Apartment Seven (8 page)

I hear the man and woman on either side of me panting in the dark, masturbating to the carnage and heartbreak, and I know then that their master has not left us. In fact, he’s closer than ever. Here, with us, in the dark. This is his domain. The here. The now. The present. And therein lay the struggle, the battle, the fixed game none of us can ever truly win. Not without wounds and the scars they leave behind. Not without pain, his greatest joy.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. He’s no longer on the stage but behind me. I can feel his breath on me, hot and foul, as the tip of his fetid tongue flickers across my flesh. My mind splinters. I am no different than Jenna. I have earned this. Not some fire and brimstone children’s version of Hell and the Devil who reigns over it, but real evil. Real pain.

It feels as if fire has been injected into my veins.

I want to save the world but can’t. The world won’t let me. It won’t let any of us. We can’t even save ourselves.

I see Jenna, standing in the cold on the steps of a rundown building. She looks hard, sickly and worn out, nothing like the vibrant woman I know. Behind her is a man, but he is concealed in shadow and I cannot make out his face.

And then I’m there too, climbing the steps and reaching for her…

I gagged and spit blood onto the curb. My nose was bloodied and it had begun to run down the back of my throat and choke me. I struggled up out of the gutter onto my hands and knees, my head pounding and my body aching. With the sleeve of my coat I wiped my nose and mouth clean as I could then looked around. The street was empty, dark.

Eventually I managed to get to my feet and stumble over to the corner of the next building. The side street was still there, and at the end stood the odd little theater, a spotlight aimed at its red sign with white lettering. A chill I couldn’t blame on the weather crept along my spine.

I turned and started toward the lone working streetlight in the distance.

The moment I got there, a car came whipping around the corner and screeched to a stop just feet from me. It was a checkered cab, and behind the wheel sat Cap Payens, smiling at me with those giant false teeth.

I angrily yanked open the backdoor and leaned my head in. “You nearly ran me down back there!”

“Hey Charlie!” he barked, chomping down on the same cigar stub he’d been chewing at the bar.

“Don’t
Hey Charlie
me, you could’ve killed me! I saw your cab!”

“You saw
a
cab. I told ya it wasn’t a good night to be out walking, didn’t I? You gotta get off the streets, they’re not safe. Come on with me, chief, I’ll take you where you need to go.”

I looked back at the dark street from which I’d come. Strange inhuman whispers rode the wind to me then spiraled away into the night like wisps of smoke.

“Come on,” Cap said. “Get in.”

I did.

-6-

The interior of the cab smelled of cigar smoke and a strong disinfectant, and unlike most, this one had no divider or Plexiglas partition between the front and backseat. A silver metal in the shape of a pyramid hung from the rearview by a chain, swinging and catching the moonlight. Much to my surprise the cab was immaculate and looked as if it had been thoroughly cleaned just moments before. Visions of Cap with a bucket and rags, laughing away and furiously scrubbing the seats flashed in my head, the taxi splashed with wide swathes of blood and littered with viscera and chunks of human flesh. As Cap rocketed through the streets and hooked onto Mass Ave, I let the vision go and held on tight. Despite his breakneck speed, I felt slightly more at ease. If nothing else, Boston looked like Boston again, and at least I knew where I was. But I couldn’t shake the extraordinary and horrifying things I’d experienced, or help but fear what was still to come. Looking out the window at the city rushing by, I still felt off, trapped in some alternate reality where even the familiar was not quite as it should be and nothing made any sense. I was cold, frightened, sore and exhausted. And I’d had enough.

“What’s going on?” I asked wearily. “What’s happening to me?”

Cap found me in his rearview. “I’m taking you where you need to go.”

We approached the Mass Avenue Bridge and I realized we were headed into Cambridge. “You’re taking me to Curtis Gwynn, to his apartment.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“How do you even know about him?”

“Like I told ya, this city’s got no secrets from me. Not one. Know why? I make the secrets, kid.”

“Who are you?”

“Ever heard of the River Styx?”

“It’s a river in Hell.”

“Now tell me the name of the ferryman. Right, you can’t. Nobody ever remembers. Know why? End of the day, if you’re headed to Hell who gives a shit what the driver’s name is? It’s
Charon
, by the way.”

I shivered uncontrollably. “Is that what you’re doing, taking me to Hell?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a little anal with the whole
literal
thing?”

“Tell me who you are. Please. Tell me what’s happening.”

The cab lurched to a stop, vaulting me forward into the back of the front seat. “We’re here!” Cap slammed the column shift into Park then casually slung an arm over the back of the seat and turned to face me with his big hazy eyes. “I’ll leave it running, yeah?”

We’d arrived on a quiet residential street in Cambridge that looked more like small town America than a neighborhood in the middle of a city. Refurbished Victorian-style homes lined either side of the street, the occasional duplex thrown into the mix as if accident. Cap had stopped in front of one of the smaller homes on the street, a turn-of-the-century white Victorian that appeared to have been converted into a two-family residence some time ago. With a spired roof and a second-floor porch, it sat back from the road a ways, the small front and side yard cordoned off with chain-link fence.

I opened the door and stepped out into the harsh cold, my body aching. But for the wind, the neighborhood was quiet. Lights burned beyond the lace-curtained windows on the first floor, the second was dark. I reached the gate and found it unlocked, so I ventured closer.

At the front steps I discovered two small mailboxes. The first was marked GWYNN. I drew my coat in tighter around me. All this time I’d wondered about Mysterman2000—who was he, what did he look like, what kind of person was he—and now that I was on the verge of finding out I wanted to be filled with rage and violence, to be bursting with adrenaline at the chance to finally confront the bastard mano-a-mano. But all I could muster was more of the same profound sadness that had riddled me for months.

Dino’s voice echoed in my mind.
He’s sixty-three, some old fart college professor. Lives alone.

I looked at my watch. The crystal had been damaged in my fall and was now decorated with a series of spider-web cracks, but I was still able to make out the time. 11:11.
Shame
, I thought,
I always loved that watch
. Jenna had gotten it for me for my birthday years ago. I remembered the night she gave it to me. We’d gone out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants beforehand.

Everywhere I looked, every memory I had, every emotion I felt; there she was. How had I failed my wife so thoroughly that she’d needed something else from someone else? Regardless, I hadn’t failed alone. She’d failed too. And now we were paying for those failures, and paying dearly.

I rang the bell.

There were sounds of movement beyond the door, an odd shuffling noise and then a series of locks disengaging. The door opened to reveal a mealy-faced bald man with wire-framed eyeglasses. I could tell by the look on his face he recognized me, and while his initial reaction was one of terror, he made no move to close the door but instead flipped on an outside light, which gave us both a better look at each other.

“Curtis Gwynn?”

He gave a hesitant nod, and in better light I saw that he was sporting two swollen black eyes, the skin beneath and around them yellow and discolored. His lips had been battered and since scabbed over, and numerous bruises covered his face and neck. “Who are you?”

“Jenna’s husband.”

He swallowed so hard it was audible but said nothing more.

“Cut the crap. You know who I am. I’m Charlie Cerrone.”

For some reason this information seemed to put him at ease and his fear noticeably faded. “Fascinating.”

“
Fascinating
?”

His expression indicated he hadn’t meant to say the word aloud. His swollen eyes blinked nervously behind his eyeglass lenses but he offered no further explanation.

“What happened to your face?”

“An unfortunate incident.”

“Those tend to happen when you fuck other guys’ wives.”

“Is that why you’ve come here?” he asked. “To ridicule me?”

“You better hope that’s all I’m here to do. I’d give you the beating of your life but it looks like someone got to you before I could.”

“There’s no need for further violence.”

“Just don’t push your luck, asshole.”

Gwynn looked me over like a scientist that had just encountered an alien life form and was trapped somewhere between disbelief and utter fascination. “Remarkable,” he said in a near-whisper, craning his neck to see beyond me to the street. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. I’ve got a cab waiting.”

“Come in, it’s cold out there.” He waved me inside with a bandaged hand. “We can talk in the parlor.”

“Is Jenna here?”

“I haven’t seen her in weeks. She’s busy with…other matters.”

“Like Apartment Seven over on Ross Avenue?”

Rather than answer, Gwynn held the door open so I could pass. I saw then that he was using a crutch, and his right leg was in a heavy cast from hip to ankle. His bare foot stuck out the end, several toes taped. Whoever had given this man a beating had done a damn fine job of it, right down to taking the time to break a few of his toes.

“Looks painful,” I said.

“Quite.”

“Pity.”

I stepped into a small front room that was decorated like a museum from the nineteenth century. The walls were lined with bookcases, and any remaining space was covered with numerous trinkets and hideous masks from various foreign and ancient cultures. In the far corner stood a tall glass case containing what appeared to be primarily Egyptian and Ancient Roman and Greek pieces, mostly everyday items mixed in with some weapons and other curiosities. I took it all in while Gwynn closed the door then hobbled back over to me and motioned to a pair of antique chairs facing a crackling fireplace. Leaned against the leg of one chair was a worn briefcase, some papers scattered on the floor next to it, and between the chairs was a small table on which a snifter of brandy and a notebook bulging with papers had been left.

“Psychology’s my game,” he explained, motioning to a stand where a leather edition of the writings of Carl Jung lay open.

I looked closer.

The section was titled
On the Psychology of the Unconscious
.

I quickly read the first paragraph.

‘It is a frightening thought that man also has a shadow side to him, consisting not just of little weaknesses—and foibles, but of a positively demonic dynamism. The individual seldom knows anything of this; to him, as an individual, it is incredible that he should ever in any circumstances go beyond himself. But let these harmless creatures form a mass, and there emerges a raging monster; and each individual is only one tiny cell in the monster’s body, so that for better or worse he must accompany it on its bloody rampages and even assist it to the utmost. Having a dark suspicion of these grim possibilities, man turns a blind eye to the shadow-side of human nature.’

“But my personal interest,” Gwynn said, drawing my attention back to him, “is in the various mythologies and rituals found in ancient cultures.”

“That and married women, right?”

He sighed. “Would you like a drink? A spot of brandy perhaps?”

“Nothing.”

With his free hand he awkwardly straightened his nifty cardigan sweater then motioned to the chairs. “Shall we sit by the fire then?”

I couldn’t imagine what Jenna saw in this man. Puny and slovenly, with what seemed a rather cold, academic sort of personality, he struck me as a man few women would have interest in. “I’ll stand. I’m not here to socialize, Gwynn.”

With a muffled groan, he took a seat, carefully sliding down onto it, his broken leg out in front of him. A thin sheen of perspiration broke out along his forehead. He finally settled in and asked, “Why
are
you here then?”

I stared at him.

“You expect an explanation, is that it?” He watched me like he’d been expecting something more. “I’d gone out one evening with the hope of finding some…companionship…and happened to meet Jenna. We became friends. Eventually it led to more, but I assure you it wasn’t what you believed it to be, and there is no longer anything between us, nor will there be again. All things considered, she’s an extraordinary woman, bright and witty, so kind, a wonderful, terribly wounded soul who simply—”