Chapter 14
Sunday Funday
According to the info in Vaughn’s file, the cleaning crew shows up to Matt’s house every Sunday at two in the afternoon. There are three people who stay for two hours. I have to assume Matt will be at the arena before they show up, meaning I shouldn’t have to contend with him also being there.
It’s currently one, and I’m parked in a neighborhood about three and a half miles away from where he lives.
I should be able to walk to his place and arrive just as the cleaning crew does.
Then I’ll follow them through the gate and into the house.
I’m assuming they leave it unlocked while they’re cleaning so they can bring their equipment in and out without needing to constantly lock and unlock the door.
After that, I’ll simply have to find some place to hide until they leave and Matt gets back.
Piece of cake, I tell myself, knowing it’s a lie.
I pull on the extra-large raincoat and wrap a scarf over my face to avoid being recognizable on any doorbell cameras without also drawing attention to myself by doing something stupid like wearing a ski mask.
I have latex gloves, goggles, an N95 mask, and shoe covers in one pocket and the biggest canister of undyed, clear pepper spray I could find in the other.
I tuck a baseball bat under my coat and get out of the car.
Luckily, it’s gloomy and rainy today, so the giant raincoat and scarf fit right in with the chilly weather.
The walk from my car to Matt Davidson’s house seems to go by in the blink of an eye.
I know that it’s just nerves shortening and compressing time, but that doesn’t make me feel any calmer.
My plan isn’t great, but it’s the best one I could come up with.
Like last time, I consider scrapping the whole thing, but then the cleaning company’s van is coming up the street from the opposite direction, and I pick up my pace.
The van stops at the gate in front of the house, waiting for it to open, which gives me time to get close enough to walk in behind them and then duck behind a bush as they continue up the driveway.
I stay huddled behind the bush for the next fifteen minutes.
Hopefully, they’ll have brought in whatever equipment and cleaning supplies they need and started working by now.
Finally, I approach the house. One of the garage doors is open with the van backed up to it.
I take a deep breath and walk into the garage, pausing to listen at the door leading into the house.
All I can hear is a dull rumble that might be a vacuum.
I take the gloves and shoe covers from my pocket, slip them on, and try the knob. It’s unlocked. I’m in.
The first room is some kind of drop zone utility room. It’s crowded with hockey sticks and bags as well as multiple pairs of shoes. The door between it and the hallway beyond is open, and the vacuum is louder now. I peek into the hallway. It leads to a kitchen, which is empty.
I gather my nerve and make my way down the hallway as quietly as I can, though I doubt whoever is in the next room will be able to hear me over the flat roar of the vacuum.
For someone who probably doesn’t do any of his own cooking, Matt Davidson has an exceptionally large kitchen.
It’s bigger than my condo’s kitchen and living room combined.
People think doctors make a lot of money, but we’re usually just upper middle class.
I could work for another fifteen years and not be able to afford a house this big.
In terms of square footage, it’s three times the size of Mark’s house and six times the size of my condo.
It’s completely unnecessary. Especially for one person.
On the plus side, it’s big enough to swing a baseball bat in.
There are two doors off the kitchen and a wide opening on the opposite side that leads to another room.
No one is visible right now, but that won’t last long.
I try the first door. It’s a small half bath.
I doubt they’ve had time to clean it. They’ll probably be back to do that at some point, so it’s out as far as a hiding place goes.
I try the second door. It leads to a large pantry that’s mostly empty.
If it were full, it could feed a family of ten for a month.
I step in and close the door behind me softly.
Chances are they’ll ignore this room. I hope.
I stand against the wall that will be behind the door if someone does decide to come in here, just to be safe. And then I wait.
It’s a bit after four when the cleaning company leaves, and the house is eerily silent. Matt won’t be home for another four or five hours, and I’m hoping he comes back alone. If anyone is with him, I’ll be stuck waiting for them to leave before I can make my move.
I’d like to get out of this pantry and look around the rest of the house, but I have no idea if there are motion sensors that turn on when the security system is armed, and I don’t want to risk it.
He doesn’t have a cat or a dog, so there could be.
I opt to play it safe and remain where I am, reciting the diagnostic criteria of different mental disorders to keep my mind occupied.
I’ve been sitting on the pantry floor for almost seven hours.
I really have to pee, and I’m dying of thirst. I’m running through the criteria for somatic symptom disorder, trying to distract myself from both of those needs—which are becoming more pressing by the minute—when I hear the distinctive chirp of the security system.
I rise to my feet, forgetting every other thought that had been running through my brain, as the lights turn on, leaking under the pantry door.
Shit! I’ll have to wait until he turns the lights off and goes into the next room, or I’m going to be half blinded.
I put on the swim goggles and the N95 mask.
Then, I start counting. The lights go off when I reach three hundred and five.
I give it another few seconds, and then ease the pantry door open.
There’s a pendant light on above the kitchen sink, but the overhead lights are off.
There are lights on in the next room, and I debate following Matt, but I want him to come to me if possible. Hunters like blinds for a reason.
I switch the baseball bat to my left hand and remove the canister of pepper spray from my pocket.
I loop the lanyard attached to the can around my right wrist and make sure the nozzle is facing away from me.
Then, I take a deep breath and open one of the cabinet doors below the island.
I slam it shut as loudly as possible before pressing myself against the wall where I won’t be immediately obvious.
“What the hell?” comes from the nearby room.
A second later, footsteps are moving toward the kitchen.
Toward me. My heart is pounding so fast and so erratically that I feel like it might explode.
My hands are trembling. Hell, my entire body is shaking.
This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid, keeps looping through my head, and I want to tell my internal monologue to shut up, but it’s right.
This is stupid. I am stupid. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
But then Matt’s stepping into the room, reaching for the light switch.
“Hey Matt,” I say as the lights come on.
His head turns in my direction as I raise the pepper spray and hold down the nozzle.
Only he’s rushing toward me, letting out a scream of rage or pain—everything is moving so fast it’s impossible to say which.
Then he’s tackling me to the floor. The stupid shoe covers offer no traction, and the baseball bat flies from my grip as I fall back, landing on the same elbow I injured a few weeks ago.
A grunt is torn from my throat. Tears fill my eyes behind the goggles, and pain shoots up my right arm.
Matt Davidson’s fist impacts my cheek hard enough that stars swim in my vision.
I fumble for the pepper spray, which I dropped when my elbow hit the floor.
It’s still attached to my wrist by the lanyard, but it takes a second to get it back into my hand, then I raise it and spray it into Matt’s face again.
This time, the bottle is mere inches from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
He inhales the spray as it hits him. His body involuntarily curls inward as he starts coughing, unable to breathe.
His hands go toward his eyes, and he rolls off me.
The only things preventing me from sharing the same fate are the mask and swim goggles I’m wearing.
I scuttle backward, putting some distance between us, frantically looking for the bat.
I have a couple of minutes at most. After what seems like forever, but I know was no longer than a handful of seconds, I spot the bat.
It’s a few feet away, next to the wall where it landed after I lost my grip.
A moment later, it’s in my hands, and I rise to my feet.
Matt Davidson is on his knees, hunched around himself.
I move to stand over him and raise the bat above my head, then slam it down on the back of his skull with the full force of my body behind it.
The bat makes contact with his occipital bone, just below the lambdoid suture and perpendicular to his spine, where damage would be most likely to be present if he’d slipped and hit his head.
There’s a sickening thud, and Matt stops moving as pain explodes up my arm.