The People Next Door (26 page)

Cass’s smile had been shrinking during this turn in the conversation. She looked unprepared, hurt.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cass said, sniffing. ‘I thought we were friends, but perhaps I’ve assumed too much.’

‘And I appreciate that,’ Amy said. ‘I really do. But I
just … there’s so much I don’t understand about you. You never talk about yourself. It’s always me, my problems, Mick and
me. I’m not used to this kind of attention.’

Cass was staring off across the parking lot. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘See, now I feel like I’m prying,’ Amy said. ‘That’s not my—’

‘Wake up.’ Cass’s eyes had gone cold, glossy and dark.

‘I don’t—’

‘Stop living your life in a dream and face the truth.’

‘Okay. I’m not sure I understand that.’

‘Deal with your husband,’ Cass said. ‘Get him in line. Bring him and the kids to the barbecue Saturday. Vince will explain
everything. And stop being such a baby, Amy. You
know
. Deep down, you know what’s coming. This will help you. Our … my husband is going to change your life. The least you can
do is show some gratitude.’

Amy stared at her friend, their eyes locked in a kind of symbiotic feeding. Amy had the strangest feeling that Cass was thriving
on her, literally drawing energy from her like a dead car battery connected with jumper cables. Since her first timid appearance
on the patio, the woman had gained strength, blossomed, taken on a … power. Amy could think of nothing to compare it to, but
she didn’t think the woman was entirely real in the most basic human way that word implied. Or rather, she was real, but also
something else. She was feeding on Amy, driving her toward bad things, in the manner of what
Amy’s mother might have called, in her Sunday school fervor, a demon.

Cass said, ‘You understand what is at stake now.’

Amy looked away, unable to meet the woman’s eyes another second.

‘Some day our house, our fortune, everything that is keeping us secure will be yours. But it doesn’t come free. Vince and
I will help, but you have to do your part, Amy. Starting with Mick and the children.’

Amy was scared now. She did not know what she was agreeing to, but something deep inside her wanted to agree, wanted to find
out what was coming, where it would lead them. She felt like crying again, then realized she was crying.

‘I have to go home and talk to Mick,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Cass said. ‘He needs to know you’re committed to your future. He needs to be reminded what’s at stake. If you come
to us, there will be no more nightmares. Briela’s tantrums will cease. Kyle will no longer be ostracized. Mick will be strong
again and your family will be at peace for all your remaining days.’

‘I know.’

Cass took her by the chin. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’ And she did not know how or why or in what, but in that moment, Amy believed.

Cass released her and walked to her black Range Rover. Amy drove home feeling that something inside of her had changed, that
a portion of her soul had just been cut away and bartered. She didn’t know what for, only that it was bigger than all of them.

At the same time that Amy was leaving Whole Foods, Mick was sitting in his truck two blocks from his accountant’s house, waiting
– hoping against all logic – for the thief to come home. But after spending three hours staking out his quarry in its native
habitat, there had been no sign of Sapphire’s powder blue Lexus. Neither Eugene’s nor his wife Virginia’s car (a white Mercedes
wagon, as of their annual Christmas party two years ago) were in the driveway. This road was the only way out of the neighborhood.
Which meant that the couple were out of town or the cars were in the garage and they were in the house.

Every instinct told him that his intuition – the vision he had experienced when Sapphire clapped him on the shoulder – was
correct. The accountant was Mick’s embezzler. Render had confirmed as much and the evidence was sitting in Mick’s crawl space.
The question now was, what had Render done to get the money back? And if Sapphire had not given it back without a fight, if
Render had done something to Sapphire similar to what he had done to the hooligans Saturday night, what was Mick prepared
to do about it?

He could go to the police, call Terry Fielding and report that his new neighbor was blackmailing him, dragging him into some
violent scheme for God knows what purpose. But he would only be opening himself to more questions, bringing to light his role
in the parking lot assault-turned-massacre. It was self-defense, at least on Mick’s part, but as Render had pointed out, Mick’s
fingerprints were on the bat. And where was the bat, anyway? Did that warning mean Render was keeping it in case Mick turned
on him? The man had not seemed worried enough about Mick running to the police to even bother with such measures.

More importantly, if something had happened to the accountant, Mick needed to know what it was before he went to the authorities.
After all, the motive – some three hundred thousand dollars in stolen funds – pointed directly to Mick Nash, struggling business
owner.

Finally, not knowing was worse than knowing. Mick started the engine and drove around the block slowly, whistling to himself.
He turned onto Pine Knoll Lane, then into the driveway and parked in the roundabout, beside a berm of Virginia’s annuals.
They were wilting, the flower bed bone dry and cracked in geometric shapes like salt flats. It had rained a few nights ago,
but the Colorado sun was relentless. Maybe they hadn’t been home for a while, or weren’t feeling well enough to do their watering
chores. Maybe, but probably not. He exited the truck.

The Sapphire residence looked like a brick castle that had been stepped on, pushing the wings out in a wide
single-story chain of rooms and long hallways that was absurdly spacious for a couple nearing retirement. The lights were
off. He walked calmly up the six concrete porch steps, glancing around at the neighboring homes. The lots were an acre or
more, with good privacy, and it was dark. He doubted anyone was watching him or could see anything beyond the general shape
of his truck. No children on their bicycles passed, no couples were out pushing a stroller or walking the dog. Even though
he had damn good cause to be here, Mick felt like a burglar casing the house. He reminded himself that, whatever they had
done, these people were old. They were either guilty or not guilty, but it wasn’t going to turn into a shoot-out. Stealth
was not a priority.

Mick pounded oak with the underside of his fist. He repeated the knocking in hard cycles, growing impatient. He rang the bell
again and again. He walked around the side of the house and peered through the garage windows. Sapphire’s Lexus and Ginny’s
white Benz were sitting there in the dark. They had to be here. He felt it in the pit of his stomach.

Virginia had been going a little batty the past few years and Mick knew that her husband feared she was sliding into early
senility. The accountant had a nose for details, saved (and stole) and invested wisely. He was the kind of man who never forgets
his keys but wants to be sure there’s a spare handy, especially if his wife had a habit of locking herself out of the house.

Mick searched under the doormat, in the milk box, checked for loose bricks along the window sill. No key.
He looked for any carefully placed flat rocks in the garden area, kicked over a clay toad. He was about to give up when his
eyes landed on the drainpipe running from one of the eaves, elbowing onto the lawn. Mick’s own father had used a magnetic
box to hide his spare key under the bumper of his Scout, and the drainpipe was the perfect location for the same rig. He ran
his palm along the underside of the pipe and stubbed his thumb on something that slid but did not fall off. He pried the small
box off, popped the plastic lid, and a brass Kwikset KW-1 fell into his palm.

The key fit both the knob and the deadbolt, and the door opened. He found it hard to believe Sapphire, or anyone with a house
like this, would not have an alarm – but none sounded. He searched the foyer wall anyway and found a flat black box with a
green LCD readout of today’s date and time, but no other blinking lights. He did not think the alarm was activated and he
guessed it didn’t much matter now.

‘Hello? Sapphire? Hello? Virginia? Anybody home?’

No one answered. Mick shut the door and flicked on a few of the deeper interior lights. A hall, the kitchen. He made a quick
circuit of the central rooms, including an atrium at the center of the house with a glass roof and sunken hot tub surrounded
by ferns and ceramic lizards and parrots, then headed down the east hall, poking his head into two guest rooms, a small reading
room, Sapphire’s office, two bathrooms, and the garage again. The center and east wing of the house were empty.

In the western wing, he flipped on the hall light and
searched two more bedrooms, a sewing and crafts workspace Virginia had set up, a large guest bathroom, another small computer
room, and three closets. All were empty.

All that remained was the master suite at the far end. Mick remembered touring it during one of the holiday parties, the knotted
pine four-poster bed and other cabin-style furniture, the jacuzzi tub and dual shower, Virginia’s exercise bike and the flatscreen
mounted above the gas fireplace. But he couldn’t see any of that now because the door was closed.

He stopped just outside the door and listened. The air conditioning was not on and it had to be over eighty-five degrees inside,
the house pregnant with the day’s heat, and yet Mick was chilled by the silence.

Well, they were either not here, sleeping, or dead. He had come this far and he had to know. Mick rubbed an arm over his face,
shook his fingers loose, took the knob in hand, and stepped inside.

Orange curtains spread free of their matching sashes tinted the room with muted flames of streetlight. The scents of lilac
and chemically cleaned carpet enveloped him. His eyes went immediately to the bed, which had been made, with the sheets turned
back over the duvet.

Eugene and Virginia were lying on their backs, holding hands on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling. Dressed in everyday
weekend wear, shorts and oxford shirts with the cuffs rolled up, feet bare. Even in the dim room he could see that the bedding
was clean, free of blood. He walked to the accountant’s side, turned on the
bedside lamp, and looked down into the open eyes. Both Eugene and Virginia’s were filmed over with a whiteness that seemed
closer to dry cotton than fluid. Their death faces offered no expression, only that of peaceful rest. Eugene’s mouth was closed,
but Virginia’s lips were parted, enough for Mick to see the small pink tip of her tongue pressed against her yellowing front
teeth. He stared at the bosom. He stared at Eugene’s rib cage beneath the shirt, their nostrils, but nothing moved.

There were no bruises around the neck, no staved-in skulls. Neither body was locked in a state of heart-clutching anguish,
the paralyzed frenzy of stroke. It was if they had lain down together, hand in hand, knowing it was coming for them and had
accepted their fate, perhaps even welcomed it together. The punch had been drunk, the pill swallowed, but in the name of what
cult? What cause? There wasn’t an explanation that made any kind of sense.

Mick turned away from the bed and walked into the attached master bath, bumping his left shoulder on the toilet alcove partition.
He fell to his knees, lifting the lid just in time. He hadn’t eaten today and nothing came up, but his mind didn’t know that
and it was in full revulsion, forcing his body to go through old habits. The heaves racked him to tears and cramped the muscles
of his abdomen, burning his throat, bursting the capillaries around his eyes. Trembling, he wiped his mouth with a swatch
of toilet paper and, out of habit, flushed. He walked slowly to the basin sink of Mexican tile and ran cold water over his
hands, his face, washed his mouth.

He reached for a towel and froze. Hanging on faux-bamboo rings to his right was a pair of cream monogrammed towels. E and
V, embroidered with looping script. In the coming days, someone – most likely Gene’s daughter, Anna, who lived in Wheat Ridge
with her husband Peter, also an accountant – was going to have to come and pack those towels up in a box. Mick wiped his hands
on his shirt and closed his eyes.

This isn’t happening. It cannot be happening
.

Somebody had put them down like dogs, in what appeared to be an almost humane way. Render’s knowing look when he scoffed at
the idea of Mick calling the police pushed the sense of guilt back to the surface. The man was fearless, killed wantonly.
He’d done it last night with those boys and, by some mysterious means (poison, a lethal injection, suffocation with a pillow),
he’d done it recently to these sad, crooked old people. The work had been all Render’s, but the motive still belonged to Mick.
The psychotic fuck had saved Mick’s life on the lake, recouped his missing funds, saved his ass in the parking lot. What else
had he done? And for the love of God, why?

I didn’t do this. I didn’t ask for this and I am not responsible for this. I won’t take the blame. I won’t have any of it
.

What about joint suicide? Maybe Render merely confronted them, they gave up the money, but couldn’t live with what they had
done
.

Invigorated by this unlikely possibility, Mick walked back to the bed, on Virginia’s side, avoiding peering down at them,
and searched her nightstand for a note, a
calling card, anything that could have been planted. He checked the other side, but both tables and the drawers were clean.

He moved to the bay window, where a thick orange pad that matched the curtains topped the reading bench. There was nothing
here, nor on the fireplace mantle, except for photos of the children and grandkids. Mick parted one of the curtains. A shaft
of streetlight caught him in the chest and face and he squinted, examining the view. One house perhaps a hundred feet to the
west, another slightly north. With lights on in both. Normal people inside. Suddenly he regretted very much his decision to
come here, that his truck was parked in the driveway. Anyone could have driven by now, noticed the truck. He would be questioned,
evidence would be gathered.

But what did it matter? It would all come out eventually. He wasn’t about to cover up anything here. Two people had died,
or been killed. It was time to talk to the police, call an ambulance. There was a cordless phone on one of the nightstands.
All he had to do was turn around and dial. His conscience said, Yes, do it, it is the only thing to do. But the voice of self-preservation
was stronger. He didn’t understand all the angles. If he made the wrong move, he could wind up in prison. He needed to talk
with a lawyer. His old high-school buddy, Cy Ferris, was a hotshot defense attorney in Denver. He would know what to do. But
when was the last time Mick had talked to Cyrus? Could he trust an old high-school acquaintance?

Between the sashes, where the bedside lamp was reflected dimly in the window glare, a blade of darkness shifted. Mick dropped
the curtain and turned to see Eugene Sapphire sitting up. The old man was upright, facing the fireplace directly beyond the
foot of the bed.

‘Oh, Jesus!’ Mick staggered back and the reading bench buckled his knees, forcing him to sit. He clamped a hand over his mouth,
a physical necessity to prevent him from screaming. For a moment the old man did not move, only sat rigid, as lifeless as
he had been lying down, only now he had risen. It was an intolerable thing to witness, but Mick could not move or look away.
The scream locked inside his mouth leaked out in a whimper.

Eugene Sapphire’s head turned slowly toward him and it was not the same face Mick had peered down at only minutes ago. It
belonged to the same man, but this face was opening as he began to move his mouth, razored lines in the cheeks appearing as
if the man were somehow
un
healing. As the accountant lifted his chin, stretching his sagging neck wattles, a clean gash appeared from ear to ear and
a wide skirt of thick slow blood began to saturate the oxford shirt. The accountant’s right hand raised itself from the bed
until his arm was extended in a salute and his first two fingers pointed crookedly. The gray, filmed-over eyes found him and
the arm began to shake while a dry, ugly moan of distress began to fill the room.

The moaning was coming from Virginia. She started to writhe and mewl beside her husband, the two of them groping at air as
Mick leapt up from the bay window seat
and backed away, toward the door. The bedding around her waist and shoulders was turning red. Lacerations split her face as
her eyes searched blindly for the source of the disturbance.

Mick bounced off the door frame and turned. The hallway was a shaking blur. The foyer seemed to retreat from him, the house
elongating. He imagined the two corpses falling out of bed and then dragging one another to their feet as they followed his
scent, shambling down the hall with increasing speed as their excitement drove them to new levels of coordination.