Out There in the Darkness (2 page)

Neil said, “The good Doctor Gottesfeld had to give me a finger-wave this afternoon, gents, so this may take a while.”

“You should trade that prostate of yours in for a new one,” Mike said.

“Believe me, I'd like to.”

While Neil was gone, the three of us started talking about the Patrol again, and whether we should go armed.

We made the same old arguments.
 
The passion was gone.
 
We were just marking time waiting for Neil and we knew it.

Finally, Mike said, “Let me see some of those magazines again.”

“You got some identification?” I said.

“I'll show you some identification,” Mike said.

“Spare me,” I said, “I'll just give you the magazines.”

“You mind if I use the john on the first floor?” Bob said.

“Yeah, it would really piss me off,” I said.

“Really?”

That was one thing about Bob.
 
He always fell for deadpan humor.
 

“No, not ‘really,'” I said.
 
“Why would I care if you used the john on the first floor?”

He grinned.
 
“Thought maybe they were segregated facilities or something.”

He left.

Mike said, “We're lucky, you know that?”

“You mean me and you?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky how?”

“Those two guys.
 
They're great guys.
 
I wish I had them at work.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“Treacherous bastards.
 
That's all I'm around all day long.”

“No offense, but I'll bet you can be pretty treacherous yourself.”
He smiled.
 
“Look who's talking.”

The first time I heard it, I thought it was some kind of animal noise from outside, a dog or a cat in some kind of discomfort maybe.
 
Mike, who was dealing himself a hand of solitaire, didn't even look up from his cards.

But the second time I heard the sound, Mike and I both looked up.
 
And then we heard the exploding sound of breaking glass.

“What the hell is that?” Mike said.

“Let's go find out.”

Just about the time we reached the bottom of the attic steps, we saw Neil coming out of the second-floor john.
 
“You hear that?”

“Sure as hell did,” I said.

We reached the staircase leading to the first floor.
 
Everything was dark.
 
Mike reached for the light switch but I brushed his hand away.

I put a
ssshing
finger to my lips and then showed him that Louisville Slugger I'd grabbed from Tim's room.
 
He's my nine-year-old and his most devout wish is to be a good baseball player.
 
His mother has convinced him that just because I went to college on a baseball scholarship, I was a good player.
 
I wasn't.
 
I was a lucky player.

I led the way downstairs, keeping the bat ready at all times.

“You sonofabitch!”

The voice belonged to Bob.

More smashing glass.

I listened to the passage of the sound.
 
Kitchen.
 
Had to be the kitchen.

In the shadowy light from the street, I saw their faces, Mike and Neil's.
 
They looked scared.

I hefted the bat some more and then started moving fast to the kitchen.

Just as we passed through the dining room, I heard something heavy hit the kitchen floor.
 
Something human and heavy.

I got the kitchen light on.

He was at the back door.
 
White.
 
Tall.
 
Blond shoulder-length hair.
 
Filthy tan T-shirt.
 
Greasy jeans.
 
He had grabbed one of Jan's carving knives from the huge iron rack that sits atop the butcher-block island.
 
The one curious thing about him was the eyes: there was a malevolent iridescence to the blue pupils, an angry but somehow alien intelligence, a silver glow.

Bob was sprawled face down on the tile floor.
 
His arms were spread wide on either side of him.
 
He didn't seem to be moving.
 
Chunks and fragments of glass were strewn everywhere across the floor.
 
My uninvited guest had smashed two or three of the colorful pitchers we'd bought the winter before in Mexico.

“Run!” the burglar cried to somebody on the back porch.

He turned, waving the butcher knife back and forth to keep us at bay.

Footsteps out the back door.

The burglar held us off a few more moments but then I gave him a little bit of tempered Louisville Slugger wood right across the wrist.
 
The knife went clattering.

By this time, Mike and Neil were pretty crazed.
 
They jumped him, hurled him back against the door, and then started putting in punches wherever they'd fit.

“Hey!” I said, and tossed Neil the bat.
 
“Just hold this.
 
If he makes a move, open up his head.
 
Otherwise leave him alone.”

They really were crazed, like pit bulls who'd been pulled back just as a fight was starting to get good.

“Mike, call the cops and tell them to send a car.”

I got Bob up and walking.
 
I took him into the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet lid.
 
I found a lump the size of an egg on the back of his head.
 
I soaked a clean washcloth with cold water and pressed it against the lump.
 
Bob took it from there.

“You want an ambulance?” I said.

“An ambulance?
 
Are you kidding?
 
You must think I'm a ballet dancer or something.”

I shook my head.
 
“No, I know better than that.
 
I've got a male cousin who's a ballet dancer and he's one tough sonofabitch, believe me. You—” I smiled.
 
“You aren't that tough, Bob.”

“I don't need an ambulance.
 
I'm fine.”

He winced and tamped the rag tighter against his head.
 
“Just a little headache is all.”
 
He looked young suddenly, the aftershock of fear in his brown eyes.
 
“Scared the hell out of me.
 
Heard something when I was leaving the john.
 
Went out to the kitchen to check it out.
 
He jumped me.”

“What'd he hit you with?”

“No idea.”

“I'll go get you some whiskey.
 
Just sit tight.”

“I love sitting in bathrooms, man.”

I laughed.
 
“I don't blame you.”

When I got back to the kitchen, they were gone.
 
All three of them.
 
Then I saw the basement door.
 
It stood open a few inches.
 
I could see dusty light in the space between door and frame.
 
The basement was our wilderness.
 
We hadn't had the time or money to really fix it up yet.
 
We were counting on this year's Christmas bonus from the Windsor Financial Group to help us set it right.

I went down the stairs.
 
The basement is one big, mostly unused room except for the washer and drier in the corner.
 
All the boxes and odds and ends that should have gone to the attic instead went down here.
 
It smells damp most of the time.
 
The idea is to turn it into a family room for when the boys are older.
 
These days it's mostly inhabited by stray water bugs.

When I reached the bottom step, I saw them.
 
There are four metal support poles in the basement, near each corner.
 
They had him lashed to a pole in the east quadrant, lashed his wrists behind him with rope found in the tool room.
 
They also had him gagged with what looked like a pillowcase.
 
His eyes were big and wide.
 
He looked scared and I didn't blame him.
 
I was scared, too.

“What the hell are you guys doing?”

“Just calm down, Papa Bear,” Mike said.
 
That's his name for me whenever he wants to convey to people that I'm kind of this old fuddy-duddy.
 
It so happens that Mike is two years older than I am and it also happens that I'm not a fuddy-duddy.
 
Jan has assured me of that, and she's completely impartial.

“Knock off the Papa Bear bullshit.
 
Did you call the cops?”

“Not yet,” Neil said.
 
“Just calm down a little, all right?”

“You haven't called the cops.
 
You've got some guy tied up and gagged in my basement.
 
You haven't even asked how Bob is.
 
And you want me to calm down.”

Mike came up to me, then.
 
He still had that air of pit-bull craziness about him, frantic, uncontrollable, alien.

“We're going to do what the cops
can't
do, man,” he said.
 
“We're going to sweat this son of a bitch.
 
We're going to make him tell us who he was with tonight, and then we're going to make him give us every single name of every single bad guy who works this neighborhood.
 
And then we'll turn all the names over to the cops.”

“It's just an extension of the Patrol,” Neil said.
 
“Just keeping our neighborhood safe is all.”

“You guys are nuts,” I said, and turned back toward the steps.
 
“I'm going up and calling the cops.”

That's when I realized just how crazed Mike was.
 
“You aren't going anywhere, man.
 
You're going to stay here and help us break this bastard down. You're going to do your goddamned neighborhood
duty
.”

He'd grabbed my sleeve so hard that he'd torn it at the shoulder.
 
We both discovered this at the same time.

I expected him to look sorry.
 
He didn't.
 
In fact, he was smirking at me.
 
“Don't be such a wimp, Aaron,” he said.

M
ike led the charge getting the kitchen cleaned up.
 
I think he was feeling guilty about calling me a wimp with such angry exuberance.
 
Now I understood how lynch mobs got formed.
 
One guy like Mike stirring people up by alternately insulting them and urging them on.

After the kitchen was put back in order, and after I'd taken inventory to find that nothing had been stolen, I went to the refrigerator and got beers for everybody.
 
Bob had drifted back to the kitchen, too.

“All right,” I said, “now that we've all calmed down, I want to walk over to that yellow kitchen wall phone there and call the police.
 
Any objections?”

“I think blue would look better in here than yellow,” Neil said.

“Funny,” I said.

They looked themselves now, no feral madness on the faces of Mike or Neil, no winces on Bob's.

I started across the floor to the phone.

Neil grabbed my arm.
 
Not with the same insulting force Mike had used on me.
 
But enough to get the job done.

“I think Mike's right,” Neil said.
 
“I think we should grill that bastard a little bit.”

I shook my head, politely removed his hand from my forearm, and proceeded to the phone.

“This isn't just your decision alone,” Mike said.

He'd finally had his way.
 
He'd succeeded in making me angry.
 
I turned around and looked at him.
 
“This is my house, Mike.
 
If you don't like my decisions, then I'd suggest you leave.”

We both took steps toward each other.
 
Mike would no doubt win any battle we had but I'd at least be able to inflict a little damage and right now that's all I was thinking about.

Neil got between us.

“Hey,” he said.
 
“For God's sake you two, c'mon.
 
We're friends, remember?”