Drawn

by James Hankins

  It was Robert’s voice.

  Boone smiled. In his relief, it didn’t occur to him at first to wonder why his computer was speaking without his having commanded it to do so.

  Boone strode down the hall and into his room, about to tell Robert to shut the hell up, when the words coming from his computer began to register.

  The voice was mechanical, entirely without emotion. “Get…out…leave here…get…the hell…out…”

  Boone froze. The computer’s volume began to rise.

  “…will hurt…you…leave here…go crazy…hell…will hurt…you…get…the hell…out…”

  Robert’s volume was still rising.

  “…leave here…get…the hell…out…Boone…”

  When he heard Robert say his name, Boone’s knees nearly gave out.

  “…will hurt…you…Boone…like…crazy…”

  If he could have moved at that moment, if he could have controlled his own muscles, he would have turned and run blindly down the hall in a panic. But he was frozen. Robert was at maximum volume now, the words pounding into Boone’s head like nails.

  “Boone…crazy…like…hell…get…the hell…out…”

  A thumping behind Boone made him flinch, a rhythmic pounding, like fists beating the walls. Like something was inside his bedroom walls, fighting to get out.

  “…hell…Boone…crazy…get…the hell…out…”

  Boone squeezed his eyes shut. Robert screamed on in his terrible monotone. Something hammered louder and louder at his bedroom wall, trying to break through. The chaos of sound was deafening.

  “…out…out…get…the hell…out…Boone…”

  Boone couldn’t move. The drumming on the wall was furious. Whatever was in there would escape soon…out of the wall and into the room with Boone. Suddenly another pounding began, this time from the ceiling. Then still another from down the hall. They were coming at Boone from all sides. He threw his hands up and covered his ears. He wanted to scream. He wanted to—

  “Shut the hell up in there.”

  Boone dropped his hands from his ears. That was a different voice. Not Robert’s voice. And it was muffled.

  The pounding in the wall stopped. “Turn that thing off, goddamn it.”

  Boone opened his eyes. That wasn’t Robert. That voice came from the apartment next door.

  “Shut that off or I’m calling the cops.” Boone realized that Mr. Goditis was pounding on the wall and yelling for him to turn his computer down.

  Another thump from the ceiling followed by, “Don’t make me come down there, boy.”

  It was the big guy in the apartment above, the guy with the giant tattoo of a tiger’s head on his neck.

  The spell was broken and Boone lurched forward. He ran his hands over his computer keyboard and found the mute button.

  “…will hurt…you…Boone…get…the hell…out —”

  Mercifully, Robert’s voice died. There was a final thump on both his wall and ceiling, then nothing. The sudden silence was a relief unlike any Boone had ever known. A moment later there was another thump and his heart tripped before he realized the sound had come from his front door. He exhaled, dragged his sleeve across his forehead to wipe away a film of sweat, and walked down the hall. He was about to unlock his apartment door when he had an insane thought: What if there was something out there, something not entirely human, something that wanted him to open his door? What if that was what this was all about? Something that wanted in but couldn’t get in unless he let it in.

  But that was crazy. Something—or someone, damn it—had already been in his apartment. It or he or whatever it was had defaced his pictures and knocked them crooked. Obviously, it could get in if it wanted to.

  Another hard knock on the door, then, “Open this goddamn door, Forrester.”

  Mrs. Lang, his neighbor from across the hall. He unlocked the door and opened it.

  “It’s almost two thirty in the morning,” the woman said in a husky, smoker’s voice. He could just barely see that she wore a knee-length nightgown. He couldn’t see her face clearly and was glad for that. “What’s with all the damn noise?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lang,” he said. “My computer had a glitch. I couldn’t shut it down. It won’t happen again. I promise you.”

  She huffed once. “Well, if it does, I don’t care if you’re blind, I’m calling the cops.”

  “It won’t, I swear.”

  Boone closed the door and engaged the deadbolt.

  What was going on here? Something he couldn’t explain had sure as hell happened tonight. Had he been given a warning or a threat? Sure felt like a threat. He tried to remember Robert’s words.

  Leave here.

  Get out.

  Will hurt you, Boone.

  Hurt you like crazy.

  Get the hell out.

  Yeah, sounded like a threat. Something wanted him to leave his apartment. And for a brief moment, Boone considered doing just that. But he knew he couldn’t. He fervently wished he could, but he simply couldn’t. Well, he could leave the apartment itself, but where would he go? Kenny’s bar was closed. Nothing else in his little patch of the world would be open, either. And he was incapable of stepping beyond the limits of his block. He sure as hell wasn’t about to ask Mrs. Lang or Mr. Goditis if they wanted to have a sleepover.

  Besides, this was his home. He couldn’t let something drive him out even if he was able to leave.

  He thought about Robert’s words. They weren’t really Robert’s, of course. Robert was just a computer—less than that, really. Robert was a voice in a computer program. It seemed, however, as though someone or something had used Robert’s voice.

  Boone thought about the words themselves. Something about them…he’d heard them recently…then he had it. He returned to his bedroom and sat in front of his computer. He held one finger poised and ready over the mute button, ready to give Robert his voice back, and another finger over the volume control, just in case. He held his breath and pushed mute, half expecting Robert to start screaming and his neighbors to start pounding again. But there was blissful silence. If there was something here, something in his apartment, it waited. It was Boone’s move.

  Boone gave the mouse a nudge and the screen, which had gone into a black sleep, woke up with a gentle crackle of static electricity. Boone did his pigeon head cock and confirmed that his unsent e-mail to Abby was still on the screen. He commanded Robert to read it aloud. Robert did so, his emotionless, robotic voice coming at a normal volume.

  “Hope you are well. This is going to sound a bit nuts, but I’m sure you’ve heard worse, so I’ll just get it out there: it’s possible that my apartment is haunted. Boy, that does sound crazy. Anyway, strange things are happening in my apartment, both after I leave here and when I’m home. I hate to even consider the supernatural—you know what I’m like—but what the hell? I can’t explain it, so I don’t think it will hurt for me to consider alternatives to traditional thinking. And given your interest in such things, I figured you’d listen without calling the guys with butterfly nets. You have my number. If the fact that I may be going crazy doesn’t bother you, please give me a call when you can. Thanks. Boone.”

  Yup, Boone thought, they’re all there. The words going, get out, leave here, hate, you, crazy, hell, hurt, and even Boone. Robert—or whoever, whatever, was speaking through Robert—had taken every word from the e-mail.

  Small mystery solved. Gigantic mystery decidedly unsolved.

  Boone pressed the mute button again to prevent a repeat performance by whatever wanted Boone to get the hell out of his apartment. Then he stood. He was exhausted but wouldn’t consider sleeping in his bed, in this room, tonight. He should leave. He should just pack a bag and leave. That’s what any normal person would do. But, of course, he wasn’t normal. He was incapable of the simple act of crossing the street and leaving the city block on which he lived. Being agoraphobic and living in a haunted apartment is a bad combination, he thought
. He grabbed his pillow and headed back into the living room, where he lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes, and didn’t sleep at all.

  THE SECOND DAY

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE KID ATE like a horse. He sat at the kitchen table, his backpack on the floor right beside his chair—he never let it out of his sight for a second—and shoveled forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth, one after another, barely pausing long enough to swallow between bites.

  The kid had woken up smiling and asking about Larry’s boat. He smiled again when Larry slid a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of him. He polished off the last of his toast, finished his orange juice, and sat back in his chair and looked across the table at Larry.

  “Can we fish on the boat?” he asked.

  “Sure. For a while anyway. As long as we get enough yard work done before that.”

  Miguel smiled wide. He had a nice smile, Larry thought. Larry hadn’t seen it once last night. Miguel had looked a bit rough when Larry first saw him, like a dime that used to be shiny but had been used so much its shine had been worn off, rubbed away by greedy fingers. But when he smiled, the innocence flooded back into his face. He was a good-looking young boy. Especially when he smiled like that. Then the smile faded and the momentary shine was gone again.

  “What’s David’s story?” Miguel asked.

  Larry hesitated, but only for a moment. Won’t hurt to tell him. “Did you catch his name?”

  “David Rosetti, I think. The doorman said it.”

  Smart kid. “You recognize it?”

  “The name? Should I?”

  “How about just the Rosetti part?” Miguel shook his head. “Well, David’s father is a bigwig.”

  “What’s he do?”

  You don’t want me to answer that one, at least not honestly. “The father? You know what the Mafia is?”

  Miguel’s eyes widened. “The Mafia? Sí, of course I do.”

  “Well, it doesn’t exist. It’s not real. But the DA and the police commissioner tell anyone who’ll listen that David’s father, Paul Rosetti, heads up a family, right?”

  “A family?”

  Not the kind you wish you still had, kid. “A family, you know? A team. If there were a Mafia, which there isn’t, it might be made up of different families, with each family taking a piece of the action, right? You follow me?” Miguel nodded. “Good kid. So the families have this shaky kind of truce—at least they would if they existed—and they sort of agree on who gets what and they try not to piss each other off, ’cause it gets ugly when they do. Anyway, the cops think David’s father runs one of these families, right? The biggest one in the northeast, actually, outside of New York and Boston. I mean, if it existed, which it doesn’t. Got it?”

  “I think so. He’s a godfather.”

  Larry laughed. The kid’s all right. “Well, that’s what the cops think, anyway.”

  “What does David do? Work for his father?”

  David doesn’t do anything but spend his father’s money and embarrass his old man, which is why guys like me, guys who should be doing more important things than babysitting, are stuck keeping their eyes on the son, running errands and making sure he doesn’t screw up too badly…or at least he doesn’t get caught screwing up.

  “No, David doesn’t work for his father.”

  Miguel picked something from his teeth. Looked like egg. He sucked it off his finger. Finally, he said, “What about other kids…kids like me?”

  “What do you mean?” I know exactly what you mean.

  Miguel looked away, out the window of Larry’s apartment. “At the hotel, David said that it usually ends better than it did with me.”

  The kid pays attention. “You aren’t the first kid David tried to…make friends with.”

  Miguel kept staring out the window.

  “How many others?”

  Jesus, kid, you really want to hear this?

  “You wanna hear the story? Okay. David’s a lonely guy, at least he tells everyone he is. Why he is, I don’t know, he just is. Maybe it’s because he’s so different from his brothers, from his father, I don’t know. Anyway, every now and then he gets a…a need. And we drive around the city—I know where to go by now—until we find someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  A boy with nothing, preferably a pretty one. “Yeah, someone like you, someone who needs a break in life, you know?”

  “And you bring them to David’s hotel.”

  “It’s not his hotel. I mean, he doesn’t own it or anything. It’s just his regular suite.”

  “Sweet what?”

  “Suite. It’s a hotel room that’s actually a couple rooms together.”

  “And the kids? They do what David wants?”

  Always. Some do it willingly. Some do it because they simply lost the ability to care a long time ago. Some put up a little bit of a fight. But they always give in. Except for you, Miguel. “Yeah, they do. David gives them a lot of money, just like he gave you. Most of those kids would do a lot more for a lot less.”

  “Why does he do it?”

  “David?” Because he needs to do it. If he doesn’t do it from time to time he goes crazy, tries to kill himself. “Well, believe it or not, he thinks he’s doing you guys a favor. He thinks you need a little love, right? He thinks you need a hug…whatever, and afterward, he gives you enough money to set yourself up somewhere. Not a bad deal. At least that’s how he sees it.”

  That really is how he sees it. He really thinks the kids want to do what they do for him. That they need comforting, companionship, even if just for a few hours. He thinks he’s their angel, their savior.

  “How often does he do it?”

  Every three months, like clockwork. “Once a year.”

  “How many years has he been at it?”

  Eight that I know of. “Just two.”

  “I was the third one?”

  Larry nodded.

  “They each get twenty thousand dollars?” Miguel asked.

  “That’s what he gives them.”

  Larry looked out the window while Miguel thought for a moment. Probably doing the math.

  “That’s a lot of money to give away,” Miguel said.

  Larry shrugged. “He’s a generous guy.”

  “And when he’s done, you take the kids to the bus station, put them on a bus with their money so they can start a new life somewhere?”

  Larry could feel Miguel looking at him. He pulled his eyes from the window and met his gaze. “He’s the boss. I gotta do what he tells me, right?”

  He grinned, but Miguel didn’t give him that shiny smile back. He just looked at Larry for a moment before reaching down and pulling his backpack onto his lap.

  “You want any more breakfast?” Larry asked.

  Miguel shook his head.

  “Ready to head up to my lake house?”

  Miguel looked up, his eyes a bit brighter. “When do we leave?”

  “I’ve got a couple of things to do this morning, get some stuff for the trip. You can wait here until I get back. I won’t be gone long. When I get back, we’ll eat lunch, then leave for the lake house.”

  “Can I watch TV until then?”

  Larry wondered how long it had been since the kid had sat on a couch and watched a stupid cartoon.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Ah, there it was, Larry thought, that shiny dime smile.

  It really was a pretty little smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BOONE WOKE UP with a sharp pain in his side. He opened his eyes and cocked his head to see what looked like a grizzled old man bending over him. He poked Boone in the side again with his cane.

  “Just making sure you weren’t dead,” the man said in a phlegmy voice. “You shouldn’t sleep there,” he added as he poked Boone one last time before walking away without even using the damn cane.

  Boone rubbed his eyes. He was lying in the doorway of Mr. Woo’s video store and
the concrete stoop he was curled up on was cold. October mornings in Massachusetts were brisk. His butt hurt. His neck was stiff. He’d tried to spend the night in his apartment, but sleep wouldn’t come. He kept hearing noises that he knew weren’t real, kept seeing shadows in the corner of his vision that he knew weren’t there. He kept wondering when the pictures would fall from the walls. He kept expecting his computer, Robert, to repeat his order for Boone to get out of his apartment, threatening to hurt him like hell again, to hurt him like crazy. So around five in the morning, Boone finally left the apartment, walked around the block a couple of times, then curled up on Mr. Woo’s stoop.

  He checked his watch. Six thirty-seven a.m. God, how he wished he could grab a cup of coffee, maybe a bagel, and just take a stroll down to the Chelsea River. He’d sit on a bench, sip his coffee, listen to snippets of conversations of the passersby, and just be a part of the world. But he couldn’t do that, not him. He couldn’t step off the curb. He might as well have been a dog wearing an electric collar that shocked him every time he tried to cross the street. He just couldn’t do it. If he even thought about it too long, he knew, he’d start to get light-headed. No, Boone had nowhere to go. Kenny wouldn’t open the bar for several more hours. So Boone could either guard Mr. Woo’s store for a while longer, or he could finally go back upstairs.

  WITH EACH RISER he climbed toward his apartment, Boone’s heart began to beat a little faster. By the time he unlocked his door, he was breathing like he’d just crested Heartbreak Hill running the Boston Marathon. Sweating like it, too. When he stepped inside, he was mildly—and pleasantly—surprised to find that nothing was apparently amiss. The pictures appeared to be in their proper places on the walls. Robert wasn’t screaming bloody murder down in his bedroom. Linda Blair wasn’t levitating in the middle of the living room, her head swiveling around like a lighthouse beacon, her mouth spewing vomit that looked like pea soup.

  Boone locked the door behind him. In the kitchen, he turned on talk radio and made himself some toaster waffles. They were slightly freezer-burned, but with a very liberal and unhealthy application of both butter and maple syrup, he was able to choke them down.