The police knocked on Ralph Michael Atkins’s door at 6:12 p.m. on Monday night. He and his wife, Becky, had just sat down to a meal of overcooked beef stroganoff. When the knock sounded, Becky threw down her napkin and rose with an annoyed sigh. Michael stayed in his polished dining chair, tilted his head, and listened. Then she was back, her lilac perfume competing with the smell of beef. “Michael? The police are here. About Annie.”
They questioned them together in the formal living room. Becky’s hand grasped Michael’s, and on certain questions, squeezed it to almost a breaking point. Their answers had been quick and concise.
No, they had no idea where Annie could be.
No, they hadn’t seen her, not since her birthday party.
No, neither of them had any criminal history.
Last night they were both here, all evening. Both of them can attest to that.
Yes, they will stay in the area and be available for future questions.
No, they can’t imagine who would want to hurt poor Annie.
No, they only own one computer.
The police searched their home thoroughly, then asked to view their computer. Becky led them to the study, and to the ancient PC that sat there. They stated that they would need to take it with them, and she agreed, signing a receipt that they provided, saying nothing to them about the laptop that she knew Michael to possess. After that, the police left, and they returned to their cold meal.
It was a meal eaten in silence, forks and knives scraping heavy plates, ice cubes settling into tea. Only a single sentence was uttered.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, Michael, but you are staying here tonight. All night.”
CHAPTER 40
Knife: Check. I push all my books off the old, faded suitcase they sat on. Unzipping it, I pull out the sole item it holds—a black stiletto knife. Depressing the button on its front snaps out a long, thin, ridiculously sharp blade. I had bought it in a moment of weakness. Or rather, four hours of weakness in which I had meticulously researched different knives and switchblades, looking for the most effective and efficient killing tool. My fantasies mostly center on death by blade. Knives result in more blood, more suffering by the victim, and a slower death if you stab the right places and avoid main arteries. Not that I was going to restrict myself on this mission. I stuff the knife in my sweatshirt’s pocket.
Gun: Check. When I moved out of my grandparents’ house, a pawnshop was one of my first stops. I applied for a permit, and now owned a Smith & Wesson Model 36. I carry my desk chair over to the fridge and stand on it, reaching back ‘til I feel the space between the wall and the appliance. My fingers brush the edge of duct tape, gritty and peeling at the edges. I reach farther, gripping the cloth bag that the tape holds to the fridge. Yanking on the cloth, I rip the duct tape off, and pull the bag over the edge, cradling it to my chest and stepping carefully off the chair. When I first got this gun, I made cleaning it a full time job. I loved the feel and the weight of it in my hand, loved examining the mechanisms that made it deadly. I haven’t cleaned or touched the gun in over two years. It is a bittersweet reunion.
Car: No check. I need a vehicle. I log online, trying to find the closest rental company. Enterprise’s site indicates that they will pick me up, so I call them first. It is almost five o’clock. The rep that answers the phone says that they won’t be able to get me until the morning. I start looking up taxi companies.
A knock sounds on the door—two quick raps.
Jeremy.
He had brought flowers, a ridiculous gesture now that he thought about it. He sweated in front of her door, the wilted daisies looking sad after sitting all day in his hot truck. This was his last stop of the day. He had pushed her to the end of his route, hoping that she had reconsidered his note, and that today would be the day that she would let him in.
The door swung open, startling him in its unexpected movement, and she stood there, smaller than he remembered, dressed in black. She reached forward, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him inside.
She left him standing in the middle of her apartment, in between the two bedroom areas, the stupid flowers weighing down his arms. She paced to a desk, leaning over the computer and typing furiously into it. She spoke, the words tossed over her shoulder at him. “Do you have a car?”
“A car?”
“Yes. A car.”
“Yeah. I brought you flowers.”
“Toss them. Trash can is in the kitchen.” She finished typing, then reached behind the laptop and unplugged it, coiling the cord around her hand in a quick, hurried motion. “Thank you,” she said suddenly, turning to meet his eyes, the words an afterthought. “Trash. Kitchen.”
“Right.” He walked over to the kitchen, pushing the rejected daisies down into the trash, squashing TV dinner boxes in the process. So much for that gesture. Come to think of it, maybe she wasn’t a hearts and flowers kind of girl. He turned to watch her, her feet moving quickly, opening a black duffel bag, and sliding her laptop inside, the cord along with it.
“Are you done with your route?”
“Yes. Are you allergic to flowers?”
“Where is your personal car?”
“It’s a truck. It’s at the distribution center.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Umm … like ten minutes. Are you going somewhere?”
“We.”
“We … what?”
She stopped, turning to him, an irritated expression on her face. “We are going somewhere. I need a car. Take me to yours, and I will pay for you to take a taxi home. I’ll bring your car back to you in the morning.” She turned back to her bag, shoving in a thick black object, and a bound stack of cash. His eyes followed the cash, his mind questioning his vision even as it focused on the cash’s wrapper. $10,000?