Home Invasion (4 page)

“That's called an assist, right?”

I was thinking about telling him he could assist me by shutting up, when the screen went blank. My first thought was that the picture tube had blown. But then this lady news reporter with wavy black hair suddenly appeared on the screen. At least the TV was

still working. “We regret having to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this news alert,” she said in a tense-sounding voice. “We have breaking news about Montreal's home invader — news we believe our viewers need to know.”

“News we believe our viewers need to know,” I said, imitating the woman's voice. Why couldn't they break the news after the game?

“Shh,” Clay said, without looking at me. “This sounds serious.”

“Montreal Daily News — the city's premier news station — has learned that the home invader struck again two hours ago. Preliminary reports indicate the home invader broke into a home in Monkland Village in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce at about 4:15 PM.”

“Monkland Village,” Clay said, whistling. “This guy's in our neck of the woods now.”

“It is still not clear how the home invader managed to gain entrance into the house, a gray brick bungalow near the corner of Sherbrooke Street West and Madison Avenue,” continued the broadcaster.

You could tell from the glassy look in the reporter's eyes that she was reading off a TelePrompTer. “What is clear,” she added, “is that the home invader ambushed the house's residents—a thirty-four-year-old woman and her six-year-old daughter—tied them up and ransacked the home, stealing a portable computer and DVD player, as well as items of jewelry. The home invader is believed to have escaped on foot.

“Both victims are in hospital, where they are being treated for trauma. But Montreal
Daily News has managed to obtain an interview with a neighbor.”

The neighbor had white hair and a long face like a horse. “I had no idea anything was wrong until the husband came home at around six. We were chatting while he was waiting for his wife to answer the door. He started to get nervous when she didn't come. She always answers the door. In the end, he let himself in. About five minutes later, I heard sirens. He must have phoned the police. They took the woman and the little girl to the hospital. They're nice, quiet people. I don't know why someone would do something like this.” The old guy's face was turning red, and he was starting to sound out of breath. You could tell he wasn't used to talking so much.

I couldn't help shivering when the camera focused on the street where the family lived. I recognized the huge weeping willow tree at the corner. I passed that corner every day on my way to the community center.

The reporter's face popped back on the screen. “Montreal Daily News — the city's premier news station —”

“Don't you wish they'd stop saying that?” I asked Clay.

“— now brings you Professor Andrew Tourneau, a professor of criminology at McGill University. What can you tell us, Professor Tourneau, about the kind of person who'd invade homes? Who'd take pleasure in terrorizing innocent citizens?” continued the reporter.

Professor Tourneau looked exactly as you'd expect a professor to look. He had a big mop of messy hair like Albert Einstein's, wire-rimmed glasses, and he was wearing a tweed blazer. “You have hit the nail on the head, Miss,” he told the reporter. “A home invader is someone who takes pleasure in terrorizing others. The home invader may be motivated partly by greed — after all, he steals computers and stereo equipment and jewelry — but I'd venture to say the home invader gets his real thrills from having power over helpless individuals. From watching them cower in fear.”

“When you say ‘he,'” the reporter interrupted the professor, “are you saying you believe the home invader is a male?”

“Forgive me,” Professor Tourneau said. “I stand corrected. I understand the police have not yet determined the sex of the home invader. However, according to the literature, most home invaders are male.”

“Thank you, Professor Tourneau.” The reporter reached out to shake Tourneau's hand. “Before we end our special broadcast, we have a final guest: Constable Marie Leduc, a police spokesperson. Constable Leduc, I believe you have some tips for our viewers about how to keep the home invader from entering their homes.”

I could tell from the way the police officer was tapping her pen on the table that she was nervous. It had been over a month and the police still hadn't caught the home invader. That didn't exactly make them look good. “Despite the hot weather,” Constable Leduc said, “we are urging Montrealers to keep their windows completely sealed.” I thought about how the Levesques had left their window open, with only the screen to cover it. Then, as if she was reading my mind, Constable Leduc added, “Screens do
not provide sufficient protection. We also recommend that homeowners ensure all doors to their houses are properly locked. We've even heard reports of some individuals accidentally leaving their keys in their locks.”

“Imagine doing something like that,” Clay said.

“People do it all the time,” I told him.

I could feel Clay watching me.

“We're not here to create fear in our viewers, but Madame Leduc, could you tell us what to do should the home invader make his — or her — way into our homes?”

Constable Leduc looked up into the camera. “The main thing we recommend is that you cooperate with the home invader.” She stopped to clear her throat. “The home invader is armed and dangerous.”

“Holy Toledo,” Clay said.

“Holy what?”

“Toledo. It's a city in Ohio. But it was named after an old Spanish city. El Greco painted it.” For a second, I thought Clay had distracted himself by telling me about some old painter and that he'd forgotten all about
the home invader. But then he surprised me by getting back on topic. “You know, Josh,” he said, “we better make sure all the windows are sealed.”

“If you didn't smoke up the kitchen, we wouldn't need to keep opening them.”

Clay ignored my comment. “If the home invader wanted power,” he said, “he should've gone into politics.”

“Maybe he's just curious.”

Clay looked at me. “What do you mean?”

I looked out the window toward the other houses that lined our street. “Maybe he's curious about other people. About what kind of lives they have.”

“How would you know?” Clay asked.

“I wouldn't. Let's watch basketball.”

Only then there were commercials: one for detergent, another for guard dogs. By the time they were over, so was the game.

There were thirty seconds left. It was the fourth quarter and the score was tied at forty-eight. We were playing another camp team from Montreal's East End. They had the ball. Their point guard — a blond guy with wire-rimmed glasses — was dribbling up the court. I watched him eye the clock.

“Isolation!” he yelled, calling a play. All the players on his team rushed to the right side of the court. Which left just him and me
one-on-one. For a split second our eyes met. Then I looked down at his hips; I knew they'd tell me the direction he'd be going in.

Basketball's a bit like poker. Bluffing the other guy is part of the game. When he started dribbling left, I had this feeling he was about to spin right again — and he did. Then he faded away from sixteen feet. It was a beautiful shot.

They were ahead of us by two points now. Six seconds remained on the scoreboard. We still had a chance. A lot can happen in six seconds.

Just then our coach called a twenty-second time-out. “Just focus,” he told us. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and tried to catch my breath. My heart was beating like crazy.

Bobby inbounded the ball to me. I looked up at the clock as I started dribbling up court. Four seconds.

One of the guys on my team was setting a pick on my right side. I crossed left to right, stopping just outside the arc. That left me open for the three-point shot. The shot that would win us the game.

I'd just released the ball from my finger-tips when the buzzer sounded.

“He got it off in time!” I heard our coach's booming voice, though it sounded like it was coming from far away. My eyes were focused on the ball. I watched as it bounced off the left side of the rim, then hit the right.

“Yes!” I whispered under my breath, willing the ball to sink into the net. I could practically hear the swishing sound it would make. The ball rolled once around the rim, then popped out and fell to the ground.

The guys on the other team were high- fiving each other. I wished I could disappear. I felt even worse when a couple of guys on my team slapped my shoulder. Consolation slaps.

What really put me over the edge was when the coach pulled me aside and said, “You did your best, Josh. That's what counts.”

“I can't stand that crap about how doing your best counts more than winning,” I told Bobby on the way home. We'd hardly spoken since we left the community center,
and I was grateful he hadn't mentioned the game. I knew he must've been disappointed too, but at least he wasn't the one responsible for botching things up.

“I know what you mean,” he said quietly.

“Sometimes doing your best just isn't good enough,” I muttered.

Bobby adjusted the strap on his sports bag and then turned to me. “It was a tough shot,” he said.

“Don't go making excuses for me.” I hadn't meant to snap; that was just how it came out.

Bobby shrugged. Which was pretty much where our conversation ended that afternoon.

Sometimes the best time to break into a house is when you're doing something else. I was just walking, thinking about how I didn't feel like going home, and picturing the basketball popping out of the rim and dropping to the ground, when a gruff voice interrupted my thoughts. “Take this!” the voice said.

Next thing I knew, someone was passing me this huge cardboard box. It wasn't like
I had much choice — the box was pressing against my chest — so I took it. Bending a little at the knees, I tried to balance the box in my arms. The thing was so big I could hardly see over it. Plus it was heavy.

Somehow I'd gotten myself in the middle of someone's move. If I'd been paying more attention, I'd have crossed the street when I saw the moving truck. But I'd been too busy replaying the game in my head.

“Come on, move it!” the gruff voice commanded. To my left, I noticed a bald guy with sunburned shoulders carrying a box into a nearby apartment building. I followed him.

The door to the lobby had been propped open. The building smelled like cabbage. I followed the bald guy up the stairs to a corner apartment on the second floor. When he dropped his box on the wood floor and turned around to go back downstairs, I tried to duck behind my box. But he saw me. The weird thing was he didn't seem the least bit surprised. All he did was make a grunting noise, and then he headed back down.

I could've left right then. But I didn't. Instead I slipped behind the closest door. With the rooms empty, except for boxes, it was hard to tell what room I was in. The bedroom, I decided.

“I can't believe this is happening!” someone said. Looking around the edge of the door, I could see a guy walking out of what seemed to be the kitchen — a small, sunny room at the back of the apartment — his arm around a girl's waist. They looked like they were in their early twenties. He was wearing a red bandana; she had long, dark hair that she wore in a braid down her back. It was tied at the bottom with a red ribbon.

“I know,” the girl said in a breathless voice. “Me and you. Our first apartment. I can't believe it either.”

Just my luck, I thought. Bad enough I have to put up with Mom and Clay, but now I've walked in on another pair of lovebirds. I hoped these two weren't about to start making out. After all, the moving guys would be back any minute with more stuff.

“This is so cool,” the guy said. “Our own
place.” Then he leaned in like he was about to kiss her. Luckily the moving guys showed up right then. There were three of them now, but only two were carrying boxes.

“We're all done,” the empty-handed one announced. He was the one who had handed me the box outside. “That'll be two hundred and fifty bucks,” he told the couple.

“You guys were great,” the girl said. “Thanks so much for everything.” She took an envelope from her pocket and handed it to the boss.

The guy shut the door behind the moving men. “Here's to our life together,” he said. He was carrying two plastic bottles of spring water. He gave one to his girlfriend; then they toasted each other. Pretty corny, if you ask me.

“What now?” The girl looked up at her boyfriend. When she giggled, I started getting nervous.

“We unpack,” the guy said. I nearly sighed out loud.

He turned toward the room I was in and reached for the closest box, sliding it over
toward him. I was standing in the doorway, only partially hidden by the door.

Our eyes met. When he looked at me, he didn't seem afraid. Just curious. “What are you doing here, kid?” he asked, getting up from his spot on the floor and opening the door all the way.

I didn't say a thing.

The girlfriend made enough noise for all of us, though. “Call the police!” she shrieked. “It's the home invader!”

The guy was standing so close I could hear him breathing and see the beads of sweat trickling down his neck. “I'm not the home invader,” I said.

“Who are you then?” he asked me.

“I … I was just walking by when the movers handed me a box.” I knew it sounded lame, but it was all I could think of. Besides, it's what happened.

The girl had backed up all the way to the window, and her face, which had turned almost white when she first saw me, was beginning to get its color back. “It's really creepy the way he was watching us, John,” she said, her voice shaking.