Chapter Twenty-Two
The day of his father’s funeral, Dustin stood stoic, head bowed. Though he let his eyes glisten.
Dear old dead Dad had wanted the full deal. Two days and evenings of viewings where his bored-brainless son had to stand, sit, converse, offer his arm to the now-widowed gold-digging bitch. And pretend to give two shits about the female spawn who watched him, too often with cool, unblinking eyes.
He thought of various ways to kill the little brat. He’d considered burning down the house with the bitch and the brat in it. But decided there might be a way to get rid of them, then he’d get the house after all.
He’d give it a couple of years, then come back and take care of that.
Between his duties, he acquired, for a tidy fee, identification, driver’s license, passport, social security, with background, credit cards—with credit and tax filing history. Costly, yeah, but better, by far, he had to admit, than he could’ve done.
Paying someone burned a little, but he wanted to get moving.
The day before the funeral, using the new ID, he bought a Glock. A 9mm, standard size pistol.
He filled out all the paperwork, shrugged when, as he’d gone in near to closing, he’d have to wait until the next day for the background check.
Then he drove to a sporting goods store, bought a shotgun and shells, a hunting knife and sheath, Timberland boots, and an insulated vest with pockets handy for ammo.
He considered it an excellent start. He’d pick up more—a rifle, more ammo, and whatever else he’d need for his life in the mountains—on his way west.
Though his father hadn’t been one for churchgoing, he’d decreed a funeral service. A shit ton of people attended, including the governor, a state senator. Some did readings. Mitzi had asked him to do one, but he’d declined. He’d told her he wouldn’t be able to talk without crying.
Some opera singer sang. Twice. An old guy gave a eulogy that droned on and on.
Still, the casket with its blanket of red and white roses took center stage.
Then a graveside service, complete with freaking bagpipes and more speeches. After all that? After hours of all that? The “bereavement gathering” at the mansion with fancy catered food and drink.
He thought it would never end. Dead to his mind meant dead. He didn’t believe in heaven or hell. Only life and death. So you got all you could get, took what you wanted while alive, because dead? It’s over, pal.
When they finally got back to the house, he could see the fatigue on his mother’s face and decided to help her out with that.
“I’m going to fix you some tea.”
“You don’t have to fuss. I’m fine.”
“This was rough on you, Mom. Mitzi really leaned on you. You helped organize the funeral, all of it.”
“She’s grieving. She loved your father.”
“Sure, but you need to let me take care of you now. You’ll drink some tea, then lie down.”
“I am tired. It’s already so late. Tea would be nice, it’ll smooth out the edges. Then I’m just going to bed. I feel like I could sleep a week. You should rest, too, Dustin. We’ll be traveling to Cleveland in just a few days.”
“That’s right.”
“We could go tomorrow, but I feel we should stay another day or two in case Mitzi and Willow need us. And Wyatt won’t be home from London until next Wednesday anyway.”
“No problem.”
When she sat in her funeral black, closed her eyes, he added a couple of sleeping pills to the tea. He knew one put her out, so two would keep her out while he took care of some business.
“I know I’ve said it before, but I’m so glad you reconciled with your father before he passed.”
“So am I.”
He gave her the tea, then loosened his tie. And waited.
When her eyes drooped, he rose, took her hand.
“Come on, you need to rest.”
“I can barely keep my eyes open. I guess it all just hit me.”
He helped her to her bedroom, where she sat, slipped off her shoes.
“Take a nap.”
He lifted her legs, and before he’d tossed a throw over her, she’d gone out.
“Stay that way.”
He went into his room, changed his black suit for black jeans and a sweater, his dress shoes for the new work boots.
While he didn’t yet have the Glock—no time to pick it up—he had the knife.
The cold, clear day had gone into a cold, cloudy night. It made him feel lucky. With temperatures in the teens, clouds blanketing moon and stars, few people would be out and about.
He didn’t know where Arden had gone—yet—but he knew where her aunt and uncle lived.
So he’d pay them a visit. He’d wait until the lights went off, then break in.
He imagined slitting the uncle’s throat. Take out the biggest threat, and with that done, the aunt would tell him what he wanted to know.
Before he slit hers.
After that, he had decisions to make. He’d weighed the pros and cons of his options over and over.
He’d pick up the gun the next day, and he could use it to kill the asshole lawyer. Or, what seemed smarter, he’d pick up the gun, then be on his way to wherever Arden had gone.
He’d save the lawyer, the judge, the cops for later. Add the brat and her mother. Kill them, burn down the mansion.
He’d never live in Ohio again. The Retreat, his, and his sanctuary. Nothing and no one could touch him there.
If he couldn’t have the house where his father had lived, had died, why should anybody?
He imagined the thrill of paying back all those people who’d screwed up his life, then reminded himself spreading out the kills spread out the thrill.
He drove carefully, keeping to the speed limit. He liked the way the Mercedes handled, so he’d take his mother’s car. She couldn’t drive, since she’d be dead.
He’d driven by the Rogan house before, to check it out. It sat in the quiet neighborhood with the Christmas tree in the window, the lights twinkling outside. The driveway lay clear of snow, as did the walkway.
He drove by, gave it twenty minutes while he stopped in a market for road snacks for the next day’s journey. As he started by again, impatience had him considering just going up, knocking on the door.
Force his way in, kill the man …
As he considered, the tree lights, the outdoor lights went off.
Other than the lights flanking the front door, the house lay in darkness.
He circled the block, pulled right into the drive. You drove a rich man’s car, he thought, nobody called the cops.
He’d already decided the front was too exposed. He went around the side with its handy privacy fence, studied the back.
He’d need the element of surprise. He knew the man was about twice his age, but he looked strong.
Crouching, he studied a basement window. A skinny one, but he could get through it. Pry it out with the knife, no sound of breaking glass.
And no chance some nosy neighbor spotted a broken window. He wanted a solid head start.
It was cold work and took longer than he liked. The frigid air snuck down under his scarf, and even with gloves his fingers felt numb. He’d nearly resigned himself to breaking the glass when it finally gave way.
He wiggled through, found some sort of worktable directly beneath. That gave him the height to pull the window back in place.
Sure, cold air would slip in, but the dead were already cold.
By the time someone checked on them, he’d be hundreds of miles away.
Inside, he switched on his flashlight. Storage room, he saw as he scanned. And gave them credit for organization. After easing open the door, he saw a family room, a set of stairs leading up.
It occurred to him then he should break the window after all, take some things, mess up the place.
He’d take care of that after. Then the idiot cops would look for murdering thieves.
He went up and directly into the kitchen/great room combo. Surfaces sparkled and gleamed under the beam of his flashlight. He switched it off—people might notice that beam bouncing around.
And he paused, listened, heard not a sound.
When his eyes adjusted, he crept through. Home office, powder room, living space, and the stairs leading up.
His heart thumped, the sound like thunder in his ears so he wondered the house didn’t shake.
But nothing stirred as he walked slowly up the stairs. When one creaked underfoot, his thumping heart stopped.
And still nothing stirred.
He moved past an empty bedroom, a hall bath, a room that looked like they’d converted it for crafts or something equally useless, another empty bedroom.
He stared into the dark recesses of what had to be the main, imagined them sleeping. The man would never wake again.
But when he slipped in, he saw the bed neatly made, and empty.
“Motherfuckers!”
He barely stopped himself from stabbing and slicing the knife through the pillows.
All the trouble he’d gone through, and they weren’t even here? Angry tears spurted into his eyes. Fucking unfair! He’d done all the work, and got nothing?
He could wait, just wait until they came home, then … But the car, they’d see the car.
He ran down. He’d move the car, and then …
He thought of the home office.
He went in, closed the curtains, turned on the light.
They’d have something. Her email, correspondence. She’d talked about her family in interviews, so he knew they were tight. They’d have something.
He’d get into the computer and find it. Find her.
He sat, caught his breath. Closed his eyes until he’d calmed again.
Because people left passwords in all-too-obvious places, he opened a drawer. In it he found an address book.
“Christ, who uses these anymore?”
He opened it to the B’s, and there he found her.
“Riverbend, Oregon.”
He sat back, laughed until tears came. She’d gone west, just as he’d always planned. Somehow she’d known. Because they were connected, she’d known.
The wrong state, but close enough.
“I’m coming, Arden. Just a few things to clean up here, then I’m coming. We’ll start the New Year together.”
He added her name, address, phone number, and email to his phone. And light of heart, left the way he’d come in. He gave himself a mental high five. They’d never know he’d been in the house.