The Night Visitors(41)

I think I hear a tiny giggle from under the bed.

“And that must be the constellation of Snuffleupagus.” This time I hear a definite snort. “And this one, under the sign of the bed, must be—” I drop to my knees and grab under the bed, ready to pull out a giggling boy, but instead my hands close on dust balls. I sweep the space, finding only one small plastic figure, a miniature R2-D2 with a Post-it note that says: “These are not the droids you’re looking for. Look inside the house inside the house.”

What the—

I flatten myself on the floor to look under the bed for a trapdoor, somewhere Oren could be hiding, but just as I do all the lights go out. Followed, two heartbeats later, by a scream from downstairs.





Chapter Twenty


Mattie


WHOEVER IS COMING in must be startled by the lights going out because he freezes. His hesitation gives me the advantage: I’m in the dark, but there’s still a little light left in the sky so I can see him—or at least the shape of him. A man, definitely, with a baseball cap under a hood. His face is in shadow. I can make out the gun in his hand perfectly well and an inch of bare skin between coat cuff and gloved hand. Although I’m flattened against the wall I’ve angled myself, with my dominant foot back, in exactly the right defensive posture we learned in self-defense class, so when I swing my right arm forward I bring my leg with it, adding force to the blow I aim at his wrist.

The knife sinks deep into flesh. The man screams and drops the gun to the floor. I kick it behind me and wrench open the door. The door opening knocks him off-balance and he falls backward into the snow. I take a step forward but then I hear Doreen’s voice in my head. Close it, idiot! Or at least get the gun first!

I step back, slam the door, and lock it. Then I turn to look for the gun, but it’s too dark. I sink to my knees and feel around on the floor, groping in Dulcie’s bed and through the piles of lint and old socks and half-chewed dog bones under the dryer. Finally, my hand closes on cold steel. I feel along the barrel gingerly for the safety and find that it’s off.

The bastard was ready to shoot.

Leaving it off, I get to my feet but stay half crouched below the window. He could have another gun. I peer out the window.

He’s gone.

Which means he could be trying the front door. Did I lock it? Doreen’s always after me to, but living out here at the end of the road, surrounded by woods, I hardly ever bother. What’s to steal? I’d ask Doreen.

Your life, she’d say.

Who’d want that? I’d quip back.

But now there are two more lives in this house. I head for the front door—and trip over Dulcie. I reach out to brace myself but the gun’s in my hand and I end up banging poor Dulcie’s head. She whimpers and I feel terrible. I could have shot us both. I thumb on the safety and keep going more cautiously, left hand out, feet feeling for obstacles. I know the way well enough, but there are piles of donation bags in the hall and boots lying by the door.

This is what comes of bad housekeeping, my mother’s voice says in my head.

“Fuck off!” I shout out loud as I throw the bolt on the front door.

“Who are you talking to?”

The voice right behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I wheel around, right arm extended, left hand bracing my grip, dominant foot back, body angled to protect my own vital organs (who knew I even still cared about them!). I’m aiming into the dark, though, and for a moment I wonder if I really heard anything at all. Haven’t I been listening to the voices in my head for years? Didn’t I just hear Caleb’s voice in a tin can?

But then the voice comes again. “What the fuck? Are you trying to kill me?”

Of course she can see me. Now I’m the one standing in the dying gray light. “Alice,” I say.

“Who the hell else would it be? What happened? I heard someone scream. It sounded like—”

“A man,” I say. “A man was coming through the kitchen door. I stabbed him and took his gun but he’s still out there.”

“A man? What did he look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look at him . . . why? Were you expecting someone?”

“What? No! I just thought it might be someone you knew.”

I’m about to snap back that I don’t know any housebreakers but then I realize that I probably do. Instead I ask where Oren is.

“Hiding,” she says. “Upstairs, I think.”

“Shit. We have to find him. I need to get my phone from the kitchen and then we’ll go upstairs and . . .” And then what? We tell victims of domestic abuse who are in their houses with their abusers that if they can’t get out they should lock and barricade themselves into a safe room with their children. The only room that locks is down here. But I don’t tell Alice that. “Stay right here. Watch the door and listen for breaking glass. If you hear glass breaking run upstairs and hide under one of the beds.”

I walk past her toward the kitchen but she grabs my arm. “I’m coming with you,” she says. Her hand is clammy and trembling. Her breathing sounds shallow. Like a person having a panic attack.

“Fine. Just try not to trip me up. This is no time for me to break a hip.”

She hangs on to me like a barnacle all the way to the kitchen. I feel my way to the kitchen table and retrieve the flashlights I pulled out earlier. I pocket one and hand the other to Alice. “Don’t turn it on yet,” I say as I feel around on the counter for the phone. “I don’t want him to know where we are.”