Dead Watch

bar-brawler’s face: pale blue berserker’s eyes, one damaged eyelid half-shading his left eye, scar tissue under both of them, a crooked banana nose, large yellow teeth. He smelled of pizza and beer, though it was not yet ten o’clock. “You’re telling people that the Watchmen had something to do with your husband.”
    “You did,” she said flatly. “I want to know where he is. If you’re not here to tell me, then get out.”
    He jabbed a finger at her, and stepped closer. “We had nothing to do with your husband. If you keep talking that way, we will take you to court.”
    She squared off to him. “Or beat me up?”
    “We don’t do that.”
    “Bullshit. What about that Mexican kid two weeks ago? You broke his cheekbones.”
    “He was attempting to escape,” the second man said.
    “You’re not the police!” she snapped. “You’re supposed to be Boy Scouts. What were you doing capturing him, huh?”
    Sheenan and the second man looked at each other for a second, confused, then Sheenan pulled himself back. “I don’t care about the Mexican. That’s got nothing to do with this.”
    She bared her teeth: “Is this coming from Goodman? Or is this just some moronic crap you made up on your own?”
    “This is not crap, missus.” His eyes widened and his shoulders tensed, as if he were about to strike at her. “You are tearing down our good name. I don’t know what your husband is up to, or where he’s gone, but we will find out. In the meantime, you shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
    “I’m not going to shut my mouth,” she said. “I’ll tell you something, Bob: you better be here on Goodman’s orders, because you’re going to need as much backup as you can get. If you came here on your own hook, I’ll have your balls by midnight. Now: Are you going to get out, or do I call the sheriff?”
    Sheenan shuffled a half step forward, looming, not worried at the threat. The security cameras were on. All this was on tape. She refused to move back, but slipped her right hand into the pocket of the jean jacket, touched the cold steel of the .380.
    “Something’s going on here,” Sheenan hissed, jabbing the finger again, but not touching her. “We’re going to find out what it is. In the meantime, you stick close to the house, missus. We don’t want something to happen to you, too.”
    Then he laughed, and turned, and walked out. The other man held the door, and before pulling it closed behind him, said, “We’re watching.”

    She exhaled, walked into the library, out of range of the security cameras, took the pistol out of her pocket with a shaking hand, and engaged the safety. Her biggest fear was that they would do something stupid—that they would stage an accident, a mishap, a mystery killing, a disappearance. Even if they were eventually caught, that wouldn’t do her any good.
    She could hear the local news anchor: “. . . and then she vanished, into the same darkness that took her husband.” She’d worked as a reporter for a television station in Richmond, and used to write that stuff; that’s how she’d do it.
    She’d been planning to run for two weeks. Sheenan had pulled the trigger. She put the gun back in her pocket, headed for the stairs, and shouted, “Sandi?” Sandi came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Yes?”
    “I’m going into town. Did you pick up the dry cleaning?”
    “Yes, I did. I’ve still got them in the kitchen.”
    “I’ll need the red blouse and the gray slacks. Bring them up, and put them on the bed. I’ll be in the shower.”
    “What about the schnitzel? Will you be back for lunch?”
    “I’ll get a bite in town. You and Lon and Carl could have sandwiches. . . and leave one for me in the refrigerator. I’ll eat it cold, this afternoon.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”

    She took the pickup into Lexington, driving too fast, enjoying the feel of the back end kicking out in the turns, grabbing the gravel and throwing it. She was moving fast enough that anyone trailing her would be obvious. If anyone was there, she didn’t see him. The face across the fence haunted her: Had it been real? Was it imaginary?
    In town, she stopped at the bank, took out five thousand in cash, returned two books to the library, filled the truck’s gas tank, went to the feed store and picked up four bags of supplement for the horses. At the post office, she turned off the mail and had it forwarded to Washington. The window clerk was a Watchman, but