Spyware

Mrs. Trumble glanced at Abner again. He was back to studying his hands. “Yes, we have. Twice in fact. It seems that he believes a certain Mr. Ingles has taken little Justin. He is on his way to his house now, I believe.”

Sarah’s eyes widened in shock. “Dr. James Ingles?” she asked.

“Um, possibly. I didn’t get his complete name.”

Sarah’s stomach fell away below her. In a moment, she knew that Ray was right. She should have thought of this before. Ingles had taken Justin. Of course he had. And she knew why.

She felt dazed. She looked at her own hands and some distant part of her mind wondered how soon they would be as old and careworn as Mrs. Trumble’s. All the lotion in the world couldn’t really stop the years. Deep down, all women knew that, but they kept trying anyway.

Sarah felt a touch. “Are you all right, Sarah?”

She looked up. “Yes,” she said, standing. “I’ve got to go now.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Trumble. She stood as well. “I’ll see you out. You must come by more often.”

“I will,” Sarah said, almost running for the door.

When she reached it, she flung it open and marveled at the brightly colored world outside. Before she could step out, however, a hand closed on her shoulder. It had a surprising strength in it and it stopped her dead. She sensed the warmth of a man’s breath on her neck.

“Remember, this line has been compromised,” Abner’s voice hissed in her ear. She had never heard him speak before. Perhaps he only knew how to whisper.

The hand released her. She stumbled out onto the porch. She looked back to see eyes glinting in the dark interior of the house. The eyes retreated and the door quietly shut.

She shivered. Pulling her keys out of her purse, she headed for her car.

***

Ray walked up to the back door, took a breath and aimed the 9mm pistol at chest-level. He checked the safety one last time. It was still ready to fire. He tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and stepped inside.

The back porch was a screened-in affair. Laundry baskets decorated the tiled floor and two white Kenmore machines sat quietly by their feeding pipes. A door led deeper into the house, into the kitchen. It was ajar. Ray looked through the crack.

The kitchen was full of rich oak cabinets. A white tile countertop bordered two of the walls. Embedded in the tiles were a sink and a gas stove. The stove had a steaming teapot shaped like a white swan on the front burner. An island topped with matching tile sat in the middle of the kitchen. A hundred pots, pans and implements hung from a rack suspended over the island.

Ray watched the teapot. He decided to wait to see who came when it started to whistle.

The wait seemed incredibly long. Gas stoves burned hotter? Ray began to doubt that piece of ancient wisdom. His whole body ran with sweat, despite the cool waft of air conditioning that came out of the kitchen. His wet palms gripped then regripped the pistol. Now he knew the true foresight of its makers. If it hadn’t been for the textured handgrip, he might have dropped it.

The swan-shaped teapot began to warble, then whistle, then finally scream with abandon. It fired a two-foot plume of vapor that licked the oak cabinets like a dragon’s breath. Still, no one came.

Ray’s breathing became erratic. He began to doubt the wisdom of his plan. Had Ingles spotted him? Was he outside, starting up his car even now? Was his only chance at finding Justin fleeing the scene even while he stood motionless, staring at a fucking teapot?

He turned to peer through the screens out toward the driveway. He saw no sign of a car or Ingles. He turned back to the kitchen, and his breathing stopped altogether.

Ingles was there, pulling two mugs from the cabinets. He popped in two Lemon-Lift teabags and poured hot water over them. Ray paused, looking at the two mugs. Who else was in the house?

Screwing up his courage, he told himself it didn’t matter, even though he knew it did. He pushed open the door and aimed the pistol at Ingles’ back.

***

Vasquez followed the sheriff’s deputy into Brenda’s house. Johansen followed her like a silent shadow.

The place was a wreck. The cabinets had been pulled from the walls in the kitchen. The living room cushions had been torn apart. Everything in the bedrooms had been overturned, slashed open and gutted. Books, smashed lamps and piles of clothing were everywhere. A spilled collection of rare CDs lay in a broken pile near the stereo. A pair of suntan queen-size pantyhose lay across them.

“Anything obviously missing?” asked Vasquez.

“Not a burglary,” replied the young deputy. He was a short man with broad shoulders and a tight crew cut. He sported a yellow scarf and black shades. Vasquez tried not to smile at his get-up.

“Not necessarily just vandalism, either,” he told them. “Seems to me that they were searching for something. See how the pictures on the walls aren’t slashed? Only the big cushions were opened up.”