Darkborn (40 page)

Will smiled at her. At least, he thought it was a smile.

“I — er — I had things to do.” He looked back to Sharon, but his oldest was already clomping up the stairs.

Away from me.

Away from the crazy man.

“How — how was school?” Will asked, taking a step toward Beth. But her snaggle-toothed smile was gone, and she backed up, and — Christ — I need a shower. Something to bum away, wash away, the church smell, the incense, the feelings —

Then Becca came out.

Looking as if she already knew some very bad news.

Becca watched him eat. Will felt her eyes follow the movement of his fork as he speared stringy bits of beef Stroganoff and then brought the food up to his mouth. He dabbed at his lips. Wanting to appear tidy while under such close scrutiny.

He didn’t tell her the truth.

Not even close.

“I got tied up at work,” he said between bites. “A big drug-trafficking case —” He nodded to her. “Big for Westchester, that is. Sorry …”

He went on eating, feeling Becca’s eyes studying him.

“What about your friends?” she asked slowly, as if afraid to bring the subject up. “What’s his name? Kiff?”

Will shook his head. “I don’t know. Strange stuff, eh? Pretty strange.” Another forkful of noodles and beef.

Then he quoted a bumper sticker. “Life’s a bitch.”

“You look like shit,” she said.

“Thanks.” He smiled. “I feel about that good too.”

His fork scraped noisily against the plate. He looked up to see Becca chew at her lower lip, the telltale sign of worrying. A dead giveaway.

“You should get to bed. Early,” she said.

Will shook his head, his mouth full.

“Can’t,” he said finally. “I can’t .
 
.
 
. because …”

But she saw this coming, Will knew. All along, saw it coming.

“There’s someone coming here tonight,” he said. He couldn’t make his mouth smile, too afraid of the sick, comical cast it would take.

“Thanks for telling me. Do you mind telling me who?”

Will nodded. He had practiced the fabrication in the car, saying it out loud to hear how it sounded, to see if it was the kind of lie that would encourage immediate disbelief.

“An old teacher of mine, from St. Jerome’s.” He cavalierly speared some food. “Going through some bad times. A divorce —”

“How old is he?” Becca asked, with an explosive laugh.

Will smiled back. “A young lady is taking him to the cleaner’s. I told him I’d help him get the ball rolling. Protect his savings account.” Will gestured with the fork. “That kind of thing.”

“
And
stay here?”

Will nodded.

“Just for a night or two. That’s all.”

Becca pushed her chair back and stood up. “Well, as I said, thanks for telling me. How long do I have to get the guest room presentable before — what’s his name?”

Will told her Dr. James’s real name.

James had said it wouldn’t matter. Not after it was all over.

“Okay, when is he coming?”

Will looked up. Becca wasn’t too happy. She didn’t like surprises, didn’t like people drifting into her house, unsettling it like a huge stone plopping into a still lake.

“Late,” Will said. “Very late. I’ll wait up for him.”

Becca walked away, shaking her head. And on the way out she passed Sharon, who had returned with her math book.

Sharon stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. She was a lean, sharp-eyed kid.

“Dad,” she said.

Will listened to the word. Cherished it.

He turned to Sharon, still leaning against the entrance, tentative. “Dad, do you know anything about finding hypot — hypothen —”

“Hypotenuses?”

Sharon snapped her fingers and said, “Yeah. That’s it. Well, do you?”

Will squinted and made his eyes look up to the heavens. “I did once .
 
.
 
. a long time ago. But I doubt that it’s anything I can’t pick up again.” He stuck out his hand. “Here, let me take a look.” Sharon stepped forward, holding out her math book. “It’s like riding a bike. Something you never forget,” he said.

Which, Will discovered, wasn’t at all true.

And for a little while, he was lost to a quiet moment with Sharon and the wonders of elementary geometry …

* * *

Will flicked from the play-off game to the news, and back again. With a 5-1 score, it looked as if the Giants would tie up the series tonight. Then it would be three games each. Tomorrow night’s game would be interesting.

The news wasn’t on yet. He caught a bit of a sitcom, something about two guys living together with a teenage daughter — gimme a break.

Will waited for the news.

He heard Becca leave the bathroom and walk down the stairs, halfway, toweling her hair as if it were teeming with lice.

“Still not here?” she said.

Will shook his head. “No. He will be.”

“Show him where I put the towels,” she said.

“Sure.”

“And make sure you lock all the doors.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No, you don’t.”

“I will,” he said.

The sitcom ended.

“Good night,” Becca said.

“Good night,” Will said, turning to her quickly, and Becca disappeared upstairs.

Hard to look at her, he thought. She always was hard to lie to .
 
.
 
.

Jangling theme music. A lightning bolt, and then a bright-eyed news team came onto the screen.

He listened to the first story. A three-story tenement caught fire and killed everyone living inside it. A half dozen families, kids, old people. Neighbors were interviewed, talking inchoately about the smell of the smoke, the other smells. And how nice the people were. A shot of a sea of black faces standing ,around the building, wondering when it would be their turn to be caught in some ghetto inferno.

Then the world news. Footage of marchers in Estonia, celebrating its government’s decision to seek admittance to NATO and alliance with the West.

There were also clips from an anti-Semitic demonstration in an Estonian city. And the Soviets were threatening military force to keep Estonia “independent.”

The bright-eyed news team cut to another local story.

A press conference about the budget. And the mayor is asked about progress in tracking down the slasher .
 
.
 
. the ripper .
 
.
 
. the madman.

Each reporter uses his own pet name for the killer.

The mayor looks annoyed. But then — looking as if he felt the cameras were guns aimed at him — he says something reassuring. Bland.

The mayor says the police are following up numerous leads, investigating
every
possibility. And patrols have been doubled, even tripled in target areas in the city.

Will sees a few beads of sweat bloom on the man’s brow.

Doesn’t have a fucking clue, Will thought.

Another question — from good old Gabe Pressman, as annoyingly feisty as ever.

Are the police ready to ask for outside help .
 
.
 
. ready to admit that they have no leads?

The mayor stops Gabe.

And says no comment.

Then it’s back to the Newscenter team, all hyped up and excited about the Giants tying the play-offs and yes, coming up, there’s some cold weather in Big’ Al’s five-day forecast.

So stay tuned.

But Will shut the TV off. To listen to the quiet streets outside, the safe streets. Listening for the sound of James’s car.

But it was too early. Way too early.

The night is young. And he turned the TV back on.

Every car that roared up the block, even the improbable ones that sported souped-up engines and drop-dead mufflers, got Will to his feet. But he was left looking out at the deserted street, the dark side of Our Town, all shadows and maple trees heavy with leaves aching to join the frolic on the windy streets below.

His hand touched the cold glass.

And then Will would walk back to his chair and dredge up another fifties sitcom from late night TV — still actually funny almost forty years later — while he kept his vigil.

Until he heard a car that didn’t thunder and roar up the street.

No, this one slowed as it came near the house, slower, and Will imagined someone trying to read the house numbers, always so well hidden. Slower, slower, and then stopped. Right there, right outside.

Will didn’t get up this time.

Not until he heard the car door slam, heard the footsteps right outside the door.

He opened the door before James had a chance to ring the bell.

A sound that Will feared would wake up everyone in the house, everyone in the sleepy neighborhood.

Will opened the door and threw the light on.

And what he saw scared him.

James pushed his way into the house.

“Wh — what time is it?” he said, looking around for a clock.

Will looked at the VCR.

“Two-fifteen,” Will said. His own voice sounded dry and thin. It came from another galaxy. I’m groggy, just the way I felt in college after staying up all night trying to crack the wonders of calculus. Or playing Monopoly till dawn, greeting the breadman when he showed up at the frat house.

James looked at Will. He grabbed Will’s hands and Will felt how cold James was. The leathery skin felt cold and dead. “Do you have something warm I could drink?” James sniffed.

Will knew that James had been outside a long time.

Then James looked around, at the stairs, leading to Becca, the girls.

I’m crazy, Will thought. Crazy to let this man inside my house.

But James — as if sensing Will’s doubts — gave his hands a squeeze. “And someplace to talk, someplace where we won’t wake your family.”

And Will nodded.

Will put the teacup into the microwave and zapped it for three minutes.

“I saw him,” James said.

The microwave hummed behind Will.

“You know it was him?”

James nodded, rubbing his hands together, fighting the chill.

“Yes. I mean, I’ve seen his pictures. I’ve seen Timothy Hanna in the newspaper. He came out of his building and —”

The microwave beeped.

Will opened it and removed the cup of Lemon Zinger.

“Honey .
 
.
 
. sugar?” Will asked.

James shook the question away. He took the cup from Will and wrapped his hands around it.

“I saw him and” — James looked up at Will —”he didn’t see me.” His eyes looked away again. “I was right. He didn’t sense me. Not if he wasn’t looking.” James grinned. “I could follow him.”

Will sat down in a chair facing James, watched him.

“It was Tim Hanna,” Will said. “You’re absolutely sure?”

James nodded. “Yes, he came out of his building as if he was just going to the comer for a newspaper. For a little walk. I saw him say something to his doorman. I thought he might look down the block and see me.” James grinned, a crazy man, thrilled with his wonderful phantasm.

Why is he here? Will thought. How did this happen? How did it happen that
this
man is here, and I’m listening to him, just because — because —

Two old friends are dead.

Bought the farm.

In a real nasty way.

And I’m scared.

God, I’m scared.

Watch the clown with the hooks. Oh, watch them …

“I watched him. I stayed in the shadows of the buildings.” James grinned again. “I thought the police would get me, find me, but I followed him. He couldn’t sense me, you see. I’m nothing special to him. Nothing at all. So I could follow him, watch —”

Will nodded.

Another car went down the street, tires screeching, sneering at the peace of the neighborhood.

“I watched him.” James nodded. “I watched him kill.”

James paused. James’s face twisted, disgusted, with something unspeakable.

Will looked away. “Oh, Jesus.” Then back to James. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

James sipped the tea. It had to be scalding hot but James sipped at it, his two hands wrapped around the cup, cherishing it.