The Stairwell

by M. M. Silva

  She nodded a little more vigorously this time, like she was catching on to my angle. Still no words.

  I rambled on. “I saw Sampson when I pulled up. He’s outside, and he looked really cold. But I was so scared for Moira that I just ran right by him. So here’s where I need some help putting this together. Les, did you pull the gun on Moira as she was at the door?”

  “Yeah, only ‘cuz I thought the bitch was you. I dint know you had no dog or a fuckin’ sister til she told me she ain’t you. She dint tell me about the darn dog.”

  “I understand,” I said softly. “You pushed Moira inside, and she couldn’t go back outside to get Sampson. She’s been up here for a long time, and he’s out there getting colder and colder by the minute. So could you just let Moira go? She can go down and get Sampson, and then it’ll just be you and me.”

  “Shee-it bitch! How dumb ya think I am? This here Myra, whatever-her-fucking-name-is will call the cops the minute she gets outside.”

  “But what about Sampson?” I pleaded. “If you look out that middle window, you can see him. He’s tied to a hydrant, and he’s shivering like crazy.” There was no hydrant, no Sampson, no shivering.

  I prayed to God that Norman could hear all this. I prayed his shooter across the street was getting this as well. Middle window! I prayed I’d picked the right window, the one without the tree blocking it. I prayed if there was a tree that its leaves were all down and there’d be a clear shot. I said a lot of prayers in a one-second span.

  Les hesitated, thinking about it. “I don’t need to see no cold dog. Those kinda dogs got fur, he’ll be okay. Yer fuckin’ fault if he ain’t,” he said with a shrug.

  There it was again. My fault. “Well, I’m just thinking someone will look at his tags and come up here to find out what’s going on. Someone may even call the police. A lot of people know Sampson and will be worried if he’s out there all night. I’m surprised someone hasn’t stopped by already.”

  Les’s eyes started getting shifty again. “Well, I ain’t lettin’ her go get him,” he said defiantly, back in charge.

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe we can all go and get him. You can put the gun on me, and we’ll all go down together and come right back up.”

  “I ain’t stupid!” he screamed. “No tricks, we ain’t all goin’ together.”

  “Okay,” I said, feigning defeat. “Can you at least tell me if he’s still out there? If he’s not, then someone took him, and that someone may be calling or coming over here any minute. If he’s still there, you probably still have some time to decide what you’re going to do.”

  It was odd watching the nuances of Les’s face as he thought this through. According to Kayla, he’d killed a beautiful, young girl. And he was most likely planning on killing another child. He now had a gun held on Moira, and he seemed pretty much drugged up and out of his mind. But he also genuinely seemed like he wanted to check on Sampson. Like Doob had mentioned days before, weren’t these nutcases supposed to torture small animals at some point in their sick lives? Was a pretend-Sampson really going to entice this lunatic?

  Norman, please have your guy ready.

  In a flash, Les shifted the gun, aiming at my head, and started backing toward the wall of windows. “Keep yer fuckin’ arms up or I’ll shoot yer fuckin’ head off. And don’t you move a muscle either, Myra, whatever the fuck yer name is.”

  I’d never been so glad to have a gun pointed at me. Because that meant it was off Moira. I snuck a quick glance at her, and she trembled but still refused to look at me.

  “That middle window, you might have to angle just a little bit to see him,” I instructed.

  “I heard ya the first fuckin’ time, bitch,” he muttered. The gun stayed trained in his right hand, his arm outstretched toward me. He continued to slowly back up, never turning his head away from me. He finally inched his way to a small space of wall between two of the windows, and he quickly glanced toward the shade on the middle window. In that split-second, I lowered my hands a few more inches. They were now level with my chest.

  Les glanced back at me but apparently only saw my hands still in the air. “Bitch, I’m gonna reach for this here blind and sneak a look out. If I see or hear or even fuckin’ smell one of you bitches doing something cute, I pull the trigger. And it’s aimed right at yer purty face. I ain’t gonna miss.”

  With his back firmly planted against the wall space between the large windows, he reached his left hand toward the shade, not taking his eyes off me. His extended gun arm didn’t waver, didn’t flinch. He would undoubtedly pull the trigger if he sensed we were up to something.

  Given the angle, and the fact his body stayed against the wall, it would be very difficult for a sniper to get a good shot at him. And if they got a shot off, it would probably just nick his arm. Les was slightly smarter than I gave him credit for. He wasn’t going to stick his face in the window. I’d hoped the asshole would stand directly in front of it, let the shade roll up to the top, making himself a huge target. He wasn’t cooperating.

  When Les finally took his eyes off me, he slowly turned his head to the left and reached out to move the shade. Craning his neck a bit to look outside, his right arm was still perfectly extended, still aimed at me. As I’d thought, he didn’t expose himself to the front of the glass pane, but his head was turned all the way to the left.

  Looking at his profile, all I could think was, I ain’t gonna miss, either.

  Whipping out the gun from the top of my dress, I shot him directly in the stomach and watched him hit the floor like a rag doll.

  CHAPTER 23

  MOIRA LAUNCHED OFF THE COUCH INTO A BALL ON THE FLOOR while Norman and several men burst through the door to our apartment. As if frozen in place, I still had my gun aimed at the wall where Les had just been standing. He writhed in pain, and I fleetingly wondered if he would live. He’d dropped the gun when he’d collapsed to the floor, but it was still within his reach. One of Norman’s men obviously saw the same potential problem and ran over to kick the gun away from Les before checking on him. I had to turn away. I didn’t want to watch anyone help that son of a bitch.

  Norman gingerly pressed my arm down and pried my gun from me. With his face inches from mine, his mouth moved, but I swear I couldn’t hear him. There was that weird underwater feeling in my head again, and I could only process one thought. Get to Moira.

  I broke away from my partner and raced to the couch where my sister was curled in a fetal position on our floor. A couple of the men stood near her while she openly sobbed. She had her face toward the floor, shutting out the world. My stomach turned. I didn’t want her pretty face rubbing up against the gunk that lived in our carpet. I irrationally thought back to a time when we’d discussed getting hardwoods and wished we had.

  The men parted when they saw me, and I scooched in and rolled up by my sister. My stupid dress was bunching up all over the place, and I snuggled into her as close as I possibly could, vowing I would remain there for decades if that’s what it took.

  I reached out and touched her soft, blonde hair and told her everything was okay in my best maternal voice. Moira jerked as if she’d been electrocuted.

  And then she slapped my hand away.

  “Get away from me, Meagan,” she said in the quietest, most hollow voice I’d ever heard.

  CHAPTER 24

  Saturday, November 9th

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING AND WISHED FOR NOTHING other than to bury my head back into my pillow and sleep for about a year. Or two. Two years would be good. Everything would blow over by then. My sister had been terrorized by a killer because of me, and now she hated me.

  The night before had been one of the worst of my life. After hours of questioning by the police, my parents came to get Moira to take her to their home. I wasn’t invited. Their looks of disgust and disappointment were ones that would stay with me forever.

  As always, Doob waited in the background throughout the whole ordeal, and since my apartment
was a crime scene, he’d invited me to stay with him. I thought why not? For all the time I’d lived on the same floor as Doob, I’d never seen his apartment, but I figured I deserved to stay at the roach motel.

  So I was amazed when we walked across the hall at four o’clock in the morning, and the entire place looked like something out of an extravagant magazine. I’d have never guessed. I’d passed out in his guest room, still in my second-hand gown.

  I sat up in the comfy guest bed and tried to erase last night’s memories. Mustering up some courage, I reached for my cell phone as if it were radioactive. I punched the speed-dial for my parents’ house with bile rising in my throat. Ma answered on the first ring and curtly told me Moira was still resting and they’d do their best to call me later in the day. Don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you came through loud and clear, and my stomach pitched. Eyes welling with tears, I barely choked out a good-bye to my mother before she hung up.

  I tossed the phone on the bed and stared down at my hands. There was no evidence of the horrible thing that had happened the previous night. I didn’t even know if Les was dead or alive. After a two-second reflection, I realized I didn’t care. Guilt would eventually rear its ugly head—you shot a human being, Meagan—but for now, I was glad I did. Moira was alive because I stopped that lunatic in his tracks. So fuck him and fuck the little voice in my head.

  Yep, it would eventually have me on a therapist’s couch.

  Sitting on the bed and staring at the wall, self-pity overwhelmed me until my cell’s ring tone bleated. A spark of hope flickered, and I clung to the tiniest delusion it might be Moira or Ma, who’d decided to forgive me and called to extend an invite for coffee cake. Or just coffee. Either would be good by me.

  I reached for the phone and looked at the display before answering. It wasn’t Moira or Ma, but the number was familiar. I wracked my brain for a second and then decided to just answer the damn thing before it went to voicemail. I mean really, isn’t that what phones are for?

  “Meagan, hi. It’s David Fontana.”

  Oh. My. God. This was just friggin’ perfect. I associated David with the most guilt-ridden event in my entire life, and now that I had a silver-medalist-guiltiest-moment, thanks to last night’s horror story, I couldn’t believe David Fontana was calling me. Was the universe really this cruel?

  “Meagan?”

  In the past, tongue-tied was an understatement to describe how I’d behave around David, mostly because he’s this perfect specimen of human being, and I, very simply, am not. There was a time when I’d hoped my schoolgirl crush would evolve into something wonderful between us.

  But when I’d managed to leave his brother in an abandoned house with Melanie-the-psychopath—who ultimately murdered him—that abruptly ended my little fantasy. David and I run into each other at our mutual coffee shop on Boylston Street occasionally, but I’ve basically changed my entire routine since that horrible period in my life. I wish David nothing but the best, and the best is very much not me.

  Sigh.

  “David, hi. I’m sorry. I’m just surprised to hear from you. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, thanks. How’s it going with you?”

  God. Certainly he wasn’t calling just for chit-chat? Because today wasn’t exactly the day I could pretend to be all things sunshine and light. And David calling today goes to show that sometimes timing in life just plain sucks ass. How many times had I hoped David Fontana would call me, for any reason whatsoever? And now that it had happened, I only wanted to hang up.

  But I forced myself to play along. It was, after all, David Fontana.

  So. Now I had to answer his question as to how things were going. Let’s see…because of me, my sister nearly got shot in the head last night, and I might have killed a guy, I’m not totally sure. Moira hates me, my parents are barely speaking to me, Sampson is on vacation in Newport, and Doob’s apartment—which I’ve been terrified to see for years—is a majestic, fairytale palace. How’s it going with you?

  That would probably be a wee bit too much information for the time being, so I opted for a little less drama. “Things have been kinda crazy, but I’m plugging away,” I said, wincing at my poor attempt at cheeriness. “How are you doing?”

  “Things are going really well, thanks.”

  Enter the awkward pause.

  Most times in life, I feel obligated—compelled, really—to fill that void, but today I didn’t. I would have sat in silence for the entire morning and been just fine with it. For the time being, small talk was not in my repertoire.

  Thankfully, David cleared his throat and went on. “Okay, so I won’t keep you long Meagan, but I’m making some calls today, reminding everyone about Darrin and Bobby’s scholarship run tomorrow. We’ve got more sponsors than I could have hoped for, and I think it’s going to be a really great day.”

  Good grief. Well over a month ago, I’d received an invite in the mail, announcing the first annual 5K run in Darrin’s, and his friend Bobby’s, honor. Bobby had left Darrin a lump sum of cash after his death, which ended up being just shortly before Darrin’s murder. That money, combined with the monies to be raised from the approaching fundraiser, would go toward a scholarship for a college-bound high school senior each year. I wasn’t sure of all the criteria for the scholarship; David was in charge of that, but I was certain it would go to someone very deserving.

  “Meagan?”

  “Sorry…again.” Why in hell couldn’t I form sentences around this man? In person was one thing, but we were on the phone, for goodness sake. “Yes, of course I’ll be there. I’m sure I’ll be walking four point nine of the five kilometers, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve gotten a bunch of people to donate online, and I’ve got quite a bit of cash for you, too.”

  “That’s great to hear. Thanks Meagan. Will Moira and Doobie be joining you?”

  “Here’s the thing. I openly admit I’m totally out of shape, but I will attempt—and somehow survive—the walk. However, Doob gets exhausted coming across the hall, so he elected to make a very nice donation, and he’s also volunteering. I think his motivation is so he can be close by to make fun of me, but at least he’ll be helping. Moira also donated, and she was very impressed when she saw your mailer. This is a really good thing you’re doing, David.” My words trailed off because of the lump in my throat.

  This time, the silence held all kinds of innuendo, sadness, and hurt; I could physically feel the wave of emotion coming through the phone. If only it could carry me off somewhere, preferably to a place free of guilt. To a land of happy, where Darrin was alive and Moira wasn’t forever damaged. Tom being there would be icing on the cake, but that was just selfish.

  David cleared his throat again and said, “Well, it will be great to see you, Meagan, and thanks for your support.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I said in all sincerity. As I said that, I noticed another call coming in. Norman. “David, I’ve got to run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I clicked over and Norman told me Les had died of his injuries. I don’t know what else he said after that. I don’t know what I said to him. I don’t know if I said anything. I don’t remember hanging up.

  I sat on the bed and returned to staring at the wall for a while. Eventually, the phone slipped out of my hand and settled on the lovely bedspread. I lowered my head on a pillow while memories swirled in my mind.

  Meeting David, finding Darrin in California, my family threatened by a steroid freak, a gun smashed in my face by Melanie, Darrin’s bleeding body, Darrin in a coffin, telling his mother I was sorry, a gun at Moira’s head, and…shooting a man last night.

  I killed a man last night.

  My God. What type of life had I created? I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed.

  A soft knock interrupted my pity party, and a black and white tornado burst onto the bed. Sampson whimpered and licked and pranced and jumped and acted like a very happy dog.

  “Jeff and Ka
yla dropped him off this morning. I didn’t want to wake you, but they said to tell you they’re both so sorry about what happened.” Doob walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to pull Sampson off the ceiling.

  I nodded. “Yeah, me too. We’ll have to get back to Jamestown once all this—”

  Putting his hand on my arm, he said, “No one cares about Jamestown right now. We’ll get back there when it makes sense. Jeff is staying at his place in Boston for the time being.”

  I nodded. “Doob, I killed a guy last night,” I murmured, focusing at a spot on the floor.

  He wrapped me in a hug and, after releasing me, held me by the shoulders, forcing me to look right at him. “You shot a man in self-defense last night, Meg. He was going to kill you and your sister. I can’t change what happened, but I’m not letting you start the guilt parade.” He pulled me off the bed and steered me into the bathroom. Handing me the bag I’d packed, he ordered me to get cleaned up.

  “What for?” I mumbled.

  “I’ve got an idea. Have you ever served at a soup kitchen?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s getting to be that time of year. I’ve gone down there and dished out food to some homeless people on occasion.” His face colored, but he kept talking. “And I dunno…I just always feel better afterwards. No matter how bad or lonely I might feel, that always makes me realize how lucky I am.”

  Thinking of Doob being lonely made me sad. I didn’t know he ever felt that way. But heck, he hardly ever saw his family. And if I was his best friend, then my God…

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said and faced my weary self in the mirror.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sunday, November 10th

  DESPITE THE FACT I’D ENDED SOMEONE’S LIFE, my day at the soup kitchen had gone a long ways to restoring my soul. Doob and I met some wonderful people—both working at the facility and those we served—and we vowed we’d do it again on Thanksgiving. Despite the strained relations with my family, yesterday made me realize I had a lot of reasons to be thankful. At some point, I was going to have to deal with the fact I’d shot and killed a human being, but for now, I relied on that denial thing to get me through another day.