Bad Things (18 page)

The phone woke him at eleven-thirty.

“So how's it going out there in the butt end of California?”

Rick chuckled. “I miss having you around, O'Keefe.”

“You just miss my gutter mouth.” He paused. “You're lonely. Want my sister's phone number?”

“Stop trying to fix me up, Dakota. Listen, I'm building Don Quixote for the garden. Wait'll you see it. When do you think you'll have a chance to visit? You've got a standing invitation, you know.”

“Wait a minute. You've lost it, right? You're on drugs? The old twat with the poodles raped you? What the hell does ‘I'm building Don Quixote in my garden' mean?”

“For
my garden. It's metal sculpture. I used to do it when I was a kid.”

“Piper, I'm impressed. You're a Renaissance man, and here I thought you only excelled at writing cleverly snide comments about trucks, and bras, and cake mix. Guess I'll have to get a look at this. Does he have a big, hard lance?”

Rick laughed. “He will. The biggest one you ever laid your eyes on, O'Keefe.”

“I'll visit soon.” Dakota spoke in his sultriest voice. “Can't pass up the world's biggest lance, right?” He chuckled. “But what will your neighbors say?”

“ ‘How'd that guy get such a big, buxom blonde to pay attention to him?' is what they'll say.”

“And I'll just smile and tell 'em that you can lick your own forehead. You'll never be lonely again.”

“Bite me,” Rick said, and instantly regretted the words because Dakota said he'd be glad to.

“So, Piper,” he said after a few more minutes of banter and innuendo, “Have you see any of those jack-off things you were telling me about?”

“Greenjacks, not jack-offs.” Rick paused. “But I like your term better. Wait a minute, Christ, I told you about those, didn't I?”

“That and more, Piper, dear. You're such an easy drunk, you
had
to tell me. You were
compelled.
But you didn't answer my question. Have you seen any jack-offs?”

He almost lied, then thought: What the hell? “Yeah, Dakota, I saw some. Isn't that a kick?”

Dakota didn't tease. “Does Cody see them?”

“No, it's just me. Nobody else is crazy. Same old story.” He tried not to sound bitter.

“You're not crazy, you're just feeling sorry for yourself. Knock it off.” Dakota didn't say anything else for a moment. Then: “What about that fat-bottomed cat of yours? Has he seen anything?”

“No, he just hates the poodles. And I don't blame him.

“Have you held Quint up to the window and shown the things to him?”

“No.” Rick hesitated. “He did act odd last night at the same time as I imagined I heard the jacks. But I think it was coincidence.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Look, cats are always staring at things normal people . . . Sorry Rick, you know what I mean—”

“Yeah, yeah, go on.”

“Well, cats see things people don't. They stare at things in corners, and sometimes their fur stands on end.”

“That's called a pylo-erection, O'Keefe,” Rick said lightly. “Just thought you'd like to know.”

“I know that. We always had cats. I know all about them.” Dakota gave a small, throaty laugh. “I knew what I was doing when I went to the pound and chose Quint.”

“You said you found him—”

“Well, I saved him from the gas chamber. He needed you, Piper, but I think you needed him more.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Say thanks.”

“Thanks,” Rick repeated. “Really, thanks.”

“You're welcome. Now, seriously, first chance you get, have the cat check out the jack-offs. See what he does.”

“I hate to say it, but that's a good idea, O'Keefe.”

“Of course it is, sweet thing. Call me back soon and tell me what happens.”

After hanging up on Dakota, Rick went to check on his son one last time and was surprised to hear him giggling. He paused outside Cody's bedroom and waited a moment.

“Cody Thomas Piper,” his son said softly. More giggling. “I wanna be a cowboy.” Muffled giggles laddered the scale and down again. “Five.”

“Cody?” Alarmed, Rick rapped on the door twice before opening it. In the shadows, he could just see his son's form in the bed nearest the window.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Rick flipped the overhead light on, making Cody squint and rub his eyes. “That's too bright!”

“So what's going on, sport?” Trying to appear casual and easygoing, he crossed to the bed and sat down next to his son. The frame creaked, a familiar sound.

“Nothin'.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“My friend.”

“Where is he?”

“You can't see him.”

“Can
you
see him?” Rick asked, alarm returning.

Cody just giggled. “Of course not! You're silly, Daddy. He's invisible.”

Rick felt better. Shelly had invented an invisible playmate that lasted her entire seventh summer. This sort of thing, he could deal with. “What's your friend's name?”

“Bob,” Cody told him solemnly. “His name's Bob.”

Shelly's friend had been named Joyce.
What normal names children give the invisible,
he thought with amusement.

“Well, Cody, I heard you laughing in here. What were you guys talking about?”

“Bob wanted to know my biology.”

“Your biology?”

“About me.”

“Biography.”

“Uh-huh. I told him about me and about you, too. That you're a big TV star.”

“Was a little star,” Rick corrected. “But thanks. It's kind of neat to have your own kid brag about you.”

“Are you gonna be on TV again?” he asked hopefully.

“Maybe after a while.” He might have to take the job if he was going to do all the renovations on the house that he planned. “It's getting late, sport.”

“But Bob wants to talk some more.”

“Not tonight.” Rick raised his voice slightly. “Cody's going to sleep now, Bob. You can talk to him again tomorrow, okay?” He waited a moment, his ear cocked. “Bob said good night.”

“No he didn't,” Cody replied.

“He didn't? Well, what was that he said then?”

“Nothin'. He didn't say nothing.”

“Anything,” Rick automatically corrected. “Well, maybe he can't hear grown-ups. You tell him.”

The boy was a born giggler, but once he got it out of his system, he looked around the room and announced, “Daddy says I gotta go to sleep now, but we can talk tomorrow. Okay? Bob? Okay?” Cody looked at Rick. “He won't answer me.”

“Well, he probably went to sleep.” He leaned down and kissed his son's forehead. “You too.” He rose and walked to the door. “Good night, Cody.”

“Night.”

Rick flipped off the switch, adding, “Good night Bob,” as he pulled the door closed. He smiled to himself.

Cody's giggle broke the silence.

“Cody?” he called sternly.

“Bob says good night,” Cody called.

“Go to sleep, kiddo,” he admonished. Shaking his head, he returned to his own bed. His son hadn't seen the greenjacks, but he turned right around and invented an invisible friend. He wondered if Cody would imagine greenjacks if he knew the stories.

As Rick lay down and switched off his lamp, he wondered if he himself would think he saw them if he hadn't been told the stories. He honestly didn't know.

 

Despite, or perhaps because of, all the memories he'd allowed himself yesterday, Rick slept like a baby until he awoke at eight Wednesday morning. Relaxing, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the morning sun, petting his cat, and feeling serene and calm, he was at peace for about three minutes.

“Shit.” The serenity was swallowed by a rush of stomach acid that came with the sudden realization that he had a column due day after tomorrow and he hadn't even given it a moment's thought. “Shit.” He didn't know what the hell he'd write about since he'd misplaced his notes on athletic shoes during the move.

He dragged his unwilling body out of bed and rubbed the small of his back. Among other things, he expected the furniture movers to show up today, and Lord, would that be a blessing for his abused spine.

In the shower, he stood under the water and let it play over his face and shoulders. “Massage,” he said, not minding the water spraying into his mouth, only wishing he could adjust it to pound the tension out of his shoulders and neck. “I need a shower massager.” He smiled: He'd buy several and write about those. He could test them this afternoon after working up a sweat moving a little furniture with the van guys, or after horsing around with his sculpture, and write his column tonight. It would be easy and fun, as columns allowing vague sexual innuendo and double entendre always were, the paper would spring for the shower gadgets, and he'd have an afternoon of—he groaned, but thought it anyway—good clean fun.

When he exited the shower with its puny little sprayer, he heard Shelly outside his door, calling his name in a dull, whiny voice.

“What, dear?” She hated to be called “dear,” and he hated to be whined at. Synchronicity, he decided, pulling his jeans on.

“Can I take the car today?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Hormonal teenage whining, four-star quality this time.

“Number one, it's my car. Number two, I told you yesterday that it's off limits.”

“That's not a good reason.”

“I can't think of a better one,” he called smugly.

“Daa-ad, I need it. I
have
to go back to the mall.”

“You've spent two days there already.”

“I was doing job interviews.”

“All day?”

“Daa-ad!”

He pulled on loafers, smirking because she was getting ticked, taking untold pleasure in applying karmic torture. “Have you actually applied anywhere, Shel?” he called.

“Give me the truth, I can take it.”

“Yes! Everywhere! And I'm supposed to be back at Nigel's Beauty Supply at eleven for an interview with the manager. I think she might hire me.”

“That's great. You can walk.”

“Daa-ad! My hair'll get all screwed up.”

“Messed up. I'll drop you off, and you can walk home when you're done.”

She mumbled something unintelligible but unmistakably rude, so he cheerfully informed her that if the movers showed up soon, she could take her bike. She mumbled something else, then begged him for a ride at ten-thirty. He made her wait a moment, then told her he'd do it. She left after that, doing sort of a combination drag-stomp to show him he wasn't being a good, cooperative father.

The jeans were okay for another day, but the socks were the last pair, and the dressing room was practically bare. He needed to do laundry. The meager supply of shirts he had brought in the car had dwindled to one slightly used blue-stripe button-down and a gaudy blue and black rayon shirt with distant Hawaiian bloodlines. He chose the Hawaiian, and as he slipped it on, his gaze dropped to the three twenty-four-inch base cabinets built into the wall.

Tense with memories, he hooked a finger around the door handles of the one he thought hid the secret passage. He pulled it open and peered inside, jumping when Quint, afflicted with terminal curiosity, rubbed up alongside him.

The empty cabinet had two wooden shelf supports attached halfway up. The shelf itself lay in the bottom of the cabinet, making him suspect that no one had used it in many years. Then he realized that the Ewebeans probably just threw their belongings inside without ever worrying about refinements.

He reached up on the inside back and felt for the lever, found it easily, and pushed it. Silently, surprisingly, the hidden panel in the back of the cabinet slid open, revealing the utter blackness beyond.

Involuntarily he shivered as cool air wafted over his face. Something scuttled somewhere in the passage, something small and blessedly distant.
More rats,
Rick thought,
more D-Con.
Quint hissed, then stepped tentatively toward the darkness.

“Uh-uh, no way, cat. You're not going in there.” He pushed the animal away and released the lever to close the panel, then rose and crossed to the bedroom dresser, where he'd left the Pavilions bag containing the D-Con. After grabbing a few traps, he retrieved his little high-beam flashlight from his duffel bag and returned to the cabinet.

The cat watched balefully as Rick kneeled down and opened the cabinet. After he readied the bait traps, he pushed the lever again and watched the panel reopen. He flicked on the flashlight.

Rarely had he let himself consider that possibility, but the police had never caught the murderer. Robin did have his reasons: School was going to start in a week, and he'd be sent away. After his attempt to get Rick out the window failed, he might have been desperate enough . . .

Nonsense. You saw him that night in a clean yellow-striped nightshirt.
Besides, as strong as he was, Robin hadn't even been able to force him out the window.

He shined the light into the opening and gasped when he saw the knife.

It lay just inside the passage, and seeing its long, thin blade filled his guts with ice. Carefully he picked it up by the end of the handle and brought it out where he could examine it more carefully. It was a filleting knife, its twelve-inch blade coated with dust, its cork-covered handle speckled with blackish stains.
Blood.

Suddenly nauseous, Rick threw the knife back in the passage. He let the panel close, barely recognizing the strangled whimper he heard as his own. He slammed the cabinet door shut, then rose, frantically searching the bedroom, then the bathroom, for something he could use to secure the cabinet doors. Frustrated, he ended up standing in middle of the dressing room, telling himself he didn't need to secure anything. That's when he noticed the wire hangers hanging right in front of him. He snagged one and unkinked it, then quickly ran the wire through the cabinet handles and twisted it tight, so that nothing could get in.

Or out.

He sat back, breathing hard, still queasy, and feeling very childish and ashamed. Quint, who cared only about his stomach, circled around him, yowling.

“I put that wire there to keep you out of the cabinet,” he told the cat. Instantly he felt better, because he could tell anyone who wondered, including himself, that the cat was the reason. The wire would do until he could disable the panel. He grinned. The cat would be his excuse to nail up every panel in the house.

He busied himself, trying to forget about the knife in the passage. After feeding the cat, he called to verify that the movers would arrive, then gathered his laundry and carried it downstairs, only to find Carmen tossing Cody's clothes in the washing machine. Silently she took his clothes from him, looked them over, then threw them in with Cody's things.

“I can do our laundry, Carmen.”

“Hey, don't worry about it. I get paid for this, remember?” She eyed him. “What's on your mind?”

“I need a hammer and some nails.”

She raised her eyebrows but didn't ask questions, just directed him to the toolbox on one of the laundry room shelves. He took a handful of tenpenny nails and a claw hammer. “I'll bring this back later.”

“Hold on, Ricky. You're gonna let me feed you breakfast today.”

“Well, coffee, maybe.”

She made him eat toast, too, then they lingered over second cups while he told her about the movers and jotted down what he wanted them to put where, and whether to leave, store, or get rid of various pieces of furniture already in the house. When he told her, with great delight, to take down all the hyperthyroid paintings and return them to Jade, Carmen nodded approvingly.

“But the most important thing is to make sure all the furniture in my room is taken out and the new stuff put in. If I have to spend another night without my water bed, my back's going to be ruined for good.”

“A water bed.” Carmen made a funny face, “I didn't know you were such a playboy, Ricky.”

“I got it for my back, not for . . . that.”

“I'm teasing you, Ricky.” She laughed. “You're so serious. How do you write those funny columns?”

Embarrassed, he shrugged.

“You ready, Dad?” Shelly swept into the room on the heels of her words. “We have to go! I can't be late.”

He glanced at his watch. She was right. “Okay.” He glanced at the hammer and nails on the table. “I'll get those later, Carmen. Is Cody around? I can take him with me—”

“He went to Home Depot a while ago with Hector. They're buying weed killer and things. That boy of yours just loves working in the yard.”

Rick found that mildly amusing. “I hope he's not driving Hector nuts.”

“No, he loves the company.”

“Let's
go,
Dad!”