The People Next Door Read online

  He shut off the engine and stared across his back acres, over the hundreds of acres of greenbelt beyond, to the other house. For a shimmering moment it was the house of his nightmare journey with Roger, a swaying, hallucinatory shadow reaching across the night for him, pulling at him, welcoming him inside.

  Mick looked away and stumbled from his truck, streaked with blood, sticky and crusted with it, but he didn’t feel nearly as awful as he should. The lights inside his house were off and he hoped Amy had not heard him come home.

  A heavy engine groaned on Jay Road, a yellow blinker flared and dimmed, and then the olive drab Rover was coasting behind the trees separating the two properties. It reached the end of his parcel and the palazzo’s iron gates opened silently, admitting the Rover. The gates closed before he could see Render exit the truck.

  Render had instigated this, Mick realized. He didn’t just appear tonight. Random crime or not, he’d arranged it or arranged to be there, possibly as retaliation for Mick’s refusal of his previous offer. And what exactly had he been offering? What did he want?

  This was a conspiracy. A hallucination. It simply could not be happening.

  The trees stirred. As before, Render emerged from the border, onto the expanse of Mick’s lawn. He was holding a small leather duffle in his left hand, calm as a man on a platform, waiting for the train.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  It was a simple question, but Mick could not put words together.

  ‘Whatever you are feeling,’ Render said, ‘it’s not as bad as it seems. Take a hot shower to warm up, then let it run cold. It will revive you and act as a natural analgesic. Then you need to eat something hearty before you go to bed. By tomorrow morning, it will be like this never happened.’

  Mick twitched. ‘You killed those kids. I saw you.’

  Render craned his neck and smiled slyly. ‘Did I? Pretty sure I did not act alone tonight, Mick. Whose fingerprints do you think the police will find on the bat? Besides, it was self-defense. You were angry, as you had every right to be.’

  ‘You knew,’ Mick said. ‘You planned to be there.’

  ‘I stopped by the restaurant tonight to return this to you.’ Render moved a few steps closer and held out the bag. ‘I told you we were destined to work together, and I’m here to show you I’ve been holding up my end of the bargain. You are reluctant to accept my offer, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have what is rightfully yours.’

  Render set the duffle on the grass. When it was clear Mick had no intention of accepting it, Render kneeled and unzipped the bag. It was full of cash. Packets banded together and more loose bills. Hundreds. A big green Benjamin salad.

  ‘No,’ Mick said. But he was dizzy with the knowledge of what it represented, what it could do for him.

  ‘Eugene Sapphire kept very detailed records of his shenanigans. That’s all yours, to the penny, with a fair market savings rate of five per cent annual interest. Should be enough to save your restaurant, but I’ll leave you to decide what to do with it.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Mick said.

  ‘What did I do?’ Render smiled. ‘I’m just a courier on this one. He made his bed long ago.’

  ‘And now he’s lying in it,’ Mick said. ‘Dead as those boys.’

  Render shrugged. ‘Go visit him tomorrow, see for yourself. All I did was restore a little decency, right another wrong. That’s all I’m about here, Mick. Helping you right the wrongs so we can both get back to our rightful place in this wrong life.’

  Mick felt as though he might float away at any moment. ‘I won’t be a part of it. I won’t let you—’

  Render shifted with unnerving speed and in a blink his face was inches from Mick’s. ‘Don’t push it, Mr Nash. If you call attention to our business, those who would investigate such claims will never find me, only you. There are no other suspects because no one else was involved. Not on the lake, not at Sapphire’s house, and not tonight. It will all come back to you, because as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I don’t exist.’

  Mick’s throat filled with bile. ‘What in God’s name are you?’

  Render sighed. ‘You still don’t know?’

  ‘I saw your bumper sticker,’ Mick said. ‘Is that supposed to be a hint?’

  ‘The bumper – oh. You think I’m …’ Render broke into laughter. He sighed. ‘Ah, Jesus. No. I just like the sentiment. You might say I am learning to relate to it. But you actually thought …’ He laughed some more. ‘That’s classic.’

  ‘I’m glad you think this is funny.’

  Render turned serious. ‘Wait, do you believe in creatures with special powers?’

  Mick glanced at Render’s shoulder, saw no blood. ‘He shot you.’

  ‘There are no real monsters, Mick. You know that. We are sensible men in a world where nothing is more dangerous. You understand there are no superheroes or stock villains, only the wide spectrum of humanity in all its glory. Average men like you and me, vying for our piece of the dream.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ Mick said, fed up. ‘What is this? What is the point of you?’

  ‘Come on, Mick. Stop pretending. You know I know.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Render looked at the stars. He was quiet for a moment, then began slowly reciting names as if identifying constellations. ‘Robertson. Percy. Chavez. Greenwald. Weaver. Render.’ He lowered his gaze. ‘And Nash. What do these surnames have in common?’

  Mick saw no point in humoring this sociopath.

  ‘Well, it’s a sorrowful turn,’ Render said. ‘All of these families were strangers to one another, until three years ago. They were brought together by chance, or maybe it was the need to escape the ordinary they shared. Regardless, they found one another and, like good neighbors, they became friendly if not quite friends. It was a magical week. Some were in love, some were fighting, but all had the time of their lives. And then … well, of course something bad happened. Something abominable and unprecedented. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but these families, good families all, were never the same again. They went their separate ways and forgot about what happened that night. They forgot about what they stumbled onto, what they unleashed. And now, it pains me to say, four of those families have disappeared. They ride on the wings of the night. But there are two families left, Mick. And one of them needs your help. I need your help. You owe me your help. You may not care to remember what happened, but I will never forget. I don’t have that luxury.’

  At any other time Mick would have laughed, but the situation had moved beyond control into outright lunacy. If it was a kind of blackmail, and it had to be, then all of it was building toward some unimaginable demand.

  ‘Listen to me, you fucking psychopath,’ he said. ‘Everything coming out of your mouth is either a delusion or a lie. I don’t know those people and I’ve never met you. You have the wrong family. I don’t know what it is you want from me, and I have nothing to give. Whatever it is, I can’t help you. I won’t help you.’

  Render stared at him for a long time. ‘Okay, Mick. It’s late. Your wife is irate and she needs you now.’ Render turned and went a few paces, then paused and looked back. ‘Amy and the kids are coming to the barbecue. A week from today, two o’clock. I hope, for your sake, you will join us. Good night.’

  Mick stood in the quiet summer night for a while, staring at the money. His mind raced in a panic of questions with no answers and then slowed to a crawl. There was no decision, only movement. The immediate next steps were all he could focus on. His life had gone from one day at a time to one minute at a time.

  He stripped off his bloody jeans and shirt and threw them in the trash bin beside the garage. He carried the duffle bag into the basement and set it behind the crawlspace door, then used the guest suite shower to rinse away the blood. He set the water to cold, letting it numb him until he was shivering. He toweled off, feeling little or no pain. His nose was no longer leaking and it did not appear to be broken,
though he was certain it had been. He inspected the rest of his body in the mirror. At least two or three ribs had felt fractured in the truck, but he could breathe much easier. His ankle, which had felt shattered, throbbed dully.

  On his way out of the bathroom, something furry brushed against his ankles, yipping, and he almost screamed before realizing it was Thom. The Yorkshire hustled by and a few seconds later Mick heard him bumping up the stairs.

  Hard plastic bit into his bare foot, then he slipped on paper smeared with cold mush. He went a few more steps through the wreckage before finding a light switch. The room came into focus. Party hats, cake on his feet. Amy’s cold silence all week as he ignored her reminders. While Mick had been covering shifts and waging a battle in the parking lot, their daughter had turned nine. Some father you are, champ.

  Ten minutes later he was wrapped in a towel, standing over the kitchen island, forking a pile of leftover pasta with heavy cream sauce and spicy sausage into his gob as fast as possible short of choking. He had almost laughed when Render said he needed to eat something, but the man knew what he was talking about. He felt like he hadn’t eaten in a month. He dumped more shredded asiago over the steaming mess, shoveling it up between chugs of milk from the jug. He tore a hunk of bread from a stale French loaf and swabbed his plate.

  Kyle’s skeleton shambled into the kitchen and opened the fridge. His son wasn’t wearing a shirt or shorts, just boxers and his sneakers, the cold freezer light slanting across his frail torso and sad, boy nipple hairs. He hadn’t noticed his father standing there in the dark and Mick felt no urge to disturb him.

  Kyle hauled the carton of Breyer’s mint chocolate chip out, foraged a spoon from the drawer, and began to cram a flotilla of it into his mouth. He looked up, saw his father, and tensed. His eyes were red and puffy and Mick wondered if he had been crying or was stoned.

  Mick waved for the tub. Kyle handed it over, his eyes widening as he inspected his father’s battered frame. Mick dug in with his fork and the cold against his teeth and upper palate was divine. He thought if he wasn’t careful he might just eat this entire bucket. Kyle was shaking, on the verge of tears, scared, probably had done something bad tonight, or maybe gotten more than he bargained for. Mick watched him, waiting for it. Kyle opened his mouth, but before he could speak he saw something over the island, and both of them turned to the great room.

  Briela was standing in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. She smiled her gigantic smile and ran to her father. She hugged his leg as if she hadn’t seen him in months. As if she wanted to make sure he was real.

  ‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home …’

  ‘Shush, honey,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll wake Mommy.’

  ‘I’m awake.’ Amy was standing by the hearth, arms crossed, fury drawing her face into a mask Mick barely recognized. ‘Well?’

  Mick looked down at his daughter. ‘I’m sorry I missed your birthday, B. There’s no excuse. I was a jerk. I promise to make it up to you.’

  Briela smiled, his presence more than enough.

  Amy said, ‘Have you lost your fucking mind?’

  ‘Amy. Not tonight.’

  ‘Yes, Mick. Tonight. We’re all here for a change. Tell your daughter what was so important you couldn’t be here for her birthday. Tell your family why you haven’t taken a meal with us for the past two years. What was it this time? Did you get in a bar fight? Are you drunk again? Why are you even home? What is it?’

  Mick looked at Kyle, who was piecing something crucial together and curious to see what was coming. He looked down at Briela, thinking of the years he had left to provide for all of them. He looked at his wife and knew she was at the edge of her own abyss. And altogether, as awful as it seemed, this place they were heading, he felt something like tremendous relief blow over him. There was no going back. They had crossed a barrier and everything was going to change now.

  Everything.

  He wiped his lips and licked one finger, enjoying the last of the sweet cream until every drop had been absorbed into his tongue.

  ‘I lost the restaurant.’

  PART THREE

  The People Next Door

  If you’re going through hell, keep going.

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  46

  After spending the next thirty-six hours holed up in her bedroom with the doors locked and the TV turned down as low as it could go while still allowing her to hear scenes of hushed dialogue from the Witches Lane marathon she had recorded, Melanie Smith awoke before sunrise on Monday morning, hot and itching, her insides begging for something she couldn’t have.

  Rayell had called her back last night and apologized; she claimed to have been locked in an all-night study session with her phone off, and though her voice was croaky, she promised her mother everything was fine. No, no one had threatened her or been following her. Yes, she still had her mace keychain, stop worrying so much, Mom, you’re being paranoid again. Melanie thought her daughter had been up all night smoking cigarettes and drinking keg beer, but she was so relieved to hear Rayell’s voice, and her grades from last semester were holding up her 3.6 average, Melanie didn’t pry. The girl had better sense than her mother ever had at that age and Melanie didn’t want to worry her further, so she agreed: she probably was being paranoid.

  She kept replaying the incident after Briela’s birthday party in her mind, seeing that unstable (Go ahead, call her a psycho cunt, if there ever was one, she was it) Render woman’s rolled-back eyes and crooked finger, and every instinct inside her confirmed she had not been imagining it – the woman was evil. She had not, of course, put a spell on Melanie or Rayell. That was ludicrous, the stuff of cable soap opera (case in point: Melanie had probably been watching too many episodes of Witches Lane than was healthy). But evil came in human forms too.

  Amy had not returned her calls. Melanie had tossed and turned all Thursday night, spent most of Friday with the phone in one hand, debating calling the police but resisting out of fear of retribution, until she finally fell asleep around lunchtime and slept for almost seventeen hours.

  Now it was a little after four in the morning, and after a snack of yogurt and granola and a glass of pineapple juice, Melanie was going stir crazy. She hadn’t been confined indoors this long since her Ben & Jerry’s days. Her body needed to flex and surge, to feel the bounce of the road. Was it possible she had overreacted, just a little? Maybe. Maybe not.

  But she couldn’t spend the rest of her life, or even another day, living with this fear, hiding like a refugee. She would tuck her cell phone in her fanny pack in case of an emergency, or even anything suspicious, and that settled it.

  She used the bathroom, drank two glasses of water. She sat nude on the trunk where she had draped her running pants and sports bra, her clean ankle socks and new favorite pair of Asics Gel running shoes. Sleeved herself in Lycra. Tied the shoes, nice and snug. Clipped the pack around her washboard and turned it until it sat on the firm shelf of her ass. Her hair was short for summer, but she tied it back anyway, creating a bristly brown spike. She knew it would be cool for the first mile, but after that the temperature would not matter, so she left her long-sleeved jersey behind.

  She didn’t bother with stretching. A recent article in Runner’s World had cleverly pointed out that stretching was responsible for as many injuries as actual training or competing. And anyway she was up to fifty-five miles per week; running eight or ten miles no longer made her sore. She would warm her way into a high-viscosity burn. Her muscles shivered in anticipation, blood racing on the tide of her brave decision, her mind as alert as if she had consumed a venti latte from Starbucks.

  She stepped out, the land still dark under a sky turning whale blue. She bounded over the lawn, up toward the elbow turn on Independence Road. No cars, the asphalt worn and cool, the pre-dawn greeting her like an old friend. Welcome, it said. Come and run with me, while the rest of the lazy world sleeps.

  She ran toward the Foothills, Boulder Municipal Airport�
��s small landing strip and parked Cessnas and sail planes off to her left. To her right was a great field of undeveloped land, the giant willow trees by the stream, a few houses, including that Eyesore blocking the Nash place. Where the crazy c-word woman and her family were squatting. After her run, she would try Amy one more time, make sure everything was okay, and then together they could decide whether to call the police. Or maybe Melanie would simply stop at a pay phone, place an anonymous call. But only after her run. Right now belonged to her and the road.

  Melanie’s breath flowed silently, her legs full of burgeoning power. The break in her training had been good for her body, if not her mind. She felt as if she could run to Lyons today. When she reached 47th, she would take the overpass north to Jay, run eastbound to the fire station, then out to Reservoir Road where she hoped to reach the beach by sunrise. Her running shoes made pleasant wicking sounds on the asphalt. She grooved.

  For as long as she could remember, Melanie’s life had been a series of cravings. As a child she coveted toys and other children’s playthings with a ferocity that drove her mother to tears for all that she could not provide, and got Melanie sent to the principal’s office dozens of times. By ten it was clothes, the advertisements torn out of Seventeen and Vogue, glued to her bedroom walls. She learned to shoplift at malls by age twelve, and lost friends in junior high for refusing to give back a Polo sweater, a pair of Benetton jeans, those Guess overalls her mother could not afford.

  At fourteen she met alcohol, and she proceeded to loot liquor cabinets around the neighborhood, her nose keen to the scent of parents away for the weekend. Sixteen was pot, and the things she did for high school and college boys – the boys being another craving in their own right – who knew how to get the good stuff. Then acid. Coke. Heroin twice. Crack for a winter. And on it went, into her twenties and early motherhood, two marriages, her life a series of seemingly bottomless longings.