CRIMINAL CHRISTMAS: A Set of 8 Holiday Suspense Stories, page 70
My phone rang several times that day but I allowed my voicemail to deal with the calls. When I finally played back the messages, I found that they all had come from Detective Scanlon. Apparently he was suffering from the same thing as I. It was fortunate that I hadn’t answered the phone since Eisenbrey had warned me not to talk to Scanlon anymore. I didn’t know how to handle the situation. I felt relief to have put it off. His last message sounded a bit desperate. “Was I out of line? I was, wasn’t I? I wasn’t trying to upset or offend you. I’d really like to see you again Rebecca. Please call me.”
Eventually, it started to get dark outside, which happened too damned early during autumn in Washington State. It caused an ache in my heart for California. The dark and the rain weren’t a good mix for me. I hadn’t accomplished anything all day, and sat in my living room with the lights down low, a pleasant mixture of “Jackie D” and cola in my hand, as I listened to a group called Garbage sing “#1 Crush”. It was interesting how right it felt to play their music and get bombed while staring at a picture of Eisenbrey on my laptop. I still had my wallpaper set with the sexiest pic I had of him, the one where he peered at me through the bars on his cell, the one where he looked as though he longed to be with me, and if only he could get past the locked door that held him back…
The doorbell rang, yanking me out of my reverie and annoying the hell out of me simultaneously. I decided to ignore it, but it was so loud that I found it impossible. After a few moments, the steady ringing was enhanced with the addition of insistent knocking. This was not the kind of person who was going to go away easily. I needed to deal with it.
I opened the door to Scanlon’s smiling face. He held up a bottle of wine and then handed it to me. I read the label. “St. Michelle’s…good stuff,” I said with a smile of approval. He had been right to bring alcohol instead of flowers. “That was thoughtful.”
As Scanlon leaned forward to peer inside my house I caught the scent of his cologne. The musky fragrance stirred my senses, a different scent than the one he wore the night of our date. Damn, he smelled good. “Are you having some kind of party?” he asked over the music.
“It’s just a party of one,” I told him. “Come on in.” I then realized what I had left open on my computer screen. I rushed ahead of him into my living room and snapped my laptop shut, but I could tell by his expression that I hadn’t been quick enough. And why did it have to be that particular picture? I walked over to my stereo and turned down the volume to a more reasonable level.
“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes at my computer, but then smiled when his eyes returned to me. “I’m sorry to just drop in on you like this, but I’m worried. Are you upset with me? Did I screw everything up? I’m really sorry if I came on too strong the other night.”
“No, Darryl, I’m not upset,” I assured him.
“When you didn’t call me back, I just got…well, I needed to see you.”
“I understand.” That was very true. I knew exactly what he felt, it was miserable. “I think you’re a very nice man. It’s just that I can’t start anything with you right now.”
“We don’t have to be in a relationship or anything. We could just be friends. I’d really like to see more of you.”
A part of me wanted to see more of him too, but it was dwarfed by the part of me that already belonged to Eisenbrey. I desired the serial killer. Obviously the wrong thing to desire. I was headed down a twisted helix of depravation with no will to stop my descent. How does one get out of a pit when they don’t want to be rescued? It wasn’t fair to take Scanlon down with me.
He seemed to be a nice guy. I needed to cut him loose. I struggled against myself, fighting to comprehend the sinister poison that ran rampant within me, afraid of what I was turning into.
“Darryl, I think that if you and I spend any more time together we will wind up being more than just friends. I’m just not in a place in my life where that makes sense right now.”
“What’s going on, Rebecca? Does this have to do with Eisenbrey?” I saw realization dawning, his golden-brown eyes locking on mine. “Oh no, tell me you don’t have feelings for that asshole.”
How could I tell him that? I stayed silent, staring back.
He continued talking, “That guy is crafty. He screws with everyone’s head. Don’t let him get to you, Rebecca.”
“I’m not letting him get to me,” I said. “I just feel frustrated about my book. I think I’m getting writer’s block or something. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m trying to understand,” he said. He put his hand on my arm.
I felt warmth where he touched but the rest of my body felt cold. My messed up thoughts about the damned murderer kept me from pursuing Scanlon who I recognized might otherwise be perfect for me.
“I wish there was some way for me to fix whatever’s hurting you,” he said.
I balked at that. To say that I hurt took it a bit far, although the more I considered it, the more accurate it sounded. Maybe he was right. “I’m okay,” I told him. “Really, I just need some sleep, and I need to get this book finished.”
“All right,” he said. His eyes scanned the room, his expression perplexed. “Are you sure no one else is in the house? It feels like someone’s here.”
“No one but us,” I told him.
“Okay. I’ll go home,” he said, taking my hand. We walked back to my front door. “I know it’s hard to tell sometimes, but I really am a gentleman.”
“It’s easy to tell,” I said. And, though I knew what would happen next, I chose to keep my feet planted firmly in place, and made no attempt to block him.
Darryl scooped me up into an affectionate embrace and kissed me fully on the lips, exploring my mouth with his tongue. The warm hand that rubbed my back was gentle but insistent, and as he pressed his body up against mine I could feel his erection. The slight buzz I had from the alcohol felt good, so did being wrapped up in Scanlon’s arms. I wanted to remain in this happy place, but I knew if I didn’t act soon, my willpower would dissolve.
I pulled back gently and he reluctantly let go. “Wow,” I said, the only word that came to mind.
He’d kissed me. Had he not heard the part where I told him that I couldn’t start anything with him right now? They hear what they want to hear. And I was just as guilty, standing there like an idiot, waiting for it to happen. True, Scanlon had interesting boundaries, but I found it difficult to complain since I had been craving his touch. Perhaps he’d sensed that I was on both sides of the fence.
“Goodnight Rebecca,” he whispered close to my ear.
“Goodnight,” I repeated. I shut the door slowly as I watched him turn and head toward his car.
Yes, that behavior would cause some to say that he was not a gentleman. Some might also argue that a gentleman wouldn’t have planted evidence. I had mixed feelings about that situation, especially now that I had acknowledged my feelings for Eisenbrey. But I understood what had motivated him. He was looking at the big picture. His goal had been to protect the public. Scanlon was a good man.
I shook my head at the duality of my own behavior and returned to the pictures of Eisenbrey on my laptop, feeling conflicted.
My cell phone chimed, letting me know I had just received a text message. Jeez, had Scanlon texted me already? Had he even had time to climb in his car? I knew I shouldn’t ignore it; he’d just knock on the door again if I didn’t respond. I glanced at the screen and found a text from Andrea: “This is your agent/editor. Why haven’t you sent me anything to EDIT!!!”
The question didn’t even have a question mark at the end of it. She must be in a state, although I considered that very tame behavior for her while trying to spur me into action. I should appreciate her restraint. I checked the time on my cell phone: 10:30 p.m. I wondered why she was texting me at this hour. In New York it was 1:30 the next morning. I texted one word in return: “Soon.” That would appease her for a little while, but I needed to get back to work and make good on my promise.
I had two chapters for her. Granted, they weren’t polished, and I hadn’t been entirely sober when I’d written them. But it was a nice start. I just needed to read through them again once my buzz wore off. I knew they’d be good enough to restore Andrea’s confidence that I could still do this.
The woman understood me well. I worked better under pressure. But my best work was fueled by obsession, and I had no shortage of that.
I took a sip of my drink. Three days until my next visit with Eisenbrey and I worried about how it would go. I didn’t know if he would accept my apology or how long he planned to stay mad at me. I needed something productive to do that would take my mind off of our spat. Then it came to me. It was time for me to pay Tom’s mother a visit.
Chapter 18
November 8th, 2012
My windshield wipers made a steady smacking sound as they moved back and forth across my field of vision, something that could lull me to sleep under other circumstances, but I was excited that morning as I drove to Mrs. Eisenbrey’s address. This was not the typical drizzle that the greater Seattle area was famous for, but the kind of downpour that caused traffic to slow down to a crawl, and it didn’t help my impatience or my worry over how she would respond to my visit.
I could have called ahead and asked permission, but what if she said no to me? It seemed far easier to refuse people over the phone than in person. I had weighed my options and decided the best way for me to approach Mrs. Eisenbrey was to surprise her by showing up on her doorstep—the stealth method.
She lived in a small house in a quiet neighborhood in Mountlake Terrace, not far from Seattle. I parallel parked on the street in front of her home instead of pulling into her driveway. It just seemed less pushy. I had to chuckle at myself. What did it matter where I parked my car? It didn’t get much pushier than dropping in on her with no warning so I could ask her a bunch of personal questions about someone she probably hoped to forget.
I double-checked the tote bag I had packed to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I didn’t expect a warm welcome from her so once I gained entry to the house I should stay put, no running back to the car to get a forgotten item, lest she change her mind about speaking with me.
I pulled the hood of my raincoat up around my head, grabbed my bag, and made a break for her house, trying not to get drenched. I didn’t hear any sound when I pressed the doorbell button and I wondered if it was broken. Her front doorstep was slightly enclosed, so I lowered my hood and smoothed my hair as I waited for her, trying to make myself presentable. I was just about to knock when the door opened.
There was no question that the woman who answered was Tom’s mother. The family resemblance was striking. By all appearances she was in her late sixties. Her long silver hair was pulled back from her face, which showed no evidence of make-up, yet she was beautiful. She wore jeans, comfortable shoes, and a deep purple flannel shirt. My attention was drawn to her eyes of that strange and wonderfully vibrant shade of blue I knew so well, minus the icy and distant affect.
“Mrs. Eisenbrey?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied with a smile.
“My name is Rebecca Reis. I’m a writer and I’m currently working on a book about your son, Thomas. May I speak with you for a few minutes?”
Mrs. Eisenbrey’s surprise was evident, but she recovered quickly and started to shut the door. I slipped my foot in the jam just in time to experience the thud, and I felt thankful for my sturdy shoes.
“Please,” I said through the small opening that my foot had provided.
“What makes you think I’m his mother?”
“He told me your name: Sarah Eisenbrey. And you look just like him. I know I’ve got the right woman.” I saw her hesitation and I added, “I’m not here to try to upset you ma’am.”
She looked down at my foot irritably and snapped, “Well, if you’re not trying to upset me then what the hell did you sneak up on me for? You should have called first.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me,” I admitted.
“You’re right. I don’t want to see you,” she agreed.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that it would really help me out with my project if you would share some of your memories of him with me.”
“Why on earth do you want to dredge up all of that old shit again?”
“For the book. I’m trying to understand him, and to try to comprehend why he did what he did.”
She let out a long sigh. “Well…” she said tentatively. “No, I don’t want to be in a book about him.”
“You won’t be in the book. At least, I won’t mention your first name or include a picture of you. And I don’t need to specify which information came from you.”
That seemed to provide her with some level of relief. She contemplated the matter some more, but then shook her head wearily, still unsure.
“Please,” I repeated. “I want to show all sides of him. It would help me so much to learn more about his early years.”
“Oh, all right,” she relented, but she didn’t look happy about it. She opened the door for me. “Come inside then. You can sit on the couch.” She motioned toward her sitting room near the entry. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure,” I said. When she went to the kitchen I took the opportunity to examine the living room. It was very neat and clean; I couldn’t even detect any dust on the end tables or shelves. There were no books on her bookshelves, just the kind of knick knacks one would expect in a country home, however I spied a Bible sitting on one of the end tables. The furniture seemed new and comfortable. The TV, an older model, was small and without a cable box. I surmised that she didn’t spend a lot of time watching the tube.
Tom’s mother returned with two coffee mugs and asked, “How do you like it? Sugar? Milk?” She was tall and thin, close to 5’10”, with the same long spidery arms and legs that Tom had. I imagined that the two of them must have looked even more alike before her hair turned gray. But unlike Tom’s usual calm, she seemed uncomfortable, jittery, and her eyes darted around the room.
“Plain is fine. Thank you.”
She set the drinks on her coffee table and we sat next to one another on her couch. She turned toward me. “Miss Reis, I don’t want people to find out that I live here. You don’t understand how awful it was for me after they discovered that Tom was the Hunter. It was so humiliating to live in a small town like Carnation where everyone knew our family. People were unkind to me after that. Some folks even had the balls to claim that my poor parenting had caused him to turn out like that. I finally had to move away from there.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to her, but I felt the desire to console her. “I’m so sorry.”
“My new neighbors don’t know that Tom is my son. I told them that I’m not related to those Eisenbrey’s. Please don’t speak with any of my neighbors about this.”
“Yes, of course, I have no intention to do that. I’m more than happy to do everything I can to protect your privacy.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Eisenbrey cleared her throat and sat up straighter, placing her hands on her knees. “Tommy was always a solitary young man,” she said quietly. I had a hard time picturing a world where Tom Eisenbrey had ever been little, and innocent, and been called Tommy. It seemed unlikely for someone who duct taped people to trees and slit their throats to go by such a cute name, but I set that aside for the moment and gave his mother my full attention. I could let my brain struggle with that concept later. She looked a little lost and then she told me, “I don’t really know where to start. What do you want to know?”
“I have an idea. Do you have any family photographs you’d be willing to show me? That might help get the conversation going.” And I had another motive besides wanting to see the pictures; I wanted her to have a place to look, a place to focus her attention, other than on me. I hoped that it would allow her to feel more comfortable about the whole interview. I worried that she might shut down on me.
“Sure,” she said. She left the room to find her pictures. I scanned the walls and found no family pictures at all, just a few paintings of mountains and lake scenes. And then I saw it. On one of the end tables sat a wooden box, the same size and shape as your average shoebox, adorned with intricate carvings. The perimeter of the design was cut to look like a braided rope, inside of its borders I saw a series of geometric shapes, and in the center a three dimensional flower—a rose that sat higher than the rest of the pattern. The level of detail boggled my mind. I had never had a talent for art myself, so I found it hard to imagine how the artisan had accomplished the carving. Mrs. Eisenbrey returned and noticed me admiring the box. “It’s beautiful,” I told her.
“Yes, it is. Tom made that for me.”
“Really? You kept it?” That surprised me, given that she hadn’t communicated with her son since he had been transferred to Walla Walla nine years ago. I recalled Tom telling me that he enjoyed carving, but I had no idea he could be that good at it.
“Tom gave it to me for Mother’s Day, and it’s a good box,” she said simply.
“It’s an amazing piece of art. I only asked because I’ve been told that you don’t visit him or write to him, and I don’t see any pictures of him or the rest of your family on the walls.”
“I don’t have a family anymore.” I wasn’t able to discern how she felt about that. She seemed emotionally detached, but any fool could guess that she must be devastated.
“I wondered if you might be trying to get rid of things that remind you of him.”
She nodded slowly. “I can understand why you would wonder that. It’s complicated. I love my son. I don’t love what he did.” Looking back at the box, she said, “He was a very talented artist.” She stared at it for a moment and then, pulling herself out of the memories, looked down at the old photo album she held in her arms. “Why don’t we sit at the kitchen table with this; I think it will be more comfortable.” I carried our mugs of coffee to the table and sat in the chair that she indicated. She placed herself immediately next to me, opening the book in front of us so we could both see it easily and she began to gently turn the pages.
