Locked Doors - Crouch Blake (читаем книги онлайн .TXT) 📗

Luther kneels down, stows the boy beneath the table.  Then he moves on into the dining room, turns right, and passes through a wide archway into the den.

Plushycushioned furniture has been arranged in a semicircle around the undeniable focal point of the room: a gargantuan television with satellite speakers positioned strategically in every corner for a maximum auditory experience.  A third Tupperware bowl has been abandoned between two pillows on the floor.  Bending down, he scoops out a handful of popcorn and crams it into his mouth.

He walks to the edge of the hallway, eyes still adjusting to the navy darkness.  The electronic snoring of the kitchen cannot be heard from this corridor of the house.  But there are other sounds: the toilet runs; a showerhead drips onto ceramic; three human beings breathe heavily in oblivious comfort.  Beneath this soundtrack of suburban sleep the central heating whispers on and on, safe as his mother’s heartbeat.

Luther stands in the hallway scraping chunks of popcorn from his molars, thinking, They need this noise.  They would go mad without it.  They think this is silence…they have never known silence.

He steps through the first doorway on the right, a bathroom.  Opening the medicine cabinet above the sink, he takes out a box of grape-flavored dental floss.  When his teeth are clean to his satisfaction he returns the floss to its shelf and closes the cabinet.  Stepping back into the hall he tiptoes across the carpet into the first room on the left.

A black and orange sticker on the door reads “Private—Keep Out!” and below it in stenciled characters: “Hank’s Hideout.”

The room is tidy—no toys on the floor, beanbags pushed into the corners.

A dozen model airplanes and helicopters hang by wires from the ceiling.

A B-25 sits near completion on a desk.  Only the wings and the ball turret remain to be affixed.

He smells the glue.

A bevy of Little League trophies lines the top of a dresser, each golden plastic boy facing the bed, frozen in midswing.  Luther reads the engraving on the base of one of the trophies.

Hank’s team is called The Lean, Mean, Fighting Machine.

He won the sportsmanship award last year.

Removing his backpack, Luther lies down beside Hank atop a bedspread patterned with a map of the constellations.  The boy sleeps on his side, his back to the intruder.  Luther watches him for a moment under the orange gleam of a nightlight, wondering what it must feel like to have a son.

Because he’s dreaming, the boy’s neck snaps more easily than his little brother’s.

Luther rises, unzips the backpack.  He takes out the gun, the handcuffs, the tape recorder, Orson’s bowie.  The gun is not loaded.  Silencers are hard to come by and under no condition will he fire a .357 at two in the morning in a neighborhood like this.

Slipping the handcuffs into his pocket, he moves back into the hall and arrives at last in the threshold of the master bedroom where Zach and Theresa Worthington sleep.

In the absence of a nightlight the room is all shape and shadow.

He would prefer to stand here, watching them from the doorway for an hour, glutting himself on anticipation.  But this isn’t his only project tonight and the sun will be up in four hours.

So Luther sets the tape recorder on a nearby dresser and presses record.  Then he thumbs back the hammer on the .357 and strokes the light switch with his latex finger though he does not flip it yet.

Zach Worthington shifts in bed.

“Theresa,” he mumbles.  “Trese?”

A half-conscious answer: “Wha?”

Luther’s loins tingle.

“I think one of the kids are up.”

13

ELIZABETH Lancing couldn’t sleep.  She’d gone on her first date with Todd Ramsey tonight and a spectrum of emotions swarmed inside her head, giddiness to guilt.  Todd had taken her to a French restaurant in Charlotte called The Melting Pot.  Initially she’d been horrified at the prospect of making conversation over three hours of fondue but Todd was charming and they’d fallen into easy conversation.

They started out discussing their law firm where Todd had just made partner and Beth had been a legal administrator for five years.  At first they resisted the gossip but Womble & Sloop was a rowdy firm and the fodder was bottomless and irresistible.  This transitioned into a brief exchange on their philosophies of employment and how neither of them knew anyone whose work afforded absolute fulfillment.  They posited finally that the ideal job did exist but that finding it was such an excruciating chore most people preferred instead to suffer moderate unhappiness over an entire career.

Toward the end of dinner, as they dipped melon balls and strawberries into a pot of scalding chocolate, the conversation took an intimate turn.  They sat close, basked in prolonged eye contact, and compared only the idyllic slivers of their childhoods.

Beth knew that Todd had been recently divorced.  He was well aware that her husband had disappeared seven years ago through some mysterious connection to Andrew Thomas.  But neither came within a hundred miles of the other’s baggage.

After dinner Todd took her home.  It was eleven o’clock and cruising north up a vacated I-77, Beth watched the pavement pass, mesmeric in the headlights.  Riding with Todd she felt foreign to herself in a fresh and frightening way.  Like the start of college and autumn.  Not a thirty-eight-year-old single mother of two.

She came very near to holding his hand.

She wanted to.

Had he reached out she would not have pulled away.

But the part of her that had lived eleven years with another man and bore his children and experienced the loss of him quietly objected.  So she kept her hands flat against her newly-purchased sleek black A-line, partly out of fear, mostly out of respect, thinking, Next time perhaps but not tonight Walter.

Now Beth had climbed out of bed and come downstairs where she stood at the kitchen sink looking through the window at the black waters of Lake Norman, the moon high and lambent, an ivory sun in a navy sky.

The lake was no longer smooth.  An easy wind had put ripples through that black plate of water and disturbed the reflection of the moon.  Beth could hear the fluttering leaves and see them spiraling down out of sleeping trees into the frosting grass.

Next door, the Worthingtons’ rope swing had begun to sway—some wayward specter revisiting a childhood haunt at this wee hour of the morning.

The clock on the stove read 1:39.

She took a glass from the cabinet and filled it from a bottle of water.  Following those wonderful glasses of shiraz that had accompanied her supper, she was parched and downed the glass in one long gulp.

Instead of returning to bed, Beth walked through the dining room into the den and curled up on the sofa beneath an afghan.  She wasn’t remotely tired and this exacerbated her realization that it was now Monday and she would be staggering into work in six short hours.

Moonlight streamed through the French doors leading out onto the deck where the shadows cast by Adirondack chairs lengthened as the moon moved across the sky.

She wore an old satin teddy Walter had given her years ago for Valentine’s Day.  Because all the lights were off downstairs, when she crinkled the fabric the blue crackling of static electricity was visible as it danced in the satin.

She ruminated on Walter.  He was more vivid in her mind than he’d been in a long while.  What she felt toward him wasn’t sadness or nostalgia or even love.  It was beyond an emotion she could name.  She thought of him now as light and time and energy—a being her earthbound soul could not begin to comprehend.  Did he watch her now? she wondered.  From some unfathomable dimension?  She had the warmest inkling they would meet again as pure souls in the space between stars.  They would communicate their essences to one another and luminously merge, becoming a single brilliant entity.  This was her afterlife, to be with him again in some inconceivable form.