Linwood Barclay - Fear The Worst

Okay.

And if that wasn’t enough, she was being treated totally unfairly at work. She was clearly the next in line to be head buyer at Jazzies, the clothing store where she worked in New Haven, but they went and gave it to this woman named Edith , if you can believe that any woman with a name like Edith would have a clue about what’s fashionable.

“Edith Head?” I said. “The Oscar-winning costume designer?”

“Are you making that up?”

Anyway, she knew they had it in for her at work, that they didn’t like her, and the most likely theory as far as she was concerned was that it was because she was so much more attractive than the others. They felt threatened. Well, they could all go fuck themselves, that’s what they could do.

At first I welcomed her calls at work. I was quite okay with her telling me, in some detail, what she wanted to do to me the next time we were together. But sometimes, when you’re trying to clinch a deal for a $35,000 loaded Accord, you have to end things, no matter how much you might be enjoying them.

Kate’s feelings got hurt easily.

The more she called my work and home phones, and my cell, the less I called back. “Give me a chance to be the one to make the call,” I suggested gently.

“But I told you that in my message,” she said. “I told you to call me back.”

It certainly wasn’t all phone sex. It was often more stories about how her ex was hiding money from her, or how they still weren’t recognizing her talents at work, or how she thought her landlord had been in her apartment when she was out, going through her underwear drawer. Nothing was out of place, but she just had a feeling.

One night, when I had intended to break it off, I somehow allowed her to talk me into letting her meet Sydney.

“I’m dying to see what she’s like,” Kate said.

I’d been in no rush to introduce them. I didn’t see any need for Sydney to meet every woman I dated, and in the last year or two, there certainly hadn’t been many. I figured, if it got to the point where things were getting serious, that might be the time for introductions.

But Kate persisted, so I arranged for the three of us to meet at lunch one Sunday. Syd, a seafood fan, picked a spot down along the waterfront that, for all I knew, got its “fresh” catch of the day from an ocean half a planet away.

Kate thought it went fabulously. “We so hit it off,” she told me.

I knew Syd would have a different take.

“She was very nice,” she said later when we were alone.

“You’re holding out on me,” I said.

“No, really.”

“Spill it,” I said.

“Well, you know she’s crazy,” Sydney said.

“Go on.”

“She was the only one who said a word all through lunch. And it was all about how this person doesn’t like her and that person she had a problem with, and how she didn’t get along at this job because the people were all against her and gave her an unfair job review, and then she got this other job and even though it’s going okay she knows people are talking about her behind her back, and how she’s pretty sure that she got overcharged by the guy where she gets her dry cleaning done and-”

“Okay,” I said. “I get it.”

“But I understand,” Syd said.

“What do you mean, you understand?”

“She’s hot. I mean, it’s a sex thing, right?”

“Jesus, Sydney.”

“I mean, Dad, come on, what else would it be? If I had a rack like that, I’d be the most popular girl at my school.” I tried to think of something to say, but before I could, Syd added, “But she’s very nice.”

“But she’s a bit crazy,” I said.

“Yeah,” Sydney said. “But a lot of crazy people are very nice.”

“Did she ask you a single question about yourself?”

Sydney had to think about that one. “You know when you went to the can? She asked me my opinion of her earrings.”

The thing was, Syd had nailed it. Kate was self-obsessed. She thought everyone was against her. She saw conspiracies where none existed. She jumped to conclusions. She was pushing too hard when I wanted to slow things down.

The day after the lunch, Kate, who had initially felt it went well, called me at work and said, “Sydney hates me.”

“That’s insane,” I said. “She thought you were very nice.”

“What did she say? Exactly?”

“She liked you,” I said, leaving out the references to “crazy” and “rack.”

“You’re lying. I know you’re lying.”

“Kate, I have to go.”

We still saw each other, occasionally. Out of guilt, fearing I was using her, I made excuses not to sleep with her.

Most of the time.

After Syd disappeared, I stopped returning any of her calls. I had enough on my plate. Occasionally, I’d pick up without checking the caller ID.

“Let me be there for you,” she’d say.

I was reluctant to accept her offers of comfort.

“So you didn’t mind my being around when you needed to get off,” Kate said at one point, “but you don’t want me there when the going gets tough?”

And now she was on the phone as I stood here in my kitchen, the floor littered with debris after my explosion, still unable to think of anything but my daughter’s car, bloodstains on the door and steering wheel.

“Hey, you there?” Kate asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here.”

“You sound terrible.”

“Long day.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah.”

The truth was, I felt very, very alone.

“I know you’ve got a lot on your mind,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

I had to think. Hadn’t I just been staring into the fridge? That must have meant I’d not had dinner.

“No.”

“I’ll bring something over. Chinese. And I’ve got some new DVDs.”

I thought a moment, and said, “Okay.” I was hungry. I was exhausted. And I felt very alone.

I said, “Can you give me an hour? No. An hour and a half?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

I hung up without saying goodbye, stared out the kitchen window. There was still an hour or more of good light left.

I locked the house, got in the car, checked Susanne’s empty house again, then drove up to Derby. Cruised through plazas, drove slowly through the parking lots of fast-food joints, always looking, scanning, searching for anyone who might be Sydney.

No luck.

I knew, in my heart, what a futile hope this was, that somehow, by chance, I was going to spot my daughter walking down the street. How likely was it she’d be taking an evening stroll or sitting by the window of a McDonald’s as I happened to drive by?

But I had to do something.

I was heading back south when a street sign caught my eye.

Coulter Drive.

I hit the brakes and hung a right before I’d even had a chance to think about the decision. I pulled the car over to the shoulder and reached down into my pocket for the sheet of paper I’d taken from the dealership.

I unfolded it, studied the photocopy of Richard Fletcher’s driver’s license. He lived at 72 Coulter. I glanced at the closest house, which was 22. The next one down was 24. I took my foot off the brake and moved slowly down the street.

Fletcher’s house was set back from the street, shrouded in trees. It was a simple two-story house, four windows, a door dead center. The front lawn was spotty and full of weeds. Used tires, several rusted bicycles, an old lawn mower, and other bits of assorted junk were crowded up against a separate one-car garage. In the drive were the yellow Pinto Fletcher had used to make his escape earlier today, as well as a Ford pickup that had seen better days. The hood was propped open, and I could just make out someone leaning over the front to examine the engine.