“What the hell was that?” Pete asked.
“Nothing. The computer.” Will never mentioned the cats. They’d just be fuel for more “good-natured” ribbing. Men were supposed to have dogs: retrievers or pit bulls. Macho pets for macho men. Creatures that followed orders and gave unquestioning devotion. Will preferred the contrary, independent feline personality, but that was something beyond Pete’s comprehension. His brother liked to give orders and he liked them followed to the letter. Will had a childhood wealth of experience with that.
“That’s a sissy-sounding computer you’ve got there, Willy-boy—sorry . . . Will. So, like I was saying, we’re going digital. Eventually, all our customers will be switched over. When would you like your new box?”
“New box?”
“New cable, new box. Your neighborhood is wired and ready to go.”
“I don’t need to upgrade. I don’t watch that much television.”
One of those annoying chuckles. “Everybody’s being switched over—it’s called modernization. You know, like who uses anything but a cell phone these days?”
“I don’t use a cell phone.”
“You’re a Luddite? My brother? Still wear button fly pants, or are zippers allowed now?”
“I have a beeper,” Will said, sorry he felt compelled to say anything.
“You’re a shrink. How can you not have a cell? I mean, don’t you have patients you have to talk out of committing suicide, things like that?”
Guilt. He probably should have a cell for that very reason, but the beeper itself was more intrusive than he liked after a long day of listening to other people’s problems. At least it gave him a little distance. “My beeper is all I need.”
“Suit yourself, buddy. I’ve got a man in your neighborhood today and tomorrow. Want to leave a key under the doormat in the morning? He’ll be in and out in ten minutes. Doesn’t steal, I give you my personal guarantee.”
“No, I won’t be leaving a key under the mat. I don’t let anyone in the house when I’m not present.”
“Same old Willy. Will, I mean.” Another smarmy chuckle. “Doesn’t trust anyone. Tell you what. I’ll stop by and install it for you myself.”
“Sorry, but no one comes in here when I’m not home.”
The chuckle turned into laughter, a false “ho-ho-ho.” “No, baby brother, I meant while you’re home. I haven’t seen you in months. I miss you, little buddy. And you haven’t ever invited me over to see your new place. What’s it been? Two, three years?”
“I’m very busy right now, Pete. I don’t really have time for a visit.”
“Hey, hey, no problem. You need to relax, you know?”
“I know.” But not with you.
“Listen, let me check with my man and get back to you. Maybe he can come by when you get off work tomorrow. What time will you be home?”
Will opened his mouth to put him off, but Freud chose that moment to come crashing down onto his shoulder. Will grimaced as claws stuck through his shirt. The cat balanced, released his flesh quickly, then slid his cheek against his. Rorschach trilled, and back on the cat post, Jung made his peculiar grunt-meow.
“Hey, little buddy, what’s going on? Got a woman in there with you?”
Will sighed. “I should be home after six-thirty tomorrow. I can’t guarantee it, though,” he added blandly. “See you later, Pete.” He hung up before he had to listen to another chuckle and tilted forward so that Freud would get off his shoulder. Jung joined his brothers on the desk, sat down and began staring at Will with golden eyes that appeared to contain vast ageless intelligence. Appearances can be deceiving. “You guys looking for an early dinner?”
Tails went up, eyes opened wide, talking and trilling commenced. Whatever their intelligence, the triplets had easily learned at least thirty-five human words and “dinner” was one they never pretended to forget. Will pushed back from the desk and stood as the massive orange hairballs swooped dizzily past him, all pausing at the doorway to make sure he was following, before they led him, eeling around his tripping feet, to the kitchen. No wonder Seeing Eye cats never caught on.
6
Thinking she heard something, Lara Sweethome muted the evening news and listened intently. Yes, there it was again—the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Heart thudding, she willed herself to remain calm as she put her fork and Lean Cuisine teriyaki bowl down on the coffee table and silently slid off the sofa. She crouched low behind the arm and peered across the room at the staircase. It was empty, at least as far as she could see. But she could still hear footsteps. The seventh stair from the bottom squeaked in its unmistakable way, but there was no one there.
Covered with goosebumps, she waited. More steps, more squeaks. Something invisible was ascending the stairs—she recognized the distinctive crunch of the third step from the top.
There’s nothing there. You know that!
She heard someone—something—walking around upstairs, moving toward her bedroom.
A door slammed. Her bedroom door.
You didn’t hear anything. You’re imagining things.
Trembling, she rose and walked into the small downstairs bathroom and took her plastic pill box from the vanity drawer. It held seven days worth of medication, and every week she faithfully filled it so that she wouldn’t forget a dose. Now she flipped open today’s segment and counted. She hadn’t missed a dose of anything, including the mild antipsychotic that Dr. Banning had recommended and Dr. Rawlins had then prescribed.
Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed again and the footsteps started back toward the staircase. Dizzy, nauseated, Lara steadied herself. “You’re hallucinating,” she murmured. Her stomach churned. She hadn’t hallucinated since she began the medication a year ago. Why now? Her life was fine, free of any real problems. In fact, she was happier now, since beginning the medication, than she’d ever been since puberty and the mental problems had hit, fifteen years ago. Much happier. Dr. Banning had diagnosed a mild form of something related to schizophrenia and given her the pills. All the things that haunted her, the things she had heard—and even seen once or twice—subsided almost completely soon after.
She heard the third stair from the top crunch again as the hallucination—that’s what it is, just an hallucination, it’s not a ghost, it’s not her!—descended the stairs. Go out there and look. Prove there’s nothing there!
Okay, she would. She fumbled the pill dispenser back into the drawer and opened the bathroom door just as the seventh step from the bottom squeaked. She almost pulled back, but thought of Dr. Banning, of how he told her she wasn’t a coward, there was nothing real to fear, and made herself walk back into the living room, right toward the staircase.
Something squeaked. The floorboards at the bottom of the stairs. There’s nothing there. Lara moved forward. Nothing there.
The lights seemed to dim the slightest bit, letting a gloomy darkness seep in around her. Then the air changed, grew suffocatingly still despite the steady stirring of the ceiling fan in the center of the room, despite the early evening breeze coming in the front windows. She felt like she was in a vacuum.
Or an airplane. Pressure grew on her eardrums until dizziness made her grab a sideboard to keep her balance. Her ears roared with the sound you heard when you put a big conch shell to your ear to hear the ocean, but despite that, she heard the floor squeak again, only a few feet away.
Suddenly it hit in a rush, a roar. Physically hit. The invisible thing rushed her, pushing her back until she fell to the floor as the force of it swept through her body, like a freezing electrical shock. Behind her, another door slammed, then it was gone. All gone. Except for the faint cloying smell of her dead mother’s violet perfume.
7
Sunset commenced with rare and brilliant fury and Will attempted to watch it while working, but soon found his eyes stolen by beauty, his mind adrift, his heart alone. The cats, sated, had deserted him to curl up and snooze together in his favorite chair. Or perhaps he
had deserted them, since they always welcomed his attempts to retake the chair and watch television or read a book.
By now, Kevin and Gabe would be celebrating, having dinner and then other pleasures. Thinking of their anniversary as he watched the late summer sun sink into the sea made him think of a very different kind of anniversary that was only days away. It would be twenty-six years ago Saturday that his oldest brother, his hero, Michael, had died. The accident itself was only a series of blurred images, but he clearly remembered sitting with Maggie on the rocky crescent shore after the funeral, numbly watching the sun set. They were only ten, he was still in shock, and Maggie took his hand and held it in both her own. After a while, her touch broke through his defenses and he finally cried for his brother. She never said a word, just held him until he was done. The next day, he was embarrassed and began avoiding her, but she acted as if nothing had happened, and except for an increased tendency in her to guard him—just as she did any wounded creature—everything went back the way it was. They remained best buddies.
He swallowed hard, choking back the old sorrow, and thought of other things. Marcia Gauss, the patient he reluctantly saw after the bird invasion, was a neurotic control freak who had been showing signs of improvement until recently. A supremely annoying woman, today she did her level best to make him run screaming from the room by grilling him about her mental state, which was a source of endless pride and fascination to her. Marcia was probably torturing her husband or children now. He wondered if she sat them under a hot bright light while she pulled from them the details of their days.
Daniel Hatch—poor Daniel!—was probably having dinner conversation with his precognitive genitals. The thought, meant to amuse, distressed him more, and he let himself think of Maggie instead. She would still be at the clinic, probably dissecting a dead crow.
He wondered what she’d find, if anything. He wondered, suddenly hungry, if she’d eaten yet and started to reach for the phone, then stopped, knowing she’d call him when she was done with the autopsy. Unlike him, she was a prisoner of propriety when it came to ringing phones, and unless she was in surgery, she’d drop everything to pick up, even though she knew the voice mail would do it for her. On one hand, he admired her for it, and knew that, considering his profession, he should be just as vigilant. On the other, he knew he’d lose his own mind if he didn’t use an answering machine, screen calls, and carry a beeper instead of a cell. He’d learned in childhood to drive Mags nuts by ignoring a doorbell or ringing phone whenever they were at his house. Sometimes she’d get so frustrated that she’d get up and answer it herself, always flipping her hand across the top of his head as she went by. Nowadays, she admitted she was sometimes jealous of his ability to ignore the world, though she still couldn’t fathom how he did it.
The doorbell chimed, startling Will out of his reverie, sending stray thoughts of synchronicity dancing through his head. He sat there as it rang a second time, a third, then in honor of Maggie and because synchronicity shouldn’t be ignored, got up to see who it was.
He arrived at the door, looked out the peephole and saw the back of a short man in green coveralls as he stepped off the porch. Between his shoulder blades was an embroidered label that said CALEDONIA CABLE. Pete had sent the guy over without bothering to phone first. Will ground his teeth. Another one of his brother’s passive-aggressive tricks. Pete knew Will resented unannounced visitors.
Or does he? They’d barely spoken in years, so how could he know? Quickly, Will opened the door. “Hey!”
The man, retreating to a white Caledonia Cable minivan, turned and looked, then held up one finger in a just-a-minute gesture, opened his van, and grabbed a large open toolbox and trotted up the walk.
“My brother sent you?” Will squinted at the rat-faced little man. He saw carroty hair just beginning to gray. Light from the streetlamp lit prominent ears and the weight of the toolbox tilted him a little. Will knew him from somewhere; he was familiar.
“He sure did send me. Have a new cable box or two, if you want, just for you,” the man said in a whispery voice reminiscent of Lon Chaney’s. “He said you didn’t want anyone in the house while you’re at work, so I should come and set it up now. And tomorrow, if you don’t mind my going in your backyard, I’ll just come back and run the new cable from the pole to the house. You’ll be all connected when you get home.”
Will didn’t want to be bothered, but the wiring really was quick and easy to run in this house, and the rat-man intrigued him. “Okay,” he said and stood back to let the guy enter. As he passed, he saw the name embroidered on the man’s left breast: Mickey.
Holy hell, it’s Mickey Elfbones! “Straight ahead,” he said. “The main set is in the living room. There’s another in my bedroom.”
Elfbones nodded and headed into the living room. The puddle of cats in the chair stirred as he entered. Jung and Rorschach leapt down and disappeared behind the chair. Freud, afraid of nothing and no one, just watched from the chair. In a minute or two, he’d probably jump on the guy’s back and scare him half to death. Maybe not. Freud’s got good taste. But the idea still made Will smile. Mickey Elfbones had been Pete’s childhood lieutenant, a ferrety kid without the balls to be a bully, so he’d latched on to Pete as full-time lackey instead. He did whatever Pete wanted and, in return, had some prestige and protection from Pete’s competition. And even though he was a runt, he was four years older than Will and always bigger than him.
“You used to beat me up,” Will said.
Elfbones turned white. “I, uh, I had to, I mean I didn’t want to, but—”
“But Pete made you do it.”
Cringing slightly, Mickey nodded, then looked him up and down and tried on a smile. “You sure got tall. You’re a lot taller than Pete now.”
Will smiled, enjoying his old tormentor’s discomfort.
“I, uh, I apologize for being mean to you, uh, Willy, uh, I mean—”
“Dr. Banning.”
“Dr. Banning,” Mickey repeated. “Wow. You’re a doctor? Pete didn’t say nothing about that.”
Of course he didn’t. “I’m a psychologist.”
Elfbones tried smiling again. “Then you understand why I had to do that stuff, right?”
“I do.” He could have explained it to him, could have ground the little creep down with a few well-chosen words, but while he still didn’t like the guy, his anger was already fading. And, damn it, he really did understand why Mickey had done it. “Need any more help, Mickey?”
“No, but maybe when I’m done. This set’s huge.”
“I’ll help you put it back.”
“Thanks.”
Will almost left the room, intending to get the bedroom set ready, but he didn’t trust the guy, so he sat down in his chair. Jung and Rorschach were nowhere to be seen, but Freud, displaced, instantly hopped into Will’s lap then set to staring daggers at Mickey.
Elfbones glanced back nervously. “That your cat?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he do?”
“He kills rats,” Will said smoothly.
Mickey looked around, oblivious to irony. “You got rats in a nice place like this?”
“Just one, but he won’t be around long.”
“Poor stupid rat. I sure wouldn’t want to get bit by a big-ass cat like that. He part mountain lion?”
“Could be.” Will already felt guilty for playing with the poor idiot and was relieved when the phone rang.
It was Maggie. She had to wait for test results, but couldn’t find anything wrong with the dead birds and thought nothing would show up. Will thanked her and invited her to dinner Saturday night. She accepted, and that was that. Will hung up and saw Mickey was finished. He rose and helped him slide the set back into place, watched him set the new black box on top, accepted a new remote and pamphlet of instructions.
“You try it tomorrow night. Lots more stations.”
“Pete mentioned that. Are you ready to do the bedroom set?�
�
Mickey nodded.
“This way.”
Will sat in a chair while Mickey went to work. As soon as Elfbones was occupied, Rorschach and Jung appeared from behind the drapes. They looked worried. Will could see Jung’s tail swishing. Would they decide to stay or go?
A few seconds later, both felines stealth-trotted out of the room. They were cautious around strangers, but he’d never seen them this nervous before. And it was also peculiar that fearless Freud hadn’t followed him into the bedroom. The cats must have good taste.
“So, Mickey, what’ve you been up to since Pete joined the Navy?”
“I joined with him, but got washed out. I worked at Phil Ford’s auto shop until ten years ago. I’ve been working for Pete ever since.”
Will had never seen him around town and briefly wondered if he was lying. Not that it mattered.
In a few minutes, Mickey Elfbones was finished setting up. Will saw him to the front door. “Your brother said to tell you to stop by the new shop sometime,” the lackey told him. “It’s real nice.”
“I’ll try.” He felt a cat rub against one leg and followed Mickey’s eyes down. Freud was plastered against him, but the ears were up, maybe even a little forward, showing aggression as he stared at Mickey.
“That’s a scary-looking cat,” Mickey said anxiously.
“He’s harmless,” Will told him, feeling sorry for him. Freud disagreed with a world-class hiss.
“Uh, I gotta go.” Mickey got out the door then peeked back in. “Uh, Dr. Banning?’
“Yes, Mickey?”
“Your cat won’t be outside tomorrow, will he?”
“No. He stays indoors.”
“Good. See you later.”
Will locked the door then looked down at Freud and put his hands out, palms up. “You’re rude,” he said pleasantly.
With a grunt, Freud accepted the invitation to leap into his arms. Will carried him back into the living room, sat down in his chair and picked up a Nelson DeMille novel. Freud tried to sit on it, but failed and settled for his lap, but Jung and Rorschach spent the rest of the evening looking nervous and sniffing everywhere Mickey Elfbones had walked.
The Forgotten Page 4