The Haunted Air (12 page)
Authors: F. Paul Wilson
Lyle ground his teeth as he wandered into the garage for another check on Madame Pomerol and her husband. Jack and Charlie had raced off to the city almost two hours ago, leaving him in charge of the ⦠what? Prisoners? Hostages? Human garbage?
Whatever they were they were back in their carâthe husband on the rear floor, Madame Pomerol on the back seat, both face down. Lyle had taken the tattered remnants of the clothes they'd cut off them earlier and tossed them over their naked bodies. But that hadn't been enough, so he'd found an old blanket to cover them. He didn't want to have to see their puckered, hairy asses every time he checked on them.
His fury frightened him.
Mainly because the windows and doors had started opening themselves again. Taking a shot at him, trying to run him down, he could handle that. Where he came from, you understood that. But sneaking into his house, changing it, wiring it to do strange things â¦
His
house, goddammit! The first home he'd ever truly been able to call his own, and these pathetic lowlifes had invaded it, defiled it, made parts of it theirs instead of his.
house, goddammit! The first home he'd ever truly been able to call his own, and these pathetic lowlifes had invaded it, defiled it, made parts of it theirs instead of his.
It made him crazy, made him look long and hard at the carving knives in the kitchen, made him open their car trunk and stare at the nickel-plated pistol they'd fired at him.
But as much as he could think of murder, he knew he couldn't do it. No killer in his heart.
Yet God, how he'd love to scare the shit out of these two. Grab them by their scrawny necks and drag them through the rooms, holding their own piece to their heads, threatening to start busting caps on them if they didn't tell him what they'd done to his house, then stand over them and make them undo it, jab and poke them with the barrel when they didn't move as fast as he wanted.
But Jack had said the Fosters mustn't know where they were, mustn't connect their abduction to Lyle and Charlie Kenton. Lyle had never been one to take orders blindly, but this Jack guy ⦠Lyle had to make an exception for him. You pay a man that kind of bread, you'd better listen to him. Besides, the man got things
done
.
done
.
The phone rang. Lyle checked the caller ID and picked up when he recognized Charlie's cell number.
“We through, bro,” Charlie said. “We done our business and we headin' home.”
“What'd you do?”
“Tell you when I get there, but lemme tell you, dawg, it
fine!
This Jack is righteous! Now, we took care of our end, you take care of yours. See ya.”
fine!
This Jack is righteous! Now, we took care of our end, you take care of yours. See ya.”
Lyle hung up and took a deep breath.
My end â¦
My end â¦
Jack had laid it out before leaving with Charlie. Sounded easy then, but seemed risky now.
He took a deep breath and headed for the garage.
Lyle stopped the Fosters' car in the shadow of a construction Dumpster. With all the rebuilding still going on in the financial district, these things were on every other block; this one seemed particularly large and isolated. He killed the lights and checked the street: nothing moving. This part of Manhattan was just about the quietest spot in town on a Saturday night.
He checked his watch. He'd made good time. The BQE had been light so he'd followed it all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge and across into lower Manhattan. He'd driven like a timid Sunday school teacher, sticking to the speed limit all the way, signaling every lane change, spending as much time looking in his rearview mirror as through the windshield. The last thing he needed was to get stopped for some minor violation and have to explain what was under the blanket in the rear.
Lyle picked up the carving knife from the seat beside him and thumbed the edge. He noticed the blade quivering in the faint light.
I've got the shakes, he thought. He cast an angry glance over his shoulder.
They
should have the shakes.
They
should have the shakes.
But he'd never done anything like this before.
Let's get this over with.
He pulled the blanket off Madame Pomerol's flabby body, turned her over, gripped her under the arms, and
started dragging her from the car. She struggled and he could hear whimpers of fear through her gag, her breath whistling in and out her nose. She'd just spent hours stripped naked, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Both of them had to be terrified beyond anything they ever could have imagined.
started dragging her from the car. She struggled and he could hear whimpers of fear through her gag, her breath whistling in and out her nose. She'd just spent hours stripped naked, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Both of them had to be terrified beyond anything they ever could have imagined.
Too bad, Lyle thought as he laid her out on the pavement. Just too goddamn bad.
Next he dragged her husband from the car and rolled him over, face down like his wife. As soon as the man's belly flattened out on the asphalt, a puddle began to form around his mid-section.
What's the matter? Lyle wanted to shout. Think you're gonna die? Think what you planned for me is coming down on you?
He lowered the knife toward the woman and cut three quarters of the way through the tape binding her wrists, then did the same with the man. They'd be able to rip the rest of the way through without too much difficulty.
He hopped back into their car and roared away, looking around, looking over his shoulder, wondering if anyone had spotted him. Lyle was beginning to believe they might get away with this.
He drove to Chambers Street and parked by a fire hydrant. He left the windows down, the doors unlocked, and the trunk open; he left their cut-up clothes on the front seat but folded the blanket and took that along. He dropped the keys through a sewer grate on his way to the subway station on the corner. He'd chosen this spot because the W train stopped here. It also stopped in Astoria, six blocks from his house.
While he was waiting for the train, as per Jack's instructions, he found a pay phone and dialed 911. He noticed his fingers trembling as they dropped the coins into the slot.
Damn! He was still juiced.
He told the operator he'd heard something that sounded like gunshots up on Chambers Street ⦠said he thought it
had something to do with a yellow Corolla parked by a hydrant.
had something to do with a yellow Corolla parked by a hydrant.
The first thing the cops would do would be to check the glove compartment where they'd find the car registration. Next they'd check the trunk and find the .32. Jack had said he'd give high odds that the gun was unregistered.
When the Fosters reported the car stolen, they'd have to explain the unregistered pistol found in their trunk, most likely with their prints on it. If it could be linked to a crime, so much the better. If not, Jack said he had further plans for Madame Pomerol.
Lyle was dying to know what he'd cook up next.
Jack let himself into Gia's house through the front door. He punched a code twice into the alarm keypadâfirst to disarm, then to rearm it. He glided upstairs and spoke a soft hello into the dark bedroom. Receiving a muffled mumble in reply, he ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower, then slipped under the covers and snuggled against Gia.
“You awake?” he said, nuzzling her neck.
She was wearing a short T-shirt and panties, and he was in the mood. He was definitely in the mood.
“How was your night?” she muttered through barely mobile lips.
“Great. How was yours?”
“Lonely.”
Jack slipped a hand under her shirt and cupped a breast. It fit perfectly in his hand.
“Just hold me, Jack, okay? Just hold me.”
“Not in the mood?”
“Sometimes a girl just likes to be held.”
Concerned, he released her breast and folded his arms around her. Couldn't remember the last time Gia had referred to herself as a “girl.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Just lying here thinking.”
“About what?”
“Possibilities.”
“Oh? Got to be about a million of them out there for you. All good.”
“I wish I were so sure.”
“You're worried about something,” he said, pulling her closer. “I sensed it this afternoon. What's up?”
“Like I said, just thinking about possibilities ⦠and the big changes they might bring.”
“Good changes or bad?”
“Depends on how you look at them.”
“You're losing me here.”
Gia sighed. “I know. I'm not trying to be mysterious. It's just ⦠sometimes you worry.”
“About what?”
She turned and kissed him. “Nothing. Everything.”
“If something's bothering you, shouldn't I know?”
“You should. And when there'sâwhen it's something realâyou'll be the first to know.”
She slid her hand down his abdomen and gripped him.
“What about just being held?” he said, instantly responding.
“Sometimes that's plenty ⦠and other times it's not quite enough.”
Other less frightening memories have filtered back to the nameless and placeless one ⦠glimpses of tall buildings and sunlit yards, all so tantalizingly familiar, and yet so resolutely out of reach.
But as comforting as these memories are, they do not lessen the ambient rage. What they represent is gone, and the sense of loss intensifies the rage. The only thing that tempers the fury, keeps it from consuming the nameless one in a blinding explosion is confusion ⦠and loneliness ⦠and loss.
If it had eyes, it would cry.
Still unable to fathom its identity and location, it senses a vague purpose behind its awakening. Like the source of the flitting memory fragments, the nature of the purpose remains elusive. Yet it is there, ripening. Soon, nurtured by the rage, it will blossom.
And then someone, something must die â¦
Lyle awoke to the sound of music ⦠a piano ⦠something classical. The delicate melody sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't identify it. He'd bought some classical CDs for background music in the waiting room, but he'd picked them at random and never listened to them himself. Never understood why people liked classical; but then, he couldn't understand why people liked to drink Scotch either.
Charlie? Not a chance. Not Charlie's taste at all. And Charlie was in the sack. He'd come back from his night ride with Jack babbling about how bustin' he was, how they'd set it up to give Madame Pomerol a taste of her own medicine, and how he wished he could be there when it went down. But then he'd faded fast and said goodnight.
Lyle threw off the sheet and swung his feet to the floor. He didn't want to know the time. Whatever it was, it was too late. He'd given up on trying to keep the windows closed so he'd turned off the AC and gone to bed with them open. The temperature at the moment wasn't too bad, though.
But what's with the music? The same song over and over.
Had Madame Pomerol and her husband screwed with his music system as well? After last night he'd hoped he'd heard the last of them.
As Lyle pounded down the stairs toward the waiting room, he noticed something about the music ⦠thin ⦠just a piano. Where were the strings and the rest of the orchestra? And then he realized it wasn't a CD ⦠it was live ⦠someone was playing the piano in the waiting room.
He burst into the room and stopped dead on the threshold. The lights were out. The only illumination came from the faint glow of the street lights through the open front door. A dark figure sat at the piano, tinkling away on the keys.
Lyle's shakes from earlier in the evening returned, now more from dread than adrenaline, as he reached for the light switch. He found it, hesitated then flipped it.
He groaned with relief when he saw Charlie seated on the piano bench, his back to him. Charlie's head was turned, his eyes closed, a small smile playing about his lips as his fingers danced over the keys. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
The look on his face sent a trickle of ice water down Lyle's spine.
“Charlie?” Lyle said, closing the front door and moving closer. “Charlie, what are you doing?”
He opened his eyes; they were glassy. “I'm playing âFür Elise.' It's my favorite.” Charlie's voice ⦠but not his diction. He looked like he used to get back in his pre-born again days when he was doing a couple of blunts a night.
The cold spine trickle became a torrent. Charlie didn't play piano. And even if he did, he wouldn't be diddling this light-fingered tune with the funny name.
Lyle's tongue felt thick, sticky. “When did you learn to play piano, Charlie?”
“I had my first lesson when I was six.”
“No, you didn't.” He put his hand on his brother's shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “You know you didn't. What are you pulling here?”
“Just practicing.” He picked up the tempo. “I've got to play this note perfect for my recital.”
“Stop it, Charlie.”
He played faster, his fingers flying over the keys. “No. I've got to play it twenty times a day to make sureâ”
Lyle reached over and grabbed his brother's wrists. He tried to pull them away from the keyboard but his brother fought him. Finally Lyle threw all his weight into it.
“Charlie,
please
!”
please
!”
They both came away from the piano together, Charlie tipping over backward on the piano seat and landing on the floor, Lyle staggering but keeping his feet.
For an instant Charlie glared at him from the floor, his eyes blazing with rage, then his face cleared.
“Lyle?”
“Charlie, what onâ?” Then Lyle saw the blood on the front of his shirt. “Oh, Christ! What happened?”
Charlie stared up at him with a bewildered look. “What goin' on, bro?”
He started to rise but Lyle pushed him back. “Don't move! You've been hurt!”
Charlie looked down at the glistening red stain on the front of his shirt, then looked up again.
“Lyle?” His eyes were afraid. “Lyle, whatâ?”
Lyle tried not to lose it. His brother, something awful had happened to his baby brother. They'd been through so much and now ⦠and now â¦
He wanted to run for the phone to call Emergency Services, but was afraid to leave Charlie's side. There might be something he could do,
needed
to do right now to make sure he survived until help arrived.
needed
to do right now to make sure he survived until help arrived.
“Take your shirt off and let's see. Maybe it's not so bad.”
“Lyle, what
wrong
with you?”
wrong
with you?”
Lyle didn't want to see this. If it was only half as bad as it looked it was still terrible. He yanked up Charlie's shirtâ
And gaped.
The skin of his chest was unbroken, without a trace of blood. Lyle dropped to his knees before him and touched his skin.
“What on earth?”
Where had all that blood come from? He yanked the shirt back down and gasped when he found it clean and dry and pristine white, as if fresh from the dryer.
“Lyle?” Charlie said, a different kind of fear in his eyes
now. “What happenin' here? Is this a dream? I went to bed, next thing I know, I'm here on the floor.”
now. “What happenin' here? Is this a dream? I went to bed, next thing I know, I'm here on the floor.”
“You were playing the piano.” He struggled to his feet and helped Charlie up. “Don't you remember?”
“No way. You know I can'tâ”
“But you were. And playing pretty well.”
“But how?”
“I wish to hell I knew.”
Charlie grabbed his arm. “Maybe that it. Maybe that crack in the cellar let a little bit of hell into this house. Or maybe there always been a bit of hell in this place, considerin' what happened here over the years. Whatever it is, it's gettin' to you.”
Lyle was about to tell his brother to cool it with that shit when the front door unlocked itself and swung open.
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