Captured: Luke's Perspective (Book Three)

Chapter 11: Jerry's House

After I did my homework, Seth followed the address to Alexander's parents while I followed the address to the triplets.

We promised each other that we would tell what we have found after the interviews are over.

Seth desperately wanted to talk about Cole, but I made him drop the subject.

"Fine," he moaned.

"You know my contacts, right?" I nodded.

Seth gave me a brief wave then crawled out of the window.

The next thing I saw is Seth, landing perfectly on the ground and disappeared.

I remembered Cole called me Spider-Man every time I entered her room through her window.

I hope she's okay, I wondered.

I walked down the sidewalk until I saw a peach colored house right in front of me.

It has clean windows, a white painted door, and an intriguing garden of Venus flytraps and Pitcher plants, sitting two inches beside me.

As I entered into the house, I plucked the flytrap from its stem then studied it.

To my surprise, it smelled like sweet oranges with a hint of lemon.

I checked to see the jagged edges of the teeth, that captured a tiny cockroach.

Cole once told me that she loved Venus flytraps ever since she was little.

Every day, she begged her mom if she can buy one, but her mom didn't let her.

Shaking away my thoughts of her, I navigated my way through the bushy fields until I found the door and knocked on its ragged surface.

"Who is it?" someone barked.

"It's me, Luke Hamilton." I said.

"Alexander Hilton hired me to find out about his-"

The door unlocked on its own and abruptly opened. In front of me was a really old man with a breathing tube in his nose.

He had a long nose, a large mouth, and has blue eyes. He wore a hospital gown down to his knees.

His face look tired.

"What do you want, kid?" he rasped. He has a very nasal voice.

"Your neighbor hired me to find out his wife's killer," I explained.

"You're Luke Hamilton?" the old man asked. I nodded.

"I read your adventures in the papers," he said.

"You and that tomboyish girl are detectives."

"Private Investigators more or less," I sighed. "May I come in?"

The old man nodded, then allowed me to come inside.

I was greeted by the stench of old perfume. Tacky orange paint draped on the walls, the rug was soft and woolen like a sheep's coat, and the television and furniture looked as if it has been puked by the 1980s.

On the screen, it was playing reruns of Ronald Reagan's speeches.

As I peered closer, I saw a stack of old tapes piling on the small, but dusty living room table.

"Have a seat," the old man offered. "I am pretty sure you know who I am."

I stared at the hair all over his arms and legs, glanced at the liverspots on his head, and gazed at his bloodshot eyes.

The old man must not have anytime for shaving, probably five years or so, he looks thin from malnutrition, and his nails were yellow and grimy.

"Are you dying from something?" I asked.

"Jerry, right?"

The old man looked at me in surprise then sadly nodded.

"I am," he admitted.

"The doctors says that there is nothing that can cure it."

I walked over to him and shook his hand firmly.

Secretly, I tested his pulse, which beats rapidly.

I gazed into his eyes for a moment.

"You don't have any illness," I sighed.

"Whenever a person lies, their hearts beats faster."

"Tell me the truth, Jerry. Are you dying or are you just pretending?"

"I am dying," Jerry answered sharply.

"Don't believe me?"

I didn't say anything after that.

"Tell me about Natalie," I said.

"You and your brothers hated her for some reason."

Jerry gave me an evil glare.

"Yes," he confessed.

"I do hate her, so did my brothers, but we had nothing to do about her murder."

"Why did you guys move to California?" I asked.

"Seems like a coincidence that Natalie and Alexander is there."

He let out a wheezy laugh.

"Aren't you the clever boy, Joe Hardy?"

"Just answer the question," I said coldly.

"We all moved to harass those freaks," Jerry said.

"But we never did anything stupid to them, especially the wife. We only vandalized their houses."

He walked over to his chair and pulled out a photo of him and his brothers painting mean slurs on the wooden surface of the house.

"Here's my proof," Jerry snapped.

"Where are your brothers?" I questioned.

"Don't trust me?" he asked, coming up to me.

He smelled like garlic.

"Where are your brothers?" I asked again.

"They  met the Devil," he answered. "Happy now?"

I backed away from him and walked out of the door.

Clutching the flytrap in my hands, I laid the remains on the dirt then trudged onto the sidewalk until I found a bus bench.

Sighing, I sat down and dialed Seth's number. It was ringing on the other end.

"Hey Luke," he said.

"I am not physically here right now, but leave a message and I won't ignore your call."

Stupid voicemail.

"Hey it's your brother, Luke." I said.

"I have just talked to the old freak. Turns out, that he didn't kill Natalie. Please call me when you get this message, and don't do anything stupid. Got it?"

I hung up the phone and stared at the time. It is eleven thirty.

Just then, I heard another loud noise, but this time, it was coming from the house.

I rose up from my seat, dialed 911, and rushed back inside.

The entire room was caked in black dust and shattered glass. I turned to see Jerry, trying to get up on his feet.

As he saw me, Jerry pushed me out of the house.

"What are you doing?" I cried, trying to get up. "You need some-"

The house exploded on its own, debris and rubble falling on top of Jerry until he couldn't see me.

The ambulance and the cops showed up to inspect the damage.

My phone rang, but this time it wasn't from Cole or Seth, it was from Zach.