Deadly Little Voices (30 page)

Exactly like Aunt Alexia’s mural.

I take a seat on the shiny black piano bench and venture to touch one of the keys. At the same moment, music fills my ears, startling me.

It takes me a second to notice that the sound is coming from the piano itself—that it’s a player piano; I must’ve turned it on somehow. I search for a switch to shut it off.

“Like it?”

I turn to find an older man (probably in his seventies), with thin white hair, a dark brown suit, and the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He holds a remote control in his hand. He aims the remote at the piano, turning the music up even louder—
Moonlight Sonata
; I recognize the eerie tune.

“It’s a one-of-a-kind deluxe model,” he says, speaking over the music. “You won’t find another like it in this part of the country.”

I nod slightly, trying to keep my cool.

“We’re closed,” he says, when I don’t respond. He looks toward the door and makes a clicking sound with his tongue, most likely cursing himself for not remembering to lock it.

I get up from the bench, accidentally catching my foot on one of the legs.

“You’re not really shopping for a piano, are you?” he asks, stopping the music entirely.

“I’m looking for a friend.” My voice quivers.

“I see.” He takes a moment to look me up and down before reaching into the pocket of his suit and pulling out a toothpick. At first I think that something sharp equals something he’s going to try to use to hurt me. But then he sticks the pick between his teeth and starts to roll it around on his tongue.

A moment later, a loud thud comes from the floor above us.

“Upstairs,” I say, stifling a gasp. “My friend is upstairs. Is there an elevator or a stairway that I can use?” I peer toward the back of the store. There’s an exit sign over what appears to be a heavy metal door.

“Why do you want to go up there?” he asks. More tongue-clicking, as his face goes slightly squinty.

“That’s where his apartment is, right?” I ask, pretending I know what I’m talking about.

“You know Jack?” he asks.

“Yes,” I manage to mutter, feeling my stomach churn.

He continues to watch me, his eyes studying every inch of my skin.

“Actually, do you think I could use your phone?”

The man gives a less-than-reassuring nod. He watches me over his shoulder as he walks away, and then turns a corner into another room. I wait a few seconds, wondering if he may just be getting the phone. But when he doesn’t come back right away, and when I hear another loud thud upstairs, I decide it’s time to find a way upstairs on my own.

I MOVE THROUGH THE EXIT DOOR at the back of the piano showroom, despite a sign warning that an alarm will sound.

Luckily, it doesn’t.

The staircase is old and splintery. I make my way up to the second floor, hearing the wood creak with each step.

Finally, at the top, it seems there are no other floors above this one—at least, none that I can access from here. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that there are probably several other apartments in the building. I can always knock on one of their doors if I need to find help.

But, then, when I look a little closer, I see that this actually isn’t the case. A long, narrow hallway faces me, and the doors that line it are all boarded up—as if maybe there once
were
other apartments, but now the only way to enter them is from the door at the very end. I start toward it, despite how dark the hallway is. Just one flickering bulb lights the way.

I search my pockets again, hoping to find a key or pen—anything to protect myself—but there’s absolutely nothing.

I take a few more steps. The smell of sweet tobacco is thick in the air, almost making me choke. I cover my mouth. At the same time, a scuffling noise comes from behind me. I turn to look, but no one’s there. Did it come from behind the wall? Or from the stairwell that I can no longer see?

I turn back around and continue toward the door, wondering if I should knock. My heart hammers as I press my ear up against the door, able to hear a piano playing. Did it just start? Or is it happening inside my head?

I grab the doorknob, and it turns, right away. “Hello?” I try to call, but once again no sound comes out.

The apartment is huge, as if several walls had been knocked down, leaving a wide open space. Spotlights hang over a photography setup of some sort—a white backdrop and a platform on which to stand. A baby grand piano sits in a far corner of the room, playing by itself. It’s the Yankee Doodle Dandy tune, and it plays over and over and over again.

I know I’ve come to the right place.

The air is musty and thick; I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my face. A few feet away is an L-shaped sofa, exactly like the one I pictured when I was sculpting at Knead—when I zoned out and thought that someone had chained my wrists and bound my ankles.

I peer behind me at the door, recognizing the mahogany wood and brass fixtures. It seems that I’m alone. So then, where were those noises coming from before?

A few yards beyond the sofa, there’s another door. I move toward it, again hearing the floorboards creak beneath my step. I edge the door open, relieved to find that no one’s in here, either. It’s a seemingly normal bedroom: a bed, dresser, and nightstand. I move in a little farther, noticing that the closet door is open a crack. I open it wider and then tug on the pull-chain light, only to discover that the closet isn’t a closet at all.

It’s full of photographs that are shellacked over the walls. There are faces of girls in both candid and posed shots, below a heading that reads, JACK AND JILL, made from letters cut out of magazines. And the nursery rhyme—four stanzas of it—runs down both sides of the photos, with each letter individually cut out and pasted up in the same fashion.

There’s a stash of stuff—books, movies, and records (the old-fashioned kind, with the hole in the center)—on a shelf above the wall of photos. It’s all varied re-creations of “Jack and Jill”:
Jack and Jill
, the movie;
Jack and Jill
, the collection of poems;
Jack and Jill
, the musical…

I continue to look at the photos—what has to be at least a thousand of them, of at least four different girls—noting the empty section that seems to be holding a spot for more photos to come. I study the girls’ faces, searching for Danica’s, completely startled to find a whole corner devoted to candid photos of Debbie Marcus.

Debbie Marcus, who’d once told everyone that she was being stalked, but whom nobody had believed; who’d spent more than two months in a coma as a result of a hit-and-run accident not long after.

“DM,”
I whisper, knowing for sure now what those initials stand for.

My pulse racing, I back away, out of the bedroom, feeling a rush of adrenaline. In the main room again—the one with the L-shaped sofa—I hurry toward the door to get out, eager to find someone who can call the police. But then I notice a pair of ice skates sitting in front of what I presume to be the bathroom door.

My common sense tells me to ignore them. But something stronger inside of me can’t. I grab the skates by the tied laces, turn the doorknob, and flick on the light.

A girl is lying there, with chained wrists and bound ankles. There’s a sparkly gold garment draped over her neck, and something wadded up inside her mouth. “Danica,” I whisper, unable to tell if she’s awake. A few strands of hair have fallen over her face.

She moves her head to look at me.

It takes me a moment to accept what I’m seeing—that it isn’t Danica at all.

It’s someone who looks a lot like her—same skin tone, same hair color, same spray of freckles across her face—but this girl is taller, curvier, with much longer hair.

“Who are you?” I ask, knowing that I recognize her from somewhere.

The coffee shop. The girl who worked the front counter.

Her eyes widen, peering over my shoulder, and she tries to yell out.

A second later, someone grabs me around the neck from behind and gets me into a headlock. I do my best to take a step back—to get whoever it is to lose his or her footing—but instead I’m dragged backward and flung onto the sofa.

“
You
,” he says, standing right over me.

I recognize him, too. From the coffee shop. The good-looking guy who kept staring at me.

“How did you find me?” he asks, shaking his head as if genuinely curious.

Still on the sofa, holding the skates, I make direct eye contact with him as I try to get the laces untied. But I can’t quite get my fingers to work right.

“Tell me!” he demands, taking a step closer. His chest is strong and broad, and the veins in his forearms pop.

I curl my grip around both skate blades, preparing myself to fight. He notices and tries to rip the skates out of my hands, but I’m able to draw them back. I stand up from the sofa and lunge at him with the sharp, pointed edge.

It tears the hem of his T-shirt, and he lets out a laugh, amused at my attempt.

I raise the skates over my head and try to strike downward at his chest. But he pushes me back onto the sofa, snatches the skates, and throws them against the wall.

“Come on, the suspense is killing me,” he says.

When I don’t answer, he wraps his hands around my neck and asks me if I want to die.

“No,” I sputter, keeping a close eye on his posture, trying to predict his next move.

“Are you sure?” He smiles. “Because I think you’d be far better off dead.”

I try to kick out with the heels of my boots, somehow managing to knee him in the groin.

He stumbles back, releasing his grip on my neck, and I’m able to get up.

“You don’t belong here,” he says. “This is between Jill and me.”

I search the room for a phone. Instead I find a pen, tucked inside the middle of a notebook. I grab it, hoping he doesn’t see.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, having rebounded from the blow. He approaches me slowly, trying to play nice. “I’m not the bad guy here. I just wanted to take some pictures—to photograph her pain away. She needs to see herself the way I see her.” He turns his head, gesturing toward his photography setup.

I lunge at him with the pen, jabbing it into his collar bone. He yells in pain but grabs my arm, twisting it behind my back. The pen drops to the floor.

I kick his shin—hard. He releases my arm, but then throws me against the wall, and I slide to the ground.

The backs of my ribs ache. It’s hard to breathe. But I manage to remain focused and get to my feet.

“You don’t belong here,” he says, even more amused.

I try to move away, inching along the wall.

But he takes a step closer, getting right up in my face: “Jack and Jill went up the hill to give love a little try,” he chants. “Camelia intervened. And caused a big scene. And now she’s destined to die.”

“How do you know my name?” I ask, stumbling over the words. It feels as if every inch of me is sweating.

He smiles at the fear on my face. “I’ve done my homework,” he says, watching a drop of perspiration as it runs down my forehead.

I struggle to move away once more, grinding the back of my head into the concrete wall.

Meanwhile, he raises his hand, ready to strike.

“Please,” I whisper, keeping an eye on his hips. I pretend to cough, hoping to distract him for just a moment. And then I knee him again in the groin.

He lets out a grunt, doubling over. I move behind him and plunge my heel down against the back of his knee. He falls forward, hitting his head against the wall and landing flat on the floor. I look around for something heavy, find an iron vase kept over the mantelpiece, and conk him over the head with it.

It works. He lies face down; his breath is shallow, and his body is still.

I look around for a phone again, but I don’t see one anywhere. I head back to the bathroom and fling the door wide open.

The girl is lying facedown now. I start to help her up when I’m grabbed by the leg from behind. I go down hard; the bridge of my nose smacks down against the ceramic tiles, and I land at the girl’s feet.

The man flips me onto my back and starts to drag me toward him, but I kick his face, noticing a trickle of blood running from his temple.