The Bad Box Page 14

  In the unlikely event that someone noticed a stranger with black hair and a black Vandyke, so what? Before he went to bed tonight both beard and hair would be shaved off. Details, details.

  He took one last look at everything and hurried down the narrow concrete path. The danger was that there might be someone in either of the backyards, but there wasn’t, so he hurried to the hedge in back and peered through it to make sure no one was staring out one of Howard’s back windows. No one was, so he wriggled through the hedge into Howard’s dinky little backyard and sprinted to the back of his old brick house.

  This was fun.

  He pressed his toe against the basement window, intending to give it a swift kick, but realized he didn’t need to when the bottom of the window budged. The damn fool hadn’t remembered to lock it. The window, hinged at the top, swung upward easily, and Peter slid down noiselessly to the basement floor.

  It was dark and musty down here, a furnace and some junk furniture and countless shadows. The shadows, the shadows. The bright toys that glittered in the light changed every year, new, improved, better-than-ever gizmos that tempted the heathen away from truth, but these shadows always remained the same. These were the same shadows that Solomon had gazed on; these were the shadows that had danced on the walls of caves while hunters huddled beside their fires. The truths in these shadows were the same ones that the ancients had glimpsed, truths that the earliest men had seen, their restless brains piercing the deep riddles with apelike eyes before glittering toys had blinded them.

  Peter stood in the shadows and pondered the Big Truth that the Solitary One had given him. A word, but more than a word, a word worth more than all the tinsel of this world, a word that gave sight to the blind. A clash of clattering consonants with the ghosts of vowels whistling and wailing between them like wind blowing past the iron fence and carved stones of a graveyard. The sound reminded him of Hebrew, but he knew it was made of a language that had died before Moses was born, a jagged shape of sound that couldn’t be transcribed in the Arabic alphabet. Not that Peter would ever need to write it down—it was written indelibly in his memory, it had altered the convolutions of his brain, it was a fingerprint stamped on his mind.

  Now it was time to give the Big Truth to Little Miss Muffit. He pulled the boning knife from its cardboard sheath and crept up the basement stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Howard’s class was supposed to meet until 6:20, but he let them out at 6:00. His hangover had settled down from tidal waves of agony to a stagnant lagoon of malaise, but he was still in no shape to teach.

  Besides, he was eager to get back to the farmhouse. He knew that Sarah wasn’t comfortable around Ben, and he knew she would feel better with him there. It was exhausting to keep up a show of good spirits for her when in fact he was frightened out of his wits, but he didn’t intend to let her down. He was going to help her through this. It was so rare that he had an opportunity to care for someone.

  He was surprised by how fond he had become of Sarah. It was sad to know that when this dreadful crisis was over she would return to being just a friend. They would meet occasionally for coffee, and she would find him pleasantly amusing, and then they would go their separate ways.

  All day he had been entertaining a bittersweet daydream that she would continue to live with him. They could have such fun together, little parties and picnics and strolls and many happy stories shared over wine. But it was just a daydream: soon she would be gone.

  Howard eased his car out of the faculty parking lot and headed toward his house. He needed to pick up a few things to bring to the farm.

  Straight men with their wives and children had no inkling of loneliness, he thought. If only he were attracted to men his own age, perhaps he could find a stable relationship. But older men appealed to him no more than women, and the lovely young butterflies he chased merely took his gifts and then fluttered off to other foolish old sugar daddies. He had been robbed and even beaten up by them, but he had never been loved.

  When he got to his neighborhood, it occurred to him that a nice gift might cheer Sarah. He drove around for a while on the bumpy brick streets, trying to think of what she would like. There was a candy store that made divine fudge, but she didn’t seem like a candy-person. He parked and stepped into an antique store, hoping that something would catch his eye. A vase? No, she wasn’t a vase-person either. Perhaps a nice old book. No, she had too many already.

  At the jewelry counter he spotted a lovely pair of earrings, simple globes of gold, but the gold had a mysterious hue that reminded him of what his grandmother used to wear. The woman at the counter explained that it was rose-gold, an old-fashioned look, unusual these days. Howard asked her to gift-wrap them, and as he carried them to his car he thought of how splendid they would look on Sarah’s ears.

  In his small front yard he stooped to pull a couple of weeds from his ornamental herb garden. He detested weeds like pimples or wrinkles and found it difficult to pass by his garden without pulling a few. He spotted a big, slovenly dandelion that had taken up residence in the center of the lavender, a barbarian ensconced in the royal court, but evicting it would have to wait until he was dressed for gardening.

  He had set timers to turn some lights on and off automatically, and the lamp glowing through the front window was comforting, but his big brick house no longer felt dependable or secure. He was tempted to follow the cobblestone walk around back to examine the rear windows, but he told himself that if he gave in to paranoia it would soon consume him. Besides, the police were supposedly parked somewhere on the street, though he hadn’t seen them.

  He let himself in and glanced cautiously into the two living rooms. Everything looked as it should. Even so, he tiptoed up the stairs and crept along the hallway to Sarah’s room.

  Feeling like a trespasser, he searched through her closet and dresser for things she might want. The mysteries of women, their frilly little underthings, their perfumes and cosmetics like witch potions—really they were a different species altogether, enigmatic daughters of the moon.

  He placed a few items in a shopping bag and gazed with trepidation at her computer. It would be nice to bring it along, but he was certain that if he unplugged it some strange electronic genie would wipe out its micro-widgets for good. He considered himself the last Victorian, quite out of place in this sordid modern world, and electronic gadgets seemed to dislike him as much as he disliked them.

  He went to the bathroom to find his hair dye and made the mistake of glancing in the mirror. Last night’s whiskey seemed to have shot the clock forward several years. His face was so baggy and sunken that he could discern the skull beneath.

  Nothing frightened Howard so much as aging, and he hurried to his bedroom and searched through his closet. Which tie goes best with this jacket? he wondered. Where on earth did I put that set of cufflinks?

  He froze, a colorful silk tie in one hand, a blue linen jacket in the other. There had been a soft noise downstairs, like the sound of the front door easing shut. But that was impossible—he had locked it behind him when he came in.

  He stood still for a minute, hearing all sorts of things and hearing nothing. Very quietly he placed the jacket and tie on his bed. There was no phone upstairs to call the police. Maybe he should stick his head out the window and yell for them, but he hadn’t seen their car anywhere when he was searching for a parking place. Besides, one shouldn’t call the police about every little squeak or creak.

  He glanced around for a weapon. Though the fireplace in his bedroom was unusable, he kept antique wrought-iron implements leaning in front of it. He crept over and grasped the heavy iron poker. It would stop anything that walked.

  Emboldened by the weapon, he moved quietly to the top of the stairs and called down, “Who’s there?” His voice sounded frail in the silence.

  “I’m coming down,” he said at last. “I’m armed. I have a big gun, a .352 Magnum.”

  He had gotten the number wrong,
he realized. What did they call those things?

  “It’s loaded,” he said, his voice a kind of wail in the damnable hush.

  Each step down the stairs was a battle against muscles gelatinous from last night’s whiskey and tonight’s fear, but at last he made it to the foyer. From here he could see into both living rooms, and nobody was there. He disliked massive sofas and instead had delicate loveseats and settees that no one could hide behind.

  He took a quick look at the kitchen and then the dining room. There sat his big oak table, gleaming with lemon oil and waiting for a banquet. There was the beautiful sideboard that he had purchased so cheaply at an estate auction. The windows on either side of it were neatly shut behind their white lace curtains. It must have been his imagination after all, just nerves.

  He was stepping back into the foyer when he heard what sounded like the jangle of coat hangers—and then the door of the coat closet burst open and someone dashed out of it so quickly that Howard had no time to react.

  In the next instant the back of his head banged hard against the dining room floor, and he was lying flat on his back with someone sitting on his belly. He had dropped his iron poker, and the assailant snatched it up before Howard could regain his senses.

  It took him a few seconds to recognize Peter. He looked so different, his hair plastered straight back and painted black, the dye or whatever it was trickling down his sweaty forehead. He wore sunglasses and had a ridiculous pointy little black goatee. It was very badly trimmed, cut an inch higher on one side of his face than on the other. And for some reason he was wearing Howard’s barbeque apron.

  He sat there on top of Howard’s aching belly and grinned down at him. “Hey, old Howie, it’s great to see you,” he said. “Why don’t you ever invite me over for dinner? You got this nice dining room and all. Maybe I’m not queer enough for you, is that it?”

  He was wearing bright yellow rubber gloves and held the fireplace poker in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. He began to rub the knife blade against the poker as if honing it.

  “Well, aren’t you at least going to say hi? And by the way don’t try screaming or I’ll knock your fucking teeth out. Okay then, if you don’t want to be friendly let’s get right down to business. Just tell me where she is, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Who?” Howard said.

  Peter jabbed the tip of the poker hard into one of his ribs.

  “Come on, Howie baby, don’t make me get rude. We’re friends and colleagues, aren’t we, so let’s keep this all nice and friendly. You know who I mean, our mutual friend with the big gaping vagina.”

  “How would I know where she is? You can see, there’s no one here but me.”

  Peter jabbed Howard’s Adam’s apple with the tip of his knife.

  “You fucking liar. Here I’m trying to be nice and friendly, and all you do is lie to me. Her fucking car’s parked right out front. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, I swear I don’t. It’s true she was staying with me, but she went out for a walk last night and never returned. The police are looking for her. They’re afraid Darnell has nabbed her.”

  “You fucking liar.” The tip of Peter’s knife pressed deeper into Howard’s throat, and he thought he felt blood trickling down the side of his neck. “Truth is all that matters, and the whole world paints it over with lies.”

  “Peter, try to listen to reason. You won’t get by with this. The police are watching my house, they’re parked right out front. I promise you if you leave right now I’ll keep my mouth shut. I promise that as a gentleman.”

  “I said, where the fuck is she? Tell me now or lose an eye.”

  Howard yelled for help, and an instant later the iron poker smashed his face.

  When he regained consciousness, his mouth was a raging cavern of pain. He tasted blood and when he moved his tongue he felt something like pebbles in his mouth. He spit them out onto the hardwood floor and stared at them. They were teeth, chunks of teeth and whole teeth lying in a little puddle of blood.

  His beautiful teeth, which he had always taken such good care of. He tried to picture himself with false teeth. It was impossible, and with that thought he realized he was going to die.

  A sound emerged from his throat, not really a scream, a sort of keening, and Peter smashed his shoulder with the poker.

  “Shut up with that fucking noise,” he said. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.”

  He threw something down on the floor beside Howard, a notepad and a pencil. “Write down where she is, and I’ll do you a great favor. I’ll cut your throat, and you’ll be dead in a moment. Otherwise, you’re going to die more slowly and horribly than you can even imagine. Now write! And don’t tell a fucking fib. I want her cell phone number too. I’m going to call, and if it’s not her number I’ll string out your death inch by stinking inch.”

  It’s impossible, Howard thought. I can’t die today. So many things to do.

  “Write!”

  Howard’s shoulder seemed to be broken, and it was painful to roll into a position where he could press his pencil against the pad. He waited a moment for his eyes to focus and then scrawled, “Peter Bellman did this to me.”

  Peter read it and chuckled. “Cute,” he said. “Tell you what, I’m getting a little sick of your behavior. I’ve tried to be nice, and you treat me like shit. Unbutton your shirt. I said, unbutton your fucking shirt.”

  Because of the shoulder, Howard had to undo the buttons with one hand.

  “Theologians used to argue that Adam had no navel, not being born of woman,” Peter said. “Think of the nonsense they’ve wasted their time on, just to avoid the big truths. Well, I’m going to turn you into Adam, Howie old boy, and then maybe you’ll know some truth.”

  The pain was appalling. Howard tried to lose consciousness but couldn’t. When it was done, Peter held the bloody hunk of flesh in front of Howard’s face.

  “Is it an inny or an outy?” he said. “Aww, it’s an inny. I cut out your inny, and now it’s an outy.”

  He rubbed the bloody mess against Howard’s nose and sniggered like a dirty-minded schoolboy.

  “This is only the beginning, my friend. You’re Adam now, and this is the beginning of your paradise of pain. Unless you start writing.”

  Mother of God, Howard prayed silently, comfort us now in the hour of our death.

  “You’ll change your mind,” Peter said. He began doing something down there, probing with his gloved fingers. “You want to string this out, we’ll do just that. Look look look! Oh, look what I have!”

  Howard looked: it was a loop of his intestine, pulled a foot or so out of his body.

  “Every fifteen seconds, a little more comes out,” Peter said. “One, two, three . . .”

  The pain squirmed and crawled like a brutish tomcat digging into Howard with sharp claws. It occurred to him that Sarah would never get her earrings, and his eyes began to blur.

  Peter pulled. “This is your shitty life, Howie, coming out foot by foot,” he said. “We’re getting to the truth now. One, two, three . . .”

  The tomcat snarled and clawed. Howard pictured Sarah wearing the earrings. They glowed like rose-hued moons. She’s still young, he thought. She’ll get through this. Fortune will shine on her again.

  Peter pulled. “Oh, Howie, you stink! Look at you, guts hanging out. Weren’t you ever potty trained?”

  Howard felt embarrassed, so dirty. He could smell himself, even over the pain. Mother of God, he mouthed, his tongue writhing against broken teeth.

  What was Peter doing? Lifting something. Mother of God, now in the hour. He was lifting the leg of the dining room table, looping the intestine around the leg.

  “I’m going to let you do the work,” Peter said. “In 15 seconds, you either write or you crawl. One, two, three . . . “

  Ben will take care of her. She’s in good hands. Mother of God, pray for us now.

  “Crawl.”

  Howard wouldn�
�t. He lay there. He had crawled and kowtowed before plenty of men, men half his age, but he wasn’t going to crawl now, not this late in the day.

  He felt Peter lifting him to his feet, holding him up on watery legs. The brutish alley cat seemed to be withdrawing its claws and slinking away, leaving behind it a deep embarrassment even worse than pain. So uncouth—his clothing soiled with his own insides.

  “Let’s dance, my dear,” Peter said. “I’ll lead.”

  Howard felt himself being moved around the floor. He thought he heard a band strike up a Viennese waltz, something by Strauss the Younger. In Peter’s arms he whirled, and he saw that people were seated at the table, lifting glasses of wine to applaud their dance.

  He saw faces he recognized, and he thought how nice of them to stop by. There sat John, that boy with hair like wheat—Howard hadn’t seen him in years! He was aware that his shirt was hanging open, that he had clumsily spilled something down his front, and he hoped his guests wouldn’t notice. Oh, and there was Mark, that shy young man with the charming stammer.

  They all looked so happy, and as the room grew darker and he and his partner whirled faster, Howard suddenly noticed the gorgeous man seated at the head of the table, the man with the long flowing hair and the gentle eyes. The man smiled at him, and Howard realized that the man was going to ask him for the next dance.

  Yes, he thought, I’ve waited all my life to dance with him. Such a lovely face, such a pleasant party, I believe I shall dance all night.

  Part Four: A Ghost of Other Light Flutters

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I’ll be back in about four hours,” Ben said.

  Sarah didn’t answer and scarcely even nodded to show that she had heard him. She was sitting on the porch swing, her hand resting on the Ruger LCR in her lap, her eyes on the long driveway scarcely blinking. She had been sitting there a lot for the past three days.