James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

“Speak of the devil,” she says.

“SEAN, DEAR, CAN YOU GO to your room, please?” asks Penley, her voice actually kind of gentle and sweet. Too sweet, I’m thinking. She’s overcompensating for what’s to come, the bloody showdown when it’s just the two of us out here.

Is it too late to make a run for it?

Sean scoops up his missile launcher and shuffles off toward his room. I’m half tempted to beg him to stay. Penley wouldn’t try to kill me in front of her stepson, would she?

Not knowing what to do, I stoop and begin gathering the remaining Legos on the floor.

“That can wait,” she says. “Come, we need to talk.”

Dressed in her workout clothes -what else? – Penley leads me into the living room, motioning for me to have a seat on the green satin couch against the wall. She takes one of the two armchairs facing it, and we both settle in.

“So, how was your weekend?” she asks.

I can’t believe it. She’s toying with me! The pleasant smile and friendly tone. She never asks about my weekend. Never.

“It was fine,” I answer.

“Do anything special?”

“No, not really.” Oh, yeah, I did see and talk to my dead father. Almost forgot.

Is she trying to get me to confess; is that her game?

Nothing doing. I’ll tell her the same thing Michael told Dakota. We’re planning her surprise party. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it!

“How about yourself?” I ask, matching her broad smile tooth for tooth. “Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Very nice,” she says. “We spent yesterday out in the country at my parents’ place.”

“Oh?”

“I mentioned we were doing that, didn’t I?”

“You might have.” Actually, you didn’t, Michael did.

“You know, you should come out with us sometime,” she says. “It’s on the water; there’s a pool and tennis court. It’s a very nice escape from the city.”

Oh, you’re good, Penley.

If this is how you want to play it, I’ll make it easy for you. “Gee, I bet the kids really enjoy it.”

“They truly do. What kid doesn’t enjoy being around the water?” She folds her legs. “Strange, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Dakota.”

Finally… here we go.

“Yes,” I say. “Sean mentioned she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Actually, I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. By the time we were heading home yesterday, she seemed a little off. She doesn’t have a temperature, and it’s not her stomach. Something’s bothering her, though. Any ideas?”

I don’t say anything. Every muscle tenses, and I brace myself for the moment. Surely this is when she lays down her cards.

Instead, all Penley does is shrug.

“I’m sure Dakota will be fine. She’s tough, takes after Michael,” she says. “Just in case, I thought we’d keep her home from school today.” She flicks her wrist. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I barely manage a swallow. “No?”

“Guess who I spoke to last night?”

As long as it’s anyone but Dakota, I couldn’t care less at this point. I’m swimming in relief. “Who?” I ask.

“My friend Stephen.”

It takes me a moment to connect the dots. “Oh, the guy from your gym – the cute one?”

“Exactly,” she says. “The very cute one. So, tell me, do you have any plans for tonight?”

“Uh…”

“Because you do now.”

“DID YOU KNOW that some female cockroaches mate once and are pregnant for the rest of their lives?”

“Wow,” I say, nodding my head and feigning amazement rather than repulsion.

The guy wipes his nose on his sleeve while making some weird clicking noise in his throat that I’ve never heard any other human make. “No wonder there are so many of the little suckers, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “No wonder.”

Of course, things could be a lot worse. This guy could be my blind date for the evening. Instead, he’s my nooner. The exterminator. On my lunch break, I meet him at my apartment. Actually, outside my apartment. There was no way I was going back in there by myself.

Anyway, he’s a fittingly creepy-looking man with thick black-rimmed glasses that magnify his eyes. He sort of reminds me of Stephen King, the pictures I’ve seen of him, anyway. Of course, pictures lie.

“Thing is, cockroaches are basically built to survive almost anything,” he says. “Did you know they can hold their breath for up to forty minutes?”

“Interesting. You are full of information, aren’t you?”

He adjusts his spray nozzle. “So, you saw them in the closet here, huh?”

I nod. Yeah, just a couple thousand of them.

“Then that’s where we’ll start.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As he reaches for the closet door I stand back. I don’t want to look. I don’t even want to be here.

“Hmm,” he mutters, looking around. “Mmm-hmm, hmm, hmm.”

“What?”

“There’s not a single dropping on the floor.” As if correcting himself, he raises a palm. “Not that I don’t believe you, of course.”

I watch as he flicks on his flashlight, shining it against the closet walls.

“What about your neighbors?” he asks.

“What about them?”

“You all get along?” He wipes his nose on his sleeve again. “I’ve had situations where one neighbor sabotages another with cockroaches – you know, letting them loose in vents or through holes they drill. Happens more than you’d think.”

I immediately try to picture Mrs. Rosencrantz, or her Herbert, doing something so wicked. I suppose I wouldn’t put it past them.

We walk the rest of the apartment. Every nook and cranny gets sprayed and resprayed. A few times I even try to tell him that he missed a spot.

“What’s in here?” he asks at the last door down the hallway.

“That’s just my darkroom.” I open the door for him, flipping on the light.

He walks in and looks around, intrigued. “Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm.”

After a few quick squirts of his spray nozzle, he notices the pictures pinned to the walls. He stops at one of my father.

“You know this man, don’t you?” he asks.

“Why do you say that?”

“His expression – the way he’s looking at you and not the camera. In fact, I’d say you know him quite well.”

“You’re right. He’s my father.”

He leans in, really examining the picture. “Was he a good man?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, was he -”

“No, I heard you okay. That’s kind of an odd question, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I think it’s the only question… for all of us, that is. In the end, we’re only the sum of the choices we make, right?”

Oh, great, the existential exterminator.

I’m beginning to get the heebie-jeebies from this guy. It’s bad enough that he looks creepy; does he have to talk creepy as well? I can feel an attack of the hives coming on.

“And how did you know my father is dead? You said, Was he a good man?”

He shrugs. “I guess I just assumed.”

From looking at a recently developed picture of him?

We’re talking serious heebie-jeebies now. This guy can’t leave my apartment fast enough. It’s possible that he’s as scary as thousands of cockroaches all by himself.

“So are we all done here?” I ask hastily.

“I’m sorry. I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

“No, it’s okay. I think I’m a little on edge thanks to the roaches.” Among other things.

He pats his trusty spray canister. “Hopefully we’ve taken care of that for a while.”

“About how long does the poison last?”

“A month or so.”