Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Molly climbed out of the car, and shut the door.

“Are you Mrs. Dennehy?” the woman asked.

Molly nodded. “Yes.”

“I’m Rachel Cross, your new neighbor.”

Molly smiled. “Oh, hello, it’s nice to meet you.”

“What happened to your door?” she asked, nodding at the car.

Molly glanced at the dirt smudges where Lynette’s and Jill’s brood had hit the bull’s-eye with their dirt balls. “That’s the handiwork of the little darlings down the block,” Molly explained. “There’s a vacant lot by the intersection at the end of the cul-de-sac, and the kids sometimes throw dirt balls at passing cars.”

“Sweet,” Rachel said. “Well, I stand warned. I’ll make sure to drive with the windows rolled up.”

“Good idea,” Molly said. She smiled at her. “I’m Molly, by the way. Is that pie for us?”

“Yes, it’s apple,” Rachel said. “I made it myself — that is, if removing it from the bakery box and covering the pie with Handi-Wrap constitutes making it.”

Molly took the pie from her. “In my book, it does, definitely. This is so nice of you. I should be bringing a pie over to you, welcoming you to the neighborhood.”

“Well, I heard the news about your husband’s first wife, and according to the mailman, her kids live with you now. So — well, my mother always used to bring a pie over to the neighbors if there was an illness or a death in the family.”

“That’s sweet, thank you. And it’s good to know the mailman has his finger on the pulse of what’s happening around here. Too bad he can’t always get the mail to the right address — which reminds me, I have something for you. . ” Molly balanced the pie in one hand while she unlocked the door. “Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, thanks,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “But I still have a ton of unpacking to do.”

“Be right back.” Molly scurried inside the house. She set the pie down on the kitchen counter, then grabbed the mail — rubber-banded together — that she’d gotten by mistake. There were only five pieces of mail, mostly junk; but there was something that looked like a personal letter. She left the door open as she brought it back outside to Rachel. “We got these by mistake last week. They’re addressed to you.”

“Well, that’s mighty neighborly of you to keep them for me,” Rachel said. “And about that pie, the woman at the bakery said if you heat it in a conventional oven for fifteen minutes before serving, it’s incredible.”

Molly nodded. “Thanks again, Rachel. I hope you’ll take a rain check, and drop in any time.”

Rachel gave her a nervous smile and shrugged. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I don’t know a lot of people in Seattle. I moved here from Tampa, Florida. I looked at a map of the United States and figured Seattle was just about as far as I could get from Tampa — and my ex-husband.”

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Molly said.

She nodded. “We’ll save it for some snowy night by the fire. Anyway, I dealt with this Realtor over the phone, and he sent me photos of the house over the Internet. I fell in love with it while I was still in Florida. I didn’t hear about these — these cul-de-sac murders until after I bought the house.” She let out a long sigh. “I’m a little nervous about being alone in a new place as it is. I feel a lot better knowing I have a nice neighbor next door.”

“Well, vice versa,” Molly said with a smile. “Feel free to call up if you ever get scared or you need anything.”

Rachel nodded and waved to her as she started down the walkway. “Nice meeting you, Molly!”

As Molly waved back, she remembered her last conversation with Kay, in which she had promised to be Kay’s Neighborhood Watch buddy.

Molly’s smile waned.

Stepping inside, she closed the door and went back to the kitchen. The pie looked pretty damn good. She wondered if she should give in to her craving and have a slice. She was searching through the utensil drawer for a knife when the phone rang.

Molly snatched up the receiver. “Yes, hello?”

There was no response on the other end.

“Hello?” she repeated.

“Ask him where he really was,” a woman whispered.

“What?”

The woman didn’t reply. But Molly heard her breathing — like someone with asthma.

“Who is this?” Molly asked.

She heard a click on the other end of the line and then nothing.

The next afternoon, Jeff and Chris drove to Northgate Mall so Chris could get a decent suit for the funeral. The services were delayed until next week because of the autopsy.

Molly planned to work on her latest painting, still in the early stages. It was for a national soft-drink company’s print ad. The client wanted an illustration with twenty people, all drinking cola at a party; but each person was from a certain period from the 1920s to the current day. It was to represent the ninety years people had been enjoying that soft drink brand. Molly thought it was a corny idea, but the money and the exposure were good.

From the basement she’d gotten Erin some watercolors and paper, so they could work together up in her studio. If the phone rang, she’d let the machine answer it.

She was still a little unhinged by yesterday’s call, mostly because Angela had gotten those strange phone calls not long before she’d been murdered. Molly had told Jeff about it: “ ‘Ask him where he really was.’ What do you suppose she meant by that?”

Jeff had seemed unfazed. “Yesterday, we got how many hang-ups and how many people calling just to hear our voices? We’re in the news, and we’re in the phone book, not a good combination. We’re going to get some weird calls. You really need to screen them, hon.”

Molly had taken his advice today. There had been several hang-ups.

She and Erin were about to head upstairs when she heard shrieking outside. It sounded like Carson and Dakota Hahn.

Molly peered out the living room window and gasped.

A man was running up the cul-de-sac with Dakota Hahn in his arms. Screaming and squirming, she was covered with blood and dirt.

“Stay here,” Molly said to Erin.

She hurried outside. Next door, Rachel stepped out of the house as well.

Molly raced up the walkway. She saw Carson and Darren trailing behind the man, crying. They had blood all over their hands. Carson stumbled and fell on the pavement. He let out a loud wail.

Molly ran out to the street and scooped him up. The sleeve of his jacket was torn, and Molly could see blood. It looked like he’d skinned his arm in the fall. He was crying so hard, he couldn’t seem to get a breath.

The man holding Dakota swiveled around to face her. He was about thirty, and borderline handsome, with wavy dark blond hair and a cleft in his chin. He looked panic stricken. “Are you the mother?” he asked, over the children’s screams.

Breathless, Molly gaped at him — and then at Dakota, whose chubby, dirt-smudged face was lined with bloody scratches. She wouldn’t stop shrieking.

“Are you the mother?” the stranger repeated, louder this time.

With Carson writhing in her arms, Molly shook her head and pointed to Lynette’s house. “They live over there. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” the stranger yelled. “I was driving by, and I heard the screams. Then I saw the kids on that lot at the corner, and they were bleeding—”

“Ye gods, look, he’s got pieces of glass in his hands!” Rachel exclaimed. Hovering over Jill’s son, Darren, she held him by his wrists. The plump, brown-haired six-year-old wriggled in her grasp and cried softly — a miserable staccato moan.

Within moments, Lynette and Jill ran out of their respective houses, adding to the chorus of screams. Lynette tried to take Dakota from the Good Samaritan stranger, but when her daughter reached up to wrap a hand around her mother’s neck, the glass embedded in her palm scratched her. Lynette automatically recoiled.