The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (27 page)

I closed my eyes, recalled huddling in the basement, listening. Hearing my mother plead with my father. Crying. My father reassuring her. “Come upstairs.” I saw him reaching for her hands. “Louise. Trust me. I promise. Believe me. It will get better.”

What would get better? His gambling? His lies? The usual. But why was I remembering this now, while a gang of armed men were chasing us? And so vividly? I could almost see them, recall their words verbatim.

Are you crazy? I scolded myself. Stop dawdling. Get your butt inside before Digger gets here. And quickly, sloppily, I slithered through the swinging door and crawled into the basement, watching the shadows of my parents linger near the stairs, remembering their arguments, the way I’d listened from the shadows of secret places.

“They saw us, Mom.” Molly snapped me back to the moment. “Those men know we’re here.” She looked gaunt, terrified. In the dim light I hugged her, examined her with slimy hands. Her face was smudged, her cheek scraped raw, and her curls tangled. Her knees and the heel of one hand were bleeding a little, covered with muck from the stairwell.

“Let’s go wash up.” I took her hand and started for the stairs.

“Mom.” Near tears, she enunciated carefully, as if her mother were slow to comprehend. “Are you crazy? They saw us. Those men? They’re following us. Call the police, would you?”

Right. Of course, I would call the police. But I was no longer in a hurry. Calmly, I led Molly up to the kitchen and called Nick on my father’s phone. Then I washed our hands and dampened a cloth to clean Molly’s scrapes. And by the time we heard the men banging on the front door and scratching at the windows, we were hidden away, safe in a place only I knew, where no one could find us.

“Y
OU USED TO PLAY
here?”

It was dark, and Molly’s whisper was so soft I almost couldn’t hear it. “It was my very secret place. Nobody’s ever been here but me, and now, you.” Sliding through the doggie door, remembering the tension between my parents, I’d seen myself retreating into it again, and I’d known instantly what we were going to do.

“It’s so cool. Was this your doll?” She’d found my old Tiny Tears. The baby doll could drink water from a bottle, cry and wet its diaper.

“Mama!” Its cry was loud, catlike.

“Shh. Put her down, Molls.” I thought the men were still out on the porch, but we needed to keep quiet. “I used to pretend I’d found her. That she’d been abandoned.” And now, she had been.

“So you pretended to adopt her. Like me.”

Maybe. I kissed her head. “Never like you.”

She leaned against me, her body alert, listening, and we snuggled in the tiny storage closet hidden under the front stairway. For a child, the spot had been perfect: a cozy triangle wedged under the steps, its door camouflaged, concealed in the wooden paneling. Without a flashlight the place was pitch-dark. When I closed the door, blackness swallowed us.

“Mom, it’s too dark.”

“The police will be here in a few minutes. It’s just until then.” Meantime, we’d be safe.

“I don’t like it here.” She held on to me, her body rigid.

“Molls, try to be quiet.”

“But I have to sneeze.”

“Go ahead.”

A pause while she tried. “It’s gone. I can’t.”

We waited, listening, and in the darkness, if not for the steady warmth of Molly’s body, I might have been five or six years old again, hiding there. I could almost hear the voices in the hall.

“Give it to me, Louise,” my father was pleading.

“I can’t. I don’t have it.”

“I need the money. I’ve got to pay up.”

“I told you, I don’t have it.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Nothing. It’s gone. I don’t know. Maybe I paid the phone bill.”

“No, you didn’t. It’s here in the house. Think. Where did you put it?”

“Forget about it, Walter. You’ll never find it.”

The voices echoed in my head. Why was I remembering them? Why now? Damn. It had to be Bertram, his damned hypnosis. I must have talked about my parents while I was under. He had said I’d remember what I wanted to when I was ready. But I didn’t want to and I wasn’t ready. So why was I remembering? I never should have let him hypnotize me. My memories were better buried. Block them out again, I told myself. Sing to yourself. Or count the seconds. How many would pass before the sirens began to wail? How many minutes? Eight, tops, I thought. Less, since I’d called Nick on the house phone, and he’d called it in himself. So, maybe five. Or four. No way Digger and his friends would find us before that; my parents had lived with the closet in their house and they’d never been able to find me. Of course, I wasn’t absolutely sure they’d been looking.

“Zoe Hayes? Hello?”

Oh, God. I hadn’t heard them come inside. Molly jumped and clung to me, startled to hear their voices. Were they in the hallway? I wrapped my arms tighter around Molly, felt her heart beating quickly, birdlike, and we held perfectly, absolutely still, not daring to breathe.

“Yo—Zoe Hayes?” Oh, God. How did they know my name? “We know you’re in here, Zoe Hayes. We saw you going up the path.”

Silence. My heart was jumping, shaking the wall; surely they’d feel the vibrations. More footsteps, soft, prowling. “Come on out here, Zoe. We won’t hurt you. We just want to talk.”

Another voice. “We want to give you back your purse.”

Oh, right. My purse. Of course—my license was in it; that was how they knew my name. They also had found my father’s keys. Molly wiggled, rubbing her nose. I touched her arm, reminding her to be quiet.

“Come on, Zoe Hayes. You got guests. Be hospitable.”

Suddenly, Molly stiffened in my arms, took a deep breath and grabbed her nose. Oh, no. The dust was getting to her; she had to sneeze again.

“Come and get your purse. We’ll sit down and talk.” On the other side of the paneling we heard slow, heavy steps. Old wood, creaking under the weight of strangers. Men prowling through the house. Whispers. Silence. Did they know their way around? Or had they been there before, moving vases off the living room shelves, moving my father’s luggage, rearranging furniture? I wondered. Keep counting, I told myself. How long had it been now? A minute? More? In darkness and danger, time distorted. Moments merged with eons, indistinguishable. I stroked Molly’s head, mostly to comfort myself.

A few feet away, a door opened. Oh, God. Someone was stepping into the hallway powder room, adjacent to our hiding spot. Skin prickling, unable to breathe, I turned so that my body would shield Molly in case they found the closet door. Would they use their weapons? I wondered. I thought of Gavin and Beatrice. Of Stan. Damn, we could be killed here. Once again, I’d endangered my children. I wasn’t fit to be a parent, didn’t deserve kids. What had I done? I pictured Digger standing just inches away from us, holding a gun. Any second he might notice the unsealed panel under the steps. Would he reach out and touch it, releasing the spring that opened it—

“Huh—huh—” Molly’s back arched. Oh, God, she was going to sneeze. I grabbed at her face, fumbling in the darkness, covering her hands and nose with my hands, trying to stifle the sound.

“Shh,” I breathed into her ear. “Don’t sneeze.”

She stiffened and squeezed her nostrils tighter, trying not to.

“Think about something else. Think about puppies.” Puppies? Of course, cute and furry, ripping each other’s throats out.

“Anything?” The voice was hoarse.

Close by, the powder room door closed. With all our four hands clamped onto her face, Molly held her breath.

“Nothing.” The voice seemed farther away. Thank God. Slowly, cautiously, I exhaled.

“They gotta be here somewhere.”

“This fucking place is so full of nooks and crannies, they could be anywhere. Right in front of us.”

The men had moved away, but were still close enough for us to hear them. And for them to hear us.

“Breathe through your mouth,” I whispered. Molly clung to her nose, her eyes glowing in the dark. “Stay calm.” I held her, trying to slow my heartbeat, picturing men with guns tramping through the house, opening closets, looking under beds. I closed my eyes, recalled another man searching, frantically opening drawers, feeling under cushions.

“If we don’t pay,” he wailed, “do you know what will happen? Do you have any idea? Louise, don’t you see the trouble we’re in?”

“It’s not my fault, Walter.”

“I know that. I didn’t say it was your fault.”

“It’s your fault. I warned you, didn’t I? I told you what I’d do. You shouldn’t have married me, Walter. It was all wrong, and you knew it. You knew how it would be.”

“Louise. Cut it out. Just tell me where the money is. Where is it?”

My mother shook her head, tears soaking her cheeks. “I can’t tell you. It’s gone.”

My father stormed through the house, tearing rooms apart, looking for loose floorboards, under cushions. My mother watched him stomp away as, in despair, she wandered toward the basement steps. And I huddled in the closet under the staircase, hiding from them both.

“Zoe, where are you? Zoe?”

For a moment, swathed in darkness, I clutched Molly, not sure who was calling. Was it my father? Digger? Was the voice past or present, imagined or real? How long had we been there? And where were the police? “Zoe?”

I sat perfectly still in a timeless void, deprived of light, feeling the past and present merge, not daring to breathe, holding Molly’s head against my belly to stifle her sneeze.

“Zoe?” My name rattled the floorboards, echoed through decades, disguised to trick me. Suddenly, Molly pushed me away and let out a blustering” ‘Choo!” Then another. And a third, each louder, more powerful than the last.

Oh, no. Surely, they’d heard. I held her, my body curved over hers, pressed against the wall, waiting for men to raid the closet. But nobody threw the door open; no one yanked us out by the hair. Instead, Molly rolled off my lap, calling, “In here—here we are!”

“Molly—” I grabbed at her.

But she loosened the hinge, slipping from my grasp, scampering through the paneling into the light.

“Molly—there’s my girl!” Nick? Was he really here? “Are you okay? Where’s your mom?”

“In there.”

Easily, without guilt or hesitation, Molly exposed my secret spot. But I didn’t come out, couldn’t move yet. Exhausted, I closed my eyes and glimpsed my father running toward the basement steps, calling my mother’s name. Enough, I insisted. No more remembering. Despite Bertram’s guarantee that I’d recall only what I wanted, I didn’t dare to face more. I sat in the closet under the steps, replaying that moment, watching my father run to the door again and again, not moving even when I heard sirens wailing outside, even when I saw Nick reaching through the wood paneling, repeating my name.

N
OBODY WAS THERE.
N
OT
a soul. Not a sign of the crowd which, less than an hour before, had surrounded the arena. In fact, the arena was gone, too. The gates to the property had been locked, but as we stood there the gardener pulled up in a pickup truck. Lono, a Polynesian man who spoke little English, seemed both concerned and confused by the police presence. When he’d seen the badges, he’d let us in, allowed us to wander freely about as if there were nothing to hide. I’d scanned the ground for any sign of a crowd, found nothing. Not a single beer can; not even any cigarette butts. Lono turned on all the outside lights and tagged along as Molly and I led Nick and the other officers back to the garage, which he’d willingly unlocked, gesturing for us to step inside. I’d told Molly to wait outside and followed Nick, bracing myself to face a hideous scene of gore and maimed animals.

But the garage was clean. Perfectly, completely spotless. No bloody footprints on the floor. No ripped-up betting slips or receipts. Instead, a gleaming white Lexus was parked beside a shiny black Range Rover, with an antique Oldsmobile against the wall.

“I swear they were here.” I was stunned, blathering. “At least a hundred people. A woman named Yvette and her son Brett. And a redheaded woman. And…some preppy guy with glasses. The betting tables were right there, against the wall. And the fights were in the middle, where the cars are. The first dogs—I think they were pit bulls—”

“Zoe, slow down. You’re hyperventilating.” Nick was frowning.

I looked at the other cops, saw doubt on their faces. Didn’t they believe me?

I went to the door and pulled Molly inside. “Tell them what was in here before. What did you see?”

Molly paused, thinking. “You mean that kid, Brett?”

“That’s right. Tell them.”

“He was a liar.” She paused, looking up at the circle of adults watching her.

“Why? What did he say?”

“He said dogs were going to fight in here. He said they’d even kill each other. What a liar.”

There. I wasn’t crazy. I met Nick’s eyes with confidence as Molly went on. “Oh…Mom…Did you tell them about Digger? Nick…There was this big ugly guy, and that was his name. Digger. He took Mom’s purse.”

Nick scowled at me. “You gave him your purse?”

“It was collateral—I took Molly to the bathroom so we could get out. Digger took my bag to make sure we’d come back. That’s how they got my dad’s house keys.”

“You say his name was Digger?”

“And he looked like this.” Molly sneered, puffing her nostrils and curling her upper lip, not a bad impression.

Nick patted her head. “That’s good information, Molly.” Then he crossed the garage, peering behind the cars, examining the floors, the corners, the walls. “Where’s the owner? Whose place is this?”

One of the officers checked his notepad. “According to Lono, their name is Fairfax. Eugene and Evelyn. Apparently, they’re off on a cruise.”

The gardener nodded, as if eager to be of help. “In Medirranean. Back on twenty-nine.”

“So tell us, Lono”—Nick turned to the gardener—“who was here a while ago?”

“No one.” Lono shrugged. “I think nobody was here. I just got here and I didn’t see nobody but you here.”