Escapement (5 page)

I glanced back one more time. It was a nice, big, dreamy house that anybody would kill for.

So.

I stopped on the side of the road, out of sight of the house, and took a deep breath.

“As soon as you can safely do so, please make a U-turn.”

“I know, I know, Mandy. Now shut up.” I turned the GPS off.

“It’s now or never,” I said to myself. “You gotta do this before you lose your nerve.” I closed my eyes, thinking of all those times Abbott McClain had tormented me. With one swift jerk of the gear, I put the Hummer in reverse and backed up, right to the driveway. I glanced at the clock.

Then realized something dreadful. I was early.

I moaned. Two hours early. How could that happen? That wasn’t the plan. I specifically remembered noting that I didn’t want to be early because I didn’t want to have to sit there for hours with the body, and I didn’t want to have to feel bad about doing it. I just wanted to kill the guy and then drop dead myself. Not exactly murder/suicide but close enough. The nice part was that I didn’t have to kill myself, because honestly, I’m too chicken to do something like that. Obviously I’m not opposed to killing myself slowly, but that doesn’t qualify as suicide. And I also blame that on the addictive nature of trans fats. But that’s another story.

What was I going to do now? Just sit out here till right before I was sunk? I pulled out the pocket watch. It said I had precisely two hours and eight minutes.

Behind me I noticed a sedan pulling up the road, slowly. Too slowly. It was silver and shiny and as it passed, a little old lady glared through the passenger window at me, pressing her face forward to make sure I saw her. Logic told me she probably just hated the Hummer, that she wasn’t discerning I was here to murder Mr. McClain. How could she possibly know my intentions?

Still, paranoia swelled like my ankles in August. Sweat poured down my temples. I turned the air-conditioning on full blast, putting my face close to the vents.

“That’s the whole problem with you, Matthew Bigham,” I said to myself. “You’re always backing down from a fight. Never standing up for yourself, minus that one incident in the bathroom when you were in tenth grade. But then your mama told you violence wasn’t the answer. Of course, now we know Mama was wrong about some things. Just a few. But enough. So here’s your chance, and you’re going to blow it again.”

Gritting my teeth, I revved the engine a bit.

“What idiot leaves his iron gate wide open? What a waste of money.”

What idiot talks to himself all of a sudden?

I took a deep breath and slowly drove up the driveway. I was going to have to think fast. This driveway was so long they had to see me coming. Somebody had to. It was a Saturday, but I had to also realize Abbott might not be home. I might have to get the info about where he was out of his wife. All kinds of things could happen. I needed to be ready for whatever I encountered. There was one thing I knew about myself, and that was that I could think fast.

If ever weight was on my side, this was the time, because most people are so afraid of offending me they’ll pretty much do anything I ask. Truly. You should try it sometime. Gain three hundred pounds and tell me if you don’t get a complimentary refill on your popcorn. Just saying.

That’s Beth’s influence, by the way. She always told me to try to look on the bright side of things.

The sweat rings had already burst through my shirt by the time I got to the end of the yellow brick road. I parked the Hummer and looked at the shard of plate, otherwise known as the murder weapon. Then I stuffed it carefully into my belt, cleverly hidden by my girth.

It was time to look charming.

The walk was exceedingly long from the area where I’d parked my car to the front door. As I passed to the sidewalk, I glimpsed the backyard. There was a lake back there. Waterfront property in Wichita. Wow. My knees were stiff, popping and creaking as I made my way up the front porch, lavishly decorated with . . . wicker? Wicker was not my friend. April 7, 2008, was the day rattan and I stopped speaking. Supposedly wicker is light but sturdy. Supposedly brussels sprouts are edible.

The door had a round iron knocker. How quaint. I stood there for a long time because my hands were shaking so badly that I wasn’t sure I could even grab the thing. When did doorbells go out?

I looked at my hands, willing them to steady. Then slowly, methodically, I reached for the knocker. I stood there, holding it in my hand, wondering how you used the thing without crushing your knuckles. I held it daintily, like how you hold a doughnut right before taking a bite. And then I knocked.

It wasn’t a hard knock because it was an awkward hand position. It was more like a light thud. I tried again, but it didn’t really get any louder. I stepped back anyway, grasping my hands in front of myself like a polite guest calling on an old friend.

And I waited . . .

I stepped forward and knocked again. This time as loud as I could. My fingers got pinched but it was definitely loud enough to hear.

Still, no answer.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I looked at the watch. Time was beginning to not be on my side. If they weren’t home, that meant they might not be home for hours. And I didn’t have
hours
.

I was going to have to break in, try to figure out where they went.

I glanced around and then nonchalantly walked back to where I’d parked my car. Around the garage, there was a gate leading to the backyard. And it was open.

It was like the guy was begging to be murdered.

I stepped into the backyard and it came into full view.
Wow . . .
I stared out at the sparkling pond, as blue as anything I’d seen calling itself a pond. A small trail led to a wooden dock with a kayak tied to one of its posts. A yellow tackle box sat at the end, and a fishing rod lay next to it. A single lawn chair, blue and white and looking like a slight breeze could carry it off, also sat on the dock.

If I woke up to this every morning . . . Are you kidding me? Man, what could get you down with this view? A few ducks, waddling along the shore, dove in, the little ones hurrying to catch up with Mom. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in, then realizing it was messing with the reverse karma I was trying to sustain.

Who wants to hear a duck quacking all morning anyway?

I climbed the wooden stairs to a deck that led to what I assumed was the back door, but I couldn’t see it yet. What I could see was an outdoor fireplace and a well-equipped kitchen bigger than the one in my condo. Also, more wicker.

I finally made it to the top and had to stop to catch my breath. As I did, I reminded myself there was probably a complex alarm system on this house, so I’d better watch out. I needed to think through anything before I did it.

As I stood there, I gasped, the kind of gasp where you lose all the air, not gain it. It kind of came out as a loud wheeze and I grabbed my mouth, shutting myself up.

The back sliding-glass door was wide open.

Look, I’m into signs. I had a lot of signs that Beth was the one for me. They’re too numerous to mention here, but let’s just say when I see a full moon, I smile. Also, pink jelly beans. And pickles. I don’t have time to go into why, but you know what I mean. You’ve had signs in your life too.

So the iron gate was wide open, the gate to the yard was wide open, and now the back door to Abbott’s home was gaping, like it wanted to swallow me whole. What could I do but walk on in? So I did, sliding sideways to get through.

The door led straight into a large kitchen, the kind where copper pots and pans are hanging from the ceiling and the countertop looks like it belongs in a palace. There were four ovens, two of them industrial size. There was an island in the middle with a perky bowl of fruit. Fruit bowls taunt me, but I won’t get into that now.

Everything was quiet, except an unidentifiable sound, like a hum or a low rumble, every few seconds. You’d think with this kind of money they could get a quiet air conditioner. Except it didn’t really sound like an air conditioner.

First things first. I now had access to a butcher knife. I just had to find it. There was no chopper’s block in sight—I guess that would’ve been too convenient. I quietly opened a few drawers but only found everything I wasn’t looking for.

Then I saw it. One drawer with something white attached, kind of like a lock, but plastic and almost playful looking. I tugged at it. Obviously, I realized, a childproof lock. But the question was how to get it off. I turned. I stretched. I twisted. Nothing. It stared me down.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I grunted, trying to find the secret. It was, unfortunately, impenetrable.

Then I heard, “Rosemary? Is that you?”

I whipped around, trying to hold my breath—no easy feat as people can typically hear me breathing up to twenty-five feet away. I kind of wheeze from the throat, I guess you could say.

“Rosemary? I need water, please.”

Ha. So he thought his wife was home. Perfect. This was going to be an awfully big surprise for him, then. And what kind of guy can’t get his own water, wants his wife to do it?

I stood there for a moment, trying to gather my words. I wanted this to be as emotionally painful as it was going to be physically painful. I needed to explain clearly why I was here and why it had come to this. I wasn’t sure I could explain Constant and the fact that I knew I was going to die soon. That would just make me look like a kook and I didn’t want Abbott McClain thinking he was murdered by a kook.

I’m not very eloquent, so I decided I was just going to have to say it like it was. The plain truth hurts. And this was going to hurt real bad.

If I couldn’t get the knife, I guessed I’d just have to use a frying pan and the idea that I had a bomb. Between the two, surely I could get this done. I just needed to make sure the guy didn’t bolt because I wasn’t going to be able to catch him. If his wife and kids weren’t home, then I could pretend I was holding them hostage somewhere and he’d better cooperate.

I smiled. This plan was coming along perfectly.

I took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

And stumbled to a stop at what I saw.

Sitting in the corner of a very stuffy-looking living room, near the front window of the home, was a man in a recliner, tilted back just a bit. His eyes were closed. He was totally bald and white as mashed potatoes. Gaunt, with dark-gray shadows slicing into his cheeks and sitting under his eyes. He almost looked like a zombie.

IVs were taped to one of his arms. His lips were slightly parted, and his chest every so often would rise and fall like it was skipping every third breath. He was wearing button-up pajamas, blue plaid. And house slippers.

But where was Abbott?

And who was this guy? I rolled my eyes, hoping I didn’t have the wrong house. That would be so like me.

I glanced at him again and gasped. Now he’d opened his eyes and was staring at me. And then I realized it, saw it in his eyes . . . This
was
Abbott.

He raised his head, studying me curiously. My heart felt like it was going to explode right out of my chest. I tried to steady myself, look as mean as I could. My hand tightened around the handle of the frying pan.

“Who are you?” he asked. Whispered, actually.

“I,” I said, very authoritatively and with great dramatic flare, “am Matthew Bigham.”

He blinked. “Who?”

Good grief. “Matthew Bigham,” I repeated with the same gusto.

“Are you with Rosemary?”

“Matt Bigham,” I said, this time irritated.

He looked totally blank.

“Big. Ham.” Maybe the mispronunciation would trigger something. “Big? Ham? It’s actually pronounced
Bigham
, like
Brigham
, but without the multiple wives. But nobody pronounced it correctly in high school.”

He was just staring at me, as if his mind was filtering through,
Is this the gardener? Is this guy here to pick up my dry cleaning?
Then something flickered across his glassy eyes. They widened a bit. His mouth opened—gaped, really—and then he said,
“Mattie?”

Well, that sealed the deal. I had everything I needed to kill this guy.

I walked toward him, frying pan raised. “Nobody calls me Mattie,” I growled.

“Isn’t that your name?”

My eyes narrowed at him. “I guess that doesn’t really matter anymore because . . .”
Wait for it,
I told myself.
Say it slowly. Don’t stumble or stutter.
“I’m here to murder you.”

His hands, nothing but skin and bones, gripped the armrests of the chair. His body curled in toward itself. I lifted the frying pan higher and felt all the blood rush to my cheeks. I looked at his temple. Yeah. That seemed about the right spot.

His body started shaking.

But when I looked into his eyes, they were saying only one thing.

Thank you.

At this point, I was really wishing that I couldn’t read eyes well. There I stood, frying pan raised, ready to kill a guy who in no way could run for his life (which really couldn’t have been any luckier for me), and he looked . . . relieved?

I slowly lowered the pan, studying Abbott.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

What was wrong? A lot of things, the least of which, it seemed to him, was that I was here to murder him. Something was going terribly wrong. Was I getting ready to put this guy out of his misery? That would be the exact opposite of the reason I was here. I was supposed to be causing misery, not taking it. I found myself stunned into silence.

“Well?”

Then suddenly a sharp pain hit the underside of my belly and I grabbed my stomach. A wave of nausea crashed over me and I began to sweat. The pain was intense. Stabbing, even. Meredith’s warning about appendicitis flashed through my thoughts. I
had
lost my appetite, but I thought that was because of my murder plot. But this pain, it was killing me. The more I hunched over, the worse it hurt. Was this it? Was
this
how I was going to die? It couldn’t be!