33. Not Thinking Good Thoughts
THIRTY-THREE
Not Thinking Good Thoughts
Harry
H arry pulled up beside his dad’s rental car.
Caroline was in it, maybe because autumn had taken firm hold and the morning was chilly.
Maybe because of what Harry saw across the front of his house.
He reckoned it was the second one, considering the pallor of her face and the weak smile she aimed in his direction.
His father was standing several feet from the foot of the steps.
Harry got out and joined him.
Once there, he stared at the bright red spray paint, in huge letters, spelling out Back Off!!!!!!
And yes, there were six exclamation points.
All the front windows had been smashed in, some shards on the porch, but Harry could tell right away that most of the breakage would be inside, meaning someone had thrown something through them from the outside.
“Got an idea of who did this?” his dad asked tightly.
He had three, and to be gender inclusive, four.
Karl Abernathy.
Roy Farrell.
Cheryl Ballard.
And Willie Zowkower.
He was a cop, so he had cameras, and he focused on the one he had pointed at his front door.
It was covered in red paint.
He pulled out his phone and opened up the camera app.
He hadn’t sprung for the system that sent motion sensor notifications. He didn’t have much to steal, he lived among the wildlife, and critters would constantly trip the sensors, and in being forced to contemplate it in that very moment, he’d been riding a lowkey ambivalence to his home since he lost Winnie.
In essence, he didn’t give much of a shit.
Like now.
He wasn’t upset at the damage.
He was annoyed with the message.
He scrolled through footage of when his camera was activated. He saw some racoon activity.
And then there he was.
Definitely a he.
Cheryl was out.
Dark clothes. A balaclava covering his face and hair. He kept his head down as he approached, then lifted a gloved hand, fingers spread over his face, which effectively hid any features the ski mask might expose, and then there was nothing but the nozzle of the spray can. Any footage after was just dark.
Willie Zowkower was tallish, maybe an inch or two shorter than Harry, and lean but muscular.
Roy Farrell was average height, now on the wrong side of middle age, and he carried quite a bit of extra weight.
Karl Abernathy was firm on the short side, stocky, and he used to be bulky with muscle.
Harry had always wondered if Abernathy’s short stature was one of the reasons he was such an asshole.
The man in the video had a hint of a gut, but his shoulders were broad, and he was at most, five six.
And Harry would recognize that puggish gait anywhere.
His phone vibrated in his hand as he replayed the video, and he saw it was a call from Trey.
Goddamn it.
They’d exchanged numbers the evening before. Trey and Mark had told him they’d had to dump the commissioner of their fantasy football league when, on the first game of the season, he changed his lineup illegally. They appointed a new commissioner but hadn’t found anyone to replace him. They invited Harry to tap in and take his picks.
Harry had never been in a fantasy football league, even if he was a football fan. This was because, as noted, the last eight years, he hadn’t done much of anything but his job. Doc had pulled him out of the prison he’d created for himself, but that only meant he hit up a few of the frequent parties Doc and Nadia threw.
Other than that, and recently finding Lillian, he hadn’t pushed it further.
Even knowing he didn’t have the time, he’d accepted the invitation, partly because he was going to be a part of her crew now, he liked these men, and this was as an official of an invitation of friendship as men could extend, partly because he was a fan of football, but also because it was high time he got a fucking life.
But he didn’t think Trey was calling because he was rabid for Harry to get in his picks.
He glanced at his father, stepped away and took the call.
“Hey, Trey,” he said.
“Hey, Harry. You got a second?”
No.
“Yeah.”
“Listen, okay, this is gonna be weird,” Trey began. “I didn’t want to get into it with you yesterday, for obvious reasons, but Friday, Jenna got a call at the store. It was from Willie.”
Fucking shit .
“Yeah?” Harry prompted.
“Lillian’s ex. Like, way ex,” Trey informed him.
“I know,” Harry said.
“He wanted to order flowers sent to Lill, and he told Jenna to pick whatever she thought Lill would like from her shop and make a basket or something. Budget five hundred bucks. Jenna told him that wasn’t appropriate, but he insisted. Said he’d call someone else to send her something if Jenna didn’t do it, but he knew Lillian would prefer Jenna got the business. She took the order but decided not to fill it. Or, she’s going to, but she’s going to send it to the old folks’ home and make someone’s day there, because she knows Lill wouldn’t be a big fan of Willie horning in right now. That said, she also could send it, just anonymously, and when it’s a better time, tell Lill it was from Willie.”
Harry had little doubt Rita called her son and told him to lay off.
And Harry didn’t like what it said when a son who’d toed the line his entire life kept stepping over it in very visible ways.
Especially now, when he was imposing himself on Lillian’s life in a manner that Harry, the man in it, felt like he was staking some kind of claim in order to make some kind of unwelcome comeback.
“I can’t tell Jenna how to run her business,” Harry told him. “But I can confirm something you both know, this gesture would not be welcome by Lillian, now or in the future, anonymously or not.”
“Yeah,” Trey muttered.
“How did he pay for it?” Harry asked.
“Credit card.”
Harry turned to watch Wade rolling up in his cruiser.
“He’s got three warrants out for him in Fret County, Trey,” Harry said. “I’d appreciate getting the credit card number.”
“I’ll text it to you.”
“Obliged.”
“We’ll figure it out on this end, Harry. But you saying what we’re thinking, Jenna can just refund him in a few days. If he gets shitty, he can talk to me.”
Trey was no joke. He came off as a lovable teddy bear, but everyone knew you didn’t poke a bear.
“Great, Trey. And thanks for calling.”
“No problem.”
By this time, Wade was walking to him, his eyes on the house.
“Karl Abernathy,” Harry told him when Wade stopped at his side.
“Fucker,” Wade said in an undertone.
It was more than that.
A lot more than that.
Harry snapped a photo then opened up his text string to Rus.
Hate to interrupt your Sunday, but this happened. Got Abernathy on video doing it. Face obscured, but it’s him .
He sent the photo.
Then he saved the video and sent that.
Feeling heat , Rus pointed out the obvious.
Yep , Harry confirmed.
I’ll go get some plywood. You take care of Lillian. I’ll contact Wade or Karen and process the scene, then board up the windows .
Wade’s here. Lillian has a spa appointment this afternoon. I’ll be back to help . There won’t be anything, he wore gloves and a ski mask, but we’ll process anyway .
Figures. But gotcha . Later .
Harry shoved the phone in his back pocket. He sent his father a reassuring smile when he caught his concerned look, though he knew his father wasn’t reassured.
“I’m not thinking good thoughts,” Wade said.
“Nope,” Harry agreed.
“This isn’t about a file audit and shitty police work,” Wade noted.
“Nope,” Harry again agreed.
“I’ll go get my camera,” Wade sighed.
“Appreciated,” Harry said.
That was when Harry stood, staring at his house, making the decision that if he and Lillian went the distance—which they would—they’d move in here for as long as it took to blow out the back of her place and add on enough rooms for two to three kids, and whatever extra space she wanted.
They’d then sell this place to pay it off, and if there was extra, start college and wedding funds.
He also stared at it knowing this was only the beginning.
A man who didn’t know right from wrong was running scared.
Harry wasn’t that kind of man, but he dealt with them nearly every day.
There were three doors available to him.
Obviously, Abernathy wasn’t going to pick door one, come clean.
Equally obviously, he wasn’t going to pick door two, which was get out of town and as far away as possible.
He’d picked door number three, because he was far more familiar with what lay beyond it.
Threats and intimidation, going at both hard, then harder, until he got what he wanted.
Harry wouldn’t normally give two fucks about this.
But he did now.
Because he had Lillian.
He had something to lose.
And so did she.