Man in the Middle Read Online Free
Author: Ken Morris
twenty minutes north and west of Clairemont and thirty-five minutes north of downtown San Diego, where she worked. Where was she headed that night? She never went out late, and, as far as Peter knew, she didn’t have any friends in that part of North County. Had she worked longer than normal hours? Had she met with someone? If so, was there a person who might share a last conversation? Peter had a deep longing to know these things.
He had entered the house through the front door. Henry immediately bounded over, then snaked his way in and out of Peter’s legs, rubbing calico fur against his jeans. The animal purred like a small engine.
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Henry?” Peter asked.
With the blinds drawn, the entranceway was dusk-dark. He looked over to the living room and the oak floors, chipped and dented with nearly three decades of hard-use. The area rugs had worn spots at their edges, and the house smelled musty. Surveying the rest of the room, he noted a pile of papers, threatening to spill off the cedar work desk. Peter went over and opened the top drawer. It was empty. He wondered if his mother was looking for something and dumped out the contents. Another strange thing: the computer was turned on, the screensaver dancing with floating checkerboards. When he slid the mouse, his mother’s file window popped up. After shutting down the computer, he had considered taking a tour of the house—his old room, the den, his mother’s bedroom—but decided to wait for another day. He felt too drained to weather the sadness.
He noticed a flashing light on the answering machine, which sat on the window ledge separating the kitchen from the dining area. He shuffled over and hit play . The machine-voice announced there were seven messages. The first message came in at 6:03 p.m. That call began and ended with a hang-up. The other six messages ended similarly, except for the third call, where a hoarse male voice pleaded: “Please pick up.” The steady flow of calls, the last coming at 11:04 p.m., confirmed his mother had not made a stop home before driving to Carlsbad.
With Henry standing alongside his empty food bowl, Peter realized the animal hadn’t been fed the previous night—another unsettling curiosity. His mother went out of her way to take care of her pet, and not coming home—at least long enough to feed Henry—was unprecedented. It also meant the computer had been left on that morning. None of this made sense, then or now. His mother rarely forgot even small tasks.
From a hook near the phone, Peter remembered retrieving a set of keys. One was an extra to his mother’s destroyed Subaru. The other key, undersized, looked like a bicycle-lock key with a round, nondescript insignia and some kind of numerical code stamped across its face. Peter removed the smaller key and slid it onto his key chain. One day, he suspected, he would discover whatever the key unlocked—maybe some trinkets or memories locked in a drawer or a box somewhere in the house.
He next fed Henry, gathered up the animal’s bed, litter box, dishes, and food, and put them in several grocery bags. Scooping up the cat with his free hand, he left. Peter loved this house, but he had driven away without a look back.
On the lengthy drive to Smitham and Jones, Estate Attorneys, Peter had too many questions and too few answers. Arriving at the Solana Beach law office, Peter put these concerns on temporary hold. Jerome Smitham had said certain matters needed to be decided sooner, rather than later. The man’s concerned tone of voice had made it clear: there were unpleasant, pressing financial issues. Time to address a whole new set of problems.
Peter entered and the receptionist immediately escorted him to Smitham’s office. In his sixties, the attorney, at six foot-six inches, resembled a preying mantis, his skin taut like pulled taffy, and his joints sharp and severely angled. He also jittered like a man who had inhaled five cups of
He had entered the house through the front door. Henry immediately bounded over, then snaked his way in and out of Peter’s legs, rubbing calico fur against his jeans. The animal purred like a small engine.
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Henry?” Peter asked.
With the blinds drawn, the entranceway was dusk-dark. He looked over to the living room and the oak floors, chipped and dented with nearly three decades of hard-use. The area rugs had worn spots at their edges, and the house smelled musty. Surveying the rest of the room, he noted a pile of papers, threatening to spill off the cedar work desk. Peter went over and opened the top drawer. It was empty. He wondered if his mother was looking for something and dumped out the contents. Another strange thing: the computer was turned on, the screensaver dancing with floating checkerboards. When he slid the mouse, his mother’s file window popped up. After shutting down the computer, he had considered taking a tour of the house—his old room, the den, his mother’s bedroom—but decided to wait for another day. He felt too drained to weather the sadness.
He noticed a flashing light on the answering machine, which sat on the window ledge separating the kitchen from the dining area. He shuffled over and hit play . The machine-voice announced there were seven messages. The first message came in at 6:03 p.m. That call began and ended with a hang-up. The other six messages ended similarly, except for the third call, where a hoarse male voice pleaded: “Please pick up.” The steady flow of calls, the last coming at 11:04 p.m., confirmed his mother had not made a stop home before driving to Carlsbad.
With Henry standing alongside his empty food bowl, Peter realized the animal hadn’t been fed the previous night—another unsettling curiosity. His mother went out of her way to take care of her pet, and not coming home—at least long enough to feed Henry—was unprecedented. It also meant the computer had been left on that morning. None of this made sense, then or now. His mother rarely forgot even small tasks.
From a hook near the phone, Peter remembered retrieving a set of keys. One was an extra to his mother’s destroyed Subaru. The other key, undersized, looked like a bicycle-lock key with a round, nondescript insignia and some kind of numerical code stamped across its face. Peter removed the smaller key and slid it onto his key chain. One day, he suspected, he would discover whatever the key unlocked—maybe some trinkets or memories locked in a drawer or a box somewhere in the house.
He next fed Henry, gathered up the animal’s bed, litter box, dishes, and food, and put them in several grocery bags. Scooping up the cat with his free hand, he left. Peter loved this house, but he had driven away without a look back.
On the lengthy drive to Smitham and Jones, Estate Attorneys, Peter had too many questions and too few answers. Arriving at the Solana Beach law office, Peter put these concerns on temporary hold. Jerome Smitham had said certain matters needed to be decided sooner, rather than later. The man’s concerned tone of voice had made it clear: there were unpleasant, pressing financial issues. Time to address a whole new set of problems.
Peter entered and the receptionist immediately escorted him to Smitham’s office. In his sixties, the attorney, at six foot-six inches, resembled a preying mantis, his skin taut like pulled taffy, and his joints sharp and severely angled. He also jittered like a man who had inhaled five cups of
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