The Caller

by Dan Krzyzkowski

  “Is he coming up the stairs? Do you hear him coming up the stairs?”

  No response.

  I amended my question.

  “Is he upstairs already, Justin? Is he out in the hallway?”

  Tap-tap.

  My mind’s eye assumed command. I saw myself pressed against that frozen window, backed into it like prey caught in a corner, with the predator just around the bend. I heard the soft footsteps moving methodically up the hallway toward the guestroom—my room. That narrow crack in the door, that chasm of hall. I saw a man coming to halt, bending slightly to peer through that crack, his eyes as dark as soil. Looking in. Just looking. I was frozen, paralyzed from the neck down.

  But you’re in a church, Leslie. Justin is the one frozen against the window with the footsteps coming. Do something.

  “Justin, you need to move—you need to move now! I know you’re scared, but you have to. I’m right here, Justin, right here next to you. Tiptoe across the guestroom real quick, back into the bathroom, do you hear? Go back into the alley, Justin. Go back into the alley.”

  Something twinged deep inside me, somewhere dark. I had called this play, the trip through the alley—to the window, then the escape down the trellis. It had been my idea to get out from under the bed.

  I gritted my teeth.

  I tried to imagine sounds of a boy shuffling quietly across a carpeted floor, but I was only creating hopes out of phone fuzz, for that was all I heard.

  “Are you there, Justin? Are you in the bathroom?”

  Tap-tap.

  He’d made it. He’d acted, and he’d made it. But that tap-tapping was so deceptive. So unfeeling. So nothing. It wasn’t as simple and clear and easy as that. There was no confidence or determination through that dismal piece of Morse code—just a naked answer.

  He was glued to a wall, kneeling perhaps, tucked between the toilet and cabinet. Or lying face-down in the bathtub with the drape pulled. Panting ravenously. Sweating. Heart thundering in his small chest, his ears tuned to every possible sound.

  “Can you still hear him, Justin?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Where is he? Oh, sorry, don’t answer that.”

  I breathed deep.

  “Is he in the hallway still?”

  A pause. I waited.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Three taps. Was there a mistake of some sort? I never imagined a seven-year-old could be so intelligent as to designate a new signal—not just without benefit of verbal communication but by the mere assumption that I would understand. I know better these days.

  “Is that a maybe, Justin? Does three taps mean you aren’t sure?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Can you hear him now?”

  Before he could respond, I swear I heard something. It was low but audible, lost in the snowy static. Something in the background, semidistant. Think of all the noises you hear when you’re on the phone with someone, the noises in that person’s home, other people talking.

  It sounded like a door creaking open.

  “I heard that,” I said. “Was that the guestroom door, Justin? Is he in the guestroom now?”

  Eternity flew past.

  Tap-tap.

  I imagined the intruder entering the bathroom, moving the shower drape aside, finding Justin cowering in the corner, tears streaking down his cheeks, shivering. Hugging himself.

  Get him out of there. Get him out now.

  “Justin, get out of the bathroom. Get out of there quick before he gets all the way in the guestroom. Go back into your parents’ bedroom. Get back under the bed, but be quiet. Go.”

  The words poured off my lips like quicksilver. They were smooth and soft yet urgent. Not only did Justin move, he did so in sync with my command. I can’t say I heard it, though maybe I did. I probably heard something, but he went on cue with my request. It was as if his body was obeying the commands of my mind.

  I saw Justin’s house through the Cyclopean eye in my head once again—that eye was rapidly acquiring instincts of its own. I saw Justin pattering back through the alley, across the bedroom carpet—as the intruder moved through the doorway, into the dark guestroom—dropping silently to his belly, rolling beneath the sanction of the king-sized bed again. Back where he had started from. In that uncanny perceptual manner I’ll never be able to explain, I knew the answer to my question before I asked it.

  “Did you do it, Justin? Are you under the bed again?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Good. Very good. You’re a tough kid, Justin. You’re handling this extremely well for someone your age. You’re being very brave.”

  It was perhaps the most honest thing I’d said all night.

  “Don’t speak, Justin. We’re staying on the tap system for now. So, he’s in the guestroom still, right?”

  Tap-tap. The taps rang through with an added measure of strength, perhaps to express the renewed security of being beneath the bed again … or maybe that was me, creating my own interpretations.

  “Justin, I want you to stay where you are. Don’t move from under the bed.”

  I wouldn’t worry about that. Justin isn’t going anywhere.

  “Remember, he doesn’t know you’re in the house.” I wondered what the perp might do next. Investigate the guestroom. Migrate to the master bedroom. Would he come through the alley?

  And how about the red light on the phone housing? Will the intruder see that? Will he realize he’s not alone in the house?

  The first attempt foiled, I decided staying put was our best option. I was nervous, though, really nervous. I felt the dampness under my arms, the film of perspiration on my forehead. Mary was smiling in that what-a-great-day way of hers across the desk as she babbled into her phone, absorbed in whatever world hummed at the end of her line. I barely noticed, mired in the quags of my own.

  That window. Freedom opposite a pane of glass, winter wind whipping past. But Justin could have been killed. The boy could have died following my orders.

  I drew a deep breath. Exhaled.

  I lifted my car phone to desk level and made a second attempt to dial the authorities. I put the car phone to my free ear, waiting. Again, it rang. Again I was greeted by a robotic female voice: “All lines are currently busy. Please try—”

  “Dammit!” I hissed, hitting the End button on my private phone. Oh, there was going to be hell to pay for this when all was said and done. Storm or no storm, a communications breakdown of this magnitude was intolerable. The local dispatchers’ office would be hearing from my attorney once the dust had settled.

  Get a grip, Leslie. You don’t have an attorney. And there’s still the boy to worry about. Try the cops again later.

  I reached for plan B like a blind man groping for balance in an unfamiliar room. All hopes considered, the perp would find what he wanted and leave. I thought about that red light on the phone unit but restrained myself from asking Justin if there really was one. I figured there probably was, but that it wouldn’t help to have him brooding over it also.

  I asked him questions to which he tapped back the answers. Small stuff mostly, to keep his mind engaged. We talked and tapped for several minutes before I stopped in midsentence, wondering if this was a mistake.

  Could the intruder hear me? If he comes through the alley and into the bedroom, will he hear my voice coming through the phone? From under the bed?

  “One thing, Justin. As a precautionary measure. He’s not in the bedroom with you now, is he?”

  Tap.

  “If you hear him come in, I want you to breathe into the phone. Breathe heavily and slowly. Then I’ll know to stop talking. He probably couldn’t hear me, but I want to be careful. All right?”

  Tap-tap.

  Then, from nowhere, a new thought hit me.

  “Justin, how did you know about us? I mean, well, you kn
ew the eight-hundred number.” I paused before asking, “Have you called us before?”

  I was greeted with silence, peppered with a snowy static. Silence has a sound: the sound of waves crashing against the seashore; wind rustling the forest canopy; automobiles speeding west on a six-lane highway. A kid shifting, propped on his elbows, mentally debating something that perhaps not even he understands. A question followed by a silence so chock full of other questions.

  I didn’t repeat the question. People on the other end of the line have a way of thinking that lets you know they’re thinking. Calculating an answer, wondering if there’s a correct response. We call that loud thought. When you’ve been at it long enough—a year and a half for me—loud thought becomes eerily recognizable.

  Tap-tap.

  “Have you talked to me before?” I couldn’t recall ever having spoken with him.

  Tap.

  “Have you called us more than once?”

  Tap-tap.

  “During the afternoons mostly?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Your parents aren’t home during the day, are they?”

  Tap.

  “Must be lonely, huh?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Is that why you call usually? Loneliness? Boredom?”

  A hesitation. Loud thought. My Lotensin blipped over to 8:09 p.m.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  That response led to some hesitation of my own, some loud thought on my end of the line. I ran my tongue along my top row of teeth. All I could do was wonder.

  “You sound confused, Justin. Is there something you’re unsure of? Something you’d like to talk about, maybe?”

  No response. Loud thought. I began to represent the absence of a response as an indication of uncertainty. I saw him gnawing his bottom lip, as if chewing on a thought that didn’t quite know how to come out.

  “Things are complicated, aren’t they?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Hard to talk about, right? Hard to find the right words for.”

  Tap-tap.

  “It’s okay to feel confused,” I told him. “A lot of kids grow up feeling unsure about things. Myself included. As a child, whenever I was confused about something, I’d go sit on the edge of an old train bridge not far from my house. I’d watch the trains go by underneath. I used to let my legs dangle over the edge of the concrete. I would sit there until it got dark out. I remember one night when my friend Becky and I were sitting up there after dinner, watching trains go by and talking. We were twelve or thirteen. Not much older than you.”

  I paused, thinking for a moment, before continuing. “Anyway, Becky’s sandal slid off her foot as we were getting up to leave. We watched it fall all the way down. It landed in the middle of the train tracks. We couldn’t get down either of the banks to get it because the prickers were too thick on both sides, so Becky had to skip home on one foot, sort of. I helped her, though. It wasn’t that far. But I never went back to sit on that bridge again. Seeing that sandal fall all the way to the bottom made me too scared to go back.”

  I was perplexed at the turn the conversation was taking, but I did nothing to obstruct its course.

  “You okay, kid?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Good. Just remember you can call us anytime, as often as you like. Okay?”

  Tap-tap.

  “How’s everything going over there? Hear anything?”

  Tap-tap.

  “What—no, sorry, don’t answer that.” I bit down on my lip, searching for a way to ask the question in yes or no form. “Is he in the guestroom still?”

  Tap.

  “He’s not?”

  Tap.

  “He’s not in the guestroom anymore?”

  Tap!

  I hesitated. “Is he in the master bedroom?”

  “Just went down the hall, to the study,” the boy whispered. His words were barely decipherable through the phone static.

  I didn’t question his decision to speak. He was the better judge of that than I.

  “He’s in the study now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the study is at the end of the hall?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you see this person’s face? When he came out of the guestroom, maybe?”

  “No, just his feet. He’s wearing boots.”

  “Okay, stay calm and stay put, Justin. You’ll be fine. When he comes into the bedroom, don’t make a sound.”

  “He’s gonna come in here?”

  Oh, yes. You bet he is. Do we tell Justin the truth and worry him now? Or wait until it happens and then deal with it?

  “It’s a good bet he will, Justin, and I’ll tell you why. To be honest, I don’t understand why he didn’t go in there first. He’s gonna come in and look for your mother’s jewelry. Just keep quiet and let him do it. He’ll hopefully leave the house after he finds what he’s looking for.”

  “But it’s all in her wooden chest,” he replied in a tremulous whisper.

  “Well, that’s good, actually,” I told him, “because then he won’t have to go hunting around for it.”

  “But she keeps her chest right here under the bed.”

  I fell silent for a moment, gathering that one in.

  “The chest is under the bed?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Under the bed with you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you see it?”

  “Yeah, it’s right behind me, by my foot.” His voice was wavering, with higher and higher fluctuations.

  Watch your voice. You’re unsettling him. Calm down, Leslie, calm down.

  I smoothed it out.

  “Okay, just sit tight for a minute while I think, Justin.”

  “Is he gonna find me?”

  “No one is going to find you,” I told him.

  “He’s gonna look under here, though.”

  “Justin, settle down—”

  “But the box is under here, he’s gonna find me—”

  “Justin, you must relax. You’re raising your—”

  “I’m scared, Leslie, I’m really—”

  “Justin, be quiet!” Silence fell between us for a moment—me listening to my breath, him to his thundering heartbeat. A part of me feared he’d start crying. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure now, with the intruder this close.

  “Just breathe, Justin, okay? Don’t say anything. Relax for a minute. I’m going to relax also because I’m as scared as you are right now, and that’s the honest truth.”

  “He’s gonna look under here, isn’t he?”

  You can’t keep him there, Leslie. No way. The perp will look under the bed. After he hunts around long enough, he’ll get down on his hands and knees for a quick peek. He’ll find the jewelry box, but he’ll find Justin also.

  “We’re gonna need to get you out of there, Justin, so listen up. He’s still in the study, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, quavering.

  “Relax, Justin, everything’s going to be okay,” I told him, though I had no way of knowing that for sure. “I want you to slide out from under the bed, to your left. Is that clear? Slide out on your left side. And do it quietly.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “What if he comes out?”

  Yeah, Les, what if the intruder comes out? What then? Justin’s the one in there, not you.

  I cursed myself for failing to foresee this predicament. I had backed us into a corner, and now we had to walk on wet paint to escape.

  “You’re not going to do anything yet. Just do what I tell you. Go back to tap talking, first of all. I don’t want him to hear anything.”

  “Okay. What next?”

  “Don’t talk. We’re tapping now, right?”


  Tap-tap.

  “Roll out to the left.”

  Tap-tap.

  “You did already?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Everything okay?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Good. Just stay calm, and you’ll be fine. I’m right here with you. I want you to tiptoe to the left-hand edge of the main door, the one that goes out to the hallway. But don’t cross the doorway, don’t show yourself. Just go to the edge of it.”

  A pause.

  Tap-tap.

  “Everything clear?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Can you peek down the hallway, down to the end?”

  Tap-tap.

  “All clear?”

  Tap-tap.

  The perp was still in the study.

  This was the moment of truth. I hoped to God the study was stacked plentiful with interesting and valuable artifacts. A few seconds were all I needed. A precious, so critical few.

  “First room on the left is yours, right?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Can you make it, Justin? Think you can make it?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “Are you willing to try?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  The kid was terrified, but I had to push him here. I had no alternative.

  What about the guestroom? The perp’s already been through the guestroom, so chances are he won’t revisit it. Have the boy hide out in there, under the bed or something. Wait it out. This is too dangerous.

  Five minutes ago, that might have seemed a plausible course of action, but not now, not this close—this close to the escape. Now there was no turning back. We were paces away from getting out. First room on the left. Down the spiral stairs. Out the front door. To a neighbor’s house. Freedom. Safety.

  I didn’t dare pause to consider the implications of Justin’s vulnerability. For those few, precious seconds the boy would be exposed. If the perp just happened, by coincidence, to step into the hall as the boy broke for his room—

  “Now, Justin, now! Go, go! Now!”

  A quick, sharp breath—then nothing. I held my breath and waited. It wasn’t until I felt the immediate tension in my chest that I realized Justin had done the same thing—sucked in a hard breath and then held it.

  The Cyclopean eye opened wide in my mind. I saw Justin tucking his head down, refusing to look beyond his bedroom doorway—were the intruder to emerge from the study, Justin would rather not know it. Instead, his eyes were fixated on the door to his bedroom. It was close and getting closer. It was four feet away. It was two feet away. I heard Justin’s bare feet snicking across the hall carpet. And then …