A Noise Downstairs(2)

Why go around the back? Paul wondered. What was Kenneth up to? He killed his headlights, turned off the engine, and watched.

In Paul’s overactive imagination, the words drug deal came up in lights. But there was nothing in Kenneth’s character to suggest such a thing.

And, in fact, Kenneth didn’t appear to be meeting anyone. There was no other car, no suspicious person materializing out of the darkness. Kenneth got out, the dome light coming on inside. He slammed the door shut, circled around the back until he was at the front passenger door, and opened it. Kenneth bent over to pick up something.

Paul could not make out what it was. Dark—although everything looked pretty dark—and about the size of a computer printer, but irregularly shaped. Heavy, judging by the way Kenneth leaned back slightly for balance as he carried it the few steps over to the Dumpster. He raised the item over the lip and dropped it in.

“What the hell?” Paul said under his breath.

Kenneth closed the passenger-side door, went back around to the driver’s side, and got in behind the wheel.

Paul slunk down in his seat as the Volvo turned around and came back out onto the road. Kenneth drove right past him and continued in the same direction. Paul watched the Volvo’s taillights recede into the distance.

He turned and looked to the Dumpster, torn between checking to see what Kenneth had tossed into it, and continuing to follow his friend. When he’d first spotted Kenneth, Paul had been worried about him. Now, add curious.

Whatever was in that Dumpster would, in all likelihood, still be there in a few hours.

Paul keyed the ignition, turned on his lights, and threw the car back into drive.

The Volvo was heading north out of Milford. Beyond the houses and grocery stores and countless other industrial parks and down winding country roads canopied by towering trees. At one point, they passed a police car parked on the shoulder, but they were both cruising along under the limit.

Paul began to wonder whether Kenneth had any real destination in mind. The Volvo’s brake lights would flash as he neared a turnoff, but then the car would speed up until the next one. Kenneth, again, appeared to be looking for something.

Suddenly, it appeared Kenneth had found it.

The car pulled well off the pavement. The lights died. Paul, about a tenth of a mile back, could see no reason why Kenneth had stopped there. There was no driveway, no nearby home that Paul could make out.

Paul briefly considered driving right on by, but then thought, Fuck this cloak-and-dagger shit. I need to see if he’s okay.

So Paul hit the blinker and edged his car onto the shoulder, coming to a stop behind the Volvo wagon just as Kenneth was getting out. His door was open, the car’s interior bathed in weak light.

Kenneth froze. He had the look of an inmate heading for the wall, caught in the guard tower spotlight.

Paul quickly powered down his window and stuck his head out.

“Kenneth! It’s me!”

Kenneth squinted.

“It’s Paul! Paul Davis!”

It took a second for Kenneth to process that. Once he had, he walked briskly toward Paul’s car, using his hand as a visor to shield his eyes from Paul’s headlights. As Paul started to get out of the car, leaving the engine and headlights on, Kenneth shouted, “Jesus, Paul, what are you doing here?”

Paul didn’t like the sound of his voice. Agitated, on edge. He met Kenneth halfway between the two cars.

“I was pretty sure that was your car. Thought you might be having some trouble.”

No need to mention he’d been following him for miles.

“I’m fine, no problem,” Kenneth said, clipping his words. He twitched oddly, as though he wanted to look back at his car but was forcing himself not to.

“Were you following me?” he asked.

“Not—no, not really,” Paul said.

Kenneth saw something in the hesitation. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long were you following me?”

“I really wasn’t—”

Paul stopped. Something in the back of the Volvo had caught his eye. Between the headlights of his car, and the Volvo’s dome light, it was possible to see what looked like mounds of clear plastic sheeting bunched up above the bottom of the tailgate window.

“It’s nothing,” Kenneth said quickly.

“I didn’t ask,” Paul said, taking a step closer to the Volvo.

“Paul, get in your car and go home. I’m fine. Really.”

Paul only then noticed the dark smudges on Kenneth’s hands, splotches of something on his shirt and jeans.

“Jesus, are you hurt?”

“I’m okay.”

“That looks like blood.”

When Paul moved toward the Volvo, Kenneth grabbed for his arm, but Paul shook him off. Paul was a good fifteen years younger than Kenneth, and regular matches in the college’s squash courts had kept him in reasonably good shape.

Paul got to the tailgate and looked through the glass.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he said, suddenly cupping his hand over his mouth. Paul thought he might be sick.

Kenneth, standing behind him, said, “Let . . . let me explain.”

Paul took a step back, looked at Kenneth wide-eyed. “How . . . who is . . . who are they?”

Kenneth struggled for words. “Paul—”