Neighborhood Secrets Part 1

Heather was afraid of the man next door. Well, he didn’t live right next door, he lived in the building across the driveway. His town house was the one tucked away in the middle of the building; the one that she couldn’t actually see from her own townhouse. But just knowing he was there terrified her.

She now sat on her patio, trying to take in the scent of the blooming roses and the relaxing sound of the water flowing in the fountain that she loved. The baker’s rack that she had gotten on sale last year was filled with pots of impatients, geraniums and merigolds and the copper swirl wind chime tinkled softly. All these things used to bring her such joy when she retreated to her patio swing after a trying day’s work at the hospital, but now...

She gripped the keychain in her hand, the one with the small canister of pepper spray attached to it. She had overcome her need to actually have her thumb poised on the trigger and that was progress, she guessed. But she still had to have it in hand or she couldn’t breathe and this angered her.

A week after moving into her new townhouse, the one of her dreams so she thought, she attended a seminar on self-defense for employees of the hospital where she worked as a nurse in the neuro intensive care unit. The police officers gave statistics on the number of sex offenders living in the area. “You would be surprised by the number of registered sex offenders living in the affluent areas around here,” the older, more experienced officer said. “You expect to find them in the poorer neighborhoods, the ones with the highest crime rates, but don’t kid yourself into a false sense of security just because you avoid those areas.”

Heather had given that some thought. She considered herself a cautious person. She always looked around her at night in the parking lot to make sure she wasn’t being followed or that there wasn’t someone lurking near her car. She used common sense and didn’t leave her ground floor windows or sliding glass doors open at night after going to bed, though she did keep them open all evening because she slept better when the house was filled with fresh air. She was cautious, but not scared and definitely not paranoid. But all that had changed with a phone call.

******************

Lying awake one hot summer evening with the fan blowing across her sheet covered body, listening to the faint hum of traffic on the interstate a mile away she became bothered by a nagging suspicion that something wasn’t right. It was a sense of foreboding that gradually gnawed at her insides until she was wide-awake. She had been so happy to have found this town home, and at a fantastic price. It had passed inspection with great results and she jumped at the chance to buy it. Deep down she had always wondered why it had sold so cheaply. She kept expecting major pipes to burst or electrical circuits to short out or for mold to come leaching out of the walls, but nothing had happened so far. Suddenly she thought she knew what had been in the back of her mind all along.

She found the officer’s card in her wallet and remembered that he said he often worked late into the evenings and he welcomed phone calls any time. It was eleven o’clock at night but she knew she wouldn’t be able to return to bed until she made the call. Her fingers trembled and began to feel numb and cold as she dialed the number.

Officer Danton answered on the first ring and sounded cheerful and wide awake. Heather swallowed hard then got right to the point.

“Sure, no problem Ms. Callan. You can look it up on the state police web site. If you hang on I can look it up for you,” he offered.

“No, that’s alright. I’ll do it myself, thank-you,” she replied.

“Well, if you have any questions just give me a call back and I’ll help any way I can,” he said.

**************

Waves as cold and salty as the ocean churned through her stomach as the results of her search appeared on the computer screen. Her home was at 650 Cherry Courtyard, and living right there at at 655 Cherry Courtyard there was a convicted sex offender.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, trying not to gag. Adrenaline was shooting through her, simulating repeated jumps from staggering heights. She tried to stand to get away from the image of the man on the screen – a mug shot of a thirty-something bald man in orange jail garb. She was too weak- legged to get up out of the chair, still she tried and ended up easing herself to the floor where she dragged herself as far from the computer as she could get: around the corner into the hallway.

She couldn’t picture in her mind exactly where unit 655 was. She was sure that the one attached to her unit was 652, and the one attached to the other side of 652 should be 654, shouldn’t it? She looked around at the windows and the door that she could see; to be sure they were all closed and locked. There was a breeze coming from the bedroom. “Oh God, it’s open!” she said in a panicked whisper. She pulled herself up using the doorjamb for support and staggered towards the bedroom window. The breeze seemed stronger and more ominous suddenly. She stopped, frozen in her course. “It’s just a window, close it you moron!” she admonished herself and took the rest of the steps to the window. She grasped the handle and yanked it down, locking it in one swift motion. She swept the curtains shut and sighed in temporary relief.