The People Next Door Page 22

  ‘Somehow I doubt – hey, wait, you’re the ones in the new house? Amy told me about you.’ For the first time, a ripple of uncertainty passed over Cassandra’s mask of intimidation. ‘See, that’s funny, because I checked with the title office and that’s not your house. The builder disappeared almost a year ago and the bank is about to take it over. You don’t belong there. I don’t know who you think—’

  ‘Watch yourself, dyke,’ Cassandra Render said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Did she just say what I think …

  The crazy little woman took a step toward Melanie. ‘It’s mothers like you who create the pressure and expectations that lead to problems like this. But Amy will no longer be judged by inept creatures like you. Go on, Melanie. Get back in your car and go back to your sad house and eat a bucket of ice cream. Call your daughter and make sure she’s still safe.’

  Hearing her name, her daughter’s safety put into question, Melanie’s temper went volcanic. ‘Oh hell no, bitch, I know you did not just threaten me. Don’t you dare talk about my daughter, who do you think you are—’

  But that was all she got out before Cassandra Render seized Melanie by the ear, yanking her head down with savage force. Melanie cried out, certain the woman was going to bite her ear off, but instead she whispered, ‘Go home now and forget you ever saw me unless you want to relive that lonesome October night you spent at the Kappa Sigma house, and this time it will be an alley and all five of them will wear masks.’

  Melanie was shoved aside, gut-punched by the airing of a memory so heinous she had never told anyone about it, not even her mother or her best friend, Kana McMullen. She was still reeling in shock as Cassandra continued up the walk as if she had just stepped over a piece of garbage.

  ‘You’re gonna pay for that,’ Melanie shrieked, rubbing her ear, bet your sweet ass hoping to find blood. ‘Do you hear me? And what do you think you’re doing? Get away from that door right now.’

  She was stomping toward the porch when Cassandra turned slowly and pointed a finger at her, waving it in a circle as a deranged smile drew her mouth into a slit. Her eyes rolled back with pleasure and came to rest on Melanie.

  ‘I put them,’ the woman said in a sing-song voice, ‘on you.’

  Melanie stopped, some deep part of her cavewoman brain warning her not to take another step. Every inch of her skin crawled in repulsion and pants-wetting fear. The only sensation she had to compare it to was the time she had nearly jogged into a nest of recently birthed rattlesnakes out on Eagle Trail, the first dozen already breaching their clear gelatinous sacs, and then backed into the grass and nearly stepped on the depleted and hungry mother, a long, rough diamondback whose pink wet mouth and glass-needle fangs had leapt up at her in such ferocious silence, Melanie had nightmares about it for weeks.

  If you take another step, the voice of survival inside her warned, you will suffer things worse than death, and Rayell will never come home from college again.

  Cassandra Render wasn’t mentally ill, and she wasn’t merely dangerous. She was flat-out evil. She continued to stare at Melanie, her lips moving soundlessly, until Melanie backed away and ran to her car, slammed the door and locked it, fumbling her keys around the ignition. When she looked up again, Cassandra was pushing the front door open and slipping inside.

  Melanie picked up her cell phone to warn Amy, but found herself dialing her daughter’s number instead. Rayell was a junior at Montana State up in Bozeman, far away from this madness. And yet Melanie could not help but feel that it – whatever this woman had set in motion – had already come for her.

  Five rings, six. On the seventh, Rayell’s voicemail answered. Melanie hung up and dialed again. The phone was still ringing when Melanie turned onto Jay Road and headed toward home, pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

  44

  Mick committed early, the keys welcome weight in his fist. He swung on the bald Asian kid, but it was a glancing blow and only popped the runt into another gear.

  The proprietor took the Easton upside his left ear and the big guy drove two palms the size of pie plates into his chest. Mick was dropped to his back, looking up between his elbows, shifting wildly to cover his head. Having traded the bat, the bleach-blond was already crouching on him and pummeling down, right-left, right-left. The big guy was kicking from the side, boots like anvils, the Asian kid running around and squealing as he swung the bat like a golf club.

  Mick’s thigh took a tee shot that would have snapped his femur if he hadn’t rolled with it. White fists battered his cheeks and brow and neck. His ear had turned hot and wet and he was numb with adrenaline, thrashing and dodging until the Easton clanged off his ankle. That felt like a teacup shattering inside, but he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it. He figured he was going to wind up in the hospital’s critical condition wing again … or not wake up at all.

  Alarming to think that moments ago he had been too curious about his premonition to be afraid, but now could hear himself screaming.

  ‘Help, help! Fire!’ he bawled, knowing the odds of drawing in a bystander at this hour, in this dead shopping center, were extremely poor.

  Someone said, ‘His keys, get the keys!’ And his friend countered, in a high shrieking voice, ‘Fuck him up, fuck him up!’ And they danced about him, raining fists and boots, but it was a hyper attack, only a third of the blows connecting as well as they should, and soon would.

  Mick scrambled back on his elbows, rolling side to side, looking for a pair of legs to sweep, but there was no escape and he was losing all coordination. They closed around him, fighting over him like a piece of meat. His lips swelled. His nose cracked. His right hook wasn’t working the way he wanted it to.

  He glimpsed the blond one crawling at him with the bat raised above his Avalanche cap, a dirty little Samurai coming with the mortal chop. Mick kicked out, felt no impact. His blood screamed through his veins and a black curtain of rage fell around him. Glands seldom used were sent into battle. Before the kid could set his knees, the hat floated up and the blond head beneath it bungee-jerked back, his eyes going what the fuck-round. The kid screamed as he was thrown aside with brutal force, and his Asian buddy stumbled over him, face-planting as if a wrecking ball had swept through the melee.

  The bat fell to the ground and rolled away. Clingclingcling …

  The blows stopped … or at least paused for some kind of intermission.

  Mick flopped onto his stomach, coughing blood through his pulped nose. Behind him, the big bastard was shouting in Spanish – surprise at first, then argument, then a plea of terror. Someone grunted deeply, like a Russian power-cleaning a Volkswagen. The big boy screamed. There was a great smacking sound on the pavement, and the Easton was rolling back to him.

  Mick used the bat as a cane to push himself to his feet. His vision was blurred and he might have been walking in outer space.

  A head of bleached hair was fleeing around the back of his truck and the proprietor lurched after him. The torn warm-up jacket flapped as the kid ran a few steps in confusion, then stopped and tried to make a stand. Mick brought the Easton around and knocked the boy’s jaw about in half. Shithead went rigid for a second, chin raised to the moon, then dropped like a wet towel.

  Mick did not slow to consider what had set him free. All he knew was that the tide had shifted and, oh sweet motherfuck, the pleasure of this power reclaimed was nearly sexual. He turned, bellowing. These pieces of shit had been after his livelihood, probably the keys to the restaurant and safe, and they had become the root of it all now, every problem in his world honed down to this moment. There was finally a face to the faceless them. Sapphire, Render, the IRS, his shitty customer base, the intolerant suppliers jacking up costs. None of them mattered now because he had these clowns. He was concussed and giddy and he wanted it to last all night.

  The big bastard was on his feet again, swaying, distracted by something in the darkness. His back was turned and he never heard it coming. Mick choked up on the rubber
grip and the aluminum whistled. Guy’s spine caved in with a cracking thud and he collapsed, breath gusting like his lungs had balloon popped.

  The bald one was crawling away when Mick brought the bat in low, up into his ribs, so hard the grip sprang free. His momentum carried him pitching over the bodies, spinning as he fell, and he banged the back of his head on the parking lot for at least the second time. He tried to sit up but he hadn’t been so depleted since his first junior varsity wrestling meet, when he had swallowed his mouthpiece and passed out cold in the Boulder High gym.

  The Easton played its rolling music across the asphalt. Heavy footsteps pounded closer, then faded. Someone’s hysterical screaming cut off wetly.

  Everything went quiet. He half expected Coach Wisneski to lean over him snapping a smelling salt, but he was alone now, consciousness lost.

  45

  ‘I knew you had it in you.’

  A slow baritone, laced with a kind of perversion. The voice one hears through the wall of a motel room at four in the morning.

  ‘The first time I saw you. I knew you were a killer.’

  It was like a dream, a bad dream, a recurring nightmare. He had been here before, in this presence. His mind whirled in shattered darkness.

  ‘It’s not safe here,’ the deep voice said. ‘We have a lot of work ahead of us. I will clean it up. I’ve cleaned up worse. But so you know, I saved your life again. And this time I’m not going to let you forget. This time we are bound.’

  Mick opened his eyes.

  Stars. Sky. Cooling air and the warm gritty hardness under him. He sat forward, aching all over, dizzy. He rolled sideways and caught himself with his scraped knuckles. The parking lot, he was in the parking lot. His head felt like a bowling ball but he forced himself to look up.

  His truck was right there. The door was open, the cab’s dome light on. He crawled to it. Raised himself up and leaned over the seat, waiting for the worst of the vertigo to pass. His keys were in the ignition. Thought he was going to throw up but he was too frightened to linger. He didn’t remember what had happened, but it had been horrible and something unknowably evil had been right there with him. It could be behind him right now …

  Mick grabbed the wheel and dragged, squirming to get his ass under him. He turned the key and the Silverado’s big V-8 grumbled to life. He closed the door and stared at the windshield. His body felt smashed and his shirt was wet, sticking to his chest. The headlights cut a swath up to the grocery store.

  No other cars, no bystanders. No people of any kind.

  What the hell happened? How long was I out?

  Hands shaking, his grip clumsy on the wheel. He closed his eyes, controlling the panic, and a flash of the violence came back to him, the attackers screaming, the baseball bat in his hands as he lost control. The rage limitless, intoxicating. The voice had been correct. He needed to go home now.

  Mick pulled the shifter into drive and lifted his foot off the brake. The truck idled forward, the wheel playing itself straight. He was searching for the exit lane when the beams landed on the others. He braked, clenching sore teeth.

  Three broken bodies on the ground, their clothes torn and soaked. Even from this distance he could make out the bleach blond hair opened over the skull, the exposed white patches of scalp and bone. The big guy was sprawled face down, the other two draped over his legs like he was the felled trunk and they were the pruned branches. The ground was pooled with blood.

  Someone was moving. A fourth was crouched beside them, patting and searching as if rummaging through their pockets, or checking vitals. But he didn’t look like a medic. Boyish blond hair. Shoulders rolling under a chambray work shirt.

  Render. Render had intervened again. The man was a moth to Mick’s light, an avenging angel who needed a friend. Mick closed his eyes, swaying.

  They’re dead. All three of those kids are fucking dead and my neighbor killed them, oh, Jesus Christ, he tried to save me and went berserk and killed those kids. I’m in so deep now. That crazy sick fuck is going to take me down with him. Amy will lose the house, my son will lose all respect for me, Briela will see her daddy behind bars …

  When he opened his eyes Render was gone. The bodies were still lying there in a pile. Twenty or so feet to the left of the bodies was a military truck. What the hell was the military doing – no, not military. It was an olive green Range Rover with tinted windows, stripped of its badging. The cargo door was open. There was a white bumper sticker with red lettering which read:

  Sometimes I feel like a vampire

  Ted Bundy

  Render hopped out of the back, hitting the ground in a smooth stride. He walked to the pile and took one off the top, dragging the bald kid by the feet. When he got within a body length of the green beast’s bumper, he bent, clutched what would have been the kid’s belt buckle if he was wearing one, lifted and heaved. The body flew into the cargo bay. The SUV’s rear struts bounced once and were still. Render performed this chore as if he were loading a bundle of newspapers.

  Then he did it again, in the same way, with the second boy.

  Dragging, hefting, lobbing.

  Except this time he came up a tad short and the head of blood-pasted blond hair bounced against the rear bumper, then hung down around the ball hitch on a neck gone limp as a sock. He doubled back, annoyed, and took the head in both hands, flipping the body forward like he was granny-shooting a basketball. This time the body stayed in.

  Mick’s labeling mechanisms were temporarily out of service. He watched in numb fascination and slow-burning horror.

  Okay, tough guy, that was pretty impressive. Now let’s see you lift the big one. The first two were punks not much bigger than my son, but that third one there weighs two-fifty at least. Maybe two-sixty-five, and there’s not a chance in hell—

  Render stretched his arms. Unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolled them back once. He stared at the huge body – which looked like an overturned rowboat covered in ripped canvas – for what was probably only half a minute but felt like ten.

  God almighty, what the fuck was this?

  The body began to stir. It was just the leg, but it clearly moved, the knee bending up a few inches, the heavy black boot swaying like a metronome.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Mick croaked. The kid was still alive.

  A mangled and trembling brown hand reached up, holding a black gun. The barrel wagged. The gun went pop and Render’s shoulder jerked back perhaps an inch. The gun fell from the hand. Render touched his shoulder, looked at his hand. Wiped his palm across his jeans.

  He took one step forward, raised his right foot, and stomped.

  Mick looked away, but not before catching the image of the kid’s head bobbing up on the lever of the breaking neck. There was no sound, not from this distance, but when Mick chanced another peek, Render was still stomping. Mechanically, forcefully. Not with anger, but merely as if he were tasked with putting some pitiful creature out of its misery.

  Mick leaned over the bench seat and vomited onto the floor mat. All that came out was blood-streaked spittle and the last dregs of the whiskey sours Jamie had made him, but it felt like it was his throat the guy was stomping. Oh Jesus, this is so fucked up. What in the name of God have I gotten into? Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he got himself under control and sat up.

  The big Latino was gone and Render was reaching up, then slamming the rear hatch. The noise made Mick jump in his seat.

  Render turned and looked right at Mick, staring into the headlight beams. The work shirt had red spots across the chest, but it might not have even been his own. He took a few steps and stopped, bending to pluck something from the ground. It was a baseball cap. Or hockey, to be precise. The red-and-blue Colorado Avalanche lid one of them had been wearing before the real fuckstorm went into high gear. The cap was now more red than blue, and it seemed to hold some significance for Mick’s neighbor. He studied it like he’d never seen one before, then put it on and snugged the bill down low.

&nb
sp; He continued walking directly at the truck.

  Mick’s foot landed hard on the gas pedal. The hat thing was about one shot of crazy too many and Mick lost his composure. The truck surged and Render kept walking at him and his face was untroubled, white as the halogen glare reflecting off it. For a nauseating moment, Render seemed to be rushing at his windshield and Mick was sure he was going to dive at him, snarling and maniacal, but he was merely walking calmly, unafraid.

  I could kill him now. Blow him out of his shoes with Blue Thunder and leave no witnesses. They would find him later, and blame him for the entire mess. Another restaurant mugging gone awry …

  But he knew that if he ran Render down now, Amy and the kids would pay for it. They were in trouble, all of them teetering on the brink of ruin, and taking Render out would only accelerate his family’s own private End of Days.

  Mick yanked the wheel and the tires screamed. Veering right, he glanced through the driver’s side window and saw Render come to a stop. His mouth fell open as if wanting to explain, genuine disappointment in his expression. Mick’s neck twisted and it might have gone on twisting, captivated by the lunacy as he was, but a horrendous crashing sound – and the ensuing impact upon the truck’s front bumper – snapped him out of his trance.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  He swerved wildly. The shattered shopping cart became a fusillade of wheels and caging that tumbled over the hood and cracked the windshield as the Silverado shot across the lot, bounced over a parking median with enough force to knock his head against the roof liner, and finally straightened onto the exit lane.

  Mick blew the stop sign at the parking lot’s entrance and skidded into the far lane on 30th. He floored it past the Bank of Boulder, then blew the red light as he hooked onto the Diagonal. There were a few cars leaving Boulder at this hour, but Mick didn’t notice them as he passed them at roughly twice the legal limit. He did not take his eyes off the road until he saw his mailbox. He slowed and turned and made it down the long driveway beside the house.