moved toward the door into the backyard.

She stopped at the door, her hand on the cold knob, and looked around the yard. She craned her neck against the window and tried to peer down the far ends of the house. She glanced back at Abby and then unlocked the door.

Outside, the wind greeted her with chilly apathy. Lisa turned to her left and walked around the corner to the woodpile on the side of the house.

 

If the woodpile had been on the other side of the house and Lisa had taken a right turn, she would have walked right into Jimmy Horn, who was leaning against the brick, trying to get warm in the winter coat he had stolen from a car parked at a Burger King.

Jimmy heard the back door open, and he poked his head around the corner to see Lisa Diaz walking to the opposite side of the home and disappearing around the corner. He slipped his hands into his pockets. The butterfly knife felt cold. He stepped out into the backyard, paused, and then walked to the door. He saw that it was open a crack. He noticed the little girl inside, coloring in a book at a table. She looked different in the daylight. He opened the door and stepped inside, heading straight for the stairs.

From the
Houston Chronicle
:

Police authorities in Trumbull are investigating the holdup of a convenience store and the assault of a young girl who was walking home from playing at a friend's house. Investigators believe the crimes are related. Surveillance cameras in the Dart 'n Shop convenience store in Trumbull caught the suspect on film. He is described as a white male, age fifteen to nineteen, with black hair and black eyes. He was last seen wearing black denim jeans and a black T-shirt. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous.

If you have any information about this suspect or about either of the crimes, please contact the Trumbull Police Department or call CrimeStoppers at 222-TIPS.

Watch Channel 2's CrimeStoppers segment tonight at six o'clock for further information and exclusive video.

 

“I have no idea where I am.”

Mike and Steve had entered Dallas.

“Are we still on 45?” Steve asked.

“Yes,” Mike said. “But I don't know where we are.”

“Look, here comes a sign.”

“30? How did we end up on 30?” Mike asked.

“You got me. I was sleeping. Don't believe in GPS?”

“We have one, but Molly took it.”

He had been. The minister had slept for more than three hours. It didn't bother Mike much, though.

“Here,” said Steve. “Why don't you take this exit and we can turn around or something.”

“Sounds good to me.” Mike turned onto the exit ramp.

“Take a left here,” Steve said.

Mike took a left. “Can you read that street sign?”

“Uh …” Steve squinted. “Yeah. Elm.”

They drove west down Elm Street. Steve looked at all the buildings. Mike read every sign that came up. He hated being lost. He was about to retrieve his phone to use the maps feature when he recognized a familiar landmark.

“Hey, there's a sign for the museum,” he said. “Vickie's house is in this area.” He drove on. “Okay, I think I know where we are. The Stemmons Freeway is up here, I think.”

“Mike, do you realize where we are?”

“What?”

“Stop the car,” Steve said.

“What?” Mike braked to a halt. “Why?”

“Look out my window.”

Mike did. Outside Steve's window, he saw a grassy hill illuminated by the streetlights. Cement steps ran up the hill and led to some trees around an unidentifiable concrete structure.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “What is it?”

“This is Elm Street,” Steve said. “Didn't you see that sign back there?”

“Which one?”

“This is Dealey Plaza.”

Suddenly, Mike understood.

Steve said, “Don't you recognize this?”

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Mike said. “This is where Kennedy was shot.” And immediately, he felt as though his rental car, motionless in the far right lane and directly below the infamous grassy knoll, was sitting in the exact place that Kennedy's presidential limousine, a blue Lincoln convertible, had been that horrible moment when the sniper's bullet ripped through his skull.

“I've never seen this before,” Steve said, but Mike didn't hear him.

Transfixed on the grassy slope, Mike's eyes glazed over. He looked into the shadows of the trees atop the incline.

“I think I wanna get out and look around,” Mike said, and he opened his door.

“I don't think we should, Mike. We can't just park here in the road.”

“It won't take long.” And with that, Mike hopped out of the car and began walking up the steps to the knoll. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have seen these actions as further steps contrary to his natural timidity.