the doctor's wife

Mary Carlton rushed out of the supermarket, three kids in tow. Nico was the youngest. He was three. He wrestled with the wrapper on a Snickers bar, had just about liberated the entire piece of candy.

“Mommy, Nico’s eating the Smickers,” Molly said. She was four and had Mary’s curls, if not her disposition. Mikey was Molly’s twin. He’d been second-born. By fifty-eight seconds. He turned, now, too, to catch a glimpse of Nico. So, too, finally did Mary.

She sighed, then said, “Nicky, what’d I tell you?” Nico gave her a guilty look, then reached forward to hand her the treat. She reached to take it, then pulled back her hand. “Yuck,” she said. Molly and Mikey laughed. Nico, too.

Across the parking lot, three spots over and two back, Rolland Beatie watched from a parked Hyundai. His dark, cloudy eyes were hidden behind darker sunglasses. He flipped open a cell phone, hit a speed-dial key. “I’ve got her,” he said. “Yeah, she’s with the kids. Sure, that won’t be a problem. Right. Yep. OK.” He hung up and continued watching as Mary Carlton loaded her kids, then the groceries into the silver Lexus wagon. He waited for her to start her car, then he started his. He waited for her to pull out, then he did, too.

As he did, Rolland Beatie thought about lighting up a cigarette, but fought the urge. He was trying to quit. He rolled down the driver's window. It was 93 degrees in the baking, noon sun and the air was as still as a dead cat. The heat never bothered Rolland Beatie. For him, the hotter the better.

He caught a closer glimpse of Mary Carlton, now. She was prettier than he'd expected. He liked pretty women. It made everything much more interesting.

He rolled down the passenger window, sucked in a deep breath, then gave in and lit up a smoke.