The Good Neighbor - Bettes Kimberley A. (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

I slathered butter on the toasted bread and poured myself a glass of ice water, thinking of what I was going to say to Andy when he came home. Nothing seemed right. All the words seemed generic. Maybe I should have a party, but that didn’t sound right, either. Perhaps I should make a night out of it. Dinner, maybe a movie. It just seemed like I should do something to make it special. Of course, it was special enough by itself. But I still felt as if I should do something to commemorate the moment.

Just when I finished the first piece of toast and picked up the second, nausea overwhelmed me. I dropped the toast and bolted for the bathroom, barely making it in time. Unlike the morning’s bout, this was over as soon as the toast was out of my body. Thankfully. I doubted I had the strength to continue.

My legs were weak, buckling slightly when I stood. My hands trembled as I flushed the toilet. I rinsed my mouth with mouthwash to get rid of the horrible taste. I leaned on the counter while I brushed, trying to compensate for the lack of strength.

After rinsing my mouth, I slowly made my way to the kitchen where the toast had landed on the floor, buttered side down, as my luck would have it. I picked up the toast and used a paper towel to wipe the butter from the floor.

Standing, I was overcome briefly by dizziness. I steadied myself against the counter and made my way to the trash can. I threw away the paper towel, but as I was about to throw the toast in, I remembered Oscar. Surely, he would appreciate a nice, warm piece of toast with gooey butter melted on it.

I went out the front door and onto the porch. I looked for the dog, but I never saw him. I did see someone, though.

I watched as Owen squatted beside Mr. Jenson’s house. I was trying to determine exactly what it was he was doing over there this late. I squinted, trying to see through the streetlight and peer further into the darkness, but having no luck.

Then, I heard a sound. I couldn’t identify it, and I didn’t have time. I quickly turned toward the sound and saw Bernie slip inside his house and close the door behind him.

24 Owen

The sound was one I’d never heard before. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t place it.

Around Jenson’s house, only inches from the ground, were basement windows. I walked from one to another, peering inside. I tried to see what was going on in there. The most I saw was the back of Jenson’s head once, and a few times, I saw his arms making wild, dramatic, over-the-head movements. I couldn’t tell what he was doing.

There was light in the basement that would’ve been sufficient for me to see, but the windows were filthy from the rain splattering dirt on them.

I finally realized that no matter how hard I looked, no matter how long I squatted here beside his house in the middle of the night, I’d never know what was going on in there. I was frustrated by this realization, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I decided to go home, try to sleep to get back on schedule, and tell Andy everything I’d seen as soon as he came home from work in the morning.

Some of those things were easy to do. I got home easily enough. I even went to bed with no problem. However, going to sleep was proving to be far more difficult than I’d hoped. After all, I’d been awake for less than six hours. My body didn’t need sleep and apparently wasn’t going to get any.

I stared at the ceiling, waiting.

I waited for sleep to come, which wouldn’t. I waited for an answer to the Jenson puzzle to come, which didn’t. One thing that kept coming was the thought of Carla. More precisely, making love to Carla. I replayed it in my mind again and again. It was something I definitely hoped to do more of in the future.

Carla dominated my thoughts all night. I lay on the bed with my eyes closed, letting the thoughts have free range in my head. It wasn’t until someone rang my doorbell that I opened my eyes and realized it was morning.

I went downstairs, rubbing my hands over my face as I went. I opened the door to Andy.

“I came right away. I sensed a lonely porch that needed my help,” he teased.

“I got to grab something to eat,” I said, stepping aside, allowing him to enter.

Andy followed me into the kitchen where I made an egg sandwich. It was one of the few things I could actually cook. While I cooked, I told Andy about sneaking around Jenson’s and what I’d seen. Or more like what I hadn’t seen.

“Shit, man. What do you think he’s doing down there?” I shrugged my shoulders. Andy thought for a while. “What if he’s hacking up the bodies in the basement?”

“Don’t you think that’s crazy?”

“Why’s that crazy? Isn’t that where the killers hack up the bodies?”

“Yeah,” I said, putting the egg on the bread. “If they’re not old. You’ve seen him drag those bags, Andy. It’s not easy for him. You really think he’d do the hacking in the basement, drag the bags up the stairs, through the house, across the porch, down the steps, across the yard, and then pick up the bag and put it in the trunk? Doesn’t that seem a little much to you?”

“Yeah, it seems crazy. But Gacy was old. That Fish guy was old as ass and it didn’t stop him from killing. That couple from Missouri was both in their seventies. With killers, you have to think crazy. You have to get to their level, think like them. Expect the unexpected.”

“Andy, you’re getting carried away. You don’t even know he’s a killer. There’s never anyone over there. Who are these people he’s killing? All we know for sure is he’s weird.”

“Yeah. And that’s the first thing you have to be in order to be a killer.”

I laughed, taking a bite of my sandwich. I shook my head at him while I chewed, but he was serious. “You’re suddenly an expert on murderers, huh?” I asked him as I finished my sandwich.

“I studied killers and psychology for a while in college. Thought about going into forensics, but Jill didn’t like the thought of me dealing with death so much. I think it reminded her that we’re all going to die at some point. You know how women are. So it became a hobby instead of a profession.”

As we walked through the house on our way to the porch, I asked, “How come I didn’t know you had such a disturbing hobby? I mean, how could we be friends for so long and you never mention that you studied serial killers?”

“Easy. I’m sure there are things about you that you haven’t told me.” I nodded in total agreement. “Besides, it’s not something you want to tell everybody. I mean, you start telling people you study killers because it fascinates you the way their minds work and the next thing you know, people think you’re weird and start suspecting you of things.”

I laughed. “Like you’re doing with Jenson.” It wasn’t a question. I was pointing out his hypocriticalness, but not in a judging way. I just wanted to bring it to his attention.

“Yeah, well, with Jenson, we have every right to be suspicious,” Andy said as we took our usual seats on the porch.

“Why? Because he carries out black trash bags? Someone should call the police and tell them to case the supermarkets and arrest everyone who purchases black trash bags. Surely, they’re carrying around dead bodies. Or parts of dead bodies, as it may be.” Andy didn’t like my sarcasm, but I think he needed to hear it. He was getting a little carried away. Yeah, Jenson was odd. But that was no reason to accuse him of murder.

“You know,” I added for sake of conversation. “I’d like to think that if he were a killer, he wouldn’t be so obvious about it.”

“What do you mean? You just said there’s never anyone over there. Neither of us has seen him have visitors. What if he does, but he hides it so well, we think he doesn’t? Isn’t that being discreet?”