by J. R. Rain
I had loved her more than anything, and I had respected her decision to never talk to me again. The cops would never understand, and I couldn’t blame them for doubting me, but I loved her enough to let her be rid of me.
Who would do this to her? And why?
And as I sat there in my garage, with the door closed and the great machine still warm between my knees, I found myself crying in my helmet, the sound of my anguish echoing in there where my tears were safe and no one would ever see them.
When I had cried myself out, I stepped off the Harley and, still wearing the helmet, headed through the dark for the laundry room door, which was a buffer to the kitchen door.
As I reached for the laundry room doorknob, dreading the empty house that awaited me, I heard the first scraping noise.
My breath caught in my throat. My heart beat quicker, harder. Like a thrash-metal drummer on speed, careless, frantic, loud.
The noise came again, from behind me. It sounded like a dead leaf skittering over concrete, blown along by wind. Except there was no wind here in the garage.
Something bumped my foot. Actually, something ran over my boot.
I jumped backwards, gasping.
A rat? A...mouse?
I reached for the garage light switch, flicked it on. No good. The single light bulb had burned out weeks ago. I’d been meaning to change it ever since, and now I regretted my procrastination.
Cursing, I yanked open the door to the laundry and darted out of the garage, tiptoeing like a ballerina in case there were others. I slammed the door behind me, rattling the thin wall that ran between the garage and laundry room. Revulsion coursed through me. I wanted to shower.
Christ, the thing touched my boot!
I tried the door into the kitchen, but it was locked. I patted my pockets, looking for keys.
Dammit. Left them in the bike.
Out in the garage. Where the mouse was.
If it was a mouse. And since when did I have mice? I’d lived in Orange County all my life and not had any mice. But I was not going back into that garage. No, thank you.
But there was no other way out. The kitchen door was locked. So why not just flick on the light to the laundry room? Why was I here in complete darkness? The image of light washing over the small room was pleasant. Yes, then I would see that there were no other mice. Probably just the one in the garage, who might even be long gone by now.
One, however, was bad enough. My skin crawled.
Not all mice have rabies, I reminded myself. In fact, I would later learn that very few mice carried rabies. It had been a fluke that Jimmy had died. A fluke that he had been bitten by a mouse with rabies.
Except my hammering heart didn’t think it was a fluke. My hammering heart seemed to think mice with rabies was a very real possibility.
Albert, just calm down. You’re seriously overreacting. Just calm down and turn on the light. Just do that and nothing more. Baby steps, big guy.
I eased down from the single step that led up to the locked kitchen door. I knew exactly where the light switch was—at the far end of the laundry room—and roughly how many steps it would take to get there. About ten.
Ten too many.
Whoever said the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step had never walked across a mouse-infested floor.
Skiff skiff skiff.
Skee-skee.
The critter was running and squeaking at the same time, like some goddamned lunatic.
I ran forward, covering the ground quickly, and flipped on the light switch.
An instant feeling of relief came when I saw that I was indeed alone in the laundry room, that there was no squirming, shivering sea of mice just waiting to drown me with their millions of rabid bites. I was alone with the washer and dryer and a bundle of clean clothes waiting to be folded.
I still needed my keys. I had, in my sorrow, left them in the ignition of my motorcycle. And the motorcycle was parked in the center of the garage. In total darkness.
Not true. If I left the laundry door open wide, light would spill through to show the way.
I rested my head against the side door, helmet thumping dully. I did nothing but stand there and breathe. As deeply as I could.
Just as I was about to open the door, I remembered the lighter. I strode over to a shelf next to the dryer and found a lighter that was in the shape of a gun. I pulled the trigger triumphantly as a yellow flame leaped out from the narrow barrel. The flame flickered in my trembling hand. I reminded myself that I was not trapped with this mouse, that I could fix this problem by getting the keys and getting inside and calling an exterminator.
And if that failed, I’d torch the sucker.
And so I opened the door and stepped into the garage.
Chapter Six
My shadow reached out before me.
I was breathing hard and quick. The inside of my helmet was a nuclear reactor threatening meltdown. Sweat poured from my brow. I stepped slowly into the garage, my heavy Caterpillar boots clopping on the concrete, although I was trying my damndest to step lightly.
All because of a single mouse.
A single mouse, however, was enough to kill Jimmy. And now it was enough to scare me sick. Such was the extent of my psychosis.
It wouldn’t be so bad if the damn lights were on, or if it were the middle of the day. In the dark, even with the faint amber glow from the laundry room, the mouse could be anywhere. And mice were shy, right? Didn’t they want to stay out of sight?
It was more afraid of me than I was of it, or so I kept telling myself.
I suddenly stopped walking, remembering the weird old lady who’d ruined my lunch hour. Such was the power of the mouse that I’d nearly forgotten both her and the cops, not to mention Amanda’s murder. And I was a daddy now, too. Afraid of a mouse. If I ever met my child, would I be able to read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie at bedtime?
A vice seemed to squeeze around my throat, cutting off my intake of air. I made a small helpless noise, the sound of a sick animal.
That weird old woman was babbling about “family.” She knew about the mouse. And maybe she knew about Amanda.
“Get a hold of yourself, Al,” I whispered inside my helmet. “This is only a coincidence.”
I was almost back to where I’d been hours ago, doubting my sanity, wondering if the alcohol had finally burned enough holes in my brain for the last of my sense to leak out.
Something click-clicked on the concrete behind me, going from the laundry room door to the boxes that lined the far wall to my left. It moved swiftly and without hesitation, as if it knew exactly where it wanted to go. And its little claws clicked a wicked staccato that made my heart pound enough to hurt my chest. I spun quickly, holding the lighter out before me. Shadows cast by the tiny flame crawled over the floor. I couldn’t see anything, at least not what I was looking for.
I turned around, my breathing loud in my helmet. I sounded like Darth Vader on helium.
And then came another sound. Another set of claws. Moving equally fast, following the first. There were two of them? Christ!
I sucked air, felt dizzy, raising up on my toes again, afraid one would scamper up my leg and—
Not like Jimmy. Cut the crap.
“Hang in there, Al. Just get to your bike. Just get the keys. Just do something!”
Talking aloud made me feel a little braver, as if my words might scare off the rodents. I moved forward, quickening my pace.
“You’re doing fine,” I whispered. I held the flame out before me as if it were a crucifix, warding away vampires and other such evil spirits. It was amazing the courage a little light could give. Like maybe I was casting demons into the darkness, big, all-powerful Albert Shipway. What chance did a mouse have, even one that had crawled out of a hole in Lucifer’s Swiss cheese?
“Just get your keys and get the hell out of here. It doesn’t matter if there are ten of them”—although that was an unpleasant thought at best—“just get
on your bike and get the hell out of here, and where you go doesn’t matter. Not now. Just go.”
Somewhere inside my head, a very tiny voice protested that this was only a couple of mice and that I was over-reacting. That voice was small indeed, hidden right behind the one that kept saying “You’re a poppa,” and shortly got drowned by my pounding heart and quickening breath.
Where the boxes stood, merely dark blocks now, came scratching noises. The mice were following behind me, keeping to the safety of the boxes. But nevertheless, keeping pace. Stalking me like prey.
That’s not a very pleasant thought, Al. They aren’t hunting you down. Mice don’t do that.
Sure, and they don’t kill you, either. Just ask Jimmy.
Her words came back and I could picture that wizened, witchy face: “We all have fears, Albert Shipway. You are about to meet yours.”
And here they were.
I stopped moving, frozen to the spot in the garage, the motorcycle another stride away. A feeling of complete and utter hopelessness overcame me. Something seemed to grip me by the ribcage, an icy grip that seemed to slowly crush me. It was fear. A very cold sweat broke out over my entire body. I stood alone in my garage, one hand holding a barbecue lighter in the shape of a pistol and the other hugging myself.
I flashed to the image of that tricked-out voodoo doll found at the crime scene.
I’ve been cursed.
The old lady said I was responsible for Amanda’s death. But I had not gone near Amanda for over ten months. Still, she couldn’t have known that, and she wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told her. Nobody believed me much about anything.
The old lady thinks I killed Amanda.
That simple. A curse.
And a curse could be taken back, right?
All I had to do was convince her that I had not killed Amanda, that I would never do anything to harm a woman I had so dearly loved. And, if she was the mother of our child, I would love her even more for it, even if I never laid eyes on them.
“Just hold on a second, Albert.” My voice was shaky and ghostly, as if my throat was as dry as an ancient fire pit. “This is nuts. You’re so scared shitless that you’re talking about curses and crap. Since when did you start believing in curses?”
In the darkness of the garage, with just the light from the laundry room behind me and the flickering flame from the lighter, it was very easy to believe in black magic, especially given Gerda’s damaged past. I thought of the bourbon in the kitchen cabinet, the ice cubes in the freezer, the twelve-pack of Molson’s in the fridge. I fought the urge to run for the door, throw myself against it, and break in where I could drown all these thoughts in the sweet, reliable poison that had become my friend and savior.
The scrabbling above me killed that idea. Claws feeling their way over the ancient and dusty beams that ran above my garage, beams that were so perfect for holding ladders and fishing poles and old surfboards.
They’re above me. God help me.
Now the commotion seemed to pick up from the boxes near the wall to my left. It sounded like more than two. Noise seemed to fill the garage, coming from behind me near the boxes, little claws clicking on the cement floor of the garage, a rodent army gnashing its pointy little teeth.
Something scuttled over my boot. I gave it a vicious kick. The thing went flying into the far wall with a thunk.
That’s for Jimmy, you furry little bastard.
So what do you do when you’re cursed? I wondered. I wasn’t sure, but “get the hell out of there” sounded like a damn good idea. Get out, and find that old lady.
At the motorcycle, I grabbed my keys and turned the ignition. I leapt on my Harley Sportster, not surprised at the crunch under my rump. Probably a mouse. I scraped the thing away, sickened at the thought that I had touched a damned mouse but so very glad for my gloved hand, and I gunned the bike to life.
I turned the heavy Harley, stumbling once from sheer haste, facing the bike toward the closed garage door. The thundering sound of the powerful engine consumed all of the horrible scraping noises the mice made.
Yessss. I’m a MAN, not a mouse.
I walked the bike forward.
Something dropped onto my helmet, making a knocking sound, and I squealed like a Girl Scout at a weenie roast. I swept the creature away and hit the switch that would open the garage door.
Quicker than I could believe, a mouse ran right up my leg. It was nearly to my precious parts—the parts that had damned me and cursed and pleased me and squirted a kid into the world—when I knocked it off with a swipe of my arm.
“This isn’t happening,” I said with sudden, unconvincing clarity. “I’m drunk. Crazy. Nervous breakdown. I’ll take all three.”
And as the garage door lifted slowly before me, revealing the pale glow of moonlight beyond, plain old insanity ratcheted up to a whole new level of schizoid surprise.
The driveway was moving.
It’s just the jacaranda tree in front of the house. It must be windy outside, and I’m seeing the moonlit shadows of trees playing across the driveway. Yeah. I like that explanation.
The door continued its slow journey up, pulled by the chains of the Genie automatic-garage-door opener above.
In a blink, a shadow in the driveway broke off and darted toward me. The shadow was black with a white stripe down the middle. All the shadows were black with white stripes.
A sea of them, all clones of the creature that had killed Jimmy. Maybe zombie mice, back from the dead, eager for another taste of human flesh.
I revved the motorcycle. The machine roared deafeningly and vibrated between my knees. It had all the power I lacked.
They leaped and twitched, erupting into a seething, zebra-striped mass. I swatted at a mouse crawling up my back and missed. It clambered across my leather jacket, the claws sticking to the leather. When it reached my neckline, I reached back and grabbed the little son-of-bitch and threw it as hard as I could.
Another mouse caught hold of my ankle and was making its merry way up my shin. Oh, my hell. I gunned the motorcycle.
Three or four mice had found my back and were crawling upward. Half a dozen mice scurried up each leg, their tails hanging like wires. One was crawling into the warm nook of my crotch and that jolted me into action.
The rear wheel squealed loudly and I shot forward. Fluid squirted out from under my tires, though fortunately the squishing sound was buried by engine noise.
I maneuvered over the driveway, the rear wheel skidding on mice gunk.
I rocketed out of my driveway and into the street. I drove off into the night, one hand throttling while holding the bike on a steady course and the other swatting away at the hitchhiking mice.
One thing about that crazy old bitch of a witch: When she put a curse on a guy, she didn’t go halfway.
Chapter Seven
I accelerated down Orangethorpe Avenue, determined to find that witchwoman. If she knew so much about my fears, maybe she knew who really killed Amanda and who had taken my child. If Gerda had done it as a warped act of revenge, I’d have to find her, too, but if the cops couldn’t with all their computers, informants, and thousands of foot soldiers, what chance did I have? Besides, when it came to my fears, Gerda maybe sat right on the top in a throne all her own.
But something the old woman said, about remembering her, had triggered something in my head, now that I was out in the crisp, rushing air and away from that swarm of mice. In there in the dusty liquor cabinets of memory, my personal computer was flipping through mug shots of all the people I’d known. Something about those glittering, gray-blue eyes was wired deep in my bank of usual suspects. And they settled on one face.
Actually, two, both so obvious I should have made the connection right away, and I would have, if the witch hadn’t intruded so rudely on my everlasting drunken bliss.
And the mice. Jeez. They were enough to make a guy want a cat, and I hated cats almost as much, with their slinky, sneaky ways and their a
rrogant sense of entitlement.
I still felt as if those little rodent feet were crawling over my leather jacket even as I pulled up to Amanda’s old house twenty minutes later. She’d moved to a place across town, according to the cops, but I knew it would be marked off with yellow tape and might still have some techs gathering evidence.
The answers I needed weren’t there. I’d do better here at the Mead house, where she’d been raised and where we’d spent more than a few pleasant hours. The creepiest, most unsettling feeling had come over me, like the French fry grease that still seemed to coat my stomach hours after my belated lunch. Even the two shots of Jim Beam after the detectives left hadn’t dissolved that oily sheen. But maybe the uneasiness wasn’t just because of the mice, or the curse, or the way the world had crumbled and shifted under my feet in the last eight hours.
Because here I was on the doorstep that used to be the stairway to heaven and all the pleasures of Earth, and now it looked like a depressing crypt.
After I parked my bike on the street before the darkened house, I had to will myself forward along the concrete pathway that curved and meandered to the front door. On both sides of the path were flowers of all shapes and sizes. Most notable to me in the darkness were the roses and carnations, the kinds of flowers that got stacked around caskets at funerals to cheer the dead. I could not tell their colors, nor did I care.
Could the mice have followed me here? Impossible. I had averaged forty-five miles an hour, and had been hindered by few red lights.
Yet the mice had found my home. Though immensely odd, that could only be attributable to the old lady. She was able to find me on my lunch hour and seemed to know all about me, though I’d never even met her. She’d somehow sent the mice my way, and if not for the family resemblance of her eyes, I never would have made the connection.
But were the mice waiting for me here? I doubted it. Followed me? If they had, they’d still be streaming down Orangethorpe. I personally felt that they had been waiting for me, hoping to strike enough fear in me to scare me into a heart attack, or just overwhelm me from pure numbers and have me for a late-night snack.