The People Next Door (23 page)

Mick committed early, the keys welcome weight in his fist. He swung on the bald Asian kid, but it was a glancing blow and
only popped the runt into another gear.

The proprietor took the Easton upside his left ear and the big guy drove two palms the size of pie plates into his chest.
Mick was dropped to his back, looking up between his elbows, shifting wildly to cover his head. Having traded the bat, the
bleach-blond was already crouching on him and pummeling down, right-left, right-left. The big guy was kicking from the side,
boots like anvils, the Asian kid running around and squealing as he swung the bat like a golf club.

Mick’s thigh took a tee shot that would have snapped his femur if he hadn’t rolled with it. White fists battered his cheeks
and brow and neck. His ear had turned hot and wet and he was numb with adrenaline, thrashing and dodging until the Easton
clanged off his ankle. That felt like a teacup shattering inside, but he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it. He figured
he was going to wind up in the hospital’s critical condition wing again … or not wake up at all.

Alarming to think that moments ago he had been too curious about his premonition to be afraid, but now could hear himself
screaming.

‘Help, help! Fire!’ he bawled, knowing the odds of drawing in a bystander at this hour, in this dead shopping center, were
extremely poor.

Someone said, ‘His keys, get the keys!’ And his friend countered, in a high shrieking voice, ‘Fuck him up, fuck him up!’ And
they danced about him, raining fists and boots, but it was a hyper attack, only a third of the blows connecting as well as
they should, and soon would.

Mick scrambled back on his elbows, rolling side to side, looking for a pair of legs to sweep, but there was no escape and
he was losing all coordination. They closed around him, fighting over him like a piece of meat. His lips swelled. His nose
cracked. His right hook wasn’t working the way he wanted it to.

He glimpsed the blond one crawling at him with the bat raised above his Avalanche cap, a dirty little Samurai coming with
the mortal chop. Mick kicked out, felt no impact. His blood screamed through his veins and a black curtain of rage fell around
him. Glands seldom used were sent into battle. Before the kid could set his knees, the hat floated up and the blond head beneath
it bungee-jerked back, his eyes going
what the fuck
-round. The kid screamed as he was thrown aside with brutal force, and his Asian buddy stumbled over him, face-planting as
if a wrecking ball had swept through the melee.

The bat fell to the ground and rolled away.
Clingclingcling
…

The blows stopped … or at least paused for some kind of intermission.

Mick flopped onto his stomach, coughing blood through his pulped nose. Behind him, the big bastard was shouting in Spanish
– surprise at first, then argument, then a plea of terror. Someone grunted deeply, like a Russian power-cleaning a Volkswagen.
The big boy screamed. There was a great smacking sound on the pavement, and the Easton was rolling back to him.

Mick used the bat as a cane to push himself to his feet. His vision was blurred and he might have been walking in outer space.

A head of bleached hair was fleeing around the back of his truck and the proprietor lurched after him. The torn warm-up jacket
flapped as the kid ran a few steps in confusion, then stopped and tried to make a stand. Mick brought the Easton around and
knocked the boy’s jaw about in half. Shithead went rigid for a second, chin raised to the moon, then dropped like a wet towel.

Mick did not slow to consider what had set him free. All he knew was that the tide had shifted and, oh sweet motherfuck, the
pleasure of this power reclaimed was nearly sexual. He turned, bellowing. These pieces of shit had been after his livelihood,
probably the keys to the restaurant and safe, and they had become the root of it all now, every problem in his world honed
down to this moment. There was finally a face to the faceless
them
. Sapphire, Render, the IRS, his shitty customer base, the intolerant suppliers jacking up costs. None of them mattered now
because he had these clowns. He
was concussed and giddy and he wanted it to last all night.

The big bastard was on his feet again, swaying, distracted by something in the darkness. His back was turned and he never
heard it coming. Mick choked up on the rubber grip and the aluminum whistled. Guy’s spine caved in with a cracking thud and
he collapsed, breath gusting like his lungs had balloon popped.

The bald one was crawling away when Mick brought the bat in low, up into his ribs, so hard the grip sprang free. His momentum
carried him pitching over the bodies, spinning as he fell, and he banged the back of his head on the parking lot for at least
the second time. He tried to sit up but he hadn’t been so depleted since his first junior varsity wrestling meet, when he
had swallowed his mouthpiece and passed out cold in the Boulder High gym.

The Easton played its rolling music across the asphalt. Heavy footsteps pounded closer, then faded. Someone’s hysterical screaming
cut off wetly.

Everything went quiet. He half expected Coach Wisneski to lean over him snapping a smelling salt, but he was alone now,
consciousness lost.

‘I knew you had it in you.’

A slow baritone, laced with a kind of perversion. The voice one hears through the wall of a motel room at four in the morning.

‘The first time I saw you. I knew you were a killer.’

It was like a dream, a bad dream, a recurring nightmare. He had been here before, in this presence. His mind whirled in shattered
darkness.

‘It’s not safe here,’ the deep voice said. ‘We have a lot of work ahead of us. I will clean it up. I’ve cleaned up worse.
But so you know, I saved your life again. And this time I’m not going to let you forget. This time we are bound.’

Mick opened his eyes.

Stars. Sky. Cooling air and the warm gritty hardness under him. He sat forward, aching all over, dizzy. He rolled sideways
and caught himself with his scraped knuckles. The parking lot, he was in the parking lot. His head felt like a bowling ball
but he forced himself to look up.

His truck was right there. The door was open, the
cab’s dome light on. He crawled to it. Raised himself up and leaned over the seat, waiting for the worst of the vertigo to
pass. His keys were in the ignition. Thought he was going to throw up but he was too frightened to linger. He didn’t remember
what had happened, but it had been horrible and something unknowably evil had been right there with him. It could be behind
him right now …

Mick grabbed the wheel and dragged, squirming to get his ass under him. He turned the key and the Silverado’s big V-8 grumbled
to life. He closed the door and stared at the windshield. His body felt smashed and his shirt was wet, sticking to his chest.
The headlights cut a swath up to the grocery store.

No other cars, no bystanders. No people of any kind.

What the hell happened? How long was I out?

Hands shaking, his grip clumsy on the wheel. He closed his eyes, controlling the panic, and a flash of the violence came back
to him, the attackers screaming, the baseball bat in his hands as he lost control. The rage limitless, intoxicating. The voice
had been correct. He needed to go home
now
.

Mick pulled the shifter into drive and lifted his foot off the brake. The truck idled forward, the wheel playing itself straight.
He was searching for the exit lane when the beams landed on the others. He braked, clenching sore teeth.

Three broken bodies on the ground, their clothes torn and soaked. Even from this distance he could make out the bleach blond
hair opened over the skull, the exposed
white patches of scalp and bone. The big guy was sprawled face down, the other two draped over his legs like he was the felled
trunk and they were the pruned branches. The ground was pooled with blood.

Someone was moving. A fourth was crouched beside them, patting and searching as if rummaging through their pockets, or checking
vitals. But he didn’t look like a medic. Boyish blond hair. Shoulders rolling under a chambray work shirt.

Render. Render had intervened again. The man was a moth to Mick’s light, an avenging angel who needed a friend. Mick closed
his eyes, swaying.

They’re dead. All three of those kids are fucking dead and my neighbor killed them, oh, Jesus Christ, he tried to save me
and went berserk and killed those kids. I’m in so deep now. That crazy sick fuck is going to take me down with him. Amy will
lose the house, my son will lose all respect for me, Briela will see her daddy behind bars …

When he opened his eyes Render was gone. The bodies were still lying there in a pile. Twenty or so feet to the left of the
bodies was a military truck. What the hell was the military doing – no, not military. It was an olive green Range Rover with
tinted windows, stripped of its badging. The cargo door was open. There was a white bumper sticker with red lettering which
read:

Sometimes I feel like a vampire
Ted Bundy

Render hopped out of the back, hitting the ground in
a smooth stride. He walked to the pile and took one off the top, dragging the bald kid by the feet. When he got within a body
length of the green beast’s bumper, he bent, clutched what would have been the kid’s belt buckle if he was wearing one, lifted
and heaved. The body flew into the cargo bay. The SUV’s rear struts bounced once and were still. Render performed this chore
as if he were loading a bundle of newspapers.

Then he did it again, in the same way, with the second boy.

Dragging, hefting, lobbing.

Except this time he came up a tad short and the head of blood-pasted blond hair bounced against the rear bumper, then hung
down around the ball hitch on a neck gone limp as a sock. He doubled back, annoyed, and took the head in both hands, flipping
the body forward like he was granny-shooting a basketball. This time the body stayed in.

Mick’s labeling mechanisms were temporarily out of service. He watched in numb fascination and slow-burning horror.

Okay, tough guy, that was pretty impressive. Now let’s see you lift the big one. The first two were punks not much bigger
than my son, but that third one there weighs two-fifty at least. Maybe two-sixty-five, and there’s not a chance in hell—

Render stretched his arms. Unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolled them back once. He stared at the huge body – which looked like
an overturned rowboat covered in ripped canvas – for what was probably only half a minute but felt like ten.

God almighty, what the fuck was this?

The body began to stir. It was just the leg, but it clearly moved, the knee bending up a few inches, the heavy black boot
swaying like a metronome.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Mick croaked. The kid was still
alive
.

A mangled and trembling brown hand reached up, holding a black gun. The barrel wagged. The gun went
pop
and Render’s shoulder jerked back perhaps an inch. The gun fell from the hand. Render touched his shoulder, looked at his
hand. Wiped his palm across his jeans.

He took one step forward, raised his right foot, and stomped.

Mick looked away, but not before catching the image of the kid’s head bobbing up on the lever of the breaking neck. There
was no sound, not from this distance, but when Mick chanced another peek, Render was still stomping. Mechanically, forcefully.
Not with anger, but merely as if he were tasked with putting some pitiful creature out of its misery.

Mick leaned over the bench seat and vomited onto the floor mat. All that came out was blood-streaked spittle and the last
dregs of the whiskey sours Jamie had made him, but it felt like it was his throat the guy was stomping.
Oh Jesus, this is so fucked up. What in the name of God have I gotten into?
Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he got himself under control and sat up.

The big Latino was gone and Render was reaching up, then slamming the rear hatch. The noise made Mick jump in his seat.

Render turned and looked right at Mick, staring into
the headlight beams. The work shirt had red spots across the chest, but it might not have even been his own. He took a few
steps and stopped, bending to pluck something from the ground. It was a baseball cap. Or hockey, to be precise. The red-and-blue
Colorado Avalanche lid one of them had been wearing before the real fuckstorm went into high gear. The cap was now more red
than blue, and it seemed to hold some significance for Mick’s neighbor. He studied it like he’d never seen one before, then
put it on and snugged the bill down low.

He continued walking directly at the truck.

Mick’s foot landed hard on the gas pedal. The hat thing was about one shot of crazy too many and Mick lost his composure.
The truck surged and Render kept walking at him and his face was untroubled, white as the halogen glare reflecting off it.
For a nauseating moment, Render seemed to be rushing at his windshield and Mick was sure he was going to dive at him, snarling
and maniacal, but he was merely walking calmly, unafraid.

I could kill him now. Blow him out of his shoes with Blue Thunder and leave no witnesses. They would find him later, and blame
him for the entire mess. Another restaurant mugging gone awry …

But he knew that if he ran Render down now, Amy and the kids would pay for it. They were in trouble, all of them teetering
on the brink of ruin, and taking Render out would only accelerate his family’s own private End of Days.

Mick yanked the wheel and the tires screamed. Veering right, he glanced through the driver’s side
window and saw Render come to a stop. His mouth fell open as if wanting to explain, genuine disappointment in his expression.
Mick’s neck twisted and it might have gone on twisting, captivated by the lunacy as he was, but a horrendous crashing sound
– and the ensuing impact upon the truck’s front bumper – snapped him out of his trance.

‘What the fuck!’

He swerved wildly. The shattered shopping cart became a fusillade of wheels and caging that tumbled over the hood and cracked
the windshield as the Silverado shot across the lot, bounced over a parking median with enough force to knock his head against
the roof liner, and finally straightened onto the exit lane.

Mick blew the stop sign at the parking lot’s entrance and skidded into the far lane on 30th. He floored it past the Bank of
Boulder, then blew the red light as he hooked onto the Diagonal. There were a few cars leaving Boulder at this hour, but Mick
didn’t notice them as he passed them at roughly twice the legal limit. He did not take his eyes off the road until he saw
his mailbox. He slowed and turned and made it down the long driveway beside the house.

He shut off the engine and stared across his back acres, over the hundreds of acres of greenbelt beyond, to the other house.
For a shimmering moment it was the house of his nightmare journey with Roger, a swaying, hallucinatory shadow reaching across
the night for him, pulling at him, welcoming him inside.

Mick looked away and stumbled from his truck,
streaked with blood, sticky and crusted with it, but he didn’t feel nearly as awful as he should. The lights inside his house
were off and he hoped Amy had not heard him come home.

A heavy engine groaned on Jay Road, a yellow blinker flared and dimmed, and then the olive drab Rover was coasting behind
the trees separating the two properties. It reached the end of his parcel and the palazzo’s iron gates opened silently, admitting
the Rover. The gates closed before he could see Render exit the truck.

Render had instigated this, Mick realized. He didn’t just appear tonight. Random crime or not, he’d arranged it or arranged
to be there, possibly as retaliation for Mick’s refusal of his previous offer. And what exactly had he been offering? What
did he want?

This was a conspiracy. A hallucination. It simply could not be happening.

The trees stirred. As before, Render emerged from the border, onto the expanse of Mick’s lawn. He was holding a small leather
duffle in his left hand, calm as a man on a platform, waiting for the train.

‘Are you hurt?’

It was a simple question, but Mick could not put words together.

‘Whatever you are feeling,’ Render said, ‘it’s not as bad as it seems. Take a hot shower to warm up, then let it run cold.
It will revive you and act as a natural analgesic. Then you need to eat something hearty before you go to bed. By tomorrow
morning, it will be like this never happened.’

Mick twitched. ‘You killed those kids. I saw you.’

Render craned his neck and smiled slyly. ‘Did I? Pretty sure I did not act alone tonight, Mick. Whose fingerprints do you
think the police will find on the bat? Besides, it was self-defense. You were angry, as you had every right to be.’

‘You knew,’ Mick said. ‘You planned to be there.’

‘I stopped by the restaurant tonight to return this to you.’ Render moved a few steps closer and held out the bag. ‘I told
you we were destined to work together, and I’m here to show you I’ve been holding up my end of the bargain. You are reluctant
to accept my offer, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have what is rightfully yours.’

Render set the duffle on the grass. When it was clear Mick had no intention of accepting it, Render kneeled and unzipped the
bag. It was full of cash. Packets banded together and more loose bills. Hundreds. A big green Benjamin salad.

‘No,’ Mick said. But he was dizzy with the knowledge of what it represented, what it could do for him.

‘Eugene Sapphire kept very detailed records of his shenanigans. That’s all yours, to the penny, with a fair market savings
rate of five per cent annual interest. Should be enough to save your restaurant, but I’ll leave you to decide what to do with
it.’

‘What did you do to him?’ Mick said.

‘What did
I
do?’ Render smiled. ‘I’m just a courier on this one. He made his bed long ago.’

‘And now he’s lying in it,’ Mick said. ‘Dead as those boys.’

Render shrugged. ‘Go visit him tomorrow, see for yourself. All I did was restore a little decency, right another wrong. That’s
all I’m about here, Mick. Helping you right the wrongs so we can both get back to our rightful place in this wrong life.’

Mick felt as though he might float away at any moment. ‘I won’t be a part of it. I won’t let you—’

Render shifted with unnerving speed and in a blink his face was inches from Mick’s. ‘Don’t push it, Mr Nash. If you call attention
to our business, those who would investigate such claims will never find me, only you. There are no other suspects because
no one else was involved. Not on the lake, not at Sapphire’s house, and not tonight. It will all come back to you, because
as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I don’t exist.’

Mick’s throat filled with bile. ‘What in God’s name are you?’

Render sighed. ‘You still don’t know?’

‘I saw your bumper sticker,’ Mick said. ‘Is that supposed to be a hint?’

‘The bumper – oh. You think I’m …’ Render broke into laughter. He sighed. ‘Ah, Jesus. No. I just like the sentiment. You might
say I am learning to relate to it. But you actually thought …’ He laughed some more. ‘That’s classic.’