You can’t go around knocking off everyone. Have to draw the line somewhere. She’ll be relieved to have it end with the Weavers. Then she and Richard can go on about their lives again.
It’ll be good to have things back to normal.
She can feel the extra weight in the back of the car as she drives. Going around corners, she notices the back end is heavy, sways some. She’s looked up Weaver’s address, makes a call on her cell as she heads to that part of town.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Where are you now?” she asks her son.
“Almost home.”
“You know where Mr. Weaver lives?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where I’m going now. Go there, and park across the street and down a ways. Call me if you see anything suspicious.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just let me handle things now.”
“What about Dad? Is he okay? Is he at the house?”
“Not anymore, child. I’ve moved him.”
“Moved him where?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Just get to Weaver’s house.”
Phyllis ends the call.
She finds the Weaver house, pulls up to the curb and parks on the street. Goes to the door and rings the bell. Seconds later, it is opened.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Weaver?” Phyllis says.
“That’s right.”
“I can’t believe we’ve never actually met, and if we have, please forgive me for not remembering. I’m Phyllis Pearce. I own Patchett’s.”
“Oh, of course, hello. What can I do for you?” Donna Weaver asks.
“May I come in?”
Donna opens the door wide and admits her. Donna is wearing a bulky, button-up-the-front, long-sleeved sweater, and feels the need to apologize for it. “I just put this on. It’s one of my husband’s. It looks awful, but the house is chilly. There’s something wonky with the thermostat.”
“I’m hardly a fashion plate myself,” Phyllis says. “It looks very comfortable.”
“Excuse the mess,” Donna says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room. It is covered in sketches of the same person from different angles, all in differing stages of completion. Charcoal pencils, fixative spray, a thick book of sketch paper, a small pad of yellow sticky notes. One of the sketches has a yellow note stuck to it, a few words scribbled on it.
“What’s this?” Phyllis asks.
“Just... drawings. Of our son.”
“Oh yes,” Phyllis says. “I’m so sorry.”
Donna’s attempt to smile turns into a jagged line. “Thank you.”
“This has to have been such a difficult time for you. How long has it been now since he passed away?”
“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Pearce?”
“Phyllis, please.” The woman smiles. “I understand your son died by misadventure. That he was under the influence of drugs when he fell off the roof.”
Donna puts a hand delicately to her chest, as though she has indigestion. “I really don’t want to talk about that.”
“I only mention it because we have something in common, in a way. I mean, your son must be a terrible disappointment to you. The things he could have done, all thrown away. Now, my Richard — you know him of course because you process his checks — is still alive, but I swear, if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s how to screw something up.”
“I think you should leave.”
“I need to see your husband,” Phyllis says.
“I’ll be sure to tell him you were here.”
“He’s been by a couple of times to talk to me. I think we kind of hit it off. I need you to call him now and get him over here right away.”
“I’m sorry,” Donna says. “I’m not doing that. If you want to talk to him, call him yourself. And I repeat, I think you should leave.”
Phyllis sets her purse on the floor, opens it, and takes out a handgun. She points it at Donna and says, “Call him.”
Donna struggles to remain calm, but she has never had a gun pointed at her before, and she feels as though her insides are about to melt. “What do you want with him?”
“That’s between him and me,” Phyllis says. “Is the phone in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’d best go to the kitchen.”
Donna goes to the kitchen phone, puts the receiver to her ear, hits the memory button that will connect to her husband’s cell. She talks to him briefly before Phyllis takes the phone from her.
“Mr. Weaver? Phyllis Pearce here. We have some things we need to discuss. You’re going to help me out, because if you don’t, it’s going to be your fault what happens to your wife.”
“Leave her alone.”
“And you need to know, your house is being watched. You come here by yourself. If anyone else shows up, your wife will die. And bring the book.”
“What book?”
“Please don’t do that. I’m sure you have it. The one my husband gave to that boy. I need to have that back.”
“Where’s Harry?” Weaver asks.
“Excuse me?” Phyllis’ eyes go wide.
“He’s not in his room downstairs. Where’ve you got him?”
“Just get here,” Phyllis says, and replaces the receiver.
“Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done,” Donna says, moving back into the living room, “you should just turn yourself in. Get a lawyer. He can arrange a surrender for you. He can work something out.”
“I don’t think so,” Phyllis says as Donna leans over the coffee table, shuffling her drawings. “What are you doing?”
Donna, her back to the woman, continues to collect the pictures into a neat pile, slides them into a folder.
“I said, what are you doing?” Phyllis asks.
“I don’t like you looking at pictures of my son.”
Phyllis comes around the other side of the coffee table, orders Donna to stop what she’s doing and sit down. Phyllis goes to the window, pulls back the curtain an inch to get a look at the street.
Her son’s black pickup is parked at the curb on the other side.
Phyllis sighs with relief. “Richard is here.” She appears contemplative. “I hope he understands what I’ve had to do.”
Sixty-five
I’d waved Augie over so he could hear both sides of the conversation. He was huddled close to me, his ear close to mine, and when Phyllis ended the call we looked at each other and he said, “Did you actually talk to Donna?”