The Caretaker

The trouble began with a letter.  Actually, the trouble began long before the letter.  The trouble began when Carl Patrick Donovan's father received that notice of foreclosure from the bank.

But there's no need to step back quite that far, at least not yet.  There will be plenty of time later to sort things out.

The letter arrived certified.  Sam had to sign.  Gunn should have signed, but he was away, wheeling and dealing, so Lou, the postman, a shy and retiring type who collected old comic books and hiked in the mountains for recreation, assured Sam she could sign.  The legal-size envelope was addressed to:

Mr. Gunn Henderson
1271 North Sycamore Drive
Alexandria, Virginia 22313

The return address was simply:

Creative Marketing Enterprises
P.O.  Box 424
Amagansett, New York 11930

A quick glance at that return address and Sam decided it must be some kind of sweepstakes notification, a free romantic weekend for two at Leisure Village in the Poconos, some marketing nonsense like that.  But then, right on cue, before Lou had even stepped off the front porch, the telephone rang.

Sam picked up in the downstairs hallway.  "Hello?"

"Mrs. Henderson?"

"Yes."

"Good morning, Mrs. Henderson.  How are you today?"

A salesman, she knew immediately.  Married to one, Sam could smell a salesman a million miles away.  But what was this one selling?  Long-distance phone service?  Magazine subscriptions?  Swimming pool chlorinators?  They didn't even have a swimming pool, though Sam wanted one.  Sam loved to swim for exercise.

"I'm just fine."

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs.  Henderson, but I was wondering if your husband, Mr. Gunn Henderson, was home this morning?"

Sam did not make a point of telling complete strangers the whereabouts of her husband.  Many years ago, during a youth some might call sheltered, her parents had instructed her never to talk to strangers.  Sam had carried these instructions with her into adulthood, then passed them on to her own well-protected offspring.  And as a viewer of the local TV news in the Washington metro area, she also possessed an irrational fear of men who broke into homes, raped women, and stole children.

This fear was one of the ways Gunn justified the presence of loaded guns in the house: protection from the riffraff.  Gunn had quite a collection: handguns, shotguns, various types of hunting rifles.

"May I ask," Sam asked, "who's calling?"  "Ron Johnson.  From Creative Marketing Enterprises."

Sam took another look at the certified letter still in her hand.  A slight furrow creased her brow.  "Yes, Mr. Johnson.  What can I do for you this morning?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Henderson.  We were just calling to inquire if your husband had received a certified letter recently sent to him by Creative Marketing Enterprises."

"I see."

"Would you know if that letter had arrived?"

Sam had the distinct feeling Mr. Johnson already knew the answer to his inquiry.  She glanced for a third time at the envelope.  There was nothing special about it: just a plain white envelope, simple lettering denoting the sender, Gunn's name and address typed neatly across the center.  She felt the weight.  It seemed practically empty; as though it might contain nothing at all, a single sheet of twice-folded paper at the most.

"Yes," she answered.  "Your letter arrived."

Sam glanced out the window, thinking she might just see Mr. Ron Johnson sitting in his company Chevy at the end of the driveway talking to her on his cellular phone.  But no one was out there except for Lou, slowly making his way across the quiet suburban street to the home of Glenda and Brian Young.  Glenda had recently filed for divorce.  Emotional abuse.  But that's another story.

"Excellent," said Mr. Ron Johnson.  "I'm very glad to hear that."  He sounded genuinely pleased.

Samantha would find out later, much later, after it was too late, that there was no Mr. Ron Johnson employed at Creative Marketing Enterprises.  Ron Johnson did not exist.  Nothing but a voice on the telephone.  On the telephone we can be anyone we want.

"Actually," said Sam, not really knowing why she was offering unsolicited information, "I'm holding your company's letter in my hand at this very moment.  It arrived just before you called."

"That's a coincidence," said Mr. Ron Johnson, without the slightest twinge of irony in his voice.

"I thought so, too."

Ron Johnson made a little laugh.

Sam wondered if she should be scared, wondered if it would be prudent to go into her husband's study and get the revolver out of the top right-hand drawer of his desk.

Before she could decide, Ron said, "I won't take up any more of your time, Mrs. Henderson.  I would just ask you to please make sure your husband gets that letter as soon as he returns home."

This request caused the furrow in Sam's brow to deepen.  "I don't recall saying my husband wasn't home."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Mr.  Johnson.  "I guess I just assumed."

"Yes," replied Sam, "I guess you did."

"So," asked Mr.  Johnson, "is your husband home?"

"He's in the shower," lied Sam.

"I see.  Then you will be sure to give him the letter?"

"I said I would."

"Thank you."

"So what is this, anyway?" she asked, trying now to sound casual.  "Did we win something?  A trip to Disney World?"

Ron Johnson laughed again.  "Oh, no, Mrs.  Henderson, trust me, nothing so trivial as that.  This is about a job opportunity.  You see, Creative Marketing Enterprises is looking for some very extraordinary salespeople.  One person in particular.  We feel your husband might be our man.