Dead Bolt (14 page)

In the bathroom, the shower stall was wet, but there was nothing more sinister than a little mold patch in the far corner.

And that was about the extent of the apartment. In the storage room I noticed an old pipe organ in one corner, covered with a tarp. Along with the horsehair settee upstairs, a couple of straight chairs, and the old key ring, the instrument was one of the few traces of the former owners left in the house. I was glad Jim Daley had decided to keep it and refurbish it, as he said, “one of these days.”

I wandered back into the kitchen, staring for a moment out the window over the kitchen sink. It looked out onto the neighbor’s wall, an uninspiring view of dirty beige stucco. I felt strangely let down. Now that I was prepared to see them, I was getting tired of this dink-ing around.
Bring it on, ghosts. Let’s get together and talk, get this over with.

Dog let out a single bark, and whimpered.

Just as I was leaning down to comfort him, something caught my eye in the barely-there reflection in the window.

A man stood behind me. I whirled around.

Nothing.

I looked down: Footprints. Wet tracks on the linoleum floor.

“Who are you?”

I tried to see him in my peripheral vision, but couldn’t catch more than quick flashes.

This was ridiculous.

“Follow me,” I said, and headed toward the bathroom. I flipped on the lights and looked into the mirror over the sink.

Lo and behold, there he was.

He looked terrible, even for a dead guy. He was wet, his raggedy linen shirt hung open to show a scrawny chest, and there was a greenish gray cast to his skin. Dark eyes appeared sunken and too-shiny, so I couldn’t see his irises.

But worst of all, when he opened his mouth to speak, water came out and he gurgled, making his speech unintelligible.

The strong smell of alcohol assailed my nostrils. Not water, then: rum?

“You must be Charles,” I said.

He cleared his throat and spat more liquid onto the floor between us. He looked down at it, as though appalled. Then back up at me.

Confused,
I told myself.
Not frightening
. Well, yes, frightening, but still . . . mostly confused.

“I’m Mel Turner. I can see you in the mirror, but not face-to-face.”

He disappeared.

“Come back! Charles?”

I heard a woman’s far-off laughter. The only woman working on this job site was me, and that sure didn’t sound like Katenka.

How is it ghostly laughter can be even more sinister than moaning or chain-rattling?

I stood my ground, checking my peripheral vision but looking into the mirror. “Either talk to me, or go away. Let Charles come back.”

The shower came on. Full blast. Hot, steaming water.

Something brushed past my legs. Startled, I jumped back, but as before saw nothing.

Clouds of steam quickly filled the room. I had to force myself to look back into the mirror. It was steamed up; I could tell something dark was behind me, but I couldn’t quite make it out.

The shower turned off. All was silent, even Dog.

“Someone’s coming!”
yelled a woman’s ghostly voice.

And whatever stood behind me rushed the mirror. I whirled around and ran, yelping in fear.

Dog and I fled, racing down the short hall and up the stairs.

The eerie sound of a woman’s laughter followed us.

 

As soon as we reached the top of the stairs, all seemed normal. It was a bright, sunny day. Saws whined, men in boots clomped about, and I smelled the familiar, comforting smells of fresh-cut wood, plaster dust, and primer.

Dog and I stood, panting, in the hallway.

Raul came around the corner. His serious dark eyes flickered over me and Dog.

“You two okay?”

“Sure,” I said, catching my breath. “Dog got into a little trouble. Didn’t you, Dog?”

The wet canine was shivering, rubbing his body against my legs. I reached down and hugged him, wet dog smell and all.

I was shaken, torn between feeling foolish and feeling terrified. But I was also pissed. I had to get Jim and Katenka to move out of the house temporarily, and do whatever I needed to get those things
out
of here.

I dried Dog as best I could with an old towel, then loaded him into the car and drove downtown to Jim’s office on Sansome. Though I turned up at the reception desk without an appointment, in my unusual attire, smelling of my close association with a wet dog, I was escorted right into Jim’s office, given a cup of coffee, and offered a seat.

“I need to discuss a couple of things with you,” I said to Jim. “I’m sorry to intrude on your work.”

“No problem.”

Jim seemed vague, taking a beat too long to respond. He was absorbed with a pile of yellowed, old papers on his desk, so I wasn’t sure my words were registering. It reminded me of dealing with Caleb when he was playing video games.

“Jim? I know you’re busy, but I really need your full attention. It’ll just take a minute.”

“Sure, sure, sorry. You need a check?” he asked, already reaching for his checkbook. His eyes drifted back to the papers on his desk.

“Not at this time. Thank you. Your account’s current. I wanted to talk to you about moving your family off-site, just until—”

He started shaking his head, but I now had his full attention.

“Just until we complete this first phase, get the wiring and plumbing and all attended to so we can repair all the walls and start painting. Just a few days, maybe.”

“Absolutely not. I thought we’d settled this.”

“Just hear me out. I know you want to stay, but . . .” I was handicapped by not knowing if Katenka had confided her fears to Jim. She had waited for him to leave with the baby before speaking to me about it. I didn’t want to make things awkward for her. It always struck me as highly ironic that in my line of work I often mediated between married couples. “I just think it would be healthier for all concerned.”

“You said you tested for asbestos, and were taking steps toward lead abatement.”

“Yes, we are. We’re very safe. But—”

“Wait—does this have to do with my lovely wife’s fear of ghosts?”

“I . . . um . . .”

“I let her do a thing with a bunch of basil—”

“A sage bundle?”

“Some herb. And a broom and a bell—she wanted to burn the broom, believe it or not. It was like a freaking exorcism. She put up a bunch of Russian trinkets. She’s still not satisfied?” This was the first time I had seen Jim appear less than enchanted with Katenka.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of being satisfied. She’s scared. And there’s Quinn to think about . . .”

“Don’t tell me you believe her.”

“Well . . .” I trailed off. How could I mention what I had just seen in the basement, without owning up to snooping around in their private space? And even if I did—was there any chance he’d believe me? “I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s something odd happening on the job site.”

“How would that be lessened if we weren’t on the premises?”

“I just think that with you coming in and out of the job site—”

“Look, Mel, I waited a long time for this house to come along. I used to live just down the street; I always wondered what the Cheshire Inn would be like if it were brought back to its former glory. The minute it went on sale I snatched it up. It’s the house of my dreams.”

“I know that, Jim. It’s an incredible place. But—”

“Our staying there is nonnegotiable. Is that it?”

Jim clearly wasn’t going to budge. If Katenka couldn’t convince him, what chance did I have?

“One more thing: Did you know Katenka’s planning to throw a party for Quinn on the construction site?”

He gave a strange little half smile. “A party, for Quinn? Well now, isn’t that sweet?” He got that dreamy look he usually got when thinking of his child.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling that I was going over Katenka’s head. “Construction sites are dangerous places, and—”

An alarm went off on Jim’s watch, one of those European deals with all the bells and whistles.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a meeting.” He stood and started to stuff papers into a handsome leather briefcase that probably cost more than my car. “If Katenka wants a party, then I’d really appreciate it if you would cooperate, give her whatever she needs to make it a success. I’m happy to pay more if it puts you behind schedule. But you know what they say: The key to a happy child is a happy mother.”

What could I say to that?

“I really appreciate your flexibility on this issue, Mel. Turner Construction has been great. Very easy to work with. I’m sorry it’s inconvenient for you to have us there onsite, but I’m not willing to own such a lovely home and not live in it. Katenka and I are making a home for our son. Nothing’s going to get in the way of that.”

As we snaked our way through the office building, Jim pointed out a painting of the Marin Headlands that he liked, and the framed and mounted
TIME
cover story about his company. Before I knew it, we had reached the express elevator. Jim held the doors open for me, leaned in and hit the Lobby level button, and waved as the doors closed between us.

So much for going over Katenka’s head.

A
fter what happened in the Daleys’ quarters, I was too nervous to go right back to work. The crew had always been safe enough there, bothered only by pranks, not by threatening images in the mirrors. I must be calling these apparitions, somehow. If only I knew more about them, I would have a better sense of how to approach this whole thing. Maybe. I hoped.

There was someone else who might be able to tell me more about the entities in Cheshire House. I rooted through my satchel, pulled out a slip of paper, and called the cat lady’s daughter.

“I don’t have a lot of time. I’m at work,” Janet said. “But I drive the Emery Go-Round; you could sit on the bus and talk if you want.”

“The Emery Go-Round?” I asked.

“It’s free and everything.”

I looked it up on my BlackBerry. The Emery Go-Round was a shuttle bus that ran from the MacArthur BART station to the shopping meccas of Emeryville, a small city at the very base of the Bay Bridge that was bordered by Berkeley and Oakland. Emeryville had never met a corporation it didn’t like. It was the land of sprawling shopping malls, massive pharmaceutical research companies, and miles of parking lots.

It wasn’t my first choice of places to spend time, but I did want to ask Janet some questions. So I drove to the BART station and tried the first shuttle that pulled up, which was driven by a middle-aged African-American woman. I was willing to bet this wasn’t Janet Banks.

“Janet’s on the next one,” she told me when I asked. “Shellmound loop.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering what a shellmound loop was. In anthropology, shellmounds are signs of ancient waterside villages, basically ancient dumping grounds for seafood eaters. But whatever Ohlone village might once have flourished here on the banks of the San Francisco Bay had long since been covered over by big box stores and miles of asphalt.

I boarded the next bus that pulled up, introducing myself as I took a seat right behind the driver. I had to lean forward to speak around the plastic partition.

“Just be sure to stay behind the yellow line,” Janet said. “Rules and regulations.”

Janet wore her dishwater blond hair in heavy braids that hung on either side of her head. She was the St. Pauli Girl’s plainer, zaftig cousin, the one who tended the cows. She wore no makeup, a plaid shirt over a white T, cargo pants, and once-white athletic shoes.

“And that guy next to you is Cyrus,” Janet said. “He’s my most loyal passenger. Aren’t you, Cyrus?”

Cyrus nodded. He was as big and strong-looking as Janet. He stared out the window and spoke slowly. “Can’t smoke on the bus.”

“That’s right: can’t smoke on the bus,” said Janet. She met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Cyrus here is my bouncer.”

I smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Cyrus.”

“Do you smoke?”

I shook my head.

“Neither do I, at least not here on the bus,” Cyrus said.

A group of young teens in huge down coats and sagging jeans boarded and staked their claims to the seats in the very back of the bus. They started goofing around, shoving each other and laughing, getting loud.

“Hold it down back there!”
Janet barked, and they did. She glanced at me and winked, then said in a low voice, “They’re good kids, just a little rowdy. You talk a tough game, they don’t mess with you.”

She pulled out from the station, narrowly missing a dented gold Impala. Turning right onto MacArthur, the lumbering vehicle groaned as we accelerated.

I looked at her broad hands grasping the steering wheel. Thin scars covered the backs of her hands, wrists, and lower arms. Some were red and angry-looking, others faded and white.

“Cat claws,” Janet said.

“I’m sorry?”

“When you catch cats. They claw you. Even with gloves on, it happens. Their claws are nasty, full of all sorts of bacteria and whatnot.” She looked at me in the rearview mirror. “It’s not like they’re cut marks, or like I tried to commit suicide or anything.”

“I . . . uh . . .” I shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking anything like that.” Okay, it had crossed my mind.

“I belong to a group that captures feral cats. We fix and spay them, give them their shots, then return them to their territory. We don’t hurt them. If anything, they hurt us.”

“I hear it’s a really successful program. Good for you.”

Janet focused her attention on her driving, and I noticed her ring full of keys swinging from the ignition. They reminded me of the old key ring weighing down my satchel. Could the keys hold the secret to what was going on in the old house? Had they dropped on me not by accident, but to show me something? I decided I should go through the house methodically, trying each old lock and each key.