Читать книгу Angel of the Underground - David Andreas - Страница 10

CHAPTER III

I awaken in the morning to pulsating heat against my back. I half-expect to find my roommate, Amanda, sleeping beside me, but the snoring sounds are too deep for a three-year-old. I look over my shoulder and find a bald, blemished scalp. I slither onto the floor, land hard on my right hip, and stare at Nathan with wide eyes. Still sound asleep, he rolls over facing me. His lips are stuck to his dry teeth, which makes him look like a skeleton veiled in tight skin.

A frantic voice sounds upstairs. I crawl to the hallway for a listen and hear Lori say, “Dad! Enough of this shit! Where are you?” I hurry up to the dining room, where Lori stops short and looks me over as though I’m interrupting her for no good reason. “Can I help you with something?”

“He’s in my room,” I reply.

“Isn’t that nice? We’ve been going crazy up here while you two are having a fucking tea party?”

Before I can explain what’s actually happening, she brushes past me and heads to the basement. I follow her with the hope that finding Nathan asleep will lead to an apology for chastising me with profanity, but when she sees Nathan she simply mutters, “Tell Barry to come in. He’s out back.”

Sure enough, Barry is leaning inside the aluminum shed. When he retracts himself and notices me he offers a quizzical gaze.

“He’s downstairs,” I say, “in my bed.”

Barry places his hands on my shoulders and says, “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s not all there in the head and tends to forget where he is.” He leads me to the garage with a hand on my back. “I wouldn’t worry. He’s far from a threat.”

I give Barry the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t say a word. I don’t know about Nathan’s health conditions, and can’t feel too upset since he didn’t do anything but sleep. Sister Alice says life is full of unplanned discomforts, so I forgive him as I expect Sister Alice would.

When Barry heads downstairs to gather his father, I find something of interest in a lidless kitchen garbage pail. Beneath a wet coffee filter is the latest Newsday. On the cover is a photo of Detective Morris, the policeman who spoke to me when I found Bryan’s savaged body. While Nathan is taken upstairs, I slip the paper under my shirt and take it down to my room.

The main article clarifies what I already know. The police department has yet to disclose any clues or leads that might tie the murders to a suspect. Detective Morris is under public scrutiny for his inability to set anyone at ease. Answering “no comment” to almost every question is angering the already frightened community. Sales of guns, home security systems, and guard dogs have spiked over the past few weeks. Citizens are begging for a new detective to take on the case, as they find Morris wholly incompetent.

I think they’re too hard on him. When we met he appeared concerned for my well-being; he told me I had witnessed a scene more brutal than any he’s ever encountered before. At one point he excused himself to the bathroom, where he must have cried since he came out with swollen, bloodshot eyes. He promised me he’d catch the killer by any means necessary, but those means are eluding him.

After flipping through the rest of the paper, which ends with the Mets’ three game losing streak, I call the group home and hang up on a busy signal. I head out back to see what the boys are up to and find Dennis in the pool. As I approach, Jeremy rises from the depths and blows water from his nose. He then says to me: “Why the long face, slut? Couldn’t get the geezer off?” He laughs hard, but the sound doesn’t relate to humor. My eyes start to burn as tears fill the ducts. Crying, even in the most minimal sense, often feeds the wretchedness of people like Jeremy, so I look into a sandy foot bath near the pool and try not to blink.

Dennis bobs closer to me and leans his arms against the aluminum ledge. “Ignore him,” he says, “no one else thinks it’s funny. Nathan has issues.” I look at him with appreciation just as Jeremy slides an arm’s length of cold water at me. My breath is immediately seized. Jeremy laughs so hard he begins to choke. Undeserving of such treatment, I return downstairs, drop face first into my pillow, and don’t expect to hear from anyone until dinner.

At half past two, a light knock sounds on my door, to which I reply, “Come in.”

Dennis enters and closes the door behind himself, probably so he can be heard over Jeremy’s heavy metal. “I’m heading out for a bit,” he says. “Jeremy will probably blast music the rest of the day. The pool is all yours.”

“Where are you going?”

“A place you’re not allowed to go to. We were told not to bring you anywhere.”

“I’m not a prisoner. And I can’t sit still without thinking horrible thoughts about those kids. I need to get out of here.” I look directly into his forlorn hazel eyes and clasp my hands. “Please?”

Dennis bites his upper lip while bouncing his head from side to side, then says in surrender, “It’s only two miles away. If we hurry we can make it back before anyone knows you left.”

I stand up and put on my Keds.

Though Jeremy is screaming along to his music, Dennis says he has a sense for knowing when something fun is happening without him, so we creep up to the garage and quietly wheel out the two bicycles. “You can take mine,” Dennis says, “I’ll use his.”

Their bikes are nearly identical, and only slightly different than the one I grew up with. The top crossbar doesn’t dip and the brakes aren’t pedal operated, but I’m sure I’ll adapt. I’m getting used to adapting.

Dennis initially rides hard and puts twenty yards between us, but when we reach a safe distance from the house he slows down so I can catch up. When side-by-side I ask, “Where are we going?”

“To the greatest place in creation,” he replies.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Can I ask you something personal first?”

“Let me guess, how did I become an orphan?”

“I was wondering about something darker. You come from a place named after a priest where kids were killed, yet I saw you sign the cross three times last night. I’m not sure I’d still worship the one who let that happen.”

“God didn’t kill anyone.”

“He also didn’t catch anyone.”

I don’t know how to respond because his point has been bothering me too. That vulnerable children were murdered is troubling enough, but that the murderer continues to roam free doesn’t seem fair. Changing the subject I ask, “Where are you taking me?”

“My sanctuary.” He gives me a wink and peddles faster. I keep pace, but allow him to take the lead when we reach a busy highway with a narrow sidewalk. Dennis leads me to an area where two lanes become four, the traffic lights multiply, and the speed limit increases. Sister Alice would forbid me to go anywhere near such a dangerous area, but I feel safe with Dennis. He seems to have made the trip many times before, and never does anything rash like cross a street without looking both ways, or ride through lanes that have green lights.

When we stop at an intersection and wait for traffic to pass, the windless heat catches up to me. We must have traveled well over a mile, and I can only hope our destination is near, as the sun is boiling me toward a stroke. After reaching a stretch that’s clogged with fast food restaurants, car dealerships, and private businesses, we coast into a parking lot that contains a small row of mom and pop stores. One of them is called 112 Video World. We climb off our bikes and lean them against the front window. Dennis chains them together, wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, and opens the door for me.

I step into the cold wonder of air conditioning with a massive sigh of relief. Dennis has an equal reaction, but I don’t think it’s related to the temperature dip. His sanctuary consists of rental movies that are packed top to bottom on wide shelving units. Packaged toys, comic books, and movie memorabilia cover every wall and ledge. The place looks like his room, only bigger.

A flat screen television is airing a movie where one boy is helping another out from a pit of pint-sized creatures, but Dennis has no interest in it. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me toward the DVD horror section.

“I didn’t think this many movies existed,” I say. “Have you seen them all?”

“Don’t I wish,” he replies.

A young woman in a blue flannel shirt and yellow sweatpants walks out from a back room with a box of receipt paper. For some reason she’s barefoot. She playfully nudges Dennis when passing him and says, “Anything specific today?”

“Nah. Just showing Robin your holy establishment.”

“Don’t let him warp you too much,” the clerk says to me. When she walks behind the counter and starts fiddling with the receipt machine, I step closer to Dennis who’s squatting before the C titles.

“How do you figure out which ones to pick?” I ask.

“I start with something random and build a double feature,” he replies. “Two with ‘massacre’ in the title, two with meat cleavers on the cover, that kind of thing.”

“What’s today’s theme?”

“I don’t know. What mood are you in?”

“A sad one. Can any of these change that?”

“You know what always puts a smile on my face?”

“Hopefully not Chopping Mall or Christmas Evil.”

“Chopping Mall is awesome, but I meant this.” He hands me a box for a movie called C.H.U.D. The cover has a monster with bright eyes climbing out of a sewer. “The sequel’s called Bud the Chud, but it bites the big one so we’ll have to look for something else that’s city or sewer related.”

I point out a box that has a screaming face stretched over a city skyline. “How about City of Blood?” Dennis looks over the cover, and approves by placing it on top of C.H.U.D.

After close to a half-hour of watching Dennis scrutinize half the alphabet, we leave with a bag of four rentals. During the trip home, I feel confident that bonding with Dennis will lead to some outside activities along the lines of playing catch or going in the pool. I don’t bring up either, as I plan to ask him about each during whichever movie we watch first. When we arrive back at his house, however, Dennis’s joyful appearance vanishes when he sees a brown SUV parked crookedly in the driveway. Chunky rubber strips lead from the street to the back tires.

“Shit,” Dennis mutters, “Barry’s home.”

While we’re climbing off our bikes near the garage, Barry erupts from the front door and storms toward us. Despite his size, he moves awfully fast. Dennis, with no time to react defensively, is seized by his left ear and slapped in the gut. He crumples forward and coughs up a wad of phlegm that he spits on the lawn.

Barry points directly at me and says, “You go inside!” Stunned, I forget how to move. I try to think of a way to keep his temper from worsening, but am afraid I’m what set him off to begin with. I am, after all, supposed to remain hidden. “I’ll deal with you in a minute, Robin! Now please, get in the house!”

Jeremy opens the front door and says, “You heard the man! Get your bike stealing ass in here!” Barry attacks Dennis with an array of open handed punches. Dennis grunts as he takes the hits. I press my palms against my ears and start humming, but I can still hear Jeremy’s shrill laughter as he follows me into the living room. Not long after, Dennis fumes inside and heads straight for the basement. He rips open the door and slams it behind himself hard enough to make the chandelier swing back and forth.

Barry, sweaty and out of breath, enters with the video store bag. He peeks inside and says, “What the hell is a C.H.U.D.?”

“Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller,” Jeremy says while snatching the bag. “Let me see what else they rented.” He too goes downstairs, but closes the door gently.

Barry stands before me and puts his hands on his hips. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. Even though Dennis did something wrong on my account, he didn’t have to go through a beating by someone twice his size. Sister Alice has nonviolent ways of reprimanding us, and makes it clear that no person should ever physically harm another, since every conflict in the world could be resolved with dialogue.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, “but he knew bringing you out in public is a bad idea. I specifically said—”

“Sit down, son,” Nathan rasps from his chair. “The doc warned you about that heart.”

Barry drops down on the couch and sinks deep into the cushions. He maneuvers himself forward and props his elbows on his knees. “The point in taking you in is so the guy killing everyone doesn’t know where you are.”

“I made the decision to go,” I say.

“Honey, words could never describe the severity of your situation.” I nod in partial agreement, since my traveling through town in broad daylight, despite my need for distraction, was actually dangerous, but I can’t bear to hear any excuses for abuse. When I step toward the basement Barry adds, “Don’t even think about bothering him. He’s being punished.”

I skulk downstairs, wondering how to mind Barry and check in on Dennis at the same time, and decide to pay him the quickest visit possible. I gently knock on Dennis’s door, but he doesn’t answer, most likely because nobody likes to be seen crying. I open the door an inch and whisper into the slit, “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you.” Dennis doesn’t respond. I open the door a little more and nearly fall backward when I see his face.

Dennis’s right eye has already turned shades of black and blue. A purple welt on his cheek appears ready to explode. His upper lip is cracked and encrusted with blood. He looks desperate for care, but I’m not sure how to extend him any. Hugs go far in rectifying some problems, but I don’t know Dennis well enough to hug him, so I sit down on his bed close enough for our knees to touch. I watch for his reaction, to see if he’s too upset with me to have me this close, but his watery eyes remain focused on the TV. I follow them to a menu screen for Leatherface: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III. Before long, he presses a remote control button that starts the movie.

After a slow forming New Line Cinema logo, a narrator tells of hapless victims who once fell prey to a cannibalistic clan of serial killers. When the narration concludes, a sledgehammer rises. A woman’s screaming face fills the screen. The sledgehammer swings forward. A vicious white splat forms the title. Between credits, a filthy, hulking man slaps down the woman’s severed face onto a workbench, cuts the skin into pieces, and stitches them back together. Dennis leans forward with a grin, as though death has fulfilled him.

“Why does this make you happy?” I ask.

He replies, “Because I’m not her.”

Someone in the hallway clears his throat. Fearing Barry’s arrival, I bounce away from Dennis and look to Nathan with mild relief. He’s standing in the door frame with his lips curled over his teeth and his eyes sunken in a gloomy haze. “Come upstairs,” he says to me, “we need to talk.”

I follow Nathan upstairs, which takes quite awhile since he can only manage one slow step at a time. In the living room, a wooden chair is already set before his recliner. Two full glasses of lemonade are waiting on the end table. When I sit down, Nathan eases into his recliner and hands me a sweaty glass. I haven’t had a drink since biking through the sun, and I suck down half before realizing I must look like an animal. Nathan waits for my final swallow before saying, “We’re not bad people.”

“No, sir,” I reply.

“We just need to make sure you keep a low profile.”

“I understand, but I’m not used to hiding.”

He rotates his wedding band a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, releasing a steady stream of breath. “About this morning.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Aside from Lori, who’s not much of a personality, there hasn’t been a female presence in this house since my wife had a stroke two months ago.” He leans to his left and pries out a wallet from his right pants pocket. He opens it, sorts through a plastic accordion, and extracts a small picture that he hands to me. On a park bench, seated beside an impossibly young Nathan, is a youthful woman with light hair and dark glasses. Their hands are entwined and they’re smiling.

“Come this September, Gail and I will have been married fifty-four years.” The baby monitor on the TV stand crackles. A moan sounds within the white noise. “You’d have liked her. She once had an association with God. When she was in her late teens she was in practice to become a nun, but then she met a certain churchgoer.” He softly puts a hand on his chest. “We courted quietly for several months, and were on the verge of calling it quits so she could continue with her vows but . . . you see, she became pregnant.”

“With Barry?”