Good Neighbors: A Novel by Ryan David Jahn

Author:Ryan David Jahn
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Historic Fiction, Crime
ISBN: 9781101528709
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2011-05-29T12:00:00+00:00

21

William pulls the long station wagon into the driveway, parking it over a metal tray lined with sand. The car’s been leaking oil lately but he hasn’t had time to get it fixed. A tray to collect the oil is the best he can do for now.

He sits behind the wheel and stares at the white garage door. It is dented where he pulled in too far about three months ago and tapped it. It’s also beginning to rust inside the dent, where the pinching of metal caused the paint to crack. Another thing that needs fixing.

And now he’s got blood on his work boots.

And maybe someone will be able to identify him.

At least he left when he did. The police are probably there right now, so it’s good he left when he did.

He pushes the station wagon’s door open and steps out. He looks at his boots in the moon’s light. The blood looks almost black out here, and there is a lot of it, but he might be able to scrub it out. He hopes so. They’re almost new and he would hate to have to replace them already. He just broke them in.

He should have known better than to wear them tonight. But then, he wasn’t thinking clearly; he wasn’t thinking at all. He just wanted. He still wants. His stomach is tight with want and his erection is painful with need. It won’t go away. It’s all-encompassing, that need, and he had to run, so it’s still there. He has to ignore it. It will go away eventually. He hopes.

He slams the car door and is halfway up the path to the house when he remembers the knife. He walks back down to the car, grabs it from the passenger’s seat, and, with it in his hand, heads back up the path toward the house.

Once inside, he pushes the front door closed quietly, not wanting to wake his wife or the kids, and locks the dead-bolt and the chain.

Then he walks to the kitchen and turns on the light above the sink. He sets the knife in the metal basin and turns on the hot water. He squirts dish soap onto his hands and scrubs them. They’re rough and callused and hangnails are peeling themselves away, revealing the meat beneath. He feels like the blood will never wash off – but he felt that way last time this happened, too.

He rinses his hands under the steaming tap. The water is almost painfully hot. It makes his hands tingle. He watches the pink water run down the drain in a counterclockwise swirl.

He picks up the large kitchen knife and scrubs the blood off with a green sponge and once it’s washed and rinsed he puts it in the dish drainer where he found it earlier this evening.

His erection has not gone down and it aches but he tries to ignore it.

Think about something else, he tells himself, which only makes him think of the attack earlier this evening, the interrupted attack.

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