Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“Ian, stop it!” Chris managed to say. “Please, you don’t want to do this. . ”

Ian swiveled around and gazed up at him again. All at once, he shoved Margaret away. She screamed again as she hit the tiled floor. He aimed the gun at her.

“No, Ian, don’t!” Chris yelled.

Ian stared up at him. Tilting his head back, he opened his mouth, then stuck the gun barrel in it.

The shot rang out, and Chris recoiled, almost falling off the board. He managed to grab on to the railing.

Stunned, he watched Ian’s body flop down on the tiles. The gun dropped out of his hand, and his head hit the edge of the pool.

Everyone was screaming. Chris could hear Coach Chertok yelling over all the noise that the police were on the way, and everybody should stay calm. Mrs. Chertok hurried from the stands and helped the traumatized Margaret to her feet.

Doubled over, Chris clutched the diving-board rail and gazed down at Ian Scholl’s lifeless body.

Sometimes, when Chris lay in bed in the dark, he could still see Ian — with his eyes open and his face turned sideways against the pool’s edge. Chris remembered the puddle of blood under his head, some of it running into the pool, billowing in the blue water.

He suddenly bolted up in Larry’s sofa bed and tossed back the covers. He started to reach for the duck decoy lamp on the end table, but changed his mind.

He could hear someone walking around upstairs. He wasn’t sure if it was his mother or Larry. Either way, he didn’t want anyone to know he was awake.

So he sat there in the dark.

He didn’t want anyone to come down and see he was crying.

The teddy bear on the rumpled bed was splattered with blood.

Molly didn’t want too much blood — just enough for people to notice when they saw the book on the store shelves. She stood at her easel in her studio on the third floor, painting the cover to the latest Sally Shortridge mystery, The Teddy Bear Killer . After saying good night to Kay, she’d changed into an old pair of jeans and a paint-stained sweatshirt. Linda Ronstadt’s Greatest Hits spun on her old CD player.

Past Linda’s rendition of “You’re No Good,” Molly thought she heard a noise downstairs.

Putting down her paintbrush, she moved over to the CD and pressed the PAUSE button. Molly listened for a moment, but didn’t hear anything. She told herself it was probably just the house settling.

One of the great things about having a studio on the third floor was that she became oblivious to everything happening two levels down. The kids could have the TV on, and she couldn’t hear it. She was shut off from the rest of the house.

That was also a bad thing sometimes — especially when no one else was home. Since the cul-de-sac killings had started, Molly wasn’t completely comfortable up in her studio during these nights alone.

She almost wished she hadn’t sent Kay home. Having another person in the house would have made her feel better — even if that person was drunk and a bit too inquisitive.

Molly glanced at her wristwatch. It was just past ten o’clock. She’d been up here less than an hour, and this was the third time she’d put her CD player on pause because of a noise downstairs. She hadn’t made much progress with The Teddy Bear Killer cover. It would just have to wait until morning — when she’d be a little less nervous up here.

Putting away her paint and brushes, she switched off Linda Ronstadt and went downstairs to Jeff’s and her bedroom. She pulled her paint-splattered jersey over her head and changed into a long-sleeved tee. Molly glanced out the window at Kay’s house next door. She’d figured Kay would have passed out by now. But several lights were still on inside the house — including one in Kay’s bedroom. There was a glass door and a little balcony off the master bedroom, and through the sheer curtain, Molly noticed a shadow moving around.

Somehow, it made her feel better. In case she got too scared, someone was awake just next door. She wasn’t so alone after all.

Molly decided to check her e-mail on the computer in Jeff’s study. She switched on the radio, and “American Pie” came on while she accessed the Internet. It looked like two junk e-mails, something from her agent, and a message with the subject head “A Blast from the Past” from Dcutland@windycityart.com.

“Oh, wow,” she murmured, staring at the computer monitor. She opened the e-mail.

Dear Molly,

It’s been too long, at least 2 years. The last address I have for you is in Alexandria, VA. Are you still there? If not, you should contact the gallery & update us. We still have 3 of your paintings for sale in our online catalog. Once in a while, I see your work on some book cover, and it’s always fantastic. But you’re way too good for them!

Anyway, there’s a reason for this e-mail (besides the fact that I often think of you). Yesterday this guy came by the gallery, asking about your paintings, but pretty soon he started grilling me on your background & your family. I don’t know who he was, but I told him if he wasn’t interested in buying your art, he could get lost. Anyway, I just thought you should know that someone has been snooping around, asking questions about you. I’m not sure if he knows about Charlie or what, but I have a feeling that’s what he was getting at with all his questions.

I hope I was right to contact you about this. I don’t want to cause you any unnecessary worry or heartache.

Feel free to give me a call. I’d love to catch up & find out how you’re doing.

Take Care,

Doug

At the bottom of the e-mail, he’d included Windy City Art Gallery’s phone number, as well as his cell phone number — the same old one. Molly could see he’d sent the e-mail at 4:52 that afternoon, Chicago time. She glanced at her watch again. It was after midnight in Chicago, but it was also a Saturday, and Doug liked to stay up late. At least, he’d been a night owl back when they’d dated.

She didn’t think she could wait until morning to call him. She had to know more about this man who was snooping into her past.

Getting to her feet, Molly headed into the kitchen, where her purse hung on the back of a chair at the breakfast table. She dug out her cell phone. It just didn’t seem right calling an old boyfriend on the house line — and in Jeff’s study, no less.

She sat down at the table and punched in Doug’s number. She didn’t have to look at it again. She still remembered. She wondered if he still lived in that third-floor apartment on North Kenmore. Doug had curly, light brown hair and Clark Kent glasses that made him look slightly bookish — and very sexy. He was an assistant manager at the gallery that had commissioned six of her pieces years back. They’d dated for almost a month — until he met Charlie. Then things got fouled up.

Charlie had a way of fouling things up.

Molly was counting the ringtones. Doug answered on the third one. “Molly?”

“Hi, Doug,” she replied. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Of course not,” he said. “It’s great to hear your voice again, Molly. I guess you got my e-mail. I hope it didn’t freak you out or anything.”

“Well, it did — kind of,” she admitted. “You said this man came into the gallery and asked all sorts of questions about me?”

“Yeah. He was about fifty years old with black hair that looked like a bad dye job, and he talked out of one side of his mouth all the time. Does that sound like anybody you know?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Molly murmured.

“He didn’t seem like an art aficionado,” Doug continued. “He didn’t give me his name. He wanted to see your paintings, and asked if I knew you, stuff like that. I showed him the three pieces of yours we still have for sale. But I could tell he wasn’t really interested in the paintings. He started asking about your family — if you’d been married, and didn’t you have a brother who died? That’s when I told him to take a hike.”