Neighborhood Watch by Andrew Neiderman Read Free Book Online

troubled face, she thought, even at the age of two or three. She turned the pages lethargically, the tears starting again. Her little boy, her baby . . . it was Philip’s fault that she had trouble remembering. He never liked to talk about Bradley. It was better to pretend he had never existed, none of it had ever happened.
    But there were the pictures of her and her child on the lawn or in the back by the swings Philip had long since removed. There were pictures from birthday parties and the pictures from their vacations. Bradley looked so fragile in all these pictures, small for his age and underdeveloped because of the illness. Philip used to hate her to tell people what their child’s actual age was. He was ashamed of the child’s illness. It was a detraction from his strong, successful image. How could he be the father of such a sickly little boy?
    She slammed the photograph album closed and buried it again in the carton. Got to keep it hidden like this, she thought, or Philip will get angry. He’ll say I’m doting on the tragedy and therefore making it last longer.
    But when does a tragedy like this end? she wondered. She got to her feet and walked up the stairway, flicking off the lights behind her and moving slowly, like one in a daze, toward the bedroom. She sat on Philip’s side of the bed, just staring down at the floor.
    After a moment she reached over and opened the nightstand drawer. When she felt the metal, she wrapped her hand around it and brought it out slowly. Then she gazed down at the pistol in her lap.
    A bullet would come from the barrel of this gun to tear into my flesh and drive my soul out of my body and into whatever oblivion awaits us all, she thought. This was the ticket, the vehicle of passage, this was the key that unlocked the door of darkness.
    There were bullets in it. She knew that. She lifted the gun and placed the barrel against her left temple. Marilyn had done this before and she had counted as high as seven, the point being that when she reached ten, she would pull the trigger. One, she began. This time she reached eight before her hand began to shake and the tremors traveled through her body into her feet. Weakened by them, she barely had enough strength to put the pistol back and close the drawer.
    Then she stood up, took a deep breath and returned to the chair by the window. She
    sipped her drink and stared out again, waiting, watching, wondering: Am I alive? Where am I? Is this hell?
    An hour later after she had washed her glass thoroughly and started to prepare their dinner, she had forgotten she had made a visit to the basement. Philip was right. It was better to block it out.
    Philip Slater cradled the receiver of his office telephone and sat back to read the cost analysis for the new house he wanted to construct on lot thirty-eight in Emerald Lakes.
    Erik Richard, his architect, had come up with a design that was more original than
    anything yet constructed in the development. It departed considerably from the traditional ranch, employing characteristics of Greek revival: a gabled, low-pitched roof, a full-width porch supported by prominent rounded Doric columns; but the most dramatic
    departure from the other homes was the fact that this would be a two-story home. To build it, he would have to get his homeowners committee to approve a variance on the height restriction. Because of its location on the lake, however, it wouldn’t block anyone’s view, and he had been toying with the idea of selling his own house and moving into this. He deserved it, deserved to stand out and above the others. Besides, his present home was cluttered with too many painful memories. Marilyn needed another start, a
    fresh view. It would do both of them a world of good.
    Of course, he would have no trouble getting the committee to agree. It was just that later on someone else might ask for a similar variance and he would have to find a reason to deny it. He would be accused of being treated