The Devil Next Door Page 6

  But Warren shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Donnel. This is police business and we’re not at liberty to discuss the particulars. We need a shovel, maybe those clippers, too.”

  Donnel looked from one to the other. The blood had drained from his face. “I have tools in the shed.”

  “He says they’re in the shed,” Kojozian said.

  “Sure, where else would they be?” Shaw said.

  He led them back behind the house and they all commented on his yard, how nice it was, how green the grass was, the nice edging job he’d done on his walk. They were all really impressed and they told him so. Inside the shed there were racks of gardening tools, spotless and shining. Shovels arranged by size. Donnel was definitely a guy who believed everything in its place and a place for everything.

  Warren grabbed a shovel, admired the clean blade on it. “Nice,” he said. “Real nice. We’ll try not to dirty it up too much.”

  “That’s okay,” Donnell said, fumbling over his words. “I’m…I’m just a neat freak, I guess.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Shaw said, mopping more sweat from his face.

  “As long as I get ‘em back, I’m not worried.”

  Warren handed the shovel to Kojozian. “You’ll get it back. I’ll see to it. We’re cops and you can trust us. We’re not thieves, you know.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that.”

  “You believe this guy, Kojozian?” Shaw said. “He thinks you’re a thief. Thinks you won’t bring his shovel back. How do you like that?”

  The big man bristled. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Donnel looked at them like maybe it was a joke, but they were deadpan to a man. They saw nothing funny about a guy like him who thought cops were thieves. In fact, in their book, there was nothing worse than a guy like him that didn’t trust cops. What was the world coming to?

  Donnel just shook his head, smelling something on these three he did not care for. Something savage, something desperate.

  “Listen, officers, I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t mean anything at all.”

  The three of them were circled around him now like they didn’t want him getting away and Donnel was starting to sense that. Their faces were hard, their eyes shining like basalt. They licked their lips with the pink worms of their tongues. Shaw’s belly growled.

  “Maybe he wants the shovel back right now,” Warren said. “You better give it to him.”

  Kojozian shrugged and swung it with everything he had at Donnel’s head. There was a clanging and Donnel dropped to their feet, a gash opened from his left ear to his right eyebrow, blood pooling out. Kojozian kicked him with a gore-encrusted shoe, but Donnel did not move. He just bled some more.

  “What a guy,” Shaw said. “You just can’t reason with some of ‘em, you know that, boys?”

  They knew, all right.

  They gathered up three shovels, a rake, and a wheelbarrow which would make carting the stiff around a lot easier. Shaw and Kojozian stepped out into the sunlight.

  “Hey,” Warren said. “You’re not gonna just leave him there, are you?”

  “Why not?” they said.

  Warren shook his head. “This guy likes things neat. We should at least respect that. Give me a hand with him.”

  Kojozian lifted the body up where a hook was sticking out of the wall. While he held Donnel, Shaw and Warren pushed the body onto the hook. It entered just beneath the back of his skull with a moist, grating sound. He hung there just fine.

  “That’s better,” Warren said. “Donnel would have appreciated that.”

  “I hope I look so neat when I’m dead,” Shaw said.

  Kojozian studied the blood all over his hands. He was fascinated by it in a way that blood had never fascinated him before. He kept sniffing his hands. Finally, a loose and almost comical smile on his face, he rubbed blood all over his right index finger and painted his face with it. A huge red X that went from jawline to temple, the apex being dead center of his nose.

  The other two did not seem to notice.

  They all just stood there for a few minutes, approving of what they had done. Donnel was hanging from the wall, blood running down his face and out of his left eye. They listened to it drip to the floor for a time, then they went to take care of the kid…

  13

  Macy Merchant walked home from school that day in something of a daze. She did not understand what had happened. She only knew that it left her feeling very scared. Very disturbed. She thought it over and kept thinking it over and all she came up with was a blank. An absolute blank.

  It just did not make sense.

  Sure, she couldn’t stand Chelsea Paris or Shannon Kittery or any of the rest of their uppity, elitist pack. But she’d never mouthed off to them before. She’d never dared. And she certainly had never attacked one of them. Macy couldn’t remember ever being in a fight. Chelsea and Shannon had been mean to her long as she could remember, but even when they shoved her in the halls in junior high or knocked her books out of her hands, she’d never fought back.

  You did more than fight back, Macy, a stern voice in her head informed her. You attacked. You attacked Chelsea. You stabbed her in the cheek with a frigging pencil.

  Oh, God. Oh, dear God.

  Thing was, she could remember doing it just fine.

  She could remember the absolute hatred and loathing she’d suddenly felt for Chelsea. It had been like a poison working its way through her, until…until she had just lost control. All of it boiled in her and she’d started calling Chelsea names.

  Then she’d grabbed her.

  Pounded her head off the desk.

  Then stabbed her with the pencil.

  And the blood…God, the smell of it. It had made her hungry. It had made her mouth water. And worse, far, far worse, it had made her horny.

  Just the memory of that sickened her.

  Mr. Benz had dragged her down to the office and Chelsea was taken to the school nurse. She remembered Mr. Shore, the principal, reading her the riot act, asking her again and again why she, a straight A honor roll student with a spotless record, had done something so vicious and cruel. Chelsea was being taken to the hospital. She would need stitches. And as Shore went on and on, Macy just sat there, that black poison still seething in her guts. She kept smiling even though Shore told her to wipe that goddamn smirk off her face. But she hadn’t been able to. It was like someone was smiling for her, thinking awful things and doing worse things, and she had only been along for the ride.

  While Shore raged, she had stared at his belly. It was so full and round beneath his starched white shirt. What a mess it would be, she thought, if someone opened it with a knife.

  Then…whatever had taken hold of her, just faded.

  Macy started crying.

  And not your average boo-hoo crocodile tears, but the real thing. Whatever that awful compulsion had been, when it released her, it was like she had been torn open inside, cut right to the bone, and then the blood had flowed and kept flowing. This blood was clear and ran from her eyes, but in her mind it was just as red and just as hot as blood as it spilled down her cheeks. Even Shore had melted when he saw it happen.

  Macy…sweet, gentle, kind…was back and maybe he saw this.

  That other thing was gone. Shore had tried to console her, tried a great many things, in fact, short of telling her it was okay, it was nothing to get upset about. But, truth be told, Macy was in such a state of tearful despondency by then, it had even crossed his mind to say that. Then the school secretary, Mrs. Bleer, had come in and did what many men seemed so incompetent at and incapable of: she soothed Macy. She talked her down, hugged her, let her know that while, yes, it was bad attacking another student, that they would work it out.

  Had it been someone other than Macy Merchant, the treatment would not have been so sympathetic or understanding. But Mrs. Bleer knew Macy just as Mr. Shore did and Macy was a good kid. Smart, well-adjusted, dutiful…she was not some wildcat that routinely ass
aulted other girls.

  Both of them kept asking her the same thing again and again: Why? Why had she gone after Chelsea like that? What had Chelsea said? What had she done? Because neither of them were ignorant of Chelsea Paris and the sort of girl she was. And the way they were seeing it was that Chelsea must have really, really done something bad this time around to get a reaction like that out of Macy Merchant, of all people.

  Yes, they wanted to know why.

  And as Macy walked down Colidge Street, making for 7th Avenue and Rush Street, she wanted to know why, too.

  She saw Kathleen Soames standing on her porch. She waved.

  She kept walking, aware only of the thoughts that filled her head and this was enough. Clutching her books to her chest, her head slumped down, she stared at the sidewalk. The cracks in it. The anthills blossoming every few feet.

  The thing that absolutely terrified her about it all is that she had felt no control, as if someone or something else had simply taken over. She wondered if that’s how crazy people felt when they opened up with a gun in a supermarket or took an axe after somebody, like they were not really to blame, that it had been someone or something else, some terrible urge that had taken control of them completely, one they were powerless to stop.

  Is that how it was?

  Was she now in that category?

  God, there’d never been anything like this, no indication that she was crazy. She had bad thoughts like anyone else, but she’d never hurt a fly before in her life. Right then, despite the fear and sadness, she did not feel essentially different than she had two weeks before or two years before. And that was the scary thing…would it happen again? Just out of the blue would she attack someone? And have no control over it when it happened?

  What a mess, what a terrible mess.

  Maybe she had a chemical imbalance like schizophrenia or one of those things they’d learned about in Personal Psych last year. Multiple personalities. Good Macy and bad Macy. If that was true, then there would be medications and therapy. Regardless, her life would never be the same again. At school, she would be tagged as a psycho by some and be a hero to all the others who’d always wanted to put Chelsea Paris in her place but had never dared. Yeah, that was some kind of fame. The sort of fame she could live without.

  Mom would not be happy with any of it.

  Macy’s dad had died when she was five from a heart attack and, although she could not remember exactly what her mom was like before that, she had a pretty good idea that her mom was not a drunk. That she was capable of holding onto a job for more than two or three months at a crack. And that she had not been sleeping with anyone she happened to run into at the bar.

  At least, she hoped so.

  But the truth was that sometimes it was really hard to say who was doing the parenting. There was only the two of them now and mom was usually pretty hung over which dumped just about everything in Macy’s lap. She generally did the cooking and washing and house cleaning. She was the one that balanced the checkbook when there was actually any money in it. If it needed doing, it fell on Macy. She knew what the gossip in the neighborhood was, the common assumption that mom was a drunken whore and that Macy, with no true parental supervision, would soon enough follow in her tracks. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, as they said.

  But they were all wrong.

  Macy did not smoke or drink or do drugs and at sixteen, she was still a virgin unlike Chelsea Paris, Shannon Kittery, and the rest of the pop squad. Maybe as far as the virginity thing went, there had been precious few opportunities because she was not a natural vixen with all the necessary equipment in place by the eighth grade. Still, even had she been like Chelsea or Shannon she did not think she would have hit the mattress as fast as they had. It was the same with drinking and drugs, all the other assorted temptations that commonly led teenagers astray.

  Macy did not indulge because she chose not to.

  Maybe she had self-control and maybe she had self-respect and maybe she was more emotionally mature than her peers. Regardless, she set a high standard for herself and sometimes she wondered if it was because of her mother and her father. Her mother because Macy was honestly embarrassed at what mom was and had no desire to be like her. And dad because he had died young and Macy had never gotten a chance to really know him, but she felt that she owed it to his memory to conduct herself in a way that would have made him proud.

  Macy, of course, never admitted this to anyone, let alone mom.

  Because mom didn’t like to talk about dad. Whenever his name was mentioned she dropped into one of her funks and the only person who could get her out of it was Jim Beam. Macy sometimes thought that mom wanted her to run wild, would have been much happier if her only daughter fell from grace, stopped being such a “goody-two-shoes” as she often called her.

  And how was that for parenting?

  Mom would get a kick out of this, though. Macy attacking another girl and getting suspended—dear God, suspended—pending an investigation. Macy had a funny feeling she would laugh when she heard, say something stupid like, well, well, you’re just like the rest of us after all, aren’t you?

  And that was the thing, wasn’t it?

  Macy did not want to be like the rest.

  She worked hard, studied hard, set high standards for herself to follow and now that had all come crashing down. She’d assaulted Chelsea Paris. Of all the impossible, unexplainable things.

  She’d never live this down.

  Half way down 7th, Macy suddenly looked up.

  Looked up and couldn’t believe what she was seeing…

  14

  The Hack twins, Mike and Matt, were standing on the sidewalk, lording over a pile of rocks, and casually tossing them at a minivan parked at the curb. Macy just stood there, watching as the boys threw them one after the other. The windows were spider webbed from the impacts, the doors and quarter panels scratched and dinged in.

  Macy couldn’t believe it.

  She’d babysat the two of them off and on for the past three years. They were monsters at heart, but they were not wantonly destructive like this.

  “Mikey!” she called out. “Matt! What do you think you’re doing?”

  They looked over at her, smiled in recognition, and began throwing rocks again. The impacts were loud enough so that everyone in the neighborhood must have been hearing them, but nobody was paying any attention. Mr. Chalmers was even sitting out on his porch in plain view, just reading his paper.

  “We’re throwing rocks,” Mike said with typical ten-year old honesty.

  Macy rushed over to them. “Stop it! What the heck is wrong with you two? Can’t you see you’re wrecking that minivan? Your mom will go nuts! God, what’s wrong with you two?”

  Mike scratched his sandy-blonde hair. “Mom said we could.”

  “Yeah,” Matt agreed, “that’s what she said.”

  Macy just shook her head. “Oh, I’ll just bet she did.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Mike said. “You better go.”

  “Mikey…”

  Matt stared at her and his eyes were funny. “Get out of here! You don’t belong here!”

  As Matt said that, Mike was behind her, too close for Macy’s liking. And what he was doing…this is what made her jump away and give Mike a shove that planted him squarely on his ass.

  He’d been sniffing her.

  Like a dog.

  Sniffing her ass.

  Mike got up, looked like he was fighting against something. “Maybe…maybe you better just go, Macy. Things are different now. Things can happen.”

  “That’s it,” Macy said, reaching out and snaring Matt by the wrist. “You’re coming inside right now, the both of you.”

  But Matt yanked his wrist free.

  Macy took a step back when she got a real good look at what was in his eyes. Neither of them had ever been openly defiant like this, but now they were not just defiant but almost savage. Their freckled faces were damp with swe
at, hair plastered to their foreheads. And those eyes…so intense and hating, almost reflective like black glass.

  Macy suddenly felt a shift of power around her.

  The boys were not afraid of her. Not in the least. In fact, they were looking at her with no fear whatsoever and something even deeper and more caustic like absolute hate. They looked like animals, like they wanted to take her down with teeth and claws, guts her right there on the sidewalk.

  “You guys…you better go in,” she said.

  Mike grinned at her. “Fuck you,” he said.

  “What?”

  Macy stepped forward to grab him, even though the idea of touching the boy was suddenly repulsive to her. She stepped forward and Matt kicked her in the shin. Mike punched her in the arm. And then they both took hold of her and she had to fight with everything she had to throw them off. Her books went one way and she went the other. She made it maybe ten feet when the first rock struck her in the back. Then another glanced off her brow, slicing her open.

  “Stop it!” she cried. “That hurt! You better stop it right now!”

  But they weren’t going to stop and she knew it.

  They had gone crazy, the both of them. Something in them had just snapped and she could not only see it in their eyes, she could smell it wafting off of them in a hot, pungent odor. Trying to reason with them now was like trying to reason with wild dogs that were intent on taking you down. Another rock hit her in the stomach, another in the crook of her arm and hard enough so that it went numb right down to the wrist.

  Macy ran.

  The boys came after, flinging stones at her with everything they had. Rocks glanced off her back, whistled over her head. She outdistanced them quickly, vaulting over the hedges and running right up to Mr. Chalmers’ porch. The boys hopped the hedges and then skidded to a halt when they saw him.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Mr. Chalmers said. “Why’re you boys chasing this girl? That you, Macy?”

  “Yes,” she panted. “They’ve gone nuts! They’re pegging me with rocks!”

  “They are, eh?” Mr. Chalmers tucked his reading glasses in his shirt pocket and set his paper aside. “What the hell’s got into you boys?”