A Noise Downstairs(75)

“And I think you need a break from your project. No more talking to grieving husbands and jilted wives. No more holing up in your study, writing about what happened to you. You need to get out. You need to do things.”

Paul considered her advice. “I don’t even know if I care about it anymore. I’ve met with Kenneth. Maybe my demons have been exorcised. Maybe it’s time to move on. I don’t have to turn my experience into a brilliant work of literature.” He grinned. “Let someone else win the Pulitzer.”

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PAUL MANAGED TO TALK CHARLOTTE INTO GOING TO WORK. “HONESTLY,” he told her, “I’ll be fine.”

And up until the time she left for the real estate office, he thought he would be.

But once the house was empty, anxiety rushed in to fill the void. He could not stop certain thoughts running through his head: 1. It’s me. I did it.

2. No. I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have done it.

3. Someone broke in and did it.

4. No, the locks were changed. No one could get in.

5. So maybe I did do it.

6. Or maybe . . . the ghosts of Catherine and Jill are REAL.

He avoided his study. Even if he’d not been considering abandoning his project, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to write this morning. He couldn’t focus. It would be impossible.

If he couldn’t accomplish anything on that score, maybe he could do something practical. He could focus on items 3 and 4. He could satisfy himself, once and for all, that the house was secure.

He checked all the windows, even those up on the third floor that only a human fly could access, for weakness. He found them all properly latched. The main garage door was locked and did not appear to have been tampered with in any way.

Paul grabbed a ladder from the garage and hauled it up two flights of stairs, chipping paint on the wall with the legs as he made some turns, to allow him to reach the one access panel to the attic. Flashlight in hand, he climbed to the top of the ladder and gave the square panel door enough of a nudge to slide it to one side. Then he went up one more step and poked his head into the space.

He turned on the flashlight and did a slow 360-degree sweep of the attic. There was nothing up there but rafters and insulation. They’d never used the space for storage. It was too difficult to get anything up there and then, later, bring it back down.

He returned the ladder to the garage.

Well. So that was that.

Now he almost wished the typewriter was not tucked away in the trunk of Charlotte’s car. If it were here, he would place it next to the laptop, look at it, and say, “I’m here. What would you like to talk about?”

At one point, the phone rang. It was Anna.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” she said.

“Okay. Thanks again for coming out in the middle of the night.”

“I’ve an opening at two if you’d like to come in.”

Paul thought for a moment. “No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? You weren’t so good a few hours ago.”

“Don’t worry. I think I’ve come to some sort of . . . realization. An acceptance.”

“And what’s that, Paul?”

Paul said nothing.

“You there?” Anna asked.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Look, I’m going to leave that two o’clock open. If you change your mind, just come in. You don’t have to call.”

“Okay. Good to know.”

Anna said good-bye and Paul put away his phone.

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CHARLOTTE WAS RIGHT. HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

That didn’t mean he had to jump in the car and drive to Mystic. But some fresh air wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe a walk to downtown. Lunch someplace.

As he came out the front door, he was almost knocked back, as if by a fierce wind, but there was not so much as a breeze.

It was music that nearly knocked him off his feet.

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

It was the Tastee Truck driven by Leonard Hoffman. It was stopped almost directly across the street. Leonard was not behind the wheel. He was more likely at the serving window, but it was on the side of the truck that Paul could not see. Leonard had clearly been stopped by one or more of the neighborhood kids. Paul then noticed one pair of legs, from the knees down, visible through the underside of the truck.

Paul huddled by his front door. He did not want to engage with Leonard. He did not want to see him. He considered going back in the house but concluded he could wait here until the truck moved on down the street.

The truck rocked on its springs ever so slightly as someone moved inside it. And then there was Leonard, settling back in behind the wheel, putting the truck into gear, and pulling forward.

As the truck exited Paul’s field of vision, he saw who Leonard’s customer had been.

It was a man, holding an ice-cream cone. Late twenties, early thirties. His face was severely bruised and a bandage was wrapped about his forehead. One arm was in a sling.

Jesus, Paul thought. That guy’s had the shit beat out of him.

And then he realized who he was looking at.

Gavin Hitchens gazed across the street, locked eyes with Paul, smiled, and took a lick of his ice-cream cone.

Paul felt his insides turn to liquid.