Lisa Gardner: The Neighbor

Maxwell contemplated him from the hallway. “The thought had occurred to me,” the old man said. “All right, step into the light.”

“Or what, you’ll shoot me? I don’t think so.”

“No. I’ll shoot Ree.”

Jason shivered. But he forced himself to call the bluff. “No dice. According to you, this whole game is precisely so you can have Ree. Killing her would be like cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

“Then I’ll wake her up.”

“No you won’t. Come on, Maxwell. You want me. Well, here you go. I’m armed only with my wits and charming disposition. Come and get me.”

Jason dissipated into a dark corner of the room. He was grateful now for the tightly drawn blinds, the lack of revealing shadows. The room was not large, and he could not outrun a speeding bullet, but this was his bedroom, one he’d wandered at all hours of the night. Plus, he had a secret: He had Sandra, tucked safely inside the closet.

There was a moment’s pause, then Jason knew Maxwell was coming because the hall light winked out. Another half a dozen beats of time, the old man letting his vision adjust to the gloom, then came the first cautious footsteps into the bedroom.

Banging, directly below. “Police. Open up. Police!”

Max cursed under his breath. He turned toward the sound and Jason pounced. He crossed the room in three strides, catching the older man around the waist and sending them both crashing to the floor. Jason hoped for the skittering sound of Maxwell’s gun sliding across the hardwood floor. No dice.

Jason had half his weight on the man’s legs, trying to pin Maxwell to the floor while he grappled for possession of the handgun. Maxwell surprised him with his wiry strength. The old man twisted around, nearly breaking free.

The gun, the gun. Dammit, where was the gun ?

“Police. Open up! Jason Jones, we have a warrant for your arrest.”

He was grunting. Trying not to make too much noise but aware now that youth was no match for a bullet and if he didn’t get his hands on that damn weapon… He felt the barrel dig into his thigh. Jerked his hips left, trying to roll his lower body clear while his hands followed the line of Maxwell’s arms. The gun, now between them, both of them heaving on the floor. Maxwell, getting his arms half up…

The closet door, flying open, Sandra standing there. “Stop, Daddy, stop! What are you doing? For heaven’s sake, let him go.”

Maxwell spotting his daughter. His stunned expression as the gun exploded.

Jason felt the first searing pain in his side, lightly at first. A scratch, he thought vaguely. Just a scratch. Then his rib cage exploding with agony. Holy Mother of God…

And somewhere in his mind, he was seeing the Burgerman again, the man’s shocked expression as Jason’s first bullet caught him in the shoulder. The man’s legs starting to crumple, his body sliding to the floor. As Jason lined up the heavy Colt.45 for the next shot, and the next…

So this is what dying feels like.

“Daddy, oh my God, what have you done?”

“Sandy? Sandy, you’re all right? Oh baby. Baby, it’s so good to see you.”

“You get away from him, Daddy. You hear me? You get away from him.”

Jason was rolling away. Had to. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Trying so hard to escape from the agony. His side was on fire. He could feel his insides burn, which was funny, given the wet, wet blood.

Crashing, downstairs. The police trying to break into his home through a steel reinforced door.

Oops , he wanted to tell them. Too late.

He stumbled onto his knees, raised his head.

Maxwell was still on his ass. He was looking up at his daughter, who now had the handgun and was staring down at her father. Sandra’s arms were trembling violently. She had both hands wrapped around the pistol grip.

“Baby, it was self-defense. We’ll explain it to the police. He hurt you. I can see the bruises on your face. So you had to get away and I was trying to help you. We came back… for Ree. Yes, for Ree, except this time he had a gun and he went crazy on us and I shot him. I saved you.”

“Tell me why you killed her.”

“We’ll go home, baby. You, me, and little Clarissa. Back to the big white house with the wraparound porch. You always loved that porch. Clarissa will, too. We can set up a porch swing. She’ll be so happy there.”

“You murdered her, Daddy. You killed my mother and I watched you do it. Getting her drunk. Dragging her passed-out body to the car. Attaching the hose to the exhaust pipe, curling it around to the cracked window. Then starting the engine, before bolting out and locking the car doors behind you. I watched her wake up, Daddy. I stood in the doorway of the garage, seeing the look on her face when she realized that you were still standing right there, but that you had no intention of helping her.

“I remember her screams. For so long, I fell asleep smelling dying roses, and woke up hearing her goddamn pitiful wails. But you never broke. Never lifted a hand. Not as she tore off her own fingernails on the door latch or bloodied her knuckles against the front windshield. She screamed your name, Daddy. She screamed for you, and you stood there and watched her die.”

“Baby, listen to me. Put down the gun. Sandy, sugar plum, everything’s gonna be all right.”

But Sandy only tightened her grip on the weapon. “I want answers, Daddy. After all these years, I deserve the truth. Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me: Did you kill Mama because she hurt me? Or did you kill her because I was finally old enough to serve as her replacement?”

Maxwell didn’t reply. But through the haze of pain, Jason could read the expression on the man’s face. So could Sandy. The steel doors and reinforced windows; all these years later, she was still trying to lock Daddy out. Except now she had something better than bolt locks. Now she had a gun.

Jason reached out his hand for his wife. Don’t , he wanted to tell her. What’s done can’t be undone. What’s known can’t be unknown.

But she had already done and known too much. So Sandra leaned forward, pressed the barrel of the gun to her father’s sternum, and pulled the trigger.

Downstairs, the front window finally crashed in.

While in the room next door, Ree started to scream.

“Jason-” Sandy started.

“Go to her. Get our daughter. Go to Ree.”

Sandy dropped the gun. She raced out of the room as Jason picked up the pistol, rubbed the grip clean against his pant leg, then wrapped his own fingers around it.

Best he could do, he thought, and watched the ceiling fade to black.

“You’re telling us you caught a taxi to the Boston Daily offices. All by yourself? Entered the offices with no ID and nobody tried to stop you?”

“Asked and answered,” Ethan Hastings’s lawyer interjected, before his thirteen-year-old client could speak up. “Move along, Sergeant.”

D.D. sat in BPD’s conference room. She had Miller on her right-hand side, and the deputy superintendent of homicide on her left. Across from them sat Ethan Hastings, his parents, and a top Boston shark, Sarah Joss. Two weeks after Wayne Reynolds’s untimely murder in the parking lot of the state police crime lab, the Hastingses had finally allowed the BPD access to their son. Given their choice of lawyers, however, they weren’t taking any chances.

“Come on, Ethan,” D.D. persisted. “Your uncle told me by phone that you had located the Joneses’ computer at the Boston Daily offices. Then, all of a sudden, after wandering the offices for three hours, you changed your mind?”