The Devil Next Door Page 8

  “What’s going on?” she asked him. “It wasn’t like this this morning.”

  “No, it doesn’t make sense. But a lot of people in this town have just went off the deep end.”

  “I’ve been hearing sirens all the way home from school.”

  “Yeah, I think we’ll be hearing them for awhile. Until this stops.”

  Macy just nodded, staring down at her feet.

  Louis wanted to say something to her that would make it better, make her not worry or be afraid. He figured that’s what adults were supposed to do with kids, but the problem was he couldn’t think of anything. He had been looking for something that would make himself feel better, too, but he hadn’t been able to find it. Maybe if he had been a parent, he could have. Maybe he’d be well-practiced in the art of clever, consoling bullshit. But he had no kids. Michelle couldn’t have any and he’d just accepted that, as she had. And as a result, he was simply no good at this.

  Macy looked up at him. “What if this doesn’t stop?”

  “Well, it has to.”

  “Why?”

  Well, there was a good one. The simple logic of it floored him. “Because…because it has to, that’s why. I mean, the entire town hasn’t gone crazy, just some people. I’m not nuts, though I probably look it, and you aren’t either. I don’t imagine everyone at school was or you wouldn’t be here. Am I right?”

  She nodded. “I guess. But what about everywhere else?”

  “Let’s just worry about Greenlawn for now.”

  Louis went and sat beside her.

  He liked Macy. Everyone in the neighborhood liked Macy. Maybe part of it was Jillian, her mother, white trash if he’d ever seen white trash, but mostly it was just because Macy was, well, likeable. She wasn’t a stuck-up, eye-rolling, empty-headed, self-absorbed princess like a lot of girls her age. She was a good kid. She was smart and sincere, mature and very funny when you caught her off guard or she relaxed around you.

  Louis just looked at her, smiling.

  If he had a girl of his own, he’d want her to be Macy. She was small and thin, blatantly sexual around the mouth and eyes, almost hungry-looking. Although her curves were definitely making themselves known, she had not really blossomed completely yet, but judging from Jillian who pretty much had everything in the right place, when that happened Macy would be fighting off the boys with a sharp stick. Her eyes were huge and liquid brown, shimmering. They lit up her face. Why the boys weren’t after her now, Louis did not know. Maybe you had to be older to appreciate a calm, understated beauty like Macy had or to revel in her almost sensual schoolgirl charm…things she probably didn’t even know she possessed.

  He found that he was staring at her and she was watching him do so, a slight blush blooming in her cheeks.

  Oh Christ, he thought, did she know what I was thinking?

  She turned away and he wondered what had gotten him on that train of thought.

  Louis and Michelle had only lived on upper Rush Street for the past four years, but they knew all the local gossip. Macy’s father had died when she was very young and Jillian had just crashed and burned, becoming a drunk that played it pretty free and easy with men of any age, if you could believe all that was said. One thing that was true, though, was that Jillian had never recovered from her husband’s death and had retreated to her eighteenth year where she still was, an adult woman with a child who acted like a wild college girl out sowing her oats for the first time. It was too bad. Macy probably needed her mom to be a mom, but that just wasn’t going to happen. Around the neighborhood they said that Macy had raised herself. That she took care of the house and just about everything else, including her mother.

  Louis did not doubt that part of it.

  Every summer, Michelle and he threw a neighborhood bash. There was beer and pop, hamburgers and hot dogs. Just a social event where all the neighbors and their kids could spend some time together, get to know each other better. And Jillian always came, of course. Sometimes she just got drunk and sometimes she got really loaded and fell flat on her face. Sometimes she picked fights with the other women, but mostly she just pursued their husbands in ways that were practically indescribable. That first summer when Louis and Michelle had spread the word, Dick Starling, a heavy equipment operator that worked for Indian Central Railroad and lived across the street, had taken Louis aside and over a few beers, laid it all out for him.

  “This is a pretty good neighborhood, but we got a few odd ducks here,” Starling said. “I think everyone will show for your party. Old man Onsala won’t. He’s a crazy old Finnlander. You can always tell the Finnlanders by the pile of firewood in their front yards. They like to hang gutted deer in the front yard come season. Onsala don’t like anyone, barely speaks anything but Finnish. Les Maub and his wife’ll come, but not if you invite the Soderbergs. Bonnie Maub and Leslie Soderberg have been fighting about something since 1963 and they still won’t talk to each other. They won’t show. On the other hand, Jillian Merchant will show and that’s not necessarily a good thing. But if there’s booze, she’ll be there. Oh yes, Lou, count on that. She’s not bad looking, you know? Long legs and nice set of jugs on her. You’ll get a look at her and you’ll be thinking what every man in this neighborhood has already thought: that you wouldn’t mind getting into that shit, having a little fun. But you won’t, buddy, you won’t dare because she’s nuts.”

  That was Louis’ first introduction to Jillian Merchant.

  The party that year came and Jillian came with it. She was actually quite attractive, like Dick Starling said, but her eyes were wild and hungry-looking. The more liquor she poured into herself, the hungrier those eyes became until she was scoping out the men at the party like a dog sizing up red meat, wondering which cut to take a bite out of first. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt which put her long, slender legs on fine display right up to the thigh. She completed the look with a tight tube top that barely contained her cleavage. She kept drinking and making the rounds and anytime she found a lone man, she hopped right on his lap and gave him a free bump and grind, whether his wife was present or not. Louis had managed to keep his distance as she moved around, flirting and running up to the men like a horny feline. But, finally, she cornered him. Right there by the keg of beer she was all over him, asking him to give her a private tour of his bedroom.

  Louis couldn’t believe it.

  With Michelle there, too.

  Jillian was just out of control and liked it that way, apparently. Later, playing cards with the boys at the picnic table, Jillian had zeroed in on him again. She kept hanging around and sticking her tits in his face while the other guys chuckled about it. Louis kept her away from him, but he did not realize the level of her determination until she went right up to Michelle and asked, “You mind if I give your husband a lap dance?”

  Michelle claimed later she thought it was a joke, even though she should have known better by that point. “Um…no…yes…no, I don’t care,” Michelle had said.

  The stage was set. Jillian jumped right on Louis’ lap, facing him yet, her tits pressed into his chest and her crotch right up against his own, her miniskirt practically pushed up to her hips. She went right at it, moving her ass and legs with almost professional zeal, grinding into him and making him first turn red, then start to sweat. He could feel the heat of what was between her legs just fine. He put a stop to it then and there, figuring he better before something embarrassing popped up in his pants. He pulled Jillian off of him, but she came right back, wrapping her arms around him and one of her long legs, trapping him, encircling him. Finally, all the boys laughing at him, he picked Jillian up to carry her back to her own seat and that was a mistake. For as he threw her over his shoulder, drunk himself, he saw the looks on everyone’s faces. What happened was, with Jillian over his shoulder, everyone saw that she had no underwear on. Her skirt had really hiked up to her hips and there was her fine, round ass on display along with her business.

  The women wer
e either laughing or angry; the men laughing, too, or just staring with delight at all Jillian had to offer which was considerable. Most of them had not seen such an offering since their high school days…at least not in such wonderful proportions. Dick Starling, being the smartass he was, snapped a shot of that embarrassing moment with his digital camera: Louis standing there looking surprised, Jillian over his shoulder, one tit popped out of her tube top, legs kicking, ass and privates on full display. He liked to bring that picture out and show it to Louis whenever he came over.

  And, of course, Michelle never let him live it down.

  But that was, essentially, Louis’ first taste of Macy’s mother and each summer since she put on a similar show at the backyard parties. The sad thing was that Jillian carried on like that right in front of her daughter, had absolutely no qualms about it. Louis was not a parent, but even he knew there were things you did in front of children and those you did not.

  Macy sat there with him beside her for five or ten minutes before she spoke again. “But it’s all funny, isn’t it? Funny/scary? I mean, I can see a couple people losing it on the same day…but like this? Aren’t the odds against dozens of people going whacko on the same day, the same afternoon? Or thousands across the country?”

  “Yeah, I guess they would be.”

  “Insanity—if that’s what this is, Mr. Shears—isn’t catchy. It’s not a disease, a germ, a microbe, whatever. It does not pass from person to person.”

  Well, he couldn’t argue with any of that.

  It made him think of all those end-of-the-world movies he’d caught on the late show. There was always, ultimately, something to blame. An atomic bomb or a mutant germ or chemical warfare…something that made people change into monsters or crazies. There was always something. He could rule out radiation, he supposed, but the jury was still out on the biological or chemical agents. But if it was something like that, something in the soil or water or air, why hadn’t he been infected? That dying kid surely had it, whatever it was, and Louis had been in pretty goddamn close proximity with him.

  Shouldn’t he have been contaminated?

  But what if it’s nothing that simple, nothing that quantifiable, Louis. Not a germ or a chemical. Then that would make it even worse, wouldn’t it? The idea that what’s happening here and everywhere will keep happening until the streets are filled with bodies until there’s no bodies left?

  Yeah, that was somehow worse.

  That there was a force or influence that could change people into savage, brutal things. Yeah, that was terrifying. There would be no safeguard against it. Whatever it was, it was absolutely fucking dangerous. Equally as lethal, as far as the human race was concerned, as thermonuclear weapons or an unstoppable plague. Hadn’t Einstein said something to the effect that if the Third World War were fought with atomic bombs, that the Fourth would be fought with bow and arrow? Yes, civilization would be utterly destroyed. From the rocket age to the stone age in five minutes, as they said. And wasn’t this like that? Something that could take men and women, strip their civilization away, turn them into primal, violent monsters just as bad?

  Louis stopped himself there.

  No point getting carried away. Not yet. This all might blow over or maybe it already had and there would be nothing left but a lot of questions when it was done. He didn’t believe it was done with. Maybe he couldn’t believe it. All he knew for sure was that whatever was out there doing this, it was terribly dangerous. But for now all he could think of was getting Michelle home and getting Macy safe. That’s what counted.

  “Macy,” he finally said. “I don’t know what this is about. But it’s not the end of the world.”

  “What if it’s the end of Greenlawn?”

  “Then we find another town.”

  “What if they’re all like this?”

  “Then we build a new one that isn’t.”

  Louis was liking his new pragmatic self. He had never been that way before this moment. He had had very little trouble in his life, a minimum of adversity, so like most people, he fell apart when things got rough. But that was no way to be. This would be sorted out and it would be sorted out by people like him one step at a time.

  “Is your mom home?”

  Macy just shrugged. “They called her from the school, but there was no answer. She’s probably sleeping one off.”

  “Why did the school call?” he asked, realizing it was probably none of his damn business.

  Macy was studying her tennis shoes again. “Um…well, I suppose I should tell you. You’ll hear about it sooner or later anyway.”

  She told him briefly about the Chelsea Paris incident. He nodded as she spoke, but did not seem judgmental.

  “And you think that whatever’s getting to these people got to you, too?”

  Macy just shrugged. “It had to have, Mr. Shears. God, I wouldn’t do something like that. I don’t even swat flies. I catch them and let them go outside. I don’t like hurting anything or anyone. It’s…it’s just not me.”

  Louis didn’t think it was either. But it brought up an interesting idea and that was that maybe it would just go away. This madness. Maybe it was temporary. That gave him some hope, at any rate.

  He patted Macy on the wrist. “Let’s go see if your mom’s around.”

  As they stood up, a pickup truck passed on the street. It slowed as it came by, a couple tough looking teenage hoods in it. They stared at Louis and Macy and he stared right back. Gave ‘em everything right back in like doses. That wasn’t the way he was, either. He did not indulge in stupid staring contests with other men or play the my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours game. That was strictly for idiots with a total lack of self-esteem and self-worth. Yet, he did it right then. Those kids looked tough, looked mean—Louis was pretty certain they were infected—just out cruising for prey. What bothered him most was how they looked at Macy, like they were sizing her up for their stable.

  That pissed Louis off, so he gave them the hard look.

  They kept going.

  He wondered if the look he gave them was like what Mr. Chalmers had been doing: marking his territory. Maybe they sensed that he was willing to fight for what they thought belonged to him, so they went off in search of easier pickings. They said dogs could smell fear on you and maybe these people could, too. Like the old adage went, if you don’t want to be a victim, then don’t act like one.

  “Come on,” Macy said.

  They went up to the door and paused there, Macy reaching out and taking hold of his hand. He clenched it, liking the feel of another sane person nearby.

  “What if she’s…what if she’s crazy, too?” Macy said.

  “Then we’ll deal with it,” Louis told her.

  He went to the door and threw it open. The house was silent inside. No TV or radio going, not so much as a toilet running. Just that immense dead silence that in its own way told him that there was no one there, no one alive at any rate.

  “Let’s go,” Louis said, pulling her across the threshold with him.

  And soon as he crossed and stood inside on the worn shag carpeting, something inside him plummeted very low and he waited for whatever was coming. Because it was coming and it was going to be bad. Real bad…

  17

  There had been a foul wind blowing through Greenlawn all day and it was only a matter of time before it reached the door of Kathleen Soames, settled there in a ghastly miasma of rot. She had been expecting it.

  She had felt it inside herself more than once that afternoon, something boiling, something simmering, something making her think things and want to do others.

  Alien things, awful things.

  Things she was not capable of.

  But it had been there, scratching away in her brain, a darkness and a dankness and an awfulness. A shadow that had fallen over the town was trying to fill her head with shades and unthinkable impulses. Sometimes she was sure it was her imagination and at other times she was sure it was not. For sometimes it was as
palpable as cold hands ringing her throat or moldy breath in her face, a hot voice whispering in her ear.

  She had told Steve about it twice now, but Steve was not interested.

  Steve said it was her nerves. That she was just tired. She needed a good rest. Her nerves and the muggy heat of late August were brewing up a storm in her mind. She’d been working too hard again, trying to keep house and do her gardening and taking care of the kids and waiting hand and foot on Mother Soames upstairs. Christ, that crazy old woman was enough in herself to wear you to the bone. What she needed was a drink and nap. He’d take care of supper. When Ryan got home from his paper route, the two of them would make a nice supper while she slept.

  And it was nice, really nice of Steve to offer.

  During the whole of that long, listless, and somewhat upsetting day, it was the first thing that had made her smile. Maybe Steve was right. She’d been nervous all day…stomach upset, rolling in waves more often than not; hands shaking; face sweating. She kept screwing up the most simple tasks. Dropping things, knocking things off shelves. She’d tripped on the stairs twice that afternoon when she went up to look in on Mother Soames. She’d cut her fingers with a knife making the old lady’s lunch and bumped her head on the same cupboard door three times. Nothing was right. The town, the neighborhood, the house, and, yes, even Kathleen herself. Off kilter. Askew. Something.

  Like a door, she was either open too wide or not wide enough.

  And when she tried to sort it out, to make sense of it, all she got was confused. She’d tried to settle in with her soaps that afternoon while Ryan was still in school and Mother Soames was napping, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Couldn’t sit still. The TV was too loud or too soft and the pictures were too bright, too hard on her eyes. She looked, but none of it made sense. The storylines were as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics.

  It was a hot day, but not so hot that even in the cool of the living room she should have sweated, felt dizzy, felt the need to vomit, been on her knees before the toilet some four times in one hour. Not that anything came of it: just wracking dry heaves that left her breathless and frightened, her head spinning and her temples pounding, her throat tight as braided rope and feeling as if it was coated in a fine, scratchy fuzz.