Page 30 of Too Old for This

If I could go back and thank anyone, it would be Richard Ramirez. He’s the one who saved me.

When my picture was all over the Spokane news, the Night Stalker was killing people up and down California.

His capture was a spectacle, he was chased and beaten and finally arrested.

If not for Ramirez, the same thing could’ve happened to me.

My story might have gone national, and who knows what would’ve happened then.

The pressure might’ve been too much, forcing the police department to arrest me.

The people of Spokane bullied my son, fired me, and evicted us. If my local peers had sat on a jury, they would’ve loved to convict me. If only to prove they were right.

None of that happened. Most people have never heard my real name. The only ones who did are like me: old, retired, probably dead in less than a decade. Maybe that makes me lucky. Doesn’t always feel that way.

After Spokane, I was nervous. Burke had almost scared me into never killing again. Not an easy thing to admit. And not something I’d say out loud.

But I refused to let that man determine how I would live my life. Instead, I regrouped. Became more selective. Learned how to get rid of a body. And I kept going—right up until it became too exhausting.

To be clear, I was taught never to discuss politics, religion, or numbers in public.

No bank accounts, no salaries, and certainly no bodies.

However, these days it’s impossible to avoid seeing what other killers have done, or at least how many they were accused of killing.

It’s all available on the internet. The Night Stalker, for example, along with BTK, the Hillside Stranglers, Son of Sam, Ted Bundy.

I suppose their numbers are low because they got caught. They weren’t careful enough, weren’t patient enough. And they didn’t get rid of the bodies.

The fact that I am meticulous has kept me from being arrested. But, for the life of me, I have no idea who Norma is. Looking up her name doesn’t give me the answer. I try Norma + Baycliff . Still nothing. Norma + Spokane doesn’t work, either.

My only option left is church. That’s where Sheila saw her, so I need to talk to Pastor Doug.

The first time I met Doug, I didn’t think much of him. He showed up after Pastor Matthew retired at the age of eighty-two. Some thought Doug was a breath of fresh air. I thought he was a little too young and casual. Too flippant, for lack of a better word.

But over the past twenty years, he’s grown on me. Maybe because of his late wife. She died around five years ago, and since then he has grown more serious. Cancer tends to have that effect.

When I arrive, only two people are inside. One is Mrs.Lockland, the most devout member of First Covenant. She has been coming here longer than I have and prays every day. I still don’t know what for.

Pastor Doug is also here. He is on the phone, talking to someone about the door to his office. It creaks, apparently. Doug waves at me as he ends the call.

“A pastor’s job is never done,” I say.

“That door has been driving me crazy.”

He is kind enough to ask how I am, how my hip is doing, and he even asks about Archie. All of this takes a good ten minutes before he gets around to asking why I have shown up at church on a Friday morning.

“A little bird whispered in my ear and said an old friend was in here looking for me,” I say.

“Is that right?”

“That’s what I heard. Do you remember talking to Norma?”

“Of course I do! She mentioned you two knew each other.” Doug smiles wide, looking genuinely pleased.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time. Honestly, I didn’t even realize she was in Baycliff!” I am careful about my words, avoiding saying she returned to Baycliff or was still in town. Wouldn’t want to contradict whatever this woman said. “Did she mention what she’s been up to?”

“No, she didn’t say anything about work or kids or anything. I got the feeling she hadn’t been here long.”

“No?”

“Well, she’s staying in a hotel, so…presumably she won’t be living there forever.”

“I should hope not. But I could get used to daily room service!”

“Me too. Especially when it’s at the Harmony.”

The Harmony Hotel. Thank you, Pastor Doug.

I do feel a little bit bad about lying to him, especially inside the church, but I suppose people have done worse things in a house of worship.

The Harmony Hotel is in the old part of Baycliff. It’s always been a nice place with a decent restaurant. Archie and Stephanie used to stay there when they came to visit.

On my way over, I stop at the post office to mail Noah’s birthday package. The video game is wrapped. So is his gift card. And I included a plastic container of homemade chocolate chip cookies. I made twice as many as I needed. That’s not going to help my blood sugar one bit.

I rarely go to the post office these days, but when I do, there’s always a line. With all the online options and home pickups, it surprises me. No matter what day or what time I show up, I always find myself standing in line. It does not make me nostalgic for the past.

Next, the Harmony Hotel. The parking lot is less than half full. I sit and watch for a few minutes, getting a feel for the place before heading inside.

There’s still a bar right off the lobby. I get a mocktail, plant myself on a couch in the lobby, and read one of their magazines.

Forty-five minutes later, only two people have walked in. Neither resembles Sheila’s description of Norma. If I stay much longer, either the front desk clerk or the bartender is going to start asking questions. I was hoping for some luck, but it didn’t show up today.

Back to my car, where I wait. This time it’s a real stakeout. I don’t know if Norma is in the hotel or will be returning to it, but I watch the door to try and find out. I last an hour and a half before giving up, at least for now, and heading home.

I don’t notice the silver car until it’s too late. It pulls into the driveway behind me. A woman is behind the wheel.

I get out of my car and stand up, ready to face Norma. Sheila described her perfectly.

She is around fifty. Her wavy brown hair is like a cap that frames her head. She has small eyes, or maybe her round face makes them look that way. Her clothes are dark and shapeless, and her shoes have thick rubber soles.

“Lottie? Are you Lottie Jones?”

Her voice is deep and gruff, just as Sheila described. Whiskey and smoke with a hint of a Southern accent.

She is about ten feet away and makes no attempt to move closer, but this still feels threatening. This woman has been asking around, claiming to know me, and I don’t know why.

“Who are you?” I say.

“My name is Norma Dixon. I’m Plum’s mother.”