Roger had worked long hours, doing the dirty, messy work of putting out a newspaper back in the days when each page was laid out by hand, decades before the process was simplified by the advent of computer programming. In those days it took a team of professionals hours to get it right. Roger would come home exhausted in the middle of the night while the rest of the city slept, his hands and arms stained with ink halfway up to the elbow, the day’s edition ready to go.
Then he suffered a massive stroke and, unable to work, found himself relegated to the Barcalounger in the cramped living room, oxygen tank at his side, a once-proud man slipping farther and farther into depression, his life eventually flickering out one night while Maizie slept on the couch next to him.
“Natural causes,” the doctor had called it, but Maizie recognized that diagnosis for what it was: a steaming pile of crap. Roger had given up on living, unable to do the job he loved, unable to provide for the woman he loved, unable to find the will to continue breathing.
Maizie buried her husband and then soldiered on alone, missing him but knowing he was better off now, wherever he was. She took a job for the first time in her life, working for a short while as a medical transcriptionist, eventually quitting when she came to the realization she had no real use for the money she was earning. Roger’s pension from the Globe, along with the small annuity from some long-ago investments, was more than enough to heat the house and buy the groceries and pay the property taxes. Maizie didn’t need any more than that.
Now in her early eighties, Maizie Adams’s days were mostly spent puttering around her house, watching her soaps and cleaning. Rare was the day when the carpet wasn’t vacuumed at least three times, the dishes weren’t washed after every meal, and the furniture went undusted.
She also maintained a healthy interest in the comings and goings of her neighbors. None of the other houses were occupied by the same people who had lived in them back in 1968, when the Adamses had moved in; in fact, most of the homes in Granite Circle had been sold several times over as families moved into these starter homes, made their mortgage payments for a few years, and then moved up to bigger and more expensive places in bigger and safer neighborhoods.
But none of that mattered to Maizie. In fact, in some ways she thought it was good. New families meant new routines to observe, new quirks to discover, new people with whom to familiarize herself.
For example, Victoria Ayers, in Number Seven, the house located directly across the circle from Maizie’s, had been living in her home since 1983, and she was a strange case. Her husband was long gone, having died in a suspicious manner—Maizie suspected he may have killed himself, but wasn’t sure—close to a quarter-century ago, and Victoria was nearly as reclusive as Maizie herself, although somewhat younger. She didn’t look younger, Maizie thought, but she was.
Maizie could count the number of times Victoria had received guests since her husband died on one hand, which made the last two days’ flurry of activity so noteworthy. Yesterday a young couple had visited, arriving by taxicab and spending a couple of hours inside the house. Then they had left after a strained exchange on the front porch. Maizie’s eyesight was failing rapidly, along with most of her other senses, but the awkwardness of their departure had been clear even to her, watching from her living room at least a hundred feet across Granite Circle.
Then, today, a young man had arrived, pulling into the driveway in his own car, knocking on the door and entering the house after a short conversation. Maizie had been watching closely and darned near called the police then. She would have sworn the young man had half forced his way in, sticking his shoe in the doorway and pushing his way inside like a bull in a china shop.
She had almost called the police, but not quite. The whole thing happened so quickly and was over so fast that she immediately began to question what she had seen. After all, her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be and although Everett could be a dangerous city at times, especially if you didn’t know where you were going and ended up in the wrong section of town, this neighborhood was pretty safe most of the time.
So Maizie had let it go, ignoring the feeling of unease worming its way through her intestines, blaming it on the undercooked chicken breast she had eaten for lunch. But then, just a few minutes ago, the couple from yesterday had shown up again. Three separate callers in two days!
One caller was practically unheard of for Virginia Ayers, but three? Never. Something was definitely going on.
And things had only gotten more perplexing. The front door swung open wide at their arrival and Maizie was certain she had seen the young man who had (maybe) forced his way inside standing behind the door, in the shadows of the hallway, like he was trying to stay out of sight. Then the young couple had stood at the door for a few seconds before beginning to back away. They had suddenly changed their minds and entered. Then the door had slammed closed.
The entire incident had taken place in just a few seconds, and Maizie was watching from pretty far away and sure, she was old and her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.
But Maizie Adams knew trouble when she saw it. And she had seen it.
She picked up the telephone and cursed herself for being such an old fool. Why hadn’t she trusted her instincts earlier? Whatever was happening over there at 7 Granite Circle was bad and she should have notified the police the minute she suspected something was wrong.
It was too late to worry about her foolishness now, though. All she could do was try to correct her mistake.
She squinted at the laminated card taped to the wall next to her telephone. Damn, the thing was hard to read. Her daughter Jeannie had placed the card there months ago, concerned about what might happen in the event of a fire or attempted break-in. All of Everett’s emergency response numbers were listed, but to Maizie’s way of thinking you had to have the eyesight of a twenty-year-old just to read it. She punched in what she hoped was the number for the Everett Police Department and was rewarded when it was picked up on the second ring.
“Everett police.” The voice was female, and sounded young and bored.
“Yes,” Maizie said. “I’d like to report…” What? A break-in? A disturbance? What?
“Yes?” the voice prompted, now impatient as well as bored.
“Well, there’s something strange going on in the house across the street from mine. The address is Seven Granite Circle.”
“Something strange? Could you please be more specific?”
“A young man I’ve never seen before knocked on the door a little while ago. I can’t swear to it, but I think he may have forced his way in. Now two other people have entered the house after visiting yesterday, and they seem to have entered reluctantly. Please send someone quickly, I’m afraid something is very wrong over there.”
“What was the address again?”
“Number Seven Granite Circle, here in Everett.”
“Seven Granite Circle. Okay, ma’am, we’ll dispatch an officer to check on your neighbor.”
“Thank you,” Maizie answered, hanging up the phone numbly, hoping she hadn’t waited too long.
CHAPTER 37
“Let’s move into the parlor and get comfortable, shall we?” The man gestured toward the end of the hallway with his knife and the group moved en masse, all four bodies shuffling in a kind of tense, loosely choreographed dance, the man with the knife sliding slowly backward, pulling Victoria along, Cait and Kevin matching him step for slow step.
Cait couldn’t take her eyes off the blade. It was thin and shiny and long, with a bone-white handle clutched expertly by its owner, who maintained light but steady pressure on Virginia’s throat. She glanced into her mother’s eyes and saw not just fear, but also regret and sorrow and a kind of tired resignation.
She thought back to their earlier conversation in this very house and everything fell into place. The intruder with the knife was roughly her age, with the same wavy auburn hair and the same general build, thin and wiry. There had to be millio
ns of men throughout the country fitting the same general description, tens of millions maybe.
But she knew, nevertheless.
The man with the knife was her brother.
They moved into the kitchen and the man with the knife kept going, shuffling backward on the balls of his feet like he was performing some demented slow-motion version of the moonwalk. He turned ninety degrees to his left, pulling Victoria through a large open doorway and into the living room. He continued backing up until they reached a point more or less in the middle of the room. Victoria’s television loomed behind him, a gigantic old Sony with washed-out colors teetering atop a frail-looking TV table. On it, glamorous soap opera characters played out their glamorous fictional lives, babbling about love and loss and treachery.
Next to the television, positioned roughly halfway between the TV table and the kitchen doorway, an ornamental cactus sat in an enormous ceramic pot. The cactus was mammoth, reaching almost all the way to the ceiling, and looked as though it had occupied its space for decades. Along the opposite wall, behind the man with the knife, was an old couch, worn and faded but scrupulously clean. The room was otherwise bare.
The man with the knife—my brother, Cait thought with a numb fascination—focused his gaze on Cait and then inclined his head toward the TV. “You. Drag your ass next to the television set and don’t fucking move.”
Cait froze and glanced uncertainly at Kevin. He nodded almost imperceptibly. The intruder pulled his knife away from Victoria’s throat and indicated that she should join Cait. Together the two of them took small, hesitant steps until they stood between the TV and the cactus plant. Cait felt like a junior-high wallflower at her first dance but was relieved her mother was no longer in immediate danger.
Kevin moved to follow them and the man snapped, “No, no, no, not you.” He held his hand up like a traffic cop and Kevin stopped. “You look nice and strong; you can do some of the heavy lifting in preparation for our little party.”
Kevin waited for instructions. He appeared completely at ease, didn’t even seem afraid. Cait had never had the opportunity to observe him in his work as a police officer, but was starting to understand why he was so highly regarded on the Tampa force, despite his relative youth and short time on the job.
The man with the knife regarded Kevin with his cold eyes. “Go into the kitchen and bring two of those strong wooden chairs in here. Place them in front of your girlfriends, facing the couch.” Cait watched as Kevin walked into the kitchen. She wondered if he might be able to grab something and use it as a weapon but realized the man with the knife had positioned himself so he could monitor Kevin’s progress the entire time. In less than a second, if he sensed a threat, he could slice Cait and Virginia both from head to toe.
Kevin returned a moment later, lugging one chair in his beefy hands, moving slowly. He set it down a few feet from the couch and then rotated it so that it was facing forward. Cait wondered why he hadn’t grabbed both chairs at the same time; he was certainly strong enough. Then she realized he was stalling, dragging things out as long as possible, slowing everything down while searching for an opportunity to take the offensive.
Kevin turned, his right hand resting lightly on the chair back. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The other man paused for a moment. “Milo,” he said.
“Hi, Milo. I’m Kevin. What’s this all about?”
“I don’t care what your name is, and as for what’s going on here, you’ll find out soon enough. I think you’ll find the upcoming spectacle to be very revealing. But for now, just do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut.”
“Okay,” Kevin answered agreeably. “You’re in control,” he said. “We’re all doing exactly as you say.”
“You’re right about that. You will do as I say, if you know what’s good for you, that is. Now stop stalling.” He knelt and reached into the backpack at his feet, rooting around for a moment while keeping his gaze fixed on his three prisoners. He pulled out a roll of reinforced duct tape and tossed it to Kevin. “Secure the old bat in the chair, nice and snug. I want two strips around each wrist and two around each ankle, tight to the chair. No wiggle room.”
Kevin turned to Virginia and nodded gently at the chair with a grim look on his face. It was obvious he didn’t like the way things were playing out. Cait watched as her mother eased into the chair and placed her arms on the armrests, making it easy for Kevin to secure them. He muttered something Cait could not decipher and the man immediately shouted “Shut up!”
When the job had been completed to the man’s satisfaction, he said, “Now slap a strip across her mouth.” Kevin complied and in a matter of seconds Virginia was trussed up tightly, completely helpless and unable to speak, facing the couch.
“Go get the second chair,” the man continued. “Set it down right next to the first one. Think of it as stadium seating for the live show that’s due to begin,” he made an exaggerated display of looking at his watch, “any minute now.”
Kevin disappeared into the kitchen again, returning moments later with another chair. He seemed to have abandoned his delaying strategy; it took only about half as long for him to carry the second chair into the room as it had taken to bring the first. He dropped it onto the floor in the prescribed spot with a thud, then turned and faced the man with the knife. “Now, sit your ass down in it,” Milo said. “That’ll be where you enjoy your girlfriend’s starring role in this little performance art exhibition.”
Cait shifted her gaze back and forth between the two, her muscles clenched, tense and afraid. Amazingly, Kevin still seemed at ease, leaning with one hand on the back of the chair, while the man with the knife—Milo—appeared nervous and twitchy. Milo opened his mouth to say something and that was when Kevin flinched, startled, and glanced into the hallway in surprise before returning his attention quickly to Milo.
A suspicious look darkened Milo’s face; it was as if a cloud passed in front of his eyes. He leaned forward and craned his neck, twisting his gaze to the left, determined to see what had caused Kevin to jump.
Cait reflexively glanced into the hallway at the same time. She wondered what Kevin had seen. Whatever it was, it had disappeared. The hallway was deserted.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cait saw Kevin’s fingers flex once and then he straightened his body quickly, lifting the chair as he did so. He pivoted and took one long step toward Milo, uncoiling like a baseball pitcher striding toward home plate. He whipped the chair in a sideways arc, head-high, as Milo swiveled toward the oncoming danger.
Virginia cried out in surprise, her grunt muffled by the duct tape, and Milo flinched, leaning away from the makeshift weapon as it whistled through the air. Kevin seemed to have planned for that reaction, though, as the chair’s trajectory was taking it to a point behind the monster with the knife. By reacting as he had, Milo was effectively backing directly into the danger.
Time seemed to slow from Cait’s perspective. She watched for what felt like an eternity as the heavy wooden chair flew through the air, eventually crashing into Milo’s body. His reflexes were surprisingly quick, and he ducked his head out of harm’s way, lifting his shoulder and turning, taking most of the blow on his back. The chair shattered, the seat and legs falling to the floor where they thudded into the corner of the room, the seat-back exploding, sending dozens of wooden projectiles flying around the room.
Milo tumbled, falling in a shower of splinters. The force of the blow ripped the knife from his hand and it clattered across the varnished floor, sliding like a hockey puck on an ice rink. Cait screamed as Milo rolled, reaching for the knife, his hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on the slippery hardwood.
Kevin fell to the right, off-balance after striking the blow. He dropped to one knee, almost tumbling onto his side; then he put his right hand to the floor and pushed off hard, launching himself in the other direction. He took one long stride in an effort to leap over Milo’s scuttling form, desperate to beat him to the kni
fe, and his foot slid out from under him and he crashed in a heap in the exact spot Milo had occupied seconds ago.
He wasn’t going to make it. Cait could see he wasn’t going to make it. She realized only now that she should have been halfway to the knife already. She swore at herself and stood, far too late to make a difference now but wanting to do something to help her fiancé, although she had no idea what to do.
Kevin lunged, crawling over Milo and diving for the knife. His fingertips grazed the handle but then Milo snatched it away as Kevin crashed again to the floor. Then the lunatic rose to his knees and half turned. He raised his arm sideways and in a slashing motion, buried the knife up to the handle in Kevin’s chest.
Blood gushed thickly, soaking Kevin’s shirt. Cait heard another scream and she realized it was coming from her. She took a step toward her injured boyfriend and Milo yanked the knife out of Kevin’s body, sensing the approaching danger. He took a backhanded slash at her without even looking and she pulled up short as the deadly blade whizzed past, droplets of Kevin’s fresh blood splattering her blouse in a delicate pattern.
“Sit down!” Milo screamed. “Sit down!” Cait did as he said. She had no idea what else to do. She backed toward the couch, watching Kevin, desperate to help him, wondering how badly he was hurt. She was still screaming. She thought she might never stop screaming. The backs of her calves struck the upholstered cushions and she fell heavily onto her butt.
Kevin rolled onto his side, clutching his injured chest, and then, incredibly, pushed off the floor to take another shot at Milo. The moment he removed his hands from the deep wound, blood pulsed out. It was bright red, running like a river, and Cait realized with horrifying clarity that there was a very real chance she was watching her boyfriend die.
Mr. Midnight Page 16