Home > A Stranger at the Door(2)

A Stranger at the Door(2)
Author: Jason Pinter

So on the day he would experience more agony than he ever thought possible, Matthew Linklater arrived home, went for a two-point-two-mile jog around his neighborhood, and mixed himself a Moscow mule (he even had a copper mug chilling in the freezer). Then he planned to settle in, grade some papers, watch an hour of television, and prepare to repeat it all again the following day. But before he did that, he had one order of business to take care of. Something had been bothering him, but he had been unsure of how to deal with it and whom he could trust. The issue was possibly criminal, so it was not fully a school matter. But he’d read about the recent corruption at the Ashby Police Department and felt he couldn’t trust them either. He needed to tell someone smart and persistent. And, more importantly, someone who could work outside the law.

Which was why he emailed Rachel Marin.

He typed out an email from his personal, private account:

Dear Ms. Marin—

We have only met briefly at Parent/Teacher nights, but I am your son Eric’s social studies teacher at Ashby High. Before you get concerned, this note does not actually pertain to Eric, who is sharp as a tack, if a little withdrawn (as you surely must know).

This is about something else entirely. Information has come into my possession regarding a few of our students, and their dealings with people who, to put it mildly, do not have their best interests at heart. For reasons of safety and security, I cannot go into further detail over email. I do not have proof of my suspicions, which, among other reasons, is why I have not yet gone to the police. As an admirer of your dogged pursuit of justice for the killer of Mayor Constance Wright, I would like to speak with you in order to figure out the appropriate course of action here. I care deeply about my students, and I cannot sit idly by after having learned some may be in peril. I apologize for the vagueness of this note, but hopefully all will be made clear when we speak in person.

My phone number is below. Please call me at your earliest convenience. I abhor dramatics, but it may be a matter of life and death.

Yours,

Matthew Linklater

He reviewed the email, took a deep breath, and pressed “Send.” He then poured himself another drink. Linklater had just put the cup to his lips when he heard a knock at the door. For a moment, he was unsettled. Linklater rarely had visitors, and when he did, they were meticulously scheduled in advance. But it was just a knock, he told himself, and he ignored the unease.

Linklater looked through the peephole and immediately sighed with relief. He opened the door and said, “Is everything all right?”

Linklater didn’t see the second person, just the flicker of a shadow. Then he heard a strange skittering sound, like tiny claws scraping against metal, and then the wrench connected with his left temple.

He did not feel it when his head hit the floor. It was as though one moment he was standing and the next he was at ground level. He tried to blink, but his eyes refused to focus. He felt a stickiness beneath his temple. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried to move but could not. Fear flooded his body.

Linklater saw his cell phone lying a few feet away. He had one thought: police.

He reached for it, but a hand came down and picked up his phone. Linklater heard voices. They sounded far away, as if he were listening to sounds from ashore while deep, deep underwater. He tried to scream, but his body would not cooperate.

“Phone is locked. It has facial-recognition software,” a disembodied voice said. “Good thing he still has a face. For now.”

The last thing Matthew Linklater saw, before the wrench came down again and the light behind his eyes flickered out for the second-to-last time, was the reflection of his own bloodied face in the inky-black screen of his cell phone.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

She still couldn’t get used to it. The man in her bed. The way his body smelled in the morning, the way his cheeks had pillow marks when he woke up, how he always left the bathroom door open a crack while showering, as if egging her on to take a quick glimpse. She took the bait more often than not but couldn’t shake the feeling of unrest, as though she’d just eaten a five-course gourmet meal and was waiting for the crippling heartburn to set in.

Rachel Marin had been dating Detective John Serrano of the Ashby Police Department for about six months, and they were the happiest months she’d had in a long, long time. She’d hesitated to get involved romantically. She was concerned with how her children, Eric and Megan, would react to having a boyfriend around the house. The only man they had ever seen Rachel with was their father, and when he’d died, Rachel had wondered if they would ever approve of seeing her with anyone else. But they had warmed to John Serrano and, in doing so, allowed her to feel more comfortable. More like herself again.

Serrano spent time with her kids. Asked them questions. Listened, patiently. Never smothered them or made his presence feel forced. He had befriended Eric, even if only for a few brief months, until her son retreated back into his shell. Serrano now sat on the floor, rapt, as Megan read from her latest Sadie Scout story, remarking on the pint-size heroine’s uncanny ability to both fight evil and look super cute while doing so.

He watched movies with the Marin family. Ate dinner with them. And when the children were in bed (and confirmed by Rachel’s CCTV monitors in their bedrooms to be asleep), they made love. Quietly but passionately, both knowing that the children were far more aware than they might let on.

She had received Matthew Linklater’s disturbing email the previous night as Megan read them a new Sadie Scout tale, and in an effort to be present for her daughter, she’d promised herself to respond the next day.

Rachel lay in bed. She watched John Serrano as he snored lightly, his face mashed against the pillow. She stretched and stepped into the shower. She heard him stir and left the door open a crack in case he felt like joining her. He did not. And when Rachel stepped out, Serrano was sitting up, on his cell phone, a look of grave concern on his face.

“Text me the address,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You said the fire is out. Has anybody been inside the house? Tell Montrose and Beene to wait. Even if it’s out, we need to assess any structural damage before sending in forensics. Call Tally. I’m on my way.”

“What is it?” she said.

“House fire,” John said. He stood up, cracked his back, and headed for the shower. “North Ashby. Possible arson.”

“Was anyone home?”

“Yes,” Serrano said. “They’ve found one body so far, but we’re waiting on dental records to confirm the victim’s identity.”

“So the victim died in the fire.”

Serrano nodded.

“Once the kids are out the door, I’ll meet you there,” Rachel said.

Serrano nodded again. “Tell Eric and Megan I’m sorry I couldn’t eat breakfast with them.”

“I will. You know, when we started seeing each other, Eric seemed to get better. He was opening up. But the last couple of months, it’s like he’s been . . . gone.”

“I’ve noticed,” Serrano said. “That boy has been through things I can’t imagine. If you want me to talk to him, let me know. I can’t be his father. But I can be his friend.”

“Thanks, John. He’s not a kid anymore, but he’ll always be my baby. Seeing him in pain . . . there’s nothing worse. I know you know.”

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