Otherworld (22 page)

Lisa Diaz, arms cradling a small pile of wood, carefully took the step up from the back patio into the living room and pushed the door shut with her heel. After setting the firewood down on the hearth, she returned to the door, locked its dead bolt, and peered once more into the back lawn. She walked all over Jimmy Horn's impressions in the carpet, obliterating the telltale signs that
the bad man
had returned.

At the table, Sesame Street's
The Monster at the End of This Book
, starring Grover, held Abby's undivided attention.

Lisa smiled. “Abby, why don't you go upstairs and wash up for dinner?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

 

Mike was crouching down at the base of a tree, resting his back against its coarse trunk. Steve wandered around, peering over the fence and into the railroad yard and looking up the street toward the former Texas School Book Depository. An assassination museum now occupied the sixth floor. Down on Elm Street, cars swerved around Mike's rental, and some honked. Steve thought it wouldn't be long before a cop showed up, telling them to find a suitable parking place, maybe even ticketing them. He looked at Mike sitting down in the evening shade. He appeared deep in thought. Steve walked over to him and knelt beside him.

“What's going on?” Steve asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Mike replied.

“You look like you're in outer space.”

“I don't know. I was just thinking. There was a murder here,” Mike said.

“Yeah. Feels kinda weird, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we're sitting in history right now. A man, a president, was shot and killed right here. The man that did it was right there,” Mike said, pointing at the fence.

“Well … I guess. Government said from right there,” Steve said, pointing down Elm toward the sixth-floor sniper's nest.

“Yeah, but you get my point.”

“I gotta be honest here, Mike. I don't think I'm following.”

Mike looked at the minister. “If I tell you something, you promise not to think I'm crazy?”

“Sure,” Steve said, intrigued.

Mike opened his mouth, acting as though he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He waved his hand in the air, erasing words unspoken. Steve watched his face gather into angst and saw the man begin to shiver. The Dallas evening was cold but oddly not as cold as it had been in Houston.

“You ready to go?” Mike asked.

“Yeah.”

The two men walked down the hill, got into the car, and drove on.

 

In the State Farm Insurance office on Louetta Road, Darla McKay sat in her chair at her desk, biting her nails and wondering what to do. She had already called the house four times every day the last couple days. Every time, an answering machine received her calls. Every time, she left a message: “This is work. Just wondering where you've been. Mr. Knox is getting pretty mad. Call me.”

Darla had just left one of those messages.

Now she picked up the phone again and dialed another number.

The answer came: “Sheriff's Department.”

“Hi, my name is Darla McKay and, this might sound stupid, but there's a lady who works with me who hasn't been to work in a couple days, and I can't get an answer at home. I was wondering if, well—”

“Would you like us to drive by the residence and check in with her?”

“Yes, that'd be great. I'm getting kinda worried here,” Darla said.

“Okay. Name?”

“Darla McKay. Oh,
her
name. Right. Okay … Maggie Horn.”

 

Officer Mark Lane hurried into the Trumbull Police Station and walked briskly to Graham Lattimer's office. Kelly stopped him.

“Hope you have good news,” she said.

“Why?” Lane asked.

“He's pretty upset.”

“The protesters?”

“Yeah. Among other things.”

By “protesters,” Lane meant the sixteen people gathered outside the station, holding signs that read, TRUMBULL POLICE COVER UP THE TRUTH, LATTIMER'S A LIAR, and UFOS ARE REAL! Even more people had congregated outside the mayor's office.

“So you don't think I should bother him?” Lane asked.

“Up to you,” Kelly said.

Lane thought for a second. “I think he'll want to hear this.”

“Your call.”

Lane rapped on the window of Graham's office door. Inside, the captain looked up from a pool of aspirin on his desk. He nodded at Lane, and the officer entered.

“Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we've got some good news.”

Graham arched an eyebrow. “Well, that'd sure be a switch,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Lane said. “HPD found a match for our holdup suspect.”

Graham stood up. “You don't say.”

“Yes, sir. Name's James Horn. Lives in Houston,” Lane said.

“Well, get someone out to his school and his house. Pick him up.”

“Already done, sir. Harris County Sheriff's got a man going by the home as we speak. Seems the boy's mother hasn't been to work in a few days and nobody's been able to reach her.”

“Sheesh,” Graham said, and he grabbed his coat.

 

The rental car zipped up and down suburban streets.

Mike had felt very strange sitting beneath the tree in Dealey Plaza. He wanted to explain it to Steve, but he could not find the words. When the pastor crouched down beside him, Mike sensed genuine interest in his face. Genuine concern, as well. He wanted to tell the man how he felt, how the grassy knoll affected him, but chose not to. Mike had a wealth of things on his mind. He wanted to tell Steve about seeing a dead body in a river. He wanted to tell him about having that same body reach out to grab him in the morgue that morning. He even wanted to tell him about pulling an unloaded gun on an unsuspecting driver. These events were fresh on Mike's conscience. Visions of animated corpses aren't easily shaken.

In the end, though, he decided not to say anything. He still didn't know Steve all that well, and he could not be sure that this man, a preacher, wouldn't think him crazy, devil possessed, or worse (whatever worse might be). He realized that Steve saw
something
was going on with him in the Plaza, but Mike just didn't have the words to describe it. In a way, he had felt a morbid curiosity in walking around one of history's most famous murder scenes, but he also found himself in a peculiar confrontation with that which he had been programmed to fear most. DEATH. He felt it all around him. In the car, on the hill, and under the tree. He felt it crawling on his skin like an invisible animal. A predator he feared but could not bring himself to shake off. In an odd way, he felt
good
about being there, about feeling it claw at him, as if this was the beginning of shedding his fear. It felt like the sort of nightmare that is terrifying but so compelling, one almost fears waking up. He also felt that, somehow, Steve's presence made this confrontation easier.

Mike managed to find Vickie's neighborhood.

Mike introduced Steve to Molly, and they sat down to have cake and coffee. The table in the kitchen almost bowed under the weight of numerous desserts and snacks. Mike remembered how Molly always seemed to occupy herself with cooking when she was upset.

Steve told Molly that he and Brian Ayers happened to be good friends, and she seemed to enjoy hearing that. If Reverend Ayers couldn't conduct the service, at least a friend of his could. They spent a long time talking and eating. Molly asked Steve about his church. He asked her about Vickie. Molly showed him some pictures of her sister and showed him around the house, so he could see some of her paintings.

When the conversation turned to more spiritual things, Mike excused himself and went to the bathroom. He wasted time, wanting to be sure all the religious talk was good and over by the time he emerged. He could hear them talking. Molly's voice sounded wet. He heard her sniffling. When he couldn't hear them anymore, he came out and found them praying.

Shoulda stayed a little bit longer,
he thought.

Mike looked at them. He watched his wife, her beautiful auburn hair flowing down her back in waves, her thin hands clasped, her eyes shut. Even in pain, even in grief, she was radiant. He wanted so badly to be the one next to her at that moment.

 

On the way to the Horn home, the police officer's radio broadcasted the latest news. The home of Maggie Horn was also the home of her son, Jimmy Horn, who was wanted for assault with a deadly weapon and armed robbery. Proceed with caution, the radio said. Four other cars were en route.

Upon pulling up to the curb outside the home, the officer first noticed that lights inside the house were on. He radioed that he was approaching the home.

He knocked on the door. He rang the doorbell. He knocked again. He pounded on the door. He called out, “Harris County Sheriff's Department. Anyone home?” He walked to the window and looked in. He could see the dining room and, beyond it, the living room. He rapped on the glass. “Hello?” he yelled. On the dining room's right wall, he could see an entrance to what he presumed was the kitchen. Lights shone in this room. He rapped one more time, then noticed something. He squinted. He could see flies buzzing in and out of the entrance to the lighted room. Not a lot of flies, but enough. Not a good sign.