Crooked (26 page)

“Jason,” the girl said quickly. “Jason somebody. He drove a little red Honda Civic.” Something new had come into the girl's voice. It was fear.

Eddie, retrieving his darts, said, “Jason Tanner, probably.” Eddie's voice had also changed—it was less casual, more apprehensive. Suddenly Amos understood that Eddie, like just about everybody else in the world, was a little afraid of Charles, too.

“What are you going to do?” the girl said.

“I didn't want to do anything, Brandykins,” Charles said. “It's what you did, you and this Jason Tanner. You two have publicly put me into this position where, out of self-respect, I am
forced
to do something. And just when I have other business to attend to.”

“What business?” the girl said to Charles, and when he didn't reply, she said, “You mean that business with Eddie's little itch?”

For the first time, Charles laughed, a great, full-throated laugh. Then, when he was done laughing, he spoke again in a quiet voice, almost to himself. “That's a good one.
Eddie's
little itch
.”

“Well, you can count me out of that one,” the girl said.

“But we'd like your assistance. We'll do a good-girl-bad-boys routine. You'll be the good girl. She'll trust you. It'll be fun. We're not going to do anything serious. Just enough to get the little itch's attention. So she'll be nicer to Eddie.”

“Forget it,” the girl said. “I mean it, Charles. I'm not interested in your sick fun and games.”

For one still moment, none of the shoes moved. And then suddenly Charles's Nikes moved toward the girl. “What're you doing?” she said.

Charles didn't speak. He was on her, there was grunting and muffled sounds, and the girl's feet were lifted off the ground. Charles carried her across the room and dumped her on the bed. For a moment, the bouncing mattress springs touched Amos's back.

“What're you doing?” she said again. Her voice was stretched thin with fear.

“Get the tape and rope,” Charles said.

“Please, Charles,” she whimpered. She'd begun to cry. “God, Charles, you're sick, really sick.”

“C'mon, Charles,” Eddie said in a small voice. “Cut her some slack, why don't you.”

Charles's tone had turned steely. “Get the freaking tape and rope, Eddie.”

After a second's hesitation, Eddie's Nikes moved to the foot-locker and came back.

“Hey, c'mon, that
hurts,
” Brandy said, still crying. “That really hurts.”

On each side of the bed, Amos could see one half of a pair of black Nikes. “God, Charles, that—” the girl started to say in a teary voice, and then was muffled. There was a ragged ripping sound of tearing tape, and then another.

A few seconds later, both pairs of Nikes were back on the floor. In his soft, crooning voice, Charles said, “Okay, we'll be back when we've taken care of Eddie's little itch. Will you wait for me this time? You will? Oh, that's sweet.” A moment passed, and then Charles went back to his steely voice. “Laugh, Eddie.”

Silence.

“I said something funny to Brandykins. When I say something funny, you need to laugh. Otherwise, you don't get my help with your little itch.”

A moment passed. In a sulky voice, Eddie said, “Maybe I don't need your help.”

Charles let out a crisp sarcastic laugh. “Oh, now
there's
a rich one. You took Miss Pubescence to Lookout Surefire Getting Plenty Point, and what did you get? Nada. Zero. Zip. And you know why that was? Because you're afraid to get a gal's attention. That's why you need me tonight. Because you're not what we in the getting-plenty business call a credible threat.” He slipped into his sickening-sweet croon. “Isn't that right, Brandykins?”

Silence.

“She agrees,” Charles crooned. “I can see it in her eyes.” Then, in his steely voice, Charles said, “Funny. That was funny, Eddie.”

Eddie forced a small croaky laugh.

“Okay,” Charles was saying. “Supply check. Nylons. A bauble. Flashlight. Frankfurters and doggy debilitator.” He made a soft malevolent laugh. “And of course Mr. Persuasion.”

“We don't need that, Charles.”

This time Charles's laugh was low and seething. “That's just one of your many deficiencies, Eddie. You go into battle unprepared.”

“This isn't a freaking battle,” Eddie murmured.

“One more deficiency. Failure to identify the enemy.”

Charles's black shoes moved to the window. Eddie's stayed put.

“Let's go,” Charles said in his cold voice.

Eddie still didn't move.

“Look, Eddie, I know how to handle this kind of thing. Nothing bad's going to happen to your little girly-poo. She just needs to see you in a little different light, and then her attitude will change all over the place. She'll make nice like you've never imagined.”

After a moment, Eddie said, “No physical stuff?”

“None. I won't touch the girl.”

“And none of your weird stuff?”

Charles laughed. “Not if you prefer a more conventional approach.”

Eddie's feet shifted slightly. A moment later, he was following Charles through the window, and footsteps sounded along the porch, down the stairs.

When Amos heard the half-car roll out of the graveled driveway, he slid out from under the bed and stood up.

The girl on the bed looked wide-eyed at Amos, first at his face, then at his loose suit. It was the same girl he'd seen the night the Tripps had accosted him. She was wearing black platforms, Levi's, and a jacket. Her arms and legs were tied to the bed's head and footboard. Silver duct tape stretched tightly over her mouth.

Amos pulled the tape slowly at first, then quickly. The girl was crying. Black eyeliner streaked her cheeks. Spots of blood popped through her white lipstick.

“Where are they going?” Amos said.

“Who are you?” the girl said. The spots of blood were blurring on her lips.

“Where are they going?” Amos said again.

“I know who you are.” She snuffled, but clear mucus covered her upper lip. “You're that guy we stopped on the street that night who nearly peed his pants.”

“Where are they going?”

She snuffled again and said, “Untie me and I'll tell you.”

Amos did. The girl wiped her nose. Then she said, “I can't tell you where they're going. Charles would kill me.”

“Look,” Amos said, “I think this involves someone I know.”

The girl shrugged. She was no longer snuffling. Her composure had returned. She looked Amos in the eye. “She'll survive.”

43

SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT

Before the play, Clara had peeked through the side curtain and, finding Amos sitting in one of the back rows, felt a warm thrill of both pleasure and safety. It was somehow reassuring, knowing Amos was there to escort her home.

But when she looked again following intermission, Amos was gone. Gone? Where would he go?

After the play, Clara dressed quickly and ran up to Mrs. Van Riper's office to store the stage gun in the safe, but was stopped short. The door was locked. She knocked. No one answered. She ran back to the auditorium and poked her head into the girls' dressing room. “Anyone seen Mrs. Van Riper?” she said, and one of the girls, without turning, said, “On multiple occasions.”

“No, I mean in the last few minutes.”

There was a vague negative murmuring, then Sands Mandeville, dressed in black pants and pink bra, turned and said, “I feel a draft.”

Clara knocked at the boys' dressing room, and a boy standing near the door said, “She's definitely not here,” and then a boy behind him, wearing only jockey shorts, said, “The Ripper left early. Had to get to the airport or something.”

Clara, feeling rushed and desperate—how long would Amos wait?—tried Mrs. Van Riper's door one last time. Locked. She felt the solid mass of the gun within the interior pocket of her long coat. It was safe there. And she could take it home and put it someplace safe. And then bring it to the play tomorrow night.

She ran out to the descending steps in front of the auditorium. Most of the people were gone. In the dim outside light, a few clusters of adults and students stood around talking. Amos wasn't there. Clara checked the stage entrance—nothing—and came back to the front steps. From one of the clusters of students, a large form broke off and came her way. It was Bruce. “Hey!” he said.

Clara smiled and said hello. Then, looking around, “Have you seen Amos?”

“Should I have?”

Clara explained.

Bruce, nodding, said, “That's what I was telling you. He used to be Mr. Dependable. Now he's scrambled eggs.”

“You think he could've gone off to that appointment he was talking about?”

Bruce gave her a
maybe
look. “Seems kind of late for appointments, though.”

Clara scanned the lawn and parking lot, which were growing quiet.

“Want me to walk with you?” Bruce said.

“Oh,” Clara said, “you don't need to do that.”

Bruce grinned amiably. “I've got nothing else to do.”

Clara took one last look around before giving up on Amos. “Well, if you're sure you don't mind.”

They walked quietly for the first couple of blocks, and then Clara felt as if she ought to be more polite. “How goes the Barrineau Project?” she said.

“Who told you about that?”

“Oh. I guess Amos did. But I didn't tell anyone else.”

They kept walking.

“So how's it going?” she said again.

“Not that great. I guess Amos told you I've been calling under an assumed name.”

“Trent deMille,” Clara said, chuckling.

“Right. So Trent and Anne Barrineau are talking tonight and I can tell right away something was different and finally she goes, ‘There's this tall guy following me around. I think maybe he's been following me around for a while without my knowing it, but now that I'm aware of him, I see him everywhere.'”

Clara and Bruce kept walking. As they passed under an elm, a streetlight threw fitful shadows. “So what did you say?” Clara asked.

Bruce said, “I didn't know what to say, so I said, ‘Well, why don't you just say something to this guy.' And in this supercalm voice, she goes, ‘That's what I'm doing now.'”

“Oh, my gosh!”

“Yeah,” Bruce mumbled.

“Then what?”

“I go, ‘What do you mean?' and she says, ‘I think you're the guy following me around. Are you the guy?' And I don't know what to do, so I go, ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.'”

“And?”

“She says, ‘What's your real name?' and I tell her.”

“And?”

“She goes, ‘Well, I better get off now,' and then she says good-bye and hangs up.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Clara said.

“Yeah.”

They turned silently onto Genesee. As they approached her house, Clara was relieved to see that it looked the way she left it—the one light on in the living room, the one light on in her room upstairs. “You want to come in for some hot chocolate or something?” Clara said, but Bruce shrugged. “Naw,” he said. “Time for Trent deMille to go home and lick his wounds.”

They said good-bye on the sidewalk. At the front door, Clara paused to watch Bruce's big silhouette dissolve into the darkness.

Clara went to the answering machine in hopes there would be a message from Amos. The light was blinking, but the only message was from her mother. “Hi, sweetie, it's me. I just tried you at Gerri's but got their machine, so maybe you're all at the play.” Her mother faltered. “It's late over here.” A pause. “It's just that I woke up thinking about you. So as soon as you get this message, will you please call me? I know it's expensive, but call just for a second to let me know you're okay.” Another pause. “Okay. Bye, sweetie. I love you.”

An old familiar softness opened within Clara. She thought about calling to put her mother's mind at ease, but knew it would involve a lot of complicated lying about how she'd gotten the message here at home when she was supposed to be staying the weekend with Gerri's family. So she didn't call. She thought about calling Amos to find out why he hadn't shown up but decided it would just be embarrassing for both of them.

Clara stuck her hand in her pocket and was surprised by the solid object it contained. The stage gun. Clara parted the clothes in the upstairs closet and climbed the ladder to the attic. She went to the hope chest and was glad to look again at the green shirt. She lifted it and nestled the gun into the baby quilt that lay beneath it, then latched the trunk.

But Clara was still edgy from the play and everything else, too edgy to sleep. She started the upstairs bath, heated milk for cocoa, let Ham out, then settled into a hot tub while sipping her chocolate. Outside, Ham barked sharply, but it tailed off. A cat, maybe, or a raccoon. That was part of what her father always called Ham's job description—keeping the backyard varmint-free.

Clara had tuned the bathroom radio to an oldies station and stacked several magazines on the tubside stool. She'd browsed an entire
Mirabella
and was on to
Seventeen
when, in the middle of an old Rolling Stones song, the radio and the bathroom light simultaneously went out, leaving the room suddenly dark and quiet.

“Ham?” she said, and then remembered he was still outside. Clara rose from the tub and, dripping wet, peered into the hallway. Dark there, too. She crossed the hall and switched on her bedroom light.

Nothing.

She peered out her window. Lights showed from the opposite houses. So it wasn't a general neighborhood blackout. Which meant a fuse was probably out downstairs. Clara told herself that was all the problem was. It was an old house, built before circuit breakers, built before microwaves and dishwashers. Her father had explained it a hundred times. Clara quickly toweled dry, threw on her nightgown, buttoned it up, and headed downstairs.

In the pantry, Clara lit a candle and opened the black metal fuse box. She looked and looked again. None were burned. She tightened them and wiggled them in hopes something would connect, but nothing did. Everything stayed dark.

There in the candlelit pantry, Clara suddenly felt afraid. It was an unreasonable feeling, she told herself, but that didn't make it go away.

Clara went to the front door. “Ham?” Clara called out. “C'mon in, Ham.” While she was listening for the tinkling of his metal collar, Clara heard something else.

A creak from the rear of the house. She waited and it came again, and then from another direction another noise: a breaking twig from somewhere just beyond the front porch. Clara quickly closed the front door. She locked it tight. She couldn't look out through the front-door window. A strange numbness came over her, making her feel rubbery. She blew out her candle. She stepped back from the door and nearly tipped over. She held on to a table and grabbed for the phone. There was no dial tone, nothing. She looked down at her hands and thought,
These aren't
my hands. I have no feeling.

A creak from the kitchen, and another. The creak of floorboards beneath a moving person. Her father, maybe, home early from his trip.

“Dad?” Her voice seemed to come slowly up from under water. “Dad?”

No answer.

More creaking, to her left. With difficulty, Clara shifted her gaze. The front doorknob turned. She had locked the door, but now the doorknob was turning.

“Dad?”

Nothing.

Clara put her hands on the banister and pulled herself up step by step. This was like a nightmare. She tried to call for Ham, but nothing came out. The insides of her lips were so dry they stuck together. Finally, at the top, she sat back on her knees and looked down. There was no one there. But there were noises everywhere. And then low voices, thick low male voices.

“There?”

“Nup.”

“Here neither.”

A low male murmur. “Where now?”

“Up.”

Clara wanted to cry out, or fall down and cry. She picked up the hall phone. Dead. She let it drop,
bang
. She looked around.

Down below, it became suddenly still.

Clara opened and closed the door to her room without going in, then dragged herself to the hall closet. She pushed aside the garment bags, began to pull herself up the wooden ladder. She had to take a breath between each rung. Finally at the top, she eased open the trapdoor and hauled herself through. She gasped and sucked for air. She couldn't get enough air. She could hardly keep her eyes open. She closed the trapdoor. She knew she should've pulled the garment bags together to cover the ladder, she'd known it all the time, so why hadn't she done it? Why couldn't she do it now?

It was dark in the attic. The only light came from the streetlight through a single gabled window. Clara thought of hiding among the boxes of Christmas stuff or behind the rack of Halloween costumes but knew she'd be found there. She thought of going to a window, trying to shout out. But what if she couldn't make sounds? Or what if
they
heard her before a neighbor did?

Clara closed her eyes and lay with her ear over the trapdoor. There was nothing to do. Just wait. Wait till they went away. Or wait till they found her.

She heard doors opening and doors closing. There were no voices now. Just footsteps. Footsteps into the bathroom. Into her parents' bedroom. Then into her own bedroom. A long time in her bedroom. Drawers opening but not closing. The little scream the last drawer makes, the drawer with her underthings. Then laughter. Low voices and muffled laughter.

Below, the footsteps grew dimmer. Footsteps on the stairs. Footsteps going away.

Then coming back. Going again slowly, so slowly, room to room. And finally coming to the hall closet. Coming to the hall closet and stopping.

“Hey!”
A low tight whisper.

Heavy footsteps from behind. Them stopping, too.

Clara, on the other side of the trapdoor, couldn't swallow, couldn't speak. She just listened. It seemed like full minutes passed. Finally she heard the hangers move, heard a boot on the first rung.

They'd found her. They were coming up.

Clara stumbled for her hope chest and did a funny thing. She put on Amos's green shirt over her nightgown. She buttoned it all the way up to the throat.

A slow creak from behind her.

Clara turned.

The trapdoor lifted.

First the large one came through, then the small one.