Catch Me (8 page)

To hit, Jesse had to watch the ball coming at him and time the click of the mouse. Except sometimes the ball would speed up, sometimes slow down, and sometimes drift wide—a walk. Just like in real baseball, judgment and timing were everything.

First pitch, Jesse clicked too soon. Strike.

Second pitch. Ball drifted wide, but Jesse had already clicked. A swing and a miss, strike two.

A dialogue box opened above Helmet Hippo’s head. Players couldn’t type in anything they wanted—the website didn’t allow that. Security controls, his mother had said approvingly. Instead, you could select from stock expressions—a lot of sporting stuff, basic conversational stuff. The website was also patrolled for bullying. Jesse knew, because his mother had told him that. He didn’t see how the players could bully one another, given that the stock phrases were all
Go Team Go
kind of stuff, but maybe there were ways around the phrases. Things the other, more experienced kids knew how to do. Jesse didn’t care; he was still learning how to write, so he liked being able to select a whole phrase for his bear to say with a click of the computer mouse.

“Eye on the ball,” Helmet Hippo said now. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Jesse took a deep breath. He would do this. For his team. For Helmet Hippo.

Ball came, a tiny black dot traveling down the computer screen, first slow, then fast, fast, fast…

Jesse clicked his mouse. On the screen, his bear swung a bat, the sound of thwacking came through the speakers, and suddenly, the tiny black dot was moving again, flying away from Jesse’s bear, over Helmet Hippo into the green of the outfield, but still going, going…

The word “GONE” lit up across Jesse’s screen. Virtual confetti
rained down, triumphant music blared. Home run. Jesse had done it. Home run!

The graphic explosion cleared, and now Jesse could watch his bear and Helmet Hippo run the bases. Scoring once, scoring twice, as Jesse’s team took the lead, eight to seven.

“Jesse, five more minutes,” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Okay!”

Jesse remained glued to the screen. His left hand now clutched Zombie Bear. All his teammates were talking, conversation bubbles appearing everywhere as they congratulated him on his game-winning hit.

But Jesse had eyes for only one teammate: Helmet Hippo.

“Way to go! You are a champion!”

Jesse was still smiling, beaming really, when a new icon lit up on the bottom panel of his screen. The mailbox. His bear had just received mail.

Jesse obediently clicked. Generally mail came from the site itself. Notification of bonus points, presents for Zombie Bear on his birthday, or announcements of weekly specials on the site—play this game, earn this many bonus points!

But the message wasn’t from the website administrator. It was from Helmet Hippo. They could send mail to each other. Jesse hadn’t known that, but now he did.

“Homerun Bear,” the message began (only Jesse called his bear Zombie Bear, after the scissors incident). “Congratulations on your winning hit. I knew you could do it! Want to play again? Tomorrow, 3:30, I’ll be here. I always wear my Red Sox hat for good luck. You?”

There was a button for reply.

Jesse hit reply, watched a fresh window open up. Helmet Hippo’s name automatically appeared, but the rest of the message was blank. No phrases to pick from. He’d have to do it. Type it in all by himself. But he could use the first message to cheat a little, look at those words for spelling.

Jesse’s mother was banging around in the kitchen.

Jesse stuck his tongue between his teeth and began to laboriously type. “Yes. I’ll be here. I like the Red Sox, too.”

*  *  *

L
ATER, AFTER DINNER
, after homework, after bath and bedtime stories, Jesse curled up beneath his Star Wars sheets and clutched Zombie Bear. He thought again of his homerun hit. He thought again of Helmet Hippo.

And he felt warm all over. Like someone special.

Tomorrow, 3:30. Jesse couldn’t wait.

“T
HAT DOG THAT’S NOT YOUR DOG
is waiting for you on the front porch,” my landlady called through my bedroom door. It was 9
P.M.
, time for me to start thinking about heading to work.

My bedroom was located in the back ground level of a 120-year-old triple-decker. At first I’d been concerned about this. I would’ve preferred a second- or third-story unit, but those larger apartments were all taken and, frankly, out of my price range. It turned out, however, that my landlady, Frances Beals, was security savvy. She’d been born in this house, she’d told me the day of my interview. Good Irish Catholic family with eleven kids. Half the siblings were now scattered to other states; the other half were already dead.

Having lived her whole life in Cambridge, Frances wasn’t blind to its shortcomings. A university town, Cambridge featured an eclectic mix of multimillion-dollar grand old mansions and barely maintained brick apartment units. There were sprawling green spaces and quaint dining opportunities for upwardly mobile young families, as well as Laundromats, pizza joints, and trendy clothing stores for the college kids. Some of Cambridge’s residents, like Frances, came from families who’d lived here for generations. Most simply passed through for a summer or semester or four-year degree. Meaning the town offered interesting pockets of well-established security, surrounded by other pockets of petty crime, vagrant lifestyles, and drunken debauchery.

Before I could rent the room, I had to pass a two-hour interview with Frances, to determine which of these categories I fell into.
When she ascertained I had no pets, no boyfriends, and most likely, no body piercings, I’d passed muster. My only requirement for her was a double-bolt lock on my door, and I asked permission to inspect all door and window locks on the lower level.

She seemed surprised by this request, then pleased. Like maybe that proved I had some common sense after all.

The most Frances and I had ever spoken was during the interview. I figured she was married once, because there was a wedding portrait on the mantel. Next to it was a picture of a baby, but Frances never mentioned kids and no family came for Christmas. Maybe that told its own story. I wondered, but I never asked.

By mutual agreement, Frances came and went through the front entrance, while I accessed my room via the rear, garden door. I tried to keep out of her way, which wasn’t too hard as I worked graveyard four nights a week, then slept till midday.

My room was small, but I liked the battered hardwood floors, the nine-foot ceilings, the historic bull’s-eye molding. A female professor had rented the room before me. She’d left behind an Ikea bookshelf filled with romance novels. So that’s what I did in my free time. I sat in my room and devoured Nora Roberts novels. I figured with everything I had going on in my life, I deserved at least a few hours a day with a happy ending.

Now I pulled on a bulky gray hooded sweatshirt, then reached under my pillow for my. 22. A year ago, I’d never so much as touched a handgun. I couldn’t have told a pistol from a revolver, a rimfire from a centerfire, a. 22 from a. 357 magnum.

Now, I gotta say, I’m a hell of a good shot.

A. 22’s not the best self-defense weapon in the world. Most people choose this gun as a “concealment” weapon—its small size and light weight make it easy to carry. Tuck it in your pocket or belt holster, or, as I’d been told, hang it from a chain around your neck like a true gang banger.

In public, I kept mine in my leather messenger bag, as Massachusetts frowned on citizens being openly armed. In private, however, and certainly on January 21, the semiauto would be in a holster on my left hip. I’d practiced many, many times, drawing it quickly and
opening fire. In fact, I practiced that at least thirty minutes twice a week.

My Taurus semiauto had a nickel finish with rosewood grip. It weighed twelve ounces, fit snug in the palm of my hand, and I’d come to welcome the feel of the warm wood against my fingers. It was a pretty gun, if I do say so. But it was also reasonably priced, and inexpensive to arm.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have considered that either. Not just that firearms can be expensive, but so are boxes of ammo. And let me tell you, just because I feared for my life didn’t mean I had unlimited resources.

These days, I was a walking advertisement for safety and security on a working girl’s budget. Hence the real reason I had a two-hundred-dollar. 22, and not something much more commanding, such as a two-thousand-dollar Glock. 45. My instructor, J. T. Dillon, let me fire his one day. I thought the recoil was going to blow off my arm, but the hole in the target was something to behold. SWAT guys and Special Forces commandos often carry. 45s. I wondered how that must feel, confronting an unknown threat while surrounded by buddies you know have got your back and carrying a weapon designed just for a guy like you to get the job done.

For the past two weeks, I’d been trying to picture January 21. J.T. kept walking me through it—visualization as a form of preparation.

I stood in the middle of my charming little bedroom. Twin bed was pushed against the wall to the left, blond Ikea bookshelf behind me, old microwave stand topped with even older twenty-inch TV stationed beside the door. Room to move, fight, defend. Space to fully extend my arms, two-handed grip, my Taurus a natural extension of my body. My pistol was loaded with match-grade. 22-caliber long rifle, or LR, cartridges. The rounds may not pack the biggest boom, but I had nine shots to get it right.

During my twice weekly training sessions, J.T. ordered me to empty my clip every time. Never practice hesitation, he instructed me, over and over again. Evaluate the threat. Make your decision. Commit to defend.

I still couldn’t picture January 21. Mostly, I remembered the police reports—no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle.

You gotta see him coming
, Detective Warren had said this afternoon.
You gotta welcome him with a smile.

I holstered my Taurus, donned my heavy black coat, and headed for work.

T
HE DOG THAT WAS NOT MY DOG
was waiting for me on the front porch. The rear of Frances’s narrow lot was barricaded by a five-foot-high wooden fence; otherwise I was pretty sure the dog would wait at the back door for me. She was that smart.

I called her Tulip. She’d started hanging around six months ago. No collar, no tags. At first she’d just followed me down the street when I went for my afternoon runs. I figured she was hungry, hoping for a treat. But back in those days, I never gave her anything. Not my dog, not my problem. I just wanted to exercise.

So Tulip started to run. All five miles, tongue lolling out, sleek white-and-tan body pounding out the miles. Afterward, it seemed cruel not to provide at least a bowl of water. So we sat together on the front porch. She drank a bowl. I drank a bottle. Then she sprawled beside me and put her head on my lap. Then, I stroked her ears, her graying muzzle.

She looked like some kind of hound. Harrier, Frances had muttered one day. When I looked it up on the library’s computer, the breed turned out to be a small to mid-sized English hound dog. Tulip shared many of the markings—a short tan coat with white stockinged legs and broad white collar. Wire whip tail, floppy ears, broad, handsome face. Tulip was definitely an older dog. A grand dame who’d been there and done that. The stories she could tell, I figured, and knew exactly how she felt.

Tonight, Tulip sat in the middle of the covered porch, away from the snow. She was a very patient dog; Frances said she sometimes sat there for hours waiting for me.

I hadn’t seen her for several days—that’s the problem with a dog that’s not your dog. I didn’t know where she went, or even if she had
another home. Sometimes, I saw her daily; sometimes a couple times a week. I guess I got to practice patience, too.

She was shivering when I came around, and immediately I felt bad.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I told her, rounding the corner, watching her rise in greeting and wag her whiplike tail. “January is no time to be homeless in Boston.”

Tulip looked at me, whined a little.

I’d started buying bags of dog food five months back. She was just so skinny, and then when she kept running like that…The first vet visit was two weeks later. No fleas, no ticks, no heartworm. The vet gave her shots, gave me Frontline, then wrote up a bill that made my. 22 semiauto look cheap.

I paid. Worked some overtime. Kept running with the dog that was not my dog. Started pouring dry food into a bowl.

I had a Baggie of food in my pocket, had filled it when Frances had told me Tulip was waiting on the porch. Now I emptied the kibble on the front porch. Tulip advanced gratefully. She looked skinnier to me. I saw a fresh mark near her hindquarters, a tear on her right ear.

I’d put up posters in the fall, trying to see if anyone had lost a dog. I’d even spent precious cash on an ad in the local paper. Once, I’d called animal control, but when the officer started to ask me too many questions, I panicked. I just wanted to know if Tulip had a real home, somewhere where she was loved and missed and needed to get back to. Because I understood that sort of thing, felt it myself.

But I didn’t want her carted off to a pound, then killed, just because somewhere along the way she’d become her own creature instead of someone else’s.

“You need a coat,” I murmured to her now, smoothing back her ears and scratching the heavier folds of skin around her neck. She leaned against me, pressed against my legs, and I could feel her body shiver again. Nineteen degrees and dropping. Couldn’t take her inside, ’cause my landlady would kill us both. But couldn’t leave her outside, quaking with the cold.

I checked to see how much cash I had in my wallet. Enough, I figured.

Then I looked down at the dog that was not my dog, still leaning against me, her eyes closed as she exhaled her exhaustion and worry over some misadventure I’d never know.