Authors: R. L. Stine
“No. She was on assignment. I had my patients. You know. And my book.”
Chitchat, chitchat.
Mark suddenly had a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He rolled his desk chair in front of the couch and dropped into it. The room still smelled of Autumn’s lemony scent.
“Nice of you to drive out, Richard.”
Richard cleared his throat loudly. Adjusted his tie. “Well, I wanted to tell you in person. I didn’t think it was right to do it over the phone or by email. Too impersonal.”
“You mean—about the grant?” His voice suddenly tight.
“Yes. Should I come right to the point? I think I should. We’re not going to give you the grant, Mark.”
Can silence be loud?
To Mark the silence in the room seemed deafening. Without realizing it, he slammed his head back against the leather seatback, like someone showing shock in a cartoon.
“You mean . . . you’re not giving the whole amount? Only part?”
Richard sat even more erect. Mark saw a single bead of sweat appear above one brown eyebrow. “No. I came to offer our regrets. We can’t give you any of the grant money at this time.”
“But my studies . . .”
Why can’t I finish a sentence?
His hands left wet marks on the leather chair arms.
“We approve of your work. Wholeheartedly. That’s why we made the initial offer. We felt that your studies with juveniles would add considerably to the literature.”
Mark was distracted by movement at the office doorway. He turned and saw Samuel and Daniel standing there, hands in their jeans pockets, serious expressions on their pale faces.
“How long have you two been standing there?” He didn’t mean to sound so irritated. His mind was churning from the news of the grant money turndown. He should shout at Hulenberger, not the boys.
They didn’t reply. Both had their eyes on Hulenberger. Staring at him hard, as if giving him the evil eye. Then, without a word, they turned and vanished down the hall, bouncing a tennis ball on the floor.
He turned back to Hulenberger, who was defiantly gazing at him, not backing down, not avoiding his eyes after bringing this devastating news. Macho guy.
“So, Richard . . . Can you explain? If it isn’t my study . . .”
“It’s your book. Can I speak plainly? It’s the book. We understand why you wrote such an inflammatory thing. But that’s the problem in a word, see. It’s inflammatory.”
“But it’s a sincere study. It wasn’t skeptical in any way. I wasn’t just trying to make a buck with a piece of crappy pop psychology. I did my homework, Richard. I did years of research in addition to my own studies.”
Whoa. Blowing it. He’s sitting there coolly, and your voice is rising to soprano.
Richard kept his green-gray eyes on Mark, his face a blank. No emotion.
This man is a fish. I’ve seen eyes like that on a cod. He thinks he’s terrific. But he didn’t just fuck a beautiful twenty-three-year-old girl.
What am I thinking? Am I losing my mind?
“How can I say this, Mark? The book has attached a certain notoriety to you. I’m sure you won’t disagree with that.”
Mark didn’t reply.
“And the grant committee . . . well, we feel we can’t risk backing someone in your position, someone with that kind of controversy following him.”
Mark remained silent.
Richard sighed and shook his head. “The institute has such limited funds now. You know how much the government has cut our funding. They’re almost not subsidizing us at all. It’s a crime. This country will pay for the shortsightedness in Washington. In the meantime, we have to be very judicious about where we spend what little we have. And I’m afraid—”
Mark jumped to his feet, visibly startling his guest. “Okay. I get it. Thanks for coming out, Richard.”
Richard gazed up at him, swallowing hard. Mark realized he’d frightened the man. Richard thought Mark was about to get violent.
Maybe I should. Beat the crap out of him. What kind of notoriety would that bring me?
But he’d never been in a fight in his life. Not even on the playground. He’d never thrown a punch or wrestled another kid on the grass or come home with a black eye.
Mark was the good kid. The smart kid. The talker. The kid who was interested in how everything works. He always talked himself out of fights. He used
psychology
.
Richard finally climbed to his feet. He grabbed up his laptop case.
Why did he bring it? Did he just feel insecure without it?
He pulled out his phone and checked the screen. Then he tucked it back into his suit jacket. “I’m really sorry, Mark. I can see you are disappointed.”
“Yeah. That’s the word for it.”
“My only suggestion—if you want any advice from me—is to apply again in a few years.”
“A few years?”
“Yeah. Wait for the notoriety to die down. In a few years, people will forget your book, right?”
A smile crossed Mark’s face. “That isn’t exactly a compliment.”
Richard blushed. “You know what I mean. Wait for the controversy to fade. People have short attention spans. You know that, right? Apply again. I’m not guaranteeing anything, but—”
Mark led him to the door. “Do you believe in freedom of speech, Richard?”
“Well, yes. Of course.”
“But you don’t think I should put my findings and theories in a book?”
“I didn’t say that. The committee has to be careful. I know you understand that. You have a bestseller, Mark. No one begrudges you that. Some psychologists would
kill
for a bestseller like yours. This grant money—”
“Would have paid my mortgage for the next two years,” Mark interrupted. “And would have paid for my
next
book, which I hope will have the same notoriety.”
He pulled open the front door. He could see the twins playing catch at the side of Richard’s car.
“I’m sorry. I mean that sincerely.” Hulenberger stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m just the messenger here, you know. No hard feelings, I hope.”
Mark shook his hand. This time it was cold and damp. He watched him walk down the gravel drive to his car. He deposited the laptop in the passenger seat, glanced briefly back at Mark, then climbed behind the wheel.
One of the twins fumbled the tennis ball and went running down the driveway after it. “Be careful!” Mark shouted to them. “Get out of the way, boys. He’s going to back out!”
He didn’t watch Hulenberger drive away. Mark turned and walked into the house, feeling heavy, a headache forming just behind his forehead. He sighed.
I need a glass of wine.
He found Roz in the kitchen, stirring a pot of tomato sauce.
She had a gray long-sleeved T-shirt, torn at the neck, pulled down over the baggy denim cutoff shorts she wore nearly every day. She turned when he entered and read his expression. “Bad news?”
“You were listening?”
“No. The twins told me something bad was happening. That guy looked like the kind who’d bring bad news.”
Mark opened the refrigerator and pulled out an already opened bottle of Chablis. “Yeah, well. Bad news is right. I’m not getting the grant.”
She stopped stirring. “Because?”
“Because I’m too controversial.” He found a wineglass in the cabinet and poured it full. “Mainly, I think, because I’m too successful.”
“Yes. That’s your problem. You’re too successful and too rich.”
“I wish.” He took a long sip. “Guess I’m going to have to fill up my patient list. Put aside the next book for a while.”
The tennis ball bounced hard against the kitchen window. The thud made them both jump.
Roz smiled. “The twins are having fun.”
Mark took another drink. The wine wasn’t helping his headache. “Think they’re doing okay?”
“Yes. I think they’re happy. I know you don’t approve, but they love their little house back there. I’m surprised they’ve adjusted so well. Aren’t you?”
“I guess. I’d like to see a little more interaction between them and Ira and Elena. Of course, twins often keep to themselves.” He refilled his glass. The Chablis tasted a little sour. Or was that just his mood?
He thought about Hulenberger. The guy wasn’t actually smug, but he was totally unlikable.
“Can I change the subject?” Roz broke into his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking I need a night off. You know?”
“A night off? You have a date?”
“Is that
your
business? I just need a night off. Think you could hold down the fort? Watch Axl for me? You know. Take care of him for a few hours without killing him?”
Mark grinned. “Axl and I get along fine. I stuff him full of Oreos and tortilla chips and he’s a good boy.”
“That’s what makes you a good psychologist.”
“Lea gets home tomorrow night. Maybe she and I will have a special playdate with Axl.”
“Sounds like a plan. Go tell our four boarders it’s dinnertime, okay?”
Carrying his wineglass, Mark walked to the stairs and shouted up to Ira and Elena. “Dinner. Come down. Now. Okay?”
He opened the front door and shouted to the twins. “Dinner!” But they had disappeared, probably to their house in back. The tennis ball lay in the driveway in front of Hulenberger’s car.
Huh?
The wineglass nearly slipped from his hand. Something was wrong. Hulenberger’s Audi was still in the drive.
Mark stepped out onto the stoop and squinted into the evening light. Yes. Hulenberger sat behind the wheel. Not moving. And his head . . . it was tilted back, way back.
Wrong. All wrong.
Something was terribly wrong.
“Richard? Hey! Richard?” he shouted.
Hulenberger didn’t move.
“Richard! Hey—what’s wrong? Are you okay?” He shouted louder with his hands cupped around his mouth.
No. The man didn’t move.
Mark started to jog toward the car. But he stopped halfway. Hulenberger’s head . . . it wasn’t right.
He spun away, his mind whirling. From the wine. From the headache. So hard to think clearly.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
What has happened here?
“Richard? Can you answer me?”
A tightness gripped Mark’s chest. A wave of cold washed over his body, a cold he’d never felt before.
He lurched to the car. What was splattered over the windshield? “Richard? Richard?” Breathing hard, he gazed into the open window.
Grabbed the bottom of the window with both hands. Leaned toward the wheel.
And screamed. A long, shrill scream of horror from somewhere deep in his throat.
“No! Fucking no! Oh my God! Oh, shit. Oh my God!”
Dark blood splattered the windshield, as if someone had heaved a can of paint over the glass. And Hulenberger . . . Hulenberger . . . The blood had run down his shirt, his suit . . .
Like a sweater. A sweater of blood.
His head tilted back. His throat . . . it had been torn open. Ripped open?
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Fucking no!”
Fighting the tide of nausea, the drumming of his heart that made the blood pulse at his temples, Mark pushed himself back, away from the car. He turned to the house. He saw the twins standing at the top of the driveway.
“Get back! Go back! Don’t come down here! Go back!” He waved them away with both hands. They turned and ran.
Had they seen anything?
His hands felt wet. He raised them to his face. They were covered in blood. Hulenberger’s blood. He shook them hard as if trying to toss the blood away. Then he staggered into the house. Through the living room, to the kitchen where Roz was tilting the tomato sauce pan over a big bowl of spaghetti.
“Roz! Call the police.” So breathless she didn’t hear him.
He grabbed her shoulder, startling her. Her eyes locked on his hands. “Mark? Oh my God! Is that blood?”
“Roz—call the police! Hurry! Call the police! Call the police!”
“I
t’s a ten-eighty-four, Vince. We’re on the scene.”
“I gotta learn those numbers, Chaz. I never know what Vince is talking about.”
“Forgetaboutit, Andy. No one knows what Vince is talking about.”
Pavano peered out the window as his partner, Chaz Pinto, eased the car up the gravel driveway. “Where are we? Why does this look familiar?”
“John Street, dude. You took the call ten minutes ago, remember?”
A dark Audi stood in the drive. Chaz stopped the black-and-white a few feet behind it.
“It’s taking me awhile to get oriented, you know. We’re by the water, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. The bay is over there.” Pinto pointed out the side door. They both gazed at the car in front of them.
“The caller was a woman. She didn’t say what the problem was. Something about a car in the driveway. The driver . . .”
“I see him. The back of his head. Not moving.”
“Heart attack?”
“Hope so. That would make it easy.” Pinto leaned toward the radio. “We’re going to check out the car, Vince. You there?”
“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be, Pinto? Don’t sit there holding hands, you two. Get out and take a look.”
“The driver appears to be in the car.”
The front door to the house swung open, and a dark-haired man in jeans and a white polo shirt stepped out.
Pavano’s eyes went wide. “Hey, I know that dude.” His breath caught in his throat. “Oh, wow. Oh no. I don’t believe this.”
“What’s your problem, Andy?”
Pavano pushed the car door open, flipped his half-smoked Camel to the driveway, and lowered his feet to the ground. “I’ve been here. That night. Remember? The rain? I had the wrong house. I told him his wife was dead!”
Pinto let out a hoarse wheeze of a laugh. “We’re still talking about that one. Behind your back, you know. It’s classic. We’ll be talking about that asshole move for a long time.”
“Thanks, partner.” Pavano stretched his lanky body, adjusted his black uniform cap lower over his eyes.
Maybe the guy won’t remember me.
Yeah, sure. What are the chances?
Pinto was approaching the driver’s side of the Audi. Pavano followed, boots crunching on the gravel driveway, eyes on the man inside the car.
“Hello, sir? Sir? Are you all right?”