The Haunted (18 page)

Closing the front door, his eye was caught by a flash
of white against the dark brown of the floor. He bent down. An envelope had fallen through the mail slot, only there was no stamp on it, no postmark, no return address. The only words written on the front of the envelope were,
The R.J. Detective Agency
.

That was weird. They’d settled on the name only last night, after a long phone conversation in which he’d given in on the name in exchange for Robbie’s agreeing to let James call himself “senior detective” as opposed to Robbie’s regular “detective.” Warily, James opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper on which was written a short note:

Dear Detectives,

I would like to hire you to follow a man named John Lynch. I believe he stole a very expensive bracelet given to me by my mother and have reason to believe he has stolen other items of jewelry from women in the north end of Jardine. If you can prove that he is the thief, I will reward you handsomely.

“This is great!” Robbie said excitedly, reading over his shoulder.

“I don’t think we should do it,” James told him.

“Why not?”

He held up the letter. “Who wrote this? Who’s it from? Why didn’t they sign their name? And why would they hire
us
for something like this? Besides, how did they know the name of our detective agency? In fact, how did this even get here? The mailman didn’t deliver it. He hasn’t even come yet.”

“What are you saying?” Robbie asked, although there was more worry in his voice than defensiveness. He had obviously caught on to the fact that something
was not right about this, and James saw on his face the same look of uneasiness that he’d worn when he first arrived. He might not have seen what James had seen, but he could sense that some of the things that happened in and around this house were not normal.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t take this case. It’s not even a case, really. Some unknown person wants us to follow some guy named John Lynch. We have no real details, and we have no way to even tell the person hiring us what we find. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

“Yeah, it is, kind of.” Robbie was silent for a moment, looking at the paper in James’s hand. He nodded toward it. “Was that there when you were in the house earlier?”

“I don’t think so,” James admitted.

“Do you think someone just put it through your mail slot?”

“I don’t know.”

Robbie was quiet again. “You had your mind made up even before you opened the envelope, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because—” James began, but he stopped.

I will kill you both.

“Call it my detective’s intuition,” he said.

Robbie seemed impressed by that, and they left it there. James folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and the two of them headed upstairs to his bedroom. Megan was in her own room, and the two of them locked eyes for a second as he passed by the open doorway. He was filled with a sense of helplessness. He wanted to tell Robbie what had happened, but couldn’t. Wanted to talk to his parents about it, but was afraid.

What could he do? James wondered, and the only answer he came up with was expressed in a single word.

Nothing.

Pam and her husband, Joe, were the first ones to arrive at the party. Claire greeted them warmly, accepted the expensive bottle of wine they brought, and took them on a quick tour of the house before returning them to the dining room and the food.

“This place is terrific,” Pam told her. “The kitchen is amazing! And I really like the openness. And the high ceilings.”

“Thank you.”

“Even your kids’ rooms look like something out of a magazine.”

Claire laughed. “Well, we made them clean up before packing them off to Grandma’s. Believe me, they don’t usually look like that. Especially James’s room.”

“It is a nice place, though,” Pam said. She punched Claire lightly on the arm. “Now aren’t you glad you did this?”

The doorbell rang.

“Ask me in two hours,” Claire told her.

Julian reached the door before she did and ushered in a pleasant-looking young man who had also brought a bottle of wine and whom Julian introduced as Cole Hubbard, one of their neighbors. It was his turn to give the tour, so Claire graciously accepted the gift and
brought it to the kitchen, while Julian took the man upstairs, no doubt to show off his office.

Julian’s friend Rick was the next to arrive, and Claire forced herself to smile at him as he entered, bringing nothing. Rick was a printer, and Julian had met him years ago when he’d needed some new business cards. The two of them had hit it off for some inexplicable reason, though outwardly they would seem to have nothing in common. Jardine-born and -bred, Rick had never finished high school, let alone gone on to college, and his sole interest appeared to be beer, his favorite brands of which were advertised on the series of grimy, faded T-shirts that made up his wardrobe.

Claire had never liked Rick, and she knew that, as usual, he would end up drinking too much and railing against his ex, who’d moved to Las Cruces over three years ago. Declining to take him around their new house, she pointed him toward the food, and was saved from further conversation by the ringing of the doorbell. It was Julian’s other friend, Patrick, along with his wife, Kathleen. The two of them, both workers at the hospital, were the polar opposite of Rick, and she stood with them in the entryway for a few moments, talking and catching up and apologizing for not having them over sooner. It was getting too crowded to give tours, so she bade them explore to their heart’s content and answered the next ring of the doorbell, which turned out to be her friend Janet.

The floodgates opened after that, and for several minutes she did not even have a chance to close the door between arrivals. They’d decided not to invite family, only friends, and while she’d bristled at that at first, Claire was happy now that Julian had stuck to his guns. It was hard enough dealing with the disparate
personalities of their respective circles without throwing relatives into the mix.

Julian had turned on some music, low and not overpowering—one of Brian Eno’s ambient records, she was pretty sure—and the party seemed to be going well. People were eating and drinking, talking and laughing, her friends from work getting to know the neighbors from her street, and though her natural instinct was to hang out with her closest friends, the ones like Janet whom she’d known forever, she made a concerted effort to mingle. There was a long-haul trucker, she discovered, a retired accountant, a veterinarian, a bank teller, a contractor. It was an eclectic group, their new neighbors, and Claire was glad she and Julian had decided to host this get-together. Two of the couples from down the block were just as unfamiliar with their other neighbors as she and Julian were, and they made a special effort to let the two of them know what a great idea this was and how much fun they were having.

After spending a few moments talking to Patrick and Kathleen about recent cutbacks at the hospital and an unseasonal uptick in flu cases, Claire excused herself and maneuvered her way into the dining room to refresh her drink and grab a handful of chips. She practically bumped heads with Julian, who had arrived at the table to snag a couple of taquitos.

“It’s going well,” she said.

He motioned toward the table. “Do you think we have enough food?”

“We have enough drinks. So if we run out of food, it’s your job to make sure everyone’s drunk enough that they don’t notice.”

He smiled. “Deal.”

In the kitchen, Rick and Cole were arguing politics.
Loudly. Claire hadn’t noticed before, but now their voices were carrying. She nudged Julian, nodding toward the open doorway.

“It’s those damn pensions,” Rick was saying. “Public employee unions have taken this nation hostage. Our tax dollars are going to pay off the retirement of those bureaucrats.”

Cole shook his head. “Your dollars are going to pay off
everyone’s
retirement. Oil company CEOs? That’s where those extra pennies you pay at the pump go. Computer company pensions? That’s why you’re paying a hundred bucks for a word-processing program that cost fifty cents to mass-produce in China. You know, instead of pissing and moaning about how other people have it better than you and how their retirement systems should be as bad as yours, why don’t you insist that your retirement be as
good
as theirs? Instead of trying to drag everyone else
down
to your level, try to push yourself
up
to their level.”

“Don’t give me that commie crap.”

“Do you want to know why we’re really on the hook for those pensions? Because the stock market went south, and brokerage firms pawned off toxic assets to pension fund managers, promising that they were good investments, and everyone got screwed. The pension funds lost their money due to fraud and deception, and now taxpayers are on the hook for it. That’s why those executives and Wall Street types are so rich. They just take the money and let everyone else fight over the crumbs.”

“Good point,” Julian whispered.

“And, of course,” Cole continued, “they want to eliminate retirement systems and Social Security and have
everyone
gamble their retirement money on the stock
market—which is exactly what got us into this mess in the first place.”

Rick’s face was getting red with anger. Sensing trouble, Claire dispatched Julian to defuse the situation. “Your friend,” she said. “You take care of him.”

She watched with more than a little admiration as he did just that, walking between the two men and deftly changing the subject to a mash-up YouTube video he’d recently seen featuring John Wayne, a supermodel and a condom ad. Seconds later, all three of them were laughing.

But the mood of the party seemed to have shifted, and Claire was not quite sure why. She turned back toward the living room. The light, friendly tone that had dominated the gathering until now was gone, replaced by an edgier, more competitive vibe. Even the background music seemed darker, although she knew that Julian had not changed CDs.

Refilling her wineglass for the umpteenth time, Felicia, the bank teller, asked about the upstairs—perfunctorily, Claire thought—and, putting a smile on her face, Claire took her up to see the kids’ bedrooms and Julian’s office. An older man she didn’t know was standing in James’s room, staring intently at the boy’s bed in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable. She wanted to order him out of her son’s room
and
out of her house, but she forced herself to be polite and give the guy the benefit of the doubt, and she asked pointedly, “May I help you?”

“No,” he said in a voice that implied he was offended by her very presence. He turned and, without another word, walked past her and Felicia, out of the room, down the hall and down the stairs.

“What the hell … ?” Claire said.

Felicia shrugged noncommittally, and Claire quickly pointed to and identified each of the rooms before ushering the other woman back downstairs.

She searched for the man unsuccessfully in the hall, dining room and living room. The front door was wide-open, and she peered outside before closing it, seeing the back of the man’s jacket as he headed down the sidewalk. Who was he? she wondered. Was he one of their neighbors? Had he even been invited to the party or had he just crashed? She considered hurrying after him, confronting him, but he was already gone and it was night, and the idea of meeting up with him in the dark frightened her.

She closed the door, locking it so no one from outside could come in.

Claire looked for Julian, but he was nowhere to be found. In fact, much of the party had moved outside, to the backyard, and she walked through the kitchen and out the open door to the patio, hoping to find him somewhere in the crowd. Quite a few people were out here, but most of them were standing around silently or speaking desultorily in low, enervated voices. One man she didn’t recognize was sitting on the ground, head between his knees as though he were about to throw up, atop the bare mound of dirt where James had covered up his hole. In the garage, by contrast, the lights were on, and through the dirty window she saw a couple energetically dancing, though the music from the house was not audible out here. From the alley, she could hear the sound of someone rooting around in their garbage cans.

“Julian!” she called out, but there was no answer. None of the people in the backyard even bothered to look over at her.

Where was he?

Claire was about to walk over to the garage, just in
case he was in there with the dancers, when a tap on the shoulder caused her to turn around.

It was Janet.

“Do you know what’s going on in there?” Janet motioned toward the kitchen doorway.

Claire was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Come here,” her friend said, grabbing her hand. Janet led her back into the house and through the kitchen, stopping before the open doorway that led to the basement. From downstairs came a series of rough male grunts accompanied by a woman’s high-pitched cries.

“I don’t know who they are, but it’s been going on for a while,” Janet whispered. “That guy
lasts
,” she added. “I’m getting sore just listening to him.”

“That is not right,” Claire said angrily. “That’s where we store our stuff. The kids’
toys
are down there.” The lights in the basement were off, but she turned them on with the wall switch, and, fists clenched, stomped down the steps.

It was Pam. And her husband, Joe.

Only they weren’t together.

She
was on top of a box, skirt hiked up, panties down, using one of Megan’s old Barbies to pleasure herself, inserting the doll’s head, then pulling it out, inserting it again, pulling it out. Much of the doll’s hair had been worn away, and its clothes were ragged, torn. The flesh-colored plastic looked shiny in the overhead light.

He
had pushed aside some stuffed Hefty bags and cardboard boxes and cleared a space in the corner (
the corner!
), where he was standing with his pants and underwear around his ankles, grunting loudly as he thrust into what appeared to be a Christmas decoration.