F. Paul Wilson - Quick Fixes - Tales of Repairman Jack

Someone was undoing his work. And that meant someone was following him around, watching his every move.

But who?

He was sure he would have noticed.

It had to be someone with good tracking skills – and other skills as well. Theodore had locked the Rashids’ garage door behind him. To remove the panties and photos, the one shadowing him would have to be adept at lock picking.

Who, damn it?

He took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. He prided himself on never becoming upset, never emotionally involved. This was a job, and he a professional.

And a professional could always out think an amateur.

He spent the rest of the day planning and making a few purchases. Mid afternoon he placed one call using his untraceable ATT Go Phone.

“Mrs. Woolbright?” he said when she answered, dropping his voice an octave. “Sorry to bother you. This is Harold Mapleton with the Suffolk County parole board.”

“ Parole board? I have nothing to do with the parole board.”

“Of course you don’t, Mrs. Woolbright. But your neighbor, Cletus Longwell, does. I’m his parole officer.”

“ What? He’s on parole? For what?”

“Grand theft. But he won’t be on parole much longer. His three years will be up next month and I’m just calling to see what kind of neighbor he’s been. Any reported thefts around the neighborhood? Anything missing from your premises?”

“ No . . . not that I know of.”

“Well, good. But ask around will you? Just in case. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”

Shortly before midnight he took his laptop into his yard and tried again to access the Robinsons’ wi-fi network but couldn’t find the signal.

Frustrated, he took up his position in the extra bedroom and set the Garcia dog to barking until Mr. McCuin screamed from his window.

After that he made a ledger entry but did not go to bed.

Thursday, April 29

Around 1:30 Theodore slipped outside and into the overcast night. He paused in the deeper shadows of the arbor vitae flanking his front door and scanned the neighborhood.

Was someone out there now, watching, waiting to undo his work?

Thursday was garbage pickup day in Pine View Estates. Everyone on the block except Theodore had their cans waiting at curbside. Fannen Street lay empty before him. Still, he had a feeling of being watched. Real? Or paranoia?

He had to assume someone was watching, but could not let that disrupt his schedule. He’d made adjustments to prevent that.

He crossed the street to the Fabrini house and emptied a can of Speed Weed, a fast-acting herbicide, on the geraniums. Nobody was going to save them now. Then he walked to the other end of the block, took the lid off the McCuin garbage can, and left the Speed Weed container on top in plain sight.

Before leaving, he dropped the lid on the grass, pulled a baggy from his pocket, and emptied a dog turd onto it.

Next he stopped back at his place and picked up a ten-quart plastic container and a wrench. Mrs. Robinson always left her car parked in the driveway. Theodore wriggled beneath it and felt around for the drain plug on the crankcase. When he found it he loosened it and let the oil empty into the container. When it was completely drained, he took the container and the plug and carried them across the street, making sure to spill a little oil every six-to-eight feet or so along the way to the Fabrinis’ driveway. He left everything in their backyard.

He wondered how far Mrs. Robinson would get before her engine seized up and self-destructed.

Though tired when he returned to his house, sleep was not in tonight’s equation. He set himself up in his front window – where he had a pair of Rigel 3250 compact night vision goggles and a carafe of hot coffee waiting – and settled in to watch. He had no view of the McCuin house; he could see the Fabrinis’ front yard but not their back where he’d left the oil and drain plug.

But he could see the Robinson car, right next door, not a hundred feet away. If anyone tried to undo Theodore’s work there, he’d spot them and identify them with the help of his binocs. Then he’d start some countermeasures of his own.

*

Theodore yawned in the dark and checked his watch. Four A.M. Did his quarry suspect that the car was under surveillance? If so –

He felt a cool breeze around his ankles. Where was that coming from?

His chest tightened. He kept all the windows closed. Had someone opened one?

He rose and walked to the stairs. No flow from the second floor. He moved through the dark dining room to the even darker kitchen –

And froze when he saw the back door standing open. He’d locked that, he was sure of it.

His heart pounded as he pushed it closed and scanned the backyard. It hadn’t opened itself. What had the intruder wanted? Had he taken anything? What if he was still out there?

Theodore’s heart rate doubled as a terrifying possibility struck: What if he was still in the house?

He flipped on the kitchen lights. Nothing out of place, nothing obvious missing.

He turned on all the lights on the first floor. No sign of anyone. But what about the second floor? Had he sneaked past while he’d been on sentry duty?

Was he after the ledger? It catalogued all his work. If it fell into the wrong hands –

He dashed upstairs, flipping every light switch within reach as he moved. He fairly leaped into his bedroom, turned on the lights, then dropped to his knees and jammed his hand between the mattress and box spring.

There. The ledger. He pulled it out. Safe.

But why–?

Diversion!

He ran back to the living room and peered at the Robinson car. It stood alone, just as he’d left it.

Relieved but still unsettled, he turned out all the lights and resumed his watch until dawn.

*

As the neighborhood came alive, Theodore wheeled his garbage can to the curb. There he made a show of stretching and yawning as he glanced down the block toward the McCuin place. He was pleased to see the lid still off their container. He couldn’t see the herbicide can but didn’t expect to at this distance.

Across the street he saw Mr. Fabrini scratching his head as he looked at one of his gardens. Theodore wandered over.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it,” he said in a most neighborly way.

Mr. Farbini turned but didn’t smile. “What? Oh, hi, Mister Gordon.”

“Theodore, please.”

“Right. Yeah, beautiful for us maybe.” He pointed to the bed of wilted, shriveling geraniums. “But not for these things. Yesterday they were perfect. Today . . .”

Theodore knelt and touched a browning leaf. He rubbed it between his fingers, then sniffed.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

Theodore tore off the leaf and handed it to Fabrini.

“Smell.”

Mr. Fabrini did and made a face. “It smells . . . chemical.”

“Right. Like Round Up or some other weed killer.”

Mr. Fabrini looked dumbfounded. “Weed killer? But who . . .?” He voice trailed off.

Theodore leaned closer. “I saw someone in your yard last night. At the time I thought it was you. Now I’m not so sure.”

“It wasn’t me, I can tell you that. Did you see his face?”

“No, but he looked young . . . like a teenager.” He let his gaze drift toward the McCuin house.

Mr. Fabrini followed and said, “You don’t think it was Colin, do you?”

Theodore backed away a step, as if the conversation had just entered taboo territory. “I’m not pointing any fingers. Like I said, I didn’t see a face.” He clapped Mr. Fabrini on the upper arm. “Don’t take it personally. Some kids have a lot of anger to work out of their systems.” With that he turned and waved. “Have a nice day.”