The Unseen (17 page)

Maybe.

Shouldering his pack in place again, Lucas crawled around the exterior of the home, moving quickly and quietly toward the basement window with the CC marking. When he got there, he tried to peer inside, but by now it was too dark. Dilbert might see him coming in through the window, but he didn't know of a good way to avoid that right now. He'd deal with that, if it came to it.

He hoped, however, that Dilbert would be too intent on capturing the scene that produced the blood-curdling scream, too caught up in his work, to watch his entrance point.

Lucas wasted no time, pulling the casement window toward him, pulling it off it hinges, then boosting himself down into the darkness of the basement. He turned, thinking he would replace the window immediately, and stopped himself.

He might need a quick escape. He'd replace the window when he left. If Dilbert noticed in the meantime, so be it.

Lucas moved carefully, making no noise as he moved across the bare concrete floor of the basement, the smell of dust and earth in his nostrils.

Still no sound. Just that eerie silence. He continued moving, going toward the small shaft of light that spilled down unfinished wooden steps from the main floor above.

His eyes were having a hard time adjusting, especially now that he'd looked into the light from above, and he faintly wished he had some night vision goggles.

His foot hit something, and he nearly tripped over it before righting himself. Something soft and yielding, not bricks or stone.

He crouched, and his hand touched what he'd feared: someone's body. Alive or dead, he couldn't be sure.

He put the geopatch back in his pocket and stood again. This was wrong, all wrong, and he needed to get out.

Then the lights came on.

FIFTEEN

“THOUGHT HE MIGHT HAVE A BUDDY WITH HIM,” A VOICE SAID BEHIND Lucas.

Lucas turned around and recognized the man instantly: the face of rage he'd seen displayed on Dilbert's films. What's-his-name, the homeowner. So much for his perfect photographic memory at the moment.

A quick glance at the body on the floor confirmed it was Dilbert, which, in an odd way, brought Lucas some relief. Stumbling over it in the dark, he'd been afraid it was the woman. Leila. Obviously, Dilbert hadn't been too careful, and he'd been caught.

The man wiped at his mouth, held up a baseball bat. “You guys aren't exactly the smartest burglars in the world, setting off the alarm.”

Lucas said nothing, realizing what had happened. When the alarm went off, of course the homeowner—
Kleiderman Delgado, his name
was Kleiderman Delgado
—decided to explore the home and check for problems. He'd gone into the basement and caught Dilbert by surprise. It made perfect sense; it was what anyone would do. How could Lucas have been so stupid? He hadn't worked in private homes much, and it was showing.

The man wiped at his mouth again, then scratched at his cheek. His eyes were bloodshot, and a deep stench—like something chemical—emanated from his pores. The stench of fear, Lucas decided. Or rage. Or both.

“I . . . just . . . let's just talk,” Lucas stammered, unsure what to say.

He'd been caught as a cat burglar, and there was no way out of it.

The man sniffed, scratched at his cheek again. “No time for talking now,” he said. “Only time for doing.” He raised his bat and moved across the floor toward Lucas.

Lucas heard a mechanical click, then saw the man look up the stairs, faltering a little. His bat came down, and he stopped.

Lucas turned to look up the stairs. There stood the woman, pointing a cocked revolver at her husband.

“Stay right there, Kleiderman,” she said through clenched teeth.

The bat stayed lowered, but Kleiderman Delgado smiled at his wife now. It wasn't a pleasant smile; it was a smile that promised pain. Lucas flinched, and the smile wasn't even directed at him.

“You go get yourself cleaned up,” Kleiderman said to his wife.

“I've got this handled.”

The woman uttered a painful laugh, holding the gun steady.

“Yeah,” she said. “You've got it handled, all right. You've always got it handled.”

“That's right,” he said, starting toward Lucas again.

“I'll blow a hole in your gut,” the woman hissed, and Kleiderman stopped. For the moment.

“Right now,” she said, “I've got it handled for a change.” She motioned toward Lucas with the gun. “Get your friend,” she said. “Drag him this way. Can you get him up the stairs?”

Lucas nodded weakly, then cleared his throat and spoke. “Yes.”

Kleiderman was regaining his confidence. “Oh, you're going to shoot me now?” he said to the woman, mocking her. “I don't know where you got the gun, but you really expect me to believe it's loaded? I know you better than that.”

Kleiderman started to move toward Lucas again, and the report of the revolver echoed off the concrete walls of the unfinished basement. Kleiderman's leg collapsed beneath him, useless, and he uttered a high-pitched keen, even more despairing than the one Lucas had heard earlier.

The woman cocked the pistol again, kept it aimed. “You don't know me at all, Kleiderman,” she said quietly.

She looked silently to Lucas again; he nodded, then stooped and grabbed Dilbert underneath the arms. Dilbert was thin, wiry, like himself, so he wasn't very difficult to maneuver.

Lucas began dragging Dilbert up the steps, noticing a large lump forming on the unconscious man's temple. Lucas cringed; taking a hit in the temple with a baseball bat. No wonder it was lights out for him. He'd be lucky if he didn't have any brain damage.

Kleiderman, still folded on the floor in the basement, was softly crying now. “Leila,” he said, pleading with her. “Why did you . . .” He let the sentence trail off as he choked down another sob. Then he spoke again, leaving a single “Why?” hanging in the air.

The stench of Kleiderman was still there, permeating the air, but as Lucas worked his way up the steps, his fear subsided. He readjusted his grip on Dilbert and thumped him up the last few stairs until he stood even with the woman on the first-floor landing. She inclined her head toward the living room behind her, then returned her attention to Kleiderman, still in the basement.

“Why did I do it?” she said, repeating the question to her husband.

Kleiderman only answered with a small whimper as he tried to move his useless leg.

“Same reason you always give me,” she said, and Lucas saw tears trickling from her eyes. “Because you made me.” She slammed the basement door shut and twisted the deadbolt.

She turned to the living room. Lucas was down on his knees, checking on Dilbert. He was breathing. A bit shallow, perhaps, but breathing.

“He gonna be all right?” she asked.

Lucas looked at her, stood slowly. “I . . . don't know,” he said. “I hope so.”

She nodded, let the gun drop to her side, her finger off the trigger now. “So,” she said, her eyes taking on a glazed glint as she stared across the room at nothing. “I suppose you should call for backup.”

Lucas stood very still for a few moments before speaking.

Backup? What did she mean by backup? Best to give a noncommittal answer. “Let's just take a minute to catch our breath,” he suggested.

She nodded, the gun still hanging loosely at her side. From the door behind her, an indecipherable scream of rage floated up the stairs. She closed her eyes, a few more tears leaking out.

“Catch our breath,” she said, almost in a whisper to herself. “Good idea.” She took a few deep gulps of air, forced back the tears.

“So did you get . . . what you need?” she asked.

Lucas knew he needed to step carefully here. “What we need?” he said, parroting back her question.

“Footage. Surveillance tape, I guess. That's what you call it, isn't it?”

Lucas tasted something dark and bitter at the back of his throat. “You knew he was . . . recording you?” He looked down at Dilbert's body. Still no movement.

“Sure. I saw things, here and there.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . I don't know. This guy, different areas around town, in the span of a few days. A few strange noises in the house. Found a lens cap, actually, in the basement a few weeks ago. Guess he got sloppy.”

Lucas wasn't sure what to say, so he nodded.

“So,” she said, continuing, “that's when I figured it out: I knew the police were watching the house. Recording. Keeping it under surveillance. A stakeout.”

The dark, bitter taste in Lucas's throat coiled like a snake. Here was someone who saw—who didn't just look, but who
saw
—what was happening around her. And yet she still needed to delude herself on some level. It was much more comforting to think of the police doing all this, because . . . because it was a way out.

Lucas started to speak, but his voice wouldn't work for a few moments. He swallowed hard and tried again. “So . . . you let him continue to beat you because—”

“I didn't
let
him do anything,” she said, mad now. She crossed the room and sat on the couch, set the gun on the coffee table. “You don't really
let
anything in life happen to you. It doesn't ask your permission, it just happens. And so . . . yeah, I thought, the police are getting this on video, and so they'll build a case, and they'll do something.” She stopped and looked straight at him for the first time.

“That's right, isn't it? I mean, you're here to stop him?”

Lucas tried a smile, but he knew it was only coming off as a grimace. “Yes.”

She nodded, staring down at the floor again. “So tonight, when you tripped the alarm, I knew it was time. I knew you guys had the place surrounded, and you'd come rushing in to help when that alarm went off. But then . . .” She trailed off, looking at the floor for a few seconds before lifting her gaze to him again.

“No one else is coming, are they?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“And . . . you're not a cop.”

He paused. “No.”

She nodded at Dilbert. “Him neither.”

He shook his head.

“So what are you?”

Now it was Lucas's turn to stare at the floor. “Still trying to figure that one out, I guess.”

She was quiet for a few moments before speaking again. “He's been here. But you—this is your first time,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

“You're the one who set off the alarm.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

Lucas shrugged. “Because . . . because I knew you were in here, and I knew . . . he was in here. I heard you scream.”

She bit her lip, sat back on the couch. “Well,” she said softly again. “At least there's that. At least there's that.”

Lucas crouched back down again, hovering over Dilbert's motionless body. He dug around in Dilbert's trench coat pockets, finally finding what he was looking for: a few small digital tapes. He pulled them out of Dilbert's pocket, stood, and walked across the room, then set the tapes on the table in front of Leila.

“And there are these too,” he said.

She looked at him, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Do I want to watch these?”

“I don't think so,” he said. “But I'm guessing the police, when they get here, might want to.”

She nodded. “So I guess that's your way of saying I should call them now.”

A low moan escaped from Dilbert's lips, and Lucas went to him, helped him sit up. Dilbert's eyes opened, but they were still wide, dilated. His hand went absently to the large knot on his head, his stare vacant.

“You feeling okay?” Lucas asked him, but he said nothing. Instead, he put his head back down on the floor and closed his eyes again, going immobile.

Lucas looked back to Leila, who was studying both of them. “You should get him to a hospital,” she said.

Lucas nodded.

“But I'm somehow sure you don't want me to call an ambulance or the police until you're gone,” she continued.

He set his jaw for a moment. “You need to call both, for your husband. But I don't want to be here when they show up.”

From behind the locked door to the basement, they had initially heard Kleiderman's screams of rage. Now those screams had become occasional whimpers and crying. Each time a fresh bout began, Lucas saw Leila flinch.

“Maybe someone already called,” Lucas said. “Maybe they're on their way. Neighbors.”

She smiled grimly. “I've been in this home more than a year. Lots of times I've been scared to death the neighbors would call the police because of . . .” She let the sentence trail off, dropped her gaze to the floor. “No one's ever called,” she whispered.

“Maybe they couldn't hear,” Lucas offered. “Lots of plants around this house, it's on a big lot.”

She studied him for a moment. “Maybe.”

But neither of them believed it.

“Anyway,” she continued, “most of tonight happened in the basement. The gunshot, I mean. And I think this house is pretty soundproof.”

Lucas thought of the bloodcurdling scream—her scream—that had brought him running from the garden shed. The house was far from soundproof, but he said nothing. If that was what she needed to tell herself, he wasn't going to stop her.

She took a deep breath. “Anyway,” she said, standing and walking toward the kitchen, “we need to get you two out of here.”

He stood, leaving his spot beside Dilbert. “How?”

She disappeared into the kitchen for a few moments, then returned with keys and threw them to him. “Take my car,” she said.

He looked at the keys, then back to her.

“It's the white Volvo in the garage,” she said. “There's a hospital about ten minutes away. There's a GPS system in the dash, which should help you get there.”