The People Next Door Read online

  Christopher Ransom is the author of the international bestselling novels The Birthing House and The Haunting of James Hastings. After studying literature at Colorado State University and managing an international business importing exotic reptiles, he worked at Entertainment Weekly magazine in New York, various now deceased technology firms in Los Angeles, and as a copywriter at Famous Footwear in Madison, Wisconsin. Christopher now lives near his hometown of Boulder, Colorado.

  Visit www.christopherransom.com to learn more about the author and his work.

  Also by Christopher Ransom

  The Birthing House

  The Haunting of James Hastings

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 9780748119325

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 Christopher Ransom

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Christopher Ransom

  Copyright

  pop. 786*

  PART ONE: On the Lake

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART TWO: Close Encounters of the Neighborly Kind

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Island Living

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Island Living

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  PART THREE: The People Next Door

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Island Living

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Island Living

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Mountain Living

  For my big brother Mike

  who protected me from the monsters

  and fixed up my dirt bike

  It is evidently consoling to reflect that

  the people next door are headed for hell.

  ALEISTER CROWLEY

  pop. 786*

  Later they called it running away from home, but Keelie Kennerly just plain walked out and no one tried to stop her. She thought the population sign on Walnick’s fringe could use an asterisk, because by tomorrow the number would be wrong by at least one. Actually it had been wrong for a while now. People, even whole families, kept leaving the ’Nick. Usually they packed up and left without saying much, and sometimes, especially when it came to the kids Keelie’s age, they just up and disappeared. Parents, teachers, the police – no one knew how or where they went, though maybe they understood the impetus.

  Keelie adjusted her backpack and walked faster. Inside were socks and underwear, a couple of shirts and one pair of jeans, plus her totems: her brother’s pocket knife, her journal, eyeliner, iPod, and the last photo of her dad. She also had her mom’s ATM card, and that was another kind of totem right there.

  It was plenty warm out, which was good because she was still wearing shorts and just her light cotton military coat over her favorite T-shirt. Favorite because it was bright red and featured a nurse who looked like a total needle-wielding psycho, with that wavy black hair and the white surgical mask in the form of letters that spelled Sonic Youth. And because it was one size too small and Blake Garton said it made her guns look pretty much awesome. No one in the ’Nick knew who or what a Sonic Youth was, not even Heidi Eggers, who thought she was all worldly because she went to see Kid Rock at the fair-grounds in Des Moines last summer. And that was all the proof a girl needed, when you thought about it. Keelie Kennerly was too big for the ’Nick, kind of like how her guns were too big for her Sonic Youth shirt.

  All the stores on Antique City Drive were dark and hollow, filled with old things for old people, and the sidewalks were empty, because it was almost midnight and the whole town went to bed at six. The nearest city was Omaha, and in Keelie’s estimation that wasn’t a real city at all.

  She walked under the town’s only stoplight, the yellow throbbing dimly like the power supply was running low. Not a single car passed her, and in less than two minutes there were no more lights, only deep fields of dark country.

  Keelie thought whoever decided to name a convenience store chain Kum N Go had to be a perv. He had to have known changing the C to a K didn’t fool anybody, not with that U in the middle. They even sold Kum N Go shirts so you could take one back to whatever cooler place you lived and have a real laugh. The Walnick Kum N Go was one of the nicer ones: clean, with the video section and a whole grocery store crammed into two aisles, so it was easier to pretend you were shopping.

  She killed half an hour refueling on green tea and a Polish dog with mustard and relish, using the bathroom, and reading a celebrity magazine while she worked up the courage to withdraw four hundred of her mom’s dollars from the ATM.

  The guy behind the register looked like an army cook, with those faded green tattoos on his hairy arms, the sad red eyes. His scalp was patchy and his nametag said Schluman, and Keelie felt sorry for him if that was his first name. Schluman watched Keelie move around the store, but mostly he was reading his own magazine or making coffee and so far he wasn’t bothering her.

  Some college types in a big SUV came through and bought a case of energy drinks. The truck was packed. They headed off in the wrong direction anyway.

  A few truckers stopped for diesel, but Keelie had already made up a set of rules and one of the rules was no truckers, unless the trucker was a woman, but she doubted her luck would be that good.

  After one a.m. it got real slow. Schluman began to mop the aisles. He passed her in toiletries, said, ‘Still no luck?’ Keelie shrugged, wondering if he could tell just by looking at her. Then the Kum N Go went from real slow to dead.

  Tuesday, middle of the night, that’s why. Unless you were about to emergency run out of gas, you’d press on to Omaha, where there were gobs more choices for motels and real restaurants. In between games of Ms Pac-Man she went outside and smoked on the sidewalk
.

  She had promised herself she wouldn’t get desperate and ask any old creep. She imagined a woman in her twenties, tough and savvy from livin’ in the city, a woman who would pity her enough to give her a ride but admire her enough not to give her shit. But in the event of no woman, a man might do. So long as he looked decent. Older would be better, ’cause he would be slower, and if he tried something Keelie could use her cell to call 911 or dive out of the car. Her fingers were memorizing the keypad as she smoked, practicing the quick dial.

  Schluman came out and smoked on the sidewalk too. He didn’t try to smoke with her, though. He stood at the end, beside the metal cage holding the propane bottles. He looked over at her once or twice, smiling tiredly, and when he went back inside, all he said was, ‘Welp, guess I better get back to it.’

  A little before three, a newer Ford sedan pulled up. Guy, fifties, graying black hair. Yellow sweater and stiff pleated shorts. The sweater looked safe. He put the gas nozzle back and walked to the front doors. Keelie bounced on her toes, thinking do it, do it, do it, go on, dummy. But the script in her head went blank and she was dry-mouthed. The man nodded courteously as he slipped inside.

  She looked away, her face tingling hot. She paced, moving around the ice machine, spying him cruising to the restroom. It was quick, probably just a pee. He exited carrying a gallon of milk. That seemed like a good sign too, the milk. He stepped off the curb, his back already to her.

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’ She tried to smile but her mouth locked in a grimace.

  He paused, turning. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you by chance going that way? West, I mean?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Would you maybe mind giving me a ride?’

  After a few seconds he said, ‘Where is it you want to go?’

  ‘I’m going to see my sister, in Los Angeles? Not that I would expect—’

  ‘Los Angeles?’ he blurted.

  ‘She’s in the hospital.’

  The man looked at the Interstate. ‘Afraid I’m just going home. To Omaha.’

  It hardly seemed worth hitching it, but then again it was three in the morning and progress was progress.

  ‘Well, maybe I could—’ she began, stepping off the sidewalk.

  ‘You should try the bus station. This is no way to go about it, miss.’

  And then he was ducking into his car, gone. Probably thought she was a hooker. Keelie refused to cry, but it was tempting. Why hadn’t she just waited until tomorrow, in daylight, and made one of her friends drive her to the bus station? She could probably take a bus to Argentina on four hundred dollars. Except that she had already left home, and the walk back was at least five miles, and if she asked Julie or Reyna to drive her, they would blab to their parents, and then Keelie’s mom would find out and have a shit fit.

  Also, Keelie needed every penny. Mom’s balance was only eleven-hundred something (before tonight’s withdrawal), and the rest might not be accessible once Mom noticed that her card (and daughter) were missing. Keelie was counting on this four hundred (the maximum withdrawal allowed per day), and maybe a couple hundred more tomorrow, to help her get established. The other four kids said they were bringing at least five hundred each, and she had to be ready to contribute her share. She kept thinking of the photos Lee had posted on their Habitat page. The warehouse was rough with only a couple walls, but it was in the artistic part of downtown and they would make it up really nice, have a painting party and then get on with their new lives. A band, a coop, an online ’zine. Whatever it became, it would be creative, something to call their own and far from here.

  Anxiety and the green tea made her have to pee again. When she set off that annoying-as-fuck bing-bong door signal for the fifty-thousandth time, Schluman looked up from his Car & Driver and did a double-take. When she came out of the bathroom he was standing with his hands on his hips, scowling.

  She bought another green tea out of guilt. ‘Don’t worry. I’m leaving soon.’

  ‘If I find out you’re doing drugs in the shitter …’ Schluman said.

  Keelie shook her head quickly. ‘Promise.’

  Right then a silver minivan pulled up at pump six. Soon as she saw it, Keelie just had a feeling. This one would make or break the whole deal.

  A woman got out first, then a man – the driver. A married couple by the looks. They were neither young nor old, and dressed like models in a Sears advertisement. The wife swiped her card and began pumping. He used the squeegee to clean the windshield, raking the rubber blade in perfect rows. When he finished with one side, he did it again from the other, overlapping his patient strokes. People who cleaned their windshields so thoroughly were on a long road trip, weren’t they?

  The wife racked the nozzle and got back in the mini-van. She flipped the visor down and touched up her eye make-up, dabbing with a pinky. The husband set the squeegee in the bucket and turned toward the highway, stretching his arms. He leaned one way then the other, kicking his legs out like he couldn’t make the blood go back into them. He walked to the driver’s side and got in and shut the door.

  ‘Oh, shit, shit, nooooo!’ They were supposed to come in and use the bathroom first! Keelie shoved through the doors and jogged after them, waving frantically.

  The van inched forward.

  ‘Hold on, hold on, wait!’

  The van almost hit her, then stopped abruptly, rocking. The husband and wife looked at each other, then watched as she approached the driver’s side. The window powered down and Keelie saw he was handsome, even with the weird glasses (steel frames, huge lenses). He had nice, shaven tan skin and his smooth blonde hair was parted on one side and the woman had elegant features and lustrous brown hair.

  She smiled at Keelie in a skeptical but pleasant way. ‘Everything all right?’

  When she got to the part about Los Angeles, the man put a hand up.

  ‘Hey, hey, whoa. See, we’re headed to Las Vegas.’

  ‘Second honeymoon,’ the wife said. ‘But my sister lives in Casper so we thought it would be nicer to drive.’

  ‘Oh, that’s perfect,’ Keelie said. The minivan smelled clean and new. The seats were empty and Keelie couldn’t help imagining how nice it would be to stretch out. ‘I could take a bus from Vegas. I can pay for gas? It’s super important.’

  ‘Oh, but honey,’ the wife said. ‘Casper is in Wyoming. We’re stopping for a few days … there’s a reunion …’

  Keelie clenched the straps of her backpack. ‘No, see, that’s not a problem. Casper would be—’

  ‘Casper is not the issue, I think.’ The husband shot his wife a stern look, his voice deep but gentle. ‘We don’t actually … got to be some sort of laws against, I mean. Honey?’

  The wife rested her hand on his arm as she leaned over the console. ‘Do your parents know about this lil’ adventure, dear?’

  Lie, girl, but just the right amount. ‘Totally. I’ll be nineteen in July.’ Keelie paused, humbled. ‘I have to go. She’s my sister. We can call my mom to check in tomorrow. I won’t be a bother, I promise.’

  The woman frowned in sympathy, awaiting her husband’s verdict. He was shaking his head slowly, staring at the wheel.

  Keelie pressed the wife. ‘If I go home now, my mom … I don’t know what she’ll do to me.’

  The husband searched Keelie’s eyes. He looked at his wife and threw up his hands – what am I supposed to do here?

  ‘Oh, come on, Dave. We can’t leave her out here.’

  Dave the husband sighed. ‘I guess that means hop in.’

  Keelie ran around to where a motorized door was already opening. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you …’

  She took the first bench seat. The third row was empty. The cargo bay was piled up with bags and a couple of pillows that looked very soft. Keelie watched the ’Nick vanish behind them, a lump of manure in the dark, and she had to suppress a whoop of triumph.

  She semi-awoke on her side, backpack scraping her cheek, the highway’s mell
ow thrum rising up to rock her gently. An evangelical murmur issued from the radio, the dim green glow of the instrument panel cool against the glossy black windows.

  She remembered the introductions in fragments. Dave and Sheila Galloway from Indianapolis, married ten years, still no children but hoping to adopt one day soon. He was like a special kind of architect, a maker of models for city plans and communities. She was a teacher, fifth grade. They had asked about Keelie’s parents, but didn’t pry too deeply into her imaginary sister’s alleged chemotherapy.

  She was twitchy, her mind working against the tide of green tea, her legs trying to find the right combination against the arm rest, her neck stiff. She remembered the pillows. Yes, a pillow. Then she could really sleep.

  There was a weird smell, so faint she hadn’t noticed it at first. It wasn’t bad, exactly, just odd. Burned iron, like the metal workshop at school, and maybe a little fishy too. Nebraska. Pig farms. Tilapia farms. God knows what kind of farms. Keelie held her breath for thirty seconds, then sniffed again. The smell had passed.

  She sat up and rubbed her eye. Sheila was dozing upright, one of the pillows between her cheek and the passenger window. Dave was quiet, his attention fixed on the road, both hands on the wheel. Should she ask permission? What did it matter? They had offered everything else when she got in – Gatorade, sunflower seeds, teriyaki jerky, pop, ham sandwich. They wouldn’t care about a pillow.

  She grabbed the backrest and bent to keep from hitting her head on the roof. Bingo – on top of the bags, in the far right corner. White and fluffy.

  She reached out and Dave’s voice called back. ‘What do you need, hon?’

  Keelie twitched in surprise. ‘I was hoping I could borrow one of the pillows. My neck hurts.’

  Dave didn’t answer. Keelie waited, hunched over.

  ‘Oh,’ he said finally. ‘Help yourself. Just watch the bags underneath. I have some important work in there and it’s pretty darn fragile.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ Keelie stifled a yawn. Jeez, did he think she was going to flop down in the cargo area, smashing one of his models?

  While she was reaching, she realized her butt was sticking up, and she was suddenly sure that Mr Galloway was watching her in the rearview mirror. Not because he was a perv, but maybe to make sure she didn’t mess with his work stuff. But perv or not, if he was looking, he’d definitely be getting a view of the full Keelie right about now. She reached back and snugged her shirt hem over her locust tattoo, and when she turned back for the pillow it was gone.