Housebroken

by The Behrg

  There had been a time when he and his wife could hold conversations without someone having to win. He no longer kept score; they were both losing.

  “If something bad happened with the previous owners here at the house, they’d have to disclose that with the sale, right?” he asked.

  “Why? Neighbor say something?” In a previous life, Jenna had been a real estate agent. Before they had met. “If it devalues the property, then yeah, legally they’d have no choice. I don’t think Rob and Ann were pulling a fast one on us.”

  “No, me neither.”

  “You Google it?”

  She of course knew that he had. “Didn’t find much. He had the previous owner right, though, a Jerry Welchsetzer. I don’t know. Hard to believe anything the neighbor said. He was an ass.”

  Jenna chuckled, and Blake caught the it-takes-one-to-know-one implication. “What’s he do? Business consulting?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Criminal defense.”

  “Double ouch.” She laughed. Blake did too.

  He stood, setting his empty Heineken on the counter and pulling out the business card Tom Jones had given him. “He wanted me to give this to you. Don’t expect a plate of cookies with it.”

  “Wow, maybe I’ll let him abduct me.”

  “Just multiply the size of that face by two or three.”

  Jenna giggled.

  “Wait till you hear him. Barry White would be jealous of that voice.”

  Jenna moaned as if impressed.

  “I can arrange a meeting?”

  “Stop,” she said, resting her hand on his chest. “You’re probably more his type than I am.”

  She smiled, and Blake joined her. It felt real, for a moment—their banter, their joking. He realized how much he missed her even though they saw each other every day.

  The moment passed quicker than he would have liked. Jenna pulled her hand back, and Blake returned to his phone. “I’ll check on Adam,” he said.

  “He’s fourteen. He doesn’t need Mom or Dad turning on the night-light anymore.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy. With the house.”

  She replied with a fake toast, holding her wine glass to the air before turning away and setting it on the counter. Whatever her silent toast had been, she didn’t drink to it.

  5

  Blake had done more than a Google search on Jerry Welchsetzer, and his neighbor had been right—the man was in jail, but not for murder. He had been picked up two years ago for tax fraud and evasion, not the most harrowing of crimes, though he had been sentenced to eleven years.

  Jerry had been a movie producer, bankrolling a hoard of B movies, mostly tit and torture flicks, not a single title Blake had recognized. Up to November 2010, Jerry’s company had been involved in half a dozen releases a year—apparently the budgets on these movies created an opportunity for frequent productions; more productions meant more revenue.

  As a movie producer, however, Jerry had overlooked one key demographic’s interest in his filmography: Uncle Sam’s.

  Blake had read every article about the titan’s demise, the closure of his production company, liquidation of assets. The fact that the house they were now living in had come up on the market as silently as it had was another testament to Jerry’s fall. A few articles he found prior to the arrest harbored conspiracies about some of the titan’s films being less theatrics and more reality, snuff films sold under the umbrella of entertainment. Blake had earmarked the articles on his phone, deciding they warranted a further look.

  What he hadn’t found was any mention of his family’s death or murder—probably just another gross exaggeration from Tom Jones and his eight inches. Or at least Blake hoped so. Either way, he would have to look into it further. Not that he fancied himself an investigator, but if there had been a cover-up, he’d certainly demand a renegotiation on the home price.

  Upstairs, Blake passed by twin antique bookshelves against the side of the hall, sort of a pre-Victorian feel. He had to admit he liked them, though the empty shelves carried with them a feeling of nonpermanence, as if this house were determined to not become a home.

  He snapped a picture with his phone, Betti instantly bringing back the make and price. Shipped from a manufacturer in Germany, the bookcases were listed at $8,900 apiece. Reclaimed antique elm wood, whatever that meant. With phone apps and e-readers, Blake wondered if bookcases served a purpose anymore. Beyond collecting dust.

  He opened the door to Adam’s room. Unopened boxes, bed posts, and a mattress leaned against the wall, dressers and furniture stacked in a corner. Adam lay on an old sleeping bag in the closet, playing a portable video game, the new 3-D one he had gotten for his birthday.

  Blake ducked into the closet, lying next to his son. He watched Adam tilt the screen and fire as his jet or spaceship followed his moves like a slightly lagging marionette.

  Actually, not a bad idea. A marionette app could pick up a lot of traction. Completely useless, but useless often sold. Blake made a quick note on his phone. Not something for Symbio, certainly, but he could throw it to one of his boneyard hyenas, the little two-man operations hiding behind some three-lettered S-corps that could spin out an idea in a few weeks.

  “Sleeping here tonight?” he asked.

  The spacecraft flew through a heavily guarded tunnel, artillery tanks firing faster than Adam could respond. After a few dramatized hits, a wing flew off and the jet crashed, scattering pieces that looked as if they’d actually strike you.

  “Yeah.” Adam powered the game off. “Unless you wanna sleep here. I can take the couch.”

  For fourteen, he was frustratingly observant.

  “Just wanted to say goodnight,” Blake said, brushing dust from the sleeping bag. “You’ll make new friends. Once school starts.”

  “I don’t want new friends, Dad.”

  “This is,” Blake paused, looking into his son’s eyes, those eyes that wanted to cry but couldn’t, not in front of Dad. Blake wondered if his son recognized the same look in his own eyes. Holding it together for his son’s sake. “It’s a big change for us all. Change is hard, but it forces us to grow. Helps us to become better than—I don’t know—if we just . . .” He stopped. He wasn’t even convincing himself.

  “We’re in this together, that’s all. As a family.” Blake patted his son on the back in a distant hug, the gesture left unreciprocated. “We’ll celebrate tomorrow. Go out to dinner. Together.”

  Adam nodded, then fell back against the sleeping bag, his emotionless face lighting up in an eerie multihued glow as his game powered back on.

  Blake closed his son’s door, pausing just outside in the hall. The light to the master bedroom was aglow; Jenna must have already come up. That light shone like a beacon—calling, beckoning—but Blake’s feet had planted roots. Some things, you couldn’t forget. Or forgive.

  Even with the passage of time, Blake was certain thick layers of dust and cobwebs wouldn’t be enough to cover the gaping hole in their lives to forget the lilting echo of laughter that would never bounce through the halls of their new home.

  Maybe there was hope for their little family, but in Blake’s world, maybes evolved into inevitable regrets and unavoidable failures.

  He returned to the staircase and began his descent.

  The idea of hope would have to be enough. Like a drowning man offered a branch, he was willing to cling to it, knowing at any moment it could snap, leaving him to be swept away—but for now, it was enough.

  He stepped into the foyer of the house he was but a stranger in. It would be another long night.

  Chapter Two

  Day One

  1

  Blake was running late.

  In a dark Italian suit almost as shiny as the neighbor’s business card, he grabbed his leather briefcase, tossing his tablet in as it powered down. His Bluetooth headset flashed every thirty seconds, its bluish-white light something he no longer even noticed. He came ou
t from his office, almost bumping into his wife. Coffee spilled down the rim of the mug she held out. He grabbed it, licking the bottom edge before it dripped.

  Jenna moved in, surprising him by pressing her toned body up against his. “Good luck today.”

  She was already dressed for her run, her bleached hair pulled back in a ponytail.. He realized she was leaving later than normal, more than likely just to see him off.

  “Thank you.” He meant it. Bent down and kissed the top of her forehead.

  Their embrace became the awkward exchange of a couple on a first date, neither knowing what to say next.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Jenna said, to which Blake nodded, remembering a time she would have.

  He passed through the living room with the piano that would never be played, the sheet folded on the couch where he had slept. At least it was more comfortable than the pontoon in the family room.

  A dark spot on the carpet gave him pause.

  “I swear I’m going to kill that dog. I don’t have time—”

  “I’ll get it,” Jenna said, following him into the kitchen, where he grabbed his keys. “I was thinking, maybe tonight, you could sleep upstairs. With me.”

  Blake looked up. She hadn’t looked that fragile since, well, since the night they had agreed never to talk about. “I’d like that.”

  “I mean, we’ll take it slow. But it’d be good for Adam to see us . . . trying.” She picked up her Garmin watch next to the coffee machine and strapped it on. “Wasn’t that the word you used?”

  “Take Connie on your run?”

  Jenna glanced back at him, rolling her eyes.

  The hum of the engine of his convertible BMW M6 barely registered as Blake backed down the driveway. He was flipping through his phone’s data-conferencing display when the phone vibrated in his hands—a profile of a faceless gray avatar displayed above the name JT. In some countries, that name was synonymous with asshole.

  Despite his boss’s lack of personal skills, or perhaps because of them, Blake pressed the button on his earpiece, answering the call.

  “Hey, on my way,” he said.

  “Yeah, well I could have used you here an hour ago. Your presentation has got to be perfect, and I mean robotic, you’ve-practiced-this-speech-till-your-dick-dropped-off perfect.”

  “Don’t worry. Our little Betti’s going to do more than let down her skirt,” Blake replied. “Trust me, the board will—”

  The car shuddered, an audible crunch forcing Blake’s foot to the brakes before he had time to even look up.

  Shit!

  He glanced in the rearview mirror—nothing behind him. No car at least.

  He could still hear the whining voice of JT piping through the Bluetooth speaker, which had fallen from his ear onto his lap. Blake picked it up, pressing it to his face.

  “Call you right back.”

  He pressed the button, effectively hanging up on his boss. He’d understand. Probably not, but Blake would cross that road when he needed to.

  Blake dropped his cell and earpiece in the cup holder and left the engine running as he came around to the back of the car.

  A mangled bike, wheel spoke and handlebars turning inward at sharp angles, lay like a wounded deer on the sidewalk and in the early morning shadows of his vehicle, a body lay crumpled on the ground. A line of blood trailed in a semicircle, coalescing beneath the form on the driveway.

  “Gaw, damnit!”

  Blake looked around. No neighbors out. No cars on the street. His trunk now sported a slight dent where they had collided, a few nicks and gouges on the bumper.

  A moan brought him back to the body of an orange-haired young man.

  “Ah, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Blake swatted the bike off of the kid, gently turning him over. Or at least more gently than he had handled the bike.

  Joje stared blankly upward, blood smeared on his forehead.

  Blake looked around again, street still empty. All he needed right now was Tom Jones rolling through in his town car. The bastard wasn’t a personal injury attorney, but in this case, he’d probably make an exception.

  “Hey, you okay?” he asked.

  Moaning. The only answer he’d receive.

  Blake felt for his phone. Realizing he had left it in the car, he glanced at his Rolex. Six twenty-six. Already the freeway would be backing up. He’d have to cut over the mountain and take side streets into the Valley.

  “Look, uh, George, I’m going to carry you inside. We’ll get you fixed up. First let me get rid of your bike, okay?”

  Blake picked up the hunk of twisted aluminum and rubber. Piece of crap. There was no way the kid was riding home on that thing. How fast had he been going? He was just lucky it hadn’t been a small kid or something behind him.

  He tossed the bike into the center of the garage, not caring about the noise or additional damage it caused.

  Pulling the keys from the car, he hurried toward the back. He’d have to move fast, clean the kid up, pay him off, and ship him out. It didn’t have to take long.

  “What happened?” Joje asked.

  Blake moved to put his arm around him. “Come inside, you . . . had an accident.”

  Joje took one step and collapsed, slipping from Blake’s arms. He hit the pavement with a resounding thud.

  Blake looked skyward, ready to scream—he did not have time for this. After one final glance down the street, he bent over and lifted Joje as if carrying an injured dog. He was heavier, thicker than Blake would have guessed. His back began to groan in harmony with Joje’s whimpers.

  Into the garage and to the door leading into the house, Blake hit the curved button that started the garage’s descent. It silently climbed down its tracks, not a peep or warning about the person who was being allowed entrance into their home.

  2

  “Jenna!”

  Blake laid the bloodied Joje on the red couch. At least you won’t see the blood stains, he thought.

  Conrad bolted in from the foyer at full speed, preparing a leap that would land her right on top of the wounded Joje. Blake barely tackled her in time. Conrad whimpered as he dragged her back to the cage in the kitchen, sliding the bolt to lock her inside.

  “Sorry, sweetie. Not now.” He raised his voice. “Jenna!”

  Opening cupboards and drawers, he searched for something to bring to Joje’s aid: Band-Aids, gauze, Bubble Wrap. Blake couldn’t make heads or tails out of the kitchen and whoever had unpacked their things. Even the paper towels were missing from the counter.

  He ripped a hand towel from a decorative metal ring near the sink, wet it, and hurried back to the family room. On his way, he wiped absently at the stains on his slacks; the suit would be ruined.

  “Jenna!”

  “Jeez, you trying to wake the neighborhood? What? What’d you forget?” She walked in, carrying her running shoes and a wad of rolled-up paper towels that probably smelled of dog piss. “Oh, my god!”

  “He rode right behind me as I was backing out. There was nothing I could do!”

  “I’ll call nine-one-one.”

  “Hold on. Let’s see if he’s okay first.” Blake pressed the hand towel to Joje’s head. Should probably stop with the whole Joje thing.

  “He could have a concussion! We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” Jenna said.

  “Just wait a minute!”

  Jenna picked up the house phone. “The line’s dead.”

  “That’s impossible. It’s run through our Internet.”

  “Maybe the Internet’s down?”

  From the couch, “It is down.”

  Joje was sitting, the smeared blood on his forehead looking like a finger painting project gone wrong. Though, as Blake stared at the swirls of dark patterns, he couldn’t find a source—not a single gash on that boldly protruding forehead.

  “What are you doing, George?”

  “You know him?” Jenna asked.

  “Why wouldn’t you buy fwom me?�
� Joje stared at Blake, his left eye blinking rapidly, mouth twitching open.

  “What’s he talking about, Blake?”

  Blake hesitated. Something in him, some base human genome passed down through generations that in part took credit for mankind’s propensity toward survival, was giving off clear warning bells. Tread with caution. Though that same part of him also admitted, much to his own dismay, that it might already be too late.

  “You know, it was a mistake. You caught me at a bad time. How ’bout we sign up, and in fact, why don’t I just, uh, give you everything I’ve got.” Blake pulled out his wallet. “About five hundred bucks. That’s a hell of a lot of magazine subscriptions.”

  Joje looked at the folded bills in Blake’s hand. He cleared his throat, then looked up, that awful smile sweeping across his face. “I don’t want yo money.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Jenna asked.

  Blake wasn’t sure if she was referencing his lisp or the nervous tic that was back. Or maybe it was that same intuition that had told Blake to slam the front door and flip the lock when they had first met.

  “Look, I’m in a real hurry. What’s this gonna cost me?”

  “Always in a huwwy, huh, Bwake?”

  “It seems to me you set this up,” Blake said, “but name your price, asshole, while I’m still in a giving mood.”

  “No pwice. I just want help. With my pwoject.”

  “You’re trespassing, and I’m calling the cops,” Blake said, at once remembering his cell was dutifully waiting back in his car. Joje saw the hesitation.

  “Oops. Leave your phone somewhere?” Joje said, with his deranged impediment. His eyes drifted to Jenna, who still held the house phone in her palm, not even a beep rising from the dead line.

  Blake was through with threats. He moved toward Joje, intending to drag him off the couch, and was suddenly staring down the barrel of a black pistol pointed directly at his head.

  Jenna screamed.

  Joje brought the gun forward, its cool metal tip kissing Blake’s forehead. Blake found himself raising his hands, staring into those dark, cold eyes.

  Like a shark, he thought.