Abattoir (7 page)

Still, the sound was unmistakable.

She trudged to the bathroom and flipped on the light. The sound was louder in here—had she left the shower on? The curtain was drawn . . . Jesus, was someone in there?

Sharon stood for several minutes, trying to make sense out of the scene.

With a deep breath, she yanked back the curtain.

Nothing.

The noise was gone. The shower was not running, the tub was dry. There was no one there.

But the jangle of terror was not relieved.

A bad dream?

She had no answer, feeling ridiculous standing in her nightgown, staring at nothing.

Sharon turned out the light, went back to bed and drew the blanket tightly around her body, hoping for sleep.

Unnoticed, the clock at her bedside read 4:02.

6

“Okay, everybody. How are things going so far?”

A characteristic opening for Cantrell; blunt but casual. He hoped it would get the chattering group in his conference room down to business.

It was, to put it mildly, a mixed assembly, with the only apparent common denominator being their shared residence in the Exeter.

Among the group seated at the long conference table were the Sloanes—not in the best of spirits, by the looks of it; Derek Taylor—arms crossed, lips pursed, impatient; Sharon Knaster—preoccupied with her Blackberry, obviously busy with other matters; Stu Brown—leaning back in his leather chair, bored, restless; Su Ling Nugyen—shy, quiet, a silent Anna seated by her side.

Brown was the first to answer Cantrell’s general question.

“Everything’s fine,” he spat, “except the rent’s too damn high.”

There was a smattering of giggling which ceased as soon as the people saw the apparent seriousness on Brown’s face.

Cantrell chuckled along. “That’s how we keep our clientele, such as yourself, Mr. Brown, so very select.”

A few more tenants chuckled; Brown merely shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“Seriously folks,” Cantrell continued. “It’s our first formal Tenants Association meeting. I know there must be some real issues you want to discuss.”

There was a long, uncomfortable delay, broken at last by Bill Sloane, goaded on by a sharp jab to his ribs from his wife.

“I do have one issue . . . ” he began in a voice that reflected the smooth tenor of an experienced litigator. “It’s about the, uh, about the . . . sounds.”

“Sounds?” Cantrell asked.

“Well, yes.
Voices
, to be exact.” He paused to exhale before continuing.

“It’s a little odd, and I don’t know quite what to make of it. I was in the steam room and I could swear there was a group of people on the other side of the door. The voices were loud,
urgent,
like something was wrong. But when I opened the door, there was nobody there.”

Cantrell paused.

“What day was that, Mr. Sloane?”

“I’m not sure. A couple of weeks ago.”

Cantrell was about to provide a banal explanation—a repair crew, for example—but Mrs. Sloane spoke before he could.

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ve heard!” she snapped, the tension obvious in her voice.

Her husband put a hand on her arm, as if to calm her. She roughly pushed it away.

“He didn’t believe me,” Mrs. Sloane said to the gathering. “He said I was making it all up!”

“Honey, please . . . ” Sloane urged, hoping to avoid a confrontation.

“I’m talking, goddamnit!”

“Go ahead, Mrs. Sloane,” Cantrell urged.

“Thank you. I’ve heard noises. Mechanical noises, things like chains or gears grinding. Just awful. I hear it at night, when Bill,” she gestured at her husband, “has nothing better to do than sleep.”

“Can you tell where the noises are coming from?”

“How the hell should I know? They sound like they’re everywhere, like the whole building is ready to collapse. I mean, no disrespect intended, Mr. Superintendent, but what kind of a rat trap are you running here anyway?”

Her husband whispered “Shhh. Take it easy, dear.”

Cantrell broke the embarrassed silence around the table. “It’s a very old building, Mrs. Sloane, and it’s been totally remodeled. I’m sure you’ve heard noises, and I’m sure that everyone else has heard noises as well.”

He turned to the table, where several heads nodded in agreement.

“The building is settling, Mrs. Sloane, that’s all. Please think of it this way: the old has been married to the new. As a result, there’s tension; a little friction here and there. The structure itself is over a century old, but most of the physical plant is relatively new. It’s quite natural for there to be some . . . growing pains.”

It was a good line, though Cantrell wasn’t sure if he believed what he was saying. He wasn’t sure that what Mrs. Sloane was hearing was nothing more than an old building sighing and adjusting its bones.

For her part, Mrs. Sloane found his remarks patronizing, but she was already tired of the discussion and wanted nothing more than a second stiff scotch and water.

“Whatever,” she muttered, letting the subject die. She stalked angrily out of the conference room.

Derek Taylor uncrossed his arms and put a hand in the air.

“I have a question, Mr. Cantrell: I’ve been smelling things since I moved in. Are you saying that smell is part of the settling process too?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“It comes and goes,” Taylor said, rubbing his hand through his gelled hair. “It doesn’t seem to be there just when the air conditioning is running, for example, or at any given time, or place, for that matter. The last time I was relaxing on my couch when it hit me again.”

Taylor looked around the table to check out the reactions and was met with blank stares. It struck Cantrell that Taylor seemed to be checking whether anyone was looking at him.

“Can you describe the odors, Derek?”

“I don’t want to gross anybody out,” he began, “but the closest thing I can come up with to describe it is something you’d smell at the circus or the zoo; you know, animal. The first time it happened, I kind of assumed that maybe a small animal; a rodent or something, had crawled behind a wall and died. But it was stronger than that, and there was more to it. There’s an odor beneath that, something . . .
metallic.
I can’t really put my finger on what it is.”

“Do you notice this anywhere in particular?”

Derek thought for a moment then shook his head. “No. It’s happened in my bedroom, in the kitchen; even in the weight room downstairs. I can’t believe nobody else has noticed it.”

Cantrell scratched his head. This one stumped him. He wasn’t sure how seriously he should take this guy.

“I’ll check it out, Derek; I’ll do an inspection myself. If that doesn’t help, I’ll have the duct work checked. Fair enough?”

Taylor shrugged and resumed his silence.

Mrs. Daniels, an elderly widow, put a timid hand into the air.

“Yes, Mrs. Daniels?”

“I . . . I’m not sure how to say this,” she began. “There is . . . well . . . No, never mind. It’s okay.”

“Please, no complaint is too small: I want everyone here to feel free to express themselves. That’s my job.”

But Mrs. Daniels, red-faced and breathing deeply, wouldn’t be drawn. “No, really; it’s okay. It’s not important . . . ”

Cantrell thought he saw fear in the old woman’s face, but she was resolute and he felt no reason to push. He’d let it rest for now.

There was a long pause, broken at last by Su Ling.

“I don’t have a complaint, but I do have a compliment: I just want to say that we are very lucky to have Mr. Cantrell with us. I think he is doing a marvelous job in this beautiful building.”

There was a quick round of polite applause, save for Stu Brown, who once again rolled his eyes.

At that, the meeting came to an awkward conclusion. As the tenants filed out, Su Ling and Anna waited by the door. Cantrell took her hand and thanked her for the kind words.

“That was sweet of you, Su Ling. It felt good after being run over the coals.”

“And I meant it,” she replied, the sunny smile still in place. “But actually, I do have one tiny little complaint.”

“Okay.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you please check my balcony door. It doesn’t seem to lock. I know I’m on the second floor, but I worry about Anna.”

“Come on, let’s take a look.”

§

The balcony door took Cantrell less than five minutes to repair—a simple adjustment with a screwdriver. When he was finished, Su Ling insisted that he stay for coffee.

As she busied herself in the kitchen, Cantrell relaxed on the couch. He saw movement at the corner of his eye and turned in that direction. He was startled when he saw Anna emerge from her room and slowly approach him. She came to within a few feet of the couch and stood, still and silent, like a statue. The girl made intense eye contact with him.

She made him uncomfortable; her stare piercing; somehow
too
knowing. It was as if she were trying to communicate something to him, but couldn’t, at least directly. He averted his eyes once or twice, but his gaze always returned to hers, which remained fixed.

“How do you like your coffee . . . ?”

Su Ling stopped in her tracks when she entered the room.

As if sensing her mother’s presence, Anna slowly walked backwards, with confident grace, her eyes glued to Cantrell’s as she withdrew to her room.

“That was amazing,” Su Ling said. “It’s so unlike her to approach another person like that. She hardly trusts anybody. I wonder what it means.”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope it didn’t make you uneasy . . . ”

“Just a little, but I’m kind of flattered at the same time.”

“You should be. She must like you, otherwise she would have stayed in her room and ignored you. Like she does everybody else. I’ve never seen her act like that before. The way she was staring at you . . . ”

“I don’t know, Su Ling. For a minute, I got the feeling she was trying to tell me something . . . ”

She sat beside him on the couch, setting the china cups on the table.

“Who’s to say? Dr. Knaster says her mind appears to be fully functional, which is to say the brain wave patterns are active. But what she’s actually
thinking
no one knows. I’ve gotten the same feeling you just did myself, once or twice, but it never lasts long . . . ”

Su Ling dabbed her eye as a tear trickled down her cheek.

There was an awkward moment as Cantrell waited for her to regain composure.

“I’m sorry, Alex . . . is it okay if I call you that?”

“Of course. And don’t be sorry.”

She sipped her coffee. “I can’t tell you how much I miss her. She was such an outgoing girl, so full of life . . . a beautiful child. Now she’s . . . she’s . . . I mean, I love her every bit as much, but I can’t help feel that she’s a stranger at the same time. I don’t know her anymore. That frightens me. Sometimes I think I’m starting to give up hope, and that frightens me even more.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

She did, recounting the accident and its aftermath in all its painful detail. Su Ling cried throughout, growing silent when she was finished.

“Do you have a family photograph?”

“Yes,” she said, pointing to the wall. “There.”

Cantrell rose and studied the picture. It was taken on the front porch of what appeared to be a suburban ranch house. A small minivan was parked in the driveway. Quan was handsome, with a wide smile—the smile of a proud young father and husband. Su Ling looked happy too, and noticeably younger than she did now. Anna stood between them, a beaming smile on her face, a teddy bear clasped tightly in her hands.

“It’s a beautiful picture,” he said at last, rejoining her on the couch. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you.”

She looked at him, a faint smile appearing on her face. “You’re a very nice man, Alex. I can tell you’re a caring man. Thank you for listening to me.”

He was at a loss for words. It had been a long time since anyone had paid him so personal, and so honest, a compliment. He knew he was blushing and hoped she didn’t notice, so he merely smiled in response.

“Can I ask you a question?” Su Ling asked, sensing his discomfort. He nodded.

“How did you do all this?” She extended her arms, indicating not only the flat, but the entire building. “It’s incredible what you’ve created here; a thing of beauty.”

Cantrell beamed. “This was my dream. And I’m very lucky: my dream came true. That’s the poetic part of it. The reality is it was equal parts very hard work and an unbelievable amount of stress.”

“You don’t seem like a nervous person. You seem confident and in control of everything.”

He smiled. “Then I guess I fooled you. There are so many things that could have gone wrong with this project, so many opportunities for people to back out. That’s what I mean by lucky. I worried over this for years. There were times I wanted to give it all up, believe me.”

“Yes, but your talent is obvious—getting all these powerful people to see things your way, to believe in you . . . ”

“I don’t mean to be cynical, but all of my backers—every one of them—are interested in only one thing.”

“Money?”

“Yes. I’m not trying to diminish my own accomplishment—I’m proud of it—but to them, at the end of the day, this building is only a revenue-producing asset.”

“But
you
don’t think of it that way.”

“Of course not. The money is secondary to me; a means to an end. The
vision
was the thing. And that’s what troubled me. I was never sure—in fact, I’m still not sure—that this whole idea wasn’t just some selfish obsession.”

She laughed, then caught herself: “I think you know better than that, Alex.”

He nodded. There was a moment in which they briefly caught each other’s eye, interrupted by a shrill buzz from the laundry room off the kitchen.

“The washer,” Su Ling said. “I’ll be back in a second.”