But nobody did.
Gordon waited just inside the spare room, rubbing his shin, trying to discern what was going on upstairs. The dim sound of the television warbled from above. The news. Gordon couldn’t tell what was going on, but nobody was getting up to investigate what had happened down here. He thought he’d caught Chelsea and her father talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
When it became apparent that his tumble would go uninvestigated, Gordon let out a little sigh of relief and relaxed.
Gordon had left his house before his parents got up. His little brother was still asleep down the hall, and he’d made his way over to Chelsea’s place on foot, sneaking around and between other houses, threading his way through back yards and parks. A couple of dogs barked as he made his way to his destination, but they stopped as he receded from view. He had to stay off the streets to avoid being seen by the police.
When he reached Chelsea’s he snuck onto the driveway and, very quietly, very stealthily, crept around the property. When he reached the back yard, he’d tried the rear doors and windows. They were locked.
He’d sat behind some shrubbery at the side of the house and waited. In time, the garage door opened. Gordon peeked around a bush and got a good view. Chelsea’s mother was getting into a tan sedan. He’d remained hidden, being careful to hide further between the bush and the wall of the house, and waited until she backed out of the driveway and drove away. She did not close the garage door, probably because Chelsea’s dad, who most likely drove the white Acura that remained, hadn’t left yet.
Gordon quickly got to his feet and darted into the garage. He’d placed his ear to the door that presumably led to the laundry room and, hearing nothing, opened it gently. There’d been nobody downstairs, and he could hear movement upstairs, so he opened a door to what he thought was the closet and discovered it was actually the entrance to the basement.
He’d made his way quietly downstairs to the finished basement, found the spare room, and secreted himself in the closet.
And at some point he’d fallen asleep.
He’d woken up suddenly, cursing himself for falling asleep. He had no way of knowing what time it was, so he’d sat in the closet for a little bit, straining to hear what was going on upstairs. That’s when he’d tried venturing out of the closet and the room, into the main area of the basement.
He sat on the floor listening, his back against an interior wall. Chelsea and her father were home, that much was certain. But he had no idea what time it was or what was going on. He pulled out his cell phone and debated turning it on to see if he had any messages.
Gordon flipped the phone open and got the device powered up. Once it was on, he quickly navigated through the user menu and disabled the ring feature, setting it to vibrate. He checked the time — it was almost eleven A.M. — and then he checked his messages. There were two voice mails. He retrieved them and listened, frowning.
Both messages were from Scott. The shit was hitting the fan at his house. He’d had to tell his father about the zombies but his old man was helping him cover everything up. Dave and Steve were at the house helping to clean up. The cops had already been there, trying to question Scott about John Elfman. Scott closed the message by warning Gordon to keep his mouth shut.
Scott’s second message was much clearer. Lie low. Stay away from Spring Valley — hell, stay out of the county if possible. If the police pick you up, tell them you just had to get away because of everything. But lay low.
Gordon was lying low for the most part. Nobody knew where he was.
And that was a good thing for what he intended to do.
It was time to teach Tim Gaines a lesson.
Gordon thought he was pretty explicit with Tim when he told him he would hurt Chelsea. He’d seen Tim’s reaction and knew he’d gotten through with that simple message.
Apparently that hadn’t been enough to keep Tim’s mouth shut. Judging by Scott’s phone call this morning, it was obvious Tim had tipped the police off to what was in Scott’s guesthouse. If the zombies were discovered by the police, and Scott was brought in for questioning, everything was going to come down. He, Steve, and Dave would be busted and his future would be automatically erased thanks to that squealing shithead. Gordon was only somewhat relieved that Scott and the other guys were working their tails off at getting rid of the evidence and he could only assume Mr. Bradfield would step up to the plate and use his financial clout to put pressure on the police, probably even Tim’s parents, to stop whatever investigation was currently being launched.
Gordon replaced the cell phone in his pocket and caressed the other object he’d placed there before slipping out of his house. He rubbed the smooth oak handle, marveling at the dexterity of its construction, the simplicity of its architecture. He brought the object out now and turned it right side up. After assuring himself he was holding it the proper way, he pressed a button and six inches of stainless steel sprang from the sheath. Gordon felt a momentary burst of adrenalin and grinned in the dark.
He had to wait for the right moment. He was positive that if Tim told the cops, they knew about his threat against Chelsea. He just had to wait for the right opportunity to slip upstairs and use the blade to send another warning. Despite all evidence to the contrary, if he could do this and slip back out again, he was confident he could twist things around again, make all evidence point away from him. He’d been thinking about this since earlier this morning when he left his house. Thanks to Chelsea’s reputation for cutting herself back in Junior High School, it wasn’t going to take much to convince the police that what was to happen later today would be self-inflicted.
Gordon retracted the blade and, feeling a sudden burst of confidence, stood up. He listened.
There was the faint sound of the television from the first floor living room. He hadn’t heard Chelsea get up and head back upstairs yet. She’d come down earlier after being called to the living room by her father. He could probably sneak up to the second floor. Judging from the way the house was laid out, he could sneak upstairs, do his thing and be out before Chelsea and her father knew what was going on.
What if I get caught? He thought. What if she comes upstairs while I’m there and —
Simple. If he heard her coming up the stairs, he would dart into a hiding space. A closet. Behind a door to another room. She’d see what was done and rush to her father, probably yell at him to come upstairs, and once he saw Gordon’s handiwork they’d most likely both go downstairs to call the police. Gordon could then slip back downstairs and out the front door quickly (if they were in the kitchen), or out the back (if they were in the living room), and be out of the neighborhood by the time the police showed up.
It would be risky but he could do it. No sweat.
He’d have an alibi. Heather Watkins would vouch for him, no problem. Her folks left for work early and she was the only one home. Besides, when it came to Chelsea Brewer and Tim Gaines, Heather would do anything for Gordon. She hated Tim and Chelsea.
Heather just lived one block over from Chelsea. He could make it over to Heather’s place in less than five minutes.
Gordon Smith moved through the darkness of the basement and placed his right foot on the bottom stair. He pulled out the switchblade and paused. Took a deep breath.
Time to get going.
Stepping silently, Gordon made his way up the basement stairs.
They’d taken the TV out of the holding cell an hour after the Brendan Hall employee wheeled it in. Tim had asked them repeatedly to keep the set in the room but it was no use. Whatever was going on outside, they didn’t want him to know anything more about it.