The Third Victim Part 37

The second time Becky fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster and he bit off her head.

At five in the morning, Becky O'grady crawled to the hall closet and piled coats on top of her shoulders. But she knew it wouldn't do any good.

The monster was coming. She had not saved Danny, and she and the monster both knew it. Soon he would come for her. Soon it would be her turn.

Becky whimpered for her mother. But mostly she cried for Danny, because when he had needed her most, she had not saved him. Thursday, May 17, 7:50 a.m.

Sandy stood at the kitchen sink, washing the same flower-bordered plate over and over again. Outside, the sun was shining. She had cracked the window to let in the fresh morning air, and now she could hear the sounds of her neighborhood preparing for a new day. Somewhere down the street a lawn was being mowed. Probably Mr. McCabe. He was a retired school princ.i.p.al who took religious care of his yard. In June, people drove in from miles around just to admire his roses.

A dog barked three or four houses over. Then came the sounds of a mother yelling for her child. Andy? Anthony? Maybe Andrea, the Simpsons' four-year-old daughter. Last Halloween she'd dressed up as a cowboy not a cowgirl, she'd told everyone, a cowboy. Sandy really liked the child, even if she insisted on calling her Mrs. O'grady, which made Sandy feel old.

She turned the plate in her hand and rhythmically washed the back.

When she and Shep had first moved into this neighborhood eleven years ago, they were one of the few couples with kids. Since then the neighborhood had grown and so had the families. There must be five toddlers on this block alone. Two of the girls in Becky's cla.s.s lived just four blocks over. There were a number of boys as well, though most of them were too young for Danny. Sandy had always thought that was a shame. It was so easy for Becky to find someone to play with, whereas Danny had to be driven to someone's house. That took planning.

That took having a parent home to serve as chauffeur.

Danny had never complained, though. He seemed content to read books or stay at school or play on the computer. Later in the evenings she'd sometimes go on walks with him around the neighborhood. They'd wave at the other families. Danny would check out houses with DirecTV. Or sometimes she'd walk and he'd ride his bike around her and show off stunts like riding no-handed for her amus.e.m.e.nt.

She'd always liked those walks. She'd felt safe, pa.s.sing through their modest community where everyone worked hard and knew one another's name.

This morning Sandy didn't feel comfortable enough to step outside to get the morning paper. She was too afraid people would stop and stare.

And she wasn't sure which bothered her most, the looks of anger or of pity.

She stayed in her kitchen, a prisoner under house arrest, and scrubbed her appliances until they sparkled. Then she attacked the kitchen floor, all the while pretending it was just another day in the neighborhood and her life hadn't really ended two days ago.

This morning Sandy had called the detention center at promptly seven a.m. It had been forty-eight hours since she'd last spoken with her son, and she desperately needed to see him. Was he frightened, was he scared? Did he understand what was happening to him? Did he miss her or call out her name in the middle of the night?

What if he was having nightmares? What if he wasn't getting enough to eat or the blankets scratched or the sheets itched? For G.o.d's sake, she was his mother and she needed to be with her son! It appeared he was too traumatized to deal with his parents. Maybe in a week or two.

Sandy had never heard of anything so ridiculous. If her son was traumatized, all the more reason for her to come. She could bring his favorite toy, bake his favorite cake. Please, something, anything ..

Don't leave me on the outside like this. Don't leave me feeling so helpless.

Mr. Gregory informed her that her son was still under suicide watch.

And they'd had to return Danny to his room because, at the mention of seeing his parents, he grabbed a fork from another youth and tried to puncture his own wrist.

She and Shep were not to visit. Period.

The sound of the lawn mower stopped. A sharp bang as Mr. McCabe removed the clippings bag. He was probably dumping the gra.s.s on his flower beds. Sandy had seen him do it a hundred times. Churning the gra.s.s clippings into the beds to replenish the nitrogen. Working the soil tenderly with his old, gnarled hands.

She finally set the plate in the drying rack. The dishes were done.

Her countertops sparkled, her floor was freshly mopped. She'd even cleaned the stove and wiped down the microwave. Now it was eight in the morning and Sandy didn't know what to do.

She turned toward Becky, who was eyeing her somberly from the kitchen table.

"Would you like more cereal, honey?"

Becky shook her head. The bowl of Cheerios placed in front of her fifteen minutes ago still appeared to be untouched.

"What about some fruit?" Sandy coaxed.

"Or what about pancakes? I can make you chocolate chip pancakes!"

Sandy regretted the words the moment she said them. Chocolate chip pancakes were Danny's favorite.

Becky shook her head.

Sandy resiliently turned toward the refrigerator, searching for more options. Becky hadn't eaten in nearly two days.

"I know," Sandy said brightly, 'how about some salad!"

She eagerly pulled out the clear gla.s.s bowl. The salad had been among four dishes that had arrived on their front porch yesterday. The others had contained macaroni and cheese, a ham-and-potato dish, and some kind of mystery-meat surprise. This bowl had impressed Sandy, however. The mixture of strawberry Jell-O, apples, bananas, walnuts, and whipped cream was a favorite children's salad, and it touched her that others were thinking of Becky. G.o.d knows, the little girl was suffering too.

Sandy held up the brightly colored salad for Becky's inspection. Becky had always loved Jell-O and whipped cream .. .

A slight hesitation, then finally Becky nodded. They had a winner!

Sandy dished up a large bowl for her daughter, humming slightly to herself in honor of having scored a victory. She poured a gla.s.s of orange juice to go with Becky's breakfast. After another thought, she poured a gla.s.s of juice for herself as well and joined her daughter at the table.

From the living room came the sound of Shep snoring. He'd been out most of the night and returned at some small hour of the morning, reeking of beer. Sandy knew without asking where he'd gone. Rainie's house. Whenever he was troubled, whenever he had something on his mind, he always went there.

Once Sandy had entertained wild notions of what must be going on at the Conner residence. Everyone had heard stories of Rainie's mother and what kind of woman she'd been. Sandy had imagined her husband and his deputy rolling around in a torrid embrace. She had fantasized about them laughing together and giggling madly over what an idiot pretty little Sandy Surmon must be not to suspect a thing.

One night in a fit of jealous rage, she'd hightailed it over to Rainie's tiny home in the middle of the soaring woods. She'd driven up the dirt driveway at full steam, already formulating a bold confrontation in her head. She'd discovered her husband and Rainie sitting on the huge back deck in complete silence, each just staring out into the woods and holding a beer.

Sandy had gone back home without ever saying a word.

Over the years she'd come to realize that she simply couldn't fathom her husband and Rainie's relationship. She didn't know what caused the long silences between them or the unspoken exchanges. She didn't understand how Shep could sometimes seem to belong more to Rainie than to her, when Sandy had borne him two children and, as best as she could tell, Rainie only handed him bottles of Bud Light.

Whatever bonded them was deep, but at least it wasn't s.e.xual. So Sandy did her best to fight her nagging, painful wish that Shep would come to her when he was troubled, instead of heading to another woman's house for hours of companionable silence.

"Mommy, what happened to school?" Sandy looked at her daughter, genuinely startled by the question and the sound of her daughter's voice. Becky had barely spoken since the shooting, and when she did, it was generally a one-word statement.

"What do you mean, honey?"

"There's no school today."

"No, Becky, there's no school today."

"Tomorrow?"

"You don't have to go to school tomorrow either, sweetheart. I don't want you to worry about school. It's all done for a bit."

Her daughter continued to eye her intently.

"Are the other kids going to school?"

"You mean your cla.s.smates? No." Sandy was trying to pick her words carefully.