A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 10

  Neither his mother nor his sister seemed to have noticed the stuffed animals missing from Megan’s room when she went to bed. Hell, she had a million of them. He’d sneaked them out of her room, one at a time. His mother was distracted by Megan’s droning on and on about the “book” she was writing. Sadie something. Talking about how one day she would get them published. So lame. But it kept his mother and sister busy.

  Stealth and speed and cunning. Eric had all that. He knew it.

  When all the stuffed animals were under the covers, Eric sat up slowly; then, still covered, he gently assembled the dolls to loosely form the outline of a human body. It didn’t need to look perfect. Just enough bulk to fool his mom at a glance. He put a baseball glove on the pillow. His father had given it to him years ago. One of the last things Eric’s father did before he died was promise to help break it in. But now, years later, the leather was still stiff.

  Eric didn’t even know why he’d kept it. Just looking at it made him queasy. But he couldn’t throw it out. It felt wrong.

  Eric drew a deep breath. This was it. The riskiest thing he had ever done. That in and of itself was sort of sad, but he swore he would make up for all the days he’d moldered inside the cell of his mother’s making. This was his chance. No more Eric Marin, son of a dead man. Wallflower, weirdo, ghost. Ruddock had called tonight an opportunity. Eric would not let this opportunity pass him by. After all, Eric’s mother herself hadn’t exactly obeyed the rules the last few years. Why should he?

  “Let’s see what you got, kid,” he whispered. Then Eric Marin slid out from under his covers, crossed to the other side of his room, opened the window, and climbed out onto the second story roof hanging over the freshly mowed lawn. He looked down. Looked around for nosy neighbors. He was alone.

  It was a ten-foot drop. The grass was soft. Eric landed without a sound. He felt a sharp pain in his knees from the jolt, but it went away as soon as he began to run.

  CHAPTER 17

  Two Years Ago

  Rachel opened the door. She had a pleasant smile on her face, because she knew the ensuing conversation would be far from pleasant.

  “Mr. Roberson,” she said, sweetly. “Please, come in. It’s so nice to meet Albie’s dad. Would you mind taking your boots off?”

  Ed Roberson complied. He left his boots by the front door and followed Rachel into her home. Ed was six foot even, with thinning black hair, a graying goatee, and a slight midsection paunch that a few weeks on the treadmill could remedy.

  “This is a lovely home, Ms. Marin,” he said. She offered him a bright over-the-shoulder smile as she led him into the living room. She took a seat on the sofa, and he on the love seat across from her.

  Albie Roberson was in Eric’s seventh-grade class. He had come over after school to study, but an hour into their “studying” session, Rachel could hear the familiar bleeps and blorps of digital alien hordes being slaughtered. She didn’t much mind, though. She could not remember the last time Eric had had a friend over. It saddened her to think it may have been the first time since they’d moved to Ashby. Eric needed friends. But he also needed to be protected. Which made the conversation Rachel was about to have with Ed Roberson that much more difficult.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” she said. “Water? Iced tea?”

  “I’m good, thanks. I hope Albie hasn’t behaved too badly.”

  “On the contrary, he’s been a total joy. I brought the boys some snacks, and when Albie was finished with his plate, he brought it downstairs, washed it, and put it in the drying rack. I wish some other kids who lived in this house did that.”

  Ed laughed. “I’ll give my wife all the credit for teaching him manners,” he said. “So, should we get the boys?”

  “Not just yet,” Rachel said. “Let me just say, Mr. Roberson, that it’s been a pleasure having Albie over. Eric mentioned that he and your son were getting close, and I’m glad I finally got to meet him. He’s a delight.”

  “Call me Ed,” he replied. “Albie said Eric was one of the smartest kids he knows. My wife always tells him, ‘Hang out with people smarter than you, and they’ll rub off.’ So thanks for letting your boy lend ours some of his smarts.”

  “I’m sure your boy will rub off on Eric too,” she said. Ed Roberson nodded and looked around, as though waiting for something.

  “So, um, can we grab Albie? My wife will have dinner ready soon, and I hate to have her slave over a meal and let it go cold.”

  “In a minute,” Rachel said, with a firmness that seemed to catch Ed Roberson by surprise. “Mr. Roberson, I need to ask you something.”

  “All right,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Shoot.”

  “It’s personal.”

  Ed Roberson sat back, now looking suspicious. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I have to ask it anyway. What exactly happened the night of October eleventh, 2015?”

  Ed’s arms went down. He leaned forward, pleasantries evaporating from his voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. October eleventh, 2015.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and so I won’t answer your question. Now, Ms. Marin, I’m going to get my son, and we’re going to leave.”

  Roberson stood up.

  “Sit down, Ed.”

  He looked at Rachel. Something in her eyes, her tone of voice, convinced him to sit back down.

  “On October eleventh, 2015,” Rachel said, “you and three other men—Stan Vrychek, Lawrence Duns, and Anderson Billingsley—were arrested in the basement of Mr. Vrychek’s home on Moss Street in Carltondale. I don’t have to ask if that is true because I’ve seen the arrest report.”

  “How—”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the four of you were arrested for possession of cocaine with intent to sell. Five kilos. That’s about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of coke.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Roberson said through gritted teeth. “I’m a father.”

  “You were a father then too,” she replied. “Now, what’s strange is not the arrest itself. What’s strange is that you were the only one of the four who wasn’t charged with any crimes. Your buddies Vrychek, Duns, and Billingsley all did time. You did not. That’s pretty strange, don’t you think?”

  Ed Roberson sat there, unmoving.

  “I’m willing to bet,” Rachel said, “that you didn’t get any jail time because you testified against your friends. And maybe you gave up whoever supplied you with the powder in exchange for immunity.”

  “What do you want?” Roberson whispered, the edge gone from his voice.

  “What I want is for you to know that as long as our sons are friends, which I hope is a very, very long time, I will be watching you every moment of every day. See, if you did flip on your friends, you never really paid a price for your crime. Hell, I wouldn’t be shocked if you’re still distributing—just got a little smarter about hiding it. But I will not—and I hope I make this as clear as a plastic baggie—will not allow my son to be anywhere near crimes like that. I know, legally, you’re off the hook with the black-and-whites. So consider me your gray shadow.”

  “Just let us leave,” Roberson said, pleading. “I’m not in that life anymore.”

  “Maybe not. But if I get wind that you’re dealing, snorting, or even watching a movie where people do drugs, I will make sure you serve every second of that time you should have back in 2015. Do you get me, Ed?”

  “I do,” Roberson said. He stood up and shouted. “Albie! We gotta go. Now.”

  A moment later, Albie and Eric came downstairs. Albie Roberson was a sweet-looking gangly kid, twelve years old, with a mop of red hair and a face full of freckles.

  “Hey, Dad,” Albie said. “Thanks for the pickup.”

  “Not a problem,” Ed Roberson said quickly, watching Rachel as he spoke. “Come on. Let’s go.”
<
br />   “Thank you, Ms. Mari—”

  Ed dragged Albie out the front door before the boy could finish thanking Rachel for her hospitality.

  “Everything OK?” Eric said. Her son was standing at the top of the stairs, a confused look on his face.

  “Absolutely,” Rachel said. “Did you guys have fun?”

  “Yeah,” Eric said. “And before you ask, yes, we did actually get our work done.”

  “I knew I didn’t even need to ask.”

  “Albie is going to come over again next Tuesday,” said Eric, with genuine enthusiasm in his voice. “Is that OK?”

  “Of course it’s OK,” Rachel said. “I’m really glad you’re making friends.”

  Albie Roberson did not come over the following Tuesday. That afternoon, Eric got home from school. He was clearly upset from the moment he walked in the door.

  “Everything all right, hon?” Rachel said. She was sitting on the floor with Megan, helping her glue sequins to a dress they were making for her Halloween costume.

  “No,” he said. Eric walked over to Rachel and Megan and looked down at his mother. “Mom, what happened last week?”

  “What do you mean?” Rachel said, keeping her eyes on the dress.

  “Albie Roberson didn’t speak to me this whole week. Every time I saw him, he walked the other way like he didn’t want to even be near me.”

  “That’s odd,” Rachel said. “Maybe he’s just distracted? Or he has a big test coming up?”

  Eric shook his head. “He doesn’t. Today I managed to get him alone in the locker room before phys ed. I asked him what was going on. He told me we couldn’t hang out anymore. I asked him why. He said he just couldn’t and to leave it alone.” Eric paused. “Why would he say that, Mom?”

  “I really don’t know,” she said. “You’d have to ask Albie.”

  “I don’t know. I feel like somebody isn’t telling me something,” Eric said. Then he went upstairs and slammed his door.

  Rachel never saw Albie Roberson alive again. The following spring, Albie was diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia. Due to his treatments, he did not go to school for the final three months of the semester. He passed away that fall.

  Eric and Rachel attended his memorial service at Saint Bartholomew’s Church on a cold, rainy November morning. Friends and family gave eloquent, emotional remembrances for Albie. Rachel sat in a pew next to her son and listened to every word. She expected Eric to cry. Since she had spoken to Ed Roberson, no other friends had come to the Marin house to see Eric. He came home every day, marched right to his room, and closed the door. The light inside him seemed to have dimmed.

  Rachel saw Ed Roberson in the front pew. He had lost the extra ten pounds, and another twenty on top of it. His wife, Delilah, and his daughter, Annie, had their heads on his shoulders. Rachel could see their shoulders trembling as so, so many people came to the pulpit to speak of the boy.

  At one point, Ed stood up to greet a mourner. They shook hands and hugged. Ed turned around, and for a moment, his eyes locked with Rachel’s.

  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

  Ed Roberson did not respond. Then Rachel noticed Eric looking at her. He had seen the interaction. Something in her son’s eyes, a mixture of sadness and anger, made Rachel feel like a cold spike had been driven into her stomach.

  She wanted to say to Eric, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I couldn’t possibly have known.

  But she said nothing.

  The priest said, “Give Albert Wendell Roberson eternal rest, O Lord, and may your light shine on him forever.”

  Rachel saw a single tear slide down her son’s cheek. He wiped it away quickly.

  CHAPTER 18

  Today

  Rachel Marin watched the entire masquerade from her computer with a mixture of horror, anger, and perhaps the smallest twinge of amusement and pride. She debated putting an end to the silliness, then installing state-of-the-art motion sensors in Eric’s room that would let her know every time her son burped.

  But she didn’t want her children to grow up afraid of her. The death of Rachel’s husband had locked Eric in an emotional prison, but rather than beat against the bars, he had retreated into a corner, sullenly living out his sentence with no possibility—or interest—in parole. She had tried to pull him out but instead had seen him recede further. Her once-buoyant son was drowning, and it tore her up. She’d wanted him to lash out, to flout the rules. Anything to prove he had some fight in him. So as Rachel watched her son slip out the window, leaving behind a bed full of fluffy animals like some sixth-rate illusionist, Rachel couldn’t muster the anger most mothers would have. For years she’d wanted Eric to act like a boy. To test her boundaries. To venture into the unknown, to take risks, just like she had. Well, Eric had finally called her bluff.

  That said, Matthew Linklater’s killer was out there. And the evidence pointed to one of Eric’s classmates. She wondered if tonight’s escape had anything to do with Penny Wallace’s text. Was Eric going to see BR—Benjamin Ruddock? She had to know, but she couldn’t follow him. Not with Megan fast asleep in the other room. As much as she loathed asking for it, Rachel needed help.

  Lucky for you, you’ve been shacking up with a cop.

  John Serrano picked up on the third ring. She’d clearly woken him, but he didn’t seem particularly put out.

  “Hey, Rach,” he said. “Calling for some late-night action?”

  “You should be so lucky. Actually, I have a favor to ask.”

  There was a pause.

  “Rach, it’s one in the morning.”

  “So you’re willing to get up for sex but not for a favor?”

  “Totally bizarre, I know. Like you’re above a booty call.”

  “I certainly am not. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “So you want me to drag my tired ass out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  “That’s why it’s called a favor. It ipso facto inconveniences the person being asked.”

  “Lucky for you I’m turned on by Latin. So what’s the favor?”

  “Eric just sneaked out of the house. Well, at least he thinks he sneaked out of the house. I don’t know where he’s going, but thankfully he forgot to turn off the GPS on his phone.”

  “Why don’t you just keep him on a literal leash? Would save you the anxiety and save me the sleep.”

  “You’re hilarious. He’s currently heading east on Foster Lane. With Linklater’s killer still out there, I don’t like not knowing exactly where he is. I need to know where Eric is going, and I can’t leave Megan alone. Will you follow him for me?”

  Rachel heard a sigh and a scratching sound on the other end. She preferred not to know what body part Serrano was picking at.

  “So you want a cop to follow Eric,” Serrano said, “but not the cops.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you don’t want me to just find him and bring him home?”

  “I don’t even want him to know you’re there. Eric has been through hell, and half the time I feel like he’s slipping away from me. I want him to trust me, but I also know what’s out there. And it scares me. I think this might have something to do with Benjamin Ruddock.”

  There was silence on the other end. “You’re dancing on a thin wire, Rachel.”

  “I’m aware of that every second of every day.”

  “He could just be going to see a girlfriend.”

  “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s fourteen years old, John.”

  “I had a girlfriend at fourteen. Two, if I remember right. Carmen Fay and Daisy Strahovski.”

  “Congratulations to your teenage dick,” she said. “But I think I’d know if Eric was seeing someone. Now, are you going to do me a favor or not?”

  “There are different levels of favors,” Serrano said. “‘Can you pass the half-and-half’ is level one. ‘I’m going to wake you up in the middle of the night so you c
an put on a pair of pants and then go follow my teenage son around’ is level ten.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  There was a pause. “How so?”

  “You were hoping for action, right? Let’s just say your level-ten favor is different from mine. And I’ll owe you a favor.”

  There was a pause, then Serrano said, “Let me find those pants.”

  Serrano threw on a pair of moderately clean jeans and a dark-blue sweatshirt. He turned his phone to silent, got in his car, and clipped his cell to the hands-free mount. It lit up with a text from Rachel.

  Eric just turned left on Foster, approaching Whippoorwill Drive

  He enabled the dictation function on his phone and spoke a text back to Rachel.

  On my way

  Serrano pulled out and headed south. The intersection of Foster Lane and Whippoorwill Drive was about three and a half miles from his house. Few cars were on the roads at this hour, and Serrano had been at the Marin home enough times that Eric might recognize his silver 2012 Ford Edge. He’d have to be cautious when he got close.

  Serrano could understand why Rachel was concerned. Teenagers sneaking out of their parents’ homes in the middle of the night was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Hell, when he was a kid and his dad had passed out on the couch surrounded by tall boys, Serrano could have sneaked out and come home with a marching band and his old man wouldn’t have noticed. But Eric Marin sneaking out in the middle of the night was different. Especially if it involved Benjamin Ruddock. There was something eating at the boy, and Serrano knew if Rachel couldn’t help him, Eric would waste away.

  At first, Serrano had been able to crack Eric’s hard exterior. He’d seen the boy without his protective shell. They shared a love of fantasy and science fiction, traded well-worn books, spent hours comparing their favorite authors and iconic characters, and debated which films had been most faithful to their source material. (Though they both loved the Lord of the Rings films, they agreed J. R. R. Tolkien might have been unnerved by the CGI elephants.)