The Neighbor (20 page)

Marianne started picking up the toys in the interrogation room. Miller and D.D. turned away, just as the buzzer sounded at the pager clipped to D.D.’s waist. She eyed the display screen, frowning. Some detective from the state police trying to summon her. Figures. Throw a little party with the media, and all of a sudden everyone wants in on the action. She did the sensible thing and ignored it, as she and Miller headed back up to homicide.

“I want to know where Jason Jones comes from,” D.D. stated, working her way up the stairs. “Guy as cool and collected as that. Working as a small-time reporter, sitting on four million, and according to his own child doesn’t even have a best friend. What the hell makes this guy tick?”

Miller shrugged.

“Let’s get two detectives digging into some deep background,” D.D. continued. “Cradle to grave, I want to know everything about Jason Jones, Sandra Jones, and their respective families. I can tell you now, something there is gonna click.”

“I want his computer,” Miller murmured.

“Hey, at least we have his garbage. Any news?”

“Got a crew on it now. Give them a couple of hours, they’ll have a report.”

“Miller?” she asked with a troubled look on her face.

“What?”

“I know Ree saw something that night. You know Ree saw something that night. What if the perpetrator knows it, too?”

“You mean Jason Jones?”

“Or Aidan Brewster. Or the unidentified subject 367.”

Miller didn’t answer right away, but started to look concerned, as well. Marianne Jackson had been right: Ree was very, very vulnerable right now.

“Guess we’d better hurry up,” Miller said grimly.

“Yeah, guess so.”

| CHAPTER FIFTEEN |

I dreamed of Rachel last night. She was saying, “No, no, no,” and I was finding all the right spots to change her “no, no, no” to “yes, yes, yes.”

“It’s not my fault,” I was saying in my dream, “you have such perfect breasts. God wouldn’t have given you such perfect breasts if He’d really meant for me to leave you alone.”

Then I was pinching her nipples between my fingers and she was leaning back and breathing heavy and I knew I was winning. Of course I was winning. I was bigger, stronger, smarter. So I rubbed and stroked and cajoled until that magic moment when I was sinking deep inside her and maybe she was crying a little but what did it matter? She was also gasping and writhing and I made it good for her. I swear I made it good.

In my dream world I could feel it all building. Her legs wrapping around my waist. Her breasts rubbing against my chest. And I wanted. Oh God, I wanted. And then …

Then I woke up. Alone. Hard as a rock. Mad as hell.

I rolled out of bed still breathing hard. Made it to the shower, cranked it on as hot as it would go. Barreled into the steam and finished
my business, because when you’re a twenty-three-year-old registered pervert, this is as good as it gets.

Except it’s not. In my mind I can still touch and taste the girl I want. The girl I have always wanted. The girl I can never have.

So I whack off, and I hate every minute of it. Touching Rachel was purity. This is an aberration. Pure transactional lust, nothing more, nothing less.

But I get it over with, clean up, towel off.

I get dressed without turning on a light or looking into a mirror and I know before I ever leave the house that it’s gonna be a bad day. A real shitkicker. My quiet little existence is over. I’m just waiting to see who delivers the death blow.

Colleen ended our little session last night by recommending that I continue with my usual routine. Sure, the police will pay me a visit. Can’t blame them for asking. And of course it’s my constitutional right to ask for counsel the moment I feel the need. But hey, I’m doing well. I’m a regular freaking success story. Don’t give up ground too easily, that’s what she tells me.

What she means is, running will be worse than staying. Something I’d already figured out for myself, thank you very much.

So hey, I walk to work. Seven-thirty
A.M.
, I’m garbed in blue coveralls, my head under the hood of an old Chevy, pulling spark plugs. Look at me, Joe Schmoe, fighting the good fight. Yes sirree, Bob.

I’m tending, fixing, tightening, pretending that my grease-covered hands aren’t shaking a hundred miles per hour, or that my body isn’t still hard as a rock, or that I haven’t worked myself into such an agitated state that for the first time in my life, I’m honestly praying no female walks through the door because I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do. I’m fucked up. I’m just plain fucked up, and it’s not even nine
A.M.

Vito’s got the radio on in the shop area. Local station. Plays a mix of eighties and nineties music. Lotta Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Nine-fifteen, the news comes on, and for the first time I hear the official announcement that a woman has gone missing in
South Boston. Young wife, beloved sixth grade teacher, vanished in the middle of the night, leaving behind a young child. Some female detective is laying it on thick.

I finish the Chevy, move on to a big Suburban that needs new rear brakes. The other guys are muttering now, making conversation.

“In Southie? No way.”

“It’s drugs, gotta be drugs. It’s always drugs.”

“Nah. It’s the husband. Twelve to one he’s got a little project on the side, and doesn’t feel like paying alimony. Prick.”

“Hope they get him this time. Who was that last year, two of his wives disappeared, but they still couldn’t build a case …?”

On and on they go. I don’t say a word. Just attack the lug nuts with the impact wrench, then wrestle off the two rear tires. The old Suburban has drum brakes. What a bitch.

Only vaguely do I become aware of the whispering, of the pointing. My face reddens automatically, I find myself sputtering to speak. Then realize no one is pointing at me. They’re pointing at the front office, where Vito is currently standing with two cops.

I want to crawl inside the huge Suburban. I want to disappear into a pile of metal and plastic and chrome. Instead, I work my way around the vehicle, taking off the front tires now, like I’m gonna inspect the front disk brakes as well, even though nothing’s written on the order sheet.

“You’re a success story,” I mutter to myself, “a regular freaking success story.” But I’m not even buying it anymore.

I finish the Suburban. Cops are gone. I eye the clock, decide it’s close enough to the mid-morning break. I go to fetch my lunch pail and discover Vito standing in front of my locker, arms crossed over his chest.

“My office. Now,” he orders.

I don’t fight Vito. I unpeel my blue coveralls, ’cause I can tell from the look on his face I won’t be needing them anymore. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me the entire time, making sure buddy boy doesn’t get out of his line of sight. Nothing bad is gonna happen on Vito’s watch.

When I’m cleaned up, lunch box in hand, sweatshirt slung over my arm, Vito finally grunts and leads the way to his office. Vito
knows what I’ve done. He’s one of those employers who doesn’t mind hiring sex offenders. He’s got work that doesn’t involve mixing with the public, and being a big, burly guy, he probably believes he can keep a kid like me in line. To be fair, he has moments where he’s actually kind. Hell, maybe employing a felon is his idea of public service. He’s taking in untouchables and turning them into productive members of society and all that. I don’t know.

I just find myself thinking that Vito has never made me feel as low as he does now, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mix of disappointment and disgust. We arrive in his cramped office. He sits behind his dust-covered desk. I stand because there isn’t another chair. He gets out the checkbook and starts writing.

“Police were here,” he says crisply.

I nod, then realize he’s not looking up, and force myself to say out loud: “I saw.”

“Woman’s gone missing. Sure you heard it on the news.” He skewers me with a glance.

“I heard it.”

“Police wanted to know if she got her car serviced here. Wanted to know if either she, or her cute four-year-old kid, had ever met you.”

I don’t say a word.

“How ya doin, Aidan?” Vito barks abruptly.

“Good,” I whisper.

“Been attending your meetings, sticking with your program?”

“Yes.”

“Drinking? Even a sip? Tell me the truth, meat, ’cause I’ll know if you’re lying. This is my town. All of Southie is my business. You hurt anyone in my town, you hurt me.”

“I’m clean.”

“Really? Police don’t think so.”

I wring my hands. I don’t want to. The gesture shames me. Here I am, twenty-three years old and reduced to hunch-shouldered groveling in front of a man who can take me out with one swat of his platter-sized hand. He sits. I stand. He wields the power. I pray for pity.

At that moment, I hate my life. Then I hate Rachel, because if she
hadn’t been so pretty, so ripe, so
there
, maybe this never would’ve happened. Maybe I could’ve found myself in love with one of those slutty cheerleaders on the football field, or even the slightly buck-toothed girl who worked in the local deli. I don’t know. Someone more appropriate. Someone polite society would’ve thought was okay for a nineteen-year-old boy to fuck. And then I wouldn’t be in this mess. Instead, I would’ve gotten a chance to become a real man.

“I didn’t do it,” I hear myself say.

Vito just grunts, stares at me with his beady little eyes. His arrogance finally pisses me off. I’ve passed half a dozen lie detector tests with no one being the wiser. Like hell I’m gonna break for some thick-necked grease monkey.

I meet his gaze. I hold steady. And I can tell he can tell I’m angry, but that mostly it amuses him, and that sets me off all over again. My hands fist at my sides and I think for a second if something doesn’t give soon, I’m gonna plant my fist into his face. Or maybe not his face. Maybe the wall. Except maybe not the wall. Maybe the glass window. That will shatter my hand, and wake me up with a symphony of broken bones and sliced-up flesh. And that’s what I need: a good wake-up call to get me out of this nightmare.

Vito squints his eyes at me, then grunts and tears out the check.

“Final week’s pay,” he announces. “Take it. You’re done.”

I keep my hands fisted at my sides.

“I didn’t do it,” I say again.

Vito merely shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. You work here, the woman had her car serviced here. This is a business, meat, not a freakshow. I don’t have time for the morning wash of your dirty laundry.”

He places the check on the desk, and with one finger pushes it toward me. “Take it, don’t take it. Either way, you’re done.”

So of course I take it. I leave, hearing Vito roar at the other mechanics to get back to work, then hearing each of them start to whisper.

It’s not over, I realize then. Vito’s gonna tell them the truth, three manly men hearing for the first time they worked day in, day out with a pervert. And now a woman is missing and they’re gonna start doing some math in their heads, the kind where two plus two suddenly equals five.

They’re gonna come for me. Soon. Very soon.

I try doing some math of my own in my frantic, pulse-pounding head.

Running equals being arrested by the police, locked away for life.

Staying equals being beaten by the goon squad, probably castrated for life.

I vote for running, then realize it doesn’t matter, ’cause even with Vito’s measly check, I still don’t have the cash. Then I feel the agitation build, build, build again, until I’m nearly running down the street, crashing by some chick with floral-scented perfume, and I’m running faster with her perfume in my nose and a dozen unholy fantasies in my head and I’m not gonna make it. I’m not gonna make it.

The system’s biggest success story is about to break. Yes sirree, Bob. The kid’s gonna blow.

| CHAPTER SIXTEEN |

You know what people want more than anything else in the world? More than love, more than money, more than peace on earth? People want to feel normal. They want to feel like their emotions, their lives, their experiences, are just like everyone else’s.

It’s what drives us all. The Type-A workaholic corporate lawyer who hits the bars at eleven
P.M.
to bolt back Cosmos and pick up a nameless fuck, only to rise at six
A.M.
, rinse all evidence of the night away, and garb herself in a sensible Brooks Brothers suit. The respected soccer mom, famous for her homemade brownies and Martha Stewart décor, who is secretly popping her son’s Ritalin just so she can keep up. Or, of course, the highly esteemed community leader, who is secretly banging his male secretary, but still appears in front of the eleven o’clock news to tell the rest of us how we need to take more responsibility for our lives.

We don’t want to feel freakish or different or isolated. We want to feel normal. We want to be just like everyone else, or at the very least, just like what some TV commercial for Viagra or Botox or debt consolidation tells us our lives should be. In our mission for normalcy, we will ignore what we must ignore. We will cover up what we must cover up. And we will disregard anything we need to disregard, just so we can hold on to our illusion of perfectly regulated bliss.

And maybe, in wanting so badly to be normal in our own way, normal Jason and I became.

So I took off for a night or two every six to nine months. Working moms need a break, right? How kind and considerate of my husband to allow me occasional “spa” breaks. So he stayed up late, hunched over the computer, typing furiously. Writers often have long and irregular hours, right? How kind and understanding of me to never complain of my husband’s demanding job.

We gave each other space. We disregarded what we needed to disregard. And in the process, we stood side by side and watched Ree careen down the sidewalk on her first tricycle. We cheered her first jump into a swimming pool. We laughed the first time she tiptoed into the freezing Atlantic Ocean and came screaming full speed back up the beach. We celebrated our daughter. We worshipped every giggle, laugh, burp, and chattering word that tumbled from her mouth. We adored her innocence, her free spirit, her spunk. And maybe in loving her, we learned also to love each other.