The People Next Door Read online

He went across the rear of his own property, toward the patch of city-owned open space. Seen from the sky, Boulder’s greenbelt formed a loose, dark band around the town, sealing off development and preventing Boulder from becoming an extension of the continuous sprawl that stretched from Louisville to Denver. The green belt kept the environmentalists from going rabid, leaving token habitats for the prairie dogs and bike-path fanatics. Infringing upon this preserved space was one corner of the long white stucco wall the owners had constructed, with a Spanish-tiled riser every dozen feet or so. Mick saw no additional cameras. He moved closer, the wall’s flat top a few inches above his head, providing privacy for the compound and shielding him from view. As he drew around the rear of the house, he realized he was looking for a place to jump over.

  And then what? What exactly are you looking for, champ? Even if you get over without setting off the alarms, what do you think you’re going to find?

  And: Didn’t we have a sort of nightmare about this same little adventure? How did that one turn out? Not well, as I recall.

  But it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a doorway to hell on the other side, no obsidian pool with pale corpses set in the ground. It was just a house, and he was drawn to it. Something was waiting for him in there, and he did not believe it was some random family or innocent smoker out on the terrace. Maybe a man, that third man, or maybe something other than a man.

  He planted his hands and levered himself up (no limb abrasions this time) until he sat astride the barrier. On the southern side, the house’s rear three-story facade seemed even taller. But it did not tilt or change shape. The yard was empty, the newly laid sod showing its seams. There was one long patio at ground level, made of pale stone, set against a wall of windows that extended at least twenty feet to each side – enough exposure to light a solarium, kitchen, and great room. But it was impossible to know what lay behind them; the windows were solid black at this hour.

  A shallow set of stairs curved down to a swimming pool. It was covered with a black tarp almost indistinguishable from the grass. Emboldened, he walked the top of the wall, stepping over the risers and making a left turn, bringing him to the southeast corner. The tarp was stretched taut like a trampoline, and Mick imagined jumping, wondering if it would swallow him into the water or launch him out across the lawn.

  He began to walk quickly atop the fence, back toward his house. The fence top was flat, perhaps twelve inches wide, and he grew overconfident. Eight or nine paces along, his right foot slipped and he flailed and dropped into the yard. He landed on his right side, his knees absorbing the brunt of the impact, and rolled across the soft sod, then lay still. He waited for motion-detector lights to flash on, the howl of an alarm, but nothing changed. The house was still quiet, dark, uncaring.

  Smooth, real smooth, champ. Isn’t this about the point where the ground opened up and showed you your family writhing on a liquid autopsy table?

  Shut it. It was just a bad dream.

  But now that he was on the other side, why not take a peek? If someone was awake, they would have confronted him by now. The south-facing windows loomed above him, eight unusually large black rectangles. They were set in tracks, with thin steel cables, and Mick assumed this whole wall was convertible to open air. He was also sure that if he were to press his face to one, he would be able to see inside.

  He told himself not to do it, but his legs were already carrying him across the lawn, onto the terrace. His heels thudded along the stone and he shielded the sides of his face.

  The first thing he noticed was the cold. The glass was so bracing, he was surprised it was not frosted. Some kind of serious air conditioning was being pumped into this room, against the glass, which felt like a refrigerator shelf and made him think of the Straw’s meat locker, aging steaks ripening with blood.

  The second thing he noticed was … nothing. He could not see beyond the violet-tinted shade screen built into the glass. He squinted, pressing closer, but it was too dark. He craned his neck, peering in at a severe angle.

  Something was there. You just had to view it almost sideways.

  He pressed his face closer until his right eye was almost touching the glass, and gradually the room began to reveal shapes, the outlines of objects: a closed wooden door of wide planks set into the far wall. Two couches facing each other over a coffee table. In one corner, under a mantle of stone, was the deep black suggestion of a fireplace. The rest was open and empty, with a high ceiling and the stone floor spanning at least thirty feet in either direction. It wasn’t a great room; it was a court, a veranda that could host one hundred guests who need never rub elbows.

  Mick backed away, sidled left a few paces, and reapplied himself to another window. As before, it took a moment to get the angle right, and then he seemed to have gone too far, to the end, where only the blank floor and a wall of empty shelves rose above his sight line. Then he tilted his head to the right and saw a dining room table made up with four dishes, four cups, four bundles of silverware, and then the chairs with the people sitting in them. The people were sitting perfectly still, upright in the dark, and Mick almost shouted in surprise.

  Mother, father, daughter, and son. Sitting less than ten feet away, facing one another across the table, heads bowed as if in prayer. Dressed in loose dark clothing, they had looked like a pioneer family at supper, cabin dwellers sitting in the dark as if caught in a storm, all out of candles, waiting for judgment and daylight to return. Except that the plates were empty. The cups were empty. Their hands were under the table. And their faces, what little of them he had been able to make out, were plain and without expression. Their shoulders did not rise or shift, their chests did not expand, their mouths did not open or close. They had looked frozen in time, paused like a video.

  They’re not real. They’re models, dummies, props on a stage.

  He backed away slowly, too disturbed to linger. He backed up until he was standing on grass. No, no. He must have been mistaken. What family sits like that in the middle of the night? He couldn’t just leave now. He needed to know. He needed a better look at the man, to see if it was the same blond man who had been in the restaurant. He needed some clue as to who, or even what, they were.

  Be quick about it, then.

  He glanced around as if he had lost something of value, then walked back to the window with his head down and came at it head tilted at the now familiar angle. The dark, purple-hued glass came into view and his cheek pressed against the cold window. He squinted, stood on his toes.

  The table was there, the plates and glasses … but the chairs were empty. The people were gone. Nothing had been disturbed, but they had vanished.

  Like ghosts.

  His entire body went cold, the arctic chill from the glass seeping into his cheek and spreading. He stared in disbelief, willing them to reappear so that he was not left to question his eyes and sanity, but his calves began to cramp and they did not come back. He turned away from the window and started across the patio, watching the white stone under his bare feet, careful to avoid tripping over a planter or garden hose. The patio was clean, smooth as gymnasium floor. He looked up to the fence and stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Aw, shit,’ he said, the words hissing from him like air from a slashed tire. All four of them were standing on the lawn, in a close-knit line, watching him. The father was on the left, mother at far right, teen daughter and younger son in the middle. Another six or seven paces and he would have walked right into the wall of them. Too dark to see their faces, their eyes. They were motionless shadows. They said nothing.

  Mick stood immobile for a moment, waiting for himself or any of them to break the stand-off. Various greetings presented themselves in his mind, but all seemed impossibly naive now, the distance between them stagnant with his guilt. He was caught and he almost wanted them to scold him, accuse him of something.

  But still they did not move.

  It was like standing before a pack of wild dogs. He sensed that to run now would
only provoke them into pursuing him. Chasing him down and then …

  A purring, gurgling sound issued from one of them, and it was the sound of hunger, an empty belly.

  ‘Now?’ the girl said in a soft voice. ‘Is it going to happen now?’

  The boy’s mouth fell open, a hot panting eagerness stirring him to life. He took one step forward, raising his arm, and the rest of his family broke into stride.

  Mick turned and ran. The grass wet his feet and he nearly slipped before springing up to the wall, scraping his toes and elbows again as he flung himself over, landed in dirt, and scooped himself up from the field of open space to sprint the rest of the way home. He imagined their footsteps scraping and bumping across the field behind him, flashes of their widening white eyes as they pursued him. He nearly screamed when the motion detector tripped and he was exposed him in a prison yard’s glare. He stumbled up the patio and banged his way into the kitchen.

  He locked the door and leaned over, hands on knees. He backed into the dining room, watching the windows, expecting them to press their white hands and featureless faces to the dark surfaces at any moment. The doorknob would start shaking, they would pound on the glass until it broke. But a minute or two passed and they didn’t come.

  What in the hell was that all about? What kind of people were they? What were they doing awake at this hour, sneaking up on him in the yard? And what was he supposed to do now that they had seen him? They had to know where he lived now. This was dumb, all of it a very dumb idea.

  His feet were wet, dirty with grass clippings. He walked into the laundry room between the kitchen and mud room and found a towel above the dryer. He wiped his feet and rubbed the other side of the towel over his face, threw it in the hamper.

  He went back to the kitchen and peered over the sink. The glare from the track lighting made it impossible to see outside, so he shut the lights off and returned to the sliding glass door. The patio was clear, they weren’t on the lawn. He unlatched the sliding door, opening it a few inches. He stepped out and surveyed the yard.

  The entrance gate to the new place was still closed. For a few minutes there was nothing, and then he saw a figure walking up the old Jenkins driveway. One body, not four. It was just a black shape, ambling along as if out for a stroll, but Mick felt certain it was him, the sentinel, his rescuer, the man of the house. Mick lost him in the trees, and the seconds stretched on into a minute, then two. He was beginning to think he was seeing things again when the dark shape moved through the tree line again and came to a stop just short of Mick’s lawn.

  Mick hesitated a moment, considered calling the police or waking Amy, but in the end decided he should handle this on his own. He hurried down the hall to the master bedroom and retrieved the metal pipe from the walk-in closet for the second time this week.

  36

  The rain had ceased and the night was warm and damp, silent but for the faint swish of tires on the Diagonal Highway a mile away. Mick walked out onto the lawn, swinging the pipe at his side, squeezing the taped grip. He had lost the man’s position, but he doubted the bastard had decided to drop his inquiry for the night. They were onto each other now. Whatever it was, it was coming out tonight.

  He turned, eyes tracing the sharp edges of the blue spruce and the taller cottonwood columns. The border seemed to zoom in and out, and then he was there, a silhouette no more than twenty feet away, the face a pale oval above a faded blue shirt and flat khaki pants. The hair was light, but he didn’t look like one of the shadow people who had been standing in the yard. He looked like a younger, more handsome version of the average suburban dad. About Mick’s size, maybe an inch taller and leaning forward with the poised inertia of a prisoner whose cell is about to be opened. Under the moon his eyes were silver demonic coins.

  In that moment, Mick knew this was the man, if a man was all he was, who had saved his life. He fit Wisneski’s description and Mick could feel the connection in his bones. He felt exposed again, his thoughts an open book to this stranger.

  ‘I guess it’s about time we met properly,’ the man said, stepping onto the lawn. His voice carried the same deep resonance that had been echoing in Mick’s head since the accident. ‘Vincent Render. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time, Mick.’

  Mick laid the pipe across his forearm. Vincent Render glanced at it but his expression remained neutral.

  ‘I realize this all must seem rather strange.’

  ‘Which part?’ Mick said. ‘The part about you following me or the part where I find you and your family sitting up in the middle of the night like wax dummies?’

  ‘Wax dummies,’ Render said. ‘That’s what it looked like? I guess that makes sense. From your perspective. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Whatever you saw through the window, I guess we must look like monsters to you. But I promise, my family and I only want to help you.’

  ‘Oh? With what?’

  ‘Everything. I know how hard things are right now. The living hell that you’ve been through the past three years. I’m a businessman too, retired now, but I see what’s happening. Your restaurant, the problems with your accountant—’

  ‘My business is none of your business.’

  Render bent and plucked a pine cone from the lawn. He gazed into it, then dropped it. ‘I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘Because we are bound by the same tragic circumstances. And neither of us is living the lives we are meant to live. We’re both in a lot of trouble. There is a lot of bad … business in the air these days. But if we work together, we can turn bad business into a very prosperous business, and so much more.’

  ‘Not interested,’ Mick said. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop following me and leave us alone. I am justified in harming you right now, for being on my property, and don’t think I don’t want to.’

  ‘Understandable. But first let me ask you: What do you think of that house?’ Render angled and pointed one slender finger at the behemoth in Mick’s backyard. ‘Honestly. It’s just a spec home, but with the right input on all the finishing touches, it could really be something. What do you think?’

  Mick snorted. ‘I think it’s an assault on good taste and common decency. If I had it my way, I’d burn it to the ground.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Render said. ‘Because I built it for you, Mick. For you and your family.’

  Surprise, for about half a second. Then Mick realized the man was being a smart-ass, taunting him. He waded forward and raised the pipe.

  ‘The others are dead,’ Render said, not flinching.

  Against his better judgment, Mick hesitated. ‘What others?’

  ‘The families.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘You know what families,’ Render said. ‘You know everything.’

  ‘No, I really don’t.’

  They want to be your friends, but they aren’t anybody’s friends, the dead Roger had said. They will do anything to get what they want. They use other people, make them do horrible things.

  ‘Three years ago,’ Render said. ‘Up until three years ago, everything was normal. It was let the good times roll. But then it happened. And now there is a price. That’s what I’m saying, Mick. There was a price for all of them and they refused to pay it and now those other families are dead. You know.’

  ‘I know you’re insane,’ Mick said.

  Render took another step closer. ‘No, I am wealthy. Obscenely wealthy. You’re right about one thing, though. I have been following you. I’m in your dreams and in your life, because you have something I want. Something I want very badly, Mick. It’s really that simple. My family and I would like to be your friends, the best kind of friends. They have already begun to form their own bonds. Our wives and the kids. There is a foundation there I hope you and I can build upon. But if that is not possible, at a fundamental level, I’m talking about a business transaction. A life-changing transaction that will hurt
neither of us and benefit both of us. What could be easier than that?’

  ‘Killing people.’

  Render bobbed his head. ‘Oooo-kay. What does that mean?’

  ‘That’s what you’re into,’ Mick said. ‘Roger and Bonnie on the lake. You’re either trying to implicate me in something or do something worse, and you think you can buy my silence. What are you, mob? Russian hitman? Hedge-fund owner?’

  ‘No, Mick, but what if I was?’ Render smiled and ran a hand over his sleeve, watching his pale hand in the moonlight. ‘What are you going to do? Call the police?’

  ‘If this doesn’t stop, absolutely. I have friends in the department.’

  ‘Terry Fielding,’ Render said. ‘Yes, how is that fellow holding up these days? Have you seen him? I wonder, why hasn’t he been by to visit you lately?’

  ‘As a matter of fact—’

  ‘He’s dead too,’ Render said. ‘You’re running out of friends, Mick, so if you plan to call another one, you’d better do it soon.’

  ‘What did you do to Terry?’

  ‘Me? Little ol’ me?’ Render pretended to be insulted. His playful game of suggestion and innuendo was beginning to remind Mick of Max Cady in Cape Fear. ‘What in the world would I want to go and hurt a police officer for?’

  ‘To stall the investigation,’ Mick said.

  ‘And what investigation would that be?’ Render cupped his ear to the night. ‘Do you hear the hoofbeat of cavalry approaching? All I can hear is a dull ringing silence. We have each other, Mick. You are all I need. What reason would you have for calling upon outside forces? We’ve barely gotten to know each other. Don’t you think we should find out how we can help each other before we turn each other in?’

  Mick opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his dry tongue. For the first time it struck him this man really had something on him.

  Render seized on his silence. ‘It is a vicious world and we live in vicious times. I know why things are the way they are. I know why the others come, preying on you. They are out there right now. They have a nose for weakness, and they will keep coming for you and things will only get messier unless you allow me to help you.’