Housebroken (4 page)

He snapped a picture with his phone, Betti instantly bringing back the make and price. Shipped from a manufacturer in Germany, the bookcases were listed at $8,900 apiece. Reclaimed antique elm wood, whatever that meant. With phone apps and e-readers, Blake wondered if bookcases served a purpose anymore. Beyond collecting dust.

He opened the door to Adam’s room. Unopened boxes, bed posts, and a mattress leaned against the wall, dressers and furniture stacked in a corner. Adam lay on an old sleeping bag in the closet, playing a portable video game, the new 3-D one he had gotten for his birthday.

Blake ducked into the closet, lying next to his son. He watched Adam tilt the screen and fire as his jet or spaceship followed his moves like a slightly lagging marionette.

Actually, not a bad idea. A marionette app could pick up a lot of traction. Completely useless, but useless often sold. Blake made a quick note on his phone. Not something for Symbio, certainly, but he could throw it to one of his boneyard hyenas, the little two-man operations hiding behind some three-lettered S-corps that could spin out an idea in a few weeks.

“Sleeping here tonight?” he asked.

The spacecraft flew through a heavily guarded tunnel, artillery tanks firing faster than Adam could respond. After a few dramatized hits, a wing flew off and the jet crashed, scattering pieces that looked as if they’d actually strike you.

“Yeah.” Adam powered the game off. “Unless you wanna sleep here. I can take the couch.”

For fourteen, he was frustratingly observant.

“Just wanted to say goodnight,” Blake said, brushing dust from the sleeping bag. “You’ll make new friends. Once school starts.”

“I don’t want new friends, Dad.”

“This is,” Blake paused, looking into his son’s eyes, those eyes that wanted to cry but couldn’t, not in front of Dad. Blake wondered if his son recognized the same look in his own eyes. Holding it together for his son’s sake. “It’s a big change for us all. Change is hard, but it forces us to grow. Helps us to become better than—I don’t know—if we just . . .” He stopped. He wasn’t even convincing himself.

“We’re in this together, that’s all. As a family.” Blake patted his son on the back in a distant hug, the gesture left unreciprocated. “We’ll celebrate tomorrow. Go out to dinner. Together.”

Adam nodded, then fell back against the sleeping bag, his emotionless face lighting up in an eerie multihued glow as his game powered back on.

Blake closed his son’s door, pausing just outside in the hall. The light to the master bedroom was aglow; Jenna must have already come up. That light shone like a beacon—calling, beckoning—but Blake’s feet had planted roots. Some things, you couldn’t forget. Or forgive.

Even with the passage of time, Blake was certain thick layers of dust and cobwebs wouldn’t be enough to cover the gaping hole in their lives  to forget the lilting echo of laughter that would never bounce through the halls of their new home.

Maybe there was hope for their little family, but in Blake’s world, maybes evolved into inevitable regrets and unavoidable failures.

He returned to the staircase and began his descent.

The idea of hope would have to be enough. Like a drowning man offered a branch, he was willing to cling to it, knowing at any moment it could snap, leaving him to be swept away—but for now, it was enough.

He stepped into the foyer of the house he was but a stranger in. It would be another long night.

Blake was running late.

In a dark Italian suit almost as shiny as the neighbor’s business card, he grabbed his leather briefcase, tossing his tablet in as it powered down. His Bluetooth headset flashed every thirty seconds, its bluish-white light something he no longer even noticed. He came out from his office, almost bumping into his wife. Coffee spilled down the rim of the mug she held out. He grabbed it, licking the bottom edge before it dripped.

Jenna moved in, surprising him by pressing her toned body up against his. “Good luck today.”

She was already dressed for her run, her bleached hair pulled back in a ponytail.. He realized she was leaving later than normal, more than likely just to see him off.

“Thank you.” He meant it. Bent down and kissed the top of her forehead.

Their embrace became the awkward exchange of a couple on a first date, neither knowing what to say next.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Jenna said, to which Blake nodded, remembering a time she would have.

He passed through the living room with the piano that would never be played, the sheet folded on the couch where he had slept. At least it was more comfortable than the pontoon in the family room.

A dark spot on the carpet gave him pause.

“I swear I’m going to kill that dog. I don’t have time—”

“I’ll get it,” Jenna said, following him into the kitchen, where he grabbed his keys. “I was thinking, maybe tonight, you could sleep upstairs. With me.”

Blake looked up. She hadn’t looked that fragile since, well, since the night they had agreed never to talk about. “I’d like that.”

“I mean, we’ll take it slow. But it’d be good for Adam to see us . . . trying.” She picked up her Garmin watch next to the coffee machine and strapped it on. “Wasn’t that the word you used?”

“Take Connie on your run?”

Jenna glanced back at him, rolling her eyes.

The hum of the engine of his convertible BMW M6 barely registered as Blake backed down the driveway. He was flipping through his phone’s data-conferencing display when the phone vibrated in his hands—a profile of a faceless gray avatar displayed above the name JT. In some countries, that name was synonymous with asshole.

Despite his boss’s lack of personal skills, or perhaps because of them, Blake pressed the button on his  earpiece, answering the call.

“Hey, on my way,” he said.

“Yeah, well I could have used you here an hour ago. Your presentation has got to be perfect, and I mean robotic, you’ve-practiced-this-speech-till-your-dick-dropped-off perfect.”

“Don’t worry. Our little Betti’s going to do more than let down her skirt,” Blake replied. “Trust me, the board will—”

The car shuddered, an audible crunch forcing Blake’s foot to the brakes before he had time to even look up.

Shit!

He glanced in the rearview mirror—nothing behind him. No car at least.

He could still hear the whining voice of JT piping through the Bluetooth speaker, which had fallen from his ear onto his lap. Blake picked it up, pressing it to his face.

“Call you right back.”

He pressed the button, effectively hanging up on his boss. He’d understand. Probably not, but Blake would cross that road when he needed to.

Blake dropped his cell and  earpiece in the cup holder and left the engine running as he came around to the back of the car.

A mangled bike, wheel spoke and handlebars turning inward at sharp angles, lay like a wounded deer on the sidewalk and in the early morning shadows of his vehicle, a body lay crumpled on the ground. A line of blood trailed in a semicircle, coalescing beneath the form on the driveway.

“Gaw, damnit!”

Blake looked around. No neighbors out. No cars on the street. His trunk now sported a slight dent where they had collided, a few nicks and gouges on the bumper.

A moan brought him back to the body of an orange-haired young man.

“Ah, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Blake swatted the bike off of the kid, gently turning him over. Or at least more gently than he had handled the bike.

Joje stared blankly upward, blood smeared on his forehead.

Blake looked around again, street still empty. All he needed right now was Tom Jones rolling through in his town car. The bastard wasn’t a personal injury attorney, but in this case, he’d probably make an exception.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked.

Moaning. The only answer he’d receive.

Blake felt for his phone. Realizing he had left it in the car, he glanced at his Rolex. Six twenty-six. Already the freeway would be backing up. He’d have to cut over the mountain and take side streets into the Valley.

“Look, uh, George, I’m going to carry you inside. We’ll get you fixed up. First let me get rid of your bike, okay?”

Blake picked up the hunk of twisted aluminum and rubber. Piece of crap. There was no way the kid was riding home on that thing. How fast had he been going? He was just lucky it hadn’t been a small kid or something behind him.

He tossed the bike into the center of the garage, not caring about the noise or additional damage it caused.

Pulling the keys from the car, he hurried toward the back. He’d have to move fast, clean the kid up, pay him off, and ship him out. It didn’t have to take long.

“What happened?” Joje asked.

Blake moved to put his arm around him. “Come inside, you . . . had an accident.”

Joje took one step and collapsed, slipping from Blake’s arms. He hit the pavement with a resounding thud.

Blake looked skyward, ready to scream—he did
not
have time for this. After one final glance down the street, he bent over and lifted Joje as if carrying an injured dog. He was heavier, thicker than Blake would have guessed. His back began to groan in harmony with Joje’s whimpers.

Into the garage and to the door leading into the house, Blake hit the curved button that started the garage’s descent. It silently climbed down its tracks, not a peep or warning about the person who was being allowed entrance into their home.

“Jenna!”

Blake laid the bloodied Joje on the red couch.
At least you won’t see the blood stains
, he thought.

Conrad bolted in from the foyer at full speed, preparing a leap that would land her right on top of the wounded Joje. Blake barely tackled her in time. Conrad whimpered as he dragged her back to the cage in the kitchen, sliding the bolt to lock her inside.

“Sorry, sweetie. Not now.” He raised his voice. “Jenna!”

Opening cupboards and drawers, he searched for something to bring to Joje’s aid: Band-Aids, gauze, Bubble Wrap. Blake couldn’t make heads or tails out of the kitchen and whoever had unpacked their things. Even the paper towels were missing from the counter.

He ripped a hand towel from a decorative metal ring near the sink, wet it, and hurried back to the family room. On his way, he wiped absently at the stains on his slacks; the suit would be ruined.

“Jenna!”

“Jeez, you trying to wake the neighborhood? What? What’d you forget?” She walked in, carrying her running shoes and a wad of rolled-up paper towels that probably smelled of dog piss. “Oh, my god!”

“He rode right behind me as I was backing out. There was nothing I could do!”

“I’ll call nine-one-one.”

“Hold on. Let’s see if he’s okay first.” Blake pressed the hand towel to Joje’s head.
Should probably stop with the whole Joje thing.

“He could have a concussion! We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” Jenna said.

“Just wait a minute!”

Jenna picked up the house phone. “The line’s dead.”

“That’s impossible. It’s run through our Internet.”

“Maybe the Internet’s down?”

From the couch, “It is down.”

Joje was sitting, the smeared blood on his forehead looking like a finger painting project gone wrong. Though, as Blake stared at the swirls of dark patterns, he couldn’t find a source—not a single gash on that boldly protruding forehead.

“What are you doing, George?”

“You know him?” Jenna asked.

“Why wouldn’t you buy fwom me?” Joje stared at Blake, his left eye blinking rapidly, mouth twitching open.

“What’s he talking about, Blake?”

Blake hesitated. Something in him, some base human genome passed down through generations that in part took credit for mankind’s propensity toward survival, was giving off clear warning bells.
Tread with caution
. Though that same part of him also admitted, much to his own dismay, that it might already be too late.

“You know, it was a mistake. You caught me at a bad time. How ’bout we sign up, and in fact, why don’t I just, uh, give you everything I’ve got.” Blake pulled out his wallet. “About five hundred bucks. That’s a hell of a lot of magazine subscriptions.”

Joje looked at the folded bills in Blake’s hand. He cleared his throat, then looked up, that awful smile sweeping across his face. “I don’t want yo money.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Jenna asked.

Blake wasn’t sure if she was referencing his lisp or the nervous tic that was back. Or maybe it was that same intuition that had told Blake to slam the front door and flip the lock when they had first met.

“Look, I’m in a real hurry. What’s this gonna cost me?”

“Always in a huwwy, huh, Bwake?”

“It seems to me you set this up,” Blake said, “but name your price, asshole, while I’m still in a giving mood.”

“No pwice. I just want help. With my pwoject.”

“You’re trespassing, and I’m calling the cops,” Blake said, at once remembering his cell was dutifully waiting back in his car. Joje saw the hesitation.

“Oops. Leave your phone somewhere?” Joje said, with his deranged impediment. His eyes drifted to Jenna, who still held the house phone in her palm, not even a beep rising from the dead line.

Blake was through with threats. He moved toward Joje, intending to drag him off the couch, and was suddenly staring down the barrel of a black pistol pointed directly at his head.

Jenna screamed.

Joje brought the gun forward, its cool metal tip kissing Blake’s forehead. Blake found himself raising his hands, staring into those dark, cold eyes.

Like a shark
, he thought.

They had visited Sea World back when they were considering the move to California. The shark exhibit had been Adam’s favorite, stepping into that curved glass tunnel, water surrounding them on all sides. The sharks had just been fed and darted back and forth in a frenzy, and while Adam had stood enthralled, Blake had been gripped with a sort of panic. It hadn’t been the pressure of thousands of pounds of water bearing down on them nor the fact that mere inches of glass was all that separated them from those hungry monsters. It had simply been the look in their alien eyes. Not a dangerous look, like encountering a wild canine. The only word that came to mind was . . . apathetic. If the glass hadn’t been there, they would have continued feasting, a second course consisting of Crochets coming right up. But the fact that the glass was there, it hadn’t angered them. They simply didn’t care. Eventually they would feed. Eventually they’d have their way.