The People Next Door Page 13

  ‘I’m at a depth of about fifteen feet and diving at a forty-five degree, right under the boats, when I see him. This other crazy shit. At first I thought he was a fish, a fucking huge striped bass or some goddamn thing. He was just a faded white spot in the darkness, rising up. Then I thought it was you, because while it’s still dark down there, I can see legs kicking, and it’s clearly a man. White face, blond hair bobbing like a jellyfish. Then the blue of his shirt. Fucker’s wearing a button-down and khakis, his left arm just pulling water down as hard and fast as a man can.

  ‘You were folded over his right arm like a hundred and seventy pounds sack of potatoes and he’s pulling with the other arm easy as dragging a wet towel. I saw your ugly face in less than ten feet of water, and if I am sure of anything, I’m sure you were unconscious. Legs limp, boat shoes still on your feet, and those khaki pants kicking in perfect scissor motion, driving the both of you to salvation. Your eyes were half open and dead as catfish on a platter, your face was blue-white, and your mouth was open. You looked like the textbook definition of a drowned man.

  ‘I kick after him, rising to meet him on the other side of the boats. I looked up and saw the hull of one of them, Roger’s or your boat, I can’t say – they’re both white and I was still disoriented. I had no more than six feet of clearance as I swam through, and by then the two of you were gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Mick didn’t know how much longer his legs would hold him up. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything today and this story was making him feel faint. ‘What do you mean “gone”?’

  ‘I mean you weren’t where you had been ten seconds earlier. I waited a bit at the surface, treading water until I realized Blondie should have been up there, gasping for air like me. But he didn’t show up and when I looked under, turning in a complete circle, there was no sign of either of you.

  ‘I panicked, and the water seemed to have dropped twenty degrees. For a moment it was like I had gone swimming in December, like we’d gone through a hole in the ice. Maybe I was in shock, but I don’t think so. I was breathing ragged and my arms and legs were palsied. Couldn’t go back down again. I’d a drowned myself.

  ‘Anyway, the second of my Lake Patrol boats was on its way, Chad Groeninger waving at me. He’d already radioed 9-1-1 and your ambulance was on the way. He asked me if I was all right and I told him there was another man in the drink. Mr Khakis. Chad dives in but don’t see dick. So he comes back up, and we’re treading water like a couple of goddamned synchronized swimmers, and Chad heads back to the boat. I’m exhausted but I can’t bring myself to climb out of the water yet. I can almost feel something warning me to keep my eyes open, and then I turned in a circle and about shit myself.

  ‘There you are, the two of you, crawling out of the water, right up on the dam. That’s a hundred feet away, Nash, and last I saw you were D-E-A-D dead, but now the blond guy’s crawling out and you’re crawling out. On your own. He’s not helping you. You’re on your feet, climbing over rocks just like I found you today, and then you plopped down on the path, right about where we’re standing now, and you just stared across the lake at us. The blond guy, he bends down and whispers something in your ear for a minute. Then he stands, looks over his shoulder at us, and continues over that steep hill, dropping out of sight. By the time I got to you, he was gone. Chad never saw him, but he saw you. Khaki pants wasn’t in the field back here, and he didn’t circle back to the boat house or loading ramp. He up and fuckin’ vanished.

  Mick shook his head. ‘Wait. Back up. Amy said you rescued me.’

  ‘Then all due respect to your wife, but she doesn’t know what she saw. She wasn’t there on the lake when you crawled out.’

  ‘You told the police about all this,’ Mick said. ‘Gave them a description and all the rest?’

  For the first time, Coach looked depleted, confused, as if someone had just bonked him over the head with a shovel.

  ‘No, I did not. Yet. I was having trouble hearing and some snot-nosed little shit paramedic insisted I be taken in, as if I was the one who drowned. By the time I was asked to give a formal statement, I assumed this blond chap had come forward.’

  ‘Why would you hold back? What’s the big deal?’

  ‘Hold your horses, Nash. That’s what I’m getting at. I have one possible theory. It’s a weird one, but not so weird if you know anything about extreme survival situations.’

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  Wisneski crabbed sideways, putting his back to the sun. ‘You ever hear of the third man?’ Mick shook his head once. ‘I know you think I’m a big dumb jock, but I read a lot of books. I liked that Shackleton story was all the rage a few years back. That’s where I first read about him. My wife got it into her head nothing would make me happier than another survival story, so for the past few years all I get on my birthday or Christmas is another one of these survival books. Writer by the name of John Geiger wrote a book called The Third Man Factor. Very rare phenomenon. Happens on polar expeditions, solo journeys, men lost in the woods or at sea. POWs have experienced it, even a few people involved with September Eleventh claim to have met this third man.

  ‘What it boils down to is a survival mechanism inside us that, in moments of deep distress – we’re talking right at the brink of losing all hope – that emerges and comes to us almost as an alien presence, an entity separate of our selves. Some men talk about it as a kind of divine intervention, a spiritual or mystical force. You’re huddled in a tent near the summit of Everest, freezing your balls off, your toes are already done in, you’re loopy, half-starved, in shock, and the regular you is thinking how nice it might be to curl up and go to sleep. Just let go. Die. But then this third man appears, or maybe you don’t see him, but you feel him. He is like your new best friend, a buddy looking over your shoulder. He’s not afraid and he’s calm, in control, and he’s got all the strength you wish you had. And in the darkest hour of your longest night, he leans down and he whispers in your ear. Here’s what you need to do, he says. We’re not giving up. We’re going to make it out of here alive. Just follow my instructions and stick with me and everything will turn out right. He’s comforting, the way Jesus might be to some. It’s a survival mechanism, but it feels like a stranger, a higher power. The third man.’

  Wisneski spread his hands, a lawyer wrapping up his closing argument.

  ‘That’s what you think?’ Mick said. ‘It was you who saved me, but your mind, under extreme duress, projected this other man? You had an out-of-body experience and watched yourself, in the form of this other blond guy in khaki pants, rescue me?’

  ‘I did at first.’ Wisneski smiled a gotcha smile. ‘But in the end, when I got my strength back, I decided that was bullshit. Because I wasn’t on death’s doorstep and I wasn’t ready to give up. Hell, I’ve been through a lot worse than your little episode. I was in Vietnam, Mick. I crawled in those tunnels and saw men cut in half. A good friend of mine in high school, Ted Millhiser, he rolled his dad’s Dodge out on Highway 36 and almost burned to death. I was one of the boys who put him out in the grass with a letter jacket. Ruined the jacket, but it was some Fairview kid’s, so no loss there. Point is, I’ve seen some shit and this wasn’t that much shit, all right? I know what I saw, Mick, and it was a real man. He saw you go in and he dove in after you. From there, one of two things happened.

  ‘One, somewhere between the water and dry land, God knows how, he revived you. None of this CPR horseshit. He brought you back to life en route. Or two, you “woke up” and swam away on your own steam. Either way, he’s out there somewhere right now. I don’t just believe that. I know it.’

  Mick thought that Coach was bluffing. This whole third man business had made him uneasy, all of it had, and Coach was scared. Why else would he make this big speech, only to brush it off, if he wasn’t simultaneously trying to come to grips with something unexplainable and maintain his macho self-image? But he wasn’t going to argue, either. Arguing with men like Dennis Wisneski got you nowhere. />
  ‘If you say so, Coach. What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘I want you to find him. I want to know who he thinks he is, coming out of nowhere to save your sorry life and then vanishing without a trace like a miracle. But more than that—’ Dennis Wisneski adjusted his glasses and coughed wetly into his fist again. ‘Goddamned if I’m not still coughing up the taste of that lake. More than that, I want to know what he did with Roger and that gal Bonnie. I doubt there’s a hero in all this, but there might very well be a murderer.’

  But why would someone kill Roger and Bonnie, only to save me? Mick thought again, but did not ask.

  ‘Okay, Coach. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I hear something.’

  Wisneski climbed back onto his Kawasaki, his hairless bronzed old man knees almost as shiny as the green plastic faring. ‘Yeah, you do that. And in the meantime stay the hell away from my lake. You’ve gotten your money’s worth this season.’

  Coach U-turned on the dam path, the knobbies kicking up a cyclone of dust as he rumbled his way back to the boat house.

  Some blond guy had saved his life. Mick thought back to the man who had been eavesdropping on his conversation with Sapphire. Could be a coincidence, but nothing in the past few days felt like a coincidence. The question now was, who was he and why was he so interested in Mick Nash?

  29

  The doorbell rang again.

  Ingrid’s limbs pebbled with goosebumps and one hand moved involuntarily over her stomach. How had Briela known he was coming? What was going on inside this girl? And what did he want? If it was even him, the blond man she claimed to have seen. It was probably a coincidence, the UPS man or someone collecting donations for another cause. But it didn’t feel like a coincidence. The room was charged with bad energy, invisible plus and minus signs buzzing the air while a metallic taste worked its way onto Ingrid’s tongue.

  ‘Told you,’ Briela said.

  ‘I’m serious, Briela. Are you playing games with me?’

  ‘Nuh-uh.’

  The doorbell chimed a third time, and the babysitter flinched.

  Briela looked up at her with dull eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  It’s the middle of the day, for the love of God. Stop being such a baby.

  ‘Stay here, all right?’

  ‘M’kay.’

  Ingrid pressed her back against the wall furthest from the foyer window and sidled up to the door. She checked the peephole.

  He was handsome, with neatly parted blond hair and soft, almost equine features. He wore a chambray work shirt so faded it was almost white, the top three buttons open, giving him the look of a man on vacation. But she only caught a glimpse before he turned sideways, his full lips working as if he were speaking to someone she couldn’t see.

  Fine, fine. She opened the door halfway.

  He moved slowly, as if the air were heavy around him. He looked up at her with mild surprise and then smiled, or tried to. The impression was of a man who wasn’t used to smiling, because the one he gave her was strained, using only the corner of his mouth. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and his eyes, which were low-lidded with irises of cobalt, did not so much land on her as linger around the space she inhabited. He struggled to fix on a point and she wondered briefly if he was blind.

  ‘Is he yours?’ His voice was very deep, though gentle.

  ‘Sorry?’

  The man snapped his fingers awkwardly but they made no sound. There was a clicking sound on the porch and then Thom, the Nash’s Yorkshire terrier, came skittering inside. She jerked back, then was relieved. Okay, this was all about the dog. Thom had free reign of the property, but usually never strayed far. He must have gotten onto the new people’s yard, probably to leave a few chocolate welcome presents. Of course that’s what the man had been trying to tell them earlier. He had come to let them know the dog was loose, then probably circled back after the dog got away from him again while Ingrid was in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, right, thank you,’ Ingrid stammered. ‘I’m sorry. Was he bothering you?’

  The man watched the dog dart in and out of the living room. He was either extremely mellow or shy.

  He said, ‘Is this where he lives?’

  Ingrid thought that was clear by now, but whatever. ‘Yes, he belongs to the Nashes.’

  ‘The … Nash-es?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you the Nash-es’ daughter?’

  Ingrid kept the knob in her left hand, bracing the door with her shoulder. ‘No, I work for them.’

  He frowned, then smiled as if just now remembering. ‘We have a daughter too.’

  Ingrid wasn’t sure if he failed to hear her or simply chose to ignore the clarification.

  He said, ‘We have already met each member of the Nash-es.’

  ‘Right, well, is there something else or …’

  He smiled wider and before she even saw it leave his side, his hand had closed around her forearm. His touch was delicate and brief, like a kiss that went around her wrist, leaving a cold ring that tingled and spread up her arm. She pulled away, but his hand was already back at his side and he was still smiling. She was so nervous, and he looked so calm, she couldn’t be sure now if he had actually done it or if she was only imagining it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But are you happy with your, ah, employment? Do they take good care of you here?’

  Was he hitting on her or trying to hire her? ‘I guess so. They’re good people.’

  ‘Good people,’ he said. ‘That is true in many ways, I am sure.’

  An awkward moment stretched between them.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘That’s your house in the back, right? It’s really nice.’

  ‘Yes, for now. I hope we haven’t stirred up any ill will amongst your employers. We’re very respectful of the situation. We believe in live and let live.’

  This was now officially disturbing. There was something wrong with the man. He looked like one of what Ingrid thought of as the catalog people, a model for the kind of spread that went out to shoppers with beach homes, with those perfect white jeans and the shirt and the matching white leather sneakers. His eyes widened, then lowered again.

  ‘Well, thank you for bringing Thom back.’ She inched the door forward.

  ‘Who is Thom?’

  ‘The dog,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Oh, is that the other daughter?’ His loose gaze drifted past her and his eyes filled with excitement.

  Ingrid turned. Briela was standing in the foyer, at the mouth of the family room. She was smiling at him expectantly, as if something had been confirmed to her liking.

  Ingrid decided this was enough for one day. ‘I have to go. Goodbye, now.’

  She shut the door.

  She locked the door.

  ‘Briela, go to your room for a minute.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said so. Now, please.’

  Briela scowled and stomped off to her bedroom. Ingrid checked the peephole. He was still standing there on the porch, looking around with his dumb expression. She thought of calling Amy or the police, but he hadn’t done anything really wrong. And maybe he was just slow, except at the end there he seemed perfectly sharp. And curious. There was no crime in that. He seemed nice. But there was something creepy about the way this whole thing had consumed nearly an hour.

  She checked the peephole again. He was still there. She held her eye against the door a moment. What the hell was he doing?

  He turned abruptly and smiled, his face looming right up to hers.

  ‘We have a daughter too,’ he said, the words thick through the door. He turned and stepped off the porch and went a few steps. He stopped and looked back. ‘And a son. We can always use more help!’

  Then his long strides carried him around the front lawn and he disappeared down the Jenkins’ driveway, back toward his fancy new house.

  Ingrid felt faint, her legs rubbery. She moved aroun
d the sofa in the family room and sat sideways to the window. Her stomach was fluttery, as if he had kissed her, done something against her will. He hadn’t, though, right? He hadn’t done anything. For a moment she imagined that he had. His smooth hands, his easy smile. That shirt so soft, washed out like his eyes. Her heart was not racing, but it was doing something here. Thumping in a heavy rhythm, her chest misty with perspiration. She felt a little ache between her legs, not unpleasant. She pinched her thighs together almost on reflex and the pressure magnified the ache, delicately brushed it to life.

  No. This was not okay and did not fit. She had been repulsed by him and his creepy tone, and she was repulsed by him now. But warmth became heat. It was as if her body knew something true that her mind wanted to be false.

  She sat forward and looked out the window. He wasn’t there. Good. She should get up and tell Briela it was okay to come out of her room. But she was fatigued from stress and the air conditioning felt good on her bare legs. It was nice just to sit here for a while. She leaned back and thought of his face, wondering how old he was. Not very. Must have really done something with his life to have a house like that. People like that probably had a family assistant just like her, and a maid, and gardeners, all kinds of help. Probably paid well too. More than the Nash-es. She thought of his eyes again. It was almost like he had been offering her something. Not sex. Something deeper, simpler, a door to a new opportunity. She thought about his eyes …

  Then she thought of nothing.

  Time passed.

  She sat up, as if woken by a loud noise. But the house was quiet. She had been out of it for a good twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour, but that did not seem important. She went down the hall. Briela was sleeping on her floor, a book folded over one arm. She went back to the kitchen and stared out the window. Wonder what the others are like, she thought, and before she had time to consider what she was doing, Ingrid opened the sliding glass door and walked out.