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

Just to be sure, he cut fifteen angled slits into the meat and pressed a pellet into each.

Thursday, April 29

At exactly 3 A.M. he tossed the meat over the fence so that it landed near Daisy’s house. She came out with a howl but stopped when she caught the scent of the meat. She was on it in an instant, wolfing it down in a single gulp.

Good dog.

Next he pulled out another can of Speed Weed and used it to write on Mr. Longwell’s lawn. He’d thought of using gasoline to burn the word into the grass, but decided this would be more discrete.

Under normal circumstances he would hide the box of poison in the McCuin garage and the empty herbicide can in the Rashids’ bushes, but his nemesis would undoubtedly remove them.

He returned home and stood on his front steps where he surveyed dark and slumbering Fannen Street. He sent out a challenge:

Let’s see you undo these.

*

He was up early the next morning, waiting. At 7:10 he heard Mr. Garcia’s distraught wail.

“Daisy? Oh, my God, Daisy!”

Theodore immediately stepped out onto his rear deck and called over the fence.

“Mister Garcia? Is anything wrong?”

“It’s Daisy! She’s not breathing!”

“Oh, dear. Quick! Bring her around front and I’ll get my car and take you to the vet.”

Never pass up an opportunity to be a good neighbor.

*

Theodore comforted the sobbing Mr. Garcia on the way home. Daisy’s corpse lay draped across his legs.

“Was the vet sure she was poisoned? Who would do such an awful thing?”

Mr. Garcia’s tear-stained face contorted into a mask of rage. “I have a pretty goddamn good idea.”

Theodore glanced at Daisy. He’d had nothing against the dog. He had nothing against anyone. Collateral damage.

“Oh, dear,” he said as he turned onto Fannen Street and saw the police car. “What’s happened here?”

He slowed and watched Mr. Longwell pointing to the browned letters spelling NIGGER on his lawn, then down the street toward the Rashid house.

A hate crime was such a terrible thing.

*

He’d intended to spend the rest of the day making notes in his ledger and quietly planning his next moves – a productive way to while away the time before Mr. McCuin and Mr. Rashid came home to the inevitable confrontations with, respectively, Mr. Garcia and Mr. Longwell.

A knock on the door interrupted him. He found Phil the postman glaring at him. He thrust something into Theodore’s hands.

“What do you think you’re doing, Gordon?”

Theodore looked down and started when he saw the two gay porn magazines he’d left in Mr. Woolbright’s shed. They’d been wrapped in clear plastic and addressed to someone he’d never heard of. The return address was his.

“I don’t care what you’re into, but you oughta know you can’t mail something like that so it’s out there for everyone to see.”

He turned and strode back to his truck before Theodore could answer. He stared at the magazines. They must have been in his mailbox. He closed the door and dropped them on the dining room table. He stood there thinking.

What was happening now? Had the contest moved to another level, with his nemesis switching from defense to offense?

He went to the window where he saw Phil, the postman, across the street talking to Mrs. Woolbright. Theodore saw him pointing his way.

Perhaps it was indeed time to abort. He’d make that decision tonight after seeing how things went with the McCuin-Garcia and Longwell-Rashid bouts.

*

Shortly after six, Theodore positioned a chair at his front window, hoping for some fireworks. He was about to seat himself when he heard a sound. He whirled and saw a man standing behind him, but had only a glimpse before a fist smashed into his gut. He doubled over and turned away. Two more blows followed, one to each kidney, driving him to his knees and then onto his side, writhing in agony.

“That was for the dog,” said a voice.

When Theodore’s pain-blurred vision cleared, he saw a man sitting in a chair, looking down at him. He was average height, average build, average features, with brown hair and eyes. Theodore thought he was the most nondescript man he had ever seen.

A silenced, small-caliber pistol rested on his thigh, pointed in Theodore’s direction.

“I’m really pissed about the dog,” he said in a flat tone. “That was the last straw. I’m seriously thinking of kneecapping you for that.”

Kneecapping? A vision of that almost made him forget the agony in his kidneys.

“No, wait. Who are you? Do I know you? Why are you doing this?”

“You don’t know me, and I’m here because someone’s paying me to be.”

“Paying? Who–?”

“Remember Nelson Pershall, former resident of Veni Woods, New Jersey?”

Mr. Pershall . . . was that what this was about?

“I’ve never heard of Veni Woods. I don’t even like New Jersey.”

“You did a good job of pretending to when you were living there and calling yourself Clay Evanson.”

How did he know all this?

“Ridiculous!”

Slowly, painfully, he started to push himself off the floor but the intruder kicked him back down.

“I prefer you on your belly. Anyway, Nelson Pershall hung himself after being caught in a kiddie-porn sting. His computer was loaded with graphic photos.”

“If you’re looking for sympathy for a pedophile, you’re in the wrong house.”

“His daughter swears he wasn’t. He lived alone and ran a website that published poetry by codgers like himself.”

“What does a daughter know about a parent’s hidden life?

“That’s what I thought at first. But she said he was something of a techie and had set up a wi-fi network in his house. Someone could have been using his computer without him knowing it. Sound familiar?”

Theodore said nothing. That was exactly what had happened. He’d even triggered the police sting through Mr. Pershall’s computer. But he certainly wasn’t admitting it to this thug.

“She said she suspected a man named Clay Evanson. Told me her father’s neighborhood had been friendly and peaceful until shortly after this clown arrived. Before he moved on, two people were dead – her father and a woman killed by her husband for cheating – a house had burned to the ground, one man had been arrested for assaulting his next-door neighbor, and another arrested for a hate crime. Are we seeing a pattern here?”

Theodore’s felt ice sludging through his gut.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what this has to do with me. I’ve never heard of this Clay Evanson. And this woman is obviously paranoid.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought, but she wanted me to fix it and she had the fee. Since I had the time, I took the job. Funny thing was, the day I started, you moved out. So I followed you here. And all of a sudden you’re Theodore Gordon. I decided to stick around.” He shook his head. “Whoever you really are, you’re one sick bastard.”

“You’re mistaken, I tell you. I–”

“Shut up.” He cocked his head. “Listen. Sounds like your neighbors. Let’s take a look.”

He grabbed Theodore by the back of his neck and hauled him into the chair he’d set up by the window. He was stronger than he looked. Theodore felt the muzzle of the pistol press against the base of his neck.

“Ever wonder what it’s like being a quadriplegic? Do anything stupid and you’ll find out.”

Through the picture window he saw Mr. Robinson between Mr. Rashid and Mr. Longwell. The side window was open so he could hear their angry words. Normally it would be music to his ears. Mr. Fabrini and Mr. Woolbright came out of their houses to try to calm things down. Mr. McCuin joined them.