Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“No one’s in here, honey,” Paulette whispered. “Now, it’s late—”

“Check behind the door!” he cried.

“Hush, you’ll wake Brendan,” she said quietly. Obliging him, she peeked behind the door, then half closed it — so he could see no one was hiding behind it. “Okay?”

“What about under the bed?” he whispered.

With a sigh, she got down on her knees, and lifted the dust ruffle. “Candy wrappers. Have you been eating candy in bed?”

“Just on Halloween,” he murmured, sheepishly.

Paulette gathered up the Reese’s and Hershey’s wrappers, and tossed them in the trash pail by Matt’s desk. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Into bed now, c’mon,” she whispered. “You have school in a few hours.”

Matt climbed under the covers, and she switched off the light. Paulette checked on Brendan again, feeling his forehead to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. Then she came over to Matt and tucked him in.

“Could you check the closet, Mom?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Paulette hesitated for a second. Suddenly, she was scared again. She glanced across the dark bedroom at the closed closet door — with a poster of the Seahawks symbol on it. The boys had a fairly large closet. She couldn’t help thinking about the Cul-de-sac Killer. He left the bodies of his victims in closets. Was that where he liked to hide, too?

She took a deep breath and moved across the room. She took the cap off the pepper spray again, then reached for the doorknob with her other hand. The hinges squeaked as she opened the door. In front of her, she could barely make out the clothes on hangers on each side of the dark closet. They were just black, bulky shapes. Her hand waved at the air as she blindly reached for the pull-string to the overhead light. At any minute, she expected someone to grab her wrist.

She found the string and pulled it. The closet light went on. Paulette glanced around. “It’s all clear in here, honey. Nothing to worry about,” she announced — to both her son and herself.

Paulette kissed Matt good night, and he asked if she could leave the hallway light on. “No problem,” she whispered. “Now, get to sleep — and no candy in bed.”

Paulette figured she wasn’t going to fall asleep now. Her heart was still pounding furiously. Maybe a hit of brandy and about fifteen minutes of infomercials would calm her a bit.

She headed downstairs, and checked the front door dead bolt again. In the kitchen, she tested the back door. It was still locked. She switched on the TV in the family room, and glimpsed some before-and-after photos of a middle-aged woman whose crow’s-feet, eye bags, and turkey neck had miraculously vanished.

Paulette set the pepper spray on the kitchen counter, and she poured some brandy into a jelly glass, filling it halfway. She took a belt. It burned a little, but she immediately felt better. How did she let herself get so scared?

She glanced out the kitchen window — at her neighbor’s house, a two-story Colonial. The lights were on. People were still up next door in Larry’s house. If she’d known that, she might not have been so nervous earlier.

Standing at the window, Paulette took another swig of brandy. She was wondering if Larry’s girlfriend Angela had her two kids over tonight — the sweet little girl and that cute teenager. Was he the one who was up so late?

But it wasn’t just one window with the light on.

“Oh, Jesus, all the lights are on,” she whispered.

The jelly glass slipped out of her grasp and broke on the floor. But Paulette didn’t look down at it.

She was staring at a tall, shadowy figure darting past the lights from Larry’s front window.

He was running away from the house.

When the phone rang, Molly automatically looked at the digital clock on the microwave oven. She wondered who would be calling at 7:04 A.M.

In her T-shirt, sweatpants, and thick wool socks, she was at the stove, craving a verboten cup of coffee and heating up some SpaghettiOs for Erin’s lunch thermos. Both Chris and Erin were up and getting dressed. In about fifteen minutes, they’d be eating their cereal at the breakfast table, and the TV in the family room would be blaring. Molly had been cherishing the quiet — until the damn phone rang.

She thought about screening the call, but figured it might be Jeff. He was due back from D.C. late tonight. Maybe he was getting an earlier flight.

Without looking at the caller ID, Molly snatched up the phone on the third ring. “Yes, hello?”

“Is this Molly?” asked the woman on the other end of the line.

“Yes. Who—”

“Molly, this is Trish, Angela’s sister,” she explained hurriedly. “I need to speak with Jeff.”

“I’m sorry, Trish,” she replied, a bit mystified. She’d heard both Chris and Erin talk about their Aunt Trish, but Molly had never spoken to her before. “Jeff’s out of town. He’s in Washington, D.C. He’s due back tonight. Can I give him a message?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Trish?” Molly asked.

“Angela was killed last night,” she said in a shaky voice. “She was murdered — along with Larry and his daughter. The police say it’s one of those cul-de-sac killings.”

“What?” Molly murmured. “Good Lord, no. . ”

She told herself it was a joke — or maybe she hadn’t heard Trish right. But she listened to the quiet sobbing on the other end of the line. Her legs suddenly felt wobbly, and she put a hand on the kitchen counter to brace herself. “Trish, I–I’m so sorry. . ”

“Listen, could you track down Jeff and let him know?” she asked. “You — you’ll have some police coming by this morning. I’ll try to make it over there later in the afternoon to see Chris and Erin. Tell them I love them. . ”

“Oh, Trish, I’m so sorry,” she repeated, a hand on her heart. “I just had lunch with Angela yesterday. I can’t believe it.”

Angela’s sister was sobbing on the other end of the line. “I have to go,” she said. Then she hung up.

Dazed, Molly listened to the line go dead. She finally clicked off, and then dialed Jeff’s cell number. She started pacing back and forth in the kitchen. Angela’s children were upstairs. How was she going to tell them their mother was dead?

Jeff wasn’t picking up. It went to voice mail. Molly impatiently waited for the beep. “Hi, honey, it’s me,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Can you call me as soon as you get this? It — it’s very important, okay? Thanks. Bye.”

Even though she’d worked there for nearly two years, she couldn’t remember the number for the Capital Hilton in Washington, D.C. So she retreated to Jeff’s study, got online, and found the number off the Hilton website. From the cordless phone in his study, she called the hotel and asked for Jeff Dennehy’s room.

It took the operator a minute. “Could you spell that for me, please?”

Molly spelled it out. “He’s there for a pharmaceutical convention,” she said.

There was another silent lapse. “We don’t show a Jeff Dennehy staying here. And we don’t have anything on our schedule this week for any pharmaceutical or medical groups. Are you sure you have the right Hilton? This is the Capital Hilton on Sixteenth Street Northwest.”

“Yes, that’s the one I want. I—”

Molly heard a beep on the line, the call-waiting signal. “Just a second, please. .” She glanced at the caller ID screen and saw Jeff’s cell number. She put the receiver back to her ear. “Never mind, I’ve got him on the other line right now. Thank you.”

As she clicked on the call-waiting button, she heard one of the kids coming down the stairs. “Jeff?” she whispered into the phone.