Thirty-One

I park my truck two blocks away, beside what old locals called the steam plant when it was in operation, and sip the last of my coffee. I cup my hand over my cigarette to mask the glow, but I needn’t worry—few people come into this part of town. Bad things often happen here, folks say. People get hurt here, they claim. I chuckle. I’m just about to prove them right.

I wait an hour after the lights go off inside the house.

It’s show time.

I snub my cigarette out and sit back in the seat. I didn’t want it to be show time, I reason. Maury would be proud of me—self-reflection is how he put it in therapy. Trying to figure out just how to go on with this life. I want this to be a time in my life when I pick the ladies I want to dance with at my leisure, whenever I find one that suits me. No pressure. Take my time selecting. Instead, I’ve had to silence Jillie Reilly, and also Don Whales, though I admit Don was almost a mistake for me. Almost. Even though he wasn’t my type, I still garnered a certain amount of … pleasure from his predicament. Is that the right word—pleasure? Dr. Oakert insists I never enjoyed what I did, that I was forced to do it as a result of social upbringing that affected my psyche. That my abusive father made me what I am.

Maury always was wrong about that.

I think I actually enjoy it. At least I’m different from most other patients—I take responsibility for what I do. I don’t need some shrink handing me excuses like they were Get Out of the Loony Bin Free cards.

And now I have to take care of Anderson. Even though he angered me the last time I talked with him, I really have nothing against him. But an analytical mind like that—if I believe the Denver news stories—can catch the most careful criminal. And he’s shown lately that his mind is working things out. I can’t risk him coming to his logical conclusion.

I close the truck door silently and stay in the shadows, avoiding the streetlights as I walk to Anderson’s house. How many times have I done this, and how many times have I gone undetected? A veritable Ghost of the Ghetto, one newspaper in Fresno once called me. But it has nothing to do with being a ghost and everything to do with preparation. And I don’t mean the “H” variety, either. I’ve looked at Anderson’s run-down house from every conceivable angle. I’ve figured out from vent pipes and doors where the bathrooms are, where the bedrooms most likely sit in the place. Where the kitchen is located. I know the layout of the house even before I enter. Dr. Oakert would be proud of me.

A car drives north on Snyder Avenue, and I crouch beside a dumpster overflowing with beer cans and pizza boxes and an old broken chair, and I wait. Patiently. I clearly see the house from here: there are no lights except a faint one from a room I know is a bath. Gotta love those night lights. When I walked the neighborhood this afternoon, I saw no dog chained outside, nothing to alert Anderson when I’m at his front door. And ready to dance.

The car fades away and I walk across the street, hands in my pockets, hoodie pulled tight against the chill of the air. Just in case a cop drives by, I’ll look natural.

I stop at the corner of the house and run my hand over the phone line that connects to his security system. Unless I’m mistaken—and of course I never am—once I cut the lines, there will be no back-up system to signal I’ve breached the door.

A quick snip of the line with side cutters, and the system is disabled. And Anderson’s lifeline to the police department. If I can get to him before he can use his cell phone.

I swap the dykes for my pick set. A tension wrench, a squiggly pick, and I’ll make entry.

I pause.

Anderson has two other people living with him: Ana Maria and some old fart with scraggly gray hair. If I have to silence them, I will. But I firmly believe in myself. Believe that I can get to him without alerting the others. Dr. Oakert taught me that: believe in yourself and your self-esteem will soar. And the doctor was all about raising my self-esteem—something about being all I can be.

I glance around a final time, and I test the porch. It begins to creak under my weight and I stay to one side, away from the center, as I squat in front of the lock. Before I pick the dead bolt, I grab a leather boot string from my pocket, one heavy enough even for someone as powerful as Anderson.

I slide a hook pick into the lock while I put pressure on the tiny tension wrench. One by one, the tumblers click into place. In a moment, I’ll dance with the Devil, that being Anderson.

And then I can get on with my life.