A Noise Downstairs(42)

But those were fleeting illusions, nothing more.

Was it wrong to wonder, even briefly, if the message in his typewriter was actually from the people it purported to be? Were Catherine Lamb and Jill Foster trying to communicate with him?

Don’t go there.

That led him to speculate whether he was dealing with something worse than the fallout from a blow to the head. Was he suffering some form of mental illness? Paul had known, over the years, two individuals diagnosed with schizophrenia. They had believed, with absolute certainty, they were the victims of elaborate conspiracies. One was convinced the U.S. government was after him, that the president himself was overseeing a scheme to remove his brain. The second, a mature student at West Haven College who’d attended for only a single semester, was convinced her entire body was being devoured by lesions, yet she had skin as beautiful as a newborn baby’s.

I’m not like that, he told himself. I am aware of my reality.

And yet, didn’t those two people believe they were, too?

After driving around Milford for the better part of an hour, he decided to head for home.

He pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and stood there for a moment. He took out his cell phone, brought up the number of Charlotte’s cell, tapped on it, and put the phone to his ear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick—”

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Charlotte said.

“I’m sorry. I really lost my shit this morning.”

“It’s okay.”

“I went by Dr. White’s,” Paul said. “Kind of barged in. The thing is, I’m willing to consider all the options, even the one you were getting at.”

“I never really said—”

Dee dee, diddly-dee, dee dee, dee-da, dee-da, dee da dee.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“What’s that noise?”

Paul glanced down the street at the approaching vehicle. It was the same ice cream truck he and Josh had run out to on Saturday night. The one that had been driven by Kenneth Hoffman’s son.

“I have to go,” he said.

“I’ve got a call in to find out who sold that house. When I—”

“Later,” he said, tucking his phone away.

Stick with the program. Don’t be distracted. You set out to confront this shit, and confront this shit you shall. So there’ve been some strange bumps in the road. Keep on going.

The truck slowed as two kids from a house half a block away ran out, waving their arms. The truck slowed to a stop.

Dee dee, diddly-dee, dee dee, dee-da, dee-da, dee da dee.

Paul strode down the street. He waited for the two kids to get their orders, then stood up to the window. The heavyset young man with the LEN name tag pinned to his chest said, “What do you want?”

Paul said, “Medium cone, just plain.”

No more fear. No more turning away.

As Len began to prepare it, Paul said, “You’re Leonard Hoffman, right?”

Leonard turned and looked at Paul. “Yeah.”

“Do you know who I am? Do you recognize me?”

Leonard stopped swirling the cone under the soft ice cream dispenser, set it on the counter. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“I’m Paul Davis.”

Realization slowly dawned behind Leonard’s dim eyes. “You . . . I know that name.”

“Your dad . . . I was the witness. Your father was charged with attacking me, that night. I wondered—I know this may sound odd— but I wonder if I might be able to talk to you about your father.”

Leonard’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I just . . . it’s hard to explain. These last few months have been difficult for me, and I’ve been trying to—how do I put this— confront the things—”

“You’re a bad man,” Leonard said.

“What?”

“It’s all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“That my dad went to prison.”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so, Leonard. It was your dad’s fault, because he killed those two—”

“You stopped. If you hadn’t stopped, he wouldn’t have been arrested.”

So maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.

“Because you stopped, it made my dad stay there too long. And then the police came.”

Paul blinked. “If the police hadn’t come, I’d be dead. Your father would have finished me off.”

“He should’ve,” Leonard said, flicking the ice-cream cone off the counter with the back of his hand. It bounced off Paul’s chest, leaving a dripping, white mess on his shirt.

“No charge, asshole,” Leonard said. He went back to the front of the truck, put it in gear, and drove off.

_________________

HE WENT BACK INTO THE HOUSE FOR A CLEAN SHIRT AND STUFFED the other one into that bag of clothes that he was supposed to have taken to the dry cleaners. It was still up in the bedroom. He’d grab a fresh shirt from the closet.

Mockingly, he said to himself, “Hey there, Leonard. Wanna talk about your killer dad? Sit down, really get into it about your homicidal father?”

He passed through the kitchen on the way upstairs.