by K. J. Young
She folds her arms. “I can’t believe you missed it.” Grabbing the flashlight out of his hands, she walks briskly to the center of the room and stops in front of the table. “What do you make of this?” She reaches underneath the table and pulls out a length of leather, a buckle on the end.
“What is it?” Mark comes up beside her to look.
“I have no idea. There are four in all.”
He crouches down to take a look, and Lisa joins him, obligingly shining the light so he can see underneath. Just as she said, on one end of the table there are four separate leather straps, each one tucked away on its own little shelf, not visible from the top. He glances her way. “One of their props for their magic act, maybe? If they kept the box for cutting Alma in half, it makes sense that this would be something like that.”
“Maybe.” She sounds doubtful. “I just can’t figure out what this would be used for.”
Mark says, “Houdini used to demonstrate how he escaped from a straitjacket. Maybe it’s something like that?”
“But trying to escape from a table?”
“Why not a table?”
“It doesn’t seem like it would be easy for an audience to see if it was up on a stage.”
“You never know. Maybe they angled it.” He gestures with curved fingers. “Can I have the flashlight for a minute?” She hands it over, and he sweeps the beam across the floor. The outward-radiating tiles that start at the edge of the room meet underneath the table, ending in a series of loops unfolding in a circular pattern. The symbol reminds him of a Spirograph drawing. “What do you suppose this means?” he asks, directing the flashlight’s glow under the table.
Lisa leans over to take a closer look. She tilts her head to one side, considering, and says, “I don’t know. Some kind of black magic?”
Hearing the fear in her voice, Mark says, “You don’t need to worry about anything like that. It’s clearly just decorative.”
“I don’t need to worry?” Lisa repeats, her tone incredulous. “How can you say that? Those photos are bizarre. And why would they lie about what they used to do for a living? No.” She shakes her head defiantly. “This is not right. Normal people do not do these kinds of things.” She waves a hand. “Flying through the air, decaying flesh, strapping people to tables? Who does that?”
But it was a magic act. He almost says the words, but it seems beside the point, and besides, she is on a tear now.
“Knowing they lied to me makes me wonder what else is going on. It’s giving me bad dreams, and you tell me there’s nothing to worry about?” She’s hyperventilating now, choked sobs threatening to come out full force. “I thought you’d help me through this, not give me the brush-off.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Despite the stifling heat of the room, Mark gives her shoulders a squeeze and pulls her close, leaning down so their faces are aligned. He still has the flashlight tucked under his arm, aimed at the floor. Lisa is lucky he’s had a lot of practice in dealing with distraught females. How many times has he consoled women after giving them bad news? More times than he can count. If it were a sport, he could go pro. “Lisa, when you put it that way, I understand why you’re upset. But you’re not alone here anymore, okay? I’m here now. And when I’m not here you can call me anytime, even in the middle of the night, and if you need me, I’ll come right away. We’re in this together.”
Judging by her reaction, his performance was even better than he thought. She sighs, leans in, and tells him, “It’s not for too much longer. I have money saved. I’ll be getting my own place soon.” As if she is trying to convince herself.
“Of course you will,” he says soothingly. “Just relax. Not too much longer now. It’s all going to be fine.”
Chapter Nine
Getting Lisa calmed down takes at least ten minutes. She rests her head on his chest; her arms wrap around his neck. His shirt gets wet with her tears. Admirably, he pretends not to care. “It’s all going to be fine,” he murmurs, hoping it won’t go much longer. “Things are going to get better. You’re doing great.”
“It’s just . . .” She pauses to take a gulp of air. “Sometimes I think I’m totally losing it. What am I doing here? How is this even my life?”
Mark understands the feeling. So many times he’s wondered why he hasn’t made it to the big time yet. How can it be that he’s still the underling at every job he’s ever worked at, when he is clearly smarter, stronger, and better looking than those around him? Lisa has no reason to feel that way, of course, but he doesn’t tell her that. He just lets her cry.
Judging from the way she clings to him, he knows he has a shot at steering her into one of the bedrooms for some consolation sex, but even if he wasn’t worried about Roy and Alma hearing, she seems too uptight to be much fun. Besides, Monica awaits, and she is a sure thing.
Once Lisa pulls herself together, she offers an excuse for not continuing on to the third floor. “It’s just the old servants’ quarters anyway,” she says, wiping her eyes. “The rooms are mostly empty now, except for some boxes.” She explains that because of the ballroom ceiling, the servants’ area is half the size of the two lower floors. “There’s not much up there to see,” she says.
Even though he knows the way, she leads him to the front door, where they say good night. He’s more than ready to leave. He’s seen enough.
Stepping outside, Mark sucks in a grateful breath of the balmy air, aware of his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his body and the sweat stains circling his armpits. He can even smell himself, it’s that bad. When he gets home, he’ll have to peel off his clothing. If Monica isn’t there yet, he’ll shower without her.
A bolt of lightning flares across the sky, but it isn’t raining just yet, thank God. With any luck, he’ll be on the bus before it begins pouring.
Mark steps from the dark porch onto the front walkway and surveys the empty street. Shadows fall between the streetlights. The rush of cars off in the distance is vibratory, like hearing a sound underwater. He continues down the block, his gaze on the cracked pavement. Step on a crack and break your mother’s back. The childhood refrain wavers through his mind, haunting, singsong. If only. A broken spine would be small justice for all the times his mom stood by and let his stepfather berate and physically abuse him. She just stood and watched as he manhandled Mark, shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. Loser. Never going to amount to anything. Yes, Mark did a few things wrong—notably he cheated on tests at school, took the car without permission, and stole money from his brother’s bank account—but he was just a kid. Abuse is no way to teach a child how to do better. Besides, what kind of mother doesn’t stand up for her own child? He clearly got the dregs when it came to parents.
He blames his stepdad for dominating the household, especially for targeting Mark. The guy is an asshole with a capital A. His mother’s biggest failing is lack of a backbone. If she said something even once, Mark would start coming around again, dropping by on her birthday with a gift, taking her out to dinner for Mother’s Day. Mark isn’t a bad son at heart. An outsider came into the family and made him an outsider. What’s fair about that?
They say living well is the best revenge. Now that he has this new job, the money will be flowing, and his life is going to change. Who’s the loser now?
His mind is so occupied that when he turns the corner, he almost walks right into a tall figure silhouetted by the streetlight beyond. “Oh my God,” he says, his heart thudding in his chest.
“You again.” A man’s voice. As Mark stares, the looming presence of the aging hippie who confronted him the day of his interview takes shape. What is his name? Doug? Yes, it’s Doug. A stupid name, perfect for a whack job. Lightning flashes again, this time closer. The air crackles with electricity, revealing a grimacing face resembling something like skin stretched over a skull. “I warned you, didn’t I? And now they have you coming at night. That’s how it starts.” He lifts a cigarette to his lips. It glows as he takes a drag.
This man makes him nervous, so Mark lifts his chin to a confident angle. “You have it all wrong. I came here tonight on my own.”
“So you think.” He leans against the side of the building, one leg propped up flamingo-like. “But who comes down here on their own at night?” He gestures around the street with its graffiti-covered buildings and deteriorating sidewalks. “No one smart. Not if you have a nice place to live. Rich boy like you should know better.”
“I came down to help a friend.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, and anyway, what he did or didn’t do was none of this hippie’s business.
The man shakes his head. “I told ya—when people go in that house, they come out different. Sooner or later, they’re gonna get you.”
Mark glances down the street. No bus in sight. Shit. “Okay, I’ll play. Different how?”
Shadows flicker over the man’s face. Thunder rumbles in the distance. “Body and soul, man. Body and soul.” It comes out like a taunt. “That’s how it’s played, rich boy. Always remember—it’s better to take action than to be a victim.”
This conversation is going nowhere. Fucking druggie. Mark has known guys like this from previous jobs. The dishwashers who went out in the parking lot to smoke some weed. (Primo shit, man!) The maintenance men who drank from paper bags. And the most hard-core addicts, the ones who shot up behind dumpsters in back alleyways. Yeah, he’s had a lot of dead-end jobs and has met some real quality people. This guy is obviously molded from the same clay. Nothing but a waste of time.
“You mark my words. Someday you’ll be thinking back on this and know that I’m right.”
Mark brushes by him, muttering, “Asshole.” Glancing ahead, he is relieved to see the bus off in the distance, heading his way. He turns to tell Doug to piss off, but inexplicably, the man is gone. Mark blinks, then takes a few steps and peers around the corner, relieved to see Doug loping down the sidewalk toward Alden Manor. Odd that he moved so quickly and quietly, but Mark is happy to have sighted him, glad to know he hasn’t vanished into thin air. The man’s words spooked him more than he’d like to admit.
Mark breathes deeply and mentally recites his childhood mantra. Just words. Shake ’em off. Just shake ’em off. They’re only words, and words can’t hurt me.
When he climbs up the steps to the bus, it begins to rain. All the way home rain pelts the roof of the bus. The storm is in full force now, which means his timing was excellent. By the time he arrives at his stop, his mind is on Monica, and the conversation with the aging hippie has been completely forgotten.
Chapter Ten
The next day, when Mark rounds the corner onto Bartleby Street, he is surprised to see the Excalibur parked in front of Alden Manor. Even more surprising is the sight of Lisa sitting on the porch steps, an empty, distracted look on her face. Spotting him, she raises a hand half-heartedly in acknowledgment. As he turns onto the walkway, he calls out, “What’s up?”
In answer, she holds up a ring of keys. “We’re getting kicked out.” Her voice has an air of despondency.
Mark jogs up the steps and takes a seat next to her. “Kicked out how?”
“The Redevine Society decided to convene today at the last minute.” She puts the word convene in finger quotes. “And they don’t want us hanging around, I guess. Roy wants you to drive me to run a bunch of errands.” She reaches into her jeans pocket, pulls out a piece of lined paper, and unfolds it. “Pick up two prescriptions at the pharmacy. Drive all the way to Westfall to pick up a pocket watch that’s being repaired at Goodman’s Clock Shop. Go to the grocery store. There’s a whole list of food items.” She rolls her eyes. “The delivery guy just brought our order three days ago, and the fridge and cabinets are full, so I don’t quite get it. Why the sudden need for pickled herring and canned peaches?”
Mark shrugs. “Maybe you’re right and they just want us out of the way.” He isn’t about to complain about an opportunity to drive the Excalibur. Getting paid to do it makes it even better.
“He gave me a bunch of money and said we should go out to lunch and not to hurry back. It’s so weird. This has never happened before, not in all the time I’ve worked for them. The few times I’ve run errands for them, they had me take the bus and told me to hurry.” She shakes her head. “I have a bad feeling. Something’s going down.”
Mark smiles. Something’s going down. Clearly, Lisa has been watching too many detective shows on television. He says, “I’m sure it will be fine.” Maybe the Walgraves want to visit with their friends without Lisa lurking around. Perfectly reasonable.
“I hate leaving them.” She purses her lips.
“What could happen? Besides, they’ll be with friends.”
Her face becomes more than serious. “Sometimes friends are the ones to worry about.” And in that one statement, she reveals so much. Mark knows now that life has treated Lisa very badly. She is a wounded soul, something he has experience with.
“Even if you’re right, there’s not too much we can do about it.” He gestures to the car. “You want to get going?”
“They want to meet you first.”
“Who does?”
“The other members of the Redevine Society. They want to meet the new guy.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, Mark. Who else?” When he doesn’t move from his spot, she adds, “They wanted to meet me too when I was first hired. Trust me, it’s not a big deal. Just go in and say hi, and then we can go.”
Wordlessly, he gets up and goes inside, shutting the door behind him. By now he is accustomed to the transition on the other side of the door, the shift from bright to dark, hot to cool dampness, but he still stands for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust, before following the sounds of conversation at the end of the hall.
Voices float out from the blue room. He makes his way down the hall. Stopping short of the door, he flexes his fingers as if he’s about to play the piano, which isn’t too far from the truth. If Roy and Alma’s guests need reassurance that he is an okay guy, his performance has to be spot-on.
He’s taking a deep breath when the voices inside hush, almost as if they know someone might be listening. He hears a female softly saying, “If that doesn’t work . . . ,” followed by something he can’t quite make out. Neither can he identify the speaker. It certainly isn’t Alma, whose voice has a more childlike cadence.
A man answers, loudly enough so that the words are clear. “This has taken too long already.”
Mark raises his knuckles to the doorframe and raps twice before stepping into the room. He walks in to see two couples sitting opposite Roy and Alma. “Lisa said I should check in with you before we head out?”
Roy’s face lights up when Mark enters the room. He struggles to his feet, pushing off the arm of the chair. “Come in, my boy! I was just telling our friends all about you. Everyone, this is Mark Norman.”
“Hello, Mark.”
“Nice to meet you, Mark.”
“We’ve heard good things.”
“Hey there, Mark.”
The comments come all at once and overlap one another, making it hard for him to know how to respond. The four newcomers, two guys and two women, are a marked contrast to Roy and Alma. For one thing, they are young, nearly as young as Mark himself; secondly, they are all strikingly attractive and dressed smartly. Mark raises a hand in greeting, waiting for introductions that never come. Finally, he walks over to shake their hands, saying, “I’m Mark Norman. Pleased to meet you.”
The first woman takes his hand and gives him an appreciative once-over before winking suggestively. “I’m Lara Whitlock,” she says. “And I am so glad to meet you. I hope to see a lot of you in the future, Mark.” The words come out in a purr, making him grin. Women could be so obvious.
The man next to her is a hulk of a guy—big shoulders, barrel-chested, and strong jaw. If he notices the flirting, it doesn’t appear to bother him. He stands and grips Mark’s hand. “Baird Whitlock. Welcome aboard. I’m glad Roy and Alma have found
a good man to help carry the load. Both of them are very important to us.”
“The Redevine Society, right?” Mark says. The group exchanges glances, and for a second, he wonders if he’s somehow blundered. Did he hear about the society from Lisa, or did he only read about it on the photos upstairs? No, he’s sure she’s referenced it several times. To cover himself, he says, “That’s what Lisa said, anyway.”
They all nod, and Baird says, “Of course. That’s exactly right.”
Mark moves on to the next guy, a slender man with dark hair who says his name is Sam Burman. His wife, Neela, has a soft voice and shy manner. They both shake hands curtly, as if not wanting to prolong things. He takes a step back and says, “It’s so nice to meet all of you.” Then addressing Roy, he adds, “Unless you have something you need me to do, I’ll let you get back to your meeting. Lisa says we’re to run errands today?”
Roy bobs his head up and down. “Yes, my boy. I gave her a list and told her not to hurry back. I hope the two of you find a nice place to have lunch.”
“That’s so generous of you. I’m sure we will.”
Roy grabs the cane leaning against the side of his chair. “If you’ll wait just a moment for this old man, I’ll walk you out.”
The group is quiet as the two slowly leave the room, but once they are out in the hallway, Mark hears the murmur of voices as they resume their conversation. He thinks they might be talking about him, although he can’t say for certain. With Mark at his side, Roy hobbles down the hallway. When they are out of earshot of the blue room, he pauses and grabs Mark’s arm. “You might have guessed that I wanted to speak with you alone.”