A Noise Downstairs(33)

If Charlotte could get a few days off, they could drive up to Provincetown, or take the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. He could even toss a few recent bestsellers into his suitcase, maybe find something worth adding to his popular fiction course.

He’d talk to Charlotte about it in the morning, although he feared her answer. Too much going on, she’d say. You can’t sell a house when you’re not here. You can’t work twenty-four/seven, he’d tell her. If he could talk her into taking the time, he could see if Josh wanted to come, too. He could call Hailey, see if she’d be okay with that.

No, maybe not. If he was to have a chance of talking Charlotte into the idea, it had to be just the two of them. It wasn’t that Charlotte didn’t like Josh. Paul was sure she liked him. But did she love him? Was it even fair to fault her for that if she didn’t? Josh was not her son, and had been in her life for only a few years.

It was about then, thinking about a Cape Cod getaway, whatever time it happened to be, that he fell asleep.

But it was 3:14 A.M. when he woke up. He didn’t wake up on his own.

He was awakened.

Chit chit. Chit chit chit.

_________________

HIS EYES OPENED ABRUPTLY. WAS IT A DREAM AGAIN? HAD HE EVEN been dreaming? Even if it was hard to recall the details of a dream upon waking, Paul could usually tell whether he’d actually been having one.

He did not think so.

And he was sure that he was, at this moment, awake.

He pinched his arm to be sure.

Yup.

He held his breath and listened for the typing sound to recur. There was nothing. For several seconds, all he heard was the pounding of his own heart.

Then, there it was.

Chit chit. Chit chit chit.

This was not a dream. This was the real deal.

What had Charlotte suggested he do the next time this happened? Wake her up. Get yourself a corroborating witness.

He sat up in bed, touched Charlotte gently on the shoulder.

“Charlotte,” he whispered. “Charlotte. Wake up. Charlotte.”

She stirred. Without opening her eyes, she said, “What?”

“It’s happening,” he said. “The sound.”

“What sound?”

“The typewriter.”

Her eyes opened wide. She withdrew her hand from under the pillow, sat up, blinked several times.

“Just listen,” he whispered.

“Okay, okay, I’m up.”

“Shh.”

“Okay!” she said.

“Be quiet and listen.”

Charlotte said nothing further. The two of them sat there in the bed, waiting. After about ten seconds, Charlotte said, “I don’t hear anything.”

Paul held up a silencing hand. “Wait.”

Another half a minute went past before Charlotte said, “You must have dreamed it.”

“No,” he whispered sharply. “Absolutely not. I’m going downstairs.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Be real quiet. It could start up again at any second.”

Together, they padded down the hall to the stairs and descended them slowly. Twice, Paul raised a hand and the two of them froze.

Nothing.

When they reached the kitchen, Paul reached over to a panel of four light switches and flipped them all up at once. Lights came on over the island and dining table, under the cupboards, and in the adjoining living area.

“We know you’re here!” Paul shouted.

Except no one was.

Paul bolted down the stairs that led to the front door, careful to grab the railing this time so he didn’t land on his butt.

“Paul!” Charlotte screamed.

The door was locked, the dead bolt thrown. He opened a second, inside door that led to the garage, disappeared into there for fifteen seconds, then reentered the house, shaking his head. He trudged back up the stairs to the kitchen.

“Paul?”

“I thought . . . I thought I could catch whoever it was.”

“No one was here,” Charlotte said softly.

He headed for his think tank, flicked on the light, and stared at the Underwood. Charlotte slowly came up behind him, rested a hand on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke for several seconds, but finally, Paul broke the silence.

“You think I’m crazy.”

“I never said that.”

“I know what I heard.” Paul bit his lower lip. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “This is the third time. Three nights I’ve heard it.”

Charlotte, her eyes misting, said, “Believe me, it’s the dreams. Go back to bed. In the morning, things may seem a lot clearer.”

“I’m not losing my mind,” Paul insisted.

“You’re tired and you’re stressed and you worked all day writing about—”

“Enough!” he shouted, throwing down his arms and taking a step back from his wife. “I swear to God, if I hear the word stressed one more time, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”

“Fine,” Charlotte said evenly. “I’m sorry.”

“Bill said the same thing, that I must be dreaming it. But”—Paul was slow to say the words—“he did have an idea.”

“You talked to Bill?”