Because I'm Watching

  Not again? “Do you make a habit of driving into people’s houses?” His voice was rusty with disuse.

  “No. Of course not! This is my first time.”

  The way she said it, she didn’t sound sure it would be her last.

  “I’m … I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to … um…”

  The sirens were getting louder.

  She stopped stammering out her feeble apology. She bent and scrutinized his face. Going back to the car, she wriggled through the window until only her feet stuck out, and hung almost upside down to get something off the passenger’s side floor.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d noticed a woman’s ass.

  But … nice ass.

  She hand-walked herself back out of the vehicle, returned to him, and offered a brown cardboard to-go box, tied with a sparkly blue ribbon. A plastic fork was stuck into the bow.

  What the hell?

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I bought it for my lunch, but you look like you need it worse than I do.”

  Nice ass or not, he was suddenly and completely sick and tired of her. Leaning his hands on the arms of the chair, he pushed himself to his feet.

  She watched him rise, her eyes widening in alarm, and as if realizing he could be hostile, she stepped backward—toward the jagged hole her tire had ripped in his floor.

  He caught her upper arm and half-lifted her to safety.

  She squeaked.

  Three vehicles pulled up to the curb, lights flashing, two from the county sheriff’s department and one from the Virtue Falls city police force. A fire marshal and a fire truck arrived and parked by the hydrant.

  Jacob’s gaze shifted to Maddie’s alarmed face, to the cops, and back to her. “You started a circus.”

  “I’m really sorry.” She glanced toward his crotch and lowered her voice. “Do you think you ought to go put on some pants?”

  He wanted to tell her he would, but only if she managed not to create another disaster. But he’d already said three sentences today.

  He looked out at the law enforcement officers facing off on the sidewalk. City cops vs. the sheriff’s department, fighting over what was probably the spring’s most interesting mishap.

  With all this going on, it seemed inevitable he would have to say more. Turning on his bare heel, he started across the kitchen’s warped old linoleum floor.

  “Be careful of the glass!” Maddie said. “Watch where you step; you don’t want to have to go to the hospital.”

  No. He did not.

  He watched where he stepped.

  As with about half the houses in the neighborhood, Jacob’s one-bedroom shotgun house was stacked, room by room, on a narrow lot: the living room and the tiny kitchen in one big room. Then the bathroom, with a door into the kitchen and one into the bedroom. The bedroom faced onto the back porch, which faced into a weedy, overgrown backyard, which led to the alley.

  He shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He used the toilet, washed the dust off his hands and face, stared into the mirror.

  He looked like shit: pasty white, sunken eyes that looked like two piss holes in the snow, three months’ worth of dark hair curling wildly around his neck and ears, and five-day-old thick, black beard stubbling his chin. If his drill sergeant could see him now, he would feed him his balls on a shingle.

  Jacob had a razor. He needed to shave his head.

  No time.

  He had a situation out there.

  In the bedroom, he pulled on a worn pair of jeans and his athletic shoes with no socks, and headed back out to the scene of the crime. As soon as he opened the door, he flinched at the brilliant sunshine thundering into what remained of his sanctuary. Brilliant light, where before there had been deep, black, comforting darkness.

  He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to face these people. He didn’t want to talk.

  He had come here to hide. To die.

  Goddamn Maddie Hewitson. Goddamn her all to hell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three cops, one city and two county, had climbed up broken steps and over and around piles of splintered and shattered lumber, all that remained of the railing of Jacob’s porch. They stepped onto the broken remains of Jacob’s floor.

  Firemen in full gear stood arguing over a cluster of broken electrical wires. One of them, the fire marshal, looked at Jacob. “Mr. Denisov, this is a dangerous situation and we’ve turned off your power.”

  “Okay.”

  “You realize you’re not going to have lights or electricity to run your refrigerator or water heater.”

  Jacob shrugged.

  The firemen exchanged glances.

  Clearly, they thought he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation.

  Clearly, they didn’t know his refrigerator was mostly empty and he never showered. Although, if they got close enough, they would be in no doubt about the shower.

  Three more cops were on the sidewalk, interviewing the gawking witnesses. Those gawking witnesses were Jacob’s neighbors, he supposed, although he could see a few people standing around in exercise clothes and running shoes, and a sunburned couple who looked as if they’d come up from the beach.

  All these people, staring at him as if they knew what he had done.

  A Virtue Falls policeman and a deputy sheriff were talking—and scowling—at Maddie Hewitson.

  The county sheriff was standing, hands on her hips, examining the car that had invaded his sanctuary. When he picked his way across the rubble on the floor, she turned to face him. “Mr. Denisov? Mr. Jacob Denisov?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m Sheriff Kateri Kwinault.”

  He could see that from the name on her pocket.

  She continued, “May I ask you some questions?”

  He wanted to ask her some questions, too, like how a Native American in western Washington had managed to win the election to become sheriff. Prejudice in this part of the state was quiet and pervasive. But any inquiries would indicate curiosity on his part, and he didn’t care that much, so he nodded again.

  She flipped open a worn notebook, opened her mouth, looked around at the wreck of his home, and shook her head as if she didn’t know where to start.

  “She drove into my house,” he said.

  “I see that. You own this home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you previously know Miss Hewitson?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never met her before?”

  “No.”

  “She lives across the street.”

  He shrugged. He knew Sheriff Kwinault had seen the aluminum foil at the one remaining living room window. He didn’t know what conclusions she had drawn. He didn’t care.

  “So she has no grudge against you?” Sheriff Kwinault asked.

  He was beginning to get irritated. “I’ve never laid eyes on her before.”

  “Then why did she drive into your house?”

  He was becoming even more irritated and was already fed up. “Woman driver.”

  Sheriff Kwinault gave a laugh. “Of course. What other reason could there be?”

  The more he observed Sheriff Kwinault, the more of an oddity she was. Native American. Female. Pretty woman, early thirties. But twisted, like a tree that had been warped by a great wind. One shoulder was higher than the other. Thin white scars covered her hands. Her brown eyes looked like those of some of the guys he’d met overseas, like she’d looked death in the face.

  A long time ago, he would have been interested in sitting down and having a conversation with her. Now … she was a reminder of who he used to be, and what he had become.

  Conversations were for people who still walked and breathed and hoped and dreamed. Not for him.

  Dust drifted and swirled in the sudden onslaught of outdoor air currents and intrusive rays of sun, settling on his ugly-ass furniture, the stuff that had been left in the house when the old lady had died and her lousy unsentimental son
had sold everything, lock, stock, and barrel, so he didn’t have to fool with it. As he had said, It’s not like Mother had anything of value in here.

  More and more people were gathering on the sidewalk. He could hear the buzz of their voices now, like killer bees swarming, preparing to attack with questions and conversations and nosiness masquerading as sympathy.

  A line split the floor; on one side was sunshine, on the other, shadow.

  He moved farther back, into the shadow. He would not come out. He would not expose himself to the light.

  Then he heard Maddie say, “But I don’t want to take a blood test. I’m not drunk, and I’m not on drugs!”

  He wanted to smack someone. “Wait a minute,” he said to Sheriff Kwinault. He turned toward the two cops who had Maddie cornered against his recliner. “She’s not on drugs,” he said.

  Both cops and Sheriff Kwinault viewed him with interest.

  Sheriff Kwinault said, “I thought you said you didn’t know her.”

  “I don’t have to know her to know she fell asleep at the wheel. Look at her. Lack of coordination. Dark circles under her eyes. Pupils are normal, but can’t stay on track with any thought.” He gestured stiffly. “I don’t know when she slept last, but it’s been a long time.”

  Maddie blinked at him. She did that a lot, to keep her eyes focused.

  He knew what he was talking about. He did that most days, himself. Waking hallucinations were better than nightmares. Usually.

  “Those are also symptoms of drug and alcohol use,” Sheriff Kwinault said.

  He didn’t care. Abruptly, he replied, “Fine. Do the goddamned blood test. It’s your money you’re wasting.”

  The cops exchanged glances.

  Jacob conceded that he might have sounded hostile.

  The Virtue Falls policeman, Ed Legbrandt, seemed to realize he was facing a losing proposition and backed away from the scene. “You know, Kateri, you are right. Dogwood Blossom Street is past the city limits sign and into the county. It’s your jurisdiction. It’s your case.” He opened up his computer tablet and tapped it a few times. “I sent you a file with all the evidence I’ve collected.” He jumped down from the remnants of Jacob’s porch onto the small, rutted, overgrown lawn. “Have a nice day.”

  “Coward,” Sheriff Kwinault muttered. To her cohort, Deputy Sheriff Gunder Bergen, she said, “Go give the guys a hand interviewing the witnesses.”

  Bergen nodded, a brief, antagonistic acknowledgment, and followed the city cop out of the house—or rather off the floor—and onto the street.

  Ah. There was the antipathy Jacob expected.

  Sheriff Kwinault seemed oblivious to her deputy’s attitude. All of her focus was on Maddie. “Okay, let’s assume Mr. Denisov is right and you’re sleep deprived. Why are you sleep deprived?”

  Maddie brushed her overgrown bangs off her forehead. “I’m … I don’t sleep well at night.”

  “Then why did you get into a car and drive?” Sheriff Kwinault asked. “Surely you know it’s dangerous.”

  “I was desperate. I was out of food. And toilet paper. And”—Maddie’s voice got very quiet—“feminine hygiene … um, products?”

  In unison, Sheriff Kwinault and Jacob said, “Oh.”

  Maddie acted like this monthly thing was excruciatingly embarrassing, and for a woman her age …

  “How old are you?” Jacob asked.

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Twenty-six. Yeah, well, I’m thirty-four. Do you think I don’t know that females—”

  Sheriff Kwinault gave Jacob the stink eye.

  Impatiently, he said, “I’ve got two older sisters. And a mother.”

  Sheriff Kwinault gave him the sterner stink eye.

  He shut up. He sat down on his chair, the one sitting like a throne in front of the hole in his floor, which was occupied by the Forester’s front tire. He picked up the brown box with the sparkly blue ribbon and the fork.

  “Where did you go?” Sheriff Kwinault asked Maddie.

  Jacob held the box in both his hands. Something smelled good inside.

  Maddie said, “I went to the grocery store and the sporting goods store and to the Bayview Convenience Store for lunch.”

  He untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was some kind of sandwich, some kind of pasta salad, and a giant cookie. Smelled like ginger. “She’s telling the truth about lunch, anyway.”

  “I’ve got groceries in the back of my … um…” Maddie looked at the SUV, really looked at it, at the building’s timber that had pierced the hood, and the puddle of oil and transmission fluid seeping from under the front end, and she sagged. “My brother is going to kill me.”

  “Your brother? The writer? Why would he care?” Sheriff Kwinault asked.

  “He bought me the car.” Maddie looked embarrassed.

  As she should. Any twenty-six-year-old who had to have her brother buy her a car needed to grow up and go to work.

  “He lives near Denver, right?” Sheriff Kwinault asked.

  “Yes. In Colorado Springs in our parents’ home,” Maddie confirmed.

  “You moved to Virtue Falls from there?” As if she knew the answers, Sheriff Kwinault was fiddling with her pen and watching Maddie, waiting to see if the story had changed.

  “Actually, I moved out when I went to college and after … after college I lived with my fiancé in Colorado Springs.” Maddie’s eyes looked bright and luminous, as if she were holding back tears.

  “When you speak with your brother, please tell him how much I enjoyed his last book,” Sheriff Kwinault said.

  Maddie beamed. “I will. Thank you. There’s another book coming out in a few weeks. Its title is Sacrifice!”

  Sheriff Kwinault made a note. “I’ll order it.”

  Jacob took a bite of the sandwich.

  He would have thought a puny-looking girl like Maddie would get some wimpy vegetarian sandwich. But no, this was pork barbeque with ham and swiss cheese, some lettuce and garlic aioli on a whole grain baguette. Best damned thing he’d put in his mouth since he’d returned to the States.

  Sheriff Kwinault looked in the back window of the Subaru. “Groceries,” she confirmed. “Scattered all over the back. And a sleeping bag?” She straightened. “Are you going camping, Miss Hewitson?” For whatever reason, Sheriff Kwinault made camping sound like a crime.

  Maddie’s gaze dropped, and by God if she didn’t look guilty. “Maybe?”

  Interesting. Jacob finished half of the sandwich and ate the cookie. What did Sheriff Kwinault suspect Maddie would do when she went camping?

  Did people who committed crimes here go on the lam into the wilderness and escape justice?

  Why was he thinking like a cop? He was not curious.

  He pried the lid off the pasta salad.

  Sheriff Kwinault leaned in close to Maddie. She sniffed at her, looked into her eyes, had her display her inner elbows. “I believe you. But at the least, we’re going to have to give you a ticket for reckless driving and endangerment.”

  “Okay.” Tears rose in Maddie’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

  “Perhaps Mr. Denisov wants to press charges for attempted vehicular homicide?”

  “No.” Like he wanted that kind of attention.

  Undaunted, Sheriff Kwinault continued, “He might also bring a civil suit for damages.”

  Right. Make that clear. With the plastic fork he gestured around at the house. “You’re going to have to pay for this.” As if on his signal, the cornice fell off the wall and disintegrated in a puff of ancient wood and plaster.

  Maddie flinched. “I’m sorry.”

  Jacob didn’t care whether she said she was sorry. Jacob didn’t care whether she cried or not.

  He put the fork back, shut the box, and put it down beside his chair.

  He wanted her—all of them—to go away.

  Sheriff Kwinault was oblivious, or maybe indifferent, to what he wanted. She asked, “Miss Hewitson, have you got a driver’s lice
nse and proof of insurance?”

  Maddie nodded and crawled into the car again. She searched in the glove box and center console.

  Still a nice ass.

  She crawled out with her purse on her arm and a long slip of paper in her hand. She handed Sheriff Kwinault her information.

  Sheriff Kwinault scanned everything into her phone and handed them back. “You might want to call your insurance agent and get him out here.”

  “Right.” Maddie pulled her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and headed toward the back of the room.

  Sheriff Kwinault put her phone in her breast pocket. “If this wasn’t actually in my jurisdiction and if I wasn’t already caught in a pissing match so violent it’s like being caught in a monsoon, I would have let the city boys keep this case.”

  “Pissing match? Because you’re a woman?” Jacob didn’t know why he was asking. He didn’t care.

  “That, and this is my first post in law enforcement. The former sheriff had to take medical leave to be with his wife who suffered through a difficult pregnancy—she required hospitalization—and he strongly suggested the county commissioners appoint me.” A dimple briefly flashed. “Against their better judgment, they did.”

  “Right.” That explained how a Native American woman had gotten elected.

  She hadn’t.

  Kateri said, “None of the men in area law enforcement have taken kindly to the change. They think Bergen should have gotten the post.”

  Bergen looked perfect for the job. Midthirties, tall, rugged, in shape, with sharp eyes that saw everything. He was white, and he was a he. “Right.”

  Sheriff Kwinault looked him right in the eye. “Do you mean, ‘Right, Bergen should have gotten the post’ or ‘Right, now you understand’?”

  Jacob looked right back at her. “I mean, ‘Right, I don’t give a shit.’”

  “That’s okay, then.” She glanced at Maddie’s back. “She’s got worse problems than driving into your house.”

  He muttered, “I don’t give a shit about that, either.”

  “The real reason I didn’t bother to get a blood test was because when we’ve tested her before, she’s never come back with a positive result.”