The Halloween Children Page 3

  I should have looked in the oven more closely.

  Five minutes later, smoke was pouring out of the kitchen and the smoke detector was blaring like a stuck pig.

  I spilled my wine in my hurry, jumping off the couch, and I threw open the oven door and quickly found the source of the smoke: not my cake, but the dozen green army men someone had hidden on the back of the bottom rack.

  Now, who could that have been, right?

  I didn’t even know Matt owned army men, but Amber certainly didn’t and even if she did, she wouldn’t have done something as stupid as putting plastic toys in the oven.

  By the time I extinguished the small fire and opened all of the windows, the smoke detector was silent again, but the shuffling feet upstairs certainly were not.

  These were heavy, angry steps.

  Then came the pounding from above: thump, thump, thump.

  As if upstairs guy had a cane and was using it to make a point.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  I have to admit, this pissed me off.

  Not only was the cake ruined, and not only had my son pulled another one of his stupid pranks on me, but now the jerk upstairs was making a ruckus to prove some stupid point about the noise, which was ironic because he was the noisy upstairs guy.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  My patience was already at my limit, and I realized that if he did it one more time, I was probably going to go up there and give him a piece of my mind.

  But then I heard something else, something that kind of freaked me out.

  It almost sounded like a voice whispering: Help me.

  I looked around the apartment, thinking maybe I was hearing a neighbor’s television or radio.

  Help me.

  And then:

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Finally, I understood: Something was wrong with upstairs guy and he was trying to get my attention!

  I ran out the front door of my apartment, down the hallway, and up the stairs two at a time, feeling like a horse’s ass for my overly critical thoughts that had been pointed in my neighbor’s direction just seconds earlier.

  What if he was dying? What a great neighbor I was, right?

  I pounded on the door and yelled, “Are you okay? I’m here to help!”

  A long time passed, and I stood there thinking about all of the various bad things that could have happened to our Mr. Stompy—heart attack, stroke, intruder—until finally I heard the lock being turned and the door swung open.

  A small, bookish man stood there, his eyes enlarged by Coke-bottle eyeglasses the likes of which I thought vanished in the 1960s.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, out of breath.

  “Of course I am, Mrs. Naylor. Are you?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s on your mail, which the cursed mailman often puts in my box by mistake, of course. You and your family are the tenants of the apartment directly below my humble home. My name is Mr. Johansson.”

  I laughed, realizing that I had again instantly thought the worst thing possible about upstairs guy.

  Of course he knew our names from the frequent mail mix-ups.

  If you came in the front door and found your misdirected mail sitting on the table in the lobby, that was due to the kindness of a neighbor who didn’t drop it in the trash can, which was closer.

  “Mr. Johansson, this will probably sound silly, but were you just whispering ‘Help me’ through the floor?”

  “My dear,” he said with a giggle, “I try not to ever whisper anything to the floor. You never know who might be listening in an old building like this. Would you like to come in for a spot of tea?”

  I considered his offer and then politely declined, deciding we had probably gotten to know each other well enough for one day.

  But later, when I was lying awake that night, unable to sleep thanks to Harris’s snoring, I thought about the voice I thought I had heard.

  Where could it have come from?

  Harris

  As I was taking around those Halloween notices, I mentally rearranged the other tasks so I could complete them along the way. If I planned ahead like this, it kept me from having to double back.

  Besides, posting the notices was always more of a nuisance than you might think. In addition to taping one to each door, I was supposed to pin one to the announcement board in every building. These boards hung next to the mailboxes in each entryway, and they were covered with a locked panel of sliding Plexiglas. God forbid that anybody could easily post a “Babysitter Available” flyer or “Computer Desk for Sale” page with tear-off phone number tabs. No such luck. Shawna didn’t want that kind of foolishness to get confused with her official proclamations.

  Except it didn’t take a brain surgeon to circumvent her security measures. People would tape their own messages on the outside of the glass—frequently covering up Shawna’s notices beneath. Or they would slide a homemade flyer behind the glass panel, hoping it would land faceup on the locked side.

  And guess who was supposed to clear away these unauthorized postings? Well, I’d do it in a halfhearted way, at least to make sure the latest Stillbrook memo got clear viewing for a day or so. An hour or so.

  In building four, I pulled one of the flyers from Shawna’s envelope. As usual, the stupid little key-and-ratchet lock didn’t work so well, so I had to stand there and jiggle and rattle the thing until it unlatched, then scrape the Plexiglas aside to get to the corkboard. I crumpled away some index cards advertising a local cleaning service, thumb-tacked the Halloween notice, then closed and relocked the plastic covering. The front Plexiglas was speckled with torn corners of paper beneath bits of tape residue, but the trick-or-treat memo was mostly legible through the clear plastic—including the consent lines at the bottom, which struck me as funny, since nobody’d be able to get past Fort Knox to sign this particular copy.

  I was heading to the top floor for Joanne Huff’s latest repair issue when a loud screech nearly made me drop my toolkit. It was a horrible noise like grating metal and a terrified child shrieking beyond language, as if a kid’s hair got caught in the gears of some bladed farm implement and he was being pulled into its grinding teeth.

  I’d heard the sound before, of course, but it always startled me whenever I was this close. I don’t know how the other residents could stand it.

  Marie and Todd Durkins on the ground floor owned this ugly, exotic bird. Some variation of macaw or parrot or cockatoo, but according to Shawna this one supposedly cost them a thousand dollars. They really overpaid, though, since it was supposed to learn and repeat clever little phrases, but all it did was squawk like it was being tortured. The identical awful noise, every time, but you could never grow used to it. The sound occurred randomly, and just when you’d forgotten about it—settled into some elusive calm after dinner, or drifted toward a satisfying sleep—well, that’s when another half-human screech intruded and startled you into a brief panic. It must have been some kind of primal reaction, because I swear just about every time I’d think, It’s a child. Oh, God, some poor child’s been hurt…And then a split second later I would catch myself and remember, Shit, it’s just that damn bird again.

  Right there, right outside the Durkinses’ door? Scared me, yeah, and it was also like somebody had jammed knitting needles into my eardrums.

  Thing is, we’re not allowed to have pets at Stillbrook. The Durkinses got away with it, though, since for some reason Shawna defined pets as cats or dogs, period. Maybe bigger things, too, like horses or Galapagos tortoises or something. Unit A in building seven has a rabbit that’s allowed—I had no problem with that decision, since I’d never seen or heard the twitchy-nosed critter—but this squawking terror was another matter. If the Durkinses can have that bird, why couldn’t Amber and Mattie get a cat, or a small dog, as long as it’s not too yappy? Well, when I asked, I got some anecdote about how “in River View, one of those innocent puppies destroyed the carpets and the kitchen cabinets, and
even a monthly pet fee wasn’t enough to cover the damage when the tenants moved out, blah, blah, blah.”

  This is a little embarrassing to admit, but here goes. We were kinda helpless with the rules and things, considering how inflexible Shawna was, and sometimes it brought out a little mischief in me. Stillbrook was a small enough development, which meant I pretty much knew people’s schedules and what their cars looked like in the main lot—so I could always gather who was home during the day and who wasn’t. If I knew the Durkinses were out, and the floor above was clear as well, I’d attempt a little vocal training on that bird.

  I’ve always loved those jokes about a parrot cursing during a fancy dinner party or when the preacher or Queen of England visits. It’s pretty funny imagining a snooty old royal or some sanctimonious blowhard’s shocked reaction after getting cussed out by an ill-trained pet. The humiliated owners trying to apologize, too, saying Birdie’s never said such things before…and all the while the parrot keeps repeating Suck my this and Stick it up your that.

  The Durkinses’ bird never learned a word from its owners, but who’s to say it might not respond to another voice? So I’d maybe speak into their keyhole or cup my hands against their door and whisper into the wood. A few playground-style words, real immature-like. An f-bomb once or twice was probably the worst I ever did. And a few phrases I’d imagine the bird speaking aloud. “Polly’s a twat.” That kind of thing.

  Probably more for my own amusement than anything else. I didn’t expect I was ever loud enough for the bird to hear.

  But this time, that Halloween flyer had me thinking in terms of trick-or-treat. If someone’s not home, you’re supposed to get revenge on them—and God knows the Durkinses and their damn bird needed some comeuppance for that awful nails-down-the-blackboard screech you could hear throughout the neighborhood. My righteous indignation made me a little bolder.

  I’d never crossed this line before, but I carried a master key as part of my maintenance job. I could get into anybody’s home when they weren’t there.

  I looked at the deadbolt. Lifted my key ring.

  Not really a risk, as long as I did something subtle. The Durkinses would never trace it back to me. Might not even discover it right away. At least, not until the preacher visited.

  Even if I was caught in the act, I could hold up my task list and say I got the apartment numbers confused. Whoops. No wonder the kitchen bulb was fine—I thought I was in building seven…

  I slid the master key in place, turned it to the left.

  Click.

  The same key worked in the door handle. I turned it, heard the latch pop on the inside knob.

  A wave of anxiety swept over me. The bird’s piercing squawks were rarely isolated. There’d likely be a few more to follow, perhaps even a machine-gun burst of high, shrill cries. If that awful klaxon blasted while I was inside the Durkinses’ apartment—louder because I was closer, because I’d stepped into a place where I didn’t belong—I think I might have had a heart attack. It would be like walking toward a ticking bomb, unaware when it might decide to explode. I’d cross the living room toward the wire-domed cage, covered with a black cloth to trick the bird into thinking it’s nighttime—as if that would stop the random cries, as if anything could stop those cries. Forget the cloth, then, let’s say the cage was uncovered, beady bird eyes following my movements, a feathered head tilting to the side to watch me through the bars, dirty wings twitching and the body swaying on its perch as the animal takes in a deep breath, prepared to…

  “Harris!”

  Sweet Christ, the damn thing knew my name. It shouted—

  “Harris! Is that you?”

  Not as loud as the bird, but nearly as shrill. Coming from the third floor. Mrs. Huff.

  My hand was still on the knob. I hadn’t turned it.

  Joanne Huff. On my task printout, her entry read as unit F, building six. Complaint: rattle in bathroom heating duct.

  “Be right there.” I locked the Durkinses’ apartment, then made my way up the stairs.

  “I thought I heard you. Called the office yesterday afternoon, so I knew you’d be here.” Joanne adjusted her speech as I got closer, as if she could intuit my exact position on the staircase, then push just enough into her voice to reach me. Her whole philosophy of life was like that, really: locating the point of minimal effort. “I can’t come to the door, so let yourself in. Use your keys.”

  Why couldn’t Joanne open her own damn door? Maybe she was still getting dressed, wet from the bath or shrugging into a nightgown. Maybe she was on the toilet and I’d hear a muffled flush as I unlocked her front door. Of course, she wanted everyone to believe she was an invalid, but her neighbors all knew better. It was rare to spot her outside the apartment, but on those occasions she always looked healthy enough, if a bit slow-moving. Joanne was in her mid-thirties, tall and a little clumsy, but I’m telling you she could get around fine without a cane or walker or whatever. Purposeful movements, and always with this guilty side-to-side glance, as if she was afraid some insurance rep might jump out of the bushes and snap an incriminating photo, claim he’d caught her lifting heavy boxes, dancing a jig, running a marathon.

  Joanne Huff was on disability of some kind. I always suspected she’d won an injury settlement against a previous employer: one of those deals where you figure out where the security cameras are, then find a slick, hard spot of floor to fall on. Oh, my neck, my back, my ankle, oh, oh, get help, something popped in my brain. Shawna would know the official story, at least, considering Stillbrook required background checks on housing applicants. There was probably information in the office files—depositions, medical forms, access regulations—but I didn’t expect my curiosity would be satisfied anytime soon. Shawna never told anybody what was in those files.

  After I unlocked the door and deadbolt on apartment F, I knocked lightly before entering.

  Joanne sat in a puffy mustard-colored armchair, situated in the living room like the captain’s command chair in whatever version of Star Trek you grew up watching. She had a TV nearly as big as the viewscreen on the Enterprise, though the sound was muted. “Good morning, Harris.” Her voice was firm, but with a little quaver. I’ve used that same trick at previous jobs when I faked a sick call. “Shut the door. I don’t want bugs getting in here.”

  I did as Joanne said, though I’d have preferred to leave it open behind me. She always made me uncomfortable. I think because I never really knew what was wrong with her. She looked mostly fine. Decent posture in the chair, all dressed in clean clothes, and her hair tucked under a terry-cloth cap, one of those weird fitted washcloths. One odd thing I noticed was that she wore two sweaters—a tan cardigan buttoned over a gray turtleneck—making her look a little bulkier. There might even have been a third sweater under the turtleneck.

  She started doing that sideways glance thing, as if to make sure I hadn’t brought someone else into her apartment with me. She made almost no physical effort to greet me. No attempt to swivel her chair in my direction, no turn of the head. If she lifted one hand in a feeble wave, I didn’t notice.

  Did it count as a disability if you could walk but didn’t want to?

  “Bathroom vent,” I said. “Some kind of rattle?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. It must have fixed itself.”

  “Okay.” I turned to leave, but then thought I heard the rattle myself. Funny thing was, the noise seemed to come from outside the room—maybe the apartment across the hall.

  “Since you’re here, do you mind…?” Again, Joanne barely moved, not even her lips as she spoke. Her eyes darted more to one side, downward slightly, indicating an end table beside her chair. I thought she was going to ask me to hand her the television remote, maybe even press the channel-change button for her. “My mailbox key. I’m expecting a package.”

  Probably her plan all along, but that kind of request wouldn’t merit a slot on the maintenance list. I set my toolbox on the floor. “Just this once,”
I said, suppressing a sigh as I lifted the small key from her end table.

  I don’t know why I agreed, since it set a bad precedent. She could submit other fake repairs, and then, Oh, while you’re here, Harris, do you mind taking that trash bag to the dumpster? And could you turn the page on this magazine I’m reading? I figured it was something to do with the stairs, since she managed to dress herself and cook and bathe, all without, as far as I knew, any nurse or friend or family member stopping by to help her.

  So yeah, I took her key and clomped down to the entryway and unlocked her mailbox. The little compartment was full, but not with the normal junk mail and bills. Instead, there were two packages: one cardboard box and a padded envelope that the mail carrier had bent and rolled around the box before stuffing them both in. I wished I hadn’t left my toolkit upstairs, since I could have used a couple of screwdrivers as pry bars, but eventually I tugged the box out, then managed to roll the envelope a little tighter so I could remove it without tearing the paper.

  When the box shook, I heard the telltale rattle of pills in plastic bottles—room for about three of them in there. The box was hand-addressed on brown paper, rather than with computer labels and a pharmaceutical logo. I unrolled the envelope and gave it a quick inspection. No return address. The white envelope was that tough textured plastic, nearly impossible to open without scissors. The inside was padded, so presumably the contents were undamaged. I could feel a few shapes beneath the surface. More like lumps, but when I tried to pinch one it moved aside.

  “Harris!”

  “Got it.” I clanged her mailbox shut, then locked it. As I headed up the stairs, I noticed an unpleasant odor, like rotten meat, but it dissipated before I got to Joanne’s apartment.

  “Two things,” I said. I handed the packages to her, but she didn’t lift her hands. Her eyes darted to the side, down slightly. I set the box and envelope on her end table. “Do you want me to open them for you?”

  “I’ll do it later.”

  “Oh. Three things, really.” I stepped over to my toolbox and the envelope of Halloween flyers. “This is for you, too. From the office.” I set one of the orange sheets on top of her packages, then turned to go.