Too Close to Home

I pulled up to the curb in front of the Putnam home. A big, two-story affair, double garage, a Porsche parked on one side of the drive, a Lexus on the other. Leonard Putnam was some hotshot financial adviser, far as I knew, and his wife was a much-respected psychiatrist.

I rarely ran into either one of them. The last time was probably when they hired me to look after their property for the season. I’d come out on a Saturday to meet with them, summer before last. I didn’t need to see them if all I did was cut their grass. I did the job-or Derek and I did the job-and once a month a check showed up in the mail. A hefty one, too, given the size of their property.

But because I was running behind, and getting to the Putnam house at an hour when they were likely to be home, I wasn’t surprised to see Leonard Putnam coming out the front door as I walked around to the back of the flatbed trailer to unload the Deere.

“Mr. Cutter,” he said. Not really a friendly greeting. There was a tone to it that suggested an imminent scolding. He had silver hair and was dressed in a creamy yellow sweater and white slacks. He dressed rich, looked rich. If he got a grass stain on those pants, it’d never come out.

“Evening,” I said.

“May I have a word?” he said.

This was different. Leonard Putnam wasn’t the type to talk to the hired help. Maybe he was pissed I’d come so late in the day. The noise of the mower was going to interfere with his pre-dinner cocktail.

“Sure,” I said, walking up the drive. He met me halfway, by the back end of the Porsche.

“Mr. Cutter,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re going to be going with someone else.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Another lawn company.”

“Is there a problem? If there’s something you’re unhappy with, I’m sure I can address your concerns. I wasn’t aware that you or Dr. Putnam have been anything but satisfied.”

“Oh no, nothing like that. You’ve always done a good job.”

“My rate’s competitive. Look around if you don’t believe me,” I said.

“It’s not that, either, Mr. Cutter.” He paused. “You see, Albert Langley, he was my lawyer.”

I studied him a moment, then nodded slowly. “I see. And what does that have to do with whether I look after your yard or not?”

He almost laughed. “Is that a serious question, Mr. Cutter?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

“I cannot, in good conscience, maintain our relationship, given what your son has done. My wife is very troubled, to think that he has been here, with you, week after week, that there were even times when she was home when you and your boy were here, that he could have had access to our house. God knows what could have happened. My wife is most distraught. Otherwise, she’d be out here with me to deliver this news. She also knew Donna Langley quite well, personally and professionally, in fact, although I’m certainly not at liberty to discuss what that involved. She’s quite destroyed by this tragedy, as am I.”

“My son is innocent,” I said, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

“Well, I certainly don’t blame him for pleading not guilty,” Leonard Putnam said. “That’s how the game is played. Albert Langley knew that better than anyone, I suppose. I wouldn’t have expected anything different, and that’s not a reflection on you or your boy. I suppose, were I to somehow lose control of my impulses and commit an act of violence, I’d no doubt proclaim my innocence, too.”

“I didn’t say he was pleading not guilty. I said he was innocent.”

Putnam half chuckled again. “Look at me, actually having a debate with you about this. It’s quite extraordinary, really. We won’t be needing you anymore, it’s as simple as that. I’ll send you a check to cover the entire month, however. I’m a reasonable person.”

I wanted to kill him. But even more than that, I wanted to throw him to the ground and drag his white-panted ass across his lush green yard. Once I’d made a sufficient mess of him, maybe then I’d kill him.

But I didn’t knock him down, or drag him across the yard, or grab him by the neck. I turned around and walked back to my truck, nearly blind with rage. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see Lance Garrick in time.

As I was rounding the back of the trailer, I caught a momentary glimpse of something down there, hiding behind it, but there wasn’t time to react as this shadow leapt up and came at me.

I only had time to dodge slightly to the right, which meant the fist coming at me didn’t connect squarely with my nose, but caught the side of my cheek. Even though its path was slightly deflected, it still hurt like hell and kept me from seeing the other fist, coming a fraction of a second later and at the same rate of speed. That one caught me just under the ribs and completely took my breath away.

I collapsed to the pavement, clutching my side, writhing and moaning. I looked up at Randall Finley’s driver, standing over me and grinning.

“Not fun to get sucker punched, is it?” Lance asked. “Who’s laughing now, dickwad?”

I was gasping, still trying to get my breath.