Thr3e (23 page)

“What is it?”

“It’s a thirty-eight. Cleaned and loaded.” Biff glanced up the street. “Worth six, but it’s your lucky day. I need the cash.”

Kevin fished out his wallet with a trembling hand and handed the contents to the man. He took the bundle. Where was he going to put it? He couldn’t just walk down the street with a bundle that had
gun
written all over it. He started to shove it down his pants— too bulky.

The man finished flipping through the bills and saw Kevin’s dilemma. He grinned. “Boy, you are a case, aren’t you? What’re you gonna do, hold up your dog? Give me the shirt.”

Kevin unwrapped a shiny silver pistol with a black handle. He gripped the butt with his fingertips and handed the shirt to the man.

The man looked at the gun and smirked. “What do you think you have there? A pastry? Hold it like a man.”

Kevin snugged the gun in his palm.

“In your belt. Pull your shirt over it.”

Kevin shoved the cold steel barrel past his bellybutton and covered it with his shirt. Still looked pretty obvious to him.

“Suck your gut in. For another hundred I’ll show you how to pull the trigger.” Grin.

“No thanks.”

He turned and walked back out to the sidewalk. He had a gun. What on earth he was going to do with it, he still had no idea. But he had the piece. It was okay to pray now, maybe.

God, help me.

Baker Street. It was the third time in two days Jennifer had driven down the narrow lane under the elms. The warehouse where they’d found the blood couldn’t be seen from the street itself—it was in the second row of buildings. She imagined a young boy racing across the street toward the clustered warehouses with a bully at his heels. Kevin and the boy.

“What is here that you want to hide, Kevin?” she murmured. “Hmm?” The white house loomed to her left, immaculate, with the shiny beige Plymouth in its driveway. “What did Aunt Balinda do to you?”

Jennifer parked her car on the street and walked up to the porch. A slight breeze rustled through the leaves. The green lawn appeared freshly mowed and trimmed around the edges. She didn’t notice until she stepped up on the porch that the red roses in the flower beds were imitation. For that matter, so were all the flowers. It seemed Aunt Balinda was too tidy a person to mess with the natural flaws of nature. Everything about the house was perfectly finished.

She rang the bell and stepped back. A curtain to her left parted; a middle-aged man with a crew cut looked out. Bob. Kevin’s retarded older cousin. The face stared, smiled, and disappeared. Then nothing.

Jennifer rang the bell again. What were they doing in there? Bob had seen her . . .

The door cracked and filled with an old, heavily painted, saggy face. “What do you want?”

Jennifer flipped open her badge. “Agent Peters, FBI. Just wondered if I could come in and ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly not.”

“Just a few—”

“Do you have a search warrant?”

“No. I didn’t think I would need one.”

“We all make mistakes, dear. Come back with a search warrant.” The woman started to close the door.

“Balinda, I presume?”

She turned back. “Yeah? So what?”

“I will be back, Balinda, and I’ll bring the police with me. We’ll turn the place inside out. Is that what you want?”

Balinda hesitated. Her eyelashes flapped several times. Ruby red lipstick glistened on her lips, like glossy putty. She smelled of too much talcum powder.

“What do you want?” Balinda asked again.

“I told you. Just a few questions.”

“Then ask them.” She made no move from the door.

The woman was begging to be properly engaged. “I don’t think you understand me. When I come back in an hour, I’ll have a half-dozen blue suits with me. We’ll have guns and microphones. We’ll strip-search you if we have to.”

Balinda just stared.

“Or you can let me in now, just me. Are you aware that your son Kevin is in trouble?”

“Doesn’t surprise me. I told him he’d end up in trouble if he went off.”

“Well, it seems that your warning had some merit.”

The woman made no move.

Jennifer nodded and stepped back. “Okay. I’ll be back.”

“You won’t touch anything?”

“Not a thing.” She lifted both hands.

“Fine. But I don’t like people invading our privacy, you understand?”

“I understand.”

Balinda walked inside and Jennifer pushed the door open. A single glance into the dimly lit house washed away her understanding.

She entered a hallway of sorts, formed by stacks of newspapers that ran nearly to the ceiling, leaving a passage just wide enough for a slight man to walk through without getting newsprint on his shoulders. Two faces peered at her from the end of the makeshift hallway— Bob’s and another man’s—both craning for a view.

Jennifer stepped in and closed the door behind her. Balinda whispered urgently to the two men and they retreated like mice. Grayed carpet had been worn to the wood subfloor. The edge of a newspaper to Jennifer’s right stuck out far enough for her to read the headline.
London Herald
. June
24, 1972
. Over thirty years old.

“Ask your questions,” Balinda snapped from the end of the hall.

Jennifer walked toward her, mind swimming. Why had they stacked all these papers in tall neat stacks like this? The display gave eccentricity a whole new meaning. What kind of woman would do this?

Aunt Balinda wore a white dress, high heels, and enough costume jewelry to sink a battleship. Behind her, backlit by a window that overlooked a dirt yard, Eugene stood in riding boots and what appeared to be a jockey’s outfit. Bob wore plaid knickers that revealed the tops of knee-high socks. A polo shirt hugged his thin frame.

The hall directed her into what appeared to be the living room, but again, its dimensions had been altered by floor-to-ceiling stacks of paper. Newspapers alternated with books and magazines and the occasional box. A foot-wide crack between two of the stacks allowed light in from what had once been a window. For all of its mess, the room had an order to it, like a bird’s nest. The stacks stood several rows deep, allowing just enough room for old Victorian furniture placed just so between smaller mounds of paper in the middle of the floor. These appeared to be in the process of being sorted.

To Jennifer’s right, a small kitchen table was piled high with dishes, some clean, most dirty. A collection of empty TV dinner packages sat on one of the chairs. The boxes had been cut with a pair of blue-handled scissors, which rested on the top box.

“Are you going to ask your questions?”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect this. What are you doing here?”

“We live here. What do you think we’re doing here?”

“You like newspapers.” They weren’t complete papers, but sections and clippings from newspapers, she saw, categorized according to subject by placards set into the stacks. People. World. Food. Play. Religion.

Bob stepped away from where he’d cornered himself in the kitchen. “Do you like to play?” He held out an old Game Boy in his hand, a monochrome model that looked like it might play Pong with enough persuasion. “This is my computer.”

“Hush, Bobby, honey,” Balinda said. “Go to your room and read your books.”

“It’s a real computer.”

“I’m sure the lady isn’t interested. She’s not from our world. Go to your room.”

“She’s pretty, Mom.”

“She’s a dog! Do you like dog hair, Bobby? If you play with her, you’ll get dog hair all over you. Is that what you want?”

Bob’s eyes widened. “The dog is gone.”

“Yes, she will be. Now go to your room and sleep.”

The boy started to walk away.

“What do you say?” Eugene said.

Bob turned back and dipped his head at Balinda. “Thank you, Princess.” He flashed a grin, hurried off through the kitchen, and shuffled down another hall, this one stacked with books.

“I’m sorry, but you know children,” Balinda said. “Minds full of mush. They only understand certain things.”

“Do you mind if we sit?”

“Eugene, get our guest a chair.”

“Yes, Princess.” He grabbed two chairs from the table, set one beside Jennifer, and held the other for Balinda to sit. When she did, he lowered his head with the respect of an eighteenth-century butler. Jennifer stared. They had created a world out of their newspapers and all of this paraphernalia—shaped to fit their lives.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, madam,” Eugene said, dipping his head again.

It wasn’t unheard of for adults to create their own realities and then protect them—most people clung to some form of illusion, whether it be found in an extension of entertainment or in religion or simply in a self-propagated lifestyle. The lines between reality and fantasy blurred for every human at some level, but this—this was a case study to be sure.

Jennifer decided to slip into their world. When in Rome . . .

“You’ve created your own world here, haven’t you? Ingenious.” She looked around, awed. Beyond the living room stood another doorway, maybe leading to the master bedroom. A stair banister ran along one wall. The same Sunday
Times
Jennifer had read earlier was spread out on the coffee table. The cover story, an article on George W. Bush, had been neatly cut out. The picture of Bush was at the bottom of a discard box. A stack two feet deep sat untouched next to the
Times,
topped by the
Miami Herald
. How many papers did they receive each day?

“You cut away what you don’t like and keep the rest,” Jennifer said. “What do you do with the clippings?” She turned to Balinda.

The old woman wasn’t sure what to think of her sudden change. “What clippings?”

“The ones you don’t like.”

She knew with one look at Eugene that she’d guessed right. The man glanced nervously at his princess.

“What a brilliant idea!” Jennifer said. “You create your own world by clipping out only those stories that fit your idyllic world and then you discard the rest.”

Balinda was speechless.

“Who’s the president, Eugene?”

“Eisenhower,” the man said without hesitation.

“Of course. Eisenhower. None of the others are worthy to be president. Any news of Reagan or the Bushes or Clinton just gets cut out.”

“Don’t be silly,” Balinda said. “Everyone knows that Eisenhower is our president. We don’t go along with the pretenders.”

“And who won the World Series this year, Eugene?”

“Baseball isn’t played anymore.”

“No, of course not. Trick question. What do you do with all the baseball stories?”

“Baseball isn’t played—”

“Shut up, Eugene!” Balinda snapped. “Don’t repeat yourself like a fool in a lady’s presence! Go cut something up.”

He saluted and stood at attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Sir? What has gotten into you? You’re losing your mind just because we have a visitor? Do I look like a general to you?”

He lowered his hand. “Forgive me, my princess. Perhaps I should save us some coin by cutting some coupons. I should love to take the carriage to the shop for stores as soon as I do.”

She glared at him. He did an about-face and walked for the stack of fresh newspapers.

“Don’t mind him,” Balinda said. “He gets a bit strange when he’s excited.”

Jennifer glanced out the window. A thin ribbon of smoke drifted skyward from a barrel. The yard was black . . .

They burned them! Whatever didn’t fit neatly into the world Balinda wanted went up in smoke. Newspaper stories, books, even pictures on TV dinner boxes. She looked around for a television. An old black and white sat dusty in the living room.

Jennifer stood and walked toward it. “I have to hand it to you, Balinda; you take the cake.”

“We do what we are entitled to in the privacy of our home,” she said.

“Of course. You have every right. Frankly, it would take tremendous strength and resolve to sustain the world you’ve managed to build around yourself.”

“Thank you. We’ve given our lives to it. One has to find a way in this chaotic world.”

“I can see that.” She eased through the living room and peered over the banister. The staircase was filled in with reams of old papers. “Where does this lead?”

“The basement. We don’t use it anymore. Not for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Thirty years. Maybe longer. It frightened Bob, so we nailed it shut.”

Jennifer faced the hall Bob had disappeared down. Kevin’s room was down there somewhere, hidden behind piles of books—probably butchered—and magazines. She walked down the hall.

Balinda stood and followed. “Now wait a minute. Where—”

“I just want to see, Balinda. I just want to see how you managed it.”

“Questions, you said. You’re walking, not talking.”

“I won’t touch a thing. That’s what I said. And I won’t.”

She passed a bathroom on her right, cluttered and filthy. The hall ended at the doorways of two rooms. The door on the right was shut—presumably Bob’s room. The door on the left was open a crack. She pushed it open. A small bed sat in one corner, strewn with loose clippings from children’s books. Hundreds of books stood against one wall—half with their covers torn off, altered, or trimmed to meet Balinda’s approval. A small window with a pull-down shade looked into the backyard.