Darling (29 page)

During the late sixties, there were reports of “devil worshiping” on the grounds, though never any evidence discovered. Eileen was tempted to ignore that—after all, anything strange in the South was usually chalked up to “devil worshiping.” But in light of everything else, she had to consider it.

In the late seventies, as the farmers in the area sold their properties off to real estate developers, a local real estate genius named Mark Cusimano (the father of the building’s current landlord) bought the land. He apparently had a grand vision of a series of apartment buildings, gas stations, and strip malls running along this stretch of road. His first project was converting Raynham, still a solid structure even after these years of neglect, into the building it is today. His second project was the last of his many strip-malls.

Reading about all of this brought to mind the story that her uncle Gary had told her. Gary had worked for a couple of weeks on the project, but while he was out of town visiting family in Chattanooga, there had been a horrible accident and construction had halted. A crane had been lifting thousands of pounds of material from the back of a truck. Something went wrong—an electrical malfunction, the papers had said—and the material came crashing down, killing fourteen men and injuring another six. One of the injured was Mark Cusimano. The accident had crippled him for life. It seemed he fell into a depression after that and never finished building the strip mall or continued with any of his other projects. In the late nineties he overdosed on prescription painkillers and bourbon.

Eileen also found evidence to back up the stories of the Blue Boy and of the Crossroads Killer. The story of the Crossroads Killer was particularly disturbing and she had had nightmares about the man for days after reading about it. His name was Micah Scott Weaver, a high school dropout and a seafood clerk at a grocery store. He would park on the side of the road at night and feign car trouble. If a pretty young girl came by to help, he would abduct her and, police believe, take her back to Raynham. He raped and tortured these girls in the most brutal ways for days and then hanged them from a tree at a crossroads out in the country.

Before he hanged himself in prison, he had told a reporter:

“I had to hang them out there, you see? The dead get confused at crossroads and have a hard time coming back. There are enough of the dead wandering around as it is. I was afraid of these girls, don’t you get it?”

All of these stories piled atop one another, and atop Eileen’s nightmare, to create a horrific tale. There was something at work here, she knew it no matter how much her rational mind refused to believe, no matter how many years of science and logic had been crammed into her brain, she
knew
. So many tragedies tied to one place were just not natural.

She parked her car, and for the first time since she was a little girl, crossed herself. She went inside, took the elevator to the third floor, sucked in a deep breath, and pounded on Dennis’ door.

Mike answered. “Eileen?”

“Is Dennis here?” She pushed by him and into the living room.

“He’s in his room. Like always. I haven’t talked to him in days.”

She stared at the closed door. “What’s that whispering?”

“He…uh, he’s been talking to himself.”

“Talking to himself? For how long?”

Mike scowled. “I don’t fucking know. Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Eileen was struck dumb by his sudden change in demeanor. Dennis had always told her about his moods, but she had never experienced them before. She didn’t know what to say.

He sighed. “Look, I’ve gotta go meet my parents for dinner.”

“Uh…sure. Yeah. Go ahead.”

Mike hesitated. She thought he was going to apologize, but he didn’t say anything.

“Is Margot going with you?”

He shook his head.

“How are things going with you two?”

He winced. “Fuck you.” He turned and walked out the door.

Eileen was left wondering what had happened. She had just seen Mike a week ago and he had been his normal awkward self. Had she done something? Said something?

It’s the building.

“
Eileen?”

She turned to see Dennis closing his door. He stood in front of it, rigid, dressed in only his boxers. His hair was messed and greasy and he wore two or three day’s growth of beard on his jaw. A beer bottle dangled from his hand.

She took a step closer and could see how red his eyes were. Had he been crying? Was he drunk? She couldn’t tell.

“Hi,” she said.

He just stared at her.

“Can we talk?”

He looked around the room.

“Mike’s gone.”

He nodded.

“I just…oh, Jesus, this is hard.” She took a deep breath, blinked back the tears that tried to form. “What is going on between us?”

He shrugged.

“Say something, dammit.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What do I…?” Her voice quivered. “Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

“I…I don’t know. I was confused.”

“Was?”

“Yeah.”

“But now you’re not.”

He shook his head.

“Why?”

The door creaked open behind him. A woman stepped through, placed a hand on his shoulder.

Jaw trembled.

Stomach lurched.

Breath stopped.

Eileen recognized her from one of the pool parties over the summer.

Karen.

Karen rubbed her hand along the back of Dennis’ head. She wore only a T-shirt, a long white “Humane Society” shirt that Eileen recognized as her own, one she had left the last time she was here. When was that?

Why would he let her wear my shirt?

The tears broke free then, crashed down her cheeks with the force of a tsunami, her grief exposed for all the world to see, her torment on display for Dennis and his
whore
, his filthy disgusting
whore
.

She imagined gouging the redhead’s blue eyes from her skull, imagined how the bitch would scream for her, how those white orbs would feel when they burst open under her nails and streamed their jelly down the whore’s face.

Instead, she turned and ran.

When she was at the elevator, she heard the door shut.

He wasn’t coming after her.

The tears pounded harder against the floor.

In her car, safe from prying eyes, she screamed and punched her steering wheel.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there and cried, but when she was done, when all of the grief had poured out of her, anger flooded in to take its place.

She wiped her face dry and reapplied her make-up. “That cocksucker,” she said to her reflection in the rearview. “I knew he was like all of the others, I just fucking
knew
it.” Now that she was through crying, she was going to march back up there and…and…

And what?

She glanced at the building, trying to collect her thoughts.

The building...

What was it about this place? Not ready to accept what had happened, her emotions bubbling up and clouding her thoughts, she latched on to her theory that the building was responsible for so much.

Something moved under the lights by the front door.

She sat still, watching, as a skinny figure came into view. It carried a toolbox and, as her eyes adjusted, she saw that it was the maintenance man. Jack, right?

He would know what was going on with this place.

She followed him inside. He looked tired, his back kyphotic and his eyes sunken deep into his skull.

“Jack, right?”

He turned at the pace of a drunken tortoise. “What?”

“You’re Jack, right?”

He nodded. His eyes were wide, confused, as they scanned her.

“Can I ask you some questions about the building?”

“Manager handles vacancies and viewings. He’s here Monday through Friday, nine a.m. to—”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean…is there…what I’m getting at…”

“Spit it out, darling.”

The elevator doors dinged open. He stepped in. She followed.

“Is there anything strange about this building?”

The doors shut behind them.

* * *

Allison’s voice whispered in his ear. “Let her go,” it said. He turned and stared into her cold blue eyes shining from Karen’s face.

These dreams were so odd, Allison and Karen having become one person somehow, but he didn’t care. They were magnificent. They allowed him to explore his lust with Karen’s body while falling madly in love with Allison all over again. He hoped he never woke.

Guilt crept around the back of his mind, guilt at the sight of Eileen’s tears which, even if it were just a dream, was something he had promised himself he would never cause. The guilt had another cause. He knew in the logic of this dream-world that Karen no longer existed, that her flesh had become a vessel for Allison.

The patter of rain sounded against the windows. Trees blew hard in the wind outside and thunder rumbled. He wondered at the symbolism of it. Everything in a dream had some deeper meaning didn’t it? Eileen had taught him that.

Allison took his hand in Karen’s, smiled, and led him back to the bed. “Forget her,” she said. “You’re mine, now.” Her lips pressed against his.

She shed the T-shirt, her glorious body still sparkling with sweat. She climbed on all fours onto his bed. He shed his own clothes and climbed up behind her. As he slid himself inside, she handed him the rolled up towel that sat next to her.

He looped it around her throat, gripping an end in each hand, and wrenched her head back. The towel bit into her neck, her lungs fighting for air, the muscles in his forearms cramping from pulling so tight as he pounded into her. She turned her face, already a light shade of purple, toward him and smiled.

He prayed that he could dream this dream forever.

* * *

Mike sat at his parent’s table and sliced his pork chops in silence. The awkwardness in the room was physical. It crowded around them like dense fog, clinging to them and sapping any will to speak of the past.

His mother poured herself a gin and tonic while his father glared at her. The old man had never approved of her drinking, had hated it in fact, but since Allison’s death had seen it as a necessary evil. When she wasn’t drinking, she cried.

“So, Michael.” His father sat his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “How’s school?”

“It’s alright. Difficult, but I’m doing okay.”

His father nodded. “And your apartment?”

“It’s cool. Big. Hardwood floors. A pool. I love it.”

His mother sipped her drink. “That’s good,” she said.

Then they returned to the strained comfort of silence. After several minutes, Mike’s father again sat his fork down. “Your mother and I have been talking.”

Mike stared at him.

“All of the nasty business surrounding you moving out,” he continued. “We think apologies are in order.”

Mike waited.

His mother cleared her throat. “We’d really like you to move back in.”

He said nothing.

“Well?” His father’s eyes bore into his, searching,
judging
.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

“You said that apologies were in order.”

“I did.”

“So I’m waiting for them.”

His father’s face twisted in confusion. They stared at each other from across the table. Mike folded his hands in his lap and refused to look away.

Realization dripped onto his father’s face. “We meant that
you
owe
us
an apology. For the things you said, for your abhorrent behavior, and for leaving me and your mother the way you did.”

Mike’s face was blank, his voice calm. “
You
kicked
me
out.”

His mother swirled the gin around her glass. She fixed her gaze on the melting ice inside. “Michael, your father was just angry. You said some awful things to him.”

The old man nodded.

Mike almost laughed. “All I said was the truth.”

His father’s nostrils flared. His eyes filled with fire and narrowed as they bore into Mike. “You will apologize, young man.”

He was silent.

“Then,” his mother interrupted, still staring into her glass, “we can be a family again.”

This time Mike did chuckle. “We haven’t been a family for a long time.” He met his father’s burning gaze and poured every ounce of contempt that he had for the old man into his own. For the first time in his life he had no respect, no fear for this man.

They stared at each other for a long while. Finally, his father looked away. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Mike laughed again.

“What happened to you?”

“You want to know about a mistake, Dad? I’ll tell you about a big goddamn mistake—”

“Watch your mouth, young—”

“See, this mistake was probably the worst, the most horribly unforgivable mistake that a man could make.”

His father nodded. Mike knew the old man thought he was about to apologize and it pissed him off.

“It’s not my mistake, you stubborn ass. It’s yours.”

His father’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you should go.”

“Don’t you ever regret the way you’ve treated your children?”

Mike’s mother reached over and laid her hand on his. “Michael, don’t.”

Mike jerked his hand away. “Doesn’t it bother you that you kicked your own fucking son out?”

His father stood. Threw his napkin down. “Get out of my house.”

Mike stood in turn. “Fuck you. I’m through following your orders.” Their eyes met again and his father’s fist clenched at his side. Mike smiled. “Doesn’t it bother you that you treated your own daughter like a piece of property?”

“Shut up!”

“That you went out of your way to make her feel like a failure?”

“Don’t you talk about her!”

“That you might as well have sliced her wrists open yourself?”

His father lunged for him, their last dinner together attempting to replay itself. But this time Mike was ready, and as the old man rushed in to swing, Mike brought his dinner plate crashing up into his father’s temple. Food flew everywhere, little chunks of it hovering in the air as time slowed around him.