Ear-Witness (6 page)

“Yeah, I said. “We just tell each other.” I was trying not to grin, but my face wouldn't cooperate.

“You two!” Raffi said. “What's a guy to do? OK, here we go.”

One of the things Raffi does, one of his talents, is acting. When he moved to stand in the doorway, it was hard to believe I wasn't watching a short girl, instead of a tall man.

“You're down in her apartment, Jess,” he said. “Sort of circulating around the room. You know, looking at things, checking them out?” Shoulders hunched, his head lowered between them, he prowled around the living room. “Tammi?” he said, his voice high like a woman's, “Tammi?”

Then he switched to his own deep tone. “You sure you won't be mad at me now?”

Mom was smiling, but I was serious. I really wanted to know what he'd say. “I won't be mad, I promise. Cross my heart.”

He nodded. “Tammi?” he said, in his gravelly high squeak. “Not to worry, Tammi. You'll find another guy real soon. Easy come, easy go.”

“Yetch!” Mom yelled. “Raffi, that's gross! That's disgusting!”

Raffi held his hand up, as if he was stopping traffic. “Not done yet,” he said. He bent to look under the table, then tipped a chair up to examine the seat. “Tammi?” he said. “Is this it? Is this where Ray croaked? Is this...” He lowered his voice a little, pretending to be horrified. “Is this ... dried blood?”

Mom made gagging sounds in her throat, as if she was trying not to throw up. “You are too much Raffi,” she said. “Too much. Twisted, that's what you are.”

Raffi nodded. “And insensitive,” he said. “And offensive. That's what I was. Believe me Jess, you've got nothing to worry about. You couldn't say anything that bad if I wrote you a script.”

I grinned. “You're right,” I said. “I couldn't. I feel pretty weird about babysitting down there, though. Do you think I should go?”

“It's up to you,” Mom said. “I don't feel strongly one way or the other. You may feel a bit spooked, but there can't be any danger. I mean, Tammi was right there and the murderer didn't touch her. Just let her know, Jess.”

“She'll talk me into it, I know she will. I mean, what can I say? I
don't want to come, Tammi
. I'm
too chicken?”

Mom thought for a minute. “Why don't you ask Flavia to go with you?” she said.

I practised what I was going to say to Tammi all the way down the stairs. Then I knocked. Maybe she wouldn't be there. Maybe I'd be lucky.

“Hi,” she said.

She could have been Tammi's big sister, or her aunt, or even her mother, but I knew she wasn't. She was Tammi, ghostly pale, tired, and a whole lot older. Her clothes were different too; black tailored slacks, and a baggy turtle-neck, also black. No more dangling earrings, no short skirt, no fancy tights and, the biggest surprise of all, no scoop-necked, body-hugging sweater. Even her hair had changed. It was still orange with dark roots, but it didn't stick out all over her head any more. It was pulled back, in some kind of a twist, sort of like Mom's.

“You look so different!” I gasped. Then I remembered my manners. “Uh, Tammi, I'm ...”

“Do I look all right?” she said, spreading her arms to give me a better view. “I'm a widow, after all. Gotta dress the part.” Without waiting for an answer, she pointed to a spot on the floor where there used to be a rug. “There,” she said. “He was killed right there. In case you're wondering, and like, don't wanna ask. Anyhow I thought I'd go to bingo tonight, just to get out, you know? Tongues will wag, probably, it being so soon and all. Like I'm looking for another guy? But I'm not, so I don't care. If I don't get away from that kid for a couple of hours I'll go positively squirrelly. It's like she knows, or something. Just never stops fussing.”

A surprisingly loud yowl echoed down the hall. “Speaking of which,” Tammi said. “Comin, love,” she yelled. “Just hold onto your diaper! Thanks, Jess. Quarter to seven, OK? S'cuse me.”

The door closed quietly but firmly in my face. Mom was right. I didn't need to worry about what to say.

“This is one crabby baby,” I said.

Brianna, a tiny redhead with pale skin and big blue eyes, was propped on the couch beside me. Flavia, who was crouched on the floor in front of us, played peek-under-a-blanket. I wiggled a Minnie Mouse doll so it danced on my lap, but nothing worked. When Brianna's lower lip began to wobble, I picked her up.

“She's tired,” I said. “Let's put her to bed.”

We checked her diaper on the changing table, then I carried her over to the crib. For somebody so young, Brianna's pretty smart. The minute she saw that bed, she started to shriek. I hesitated and looked at Flavia, who made a stern face and pointed to the mattress. Brianna clutched at my hair and shrieked even louder. I pried her little hands away and put her down.

“Maybe she'll stop when we leave the room,” Flavia said.

Back in the living room, I sat stiffly on the edge of the couch while Brianna screamed hysterically. After about two minutes I went back into the bedroom and picked her up. She sighed, whimpered a little, then hiccuped; her face was pink and triumphant. Tears glistened in her eyelashes as I carried her into the kitchen, where I warmed a bottle of milk.

The TV program we were watching was a rerun of some violent cop show which was totally nauseating, but it gave us something to talk about. Not that Flavia is hard to talk to, she isn't. I was the problem. All I could think about was Sheena's question. If I didn't ask it, I'd feel like I'd let Sheena down. If I did ask it, I'd feel bad about that, like I was spying on the Lopezes. So I cheated. I told the truth.

“You remember Sheena, that cop that was here?” I said.

“The one we met?” Flavia asked.

“Yeah. Well, she wanted me to ask you something about the night of the murder.”

Flavia took the nipple out of Brianna's mouth and adjusted the top of the bottle. “The milk's coming out too fast,” she said. “She'll get gas.”

“You could burp her,” I said. “Well, anyway, Sheena can't figure out how come no one in your family heard anything. Especially after I told her how big a fight there was.”

Flavia kept on fiddling with the suction in the bottle. Brianna was sound asleep.

“So she kind of suspects that somebody isn't telling the truth,” I said. “Either me, or your whole family.”

For several long seconds Flavia didn't answer. Then she sighed. “It's my parents,” she said. “They had bad experiences with the police in our country. They were not ... worthy of our trust. So my father is not happy to have us talk to the police here, even though everyone tells us they are not the same at all.”

“But you heard something?”

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice was almost cross.

“You heard what I heard?”

“Jess. Do not do this to me. Please. My father has forbidden us to speak.”

It was my turn to sigh. “I'm sorry,” I said. “It's just...

“Oh no!” Flavia said.

“What happened to the lights?” My voice sounded funny, even to me. Total darkness, sudden total darkness, can come as a nasty surprise. The kind of surprise you get when you see a beady-eyed rat behind the garbage can, or a snake slithering across your path.

I don't like the dark. I never have. When I turned thirteen, I was too ashamed to have a babysitter when Mom worked at night, so she got me a flashlight and an extension phone for my room. And I always, always, leave the hall light on. It wasn't really the dark I was afraid of, it was the shadows, and what my imagination made of them. Stuffed animals, cuddly and harmless in the light, became raging beasts, addicted to human flesh. A sweater and a belt hanging in my closet turned into an evil strangler waiting to make his move.

Now I was the babysitter myself. No flashlight, no hall light, and even if I could see the numbers on the phone, I wouldn't know who
to call. Cautiously, I felt my way across the room to the window and looked out. “That's weird,” I said. “The power is still on across the street, and on both sides of us.” I skirted the TV and the table and made my way to the door to the stairs. I opened it, then quickly shut it again. There wasn't a glimmer of light anywhere.

Flavia hadn't spoken since the power went off, but a big burp echoed across the room, followed by a soft laugh. “That was Brianna, not me,” she whispered.

“Shh, listen,” I said, “I hear something. Someone's knocking at the back door. Maybe it's Tammi.”

The three apartments, one on top of each other, are almost identical. Shot-gun apartments, Mom calls them, because if you fired a bullet from one end to the other, it would pass through all the rooms. There are doors, with windows in them, leading from the back bedrooms out onto porches. Wooden stairs connect the porches together, running from the top floor where Mom and I live, to Tammi's in the middle, past the Orellanas' on the ground floor, down to the back yard.

“Why would Tammi come up the back way?” Flavia asked.

“If she forgot her key...”

“She could buzz us.”

“Not when there's no power,” I said. “But it's too early, she wouldn't be back yet.”

“I know,” Flavia said. “It is Carlos. Our mother has sent him to rescue us. I will go.” She handed Brianna over. “Here, her head is here. She is asleep.”

I snuggled the baby's soft sweetness and wondered why Carlos would come up the back way, but I couldn't think of a reason. Flavia's footsteps moved quickly down the hall, as if she knew exactly where she was going.

The crashing sound, bones against wood, was the same noise I heard the night Ray was killed, exactly the same. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to call out to Flavia, to ask if she was OK. But if I did that, I'd wake Brianna, who was crabby enough in the light. So I clutched her into my shoulder and shuffle-walked across the living room towards the entrance to the hall. I stood there, listening. It took me a minute to figure out what had happened. The three apartments have one major difference. The top two, ours and Tammi's, have steps leading down into the back bedroom. Flavia wouldn't know this, because the ground floor, theirs, is all on one level.

I moved slowly down the hall, counting doorways and listening for sounds. When I reached Brianna's room, I felt my way along the wall to the crib, gently lowered her into it, and pulled up the railing. Out in the hall again, I called Flavia. “Where are you? Are you hurt?” I said. I stepped carefully down the three steps into the bedroom. When she put her hand on my arm, I jumped. “Ah!” I said.

“Shush,” she whispered.

“I thought you were dead!” I said.

“I almost broke my bottom. There are stairs! But look. Someone is there, at the window in the door. Who is it?”

A head was silhouetted against the light of the city. As we watched, a hand tapped on the glass, one finger at a time.

“It's not Tammi,” I said. “It's too big for her. Who do we know who wears a ball cap?”

“It is not Carlos either. He is shorter than I am. What should we do?”

My heart pounded noisily, and my mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. “Maybe it's the murderer, come back to get Tammi,” I said.

The head disappeared, then something hard whacked against the glass, which cracked, but stayed in the window. We watched, hypnotized, as the hand, now wrapped in something bulky, pushed its way through. Pieces of glass clattered and tinkled to the bedroom floor. The hand, followed by an arm, inched slowly through the opening towards the bolt on the door.

My body had turned to stone; Flavia had to pull and push me up the steps. “Move!” she hissed. “We have to leave! Fast!”

We stumbled down the hall to the front door, where I stopped dead. “The baby!” I said. “I can't leave! My mother would kill me!”

Flavia shoved me aside. “Then hide,” she said. “I will bring Carlos.”

A four-month-old baby, asleep, isn't much company when you're terrified. When the screen door in the back bedroom slammed shut and I knew the man was in the apartment, I almost followed Flavia down the front stairs, but I couldn't do it, even though I wanted to more than I've ever wanted to do anything. Instead, I moved quietly back down the hall, counting doors again. Coat closet. Linen closet. Bathroom, the room I needed the most. Baby's room.

I heard him now. Footsteps. There was a light too, a flashlight. So much for hiding. The beam flickered around the back bedroom, then down the hall. Shadows, like birds, fluttered towards me. I tip
toed into the baby's room, and pushed my hands through the slats of the crib, in and out, moving further and further up the mattress. At last, I felt a foot, a tiny foot. She was lying crosswise, at the very top of the bed. I ran my hand up her leg to her warm, gently breathing body and pulled her across the sheet towards me. As I bent over the top of the railing, it dug painfully into my middle. Brianna murmured when I picked her up.